by Darcy Burke
“Were you ambushed?” asked another.
“Tell us about Waterloo. Were you near Wellington at all times?”
“How many soldiers were on that field?”
The loud gaggle of gentlemen surrounded Bartholomew, separating him from Daphne with their thumps to his shoulders and their avalanche of questions. He sent several searching looks over his shoulder in Daphne’s direction as he was enveloped into the tide.
She hugged herself. He would find her later. Probably. She sighed. If he remembered she was still here.
’Twas no surprise everyone found Bartholomew fascinating. Not only were he and his friends collectively referred to in the scandal sheets as the Dukes of War, Bartholomew was a major. A twin. A hero. A survivor. Despite a pulverized leg, he’d still tried to save his dying brother.
The whole thing was so gothic and heart-wrenching that the recital had been all but forgotten, and even Katherine resembled a wallflower for the first time in her life. It also meant she probably wouldn’t see Bartholomew again until it was time to return home. She’d been left standing all alone. Adrift in an ocean of strangers.
Daphne sighed. If she’d but known she would be invisible this evening, she might have brought her work and a traveling desk with her and taken up office in one of the retiring rooms. And perhaps dedicated her time to someone who actually wanted it.
“Well?” murmured Katherine as she returned from the refreshment table with two cups of lemonade.
Daphne took a sip and winced at the criminal dearth of sugar. “Well, what?”
“The Blackpools are from Maidstone, so that’s obviously how you met. But the major was off at war for three years and hasn’t left London since he returned, so how the deuce did you get betrothed?”
“Shh.” Daphne flapped a suppressing hand in Katherine’s direction. “You can’t say deuce. Especially not in public.”
“You may recall I never wished to attend this musicale in the first place.”
“Don’t say that either!” Daphne motioned Katherine over to the rows of chairs set up before the pianoforte. The audience section was currently the most private area of the entire Grenville estate. “I did see Major Blackpool recently. In Maidstone.”
“And you fell instantly and deeply in love. Then forgot to tell me about it.” Katherine squinted over Daphne’s shoulder. “Hard to see him through the throngs of people. He cuts as dashing a figure as he ever did. Perhaps more so, now that he’s a tragic hero as well. I believe it’s safe to say your wedding will be well attended. Not that you’ve invited me to it.”
“Fine.” Daphne took a deep breath. “’Tis a lie. We’re not getting married. He’s only playacting to help me out of a scrape with my new guardian. After Papa died, I became ward to a man who would rather walk the plank than be responsible for me. He tried to force me into an unwanted betrothal.”
“And Major Blackpool swept in to save you?” Katherine arched a brow. “This gets more romantic with every word. Do go on.”
“It’s not romantic, it’s—” Daphne snapped her teeth together and briefly closed her eyes.
He had swept in to save her. It was romantic. She’d promised their scheme would be a secret, yet when their imaginary relationship fell under suspicion, Bartholomew hadn’t hesitated to involve himself up to the ears just to keep her safe from her guardian’s threats. To protect her.
“The look on your face tells me you’ve finally noticed your fiancé would be considered a fine catch.” Katherine’s eyebrows tilted toward the crowd. “Approximately every single female present appears willing to take your place, should anything untoward happen to your happy engagement. Such as a shocking termination, moments before the as-yet-unplanned ceremony.”
“I can’t marry him,” Daphne burst out, her voice thick. “He doesn’t even wish to. He’s playacting.”
“But are you?”
Daphne swallowed. She wasn’t sure anymore. Not that she had a choice. The betrothal was a sham. Soon she would have the freedom she’d wanted. And the memory of what might have been. “You know how wholly my projects consume me. I don’t have time for myself, much less a husband.”
Katherine’s expression was skeptical. “You wouldn’t even marry for love?”
“Especially not for love.” Daphne had thought it through. Repeatedly. Every time Bartholomew crossed her mind. “If I loved someone, I would want to spend every moment with him, which isn’t remotely amenable to getting anything at all accomplished.”
