Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  Her laugh brushed his cheek, short and soft, evening into a contented sigh. “For the tenth or perhaps twelfth time? Yes, Matthew. This time I would appreciate it if you averted your eyes.”

  “You take my meaning,” he grumbled. He wanted to hear that she was not shy in front of him, that she took pleasure in his enjoying her body.

  She smoothed his neck and shoulders, his muscles twitching at the sheer enjoyment of being touched. “You know my soul, Matthew. The most private parts of me. If I've shown you those, why on earth would I hide my body from you?”

  He swallowed hard, twice, trying to bring back his voice. How, he wondered. Of all the men in the world, how had she been sent to him? There were plenty of wiser, braver men, more deserving of her love. By some miracle though, it had been granted to him and he would do everything in his power to treasure it. “Your husband was a sodding idiot, Kate.”

  Her eyes pressed shut. “Do not speak of Patrick. I never want to think of him when I am with you.”

  He squeezed her hand, watching hypnotized as Kate pulled her lower lip with her teeth. “I love you, Matthew.”

  Now was his moment. He could not imagine ever catching her in a more agreeable, more reasonable mood. “I seem to recall that you owe me a boon, fairly won in a horse race. I wish to collect.”

  Kate smiled, but her sideways glance was nervous. “I did agree to your ridiculous terms. Name your price.”

  “Go to Antwerp tomorrow.” Her head was already shaking before he finished. “Please, Kate. You will be well out of danger there.”

  She turned her face away, stiffening beneath him. “Name something else. You're asking more than I can give.” Tears pooled along her bottom lashes, breaking his heart.

  “Please, Kate...” he repeated. “My heart can rest the moment I know you are shipboard.”

  “You cannot ask this of me. You can't. Do not think in my weaker moments I haven't mulled it over. It feels like desertion. Of the army, and of you.” She pressed a hand to her face for a moment. “Please do not make me leave you.”

  Matthew choked down the ache in his chest, hiding his fear with a smile. “I suppose it was ridiculous to expect you to see reason this time.”

  “Have I at any other point?” she teased, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Not even once,” he countered, looping a strand of her hair around his finger.

  She raised up under him suddenly, and looked around them in the dim morning glow. “What is today?”

  “June the fifteenth. Why?”

  She smacked at his shoulder, wriggling beneath him. Grudgingly Matthew let her go, rewarded when Kate rolled from the bed and donned his shirt. She leaned over her small desk beneath the window, light silhouetting her curves through the linen. He admired the effect while she flipped through what must have been Fann's letter, neatly stacked in its growing volume. There was a tap, and the unmistakable scratch of a quill. What on earth could she be writing? If there was any hope of making it out in the dim light, he would have peered over her shoulder in an instant. Instead he fell back onto the mattress. “How long till you're done there?”

  “Now.” She turned and smiled. “Why? What did you have in mind?”

  He reached for the tail of his shirt, using it to draw her fully into arms reach. “I do not want to go back to sleep without you. I'm not entirely certain I can anymore.”

  * * *

  He was gone when she woke, surprising Kate until she realized that it was past noon. Clouds of silver and slate filled the sky's canopy, chasing off the sun and dotting her windows with trailing droplets. It was an omen, she was certain, and she ached for the reassurance of Matthew's arms.

  She rolled into his spot and felt the paper crease beneath her hip. Smiling at the note, Kate forgot her unease a moment and pulled out the note, spreading it over her pillow.

  You lie, in truth

  For you are call'd plain Kate

  And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curs't

  But you are Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom

  Take this of me, Kate of my consolation

  Hearing thy mildness praised in every town,

  Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,

  Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,

  Myself am moved to woo thee

  My Kate,

  I know better than to leave you with Byron.

  Will's sentiment shines well enough, with the dust blown off.

  Gone to hqrtrs.

  Tonight.

