by Corwin, Amy
There were no clothes here except his uniform. And her brother had never liked the black-edged, dark green uniform of the 3rd Battalion Rifle Corps, so they buried him in his favorite evening jacket with a rich, red silk waistcoat. After the funeral, she packed the dark green uniform and his few paltry belongings into the chest at the foot of his bed.
Then she cleaned the room and shut the door, thinking no one would ever use it again.
She pushed wayward tendrils of hair off her forehead and steeled herself to open the chest at the foot of the bed.
Her hands trembled as if she opened Andrew’s casket, instead.
A strong scent of lavender, roses and rosemary puffed out from the paper-lined interior. She had placed small muslin bags of the herbs amongst the wool, hoping to preserve the garments. After a moment, she pulled out the formal dark green jacket and shook it, letting the sachets fall back into the chest.
There were no signs of holes in the material. She thought briefly of claiming there were, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn't say the words because she couldn't bear even the hint of having failed Andrew again in such a trivial matter as taking care of his uniform.
She placed the jacket on the bed while she pulled out the rest of the clothes. Her thoughts returned to the sight of Mr. Dacy limping away with Josephine at his heels after Oriana accused him of breaking her uncle’s arm. The memory made her ill.
Why did her soul insist on his innocence when all the facts clearly indicated quite the opposite?
She might be every bit as hen-witted as her uncle claimed, but she knew when a man was hiding something. Her betrothed had given her plenty of examples to learn from. In fact, she might have encouraged his playful little indiscretions if they had ever arrived at the altar. His liaisons invariably made him sweeter-tempered and much less interested in her, for which she was very grateful.
Smoothing the jacket, she draped it over her arm. She opened the door to find Mr. Dacy outside, his hand outstretched as if to grasp the doorknob. She arched a brow at him, her suspicions aroused.
“Miss Archer . . .” The fading light revealed a slight flush rising under the darkness of his imperfectly shaved chin.
Her wayward thoughts wondered if Joshua had trouble shaving such a square, stubborn jaw.
“Yes?” she replied, running a hand over the slightly rough texture of the wool jacket.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Archer.”
“Must you keep repeating my name?”
Clutching her brother’s jacket a little closer, she felt suddenly shy. The corridor stretched out behind him, empty except for the two of them standing on a slightly threadbare carpet.
The house creaked. An errant draft from an open window billowed past them. The scent of her brother’s woolen jacket, overlaced with herbs, rose in the air. Her unease increased. She hugged the jacket, wishing Andrew were still alive.
He would never have allowed a ruffian such as Mr. Chilton Dacy to enter their house.
Andrew was famous for blackening the eyes of any impudent males who even considered casting glances at his younger sisters. She still felt the loss of his protection keenly. It had been so comfortable to have him to run to when she was frightened or disturbed by nightmares.
It had been a very long time since anyone had taken care of her. Once more, she felt exhausted by the necessity to watch over all the others in her exasperating family.
“I—”
“Yes?” She stoked the fires of her courage and moved to skirt Mr. Dacy.
He barred her way, however, studying at her in an increasingly intense way.
His hand brushed her arm. She stopped, suddenly breathless, staring up into his gray eyes. His broad hand cupped her elbow and turned her slightly toward him, while his gaze moved down to her mouth.
Kiss me! she thought irrationally. Anything to break the warm intensity of his regard.
Then she clutched the jacket even harder. What was she thinking? Her fleeting thoughts tumbled into a confusing morass. She wanted to fling herself into his arms and plead with him to defy his employer, Mr. Lyndel. Then have Mr. Dacy drag her to his room to seal the bargain as if she were the heroine in one of her novels, doomed by her love to become a fallen woman.
What a fate!
“I was searching for—” He shifted his hand.
Her heart strained and bucked in her chest like a yearling horse trying to break free from the halter. He was so close she could feel the heat from his body.
“You were searching for...what?” Me! Tell me you were searching for me! Her eyes drifted over the lean, hard muscles bunched beneath his jacket. Her heart pounded, deafening her.
