The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  She frowned but didn’t look away.

  A hint of belligerence in his stance indicated he’d expected his words to shock her. Why should they? Did he think she’d cringe at the forthright way he’d said “amputated leg?” She arched a brow. If he had any concept of the atrocities that crossed her escritoire daily, he wouldn’t think her as missish as that.

  Or did he fear that his reputation as a rake and a dandy had given her the idea that there was nothing between his ears but waistcoats and women? Daphne would be the last woman to make assumptions about another person based solely on the persona they portrayed to the public. She was a vicar’s daughter… and perhaps England’s most clandestine political agitator on behalf of the poor.

  She placed her correspondence onto her desk next to her reading spectacles. “This is why I must remain unwed. Every minute attending routs or planning dinner parties is a wasted minute these desperate people can ill afford to lose.”

  “Perhaps it’s not as bleak as that. There must be some gentleman out there who wouldn’t expect you to plan or attend society functions.”

  “Must there?” She couldn’t help but scoff. “Some gothic recluse who lives in a rundown castle in the moors? Some palsied invalid who wants me to hold his hand until he leaves this earth?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Are invalids and recluses any less worthy than other people?”

  “Of course not,” she said softly. “But a husband is fewer than ‘other people.’ I cannot devote myself to one individual, no matter how worthy, if it means abandoning ten thousand more. No one voice or single letter causes change. It needs many voices. Many letters. By remaining unencumbered, I can help make a difference.” She tilted her head and studied him. “You’re the last person I would have expected to make a case for marriage.”

  A startled laugh escaped his throat. “God’s teeth, have I? ’Twas not my intention. I have never wished to wed, nor shall I, so it would be the height of hypocrisy to demand anyone else get leg-shackled. Your vehemence surprised me, that’s all. I wanted to make certain you’ve thought this through.”

  She turned away so he wouldn’t see her clench her jaw. She did nothing but think things through. Why did he imagine she was choosing charity work over marriage and family?

  Of course he couldn’t imagine abandoning the world of routs and soirées willingly. He’d been king of the ballrooms and the prince of every young lady’s fantasies.

  In fact, that was the primary reason she’d chosen him for this farce. He would make her a terrible husband, and she would make him a terrible wife. Hades would freeze over before Bartholomew Blackpool would limit himself to any one woman. Much less give up the glittering world where he’d reigned supreme.

  Therefore he could be counted upon to dissolve the contract willingly and promptly.

  “I have thought this through,” she said quietly. “My future—England’s future—is the only thing I think about. Improving the world we all share is the worthiest goal there is. ’Tis all I do, from the moment I rise to the moment I tumble into bed, exhausted. It’s what I want to do. Become a housewife is not.” Her mouth tightened. “Your ‘competition’ out in the front parlor? Trust me, they’re better off without me. I have no time for anyone if I’m worrying about everyone.”

  Those were most of her reasons. There was one more. One she was unwilling to admit aloud. The true reason she would never marry.

  Fighting for thousands of faceless individuals was so much easier, so much safer than allowing someone into her heart.

  Everyone she’d ever cared about left her. In the worst ways possible.

  Her mother had died in childbirth. An accident, of course, but the catalyst for Daphne’s fervor to help others, to improve medical conditions. Her father’s father had also been a vicar. Daphne adored her grandparents. They died. Scarlet Fever. Then it was just her and papa, on their own.

  She’d thought, At least I have Papa. At least I’m not alone.

  She was wrong.

  Papa had focused on his “sheep.” His parish. He’d believed the only virtue came from helping his flock. He’d had little time for his daughter.

  Daphne had done her best to do the same, to live up to his standard, but she was young. She’d longed for friends. The closest neighbors were twin boys, too old to be proper playmates. Soon, they too had gone away. It hadn’t taken her long to realize her life was fated to be lived alone.

  Even her new guardian didn’t want her.

  She had no doubt she would never have seen Bartholomew again had her circumstances not been so dire. If her father hadn’t died. If her guardian hadn’t threatened her with an asylum.

