by Corwin, Amy
She glanced at the squire to see if he noticed. To her horror, he caught her gaze and the lid of one eye drooped. He accompanied this with what could only be described as a leer.
Was he winking at her, too?
Had all the men of her acquaintance suddenly become unhinged? Winter hadn’t given way yet to the exuberance of spring, so it could hardly be that. But she could think of no possible excuse for their outrageous behavior.
Perhaps the moon was full.
She had lost track of time and had left her almanac in London. If this continued, however, she'd have to find a way to slip outside and check the phase of the moon when it rose in a few hours.
Suddenly, the squire sidled up to her. In response, she stepped closer to Major Dacy and touched his arm, seeking the reassurance of his muscular presence. If he was accustomed to breaking limbs, she was happy to have his protection for one evening.
This wasn’t the first time the squire had behaved oddly. Of late, a strange look occupied Squire Winkle's slightly protuberant blue eyes when he saw her. She never noticed it until she met him quite by accident after she first arrived at The Orchards a few weeks ago. He had been very solicitous of her broken engagement. Very solicitous, indeed.
She put down her unease in the squire's presence to a general malaise after the precipitous end to her one and only engagement.
Unfortunately, now she had to consider the possibility that she had a good reason to feel uncomfortable.
And since she was neither a raving beauty nor wealthy, the only reasonable explanation was the phase of the moon. It simply had to be full.
A warm hand pressed against her back. She gasped and glanced up to find Major Dacy staring down at her. His eyes held puzzlement and a concern that melted her completely. She smiled tremulously before she got the courage to move away to join the others in the sitting room.
Unfortunately, there were not that many pieces of furniture in the small room. Desperate for respite, she precipitously cut out Mr. Winkle and flung herself down on a straight-backed chair near her sister.
Helen leaned forward to grab her hand. “Oh, Oriana, do sit by me.” She patted the empty space next to her on the blue silk sofa.
“But, Miss Helen—” Mr. Eric Winkle said, obviously disappointed. He moved away sullenly.
The young man was nearly nineteen, but he retained the gawky uncertainness of a much younger youth. When Helen smiled at him, he flushed a deep, gorgeous burgundy. His narrow face, combined with his father’s bulbous blue eyes, and his dead mother’s weak chin and drooping mouth, gave his expression a strong resemblance to a startled carp.
Oriana stifled a giggle and was gratified when Major Dacy sat in the wing chair immediately to her left. This left the Winkles to sit opposite them in a pair of rather uncomfortable looking straight-backed chairs.
What was I thinking to agree to this nerve-wracking affair? Oriana glanced around in dismay.
Their conversation was so stilted and painful that it was a relief when the butler finally announced dinner. While the others sorted themselves out, the squire placed a thin hand under her elbow and held her back.
“You’re looking particularly enchanting this evening, Miss Archer. Beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She watched Major Dacy lead Helen out, followed by Eric Winkle.
“May I have a private word with you? After dinner perhaps?”
“Why?” she asked, trying to pull him forward toward the dining room. Then she realized how rude her response sounded. “That is, I’m sure you can say anything you wish in front of the others.”
The squire winked. “Yes, but proposals should always be made in private, don’t you think?”
A wave of nauseating dizziness rushed over her. Then she realized she didn’t want to faint and awaken to find the squire’s face hanging above her. She took a deep, stabilizing breath.
Why are all these dreadful men suddenly proposing to me? She didn’t want them to. In fact, she was quite looking forward to being a spinster aunt to Helen’s future children.
An uncomfortable, nearly hysterical giggle bubbled over her lips. She ruthlessly pulled him into the hallway to follow the others. “You’re terribly cruel, Squire Winkle, to jest with me this way. Why, I never realized what a flirt you were!”
The answer seemed to please him. He laughed and allowed her to guide him toward the dining room. “My dear, it’s not a jest. My dear wife has been gone for many years now. I'm a lonely man.” He sighed dramatically. “But we’ll discuss this later, when we're comfortably private.”