“Your uncle said you had some clothes I’m to wear tonight.” He dropped his hand as his eyes strayed to the jacket over her arm.
“What?” Indignation swept over her until she realized she was indeed being absurd. He had no interest in her, and she was glad. His only goal was to obtain the money her uncle owed to Mr. Lyndel. “I’ve only found my brother’s old formal jacket.”
“Oh.” His expression went blank. “I don’t think—”
“Uncle John said you were in the Rifle Corps. Is that true?”
His hand rose, barely touching the white scar bisecting his brow before he lowered it. The long fingers clenched into a ball at his side. “Yes.”
“Did you know my brother? He was a Lieutenant—Lieutenant Andrew Archer?” Her throat suddenly closed, aching. Her eyes burned.
She focused on the dark green jacket, picking at stray strands of brown dog hair. Which dogs had they had then? She couldn’t remember, and her mind shied away from her last memory of her brother lying helpless in bed, his blue eyes dull and hopeless.
And she couldn't even stay awake on his last night, to give him what comfort she could.
“No, Miss Archer. I’m sorry, I didn’t know him. I don’t need—”
“It’s quite all right. Uncle John said you should wear these. Better than letting them rot away in a chest, I suppose.” She thrust the clothing into his hands and strode away, feeling bereft.
For the next hour, she tried to concentrate on her mundane chores, but staying indoor increased her nervousness. In the end, she went outside and played with the dogs. They demanded nothing of her but her presence and a few tosses of an old stick.
By seven, her nervousness had returned in full force. She begged her uncle one more time to go with them, but he was adamant about staying behind. Thwarted, she went upstairs to prepare.
The gowns in her wardrobe were not inspiring. However, tucked on a low shelf, she found one dress in pale gold satin with a deeper gold apron made of silk organza. The hem and neckline were embroidered with gold and green silk thread in the form of twining roses and leaves. She had worn it the night Lord Willowby proposed. Quite frankly, she never wanted to wear it again.
However, it was either that dress or a dreadful pink silk with white lace on the bodice that made her look like a rotund petit four. She pulled out the gold and rang for Rose.
“Oh, Miss, I do so love this one on you!” Rose exclaimed as she pinned the back and finished tying the laces. “It’s a treat to see you going out again. Why it’s like old times, isn’t it? When we was in London.”
“Not precisely like London, I hope,” Oriana replied. Rose was one of the few servants Lord Willowby hadn’t managed to seduce, though it wasn’t from lack of trying.
Rose blushed. “No, Miss. Terrible sorry, I am too, about your gentleman.”
“Never mind, Rose. Is Miss Helen ready?”
“Oh, yes. Dot went to her over an hour ago. She’s sure to be ready by now.”
Oriana laughed. “Only an hour? I believe I should send you to her to make sure. I’ve never known Helen to take less than two hours at her toilet.”
“No, Miss.” Rose finished brushing her hair, curtsied and departed, closing the door open in her wake.
After a few moments, she drew up her courage and exited her room
. She was surprised to find Rose in the hallway, knocking on Helen’s door.
“Rose? Thank goodness!” Helen’s clear voice called, before she pulled the maid by the wrist into her room.
“Oriana!” Helen said, noticing her before she shut the door.
“Hurry up, Helen. We don't want to be late.”
“Maybe you don't, but I do!” Helen replied tartly before shutting the door.
Oriana shook her head and glanced down the gloomy hallway toward the men’s rooms. The doors were all discreetly closed. Mr. Brown had already been through, lighting candles in wall sconces so they wouldn't trip and fall down the stairs in the darkness.
She hurried downstairs and after a second's indecision, hid in the library. She pulled out her book on horticulture and sat down with it at the desk. Whenever she got nervous, she found it very soothing to go carefully through the pages making notes and plans for the following spring.
A stack of her favorite pink paper sat on the corner of the desk, along with her writing supplies. She pulled one sheet off the stack and opened the book in the middle.
In a few minutes, she was absorbed by a treatise on raising citrus fruits under glass.
“Oriana!” called Helen, floating into the room. She was a vision in pale pink silk with thick ruffles of lace accenting the bodice and hem.
