The Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

  “They don’t reduce me to tears. Let me light your candles.” He preceded Douglas into his bedroom and lit a candle on each side of the bed, only to find Douglas regarding him solemnly as he moved around the room.

  “I would, you know.”

  The earl paused by the door. “You would what?”

  “I’d read you a bedtime story, beat you at cribbage, get you drunk. I’d do anything I could to make it better.”

  “There’s nothing to do,” the earl said, shaking his head. “But thank you for the sentiment.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “About?”

  “There are things to do, and you are doing them. Now get to bed.” Douglas’s words were gentle. “You have more dragons to slay tomorrow, and you really must not compound your woes with avoidable exhaustion.”

  “Good night, Douglas.” The earl blew him a kiss and left without a sound, but stood for a long moment in the corridor. Thunder did not reduce him to tears, but neither did it ease his slumbers. The storm was moving closer, lumbering across the hills at its own ponderous pace, but not yet upon them.

  A belt of Dutch courage might see him more quickly asleep. He headed back downstairs to the library by the light of his single candle and found the brandy decanter on the sideboard. He had knocked back a tot of what really should have been sipped and was contemplating pouring another, when the library door opened slowly, and Miss Emmaline Farnum peered around the frame.

  “I could not tell if there was a light in here or not,” she said. “Will I disturb you if I get a book?”

  “You will not.” Of course he was lying. She eased around the door, closing it behind her, and glided in, carrying a single candle. The breeze from the windows winked it out, but not before the earl saw she was barefoot and clad only in a nightgown and wrapper.

  “You are having trouble sleeping?” he asked, drawing the windows closed and offering her his candle to relight her own.

  “I am. I am not used to having to be up or asleep or anything at a particular hour, as long as my baking is done.”

  “You and Winnie seem to run on your own clocks,” the earl remarked, leaning a hip on his desk and watching her peering at book titles.

  “I suppose we do have that in common, though I tried to always know where Winnie was, at least approximately. This summer…” She frowned at a book.

  The earl shoved away from his desk. “This summer, Winnie has gotten more and more daring and more and more mobile. Douglas told me she’s made a pest of herself in the livery and frequents the back porch of a certain old gentleman who gives her peppermints and has a dog.”

  “Grandpapa Hirschmann? He’s not always sober, but probably harmless, as is his dog.”

  “I am imbibing as we speak.” The earl gestured with his empty snifter. “Care to join me?”

  “A lady does not drink strong spirits,” she recited, taking out a book and opening it to the first page.

  “A lady has the option of sleeping in as late as she pleases,” the earl rejoined, watching her. “Miss Emmaline Farnum does not.” He poured her a half finger into his glass and brought it to her, holding it up to her mouth. “Sip slowly.”

  “Your hands are cold.” She frowned, wrapping her hand over his and bringing the glass to her lips. A clap of thunder close by had her pausing, listening, then sipping carefully.

  “It warms the insides,” the earl said, watching her with a slight smile.

  “Oh, my lands.” Emmie’s gaze lifted to his. “It most assuredly does. The scent is lovely, the feel of the glass in the hand pleasurable, and the heat wonderful, but the actual flavor is rather… different.”

  “Its appeal grows, but I’d still caution you to sip slowly. Shall we sit?”

  She looked torn, but then the thunder sounded again, causing the earl to hunch his shoulders in a brief involuntary bracing. After the artillery bombardments came the cavalry charges into the enemy’s waiting lines of infantry…

  “I will finish my drink,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa. He pulled up a wing chair, and from the look on her face, surprised his guest by lifting his stocking feet to the coffee table.

  He met her eyes with a challenging smile. “We men like to stomp around in our boots almost as much as we like to take our damned boots off at day’s end.”

  “We women are of like mind.” She wiggled the bare toes of one foot at him, smiling in the dim light. “But you do not enjoy storms, I think, whereas I do.”

  “I do not, but it’s getting better. Slowly.”

