Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) (5 page)

“Oh, no!” True cried, the vivid picture of the dark night and the soldier tumbling to the street making her heartsick.

“Yes!” Drake said, through gritted teeth, his lip curled. His eyes flashed with anger and bitter hatred. “At that moment I wanted to
kill
that young man! If I had had my pistol, I might have. As brutal as the offense was, it did not merit death, but I would have meted it out to that disgusting young demon without a second’s thought.” He glanced down at his companion and saw tears shining in Miss Becket’s eyes.

“What happened to him? The fellow on crutches? Was he all right? Was he hurt? Did he get up?”

Unerringly she had struck to the very heart of the matter, Drake thought, humbled. She did not pause to reassure him or commend him for his reaction; she did not rush to condemn the young men for their actions. Her first thought was of the soldier, for the truly important part of his story was that man on crutches, not Drake’s own anger and bitterness, nor his desire for revenge. And she had not lost sight of that for one second. His heart thumped and warmth flooded his soul to know there were still people who could judge so truly and care so much. It was the unerring instinct of true humanity.

“He is all right,” he said, reassuring her with a half smile. He squeezed her small hand, wishing it were gloveless so he could feel the tender skin under his callused palm. “I went to him and helped him up. Poor fellow, I was right. He lost his foot at Quatre Bras, and counted himself lucky to be alive. He had been in Mayfair looking up his commanding officer, who had promised him work after the war; somehow he did not know that his captain was one of the unlucky ones. Died at La Haye Sainte. I knew him; he was a gallant fellow, one of the best, poor man.”

He was silent for a moment, gazing off into the distance. “I could not see him just disappear on me. I took him to a tavern and we talked long into the night, about the war at first, but then the conversation turned to our intentions now that peace has finally arrived. He has a wife and children, but no one would hire a cripple, he said. It was all very well to celebrate the brave men who fought and died for this country, but what about the living? Do we not owe them something, at the very least, a job? I have hired him to do some work on my estate, Thorne House. He is a master carpenter; he hired himself out in his regiment to do carpentry that needed taking care of—made extra money to send home to his wife. He repaired wheels, carts, anything and everything. But he has a true brilliance when it comes to fine carpentry, and I have put him in charge of a crew of ex-soldiers; they are renovating my library.”

True, tucked in to his side, so close to him she almost could not breathe, gazed up at Lord Drake. From her angle below him—she was not very tall, and the major-general was—she could see the muscle that twitched in his jaw, signaling some inner tension that she was not privy to. She had just met this man, but she felt already that she knew him better than she would ever know Mr. Bottleby, and she was to marry that man! Or perhaps not. That was what she had come away to decide.

“Your anger against those thoughtless young men was understandable, you know,” she said, and knew that she had read what his thoughts had returned to when his head swiveled and he gazed down at her with surprise in his changeable eyes. They strolled to a garden wall at one end of the terrace—she matched her gait to his limp—and leaned against it companionably.

He shook his head. “You have no idea how fierce that anger was, nor how close I was to killing someone. It made me wonder if I was fit to be around people anymore or if the war had made me so dangerous. I still dream of the killing, and the death.”

Her heart ached for him and for the edge of fear she heard in his deep voice. “You cannot know you would have shot the gentleman. Though the impulse was there, it does not mean you would have acted upon it. We all have impulses every day that we do not act upon.” Like her own impulse to reach up and touch him, his face, his hair, the harsh lines of pain that marred his good looks, and yet gave him a depth of expression lacking in most young men. She wanted to strip off her gloves and lay her naked hands against his skin; that impulse shocked her to the core.

“Perhaps you’re right. I
hope
you’re right. It was all so raw those first few weeks, the memories and the pain, and then to see that poor man mocked and bullied in that way! It was too much to take.”

“But you did the right thing,” she said, her tone bracing. She squeezed his arm. “And because of that incident the man has employment. You made a good end out of an unpromising beginning.”

