“Why is that?”
“If your name is linked to a rakish reprobate like me, you’ll have it tarnished faster than—” He had no chance to finish his sentence, as Mrs. Bellows came panting up to them, her ample bosom heaving.
“Oh, my dear, forgive my delay. I could scarcely make my way to the dining room, there was such a crush. And then I ran into Mrs. Palmer. I haven’t seen her since her godson’s christening—” The words died on her lips as she noticed Gerrit.
He smiled, realizing she probably recognized him behind the mask. Time to pay the piper. It had been an amusing few moments. More entertaining than any he’d spent among the ton since his return from Belgium.
The tall officer bowed towards Mrs. Bellows. “Madam, I have been keeping your young charge company but will now excuse myself and leave her in your capable hands.” Mrs. Bellows could do no more than stare open-mouthed at the dark-haired, masked gentleman. He turned to Hester. “It was a pleasure to chat with you a few moments, a pleasure I would gladly partake of again. You say you ride in Hyde Park in the forenoon?”
She nodded, dazed. Before she could add anything, he was gone, his dark cape disappearing among the throng of other capes.
“Whah? Who?” Mrs. Bellows turned to Hester, the cups in her hands momentarily forgotten, her mouth working but seeming incapable of forming any words.
Hester reached out and took one of the cups of punch from her. “I didn’t catch his name.”
“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone. The nerve of him, daring to address you in that familiar manner—”
“He wasn’t familiar at all, just friendly.” Which was more than she could say for anyone she’d met in all the hours of standing on ceremony this evening. Well, “met” was stretching the facts. She hadn’t actually met anyone at all, until the officer with the humorous tone of voice and twinkling blue eyes had taken the liberty to address her.
“Young gentlemen are becoming entirely too bold these days. It’s the war, you know. So many émigrés, so many rude customs brought home by our soldiers…”
“He was a soldier, as a matter of fact.”
Mrs. Bellows’s kohl-rimmed eyes widened. “He was? An officer?” Her tone sounded hopeful.
“A major, I believe he said.” Hester took a sip from the cup.
“A major?” Mrs. Bellows’s tone had gone from censorious to admiring in the time it took for Hester to swallow her punch. Not as refreshing as cold spring water, but it would have to do.
“I wonder who he was…” Mrs. Bellows, her wits collected, turned to catch a departing look at the broad-shouldered man making his way through the press. “He looked awfully familiar…” Her voice trailed off.
“He said you know him.”
She turned back to Hester. “He did? I thought I recognized the voice.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “He appeared quite tall. Dark-haired, wouldn’t you say? Although it was hard to tell with the hood.”
“Yes, his hair is dark.” Black, she could have told her. Thick and straight. With eyes as blue as cobalt.
“The Marquis of Haversham’s eldest son?” Mrs. Bellows mused. “No, he is in Italy. He isn’t that tall, anyway. Chester Ravenscroft’s second son? No, he spends all his time in Brighton these days…He said he was an officer. Did he happen to mention which regiment?”
“I don’t recall…he might have mentioned something. We didn’t speak for long.” His regal bearing was definitely soldierly. If he’d told her he was a duke, she’d have believed him.
“Pity you didn’t inquire.” As Mrs. Bellows continued naming the officers of her acquaintance, Hester sipped her punch and followed the man as he wended his way to the other side of the room. At the exit, he turned and looked back. For an instant, it seemed as if his eyes met hers. Then he raised a hand and gave a small salute in her direction.
She raised her own hand, but before it reached more than partway, he disappeared through the double doors. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment, as if the only person alive had gone from the room, leaving solely the dry and lifeless.
Silly girl, she chided herself, turning her attention back to her punch. She had only found him interesting because she was so heartily bored with the kinds of activities Mrs. Bellows had organized for her since her father and she had arrived in London scarcely a sennight past.
At that moment her father joined them. “Well, how is everything? Are you enjoying yourselves?”
Hester smiled, trying to muster up the enthusiasm to match his. He was trying so hard to please her. She needn’t have worried. Mrs. Bellows immediately launched into a description of their successful evening.
She sometimes wondered if Mrs. Bellows saw the world through a different view than the normal person. The picture she was painting for Hester’s father was quite contrary to how Hester would have described it.
Her father smiled. He was such a handsome man, only in his mid-forties, tall and straight, his light brown hair brushed back off his high forehead. His golden brown eyes crinkled in amusement at all he heard and saw around him.
“You’ll have a flock of young gentlemen calling tomorrow the way I hear,” he said, turning his attention to Hester.
She hid a yawn behind her hands.
“Are you tired, my dear? We could leave now. I’ve concluded my business.”
He had spent the evening in the card room, talking with the gentlemen. His only interest in these social events was drumming up customers for his timber business.
“Do you have many appointments for tomorrow?” she asked him.
“Yes, I’ll spend the morning down at the docks. We’ll need a full hold of cargo for our return voyage.”
“Oh, may I not come with you?”
He smiled indulgently at her. “You are here to be feted and courted. Your dear mama would tan me alive if she knew I was taking you around doing business while you’re here in London.”
