Married by Morning (29 page)

It all began with a letter.

To be precise, it was the mention of the dog.

“What about the dog?” Beatrix Hathaway asked. “Whose dog?”

Her friend Prudence, the reigning beauty of Hampshire County, looked up from the letter that had been sent by her suitor, Captain Christopher Phelan.

Although it wasn’t proper for a gentleman to correspond with an unmarried girl, they had arranged to discreetly send letters back and forth with Phelan’s sister-in-law as a go-between.

Prudence sent her a mock-frown. “Really, Bea, you’re displaying far more concern over a dog than you ever have for Captain Phelan.”

“Captain Phelan has no need of my concern,” Beatrix said pragmatically. “He has the concern of every marriageable miss in Hampshire. Besides, he chose to go to war, and I’m sure he’s having a lovely time strutting about in his smart uniform.”

“It’s not at all smart,” came Prudence’s glum reply. “In fact, his new regiment has
dreadful
uniforms—very plain, dark green with black facings, and no gold braiding or lace at all. And when I asked why, Captain Phelan said it was to help the Rifles stay concealed, which makes no sense, as everyone knows that a British soldier is far too brave and proud to conceal himself during battle. But Christopher—that is, Captain Phelan—said it had something to do with … oh, he used some French word…”

“Camouflage?” Beatrix asked, intrigued.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Many animals have ways of camouflaging themselves to keep from being seen. Chameleons, for example. Or the way an owl’s feathering is mottled to help it blend with the bark of its tree. That way—”

“Heavens, Beatrix, do
not
start another lecture on animals.”

“I’ll stop if you tell me about the dog,” Beatrix coaxed.

Prudence handed her the letter. “Read it for yourself.”

“But, Pru,” Beatrix protested as the small, neat pages were pushed into her hands. “Captain Phelan may have written something personal.”

“I should be so fortunate! It’s utterly gloomy. Nothing but battles and bad news.”

Although Christopher Phelan was the last man Beatrix would ever want to defend, she couldn’t help pointing out, “He is away fighting in the Crimea, Pru. I’m not sure there are many pleasant things to write about in wartime.”

“Well, I have no interest in foreign countries, and I’ve never pretended to.”

A reluctant grin spread across Beatrix’s face. “Pru, are you certain you want to be an officer’s wife?”

“Well,
of course
… most commissioned soldiers never go to war. They’re very fashionable men about town, and if they agree to go on half-pay, they have hardly any duties and they don’t have to spend any time at all with the regiment. And that was the case with Captain Phelan, until he was alerted for foreign service.” Prudence shrugged. “I suppose wars are always inconveniently timed. Thank heavens Captain Phelan will return to Hampshire soon.”

“Will he? How do you know?”

“My parents say the war will be over by Christmas.”

“I’ve heard that as well. However, one wonders if we aren’t severely underestimating the Russians’ abilities, and overestimating our own.”

“How unpatriotic,” Prudence exclaimed, a teasing light in her eyes.

“Patriotism has nothing to do with the fact that the War Office, in its enthusiasm, didn’t do nearly enough planning before it launched thirty thousand men to the Crimea. We don’t have adequate knowledge of the place, nor any sound strategy for its capture.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

“From the
Times
. It’s reported on every day. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Not the political section. My parents say it’s ill-bred for a young lady to take an interest in such things.”

“My family discusses politics every night at dinner, and my sisters and I all take part.” Beatrix paused deliberately before adding with an impish grin, “We even have
opinions
.”

Prudence’s eyes widened. “My goodness. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone knows your family is … different.”

“Different” was a far kinder adjective than was often used to describe the Hathaway family. The Hathaways were comprised of five siblings, the oldest of which was Leo, followed by Amelia, Winnifred, Poppy, and Beatrix. After the death of their parents, the Hathaways had gone through an astonishing change of fortune. Although they were common-born, they were distantly related to an aristocratic branch of the family. Through a series of unexpected events, Leo had inherited a viscouncy for which he and his sisters hadn’t been remotely prepared. They had moved from their small village of Primrose Place to the Ramsay estate in the southern county of Hampshire.

After six years, the Hathaways had managed to learn just enough to accommodate themselves to good society. However, none of them had learned to think like the nobility, nor had they acquired aristocratic values or mannerisms. And whereas a family in similar circumstances might have endeavored to improve their situations by marrying their social betters, the Hathaways had so far chosen to marry for love.

