Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) (10 page)

True swallowed back tears. He did not need her becoming a waterpot. “And you dream you are back there, and dying?”

He moved restlessly onto his back again. “That is the usual dream. It starts with faces, the faces of the dead. Those I have killed, and those who were my responsibility and died under my command. Hundreds of faces.
Thousands
of faces.”

It was too much for any man, and even more so for a sensitive man as Wy evidently was, True thought. He was caught reliving the past nightly, and if it did not stop it would break him, drive him mad from lack of sleep and anguish. Amazing that it had not already. He was punishing himself, she thought, punishing himself for surviving what had killed so many.

“I don’t understand why I lived,” he said, his eyes closed and his face twisted in a frown. “While so many better men, men with wives, children, died, why did I live?”

“Perhaps that is what your dream is about; it is your way of sentencing yourself to death on the battlefield, where you think you should have died. But every man has a destiny, you know. Yours was to live. You must not regret that.”

“I don’t regret it. I just don’t know how to live now, how to go on.” He opened his eyes and gazed up at her, then reached up and cradled her cheek in his warm palm. He sighed deeply. “The vicar is a very lucky man,” he said, then swung himself to his feet and limped off toward Lea Park. “Come along, Miss Becket. The others will wonder what has become of us.”

They strolled back arm in arm, with golden sun beating down on their heads. True looped her bonnet over her free arm, too entranced with the feel of sunlight on her hair to worry about her complexion becoming brown. Likewise, Wy carried his jacket. They didn’t speak, each lost in their own thoughts and completely comfortable together even in silence.

If only, True thought; if only Wy thought he was spared for something, or found something worthwhile to do with his time, he might forget the nightmares. The day they visited his estate she had met Stanley, the soldier-carpenter amputee Wy had hired to work on Thorne House. The man was openly grateful for the work and the chance to provide for his family. He was happy, it seemed, perhaps because he was busy and fulfilled, and had no time to brood on the war. Sometimes work healed in a way no amount of contemplation could.

Was that the answer to Wy’s pain, simple busyness, a full life? Would marriage and children heal him? Perhaps, then, marriage to Arabella would be the best thing for him. True tried to picture Bella soothing Wy’s nightmares, working at his side to refurbish Thorne House, giving him children, laughing with him, loving him. Somehow it was a picture that just would not form, but was that because it was unrealistic, or just because True did not want to believe it could work?

Chapter Seven

This matchmaking effort was not at all going as planned, Lady Leathorne thought as she politely kept her eyes trained on Arabella, who was executing a rather difficult piece on the piano. The girl was skillful and graceful, everything a future countess should be. So why did Drake not see it? Why was he not pursuing her as he had the year before?

When the young people had come back from a walk that afternoon, she had been overjoyed to see a modicum of peace on Drake’s face, his brow smoother than it had been of late. It pleased her that walking with Arabella should have that affect on her son, for she believed that marriage and family was what he needed to help him recover from the horrors he had witnessed, horrors she could only guess at, as Drake never spoke of them. If Arabella could help him find his way back to himself, to the man he used to be, they could have a good life together, Lady Leathorne was convinced of it.

But then she found that she had been mistaken. Arabella Swinley had spent the afternoon walking with Conroy, while Drake strolled in another direction with Miss Becket. If anyone was to be congratulated on her son’s more peaceful countenance, it was the vicar’s daughter. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him happier, but she wanted him happier for the right reasons.

With a mother’s shrewd gaze she examined Miss Becket, who sat serenely doing some needlework by the light of a lamp. Was the girl a fortune hunter? Twenty-five or so years of age, she would hazard a guess, and poor as a churchmouse, judging from her tidy but out-of-fashion dresses. Lady Leathorne could see neat darns along the cuff and collar of her gown, where worn spots had been turned under and mended. She was not a
real
companion; she did not take payment for accompanying the Swinleys, Isabella had explained, or for occasionally visiting them at Swinley Manor. She was not so poor, apparently, that she needed to find work. But for some unfathomable—to Lady Swinley, anyway—reason, Arabella enjoyed Miss Becket’s company, and so the widow had given in this time when her daughter had asked if her cousin could join them.

