Miss Biddle was said to be fond of literature, and although poetry bored him — he favored political treatises and military dispatches for his reading material — Simon was gratified to know that she understood the importance of reading and could see to the education of their children.
Sir Thomas had sent a letter welcoming Lord Sommersby’s emissary and inviting him to stay at Mayfield to discuss the potential suit and business matters that marriage to the earl would involve. The baronet was obviously inclined toward the alliance. If Miss Biddle proved adequate, the courtship could be conducted during the Season and a wedding held immediately after.
Simon’s tedious mission would be accomplished with satisfying efficiency.
CHAPTER TWO
Amanda stared at the man Sir Thomas introduced as Major Thornton, secretary and cousin to the Earl of Sommersby. An uncommonly tall figure in a worn and somewhat ill-fitting suit, he surely must be all of fifty, as his hair had gone completely grey and his mustache wore a tired droop. Mr. Thornton’s jawline had held surprisingly firm for his years, however, and his keen gaze suggested his wits had lost nothing to age. The eyes themselves ran to neither blue nor green but seemed to change with the light. They radiated a coolly assessing air, and Amanda had the distinct impression that beneath Mr. Thornton’s politely respectful exterior lurked a rather arrogant nature.
His proudly erect bearing seemed in keeping with a former military man now in the employ of an acclaimed war hero like the Earl of Sommersby. Were it not for his age, Mr. Thornton might still have been a soldier. His shoulders spanned the breadth of the doorway and appeared quite capable of bearing the entire weight of the door frame, if need be. Never once did he slump to accommodate Sir Thomas’s diminutive form; he was quite at ease towering over his host, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about his proportions. Amanda wondered why a man of Lord Sommersby’s wealth and fame did not pay his employees well enough to procure a decent suit. An imposing form like Mr. Thornton’s demanded quality attire.
But of course, Amanda reminded herself, that was not her concern.
Mr. Thornton displayed no embarrassment at his frayed lapel and worn collar. Indeed, there was a subtle confidence about his demeanor, Amanda observed, as the party gathered in the drawing room after a late dinner. Moving with a grace and agility surprising in a man of his size and age, he surveyed the room with hawk-like eyes. And though he was clearly a man of lesser means, there was nothing subservient about his manner. Obviously, Mr. Thornton was a man to be relied upon. Amanda suspected that Lord Sommersby allowed his secretary a great deal of authority.
Lady Biddle’s ankle was troubling her, and she retired early. Sir Thomas assisted her up the stairs, charging Felicity and Amanda to get to know Mr. Thornton, as they would be spending no small amount of time in his presence.
Her uncle’s cryptic statement confirmed Amanda’s suspicion that Sir Thomas favored a match between Felicity and the earl. Over dinner there had been talk of a visit to Sommersby Castle so that Felicity and Lord Sommersby could meet before the whirl of the Season began. That meant the Mayfield party would probably leave within a few days, as it was no inconsiderable distance from eastern Sussex to the western Dorset coast. Amanda never doubted that Mr. Thornton was quite capable of escorting them. The man exuded efficiency and leadership. Indeed, the only awkwardness he displayed came when Felicity, in high spirits over the prospect of meeting such a noted war hero as the earl, began to question him about his employer.
“Is it true that Lord Sommersby’s brilliant distraction of French troops on the Peninsula enabled Wellington to win at Salamanca?” Felicity asked, her lovely face becomingly flushed in anticipation of hearing tales of the earl’s cleverness.
Mr. Thornton stiffened. “Credit for the Peninsula strategy belongs to Wellington, of course.”
Felicity’s eyes grew dreamy. “But even Wellington accorded Lord Sommersby a hero, did he not?”
Shifting uncomfortably, Mr. Thornton regarded Felicity as if she had just said something extremely unpleasant. “The true heroes of that mission,” he corrected, “were our ships, which held their positions and forced the French to maintain a cordon defense around the entire perimeter of the Peninsula.”
Felicity eyed him in confusion. She was not accustomed to being contradicted by any member of the male gender and, in any case, had not truly comprehended Mr. Thornton’s explanation.
Amanda wondered why Mr. Thornton was so reluctant to sing his employer’s praises, which had already been trumpeted by Wellington himself and even the Prince. Still, his point was well-taken.
“Mr. Thornton means that the threat of sea landings forced the French to leave no area undefended, greatly diminishing the number of French troops left to fight in reserve,” she told her cousin.
Felicity showed no interest in the finer points of military strategy and stifled a yawn. “I believe I will just fetch a shawl from my room,” she said, and left.
Mr. Thornton shot Amanda a surprised look.
“You seem to grasp the principles of war, Miss Fitzhugh.”
“My father fought on the Peninsula,” Amanda said quietly. “I followed the events most avidly.”
His eyes searched hers, and Amanda again noted their peculiar, changeable color — now more green than blue. They held a question, but he did not ask it. She readily comprehended the silent query, however, and his reluctance to pry caused him to rise in her estimation.
“He is buried at Busaco,” she said.
“I am sorry.” Was that compassion in his eyes?
“Thank you,” she said. “Some people do not understand why I have so little enthusiasm for the celebrations that have overwhelmed England in recent months. Many families lost loved ones, of course, but I cannot bring myself to celebrate the end of something I wish had never begun.”
He eyed her quizzically. “War is nothing to celebrate, to be sure. And yet, a nation must fight.”
“Must it?” Amanda challenged. “I cannot see that the sacrifice of so many lives serves any purpose other than to forever separate them from their loved ones.”
“Would you have handed the Continent to Napoleon, Miss Fitzhugh?” Beneath his neutral tone, Amanda sensed the accusation.
