Bloody hell. These men were real beaux. If he turned around and went home without another word, Daphne could be a duchess by springtime. The envy of her peers. Would he truly do her any favors by standing in the way of such a match?
Whitfield glanced at the clock upon the mantle. “I suppose we ought to summon our carriages if we’re to make the assembly.”
Bartholomew stared at him blankly. “The what?”
Daphne’s shoulders slumped. “There’s dancing tonight in the Maidstone assembly hall. It’s unnecessary and uninteresting, and not remotely a priority. I can’t imagine why Cousin Steele even thought—”
“It’s more than interesting,” Fairfax interjected, reaching for her hand. “I’ve no greater priority than being the first name on your dance card.”
That was likely a true statement. Bartholomew curled his lip. He was surprised Fairfax had any priorities at all. He ought to be home with his sister, not here courting Daphne.
“As do I,” said Whitfield quickly. “It’s also my priority to be the first name on your dance card.”
Fairfax cut him an exasperated look. “We can’t both be the first name.”
“Of course not,” Whitfield responded cheerily. He bounced on his toes, flexing his muscles. “I’d fight you for it, but I believe the victor is a foregone conclusion.”
Fairfax burst out laughing. “I’d wager a—”
“Gentlemen,” Bartholomew interrupted. He tried not to feel smug when Daphne edged a little closer to his side. He liked having her there. “If the lady doesn’t wish to attend the assembly—”
“Of course we’ll attend.” Fairfax stared at Bartholomew as if he’d grown an extra leg, rather than the opposite. “Miss Vaughan’s dance card will be the envy of Kent.”
“I should doubt that.” Daphne gestured toward her dark attire. “I can’t stand up with any of you. I won’t be out of mourning until the end of the week.”
Ah. Bartholomew rubbed his jaw. That explained Captain Steele’s sudden rush to get his ward betrothed by Sunday. It would be the blackguard’s first opportunity to marry her off.
“Just so.” Whitfield puffed up his chest. “Although you can’t dance, you shan’t lack for company a single moment. I, for one, will never leave your side.”
“I, on the other hand,” Lambley said with a glance at his pocket watch, “am afraid I must. Parliament opens session tomorrow, and I must hurry if I’m to arrive on time. Miss Vaughan, forgive me. If you’re… available in a fortnight, my cousin is hosting one of her soirées, and I know she’d be delighted if you were to attend.” He sketched a bow. “As would I.”
Fairfax sniffed in gentlemanly offense. “From the way that was worded, I’m assuming only Miss Vaughan is invited?”
Lambley smiled. “You’re ever so astute.”
Daphne pressed his hand. “Katherine did invite me to London, but I’m afraid my place is here in Kent. I do thank you for the kind invitation. And for your visit.”
“Your servant.” He bowed. “Until next we meet, do take care.”
“I shall do what I can.” She dropped his hand to dip in curtsey. “Safe travels, Your Grace.”
Bartholomew shouldn’t have been quite so pleased to see the last of Lambley, but he couldn’t help a small rush of relief at one less competitor.
Daphne might believe a faux fiancé solved all her troubles, but that was only if Captain Steele approved the match. No guardian would choose a one-legged soldier over a rich, eligible duke. Particularly not someone as opportunistic as a pirate.
He tensed. No one in his right mind would choose a one-legged soldier over anyone.
Not that it mattered. He straightened his shoulders. He had no intention of paying suit to right-minded people. He just had to make a positive impression on Captain Steele, sign a sham contract, and then return to his life of endless solitude as if this interlude had never happened.
As if being the recipient of feigned interest hadn’t made him yearn for the real thing.
He gazed at Daphne. What might it be like if she felt a fraction as passionately for him as she did for her charity work? She was not completely immune to him. The expression on her face when she’d first laid eyes on him indicated she found his appearance more than pleasing.
