His Heart's Delight

by Mary Blayney

  ~ ~ ~

  Mama’s harangue all the way home in the chaise did give her a headache. Or maybe it was the effort to preserve some semblance of normalcy when her world was a shambles. To Christiana’s relief, Mama returned to the masquerade so she could escort Joanna home. With eyes half closed against the now real pain in her temples, she allowed Sally to undress her and then sent her off as well. It was a shame to disappoint her, but Christiana could not bear to relive the evening, not just yet.

  The first thing she did was grab the journal from her night table. She held it against her breast for a long moment and then with a vehemence born of self-loathing, she ripped each page out of the book and into tiny little pieces.

  Her head ached so much she thought she might be sick. She collapsed onto the window seat, pressed her forehead against the cool glass and tried to distract herself with the activity in the street below while she waited for Joanna.

  Tears trickled down her cheeks and her headache eased as though the tears were leeching away the pain.

  It did not seem all that much later when Joanna and Mama returned. Christiana glanced at the clock, surprised to see that it was close to morning. How odd that she could sit so still for so long, random scenes playing through her mind like a play she had been in, one that had the last curtain rung down without the proper ending.

  She could hear Sally and Joanna chattering and suddenly it was near impossible to wait for Sally to leave. Jumping up from the window seat, Christiana began pacing the room. The moment Sally left, she was through the connecting door.

  Joanna was combing her hair and turned with some surprise. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Sleep?” Christiana was shocked at how brittle her laugh sounded. “I am not sure I will ever sleep again!”

  Rushing over to her sister, Christiana fell to her knees next to her and grabbed Joanna’s hand.

  “Oh please, Joanna, tell me what to do. Help me. Oh, sweet heaven, how could I have been so stupid! How could I not know?”

  Christiana stood up as quickly as she had rushed over and, with her back to Joanna, burst into tears. They came in a steady stream with deep, gasping breaths. “How could I think that it was nothing more than a silly flirtation, something to make the Season go by more quickly?”

  It was the truth. It was the truth. How could it hurt so much?

  “How could I think that what I felt for Richard was love?” She turned back to Joanna, still sobbing. “It was vanity or make believe, or something equally appalling, but it was never love.”

  “Christy! Control yourself!” Joanna commanded, moving from her chair to stand in front of her sister, panic sharpening her voice.

  She’ll slap the hysterics out of me unless I calm down. With a deep breath Christiana controlled the sobs, taming them into small hiccoughing breaths. Joanna nodded approval as she took her sister’s hand, leading her to the small sofa near the fire.

  “Now sit here with me and start at the beginning.”

  “Lord Morgan kissed me.” Christiana sank down onto the sofa, even though it would be difficult to stay still.

  “Oh my.” Joanna’s words were a whisper. “Where did this happen?” She asked the question not with curiosity, but as though she were trying to draw a careful picture.

  “In the garden. We went out for a walk.” No need for Joanna to know that it had been her idea that they leave the ballroom for some air. Her idea that they walk to the fountain that was at the far edge of the property.

  “So no one saw you kiss?”

  “Oh, heaven, I hope not.” She thought a moment as she drew in a huge breath. “No, no we were quite alone and we were both in black. I was wearing his cloak because it was cool outside, especially after the closeness inside.”

  Joanna raised her eyebrows a bit, but that was as close to censure as she came.

  “So, Christy, no one saw you. Good.” She puzzled it out to herself then spoke. “Then your only real concern is not propriety but your”—she paused before adding—“reaction to the kiss.”

  “I slapped him and ran away.” The last made the tears flow again. “He stopped me and insisted on escorting me to Mama so there would be no gossip and then Mama brought me home.”

  “Christy, do stop crying.” Joanna spoke with asperity. “You will not get around me that way. And tears will only make your eyes swell.” She moved away for a moment, taking a coverlet from the foot of the bed and spreading it over the two of them. The fire was nothing more than a few guttering coals. “Of course you slapped him, but I am not talking about what you did, but your first feeling, your first reaction when he kissed you. I trust it was not disgust.”

