His Heart's Delight

by Mary Blayney

  ~ ~ ~

  That ended the day she went to Wilton Way to pay a formal condolence call on Sir Howard Wilton. Papa had been to see Richard’s father before, but he insisted on coming with her this time as well. She was not about to object. It would be a difficult enough visit with his company; without him it would have been hideous.

  Sir Howard did not keep them waiting. When he came into the room, Christiana wondered if he was leaning more heavily on his stick than he used to. Was his face more lined? After conventional greetings, she took a deep breath, though her voice came out little more than a whisper. “Sir Howard, I am come to tell you how very sorry I am to hear of Richard’s death.”

  He bowed and took her hand. His shook a little, but it was the only emotion he showed. “I know you must feel it as sorely as we do, Christiana.”

  She nodded and bit her lip to still the trembling.

  “We all know that he died in happy anticipation of your engagement.”

  She nodded again, not trusting her voice. “I am glad that gives you comfort, sir.” She felt so false but knew it would not ease his fatherly grief if he knew the truth.

  “He will be buried where he fell, but I have commissioned a marker for the cemetery here, near his mother, I think.”

  He walked over to a desk, picked up a paper, and handed it to her. The plan was for a small obelisk, not much taller than a rosebush with Richard’s name, rank, regiment, and dates of birth and death. The words “loyal soldier” were crossed out, and another word added that she could not read through her tears. She stared at the paper until her eyes were no longer full and then handed it back to Sir Howard. “Lovely. I know it will serve his memory well.”

  The visit was over a few moments later. She and Papa rode away in a strained silence, Sir Howard’s last confidence echoing in her head. They reached the end of the drive before she had to vent her anger.

  “He died so stupidly, Papa! A horse race. He died trying to win a bet!”

  “Awful.”

  “Oh, Papa, ‘awful’ is a nice word for it. There is nothing noble or worthwhile about the kind of accident that happens on the road to London almost every day.”

  “Not every day, Christy.”

  “Well, then it happens more often than it should. Awful is much too generous. Stupid, foolish, useless, ridiculous. And even worse, Richard died because he was trying to win money to pay off his gambling debts.”

  “Sir Howard seemed to think that made it more honorable.”

  Papa was not any more convinced of that than she was.

  “Even Joanna could beat him at whist.” All at once her anger evaporated and she sank back onto the seat. “Why would he even try to win at cards? Why was he not saving for our future?”

  “I can understand that. He wanted to fit in.”

  “It makes me so angry!”

  “It angers us all, Christy. It seems such a waste.”

  She nodded and then turned to her father. “Papa, please, I will walk from here.”

  Without complaint he knocked and the coach stopped. Christiana climbed down, watched the chaise move on, and then set off across the field toward the copse of trees that was the boundary of the two properties.

  The grass was long, a deep rich green. It was dry underfoot and she walked quickly at first and then slowed as her outrage faded.

  How foolish of Richard to try so hard to be something he was not. A soldier he might have been, but never a gambler. She stopped suddenly and looked blindly back toward the woods that had been a favorite meeting spot. Had Richard been any more foolish than she had been to build a fantasy of a childhood friendship into true love?

  Oh, surely Richard was more foolish, for his game had cost him his life. Her game had only cost her heart.

  Where was Lord Morgan? What was he doing? What had his brother done when he found out that there would be no engagement?

  Seventeen

  Morgan tossed off his fourth attempt at a letter when the door opened with a singular command and his brother came into the room.

  “James!” He stood up and tried to summon some vestige of welcome, but the gods knew that this was the least wanted arrival in a fortnight.

  “Yes, Morgan. Your brother James stands before you, eager to hear every detail of your pending engagement.”

  “You must be eager. There is plenty of water if you want to change and wash the smell of horse off you.”

  “Later.” He walked over to the table that held any number of bottles and poured a drink. He offered the glass to Morgan and when he declined, James tossed back the liquor and then poured more.

  Not like James, Morgan thought. He watched his brother with narrowed eyes and a little worry.

  “Sorry to disappoint you and Father, but I still have four months. You did say I must be married ‘by the end of the year.’”

  “Did I?” The uncertainty was compounded by the way James rubbed his hand along his brow.

  “Yes, you did. More than once.” Morgan spoke with conviction but was growing more distracted by James’s distress. He was doing his best to hide it, but it was unlike James to be less than subtle. “James, you must at least give me credit for knowing the terms of anything that smacks of a bet.”

  With an oath, James turned back to the brandy. “Then give me something, anything, to take back to the marquis.”

  “Are you here at his request?” If so, then his irritation made sense. Certainly he had more pressing affairs than humoring a sick man’s whims.

  “Request? If the ranting tantrum he threw could be considered a request. Parkner had to dose him with laudanum to get him to quiet. I came as much to escape as to honor his wish.”

  Morgan considered the revelation. He was not the only one being pushed. It must be hell having two autocrats under one roof. The gods well understood that even Mount Olympus was big enough for only one Zeus.

  Morgan walked over to James, took the glass from his hand, and urged him to a seat. “Sit down, let me order some food for you—”

  James swung at Morgan’s hand, pushing him away. “I have no time for London. My usually sensible land steward has taken it into his head to marry and is away for a fortnight. Morgan, just tell me what I want to hear and I will be away.”

  “All the more reason to order up some food.”

  “All right. All right.” He brushed a hand through his hair again. “Maybe it will get rid of this confounded headache.”

  Cook was a genius and there was a cold collation before them both in less time than it took for James to disappear and clean up. He sat down and made serious inroads into the food, talking with his mouth full. “Is it Miss Christiana Lambert?”

  Oh, how he wished it was. How he wished he could say a truthful, unequivocal yes and send James home happy. Even more, how he wished it were true.

  “Yes, yes, it is. Or it will be.”

  “What, your charm did not persuade her within a sennight?”

  “My kiss frightened her away.” Now why had he admitted that? Because he was desperate for advice from anyone and because it made James laugh.

  “Dear God, tell me you have found a virgin and have spent so long with your mistress you forgot to treat her like a lady.”

  “No, James, I made the mistake of letting too many of my feelings show, much too soon.” Before even I fully understood them.

  The confession silenced his brother’s laughter.

  “I have been trying to write to her for days now.” He gestured to the pile of crumpled paper.

  “Letters never were your strong point. Why not call on her.”

  “She has gone home.”

  “That does not bode well.”

  “I appreciate your sympathy.”

  “I am sympathetic, Morgan. The urgency comes from the marquis. It obsesses him, but at least I can go back and report that you are indeed on the verge of a proposal.”

  “That optimism suits Rhys more than you.”

  “I trust you will make
it the truth.” James stood up and nodded firmly. “Make it work, Morgan. Find her and make it work.”

  His brother left the room as abruptly as he had entered. The door clicked quietly behind him and silence filled the room as completely as James’s presence had.

  Most any other time Morgan would have tried to puzzle out exactly what was upsetting his brother. Certainly more than the unsettled state of his supposed courtship.

  Morgan walked back to the desk, well aware that his plate was already filled with confused emotions that he desperately needed to understand. Not his own. He knew his heart as surely as the gods knew man’s every failing.

  No, it was the confusion of Christiana’s emotions that he longed to understand. He picked up the pen, wondering what he could say to her that would convey his heartfelt remorse and his desperate longing, and wondering, too, if it mattered to her at all.