by Lee, Jade
Major Wyclyff's Campaign
A LADY'S LESSONS
Book Two
by
Jade Lee
USA Today Bestselling Author
Newly Revised
MAJOR WYCLYFF'S CAMPAIGN
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"...splendid... witty... complete with eccentric characters and highly amusing antics."
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Prologue
"I danced with young Blakesly yesterday. I am quite sure he purposely stumbled so that he could catch himself on a most inappropriate place on my person. It was most mortifying, but..."
Lady Sophia continued to prattle on, trying to sound bright and cheerful, but her thoughts weren't on her words. Instead, she was looking down at the gaunt man in the hospital bed. He had been handsome once, she was sure of it. But now his angular face looked thin and bony, and his rich brown curls lay flat against his slick brow. He was a man who should have been surrounded by military honors, but now his companions were pain and dreariness.
"I am quite certain," she continued, "that Lord Blakesly would not dream of being so impertinent if you had been there. You must rouse yourself, Major Wyclyff. I do believe I need your escort."
He would never accompany her, she knew. Even were he the picture of health, the major and she did not travel in the same circles. However, it had become a game between them in her last month of hospital visits. While he lay on his sickbed, they would speak of what they would do together when he was better. She spoke of picnics and strolls, of Vauxhall and the museums. And when he tired of that, they would argue politics or religion, spring as opposed to fall, or any other nonsense in between. He liked to argue and, while she did not, she would do anything to help him pass the time while he lay abed, his mangled leg stretched out before him.
For a while, she had believed their silly plans would happen.
But then, a week ago, the major had taken a turn for the worse. His wound turned an angry red. All too soon, his smile faded into a grimace of pain and his skin grew flushed with fever. Yesterday, he had been delirious. Today, naught but a low moan escaped his parched lips.
He was dying.
Sophia stroked his broad hand, tracing the length of his fingers, her heart feeling frozen within her body. In five years of hospital visits, she had seen many men die. She knew the signs, and knew that her major would not last much longer.
A tear slipped down her face to land on the back of his hand. Blinking, she wiped away the moisture, startled by her reaction. "You see what you have done, Major? I am crying because of you." There was a touch of amazement in her voice, surprise that his imminent death would move her so deeply. After all, she had never cried before. Not for any of the other soldiers. Not for anyone, including her own father.
"I hold you directly responsible," she said with mock severity. "You must wake immediately or I shall be forced to take drastic measures. Crushed strawberries on the eyes to take away the redness. Cucumbers to suppress the tendency toward puffiness. My word, think of the expense and time such a toilette requires, Major. Truly, you must wake immediately. I command it."
She had not expected her words to have any effect. She spoke them to distract herself from what she knew was coming, so it was with considerable shock that she looked up to see his eyes had opened.
They were a mysterious brown, fever-bright, and so intense, she wondered if he had not been possessed by some spirit. No man on the verge of death could look right through one, as though to one's very soul. She should have been frightened, but for some reason she was not. It was her major lying there, looking at her not only with lucidity, but as though his very life depended upon it.
"Oh, Major," she whispered. "You have come back to me."
"Sophia," he croaked.
She nodded, and then with swift movements she poured him some water, lifting his shoulders and helping him drink. He watched her the entire time, his gaze hotter than his skin, burning her as she eased him back down.
"You must fight your illness, Major," she said softly. "Fight it as hard as any invading army. His Majesty expects nothing less from one of his finest officers—"
"Marry me." Even deathly ill, his voice had the ring of command.
Sophia's hand did not slow as she tugged the wrinkles out of his blanket. "Of course, Major. But you must be able to walk down the aisle, you know."
He grabbed her hand, pulling it and her gaze up toward his face. "Marry me," he ordered again.
In five years, she had received dozens of marriage proposals. It seemed to be a favorite pastime among wounded men. At first she had been flustered, but before long, she had developed an answer. To those who would mend, she simply smiled mysteriously. To those who would die, she would swear anything upon their recovery.
"I will wear a long white gown, and you will be in your regimentals," she said softly. "Everyone will stare because we are so happy together." She reached forward with a cool cloth, mopping his brow. "But first you must get well." She smiled down at him, focusing not on his wasted body but on the strength that literally shone in his eyes. "It will take a long time for me to prepare for our wedding, you know. In the meantime, you must swear to get better."
His eyes slipped shut. They did not close willingly, but slowly, as if he fought with everything in him. Then all was still except for the harsh rasp of his breathing.
Sophia sat back down beside him, her hand still clutched in his. She sighed softly, believing she had heard the last words he would ever utter. But moments later, when she thought him long since asleep, he whispered two words.
"I swear."
