A Soldier's Heart (2 page)

The insistent voice interrupted a particularly pleasant dream: Lord Blackwood was sweeping her up in his arms, about to enter a bedchamber. It was probably just as well the dream ended abruptly, because the novels were somewhat vague about what happened next.

“Serena, child!” The booming voice came again.

Slowly Serena forced her reluctant lids open. The sight of Aunt Lavinia, her graying hair falling about her shoulders, clad in nothing but a ruffled jonquil dressing gown, brought her bolt upright in bed.

“Aunt Lavinia, what is amiss? Papa?” she gasped, her sleep-numbed mind grasping at what might be the only logical reason for her aunt to be out of bed at such an unseemly hour.

“No! This!” She flung open the bedchamber door to admit three upstairs maids and two downstairs maids, each carrying an enormous bouquet. Yellow primroses, pink gillyflowers, blue cornflowers, white and red roses, filled their arms. Two giggled self-consciously.

“Don’t gabble about there. Back to your duties.” Lavinia waved her hand in dismissal before rounding on Serena. “There is even more downstairs. A veritable garden! The house is abuzz, so my maid woke me, knowing full well I would want to immediately discover who is so extravagantly courting you.” She thrust a cream envelope under Serena’s nose. “Here! Open it at once.”

Serena did as she was bid, even though she already guessed who had sent them. It was confirmed a moment later as she gazed down at bold black handwriting.

“A piece of your garden to ease thoughts of home. Until we meet again. Blackwood.” Serena folded the note over in her palm and looked up into her aunt’s startled face.

The owl-like eyes stretched so wide in surprise, Serena feared it must be painful. When Aunt Lavinia demanded a chair, Serena scrambled out of bed to assist her.

She collapsed into the fragile gilt chair, muttering to herself. “What could the boy be about?”

Standing barefoot in her night shift, Serena hovered over her, the precious note clasped securely in her fist. “Aunt Lavinia, are you all right?”

Lavinia seemed to collect herself. “All right! My dear girl, a duke’s son! And not just any, but Avalon. And a chance to be a duchess; for the heir, the Marquess of Longford, is such a dissolute hellion, he’s bound to come to an untimely end. Then…! Oh, I can hardly stand the sheer pleasure of informing your dear papa how brilliantly I have launched you.”

Surging to her feet with an energy Serena had never before witnessed, Aunt Lavinia clasped her in a snug, lavender-scented embrace. “After breakfast we will return to Madame Bretin’s for at least two more evening dresses.”

“But I thought we had spent all the money Papa had allotted?”

“Penny-pinching was fine when I thought you could look no higher than a baron. But now we must spare no expense! Be ready in two hours,” she commanded, before sailing out of the room triumphantly.

Alone, the delicate mingled scents of bouquets the maids had placed on all the surfaces surrounding her, Serena clasped her hands together. Could Aunt Lavinia be right? Had Blackwood been as shaken by their meeting as she? He was a soldier, a distinguished one according to her aunt. Could he be laying siege to her heart? She chewed unconsciously on her bottom lip as she bent over the cornflowers. Had he known they were nearly the same color as her eyes?

She had no time to spin romantic dreams! Really, she must get a grip on her absurd new fancies! She knew why she was in London for a Season: it was her duty to make a good match which would enhance her family lines. She was the granddaughter of a baron, niece to the present Baron Fitzwater, a niece by marriage to the late Lord Charlesworth, and cousin to the present, Frederick. Although her lineage was not as old and noble as some, she had her place in the
ton
and her duty to perform.

That that duty would make her heart pound in her throat and turn her icy cold yet too warm at the same time had never entered her head. At least, not until she’d put aside the weighty books on sermons and religious philosophy which had made up most of her reading matter and daringly took up her first novel. In truth, the fragile idea of a love match had only flitted through her mind then. Now, she admitted, since being bowled over by Lord Blackwood, the idea had taken wing.

Despite her better intentions, she was still sitting, musing, when a gentle knock upon the door heralded the maid’s entrance with her usual breakfast of hot chocolate and dry toast. Spurred into action, she sipped and nibbled as she hastily performed her toilette so as to not keep Aunt Lavinia waiting.

