The Colonel and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 4)

by Paullett Golden

  Leaving the warmth of the muff, her hand squeezed his thigh, her lips accompanying with a teasing smile.

  “Yes, perfectly amiable,” she said. “Thank you for paying calls with me these past few days.”

  “I’ve enjoyed myself. We’ve needed to do it, but I was too preoccupied to see beyond the stables. This is what living with me is like, if you must know. Once I focus on something, I see little else beyond it. I focus on the mission until it’s completed. One task at a time. Tick, tick, tick, until it’s finished.”

  “I’m good for you, then. No one needs to be so focused all the time.” With a flirty smile, she massaged his thigh.

  Smirking, he swatted at her hand. “Eh, eh, eh. Wait your turn, my lady. We still have one more call to make, and I’ll not greet them standing at attention.”

  Mary replied with a moue.

  “Saucy minx.”

  The carriage came to a halt not long after.

  Mr. and Mrs. Swanson were their closest neighbors, wealthy gentry with a home that nearly rivaled Lyonn Manor in grandeur. Mary and Duncan were shown into the parlor where a congenial Mr. Swanson and a haughty Mrs. Swanson awaited them. Mrs. Swanson’s plumes were tall enough to reach the ceiling. Judging from her jewelry, the woman had wanted to impress the daughter of a duke. Mary could not read the assessing look she gave Duncan—curiosity? Approval? Disdain? There was no way to know, not that Mary cared. They were here to befriend their closest neighbor, nothing more.

  Mr. Swanson bowed. He was a short gentleman, slight of build. Despite a bald spot, he powdered his natural hair rather than wore a wig. Mary disliked both wigs and powder, but she knew they were still popular with the older crowd, not that the Swansons were terribly older.

  “Allow me to introduce my son and daughter,” Mr. Swanson said, waving at the bashful pair. “My son, Mr. Laurel Swanson.”

  Mary nodded to the young boy, perhaps all of fifteen and with a terrible case of pimples.

  “My daughter, Miss Lucy.”

  A pretty girl with dimples and ringlets curtsied, her eyes lingering on Duncan.

  Mrs. Swanson invited all to sit. “Lucy is to have her come-out this year. The most important year of a woman’s life, as you know, Lady Mary.”

  Ah, yes, and so it began. Mrs. Swanson was already angling for an invitation to one of the Duchess of Annick’s parties. Such invitations were coveted, and attendance would launch the girl into the best of Society.

  Turning to Miss Lucy, Mary said, “While I’m certain you’ve readied your wardrobe well in advance, allow me to recommend a London modiste. She’ll ensure you have a dress fit for a duchess’ ball.”

  On cue, Mrs. Swanson and her daughter simpered and tittered. Had Mary been of low breeding, she would have rolled her eyes. Instead, she spoke at length about the shades and hues that would best suit Miss Lucy’s hair and eye color and the invitations they should accept above all others. Implied but not spoken was Mary’s intention to ensure Miss Lucy received an invitation to the annual ball. She would, of course. Not because she liked the Swansons, but because they were neighbors, and Mary knew the way of the world.

  Duncan carried on his own conversation with the gentlemen, having a grand time from Mary’s estimation. It was not lost on her that he did not notice Miss Lucy making more than obvious overtures with her eyelashes, paying more attention to him than to her mama or Mary. Smug was an understatement for how Mary felt about that.

  The drawing room door opened, stealing everyone’s attention.

  A shabbily dressed fellow stepped into the room. He looked to be about Mary’s age, tall and slender with stubble on his cheek, long, straggly hair, and a nervous shake of the hand. Mary disliked him on sight.

  How discourteous, she scolded herself.

  Mr. Swanson stood and waved a hand to the man. Mary could not help but notice Mrs. Swanson’s wrinkled nose. Miss Lucy grimaced. Only Mr. Swanson and his son seemed pleased with the newcomer’s appearance in the drawing room.

