Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) (15 page)

“I was here the other day,” he said, “and I swear to you, I did not even notice that the wallpaper is moldy, as you have so kindly pointed out, and that half the bedrooms are missing wardrobes.”

“But you must notice, sir, you must!” True rattled a cupboard door and it fell off in her hand. She shook her head, propped it against the cupboard and stood, dusting her gloves off. “A house is not just the walls and the grounds, but every stick of furniture, and the linens and the plates and the—”

“Stop, stop!” he cried, his hands up in mock surrender. He took her arm and they descended to the first floor again and went out the kitchen door that faced the stable in back. “Before I decide to purchase this place, I shall consult with you, for you clearly have a much steadier head on your shoulders than mine. If I start talking about moldy wall coverings and wormy furniture to the land agent it will help me get a better price, I warrant.”

True pulled her arm out of her companion’s grip and put her hands on her hips. “I am going no farther until you tell me what you are talking about.”

Drake laughed. He put his arm around her shoulders and stood with her, gazing out from the back stone steps over the outbuildings; besides the stable there was a chicken house, a barn, and a couple of sheds, one of them leaning on such an angle it would not survive the next strong wind. It was perhaps a shabby scene, but it was gilded for her by the amity between her and her companion. True sighed and laid her cheek against Wy’s chest. This felt much too nice, being held in the circle of his arm.

“You gave me the idea for this when you marveled at how much Stanley knew about carpentry, and how it was a pity he could not pass that knowledge along. Do you know how many men went into the army because they were trained for nothing else? And do you know how many others there were who were experienced craftsmen? A good carpenter, farrier, blacksmith, whatever, could always name his own price. I thought that some of the fellows out of work since Waterloo might like to train in one of the trades. And I further thought that some of the men, like Stanley, could train them.”

True pulled herself away, with difficulty, from the comforting rumble of his voice, reverberating in his chest and against her cheek. She gazed up at him with admiration. “Wy, what a perfect idea!”

“It won’t solve the problems of the world, but it might help a few fellows support their families, or just make a living. I know old Nosey said our army was the ‘scum of the earth,’ but a lot of the men are decent enough fellows given half a chance. We wouldn’t have won the war without them. I sent a message to my steward about it, and he sent me the key to this place. It is about halfway between Lea Park and Thorne House.”

Impulsively, True threw her arms around Drake’s waist. “I think it is a marvelous idea, Wy, truly marvelous, just like you.”

She felt his hesitation, but then his arms settled around her, and they stood gazing out at the humble stable yard and farm buildings, while he talked about this vision of a school for teaching the trades, employing ex-soldiers as the teachers, housing the students and teachers there, too, and hiring some ex-soldiers and their wives to look after the physical needs . . . cooking, cleaning, and so on.

Drake felt a curious calm overtake him as he held True close. With her, he could talk of anything; he never needed to worry about witty chat, nor that he bored her. She already knew more about his war experiences than any other person outside of those who were there.

In short, he could say anything to her but what was in his heart. He suspected that he might be a little in love with Miss Truelove Becket, which was funny because he had thought he would never fall in love with anyone, but what did he have to offer her outside of material things? He was half of a man, emotionally if not physically. He had a terror of marrying and then finding that he would never get any better, never be able to sleep through the night untormented by nightmare visions of his own death, or of the faces of the men he had killed. What kind of a future was that to offer a lovely young lady like Truelove? She deserved her wise and good vicar, who would value her and give her a life of toil, yes, but honest work that True would thrive on.

He held her close to his heart, breathed in her essence, and wished things were different.

“Shall we walk?” he said, determined to be cheerful at all costs. He would beat the demons that plagued him one way or another. “There is a little wooded area with a brook running through it. I can like no place that does not have water access, you know; a brook or a stream is essential to me. I would like you to see it. I thought some of the fellows might like to fish while they are staying here.”

He whistled to the stable boy and called out to unhitch the horses for a while, and he led True through a field. It was some time before they made their way back to the house.

