The Brigadier's Daughter (3 page)

‘There is no need.' As they danced into the corner, and his broad shoulders shielded her from prying eyes, deftly, quickly, he reached out with one gloved finger and flicked the offending blob of cream away. ‘There now, it is gone. All is well. And no one could see.'

Sasha tried to pull away again, but he held on to her, and she glanced up at him. ‘You must think me very…gauche.'

‘Not at all.' He gazed down, saw the telltale glimmer of tears in her eyes, and repeated firmly, ‘Not at all. And in the grand scheme of things, what is a mere speck of cream? It's not as though you had lost a slipper or, God forbid, a stocking trailed about your ankle.'

She could not help but laugh, nor could she help it as another painful blush warmed her exposed neck. ‘You should not speak of such things.'

He smiled, enjoying the pleasant sound of her laugh, and even her blushes, for it had been a long time since he had been close to a woman who could still blush.

‘No, indeed I should not.' It began to dawn him on him then why Miss Alexandra Packard might not be the belle of the ball, for he sensed there was something infinitely fragile about her. To his surprise he felt the surge of a most unfamiliar emotion, as though he would fight dragons and villains to protect her from all harm. He brushed it off, annoyed with himself. This would not do, as many men no doubt felt, judging from her empty dance card, it would not do at all for an officer's wife to be anything other than a strong and capable woman who could take care of herself, the home and the children while her soldier husband was away winning his medals.

At the end of the waltz they parted company, and Sasha wondered, as he coolly bid her adieu, whether he would return for the second. To her surprise and pleasure, he did, and firmly took the lead, moving her slender body about the ballroom with infinite ease and confidence. He made no move to open conversation, so politely she enquired if he was looking forward to his posting to St Petersburg, and from there they enjoyed a dialogue about Russia.

‘I must confess, Miss Packard,' murmured Captain Bowen, above her ear, ‘that I have not enjoyed a dance quite so much this evening, as I have with you. Not only are you an exquisite dancer, but very interesting to talk to.'

‘Thank you.'

They continued the dance until its end—all too soon, Sasha thought—and then he walked with her back to where her father and her sisters sat. He did not depart at once, but lingered to converse with her father about the Army and the possibility of Russian lessons.

 

In the dark, early hours of morning the clop-clop of horses' hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels roused Lady Packard as she lay dozing, waiting for the return of her family to their home on Roseberry Street. She stirred and reached to turn up the wick on the glass-shaded lamp beside the bed. Beyond her bedroom she could hear footsteps and the bang of a door, and her husband's deep voice as he admonished his daughters to be quiet. She sat up and plumped her pillows, checked her braided hair and turned her face eagerly to the door. A few moments later it opened, and the Brigadier stepped in, tossing aside his white gloves and bow tie as he walked with soundless footsteps across the carpet.

‘Did the girls have a wonderful evening?' she asked in her soft, husky voice, even after all these years still influenced by her native Russian accent.

‘My dear—' Conrad turned to face his wife, as he shrugged
off his jacket ‘—you did not have to wait up.' He spoke gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed and gazing at her.

Olga held out her arms to him, and with a contented sigh he pulled her into an embrace, affectionate and yet restrained, mindful of her delicate health. He kissed the side of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin and stroking back tendrils of dark hair from her temple. ‘How are you, my love?'

‘I am well,' she replied gently. ‘I have missed you.'

‘You should have come with us. The Westfalings were asking after you, as well as Percy, and many others.'

Tears glowed in her eyes, her turbulent emotions easily aroused, ‘Next time, I promise. Soon I will be feeling much stronger. Did Georgia behave?'

‘No.' Conrad could not help but laugh, his annoyance tempered by admiration for his daughter's passionate, if stubborn and wayward, nature. He sat back and pulled off his shoes and stockings, undressing swiftly and then climbing into bed with his wife, a sigh escaping from his throat as he lay back. ‘I am getting too old for all of this nonsense.' He turned his head on the pillow and gazed at his wife. ‘What a pair we are! It's high time these girls of ours were married off. Their husbands can run around after them and we can enjoy a little time to ourselves.' He mused for a moment, a vision of rusticating at their country manor in Shropshire taking hold in his mind, hopeful that the country air and quiet life would help improve Olga's strength. ‘I think Georgia may have acquired a beau this evening, though not the one she would no doubt prefer. Percy introduced his nephew, a Captain Reid Bowen. I found him most personable and highly suitable, more than capable enough of keeping Georgia in line. However, he's off to St Petersburg in the spring, on a posting to the Embassy as military attaché.'