  “Oh, Joanna, the word ‘reaction’ does not describe it at all.” She did stand up now, leaving the coverlet with her sister and reaching for Joanna’s robe. “A reaction is something you feel when you see a wonderful painting or hear beautiful music. It is much too tame a word to describe what I felt.” Her voice trailed off and she had to struggle mightily not to smile.

  Joanna did smile. Then raised her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, I see. I think I know what you mean. Rather like a sweeping wave of emotion that you can relive at will simply by remembering the kiss?”

  “Yes!” She did not mean to sound so surprised that her sister should understand. Of course this feeling was not hers alone, even if it felt rare and treasured. And terrifying. “Joanna, what should I do?”

  “About what, dearest?” Joanna pulled her back onto the sofa. “About the way you feel? About Richard? About Lord Morgan?”

  “All of it, Joanna. I have made such a mess.” Tears threatened but she swallowed them whole. “The way I feel? I do not even know how I feel. At first the most marvelous sense of coming home, never wanting to be out of his arms or out of his sight. And then not a second later I was sick at the way I was betraying Richard. I hate Lord Morgan for doing this to me and then I realize it is all my own fault for being so naïve about love and courtship in the first place, right up to the moment that I suggested we go outside.”

  Joanna grimaced. “It was your idea?”

  “Yes, taking the air had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I realize that I had been beyond flirtatious all evening. It was the costume, do you see?”

  When Joanna looked uncertain, Christiana shook her head.

  “Well, I see. The stupid costume let me be someone else for the night, let me admit that I was attracted to Lord Morgan as more than a friend, let me invite him to escort me outside for a few moments alone.” She buried her face in her hands. “Exactly what could we do outside that we could not do inside? Now I know and I have ruined everything.”

  “And you are certain that Lord Morgan does not share your feelings?”

  “Of course not. He told me from the outset that for him this was a way to protect his own interests.”

  “But you felt the same way and your feelings have changed.”

  “Have they?” She turned away and brushed at the tears that threatened. “The truth is that I do not know my own heart any longer. And I certainly do not understand his. I have never understood him and now I never will.”

  Her head drooped and she suddenly felt exhausted. “Joanna, what I do know is that I have nearly forgotten Richard’s existence. I cannot even remember exactly what he looks like. Does that sound like true love to you?”

  “No, my dear.” Joanna smiled in sympathy.

  Christiana felt calmer now. It was still a disaster, but if she could clear her head enough to think, she might be able to decide what she should do. She got up and walked to the window even though the curtains were pulled shut. “I feel more when Lord Morgan smiles at me than I have ever felt in the dozen times that Richard and I have kissed.”

  She whirled from the window and looked at her sister. “Do I need to say anything more than that?”

  Joanna shook her head.

  Christiana walked over and gave her sister a long, hard hug. “Thank you for always being h
ere, for helping me to understand. I am not sure I can sleep but I will rest and think about what I am to do.”

  She walked to the door, already thinking out loud. “I must decide how to tell Richard, when to tell him, even what to tell him. I must think about how to smooth over my stupid behavior with Lord Morgan. There is only a little while until we go home. Surely I can survive until then.” She turned back to her sister. Joanna would have spoken but Christiana spoke over her. “I could have laughed it off. I should have laughed it off, or reacted in a dozen ways that would have been infinitely less embarrassing.” She stamped her foot. “He has always been the sensible one. He is older and is supposed to be wiser. How could he! Oh, how could he ruin everything this way?”

  Sixteen

  By the bright light of day, Morgan Braedon was asking himself the same question, but his only audience was a half-empty bottle of brandy. It was not inclined to give him any answers. Bacchus knew he had done his best to find wisdom there last night, but even with half the bottle circulating through his brain no answers came.