Katherine shrugged. “I’m sure a good husband could be counted upon to have interests outside the home.”
“Yes, and I’m just as certain that a wife in love would spend those moments mooning over him or worrying about him or wondering what, precisely, he and his friends were up to and whether she oughtn’t to go and investigate.” Like right now. With a room full of unwed debutantes on the loose. She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll stay unfettered and unencumbered.” Life was simpler when her heart was only involved from afar. “There are thousands of people whose lives are affected by whether or not I act to protect them. I cannot jeopardize that over something as foolish as love.”
Katherine’s head tilted. “What projects are you working on now?”
Daphne gave her a shaky smile, relieved at the conversational reprieve. Charity work was a far safer topic than Bartholomew. “I’m terribly worried about the worsening situation with the weavers. There’s scarcely any work and the people are starting to get desperate. And then the miners… The Davy lamp seemed like a miracle—who wouldn’t wish to see what lurked in the shadows?—but the increased visibility makes workers feel safer in areas that are anything but, and the accident rate—”
“The what lamp? Why isn’t there any work for the weavers?” Katherine clasped her hands together and leaned closer. “If I can’t help you plan a wedding, at least let me lend a hand with your projects. I’m frightfully good at planning things. Last year I became patroness of an antiquities museum, did I not? Just look at how successful it is.”
“An antiquities museum is nothing at all like—” Daphne stilled her tongue. Katherine meant well, but she didn’t understand. “I wish you could help. If there were some way for you to know everything I know overnight, perhaps. But I don’t have weeks to spend explaining the history or what’s been done about it. I might not have weeks at all, if my guardian gets his way. I need to focus now more than ever.”
“On being the most enamored fiancée in all of Christendom?”
Daphne pressed her lips together. So much for the conversational reprieve. Of course Katherine wasn’t interested in charity. “No, on—”
“Wrong answer.” Katherine motioned behind her.
Daphne turned. Bartholomew was heading toward them, leading the rest of the guests toward their seats as though he were the commander of an army.
Or the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
She narrowed her eyes. Whether the frivolous aristocrats were children or rats was hard to say. She was so frustrated with the upper class. They were the ones with the money and power to improve employment, safety, orphanages. Perhaps the ladies embroidered for charity now and again, but it didn’t do much toward enacting change.
The men were even worse. Egotistic. Dismissive. She frowned at a sudden realization. What did it say about Bartholomew that they looked up to him so? Was he just as superficial? Just as narcissistic? The price of the waistcoat he was wearing could likely feed an orphanage for a week. He either didn’t realize, or didn’t care. The proof was right before her eyes. He wasn’t the perfect romantic hero her heart had wished he could be. He was just like the others.
She let out a shaky breath. No matter. He had never been hers for the taking. She had promised herself to a greater calling. A purpose. The people she helped thought she hung the moon. They sometimes sent letters, signed by the whole family. They told her she mattered.
Here in London, she patently did not matter. She was of no interest to Polite Society. She int
ermittently commanded the temporary attention of her faux fiancé. When obligated to do so. It wasn’t love. It was an old childhood friendship. Bartholomew didn’t think of her as a woman, with hopes and dreams and desires. She doubted he thought of her much at all.
She wished it didn’t hurt so much.
Her heart clenched at the pain. Once she no longer saw him every day, his indifference would cease to hurt her. She straightened her spine. As soon as their false betrothal was over, she would spend the rest of her days with people who looked forward to her presence. She would travel wherever her aid was needed most, providing support however she could. She would force herself to be happy.
The life she was given would have to be enough.
“There you are, darling.” Bartholomew gave her a slow, devastating smile as his fingers brushed the small of her back. “I missed you.”
Her breath caught. She had to fight not to shiver at his words. Or melt beneath the warmth of his gaze and the sensation of being the sole object of his complete attention.
He was playacting, just like her.
He was also better at it. He’d been a rake for most of his life, whereas she’d spent all of hers as a vicar’s daughter. She would never be part of his world.
