by Darcy Burke
The debutantes certainly were. If the men retreated into another room for their customary after-supper glass of port, the girls would all be stuck in the side parlor with Daphne and her displaced weavers. Once the carpets were rolled up, one of the Willoughby chits took a seat at the pianoforte and began playing a country-dance. Partners took to the floor with unprecedented alacrity.
Nonetheless, he couldn’t get her words out of his mind. He made a mental note to investigate whether the textile industry in Lancashire were half as bad as she claimed.
Daphne walked up to him wearing a pained expression.
He slanted her a look. “You didn’t have to be rude. There is no sense alienating the very people who could help you effect change.”
“They’re the very people who won’t.” She rubbed her temples, dislodging red-gold tendrils from their matronly twist. “Aristocrats won’t listen to me. I’m nobody. This isn’t my world.”
He raised a brow. “Where should you be? In a Cheapside tavern?”
“At my escritoire, concentrating on the textile situation.” As she stared at the dancers, her shoulders slumped. “If I toadeated the way I’d need to in order to get these people to accept me, I wouldn’t have time to champion causes at all.”
His gaze flicked across the crowd. Daphne was right. These families were unlikely to listen to her. But that didn’t mean they were heartless. Many of the women had charities of their own. They simply also took time to have fun. He wished Daphne could, too. She could use some happiness. “Your ‘causes’ are all commendable projects, but must you make them your entire life?”
“My causes are my entire life.” Her eyes glistened and she looked away. “It’s the one way I can make a difference in the world. No one will remember me when I’m gone, but my efforts will have improved lives. That has to count for something.”
He frowned at her. “What do you mean, you won’t be remembered? Everyone will miss you when you’re gone.”
“Everyone who? My dead grandparents? My dead mother? My dead father? Katherine, of course, but she doesn’t need me, and her aunt has no doubt already forgotten me.” Daphne’s fingers curled into fists. “I want my life to matter. The weavers, the miners, the farmers… they desperately need someone. Why shouldn’t it be me?”
He shook his head. “Because you can’t do it by yourself. No one can. You would need an army of volunteers, contacts with direct governmental influence—”
“So I should sit back and do nothing? Beg Lady Jersey for permission to waltz?”
He coughed into his fist. “You don’t have permission to waltz?”
“Are you even listening to me?” she demanded, cheeks pink. “Or to yourself? Who cares about Almack’s patronesses when there are a hundred more important matters right outside our doors? I know it doesn’t bother them”—she motioned toward the laughing, dancing partygoers—“but doesn’t it matter at least a tiny bit to you? You used to care about what happened to others. You went to war to defend the defenseless.”
“And look how splendidly that turned out,” he said through clenched teeth. “It ruined my life and stole my brother’s.”
“Never stop fighting.” Her clear green eyes pierced him. “Many people are desperate for aid. Are you truly the sort of person who would let them die without lending a hand?”
Anger raced through his blood at her presumption. She had no idea what the war had cost him. What he was no longer willing to give up. His jaw worked.
He was saved from answering by the arrival of one of the young bucks from the dinner table.
The boy blushed. “If you don’t mind, I’ve more questions about when it’s better to wear trousers versus knee breeches.”
The fire in Daphne’s eyes indicated her head might combust.
“I’m afraid your life-or-death trouser questions will have to wait.” She reached for Bartholomew’s arm. “I quite adore a country-dance, and I believe my fiancé was just about to invite me.”
“Doubtful,” he responded. “I’m afraid I don’t dance.”
Her fingers dropped from his arm as her cheeks flushed scarlet. “You can’t… I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think.”
“I can.” His voice had gone brittle the moment he registered the horror on her face was due to his missing leg. “I choose not to.”
“Then I shan’t either.” She reached out her hand, her eyes pleading. “Bartholomew, forgive me. I—”
He blasted his most charming smile in the direction of the young dandy. “I would consider it a personal favor if you were to stand up with my fiancée this set. It seems she quite adores a country-dance.”
“Of course,” the boy stammered, his wide-eyed gaze darting between them. “Right away.”
He hurried Daphne onto the dance floor to join the other couples.
Bartholomew crossed his arms and wondered whether she really did enjoy country-dances. He certainly hated watching her perform them with other men.
He’d realized partway through supper that half the reason he was furious with her for burning bridges with abandon was because if she was no longer welcome in London—once she was no longer in London—he was unlikely to ever see her again.
He was no longer doing an old friend a favor. He was enjoying spending time with someone whose presence would be missed when she was no longer part of his life.
Mrs. Epworth, a recent widow, sidled up to him while he was staring daggers at the lad dancing with Daphne.
“It’s so good to see you back in society, Major Blackpool,” she cooed. “You’re as handsome as ever.”
He grunted noncommittally.
“Is there any chance I can talk you into wearing your regimentals for me?” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Or better yet, talk you out of them?”
Never! shot through his head like a bullet. Not with her. Not with anyone. His casual rakish encounters weren’t just over; his days of physical intimacy were through. Even he could no longer bear to look at himself naked.
Mrs. Epworth gave a slow, suggestive wink.
He turned and walked away.
