The Major's Faux Fiancee (11 page)

“On being the most enamored fiancée in all of Christendom?”

Daphne pressed her lips together. So much for the conversational reprieve. Of course Katherine wasn’t interested in charity. “No, on—”

“Wrong answer.” Katherine motioned behind her.

Daphne turned. Bartholomew was heading toward them, leading the rest of the guests toward their seats as though he were the commander of an army.

Or the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

She narrowed her eyes. Whether the frivolous aristocrats were children or rats was hard to say. She was so frustrated with the upper class. They were the ones with the money and power to improve employment, safety, orphanages. Perhaps the ladies embroidered for charity now and again, but it didn’t do much toward enacting
change
.

The men were even worse. Egotistic. Dismissive. She frowned at a sudden realization. What did it say about Bartholomew that they looked up to him so? Was he just as superficial? Just as narcissistic? The price of the waistcoat he was wearing could likely feed an orphanage for a week. He either didn’t realize, or didn’t care. The proof was right before her eyes. He
wasn’t
the perfect romantic hero her heart had wished he could be. He was just like the others.

She let out a shaky breath. No matter. He had never been hers for the taking. She had promised herself to a greater calling. A purpose. The people she helped thought she hung the moon. They sometimes sent letters, signed by the whole family. They told her she
mattered
.

Here in London, she patently did not matter. She was of no interest to Polite Society. She intermittently commanded the temporary attention of her faux fiancé. When obligated to do so. It wasn’t love. It was an old childhood friendship. Bartholomew didn’t think of her as a woman, with hopes and dreams and desires. She doubted he thought of her much at all.

She wished it didn’t hurt so much.

Her heart clenched at the pain. Once she no longer saw him every day, his indifference would cease to hurt her. She straightened her spine. As soon as their false betrothal was over, she would spend the rest of her days with people who looked forward to her presence. She would travel wherever her aid was needed most, providing support however she could. She would
force
herself to be happy.

The life she was given would have to be enough.

“There you are, darling.” Bartholomew gave her a slow, devastating smile as his fingers brushed the small of her back. “I missed you.”

Her breath caught. She had to fight not to shiver at his words. Or melt beneath the warmth of his gaze and the sensation of being the sole object of his complete attention.

He was playacting, just like her.

He was also better at it. He’d been a rake for most of his life, whereas she’d spent all of hers as a vicar’s daughter. She would never be part of his world.

Yet she couldn’t help but long for him to look at her like that and mean it.

She smiled back at him, hesitantly.

His gaze lowered to her lips. Her heart quickened. She licked her lips in anticipation. His eyelashes lowered, and for a single, soul-stopping moment she truly thought he might kiss her, right there in front of everyone.

And she stood there, waiting for it. Like the goose she was.

He lifted his gaze and gestured toward the seats. “Shall we?”

She swallowed hard and nodded. Her legs shook. She couldn’t care less about the musicale, or even the crowd. All she could think about was how it might have felt if he’d kissed her.
Foolishness
. She pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart still pounded.

Katherine entered the row first, followed by Daphne and then Bartholomew.

As soon as Daphne sat down, Katherine leaned toward Daphne’s ear. “I could have sworn he was about to—”

“He was not,” Daphne whispered back, her face heating.

“Well, you certainly looked like you—”

“I did not,” she hissed and shooed away any further comments. “Eyes on the stage.”

A couple Daphne didn’t recognize sat in the row in front of them. The man instantly turned around to cast a wide smile at Bartholomew. “Never thought I’d see you at a place like this, Blackpool. Didn’t you always say you’d never set foot in a musicale?”

“Still haven’t.” Bartholomew lifted his false leg. “I couldn’t even find my foot.”

The man guffawed and half-turned to his wife. “You see this? Wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t witnessing it with my own eyes. Blackpool in love. I’ll be damned.” He grinned at Daphne. “Caught yourself a good one, miss. One of the very best.”

“Thank you,” she stammered. No. No stammering.
Be in love
. That’s why they had come. She brushed her fingers against Bartholomew’s chest and peered up at him through her lashes. “He’s…”

Conscious thought failed her. He was playacting, she
knew
he was playacting, and yet the passion in his eyes was nothing short of smoldering. She could lose herself in eyes that blue. She yearned to brush her fingers against his chest again, to flatten her palm over his heart and feel it thunder beneath her hand. He seemed larger than before. Closer. As if she was leaning too far into him, offering herself into his embrace.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a voice from the stage. “Heath, Camellia, and Bryony Grenville!”

