Major Wyclyff's Campaign (A Lady's Lessons, Book 2)

by Lee, Jade

  Yet here was Kyle, greeting him warmly, as if they were still at Eton. "Anthony, old boy, is that you? And in your colors, no less. My, what a figure you turned out to be."

  Anthony nodded stiffly at the compliment, knowing it was a significant one from the dandy before him. But his thoughts remained on his future wife. "Where is Lady Sophia? The Season is barely over. She could not have left so soon."

  Lord Kyle shrugged, leaning negligently against the fence as he spoke. "She has gone to Staffordshire to live with her aunt."

  Anthony stared at the man, seeing the truth in the fop's eyes, and ground his teeth at the delay. Now he would have to ride halfway across England when he had matters to attend to in London.

  "Very well," he snapped and began to descend the steps. He still had to move carefully. His leg had a constant ache that occasionally turned into sharp pain. Unfortunately, he had no time to coddle the injury, especially now that he needed to travel to Staffordshire. At the base of the steps, he nodded politely to his childhood acquaintance. "Thank you for the information," he said. He knew he was being unnecessarily rude, but he could not help himself. It rankled him that a mere difference in birth allowed Kyle into Sophia's inner circle, privy to her movements, whereas he, her future husband, was left standing stupidly on her doorstep.

  Unfortunately, Lord Kyle was not dismissed so easily. As Anthony began striding toward his temporary quarters, the man fell into step beside him. Typically, a major in His Majesty's army would be able to easily outdistance any unwanted company, but Lord Kyle possessed a long stride and Anthony's injury prevented such escape. Instead, he was forced to continue conversation when all he wanted was to find his bride and get on with his life.

  "May I inquire as to your business with Lady Sophia?" Kyle asked. When Anthony slanted him an irritated look, the fop was quick to explain. "I only ask because she and I have been friends for ages. Perhaps I could be of some assistance."

  Anthony frowned. Had Sophia ever mentioned Lord Kyle? They had talked about so much during his stay in the hospital, but the majority of it was muddled. He had been in considerable pain, and yet... "I do not remember her mentioning you."

  "Ah, well, our friendship tends to wane during the Season. There is so much to do that even should we cross paths, our conversation is brief by necessity." Then he smiled, a fond, nostalgic expression that grated upon Anthony's nerves. "But our estates align the one against the other. Our families often spend the Christmas holidays together."

  "Well, I would not count on her presence at table this winter," he ground out, again irritated that Kyle could so easily expect Sophia's presence. "Come August, she will set sail for India with me."

  His pronouncement had the desired effect. Lord Kyle stopped dead in his tracks, his bored expression wiped clean. He gaped at the major. "Truly! Whatever for?"

  Normally, Anthony would not have said it. He certainly would not have done so with a smirk that fairly begged the man to doubt him. But he was frustrated and in pain, and he so much wanted to put this particular irritation in its place. "You may wish us happy, Kyle. Sophia and I are to be married. I have the special license in my pocket. And then we are away to India in service to His Majesty."

  This time Lord Kyle did not gape at him. There was a moment's hesitation, time enough for Anthony to believe he had at last silenced the man, but then Lord Kyle burst into laughter. He actually guffawed. Right there in the middle of the street. The peal was loud, musical, and filled with a good humor that seemed to burn painfully into Anthony's soul.

  "Ah," sighed a merry Lord Kyle when he could at last draw breath. "Truly, I have always loved your sense of humor, old chap. You did not use it much at Eton, but when you did, I swear you kept us amused for days."

  Anthony did not respond. He merely remained still, his cold stare the very one he used to discipline unruly recruits. Bit by slow bit, it had its effect. Lord Kyle's laughter faded until it was replaced by a dawning horror.

  "Good God, you cannot be serious," the man finally gasped.

  Anthony let his heavy glare speak for itself.

  "But I was with her the day before her departure. I assure you, Lady Sophia does not consider herself engaged." When Anthony did not comment, the fop actually took a step forward. "She has foresworn all men, declared herself on the shelf, and is happily content in the solitary state."

