The light sprinkle of freckles across Kendall’s patrician nose stood out starkly as he paled. “Matt! Leg-shackled? Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Never more so. Come. My destiny waits!”
To Matt, it seemed she was waiting. For the instant he crossed Lady Sefton’s threshold, despite the flower-festooned ballroom, despite the crush of the aristocracy at play, despite the flickering candlelight, he saw her immediately. Their eyes met and locked.
Tonight she was more beautiful than ever; her ebony curls cascaded over one bare shoulder. Her gown was not as demure as she was used to wearing, for its shimmering beauty made each of her movements appear to be touched by stardust.
Leaving Kendall without a thought, Matt made his way to Serena’s side. She greeted him with her usual sweet smile.
“Good evening, Miss Fitzwater.” He bowed, resisting the urge to press her fingers to his lips. “Your beauty is beyond words tonight.”
His flattery brought the telltale rosy flush to her cheeks and an indulgent chuckle from Lady Charlesworth.
“Lord Blackwood, you have arrived in the nick of time. My dear niece is pining to dance this waltz.”
The roses in Serena’s cheeks darkened to scarlet. Lady Charlesworth was complaisant in her assumptions, but for once, he didn’t mind being outguessed.
With a bow, he took Serena into his arms for the waltz. They fit perfectly, as he knew they would. Each time they were together reaffirmed his belief that she was exactly the woman he’d always dreamed about. Long thought him an idealist, and perhaps he was; but since he was fortunate enough to find his ideal in Serena, why should he waste any more time?
A good soldier knew when to bring matters to a head, so after their second dance, he led her out into Lady Sefton’s perennial garden. Other couples could be seen walking along the torchlit crushed-rock paths.
“Shall we stroll, Miss Fitzwater?” He offered his arm, and confidently, or so it seemed to him, she placed her hand, allowing him to guide her through the shadows between the pools of light cast down by the high torches. Strains of a waltz floated through the open French doors and were carried by a breeze to where they stood near a reflection pool. The moment he had been waiting for was at hand.
“May I have this dance, Miss Fitzwater?” His voice softened to a mere whisper.
“Here? Now?” she questioned with a timid smile.
“What could be more perfect than you in the moonlight?”
After a slight hesitation, she nodded. For the first time she leaned into him, resting her cheek against his chest, the magic of the moment apparently affecting his proper English flower as much as it did him. Boldly he settled her even closer, going so far as to rest his lips against the top of her soft, fragrant hair.
“Miss Fitzwater, why are you so quiet this evening?”
Tilting her head back, she gazed up at him. “I’ve been thinking. It can’t be long until you return to the Peninsula.”
“Four weeks.” He spoke quietly, vaguely noticing the music had stopped, but unwilling to release her from his arms.
“I shall miss you when you are gone,” she said with her simple honesty.
“And I you. But I shall leave my heart here in your keeping, for I speak to your aunt tomorrow.”
Startled, she stepped away from him. “My lord, you move too quickly!”
“I told you nearly from the first night that I wished you for my bride.” Remembering her timid response that his hopes were safe with her, he took her hands. They were trembling. “There’s so little time left, Serena, we can’t waste it.”
Matt’s confidence began to fray about the edges as she continued to stare up at him, the silence between them lengthening. He’d had his share of ladybirds and even a brief passionate affair with a Spanish contessa when first he arrived on the Peninsula. But Jeffries had spoken true; he’d never dallied with the young girls of the ton. He knew what he wanted and had patiently waited to find her. Now that he had, he would cherish Serena always, if she gave him that right.
Emotions chased each other across her pure face, made more starkly beautiful in the moonlight. Finally he read the answer in her eyes.
“I must be mad!” she whispered, her hands clutching his fingers. “Which is no doubt the reason I can find no fault with your request, my lord. Speak to my aunt; your suit will find favor with both her and me.”
The strong strokes of his heart pounded against his ribs.
Victory in battle had never been as sweet as hearing her words.
“May I steal a kiss to seal our bargain, Serena?”
In answer, she closed her eyes tightly, tilting her face upwards toward him. Matt could see how stiffly she held her shoulders, as if bracing herself for the unknown.
Ever so gently he cupped them with his hands to reassure her. Leaning over, he brushed her soft, trembling lips, then lifted his mouth for a heartbeat, before pressing a brief kiss on the sweet lips once more. Slowly she opened her eyes, and even in the darkness, Matt was caught in the intense blaze of blue.
No matter what Long said, this was not his nature creating an ideal woman. It didn’t matter that they had known one another only a handful of days; Serena called to his heart as none had done before.
“We shall be well mated, Serena; I give you my word of honor,” he promised solemnly.
The Union
“Serena, you sly puss!” Lavinia exclaimed, flying into the bedchamber to embrace her with marked enthusiasm. “Does your sainted father know what a remarkable child you truly are? You inspire such admiration, I’m nearly beside myself.” She stepped back to study her protégée from toes to curls.
“You have spoken to Lord Blackwood,” Serena calmly offered, masking an excitement every bit as marked as her aunt’s.
