Veil of Honor

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “It’s better than being married,” Will said, his voice tight. His heart worked uneasily, the beat echoing in his head. What his father was saying was an echo of what Bridget had once said to him. He remembered that stinging observation of hers now.

  Well, Bridget was off ensuring her own happiness, this Christmas. Just as he was making his own.

  Only, was he happy? Now his father had said the words aloud, Will could not avoid the truth. Clubs and brandy and cigars, women both refined and not…none of it gave him any satisfaction, anymore. He had spent two days at the small, provincial club in Brighton, determined to stay and carouse until he enjoyed himself. If he could get drunk enough, the dissatisfaction and the restlessness evaporated. For a while, at least.

  “You used to hunt all the time,” Vaughn added. “You’ve stopped even that, which was at least good exercise, out in fresh air.”

  “You may have noticed it is Christmas, father. Hunting is done for the year.”

  “Did you hunt at all, this year?” Vaughn replied.

  Will stared at his plate.

  “My observation stands, then,” Vaughn finished.

  “If it is a matter of fresh air…” Will began.

  “It is not only that,” Vaughn said. He sighed and sat back. “You are determined to find any way that will let you avoid looking the truth in the eye. You haven’t been happy for a long time, Will. It runs deeper than that, though. It’s eating at your soul. Whatever it is, it won’t let you consider taking a wife, when you have examples all around you of how comforting and pleasant married life can be.”

  “You love Mama,” Will ground out. “That’s why you like being married.” He couldn’t lift his gaze from the plate. The pounding in his head was increasing.

  “I love Elisa in ways you barely comprehend,” Vaughn said. “Although I was once exactly like you. I was too busy looking for the next adventure, the next warm bed, to let myself do anything as foolish as fall in love.”

  Will jerked, surprise biting deep. “You were?” He met his father’s gaze. “You?”

  Vaughn’s smile was small. “You and I are much alike, even though all anyone can see in you is your mother’s good looks. That has made life rather easy and pleasant for you. I suspect you have never had to work hard to woo a lady.”

  Will cleared his throat, his discomfort rising like a hot wave inside him. It was eerie how precise his father’s observations were. That it was his father saying such things increased his uneasiness.

  Vaughn gave a soft laugh. “I can see I am right, by the way you wriggle upon the chair. Enough said. We understand each other, I think. It’s time for you to reconsider, Will.”

  “Reconsider what?” Will asked, his voice strained.

  “Everything,” Vaughn replied. “The end of the year seems like an appropriate time to review one’s life, does it not?” He rested his hand on the paper, close to Will’s elbow. “I know speaking of these things is awkward, Will. Men have a hard time dealing with such matters. However, if you wish to speak further, I am willing to spend whatever time you need, to help you arrive at a new perspective.”

  Will shook his head. “You will do whatever it takes to see me married,” he surmised.

  “Oh, Will,” Vaughn breathed. “I would do whatever I must to see you happy. I believe finding a good woman and marrying her is one way. It was for me. However, if you examine yourself and arrive at the conclusion that marriage is truly not for you, if you can determine a different way to be happy, then I would applaud you for the effort.”

  Will blinked. His eyes burned. A childish wail built in his innards. “What about heirs?” His voice was husky, barely there. “The titles…”

  “If it comes to that, we will deal with it,” Vaughn said, his voice gentle. “Just don’t cut yourself off from one of life’s greatest pleasures, son. Think carefully, before you decide.”

  Will closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at his father. Misery clouded his thoughts.

  Vaughn’s chair scraped the floor. His father’s hand settled on Will’s shoulder and squeezed, then lifted away. “Get some sleep, Will,” Vaughn said, his tone still gentle. “Things will look better once you’ve rested. They always do.”

  Will didn’t have the courage to speak. He was afraid that if he tried, everything would pour out of him, a dark river of woes. He listened to his father leave the room, heading for the main stairs, then put his head in his hands and shuddered.

  * * * * *

  Gloucestershire. Christmas, 1868

  Bridget smoothed down the velvet of her gown even though not a fold of the dress was out of place. She felt conspicuous, for the dining table she stood beside could easily contain another forty people, yet it was set for only two.

  Bridget looked at the other diner. Alan Hardwick, Duke of Taplow, waited for her to seat herself, for no butler or footman was in the room to assist and clearly, he was not about to do that service for her either. He was a duke, after all.

  Her throat tightened and her heart knocked against her chest. She had arrived at the estate late this afternoon, with barely enough time to wash the dirt of travel from her and change for dinner. She had made her way downstairs, expecting to meet the rest of the Duke’s family in the drawing room, only to find Taplow standing at the fireplace alone.

  He had hurried her into the dining room and now stood waiting for her to sit.

  Bridget brought her hand to her throat, unease squeezing it. “I am afraid I do not understand, your Grace. We are the only diners? Where is your family? It is the day before Christmas Eve…”

  “It will just be us, Lady Bridget,” Taplow replied. He was a handsome man, in a clean and dark way. His hair gleamed blue in the light of the overhead candelabra and his jaw was refined, even if it did come to a rather feminine point at the chin. His smile was warm. “I thought we should learn about each other before…well, before anything else happens.”