‘Oh, Conrad, how wonderful.' Olga turned to lie against him, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘Tell me more! Just think, one of our girls married to an officer.'

‘Steady on now, my love, they've only just met. Though he did
ask my permission to call, and I have invited him for dinner on Christmas Eve. I hope that will not be inconvenient.' He looked down at her with raised brows.

Olga shook her head. ‘We were short of one gentleman, so it will be perfect. But what of my Sasha? Did anyone dance with my Sasha?'

‘Only Captain Bowen, but as always she kept close to my side and seemed unable to overcome her shyness. I fear she does rather live in Georgia's shadow.'

 

In her bedroom Sasha kicked off her slippers and padded barefoot to stand before the dressing table, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. Slowly she raised her hands and removed the pins from her hair, avoiding her own eyes and her flushed cheeks, hesitating as Georgia called from the adjoining bedchamber. She leaned a little closer then, bravely daring to look at her own face… How strange, she thought, she looked exactly the same, but she did not feel the same…not since Captain Reid Bowen had held her in his arms and waltzed her around the ballroom…

‘Oh, Sasha, darling, do hurry, I can't wait to get this corset off!' cried an indignant Georgia.

‘I'm coming.' Sasha turned away from the mirror and hurried to her sister's assistance.

‘I don't know why Polly can't stay up.'

‘It's two o'clock in the morning,' Sasha replied, nimbly dealing with the ribbons of Georgia's corset. ‘It would be unkind to keep Polly awake all night just to unlace us, when we can very well do it for ourselves.'

Georgia scowled and muttered and then stepped out of the pool of her discarded gown, turning to do the same for Sasha. When at last freed from the constriction of their ball gowns and corsets, they laid them out on a chaise longue beside the wardrobe, for Polly to put away in the morning. Georgia flung herself down on her bed and began to brush out her long butter-
blonde hair, her sapphire eyes glowing as she exclaimed, ‘Was it not a wonderful evening?'

‘Hmm.'

‘Felix is the most wonderful dancer, and he makes me laugh. I absolutely adore him!'

Sasha sat down and laid cool fingers on her sister's wrist. ‘Don't, Georgia, please, don't. You know Papa will never allow a match between the two of you.'

‘Why ever not?'

‘You know very well why not. Felix was embroiled in that horrible scandal with the, er,
enceinte
governess.'

‘He swears that was nothing of his doing. She was lying through her teeth just to snare him!'

‘And he refused a commission into the Army, preferring to stay at home with his mama. In Father's eyes that makes him well and truly damned.'

Georgia rose from the bed and flounced away, moving to the far side and drawing back her bedcovers. ‘Felix cannot help it if he has an aversion to killing people, and being sent abroad to God-forsaken places for years on end.'

Sasha suspected that Georgia was quoting Felix and not her own opinion. ‘Papa says he lacks discipline and is a coward.'

‘I am going to sleep,' said Georgia firmly, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up over her shoulders. ‘Good night.'

With a sigh Sasha rose and murmured, ‘Good night, sweet dreams.'

Georgia grunted, and Sasha knew better than to pursue the matter further. Once Georgia had made her mind up about something, she could be very stubborn indeed. Sasha went to her own bedchamber and closed the connecting door, slipping beneath the heavy covers of her canopied bed and lying awake in the darkened room for some while. Her thoughts wandered back to the first waltz she had danced with Captain Bowen. Sasha squirmed, hugging a pillow in both hands as she remembered the embarrassing moment when he had pointed out she had cream
on her face. She rolled over in the expanse of her bed, trying to convince herself the moment was best forgotten. In the grand scheme of things, as he had pointed out, it was of no importance. She remembered the feel of his broad, solid body as he guided her through the maze of other dancing couples, very sure and certain of himself, his voice a steady sound—even the smell of him, a clean masculine tang, lingered in her memory.

