Karen Harbaugh

by The Reluctant Cavalier

  “I am glad to see you improving, ma’am. Perhaps you would like to have a footstool on which to elevate your foot? I understand it will help lessen the pain, or so Doctor Robinson has told me.” She watched as he edged toward a footstool, obviously wishing to keep himself occupied so as not to show his nervousness.

  “Yes, thank you.” He brought the stool and placed it gently under her foot. He retreated immediately as soon as he had done it and put his hands behind his back, staring somewhere past her left ear. “Is there something you wish to say, Mr. Wentworth ?”

  A blush crept up his cheeks, and he cleared his throat. “Yes. I realize I should be addressing Sir Robert, but Anna—that is, Miss Smith—assured me that you could speak for him.”

  Lady Smith felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The poor young man! She hated to disappoint him, but certainly he could see he was not the match the Duke of Stratton was? She wondered if Annabella had persuaded Mr. Wentworth to take this step before giving the duke the chance she’d promised. She smiled at him, however, and let him go on. At least she’d let him speak his piece.

  “I... I have regarded Miss Smith with—with great esteem—no, love—for a long time, longer than she has—that is to say—” His expression grew frustrated and a little wretched. “That is to say—oh, deuce take it!—I wish leave to pay my addresses to her and ask her to be my wife,” he finished in a rush, and his face became quite pink. Lady Smith pressed her fingers against her mouth to suppress the smile that was there. She felt quite sorry for him now. Mr. Wentworth was, as Annabella had said, quite shy, and it obviously took a great deal of effort for him to speak up.

  “And in what manner can you support her?” she asked gravely.

  “I have an independence, and the Dower House was given to me upon my father’s death, and the lands surrounding it are productive—I have made sure of it.” His voice grew eager. “I do not have a title, it’s true, but I have no need of money aside from my own and can provide Ann—Miss Smith—whatever luxury she wishes.”

  Lady Smith sighed. “My dear Mr. Wentworth, I am sure you are a very good young man and would make an exemplary husband, but you must understand, as her mother, I must see to her best benefit. I think you know that the Duke of Stratton has asked for her hand in marriage?” At his stiff nod she continued: “She has not yet refused him. I asked her a while ago to give the duke his full three months, and they are not yet finished. Did she tell you that?” He stared at her, his expression stiff, and she did not need the small shake of his head to know he had not known. She felt a spurt of anger at Annabella. Her daughter should have told Mr. Wentworth at the start that she had to give the duke his opportunity to court her.

  “I am afraid Annabella has been too much indulged and has grown thoughtless. She should have told you at the outset what the understanding was between them. Return in a few weeks, and if Annabella has refused the duke, you may have your chance.” Lady Smith smiled sympathetically at him. “Mr. Wentworth, I understand how difficult it must be for you to come to this point, and I honor you for your restraint and gentlemanliness in this matter. But think: How can I not wish the best for Annabella? And you must admit, the duke has at this point more to offer her than you do.”

  He looked directly and steadily at her, his face now pale beneath the tan. “There is one thing I have to offer that the duke does not, ma’am,” he said.

  Lady Smith raised her brows. “And that is?”

  “I love Annabella. I always will. The duke does not, though how he cannot, I do not know.” He bowed respectfully. “I give you good day, Lady Smith, and I thank you for your time.”

  He left quickly, before she could say more. Lady Smith lowered the hand she had lifted to stop his hurried departure. She sighed and felt an increase of the depression of spirits that had been with her often these last two weeks. She wished she did not have to disappoint Mr. Wentworth. If the Duke of Stratton had not already proposed marriage, she would have seriously considered Mr. Wentworth ‘s proposal, for he was clearly a worthy young man despite his lack of a title, and by all accounts had no need of a fortune.

  Was Mr. Wentworth right? Surely, the duke must have some feeling of affection for Annabella, or he would not have asked for her hand in marriage. Sir Robert had talked to the duke’s solicitors, and he was not marrying Annabella for her money.