“Optimist,” Drake laughed, gazing down into blue eyes that were surprisingly warm for so cool a color. He reached up and pinched her cheek, letting his fingers linger against the softness of her skin, feeling the warm flood of rosy color mount. “In another minute you will have me believing that it was meant to happen as it did, that young bastard—pardon me, devil—knocking poor Stanley down. I suppose you believe that God has a purpose for us all and that even bad things can have good repercussions.”

True’s whole body reacted from his careless caress. The touch of his naked hand on her skin, the warmth that pierced her, sent shivers through her body. “I do believe that we are given experiences and meet people for reasons, sometimes. Not all the time of course; but God sees what we need, and tries to help. Whether we are receptive to His help is another matter.”

Drake pondered her words. It was certainly true that her arrival was helping him cope with a visit he had not looked forward to. He had not known how to break his mother’s heart by telling her that he was not inclined to marry Miss Swinley, or anyone for that matter, especially after he had apparently raised her hopes in that direction with his thoughtless flirtation during the mother and daughter’s last visit, and so he had dreaded this day.

Thoughts of matrimony raised a question in his mind. He gazed down at the diminutive Miss Becket, thinking what a cuddlesome armful she made, tucked against him in the freshening breeze of late afternoon. “Why have you never married?”

If she was shocked by his forwardness, she did not show it. “I was engaged some years ago—seven to be exact—to an officer in the Royal Navy. I lost Harry when his ship went down in an engagement. He was never found.”

There was silence between them. Miss Becket gazed out at the river, and though there might have been a gleam of tears in her eyes, it was quickly conquered, though the blue was still shadowed with remembered pain, softened with the passing of time. She must have loved him deeply to be so affected by the memory after seven years.

“Seven years is a long time. You have never found his equal since?” He was a cad for prodding her, but he wanted to know. Miss Becket would make an admirable wife for some lucky fellow, and it would be a pity if she wore the willow for her lost love her whole life. She seemed eminently suited to the role of loving life partner.

• • •

“Love is not an everyday occurrence, Lord Drake.” It was an evasion, and True felt a fraud for not revealing that she was even now considering a proposal. His words had pierced the armor she had thrown up around her heart. Was Mr. Bottleby, her current suitor, Harry’s equal? In fortune and future, yes. The curate had gained a living in the north of England that though harsh was a
good
living. And he had a small private fortune, which Harry never had. That was why they had not married while he was on leave the last time she saw him. Poor Harry had felt the need to make his fortune, and with the war raging had felt sufficient prize money was just a matter of months away, a year at the most. And so although in material goods her suitor was Harry’s superior, Harry had a sweetness, a passion for life, that Mr. Bottleby could not match. Almost to herself, she said, “I have always thought that I would like to wait for love again, before marrying.”

Her words were like a blow to Drake. He had never thought about waiting for love, or perhaps more accurately had never believed that love was in his future. “I have thought about marrying. My mother would like me to, I know. But I have begun to wonder if it is fair to a young lady to marry, when I don’t really believe in love or any of that other rot that ladies seem to need before they consider themselves properly wooed.” He had intended his words to be humorous, but to his ears it sounded false and bitter.

Miss Becket opened her mouth to reply, but just then, behind them, footsteps fell on the gravel walk.

“There you are, you naughty pair!” Arabella’s dulcet voice fluted the words on the breeze with expert cadence. “We have been looking everywhere for you. Tea has been served, but you never came back, and you have been gone this
age!”

Drake turned to find Miss Swinley on Conroy’s arm, bearing down on them at a determined pace. “My apologies, Miss Swinley. You must lay such barbarous behavior at my door, for Miss Becket has been my captive audience. I have been boring her with war stories.”

He could see from the corner of his eye Miss Becket’s swift questioning glance, but he felt compelled to tell a half-truth. It would not do to say they were speaking of love and marriage; it made more of their conversation than there really was.

“Not the thing to do, old man,” Conroy said, his voice smooth but his brown eyes full of questions. “The ladies prefer lighter subjects. Is that not so, Miss Swinley?”

Arabella cast him a side glance and then swept her lashes down. “It is true. We are but frail creatures, and any talk of bloodshed is so . . . oh, terrifying! I can imagine a distinguished war hero like Lord Drake might not understand our feeble fears, being so courageous, but . . .” She trailed off and sighed, as though the subject were too painful to continue.