However, despite her lovely appearance, her fingers played nervously over the front of her dress, revealing her fear that she simply wasn’t very pretty.
“Are you ready?”
“No.” Oriana sighed. “You look beautiful though.”
“I know I don’t, but I love you for saying so.”
Oriana shook her head and finished her annotation before sprinkling sand over the note she had written. When it was dry, she tucked it into the book and closed it.
“Don’t you want to go, Oriana?”
“Not particularly.”
“But aren’t you bored? You must be. Come, we’ll have fun.”
She laughed. “Of course. I wouldn't have struggled into this dress if I truly meant to stay here.”
She linked arms with her sister and moved into the hallway. Before she had a chance to think of another excuse, Rose came with their cloaks. They spent a few minutes adjusting their bonnets before Mr. Dacy joined them and the carriage was brought around to the front door.
Once outside, the three of them faced the old conveyance as if they were French aristocrats wincing at the sight of the tumbrel drawing closer for their final ride.
Chapter Fifteen
Upon the Velvet
Unable to delay any longer, Oriana, Helen, and Mr. Dacy climbed into the ancient equipage. Oriana and her sister sat next to each other while Mr. Dacy faced them. They all had to brace themselves as best they could as the carriage bumped along the road to the Squire’s manor.
Rocks and ruts in the road flashed by under the rotted floorboards. She found herself bracing her feet against the base of the padded seat for fear of falling through one of the holes in the floor. Despite the queasiness created by this unique view of the road, she refused to return Mr. Dacy’s impolite stare. Ever since he dressed in her brother’s formal attire and had gotten a decent shave, he suddenly appeared much more dangerous.
He looked very hard—and devastatingly attractive—in the dark green jacket, which stretched tautly across his back. Uncle John had given him a black cloak, as well. Mr. Dacy wore it thrown back over his wide shoulders in elegant casualness that made her all the more aware of him.
The tightness of his clothes apparently improved his posture, too, suddenly making him seem like someone entirely different than she supposed. He sat ramrod straight, his broad shoulders back. His dark hair was combed and his shadowy whiskers shaved, all of which made the scar across his brow appear more prominent and perilous. He looked like a man accustomed to warfare. An officer who gave orders and expected them to be followed.
She tried to reassure herself that the change in Mr. Dacy was merely because of her brother’s uniform, that of a Lieutenant. Uncle John said Mr. Dacy was in the Rifle Corps. However until this moment, she couldn’t believe he was an officer. Not when he now worked for a man like Mr. Lyndel.
She swallowed her nervousness and plucked at the folds in her forest green merino wool cape. If he had never been an officer, then he had no right to wear the uniform. A man of character would have protested donning it and in fact, could face arrest for it.
Yet he wore it and wore it with cool self-assurance, as if he had donned just such a uniform many times in the past.
Just what was his history? Who was telling the truth? Uncle John or Mr. Lyndel?
The manner of Chilton’s speech made either seem possible. He spoke like a gentleman. Like an officer.
Of course, there was the French smuggler who spoke like a gentleman, as well. All sorts of individuals could speak well, not just the rich or honest.
Which made her blood run cold.
What would a wealthy gentleman be doing with her uncle? A gentleman with a hole in his thigh, no personal effects, and scruffy clothing?
Perhaps a gentleman down on his luck and determined to collect a very large debt or a reward of some sort from Mr. Lyndel. Her thoughts kept circling back to Mr. Lyndel. She simply couldn’t imagine Mr. Dacy working for him. But he was Mr. Lyndel’s partner, she reminded herself.
This reminder of Mr. Lyndel made her blush anew with aggravation at his impossible offer of marriage. What if she refused? Would Mr. Dacy attempt to make her “see reason” the way he had done with her uncle? Would both she and her uncle end with shattered, broken limbs?
By the time they arrived at the mansion, she was only too happy to quit the confines of the carriage. The squire’s son, Mr. Eric Winkle, impetuously jogged down the steps to greet them and hand the women down the narrow carriage steps. A quick look around showed Mr. Winkle’s father waiting just inside the front door, beaming at them.
