Bridget sat on the big square hassock, her feet sitting together on the floor with automatic preciseness and her back straight. Her tartan ruffled dress was new, and the dull gleam of the sateen pleased her, as did the unexpected mix of colors, which included blues and greens and a soft pink that played well with her brown hair.
Will stepped out from the tight pack of men at the far fireplace where the brandy decanter was. Jack was there with Peter, who had just returned from America, as well as Cian and Ben. All the troublemakers together, Bridget thought to herself as Will crossed the room.
Will was wearing a long afternoon jacket of dark brown gabardine that suited his golden features, instead of the usual black. It was a fine jacket, cut with the most modern lines, yet he seemed to care little for the fashion of the garment, for he sat on the arm of the sofa closest to Bridget, crushing the hem beneath him. He leaned closer to her with a smile playing at his mouth.
“So…no announcement of your engagement to a lord none of us have heard of, Bree?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I said I would marry outside the family. I did not say I would marry the first man who came along.”
“Ah…then you are properly considering each and every offer. Good.”
Bridget pressed her lips together. In fact, she had been made no offer at all during this, her second season. Not a single proposal, not even a most cavalier and insincere suggestion of marriage, had come her way. Not that she would ever tell a soul that awful fact. Not even Mairin would learn of it. “Why do you care how thoroughly I vet my proposals, Will?” she said, instead. “Are you considering such a drastic act yourself?”
He laughed. “Hardly. Who would have me, anyway?” He said it carelessly as if the idea of wholesale rejection did not bother him.
“I would suggest you find a sweet, innocent debutante who has no idea who you are and marry her before she does find out, if you intend to go that route.”
“Ah, but you declared I was too old for innocent misses, last year,” he pointed out.
“Oh yes, there is that,” Bridget agreed quickly.
“Not that I am all that old,” he added.
Bridget frowned. “Just how old are you?” she asked curiously.
“Well, really, Bree!” He laughed again.
“It’s just that you and Jack and Ben have always been far older than all of us. Bigger and older and more inclined to mischief,” she added.
“That is how I acquired my wrinkles,” Will told her, the humor back in his eyes. He pointed to the fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes.
“You got those from squinting into the sun,” she said primly. “Instead of wearing a hat like a sensible man would.”
“Probably,” he said shortly, crossing his arms. “Do you have any contenders sniffing after you, Bridget?”
Her heart gave a little flutter. “If I did, I would not give you their names. I don’t want you frightening them off, you and Jack.”
“As if we would!”
“You would, and you have. You talk a good line, Will, only I saw you scare that baron, whatever-his-name-was, away from bothering Mairin at the Sweetpea Ball.”
His smile didn’t shift, though the humor in his eyes faded. “I know your ambitions to marry outside the family. I wouldn’t be cad enough to disrupt your opportunities. That would hardly be fair.”
“Fair?”
“We are all entitled to find whatever happiness we can in our allotted life.”
The skewed note in his voice made Bridget ask gently: “Is that why you won’t settle down, Will? Because you want happiness?”
“It isn’t so much to ask, is it?” His voice was soft.
Bridget considered the question seriously. “I suppose it is a fair expectation, although I rather doubt you’ll find much happiness at the bottom of the brandy decanter, either.”
Even his smile evaporated. “You have your sister’s directness, don’t you?”
“Lilly? I’m sorry if I offended you, Will. As you pried into my marital state, I thought that…” She trailed off.
He got to his feet. “You’re quite right. A direct question deserves one in return. Neither of us care enough about each other to speak anything but the truth.” He glanced toward the other end of the room. “The brandy calls,” he said dryly and gave her a small bow.
Bridget sighed, as he strode back toward Jack and the others. Well, at least she would not have to put up with his close examination of her affairs any more this year. That might be a blessing in disguise.
* * * * *
The Great Family Gathering, Innesford, Cornwall. October 1866. Two years later.