Drake felt a swift rise of the strange blend of ennui and anger bubble through him at her predictable and patently false deprecation of her own sex’s fortitude. “I have always been under the impression that the fair sex was perhaps the more brave,” he said, through gritted teeth. “After all, childbearing is surely the most frightening—”

Arabella gave a little scream, and swooned against Conroy in a convincing display of delicacy. Conroy cast him a reproachful look, and Miss Becket tore away from him to administer to her cousin.

“How could you, Drake?” Conroy said, his voice accusing, his dark eyes angry. “Have you no manners left? It is above time that you learned that you cannot trade on your war hero reputation to forgive your every rudeness. You are not in battle now, old man!”

Remorse coursed through him. Conroy was right; he was not fit for polite company. He bowed. “Please excuse me, ladies. Conroy, I will leave them in your capable hands. My apologies for my beastly behavior.” He turned to Miss Becket. “Your servant, miss.”

True, supporting still-swooning Arabella and thinking her cousin was doing it up much too brown, watched him limp away. What had caused that turn to bluntness when he had been the very soul of gentility with her? It just proved that though they had spoken for a half hour, and she had come to feel she understood some part of him, the inner man was still a mystery to her. And would remain that, for he was destined, if Lady Swinley and Lady Leathorne had their way, to wed Arabella.

How would the two go on as husband and wife? she wondered as she helped Lord Conroy support Arabella back into the blue saloon. Arabella was lovely and had taken well in London, but her own and her mother’s aspirations had kept her from accepting any of the numerous offers she had, or so True had always believed. Nothing less than an eldest son would do, and a future earl was the best possibility. Both of them had held on to the notion that Bella would not marry anyone but Lord Drake . . . unless a duke or a marquess should ask, of course, and despite her success in London she had never been wooed by a gentleman with such a title. At twenty-two it was time she found a husband, her mother had said. One more Season and she might be whispered of as on the shelf. Lady Swinley was right about one thing: Arabella would make an admirable countess, if that elevated position required a measure of haughtiness, an outer calm, and a streak of stubbornness a mile wide.

But would she ever learn to love Lord Drake as he deserved? True worried that Arabella, determined to wed a coronet, would not stop to consider either her own or her future husband’s happiness. Of course Lord Drake was a man, not a boy. He was used to command, and would surely not crumble in the face of feminine determination or wiles.

Or would he? He would not be the first man to be brought to his knees by feminine beauty or a mother’s manipulation. True could only pray for both his and Arabella’s sake that they made the right choice.

Chapter Four

Drake, remorseful for his fit of pique, determined to behave himself at dinner. He devoted himself to Miss Swinley, his companion at the table, and had her laughing gaily and teasing him with coquettish glances. He found that he could detach himself from the scene and let his true thoughts and feelings run under his external behavior; that helped him behave in a proper manner toward his mother’s guests.

All the while, though, he kept glancing down the table to where Miss Becket, looking delicate and fragile in a deep gold gown of some glowing material, sat next to the vicar, who had been invited to dinner, too. Probably at the last minute and to balance the table, Drake thought wryly, knowing his mother’s rigid adherence to the proprieties. Reverend Thomas was a fiftyish gentleman, learned and good-tempered. He had been Drake’s first tutor and had instilled in his pupil a love of good literature, along with the required Greek, Latin, and mathematics. He and Miss Becket seemed to have much to talk about, but then the young lady was a vicar’s daughter. It could be no more than that, that had them talking so intimately, with their heads together.

“I understand your own estate is close by Lea Park, my lord?”

Drake turned to his dinner companion. “Indeed, that is true, Miss Swinley. I am currently having some renovations done to make it more fit for habitation. It has been empty for some years and neglected terribly. There is much to do, but I am starting where my heart lies, I am afraid, rather than where common sense would dictate. The library is being entirely refitted with oak shelves by a carpenter, a fellow ex-soldier, actually. He was looking—”