They arrived in the entrance hall at the precise moment, and Serena stood quietly while Aunt Lavinia gave her appearance a thorough appraisal. Serena had taken great pains to get the white plume on her flat gray hat to curl just so. She was rewarded with a smile.

“You will do quite nicely, Serena,” her aunt declared. “But I believe one more walking costume is also in order.”

Aunt Lavinia was a woman of her word, Serena discovered. Whereas before, the rose silk had been too dear to consider making into an evening dress, now it had to be completed immediately, plus a scarf with spangles added as a drape about Serena’s shoulders. Another gown of a blue nearly identical to her eyes was declared a must by Madame Bretin and agreed to. A walking costume in the shade
minuit
and a perky hat with wide satin ribbons was added. There seemed to be no limit to Aunt Lavinia’s extravagance.

Apparently satisfied, her aunt rose from the chair Madame Bretin had provided, but sat rather firmly down when the modiste draped silk shot through with silvery threads over Serena’s shoulders.

Aunt Lavinia blinked several times. “It does do wonders for her pale skin. And against those ebony curls…” The owl eyes slitted as she pondered for long moments, unconcerned that Serena was standing in nothing but her shift.

Madame Bretin considered three or four plates before selecting, a shrewd look in her eye. “This style for Mademoiselle, I believe, to show off her fine shoulders and bosom.”

Finally Aunt Lavinia nodded. “It shall be the pièce de résistance. The very thing for Lady Sefton’s ball. It must be finished by this Friday.”

“But of course,” Madame Bretin promised, clapping her hands.

Two shopgirls hurriedly carried away bolts of fabric while another helped Serena back into her gray dress, which, in comparison, seemed lifeless and dowdy. She ran her hands over the proper costume Papa had made up for her trip to London. It had seemed the finest gown she’d ever owned.

Turning away from her reflection, she tried to regain her perspective. What would Papa think? Her dress was made of good fabric and would wear well, much more practical than the fine silks she’d just chosen. She hadn’t even read the daily passages from her Bible since arriving in London. She had, instead, concentrated on following Aunt Lavinia’s dictates for a successful Season: how to curtsy gracefully; how to hide behind her fan when flirting; and, most important—perfecting a bored expression amidst the balls and soirees, never allowing anything so vulgar as emotion to show. This, Serena couldn’t quite master. Now, suddenly, she wished for dear Papa and his wise counsel, and Buckle’s gentle understanding.

“Hurry now, Serena, I want you to rest this afternoon so you’ll be in prime looks tonight,” Aunt Lavinia urged, hastening back to their waiting coach. “The pink satin, I think, very springish and…”

The bustle of activity on Bond Street caused Serena to stop and look around her. Members of the
ton
promenaded both sides of the street: ladies in beautiful walking ensembles, bucks in shining Hessians, and dandies, their shirt points so high, they could turn their heads neither right nor left. The street itself was clogged with crested carriages, and a high-perched phaeton clipped past, pulled by a matching pair of blacks, a small tiger clutching the rear fender. There was an excitement in the very air which called to something inside her, something that must have been only waiting, dormant, during all the peaceful years growing up alone in the rectory at Market Weighton.

“Do stop daydreaming, Serena, and get into the coach!” Aunt Lavinia whispered sharply.

Serena realized she was blocking the sidewalk and dutifully climbed up beside her aunt.

“Really, Serena, do be more attentive! Tonight might be a turning point in Blackwood’s regard. I must gauge him carefully.” Her aunt’s face was uncharacteristically stern, her huge eyes almost hard. “I promise you I won’t let this opportunity slip away from you. I would be utterly lacking in familial feeling if I did anything but my utmost to bring Blackwood up to scratch!”

With rare insight Serena knew nothing her aunt or she could do would alter what was to come. Lord Blackwood had said he would not let her go. Serena believed him.

Matt’s first maneuver of sending Serena every posy he could find at such short notice had its desired result. When she entered Lady Farnsley’s ball, her gaze immediately searched him out even in the midst of one of the saddest crushes he’d ever seen. He fought his way across the crowded room, barely acknowledging greetings now that his objective was in sight.

Tonight she was again the picture of his dream, her ebony curls gathered in bunches over each shell-like ear, framing the sweet innocence of her face. A soft pink color flushed her cheeks as he presented himself.