His jaw worked. The widow Epworth was known for taking her dalliances with men who allayed her ennui. Actors, foreign dignitaries, the occasional marquess. That she was speaking to him at all meant she considered him a novelty. His hands shook.
He had no intention of being her next novelty. Of being chosen because the thought of lying with a one-legged soldier amused her.
Being a curiosity was even worse than being pitied. He was no longer a whole man, but nor was he a freak exhibition at a penny circus.
He never should’ve come back out into Society.
The music changed. A waltz. Daphne was in the arms of Willoughby’s eldest son. Bartholomew despised all of them. All of the young bucks and bachelors and married men with their perfect legs and happy lives.
There was nothing wrong with Willoughby’s eldest son, of course. He was a year or two younger than Bartholomew, of fine stock and gentle humor, and heir apparent to a coronet. His obvious lack of offense to Daphne’s gaucheness at dinner spoke to his empathy and good breeding. Perhaps he was even now capturing Daphne’s heart.
Bartholomew wished the idea didn’t make him feel like planting that fine young man a facer.
After the waltz ended, Daphne returned to his side. “If you’re not going to dance, can we go? I believe we’ve made our mark.”
Gladly.
Pausing only to thank their hosts for their hospitality, he had a footman summon the carriage and sent another to fetch their outerwear. By the time the landau appeared, they were both bundled against the wretched winter weather.
Heads down, they hurried out the door and into the carriage.
As soon as the door locked tight against the wind, she tossed her muff to the squab in disgust. “Thank heavens that’s over. If you think for one second that I enjoyed anything at all within those walls—”
He cupped her chin with his hand and kissed her.
<
br /> She didn’t rear back or slap his face. She curled her fingers about the lapels of his greatcoat and pulled him close. Good. The last thing he wished to do was let her go. He pushed the pad of his thumb against her chin, encouraging her to open her mouth to him.
Her mouth yielded to his immediately. Sweetly. She tasted of berries and honey. Ambrosia in his arms.
He deepened the kiss and she met him with equal urgency. Tasting. Taking. She was everything he wanted and knew he couldn’t have. He pulled away, gasping for air. Straining for self-control. He could not kiss her again.
If he did, he might never stop.
NINETEEN
Daphne stared blankly into the looking glass as her lady’s maid plucked a few artful tendrils free of the elegant chignon the girl had managed to twist from Daphne’s stubborn hair. She didn’t register any of it. Her mind was still replaying the last few moments of the previous night.
A small stack of correspondence rested on her escritoire. Unread. Katherine had no doubt already summoned a carriage meant to whisk them to the new exhibition at the antiquities museum. And yet the only thought Daphne’s muddled brain was capable of forming was:
He’d finally kissed her.
And regretted it almost instantly—there was no misinterpreting his vociferous self-reproach—but before he had practically shoved her into the town house, before they had spent an awkward half hour in stony silence, he had lifted her face to his and kissed her senseless.
Worse, she hadn’t just let him take such a liberty. She’d liked it. Welcomed it. Wished he’d done so sooner. Wished he’d keep doing it. Charity work be damned.
Impossible.
Upon realizing that the attraction she’d tried so hard to deny was just as reluctantly reciprocated, Daphne’s second reaction was horror. She couldn’t wed. And absolutely not Bartholomew. He was her opposite in every way and would clearly never condone the rootless, monkish life she intended to live, traveling wherever help was most needed, immersing herself in every walk of life.
But wasn’t that putting the cart before the horse? All they’d shared was a kiss. A single, beautiful, utterly addicting kiss.
Mutual attraction didn’t have to mean marriage. Bartholomew had left a trail of broken hearts and happy sighs before leaving for war. He hadn’t felt compelled to wed any of those women. None were debutantes; they knew precisely what they were and weren’t getting: a chance to indulge mutual attraction for a few hours.
Perhaps a woman destined to a scandalous life of lonesome crusading could spare a night or two before setting out on her journey. Indulge in something utterly and completely for herself.
The question was, could she?
A year ago, Daphne would have been wholly against the idea. Today—or, rather, the moment that he’d kissed her—the desire coursing through her traitorous body strongly felt that a carriage was as good a place as any to do something scandalous, and Bartholomew was precisely the right man to do it with.
As maddening as he could be, she’d wondered what it would feel like to have his lips on hers ever since the faux engagement began. Now that she knew the answer, keeping a safe distance would be that much harder.
She bit her lip. Was restraint necessary, if the man in question was as disinterested in marriage as she was?
Not only could he be trusted with her best-kept secrets, he was actively campaigning for her to jilt him first. If there was ever going to be a man with whom a crusader for the unfortunate could exchange the occasional bone-melting kiss, that man was Bartholomew Blackpool.
The better question was, how would she feel about it once they parted ways? Would he be a pleasant memory of stolen moments and passionate kisses? Or would she turn into a rabid harpy and long to claw the eyes out of all the other women that would replace her in his arms?
There would undoubtedly be many. Daphne’s hands curled into fists. She wasn’t blind. Neither were the glamorous, worldly women who cast heavy-lidded gazes at him across the room.