  If rakish, fashionable Bartholomew Blackpool hadn’t got his leg shot off and found himself so bored with his long recovery that he was reduced to reading something so mundane as a newspaper.

  For him, this visit was nothing more than a diversion. For her, it would define the rest of her life.

  She turned toward the door. “Come on, then. It’s time to meet the others.”

  SIX

  At first, Bartholomew couldn’t identify the unsettled edge to his gut, or how the deuce his palms could be clammy during a British winter.

  And then it hit him. The most improbable, unlikely, unfathomable of all circumstances had actually come to pass. He was nervous.

  Nervous. Him!

  He didn’t have to wonder if he’d ever felt such a sensation before. He well knew he hadn’t. From the mindlessness of youth to the bravado of university days to the swagger of the haut ton to the zeal of fighting enemy soldiers—no. Not once had he been nervous.

  How could he have? He was always the best. Of course he could climb that tree. Trounce that prefect. Win that game. Race that horse. Steal that kiss. Live through anything.

  Even war.

  And yet here he was, in the cottage of a deceased vicar of all places, about to be paraded like livestock before a degenerate pirate and a handful of “competition.”

  ’Twas ludicrous that such an insignificant word should bring about uncertainty in a man who had once been a total stranger to fear. He’d never had competition; he’d always been the competition. And won.

  Until he didn’t. Until he lost everything that mattered to him, including hope for his own future. Until he was here, in Kent, feigning so much more than a faux betrothal. He was armed with his rakish smile. Had his rapier charm at the ready. His hallmark self-confidence exuding from every pore. His goddamn knee itching like the devil because he wasn’t used to so much walking, and… He clenched his jaw in frustration.

  Curse his arrogance and curse his pride. Why bother pretending to be whole? Everyone knew what had happened to him. He couldn’t hide his limp or muffle the clapping noise of the vanguard technology powering his very expensive, very clever, very obviously false leg. They all knew he was no longer the better man. This wouldn’t be an easy battle.

  Even with the young lady’s pretend consent as a given, he still had to convince that scoundrel, Blackheart. Captain Steele. Their entire charade could be moot even before it began. No doubt Captain Steele had handpicked the other men for a reason.

  And Daphne—what was he to do with sweet, big-hearted Daphne?

  She couldn’t be trusted to remember to eat when she was in her father’s home, buffeted by a few servants who’d known her since birth. Imagine her all alone, in some dismal-but-economical shack, with naught but a maid-of-all-work and mountains of ink and paper. Impossible.

  He couldn’t fault her the desire to plan her life as she pleased. He certainly had no say in the matter. Nonetheless, the right man must exist…

  Someone wealthy enough to keep her in style, but not so lofty as to dismiss her concerns for the common people. Someone compassionate enough to help her wage her campaigns, and wise enough not to suggest she end them. Someone whole and handsome whom she would be proud to have at her side. Who could toss their daughter in the air or teach their sons to ride and waltz a scandalous
number of sets with his wife at high-flown dinner parties.

  Bartholomew had no idea who that paragon might be—he certainly held few of the required characteristics—but he had no doubt that someone, somewhere, would make the perfect partner for Daphne. He liked her too much to wish her an unhappy marriage.

  If she would not open her eyes, he would have to keep a look out for her. And keep her safe from her guardian’s suitors in the meantime.

  “Ready?” Daphne whispered as they approached the front parlor. Her guardian was nowhere to be found, but her maid stayed close behind her. Candlelight and male voices spilled from the open door.

  The game was afoot. Bartholomew rolled his shoulders back and walked into the fray.

  “Blackpool?” came a droll voice from the side of the room. “Do my eyes deceive?”

  “Lambley?” he blurted back, as he whirled to greet an old acquaintance.

  How the devil had Captain Steele got a duke to court a vicar’s daughter? More to the point, why on earth should Lambley wish to court anyone?