Chapter 1
"Lady Sophia, what can your humblest servant say?" Lord Blakesly droned. "Your smile glows like polished pearls. Your hair falls in neater folds than the greatest cravat. And as for your laugh..."
"It tinkles like the bell on a dainty swine," quipped Lydia from her left.
Sophia slowly turned, her gaze landing on her dearest friend, who had apparently just joined her circle of admirers. Seeing Lydia's bright eyes and animated expression, Sophia knew the young woman wanted to speak with her. Unfortunately, the gentlemen would not let he
r through. Instead, Lydia had contented herself with tossing witticisms into the group, hoping that at least some of them would get the hint.
Normally such a situation would have earned at least a smile. Especially since Blakesly seemed more boorish than usual tonight. But Sophia had no heart for even the slightest twist of her lips. Indeed, she seemed to have little strength for anything lately.
"Ah, listen, Lady Sophia," inserted Blakesly, as he pointed limp-wristedly in the direction of the orchestra. "A waltz. I believe—"
"I am in desperate need of some lemonade, my lord. Could you not please..." She didn't need to say more. Though disappointment pulled his sallow face downward, Blakesly managed to straighten with almost military speed, his eyes darting about the ballroom for the nearest servant.
"Any feat, my lady. Any desire. Any—"
"Lemonade, Blakesly. Please."
With a swift nod, the young boor waded off into the crowd. Unfortunately, plenty more fops surrounded her, each one eager to take Blakesly's place. All the while, Lydia hovered on the periphery, her impatience obvious.
"Perhaps," her friend offered, "you could accompany me to the withdrawing room." Lydia glanced regretfully at the men circling Sophia. "Please forgive me, gentlemen, but I fear I must take my friend away from you."
Good-natured groans rang out, some more heartfelt than others, but Sophia could do no more than nod. Indeed, that alone took Herculean effort. She was forced to smile insincerely, pushing her way through the crowded ballroom. By the time she and Lydia reached the stiflingly hot withdrawing room, exhaustion had almost consumed her.
"Thank Heaven it is empty," said Lydia, scanning the small room. Not even a servant waited in the tiny space.
Sophia shrugged, her thoughts disjointed. "They don't even seem like people to me anymore," she murmured softly.
"Who?"
Sophia waved vaguely back toward the ballroom to indicate the overdressed souls that were England's ton. "Just birds. Bright, dull, fat, or thin, it doesn't matter. They are all the same: here one moment, gone the next. Birds."
Lydia frowned, her elfin face pinching with annoyance. "You went back to the hospital today."
Sophia lifted her gaze, startled out of her numb emptiness. "No. I have not been there in a month. Not since..." Her voice faded away.
"Since your major died. Sophia, this is outside of enough. I swear you have become downright cold since that poor man's death."
"Cold," murmured Sophia. "Yes, that is the word for it. I feel cold." And alone.
"Sophia!" Lydia exclaimed, clearly exasperated with her friend's inattention. "I have news!"
Sophia did not even raise her eyes. "Percy has offered for you."
Lydia's mouth dropped open in stunned surprise. "Yes," she gasped. "How did you know?"
Sophia nearly groaned aloud. How could she not have known? Indeed, in five Seasons of parties, five long years of dancing and dressing and displaying herself, there was little that Sophia could not guess. Though the faces and the names changed, the gossip remained the same. Those who married and those who did not seemed exactly the same. The boys who bored her seemed obsessed with exactly the same things. Indeed, the bitter game of who was more important, more beautiful, more perfect than anyone else seemed exactly the same, and exactly as insubstantial, as the year before.
"It just doesn't seem real," she whispered.
"That is how I feel!" her friend exclaimed, clearly misunderstanding. "When Papa told me, I nearly fainted with excitement. Oh, Sophia, I am to be wed!"
"You shall be a beautiful bride," she replied automatically. But as Sophia stared at her friend, seeing Lydia's face flushed with joy, she couldn't help but wonder. When had she herself last felt so happy? So filled with life? In her heart, she was pleased for her friend. Truly, she felt glad for Lydia's happiness.
So, why did it seem so meaningless to her—as if she had spent five years of her life, five Seasons among the ton, in a child's game? Instead of play tokens, she'd traded gossip. Instead of moving wood figures around a board, she had traveled from party to party, carefully acting according to Society's rules. And now, she was oh so weary of it all.
"Oh, Sophia," cried Lydia, her expression filled with sympathy, "You should not despair. You shall get married, too. I know it. Perhaps Lord Kyle will finally come up to scratch."
"Reginald?" Her thoughts twisted, trying to understand her friend's thoughts. "Why would I wish to marry him?"
