Major Lord David

by Sherry Lynn Ferguson

  “‘Attack’ your family? You mistake me, Miss Caswell. And you take this too much to heart. Say what you will, I refuse to let the blighter interfere with us in the slightest. Does he demand so much, or do you volunteer it?”

  “Good-bye, Major.” As she wheeled from him, he caught her elbow.

  “No, Billie-querida-” He leaned to kiss her, but catching the look in her amber eyes, he lightly tapped her chin instead. “You almost make me wish that the year might continue as it began. A kiss is sorely tempting. But ‘twould only confuse you further.” He restrained a smile. “I shall be patient. You shall see me again soon, sweet, as promised-within the month” And with that pledge, and now feeling quite warm enough for a much longer journey, he turned out into the snow.

  Billie did not see him again within the month, or even within two. The New Year was only ten days old when word reached them of the disastrous battle at New Orleans, where more than two thousand British troops, many of them seasoned veterans of long years in the Peninsular campaign, had been felled by a relative handful of Americans. And the shocking defeat had occurred, perhaps most tragically, just as Britain had at last believed itself at peace. News of December’s peace agreements, celebrated by the European allies over the holidays, simply had not traveled across the Atlantic in time to prevent the continuation of hostilities and the carnage on American soil.

  Even the Duke of Wellington’s brother-in-law, Major-General Sir Edward Pakenham, had been lost at New Orleans.

  Lord David’s regiment of House Guards, the Coldstream regiment, had not been in America or Louisiana, but as he’d previously served with many of the other officers on the Peninsula, he must have felt the loss keenly. With receipt of the news, he apparently had not waited to be summoned. He had left Leicestershire immediately to return to Paris and Wellington.

  Before leaving, he had troubled to convey his apologies to Miss Caswell; he regretted the delay in settling their affairs. In a most economical three lines he had recommended that she not allow uncertainty regarding their status to influence her in the slightest. He assured her that he was, as he had always been, hers alone. She must do, as he termed it, as she “thought best”

  She knew she would have married him the next day-had he loved her. But he’d admitted only attraction, an attraction that pressure to wed could scarcely further. She had promptly told her father that Lord David would not suit after all.

  Sir Moreton had merely harrumphed, claiming that it was “early days yet” and infuriatingly advising her that she did not know her own mind. He had refused to relay her withdrawal to David’s father, the Duke of Braughton. Given her father’s willfulness and David’s absence, Billie resigned herself to remaining to all outward appearances attached, though there was nothing to it at all. And that situation would continue as long as she and Lord David were parted.

  By the last week in February she had moved on to town, to her aunt Euphemia’s and the start of the social season.

  Aunt Ephie had claimed, too enthusiastically in Billie’s view, that her niece’s tenuous betrothal was enviable-that any other young woman making her debut would leap at the possibility of marrying “into” Braughton. Despite Billie’s explanation, despite her protests, Ephie assured her that there need be no substance to the perception, that it was not necessary that a marriage ever take place-that to society expectation was all. In that Ephie echoed what David had suggested at the New Year. But Billie could not be as sanguine. She did not consider her situation enviable; she found it disturbingly deceitful. Though everyone else, including her family, might perceive her as promised, she knew she had released David Trent from obligation almost as soon as he had undertaken it. She had been most emphatic on the doorstep at New Year’s. Though she now regretted her temper, and though her sentiments warred with her sense, she would not compel him to wed. She was determined on it.

  But she did not know how she was to act. The other young ladies in town had accepted her presence within their circle as posing little threat, serving rather to attract male attention that could not be fixed upon her, as she was already engaged. Billie sought pleasure in the season’s entertainments, but she knew her behavior must always be irreproachable-befitting a Braughton bride, though that was not what she was to be, and though the lucky gentleman was nowhere to be seen.

  She had not slept soundly for weeks, and even Ephie’s excellent cook could not tempt her to sample much in the way of meals. On any given day Billie wondered just where Major Trent might be.

  Her growing abstraction interfered with the simplest decisions.