  Lady Smith sighed and smiled at herself. Surely, she had no reason to worry. If Annabella truly loved Mr. Wentworth, in two—no, less than two months’ time she would refuse the duke and would be free to marry Mr. Wentworth. She and Sir Robert were not unreasonable, and though they would be glad of a title for Annabella, her happiness meant more to them than that. For now, however, it was best that Annabella see to acquainting herself better with the duke. Whatever Mr. Wentworth’s feelings were for her daughter, Lady Smith was not at all sure that Annabella’s were so firm. Annabella had neglected to tell Mr. Wentworth of her agreement with her mother and with the duke, and that surely pointed to less depth of affection than Annabella claimed. She shrugged. If Annabella truly loved Mr. Wentworth, she would refuse the duke, and then Mr. Wentworth could ask again.

  An image of the duke, his cool gaze and emotionless voice, increased her depression of spirits. She remembered the light in Annabella’s eyes as she talked of her love for Mr. Wentworth. Lady Smith sighed, wondering if perhaps she had made a mistake. She shook her head slightly. It did not matter. Annabella needed only to wait a little more than a month, and then she could wed whom she chose.

  Chapter 13

  Parsifal fled.

  There was no other word for it, he knew. But as he strode to the stables, the mix of disappointment and anger, embarrassment and frustration made him feel ill. It had been difficult enough to put his proposal before Lady Smith, for the prospect of speaking of a thing so important to him, the risk of failing, had made his mouth go dry. It was worse to find it had been a wasted effort, and worst of all, that Annabella had not told him of her promise to the Duke of Stratton.

  He rested his head against the side of the bay horse, clutching his riding whip in one hand, and wished he were not such a fool, wished he were anyone but himself. Why should Annabella have told him anything? Had not his family told him he was a simpleton, a fool, or someone to be ignored? Why should she treat him any differently? Perhaps she’d been playing with him all along—Geoffrey had once told him there were women like this, who’d play with a man’s heart but keep their eyes on the best money or title they could get.

  An angry fire rose in Parsifal, the fruit of all the gibes sown in his heart through the years. It made him groan aloud and push away from the bay horse, striking his whip twice, three times against the stall post. The bay tossed his head and snorted, moving restlessly.

  The furious heat did not lessen. Parsifal hit the stall door with his fist and it crashed open. The stallion reared and neighed. A small part of Parsifal’s mind registered the horse’s excitement and knew his anger was affecting him.

  He moved aside as the horse almost pushed him against the wooden boards of the stall, and suddenly the bay was out.

  But just as quickly Parsifal grasped the horse’s mane and sprang onto its back. His muscles tensed. Away, away. He could almost hear the horse’s thoughts. Away.

  The bay’s muscles bunched beneath him, and with a leap they were out of the stables, galloping out of the stable yard, out to the fields to the woods beyond. Faster, faster they rode, leaping a stile with ease, flying like sparrows skimming the air. Parsifal’s heart beat like the galloping hooves beneath him, hard and swift, and finally, finally the fierce anger gave way to fierce joy in the speed and power.

  And then the forest’s dark coolness surrounded them. The air filled his lungs and soothed the fire in him. He had ridden the horse hard, ridden the wildness out of him for now. Parsifal sat back, and the bay slowed to a canter, then a walk. The ancient oak loomed large before him—his solace, the only place where he could be alone. He slid f
rom the horse’s back to the ground.

  “Stay here,” he told the bay and dropped the reins loosely upon some low shrubbery. The horse seemed to understand the command Parsifal had trained him to heed, for it bowed its head and began cropping grass.

  He climbed the tree, sitting in his usual spot and looked around him. A sudden longing for his father seized him, something that had not come upon him in a long time. This had been his father’s tree, too, in his youth, and when Parsifal was a child, he had brought him here and lifted him to this branch. Geoffrey had come, too, but he had not cared for this place, finding it dull. Lord Grafton had taught his eldest all he knew about carriages and driving, and all manner of things that a man about town should know. But he had not done much of this for Parsifal.