She smiled and waved at Squire Winkle. His nodded before his blue eyes gazed beyond her. His smile widened. She glanced back to see Mr. Dacy descending awkwardly from the carriage, favoring his wounded leg.
After he shook hands with Eric Winkle, Mr. Dacy moved forward stiffly, leaning heavily on his cane. As she watched, she was struck by the contrast between the men.
The squire and his son were both tall, but they had rather spindly limbs. In comparison, Mr. Dacy’s grim, dangerous silhouette loomed over them, like a huge black mastiff standing between a pair of rather silly, lanky hound dogs.
Mr. Dacy’s cool eyes caught her glance. He smiled reassuringly and gave a barely perceptible shrug.
She blushed and looked away, feeling awkward.
Despite all her doubts, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and give him anything he wanted if only he would leave her uncle alone. However, when all was said and done, she was afraid she wasn’t worth five thousand pounds, regardless of Mr. Lyndel’s optimism.
In fact, at that moment, she was fairly sure she was worth precisely four pounds, three shillings and two pence. That sum represented the remaining total of the funds her parents had entrusted to her for housekeeping during their absence. There were also an alarming number of notes she had left in Mr. Dacy’s purse, adding up to who knew what additional debt.
“Miss Archer,” the squire said, holding out his thin hands in greeting.
“Good evening. Thank you for inviting us,” she replied. The damp chill of his fingers penetrated her gloves when she allowed him to briefly press her hands between his. She smiled to cover her shiver of distaste.
“And, Miss Helen, come in!” He waved her into the house as he turned toward Mr. Dacy. “And you must be the Mr. Dacy we have heard so much about—Major Dacy, that is.” He slapped him on the back and bumped into her as he followed her into the hallway too closely.
She stood staring at Mr. Dacy—Major Dacy. Major? What tom-foolery was this?
Then, as if the shock of this revelation wasn’t enough
, Mr. Dacy had the effrontery to catch her staring and winked. Winked! Just as if they shared an intimate joke!
When she remained rooted to the spot, Squire Winkle finally grasped her elbow and ushered them further down the hall. “No need to stand on formality here. We’ve known the Archer girls for years. And we’re proud to have such a brave officer here tonight. You must tell us of your experiences, Major Dacy. Wounded by Napoleon himself, I understand—”
“Where did you hear that nonsense?” Mr. Dacy asked, his brows creasing.
The squire laid one finger against his mouth. “A little birdie at the Pig’s Toes told me.”
“Well, don’t believe everything you hear.”
“No, no, of course not,” Squire Winkle assured Mr. Dacy with a genial laugh. “But you'll tell us about your adventures, won’t you?”
She managed to break free of the squire's icy grasp and tried to stand closer to Mr. Dacy, hoping to ask him about his sudden promotion to the rank of Major. Then, unwilling to let her go so easily, Squire Winkle moved closer and touched her forearm fleetingly as he spoke.
She was reminded again of how tedious an evening could be with the Winkles. She wished she had recalled this in time to decline the invitation. Although it was certainly proving to be educational. She wondered who at the Pig’s Toes knew Major Dacy well enough to gossip about him.
Alice, perhaps, since she was friends with Joshua. However, she didn't think he knew any more about Major Dacy's background than she did.
She glanced at Major Dacy as a sudden, sharp anger seared her serenity. He must have visited the village tavern already. And dandled that hussy, Alice, upon his knee as he bragged about his heroism during the war.
Is that how the squire came to hear about Major Dacy?
“Perhaps,” Major Dacy replied.
She straightened, startled. Then she realized he wasn’t reading her mind. He was replying to Squire Winkle’s coaxing request for tales of his adventures abroad.
Major Dacy’s cool gray eyes studied the Winkles and then examined the hallway as if preparing for yet another sort of battle. To her surprise, he stepped in front of one of the lovely paintings adorning the walls. His hands rested on top of a silver-headed cane as he examined a landscape of the misty English countryside in spring, and she realized he was using the painting as a way to control his irritation.