  By all accounts, he’d taken over Bartholomew’s role as charming-rake-of-the-ton within seconds of his leaving England’s shore. And worse. Lambley was the last suitor for an idealistic innocent like Daphne. The duke’s scandalous masquerade parties were high society’s worst-kept secret. She’d end up accompanying him to every soirée in Christendom and having to put up with her husband slipping away behind every curtain.

  If Lambley even came up to scratch. He was far more likely in search of an amusing dalliance, not a wife. Bartholomew flexed his fingers. Daphne deserved better.

  “Blackpool?” came a disbelieving voice from the other side of the room. “Bartholomew Blackpool?”

  He whirled again, and this time came face to face with a nattily dressed gentleman more famous for his predilection for gaming hells than for attending Society events. Bartholomew lifted his brows. The parlor was beginning to feel like a circus, with he and Daphne in the center ring.

  “Anthony Fairfax.” His smile troubled, Bartholomew inclined his head at the young man.

  Fairfax’s presence was both more and less surprising than Lambley’s. Unlike the duke, Fairfax had grown up near the vicarage. His sister Sarah was about Bartholomew’s age, and he’d always considered her a good friend.

  She had also been in love with Bartholomew’s brother. She and Edmund had expected to marry the moment he returned from the war Bartholomew had talked him into fighting. The war he hadn’t survived.

  Edmund hadn’t left behind a widow, but rather an even worse situation.

  Sarah was seven months pregnant.

  Bartholomew’s throat grew tight. Once Society found out, neither she nor her bastard child would be welcome anywhere again. He wished there was something he could do to protect her. And his unborn niece or nephew.

  Sarah’s brother likely felt the same. Anthony Fairfax’s roguish smile and good-natured charm still opened many doors, but his gambling debts grew ever deeper. Despite his good blood and well-connected family, soon he wouldn’t be able to show his face anywhere near King Street without a pocketful of banknotes or a loaded pistol in hand.

  Or an heiress.

  Bartholomew cast a considering glance toward Daphne. He’d taken her at her word when she’d mentioned inheriting a “small portion.” Was it possible the sum was more significant than she’d implied? Or had devil-may-care Fairfax sunk to such lows, he was desperate enough to swindle the dowry of a vicar’s daughter just to pay a few vowels?

  He frowned. Did she even have a dowry? Captain Steele certainly hadn’t mentioned one.

  An insidious thought made Bartholomew rethink the situation. He’d known Lambley and Fairfax for years. Despite their faults, they were good sorts. Couldn’t it be true that a well-liked duke and the brother of a good friend might make perfectly acceptable suitors? Perhaps it was Bartholomew’s bitterness over his less-than-ideal new reality that was causing him to overstate their faults.

  “I see you know His Grace, the Duke of Lambley, as well as Mr. Fairfax. Have you met Mr. Whitfield?” Daphne motioned over Bartholomew’s shoulder. “Mr. Whitfield, this is Major Blackpool.”

  “Chauncey Whitfield?”Bartholomew’s smile froze as he turned around.

  Impossible. Yet there he was. Bartholomew fought a spike of jealousy.

  Chauncey Whitfield, the darling of the caricaturists. Tall, handsome, and larger than life, with his twice-broken nose and bashful, bedimpled smile.

  After Bartholomew had left for war, Whitfield had become the reigning king of the sparring rings—both legal and illegal. He had endless admirers. He even had a slogan. Take a chance on Chaunce could be heard everywhere from underground fighting dens to London ballrooms. Two places Bartholomew could no longer navigate with ease.

  He swallowed and inclined his head. “How do you do.”

  Dimples creased Whitfield’s boyish cheeks as he grinned back at Bartholomew. “Never thought I’d meet the legend in the flesh, sir. I’d probably never have beaten your sparring record if you hadn’t gone off to war and lost your leg. Lucky break for me.”

  Anthony Fairfax spun on Whitfield in horror. “How can you say that?”

  “I’d never be champion otherwise.” Whitfield gave a pretend punch to Fairfax’s shoulder. “You’re a gambler, mate. Think like one. The only reason why a man like you would put money on me instead of Blackpool is because he’s no longer fighting. Demmed shame, if you ask me. If he still had both legs, I’ve no doubt the major could—”

  “I’m standing right here,” Bartholomew gritted out. “I lost my leg, not my ears.”

