Susan Johnson (2 page)

A
s the month of June advanced in the small, sequestered hamlet far from the busy thoroughfares of the world, a short distance from Annabelle’s cottage, a young man of high station was living an equally reclusive life.

Murray D’Abernon, thirteenth Marquis of Darley, known far and wide as Duff for his dark hair and swarthy complexion, was rusticating at his family’s seat.

He’d come back from the Battle of Waterloo more dead than alive.

And profoundly changed by all he’d experienced.

Even after most of his wounds had healed and his health had improved, he’d eschewed his friends and familiar haunts in London. Nor could he be coaxed or cajoled into rejoining the licentious brotherhood of his past, no matter how enticing the offered lures.

After a time, his family and friends had given up trying to convince him to return to his previous pleasures, and he’d taken up residence in a small hunting lodge on the estate with only his batman for company.

Whatever scars he bore from the Peninsula Campaign, and the last, bloody battle between Napoleon and those nations arrayed against the once-most-powerful man in Europe, remained. He seldom smiled. He spoke little. He kept to himself as much as possible.

His parents worried, but held their counsel. His siblings had teased him at first, before realizing no amount of teasing altered the emptiness of his gaze. They all treated him like a wounded animal after that until he’d abruptly said at dinner one night, “You needn’t tiptoe around me like I’m an invalid. I’m fine.”

No one dared say he wasn’t. Everyone tried to behave normally in his presence.

But Duff spent more and more time with his horses; his favorite, Romulus, was only one of a string of ponies he’d carried with him through the campaigns in Spain and Europe. There were times when he even slept in the stables, as though only in the company of those brute creatures, who had seen all that he had, could he find a measure of peace.

And so his monkish hermitage continued until one day, because of his cardinal interest in horses, the marquis met Annabelle Foster.

They were both at a horse fair in a nearby village.

They were both bidding on the same pretty mare out of the legendary Gimcrack’s bloodlines.

He recognized her immediately. Who in England wouldn’t? She was the leading lady of Drury Lane Theater, as well as a celebrated playwright—and the reigning beauty of the day.

She glanced over and smiled at Duff as he raised her bid. Then she raised hers by a substantial enough amount to bring a gasp from the crowd.

He dipped his head faintly in acknowledgment and doubled her raise.

She dropped out after that; a man like Darley could buy and sell her a thousand times over.

Consider her surprise, then, when the next morning, the mare was delivered to her mother’s cottage by a liveried groom. She was handed the reins and a brief note.
My compliments on your good taste. Please accept this small gift as a token of my esteem.
It was signed, simply,
Darley
.

Annabelle’s surprise was nothing compared to that of Duff’s family, who were apprised of the transaction by the stable master, who was vastly disappointed at the loss of the mare. On the other hand, he explained to the duke, “The marquis done look a bit like he did in the past. You ken—with that light in his eyes anent a purty woman. So it ain’t all bad, I reckon, that he didn’t get that there mare.”

“Indeed not,” the Duke of Westerlands replied, immensely gratified. “Thank you for informing us.”

“My pleasure, sar. And Miss Foster be right purty, the groom tells me.”

“Yes, she is. Very beautiful.” Julius had seen Miss Foster on the stage on many occasions, her beauty and poise, not to mention her acting skills, superb. “I shall inform his mother immediately. She’s been worried.”

“As have we all, Your Grace. The young lord ain’t been the same since he come back.”

Julius smiled. “A love affair might be just what he needs to bring him around.”

“Aye. And the lady kept the mare, me lord.” The wiry, middle-aged man winked. “That be a good sign, I’d say.”

In the meantime, more realistic about the implications surrounding the expensive present she’d received, Annabelle sat down to write a note to the marquis. She thanked him for his gift but politely refused it. She couldn’t keep so valuable a horse, she said, thanking him nevertheless for his thoughtfulness. And then she sent the mare back with Molly’s beau, Tom.

Annabelle had no intention of entering into a liaison at the moment—and in her milieu, with a gift of such magnitude, a resulting quid pro quo was taken for granted. Society viewed actresses as little more than courtesans, albeit of a certain more lofty type. And while Annabelle had a very different opinion of herself, she was well aware of the commonly held characterization.

