by Tuft, Karen
“You are an impudent boy who thinks to deter me, the Duke of Marwood. I wonder that you managed to come home from the war alive, as insubordinate as you are to your superiors.”
Anthony’s entire body vibrated from the insult, from the insinuation that his survival in Spain had resulted from less than honorable means and that he had been deficient as an officer. They were words that struck Anthony where he felt most vulnerable, for, despite his efforts, he had failed to control his men when the siege had ended; he had failed to protect the innocent citizens who had remained in Badajoz from their so-called saviors. Sometimes, especially at night after yet another nightmare, he thought that perhaps he should have died in Spain after all.
Leave be, Captain, and let us have a little fun.
“I have spoken my piece, Your Grace,” he said. “The decision is final.” He made an elegant bow that bordered on mockery. “Now, if you will excuse me, I shall leave and allow you to return to your very important game of cards.”
He did not bother to look back as he left the room.
Chapter 9
Anthony would have preferred to avoid the crowded ballroom and go out onto the terrace for a few minutes so he could get himself under control before facing his guests. Unfortunately Lady Putnam nabbed him before he could, her daughters trailing in her wake.
“Lord Halford,” she purred. “We had quite despaired of seeing you dance at the ball this evening. A few brief steps with Lady Elizabeth hardly count, now do they?” She tapped him playfully with her fan. “I myself do not feel the slight, but I am sure the young ladies here this evening do. Am I right in saying so, Harriet?”
“Yes, Mama,” Miss Putnam cooed. “And a young lady gets so few opportunities to dance with eligible young men of quality in the country.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Anthony.
He was trapped, devil take it.
“Miss Putnam,” Anthony said through gritted teeth. “Would you do me the honor?”
“Why, thank you,” she said, casting a triumphant look at her sister, who stuck her tongue out at her in retaliation.
Paragons, both.
Hiding his annoyance, he reluctantly offered Miss Putnam his arm and escorted her out onto the floor.
Thankfully, the orchestra began a lively tune for a dance that did not require much actual contact with his partner. It was the first bit of luck he’d had all evening. He danced and willed the music to end, all while reminding himself he had endured worse things—until he noticed Amelia dancing with Phillip for a second time. Anthony’s simmering temper heated up several more degrees.
The music came to an end not a minute too soon, from Anthony’s point of view. Rather than return Harriet to her mama, however, he escorted her to some of her friends near the french doors leading out to the terrace.
“Thank you, Miss Putnam,” he said with an abrupt bow and was off before anyone could utter a word to him.
Feeling irritated and exhausted, he stole through the french doors and walked along the terrace until he found a dark and secluded corner. Luckily the terrace wasn’t overly occupied at present.
He held on to the balustrade with both hands and fought to regain his composure. He had only a few minutes to collect himself before he would feel pressed by duty to return to the ballroom.
There was that word again—duty.
He studied the scene before him, the formal garden and the ordered symmetry of the flowerbeds located there. A shy quarter moon peeked out from behind the clouds, and a sprinkle of stars shone nearby. Through the french doors, Anthony could hear the sedate beginning notes of a minuet.
He must find a way to face his guests and play the host and guest of honor. He must think of a strategy for countering Marwood should the man decide to act on his threat and make a betrothal announcement on his own.
But right now Anthony could do neither. He could not think at all. His mind was a churning, boiling mass of images and emotions: his father’s lined face, his mother’s worried yet hopeful one, the slaps on his back, the expectations, the cheers. Dull eyes staring blankly from both the dead and the living, the looks of betrayal from the citizens of Badajoz, the mud, the blood, broken glass, broken limbs . . .
He gripped the balustrade harder, eyes squeezed shut, trying to block the images assaulting him. He feared he had nothing left inside to get him through the demands of the evening, simple though they ought to have been.
So absorbed was he that when someone laid a hand on his arm, he jumped and swung around to defend himself.
“Oh!” a female voice cried.
Anthony’s senses slammed back to the present. It was Amelia. She had taken a step back from him and was looking at him with alarm, not that he blamed her.
“I am sorry to have startled you,” he said. He rubbed his hands vigorously over his face. Startled was an understatement. He really needed to get a hold of himself.
“I think,” she said, “it was I who startled you.” She drew near to him again, reassured, no doubt, when he was not raving at her like a lunatic. “I saw you leave and sensed something was wrong.”
As though she needed to justify herself. She had seen him this very afternoon casting up his accounts like a sickly little boy, all because he had lost his nerve over some mud. Of course she suspected something was wrong. “What you must think of me,” he muttered, turning to gaze once again at the parterres. Anything to avoid looking directly into her eyes.
“I do not know what to think,” she said, turning to gaze out to the garden herself. She rested her forearms on top of the balustrade, and Anthony dared to glance at her. The waning moon offered little light but still managed to cast her profile in a lustrous silhouette, her hair a banked fire of curls. “I only know you are troubled, and I wish to help.”
“You wish to help,” he echoed. “If only you could. Lucas wishes to help, my mother wishes to help; I imagine if my father were in better health, he would wish to help too—most probably in ways I would not like, and he’s done enough of that already since my return.”