  "She has sworn to marry me."

  Kyle shook his head in dismay. "My God, man, you make it sound like a military tribunal. Are you feeling quite the thing?"

  "I am quite well, thank you," Anthony snapped. Then he spun on his heel and began walking away as quickly as his injury would permit. He did not allow his expression or demeanor to alter. No one, and certainly not the silly Lord Kyle, would ever suspect what terror now chilled his heart.

  Could Sophia have forgotten? Could she have allowed their engagement to slip from her mind? Impossible. A woman did not forget a proposal of marriage.

  But she had never returned to the hospital. She had visited daily, and then not a word. He assumed she had begun preparations for their wedding. Indeed, she had said as much. But to leave for Staffordshire? Without word?

  "She spoke quite clearly," he said aloud to himself. "We are to be married."

  "Then perhaps you ought to inform Lady Sophia of the matter," Kyle offered from slightly behind him.

  Anthony turned on the man, his anger a palpable force between them. "I intend to do just that," he practically bellowed, planting his fists on his hips.

  Kyle's grin widened. "Oh, yes, I can see you have not changed since Eton. Your smooth manner is sure to win so great a prize as Lady Sophia."

  Anthony felt his hands clench into fists. "We will be married!"

  "Of course you will," returned Kyle smoothly. Then he leaned forward. "I wager she shall have you booted out on your ear in a trice."

  Anthony clenched his teeth, trying to control his fury. Mentally, he listed all the things he needed to do before heading for Staffordshire. The catalogue was much too long. He needed to complete this business with Sophia immediately. But then Lord Kyle's arrogant voice slipped into his thoughts.

  "I wager a monkey you find yourself disengaged within a fortnight."

  It was not so much the bet itself, but the insinuation behind it. The suggestion that he, Anthony Wyclyff, a decorated major in His Majesty's army, was not good enough for Lady Sophia. And more than that, that this popinjay, this fribble in elegant clothing, had the right to her presence at Christmas merely because he had the fortune to be born first.

  "Wager a hundred guineas or a thousand, whatever you like," he practically growled. "Sophia and I shall be wed before I set sail for India."

  Lord Kyle quickly extended his hand. "Done! A thousand guineas that she tosses you out on your ear."

  Anthony glared at the man's long, elegant hand, seeing that it was neat and free of calluses. Kyle had never done a day's hard labor in his entire life, and yet he thought he could wager on Anthony's future. It was ridiculous.

  "Come, come, Major. Surely your virility is worth a thousand guineas?"

  As insults went, it was a minor one. Anthony had no need to prove himself to anyone, much less this jack-a-dandy. But his long illness had weakened him, and anger made him reckless. He grabbed the man's hand with the same motion he used to draw a blade.

  "Done," he said, his voice holding the ring of steel. "A thousand guineas that Lady Sophia is mine by August!"

  * * *

  "Die, you wretched tormentor of women!" Sophia cried, and her voice echoed in the small clearing of the dark, Staffordshire wood. With great glee, she lofted her most hated corset high into the air, then gleefully tossed it up into the night sky.

  She watched it fly, hurled heavenward where it hung, suspended just for a moment, as if being perused by God, then tumbled downward into the pit. In her mind's eye, Sophia imagined the corset as rejected, judged evil by the Almighty, and then spat downward into Hell.

  "
Amen!" she cried. Then Sophia reached down to the bag at her feet, quickly grabbing another hated corset. She felt its familiar weight, saw the dangling, pale ivory strings, even paused a moment to stroke the hateful whalebone ridges. With gladded the rest of the contents of her sack, tossing in anything she owned that had stays, itched, or had to be laced in any way.

  "Never again shall you touch my skin!" she cried.

  She watched as the night seemed to absorb the offensive items, obliterating them from existence. In her imagination, all the rules of a restrictive and vindictive London society went the way of her corsets and stays. Every cruel matron, every gossip-ridden soul was rejected by God and tossed into the hole at her feet.