D
uff accepted his congé with mixed feelings. The mare was a beauty. He couldn’t in all honesty be displeased to have it back. He even understood that Miss Foster’s politely worded rebuff had less to do with him than with the expectations such a gift engendered.

He could have written back and explained to her the mare had been offered without ulterior designs. But they both knew no matter how courteously he defined his motives, she might not believe him. She wasn’t a novice in the deceit and guile of the fashionable world.

Nor was he.

He understood her demur.

But that night, his usual nightmares were tempered by pleasing and reoccurring images of the lovely Miss Foster, her pale, blond beauty gliding in and out of the scenes of bloody carnage that normally disturbed his sleep. Her sublime radiance, in fact, largely superseded the grotesque montages of suffering that had so long held him in their grip.

When he woke, the morning sun colored the horizon rosy peach, the birds were singing in joyful chorus, and the smell of coffee and bacon wafted its way upstairs from the kitchen below, tempting his appetite. Stretching lazily, he gazed out on the bright summer day and experienced a feeling of well-being for the first time—since…he couldn’t remember when. Even his damaged hip didn’t ache with its usual intensity. A smile slowly played over his mouth. Perhaps miracles did exist and Eddie’s rough field surgery was finally healing. Pushing aside his covers, he rose from his bed with a new sense of purpose.

He even glanced at his wardrobe with more than mere function in mind, selecting a new riding coat his mother had sent over. He smiled again, knowing his mother had hoped this new garment from his tailor would catch his fancy. The coat was an exquisite shade of sage green linen lined with buff striped silk, the buttons inlaid pear wood—a splendid sight, he had to admit. And it fit to perfection, even with his weight loss, thanks to his mother’s eye and his tailor’s expertise.

His good spirits must have been obvious, for Eddie smiled as Duff entered the kitchen. “Don’t you look fine this mornin’, sar.”

“It’s the new coat. Weston did his usual good work.” The marquis picked up the coffeepot sitting on the sideboard and moved toward the table in the center of the kitchen. “Breakfast smells good. I’m hungry.”

Eddie suppressed his surprise. Darley’s appetite had been touchy at best, his breakfast usually consisting of coffee and little else.

Taking a seat at the table, the marquis casually remarked, “I think I actually slept last night.”

“I reckon you did. You was damned quiet, at least.” Eddie grinned. “Except for the fact you was mutterin’ offn’ on about the lady Belle.”

Duff’s brows rose. “You don’t say. Hmmm…Although, if that was her in my dreams,” he added with a grin, “it was a damned improvement over the usual gore.”

Eddie hadn’t seen his master grin like that for so long, tears sprang to his eyes. Quickly glancing down at the porridge he was stirring to hide his feelings, he said as casually as he could, “Mebbe you should call on the lady. It must be right boring for her so far from the
Ton.
She might relish a bit o’ conversation.”

“Don’t say you’re getting tired of my company,” Duff teased, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“No offense, sar, but you ain’t exactly been the talkative type lately. You could use a change of scene, efn’ you know what I mean.” That the marquis was actually trading jests with him was incredible. “Mayhap we should ride on over to Shoreham today.”

Duff shot his batman an amused look. “Since when did you take up pimping, Eddie?”

“Don’t know as I have, sar. I was jes’ thinkin’ the lady might like to go for a ride on that little mare she didn’t want. Try it out, like.”

“So you were thinking that, were you?” the marquis drawled.

“It’s been a while, sar, since we seen any ladies.” Duff’s celibacy had impinged on Eddie’s life as well. And loyal as he was, it had been a major hardship.

The marquis studied his batman with a narrowed gaze. “Don’t tell me you’ve been playing the anchorite for me.”

“No, sar,” Eddie lied, not wishing to say he’d been afraid to leave the marquis alone with his demons. “What say I saddle up that pretty little mare after breakfast and we take ourselves a ride over Shoreham way?”

Duff glanced out the window, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then nodded his head. “Why not? It looks like a damned fine day for a ride.”

It seemed an age since he’d paid a call on a lady. It seemed even longer since he’d experienced the excitement he was feeling as he rode toward Shoreham with Eddie at his side.