“I do not understand,” she said. “You speak as though that is a bad thing, and yet I cannot believe it is. In our own ways, we all wish you to be happy.”
“Oh, now, there I believe you are wrong, Miss Clarke. Must I call you Miss Clarke since we are in a public setting, although speaking privately at the moment? How confusing that is! How we must be careful for propriety’s sake.” His temper was rising again, so he paused to gain control. “Pardon me. That was uncalled for. I apologize.”
He stared at the gardens. “But since you have asked the question, my dear Miss Clarke, I shall answer. Lucas saved my life in Spain. Oh, I saved his a time or two; we watched each other’s backs quite diligently. But during my last battle, at a town called Badajoz, he saved my life. I was surely dead, with a gunshot wound to the side. Had he not found me and also found a woman willing to take me in, I would definitely be dead, and the letter informing my parents of this would have been quite accurate.
“As it was, it was a near thing. I was fevered and unconscious for days, and I have Lucas and Señora Bartolo to thank for my recovery. Lucas did not dare leave my side, and so I was reported missing and presumed dead. As Lucas was an enlisted man, the reports back home about him were less complete, and his family was spared any misinformation. My friend, the fourth son of the Viscount Thurlby, has fulfilled any obligation he may have had to me in full, and yet he refuses to leave until he is certain I am ‘healed.’ You saw me at the tug-of-war; is it not obvious that I am unwell? In body and in spirit?”
“Anyone who has experienced what you have would need time—”
“Ah, but Lucas experienced those things with me, and he does not need time. My mother is doing her best, but she is not quite sure how to help her undead son take the place of his dead brother. My father, on the other hand, knows precisely how to help me: he has outli
ned his priorities for me and has issued a command that I be about those priorities posthaste. He is concerned, and rightly so, for the marquessate and my role in its continuance.
“And you, Miss Clarke? You would help me too. How do you propose to do that when I am not sure what will help?”
She rested her hand on his forearm and answered softly, “I can listen. And I can pray.”
“Ah, yes. The vicar’s daughter to the rescue. Will you read sermons to me too?”
“That is an unkind thing to say when all I want is your happiness,” she said, removing her hand from his arm and leaving him feeling bereft.
“Happiness is beyond me,” he said. “I would be satisfied with a little peace. Every soldier during the siege at Badajoz was praying. Those prayers did little to save many of them.”
“I do not claim to know God’s will, but like you, I have faced death,” Amelia said. “I prayed as a child for my mother to get well, but she was taken nonetheless. And I prayed desperately for months that my father would be spared, and again God did not answer the way I had hoped. But He gave me the strength to see to my father’s needs and be thankful for each day I had with him.”
“I hear your words,” Anthony said hollowly. “But they do little for me at present. I returned home a broken man, and yet I have a father who has been near death and may yet die, and my duties in that regard overwhelm me. I was never meant to be Halford. My brother was.” He gestured toward the estate and the village of Ashworthy beyond. “These are my people, or they will be when I am Ashworth. They depend on my father and, therefore, on me—for their livelihoods, for their very lives. I lead them. I must care for them—as I did as an officer for my men.”
“I understand that,” she said. “What I do not understand is this despair you are feeling.”
“Despair,” he said. His heart felt rent in two. The anguish was such that he feared he would collapse. “Despair barely covers it. I am responsible for them. I feel acutely the need to be someone they can look up to and trust.”
She drew closer and laid her hand once again on his arm. He shuddered, aching with need from her nearness. “You are that person and more. I have watched you this past fortnight. You are the most honorable—”
“Honor!” Anthony spat the word from his mouth, the taste of it bitter and vile. He turned and grabbed her by the shoulders, intent on making her understand, fearful that she would and would cringe from him afterward. “War does its worst to men, Amelia. The devil rattles his saber and screams for blood during battle, then whispers the worst sort of fears and evils in the aftermath. Hell opens its mouth, and men, women, and children are all caught in a maelstrom of fire and agony.”
“Stop, my dear,” she said. “Oh, Anthony, please stop.”
Sometime during his rant she had placed her hands on his chest, over his heart. She must have bruises on her shoulders, so hard was his grip on her. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice breaking. “Forgive me.” He did not know if he was asking it of her or his Maker.
“Anthony,” she repeated, and the sound of his name on her lips was balm to his soul. He was not a captain or Halford here with her now, on the terrace and away from the din. He was merely a man. He was his true self, as he had been from birth.
She cupped his jaw then with a tenderness that undid him.
Broken by her innocence and by a touch that both soothed and ravaged him, he shared his darkest secret. “I was caught in that maelstrom, Amelia. I was in those trenches and fought with the same fury as any of my men. I watched them fall, wounded and dead. I saw the blood. And when it was over and Badajoz was ours, I felt the rage along with the others. I wanted to partake in the horrific things I saw my men—my own men—doing. I did not want to call them to order. I wanted—”
“Hush,” she said, softly stroking his jaw. “Hush.”
But there was only one way Anthony could stop the flow of words now that they had begun. He brought her to himself and took her lips, plundered them, taking and taking. He was so empty, and she was so full of goodness and light . . .
