by J. D. Robb
Lindsay regarded her with some confusion. True, she did not sound gracious in her apology—there was too much of an edge to her voice—but she was speaking English.
“I beg your pardon, but did you say that you have never lost your temper before? Is that what you said?”
“Yes. At least not since I was mature enough to learn self-control.”
He shook his head, but said nothing.
“And now you are not even going to accept my apology, Major? Is that some sort of military training? Never concede?”
He did not answer immediately, but took both her hands and kissed each in turn. Though his expression still bordered on amazement, there was humor in his eyes. “Grace Anderson, it has been my ambiguous pleasure to introduce you to your first burst of temper. May there be many more.”
“What does that mean?” Now she was the one who was confused. It was hard to be detached when the object of annoyance was holding your hands. It felt almost as good as his touch on her neck.
“It means that no one should go through thirty years of life with such careful control of her sensibilities.”
“One of the differences between men and women, Lindsay. I suspect that most women who are dependent on men control their feelings. I’ve spent most of my life keeping peace, making sure that my father or my brother and then my husband was happy, comfortable and, heaven forbid, not angry with me. Or anyone else.”
“Like a junior officer with never a chance of promotion.”
“If you say so.”
“But you see, my lady, the roles are reversed now. You are the one in charge and I am the one who lives to see that you are happy and comfortable and, heaven forbid, not angry at me.”
“How odd,” she said, considering his words, “but I see that you are right.” She laughed a little. “Perhaps that was the real reason I gave into the anger last night. To lose some of that self-control with someone I felt”—she paused, searching for the right word—“someone I felt safe with.”
The word hung between them for a moment. She felt safe with him? How could any woman be so completely wrong? Safe? When all he wanted to do was lay her on the carriage seat and ravish her. That was what the anger was a cover for—for both of them, he suspected. Surely she knew that as well as he did. He cleared his throat and tried a smile. “As I said, it was my pleasure.”
“Surely you do not mean you liked my ill temper?”
“No.” He could at least be honest about this. “But it did make a refreshing change from your inclination to phrase all your wishes as questions.” When she would have spoken, he raised his hand. “I see now where that comes from: a lifetime of caution, trying to appear thoughtful, while still making your wishes known.”
“That makes me sound like one of those managing women that are so unappealing.”
“Not at all. More like someone who feels the need to be circumspect.” He stopped, realizing how carefully she did protect herself, how guarded she was except around friends or in the security of her home. Did she even grasp that he was another line of defense between herself and society? Probably not, since he himself had only this moment realized it.
She was watching him, waiting for more. But he was not sure how she would react to his revelation and chose to keep it to himself.
“My lady, I can see that your urge to please is much too well developed. Feel free to irritate me as often as you wish.”
She laughed at this absurdity.
He leaned closer and pressed his mouth to hers, because he could no longer resist the look in her eyes, the invitation in her laugh. No coyness from his lady—another convention ignored. She leaned closer, her hands pressed between them, then sliding up to circle his neck. She was feminine, soft, willing. He tasted her passion and felt it rising to match his own.
Some small, still rational part of his brain resisted the temptation to deepen the kiss, to take them to a place beyond friendship. They ended this sweetest of kisses three times, but finally, end it they did. Her response touched his heart. He prayed it would not complicate his life too much.
“Ah,” she whispered, her mouth still close enough to touch his lips, “I’ve been wishing that you would do that.”
He smiled, a smile he was sure she could feel even with her eyes closed. “Wish or not, I’m not sure that was wise.”
He moved away, and she opened her eyes. “Major, I do not think the pleasure of kissing and wisdom can exist in the same world.”
He raised her gloved hand and kissed it. “Then the pleasure is mine.”
“Not all of it, Major,” she said with a mischievous grin.
Eleven
Lindsay heard two female voices in the entry and went to open his study door. “I need to talk to Poppy, Miss Truslow.”
“Certainly, Major. As soon as she changes from her play clothes.”
“Now, if you please. I would prefer her being dirty to my being late for my next appointment.”
“Are you going to see your particular friend, Papa?”
He did not answer her, since that phrase was precisely what he wanted to talk to her about.
She took his hand and sat next to him on the settee. She sat very still and tried for a ladylike appearance, the effort seriously compromised by the dirt on her face and her muddy hem. Had Grace Cardovan looked like this as a child, before her natural enthusiasms were curbed by marriage to Anderson? Yes, it was entirely possible that this was the child’s version of her rediscovered joie de vivre.
“Poppy?”
She turned to him with an expression of disdainful interest. He almost laughed out loud.
“Where did you learn that expression? Certainly not from Miss Truslow.” At least he hoped not.
“From my friend Verity’s governess. I was trying to look like she does when she comes to the park and Miss Truslow talks to her.”
Miss Truslow must be desperate for friends, Lindsay thought.
“I think I like Poppy’s smile much better.”
She grinned, and he nodded his approval.