“This has to be one of our better summer days,” Duff noted. “The temperature is ideal—a light breeze, not a cloud in the sky. A person couldn’t have ordered more perfect weather.”

Eddie could have pointed out that the past fortnight had been of equal perfection weather-wise, but he didn’t. He said instead, “You got that right, sar. It be a right fine day to be out.”

“Miss Foster may not wish to go for a ride.” Whether he was warning his batman or himself was unclear.

“It don’t matter none, sar,” Eddie replied. “It don’t hurt to ask.”

“I suppose I could explain she could have kept the mare without—” Darley’s voice trailed away.

When it appeared that the marquis wasn’t going to explain further, Eddie said, “Good idea, sar. I expect she don’t get gifts without sumpin’ wanted in return, like.”

Duff blew out a breath. “Jesus—one forgets all the rudeness and inconsequential rules of the
Ton
out here.”

“The
Ton
don’t ever forget, though.”

“Well, devil take it—and all the harpies at Almack’s, too, while we’re at it.”

Eddie smiled. “Yes, sar. Good idea, sar—seein’ how the patronesses kicked you out afor you set out for the Peninsula Campaign anyway.”

“Lord, that seems a lifetime ago,” Duff murmured.

“Mebbe nine lifetimes ago, sar. You, me, and the cats.”

“There were so many who didn’t come back, though,” he said softly. “Elgin and Graham, Tychson and—”

“When your time’s up, it’s up, sar. You know that,” Eddie interposed, not wanting the marquis to sink into the hell of his memories. Christ, he shouldn’t have mentioned the war. What was he thinking? “We was lucky,” the batman added, talking fast in the hopes of wiping the frown from his master’s brow. “Think of it that way, sar. We was
real
lucky. Not many men would have survived your wounds, sar. Lady Luck’s bin on yer shoulder.”

“And for what, I sometimes wonder,” Duff muttered.

“For this fine day and this pretty mare and the lovely lady we’re off to see,” Eddie replied with forced cheer.

Duff turned to his batman. “I’ve been a trial to you, haven’t I? How do you keep your temper?”

“Not a problem, sar.”

Darley smiled faintly. “Miss Foster
is
very lovely, isn’t she?” His smile widened. “And it’s a very fine day.”

“Yes, sar, on both counts.”

“I
am
feeling less bedeviled.”

“I can tell, sar.” For one thing, he couldn’t have coaxed the marquis to call on a lady for love or money a week ago.

“I actually feel as though a weight has suddenly lifted from my shoulders. One hears such phrases bandied about, of course, but who knew they were based in fact? It’s very strange.”

“Buying that fine little mare might have done the trick, sar. You ain’t been shoppin’ for no racers in a long time. Mayhap it set you on the right track, so to speak. Mayhap you’re feelin’ better cuz yer back in the racin’ game.”

The marquis glanced at his batman. “The season’s begun?”

Two months ago,
Eddie thought. “There’s been a few races, sar,” he said, ambiguously. “Your pa took a first at the Spring Meet.”

“With Sunstar?”

“None other. By three lengths, too.”

“Did you bet?”

“ ’Course I did. Won a bit o’ blunt on that one.”

“Maybe we should gear up again, get my stable up and running. Why don’t you see if Harry Landseer is available to ride for me,” Duff said briskly, a new energy in his voice. “Tell him I apologize for inquiring at so late a date, but I’ll triple whatever he’s making with anyone else.”

“Yes,
sar
!” Because of a pretty mare and a prettier lady, the marquis had apparently returned from the moribund half-world in which he’d been dwelling for much too long.

Life was good
, Eddie thought. First-rate. And his chances of winning some blunt at the races had greatly improved. The marquis’s horses came in first more often than not.

Duff was sharing Eddie’s belief in the goodness of life. He felt as though he’d suddenly walked from some dark prison into the sunshine.

And before long he’d be basking in the glow of the lovely Miss Foster’s smile as well.

“How much farther?” he asked, as though impatient to get on with his life now that he was once again in possession of it.

“Jes’ around that bend, sar, and down into the valley. Ten minutes, mebbe less.”