  “Congratulate yourself on your good timing,” she said, passing her brandy under her nose. “If you’d cut hay today, this storm would have been a nuisance. Now we’ll probably have a few fair days, and your hay can be cut and stowed safely.”

  “Good point.” The earl crossed his feet, wondering if this was what Amery and his wife discussed at the end of the day. “If the weather does remain fair, I would like to take Winnie with me into town soon.”

  Emmie nodded but pulled her feet up under her, making herself look smaller and even a little defensive.

  “Miss Farnum, nobody will treat her badly in my company.”

  “They would not dare,” she agreed, but her tone was off. A little flippant or bitter.

  “But?” He sipped his drink and tried not to focus on the way candlelight glinted off her hair, which was swept back into a soft, disheveled bun at her nape.

  “Winnie will parade around town with you,” she said, an edge to her voice, “and have a grand time as long as you are at her side. Emboldened by your escort and her happy experiences, she will wander there again on her own, and sooner or later, somebody will treat her like the pariah she is.”

  “Go on.” He was a bastard, but he hadn’t considered this.

  “I wonder, when I watch you and Lord Amery cosseting and fussing over Winnie, if I don’t do her a disservice by allowing such attentions. She is desperate for your regard and affection, your time, and yet she cannot grow to depend on it. Still, her instincts are right: She is deserving of just such care, and had her father been a decent man, she would have had at least some of that from him.”

  “But?” The earl watched the emotions play across the lady’s face and saw there was much she wasn’t saying.

  “But she cannot grow to rely on such from others,” Emmie said, setting her drink down with a definite clink. “Sooner or later, you will return to London or take a wife, and Winnie will be sent off, to school, to a poor relation, to somewhere. Her future is not that of the legitimate daughter of an earl, and she must learn to rely on herself.”

  “As you have?” He watched as she rose and started pacing the room. She crossed her arms and hunched her shoulders, her expression troubled.

  “Of course as I have.” She nodded then startled as thunder rumbled even closer. “Winnie deserves the hugs and cuddles and compliments and guidance you give her, but what she deserves and what life will hand her are two different things. She needs to know not every friendly gentleman who offers her a buss on the cheek can be trusted to respect her.”

  The first few drops of rain spattered the window, and the earl rose, securing the French doors and moving the candelabra to the mantel. Lightning flashed, two heartbeats went by, then thunder rumbled again.

  “Miss Farnum.” He waited until she’d turned to face him at the end of the space in which she paced, then held out her drink to her. “It warms and it steadies the nerves.”

  He let her approach him and didn’t speak again until she was taking a sip of her drink, almost finishing it.

  “Let us discuss these points you raise, as I think you are largely in a state over nothing.” He paused as a great boom of thunder sounded, the breeze became a whistling wind, and rain began to pelt the windows in angry, slapping sheets. The candles flickered and went out, and in the dark, his companion gave a small, startled, “Yeep.”

  “I’ve dropped my drink,” she said, a barely noticeable quaver in her voice.
“My apologies, my lord. If you’ll just…”

  “Hold still.” He hadn’t meant to be giving a command, exactly. “If you move, you might step on the glass, and it will slice your foot open.” He hoisted her easily against his chest, one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders. “Arms around my neck,” he growled, but rather than taking her to the door, he moved across the room to sit in a large, overstuffed wing chair.

  “You can put me down,” she said, and in his arms, her spine was stiff, her body rigid.

  “Soon,” he replied, arranging her legs over the arm of the chair. “This will do for now.”

  “It will not do,” she protested, but she put her arms around his neck, and St. Just would have sworn he felt her nose graze his collarbone.

  As the rain pounded against the windows and the wind rattled the panes, the earl settled them in the chair. His hand moved in slow sweeps along her back, and his chin rested against her temple. He was stealing comfort from her under the guise of protecting her feet; he knew it; she likely knew it, as well.