And then suddenly, miraculously, she was giving, giving to him, who was so undeserving, her lips generous and sweet, and he rejoiced and was humbled that this woman—this good woman—did not despise him for the confession he had made.
Her arms came around him and held him close, and he encircled her waist with one arm while his free hand moved to cup her head. He cherished her. He kissed her cheeks and throat and then pressed his lips once again to hers. He felt her clutch at his back as she had done when they had been on Bucephalus in the rain—it seemed ages ago now—only this time she was keeping him secure, assuring him of the safety he needed. She was a strong woman, although her slight appearance made her seem otherwise. There was such a grace to be found in her strength.
“Anthony,” she said again, an edge in her voice that only intensified his ardor. He would never tire of hearing his name on her lips.
“Amelia,” he said in reply, lost in her femininity, kissing her again.
“Lord Halford,” he heard, only it was not her voice this time. Whose was it? Familiar, grating . . . Instinctively he adjusted slightly to put Amelia behind him and hide her from whoever it was while he struggled to regain his bearings.
“Oh, merciful heavens! Turn your head, Harriet, this minute!”
He looked over his shoulder. Devil take him for a fool! It was Lady Putnam, with eyes the size of saucers, and Harriet, her mouth gaping like a halibut straining for air. Behind them were Sir Frederick and Charlotte, a handful of guests Anthony was in no mood to identify, and his mother, whose expression he was unable to decipher.
He must act quickly to remedy this farce and salvage what he could of Amelia’s reputation, for it was she who would suffer the consequences of his actions. She would be ruined in the eyes of the ton as surely as any of the women of Badajoz had been in truth.
Anthony could not, would not allow that to happen.
“Mother, Lady Putnam, Sir Frederick,” he began, keeping a secure arm around Amelia, who stood frozen in place next to him. “You catch us at an inopportune moment, for which I beg your pardon. I am confident, however, that you will forgive us both when you learn that Miss Clarke has made me the happiest of men, having just accepted my proposal of marriage.” He used his most authoritative voice, the one that had normally sent the men under his command running. He would not have anyone question the intent of his words. It was the only way to protect Amelia.
He felt her tremble and had a moment of guilt that he had compromised her, and yet he could not entirely regret it either. She was not, perhaps, the sort of woman others would expect an earl to marry and who would become a marchioness in due time, but it settled a responsibility Anthony had dreaded facing. If he was to marry and produce heirs quickly, tonight’s indiscretion had saved him the time and trouble of wife hunting. Besides, he and Amelia got on very well together, and he was obviously attracted to her, an added bonus.
His mother approached them, a practiced smile on her face, and took Amelia’s hands in hers. “My dear Amelia,” she said, kissing her cheek. “What wonderful news! I am to have a daughter-in-law.” She turned to face the onlookers. “We must share this with our other guests. Anthony, I leave it up to you to make the full announcement. Come with me.” With the dignified bearing of the marchioness she was, she cut her way through the gathering crowd, leading him and his new fiancée into the ballroom.
God bless his mother for taking matters in hand and publicly stating her approval. Whether she meant her words or not, Anthony did not know, but it allowed them all to save face.
That was all he dared hope for at the moment.
* * *
Amelia was still reeling with shock from Anthony’s words as he held her hand firmly in his and strode into the ballroom behind Lady Ashworth. He had told the people on the terrace—and his mother had been
one of them—that they were betrothed, and now he intended to announce it to the entire room.
He gripped her hand like a vise, and Amelia winced from pain. The music dwindled and came to an end, and she could hear murmurs rolling over the dancers as word that something gossip worthy was about to occur.
As the three of them approached the dais on which the orchestra was seated, a hush descended over the room. A group of gentlemen entered from the back. Lady Louisa, looking confused, stood next to Lord Farleigh. Lucas Jennings and Lord Cantwell were with them, grim and resolute.
“My good friends,” Anthony said in a booming voice. “I am pleased to announce that this lovely lady, Miss Amelia Clarke, has just now consented to be my bride.”
The murmuring started up again.
Anthony held up his hand for silence. “I am grateful to have returned to my home and family and to your good fellowship, and it is with great pleasure I look forward to the future with my soon-to-be wife.”
Considering the bleakness she had heard in his voice out on the terrace only moments before, Amelia did not believe a word he was saying.
“What’s this?” a man hissed loudly from the back of the ballroom.
The Duke of Marwood pushed his way through the crowd, stopping directly in front of Anthony. Anthony’s eyes locked with Marwood’s, his jaw set, his mouth in a firm line. “You are betrothed, Lord Halford?” the duke said sarcastically. “May I be the first to congratulate you, although it was but minutes ago you jilted my daughter. Now I see why: you have been caught dallying with a servant who is no better than she ought to be.”
Gasps and more murmurs flew around the room, and Amelia felt dizzy at the duke’s insinuation.
“Watch yourself, Marwood,” Anthony replied in a low voice. “You are speaking of my future wife.”
“And such a wife as you deserve, no doubt. It must come from years of mucking about with commoners and light-skirts across the Iberian Peninsula.”
