Major Lord David

by Sherry Lynn Ferguson

  “David!”

  That was his father, with every ounce of reproach he could command-which, for His Grace of Braughton, was considerable. David turned to find his father flanked by an amused, unmasked Hayden and a furious Sir Moreton Caswell, Baronet.

  “Wilhelmina Caswell!” Sir Moreton hissed. “This is how you choose to behave?” Thankfully, the man kept his voice low, though he was rapidly turning purple. David felt the girl’s arm tremble in his grasp.

  “Papa .. ” she said.

  And David quickly withdrew his hold. He had to comprehend. This, the lovely senorita, was his neighbor, Caswell’s daughter? The girl his father had been scheming for months for him to meet and marry?

  “Sir-” he tried.

  “Oh, this is too much!” Sir Moreton snapped. “Four years of fine schooling, Billie, and you must still..

  But David no longer heard Sir Moreton’s fuming. His mind had seized upon the name Billie. Surely not the “Billie” Caswell who’d plagued him for years? The youngster who’d hounded him, tortured him, injured him, and interfered in every conceivable way with his pleasures at home? The “Billie” Caswell whom he’d believed just another of his neighbor’s troop of boys?

  He stepped back from her.

  “Billie Caswell!” he charged, careless of the company. “Infuriating infant! My shoulder still aches in the cold! What a shock it must have been for you-to find yourself a girl!” He snatched the mask from her face. But the shock was his. For the senorita was even lovelier than he’d supposed. And the look in her eyes was an unforgiving blaze.

  Her brothers had whisked her away. In the midst of Braughton’s revelry they had hurried her, looking white as the snow outside, out of the ballroom and far from him. Immediately David had done what he had to do, the only honorable thing to do; he had turned to Sir Moreton Caswell and apologized. He had requested to pay his addresses. He had, in essence, offered for her.

  Caswell had muttered unintelligibly, but he had not said no, and David’s father, the implacable Duke of Braughton, had said nothing at all.

  After tentative, disheartened efforts to rejoin the celebrations, David had retired as well, and, like any practiced soldier, he had slept.

  But as he stood staring at the next morning’s bountiful breakfast buffet, and feeling as he now almost always felt at mealtimes-ravenous-he knew he deliberately avoided contemplating the previous night’s happenings. He did not know whether he was promised or not; he did not know whether he was to be married. He could only hope that the rest of the year would not continue as it had begun.

  There were too many people in the house. Despite the early hour there were too many people, easily forty or more, packed here in the breakfast room, and they were all still too happy. In the usual course, he would have enjoyed the company. But as he filled his plate, he wished he were not required to be sociable.

  He’d noticed at least one of the Caswell brothers at the table-the eldest, priggish “Morty,” who had sent him several baleful glances-but there was no sign of her.

  Myles came to stand next to him at the sideboard. David glanced at him with some temper, heightened by the sight of that easy smile.

  “You bounder,” he said. “You knew”

  Myles’ smile fled. “I did not know.” For a moment he plucked with tongs at the sausages, then abandoned the sport and turned to him. “Wilhelmina Caswell and I have never been introduced. You have my word on it. The only failing I will claim, David, is my distraction last night, when I might have observed your senorita’s company. Though why I should have assumed that responsibility, given your own close reconnaissance, eludes me” He shrugged. “You yielded to an inclination, and duty binds you nonetheless. Need I say that is usually the way of things? ‘Tis deplorable, blaming others when your own choices cause the constraints. I’d presumed you a better officer.” And after that-one of the longer speeches David had heard from him in many years-the imperturbable Marquis of Hayden turned and abruptly left the room.

  David noticed Grandmere-his father’s mother, the elderly Dowager Duchess of Braughton-at the far end of the table. Her presence surprised him, as she was not usually an early riser, until he observed that she still wore the previous night’s ball gown. She had not even been to bed. That explained all; his inexhaustible French relative was a phenomenon indeed.

  He walked the length of the table to take a seat next to her.

  “Mon pauvre”-she spoke with some excitement-“what was it you said to him?”