  What insanity had gripped him in Hawthorne’s garden? He had kissed Christiana and in less than a minute a friendship he valued was ruined. From her perspective they had no future and it appeared she would just as soon forget their past.

  It had only been a kiss. A passionate kiss, it was true. That had been his fault. He was generous enough to admit that, but the temptation of that mouth had been with him since she first smiled at him at the Westbournes’ ball, months ago.

  He was human. If she would not allow him one small indiscretion then perhaps their friendship should end.

  That reasoning had been acceptable for all of six hours. Home for a change of clothes and then to his club for some deep play. It had been just the thing to distract him.

  He won at first, his sobriety a distinct advantage. He won great golden amounts of money and his humor was well on its way to being restored. Whole minutes would go by when he did not think of her face, her mouth, her outrage.

  Then the brandy he had been sipping began to infiltrate his mind and fill it with memories. The present moment faded in importance. He managed to cut his losses and come away with satisfactory winnings, enough to meet his steward’s demands for the next few months.

  First light found him sitting in his bedroom, still dressed, swilling brandy in an epic and futile search for oblivion. A few hours of restless sleep had not solved anything.

  He rang for Roberts, going through the usual morning routine without enthusiasm. He finished breakfast and moved to the library to prepare a letter to accompany the draft to his steward in Wales. It was routine correspondence; he had sent a dozen like it in the last two years, but he ruined three sheets of paper before he was satisfied with it. The letter was sanded and sealed just as a caller was announced.

  “Monksford. Welcome. It is good to see you.” The man was a sea of rational thought, which was what he needed desperately at the moment.

  Morgan waved him to a seat and joined him by the fire. With a sentence or two they covered the weather, likelihood of success in the Peninsula, prospects for a good growing season, and the latest offerings at Tattersall’s.

  After insisting that nothing would induce him to buy the matched bays currently offered, Monksford cleared his throat. “Have you been to Green Street this morning, my lord?”

  “No,” he replied, surprised at the turn of conversation. “I had not decided on whether to make a call today.” He kept his expression as bland as he could.

  “I have just come from there.” Monksford leaned forward in his chair. “The Lamberts are not home to anyone this morning.”

  “Ah, then you have saved me a trip.” He tried for a tone of finality and even made to stand, hoping that was the end of the conversation, but Monksford did not take the hint.

  “You were with Miss Christiana last night were you not? Was she well when she left?”

  “Miss Christiana went home with a headache last night.” Now it was Morgan’s turn to clear his throat. “Perhaps they hope to keep the house quiet until she is recovered.”

  “Can I guess without giving offense, that you are the cause of the upset and not some unwelcome news from home?” The blunt question was rare and the smile that unaccompanied it even more unusual.

  “Monksford, there may be no connection between us except for the courtship of two sisters, but I suppose I should tell you...” His voice trailed off as he struggled for the right words. “The truth is you will be made to suffer the consequences of my actions, especially when sisters are as close as the Lamberts. I am sure Miss Joanna will know all.”

  Monksford encouraged him with a nod. His expression turned grave.

  “Miss Christiana interpreted some, er one, of my actions last night as an insult.”

  “Lord Morgan, I can count very few times when I have seen you discomfited or at a loss for words.” Monksford took pity on him. “Did you perhaps rush your suit?”

  “Rush my suit?” Morgan gave it a moment’s thought. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

  “And is it hopeless?” Monksford shifted slightly in his seat. “Forgive my impertinence but since we are being frank, I think I need to ask if this is a true courtship. I had understood Miss Christiana’s feelings to be otherwise engaged.”

  The answer to Monksford’s question came to him so abruptly that Morgan wondered how long the gods had been shouting it at him. He wanted a future with her. He had fallen in love, single-handed and one-sided. And he wanted to find a way to make it mutual.

  Morgan was silent for so long that Monksford’s grave expression gave way to concern.