Daphne flattened her spine against her seatback and prayed no one noticed the heat coloring her cheeks.
Playact
, she reminded herself fiercely. No actual kissing. The last thing she needed was to get compromised and have to marry him in truth. Not when he had to pretend to like her.

She breathed out slowly and kept her eyes locked on the stage.

Katherine leaned over. “That certainly didn’t
look
like faux—”

“Kindly refrain from speaking during the musicale,” Daphne muttered back. “It’s considered rude.”

Katherine laughed softly. “It’s your show.”

If only it were.

Daphne slid another glance toward Bartholomew. If she were a different kind of woman, his eyes would be fixed on her instead of on the stage. If she were only carefree and gay, coquettish and elegant, mysterious and irresistible. She could be his.

If she weren’t Daphne.

Any victory Bartholomew had felt at having survived a musicale without falling on his face or punching everyone who asked how he was coping without his brother vanished the day he picked up Daphne to go riding in Hyde Park. He wanted it to look like a romantic afternoon ride. He wanted it to
be
a romantic afternoon ride.

The problem was his curricle.

Never mind that it was old. He’d bought it long before he’d joined the army and had spent a solid year testing its limits and its speed.

Never mind that it was
cold
. An open carriage was quite possibly the most ridiculous conveyance for February weather, but it was paramount that he and Daphne be seen together. That he and Daphne appear positively smitten.

The curricle was wrong because
Bartholomew
was wrong.

He’d been at sixes and sevens since leaving the house. Scratch that. He’d been at sixes and sevens since almost kissing Daphne in the middle of a musicale. Or perhaps since the moment Crabtree had saved her letter from the fire and her plea had sent his solitary existence down a whirlwind path.

A month ago, his biggest adventure was deciding whether to do his afternoon exercises before or after a spot of tea. This month, he had a beautiful faux fiancée. A pirate threatening her with Bedlam—and Bartholomew with Newgate. An entire city of curious onlookers pinning him and Daphne both under their watchful eyes. And three weeks to convince them all he was eagerly awaiting a wedding that was never going to happen.

Unfortunately for him, he
did
eagerly await the stolen moments he shared with Daphne. She had turned his life upside down, but he dreaded the day she was no longer in it. From the moment she’d taken his hand to present a united front before his parents, part of him had begun to want her in his life for good.

Impossible, of course. Not only was Daphne’s refusal to wed abundantly clear, Bartholomew would make a poor husband for any woman. He’d left for war far from perfect. He’d returned home incomplete. After losing his brother, he no longer believed he
deserved
happiness.

Much less a woman like Daphne.

She was resourceful and clever. Gave freely of her heart and expected nothing in return. She was selfless where he had been selfish. Open to the world, whilst he had closed himself off from it. Fought for strangers to thrive, whereas he had left his own brother to die.

No, he certainly didn’t deserve her. But,
oh,
how he wanted her anyway.

He pulled up in front of the Ross townhouse and banged the knocker. Within moments of being shown into the parlor, she was already descending the stairs, bonnet and gloves in place. As if she’d been looking forward to this outing as eagerly as he was.

“My lady.” He offered his arm. “Ready for a spot of sunshine?”

She laid her fingers in the crook of his elbow and gave him a shy smile. “I’ve never seen Hyde Park before.”

“Then I am honored to be your guide.” He just hoped he didn’t make a fool of himself doing so. He didn’t want her to have to pretend to enjoy his company even when they were alone.

He handed her up into the curricle, then crossed around back to swing himself up from the other side. The air was brisk as they trotted west toward the park. Daphne edged closer. He wished he could believe she was drawn to him due to a physical attraction, not simply to seek relief from the winter chill.

Then again, perhaps the open carriage was a blessing in disguise. Even if it were mutual, he had no business acting on his physical attraction. He was meant to protect her from an unwanted marriage, not compromise her into one as Carlisle had done. The earl and his new wife were happy with their fates. With each other. Daphne would not be.

Bartholomew would have to respect her wishes and keep his interest hidden. He was a pretend beau, nothing more. ’Twas what he had promised. And what he must deliver.

Navigating Hyde Park was its own gauntlet. His muscles tensed as his carriage joined the queue leading into the park. Today was his first time driving since returning from war. Everything about it felt awkward and out of place.

