Major Lord David (7 page)

“Where should you like him, Miss Caswell?” he managed
impatiently. Though thin, the youth was difficult to hold upright. David expected him to pass out or be thoroughly sick at
any moment.

“Oh, upstairs, please, Major-if you can?”

He nodded and hoisted the baggage up farther upon one
shoulder. As he carried his load up the stairs, with the elderly
butler providing an occasional steadying hand, Sir Moreton
came out upon an upper landing.

“Kit!” he exclaimed, in such a tone that David decided the
name must often be spoken with exasperation. “Where have
you been?”

“Mr. Puddiway just brought him from the inn, Father,” Billie said, as Sir Moreton moved to aid them in maneuvering Kit
through a narrow bedroom door.

David slid his burden onto the bed and stepped back to let
the others stretch the wastrel out upon the duvet. He found he
could not quite appreciate the solicitude with which Billie
eased a blanket across her brother. David viewed the disheveled
lump upon the bed with scarcely concealed distaste.

“Has he been ill?” he asked, noting Kit Caswell’s pallor
and the beads of sweat upon his brow.

“He has not been well for some time, my lord,” Sir Moreton
answered gruffly, drawing him hastily from the room. “Come,
Billie. Tate, do send my own man to see to him. Lord David,
you must be eager for your dinner.”

“Not at all, sir. In fact, I believe I mustn’t stay.” He heard
Billie Caswell’s swiftly drawn breath as they made their way
back downstairs. “Puddiway said the snow has started once
more. But if you please-I should like a brief word”

Sir Moreton nodded and led the way to his study off the
back of the hall. David could feel Billie’s gaze upon him as he
followed her father. He wondered if she could read his
thought, which was at that moment intensely clear to him: she
ought to welcome an establishment of her own. She could
never have deserved being saddled with such a churlish lot of
relatives.

He knew that view influenced his manner-that he was
more peremptory and unyielding with the Caswell patriarch
than he’d intended to be. But, given his desire to depart and Caswell’s obvious distraction, a brief interview served. David
repeated his offer for the daughter, relayed her request for
time, and promised his own attentions as long as she desired
them. He stressed that no date had been set for a wedding and
that no effort should be initiated to draw up settlements, because the lady had not yet ascertained her wishes. Miss
Caswell still anticipated her season.

Sir Moreton appeared to find the interchange satisfactory,
at least to the extent of warmly shaking hands with him.
When they parted in the hall, Caswell again excused himself
to return upstairs. And David asked that his horse be brought
around.

“You are certain you must leave now, Major?” Billie asked
from the drawing-room door.

“I fear I must, Miss Caswell,” he said, shrugging into his
greatcoat. “I would not tax you with a guest on such an evening.”

“‘Tis no burden,” she assured him, though her smile was
slight.

No burden certainly, he thought, compared to that of your
family.

As she stood there so obviously proud and alone, her
beauty struck him as something extraordinary. Whatever elegance had been borne through the Caswell line had distilled
itself in her. And that sudden recognition struck him strangely
silent.

“It is much too cold to ride back tonight, my lord,” she
added.

“‘Tis not cold at all. The snow assures it. I have confronted
much worse, Miss Caswell.”

“What did you say to Papa-to my father just now?”

“That I am at your command” He bowed. “And only your
command, for as long as you wish it. You understand me?”

She was studying his face. “You said earlier that I `punish’
you.”

He smiled. She was young indeed to have found any hurt in that. “You misunderstood. The punishment was not the necessity to offer, or being held to an offer. I brought that on myself, after all. I referred only to your lack of clarity. But now
we are in accord, are we not?”

She nodded and moved with him to the door.

“All is well, then, Miss Caswell. You have your time. I’d
suggest you not waste it in babying your brother.”

” `Babying’?” Her instant temper surprised him. “I suppose
you are so used to the privileges of Braughton that you cannot
imagine … that you … Oh! You forget yourself, Major!”

“What the devil!” In confronting her wildly pink cheeks,
his answering, astonishing pique required unexpected control.
“Has the whiner infected you with excuses and resentments?
That would be poor recompense for all your affection and
care. But ‘tis the way of such spoiled youngsters. I have seen
too much of it, Miss Caswell. And I fear I must correct you.
My brother and I have had privileges enough, as you rightly
point out, but we have never been indulged.”

“You are too proud, my lord,” she said. “Surely it is not
your place to determine whether you have been indulged. And
that you should dare attack my family! Whatever we havewhatever you believe you arranged here this evening-is at an
end. I release you from any understanding. Now-this
minute! We have no agreement. You need not contact me, or
my father, ever again!”

“‘Attack’ your family? You mistake me, Miss Caswell. And
you take this too much to heart. Say what you will, I refuse to
let the blighter interfere with us in the slightest. Does he demand so much, or do you volunteer it?”

“Good-bye, Major.” As she wheeled from him, he caught
her elbow.

“No, Billie-querida-” He leaned to kiss her, but catching the look in her amber eyes, he lightly tapped her chin instead. “You almost make me wish that the year might continue
as it began. A kiss is sorely tempting. But ‘twould only confuse you further.” He restrained a smile. “I shall be patient. You
shall see me again soon, sweet, as promised-within the month”
And with that pledge, and now feeling quite warm enough for
a much longer journey, he turned out into the snow.