  Ever & ever yrs,

  Webb

  “Taming of the Shrew, Matthew? Truly?” He must have known she would recognize the play, and distance had made him bold enough to risk his jest. If Matthew thought he had tamed his shrew, he had a surprise ahead. She kissed the signature, bounced up from under the quilt, and tucked it at the back of Fann's letter for safe-keeping.

  Kate looked around the room, out the window and along the street. Town life was bearable, when she was with Matthew. In his absence boredom crept in, a restlessness to be back with the men or at something useful. She could not stay much longer and keep sane. She had been with the army for too long to accept being idle.

  A rap at the door warned of the maid's approach. Hermine darted in with her tray, and Kate did not miss the sideways glance and an amused twitch of her lips when she saw her guest still clad in Matthew's shirt.

  While she worked on a piece of buttered toast, Kate composed her argument. She would present it to Matthew, during the ball. Or perhaps after, when he was more at ease. She had to convince him to allow her to return to the regiment. She would be needed there now, more than ever. With her and Porter both gone, Doctor Hallick had no extra sets of hands save a few orderlies, and she fully appreciated how overwhelming that could be.

  Once breakfast was done and her rebuttal was sound, she was forced to invent something new to fill her hours. Washing, dressing and taming her hair were something, but they only claimed a small fraction of the day which dragged out before her. When another knock shook the door, she felt pathetically grateful for the promise of any distraction.

  “Invitation, mademoiselle.” Hermine laid the envelope at her elbow atop the writing table.

  It was inscribed 'Ldy A Webb'.

  There was little more information on the inside. 'Lady Adelaide requests your company this afternoon. You may dress for the ball en residence.'

  She was surprised by its brevity, then wondered at her surprise. The woman was many things, but not chatty or sentimental by any means. She was clever and entertaining, and under the circumstances, Kate could imagine worse company. It was convenient that Adelaide's message had come when it did, dragging her out into the rainy afternoon. There was one last gift to buy, and delighted, Kate realized she could do it on her way.

  * * *

  Kate was led into one of the few rooms she had not seen on her last visit, a small parlor off the entry hall. Like the rest of the house, it contained a skeleton of furniture, a few expensive pieces spread thin to give the illusion of luxury. Kate was a little amused that there were no longer enough books to half-fill either of the shelves flanking the high fire place, but a wide-fanned exotic palm entirely dominated one corner of the room.

  Adelaide presided over it all from a yellow silk couch pushed dangerously close to the fire box. Kate guessed that it was for warmth as well as light by the way she squinted and stabbed her needle into a cloth. “Miss Foster. I did not think you would come.”

  Kate froze halfway to the canary sofa. “But you did invite me...”

  Adelaide smiled, pointing her toward the matching settee. “Dear thing, you would not last a moment in London. Being invited is the last reason to actually go somewhere.”

  “I had exhausted all my other options.” Kate returned her smile, sitting down.

  “Good girl.” She earned a nod. “Now you have the right of it.”

  Kate felt a surprising amount of pleasure in socializing with La
dy Adelaide. She had no female acquaintances in Belgium, or at least, none she called friends. Adelaide gave as good as she got, without worry of injury during their verbal sparring. Kate liked her for it and was beginning to suspect that the feeling was mutual.

  Adelaide rotated her sewing, speaking to Kate but only acknowledging her with brows. “Where is my son this afternoon?”

  “Headquarters. There was some news early this morning and –” She caught herself, running hot from neck to forehead. Out-maneuvered again. “Headquarters, ladyship.”

  Adelaide's grunt might have been a docked laugh, but her face didn't betray it. She pierced the fabric of her needlepoint one last time, then set the hoop beside her. “What have you brought to wear? Let us see it.”

  Kate was momentarily at a loss. Adelaide shifted from topic to topic, those of import and the inconsequential, like oil over water. Wrestling with the damp canvas of her bag, she shook out the narrow skirts of her brown silk gown. As she unfolded it, Adelaide's face twisted as though she had produced a toad and not a dress.

  “You cannot wear that. It would look as though you are waiting for someone to die. Perhaps even hopefully. My word, look at that hem! You could wrap it under your shoe for a doormat.”