Yet she couldn’t help but long for him to look at her like that and mean it.
She smiled back at him, hesitantly.
His gaze lowered to her lips. Her heart quickened. She licked her lips in anticipation. His eyelashes lowered, and for a single, soul-stopping moment she truly thought he might kiss her, right there in front of everyone.
And she stood there, waiting for it. Like the goose she was.
He lifted his gaze and gestured toward the seats. “Shall we?”
She swallowed hard and nodded. Her legs shook. She couldn’t care less about the musicale, or even the crowd. All she could think about was how it might have felt if he’d kissed her. Foolishness. She pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart still pounded.
Katherine entered the row first, followed by Daphne and then Bartholomew.
As soon as Daphne sat down, Katherine leaned toward Daphne’s ear. “I could have sworn he was about to—”
“He was not,” Daphne whispered back, her face heating.
“Well, you certainly looked like you—”
“I did not,” she hissed and shooed away any further comments. “Eyes on the stage.”
A couple Daphne didn’t recognize sat in the row in front of them. The man instantly turned around to cast a wide smile at Bartholomew. “Never thought I’d see you at a place like this, Blackpool. Didn’t you always say you’d never set foot in a musicale?”
“Still haven’t.” Bartholomew lifted his false leg. “I couldn’t even find my foot.”
The man guffawed and half-turned to his wife. “You see this? Wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t witnessing it with my own eyes. Blackpool in love. I’ll be damned.” He grinned at Daphne. “Caught yourself a good one, miss. One of the very best.”
“Thank you,” she stammered. No. No stammering. Be in love. That’s why they had come. She brushed her fingers against Bartholomew’s chest and peered up at him through her lashes. “He’s…”
Conscious thought failed her. He was playacting, she knew he was playacting, and yet the passion in his eyes was nothing short of smoldering. She could lose herself in eyes that blue. She yearned to brush her fingers against his chest again, to flatten her palm over his heart and feel it thunder beneath her hand. He seemed larger than before. Closer. As if she was leaning too far into him, offering herself into his embrace.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a voice from the stage. “Heath, Camellia, and Bryony Grenville!”
Daphne flattened her spine against her seatback and prayed no one noticed the heat coloring her cheeks. Playact, she reminded herself fiercely. No actual kissing. The last thing she needed was to get compromised and have to marry him in truth. Not when he had to pretend to like her.
She breathed out slowly and kept her eyes locked on the stage.
Katherine leaned over. “That certainly didn’t look like faux—”
“Kindly refrain from speaking during the musicale,” Daphne muttered back. “It’s considered rude.”
Katherine laughed softly. “It’s your show.”
If only it were.
Daphne slid another glance toward Bartholomew. If she were a different kind of woman, his eyes would be fixed on her instead of on the stage. If she were only carefree and gay, coquettish and elegant, mysterious and irresistible. She could be his.
If she weren’t Daphne.
FOURTEEN
Any victory Bartholomew had felt at having survived a musicale without falling on his face or punching everyone who asked how he was coping without his brother vanished the day he picked up Daphne to go riding in Hyde Park. He wanted it to look like a romantic afternoon ride. He wanted it to be a romantic afternoon ride.
The problem was his curricle.
Never mind that it was old. He’d bought it long before he’d joined the army and had spent a solid year testing its limits and its speed.
Never mind that it was cold. An open carriage was quite possibly the most ridiculous conveyance for February weather, but it was paramount that he and Daphne be seen together. That he and Daphne appear positively smitten.
The curricle was wrong because Bartholomew was wrong.
He’d been at sixes and sevens since leaving the house. Scratch that. He’d been at sixes and sevens since almost kissing Daphne in the middle of a musicale. Or perhaps since the moment Crabtree had saved her letter from the fire and her plea had sent his solitary existence down a whirlwind path.