  “Please, join us, Robin.” Mr. Swanson turned to Mary and Duncan, his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “May I introduce my nephew to you? This is Mr. Robert Preston, my sister’s boy. He’s staying with us. Robin, these are our neighbors, Colonel Sir Duncan Starrett and Lady Mary Starrett.”

  “Colonel?” Mr. Preston asked. “Of the Army?”

  “Yes, for the length of the Flanders Campaign,” Duncan said.

  “Ensign Preston at yer service, sir.” He saluted Duncan, making a grand show of it.

  “Well, well!” Duncan exclaimed, shaking Mr. Preston’s hand with vigor. “An honor, Preston. Which regiment?”

  In less than a minute, the two were engaged in an enthralling discussion of their military histories, enamored with the acquaintance. Mary cringed. The man was appalling.

  A Bristolian, his accent gave him away. The voice was nasal, as though he had a chill, the words catching at the back of his throat. With an extra l added to words that ended in a vowel, an exaggerated r to words ending in r, and a missing l on words that ended in l, everything he said grated Mary’s ears. Not that she held that against him. Everything about him annoyed her.

  His demeanor was no more appealing. He was blunt to the point of abrasive and wore an expression so flat and reserved that Mary could not read him. Nephew of Mr. Swanson or not, Mary would wager he hailed from less than savory origins. She hated to begrudge Duncan a newfound friend, but did the man have to be so low?

  Duncan appeared to notice none of the man’s lesser qualities. The two carried on until it was well beyond the polite time to depart. Mary made conversation with the Swansons as best she could, hoping they did not realize the passage of time but knowing they did. How mortifying. For an additional fifteen minutes, she attempted to get Duncan’s attention. Only when she stood and said louder than necessary that it had been a lovely visit, but they must depart, did Duncan finally notice.

  All stood and bade farewell. All except Mr. Preston. He had the audacity to follow them to the drawing room door.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Robin,” Duncan said with a familiarity he had not expressed half an hour ago. “I’ll send a card. You must join us for dinner soon.”

  Mary bit her tongue.

  Duncan admired Mary’s profile against the buff carriage seat. She watched the scenery as they trekked home, unaware that the view across from Duncan was far superior to whatever snowy mess was outside.

  Although the Swansons were neighbors, it was still a fair distance from Sidwell Hall given the unsavory road conditions. The coachman would have to go back through the village for a more accessible route.

  While part of Duncan’s attention remained at the stables, fretting over how the stablemaster was handling the training, he had managed to enjoy the past few days. It felt good to socialize. And nothing would beat the pride he felt with Mary on his arm.

  What a fortunate day it had been! Not only to have spent it with Mary in good company but to meet a fellow officer. Duncan did question if the chap had not sampled too much of the laudanum before joining them in the drawing room, but regardless, it was a pleasure to speak with someone who shared the kinship of war. From what Duncan gathered, Robin was convalescing with his uncle’s family, a quieter and more comfortable setting than his own home.

  The first thing Duncan would do upon returning home would be to send an invitation to dinner. Would tomorrow’s dinner be too soon? Surely not.

  “Mary, love, would tomorrow be too soon?” he asked.

  “Too soon for what?” She untied her bonnet strings, setting the hat on the seat next to her.

  “Inviting Robin to dinner.”

  She frowned. “Ought we?”

  Duncan met her frown with his own. “Why would we not? It’s been a long while since I’ve had the opportunity to talk to someone of my ilk, Lord Altonwey not included.”

/>   “Yes, well, Mr. Preston is not really of your ilk, is he? There’s something shabby about him. I don’t mean to be rude. He’s probably a kind man. But I don’t think he’s quite the type we ought to invite to dinner.”

  Folding his arms over his chest, he said, “He’s only just returned from war. I looked no less shabby when I came home. In fact, I’d wager I looked far worse.”

  “But that’s you, and this is him. I don’t trust the look of him.”

