At the next barrier to movement on the road, Sir Moreton again protested, but given the persistent “milording,” David concluded that the gentleman felt obliged to defer to him, at least on minor matters. The day was not so very cold; the snow had at least temporarily stopped. Helping the men gave him an occupation. This time, as he stepped out into the weather, both Morty and Edward stood to join him.
David wondered if they feared he might bolt. With some amusement he made a point of checking on the well-being of his horse tethered behind. He noticed that his man Barton, used to the trials of campaigning, had packed him a saddlebag of necessities; in a pinch David supposed he might escape south to the Channel, and thence to the Continent. He patted Incendio’s glossy black neck, murmured encouragement, then moved around to the opposite side of the carriage. When the coachman called “clear,” he smoothly stepped in to claim the seat across from Billie Caswell.
He was making a game of holding her gaze; Billie was aware of his design even as she met his challenge. She would not let him believe her ashamed or cowed. She had done nothing wrong, though her father might treat her as though she had. And she had always loved to look at David Trent.
He had a wonderful face, older now than she remembered but stronger-certainly less boyish. His dark hair still waved above a high forehead, the blue Trent eyes were striking under dark brows, the suggestion of a smile lingered, lending warmth to his lips and his gaze. In his splendid regimentals the previous night, the breadth of his shoulders had been noticeable; she had quickly forgotten the memory of him as much slighter at twenty-two-Kit’s age. In his greatcoat now he seemed to loom, to take up half the carriage, though her father and brothers were not small men. And he sat back against the squabs before her with an ease and an expression that was confidence itself.
She had adored him for as long as she could remember.
Her gloved hands formed fists as she at last looked away, out the window to the side. She made the mistake of firming her lips, only to desist immediately. She could feel the intensity of his concentration on her face. The sensation was not unpleasant-he had watched her closely last night as well-but she colored. She wished she had more control. She wished-oh, she wished that they had met again under different circumstances, that they had not been seen and trapped. That he had not been forced to offer-and forced to resent her.
Father could not understand why she was refusing to consider Lord David’s proposal. She had always declared it the dearest wish of her heart. Indeed, every member of her family knew of her years-long infatuation with Braughton’s younger son. They had asked her what more she could possibly desire.
The answer to that, though unvoiced, had been “reciprocity”-some correspondence of feeling. That he should care as much as I do. Or at least as much as she had always believed she had. She did not want David Trent as a sacrifice. But how else were they to satisfy the Caswell honor?
Her gaze returned to him, to find that his own attention had not wavered. She knew with certainty that he had never once dreamed of her. He had not even realized she was a girl.
“Morty,” she said into the silence, even as she stared into what she considered “the blue” of that gaze. Morty now sat where David had, at her father’s other side. “You must pass the major his Thucydides.”
She continued to meet his gaze as the book was dutifully passed across to Edward and on to the seat at Major Trent’s side.
“I have a much preferred pastime at the moment, Miss Caswell,” he said. For a second he let his gaze fall again to her lips, long enough that she felt a blush seek her cheeks. She pointedly turned her attention out the window.
When the carriage abruptly halted once more, Billie anticipated his exit. But this time, as Edward and Morty sprang to action, David Trent stubbornly kept his seat. He actually had the gall to smile at her.
“Are you planning a season in town this spring, Miss Caswell?” he asked.
“Most certainly you will have a say in that, my lord,” her father said quickly, leaning toward him with urgency.
“And how so, sir? How can it affect me?”
“What! Do you want the girl or not?”
Billie drew a sharp breath, waiting for David’s definitive no.
His eyebrows shot high. “Surely Miss Caswell must determine what she wants, sir?”
The question was much to the point; he had masterfully called her father’s bluff in asking. Sir Moreton responded with silence. Billie had an insight as to just how keen and purposeful an officer David Trent must be, the more so when his gaze settled on her with a marked decrease in warmth. He must have deduced, correctly, that she was the obstacle to clarity in this matterthat she was the one delaying an answer, weighing his offer in the balance, holding his feet to the fire. She was determined to speak with him first.
He tried another tack. Once her brothers returned to their seats and the carriage was again rolling, Lord David let one of his boots rest casually against her skirts. Billie glared at him and attempted to shift her position, but she was squeezed to the side of the bench by her father and Morty, and the major’s legs were indisputably long.
She wanted to ignore so slight a contact, to act as though it were accidental, but by avoiding his gaze she knew she acknowledged it. She focused on the scenery outside. The snow had resumed. They had already spent almost two hours traveling a distance that usually required less than one; her impatience for the trip to end found relief in occasional soundless sighs.
When the major’s other knee touched her skirt, she glanced at him, prepared to utter a rebuke. But he was now slouched against the seat back, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed in sleep. Next to her, her father had succumbed to the same state of oblivion. That the men could doze in such uncomfortable circumstances amazed her.
Edward was peacefully reading Lord David’s Greek text.
