The Major's Faux Fiancee

Erica Ridley

When Major Bartholomew Blackpool learns the girl-next-door from his childhood will be forced into an unwanted marriage, he returns home to play her pretend beau. He figures now that he's missing a leg, a faux fiancée is the best an ex-soldier can get. He admires her pluck, but the lady deserves a whole man—and he'll ensure she gets one.

Miss Daphne Vaughan hates that crying off will destroy Major Blackpool's chances of finding a real bride. She plots to make him jilt her first. Who cares if it ruins her? She never wanted a husband anyway. But the major is equally determined that
she
break the engagement. With both of them on their worst behavior, neither expects their fake betrothal to lead to love...

February, 1816
London, England

Despite the icy wind pelting the windows with snow, hot rivulets of sweat dripped from Major Bartholomew Blackpool’s skin.

He was facedown in the center of his town house parlor, the muscles of his upper arms trembling as he pushed his prone body up from the faded Oriental rug again and again. As he did every morning. Balancing on the toes of just one foot.

Not that Bartholomew had much choice. Half his right leg was missing.

He’d lost the limb—and everything else he’d ever cared about—seven long months ago, at the Battle of Waterloo. His pride. His twin brother. His very identity. All gone, in the space of a few seconds.

Bartholomew gritted his teeth and increased his pace. He couldn’t replace his brother or his missing leg, but he wasn’t going to sit around weeping about it. He’d lived through the pain thus far. He could survive a great deal more.

A loose floorboard squeaked in the corridor. Someone was approaching the parlor.

With a muttered curse, Bartholomew flung himself off the rug and behind the pianoforte. He snatched up his discarded prosthesis and barely got the wretched thing secured before the parlor door slowly creaked open.

The fury in Bartholomew’s tone could have melted iron as he hoisted himself up from the floor to scowl at his butler. “What the devil is so important that you would disrupt me when I have expressly forbidden all interruptions?”

Only the slightest twitch of his nose betrayed Crabtree’s affront at this rebuke. Impassive, he strode into the parlor bearing the morning missives on a burnished silver platter, just as he’d done every single day of his seven years in Bartholomew’s employ.

Every day until his master left for war, that was. Upon returning home, Bartholomew had requested all incoming correspondence be delivered directly to the closest fireplace.

“Who put you up to this?” he demanded, although there could really only be one culprit. “Fitz, don’t you dare hide around the corner like a coward. If you’ve stones enough to order Crabtree about, you’ve stones enough to bring me your complaints in person.”

Silence reigned for a few moments before Bartholomew’s thin, excitable valet appeared in the doorway, wringing his pale hands and casting beseeching looks at the ever-stoic Crabtree.

Bartholomew let out a slow breath. This was his own folly. If he had been less vain and self-important when he left for war, he would not continue to pay his sought-after valet’s exorbitant fees, just to keep Fitz out of the clutches of the two-legged dandies.

And if Bartholomew hadn’t been the most shameless braggadocio, the most infamous rake, the most imitated Corinthian—Fitz might not still be here, hoping against hope that someday, he might once again fluff and pluck and adorn his master back into his rightful place as the most celebrated pink of the
ton
.

Foolishness, of course. Without two legs, a man couldn’t ride, box, waltz, or whisk pretty young ladies into shadowy corners. Nor did he wish to. Not anymore. Without his twin, Bartholomew couldn’t even smile, much less face the judgmental countenances of his peers.

What was life now, but solitude and phantom pains and locking himself in his chambers whilst he attended to his own toilette? He could no longer stand for his valet to glimpse what had become of the once-perfect body he had been so arrogantly proud of. It was nothing, that’s what it was. ’Twas pride that kept him from allowing any help. And it was pride that kept him from letting Fitz go.

Or allowing anyone to see him, now that he was less than perfect.

“Whatever those missives are, you know what you can do with them.” Bartholomew wiped the sweat from his face with his towel. When he glanced back up, neither of his servants had moved. “If you need suggestions on where to put those letters, you might start with your—”

“’Tis the Season,” Fitz blurted.

Bartholomew shook his head. “Twelfth night is long past. It’s February.”

“Not
that
season, sir.” Fitz looked horrified. “The Season that matters. The
London
Season. It’s here. You’re here. All we have to do is—”

“I said no.”