Her smile disappeared. It had been the same since they’d arrived. Nothing but dress fittings, shopping expeditions and a dull round of teas mainly attended by women Mrs. Bellows’s age, while her father sold his cargo and negotiated a return load.
“Very well, Papa, I’ll find some way to amuse myself until you come home.”
“Don’t forget, we must take tea with the Blaisdells in the afternoon,” Mrs. Bellows said. “And we must look at your frocks for the Treadwells’ ball…”
But Hester was no longer following Mrs. Bellows’s thread. She was wondering if the mysterious major with the amused voice would indeed seek her out in Hyde Park on the morrow.
Chapter Two
By midmorning the next day, Hester left the townhouse they had rented for the month. Her father had been gone since early morning, and Mrs. Bellows wasn’t due to arrive until mid-afternoon. Hester had several hours all to herself. The first thing she did after a leisurely breakfast and bath was to dress in her riding habit. Ned, one of Papa’s sailors, met her in the mews to accompany her for a ride in the park. She wasn’t such a simpleton as to go out alone, even though she was used to doing so at home.
Her father had drilled into her head the dangers of the London streets since the day she’d disembarked from the ship.
When they arrived at Hyde Park, they headed for the deserted Rotten Row. She’d been here in the late afternoon when the lane was choked with carriages and riders. At this hour, the vast meadows and wooded parkland surrounding her were empty but for a few riders and some grazing sheep.
She cantered hard, enjoying the muffled sound of the beating hooves against the soft dirt of the riding paths. She inhaled deeply of the warm smell of summer’s vegetation. If she were at home now, she would probably be riding through a field, or weeding the garden or breathing in the sharp, fresh scent of sap in her father’s vast lumberyards.
She spied a black charger cantering toward her, the ground beneath her vibrating with its pounding hoof-beats. She pulled on the reins of her own
mount and slowed. The black horse was magnificent, tall and sleek. Its rider was a redcoat. Her heartbeat quickened, remembering the major from the evening before.
She’d had a hard time getting him off her mind as she’d lain in bed last night. He was different from any man she’d ever met—sophisticated and self-confident, full of a humor that drew one toward him. He gave her the sense that he was very much a part of the fashionable world, yet as alien as herself.
As horse and rider drew nearer, she noted the soldier had the same broad-shouldered build as the major. He brought his horse to a walk as he approached her and Ned, where they had stationed themselves at the edge of the path.
The officer lifted a hand to the brim of his cocked hat, the gesture reminding her of his salute the previous evening. In that moment their glances met.
She knew those blue eyes. They were as amused as they’d been behind their mask last night. She hadn’t honestly expected him to show up in the park this morning. Could he have really done so deliberately?
He pulled his horse to a stop. It danced a few steps sideways but he held it well in control. “Good morning,” he said.
She felt an inward swell of anticipation as she recognized the voice of her mysterious stranger and took in his unmasked features. Strong, well-proportioned, like the rest of him. Just when he’d become “hers” she couldn’t precisely say. He was certainly handsome, better looking than any man she’d ever beheld, in fact.
“I would address you by name, but fear I am still in ignorance. Perhaps I should have stayed long enough for Mrs. Bellows to introduce us.”
“How do you do, major? My name is Hester Leighton. Lately from Bangor, Maine,” she replied.
He acknowledged the introduction with a smile which formed a dimple in each smooth-planed cheek. “Major Gerrit Hawkes, lately from the Continent.”
“You fought against Napoleon.” He had said something about that last night, and she’d thought a lot more over his words after he’d left.
He inclined his head.
“Were you at Waterloo?” It was a name she’d grown familiar with since arriving in London.
“Yes.”
He didn’t elaborate and she wondered if soldiers disliked being asked about their battles. She glanced down at his chest, noticing the insignias and medals. She blushed now at her impertinence the evening before. Clearly he’d fought with distinction. Anyone who’d fought at Waterloo was a national hero. That much she’d learned.
“Would you care to continue riding?” he asked.
She almost forgot about Ned, but he spoke up behind her. “Begging your pardon, miss, but hadn’t we best be returning?”
“It’s all right, Ned. Major Hawkes and I met last evening.”
Major Hawkes nodded to Ned before wheeling his horse around and spurring him on. Hester was left to decide whether to follow him or not. With a last glance at Ned, she nudged her mount on, leaving Ned to do the same.
After riding for some ten minutes, the major slowed again, this time to an easy walk.
“You ride astride,” he remarked.
She’d forgotten that detail in her interest in the major. She must have shocked him, although he didn’t sound shocked. “Where I live, it’s hardly remarked upon. That’s why I come out to the park in the morning, when there’s scarcely a soul about. I wouldn’t get very far if I rode sidesaddle along some of the trails I’ve been on,” she added.
“Rugged terrain in—where did you say—Maine?”
“Yes, some of it.”
“What is the country like?”
She pursed her lips. How to describe a land so different from England? “More trees than people.”
