Barbara Metzger (25 page)

“You’d be a fool not to.”

“I know you wished a higher-born woman to be countess eventually, and one with a larger dowry or property or connections.”

“What father would not wish a wealthy bride for his son? Otherwise, I doubt I could find a finer wife for you, if I had to choose one myself.” They both ignored the fact that the earl had been trying to do that very thing, almost since the heir’s birth.

“Well, fortune or not, I mean to disappoint you again. If she will have me.”

“Humph. I’d wager the woman is too canny to toss away a viscount, no matter what a mull you have made of your courting.” The earl had spent a few moments with the estimable and informed Mindle, in addition to what he had gleaned from Lady Presmacott, and the evidence of his own eyesight, poor though it might be. “Furthermore, those were not my arms the chit threw herself into when the rowdydow was done. But what do you mean, disappoint me again?”

“Well, I certainly did not show to advantage this day. But I mean in my career. A dutiful son would have gone into the government, the way you wanted.”

“Dutiful? Hah. If I had told you to become a soldier, you would have become a blacksmith. Nevertheless, you have made me proud, Tyverne. All the commendations and promotions, did you think I would not hear of them, not boast to my friends?”

Ty raised an eyebrow. “You might have written to me.”

“What, and give you a swelled head? You had the generals to tell you what a good job you were doing.”

The earl might have grown mellow with age, Ty reflected, and more compromising, with his compatriots keeling over. He had not grown more fatherly. Ty swirled the brandy in his glass, thinking how it no longer mattered. He would be a better parent, himself.

“She’d make a damn good wife for an officer,” the earl said, after another pause to refill the glasses.

Mellow or not, the earl still wished his eldest son wed, it seemed. “She will not marry a soldier.”

“No? Appeared to me as if she would follow you to the ends of the earth, but what do I know about women?”

“I would not ask her to follow the drum. That is no life for a lady. My arm is never going to be perfect, anyway, so I mean to sell out.” Ty could not keep the bitterness from his voice. His life, his career—what was he to be, then? His father’s son? An idle man about Town, waiting to be a richer one? Or else he could become a gentleman landowner, except he knew nothing of agriculture, and had no desire to learn. “I can work for the War Office, I suppose.” Sitting at a desk seemed least appealing of all, but a man had to do something.

He must have imagined the earl’s grunt of satisfaction, for Stivern said, “Tell me, how do you think the war is being fought?”

“Adequately, when the politicians let the generals in the field make the decisions. Why?”

“What about supplies? Munitions, uniforms, that type of thing.”

“Hah. They are totally inadequate, when they arrive at all. And that is to say nothing of the pay owed the men who are fighting to keep the French from taking over the world, and England with it.”

“And the treatment of injured soldiers when they are shipped home? The benefits paid to them, or the widows?”

“What benefits? And what is this about?”

The earl raised his glass. “You never did have an ounce of patience. Bear with me a moment. What do you feel about the plight of young women such as Miss Dunsley?”

“Being sold into prostitution? What man who calls himself a gentleman could consider it anything but an abomination?”

“And children younger than that boy Dover, working in the mines and factories all day, instead of going to school?”

“That is a sinful embarrassment to the country.”

“Climbing boys? Transportation for stealing a muffin? Hanging for the most trivial of offenses? All of them, Tyverne. The injustices in this world go on and on. Now tell me, where do you think a man might have the best chance of making changes, making a difference?”

“In the government, of course,” he had to admit, finally seeing his father’s point.

“Of course.” The earl drank down the last of his brandy and prepared to leave. Having missed breakfast with the lovely Rosalie, he was determined on lunch. “And Miss Croft would make an excellent wife for a cabinet minister or undersecretary.”

Miss Croft, Ty considered after his father had left, would make an excellent wife for a prince or a pie man. If she would only say yes.

* * * *

After the squire left, Delia could hear Ty coming up the stairs. No one else in the house moved so athletically. No one else in the house cursed with such vigor when he bumped his head on the low beam of the narrow stairwell. She started to smile until she remembered that the viscount had already been struck on the skull once this day. She rushed to the door, to find him standing there, rubbing his head.