As Will strode across the gravel toward where she stood beside the carriage, Bridget pulled off her glove and held out her hand. “No, I am not engaged. Yes, I am playing the field. Yes, I am being highly selective. No, I will not tell you their names.”
Will laughed and hugged her. “It is good to see you, too, little Bree.” He swayed out of the way as the footmen hauled her trunk off the shelf and across the gravel to the front door, their faces red.
Bridget raised her brow. “I am of an age where no one but you would dream of calling me ‘little’, Will.”
He rested his hand on the top of his head, which was bare as usual, then swung it out over her own. The feathers in her hat barely brushed his palm. “You are most definitely little, Miss Bridget.”
She was secretly pleased by the descriptor. “So…another year…” She sighed.
Will’s amusement faded. He studied her with unusual seriousness. “Do you have prospects, Bree?” he asked, his voice gentle.
Bridget’s middle fluttered. She had just lived through her fourth season, with not a single proposal or even a sideways glance from suitable gentlemen. While no one was cruel enough to say anything, the murmuring behind hands and the whispered comments had followed her everywhere.
She breathed hard, as her eyes burned, threatening to well up with tears. The ultimate humiliation would be to cry in front of Will, of all people. “No,” she whispered. “I do not.”
Will didn’t laugh at her, which he would have normally done. Instead, he nodded, as if she was merely confirming what he already knew. Perhaps he did. London society was a claustrophobic crucible during the Season. Everyone knew everyone else’s business.
“You are still playing the game, I see,” she added, desperately trying to change the subject. She had only just arrived at Innesford five minutes ago. It would not do to put on a display of hysteria the moment she got here. There were already far too many people in her life measuring her with critical gazes. “I think I saw a different lady upon your arm every time I saw you, this year.”
Will pushed his hands into his pockets, straining the lines of his coat. “Are you still so determined to marry outside the family, Bree? By now, those of us not yet married must seem more appealing to you.”
Bridget made herself laugh up at him. “Are you putting yourself on that list, Will?”
“God, no,” he said quickly. Sincerely. “Can you imagine how miserable we would make each other?”
“Most likely,” she agreed.
“Besides, I’m a drunk, womanizing old man, remember?”
She tried to smile in response. How had she ever thought him to be old? Or had she grown up enough to see he wasn’t all that old? Cian had let Will’s age slip, two years ago, during a quiet family dinner. Will had turned twenty-seven this year, which was wasn’t even close to middle-aged. There were peers in their forties and fifties combing through the debutantes each year and no one said they were too old to marry the youngest maids.
Bridget swallowed. “Will, if you don’t mind, could we—just for this year—would you mind not asking me any more about marriage?”
“Of course,” Will said instantly. “Not a single word more.” He gave her a short bow and turned on his heel and left.
She shivered, as if the sun had slipped behind a cloud and the true chill
of the day could be felt.
Chapter Two
The Great Family Gathering, Innesford, Cornwall. October 1868. Two years later.
Will realized he had got to his feet and was heading for the other end of the long table, before making a conscious decision to do so.
He gripped the back of the empty chair beside Bridget. Mairin had left before dessert was served.
“May I?” he asked, tugging at the chair.
“Of course.” Bridget held the satin of her gown out of the way as he pulled the chair out and sat. Everyone else at this end of the table was engrossed in their own conversations, so he could safety turn his back on them and face Bridget properly. “You didn’t come to last year’s gather,” he pointed out.
Her small smile stayed in place. “I think you might be the only person who noticed.”
“Did you stay away because of me?” he asked. His jaw dropped in surprise. Why on earth had he blurted that out? Yes, he had wondered why she stayed away. However, on the dozens of occasions they had seen each other in ballrooms and parlors during the season, he had not been interested enough in the answer to separate himself from whatever woman he was keeping company with to cross the room and ask her.
Bridget lifted one dark brow. Her pert nose lifted, too. Her eyes, which were as dark as her hair, speared him. “That is your first question, Will? Whatever happened to ‘why aren’t you married yet?’”