A month ago, his biggest adventure was deciding whether to do his afternoon exercises before or after a spot of tea. This month, he had a beautiful faux fiancée. A pirate threatening her with Bedlam—and Bartholomew with Newgate. An entire city of curious onlookers pinning him and Daphne both under their watchful eyes. And three weeks to convince them all he was eagerly awaiting a wedding that was never going to happen.
Unfortunately for him, he did eagerly await the stolen moments he shared with Daphne. She had turned his life upside down, but he dreaded the day she was no longer in it. From the moment she’d taken his hand to present a united front before his parents, part of him had begun to want her in his life for good.
Impossible, of course. Not only was Daphne’s refusal to wed abundantly clear, Bartholomew would make a poor husband for any woman. He’d left for war far from perfect. He’d returned home incomplete. After losing his brother, he no longer believed he deserved happiness.
Much less a woman like Daphne.
She was resourceful and clever. Gave freely of her heart and expected nothing in return. She was selfless where he had been selfish. Open to the world, whilst he had closed himself off from it. Fought for strangers to thrive, whereas he had left his own brother to die.
No, he certainly didn’t deserve her. But, oh, how he wanted her anyway.
He pulled up in front of the Ross townhouse and banged the knocker. Within moments of being shown into the parlor, she was already descending the stairs, bonnet and gloves in place. As if she’d been looking forward to this outing as eagerly as he was.
“My lady.” He offered his arm. “Ready for a spot of sunshine?”
She laid her fingers in the crook of his elbow and gave him a shy smile. “I’ve never seen Hyde Park before.”
“Then I am honored to be your guide.” He just hoped he didn’t make a fool of himself doing so. He didn’t want her to have to pretend to enjoy his company even when they were alone.
He handed her up into the curricle, then crossed around back to swing himself up from the other side. The air was brisk as they trotted west toward the park. Daphne edged closer. He wished he could believe she was drawn to him due to a physical attraction, not simply to seek relief from the winter chill.
Then again, perhaps the open carriage was a bless
ing in disguise. Even if it were mutual, he had no business acting on his physical attraction. He was meant to protect her from an unwanted marriage, not compromise her into one as Carlisle had done. The earl and his new wife were happy with their fates. With each other. Daphne would not be.
Bartholomew would have to respect her wishes and keep his interest hidden. He was a pretend beau, nothing more. ’Twas what he had promised. And what he must deliver.
Navigating Hyde Park was its own gauntlet. His muscles tensed as his carriage joined the queue leading into the park. Today was his first time driving since returning from war. Everything about it felt awkward and out of place.
For one, this was his racing curricle. He’d never before had a woman in it. He’d never promenaded through city parks at all. He’d been too busy hurtling down Rotten Row with the wind in his face and his wheels tipping precariously as he took curves far too sharply.
He felt out of balance with both wheels on the ground. With his hat staying put. With Daphne in the carriage.
His gloved fingers tightened on the reins. Could she tell how discomfited he was to be here, to be doing this? Was his countenance a touch pallid? His clammy hands unsteady? His dark looks at the young bucks rocketing by in flying phaetons too obviously borne of envy for their easy, careless lives? Any one of the eligible bachelors buzzing about in search of a pretty face would be a better choice than a man with no leg.
Any other gentleman could stay seated on a saddle. Waltz without falling. Disrobe without humiliation. He glanced at Daphne and sighed. ’Twas impossible to convince anyone they were a love match. She was too perfect. He was too flawed. Even he could see it. Soon, she would, too. If she hadn’t already.
Once she got rid of Bartholomew and enjoyed a year or two of independence, she’d start to wonder what it might be like to have a husband or a family. Bartholomew well knew the loneliness of self-imposed solitude. The nights would grow long. Whether she planned to or not, she would someday fall in love. It was inevitable.
The man she chose would be nothing like Bartholomew. He’d be some damnably happy fellow from a happy family, and have many happy memories of never having been to war or lost someone he cherished. He’d enjoy racing and dancing, make love like a stallion, and be the proud owner of both of his legs. In short, he’d be perfect, too.