  “A gambler, am I?” A slight flush crept up Fairfax’s cheeks as he glared at the fighter. “Never you mind what I do with my blunt. I won’t be ‘taking a chance on Chaunce.’ I’d put a monkey on Blackpool drawing your cork any day of the week, even if the war left him nothing more than a—”

  “I am right here,” Bartholomew repeated through clenched teeth. “Missing half a limb doesn’t make me less of a man.”

  Except of course it did.

  The room fell silent. He waved away their awkward apologies and regretted agreeing to this farce. He’d meant to help Daphne, not parade his new weakness in front of others.

  He didn’t need four sets of pitying gazes to recognize the truth. He wasn’t getting invitations to fencing clubs or races or sparring matches. Even his Almack’s voucher had been revoked for failure to comply with the dress code.

  Bartholomew curled his fingers into fists. He’d like to knock the pity right off of Fairfax’s face.

  And Lambley’s. And Whitfield’s.

  As for Daphne…his throat stung. Her kindheartedness made her even worse than the others.

  In her chambers, she’d looked scared, but determined. In this moment, she also looked infuriatingly compassionate. As if he was worse off than her. He could no longer fool himself for why she’d invited him here. It wasn’t just because a man without two feet was unlikely to already have a romantical entanglement.

  It was because she, too, considered him less than a man. Devoid of options. Easily managed. No more a captain of his own fate than a lapdog would be.

  He hated the poor-old-Tolly look in her eyes. Despised the smug superiority the other men weren’t even trying to hide.

  Daphne had called these blighters his “competition.” If they would have heard her say so, all three of them would laugh until they hiccupped. Bartholomew wasn’t competition to anyone. He curled his fingers into fists and set his jaw.

  There was nothing to do about it except prove them wrong. He was still Bartholomew Blackpool. Still a person. Still a man. He didn’t need to impress anyone in the ring or before an orchestra to know that his iron will was still intact. He just needed a new goal. To excel at something else. Something that didn’t require… feet. Or the crushing weight of sympathetic stares.

  He affected his haughtiest posture. “I suggest we move on to other topics.” He turned his
gaze to the duke. “Lambley, what brings you to Maidstone?”

  “Why, the lady, of course.” The duke lifted Daphne’s fingers to his lips. He held her hand a beat longer than was necessary. “Does a man require any other reason to bask in the presence of such beauty?”

  “Daphne isn’t just beautiful. She’s resourceful and clever.” The words were out of Bartholomew’s mouth before he could pull them back. Devil take it. He’d meant to illustrate the shallow nature of Lambley’s compliments, not lower Daphne’s worth in the marriage mart. Most gentlemen didn’t consider working brains a desirable characteristic in a female.

  Not that Daphne should settle for an imbecile who didn’t value her for more than her looks. She was different than other women. Passionate. She wasn’t afraid to be herself. It made her irresistible in a completely different way. He wished they had hours to sit and talk. He wished they were alone.

  “Of course she’s clever,” Lambley said soothingly, casting Daphne soulful glances. “Aren’t bluestockings always the most breathtaking?”

  A slight blush touched her cheeks.

  Bartholomew’s smile tightened. Weren’t bluestockings always the most… He shook his head. There was no way to respond to blatant flummery like that without inadvertently insulting Daphne.

  She was beautiful. But there was no possible way that Lambley found bluestockings remotely breathtaking. At least, not any more so than the countless other women that passed through his arms in and out of Society ballrooms and secret masquerades. Lambley would never make an offer.

  Then again… Bartholomew’s brow creased.

  Lambley was in Kent, not London. Why would he be, if he weren’t interested in Daphne? Why would any of them be there? Daphne was young, pretty, compassionate, and wise enough to keep her more questionable charitable projects a secret. In short: marriageable. Bartholomew had been intrigued from the moment he walked through the door. Which could only mean one thing.

  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?