Ty looked around and, seeing no one else present, not Nanny or one of the maids, and the door to Nonny’s room closed, he would have backed out. He had no business ruining Delia’s reputation, on top of all the other misfortunes he had brought her.

Delia had other ideas. She pulled him farther into the room, then threw her arms around him. He enfolded her in his own embrace, and to the devil with his weak arm and weaker principles. They clung together in relief that the Dunsley mess was over, in joy that they were all alive, in happiness that they were free to share such closeness, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, lips to lips.

Some time later, Delia remembered her terror. She reached up to brush a lock of blond hair off Ty’s forehead. “I thought you were dead, when I saw you lying there!”

“My head is much too hard for that,” he said, rubbing her back, stroking her neck below the crown of red braids. “But, Lud, when I saw you go out to confront that madman, I thought my heart would stop.”

“I thought he would kill your father,” Delia said, trembling in reaction, “and then come after Thea and your brother.”

“He would have, if not for you. Thunderation, you saved all of their lives, my brave, brilliant, beautiful girl. And that is after saving mine from the fevers, and keeping Melinda from dying when her mother did. And taking in my brother, helping my sister reunite with Anselm, bringing my father here to see that his children are persons, not pawns.”

“But I never had a hand in half of that, silly,” Delia said from her secure place against Ty’s chest, where she could hear his heartbeat if she listened very closely.

“None of it would have happened without you,” Ty insisted. “I owe you such a debt of gratitude, it will take me a lifetime to repay. Will you let me try, my dearest Delia? Will you marry me?”

No matter how closely she listened, Delia was not going to hear the words she needed him to say. She stepped back, out of his arms, perhaps the longest step of her life. “No, my lord. I will not marry you while you speak of debts. I told you once and I will tell you again, I want no man who weds to fulfill his obligations, his sense of honor.” She turned her back on him so he could not see the tears in her eyes. ‘“Now go, unless you wish to help me change Melinda.”

Ty went back to the inn. He did not get drunk, did not throw the water pitcher at Winsted when the man asked how things were at Faircroft House, and did not comment when his father announced that Lady Presmacott had agreed to accompany him north for the funeral of Ann’s husband. No, what he did was walk. He walked halfway to Canterbury, then turned around and walked halfway to Dover, it seemed.

How could the woman think that he wanted to wed her out of a sense of obligation? Hadn’t she felt his desire in his kiss? Hell, hadn’t she felt his arousal? And she had to know how he admired and respected her. He’d told her she was brilliant and brave, he knew, and there were no finer encomiums for a soldier to bestow. He was ready to give up his career, to raise her brother’s child as his own instead of fostering the baby with his brother or sister. Didn’t that prove his devotion? Thunderation, what more could the female want?

He should have taken the boy Dover along with him, or the plucky little dog. Either of them would have had better answers to Ty’s questions.

The one thing he knew, with absolute conviction, was that Miss Delia Croft was meant to be his wife, and he was meant to be her husband.

* * * *

Delia held the infant, Ty’s baby, her baby. Although neither of them had actually given birth to Melinda, they had given her life. She had tried so hard not to grow fond of the child, to absolutely no avail. She might have tried to stop the sun from setting, more easily. So sweet and small, so helpless and soft—Delia thought her heart would break if she had to send Melly away, too.

Could a heart break twice? Hers was already shattered into jagged pieces that ached with every breath, every thought, every memory. Delia placed the infant back in the crib and wiped her eyes. How was she going to live without Ty?

And why the devil should she?

Chapter 29

He was coming back. Delia knew he was. His brother was here, his daughter, his horse. Stalwart and steadfast, Ty was never one to turn his back on his duties. He would not turn craven and send messages, either, not this intrepid paradigm of valor. He had returned after she laughed at his proposal, hadn’t he? He would come back. He had to.

Delia watched from the window, and had Dover keep a lookout while she went about her tasks. At last they spied the viscount walking up the drive, perhaps with less vigor than usual, but arriving soon, for all that.

