Never Doubt I Love

by Patricia Veryan

  He sighed heavily. But no more than Loretta did Zoe want him. His proposal had, in fact, embarrassed her. The memory made him wince, and he thought bitterly, 'Small wonder, you sorry fool,' and once more acknowledged that it was the height of stupidity to try again; to risk the deeper and final hurt.

  He'd been stupid these past four days, to no avail. He never seemed to be there when Zoe drove out, but he was determined to persist, and to improve upon his first and so horribly clumsy proposal. This time, he would be smoothly assured; in full possession of himself. No halting, awkward words, none of that unmanning inward terror. Poised and debonair—as August might be at such a moment. He had several scenarios ready for use in the unlikely event he should encounter her. In the first, he would say airily that he'd just come down to discover how her brother went on—and pray she didn't simply tell him and drive on. In the second, he would be astounded, and say he'd been visiting friends and had not dreamt Lady Peckingham dwelt nearby. That one was a touch chancy, because she might ask him to name the friends… The third scheme called for his bringing a great bouquet of roses, dropping to one knee beside her coach, and telling her how much he adored… worshipped… loved her with all his heart. He sighed. Which was perfectly true. He'd actually bought the great bouquet of roses once, and they'd been dashed costly, because the season was done. They'd also been very cumbersome across his saddle bow, and had evoked some rude comments from stray children and a couple of impertinent yokels. He had scratched himself on the thorns, and on being splattered with the mud thrown up by a passing carriage it had dawned on him that if he knelt in the road, not only would Zoe not even be able to see him, but he'd likely get covered with mud and look a proper figure of fun as her coach rolled on past him. The fourth scenario made his throat close up with fright whenever he tried to rehearse it. So all he'd done thus far was to skulk about like a lovesick idiot and prepare himself for another rejection. It would he final, for in that dreadful event he must respect her decision, and abandon hope.

  He was quite aware that the logical and most simple course would be to drive straight to Lady Peckingham's door and request to see her niece. But to be turned away from the front door seemed to him so horribly cold; a decision considered without setting eyes on him, and delivered through some disinterested household minion. Heaven knows, she'd made it plain that she didn't want him. On the ladder he'd thought for a moment… But she'd been somewhat hysterical and overcome with gratitude at that moment, because he'd come to help her. After the various uproars were over, she'd seemed to avoid his eyes, and when she did meet them, would look quickly away, as if even the sight of him offended. As Loretta had been offended… The thought made him cringe, but he forced himself to face it. Loretta could not be thought of in the same breath as his sparkling little Zoe, but… he must accept that a man with one foot was not the most spectacular matrimonial prospect…

  On the other hand, he could still ride, and he rode well, thank goodness, and looked not too dreadful on horseback. In fact, Mitten had said —But Mitten was his sister, of course, and prejudiced. Morris wasn't prejudiced—was he? And Morris had said Zoe watched him when he wasn't looking at her. He brightened, and glancing at the big carriage that rolled past taking up much too much of the roadway, saw her.

  His jaw dropped. Zoe? Back in Town? What the devil…?

  "Hey!" he yelled, reining around so abruptly that a following rider was almost unhorsed.

  He spurred his mount to reckless speed, creating havoc in the morning traffic crowding London Bridge. "Hey!" he shouted again, ignoring the flood of uncomplimentary remarks that followed his thundering gallop.

  Two dragoons rode ahead of the carriage. Drawing level, he saw that it carried the Horse Guards insignia on the panels, and glancing inside, saw joy—unmistakable joy—brighten a pair of beloved but rather shadowed green eyes.

  "Hey!" he shouted for the third time.

  The guard on the box glanced down at him indifferently. "What?"

  "Where the deuce are you taking this lady?"

  "Horse Guards."

  "Why? What for?"

  "Dunno."

  "Is she under arrest?"

  The guard's eyes narrowed. "No bread and butter o'yourn, mate. Get along."

  "Get along, be damned!"

  "Then get squashed," jeered the guard.

  Cranford reined back in the nick of time and narrowly missed being run down, as a troop of dragoons clattered their juggernaut-like path through the vehicles.

  Zoe's face was pressed against the window.

  He took off his tricorne and waved it at her, and followed the carriage to Whitehall.

