One Night with the Major

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘It can start that way, but things do not always go as planned.’ She reached for Pavia’s hand. ‘You blame your father for too much. He didn’t understand how difficult it would be for us here.’ She smiled softly.

  ‘We had so much hope. When we came to England, he had already made his first fortune. You were twelve and we were naïve. We thought we could throw money at our obstacles and they would dissolve. He bought this house, then the estate in the country. He sent you to Mrs Finlay’s. He gave us all the trappings of nobility. When that was not greeted with acceptance, he worked harder, made another fortune and then another. But nothing changed. I was not invited anywhere. I have not become the great hostess he wanted. He wanted London at our feet and he didn’t get it. I failed him, but he has another chance through you.’ She paused. ‘I just want you to understand why he pushes so hard.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have to justify his failings to me.’ Pavia rose from the bed. She would never be as tolerant, as forgiving, as her mother, nor would she be as accepting. ‘I’m not like you. I don’t want a marriage of convenience to a man I have to make excuses for. I want to be free. I want to go places and see things. Women can do that now, Mother. The railway is opening up travel like never before. The world is changing.’

  ‘Not really, it isn’t. Have you not heard a word I’ve said?’ Her mother sighed. ‘I love you and I want you to be safe and cared for. What about the Marquis of Chatham? He seems like a tolerant man. Perhaps Wenderly was not the best choice, but you are safe from him only if you can bring another lord up to scratch. Don’t waste this chance, Pavia. And for heaven’s sake, don’t fall for the lie these modern women portray in their pamphlets. Don’t believe for a minute that you are free. A woman alone is never free. She is in constant danger. The sooner you understand that, the better. Now, let’s talk about a gown for the Banfields’ ball.’

  Chapter Five

  The Banfields’ ball went down better with champagne. Cam grabbed another flute from a passing tray, adeptly trading his empty one for a full. It was a move he’d perfected over the last two weeks—weeks filled with entertainments like this one, each event grander than the previous as the official opening of the Season drew closer. That opening was so close now, the Banfields’ ball might be considered a soft open for the festivities that would soon be underway. Everyone who was considered anyone of importance for this Season was here tonight, doing one last dress rehearsal, the diamonds brighter, the dresses whiter, the smiles wider. Even the ballroom itself seemed to glitter with a sense of its own self-importance: chandeliers from the Venetian masters, the slim Ionic-styled columns framing the ballroom wrapped in elegant swathes of shimmering pale rose silk and white roses everywhere. Out on the dance floor, Caroline swirled by in a froth of ivory and pink skirts on the arm of a young, but financially disadvantaged viscount’s heir. She flashed Cam a smile. He raised his glass in salute and drained it, his eyes already roving the room, searching out a footman with a tray. Ah, there was one! He moved to swap flutes, a low, familiar chuckle erupting behind him.

  ‘Easy there, soldier, don’t you think you’ve had enough? You’ll be too foxed by midnight to take the lovely Miss Beaufort in for supper.’

  ‘That’s the point.’ Cam laughed, turning to shake hands with an old friend. ‘Sutton Keynes, what brings you to town? I thought you never left Newmarket these days.’

  Tall and immaculately turned out, Sutton looked far more like a gentleman tonight than the dairyman he aspired to be. One would never guess he spent his days mucking around in camel stalls. Sutton shrugged evasively. ‘I had business in town. Uncle is at it again, another one of his crazy schemes to see me wed. Best to nip that in the bud before the Season heats up.’ It was said jovially, but Sutton’s eyes were tired and his mouth was tight. Cam wondered if there was something more serious at play this time. Ever since he’d known Sutton back in school, Sutton’s uncle had been, well, odd to say the least. ‘Nothing I can’t handle, of course,’ Sutton added and then lowered his voice. ‘I heard about Fortis. I am sorry. Is that the only reason you’re home?’ He nodded towards the dance floor. ‘Miss Beaufort grows lovelier every year. Your grandfather certainly knows how to pick them.’ The mechanics of the arrangement were an open secret between Cam and his friends.

  ‘Then my grandfather can marry her.’ Cam swallowed the contents of the icy flute whole. Damn, the glasses were holding less and less as the night wore on. Either that or he was emptying them faster.