  Parsifal knew it was not that his father had not cared for him, though he had felt a little left out when Lord Grafton and Geoffrey would travel to London. Perhaps it was that his father knew he had little interest at the time in anything but the land and the horses. At least, he had this, the tree, which his father had shared with him, and the gardens, which Lord Grafton had also loved.

  He remembered his father, a kind but fiercely proud man; a man of honor, yet with the wild streak that all the Wentworth s had in them. He remembered how his father had tended the wounds of one of his hounds with his own hands, gentle and firm, and how he once cowed a too-forward guest with one savage look of his eye. His mother had adored him, and her love had flowed outward to touch all of them—Geoffrey, Caroline, and Parsifal. But she had somehow changed into a peevish woman after his father died, preoccupied with the supposed weakness of her health.

  They had all changed. Geoffrey had grown sullen and taunting, even cruel with his words. Caroline had grown careless of her reputation. And he, Parsifal...

  He had retreated to his gardens and his woods, and shut out the world. He had gone to London once, and the rules of society confused him and had closed in on him like a trap. The visit made him think of this aspect of his father that he’d never know. But Geoffrey knew of town ways, of women and fine wines. His mother had often said that Geoffrey was just like his father in all ways, but Parsifal knew it was not wholly true. It was only that Geoffrey looked like Father, and that his wild streak was so prominent. In truth, it seemed as if the late Lord Grafton had split in two, creating two sons formed of the two sides of his nature.

  Parsifal had once tried to tell his mother this when he was younger, that Lord Grafton existed in both of them. But she did not, or could not listen, or perhaps he had not the right words to tell her. Time passed, and their roles had solidified until it seemed they could not move out of them.

  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the air, fresh with last night’s rain and the smell of earth and bracken. He remembered this scent upon his father from childhood when Lord Grafton had come back from hunting, or fishing in the lake, and lifted Parsifal in his arms in greeting. Sometimes he almost felt his father’s presence here; if there were ghosts, surely his father’s was a good one.

  Lord Grafton had died here, in the woods. An accident, it was said; his horse had thrown him. Geoffrey had ceased coming here, though he had enjoyed fishing in the lake when they were boys. Lady Grafton had cursed it as an evil place. Caroline was afraid of it. But it was all Parsifal had of his father, and so he came, and it became his own private place.

  “I wish you were here, Father,” he said suddenly. “I wish you would tell me what to do.”

  There was only silence and the sound of his own breath mingling with the wind breathing through the leaves of the trees.

  And then he felt more than heard a movement below him and looked down. It was Annabella. She looked at him and smiled.

  Had she heard him? Embarrassment heated his face, and then suspicion turned the heat to anger. He had not asked her to come here; she had just assumed she was welcome, which she was not. He had not minded it the first time, for he had found she loved him—or so she said. He pushed aside the memory. He did not want to remember it, not now. She was as good as betrothed to the Duke of Stratton and had not spoken of her promise to him. It had been a week since they had kissed here in the woods. If she truly loved him, why had she not spoken with the duke and refused him?

  “Why are you here?” Parsifal asked abruptly. It was an echo of the first words he had said to her the last time.

  Annabella’s smile faded. “I... I thought we might—I wished to see you.”

  “Oh, really? I cannot think why. Unless it’s to your liking to dally with the gardener’s boy while you ready yourself to wed the Duke of Stratton.”

  Astonishment flashed across Annabella’s face—and guilt as well.

  Parsifal clenched his fists. So, it must be true. Hope left him, and anger crept in its place.

  “I went to ask your mother for your hand in marriage, you know,” he said, his voice remarkably cool for all the rage he felt bubbling within him. “She told me that you were nearly good as promised to the duke. God, what a fool I am to think that you’d even entertain the notion of marrying me when you had a duke in your pocket!”

  “It—it wasn’t that way, truly! I do love you!” Annabella cried.

  “But not enough to tell me of your agreement to consider the duke’s proposal, and spare me the embarrassment of—” His voice halted, and he swallowed, looking away from her. His gut twisted, and shame prickled over him, remembering how he had kissed her and opened his heart to her when her own had never really been open to him. “—of presenting my useless, sorry case to your mother.” He gazed at her again. She looked at him, her face red, her expression confused and fearful.