Billie did not see him again within the month, or even within
two. The New Year was only ten days old when word reached
them of the disastrous battle at New Orleans, where more than
two thousand British troops, many of them seasoned veterans
of long years in the Peninsular campaign, had been felled by
a relative handful of Americans. And the shocking defeat
had occurred, perhaps most tragically, just as Britain had at
last believed itself at peace. News of December’s peace agreements, celebrated by the European allies over the holidays,
simply had not traveled across the Atlantic in time to prevent
the continuation of hostilities and the carnage on American
soil.

Even the Duke of Wellington’s brother-in-law, Major-General
Sir Edward Pakenham, had been lost at New Orleans.

Lord David’s regiment of House Guards, the Coldstream
regiment, had not been in America or Louisiana, but as he’d
previously served with many of the other officers on the
Peninsula, he must have felt the loss keenly. With receipt of
the news, he apparently had not waited to be summoned. He
had left Leicestershire immediately to return to Paris and
Wellington.

Before leaving, he had troubled to convey his apologies to
Miss Caswell; he regretted the delay in settling their affairs.
In a most economical three lines he had recommended that
she not allow uncertainty regarding their status to influence her in the slightest. He assured her that he was, as he had always
been, hers alone. She must do, as he termed it, as she “thought
best”

She knew she would have married him the next day-had
he loved her. But he’d admitted only attraction, an attraction
that pressure to wed could scarcely further. She had promptly
told her father that Lord David would not suit after all.

Sir Moreton had merely harrumphed, claiming that it was
“early days yet” and infuriatingly advising her that she did
not know her own mind. He had refused to relay her withdrawal to David’s father, the Duke of Braughton. Given her
father’s willfulness and David’s absence, Billie resigned herself to remaining to all outward appearances attached, though
there was nothing to it at all. And that situation would continue as long as she and Lord David were parted.

By the last week in February she had moved on to town, to
her aunt Euphemia’s and the start of the social season.

Aunt Ephie had claimed, too enthusiastically in Billie’s
view, that her niece’s tenuous betrothal was enviable-that
any other young woman making her debut would leap at the
possibility of marrying “into” Braughton. Despite Billie’s explanation, despite her protests, Ephie assured her that there
need be no substance to the perception, that it was not necessary that a marriage ever take place-that to society expectation was all. In that Ephie echoed what David had suggested
at the New Year. But Billie could not be as sanguine. She did
not consider her situation enviable; she found it disturbingly
deceitful. Though everyone else, including her family, might
perceive her as promised, she knew she had released David
Trent from obligation almost as soon as he had undertaken it.
She had been most emphatic on the doorstep at New Year’s.
Though she now regretted her temper, and though her sentiments warred with her sense, she would not compel him to
wed. She was determined on it.

But she did not know how she was to act. The other young ladies in town had accepted her presence within their circle as
posing little threat, serving rather to attract male attention that
could not be fixed upon her, as she was already engaged. Billie sought pleasure in the season’s entertainments, but she
knew her behavior must always be irreproachable-befitting a
Braughton bride, though that was not what she was to be, and
though the lucky gentleman was nowhere to be seen.

She had not slept soundly for weeks, and even Ephie’s excellent cook could not tempt her to sample much in the way of
meals. On any given day Billie wondered just where Major
Trent might be.

Her growing abstraction interfered with the simplest decisions.

She spent an inordinate amount of time considering her
wardrobe for that afternoon’s call. The Dowager Duchess of
Braughton, Lord David’s grandmere, had invited Billie and
her aunt to visit. Billie could only assume that the invitation
had been sent at David’s instigation. She had heard nothing
from him and little of him since his departure in January, but
that did not mean he had been as silent with his family.

She knew she had no call to feel illused; there were, after
all, larger matters pending. The Duke of Wellington had moved
on from Paris to represent Great Britain at the Congress of Vienna, which august body of allies still worked at hammering
out a post-war structure for all the European states. Billie had
heard enough conversation to gather that small smattering of
politics. She had consulted the atlas almost daily. She had to
believe-given issues of such importance-that the intricacies of one trifling, personal alliance could scarcely signify.

She tossed aside an emerald silk sash.

“You do not like that, miss?” Simms, her maid, sounded surprised.

“‘Tis well enough. But not just now.” Billie had hardly
glanced at the thing. “I will not wear a sash”

“But with Her Grace-”

“It is not important, Simms. I assure you, I shall look presentable. As I remember, Her Grace is a woman of considerable good sense”

“Yes, miss,” Simms agreed dubiously. Billie guessed that in
the young maid’s opinion, nothing was too grand for a duchess.

Her aunt Ephie clearly felt the same.

“The gown is most tasteful, Wilhelmina,” she observed with
a frown, “but shouldn’t you prefer something a bit more …
colorful?”

“I look well enough in this, Auntie. I’ve no wish to fuss”

“‘Tis far from `fussing’ to take some particular care. The
Dowager Duchess-”

“Must be nearing eighty, Auntie. And I understand she was
recently ill. I observed her at the New Year. Her own style is elegant but understated. I can hardly appall her if I mimic her
own taste. And, truth be told, it is my own preference”

Ephie pursed her lips but clearly knew when to desist. Billie had never been one to yield readily to claims of fashion.
She had a stubborn sense of what looked suitable and had little
patience with unnecessary embellishment.

So her plain white gown with muted cream underskirt and
trim would do very well-it heightened the red highlights in
her hair and the healthy glow of her complexion. She quickly
tamped any curiosity as to whether Lord David would have
appreciated the effect and reminded herself that, whatever its
prompting, he had most opportunely and precipitously seized
upon his freedom, even if he had neglected to acknowledge it
publicly.

“I wonder,” Ephie mused aloud on their way in the carriage, “if Lord David suggested this invitation.”