“You should be out in Society. You were
made
for Society.”

Bartholomew snorted and gestured at the awkward wooden prosthesis strapped to his right knee. “With this leg, Fitz? What would be the point?”

“Not every moment must be spent dancing.”

“Or sparring in Gentleman Jackson’s, I suppose, or riding hell for leather through St. James Square, or hiking to remote follies, or sweeping ladies off their feet?” Bartholomew tossed his towel over his shoulder.

“You don’t have to
literally
sweep them off their feet,” Fitz said earnestly, his thin hands wringing without cease. “You could use your… your
charm
, sir. Surely you didn’t lose that in the war.”

“My charm? What I had was good looks, two legs, and plenty of arrogance.” Bartholomew crossed his arms. “That was then. This is now. If wooden pegs haven’t suddenly become an aphrodisiac to gently bred ladies, I fail to see—”

“You
do
fail to see, sir! Your apparatus is scarcely an eyesore. It’s got moving ankle joints and five cunning little toes—”

“
Wooden
toes…”

“—and one cannot even discern it beneath your breeches and stockings and boots. Truly.” Fitz took a deep breath and rushed forward, his fingers stretching toward his master’s chest. “If you would just let me do something about this
hideous
waistcoat—”

Bartholomew batted away his valet’s hands. He glared over Fitz’s shoulder at the butler, who hadn’t changed position or expression since entering the room. “Crabtree, if you’ve nothing to say for yourself, could you at least brain Fitz with that silver platter until he recovers a modicum of sense?”

“What about
your
brain?” Fitz put in before Crabtree could respond. “If your charm is rusty, surely your mind is not. Do not discount yourself so easily, sir. You went to Eton and Cambridge, and you were a major in the King’s Army. If you would use—”

Bartholomew scoffed. “My brain is irrelevant. The
ton
has never held the least interest in intellectuals. My conversations with men centered on sport, horseflesh, and women, and my conversations with ladies were limited to ballroom gallantry and bedroom whispers. Attempting to force a crippled, but intellectual version of myself upon Society would be a nightmare for all involved. No, thank you.”

“But sir—”

“I’ve no wish to be part of that world anymore, Fitz. Not from a distance, and not as an object of pity.” He lifted his chin toward Crabtree’s silver tray. “Why do you think I receive so much correspondence? Because no one wishes to
visit
. No one wishes to see me in person. Not with this crippled leg. The
ton
sends letters to make themselves feel better, not because they long for the presence of a broken soldier.”

“You did so have an invitation,” Fitz stammered. “Last month, for the annual Sheffield Christmastide ball. I saved it.”

Bartholomew sighed. “The sister of one of my best friends sent me that invitation.”

“You receive many invitations, sir,” came Crabtree’s bored voice. “It’s simply difficult to respond to them once they’ve burned to ash. Are you certain you wish the same fate for these?”

“I do.” Bartholomew smiled tightly. “’Twould be embarrassing for all parties to have me show up and clomp about their lymewashed floors as they try desperately to think of something to say that doesn’t involve my missing leg or my missing brother. Coping with my own grief is hard enough. I bloody sure won’t waste my time scribbling platitudes to people I hope never to see again. And I’ll be damned if my name pops up in the scandal sheets for stumbling on my prosthesis and falling on my arse in front of all and sundry.” He gestured toward the fireplace. “Go on. Toss them in.”

“Only once you’ve verified they’re all rubbish.” Crabtree lifted the first missive from the pile. “Addington? It certainly
looks
like an invitation.”

Bartholomew cut him a flat look.

Crabtree tossed the folded parchment into the flames and squinted at the next. “Grenville? I’m told that family still has unwed daughters.”

Bartholomew crossed his arms and turned toward the windows. Snow clung to the panes and whirled past in clouds of white, blocking his view, but anything was better than enduring the ritual of his unwanted correspondence. He refused to read any of it, and his butler refused to destroy a single word without first ensuring he wasn’t tossing anything of importance.

“Montgomery… Blaylock… Kingsley…”

Seven months. Bartholomew closed his eyes and let the names fade to silence.

His closest friends had visited when he’d first returned from war. The Duke of Ravenwood. Lord Carlisle. Captain Grey.

Bartholomew hadn’t been fitted for a false leg yet, so he’d refused to let them in. He wouldn’t let them see him as a bedridden invalid.