“Talked to him! My dear girl, he waits in the front parlor so he can do the pretty. I stopped on my way upstairs to send a footman posthaste to Market Weighton. Your father must arrive as soon as possible to seal the bargain. A wedding in three weeks! However will I manage it?” Her wide eyes almost filled her face above a satisfied smile.
She had spoken the truth to Blackwood; she had run mad! Parsons’ daughters do not throw their bonnets over the windmill in the matter of a few days, thereby forgetting every vestige of common sense they’d ever possessed. She had accused Blackwood of being in the clutches of a romantic vision. But she was no better. Yet in the midst of the wild, romantic thoughts swirling through Serena’s mind, there did exist a small center of calmness. Without haste she crossed to the mirror and retied the wide satin ribbon holding back her curls, then smoothed down the skirt of her lemon India muslin. Satisfied that her appearance was all it should be for this momentous occasion, she smiled at her aunt, who still stood in the middle of the room, her hands clasped together and an enraptured expression lighting her face.
“I shall see Lord Blackwood now.”
No one had ever fully explained how Serena should behave at this precise moment. Aunt Lavinia and Papa had simply informed her she must do her duty and try to be content in the bargain. Without siblings, and being the oldest of her friends, excepting the squire’s niece, who had not, to her knowledge, ever received an offer, she had no example to follow. For an instant she was struck with the same terror she’d felt when she was informed she was to be thrust willy-nilly into a Season, when she’d never even been in London. Of course, she knew of the ton, knew she was part of it, but it was so far away, so removed from the simple pattern of her days. London was another world peopled by glorious creatures who had little to do with Serena Fitzwater of Market Weighton. If she’d not been so bold as to take up her first novel, she would never have known what lay ahead of her. No doubt this was the source of the strange serenity at her core; she knew exactly what she should do. The novels told quite boldly what occurred when a you
ng lady accepted an offer of marriage, and recently Serena had formed some ideas of her own.
As if she were the heroine of the story, she held herself stiffly erect and swept into the parlor.
When Lord Blackwood turned from the mantel, she gave him a small smile before seating herself on the green velvet settee. Just as she knew he would, he knelt on one knee before her.
“Your aunt has given me permission to speak. Serena, you know what I ask. Will you be my bride?” He reached boldly for her hand and raised it to his firm lips.
The sense of calmness began to ripple along its edges; his kisses affected her so. His chocolate eyes gazed at her with the same intensity they had when first they met. Now, like then, she felt the tiniest bit giddy, and clung to the calm, settling her world back on its axis. Lord Blackwood was quite simply the most handsome man she’d ever met. In his regimentals he was the very figure of every girl’s romantic dream. That he thought her his ideal was such heady stuff, it left her slightly breathless.
However, at her core a little voice nagged—as handsome and dashing as Lord Blackwood was, he was a virtual stranger in all ways that mattered; at least her papa would think so. But her newly discovered romantic streak quickly stifled that voice. Lord Blackwood called to something hitherto unknown within her, and that, she couldn’t ignore.
“Yes, I shall be your bride,” she heard herself saying as if reciting words from a book.
The dimple in his square chin deepened and his face was transformed into such stunning male beauty, she felt her world tilt ever so slightly once again. This fabulous hero wanted her. Wouldn’t that make all London gasp in surprise?
“Serena, I swear I shall make you happy.” He drew her to her feet as he rose from his knee. “I must go to Avalon Hall to inform my parents. By the time I return, your father will have arrived. Will you miss me, sweetheart?” he asked with the whimsical smile that curved his firm mouth in such appealing lines, Serena wished to touch it.
“Yes. Shall we seal our bargain with a kiss?”
Was there a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes? Had she done something amiss? Miss Serena Fitzwater of Market Weighton would never have been so bold, but another side of her was stirring to life. It was a little frightening to realize she’d never even imagined this aspect of her personality, but now its pull was so great, she actually moved one step closer to him.
“I shall truly miss you, Lord Blackwood,” she whispered, gazing up at him before, shocked at the strength of her feelings, her lashes fluttered to her cheeks in embarrassment.
His arm shifted about her waist, pulling her gently toward him. Through the thin muslin, her breasts pressed against his chest. His lips brushed hers with the same gentleness as before, and then, for one heartbeat, deepened, sending a swirl of excitement to lodge in her middle. Immediately he stepped back. His eyes were ebony now in a countenance suddenly rigidly stern.
“My dear Serena, our wedding cannot come quickly enough. Farewell, my love.” Turning on his heels, her betrothed left her without a backward glance.
Her betrothed.
At last all her composure fled. Before her knees could give way, she sat back down upon the settee. That kiss had been more than a brief touching, pleasant as that was. That kiss had seemed to promise … what? Serena didn’t fully understand it, or her feelings. Chewing on her lower lip, she gazed into space not quite believing what had transpired in a few weeks. Whatever had come over her?
She’d arrived in London a month ago, and instantly the hustle and bustle of the city awakened something dormant inside her. Perhaps it had started even earlier, when she’d sullied the high tone of her mind, as dear Papa would lament. Whatever the cause, she was every day discovering unknown facets of herself. How would Papa deal with Serena’s actions? As cowardly as she knew it was, the Reverend Fitzwater’s dutiful daughter wished fervently there were some way to avoid finding out.