Yet whilst he had been talking to her papa, she had noticed him glance several times at Georgia, as she danced, and then as she had returned and chatted animatedly with her dear friend, Arabella. But he had also made conversation with herself, and Philippa, and even young Victoria. He had asked her father if he might call upon them, and her father, much to her surprise, had nodded his agreement and even gone so far as to invite Captain Bowen to accompany Uncle Percy to dinner on Christmas Eve. Sasha closed her eyes, falling asleep on her last, and pleasant, thought—that soon she would see the very handsome Captain Reid Bowen again.

D
espite retiring in the early hours of morning, Reid was awake and up at his usual time, his routine dictated by a lifetime of military discipline. He had declined his uncle's invitation to stay with him and had taken a room in the Officer's Mess of the Royal Fusiliers, conveniently situated for the town and stables behind the barracks near the Tower of London. At nine o'clock precisely his batman came in with his shaving gear and a bowl of hot water. Reid shrugged on a robe and dutifully sat down to be shaved, facing the light of a long sash window.

Through the open curtains of thick, dark green brocade, he could see a square of blue sky. He would take a ride in Hyde Park before luncheon; it would help to clear his mind. He was not a man who usually brooded, or had any difficulty in life that required mental wrestling, but on this bright December morning his thoughts were indeed a little disordered, and that irked him.

All was not going according to plan. The intention was that he would acquire a wife, take her with him to St Petersburg, and settle down to enjoy his career. But here was the rub—choosing a suitable woman was not as easy as he, or Uncle Percy, had thought it would be. In the past he had felt no inclination to acquire anything as permanent as a wife, and, though
he was not a man who felt the constant need for a woman, he had enjoyed the occasional, yet discreet, liaison. Always with a woman who was very beautiful, not very intelligent and yet one who understood that she could expect nothing more than his presence in her bed. When the attraction had been satisfied, and one or the other of them had moved on, there had been no great dilemma or drama, as neither had expected any form of commitment. Ah, Reid mused as he rinsed his face clean in the hot water and stroked his fingers over his smooth jaw, perhaps it was the noose of commitment that he could feel tightening around his neck that bothered him this morning.

He went to his dressing room and selected a tweed riding jacket and fawn breeches, a cream shirt and matching cravat, pondering that perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps it was the memory that lingered in his mind of dancing a waltz with a certain Miss Packard. She had been so unlike any woman he had ever met before. Graceful—yes, she had been light as a feather dancing in his arms. Intelligent—undoubtedly, her knowledge of Russia, of languages and music and goodness knew what else had been most apparent, and yet she had not been a bore at all, interspersing her conversation with humorous, wry little snippets and that delightful, husky, almost shy laugh. Yet in appearance she was not the sort he would normally lust after—indeed not! He admonished himself, for Miss Packard was far too respectable to be his mistress! On the other hand, one does not choose a wife according to the standards of a mistress. She might not be blonde and buxom, but there was a certain charm about her dark haired and creamy-skinned femininity that appealed to him. She was certainly intelligent and well read; he could envisage many a cosy evening together and the conversation would be neither boring nor stilted. She was petite, though, which in itself he found quite attractive and he entertained himself with delicious thoughts of carrying her up the stairs to bed, or sitting before the fire and letting her curl up on his lap, a prelude to making love.

However, Uncle Percy had mentioned the importance of producing an heir and he wondered if her small slim frame would be, er, adequate. He frowned, hesitating even within the privacy of his thoughts to dwell on Miss Packard's nether regions. Well, one just wouldn't breed a Suffolk Punch with a delicate little Arabian filly, now would one? It would not do. No, definitely not, he told himself firmly, it would not do at all.

He would be better off if he looked to the other Miss Packard, the blonde one, who appeared to be everything that he desired in a wife—confident, vivacious, and her figure was certainly admirable. Evidently a strong young woman, her speech and manners a little too loud perhaps, a little wilful…selfish, even? He hadn't yet enjoyed a particularly entertaining conversation with her, and she was frequently looking over her shoulder at that damned Westfaling whippersnapper. His enthusiasm began to wane as he dwelled on the attributes of one sister, and then the other, but even as he made his way downstairs, enjoyed a hearty breakfast, and then to the stables, mounted his bay gelding and rode off in the direction of Hyde Park, he could not come to any satisfactory conclusion about either of them.

 

‘Sasha, wake up!'

From beneath a pile of bedcovers Sasha groaned, and shrugged off the hand shaking her shoulder. She burrowed deeper into the bed, in a vain attempt to escape a persistent Georgia.