  “It occurs to me,” he said as if she weren’t ensconced in his very lap, “you labor under a misapprehension with regard to my role in Winnie’s life.” He tucked her a little more securely against him and heard her sigh.

  “What is your role in Winnie’s life?” She wasn’t fighting him, but neither was she comfortable cuddled up in the chair with him. Well, she shouldn’t be, but he wasn’t about to turn her loose quite yet.

  “I hold myself responsible for orphaning her,” he said. “I must be as a parent to her and provide for her in every way a parent would. I owe her this, and to be honest, it… absolves me, somehow, to do it for her.”

  “You would take her from Rosecroft?” Her voice was careful, but a load of emotion was being kept in check.

  “Sooner or later, children leave home, Emmaline Farnum. I did not expect to spend my life under my father’s roof. Winnie already has the beginnings of a lady’s education. You forget her Aunt Anna will be a duchess. Winnie will be handsomely dowered, she’ll make a come-out, she will have every advantage a young lady of good family deserves. It’s no less than was done for my sister Maggie, who is my father’s by-blow. The duchess insisted on it.”

  “You would do this for Winnie?” Emmie asked, and in his arms, the earl felt a tremor pass through her.

  “Of course.” She went silent but shuddered again. When it happened a third time, he realized the woman he was holding was near tears, and he forgot all about thunder, artillery, and infantry.

  “Miss Farnum?” She burrowed into his chest. “Emmaline?” The crying was still not audible, but her body gave off heat, and when he bent his face to her, his nose grazed her damp cheek. “Hush, now.” He gathered her into his embrace and stroked her hair back from her face in a long, slow caress. “You mustn’t take on. Winnie won’t go anywhere for many years, and you will always be dear to her.”

  He pattered on, no longer aware of the storm outside, so wrapped up was he with this much more personal upheaval. Her words came back to him, the words about Winnie’s deserving and not having a papa’s affections, Winnie’s not being able to trust a gentleman’s advances, Winnie’s being sent away.

  Winnie, indeed.

  He let her cry, and soothed and comforted as best he could, but eventually she quieted.

  “I am mortified,” she whispered, her face pressed to his chest. “You will think me an unfit influence on Bronwyn.”

  “I think you very brave,” he said, his nose brushing her forehead. “Very resourceful but also a little tired of being such a good girl and more than a little lonely.”

  She said nothing for a moment but stopped her nascent struggle to get off his lap.

  “You forgot, a lot embarrassed,” she said at length. “I get like this—” She stopped abruptly, and he felt heat suffuse her face where her cheek lay against his throat.

  “You get like this when your menses approach. I have five sisters, if you will recall.” He tried without much success to keep the humor from his voice.

  “And do they fall weeping into the lap of the first gentleman to show them simple decency?” Emmie asked sternly.

  “If he were the first gentleman in years of managing on their own, then yes, I think they would be moved to tears.” He rose in a smooth, unhurried lift and shifted them to the couch.

  “My lands, you are strong.”

  “An officer should be fit,” he said, letting her scramble off his lap, but only to tuck her in beside him, under his arm. “But if you think this loss of composure is daunting, you should be among recruits when a battle joins. The body, when in extreme situations, has no care for dignity.”

  “What do you mean?” She stirred but eventually got settled against his side.

  “To be blunt, the stomach heaves, the bowels let go, the bladder, too. And here these young fellows are, worried about dignity when the French are charging in full cry.”

  “War flatters no one.”

  “Not often, anyway,” the earl agreed, unable to resist the lure of her hair. He brought his hand up and pressed her head to his shoulder, then sifted his fingers through the soft, silky abundance. “Why is your hair not yet braided?”

  “I do it last thing. My schedule yet called for drinks with the earl, creation of a dreadful stain on his carpet, and a fit of the weeps like nothing I can recall.”

  “You are entitled to cry. Sit forward, and I’ll see to your hair.”