Billie studied David’s features. Last night he had reminded her too starkly of her foolishness as a youngster. At age twelve, intending to shoot him with “Cupid’s dart,” she had most accurately sent an arrow flying from ambush-straight to David Trent’s shoulder. She vividly recalled Kit’s triumphant yell, how David had reeled and tumbled from his horse, her own stunned horror at his too-real pallor. They had knelt by his side and watched numbly as the blood pooled upon his shirt. He had hissed to them to fetch Rawlinson, the old stable master, and Kit had scrambled up upon David’s horse and ridden away like the very devil. But Billie had been left to face David’s accusing stare.
“You … did this?” he had asked. And then he’d sworn at her, repeatedly and incomprehensibly in French, before his swoon had spared her.
Within minutes help had arrived from Braughton. She and Kit had been sent home, to wait in fear of a reckoning that never arrived. Word had reached them that Lord David survived the ordeal. Billie had trusted and prayed that he would, but she’d had no opportunity to apologize. In the subsequent year she had seen him only twice more, and then only from a distance. He had left for war on the Peninsula without a word from her.
Last night he’d claimed the shoulder still pained him in the cold. She wondered if it troubled him now in the snow. The wound must have inconvenienced him all the long years at war. And as her pensive gaze left his shoulder and rose again to his face, she caught the steady scrutiny in his.
He was not asleep, if he had ever been, and both his boots now neatly bracketed her cloaked skirts in a manner that was simply not acceptable.
Billie managed to turn one of her ankles and bring the pressure of her instep down atop his toes. With his grimace she had to believe that, had he thought to play with her or to play upon her guilty sympathies, he must now consider himself corrected.
“At last,” Morty muttered as they entered the drive to the manor. “We might almost have walked it in this time.”
“Some of us might have been limping by now though, Mr. Caswell.” His gaze on hers, David sat up farther, carefully removing his boots from h
er reach.
Billie could not stop her smile. She looked out the window. She dared not glance at him again, for fear she might laugh outright.
When they drew up to the house, Morty moved to unlatch the door facing the front and the waiting footman. But the major swiftly opened the door opposite and, leaping out sans the step, pulled Billie out the far side. Before her startled senses could recover, he had pressed his lips to hers. With equal speed he put her away from him.
He easily parried her raised, open palm. “We are betrothed,” he told her smoothly.
“You are mistaken!”
“Then you must say so, Billie Caswell.”
She swallowed and raised her chin. She could hear her father and brothers mounting the steps to the house.
“What happened to `querida’?” she challenged.
He brought his face very close to hers once more. “`Querida’ is still there, if you wish it. But take care how you punish a man, Miss Caswell. It must be proportionate to the offense”
He stepped away from her to the back of the carriage and moved to free his horse.
“What are you about there, Lord David?” her father called from above. “You must come along inside here for some dinner.”
“I think I’d best be getting back, Sir Moreton, before the weather grows much worse”
“Enjoy a meal, my lord, and let your horse be cared for. The snow is nothing to speak of.”
Billie thought her father had not sounded half so pleasant all day; at home he was making an effort at courtesy. Yet she wished they need no longer play at propriety. That David Trent should think she punished him was galling. Surely having been forced to offer at all had been the punishment.
She had walked on up to her father’s side. Let him go, she silently urged him. Please, just let him go. Her gaze as cold as she could muster, she willed the major to be on his way. They might talk another time. But the perverse man seemed to delight in crossing her.
“Well, then,” he said, his smile provoking. “Perhaps for an hour or two, sir. And we might finish discussing our business.”
They stomped into the hall. Billie was relieved to find it presentable this evening, not-as seemed too frequent of late-redolent of damp or of Morty’s hounds or stale tobacco. Still, she remained uneasy, for the major’s last comment had sounded like a threat. She thought he must mean to move forward with an engagement, as mad as such a course might be.
At least her father had no desire to leap abruptly into discussion of dowries.
“You’ll excuse me, my lord,” he said gruffly, as Tate came forward to take their coats. “My wife will be most anxious to see me.”
“Certainly, sir.” As Lord David was relieved of his greatcoat, he subjected the hall to such close regard that Billie chose to feel defensive. Her father made his way upstairs, leaving the major to Billie and her brothers.
“How long has Lady Caswell been ill?” he asked.
“Forever,” Edward mumbled, shrugging out of his own coat. “Or seems like.”
“You might recall it, Trent,” Morty said sharply, “as the last visit she made was to Braughton eight years ago”
“I regret I do not remember, Mr. Caswell. Do you blame that visit for her subsequent indisposition?”
Morty flushed to his ears. “Not at all. Just meant-that was the last time she went calling, is all.”
“I am sorry to hear it. She does not improve?”
“She has her good days-and many more bad,” Edward said glumly. “If you’ll pardon me, Major, I have some translations… “And he departed, followed precipitously by Morty, who mumbled about seeing to necessary correspondence before dinner. Morty seemed eager to avoid the overwhelming responsibility of acting as host in his own home. Or else he had properly gauged that David Trent too frequently outwitted him.
The major smiled at Billie just as she felt most acutely her family’s rude desertion.