‘Oh, go away, Georgia, leave me alone!' she muttered from beneath her pillow, her heavy and aching eyes trying to sink back into the bliss of sleep.

‘Sasha, you must get up.' Georgia marched over to the window and thrust back the curtains, flooding the room with bright sunshine. ‘I promised Felix that I would meet him in the park. Do get dressed, I've persuaded one of the grooms to be ready and waiting at ten o'clock.'

‘Ten o'clock!' Sasha sat up then, turning to look at the clock
ticking gently in its gilt case on the mantel above the fireplace, and then at her fully dressed sister. ‘Are you mad, Georgia, or just totally insensitive to other people? It's the crack of dawn and I'm exhausted from last night.'

‘Rubbish! It's almost nine and you've had plenty of sleep. Here, darling, put on your lovely blue riding habit and I'll ring for Polly to bring you some tea and toast.'

Emerging from the dressing room with her arms full of Sasha's riding habit, she laid it down on the bed and then crossed the room to pull the bell-rope.

Sasha yawned and stretched, seeing that there was no help for it but to get up. And now that she was awake, and her thoughts returned to the memory of Captain Bowen, she was far too restless to go back to sleep. She glanced out of the window at the clear blue sky, and mused that a ride in the park seemed just the thing. The snow had stopped and was beginning to thaw, and though later it would be slushy out, for now it would be crisp but not too cold or treacherous. She dressed and enjoyed a cup of fragrant Earl Grey and a slice of toast with butter and marmalade, ignoring Georgia as she nagged and badgered in the background. At last she was dressed, and stood before her mirror to place her top hat on, pulling down the spotted black netting over her face, and slipped her fingers into kid gloves.

‘At last!' cried Georgia, springing to her feet and ushering her sister downstairs and out to the stables, glancing now and then over her shoulder.

Sasha became suspicious. ‘Papa does know we are going out? He gave his permission?'

‘Oh, yes, of course.' Georgia waved her hand airily, and beamed at the young groom waiting for them, holding two big, dappled-grey hunters by their bridles. ‘Good morning, Farrell.'

‘Mornin', miss.' The young Irish lad tugged at the peak of his cloth cap and then led the two horses over to the mounting block.

The Brigadier had trained his daughters to ride long before
they could read or write, and the two girls jumped aboard and settled themselves side-saddle, waited while Farrell mounted his hack, and then the trio set off for Hyde Park, Georgia setting the pace at a smart trot.

Though the day was crisp and bright, there were not many people abroad at this early hour, and some families had left the city to spend the Christmas holidays on their estates. The limbs of the trees etched bare and stark along the wide avenue that Georgia led them down, and Sasha called out to her sister to slow down, but she was ignored. As they came to a long open stretch Georgia urged her horse into a canter, her skirts and veil flying on the wind as the hunter obliged.

Sasha sighed with vexation, giving the command to her own mount to canter, taking a firm hold of the reins and her riding crop, leaning slightly forwards as they rode after Georgia. She glanced back over her shoulder, to make sure that Farrell still followed; though he lagged behind on his ancient hack, he kept them within sight. By the time she had caught up with Georgia, her errant sister had dismounted and was happily engaged in building a snowman with Felix Westfaling. Sasha drew rein, breathing hard, her horse snorting and pawing the ground, and she gazed at Georgia with exasperation.

‘Your skirts are getting all wet,' she called out, ‘and where's your hat?'

Georgia laughed, her face glowing in the cold air and beautiful against the virgin-white background of the snow, ‘Come and help us, Sasha!'

Felix straightened up from patting lumps of snow into the shape of an arm, scooped up a ball of snow in the palm of his hand and tossed it in Sasha's direction. ‘Good morning, Sash, do join us, got to get this finished before it starts to melt.'

Her horse leapt and shied to one side as the snowball splashed on the path, but Sasha kept her seat and replied, ‘No, I will not. Georgia, please, do put your hat on and mount up.'

Her sister laughed, whirling away as she and Felix pelted each
other with snowballs. With a sigh Sasha glanced at Farrell as he sidled up. He merely shrugged and grinned while she looked in both directions to see if they had been observed. There was no one about, except a lone horseman in the distance. What harm would it do? And it did look like such fun. She handed her reins to Farrell and jumped down, her boots crunching through the thick, powdery snow as she walked over to the snowman.