Lydia did not hear her; she was too caught in her own fantasy. "Why, it shall be wonderful! You and I could have a double wedding. We shall be like sisters. And our children will grow up together. And come out in the same Season. Or perhaps I shall have a son, and your daughter could marry him. Oh, that would be wonderful! Can you not envision it?"
Indeed, Sophia could, and the thought filled her with horror. An entire second generation trapped in the same meaningless circle of noise and prattle. "Oh, heavens, Lydia, do not even think it!"
Lydia stopped, her mouth hanging open at her friend's harsh tone.
Sophia tried to calm her thoughts, but her words tumbled out nonetheless. "I assure you," she said coolly, "I have no interest in marrying Reg."
"But I thought you grew up together." Lydia's eyes fluttered in confusion. "Just like Percy and I did."
"Of course, Reg and I are friends. Or we were. But then there was that scandal with that girl and the Scotsman and he..." She raised her hand in a helpless gesture. "He left." She leaned forward, touching her friend's hand as her thoughts returned to the bright collage of people just outside the door. "Eventually, they all fly away. We women are always abandoned."
Lydia's face contorted in horror, her lower lip quivering with tears. "Oh, Sophia, how can you say such a thing? Percy would never... He would..."
Sophia felt shame flood her soul, and she immediately moved forward, gripping her friend's hands. "Oh, Lydia, of course not! Percy is as constant as the sun. He would never leave you alone." She pulled her friend into a fierce hug. "He adores you. Oh, please do not let my horrid mood affect your happiness."
But Lydia would not have any of it. She shoved Sophia away with surprising fierceness. "I blame it completely on those visits to that dreadful hospital. You have become so strange since then."
Sophia allowed her hands to fall away from her friend, her body and her thoughts crawling to a stop. It was as if she became encased in ice, chilling even her words as she spoke in a low whisper. "I am so sorry, Lydia. I never meant to hurt you."
"I am not hurt. I am angry! You have become so maudlin. I don't know who you are anymore. But whoever it is, I don't like you." And with that Lydia stomped away, abandoning Sophia in the suddenly chill room.
As arguments went, this was a minor one. Sophia knew she could mend the breach with a simple shopping trip. But she had no heart for it. Indeed, she could barely contemplate the expedition, much less embark upon it. So rather than follow her friend back into the glittering ballroom, she remained where she was, sitting in the corner, her thoughts silent as death.
Unfortunately, even that respite was denied her. Within moments, her mother came to search her out, admonishing her for abandoning her admirers, and chatting as brightly as any magpie. Too quickly, she shooed Sophia back into the ballroom. It took a scant two minutes more before the same circle of men surrounded her, their droll banter sounding like so much chirping—all notes with no meaning. And then Lord Kyle appeared at her side, her childhood companion as foppish and nonsensical as the rest. Moreso, in fact, because they had once been friends.
While he prattled on about the fold of some man's cravat, Sophia thought of the major. It was unfair, she knew, to compare Reg—a rich, pampered rake—to an injured soldier lying in his deathbed, but she could not stop herself. Even feverish, the major's words had always touched her. His most trivial banter seemed more real to her than the most serious discourse with Reg.
Yet, the major was dead. And Sophia had been left behind to l
isten to a comparison of black cravats and dark blue ones.
Reg had just loudly taken up the part of pure black when Sophia stood up. She did not know what prompted it, but abruptly her body filled with anger. Her cheeks burned and her vision snapped into focus. "I am leaving," she said.
Reg stared at her, his mouth half open. If she gave him time, she knew he would offer his escort. As it was, no less than three gentlemen presented themselves, offering to find her mother. She simply shook her head.
"I am leaving for Staffordshire in the morning," she declared to each and every one of them. "And I will never return." If life was a game, she decided, it was high time she played it according to her own rules.
* * *
Major Anthony Wyclyff stood on the London townhouse stoop and stared at the bare doorway in shock. There was no knocker on the door. That meant the family was not at home. But Sophia could not be gone, his mind repeated numbly. She could not have left London.
"But where is she?" he asked aloud.
There was no answer. Indeed, he had not expected one. Still, he turned to glare at his batman Kirby. "Where could she be?" he repeated.
The man remained silent, having no answer. Instead, a voice spoke from the street.
"Lady Sophia has left London."
Anthony spun around on his bad leg, his eyes fixing on a tall, foppish man, about whom there was something familiar. He searched his memory. Reginald Peters, Lord Kyle. That was the man's name. They had known each other as children, attended Eton at the same time. It had been years since he'd last seen the man. Kyle was the heir to a rich title. He was handsome, elegant, and adequately educated, while Anthony himself had been thick, heavy, and something of a lackwit in school, especially in the classic languages of Latin and Greek. But, more importantly, Anthony was merely the second son of an earl. After his education, his father had bought his colors, and that was the last he had known of any of his childhood companions.