  “I did not think ...”

  “No, you didn’t, and why should you?” Parsifal said, mocking himself. Annabella flinched, and for one moment he felt sorry for her, but he thrust the feeling aside. “What a simpleton I am! So easily seduced, so easily dazzled by the first pretty thing that comes my way. And how very tedious, after your dashing London beaus!”

  “You are not tedious!” Annabella said hotly.

  “Oh, come now! I am not so stupid as that. I am only a common gardener—or perhaps it was just variety you wanted?”

  “I never said you were common! Indeed, I said you were dashing! Very! You are the Cavalier, after all and—”

  “What?”

  “You are the Cavalier.” Annabella’s smile had just a touch of triumph in it. “And if we are to talk of telling the truth, I wonder that you never told me of it!”

  He stared at her. So, she had guessed. He wondered how long she had known. Perhaps Caroline had told her. Had she been playing with him all this time, luring him along? Embarrassment cut him like a cold wind. Dashing, she had said. But it was the Cavalier who was dashing, not him. She had never truly seen him at all, just the illusion the costume had cast over him.

  “So, you know. I daresay you’ve known for quite a while.” He let out a mirthless laugh. “You are fond of that word—dashing—are you not?” He leaped down lightly from the tree and approached her slowly. She stared at him and did not move. “And who are you in love with, Annabella? The dashing duke, the dashing Cavalier, or me? Or perhaps even Geoffrey, who is very dashing, or so I’ve heard?”

  “You are the same—you and the Cavalier are the same man.”

  He was but a handsbreadth away from her now. She looked up at him, and she drew in a shaking breath.

  “Am I? You live in a dream, Bella. The Cavalier is a made-up man—a hero from a fairy tale that will never come true.” He was tired of it all—tired of the gibes of his family, tired of wishing and wanting and never measuring up. Anger welled up in him again.

  “Do you want a dashing man, Bella? You will never have it with me, you know.” He moved closer, and she took a step back against the trunk of the oak tree. “I’m not the sort to come to anyone’s rescue, whatever you may think of the Cavalier. I’ll not come to you perfumed and pomaded.” He put his hands on either side of her, against the tre
e, trapping her. “I’ll smell of earth and water, and maybe even horses and stable. My hands are rough with work and will catch and tear on your silks.” He ran his finger on her skin on the edge of her bodice, and it did indeed catch on the fine silk lace there. She looked away from him, her breath coming faster.

  “Your duke will never step on your toes or on your sensibilities, but I’m a clumsy fellow—too stupid to even know what I am doing.” He took her chin in his hand, so that Annabella had to look at him. His fingers were hard and callused against her skin, and his eyes were filled with deep and angry sadness. “You can’t wish to marry me, Bella,” he said and kissed her.

  His lips were fierce on hers this time, but now she was not afraid. He had frightened her at first with his anger, but he had been rightfully angry. Yet though his kisses were hard against her mouth, they soon softened, and she put her arms around his neck and held him close.

  “You are wrong. I do want to marry you,” Annabella whispered. “I was stupid not to tell you and refuse the duke immediately. I was afraid of hurting him—he had done me no harm, after all, and has been very gentlemanly. But I have hurt you worse, you who have been beyond gentlemanly—so very kind.” She tenderly pushed aside the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead and stared into his still distrustful eyes. “You’ll see! I shall tell the duke straightaway, I promise you! He cannot persist after that, I am sure.” She looked at him steadily. “You will have to trust me, though I should not expect it.”

  Parsifal stared at her and touched her cheek with his finger. “I do,” he said slowly. “But I think it is not something I am accustomed to—trusting. I did not know that before now.”

  She smiled at him. “Kiss me again.”

  He sighed before he touched his mouth to hers, and there was a longing ache in the sound. This time the kiss was gentle at its start, but then grew stronger, parting her lips with the strength of it.