  David shrugged. “Il se fache,” he said of Hayden.

  “Oui. I see. He is indeed cross. Very good, David. Very good.” But she examined his face with concern. “You must be brave, mon enfant, for this will take some time.”

  What did she mean by “this”? He was frowning when his cousin Chas placed a hand on his left shoulder and, leaning over, spoke in his ear.

  “You must think of the girl,” he advised, and for a second Chas’ grave brown gaze met his own. Then Chas patted his shoulder and moved on.

  At least his grandmere and Chas had not disowned him. But they had always been the most sensible members of the family.

  David stabbed his eggs.

  “That is a sizable portion you have there, Major.” Smug Morty Caswell was watching from across the table, with an annoyingly superior tilt to his chin.

  “Had you starved in the Pyrenees, Caswell,” David responded lightly, “you would not remark it.”

  As Morty Caswell turned pink, that end of the table fell silent. David heard his grandmere’s “tsk,” but he continued to eat undisturbed. In a moment the irrepressible spirits of the New Year had reasserted themselves, and the lively conversation resumed.

  “That was not well done, mon petit.” His grandmother eyed him. “You forget you are a gentleman.”

  “It is possible to be too much the gentleman.”

  “Never! Ce n’est pas possible!”

  “Hayden is your model, then, Grandmere, is he?”

  “The model is for everyone the same-to be genteel, to be kind! C’est tout! And though your brother is all that is proper, David, you are more often the `model.’ To be kind takes the warm heart”

  He looked at her then, so tiny and silver-haired, and felt the reproach. “How did such a pretty young one as you are grow to be so wise?”

  She smiled with that hint of shared confidence that had charmed so many. “I have the example of my grandsons,” she replied diplomatically, “who are gentlemen.”

  He laughed, a sound that seemed to reassure the others at the table that Major Lord David Trent was not mad. His grandmere shook her head.

  “You look most like him, David. Like your grand-pere. When you smile so-eh, bien!-I am again eighteen. So I must feel for this jeune fille. With les premieres amours.”

  “Les premieres amours? Que vent dire-?”

  “Oh, you know very well what I mean, else this Duc de Fer Wellington would not have wished you in Paris last fall!”

  “‘Puppy love’ is hardly a term old Hooky would use. And in any event it scarcely applies. There is no `love’ involved. This is simply a case of two meddling old men.”

  “So? I believe you wrong. But this `puppy love’-it will pass. You need only wait.”

  For some reason he did not welcome the thought. David finished the rest of his breakfast in silence and tried not to think of himself as a soldier, at the disposal of others. Unfortunately, he found his status affirmed when he at last exited the dining room. He met his father and Sir Moreton Caswell heading into breakfast.

  The Duke of Braughton, tall, stern, and well-used to exercising authority, did not trouble to wish his son a happy New Year.

  “You will, of course, accompany the Caswells on their journey home today, David.”

  “Yes, sir.” He knew it was useless to argue that “the journey” consisted of at most eight miles-that with two strong sons, and at least as many grooms, Caswell hardly needed aid. Useless as well to suggest that they mi
ght more wisely wait a day, until the snow stopped or cleared in the warmth of sunlight. Ultimately useless to question any command of his father’s, given in just that tone of voice. David was to serve at the Caswells’ behest. His own folly had guaranteed it.

  He sought out his bleary-eyed batman, Barton, with the news that he would be traveling that day, then chose to await both his greatcoat and his summons in the library.

  Of all that he loved about Braughton, and he loved Braughton very much, the library was perhaps his favorite room, cool on the hottest days, warm now as a fire blazed cheerfully away and the snow still fell. The room’s many tall windows always provided ample illumination. Braughton’s library, unlike so many in country holdings, was not heavy-paneled and musty. Despite the walls of stone and glass, the room was open, light, and welcoming. As boys he and Myles had explored endlessly among the shelves and ladders. They had known the collection more intimately than had the several tutors Braughton employed. But after so many years away, David felt a stranger.