  She spent an inordinate amount of time considering her wardrobe for that afternoon’s call. The Dowager Duchess of Braughton, Lord David’s grandmere, had invited Billie and her aunt to visit. Billie could only assume that the invitation had been sent at David’s instigation. She had heard nothing from him and little of him since his departure in January, but that did not mean he had been as silent with his family.

  She knew she had no call to feel illused; there were, after all, larger matters pending. The Duke of Wellington had moved on from Paris to represent Great Britain at the Congress of Vienna, which august body of allies still worked at hammering out a post-war structure for all the European states. Billie had heard enough conversation to gather that small smattering of politics. She had consulted the atlas almost daily. She had to believe-given issues of such importance-that the intricacies of one trifling, personal alliance could scarcely signify.

  She tossed aside an emerald silk sash.

  “You do not like that, miss?” Simms, her maid, sounded surprised.

  “‘Tis well enough. But not just now.” Billie had hardly glanced at the thing. “I will not wear a sash”

  “But with Her Grace-”

  “It is not important, Simms. I assure you, I shall look presentable. As I remember, Her Grace is a woman of considerable good sense”

  “Yes, miss,” Simms agreed dubiously. Billie guessed that in the young maid’s opinion, nothing was too grand for a duchess.

  Her aunt Ephie clearly felt the same.

  “The gown is most tasteful, Wilhelmina,” she observed with a frown, “but shouldn’t you prefer something a bit more … colorful?”

  “I look well enough in this, Auntie. I’ve no wish to fuss”

  “‘Tis far from `fussing’ to take some particular care. The Dowager Duchess-”

  “Must be nearing eighty, Auntie. And I understand she was recently ill. I observed her at the New Year. Her own style is elegant but understated. I can hardly appall her if I mimic her own taste. And, truth be told, it is my own preference”

  Ephie pursed her lips but clearly knew when to desist. Billie had never been one to yield readily to claims of fashion. She had a stubborn sense of what looked suitable and had little patience with unnecessary embellishment.

  So her plain white gown with muted cream underskirt and trim would do very well-it heightened the red highlights in her hair and the healthy glow of her complexion. She quickly tamped any curiosity as to whether Lord David would have appreciated the effect and reminded herself that, whatever its prompting, he had most opportunely and precipitously seized upon his freedom, even if he had neglected to acknowledge it publicly.

  “I wonder,” Ephie mused aloud on their way in the carriage, “if Lord David suggested this invitation.”

  “He told me at the New Year that he might have his grandmere aid me this spring. But, given his hurried departure, I suspect he forgot to propose it.” Billie concentrated hard on observing the bustling afternoon activity on the street about them. Many people had been filtering into town from the countryside, intent on protesting the proposed higher prices for grain, an issue to be debated in Parliament. The mood of the crowds of small farmers, laborers, out-of-work tradesmen, and former soldiers grew increasingly threatening. “His father, the duke, probably recommended the invitation,” she continued with a frown. “‘Tis our fathers, after all, who forward the match”
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  “Now, Billie, do not start again! When you speak so, you sound much too bitter for eighteen.”

  “Nineteen, Auntie. Saturday.”

  “I know very well when your birthday is, missy. We have that special supper laid in after the Loomises’ tea.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And I am most achingly appreciative of your generosity. But my point was that I am old enough to know my own mind. And I am certainly old enough to understand my circumstances. You mustn’t carry on as though-as though this is some grand romance! Or as though we now attend an audience with the Prince Regent”

  “‘Tis close,” her aunt muttered, before turning to look pointedly out the window.

  They completed the rest of the journey in an obstinate absence of conversation. Billie was in no mood to placate her aunt. But as they stepped out at the foot of the duchess’ front steps, Billie leaned to kiss Ephie quickly on the cheek.

  “Do not fret so,” she urged her aunt softly, by way of insuring her own composure as well.

  “Ah, Billie!” Ephie said, in a tone that Billie could have interpreted as either fond or exasperated.