Lady Leathorne examined Miss Becket closely. She thought she could understand why the restless and active Arabella enjoyed the young woman’s company. She exuded peace and tranquillity, as though she was completely happy within herself, and those around her absorbed some of that serenity. Perhaps that was why Drake looked calmer, almost rested, after spending the afternoon with her.

It would not do! Miss Becket was all very well, and likely a nice enough young lady, but she was just not a suitable match for Drake, and it was not good for him to spend so much time in her company, rather than with Arabella. Propinquity could lead to Drake thinking he was in love, or something equally ridiculous, especially in his weakened mental and physical state.

No, the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley was the perfect match for him. Certainly a baron’s daughter was not as high as he could go; with his lineage and his looks, an unencumbered estate of his own and the earldom in his future, he could likely have looked even to a duke’s daughter. But the Swinley barony was very old, older than the Leathorne name, even, existing back in the mythic past from the time just after Norman conquest, in the eleventh century. And it would unite the families of two old friends. She and Isabella had planned this match from the moment Arabella squawked her first cry. Well, perhaps “planned” was too strong a word. They had hoped for it, wished for it, talked of it.

Perhaps they should have put the two together more as young people, but Drake bought his colors at such a young age that Arabella was still a little child. One did not announce to a headstrong lad of eighteen that he is to marry a little girl who is just learning her ABC’s. If he had in the meantime chosen another young lady of equal birth and fortune, Lady Leathorne would not have objected. After all, Arabella had spent a few Seasons in London, to see if
she
found someone more to her taste. Nobody knew, then, how long the war would last, or when Drake would come home, so both mothers had agreed it was hardly fair to tie Arabella to a man she had only met once.

But neither had wed, and so they would make a match of it, if the mothers had anything to say in the matter. He would
not
wed a nobody. He was a powerful young man, and he needed a girl of equal strength. He and Arabella would make magnificent children together.

In Lady Leathorne’s imagination a hazy, golden future opened up of tawny-haired Apollos and Athenas, the flower of English youth, her grandchildren. She had waited so long, and she was not getting any younger. She wanted time to enjoy those grandchildren, hold them on her knee, spoil them with sweets, coddle them. But if Drake was not pushed a little he might never make the move that would ensure the Leathorne legacy. Miss Arabella Swinley—young, beautiful, wellborn—was his perfect match in every way.

She glanced over at her son to see if he was taking proper note of Arabella’s superior performance. He certainly was looking her way, but she knew her boy too well. He was thinking of something—or someone—else. Even as she watched, he glanced over at Miss Becket, and his golden eyes held a soft look, an expression of . . . was it yearning? Not good. Not good at
all
. When she and Lady Swinley had planned this visit, it had been understood between them that Drake and Arabella would likely be betrothed before two weeks were up. It was over a week already, and though polite to each other, there were no intimate little glances, no rush to be together, no stealing away to be private.

Arabella appeared to be doing her best. When with him she played the coquette, and found little ways to touch him, or get close to him; Lady Leathorne had seen and approved of her campaign. She was using every trick she had learned through three London Seasons littered with men prostrate at her feet. Drake should be head over ears by now. Lord Conroy certainly appeared to be a fair way in love with her, and she wasn’t even trying with him! And yet Drake remained unmoved.

She and Isabella would have to put their heads together and come up with something. They must be doing something wrong, or maybe it was just that they were letting the young people alone too much. Maybe they should take a firmer hand on the reins and steer a course to matrimony for Drake and Miss Swinley. She wanted what was best for her son, and marriage and family were what was right and proper at this point of his life.

His life!

Once more, she sent up a prayer of thanks that his life had been spared, because if Drake had died, she would have, too. Her body might have lived on for years, but her soul would have been buried on that awful battlefield alongside her beloved son.