‘I say, Sasha, how would you like a toboggan race? A whole bunch of us are meeting over at Birch Hill this afternoon.' Felix was wise to the fact that if he could persuade one sister, then the other would follow.

‘I would not like it at all,' Sasha replied tartly, surveying the round ball he was rolling together to make the snowman's head, and then she gasped as a cold wet lump of snow hit her on the shoulder. ‘Georgia!'

With cries threatening revenge, she leaned down and made her own ammunition, and the three of them were soon lobbing snowballs, ducking and rolling in the snow amidst shrieks of laughter.

‘Good morning, Miss Packard.'

A deep, masculine, familiar voice echoed from behind her. They froze, Georgia and Sasha both turning to stare wide-eyed at the horseman who had halted nearby. Sasha's already flushed face deepened in colour as she recognised Captain Bowen. She dropped the half-made snowball in her hands, straightened her jacket and looked up to reply, ‘Good morning, Captain Bowen.'

‘Marvellous day.' He waved his riding crop about at the park in general.

‘Yes, it is.'

From the corner of her eye she spied Felix and Georgia slinking behind the bulk of the snowman, leaving her to deal with the Captain on her own. Like Georgia, she had removed her hat and veil, and her cravat flapped all askew.

‘That's a fine-looking snowman—need any help?'

‘Um, er—' She heard a snort of suppressed giggles as her
accomplices ducked. But, undeterred, the Captain had swung down from his horse and was striding towards them. Her heart sank. She must look a sight, she feared, brushing with the back of her hand at the escaped and messy tendrils of hair curling about her face, and the smudge of snow on her nose.

‘Miss Packard,' he greeted Georgia as belatedly, and unavoidably, she straightened. ‘And young Felix, is it not?'

‘How do you do, sir?' Felix flushed and brushed at his coat. ‘We were just—'

‘Just about to go,' Sasha interjected, reaching to pick up her hat and pass Georgia her own.

‘Don't rush away on my account. Please.'

Captain Bowen turned to look at Sasha, and she was struck again by the blueness of his eyes and how very good-looking he was, his sun-bleached hair gleaming gold in the winter sunshine. She could not help but glance at his mouth, the well-disciplined line of the upper lip complimented by the slightly fuller lower, curving into an attractive smile. His shoulders seemed very broad and masculine, and his legs in beige jodhpurs left her in no doubt that he was a well-made man.

Georgia was not one to let her natural effervescence be dampened and, undeterred by the new arrival on the scene, she and Felix resumed their building of the snowman.

‘We need some twigs for his hands,' Georgia said, looking about.

‘There's a hawthorn bush over there,' Captain Bowen pointed out.

Being the nearest to it, Sasha set off and trudged through the drifts of snow to a nearby flower bed, reaching out to grasp a twig and snap it off. But it was resistant to her efforts and she struggled, leaning forwards and tugging with both hands, trying to avoid the adjacent prickly holly bush, and then she gave a little cry as her feet slipped and she lost her balance. She teetered, but before she fell two hands fastened on her waist and pulled her back against the solid bulk of a very male and warm body.

‘Steady on, Miss Packard.' Captain Bowen laughed. ‘Can't have you falling into the holly and getting scratched now, can we?'

Sasha blushed, but it was hardly noticeable as her face was already so flushed from the cold and the exertions of the snowball fights.

‘Try that one over there,' called Georgia with subtle cunning, as she directed her sister and Captain Bowen farther away. ‘We need some big pieces and that bush is too small.'

‘Oh, Georgia! We really should be going,' objected Sasha.

‘Go on!' her sister urged, casting a glance at Felix. ‘And find two pebbles for his eyes.'

With a sigh and an apologetic glance up at Captain Bowen, Sasha turned and walked away, round the corner of the flower bed, her eyes searching for anything suitable. As soon as they were out of sight, Felix and Georgia fell into each other's arms, the groom holding the horses discreetly looking in the other direction.

‘Here we are, this will do. Captain Bowen—' Sasha turned to him ‘—would you be so kind? I can't quite reach.'

‘Of course.'

He reached up and effortlessly snapped off two long twigs, while Sasha knelt and picked out some small dark stones from the flower bed. She tried to think of some polite conversation to say to him, but nothing came to mind.