“It is one thing to defend one’s home,” she replied, “and quite another to cross the seas to interfere with a tyrant whose overweening confidence would have destroyed him eventually in any case.”
This time there was no mistaking the disapproval in his eyes. “Surely you do not mock the sacrifice of thousands, madam.” But though his words bore a sting, they were delivered in such an expressionless voice Amanda was seized by an urge to shake that implacable restraint.
“Not at all, sir.” For once Amanda was glad of her height, which made it easier to stand up to Mr. Thornton’s looming presence. “But I do not believe war serves any end except the causes of those who decree it. And while the soldier whose life is forfeit pays the price, the king and his minions see little change in their comfortable existences.”
A silence ensued.
His expression betrayed nothing of the distaste she suspected he must feel. He merely studied her for a long moment. “There are those who would take such talk as treason,” he said in such a quiet and unemotional tone that he might have made an idle comment about the weather.
“There are those who dismiss any opposing view as treason,” Amanda replied, “though of course you are correct. Were I a man, I might have held forth in the taverns and meeting places and stirred the people with my seditious talk — and no doubt have been clapped in irons long ago. I suppose it is fortunate that I am a woman.”
His brows rose. Oddly, they displayed no hint of the grey that had overtaken his hair. Amanda flushed in sudden embarrassment. She had spoken these thoughts to no one. Why had she blurted them out to a man who — given his employer — could have no sympathy for such a position?
But it was not his silent disapproval that made her unea
sy. It was the clear gaze that, without seeming to move at all, studied her from head to toe.
If he was taking her measure as a female, he would find her wanting, of course. Surely he would not be so rude as to mention that she was uncommonly tall for a woman or that her features were not small and delicate like Felicity’s. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and Amanda grew warm under his inspection. For all that he was old enough to be her father, Mr. Thornton did not possess a particularly fatherly air.
Though he made no comment, the prolonged silence between them was commentary enough. Amanda supposed she ought to steer the conversation into more amiable channels.
“I understand that we are to journey to Sommersby together,” she said politely, unable to bring herself to convey much enthusiasm over the prospect.
“It is a pity that Lady Biddle will be unable to come,” he replied, accepting her change of subject with an equal lack of fervor, “but Sir Thomas appears to have every faith in your skills as a chaperon.”
Despite his polite response, his cool tone suggested that he was wary of the suitability for the task of someone as heretical as Amanda. Amanda decided that anyone unwise enough to cross Mr. Thornton was to be pitied. On the other hand, she thought irritably, who was this tall stranger to judge her convictions?
“That is because I am known to be incorrigibly practical, Mr. Thornton,” she replied evenly. “I am not one to be swayed by sentiment, nor do I scruple at plainspeaking. Ideal qualities for a chaperon, do you not agree?”
He did not reply.
“I fear I will not be counted a lively addition to the earl’s gathering,” she added, unable to keep a cross tone from her voice.
Something volatile flickered in his eyes before vanishing. “On the contrary, Miss Fitzhugh. A practical nature fares best at Sommersby Castle.”
“Oh?” Amanda eyed him curiously.
“The castle is very old — rich with history, but plagued by a rather dark reputation. I have spent only a little time there, but —”
“Come, sir. People have reputations. Buildings merely have names,” Amanda interjected.
He did not rise to the bait. “I merely suggest that Miss Biddle should be prepared.”
“For what, pray? Is the place haunted?”
“Not at all.” There was not even a glimmer of humor in his eyes. “But the castle is not in the best condition, and its reputation has made it difficult to secure servants. It seems that over the centuries, the castle’s dungeons were responsible for a considerable decrease in the local population. Political disputes, I understand.”
Had Mr. Thornton cast some sort of gauntlet before her?
“Fortunately, dark reputations do not frighten me, nor do I believe in ghosts,” Amanda replied. “To be sure, Miss Biddle has a rather more fertile imagination, but I will be certain to keep her occupied with other matters. I trust the place is not unsafe?”
“You may count on the earl to see to your safety.”
“I do not believe that answered my question, sir.” Amanda wondered how she was going to stand two more minutes in this maddening man’s company, much less two weeks at Sommersby Castle.
At that moment, Felicity returned with her shawl and insisted on taking the night air, the rain having stopped. Reaching for her own shawl, Amanda buoyed her spirits with the hope that Mr. Thornton would not find it necessary to remain at the castle during the whole of their visit.
Eager to take in the fresh scents of the newly dampened garden, Felicity moved quickly out onto the terrace ahead of them, leaving Mr. Thornton little choice but to offer his arm to Amanda. Amanda placed her hand lightly on his sleeve, and was surprised at how solid and firm his arm felt. It was rather disconcerting to feel such strength in a man of his years.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Belatedly, Amanda realized she was staring at his arm.
“Not at all,” she replied quickly. She allowed him to lead her toward the terrace, and his hand briefly touched her back as he propelled her out the door toward Felicity.
In the heavy air, laden with the sweet smells of the garden made more pungent by the recent shower, Amanda was rather acutely aware of his presence. She found herself wondering exactly how many years Mr. Thornton had on his plate and why a man of his age should provoke such a reaction.
Undoubtedly, she had been away from Kent too long.
###
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
The Perfect Bride is available in print and in digital.
BOOKS BY EILEEN PUTMAN:
Regency Romances:
The Perfect Bride
The Dastardly Duke
A Passionate Performance
Reforming Harriet
Noble Deception
Words of Love
A Worthy Engagement
Historical Romances:
Never Trust a Rake
Never Kiss a Duke
So Reckless a Love
Garden of Secrets
www.EileenPutman.com
A Passionate Performance Page 29