  Kate was not the least bit offended. Adelaide was right, of course, and though she was blunt, she was also well meaning.

  She took the dress from Kate's limp grasp and tossed it to the end of the sofa. “It's plain, and worse, it's out of fashion.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.” Kate tried to recall the last time she had been fitted for anything more elaborate than an apron. “I don't think I've had anything new since my sister's wedding. Four years, at least.”

  “My mind cannot conceive of it. The very idea.” Adelaide lifted a little from her seat, searching the table. “Where is my bell?” Bending, she hooked herself awkwardly to peer beneath the settee. Frustration knot lines into her proud forehead. Without warning she grabbed a book off the side table and began whacking the mahogany, producing a terrible raucous pounding. Moments later a fretful, wide-eyed maid appeared in the doorway, tea tray jittering.

  Adelaide slid the book onto the table, as though nothing were amiss. “Bring down no less than five of the gowns from the black leather trunk Mrs. Reynolds keeps in the upper rooms. No pink and no silks.”

  The little maid bobbed her curtsy, flitting off with the tilted hurry of a frightened butterfly.

  Kate stared at Adelaide with a question on her face.

  Adelaide rested a hand on her leg by way of explanation. “One is ugly, and the other unpatriotic.” She lifted the porcelain teapot with a steady, practiced hand, filing both their cups. “Put in cream and sugar as you like. You're not a child, and are capable of serving yourself.”

  Kate was never quite certain if the woman was showing her grudging respect, or preparing to have her pilloried. “Do you leave service to all your guests?”

  “Of course not,” drawled Adelaide. “When Lady Conyngham pays a call, I pour her tea.”

  “Because she is a favorite at court?” asked Kate.

  “No. Because the tea is hot, and I cannot trust she knows from which part of the pot it is dispensed.” Adelaide snorted a little, a sound so surprising that Kate wanted to laugh but could only stare for a moment. Collecting herself, she pinched the little silver tongs. “Then I suppose I will take this as a compliment.” She dropped a lump of sugar into her tea.

  Adelaide brought her cup to the saucer with a clink. “Miss Foster, if I had been presented with a letter describing you, and asking if I believed you suitable for my son, I should have said 'no' without the slightest hesitation. An American girl from a common family, wading about the battlefields of Europe dressed like a man.” She shuddered. “Absolutely not.”

  The words could not help but sting a little. She did not like to imagine any circumstances where Adelaide would wish her and Matthew apart. “I understand that you would prefer your son not bring me into the fold. Family is very important.”

  “Family is everything. Wealth, connection, pedigree. They determine who floats securely at the top of society's ocean, and who sinks to the bottom, penniless and forgotten. Charles did not marry me because he loved me, and I certainly did not remain in my marriage because I loved him. Our names together were mutual assurance of our sons' success in life.” She punctuated the last sentence by marrying cup and saucer again.

  Kate mulled over Adelaide's words, taking a long draw of the hot liquid. It took some courage to point out the fatal flaw in the woman's argument. “Respectfully ladyship, it seems rather the opposite has happened. The family name and title spoiled your husband and your oldest son. And your younger son...” Kate shrugged. “He has chiseled out his own legacy.”

  Creases deepened Adelaide's regal, beautiful features. “I concede the point, Miss Foster.”

  Kate hated costing the woman so much pride. Even now, the past was obviously very painful for her to recall. After a moment, Adelaide waved a slender hand, cutting the air. “That was not my original point. I would have counted you the very sort of person whom my family should not take into its legacy. But in truth...”

  She studied Kate with such an intensity that her own lap seemed the only safe place for her gaze. “Caroline came from one of the best families. Even in ruin, their name was synonymous with political power. Presented to me in the same fashion, I would have given my instant approval to her.”

  Kate looked up, confused. “But you didn't. Matthew said you were openly disapproving.”