Delia went out the back door, leaving a garbled message with Mindle that she was headed for the stables, seeing to some trouble to do with the horse. There might be any number of other equines in the Croft stables now, but when someone referred to the horse and trouble in the same breath, everyone knew which one. Usually they hid behind closed doors. Ty took off around the house at a run, despite the miles he had walked.

As usual, Jed Groom was not in sight, nor the other fellow Ty had never met. He could hear sounds from the end of the shadowed stable block, however, and headed there, to Diablo’s stall. Then he heard the screams.

“Bloody hell!”

Delia was in the gelding’s stall, pinned against the wall by the huge horse. Ty’s stomach lurched. One flash of those iron-shod hooves, one lunge, one gnash of those powerful teeth—”Oh, God, no!”

He checked his pockets as he ran. No rum balls, no bonbons, not even a sugar cube. He did have his pistol, if it came to that. He hoped not. The horse had saved his life on the Peninsula, and perhaps his father’s this very day. But Delia—

He began to talk, to call, to pray out loud, telling the horse to back away, telling Delia to edge along the side of the enclosure, closer to him. He could not shout the way he wanted, for who knew what the brute would do if further provoked. And his going into the stall might crowd the horse into rearing or slamming Delia against the walls.

Her face was white, and she seemed paralyzed by fear. He’d seen soldiers go immobile that way, unable to protect themselves, unable to run. Damn, he was going to have to bring her out. He opened the stall door and stood back, hoping Diablo would make a dash for freedom. No such luck. The horse was interested in Delia, only.

Ty edged into the stall, as far away from the gelding’s rear hooves as he could get. “Come, Dilly,” he called, “come to me. Come slowly, dearest, but come to me now.” He held his hand out, begging her to try to move her feet.

She looked at him, her green eyes wide, and made a whimpering sound. Lud, he could not let anything happen to her. He kept his back to the wall and edged closer, crooning to her, to the horse, to anyone who would listen. “I’ll come, sweetheart, don’t worry, I’ll come. I’ll keep you safe this time, I swear. And she is not here to hurt you, my devil, no one is. I’ll find you a hat or a bottle of ale, word of a St. Ives, just do not hurt her. There, come to me now.”

He reached Delia’s hand at last and, with a sudden pull, tugged her behind him, out of reach of those treacherous teeth. “Not safe yet, my love, but soon,” he whispered to her. Diablo did not seem enraged, but one could never tell with the horse from hell. Ty could not carry Delia and protect her from the brute at the same time, but they had to get out of the stall. Or Diablo did.

Ty lunged. He raised his hands and charged, shouting as if in battle. “Get out, you worthless nag. Back. Get back, that’s an order.”

The white horse backed out of the stall, and Ty grabbed the door behind him, shutting them in, and the horse out. Let the brute go steal clothing off someone’s wash line the way he did in Spain, or trample the ornamentals, as he did in London. Hell, let him go take a piece out of that worthless groom who was never around when one needed him. “I don’t care if you never come back!” Ty called after him, before he turned around and caught Delia up in his arms, vowing he would never let her go again.

Delia had to tug at his collar before her ribs were crushed.

“Oh, Lord,” he said, loosening his grip by about a quarter of an inch. “I have never been so frightened in my life, Dilly. Just let me hold you awhile, please.”

So she did. And enjoyed the feel of his strong arms around her, and the smell of him, all soap and horse and man. After a minute, she raised her head and said, “You saved my life, you know.”

Ty was too busy savoring the feel of her to think straight. She was alive, and that was all that mattered. “I suppose so. Your brother told me to save someone else.”

“That means we are even, Ty. I saved you, you saved me. No more debts.”

“No more
...
?” He smiled. “You are right. The tally is tied. No more pluses and minuses.” Then he grinned more broadly. “If I saved your life, does that mean I get to keep you? To look after for forever, the way Dover says it works?”

“If you still want.”

“Lud, I want nothing more. But you said you would never marry a soldier, so first I will—”

“You can stay a soldier forever, my dear, as long as I can come along. I would follow the drum with you, rather than ask you to give up what you are.”