Of course, that was because his false leg was disguised beneath layers of clothing. His flesh turned cold. No matter what sparks might fly between them, nothing could come of it. He had no wish to sink his fingers into her hair and cover her mouth with his own, only for her to be revolted when she saw him naked.
They’d been friends before. They would simply have to remain so. No matter how a part of him might wish there was a chance for something more.
Captain Steele swept into the room with a smile on his face and a sword at his side. “Miss Vaughan. Gentlemen. I’ve just taken possession of the delivery I was waiting for. If tomorrow is as clear a day as today, who would like to take my new horses for a run?”
Bartholomew groaned inwardly. The devil only knew how a pirate had managed to purchase horseflesh at half ten on a Thursday night, but that was the least of Bartholomew’s concerns. Fairfax and Whitfield were already arguing over which path would allow them to race the fastest, and even Daphne had clapped her hands together in delight. Bartholomew’s shoulders sank.
He was not competition. He couldn’t even play the game.
Chapter 7
Unfortunately for Bartholomew, the following day was bright and sunny, with nary a snow cloud in the uncharacteristically blue sky. The ground was still frozen and the frigid air would slice painfully across the wind-chapped face of any rider foolish enough to race an unfamiliar steed across frost-ruined terrain.
In other words, everyone except him.
The other gentlemen were already astride their horses, laughing and prancing and bickering over which path would be the fastest route around the lake. He stared wistfully at the rolling hill dipping below the horizon. Lord, how he wished he could join the fun.
Instead, he hung back near the doorway. Which meant he was the first to see Daphne step outside to join them. His breath caught at the sight.
She wore a simple day dress and spencer, rather than a riding habit. Perhaps she did not own one. Her red-gold curls were pinned beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed.
“Did they leave us the slowest nags?” She grinned up at him from beneath her bonnet as she took his arm. “Or give us the feistiest steeds?”
He cleared his throat. “You’ll have your pick of the remaining horses. I won’t be riding.”
Her smile fell. Her eyes lost some of their sparkle. “You don’t want to join me?”
Bartholomew’s jaw locked. Her obvious disappointment curled about his heart like a fist. How he longed to join her. To see her smiling at him with her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed as they raced side by side over the frozen hills. Enjoying the moment together.
But the mood was already broken.
“I’m afraid I cannot,” he said. “I’m on my last leg, as it were.”
Her eyes widened in sudden sympathy. “Oh, I didn’t think… Of course we don’t have to ride. ’Tis too cold for such rubbish anyway. Let me talk to my guardian, and I’ll—”
“Balderdash.” His neck heated in embarrassment. He didn’t need or want her concern. “The horses are here and ready, as is everyone else. I won’t be spoiling anyone’s fun. Now tell me which of these fine animals you’d like to ride and I’ll fetch the mounting block.”
Her lips tightened as if she were biting back a protest. Something in his eyes must have convinced her of his intractability on this point. Nodding, she pulled an apple from her spencer pocket and gestured toward the closest mare. “This one. Thank you for assisting me.”
He left her stroking the mare and turned to fetch the mounting block.
Once upon a time, he would not have needed such a thing. He would have handed her up himself without thinking twice. Linger
ed a moment too long with his hands cupping her curves.
He no longer could do such things.
His fingers clenched. He had thought the ridicule of his peers would be the worst part of returning to Society, however briefly.
Now, he suspected the worst would be the thousand little deaths every time he wished to do something and could not. His hands wouldn’t know the feel of her waist as he lifted her onto a horse. His arms wouldn’t know the warmth of her embrace as he pulled her into a waltz. His mouth wouldn’t know the feel of her lips, the sweetness of a stolen kiss.
He was here to be a faux fiancé, nothing more. He should be satisfied with that much. If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have left his town house. Even that ’twas more than expected, after the accident.
Once his leg had healed—as much as it ever would—an all-consuming depression had kept him bedridden for several weeks as he came to grips with his new reality. He was crippled. It was never going to get any better. Life as he knew it was over.