  The Dowager Duchess of Braughton chose to live almost year-round in town, in the house that had sheltered the Dukes of Braughton for the previous two hundred years. The mansion had been rebuilt twice, and now evidenced all the sturdy elegance of which one of the country’s oldest and most illustrious families could boast. From the busts of distinguished ancestors in the hall to the sweeping velvet drapes, oiled wood, and glistening silver in the drawing room, all the appointments were rich and exquisitely understated. And the elderly woman who greeted them from the fireside was, though frail and wrapped in the depths of a wing chair, as splendid as her surroundings.

  Billie’s quick glance noted the traces of the duchess’ youthful looks-the white hair that had once been blond, the high cheekbones, and the clear, sky-blue gaze. An openness, a charm of expression, lingered. As Billie curtsied, she thought again, as she had thought at the New Year, that David’s grandmere appeared to shimmer, in some lively, gemlike manner.

  “So I have here two Miss Caswells,” the duchess exclaimed with her pronounced French accent. Her smile was warm and happy. “May I call you Miss Wilhelmina?”

  “You must call me Billie, Your Grace”

  “Billie.” She pronounced it more precisely and elegantly than it had ever been spoken before. “Yes, it suits you. How charming you look today, my dear.”

  And Billie thanked her before glancing triumphantly at Ephie.

  Refreshments must have been ordered the minute they arrived, because a number of servants, laden with various trays, entered the room as Billie and Ephie took seats near their hostess.

  “We might have other callers while you visit with me,” the duchess said. “I hope you do not mind. Town becomes occupied, most busy, here in March”

  It was, of course, not their place to mind in the least.

  “You left Leicestershire when, then, Miss Billie?

  “Just one week ago, Your Grace”

  “And what have you seen, what have you done, in that week?”

  The answer sounded rather exhausting to Billie’s own ears as she listed her activities-never had she been so measured and primped and squeezed in her life. But most of the expenditure of energy and money had been directed to what was yet to come.

  “You will dance at Almack’s?” the duchess asked.

  “We await the vouchers, Your Grace,” Aunt Ephie said. “Wilhelmina has yet to be presented at court”

  “I shall see that you receive your vouchers shortly, Miss Caswell,” the duchess said with a wave of her tiny white hand. “Such a system! Absurd!” She looked rather imperious as she dismissed the most selective process in town. “And are any of your brothers here, Billie, to escort you?”

  “My oldest brother, Moreton, is here, Your Grace. And my next-to-youngest, Christopher-Kit-is in town, but he spends much of his time at his … at his clubs.”

  “Does he? Ah! The gaming! My own brother was most enamored of it! Phillipe was-I regret that Phillipe was often very bad, though I loved him most dearly. And you have more brothers?”

  So Billie told her of Captain Jack, now a married gentleman in Staffordshire, and of Edward’s hopes to obtain his university degree in June.

  “You are fond of your family, Miss Billie.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I am”

  “And your parents, Sir Moreton and your mother, must be most proud of you. You are, perhaps, their favorite-yes? As the youngest, and the one daughter?”

  “No, Your Grace” Billie could shake her head with some conviction. “I am not the favorite.”

  “Perhaps there is no favorite, then. As I am equally fond of all my grandsons.” The comment reminded Billie that it was most certainly strange that, given the situation, David’s grandmere had not once mentioned his name or the supposed engagement.

  All three ladies turned toward the hall door at the sound of new arrivals.

  “I know that you know Hayden, Miss Billie, but perhaps your aunt has not yet met my eldest grandson?” As the famously fair Marquis of Hayden entered the room, with his confident manner and dressed in his usual dark-garbed splendor, Billie read obvious affection in the duchess’ gaze. But she read something else as well-a sadness, or a concern-that shadowed the elderly woman’s welcoming smile.

  “Grandmere,” Hayden acknowledged, bowing gracefully before her and kissing her hand. He bowed to Billie and Ephie as well, then presented the two gentlemen accompanying him, Lord Knowles and Lord Demarest. “M’friend Gillen is due to be wed in a fortnight, ladies, and is runnin’ about like a demented chicken, else I should have had the pleasure of presentin’ him to you. And Demarest here has just announced his betrothal to Lady Constance. I swear these weddings and betrothals are a positive contagion! Soon I shan’t have a single soul to whom to speak! I must rely upon my friend Knowles here to fill the gap. The gap with the gape, eh grandmere?”