For one, this was his
racing
curricle. He’d never before had a woman in it. He’d never promenaded through city parks at all. He’d been too busy hurtling down Rotten Row with the wind in his face and his wheels tipping precariously as he took curves far too sharply.

He felt out of balance with both wheels on the ground. With his hat staying put. With Daphne in the carriage.

His gloved fingers tightened on the reins. Could she tell how discomfited he was to be here, to be doing this? Was his countenance a touch pallid? His clammy hands unsteady? His dark looks at the young bucks rocketing by in flying phaetons too obviously borne of envy for their easy, careless lives? Any one of the eligible bachelors buzzing about in search of a pretty face would be a better choice than a man with no leg.

He ground his teeth. How would they convince
anyone
that she had chosen him above all others, when there was no reason that she should?

Any other gentleman could stay seated on a saddle. Waltz without falling. Disrobe without humiliation. He glanced at Daphne and sighed. ’Twas impossible to convince anyone they were a love match. She was too perfect. He was too flawed. Even he could see it. Soon, she would, too. If she hadn’t already.

Once she got rid of Bartholomew and enjoyed a year or two of independence, she’d start to wonder what it might be like to have a husband or a family. Bartholomew well knew the loneliness of self-imposed solitude. The nights would grow long. Whether she planned to or not, she would someday fall in love. It was inevitable.

The man she chose would be nothing like Bartholomew. He’d be some damnably happy fellow from a happy family, and have many happy memories of never having been to war or lost someone he cherished. He’d enjoy racing and dancing, make love like a stallion, and be the proud owner of both of his legs. In short, he’d be perfect, too.

Daphne deserved nothing less.

He slid another glance in her direction. She gripped the side of the curricle, staring out at the sprawling park and endless carriages with cautious green eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck. He’d thought she would love Hyde Park. Instead, she looked half terrified. As though instead of finding the serpentine throng invigorating, as he did, she found the crowd nerve-wracking. She looked like she might throw herself bodily from the curricle rather than spend another moment promenading in the park.

His jaw tightened. Not only did they fail to resemble a besotted couple, Daphne’s current expression wouldn’t look like she enjoyed his company at all. His cheeks burned. Perhaps she didn’t. He ought to distract her with more pleasant topics.

He cleared his throat. “How have you been enjoying London?”

“I haven’t.” She made a frustrated sound and turned to meet his eyes. “Katherine is lovely, and her house of course is magnificent, but it isn’t home. Not for me. I’ve done my best to turn my chamber into a study, but the wallpaper is too pretty to affix documents to it and the noise from the balcony is incredibly distracting while I’m attending to my correspondence. There’s a park just outside, with any number of horses and children and pie vendors causing ruckus at all hours. How can anyone work in such conditions?”

He stared at her, nonplussed. Everything he loved about London, she hated. The finery, the food, the fun. His stomach clenched. ’Twas yet another reason no one in their right mind would believe them slated for marriage. Even he couldn’t believe they were that incompatible. The attraction between them had been too palpable. For a moment, he had even thought… He shook his head.

“Never say you’ve spent every moment you’re not with me focused on nothing but your projects.”

Her eyes flashed. “Of course I have.
Someone
needs to champion these people’s rights. ’Tis who I am and what I do.”

He raised his brows and turned his gaze back to the road in silence. She found his sense of charity lacking. The implication was clear. His fingers tightened on the reins in annoyance. And envy. Until Waterloo, he, too, had known who and what he was. Now he had no idea. And he’d managed to offend her in the process.

No doubt she believed he thought her silly for choosing to fight iniquity instead of taking a husband. She was wrong. He did not consider her ideals silly at all.

He thought them futile.

One woman couldn’t save everyone. An entire army hadn’t even been able to save everyone. Some wars just couldn’t be won.

She arched a brow. “How have you spent your valuable time since last I saw you? Drinking champagne and frequenting gentlemen’s clubs? What is it that
you
do?”

He smiled tightly. “Absolutely nothing.”

He knew his answer would infuriate her as much as if he’d said “rutting with whores” or “designing a new waistcoat.” Her belief in the potential goodness of others was too entrenched. By nature, she interpreted any fun-seeking activity as willfully ignoring orphans or worker safety or rookery famine. No doubt she judged him just as frivolous and useless as the rest of London. And she was right. There
were
better uses for his time.