  His hands were gently taking down her bun, then finger combing through her long blond hair before she could protest. “One braid or two?”

  “One.” Which disappointed him, as two would take a few moments longer.

  “Will you be able to sleep now?” he asked as he began to plait her hair.

  “The storm is moving on. What of you?”

  “I don’t need much sleep.” His answer was a dodge; he took his time with her hair. He hadn’t looked for this interlude with her tonight, but after that exchange with Douglas, it eased him to know he could provide comfort to another.

  And it angered him such a decent woman was so in need of simple affection.

  “I cannot think of you as Miss Farnum,” he said as he worked his way down her plait. “May I call you Miss Emmie as Winnie does?”

  “You liken your status to that of a little girl?” Some of the starch had come back into her voice, and the earl knew she was rebuilding her defenses.

  “Emmie.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her against his chest, his cheek resting against hers. “There is no loss of dignity in what has gone between us here. I will keep your confidences, as you will keep mine.”

  “And what confidences of yours have passed to me?”

  “You knew I was unnerved by the thunder. Douglas knew it, too, and offered to read me a bedtime story. You let me hold you.”

  “I should not have.” She sighed, but for just the smallest increment of time, she let her cheek rest against his, as well, and he felt her accept the reality of what he’d said: Maybe not in equal increments, maybe not to the same degree, but the comfort had been shared, and that was simply good.

  “I will light you up to your room.” He sat back and let his arms slide from her waist. “But let me find your brandy glass before you leave this couch.”

  She waited while he lit candles, set her glass on the sideboard, then tugged her to her feet. He didn’t drop her hand and didn’t wrap it over his forearm. He kept his fingers laced with hers until they were outside her bedroom door.

  “Shall I light your candles?” he asked, not moving to open the door.

  “Not necessary. Until tomorrow, my lord.”

  He snorted involuntarily at that salvo.

  “What?” She stood her ground.

  “My name is Devlin.” He resisted the urge to invite—or order—her to use his name. He just informed her of it, then lifted his hand to cradle her cheek before leaning in and kissing her forehead. He paused, so hi
s breath fanned across her skin for a moment before he pressed his lips to the spot between and above her eyebrows.

  For the sake of his own dignity, he needed to stop there. He brought his free hand up so her face was framed in his palms and told himself to step back. The sweet, female scent of her beguiled his wits; the feel of her skin so soft and warm against his callused palms stole his common sense. He angled his head and pressed his lips to her cheek, knowing that did he touch his mouth to hers, there would be no rescuing this moment. A carnal motive he could not have aspired to only days ago was threatening to trample honor, and some emotional need he could not even properly name was going to create disaster where a simple, good night kiss was intended.

  By force of will, he managed to drop his hands. “Sweet dreams, Emmie Farnum.”

  She nodded and slipped into her room, closing the door silently behind her.

  Her dreams were so sweet, she awoke again in tears and wondered how the earl’s well-intended kindness could feel so devastatingly painful.

  ***

  “Vicar.” The earl joined his guest in the spacious parlor that looked out over terraced gardens and a bright, sunny morning. “You are a man of your word.”

  “I am a man who needs some time away from my desk,” Hadrian Bothwell replied, smiling genially as he turned from the window. Clergy were supposed to be charming up to a point, but Bothwell surpassed that point. He was also tall, blond, blue-eyed, younger, and altogether better looking than any vicar St. Just could recall from his youth.

  “Mondays, I let myself go completely to pot.” Bothwell’s smile became a grin. “I make it a point to don neither jacket nor cravat. Tuesdays, I toddle around but avoid the church work.”

  “It never occurred to me the Sabbath is not a day of rest for a man of God. May I ring for some tea or perhaps some cider or lemonade?”

  “Lemonade would be a guilty pleasure. Is your orangery producing, or did you import?”

  “Despite inadequate care, the orangery is making an effort.” The earl signaled the footman and rejoined his guest. “Shall we be seated?”