• • •

The next morning Arabella determinedly cornered Lord Drake in the breakfast room as he helped himself to eggs from the covered chafing dish. She took a plate and spooned on a tiny helping of eggs and a slice of ham. And she would have to be careful that she did not eat even that. Despite what he had said at the inn, she was sure that Lord Drake would approve a dainty appetite. It was time to steel herself to necessity, and set all her efforts to the task at hand. “I must say, my lord, that your . . . your infirmity appears to be healing!”

He scowled at her, but then saw her motioning toward his abandoned cane with her fork. “Oh . . . yes. This last month the exercise of walking with you ladies has done my leg good, I think.”

She dimpled up at him as he pulled out a chair for her. “Soon you will be as good as new! One would never know you were in that awful battle.”

“On the contrary, Miss Swinley,” he said, taking the seat next to her. They were the only two in the breakfast room at that early hour. “I wish no one to forget about that battle. I was lucky enough to be given an injury that will heal. Many of our poor soldiers lost limbs on the battlefield.”

She nodded, determined not to scold him for bringing up subjects unfit for a lady’s ears. If he wanted to talk about the dreadful war, then she would do it. If True could, she could. With the determination of a field general planning an attack, she took a deep breath and said, “Why, I think our gallant soldiers injured in the line of duty should be given a pension for their work for our country.”

“There is some provision for the injured, Miss Swinley. Chelsea Hospital is for the care of elderly and severely disabled soldiers. It is pitiful, but it is something, I suppose.”

“Why then, they are taken care of!” Arabella was pleased that she had finally engaged the dour viscount in conversation. It was going well, she thought. She stabbed at the piece of ham, then remembered herself and cut a minuscule portion and popped it into her mouth.

“Not when one considers the sacrifices made. I still believe we could be doing more . . . much more.” He glanced over at her curiously. “Are you genuinely interested in the welfare of our returning soldiers, Miss Swinley?”

She swallowed.
Oh, Lord,
she thought,
I hope he does not have some dreary society he wishes me to join!
“I am,” she said, nodding vigorously. “I cannot think of anything more fascinating!”

Drake smiled, and over coffee told her much more than she ever wanted to know about military life, and the dilemma facing those concerned about returning and injured soldiers. And that was just the beginning, she found. That afternoon she walked with him on the terrace, and he told her all about the Peninsula campaign, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca . . . by the end of the day her head was whirling with dates and names and facts and figures.

But Lord Drake no longer avoided her company, she saw, with triumph. He sat with her at dinner, even, and they had another “stimulating” discussion. Her mother was right, she found; as long as one listened, nodded and agreed, the gentlemen considered you a brilliant conversationalist. Later she could not have said just what it was they talked about; something about parliamentary reform, she seemed to remember. After dinner, they gathered in the more intimate confines of the rose parlor for coffee.

• • •

Drake had been pleasantly surprised by Arabella. Really, the girl was not such a bacon-brained lackwit as he had first thought. The afternoon had been much more pleasant than he had imagined one spent in her company could be. She had listened and asked intelligent—well, mostly intelligent—questions.

It had seemed a good idea, after the day before, to stay away from True for a while. His feelings were confused, tumultuous, in fact. He and True had walked down to the stream on the property he was buying, and . . . well, he had taken advantage of her. There was no other way to put it; he had compromised her terribly. He had kissed her again, and they had reclined on the bank of the stream in the most improper manner—improper, and yet it had felt so right!—just holding each other for the longest time until they both fell asleep.

Sleep. In her company, he could sleep without dreams, or at least without nightmares. For he
had
dreamt, actually; he had wandering, misty dreams of Thorne House, and a golden-haired child who called True “Mama,” and always he was holding her, touching her, even when the child clung to them both.

He had awoken from an hour’s sound sleep to find that True slumbered in his arms, and the calm he had felt was such as he had never experienced since coming home. And yet, when she awoke Drake could feel her embarrassment in the way she avoided his eyes and apologized for her “unseemly” behavior.
Her
unseemly behavior! It was all
his
doing, and yet he was filling her with the hideous burden of guilt.