He winced. “I’ve become predictable. That’s not good.”
Her smile grew. “You have always been completely predictable, Will. How many hearts did you break, this year? How many barrels of brandy did you empty?”
“I enjoyed myself immensely, too,” Will shot back.
“So did I,” Bridget replied firmly.
Will hesitated. “You did?” he asked, surprised. Enjoyment had been missing in Bridget’s life for many years now. He had watched her pull away from the family and draw in upon herself a little more with each passing year she remained unmarried. Two years ago, she had been upon the brink of despair.
Now, she professed that her season had been enjoyable.
Bridget’s brow lifted. “I did, and I will forgive you for looking surprised by that, Will. I didn’t expect it myself.”
“Who is he?” he demanded, as his gut tightened. “Is he a good man?” he added, awkwardly, aware that his voice had risen.
“He is,” Bridget told him. “A duke,” she added, her smile burning a little warmer.
Will smoothed the linen cloth in front of him, removing a minute wrinkle, working at it. “Then I am pleased,” he said, his voice rough. He forced himself to ask, “How long before an announcement will be made?”
“I hope, shortly after Christmas.” Her smile became incandescent.
“You are spending Christmas with his family,” Will breathed, putting it together. “Formally meeting the family…that is a good sign.” Perversely, the tension in his chest grew. What was wrong with him? This was good news. The best news, especially for Bridget.
“Thank you, Will,” she murmured. Then she leaned closer to him. He caught a hint of her scent. Something other than the flowery bouquets most women liked to splash behind their ears and on their wrists. It was subtle and it was pleasant. Mature, sophisticated. “I see you are still defying your parents, too, Will. Unwed at thirty and no heir to mollify them…they must be beside themselves by now.”
Will’s gut tightened and his heart thudded. “I’m too selfish to settle down,” he said shortly. “No one would have me, if I cared to ask.”
“Not that you care to ask, in the first place,” she finished.
“Do you love him, Bree?” Will asked softly.
“Why do you ask that?”
Will clenched his hand into a fist under the table. What on earth was bothering him so much? Why did he care if she loved the bastard? “I…think you deserve no less than a true love match,” he said stiffly.
“Liar,” she chided him. “We’re both selfish, Will. You always have been, and I have learned to be, in the six years since I came out. Society has a way of souring one’s outlook on life.” She grimaced. “I will marry the Duke and give him a son, then I will relax and be happy. Finally.”
The bitterness in her reply did not lessen the tension in his body. Will got to his feet, unable to sit any longer. “I will be the first to congratulate you once you do,” he assured her, “as I am aware of how difficult it is to be happy, these days.”
He stalked back to his place at the table where the brandy and cigars waited. He wished he’d never left it.
* * * * *
Marblethorpe Manor, Sussex. Early December 1868. A few weeks later.
Will wondered if it was ever too early for larks. Despite dawn being barely a smidge upon the horizon, the cheerful warble of the larks trilled from the old oaks surrounding the gray stone house. They were the only creatures making any sound. Otherwise, the night—the morning—was still and silent and abysmally cold. Steam rose with his every breath and the end of his nose ached with it.
Will crept into the house and sighed as warmth bathed him. He considered removing his boots, for Marblethorpe did not have the slate tiles in the front hall the way Innesford did. The warm wood and rugs would preserve his feet if he moved about in stockings and he would avoid waking anyone that way.
He moved through the magnificent front hall to the smaller family rooms in the west wing of the house. It was too early to find any of the staff—they wouldn’t be up yet. He could help himself to the basket of biscuits kept on the sideboard in the dining room. He was starving and breakfast was hours away yet.
His father sat at the table in the dining room, at the end where he would have a perfect view of anyone passing the big doorway.
Dismayed, Will paused there.
Vaughn looked up from the spread of newspapers before him. On the top corner of a broadsheet, a cup and saucer sat. “You’d better come in and sit down,” he said. “You look as though you need to.”