  ‘Your grandmother might have something to say about that,’ Sutton joked to take the acerbic edge off his comment, but his voice was low when he spoke again, invoking all the privacy that could be mustered in a ballroom. ‘So, is it the match you’re opposed to, old friend, or the way it came into being? Caroline is as good a choice as any and better than most.’ Sutton paused. ‘Unless, of course, you have someone else in mind?’ Images of his dark-eyed dancer swam in his mind. Cam pushed them away. He didn’t want to think of her tonight, not when such images could only serve to torture him with reminders of what he couldn’t have.

  ‘There is no one else.’ Cam infused his words with a sense of finality. He wanted to move away from this avenue of conversation, but Sutton seemed determined.

  ‘What if there was someone else? What if you went to your grandfather and said, “Here’s who I want to marry”?’ Sutton surveyed the ballroom. ‘Granted, it might be difficult this year. There’s not much to pick from in the way of outstanding catches. There’s the usual milieu of grasping gentry, baron’s daughters and such. That won’t impress your grandfather. But...’ Sutton’s voice picked up a tempo of excitement ‘...Endicott’s last daughter is out this year. I think there’s been an Endicott girl on the market every year since we came up, poor man.’

  ‘I don’t want an Endicott girl.’ Cam shook his head.

  ‘Well, there are only two viscounts’ daughters and one daughter of a marquis this year. People are saying it will be a bloodbath, the three of them will make rutting stags of us all.’ Sutton took another sip of champagne, his glass still half-full. ‘There is a Cit heiress, though.’ He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘That should make things interesting. She’s the only child of Oliver Honeysett, the tea merchant. He’s made it clear he wants a title and is willing to pay for it. His fortune would keep a man in horses for life.’ Sutton calculated everything in horses, or camels. The man should have been a Bedouin. ‘Of course, you don’t need the money, but plenty of these fellows do. It’s always interesting how that dilemma plays out,’ Sutton commented neutrally.

  Cam didn’t respond. He eyed his empty glass and sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter, Sut, they’re all the same. This year, last year, next year. They’re all the same. Every girl, every night, every ball, all the same.’ It had taken coming home to really see that. He’d been gone from London for seven years and he might as well as not been. Nothing was different. The routine was the same, even the balls were the same. He went to the same places, saw the same people. Men’s trouser legs were a bit narrower, but, other than that, sameness permeated everything and it was suffocating him like a stock tied too tight. Even now, he had the sensation that he couldn’t breathe.

  Across the room, a ripple shifted the crowd as the dance ended and couples walked back to their groups, new pairs drifting on to the floor. It was the flash of turquoise that caught his eye, bright and vibrant, and Cam’s eye riveted on it. Turquoise and dark hair, both a striking contrast against the pale palette of ivories and creams and blondeness around him. It was enough to capture his attention and to recall the memories he’d been trying to subdue all evening. ‘Who is that?’ Cam gestured with his flute. Maybe someone new to hold his interest was exactly what he needed, someone to replace his dancer in his fantasies.

  ‘You have good taste.’ Sutton followed his gaze. ‘It must be all that time abroad. That is the tea merchant’s daughter, our richest, most controversial prize of the Season.
’

  ‘Because she’s a Cit? One would think we’d be more progressive these days. If we can power steam ships and run an empire, surely we can broaden our minds about social class.’ Good lord, the champagne was starting to take effect. His tongue was looser than a Covent Garden whore.

  Sutton laughed. ‘It’s all about self-protection and you know it, Cam. People think if we let everyone in, the peerage would mean nothing and we’d be useless. But that’s not the problem with her. I dare say most would make an allowance for the Honeysetts in order to get their hands on all that money. Lord knows the aristocracy needs it.’ He dropped his voice even lower. ‘It’s her breeding, I’m talking about. Society is uncomfortable with the fact that her mother’s Indian. She’s a mixed-blood heiress and society has no idea what to do with her.’

  ‘Society had better get used to it. Empires by nature are not homogenous.’ Cam couldn’t keep the disgust out of his voice. The colour of someone’s skin should not determine their value. He thought of his dancer and the leers men had cast her in the tavern, and the disregard he’d feared they would show her without his protection.