It was not right to involve her with him in this way, when she was virtually betrothed to her vicar. And yet, if that was the case, why did she allow such trespasses? Could she care for him? Or was it the pity he had seen in her eyes the first time, when he had awoken from a nightmare?

He needed to think and he could not do that in her presence. And so that was why he had devoted himself to Arabella Swinley that day. He needed time away from Truelove. He needed to understand himself before he compromised her beyond rescuing, an outcome that seemed almost tempting sometimes, when he thought that his dilemma could be resolved that way, at least. He would have a wife, and she . . . she would have no choice. And that was wrong. He
must
leave her free to choose or reject her vicar!

That evening, emboldened by True’s positive reaction to his radical idea and Arabella Swinley’s interest in the ex-soldiers’ plight, Drake summoned his courage as the household gathered after dinner for coffee, and cleared his throat. The rose saloon, much smaller than the blue saloon, was also more conveniently furnished for conversation, with a grouping of chairs and sofas gathered near the hearth. He was standing by the fireplace, which was lit for the first time in the season, as a cold wind had come up; autumn was advancing. Conroy, who had been talking eagerly to Miss Swinley, was the first to glance up.

“What is it, old man? Look like you’re ready to make a speech.”

“Make a speech? Drake? Ha!” Lord Leathorne, his red face split in a wide grin, said. “He’d no more make a speech than I would.”

“Actually, Father, I do have something to say.”

Arabella colored, and Lady Swinley leaned forward, her eyes gleaming as she shot significant glances at her daughter. Lady Leathorne saw the looks between mother and daughter, and, not sure if she was pleased or alarmed, fastened her gaze on her son.

“What is it, Drake?” she asked. “Do you have an announcement to make?”

“I do.” Drake paced in front of the fireplace.

The room filled with tension.

Drake stopped and let his gaze drift over the collected company. His mother was watching him, and he could see that she was troubled about something. He was not usually so noticing of that kind of thing, but between his mother and him there had always been a strong bond, a kinship of mind as much as of heart. It had not escaped him early in his youth that his mother’s intelligence far outstripped her husband’s. He had always wondered if that disparity of understanding had made her unhappy, but she had always seemed contented enough.

True was sitting quietly just in the shadows, her sewing resting on her lap. Lady Swinley and Arabella sat on matching chairs near the window with Lord Conroy on a footstool by Arabella.

Drake frowned. Lady Swinley had taken her daughter’s hand, and shot her a look of . . . of what? He could not guess at the meaning of a look that seemed almost triumphant. Miss Swinley was pale but composed. Ah, well, it was nothing to do with him. Maybe Conroy, poor chap, had proposed or something. He certainly seemed badly in love with the girl. It would not be a terrible match for his friend, not as bad as he would have supposed before spending the day talking to Miss Swinley. She appeared to have a brain and a heart after all, though she would lead poor Conroy a merry dance, no doubt.

He cleared his throat. His father had drifted off to sleep in the silence. Oh, well, he would not understand what his son was about to talk about anyway, so let him sleep.

“I have been thinking of the future. I do not want my time on this earth to be wasted in morbid self-recrimination. It did not come upon me at once when I entered the military, but over the years I began to feel that as a soldier my purpose in life was destructive, and I do not want that to be my legacy. I want to give something to the world.” He paused and shook his head, wryly reflecting that he sounded like he was running for political office. “Oh, Lord, that sounds so very pompous.”

“No, dear, I understand,” Lady Leathorne said.

He offered her a smile.

“Go on, Lord Drake! We are all most interested to hear what you have to say! About your future plans?” That was Lady Swinley, and she clutched her daughter’s hand with a firm grip.

Drake wondered why she was so interested. She had never shown the slightest bit of interest in anything to do with the war before. Even True had looked up by now, and she was pale, but composed. Drake felt there was an undercurrent in the room that he was not privy to the source of. They all waited for him to go on.