  He was denied admission at the gate until he announced brusquely that he was Lieutenant Peregrine Cranford, late of the Fourteenth Light Dragoons, and nephew to General Lord Nugent Cranford, and that he had urgent business with "the occupant of that carriage."

  His peg-leg was duly noted. His air of authority indisputable. His credentials acceptable. He was admitted.

  Once inside the bustling corridors, his task began again, but at length he traced Zoe to a room fronting on Whitehall. The sergeant outside the door to General Underbill's office looked at him admiringly, but regretted that the general was interrogating a prisoner, and—

  "The hell he is!" Cranford shoved him away, and was inside.

  Looking very scared, small, and solitary, Zoe sat facing a slightly built general officer of late middle age, who stood leaning back against his desk while addressing her in a quiet but decidedly menacing fashion. He stood straight as Cranford burst in.

  A major with a square resolute face and powerful shoulders was seated at a smaller side desk. He sprang up demanding wrathfully, "Who the devil are you, sir? And how dare you"

  Ignoring him, Cranford snapped, "I am Lieutenant Peregrine Cranford, General, formerly commanding an artillery battery attached to the Fourteenth Light Dragoons at Prestonpans. I am betrothed to this lady, and I demand to know why—"

  Zoe stood, watching him as though he wore shining armour and carried the cross of Saint George.

  The sergeant rushed in and seized Cranford by one arm. "Begging the general's pardon!"

  "I should curst well think so," said Underhill. "Put him out!"

  "I'll be back," shouted Cranford, struggling. "With my uncle, General Lord Nugent Cranford, and Lord Hayes of the East India Company! And"—he added, clinging to the door frame as the sergeant tried to drag him out- "the Earl of Bowers-Maiden, who—"

  "Wait!" General Underhill was smiling. "Let be, Sergeant. You may go."

  Breathing hard, the sergeant closed the door behind him.

  Zoe flew to stand beside Cranford and slip a cold little hand into his.

  "In that case, your uncle and 'Frosty' Hayes being good friends of mine, I must make allowances. Especially," Underhill added, sitting down behind his desk, and nodding to the major who was evidently his aide, "especially since I'll own I've a soft spot in my heart for young lovers. Otherwise"—he waved a pen at Cranford and finished with a touch of steel—"I'd have you clapped into the stockade, young fella!"

  "Since I am not on active service, General, I think that would be unlawful," said Cranford boldly. "As is this seizure of Miss Grainger. I presume you issued an order for her arrest?"

  Underhill laid down his pen very gently. "Do not take that tone with me, Lieutenant! The young lady was good enough to come here to testify as—"

  "I had no choice," interrupted Zoe. "Your horrid soldiers frightened my aunt half to death, and forced me—"

  "Now, now, Miss," soothed the major. "You mustn't tell fibs, you know. Nobody forced you to do anything."

  Cranford snapped, "Then she is free to go! I thank you!"

  "You are high-handed," said the general, an angry glitter coming into his eyes. "But I suppose that fighting spirit won you your medals, eh?"

  Zoe said wonderingly, "Why, Perry! I did not know—"

  He seized her arm. "Very likely, sir. By your leave." W
ith a short bow, he led Zoe to the door, saying clearly, "I must get word to the earl, before he roars in here. He was sending for his solicitors when I left."

  As the door slammed behind them, the two officers looked at each other.

  The general said grittily, "Damn and blast that confounded young pest!"

  In the corridor, the sergeant came to attention. "Good day, sir!"

  Cranford glanced at him and caught the suggestion of a grin. "Carry on, Sergeant," he said with a wink, and hurried Zoe out.

  He wasted no time on talk, but called up a chair, instructed the bearers to go to the Bedford, and rode alongside. When they arrived at the coffee house, he entrusted his mare to a stableboy, and took Zoe into the dining room. Not until they were seated at a secluded table, and he'd ordered up a light luncheon did his pent-up anger explode. "Now pray tell me," he demanded, "how on earth it came about that those pompous military blockheads were permitted to make off with you, alone and unchaperoned. Have your aunt and your brother gone off to Brazil, perchance?"