In despair, he’d dragged himself from the bed to the bottle, and might’ve whiled away the next forty years with whisky and laudanum his only companions, had his insufferable pride not snapped him out of it at last. Others might see his ruined body as useless, but he wouldn’t be worthless. Not in his own home. That had been the end of the whisky and the laudanum.
From that day forward, he spent every waking hour stretching and exercising. Pushing his limits. Becoming stronger.
His atrophied muscles had screamed with agony. Mottled bruises had covered every inch of his skin from a series of endless tumbles as he’d taught himself to sit and rise without aid, to walk without a cane, to climb ropes and increase endurance.
But he never expected he’d have to endure a challenge like this.
He hefted the mounting block and carried it back over to Daphne. One of the footmen was already fitting the horse with a sidesaddle.
Bartholomew could have sent a servant after the mounting block as well, but he’d wanted to help. To be the one she needed. If only for a moment.
“Thank you,” she said softly as he placed the block next to her horse. She laid her hand in his for balance as she mounted the mare.
He gave her fingers a light kiss before releasing them. He wished he could pull her close instead of letting her go. “Enjoy the ride.”
She tucked a stray tendril behind her ear and blushed. “I would enjoy it more if you joined me.”
An entirely different image of her riding him rose unbidden to his mind and his stomach tightened with desire. He pivoted away before the hunger in his eyes could betray him.
There would be no riding of any kind. Not today. Not ever.
He saluted Captain Steele and turned back toward the house. He would watch Daphne ride away from a distance. Out of her way. Away from temptation.
“Are you certain you won’t join us?” Whitfield, bless his soul, still seemed to believe Bartholomew the unstoppable juggernaut he’d once been, back when Bartholomew’s legendary antics were fodder for amazement and envy.
“I’d rather keep my feet on the ground.” He gestured at his legs. “Or foot, as the case may be.”
Captain Steele grinned down at him from atop a rearing stallion. “I’ve a pony tied up behind the house, if these horses are too much for you.”
Bartholomew flashed his teeth. A pony wasn’t quite as insulting as an ancient broodmare would have been—any pony of Captain Steele’s was bound to have a little devil in him—but the meaning was clear all the same.
Frowning, Daphne tossed her reins aside and moved as if to dismount. “I’m staying with him.”
“No.” He dashed forward to rescue the reins and placed them back into her gloved hands. When was the last time she’d ridden a horse? He couldn’t deny the sparkle in her eyes or the flush to her cheeks. Riding might be a rare treat. He couldn’t take that away from her. “Have a little fun. You deserve it. I’ll still be here when you get back.”
The expression in her eyes was unreadable, but she accepted the reins and joined the others.
Captain Steele raised his arm, his fingers cocked like a pistol as if about to fire the opening charge.
Without warning or waiting, Fairfax launched off with a whoop, flying down the hill with reckless abandon and infectious laughter. The others instantly gave chase.
Bartholomew couldn’t hold back a wistful smile.
Captain Steele was ahead of the pack in no time, his stallion impossibly swift despite its impressive size. Whitfield and Daphne raced neck-and-neck, just behind, until they split ranks to belt along opposite paths around a frozen pond.
Bartholomew stood stiff and tall, watching her retreating form until he could no longer hear the horse hooves. Only then did he close his eyes and turn his back to the wind, to the things he could no longer do.
How he wished he could be racing across the hills at Daphne’s side. He wished he could treat her to the sort of courtship she deserved. Surprise flowers, dancing too close, moonlit kisses. Love.
Instead, he would be a fiancé in name only. Their “relationship” would never even leave these grounds. They weren’t even together on these grounds. She and her horse had torn off with the same buoyant joy as any of the others.
To his surprise, she was an excellent horsewoman. He doubted she’d had much practice in the art. On the other hand, even as a young girl she’d been a quick study and curious about everything. He didn’t doubt she had a thousand hidden talents, with riding sidesaddle being the least of them.