Will hid his reluctance and moved into the room. “You made yourself tea?” he asked, astonished.
His father lifted a brow. “I do know how to light a stove. There is little else required to make tea other than a delicate hand with the tea leaves.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Will said dryly. His throat contracted. He would appreciate a cup of tea himself, although he had no intention of asking his father if he could take a cup from the big teapot sitting on the sideboard beside the biscuit basket. Instead, he lifted the basket lid.
Gingerbread and tea biscuits. He liked the ginger biscuits Raymond’s cook made. She only made them when fresh ginger was available, though. Ah well. He took three pieces of gingerbread and a cake plate from the stack and sat in the chair at the middle of the table. “Today’s papers are here already?” he asked.
“These are yesterday’s,” Vaughn said.
Not for the first time, Will consciously noticed the amount of gray in his father’s hair. Vaughn still had thick, vigorous locks, yet the gray at his temples was solid silver, with little black left elsewhere.
The skin about Vaughn’s jaw was loose, too. The flesh beneath his chin soft and rounded. Yet, his green eyes were still those of a young man. Will had seen them snapping with fiery anger when Vaughn was roused to one of his rare fits of temper.
Will busied himself arranging the plate in front of him and reaching for a napkin and spreading it across his knee. It was uncomfortable to think of his father growing older. “You didn’t read those papers yesterday?” he asked.
“I did,” Vaughn replied. “However, it pays in unexpected ways to occasionally read every word in them.”
“Even the classified advertisements?” Will asked, thinking of the hyperbole and gossip found in those columns.
“Especially the advertisements,” Vaughn said. He pointed to the heavy black ink of the Times. “I keep waiting to see a certain announcement among them.”
His heart skipping, Will busie
d himself with eating a mouthful of the gingerbread. It was stale and dry.
“Will,” his father said, his voice firm.
Will sighed. It had been several months since they had last argued over his unmarried state. One could almost say another argument was overdue. “Father, please, not today,” Will begged him. “You can scream and take your pound of flesh tomorrow.”
“Today is better than tomorrow,” Vaughn said. “You keep putting this matter off. I cannot.”
Will pushed the fingers of his spare hand against his temple. “Why must I marry?” he demanded. “Why now? Plenty of fellows don’t bother with getting an heir until they’re almost too old to manage it. I’m only thirty—”
“And I am fifty-eight,” Vaughn shot back, his tone cold and filled with iron. “Your mother is sixty-two, Will.” He hesitated. “Of course, I did not share that number with you.”
“Of course not,” Will said, while his heart squeezed and his gut roiled. Sixty-two! Elisa had been frail after the illness that had taken her two years ago, although Will had not coupled that to her advanced age. She still looked younger than many women he presumed would be near to her in years.
Vaughn nodded, as if he could see Will’s thoughts. “Time is relentless, Will.” He tapped the newspaper sheet in front of him. “Reading the classified advertisements, with their death notices and their birth notices is a reminder that this family has been luckier than many others. Death has not visited us often. I’d like to think our luck is because of the family’s insistence upon living well and finding happiness in whatever way we can—”
“Yes!” Will said, leaping upon the statement with relief. “Exactly! Why can I not stay happy, father? Why are you insisting upon a wedding and a child, when I will be perfectly miserable and so will she?”
“Are you happy, Will?” Vaughn asked, his gaze direct and unwavering. “You came down to Sussex for Christmas, although you have spent little time with everyone here.”
“There are clubs in Brighton…” Will said weakly.
Vaughn nodded. “I am aware of them,” he said. “You have been gone two days, Will. Two days, without a word to your host, or your mother. And now you drag yourself in here at the crack of dawn, looking as if you have spent most of those two days at the bottom of a brandy barrel. You reek of cologne and it is not yours.” His mouth turned down. “You look like a man who is living hard and fast. Not a single man I know was ever truly happy living as you are.”
Veil of Honor Page 2