He burst out laughing. “I’m hard-pressed to imagine such a landscape, and I’ve seen many landscapes. What do you think of London then?”
“There seem to be more people than air to breathe.”
He chuckled. “Wait until everyone’s back in town.”
“Back? Why, where has everyone gone?”
“Off to the country. August is accounted a dead month here in town. Most people go to their country estates,” he explained.
“Does everyone have a country estate?” What a strange notion.
He shook his head. “Hardly, only the exalted landowners. See how important a good match is?” His teasing tone was back.
“Well, we have countryside galore around Bangor, so we have no need to marry for it.”
“In England land is a much-coveted commodity. It’s only in the hands of a few, so you must marry into it to lay hands on some of it.”
“Do you have any family?” she asked him after a bit.
“Two older brothers and a sister.”
“And your sister, is she older or younger?”
“Older as well.”
“So you’re the baby.”
His amusement deepened. “Once, I suppose. I daresay I’ve seen more than all of them combined. I don’t know what that makes me, but I think it puts me out of infancy forever.” He ended on a somber note.
“I’m sorry.” She realized he must be referring to the war. “I didn’t mean to make fun.”
“Not at all. How about you? Brothers? Sisters?”
“Two sisters, one brother. All younger,” she said before he could ask.
He raised a black eyebrow. “So you’re the mama?”
“Sometimes. I think that’s one reason our real mother insisted on this trip. As she put it, for me to enjoy being a young lady without having to worry about what my siblings were up to.”
They turned down an avenue lined with evenly spaced trees. She marveled that there weren’t any plantings so uniform where she came from. “I haven’t seen you riding in the park before,” she said, when he remained silent.
“I don’t usually come at this time of day.”
“Do you have drills and reviews?” She didn’t know much about military life, especially here in England. Back home, there had been border wars against the British and uprisings from the Indians in times past.
“I am still on medical leave,” he answered after a moment, as if reluctant to divulge any more.
She glanced at him more closely. “You were wounded at Waterloo?”
“Most of us who survived were.”
“We’ve heard people talk about it. It sounds as if the fighting was quite fierce,” she said softly.
“Yes.” He lifted his arm slightly. “Mine was a mere trifle. A shot in the arm. It’s practically healed, just a bit stiff.”
“I’m sorry you were wounded, but I’m glad it’s getting better.” When he made no reply, she decided to change the subject. “I usually come riding earlier, but it was a late evening last night.”
He smiled in acknowledgment. “Did you stay for the unmasking?”
“No. We left soon after you did.”
“Is this your first visit to London?”
“Yes. My first trip across the Atlantic. My father is British, and I suppose he wanted me to see his native land.”
“Ah.”
She smiled. “A bit of polish wouldn’t come amiss.”
His blue eyes surveyed her. “Are you in need of polish?”
“Even by frontier standards. Some would say I am a bit…wild.”
“Indeed?” He gave her a funny look, one that sent a blush heating her cheeks. But he didn’t pursue the topic. “Tell me,” he added after a moment, “what have you seen of this fair city since you arrived?”
She went on to list the various monuments and exhibits she’d been to. “As you saw last night, Mrs. Bellows is introducing me to London society.”
“I hope you don’t judge London society wholly by what Mrs. Bellows shows you.”
She patted her mare’s neck. “I admit she is perhaps not the most highly placed name in society, but that is not particularly important to me. I have no wish to be presented at court.”
He raised a black eyebrow. “I thought that was every girl’s desire.”
“I concede your point. However, I shudder to think your impression of society will be formed solely by the parties where your Mrs. Bellows is welcome.”
She sighed, acknowledging his observation. After a bit, she said, “I feel a bit sorry for Mrs. Bellows. She lost her only son in the war, and her relations seem ashamed of her. I don’t think her husband left her much, so she is forced to present her card to visiting foreigners.”
“You are quite astute for your years.”
She turned down the corners of her lips. “You make me sound like an infant.”
“You must be all of eighteen.”
“You aren’t very knowledgeable about young ladies, are you?”
He looked amused. “Some would argue the contrary. Howbeit, I have been away from London society for some time, so perhaps my discernment has dulled where young misses are concerned. Well, you can’t be younger than eighteen, so you must be older. Nineteen, twenty?” When she continued shaking her head, he continued, “One-and-twenty?” He raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Two-and-twenty?”
“You may stop your guessing game now.”
“Does that mean I have hit upon your age, or that you don’t wish me to continue guessing?”
“You have hit upon it. I don’t suppose you will tell me your age now so we shall be even?”
He shrugged. “I am six-and-twenty.”
“My, you are ancient compared to me.”
“I feel ancient at times.”
Once again, his tone was sober, and something in her wished to comfort him.
But he changed the subject before she could reply. “So, you have taken pity on the unfortunate Mrs. Bellows and will let her milk you dry while she touts the merits of the mediocre society she presents to you. You realize she eyes all wealthy Americans as fair game?”
“What is the good of having money if you can’t use it to help people?” She lifted her chin defensively, not sure if she liked the humor in those blue eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
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