  Grabbing her shovel, she lifted up a spadeful of dirt. "Gone and done!" she crowed. Then she tossed dirt in, imagining every one of her hateful memories suffocated beneath the earth. She giggled with true joy as she listened to the steady thud of the soil as she began to bury them all.

  But it was not enough. Sophia wanted more. So, with a sigh, she pulled off her too-tight walking boots and kicked them straight into the black hole. They disappeared before she drew another breath.

  "I must get rid of it all," she said softly. All the sniping, lecherous leers, the inane round of parties and social calls, and, most importantly, all the ridiculous rules that hemmed in a young lady on every side. Those restrictive and judgmental codes of conduct designed for a lady who wished to be wed; they no longer applied to her, just as corsets and laces would no longer cut off her breath. She was on the shelf, too old to marry, and that suited her just fine.

  Still, she did not want her delightful ritual to end. Unfortunately, there was very little else to bury except for the clothing on her body. And she did not wish to get rid of her dress. She had made it herself—a simple muslin drape. It was a most comfortable attire, especially suited for ritual sacrifices of unpleasant underclothing.

  There had to be something else. But what?

  Suddenly, she knew. It would be difficult. Furniture was not an easy thing to drag out of one's house, but she would manage. Then it would all be well and truly gone.

  * * *

  Major Wyclyff shifted uneasily on his horse. The saddle cut painfully into his injured leg, and he knew he would be stiff and sore in the morning. But, for now, he wished only to think of his destination and his bride-to-be.

  Sophia. Even her name was refined. She was cool, composed, and everything that would be perfect to his diplomatic post.

  He had it all planned. He had entered Staffordshire a little less than an hour earlier and had quickly settled his gear and batman into the nearest inn. Then he had mounted his horse and come here, to Sophia's current residence, scouting out the lay of the land. He wished to be completely prepared when he visited her tomorrow.

  He would arrive at tea, the most civilized time for social calls. Then he would speak with Sophia, telling her that he was now well enough to marry. The wedding, thanks to his special license, could be dispatched with immediately. And last, they would remove together to India.

  Perfect. And precisely planned.

  Anthony smiled, seeing a neat lifetime ahead of himself and his wife. The thought even managed to take his mind off his pain.

  He saw the torches stuck into the ground long before he reached the clearing near the Rathburn home. Their illumination glowed brightly in the clear night. Frowning, he narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of the shadows in the flickering light. Had some gypsy or poacher fashioned a campfire to roast his dinner? Surely not so close to a residence.

  Then, to his shock, he saw a large shape pass out through the door of the Rathburn manor.

  Anger burned swift and sure through his body. This was no gypsy cooking his dinner. This was a thief, stealing items directly out of die house!

  Anthony spurred his horse on. Fear for Sophia clutched at his throat. He could only pray she was safely away from home. But what if she were here? What if the thief had harmed her? The thought was insupportable.

  As he drew closer to the clearing, Anthony could hear the grating of something heavy pulled over stones. What was it? He could not see what was being dragged or who was dragging it, but they had come from the house. Of that he was sure.

  Could it be a body? Fear overcame his military sense. Rather than taking a moment to assess the situation, he drew his sword and kicked his heels hard into his stallion's sides. Demon obediently broke into a gallop, bursting like an avenging angel into the clearing.

  It took less than a second to size up the situation. He saw one person, a woman cursing as she pulled at something immense. It was not a body as he had feared. Instead, it looked something like a desk flipped on its side, its drawers and lid flopping about like a broken toy.

  Narrowing his gaze, he focused more on the woman. As she was between him and a rather large torch, her contorted body was a dark shadow outlined by a brilliant orange glow. Still, he caught the shape of crudely shorn locks and a pert little nose.

  He reined in his horse mere inches from her, glaring down at the woman as he bellowed, "What are you doing? By God, if you have harmed Sophia, I will split you from end to end!"

  He waited, expecting the woman to drop the furniture and immediately flee. Most sane people did when he used that tone of voice. But she merely lifted her head and frowned at him.

  "I am burying corsets," she said calmly. "And you are in the way."

