Gallant Waif

ISBN 0-373-29157-4 GALLANT WAIF

First North American Publication 2001 Copyright © 1999 by Anne Gracie

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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Printed in U
.S
.A.

Prologue

Kent, England.
Late summer, 1812.

”
No,
no, Papa. I won’t. You cannot make me!”

“Please, my sweet, I beg of you. It will not take long and I fear he will take no notice of me.”

The tall dark-haired man waiting alone in the drawing-room reacted to the voices, which seemed to come from outside. He turned sharply and let out a soft expletive, his face tensed in pain. Moving more cautiously, he flexed his leg carefully, supporting himself with his cane. His sudden pallor gradually disappeared as the pain ebbed slowly away.

He glanced towards the sound of the voices and swallowed, tugging nervously at his cravat, thus ruining the effect that he’d taken hours to achieve. His clothes were of the finest quality, although somewhat out of date; they seemed to have been tailored for a slightly larger gentleman, for the coat that should have fitted snugly was loose everywhere except across the shoulders. The gentleman himself was rather striking to behold as he stood staring blankly out of the window, tall, broad-shouldered and darkly handsome, yet thin, almost to the point of gauntness.

Jack Carstairs had done enough waiting. It had been bad enough being closed up in a carriage for hours upon end to get here…then to be left closeted in the front parlour for almost half an hour was too much for a man who’d spent the last three years out of doors, commanding troops under Wellington on the Peninsula. He opened the French doors on to the terrace and stepped outside into the cool, fresh air, and was immediately rewarded by the sweet, melodic tones of his beloved.

Jack stepped forward impatiently. Three years, and now the waiting was at an end. In just minutes he would hold her in his arms again, and the nightmare would be over. He limped eagerly towards the sound of the voices coming from the open French windows further along the terrace.

“No, Papa, you must tell him. I do not wish to see him.” Julia’s voice was petulant, sulky. Jack had never heard it so before.

“Now, now, my dear, I will speak to him and put him right, never fear, but you must see that it is necessary for you to at least come with me, for you know he will not believe me otherwise.”

Jack froze. He had received a letter full of sweetness and love from Julia, only a month ago, just before he was wounded. It was in the same batch of letters that had told him of his father’s death. Months after the event, as was all mail received on the Peninsula.

The lovely, well-remembered voice became more petulant, almost childish. “I don’t want to see him, I don’t. He’s changed, I know, I saw him from the window.”

Her father’s voice was coaxing. He’d always been wax in the hands of his beautiful daughter, but for once he was standing relatively firm. “Well, now, my dear, you have to expect that. After all, he has been at war and war changes a man.”

Julia made a small sound, which from anyone less exquisite would have been called a snort. “He … he’s ugly now, Papa; his face is ruined.”

Unconsciously Jack fingered the harsh, still livid scar that bisected his cheek from temple to mouth.

“And he can hardly even walk.” Her voice grew soft and coaxing. “Please, Papa, do not make me speak to him. I cannot bear even to look at him, with his leg sticking out in that peculiar-looking way. It would have been better if he had died than to come back like that.”

“My dear!”
Her father sounded shocked.

“Oh, I know it seems hard,” Julia continued, “but when I think of my beautiful Jack and how he is now I could weep. No, Papa, it’s just not possible.”

“Are you sure, my dear?”

“Of course I am sure. You told me yourself his father left him nothing. I cannot marry a pauper.” She stamped her foot. “It makes me so angry to think of it—all that time wasted,
waiting*.
And, in any case, he can barely walk without falling over, so you can be very sure that he will never dance with me again as he used to…”

Her voice tailed off as she recalled the magic moments she had spent on the dance floor, the cynosure of every eye, the envy of every other woman in the room. She stamped her foot again, angry at being deprived of all she had expected.

“No, Papa, it is quite impossible! I am glad now that you would not allow us to announce the betrothal formally, though I thought you monstrous cruel at the time.”

Jack had heard enough. His face white and grim, he drew back the draperies which had concealed him and stepped into the room.

“I think that says it all, does it not?” he said in a soft, deadly voice.

There was a small flurry as the two absorbed what he might have heard. There was no telling how long he had been outside. Jack limped quietly to the door and pointedly held it open for Julia’s father to make his exit.

“I believe your presence is no longer required, Sir Phillip,” he said.
“If you would be so good as to leave us alone, sir?”

Sir Phillip Davenport began to bluster. “Now see here, Carstairs, I won’t be ordered about in my own house. I can see it must be a nasty shock for you, but you are no longer in a position to support my daugh—”

“Thank you, sir.” Jack cut across him. “I understand what you are saying, but I believe I am owed the courtesy of a few moments alone with my betrothed.”

The voice which had spent years commanding others had its usual effect. Julia’s father began to look uncomfortable and took a few steps towards the door.

“Oh, but…” Julia began.

“As far as I am concerned our betrothal has not yet been dissolved and I believe I have the right to be told of it in person.” Jack gestured again for her father to leave. Observing that gentleman’s hesitation and concern, his Up curled superciliously. He added silkily, “I assure you, Davenport, that, while I may be changed in many respects, I am still a gentleman. Your daughter is safe with me.”

Sir Phillip left, leaving his daughter looking embar-rassed and angry. There was a long moment of silence. Julia took a quick, graceful turn about the room, the swishing of her skirts the only sound in the room. The practised movements displayed, as they were meant to do, the lush, perfect body encased in the finest gown London could provide, the fashionable golden coiffure, the finely wrought jewellery encircling her smooth white neck and dimpled wrists. Finally Julia spoke.

“I am sorry if you heard something that you didn’t like, Jack, but you must know that eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.” She shrugged elegantly, glided to the window and stood gazing out, seemingly absorbed in the view of the fashionably landscaped garden beyond the terrace.

Jack’s face was grim, the scar twisting down his cheek standing out fresh and livid against his pallor.

“God damn it, Julia, the least you could have done was told me to my face—what’s left of it,” he added bitterly. “It’s partly because of you that I’m in this situation in the first place.”

She turned, her lovely mouth pouting with indignation. “Well, really, Jack, how can you blame me for what has happened to you?”

His lips twisted sardonically and he shrugged, his powerful shoulders straining against the shabby, light, superfine coat.

“Perhaps not directly.
But when my father ordered me to end our betrothal you cast yourself into my arms and begged me to stand firm.
Which of course I did.”

“But how was I to know that that horrid old man truly
would
disinherit you for disobeying him?”

His voice was cool, his eyes cold.
”That horrid old man
was my father, and I told you at the time he would.”

“But he doted on you! I was sure he was only
bluffing.
. . trying to make you dance to his tune.”

His voice was hard. “It’s why I purchased a commission in the Guards, if you recall.”

The beautiful eyes ran over his body, skipping dis-tastefully over the scarred cheek and the stiffly extended leg.

“Yes, and it was the ruination of you!” She pouted, averting her eyes.