She smiled and vowed to avoid going anywhere alone with the squire and certainly no place private.
After another ghastly wink, he finally released her to be seated at table.
“Ladies,” the squire said after the fish course was removed. He nodded and the butler solemnly served the main course of bacon-wrapped capons, along with a potato soufflé and some strange vegetable casserole which Oriana tried not to examine too closely. “How is your dear grandmother, the Dowager Duchess?”
When she glanced politely at the squire, she caught the sound of Major Dacy choking. Obviously, he was unaware of the Archers’ lineage. And it served him right since he had neglected to inform them of his rank.
She transferred her gaze to Major Dacy and answered coolly, “She’s doing well, I believe.”
“Wonderful.” The squire tucked into his food with a robust appetite. “I hope we’ll see her again soon?”
“Perhaps,” Oriana replied rather absently, growing concerned about Major Dacy.
He seemed to be choking.
After a hasty sip of wine, he coughed into his napkin. His eyes remained resolutely fixed upon his plate. In fact, his interest in the contents of his plate seemed so intense that the footman behind him interpreted this to mean he was desirous of more food. The servant hastily proceeded to fill Major Dacy’s plate with another huge helping of the vegetable casserole.
The flush on his cheeks immediately subsided. He turned a rather odd shade of green. Then he squared his shoulders and like a good soldier, attacked the food. She couldn’t stifle a small chuckle at his expression when his teeth unexpectedly bit down on something so undercooked that she could hear the brittle crunching from across the table.
His hearing was apparently acute, however. He sent her such a black look that she nearly knocked over her glass of wine. With an effort, he swallowed and took another, longer sip of wine before raising his glass in her direction. She stifled another laugh and was rewarded by the faint twitch of his lips.
Resolutely trying to be polite, she attempted to ignore the major. She turned to pay attention to the squire’s interrogation about the health of all the various members of the Archer family.
“But your poor uncle, the duke...” the squire said with a shake of his head.
Oriana raised a brow. She preferred not to discuss her father’s elder brother, His Grace, her Uncle Stuart. He wasn’t doing well, and most of his doctors only expected him to last a few more months.
Sometimes, she felt rather like a black-hearted raven perched on a limb outside his bedroom window. They were all waiting for him to die so her family could pick over the bones to find a dukedom.
Unless Uncle Stuart got busy creating an heir, her younger brother, Nathaniel, would inherit the dukedom. And while it was certainly uncomfortable to be penniless, she thought it was preferable to suddenly finding your baby brother saddled with a title he was utterly unprepared to assume.
The Archers didn’t need any more reckless gamesters with titles. And much as she loved Nathaniel, she deplored the way he hung around the clubs placing wagers and generally aping his adored, but rascally, Uncle John.
“My uncles are all doing very well,” she answered firmly.
“And your aunt? Is she also well?”
“I believe so.”
And so it continued. She was heartily sick of her relatives and their health by the time the thick, treacly mess
of a pudding was served. She shrugged through two spoonfuls before she gave up. At last, the squire allowed the females to escape from the dining room.
The men followed less than twenty minutes later, although from the haggard, desperate look on Major Dacy’s face, she divined that the Squire’s powers of interrogation had not been wasted. She wondered if he had gotten anything more out of Major Dacy than she had.
“Shall we have some music?” Squire Winkle asked. “Eric loves a good ballad, don’t you boy? Almost as much as a good card game.”
“Yes,” Eric replied, his eyes bright with sudden interest. “Miss Helen, would you play?”
“No, I really would rather not.” Helen gazed with pleading eyes at Oriana.
“Come, come, child. Just one or two ballads,” Squire Winkle said.
Helen raised a hand to her throat and gave a gentle little cough. “Truly, my throat is slightly sore.” When Eric Winkle rose as if ready to examine it, she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down onto the piano bench. “I shall be fine, really, but it wouldn't be wise to strain my voice singing.”