  He was positive he wore a ferocious scowl. He felt ferocious. Granted, he did not know the young ensign personally, but he would never judge someone from a single look. She had not even conversed with him. Duncan’s irritation was too pronounced to attempt an explanation for why the man may not look his best. What would she have thought to see Duncan after his father brought him from one hospital to the next, an unpleasant ship voyage in between? He had been living on gruel for over a month, bedridden from the surgery to remove the ball from his lower back. He had looked frightful. Would she not have trusted him upon seeing such a sight?

  “I’d like to invite him to dinner. If you spoke to him, perhaps your opinion would change.”

  Mary pursed her lips and lifted her chin, her gaze returning to the scenery.

  The remaining drive was silent. The chill in the air had once enticed him to warm her in at least ten different ways upon returning home. Now, it settled as ice in his veins. However ridiculous it was to be irritated over an ensign he did not know, he felt justified in his annoyance. The Mary he knew would never judge a man based on one meeting.

  By the time they arrived at the hall, Duncan had not decided if he should bring up dinner again or invite the ensign without Mary’s approval. He did not have long to dwell on the answer. Mr. Sherman, the new butler, greeted them with a letter arrived by royal messenger.

  Mary followed Duncan into the parlor. Breaking the wax seal, he opened and read the contents. Had he been alone, he might have tucked it away so she could not read it, but as it happened, she waited with expectant brows raised.

  “It’s from the prince.” He folded the letter and handed it to her.

  “The Prince of Wales? He wrote to you?” Taking it from him, she opened it and scanned the contents. “It’s another invitation to the officer’s ball. I’d forgotten about it, with all that’s happened. He’s questioning why you’ve not accepted the invitation. Duncan, I do believe this is being held in your honor, or at least partially so. Now that you’re well again, we can go. Oh, this is delightful! Send the acceptance right away.”

  Taking the letter from her, he folded it and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. She watched him, her eyes bright with excitement.

  “You want to attend?” he asked.

  “Of course! Aren’t you looking forward to it?”

  He grimaced. “Not especially. It’s a ball to honor the great heroes of war—the officers. What of the men who served under them? What of soldiers without rank? What have any of us done to warrant celebration? It’ll be an evening for people like Altonwey to preen their peacock feathers, deserving or not.”

  His definition of heroism and that of his fellow officers differed. He believed in a lasting impact, something that influenced well beyond the immediate and the self. A field maneuver was a far cry from heroism in his eyes. Though Crown and country felt otherwise, he was not a hero.

  If he could realize success with the training and create a program that would affect the whole of the cavalry, that could be heroic. How many lives would he save with better bred and trained horses? If he could somehow tie in officer training, all the better. There was so much potential in the plan. So much to make him worthy of the accolades.

  Mary eyed his waistcoat pocket, as though re-reading the letter through the fabric. “Can you not accept the honor on behalf of your men? Represent your regiment by attending.”

  “Pretty words, Mary. You just want an excuse to attend a ball at Carlton House.”

  It took her a moment to realize he was teasing. His wink did the trick. Once she realized his intention, she laughed.

  “Hardly. I’ve been there. Prinny and Drake are friends, you forget. But I do want to dance with you. Think how dazzling that will be. We’ve never danced together. I want to. Let’s. Please? Will you accept?”

  Sweeping the back of his fingers down her cheek, he said, “If it’ll make you happy, we’ll go. I can’t promise dancing, however. I do good to walk convincingly. You may not see my struggle, but it’s there.”

  “What fun we shall have in London!”

  “I’ll accept the invitation on one condition. You agree to accompany me to Tattersall’s.”

  She made a sour face. “I’m not fond of the new owner. He doesn’t like women.”

  Duncan arched a brow. “Sounds like you owe me a story. Lucky for you, I’ve no interest in meeting with the owner. I merely want to purchase an Arabian.”

  “Well, that’s a surprise. I thought you said they were temperamental.”

  “They don’t make good warhorses, despite their popularity with officers, but I’ve always wanted one for my own personal enjoyment. You don’t think Caesar would be jealous, would he?”

  Mary laughed.