He was alive, and he would have the life he deserved with the
wife
he deserved! She motioned to her bosom bow, Isabella, and the two women slipped out of the room for a council of war.

• • •

September melted away, an unusual string of hot, sunny days and warm evenings filled with visiting, picnics, a fête champêtre dinner for the neighbors on the lawn, games of battledore and shuttlecock, impromptu dances for the young people of the neighboring town, all manner of social activities. It did not seem to Drake that he had a single moment to himself. Wherever he went, Arabella Swinley was there, his partner in whist, on his arm as they walked, alone with him in the garden . . . everywhere. He saw his mother’s controlling hand in it but was helpless in the face of her and Lady Swinley’s clever maneuvering. And really, was it so bad? he wondered. He had gotten over his initial distaste for Miss Swinley’s company and conversation and found that all things considered, she was an entertaining companion for an afternoon.

She might be a little spoiled, she might be high-handed and demanding, but she was more clever than she let on, and her conversation, when she forgot to be coquettish, was intelligent. She played games with vigor and good sportsmanship and was a spirited competitor when her mother was not there to dampen her vivacity. Lady Swinley appeared to have the idea that gentlemen preferred a spiritless widgeon to an intelligent women, and perhaps that was true of many. Conroy, for example, looked rather put out when Miss Swinley bested him in battledore and shuttlecock, despite the impediment of her long skirts.

Miss Swinley, in other words, had every potential to be a charming wife for some lucky gentleman. If his mother had her way, it would be him. But was he the gentleman who would say his vows with Miss Swinley and mean them? He could do worse. It was not as if he really thought he could “wait for love,” as Truelove put it.

Truelove. Though they had spent little time together for that week, he had been aware of her always, strolling with Conroy or talking with the ladies. Sometimes there was a pensive look on her pretty face, an abstracted air of indecision about her. He was not good usually at reading people’s expressions, especially ladies, but he rather thought she was thinking about her offer of marriage. Had she made up her mind? Would she marry her earnest, good vicar and move away to the north? It would be a life of toil, but he could see that she would not mind that. Did she perhaps love her Mr. Bottleby just a little? He didn’t know, and he shouldn’t care. But he did.

The days wore on, the heat and humidity in their valley building. The relentless activity his mother enforced among the company was meant to keep his mind off his troubles, no doubt, but it was wearing him down, with no sleep at night to give him back his strength. How could he sleep when he was straining every nerve and sinew in the attempt to awaken himself before he entered the hideous dreams? It was too humiliating to think that everyone in the household might know about his affliction. Most nights he was successful and snatched a couple of hours sleep, but there had been once or twice when Horace had had to awaken him in the throes of his agony.

And he was longing for some solitude. Doing the pretty to the ladies had never been his strongest suit even when they had been stationed in England and there were balls and parties and dinners held for the officers every night, or so it seemed, in the town nearest their encampment. Someone like Conroy would have been in his element, but Drake was a sore disappointment even to Wellington. The duke himself was a gracious and gallant guest at balls and dinners, and Drake had tried to emulate the great man, even altering his habitual relaxed manner of dress to conform with the expectations that every officer would be perfectly attired. When he had come back to stay at Lea Park during Napoleon’s incarceration on Elba, he had tried his best with his mother’s guests, Lady Swinley and her daughter. Apparently he had been more successful than he had given himself credit for, as was evidenced by his mother’s persuasion that he and Miss Swinley would suit as marriage partners.

The constant pressure to be charming was becoming more and more difficult, though, in his present state of mind. He needed to escape, at least for a few hours. The sultry weather had reached a peak, finally, ending with a day that was so stultifying that most of the company were spending the day napping or reading in their own rooms.

Drake took advantage of the quiet house and crept out alone to a shed off the stables, retrieving a beat-up hat and canvas bag. He was going to go fishing, and he was going
alone
.