  Before she was presented to the family, Bridget guessed.

  Taplow’s smile grew warmer. “And did I not encourage you to call me Alan, the way your family do among themselves?”

  Bridget tried to clear her throat, to relieve the pressure there. “I am uncomfortable with the idea of dining with you alone, your—Alan. Where is your butler, by the way?” She looked around.

  “I dismissed him for the night,” Taplow said. “We cannot talk freely with him hovering over us. I would prefer that we be able to talk. Sit, Bridget. Please.”

  She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, considering the big, empty table. The varnished walnut surface beyond the edges of the white tablecloth gleamed, looking empty and cold.

  “I’m afraid my appetite has deserted me,” she confessed.

  Taplow let his hands drop from the back of his chair. “Oh, good,” he breathed, relief sounding in his voice. “I have no desire to eat, either.” He stepped around the table and picked up her hand. His black eyes met hers. “I can only think of you,” he added, his voice low. His lips touched the back of her knuckles. It was a warm touch. A soft one.

  Bridget shivered. “We should…perhaps, go back to the drawing room, where the staff can find us…” Her voice was weak. She did not understand what was happening, here. She had never been put in a situation like this, before. There were no guidelines, no protocol to instruct her.

  “Why would we do that?” Taplow asked. He curled his arm around her waist and drew her close, so that her dress swayed back and she was nearly pressed against him.

  Bridget’s heart chattered. Her breath hurried. She wasn’t sure if she was frightened or if she liked standing this close to the man. She had no experience to measure her reaction.

  Only, it did feel rather nice. Taplow was taller than most men—although he certainly didn’t have the height that Cian and Peter and other men in her family did. Standing beside a tall man made her feel small and weak and feminine.

  This close, she could feel his warmth, too. That was a novel experience.
r />   Taplow watched her, his smile lingering. “There. See? The world did not shatter.”

  Bridget tried to laugh. Her throat was far too restricted. She smiled instead, forcing herself to it. “Perhaps I misunderstood your invitation, your—Alan. I thought you were inviting me to share Christmas with your family.”

  “I did,” Taplow assured her. “Tomorrow, I will take you to the other house. Tonight, though, I wanted to be just about you and me.”

  Relief touched her. She was still wary, though. “Intimacy is supposed to be for after…other things.” She would not be uncouth enough to mention marriage right now. It would make her seem manipulative.

  Taplow nodded. She could see he recognized what she had avoided saying. “You are a woman with a mind,” he said. “I would have you know me properly, to make up your own mind, before those other things. I want us to understand each other thoroughly, so we can be certain. Don’t you agree?”

  Something in her relaxed. She could breathe once more. “Oh, yes, Alan,” she murmured. “I would like that above all.”

  Why had she been concerned? She had not misread the situation at all. This was Taplow’s way of ensuring their commitment was based upon mutual….well, knowledge.

  At least he had not smothered her with declarations of love she could not believe. He was sparing her that hypocrisy. Instead he was offering a chance to form an intimate relationship before they committed to each other. It was more than many men would bother to do.

  The last of her fear fell away. Bridget met his gaze once more. “How did you guess?” she asked.

  “Guess what?”

  “That I would prefer above all to know you properly before…those other things?”

  Taplow drew her closer, so their bodies were against each other. Bridget shivered at the contact, which wasn’t unpleasant at all. “Either I understand you completely, or a little bird told me,” he murmured and pressed his lips to hers.

  Bridget sighed into his mouth. There had been only two kisses before this one, yet they had been enough to tell her she liked kissing. This kiss was far more thorough and far more pleasurable.

  Taplow—Alan—kissed her until her breath was quick, shallow pants and her body throbbed.

  Then he took her hand and drew her from the room, up the stairs, to her borrowed bedroom. Bridget went willingly, eager to learn this great mystery of life and cement her relationship.

  How sweet Taplow was, to consider her fears and feelings and try to ease them like this! She had until now wondered if she was doing the right thing, allowing Taplow to court her. Now, though, she could see her instincts had been correct. Taplow was a good man.

  This coming night would cement the unspoken agreement between them, paving the way for Taplow to propose…possibly in the two days while celebrating Christmas with his family.

  When Taplow opened the door to her room and stepped inside and waited for her to enter, Bridget didn’t hesitate.

  Chapter Three

  Marblethorpe Manor Estate, Sussex. January 1869.

  The mist was so thick it would have been more correct to call it a fog. It swirled over the fourteen shooters, the spotters and the dogs, as they moved across the field, strung out in a wavering row. The dogs were panting, eager to dive into the clouds. They pulled at their leashes longingly. They were well trained and didn’t bark or make sounds that would startle the pheasants before the shooters were ready.

  Will tucked the broken-open shotgun under his arm into a more comfortable position and trudged forward, gritting his jaw. It was cold. Colder than he ever remembered it being, especially down here in Sussex. He shivered under the layers of coat and jacket and scarf.

  Worse, he couldn’t catch his breath. The line of shooters was not moving fast, although the mud of the fields and the uneven plowed furrows left from the summer took effort to navigate without turning an ankle. His breath bellowed and his calves ached. He couldn’t remember shooting being this exhausting before and they hadn’t even started yet.