  ‘True enough,’ Sutton agreed. ‘We’re seeing more and more of that as the empire expands—wealthy men marrying abroad and bringing their children home, only to discover England doesn’t want them. They’re trapped between worlds.’

  Cam’s heart went out to the heiress. The Season must be torture for her, knowing that no matter how much money her father had, her antecedents would be held against her, weighed against access to that fortune. The girl would never truly know if she was appreciated for herself. ‘I want to meet her,’ Cam said, the decisiveness clearing the fuzziness of his head.

  The request stunned Sutton. ‘I’ve only met her once, last week at the Haverfords’ rout.’

  ‘Good. Then she’ll remember you.’ Cam made a forward motion with his hand. ‘Lead on.’

  ‘It won’t do you any good,’ Sutton argued as they wove through the crowd. ‘Rumour has it, she’s nearly engaged to Wenderly.’

  ‘Wenderly?’ Cam’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Is he still around? The man must be nearly sixty. I’d think a widow would be more his sort.’

  ‘Well, you’d be wrong,’ Sutton said over his shoulder. ‘He’s got a taste for virgins these days.’

  They approached the heiress’s little court from the side so that she was turned away from them. The crowd parted to make room for the newcomers and Cam stood back, waiting for Sutton to make the introductions.

  ‘Miss Honeysett, a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘Mr Keynes! How good to see you. How is your camel dairy?’ she effused with genuine sincerity in a voice that held notes of the familiar, the smoke of it, the soft intimacy of it, sending a ripple of awareness through Cam.

  ‘My dairy is fine, how kind of you to remember.’ Sutton bowed over her gloved hand. ‘I have a friend with me tonight who would like to meet you. May I introduce you? Miss Pavia Honeysett, this is Major Camden Lithgow, lately of the Fourth Queen’s Own Hussars, although he’s not in uniform tonight as he’s home on leave.’

  Cam stepped forward, his gaze locking on Miss Honeysett for the first time. He stalled, barely hearing Sutton finish the introduction. His heart pounded hard. The room seemed to spin either from champagne or from the shock of a fantasy come to life. His mind grappled with the enormous improbability of it all. After weeks of wishing for it, his dark-eyed dancer was here.

  * * *

  He was here. Pavia froze, barely remembering to extend her hand, so intent was she on his face—a face she’d studied intimately in the dark, a face she’d committed to memory. Only now the face had a name: Major Camden Lithgow. ‘Enchanté,’ Pavia murmured automatically.

  Mrs Finlay’s academy had done its job with years of drills to help protect against unnerving circumstances. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognise her. It was a short-lived thought. The sharp look of shock in his eyes said he remembered her quite well. He’d not expected to find her here either.

  ‘The pleasure is all mine.’ His eyes lingered on her, full of memories and questions even as he delivered that wickedly wrapped double entendre. In the world beyond Cam Lithgow’s broad shoulder, the musicians struck up the beginnings of a dance. She was caught off guard, but Cam took advantage. ‘Might I hope you are free for the waltz?’ She was envious how quickly he’d recovered his aplomb while she was still wallowing in stunned surprise.

  ‘Absolutely.’ She took his arm and let him whisk her away to the dance floor and whatever privacy they might find there. It was the perfect short-term remedy. They would be seen, but not heard.

  ‘You were not a dancer like those other girls that night.’ He wasted no time, his hand at her waist, moving them into the waltz as he began his interrogation.

  ‘No.’ She was breathless as they took the first turn, the speed of his pace perhaps akin to the speed with which his mind was working, sorting, as she was, through the surprise and the facts. ‘I was not supposed to see you again.’

  ‘Nor I you, yet here we are, dancing again, but in very different circumstances,’ the Major said tautly.

  Pavia lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Here we are, but it changes nothing. I am not asking you to claim a previous association with me. In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t.’ Never mind that she still dreamed about him at night, that he, nameless as he’d been, had somehow managed to imprint himself on her heart, on her mind, in that short time. She knew now she’d never be rid of him.