But he wasn’t her. He wasn’t even
him
anymore. No longer a rake, no longer a soldier, no longer a twin. He was nothing. As dull and lifeless as the wooden prosthesis strapped to his knee. A heartless man carved to look like the real thing, but empty inside. Too tired to be a martyr.

“Let’s not argue.” He leaned over. “When there are witnesses about, you should at least pretend to tolerate me.”

She tossed him a saucy smile. “I
do
like you. Very much. You were my hero before you ever left for war. I just thought you of all people would understand.” Her shoulders eased. “But you’re right It’s not even necessary that we agree. By next month, it won’t matter.”

True. The warmth of her remarks faded. By next month, he would be back in his townhouse. Alone with his thoughts and his regrets. “Will you be returning to Maidstone?”

Her nose wrinkled. “I can’t. Cousin Steele owns the cottage and I cannot live under the same roof. Not after deceiving him. Besides, that’s not where I can do my best work.”

He straightened, his heart suddenly light. Perhaps there was hope. “You’ll be staying here in London?”

“Hardly.” She shook her head. “I will go wherever I’m needed most. South Tyneside first, then Leicester. I’m unlikely to see London again for a long time.”

Or him, in other words. Bartholomew’s fingers tightened around the reins. What had he expected? That a few weeks with him would trap her in London’s web? Leave her hopelessly addicted to his company? Make her fall in love with a man who wasn’t even certain he deserved the emotion?

“I’ll miss
you
, though.” Her soft words pierced his armor. “Even more than I did when you first left Maidstone. I didn’t even think such a feat possible.” She laughed sadly. “It seems the jest is on me.”

“The jest is on both of us,” he admitted gruffly. “I wish you well, but I do not look forward to your departure.”

Several minutes passed in silence.

He wished he hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t admitted that he cared. Every other relationship he’d ever cared about ended in shambles. He didn’t wish to add Daphne to that list.

She tilted her head, her green eyes curious. “And you? How will you spend your time?”

He pretended to think it over. “Perhaps I’ll take up coal mining or fabric weaving so that we’ll meet again.”

She stuck out her tongue. “Rubbish. You’d get your cravat dirty.”

He shuddered. “Thank God you warned me in time. Fitz would have my head on a silver platter.”

Her eyes laughed at him. “One can always trust Bartholomew to be Bartholomew. You’ll stay here in the city, I presume?”

His jaw tightened. Did she truly think him as featherbrained as that? Perhaps it was for the best. He couldn’t disappoint her if she didn’t hold any expectations.

“London is where the best tailors are. I wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else.”

Her expression grew pensive. “And your parents?”

“Should stay as far away from me as possible.” As should Daphne, if she wished to escape the inevitable hurt he caused everyone he loved. The visit with his parents should have illustrated how badly he’d disappointed them. “What did you think when you saw them?”

Her gaze softened. “That they love you very much.”

He scoffed and returned his gaze to the road, unable to meet her eyes. “They did. Before I lost Edmund.”

“They
still
do. You cannot possibly have failed to notice that your mother—”

“Lives in a state of constant hysteria? I noticed. It’s my fault.” He hated that his tight knit family had shattered in the space of a single moment. He scraped a hand through his hair. If only there was some way he and his mother could be closer without leading to madness for them both. “My presence in Maidstone wouldn’t be beneficial to either of us. I do not require a nursemaid.”

“She misses you.”

“She misses Edmund. She thinks I can replace him by being
both
of us. By filling the hole and being me, too.” He took a deep breath. “I
cannot
.”

Daphne’s voice lowered. “Your father?”

“Is empty now. I disappointed him, and Edmund broke his heart. I cannot fix that.” His smile was mirthless. “I can’t fix anything.”

She frowned. “It wasn’t your fault—”

“
Don’t
,” he snapped. “You weren’t there, and you aren’t me. Don’t presume to tell me how I should feel.”

She fell silent.

He set his jaw and fixed his gaze on the horizon.

Shite. He hadn’t meant to snarl at her, but it wasn’t her brother that had been talked into fighting someone else’s war and then left on a battlefield to die. It wasn’t her family who was too broken to speak to each other. If Bartholomew could undo the past, he would.

His shoulders slumped. None of it was worth it.

So little ever was.

Her miners and weavers would be no exception, unfortunately. But ’twas not his duty to crush her dreams. She’d learn soon enough how the world truly worked. Her dogged idealism and precious causes were all well and good, but if three years in the army had taught him anything, it was that one cannot save everyone, no matter how hard one tries.