Nonetheless, the sight of her dashing off down the slope, every bit the equal to Fairfax or Whitfield, made him wonder anew if spoiling their suit was truly the right thing to do.
The paper clippings filling her bedchamber were a symptom of a bright young woman’s desire to be useful. That same dedication and attention to detail left no doubt that Daphne would be more than able to manage a household. With her passion and big heart and exuberance for life, she would make any man a splendid wife.
Anthony Fairfax might frequent gaming hells more than a gentleman ought, but Bartholomew had known him his entire life, and could easily vouch for Fairfax’s good heart and integrity.
Chauncey Whitfield was the current champ in London’s pugilistic underworld, but that didn’t mean he had rocks in his head or that a gentle young lady oughtn’t to take a chance on Chaunce. He was good-natured and easy to please, and could be counted upon to keep those he cared about safe and cared for.
Bartholomew sighed. ’Twas precisely this sort of thinking—his tendency to analyze outcomes far into the future—that made him such an effective Army major and such a terrible knight in shining armor.
Daphne didn’t want to wed. Blocking her guardian’s stratagems was the easiest way to win that battle. But what was the war?
He furrowed his brow. The consequences of winning the current skirmish might be that she never got such an opportunity again. Daphne was a vicar’s daughter. She was unlikely to catch the eye of another duke. Even title-less men like Fairfax and Whitfield were more plentiful in London than Maidstone.
Not only that, these easygoing gentlemen were apt to appreciate and encourage a wife’s unusual interests than the humdrum suitors she was more likely to attract in the countryside. He let out a deep breath. Daphne needed someone to share her interests, not stifle them. What if his intervention spoiled her best chance to make that happen?
Just as he turned to go back inside, horse hooves sounded from the opposite side of the cottage.
Bartholomew frowned. He didn’t expect the others back for at least a couple of hours, and yet the incoming rider wasn’t coming from the direction of the public road. He paused on the threshold to see who it might be.
Daphne. Cheeks pink, lips rosy, her hair a golden cloud of windblown curls beneath a cockeyed bonnet.
She’d never looked more beautiful.
“Why did you come back?” he demanded. The answer couldn’t be more obvious. His ne
ck heated in embarrassment. She hadn’t wanted to abandon the poor, crippled soldier, so she’d raced down an alternate path in order to double back and make sure he was still well. “I don’t need your pity.”
“That’s fortunate.” She arched her brows. “You don’t have it.”
Clearly. He lifted his chin toward the trail. “You wanted to ride a horse. Go ride. You may not get another opportunity for some time.”
“So be it.” She dropped her reins, then hesitated. “You’re right. I did feel awful, leaving you standing in our dust. Quite literally. It wasn’t well done of me. I shouldn’t have gone.”
See? Pity. He lifted his hands to her hips. “Don’t do me any special favors. I’m not your real fiancé. I’m not even your fake fiancé.”
“Not yet.” She slid into his arms. “Am I allowed to do favors when I’m your faux fiancée?”
“No.” He set her down. Slowly. Letting her body slide against his.
She didn’t back away. “Why not? You’re doing quite a large one for me.”
“Am I? I’m not sacrificing more than a few days.” And his pride. “This is the first time I have been out since I returned from war. Perhaps you’re the one doing me a favor. In which case, we’re even.”
She reached behind him and handed him the reins. “If that’s all the bonding we’re to do, mind this horse while I slip off to attend to some correspondence.”
He gave her a grudging smile. Cheeky chit. And one of the most selfless, focused people he’d ever met. “Which nonexistent gentleman are you going to impersonate today?”
The corners of her lips quirked. “Perhaps I’ll pretend to be you.”
“Don’t spite yourself just to spite me.” He tied the horse and leaned against the post. “My opinions carry little weight.”
She tilted her head. “What are your opinions?”
He straightened. Did he even have any? No one had asked him in so long. “My opinions on matters such as…?”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 36