“Miss Fitzwater, you look especially lovely tonight.” Although she did not offer her hand, he took it nonetheless, raising it to his mouth and letting his lips linger on her long, thin fingers a moment more than he should. She gazed at him with such earnest bewilderment—obviously an innocent—that he squeezed her hand hearteningly once before releasing it.

“You are very kind, Lord Blackwood. Thank you for the lovely flowers. They are quite wonderful,” she responded in correct form, receiving an almost imperceptible nod from her aunt.

Lady Charlesworth had always reminded Matt of a giant owl with her gray hair and huge, knowing eyes, which now pinned him with cool calculation. “Lord Blackwood, it is so close in here. Perhaps Serena would enjoy an orangeade on the terrace.”

With a jolt of surprise, Matt realized reinforcement was at hand. Obviously Lady Charlesworth supported his campaign. But did she realize how quickly Serena must surrender her heart?

“An excellent idea, Lady Charlesworth. May I escort you to the terrace, Miss Fitzwater?”

At her blushing nod, he placed her hand on his arm and guided her through the throng out onto the terrace.

The music and voices left behind, quiet closed about them. He settled her in a corner, out of a slight breeze which chilled the evening air. Her scarf slid from her shoulders. As he reached to adjust it, inadvertently his fingers brushed across her throat just above the soft rise of her breasts.

Her gasp stilled his hand and he stepped back before the sudden blaze in her eyes.

“Are you attempting to seduce me, Lord Blackwood?”

Shock rooted him to the spot. He knew her background—the only child of Reverend Bartholomew Fitzwater, second son of the third Baron Fitzwater. How could the gently bred, inexperienced girl he knew her to be even think such a thing?

“No, Miss Fitzwater,” he finally found voice to utter. “I’ve been away from London a long time, but I don’t believe custom has changed so much that it would be at all the thing to do at Lady Farnsley’s ball.”

“I am untutored in London ways, but it seems your actions verge on the bold, my lord.” She stared up at him with huge blue eyes, her hands clutched in her lap as demurely as if she were sitting in a pew at her father’s church. “You are a soldier and must return to your duties soon. Are you hoping for a dalliance? If so, I fear it cannot be.”

How adorable she was! Delight replaced shock. His perfect English flower had the gift of honesty, a trait he prized above all others. But if she already thought him bold, he might as well continue. Lifting both her hands, he turned them palm up, pressing kisses into each center. “Miss Fitzwater, before I return to the war, I mean to make you my bride.”

“Your bride?” she gasped, pulling her hands free so one could flutter nervously at her throat. “But you don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re the woman I’ve been hoping to find.”

“You have been looking for someone approximately my height, with dark hair and blue eyes?”

Her earnestness caused him to smile. “As a matter of fact, yes, you are exactly what I’ve been seeking.”

“You mean someone with my background: a parson’s daughter, reared in the country,” she persisted with quiet dignity.

In battle Matt knew only cool certainty, but confronted with Serena’s calm logic, he became slightly agitated. “It has nothing to do with your background. I only know the instant I saw you, I wanted you for my bride.”

Tilting her head, she chewed on her lower lip for a minute as she studied him. “It seems to me, Lord Blackwood, you are in the clutch of a romantic vision.”

“Nay, Miss Fitzwater, you are the woman I truly want to make my own.” Pressing his advantage, as she continued to calmly study him with clear eyes, Matt reached for and again lifted her hand, holding the palm up in his fingers. “My boldness will know no bounds to achieve my end. I pray you won’t dash my hopes so soon.”

Determined to win her heart no matter the odds, he was confident of the outcome, so was shocked to discover his pulse raced waiting for her answer.

“Your hopes are safe with me, Lord Blackwood,” she whispered, dropping her eyes.

Elated at her response, he covered her small hand with his other and drew it once more to his lips. “Just as your heart will be safe with me.”

Enthusiasm prevailed over reason and he led Serena out for three waltzes. He knew tongues would wag, but that was of little import. The sooner the whole world realized his happiness, the better.

He pressed his campaign the next evening at the Countess North’s soiree. His attentions marked Serena yet were not so scandalous as to draw censure upon her.

When he stayed continuously at her side, two nights later at the Duchess of Monmouth’s musicale, and cheerfully discouraged other suitors by escorting her down to supper, the wags were certain.