  ‘I know.’ His blue eyes narrowed, fixed on her in a piercing cobalt stare. ‘My friend tells me you’re engaged to Wenderly.’ He paused, perhaps considering that piece of information, and her mouth went dry. Did he know she’d been a virgin? Would he put the pieces together? Would he be angry? She didn’t want his anger. Even now, her body thrilled to the feel of his hand at her waist, of his hand in hers, the weight of his gaze on her, things she’d never thought to experience again.

  ‘It’s a possibility.’ Pavia was careful with her words. She couldn’t risk him saying otherwise if it came up in casual conversation at his clubs.

  He arched blonde brows in doubt. ‘Truly? Does the earl tolerate such liberal behaviour in his fiancée? Does he know you dance in taverns and seduce men in their chambers?’

  Pavia froze him with a stare. Scolding him silently for such crassness was the only recourse open to her. She could not plead it was only the one time or he would know her secret and he would know she’d used him. But it sat poorly with her to let him get away with thinking what she’d done with him was habitual. ‘That was one night out of time. It is best we forget about it,’ she said tightly. ‘If we don’t acknowledge it, it is as if it never happened.’

  ‘Of course, if that is what you want. You have nothing to fear from me. Your secret is safe.’ But Pavia thought she detected a shadow of disappointment as he reassured her. ‘I won’t be in London long, just until my leave ends in August. I will rejoin my troops in the Crimea. Don’t worry. London is large. We needn’t encounter one another again.’ He smiled, but it was not warm. ‘I won’t be home for a long while then. If ever.’ He was angry. There was a coldness to his words as the dance ended and he escorted her back to her court.

  So it was done. Her fantasy had come full circle as his broad-shouldered back walked away from her, swallowed up in the crush of the ballroom as best it could be. Major Lithgow was taller than most, his hair brighter than most. Pavia was certain she could find him in any room if she looked. She could not look. It would do no good to torture herself with looking. A hundred questions had gone unasked during their waltz. The less she knew of him the better, the harder it would be to find him. He was not an acceptable substitute for Wenderly or for the other titled gentlemen she was supposed to be chasing. He was a military officer of some rank and respect, but he did not come with the title her father coveted. He would say she could have any officer.
There was nothing special there. She had to give the major up.

  ‘Miss Honeysett, I believe this dance is mine.’ A wheat-haired man of respectable height and impeccable dress bowed before her, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, confident in himself and his appeal.

  Pavia returned the smile of the only Marquis out wife-hunting this Season. ‘Yes, I believe it is.’ Beyond him, she caught her father’s eye and nod of approval. And beyond her father was the golden head of Major Camden Lithgow, a pretty blonde beside him, her hand on his arm, her face laughing up at him, her body leaning close as if they were long acquainted and easy with one another. The sight riveted Pavia with a surge of irrational, jealous anger. How dare he! How dare he what? How dare he do exactly as she’d bid him and forget her?

  Only there was no forgetting, was there? He knew that woman and she knew him. Quite well. Their body language suggested a history between them. No wonder he hadn’t flinched at her request to forget their night. He’d hardly want the pretty blonde with him to know such a thing.

  ‘Ahem.’ The Marquis smiled again, revealing straight white teeth as he attempted to reclaim her attention with a compliment. ‘I have been looking forward to this dance all evening.’

  Pavia gave herself a mental scold. She needed to focus. This was a man to bring up to scratch. It shouldn’t be too hard; he was thirty-five, needed to marry and he was penniless—penniless enough to overlook her antecedents in exchange for a fortune.

  ‘As have I,’ Pavia lied smoothly and laid her hand on his sleeve.

  Chapter Six

  She wanted nothing to do with him! The thought still rankled a week later. It didn’t help that for a girl who’d claimed to dismiss him, she was everywhere. Cam couldn’t go to a musicale, a ball or a sailing party without her being there. So much for the idea that London was a big place. He couldn’t seem to avoid her. Worst of all, she’d grown an appendage otherwise known as the Marquis of Chatham. She was on his arm, laughing, smiling, entrancing. Chatham was clearly smitten with her. Today was no different. She was dressed in a day gown of simple white muslin with a square neck and tiers of ruffles at the hem and charming Chatham effortlessly.