  The event he had been dreading changed shape, forming itself into an evening of promised pleasure. Archer would be there. As would other officers he knew and liked. Above all, Mary would be with him.

  His directive was clear. This ball would mark his success, his worthiness of a duke’s daughter and the baronetcy. Rather than enter the ball as the fallen officer, the injured who could not return to service, he would enter as a conquering man, the colonel who would make an impact beyond his call of duty. The meeting with Archer and company would be in April, the ball in May. By the time they went to the ball, all would know if the training demonstration was a success and if a program contract had been signed.

  So much was at stake. Their financial security, his pride, his worthiness.

  He could not afford to be distracted again. Several days had been lost calling on neighbors. He never should have left the training yard. The stablemaster, though he meant well, did not know the intricacies of cavalry formation and commands. The little bit Duncan showed him would have helped, but Duncan had no doubt this time away slowed the training. He could not rely on others to complete the task as efficiently as he could.

  From this point forward, he would train harder, faster, and better. In the end, it would be worth the effort, for he would be the hero Mary and Bernard needed.

  Chapter 23

  Mary awoke the next day to an empty bed. She broke her fast alone. She met with the steward, housekeeper, and butler alone. She visited the nursery alone.

  The past several days had been blissful. Four days. Four days of them spending time together, being a partnership wherein they raised their son together, met with neighbors together, ate together, rode together, conversed together. Four days. Her words had fallen on deaf ears if he thought that was enough.

  She wanted this program as much as he did, perhaps more so since it had always been her dream to breed horses, but it was not something she wanted someone else to do for her. This was something she wanted to share with Duncan, the two working in tandem, both with the training and breeding. She had said as much. He had heard nothing, or so it appeared to her.

  The second Mary completed her morning tasks, she donned her riding habit and headed for the training yard. If he was determined to do this himself rather than lead instructors to use his techniques, then so help her, she would convince him she was capable of training alongside him. It was not as though she had never trained a horse. Athena was a product of her training. Mary had no way of knowing how a warhorse needed to be trained, though, nor what Duncan’s technique was, but she was a quick study. They would do this together or not at all.

  Swatting the riding crop against her palm, s
he marched through the stable block past curious grooms, ignoring the calls of the stablemaster, and proceeded to her husband. He was leading one of the horses over a low bar. Excellent. The first stages of teaching a horse to leap. Her specialty. She had always been superior at leaps.

  “Good form,” she said as she approached.

  Duncan looked away from the horse, his brows furrowed, his lips pursed. “What are you doing here? I gave them strict orders not to allow you in the yard.”

  “Did you? That was foolish.” She thwacked the crop against her skirt.

  “I can’t afford to be distracted. I still have the other three horses to introduce to the bar. The clock’s ticking, Mary. I’ll join you later today. Go back.” He turned to the horse.

  “I’ll work on the next horse while you finish with this one.”

  “No,” he snapped. “It’ll be faster and more efficient if I do this myself. You’re costing me precious time.”

  Mary barked a laugh. “Because training one horse at a time versus two or even four is an efficient use of time? I may not be familiar with your technique or how a warhorse’s leap differs from a traditional horse’s, but I do know how to train a horse to leap. Far better than you, I would wager. I’ll fetch Pegasus while you finish with Trident.”

  Waving a groom to take his reins, he stepped over to her. “Mary. No. We can sort out how you can help once this training is completed, once we have the contract. Until then, let me do this. I’ve wasted too much time as it is. I can’t afford to lose more days ensuring you’re doing everything correctly. I certainly can’t be distracted by your presence in the yard. Go back inside. We can ride together in a few days. Will that suffice?”

  Though it quivered, Mary raised her chin. “The past four days were wasted time?”

  “Damnation. You know what I mean.”

  “Perfectly.”

  With a curt about-face, she left him to his training. Schooling her features so the staff would not see how upset she was, she returned to the inner courtyard and past the stables. She could not know if he doubted her prowess as a horsewoman, did not want to be with her, was prejudice against her sex, or otherwise. What she did know was this program was not more important than her marriage.