As for Beatrix, there was doubt as to whether she would marry at all. She was only half-civilized, spending most of her time out of doors, riding or rambling through the woodlands, marsh, and meadows of Hampshire. Beatrix preferred the company of animals to people, collecting injured and orphaned creatures and rehabilitating them. The creatures that couldn’t survive on their own in the wild were kept as pets, and Beatrix occupied herself with caring for them. That had always been enough for her … until lately.

More and more frequently, Beatrix had become aware of a chafing sense of dissatisfaction. Of yearning. The problem was that Beatrix had never met a man who was right for her. Certainly none of the pale, overbred specimens of the London drawing rooms she had frequented. And although the more robust men in the country were appealing, none of them had the unnameable
something
Beatrix longed for. She dreamed of a man whose force of will matched her own. She wanted to be passionately loved … challenged … overtaken.

Beatrix glanced at the folded letter in her hands.

It wasn’t that she disliked Christopher Phelan as much as she recognized that he was inimical to everything she was. He was sophisticated, born to privilege, able to move with ease in the civilized environment that was so alien to her. He was the second son of a well-to-do local family, his maternal grandfather an earl, his father’s family distinguished by a significant shipping fortune.

Although the Phelans were not in line for a title, the oldest son, John, would inherit an estate in Warwickshire upon the earl’s death. John was a sober and thoughtful man, devoted to his young wife, Audrey.

But the younger brother, Christopher, was another sort of man entirely. As so often happened with second sons, Christopher had purchased an army commission at the age of twenty-two. He had gone in as a cornet, a perfect occupation for such a splendid-looking fellow, since his chief responsibility was to carry the cavalry colors during parades and drills. He was also a great favorite among the ladies of London, where he constantly went without proper leave, spending his time dancing, drinking, gaming, purchasing fine clothes, and indulging in scandalous love affairs.

Beatrix had met Christopher Phelan on two occasions, the first at a local dance, where she had judged him to be the most arrogant man in Hampshire. The next time she had met him was a picnic, where she had revised her opinion: He was the most arrogant man in the entire world.

“That Hathaway girl is a peculiar creature,” Beatrix had overheard him say to a companion. “With none of her sisters’ beauty, unfortunately.”

“I find her charming and original,” his companion had protested. “And she can talk horses better than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“Naturally,” came Phelan’s dry rejoinder. “With her appearance and manners, she’s better suited to the stables than the drawing room.”

From then on, Beatrix had avoided him whenever possible. Not that she minded being compared to a horse, since horses were lovely animals with generous and noble spirits. And she knew that although she wasn’t a great beauty, she had her own charms. More than one man had commented favorably on her dark brown hair and blue eyes.

These moderate attractions, however, were nothing compared to Christopher Phelan’s golden splendor. He was as fair as Lancelot. Gabriel. Perhaps Lucifer, if one believed that he had once been the most beautiful angel in heaven. Phelan was tall and silver-eyed, his hair the color of dark winter wheat touched by the sun. His form was strong and soldierly, the shoulders straight and strong, the hips slim. Even as he moved with indolent grace, there was something undeniably potent about him, something selfishly predatory.

Recently Phelan had been one of the select few to be culled from various regiments to become part of the Rifle Brigade. The “Rifles,” as they were called, were an unusual brand of soldier, trained to use their own initiative. They were encouraged to take up positions forward of their own front lines and pick off officers and horses that were usually beyond target range. Because of his singular marksmanship skills, Phelan had been promoted to a captaincy in the Rifle Brigade.

It had amused Beatrix to reflect that the honor probably hadn’t pleased Phelan at all. Especially since he’d been obliged to trade his beautiful Hussars uniform, with its black coat and abundant gold braiding, for a plain dark green one.

“Go on and read it,” Prudence said as she sat at her dressing table. “I must repair my coiffure before we go on our walk.”

“Your hair looks lovely,” Beatrix protested, unable to see any flaw in the elaborately pinned twist of blond braids. “And we’re only going to Stony Cross. None of the townspeople will know or care if your hair isn’t perfect.”

“
I’ll
know. Besides, there is never any telling whom one might run across.”

Accustomed as she was to her friend’s ceaseless primping, Beatrix grinned and shook her head. “All right. If you’re certain you don’t mind me looking at Captain Phelan’s letter, I’ll just read the part about the dog.”

“You’ll fall asleep long before you get to the dog,” Prudence said, expertly inserting a hairpin into a twisted braid.

Beatrix looked down at the scrawled lines. The words looked cramped, tight coils of letters ready to spring from the page.

“The beginning is the only good part,” Prudence said. “Go on.”