  While he waited, he set it as his task to reacquaint himself with the library’s treasures. He was not in the habit of dwelling overmuch on what he could not change. He was, however, well-used to prolonged periods of enforced patience-and of the need to make himself comfortable. Before long he was pleasurably immersed in his chosen volume.

  More than an hour passed before he was called to attend the Caswells. After Barton helped him into his greatcoat, David presented himself as escort to his neighbors. Sir Moreton properly introduced the other three members of his familythe two sons and the daughter. As the girl curtsied before him, David caught one glimpse of her face beneath her bonnet, a glimpse abbreviated enough that he was reminded of how much he disliked bonnets.

  Since his horse, Incendio, stood tethered to the back of the coach, David knew he would be traveling inside with the family. And just as he’d anticipated, there were at least two grooms with the coachman, making the Caswells’ party a veritable army, all to travel such a trifling distance.

  He was permitted to face forward, but he soon learned that the arrangement was not intended as a favor. The position deprived him of the pleasure of gazing upon Miss Caswell, who also faced forward from her place at her father’s far side. The two brothers sat opposite. David had the dubious reward of confronting sour Morty. The younger brother, Edward Caswell, though still a student at university and trying enough to one’s patience, would have been his preference.

  Apparently the girl was to be shielded, or neatly confined, as though she were as much an offender as David. He, who had failed to observe propriety, was to be bullied, which struck him as lacking propriety in itself. The ritual seemed so pointless. He wondered what else Sir Moreton could possibly have wanted from him. Though not usually a stickler concerning the niceties, David did puzzle over the Caswells’ highand-mighty sense of entitlement. He, after all, was the duke’s son, though to his thinking he rarely acted the part. At the moment he sorely wanted to.

  For the nonce he was clearly to be kept in suspense and denied any immediate response to his very timely, proper offer.

  “You have urgent business today, Sir Moreton?” he asked politely before the horses were set to. “I should have thought it more comfortable for you to outwait the snowstorm’s end here at Braughton”

  “M’ wife is an invalid, my lord,” he responded gruffly. “I am rarely away, and then only for short periods. Last night no member of the family was home with her. I do not like to leave her alone.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, sir.” David tried to peer around Caswell to his daughter but succeeded only in catching sight of her gloved hands upon her lap. He wondered how long the mother had been ill. He nearly asked about the prospects for Lady Caswell’s recovery but decided the matter was best let lie. Meanwhile, Miss Caswell’s slim fingers seemed to taunt him.

  “How many sons have you, Sir Moreton?”

  “What? Oh-four. Morty here, the eldest. Aged twenty-seven, is it, Morty? Yes. Then Jack-that is, John Henry. He was a captain in the Light Dragoons”

  “Ah! I understood he’d been with the Royal Horse Guards”

  “No, no, the Eleventh Light Dragoons. Brought home-oh, two years ago now. And he sold out last summer. Just recently wed, my boy Jack. Livin’ in Staffordshire. Then my youngest, Edward, you see opposite. He’s up at Cambridge, as you know, and will go to the Bar. And there is Christopher, who is three years older than Billie-er, my daughter, Wilhelmina.”

  “And is Christopher also at home?”

  There was an uneasy silence. Perhaps Christopher was not to be discussed. Something jogged David’s memory-some recollection of the ever-present band of boys and urgent yells for “Kit.”

  Sir Moreton cleared his throat. “When will you be selling out, my lord?” he asked.

  “I have not yet decided to do so, sir.” David heard the girl’s sharp little breath and felt Caswell stiffen beside him. “There has been some suggestion that I might join His Grace the Duke of Wellington in Vienna this spring.” He tossed out the possibility as more of a challenge to Caswell than an option for himself. Chas had recommended a stay in Vienna, but David was hungry for home.

  “But your regiment-was it sent to America?” Caswell asked.

  “Not my regiment of the Guards, sir. I have been serving on the duke’s staff, detached from them in any event. But many of the men with whom I served in Spain, some of our very best troops, are now in America, in the Louisiana Territory. With last month’s peace, I anticipate their return shortly.”