  "I beg your pardon?" he said stiffly. Then he squinted, trying to shield his eyes from the glare of the torch while still seeing her clearly. He only partly succeeded. He saw a white, breathless smile and long, dirty legs exposed by a rip in a shapeless smock.

  "My corsets. I never liked them, you know. Awful contraptions." Then she straightened. "And you are ruining it. Go away."

  Anthony frowned. Something about her voice teased at him, reminding him of... But he shook his head. The woman could not be Sophia. His future wife would never be out of doors at such an hour, acting like a Bedlamite. Right now, she was no doubt drinking tea, her maiden aunt probably nearby, reading aloud books of poetry. In the meantime, this thief seemed intent on making off with her furnishings.

  "Put everything back!" he ordered, brandishing his sword.

  "I will not!" she snapped.

  Furious, Anthony jumped from his saddle, intent on forcing the woman to comply. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his already strained leg, but he ignored it as he took a threatening step forward.

  Except the ground was uneven, the earth soft and muddy from the recent rains. It eroded beneath his feet. "Wha—!" was all he managed as he stumbled and slipped into a deep pit. His sword went flying, as well as his grip on anything solid. He was rolling end over end, but then he abruptly stopped, landing on his shoulder at the very bottom.

  "Oh, bother!" he heard her exclaim from above him. "Really, you must get out so I can throw in the escritoire."

  He ignored her words, having already concluded that the woman was mad. Still, even madwomen could be dangerous, and he was bound to protect Sophia, even from the likes of this deranged creature. He pulled himself painfully to his feet, frowning as he felt strange items beneath him. He felt fabric and ribbons, but then his hand ran across an item sticking straight out. It was long and hard and had the unmistakable feel of bone.

  Bone? The very thought was chilling.

  "What is in here?"

  It was at that moment that he chanced to look up. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing?" It was a stupid question. He could see quite clearly what she was doing. She was still dragging what he now saw was a large and rather heavy desk—right toward the lip of the pit.

  "Stop that!" he roared.

  "But if I get this on the very edge, you can climb up. Do not worry about scratching it. I intend to bury it in any event. It is a silly thing with all sorts of nonsense cubbies perfect for the inane correspondence that I wrote day after miserable day. Truly, what can be more symbolic than getting rid of
it?"

  Then she grunted, clearly straining as she pushed the heavy wooden piece to the edge of the hole. Anthony watched in horror as the item teetered. Good lord, if it tumbled down on him, it would kill him immediately. And she likely couldn't see where he was.

  "Have a care not to come too close until I have it settled!" she called needlessly, but Anthony wasn't listening. He was well beyond the point of being careful. He was already scrambling out of the muddy pit as fast as his injury would allow.

  "No! Wait—" she cried as she saw him.

  But it was too late. In her efforts to help him, she lost control of the desk. With a ponderous groan, it shifted and began slipping, heading directly toward him.

  Fortunately, he was prepared. Jumping rapidly out of the way, he narrowly missed being clubbed in the head by one of the desk's legs as it crashed past. Unfortunately, the madwoman was also reaching for him, effectively blocking his best escape route up to solid ground. He scrambled, and she reached. He grasped her helping hand and pulled hard, using all his strength to escape the now tumbling desk.

  It was too much. She was stronger than she looked. With her pull and his push, he practically shot out of the pit. Then, before either could adjust, they were flying together, tumbling through the mud, rolling one on top of each other as they fell away from the hole.

  It was a few seconds before he could stop their movements, and by that time, they were both covered in filth and gasping for air. He'd landed on top, her long, pliant body warm beneath him, her eyes wide with surprise.

  "Well, this certainly was not part of the ritual," she said with a low chuckle. The sound was rich, and despite the circumstances, he could not stop his reaction. His body heated as her movements played against it.

  He meant to speak, but all he could manage was a strangled groan as he slowly tried to shift off of her. The strain of their acrobatics had set his leg to burning with the intensity of a brand, and despite the enticements of his current resting place, his awkward position only intensified the pain. He had to get off of her, but the slightest movement sent bolts of agony through him.