  “Monksford, this is more than infatuation. I am too old for that game.”

  To his way of thinking, infatuation implied perfection and he well knew that Christiana Lambert was not perfect. She had a way of wanting the world to turn at her command and her spontaneity was as much a burden as a joy to anyone who wanted to see her safely through the Season. He cared as much about her well-being as he longed for her arms around him. If that was not love, then what was?

  “Then, Braedon, the next question would be: Is it hopeless?”

  “Only Miss Christiana knows the answer to that.”

  “One thing I have learned from watching you this Season is that if you want something then you usually contrive a way to make it yours. I suppose the truest question is: What do you want?”

  “My first instinct is to do as she asked.” He fingered his cheek, remembering the slap with a wince of indignity. “Oh, Hades, Monksford, to do what she demanded, and never see her again. Count this Season as a lesson learned and well over.” Morgan looked away from Monksford. “But I feel differently now.”

  “Then you must find a way to repair the damage. Regret and self-recrimination are hardly productive without the lady’s attention.”

  When Morgan looked at him in some surprise, Monksford laughed. “I did learn something from my first marriage.”

  “What do you think? Should I write her?”

  “Too easily discarded,” said Monksford with a glance at the papers crumpled on the floor by the desk.

  Morgan nodded. “Yes, and that was merely a letter to my steward. Flowers? No, they are entirely too superficial.”

  “I am afraid, my lord, that you will have to wait for a social opportunity and hope that you are not rebuffed.”

  “But the Season is almost over. She could easily avoid me if she wanted to.” Morgan considered his options. “I think I must call on her. At least make an attempt to speak with her.”

  “They are not at home today to anyone, Braedon.”

  “Now you turn cautious on me!” Morgan stood up and straightened his coat. “You said yourself that if I want something I can find a way to make it happen. You inspire me, Monksford. There must be a way to be heard.”

  By the time he reached Green Street, Morgan felt like a schoolboy intent on his first seduction. He had come up with a dozen scenarios that w
ould prevent him from seeing Christiana and had dealt with each of them. Indeed, he’d decided that even if she had gone so far as to leave Town he would follow her. He raised his hand to the knocker, but the door was opened before he could let it fall. The butler stood before him, solemn and determined.

  “I am sorry, my lord, but the Lambert family is not receiving visitors today.”

  Morgan nodded curtly. “I understand that Miss Christiana is indisposed, but could I please speak with Miss Lambert.” Yes, that would work. Joanna could be his emissary.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The butler made to close the door and Morgan stuck his foot out to keep the door from latching. There must be some peddlers’ blood in his background. Desperation made for harsh measures.

  The butler looked down at his highly polished boot with some regret. A long ugly scratch ruined the sheen.

  “You misunderstand, sir.” The butler struggled between dignity and humanity. Humanity won. “It is not you personally. Miss Christiana refuses to see anyone. She had word today of her neighbor. Richard Wilton died in Spain near Talavera, these ten days past.”

  The door closed even as Morgan murmured all the right platitudes. His words faded as an iron band circled his heart and squeezed until it physically hurt. He stood staring at the door a moment longer.

  Oh, God help her. He knew how this hurt. He could remember all too well. He remembered the horrible disbelief, the powerlessness; the rage he could barely control when his mother died and especially when Maddie was gone.

  He moved to his curricle and took the reins, relieved that there were so few abroad this morning.

  He remembered the guilt that had overwhelmed him, for being the one still alive when it had been all his fault.

  He remembered something else too. The resolve he made then to never feel that kind of loss again. He vowed to never let anyone close enough to cause that kind of heartache. He would protect himself from pain by shielding himself from love.

  Christiana had rescued him from that isolation. He wanted to tell her he knew how loss felt. He wanted to help her. He wanted to ease her pain, hold her and comfort her, but he knew that right now his presence would only make the pain worse. He turned back to his curricle and set out for Monksford’s town house to report the news.