  “Kit is wild that he shall have missed everything,” Edward volunteered, only to firm his lips at a look from his father.

  “He should instead consider himself a lucky man,” David observed.

  “Denied the many privations that have brought you honor and renown?” Morty sneered.

  David fixed him with a steady look. “Denied death, perhaps, Mr. Caswell. Assuredly the ultimate privation.”

  In the silence that befell the occupants of the carriage, David proceeded to pull from his greatcoat the volume he had spirited away from the library. The road here outside Braughton was clear but slow; the faint daylight reflecting off the snow gave him enough light to read. Though he considered himself a cordial enough conversationalist in the usual way, the Caswell clan confounded him. He was not often so sharp; his brother, Myles, more frequently employed quick retorts. Yet somehow Myles managed these encounters with finesse. Had Myles said something similar, the Caswells probably would have laughed.

  David knew he had always been too frank. But he had made it a rule to keep friends-and to choose not to make enemies. He and Morty Caswell clearly had a difference of outlook.

  “What do you have there, my lord?” Edward Caswell asked with some sincerity. David decided that perhaps not all of them were entirely boorish.

  “Thucydides, Mr. Edward”

  “I have been reading some of the same”

  “I must rely on you to explain it to me, then, as I find it heavy going.” “

  Edward Caswell blushed. “I would not presume, my lord. .

  I hope I might depend upon you, Mr. Edward,” David said gallantly. “My reading has never been of a disciplined nature, though I am extremely fond of books. They are invariably a luxury for soldiers, as your brother, Captain Jack, no doubt knows”

  “Surprising to hear there is any luxury denied a Trent,” Morty commented.

  Again Sir Moreton cleared his throat. “Jack isn’t bookish,” he said. “Edward and Billie, now-that is, Wilhelmina . . ” He stopped, which was for the best, since David found it irritating that the girl should be discussed as though she were absent. He noted her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  “I heard you were sent down from Oxford,” Morty supplied.

  “Yes. With but a month to go” David smiled broadly, though in his estimation Mr. Morty deserved a hearty smack. “My dearest wish was to be a scholar.”

  “You?” Morty snorted rudely. “Hard t
o believe, given that you were sent down”

  David shrugged. “I still had the desire. Is there any higher qualification for scholarship than a love of learning?”

  “Surely as Braughton’s-as a duke’s son-you might have been reinstated?”

  “Perhaps. But at the time it did not strike me as quite fair that I should be reinstated when others had no chance for the same” As he smiled, he could feel Billie Caswell’s attention. Did she think he made excuses? The incident had certainly influenced his choices since; he had had time and reflection enough to review it.

  The carriage came upon a drift of snow blocking the road. The grooms scurried down and cleared a path. During the process David itched to exit the carriage himself. He was used to doing, and Thucydides could scarcely distract him from the chill among the company. His father’s notion of punishment, in detailing him to escort the Caswells, was proving to be penance indeed.

  At the next obstacle of a drift, which looked larger, David opened the door on his side and quickly swung down into the roadway.

  “My lord-” Sir Moreton objected, but David had already walked ahead to confer with the grooms and coachman; he held and spoke to the horses-a fine team of matched bayswhile the men cleared the wheel tracks. Then, on resuming, he lent a shoulder to pushing the carriage beyond the slick patch of roadway.

  When he climbed back into the carriage, he briefly met Billie Caswell’s gaze before taking his seat. That one quick look was enough to assure him that what he had imagined of her perfections the previous evening had been no trick of high spirits or candlelight. Her eyes, longlashed and immense, were only slightly darker than her hair; he could not rid his mind of images of toffee, creamed coffee, amber honey. For David, who now found himself endlessly hungry, Miss Wilhelmina Caswell looked appealingly edible.

  There was no hint of the romp about her, but of course that was what she had to be. She had been a terror of a tomboy, a most convincing little hellion; she must still be more than a measure of trouble, else her father would not be attempting to marry her off in such an unfeeling manner. The girl should otherwise have had a proper London season, with better prospects than David Trent.