  The company laughed. One could not spend more than a few days in town without hearing of Lord Knowles’ loquacity. And indeed, Lord Knowles, taking no offense, proceeded to regale the company with the circumstances of Demarest’s offer to Lady Constance, in such detail that Billie noticed that only Aunt Euphemia remained entranced.

  “Miss Billie”-Hayden leaned close to address her-“will you step aside here a moment?” He was indicating one of the window embrasures, where the afternoon sun warmed an oak sill and highlighted the gold tassels upon the drapes. The window opened upon a small side garden alive with jonquils. As they stood apart, Hayden drew a letter from his watered-silk waistcoat. “I have been tasked”-he did not look at her but at the company as he handed Billie the sealed paper-“with delivering this.”

  Billie recognized the hand, with its direction to Miss Caswell. She had last seen that writing in January, but on heavier paper. She knew because she had kept the earlier note.

  Quickly she broke the seal and read: I shall be in town the first week in March. Will I see you? D. Trent

  Billie’s lips firmed as she passed the open page, empty save for that one unsatisfactory line, back to Hayden.

  “‘Tis an outrageous waste of paper,” she remarked. “And much too cryptic.”

  “Cryptic?” Hayden’s eyebrows rose. “M’ brother is invariably direct, Miss Caswell.” He scanned the note, then looked up at her. “I rather think, Miss Billie, that you should comprehend that he sends you a question. It is up to you whether he sees you or not.”

  “He might more properly have asked, `May I see you?”’

  “Ah, but David sometimes forgets to be proper.” Hayden smiled. “And he never begs”

  “Are you often your brother’s interpreter?” she asked sharply.

  “He has rarely needed one. But, yes, when he is inarticulate. As he seems to be lately.”

  She did not understand his look, and glanced away. Myles Trent, Marquis of Hayden, had always mystified her; she believed it too late
to unravel him now.

  “Perhaps,” she ventured softly, as her gaze sought the other visitors, “he should also have tasked you with explaining why he left so abruptly in January.”

  “He is a soldier, Miss Caswell. No explanation is necessary.”

  “We are at peace. My brother Jack sold up last summer.”

  “How happy for him.” At Hayden’s ironic tone and slight bow, Billie’s gaze was upon him once more.

  “You would have me believe that your brother, Lord David, must `soldier on’?”

  “Certainly not. He follows his inclinations.”

  “Oh, that is too obvious! You might tell him for me, my lord, when you happen to see him, that I am determined he will not see me!”

  Her temper merely drew a grin, and she left the alcove with a great deal of pride and no real satisfaction.

  Two days later, on Saturday the fourth of March, Billie celebrated her nineteenth birthday with dancing and supper for almost sixty guests. She had little doubt that her imagined link to Lord David and the house of Braughton had much to do with the perfect attendance, because she simply had not been in town long enough to encourage many beyond a few old school friends. Thus, the group was a most curious mix of those few young misses from Mrs. Seton’s boarding school, her brothers’ variable acquaintance, and a range of younger ladies and some gentlemen in the charge of Aunt Euphemia’s circle. That Lords Hayden, Demarest, Knowles, and several other pinks of the ton deigned to appear at short notice assured the gathering much-elevated cachet. Their presence could only feed the accepted speculation regarding Billie’s prospects.

  Lord Hayden’s graceful presence in her home on such an occasion, and just after the coveted vouchers to Almack’s had arrived, had sent Ephie into the boughs. Indeed, Billie suspected that her aunt’s satisfaction had led her to forget the reason for hosting such a supper party-namely, her niece’s birthday. Billie wondered wryly if she might slip away entirely, leaving the assemblage to bask in the Marquis of Hayden’s splendor. Instead she moved on to another dance and watched anxiously for Kit’s arrival. He had promised, to the extent that he was ever capable of promising, that he would not forget her birthday. But Kit had ever been Kit.