  He glanced to his right. Bedford had no trouble keeping up with the line. Lord John Barstow, newly minted Marquess of Bedford, was the same age as Will and just as capable of finishing a decanter before dinner as Will.

  Bedford saw Will’s glance and grinned, his dark features lightening. Beneath the hunting cap, his black, shaggy hair was damp with the fog and clung to his forehead and cheeks. His cheeks were ruddy with the cold. “Just think of the breakfast we’ll have when we’re done and cheer up, old chap!”

  Will grimaced. “I would cheer up, except for the thought that we must walk all the way back, afterward.” He tripped over a clod of earth and swore under his breath. Really, this was ridiculous. He was a young man. Well, young enough that he should not be breathless from walking across a field.

  “Tell you what,” Bedford replied. “If you bag more than me, I will carry you back. How does that sound?”

  Will snorted. “Done,” he said swiftly. “You’re a fool, Bedford. I can always out-shoot you.”

  Bedford laughed, keeping his voice down. “You haven’t been on a shoot for over two years. You’re rusty, Rothmere.”

  Will didn’t respond. He needed his breath just to walk. Also, Bedford was right. He was out of practice. Only, he was still a good natural shot and there were trophies and awards on the bookshelves at Farleigh Manor and even more of them at Kirkaldy to prove it. More of them than Bedford could lay claim to, for most of them he had stolen from Bedford by a hair’s breadth.

  “Rusty or not,” Will said, then gulped a few more lungfuls of air, “I will still bag more than you.”

  The shoot captain gave a soft call and everyone came to a stop. The dogs circled their walkers eagerly, waiting to be unclipped so they could dive into the hedgerows and trees with abandon.

  The tree line and the formal hedgerow in front of it loomed in the fog as charcoal silhouettes, twenty yards away.

  The dogs and the beaters raced forward and Will lifted the gun and closed it with a heavy snap. The other shooters were doing the same.

  Barstow laughed again. “Ready, Rothmere?”

  “I hope you’re feeling strong today, Bedford,” Will shot back. “You will need all your strength to carry me.”

  “I advise you to save your breath,” Barstow said, lifting his shotgun and sighting along it. “You will need all of it.”

  For a long moment, the shooters held still, waiting for the first squawks of alarm that would give them the location of the pheasants. The flutter of wings would follow, then the game birds would burst from the trees, winging hard to gain height and escape the dogs and beaters.

  Will kept his head down, listening hard. His lack of breath, the ache in his calves and thighs, the cold…all the petty concerns fell away. His heart slowed. Calm descended. This was something he was good at. Why had he avoided it for so long?

  His father’s conversation before Christmas was the reason he was here now. As much as Will had tried to suppress the uneasy ideas the conversation stirred, they’d continued to break into his thoughts since then.

  He had arranged this shoot because of it. The alacrity and enthusiasm of the responses to his invitations had stirred his guilt. Most of the men he invited, like Bedford, he considered to be good friends yet he had seen few of them over the last few years. He’d glimpsed them here and there at formal occasions, if they attended the Season at all.

  Many of these men he had not seen because they were married and stayed upon their estates, only traveling to London for essential House sessions, then returning to their wives and children with undisguised eagerness.

  That was another uncomfortable thought Will thrust aside while arranging the shoot and sorting the invitation responses.

  The men he drank with at the club were a different type, he realized. Many of them were commoners. Good men. Smart men. However, they stayed in London year-round, tending to their businesses and affairs.

  Bedford, at least, was still a bachelor at large. W
ill drew comfort from that. At least one other lord with the same obligations as he was still enjoying life to the hilt.

  The dogs brayed, drawing Will’s attention. Then, muffled by the fog, came the heavy flutter of wings and ruffled feathers.

  He lifted his chin, raised his gun and focused.

  * * * * *

  As they tramped back to the house, afterward, Bedford clapped Will on the shoulder. “Did I not call it? Rusty, as I said.”

  Will nodded. Of the fifty-two birds taken, Will contributed a paltry three. Bedford bagged twelve. It wasn’t a sliver of a victory, as their victories over each other usually were. It was a complete rout and humiliating, at that.

  In his gut, something stirred. By God, he would not let this sorry state of his go unchecked. “Next year, I will make you take this day back,” Will told Bedford.

  Bedford laughed. “Very well, then. Next year, we will see.”

  The mist was clearing as the sun rose, although it was a weak, pale disk in the sky. The ground sloped down to the flat valley where the big, stately gray house sat in front of stables and outbuildings and extensive gardens. When Raymond rebuilt the manor, he had worked to retain as much of the old gardens as possible and the great oak trees beyond them. As a consequence, the grand manor with its pleasing symmetry—so unlike Farleigh Manor—looked as though it had stood there for generations.

  “Breakfast always seems heartier after a shoot, don’t you find?” Bedford said, looking down at the house. Perhaps he was anticipating the mulled wine and oatcakes and stewed fruit that would be on offer. “Is Marblethorpe’s cook up to scratch?”

  Will remembered, then. His heart sank. “Damn it all…” he muttered.