“Of course,” the squire agreed dejectedly.
When Helen couldn’t be persuaded to sing, cards were brought out. There were an uneven number of players so Oriana tried to bow out, offering to sit to the side and keep track of the points.
“No, no, Miss Archer. I wouldn’t hear of it,” the squire said. “Perhaps we could take a turn about the room while these children play a game of Beggar my Neighbor?”
She stifled a laugh at the look of disgust that passed over the Major Dacy’s face at the mention of the children’s card game. “Perhaps we should try a game of Loo instead?”
“I suppose,” the squire agreed with such a sad face that Oriana felt almost sorry to disappoint him again. He pushed the cards over to his son to shuffle while he drummed his thin fingers on the table. He flashed a series of bitterly disappointed glances at her during the deal.
“Perhaps you'd tell us more about your experiences overseas, Major Dacy?” she said after the cards were dealt. “We had no idea we had a Major and a hero staying with us!”
“It’s not a fit subject for ladies,” he replied, his gray eyes resting on her face.
When he didn’t look away, she nervously reordered the cards in her hand, laid them face down and then picked them up again. She glanced up to find his sharp gaze still fixed on her. Her hand fluttered up to touch her hair before it came to rest like a butterfly at the base of her throat. The pulse beneath her fingertips raced.
“No idea! You minx, joking like that—but no, indeed,” the squire said in a hearty voice. “Not fit for ladies at all. Dreadful thing, war, even for a hero such as Major Dacy. Saving that man the way you did in the face of that damn Frog’s attack—Napoleon, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t mention it.” His hand touched his own forehead as if he had an experience and a scar identical to Major Dacy’s. “Terrible wound, that.”
“Napoleon?” she repeated in surprise. She should be more cautious about teasing Major Dacy about his sudden promotion if that were true.
But surely, he was no more than a lieutenant, if that. Then she remembered her earlier fear that it might all be true. Uncle John occasionally told the truth, and this might be one of those rare occasions.
She felt bewildered and embarrassed to have thought such awful things. And yet what of Mr. Lyndel?
Casting her mind back, she couldn’t remember a single time since she turned seventeen that a guest of her uncle’s had been entirely innocent. However, this could be the first time. It wasn’t completely impossible.
“Miss Archer, Miss Archer!” the squire repeated before she realized it was her turn.
She fumbled the play and waited nervously for the round to end and the next to begin.
They played a few more hands before she couldn’t stand it any longer and excused herself to flee to a retiring room. She couldn’t concentrate on the cards and felt alternately flushed and then icy cold sitting across from Major Dacy. Major Dacy or Mr. Dacy? Which was true? Or were both true? Did it even matter? She felt utterly confused.
When she returned, she found Helen, Mr. Winkle, and the squire playing a rowdy game of Beggar my Neighbor. A sudden gleam of reddish light, like a spark straight out of Hades, flashed in a glowing arc outside the French doors. She stepped nearer, glad for the draft of cooling night air and curious about the gleam.
Major Dacy stood on the terrace, alone in the shadows.
“Are you truly a Major?” she asked as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. After her uncle’s French adventure with Monsieur Dumas, she supposed a mere English Major should not surprise her.
Major Dacy raised a cheroot to his lips and gazed out in the night. His face was shadowed but even so, she could make out the harsh planes of his cheekbones and the stubborn set of his jaw. The breath caught in her throat and her hand rose toward him involuntarily. He looked so alone and so hard—so inured to his desperate loneliness.
“Don’t you know?” His voice was as cold and as distant as the moon barely visible above the trees. “I’m sure a smart woman like you has already decided.”
“There’s no need to insult me.” Her voice broke over her words. The gray gleam of moonlight caught her, casting her shadow toward him as if her ghostly soul reached for him. She jerked back a step and noted irrelevantly that it was, indeed, a full moon.
Her movement caught his attention. He tossed the cheroot away. The embers flared as it arced through the darkness. Before she could protest, he laced his arm around her waist and pulled her deeper into the night.