Even once he got his expensive prosthesis—a fully articulated contraption designed by James Potts, a true craftsman and a visionary—it had taken months for Bartholomew to accustom himself to the strangeness of its weight, to its lack of feeling and sluggish behavior. But he’d never stopped exercising. Never stopped trying.

His arms, chest, and stomach were in the best shape of his life from all the strengthening exercises. He did his damnedest to ensure there was no muscle loss in his good leg or what was left of the other. But he couldn’t run. Couldn’t ride. Would have to carry a cane if he ventured out-of-doors in the winter because his articulated wooden miracle couldn’t be trusted on snow or ice, even when ensconced in a boot.

Not that he’d be going anywhere. He had alienated all his friends. He wouldn’t even be visiting his parents. His mother was too distraught to leave her bedchamber, and the one time Bartholomew’s father had visited, he’d barely muttered a single word. Not that it had been necessary. The accusation in his father’s eyes had spoken volumes in the brief second he’d gazed down at his one remaining son before turning around and walking away.

Bartholomew had rid the house of all the mirrors the next day. His father couldn’t bear to look at him and he couldn’t bear to look at himself. He was no longer a whole man.

Worse, he’d let Edmund die.

“Jersey…” Crabtree droned on. “Vaughan…”

Bartholomew spun around, his good leg catching him in time. “What did you say?”

The butler’s fingers paused, mere inches from the flames. He lifted the missive from harm’s way. “Vaughan, sir. Would you care to peruse this one?”

Bartholomew hesitated, then shook his head. “Hamish Vaughan was our parish vicar when I was a child. He was a kind man, but even the good Lord cannot return what I have lost. Burn it.”

Crabtree didn’t move. “It says Miss
Daphne
Vaughan, sir. Not Hamish.”

Daphne? Red-gold plaits and a sunny smile sprang to Bartholomew’s mind. How old was the chit now? Twelve? He hadn’t laid eyes on her since he’d left for Eton back in…

His eyes widened as he did the maths. She had to be twenty-one, or near enough. A grown woman. If she’d had a Season, it had been while he was at war. And if her name was still Miss Daphne Vaughan, it must not have been a successful one, although he couldn’t imagine why. She’d been too clever for her own good. A pretty child with a heart as big as the sea.

“Give me that.” He stalked over and snatched the missive from his butler’s fingers.

He ought to toss the letter into the fire with all the others, but…
Daphne
. He smiled at the memories. Laughy Daffy. The girl next door.

She’d been a few years too young to be part of his immediate circle of friends, but that hadn’t stopped her from following them around and trying to rope them into charity missions and knitting brigades. Why on earth would she be writing him now?

His smile faded. If this was just another
rotten luck about your amputated leg and dead brother
letter, he would never again stop Crabtree from tossing anything into the fire. He unfolded the parchment and began to read.

Dearest Bartholomew,

I’m sorry to write you while you’ve so many troubles of your own, but I don’t know to whom else I could turn. My father passed unexpectedly some months back, and my new guardian has no desire for a ward. In fact, he will commit me to an asylum if I do not take a husband forthwith, and has given me a sennight to decide which fate it shall be.

He has arranged for the single men of his acquaintance to visit the vicarage and press their suits. I’ve no doubt that they are just as disreputable as my guardian and I have no wish to become anyone’s property. Yet my guardian intends to sign a marriage contract by Saturday. If I do not choose a name, he will do so for me.

Do not fear I’m asking you to marry me. I merely hope you might feign an attachment. Once I come into my majority, we may quietly cancel the engagement. I shall come into a small bit of money on my next birthday, and will be no burden to anyone from that day forward… if I can avoid asylums and forced marriages until then.

Please, Tolly. Come at once. I am begging you.

I trust no one else.

Daphne

“Sir?” came Fitz’s anxious voice.

Bartholomew glanced up from the letter with a frown. “What day is it today? Tuesday?”

“Thursday,” Crabtree corrected impassively.

Fitz clapped his hands in excitement. “Why, sir! Do you realize that’s the first time you’ve cared about the day of the week since—”

“Crabtree, summon the landau. Fitz, find a trunk and stuff it with a few days’ worth of clothing.” Bartholomew tucked the letter into his waistcoat pocket and turned toward the door. “We leave at once.”