  "No, Perry, but—"

  "Devil take it, Zoe! An I'm not about to keep an eye on you, you're no sooner out of one boiling cauldron than you've popped into another!"

  "Oh, yes, Perry. But—"

  "What the deuce did that old curmudgeon of a general want from you?"

  "He wanted me to sign my original statement about that horrid accident."

  "Did he, by Jove!"

  "Yes. And I was also to swear that there was no truth in what you said about the League of Jewelled Men, and that their ladyships had nothing to do with any of it."

  He growled, "Silly block! How could they have nothing to do with it, if it didn't exist in the first place?"

  "Exactly so." She leaned across the table, and said fervently, "But never mind all that. Oh, Perry! How brave you are! I have worried so about your poor hand. Is it healing well?"

  "As good as new," he said. In point of fact, he had spent an extremely unpleasant hour in the surgery of an irascible doctor named James Knight, who Furlong insisted was one of the finest men in London. He was probably correct, because although Dr. Knight had grumbled that by all rights Cranford would never be able to move his fingers again, that unhappy condition had not materialized, and his hand, although still bandaged, was healing rapidly. He shouldn't have made light of the injury, he thought belatedly. A fellow with more experience in affaires de coeur would have nobly hinted at the misery he'd endured, and won her sympathy. So much for being smooth and poised! He was just no good at this romance business, and would probably never summon the fortitude to put any of his scenarios to the test.

  With the colour restored to her satiny smooth cheeks Zoe seemed to him the embodiment of youth and springtime. She was gazing at him in such a way that he had to remind himself that such a glowing look was inspired by gratitude, and he tried not to hear the small voice that named him a wooden-head for not taking advantage of it.

  The waiter returned with succulent slices of cold ham, bread still warm from the oven, two cheeses, fruits, and little iced cakes. Zoe ate heartily, with none of the coy restraint expected of a maiden. He thought, 'She'll be a plump little married lady, like Mama, with happy children gathered about her,' and the picture gave him such a pang that he had to devote himself to his food and not look at her.

  When her hunger was somewhat appeased, she told him that Travis had been asleep in his bed when the soldiers came at seven o'clock this morning, and that poor Lady Peckingham had been terrified when informed that her niece was required in Town on a matter involving High Treason. "I told Gorton to send Cecil to find you," she said shyly. "I hope 'twas not an imposition, but Travis is far from well, and would only make himself worse if he had to stand up to another military interrogation. And I could not appeal to poor Sir Owen. How does he go on?"

  He thought, 'So I was third choice…' Furlong was not making quite such a good recovery as they had hoped, which his doctor said was due to the effects of the earlier bout of fever he had suffered. Cranford had his own ideas on the subject, but he assured Zoe that Sir Owen was going along nicely.

  "Thank goodness! Peregrine, I owe you so much, and truly I am grateful. However may I thank you for once again coming to my rescue?"

  Gratitude again! He said curtly, "By not feeling that thanks are required. Now, to be more sensible, we must decide what is to be done. I cannot feel you are properly protected with your aunt. I mean to take you to The Palfreys to stay with my sister. Farrar, my brother-in-law is a grand fellow, and —"

  "Yes. You have told me about him. But—surely it would not be quite… proper? I mean, we are not really… what you told General Underhill."

  He had said they were betrothed. He thought, 'Now is the moment!'

  Zoe looked up at him, her cheeks even more pink, and murmured, "Indeed, I was surprised you would say—such a thing."

  "Oh. Well —er, 'twas all I could think to say to justify my presence there. I apologize if I caused you to be embarrassed. I did not mean—"

  "No. No, I know you did not."

  She was avoiding his eyes again. Lord, why could he not be smooth-tongued and romantical for her, instead of making a proper mare's nest of it? His voice sounded harsh when he said, "Then you will come?"

  For a moment she did not answer, then she said quietly, "If you think it wise. But I must send word to my aunt, and Travis. They will be very worried."

  "I'll do that. Are you ready? I'll hire a coach and we can leave for Romsey at once."

  "Romsey! But—that's miles and miles! We could not reach there tonight, surely? It—it would not be proper."