Indignant, she pushed at his chest. However she might just as well have pressed her hands against a rock for all the good it did her. She couldn’t break his hard grip. The quiet intensity of his gaze made her nervous.
She twisted and turned her face away, striving for distance and a lighter tone. “I suppose you think I’m silly and easily taken in, Major Dacy. Did Helen gossip and tell you I never paid attention to our governess—is that why you think I’m not intelligent enough to see what is happening? I didn’t like doing sums so I simply chose to work on the mending while the others did their lessons. I was bored—not hen-witted.”
She stopped, aghast at her inane, and too revealing, words.
“Devil take it, Oriana—Miss Archer—I never thought anything of the sort. In fact, you’ve got more common sense than any of us.”
“Really?” Her lips trembled. She tried to sound grateful, but in truth, she felt vaguely insulted. Who wanted to have common sense? It wasn’t an attractive quality.
And common sense implied horrid old men like the squire might feel she was the sensible sort of female who would be grateful for the chance of marrying them. It might be silly, but in truth, she wanted men to fight over her and desire her. For once in her life, she wanted to be the apple of someone’s eye, the toast of the Ton, or the swan instead of a portly old duck.
She wanted a dashing man like Chilton—as long as he wasn’t a gamester down on his luck with no prospects—to fall desperately in love with her. If only she could be more like her beautiful younger sister, Helen.
“Yes,” Chilton interrupted. His right hand pressed against her lower back, holding her against the hard length of him.
Something changed inside her, and she realized she was thinking of him by his Christian name, Chilton. While it disturbed her, she couldn’t help a small frisson of excitement as repeating his name. Chilton.
She could feel the heat of his body through her dress as if it was made of flimsy gauze.
Gazing up at his earnest expression, she suddenly remembered Mr. Lyndel’s offer. And all the tension and confusion of the last few days caught her unawares.
She burst into tears, knowing no one wanted her, least of all Chilton Dacy. They just wanted a connection with the duchess.
Chilton’s hold tightened. Without asking, he hustled her out past the bushes into the soothing shadows. Her feet flo
ated over the ground. Rubbing her hand over her face, she tried to stop crying and enjoy the sensation of flying through the darkness held securely in a man's arms.
In the dark privacy of the night, he stopped. He pulled out a handkerchief and tenderly wiped her cheeks. “Don’t cry, Oriana—Miss Archer. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He cursed under his breath. “I’m sorry, damn it, please don’t cry.”
She shook her head and sniffed into his handkerchief. “Don’t swear. And tell me the truth, were you a Major?”
“Yes. Does that make you feel any better?”
“Not noticeably.” In fact, it made her feel worse. Much worse. She sniffed and covered her face with his handkerchief, wishing she could simply vanish in a puff of smoke.
Her uncle was right. She had let a man's clothing and her past experiences with other friends of her uncle overwhelm her judgment. As a result, she had been horrible to a man who had received a terrible injury defending the life of a fellow Englishman from Napoleon. She should have weighed his merits on his actions.
In her heart, she had always known she could trust him. Major Chilton Dacy was indeed the first honest man her uncle had ever brought to The Orchards.
She buried her face in his shoulder, twisting the linen handkerchief between her fingers. The cloth was suffused with the warm scent of his skin, mingled with the herbs she had used to preserve Andrew’s uniform. Breathing deeply, she wiped her face again and leaned into the curve of his heavy arm. The muscles were hard and warm against her back. It was so easy to relax against him and pretend this moment could last forever.
Nestling deeper, she was suddenly conscious of just how tightly he was holding her.
“This week has been very confusing.” She reluctantly straightened. “I just wish I wasn’t the sort of woman who inspires pity in men. Even Mr. Lyndel thinks I'm pathetic—or sensible—enough to consider an offer from him. And I'm so sorry for thinking you were not a Major. Did you really fight Napoleon?”