“So, Poppy.” He cleared his throat and considered the best approach to the somewhat delicate subject. “I understand that you have been telling your friends some amazing stories.”
“I have?”
“Yes. That your papa is going to be married and soon you will have a mama.”
Poppy sat back and began to bounce her feet against the edge of the settee. “It is not a made-up story, is it? You do have a particular friend, and why else would you spend so much time with a real lady if you did not wish to marry her?”
A real lady? He could speak on that subject for an hour. He had met a dozen of society’s “real ladies” who were more whore than Poppy’s mother had been. He would, however, leave that discussion to Miss Truslow.
“Because I am seeing someone does not mean that I will marry her. Listen to me carefully, my girl: You must stop expecting me to bring a mama home to you.”
“I do not precisely expect it, Papa. It’s more like a wish.” She nodded as if that was the perfect explanation, and stopped thumping her feet. “Like a wish.”
“I see. Then shall I give your coin back to you so you can make the wish?”
“No, Papa, I already made one. You must keep the coin and give it to someone else. Do you remember I wished for a mama and a papa? But I told you that only part of it came true, and now I see that the other part will too.”
“No, Poppy. It will not. Miss Truslow is as close to a mama as you will come.”
“You are going to marry Miss Truslow?” She was wide-eyed with surprise.
“No, I am not.” He closed his eyes and prayed for the right words. “I am not going to marry anyone. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And you must stop telling your friends that it will happen. That is one way that very nasty gossip begins. And no true lady spreads gossip. Miss Truslow will agree with me on that.”
“But Papa, if you sell your co
mmission and have some money, then can you marry someone?”
“Where did you hear that?” He was going to have to curtail trips to the park if marriage and money were all they discussed there.
“I asked Jesseck how rich we were and he said that as soon as you sell your commission we will be quite comfortable.”
“Am I all that anybody in this house talks about?”
“No, Papa. Sometimes we talk about Billy’s new teeth.”
That was a relief. Dared he hope that when Billy began to crawl it would push his papa to second place? “Yes, Poppy, we will be quite comfortable when I sell my commission, but that has nothing to do with the possibility of marriage.”
“Why would she not want to marry you? You are very handsome and have the Waterloo medal.”
“Because we are only friends, Poppy.” This was worse than being questioned by the General. “It is all that we want to be to each other.”
“Oh, like Jesseck and Miss Truslow. They take tea together, but Jesseck would rather hold Nancy’s hand.”
“Is that so?” Jesseck and Nancy. There was his own little bit of gossip.
The new clock in the hall struck the hour and Lindsay realized that he was on the verge of being embarrassingly late for his ride in the park with Grace. “I have to leave now. Do we understand each other, daughter?’
“Yes, Papa. I will stop talking about a new mama until you sell your commission.” She spoke the last as though her patience with the process was a challenge.
Lindsay nodded and sent her off to clean up for supper. It was not the complete capitulation he had hoped for, but since it might well take years to sell his commission he would leave it at that.
He made his way to Norfolk Street, relieved to find that Grace was late herself. He spent some time with Cardovan, talking over the war years yet again. Cardovan spoke of the Peninsula as if they had been there yesterday. For his part, Lindsay had done his best to forget the misery of the winters.
“Can hardly help but think of it these days, Major. The dedication of the Waterloo Bridge is upon us.”
“On the second anniversary of the battle.”
“I’ve decided that I will go. Have no medal to show, but think I need to be there.” He thumped his cane against the side of the chair. “You know, for all the men who are not there.”
“Yes, George, I do know.” He tried to think of something to lighten the atmosphere. “Do you think they would have had the ceremony on the anniversary of Waterloo if we had fought on the eighteenth of February instead of the eighteenth of June?”
His question had the desired effect, and he left Cardovan laughing.
The park was crowded. He and Grace sat in the open carriage even though they could have walked faster than the equipage progressed.
That one burst of temper, or perhaps the kiss, had cleared the air for the last week. He had joined her for brandy twice since that first ill-fated invitation. But there had been no more kisses.
Once Cardovan had joined them, and had spent an hour giving them all the details of a visit by Colonel Wendle, the battalion commander of the 28th.
The other time they had been alone, if you did not count the butler coming in with brandy and then with some cakes and then with word that the rain had let up and would the major be wanting a carriage.
“We seem to be drawing some stares today. Do I have dirt on my face?” She turned toward him and they smiled at each other. He shook his head, and she shrugged.
He knew why people were watching, and it was not because Poppy had made him self-conscious. Each dance, each dinner, each time they were together they were more drawn to each other. He felt as though she were a flower opening to the sun and he were a bee who longed to sip nectar. And that bad bit of poetry was more than enough to convince him that he was in danger of compromising the single thing that kept his employment honorable.
They could have found privacy if they had wanted it, but the lingering power of their first kiss made him, at least, fear the consequences of the next one. If he gave in to the wanting, if he took her and all she was offering, he would lose all respect for himself. Being cautious enough for both of them was infinitely better than saying good-bye.