  "No," he admitted with a sigh. " 'Fraid you're right, and I'm a dunce. Nothing for it, then. I'll take you down to Richmond, and perhaps your aunt will let me—Gad! What a lamebrain! The Rossiters are back in Town! You can stay with Gideon and his wife! At least for tonight. We can make more permanent arrangements tomorrow."

  "A bridal couple? Are you sure…?"

  "Lord, yes. They've known each other forever. Childhood sweethearts, you know. Not as if they'd just recently…" Her innocent gaze rested on him wonderingly. He felt himself colouring up, and stammered, "er, f-fallen… in love. I can—er, take you there now. At once!"

  "Oh," said Zoe.

  She looked rather downcast. He said, "Unless there was something else you would like to do?"

  "I had hoped," she said wistfully, "to go down by the river again."

  His heart gave such a leap that he wondered she did not see it. In view of what had happened the last time they had been by the river, he thought it a decidedly promising sign. But he must not build on it too much. He paid their shot, and, leaving his mare in the stables, hired a hackney coach.

  At the Savoy Stairs he handed Zoe down and offered his arm. The afternoon had become even more chill, and the wind was bitter as they strolled along the bank. The sleet had stopped at least, but it was, he knew, a terrible time to approach her again. He should wait for a bright Spring day, when her life had become less troubled; or at least until her brother was recovered. Come to think of it, he had no least right to speak to her without first obtaining Travis Grainger's permission. Travis Grainger! Gad! Who'd ever have thought—

  Zoe asked gently, "Why do you smile, Peregrine? You have been so quiet. Are you angry with me for running you into so much trouble?"

  "Angry!" He drew her to a halt. How anxious she looked.

  How sweet and altogether adorable. He loved her so much that if she said no this time, he really would not be able to go on living. He croaked, "Might we… stop? Just for a minute. I mean—"

  "Of course. Is it your leg? Oh, dear! A lady is not supposed to speak of such—er, articles, is she?"

  "No, but you're not a lady. Oh, God! What I mean is—Don't be cross! Please do not! What I mean to say is—is that you're just a country—er, you're not—you don't—" Without a trace of smooth poise, he gabbled, "I mean—you're just like my mother!" And wished he had hurled himself to a w
atery grave.

  Zoe looked at him. She was like… his mother? It was certainly better than being a "diversion." Especially if he held his mama in deep affection. But scarcely a romantic declaration. Probably, she had embarrassed him by suggesting they come down to the river; to the riverbank that must always be so very dear to her heart. And then she had confirmed her lack of proper behaviour by speaking of his—limb, and embarrassed him still more. In an attempt to put him at his ease, she gazed out at the river. If only she had just a little of Maria's easy charm. Lovely Maria, who had betrayed her, and so brutally shot down poor Sir Owen. The river traffic was as busy as ever. The water looked grey and cold today. Some ducks were swimming about, and she murmured absently, "I wonder if their feet get cold."

  Furtively mopping his brow, Cranford gulped, "Whose?"

  "The ducks."

  He glanced at them. If their feet weren't cold, his certainly were. Was. She was probably cold, too. And what was the use? It was hopeless. He was hopeless. Despairing, he said miserably, "We'd best go. The wind is too cold for you."

  She said, "Yes," and feeling twenty years older, started to turn back.

  "No!"

  Shocked by his shout, she looked up at him.

  "No," he said again. "Do not look at me, Zoe. I m-mean Miss Grainger. Look at—look at… the ducks. That—er, scrawny fellow trailing along there, do you see?"

  Bewildered, she said, "Why, yes, but—"

  "No. Don't turn your head." His hands were wet. He felt a little sick. But watching the curve of the smooth cheek against her hood, he leaned closer and said, "When—when I d-dared to offer for you, you—Morris said… he said you didn't believe I meant it."

  Zoe began to tremble. She faltered, "Well, I knew… you only thought of me as a—diversion, so—"

  "As a—what? No—don't look at me!"

  "A—diversion, Lady Julia said. To take your mind off—your beautiful lady."

  "My beautiful…? Who on earth—Oh! Do you mean Miss Laxton?"

  She said helplessly, "I did not mind. Really. I know I'm not pretty. And—and I have… silly romantic notions, and—no Town polish, and—" Despite herself tears were beading on her lashes, and her voice broke. She gulped, "And I say things… ladies should not—"