  “Perhaps because I realized then what I am telling you now. In my time, a woman stood by her husband – figuratively and literally – sometimes at the opera with him the only partition between herself and his mistress.” She felt the weight of experience in Adelaide's example. “My place was to manage the household and the boys, and not to complain if the dressmaker turned me away for unpaid accounts because Charles had nearly gambled us onto the street.” Adelaide closed her eyes, letting a moment pass. Kate watched the misery on her face peak and ebb behind closed eyes, until she seemed collected once more. “The Webb name was once linked inseparably with royal favor, but our blood has been diluted by folly and idleness. And Major Pitt's bastard, if Caroline has her way.” Adelaide chewed the words like tough meat. “I think you are a woman of a new era, Miss Foster. Going on without a husband. Not on the stage or on your back.”

  “To some people, what I do is no different,” said Kate.

  “Some people are not very bright, and we cannot help that.”

  “That means a great deal to me.”

  Adelaide squeezed her hand. “I owe you a great deal. And so does Matthew, in more ways than one. Perhaps you are exactly what both of us need.”

  She grasped Adelaide's fingers in return. “I am so very grateful that you are well. For Matthew, and for myself.”

  “There are moments of exhaustion, but I improve a little every day.”

  “Matthew does not want you going to the ball,” warned Kate.

  Adelaide's face clouded over instantly. “Of course, I'm going to the ball! William Pearson will be there.” It was obvious, by the way her eyes widened, that she had not meant to confess her motives.

  Kate raised a brow. “William Pearson, hmm? Sounds as though you ought to save your strength for a dance.”

  Shrugging off the question, Adelaide slid her cup and saucer onto the table with a lot of excessive fuss. “It is not his dancing which interests me.”

  This time, in spite of her surprise, Kate laughed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  After a day spent sitting in a stuffy room accomplishing a great deal of nothing, it was satisfying to finally stretch his legs. Matthew ate up the distance to Lady Richmond's at a brisk pace, filling his lungs with wet, crisp night air. Despite the intermittent showers that had soaked Brussels all day long, it was still preferable to waiting most of an hour by carriage in the narrow, congested streets.

  He pul
led out his watch, checking it under the lamplight. Half past eleven. The bright spot to his taking the long way was that Kate and his mother had surely already arrived. He had been apart from Kate for twelve hours, not the longest absence since they had met but perhaps the most uncomfortable. The day had proved just how much he relied on her. He was anxious to debrief and take comfort in her, but Kate would not be happy with his news. Word had reached him at headquarters, a little after three that afternoon, of fighting that had erupted south across the river. The conflict he had anticipated for weeks had come at last, and she was miles away from her patients. She was going to demand he let her go, to know when she could move to the front, and he did not have an answer. At least, not one she would want to hear.

  The Richmond’s' house would have been the last building on the street, except for a high, boxy workshop standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the ground floor. There had been no grand residences suitable for the family, nothing with proper space for entertaining on the Richmond’s' grand scale, but being a clever and resourceful woman, the duchess had spied the carriage maker's shop beside the mansion and instantly appreciated the opportunity. He knew the extent of Lady Richmond's architectural coup because his mother had devoted nearly a page to it in one of her letters. A little anteroom had been built, joining the makeshift ballroom with the entry hall. Looking at the structure now, particularly in the forgiving glow of the street lamps and blazing windows, he would not have guessed that the design was anything other than intentional.

  He filed in with the crowd, nodding and hmming his way through the door at the faceless crush around him. He lifted his hat to Uxbridge who came in behind, seemingly to a collective sigh of relief because he had come alone.

  “General Lord Webb!” A hand pressed to his elbow, and Matthew turned to find a voice in the crowd. The patriotic spectacle of Lord Hay, handsomely ruddy-cheeked and panting, appeared beside him. Hay wore his ensign's uniform with all the polish of a general's, crisp-collared, silver buttons shining and not a strand of red wool out of place. He leaned in close, whispering with muted enthusiasm. “I hear our allies have had a day of it at Ligny.”