She hadn’t missed the obvious intent in Mrs. Epworth’s sashay up to Bartholomew’s side, and the lewd invitation she’d no doubt whispered into his ear. The widow believed him to be betrothed and still hadn’t wished to let an opportunity slip away. Once he was single again, there’d be no end to the buffet of eager, elegant ladies lined up to help fill the void.
Not that she’d be there to see it, Daphne reminded herself sternly. She’d be in Manchester or South Tyneside or wherever help was needed. And she absolutely wouldn’t be stupid enough to scan the scandal sheets for mention of his name.
Probably.
“There.” Esther slid the last of the pins into Daphne’s hair and stood back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect.”
Daphne blinked at the looking glass.
The woman reflected back at her was a calm, coiffed, elegant stranger. The kind of woman who would be completely unconcerned about her faux fiancé’s many admirers because she, quite frankly, wasn’t one of them, and looked forward to dissolving the temporary alliance and never crossing paths again.
Daphne averted her gaze. She didn’t wonder when she’d ceased being that cold, disinterested woman. She wondered if she’d ever truly been her to begin with.
She thanked Esther and rose to her feet, determined to make it through the evening with some semblance of self-control. No more pining for Bartholomew. Katherine was thrilled about her antiquities museum’s new exhibition. Daphne would smile and applaud and be thrilled for her. That’s what friends did.
Even if it meant going to an antiquities museum.
When their carriage arrived, the bounce in Katherine’s step and the nervous excitement in her eyes made Daphne rethink her initial reluctance to attend. Her escritoire contained a mountain of correspondence pertaining to dozens of worthy causes, but did that truly make Daphne the better person? She now recognized that one reason she cared so deeply about charity work was because she wanted people to care about her.
In contrast, Katherine cared about her antiquities museum because she wanted people to care about… antiquities.
Put like that, whose motives were purer?
Daphne’s cheeks heated in shame. Bartholomew was right. She’d let her prejudices alienate the very people she ought to have been befriending. She reached over and gave Katherine’s hand a squeeze. “Everyone will love your new exhibition. The party will be splendid.”
Katherine’s face lit up. “I hope so. Thank you so much for coming with me. I hated to tear you away from more important work, but it wouldn’t feel like celebrating without you here, too.”
Daphne swallowed a lump in her throat. “It’s my pleasure. You’ve worked just as hard as I do, and you deserve to succeed.”
Katherine pulled her into a quick hug. “You’re the best. Promise me you’ll try to have fun tonight?”
Daphne nodded wordlessly. She didn’t regret the path she’d chosen in life, but for the first time she wondered if there could be more than one right option. The choice between pleasure and charity work had always been clear. She now wished there was a way to have both. To travel to all the families who needed her, fight for justice and employment and safety, and have someone to come home to when the day was done.
Her chest felt oddly hollow, despite the steady stream of excited guests flooding into the museum. At least she wouldn’t be required to speak coherently with anyone. Antiquities were Katherine’s expertise. Daphne was just there for support. She could fade into the shadows and try to imagine a life where she not only got everything she’d been working toward, but also something extra. Something even better.
Love.
She grabbed Katherine’s arm when the very object of her thoughts strolled through the main doors on the other side of the room.
“What’s he doing here?” she whispered, simultaneously delighted and despondent to spend the next hour under the same roof. He was the reason her easy decisions were suddenly so hard. Charity work was a sure thing. Love was a ris
k.
And Daphne wasn’t much of a gambler.
Katherine flashed her a smile. “Major Blackpool? I invited him. The more the merrier, and he’s a treasure with crowds.”
Daphne wished she’d worn a prettier gown.
Her best friend was right, of course. The more attention Katherine could bring to the new exhibition, the better. And Bartholomew was incredible with crowds.
Daphne wasn’t the only one who found him charismatic. Even when every word falling from his silver tongue was unadulterated balderdash, people listened to him. Gobbled it up. Sought him out for more. He appeared more energized with every such encounter.
She, on the other hand, hated to be on display. She went wherever people needed help because it was the right thing to do, not because she had any particular fondness for crowds. She much preferred the distance and anonymity of letter writing and a good pseudonym. The only reason she and Katherine had become friends was because Katherine had never not made a friend in her life.
Much like Bartholomew.
He was currently regaling a group of preening fops with an anecdote so sidesplittingly hilarious, several dandies looked dangerously close to soiling their buckskin breeches.
What must it be like to be universally admired? Exhausting, she supposed. Daphne sighed. She would never be effortlessly popular like Bartholomew or Katherine. She was made of different stuff.
No matter. While her name would never appear in scandal sheets or history tomes, her life still had meaning. She would be the woman who made the world a better place.
Just as soon as she quit gazing across the room at Bartholomew.
If she hadn’t been watching him with as much focus as a lioness stalks her prey, she might not have noticed the slight wince in his smile every time he was forced to move a few inches in one direction or another.
The wince didn’t appear to be borne of pain. Nor did he even have a limp. With or without the handsome swordstick he occasionally carried, the man was more graceful now than Daphne had ever been. So why the wince?
She studied him even more minutely. The barely perceptible tic was more a grimace than a wince, and only occurred when he moved his right leg.