Twelve
“We must leave now. If we wait any longer the Waterloo Bridge will be opened without us, and I do so want to see the Prince Regent,” Grace said, urging them from the table and the meal she hoped would hold them through the afternoon. “George, would you like the last bit of wine?”
“Grace, this will guarantee that I sleep through the entire event.” He leaned as if to speak confidentially, but did not lower his voice. “And I snore.”
They were a merry group. George seemed to be in better humor than he had been for months. His mother was so pleased by her son’s good spirits that she did not need wine to feel light-headed. Grace had plans of her own. Plans she had shared with no one but Kitty, who was given the day and night off to celebrate as she wished.
“I tell you what, George, you sit near Lindsay and he will nudge you if you nod off.” She glanced over at the major to see if he would agree, and shook her head.
Lindsay was slumped down in his chair pretending he was already asleep, then an indelicate snore made the other two laugh. Rousing from his supposed stupor, he looked around. “What did I miss?”
They all crowded into the carriage, still laughing, and settled for the ride to the river and the Waterloo Bridge, the newest and most graceful addition to the river scene.
It was a day filled with extremes. Tears and laughter, cheers and solemn attention. The bridge was named for the battle so “that posterity would remember the great and glorious achievement.” The tolls were excused for this first day and the span was crowded as people made the trip from the end of the Strand to Lambeth and back. It was slow progress, whether on foot or by carriage, but no one complained.
Grace declared that they would join the parade. Aunt Louise insisted that George put his leg up, and it was a testament to the overall good humor, or perhaps the wine, that he allowed her to fuss over him.
George rested his leg on the opposite seat. It meant that Grace and the major had to sit very close together. Grace loved the feel of Lindsay beside her, the way his broad chest made her feel safe and cared for. He put his arm along the cushions behind them in an effort to give her an inch more space, and the feeling of safety changed to a thrill of awareness.
The open carriage made the two men in uniform available to the crowd, and everyone from their friends to the lowliest flower seller paid their respects to the two soldiers who, as one man said, had “made England safe for the next hundred years.” He included George in the praise despite his lack of a Waterloo medal. Today, any man in uniform was a hero.
There was a fair set up to the southeast of the bridge, and Grace was delighted when her suggestion that they stop a while was well received.
She and Lindsay made their way through the fair, his medal drawing so much attention that finally he took it off and stuffed it in his pocket. The crowd was a mix of every class and calling; it was one of those rare days when all of London gathered, remembering the celebration of the war’s end a year earlier and determined to reprise the good feelings of peace and a secure future.
There was the occasional scuffle. When fists were flying very near where they stood, Lindsay leaned down to her. “Do you want to leave? It is a bit close here.”
“No.” She laughed as a missed punch resulted in a very comic tumble. “It gives me an excuse to hold on tight to you.”
There were jugglers, trained animals and an illusionist who held their attention for so long that he asked them if they were interested in an apprenticeship.
When they shook their heads, the illusionist asked if Grace would like to assist him. She really did want to go, but her aunt hissed in her ear, “That is unacceptable, Grace.” And the major held fast to her arm when it appeared she might have stepped forward anyway.
As t
hey watched the young girl who took her place, Grace turned to Lindsay. “Do you believe in magic?”
He watched the lowering sun as it lit her from behind, creating an aura of light around her. Gradually the crowed faded away, until it was just the two of them. He must have watched her for a long time, because finally she whispered, “Are you not sure or have you forgotten the question?”
“Do I believe in magic?” If she meant the absurd wish that had brought them together, he could not deny it. But she had never heard of Poppy, much less Poppy’s coin. “Do I believe in magic? See, I did hear your question. And my answer is no. What we saw are tricks that fool the eye.”
“No, not what he does, for you are right, that is only illusion. I mean the kind of magic that changes your life.”
He could feel Poppy’s coin heavy in his pocket. “Well, I do believe in miracles.”
“You do?” With unspoken agreement, they moved away from the exhibition and toward the spot where the carriage awaited them.
“You cannot see the amazing ways people survive in war and not believe in miracles.”
“But not magic?” She did not wait for him to answer. “Well, I believe in magic, Major.” She said it as though she was ready for a great debate. She turned to him, “Could it be that that magic is a miracle without God’s blessing?”
“That sounds slightly pagan, my dear.”
She looked at him in some surprise. What had he said? Surely she realized he did not really believe her a pagan?
“You may be right, my lady. Without God’s intervention I suppose magic could be used for both good and ill.” For he and God knew that the magic of Poppy’s coin had been both a blessing and a bane.
Mrs. Cardovan ran into some friends who invited her to join them for the fireworks. Initially, she refused, insisting that she needed to escort her son home, but she was easily convinced when Lindsay insisted that he could give George all the help he needed. Neither man was particularly interested in the display, having seen too many of the bombardments they imitated, enough to last a lifetime.