She had two days of uncomplicated bliss with Aunt Lavinia cosseting her outrageously before she was awakened to the news her father had arrived during the night and was waiting for her in the breakfast room.
With fumbling fingers she rushed through a hasty toilette. She brushed her dark curls, pulling them back at her nape to tie with a blue ribbon, donned his favorite dress of blue and white dimity, which she’d brought from home. Perhaps if she wore all the trappings of the old Serena, he wouldn’t notice the changes that she feared he wouldn’t understand.
A wave of homesickness washed over her when she saw him sitting at the head of the table consuming his favorite breakfast of kippers and eggs. In that faraway time she’d never have even thought of concealing her feelings from him. Now she was acutely conscious of saying the right words to please him.
Immediately he rose and embraced her in the safe, strong arms that had always been her haven.
“Serena, my dear, I have missed you so.” He held her at arm’s length, peering over the top of his eyeglasses. “Let me look at you. Yes, your aunt is correct, you are glowing. Even Mrs. Buckle said I must look for this glow of happiness, and certainly it is here. But, my dear, this is all so sudden. Are you sure you are ready for such an important step?”
His myopic blue eyes crinkled at the corners with worry lines. Did he look older—his pale skin so like her own nearly transparent, and his wispy gray hair whiter? Never would she do anything to worry him or cause him pain.
“Papa, I thought you’d be pleased. I’ve made a good match, according to Aunt Lavinia.”
With his usual gentle smile, which Mrs. Buckle confided long ago made some parishioners feel like errant children, he settled her next to him in a chair.
“A brilliant match, my dear. But how can you, on such short acquaintance, know if this is the man with whom you can share your whole life?”
Biting her lower lip, Serena tried to formulate the answer that would please her father. She couldn’t possibly tell him Lord Blackwood was quite simply the most handsome and dashing man she’d ever laid eyes on, and although in truth she truly didn’t know him, he must be as beautiful inside as out.
“He’s a distinguished soldier and is from an excellent family,” she offered carefully.
The lines deepened in her father’s narrow face as he reached forward to brush back a stray curl from her forehead, much as he’d done throughout her childhood.
“My dear, you have always been such a dutiful child. I hope you did not misunderstand when I talked about your Season. Of course you must marry one day, but this is so soon. I hope your heart is involved.”
“I find him very … pleasing. I’m sure we shall be happy together, Papa.” It was quite difficult keeping her voice the calm, steady tone he was accustomed to hearing. Excitement coiled fingers through every part of her body, making her feel the giddy schoolgirl she’d never been. Lord Blackwood was the stuff of romance, which she now knew had little to do with the clearly defined view of life she’d once held.
“My dear, have you discussed where you shall reside? I know Avalon’s main seat is in Berkshire. I believe Blackwood’s is on the Essex Coast. Will he resign his commission? Are his interests for politics, the land, or is he a scholar?”
Papa’s face was so serious, just as it was in the pulpit. She felt the meanest creature alive for feeling this absurd irritation with him. Of course, reality must intrude into the romantic fantasy she’d been floating through since first she looked into Blackwood’s wonderful face, but not just yet. As far as she was concerned, the details would surely come later.
“Papa, Lord Blackwood and I haven’t discussed such things.” She squeezed her father’s long fingers. “When he returns to speak with you, all can be settled then.”
“Serena, my dear, what have you and Lord Blackwood talked about? I assume in the few brief weeks of this rather, I fear to say, unorthodox courtship you have had long, heartfelt discussio
ns which led to such strong feelings, you are determined to share your lives.”
Surely it was just nerves and not Papa’s knowing regard that caused her to jump up and go to the sideboard. “Pray excuse me. I’m suddenly famished.” Buying time, she opened each silver chafing dish to examine the contents. Truth to tell, she couldn’t eat a bite, there were so many flutters in her stomach. Nevertheless she piled her plate with kidneys, poached eggs, and toast laden with marmalade. Returning to her father’s side, she gave him a smile, hopeful it would soften the sternness of his thin lips.
“Serena, my dear, are you avoiding my questions? I cannot agree to this union unless I am convinced it is in your best interest.”
The idea this new romantic state might disappear as quickly as it had descended brought her up sharply.
“Papa, you sent me here for the sole purpose of making a marriage. That I have accomplished this in a shorter time than you thought possible shouldn’t be of import.” Realizing the tone of her voice was not felicitous, she stopped, set her plate down, and started again. “Papa, it is my fondest hope you will agree to my becoming Lord Blackwood’s bride.”
Her chest ached until she realized she was holding her breath as her father studied her over the rim of his glasses. Only when he nodded could she inhale regularly.
“So be it, my dear. You shall have my blessing.”
He opened his arms and she went into them gratefully. Now her wonderful romantic dream was safe.
“Can’t hardly believe it, laddie. A betrothal party this night, a wedding in a week. Indecent. Aye, it is,” Jeffries grumbled, the cloth in his gnarled hands working over Matt’s Hessians.
A Soldier's Heart Page 3