“You must pardon them, my lord. They are not..” she attempted. “They are not usually so thoughtless.”
“We are all at ease in our own homes, Miss Caswell,” he offered smoothly, making a shallow bow, “and it has been a tiring day. I know ‘tis merely an oversight that we should have been left alone.”
“They trust me,” she countered. “Would you imply they should not trust you?”
“We shall see”
His small smile disconcerted her. She turned to Tate and asked him to have a maid start the fire in the drawing room. She felt the major’s gaze as she made the request. Her effort to supplement their company must have been all too obvious.
“You study my home, Major,” she said, lifting her chin a fraction as she showed him into the drawing room. “You find fault with it?”
“On the contrary, Miss Caswell. All is order and comfort. The opposite of what I should have expected of a household of men-men left so long in want of Lady Caswell’s influence. I credit you, young as you are, with meeting the challenge.”
She felt the color in her cheeks and turned away. “Dinner will be at least an hour, Major. Would you care for some refreshment beforehand?”
“Coffee would be welcome, thank you” As Billie arranged for a tray, the major wandered to the piano and idly pressed several keys. “Do you play, Miss Caswell, or was this your mother’s instrument?”
“Both,” she said. “‘Tis still my mother’s, and I play it. Mama insisted that I claim at least one of a lady’s accomplishments.”
“She must be pleased then-that you claim many.”
To contain another blush, she stared him straight in the eyes. “No doubt you practiced such flummery in Paris, my lord.”
“I had little time in Paris to practice much of anything, Miss Caswell. Lately I’ve spent too much time traveling, including three trips between Paris and Vienna in as many months. The winter has been a harsh one. ‘Twas not the holiday you envisage.” Again he pressed his fingers to the keys. “Will you play something?”
“I am not very good”
“I should imagine you are exceptionally good.”
The compliment disconcerted her. However lightly proffered, it was welcome and somehow restorative. Her family was prone to tease rather than to commend; even their urging her at this man, even their insistence on a betrothal, was an extension of all the teasing. After all, such a tie was what she had always claimed to want, for as long as she had known of David Trent.
“Perhaps later,” she said, looking away from him.
“Then, as we’ve been granted this bit of privacy, you might instead answer two questions for me” When her attention returned to him, he asked bluntly, “Why should you continue with this? And why should you resist a season?”
“I do not resist a season! In fact, our plans for a visit to town are well along. My father only meant, in the carriage, that now you might have some say in whether we go or not”
“One assumes that if you were welcoming a season, you are not averse to marriage?”
“Of course I am not `averse to marriage’ ! I object only to compelling you-”
“And so I ask my first question for a second time-why should you allow me so much of a claim? Last night we did nothing so irredeemable, certainly nothing to warrant such an extreme response. My offer was proper but not entirely necessary. Our fathers know as much. They are not so Gothic in their notions as to press you, however much they feel I might owe. If you did not want this to go forward, it would not”
“But they know you kissed me…
“Hardly.”
“Hardly?”
“‘Twas a mere suggestion. You found that slight attempt sufficient?”
“Sufficient?”
He smiled at her, though his gaze remained watchful.
“Major Trent,” she continued coldly, “I will leave you to your coffee.”
She turned to go, but at his low and serious, “Billie,” she turned.
“Do not leave,” he went on. “Forgive me. I forget you are still very you
ng”
“I shall be nineteen in March”
“As I said” He smiled. “Now do stay. Because I think you must explain yourself. We will not have many opportunities-”
“I must explain, but you needn’t?”
“Oh, I am easily understood.” Again that smile held her. “I danced with a beautiful stranger on New Year’s Eve and yielded to overwhelming impulse. Though the yielding may have been unwise, there is little incomprehensible in it. I wished to kiss you and endeavored to do so. Absent an interruption, I should have been more thorough.” He studied her furious complexion. “I cannot plead a lack of interest, though I confess matrimony was far from my mind. For your part-it is not gallant of me to mention, I know-you did accompany me last night.” Before she could protest, he added, “Nevertheless, you might now claim almost anything shy of abduction and be believed. Equally, as the injured party, you might snap your fingers and have done with this business. I will do as I must, should you desire it. But do you desire it? I should like to understand. I am too blunt a fellow to play at absurdities.”
“You are indeed `blunt,’ Major.”
“I am trained to it, Miss Caswell. ‘Tis preferable to misunderstandings, or retreat.”
“This is not some … some battlefield!”
His answering smile mystified her. For some reason his amusement placed her at a disadvantage.
He shrugged. “We must be honest with each other-our futures are at stake. Surely the Billie Caswell who roamed the county with her brothers is capable of candor. Or have years of proper schooling robbed you of it?”
She felt the sting of the question-and the challenge. He had understood that in her-the desire not to forget herself, not to assume airs. She had long derided the artifice and manipulations of her school fellows. Her defiance at once seemed petty, and yet-though he urged her to be candid-she still had to take care. He would never understand how devotedly she had favored him.
Major Lord David Page 3