Dawn in My Heart (10 page)

At least Lord Skylar no longer made a spectacle of him. He had learned over the years that the only times his master made sport of anyone was when he himself felt threatened.

 

Three nights later, Gillian sat with Templeton, smiling and chatting with the many beaus who stopped by her box to pay their respects during the performance. Her eye kept scanning the boxes opposite. During the last act of the first
performance, she saw Captain Hawkes enter Lady Winthrop's box. She could see him conversing over the ladies' shoulders, see their smiles, and she burned with jealousy over what they found so amusing.

Lord Caulfield's box remained empty.

It had been three days since his missed engagement in the park and rumor had it he was out of town.

How dare he? How dare he make such a fool of her?

Her only consolation was in showing Captain Hawkes how sought-after she was by all the young gentlemen in their circle. When the lights were raised during the intermission, he acknowledged her with a smile and bow of his head.

Later, as she sat pretending to watch the performance, she heard a low voice behind her.

“You look ravishing.”

Gerrit's low voice vibrated against her ear, sending a shiver through her.

“I dreamed of you many a night lying in my tent. I imagined you in my arms under the stars, our two bodies keeping each other warm.”

Her glance darted to Templeton, but she seemed engrossed in the comedy. Gillian didn't dare move.

The audience burst out in laughter and Gerrit took the moment of distraction to touch the spot behind her ear with his lips—the briefest, softest of touches. Surely no one saw it, but it burned Gillian's skin. How could she bear sitting there, pretending nothing was happening?

Did he mean it? Had he really thought of her in these three long years? Gillian longed to believe it.

“Ride with me in St. James's Park tomorrow afternoon.
We can view the pagoda. I'll find you there by the lake,” he whispered.

She made no acknowledgment she even heard him, but her mind was already feverishly at work as to how she would arrange a visit to St. James's without Templeton. Perhaps if her mother thought she went with a friend?

How could she even be considering such a thing! She was betrothed. It was scandalous to think of meeting a man other than Lord Skylar. But what was the meaning of Lord Skylar's absence? How little he must think of her to leave with no word.

She mustn't contemplate meeting Gerrit. But she had to know what he really felt. Her gloved hands clutched her fan tightly.

“You are mine, Gillian. You and I both know it,” Gerrit murmured against her ear. “Don't deny a returning soldier what you promised him so long ago….”

She drew in her breath. He hadn't forgotten! Hadn't she pledged her troth to this man long before she met Lord Skylar? Not in any public way, not in a legal document drawn up between his family and hers, but in secret, in the pledging of two hearts to become one.

 

Late the next morning as they were breakfasting, the Duchess of Burnham read from the
The Times:

Gillian dropped her knife. The words sounded ominous, so coldly printed in a newspaper. They made the arrangement talked of by her mother permanent and unchangeable.

“I can't believe it!” she exclaimed.

Her mother looked up. “What don't you believe?”

“How could he?” The alarm grew in Gillian the more she thought of the announcement. She wanted to tell her mother she wasn't ready. Couldn't they wait a few more months?

“How could who what?” Her mother looked more and more perplexed.

“That man!”

Understanding finally dawned. “You mean that
gentleman,
Lord Skylar?” her mother corrected.

“I don't call a gentleman one who forgets an engagement with a lady and does not even send round a note of apology and then publishes news of our betrothal with not so much as a by-your-leave.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” her mother asked. “When did Lord Skylar forget an engagement?”

“Lord Skylar kept me waiting almost an hour the other day at Hyde Park for our riding engagement and never appeared.”

“Oh, dear. That's four days. He hasn't written?”

“No.”

“I can't imagine what could have kept him. Perhaps he is ill.” Her mother frowned, removing her reading glasses.

“I, too, thought he might be indisposed, but not even to send a note?”

“It is strange,” her mother agreed. “I'm sure you'll receive something today.”

“I was told at Lady Shrewsbury's ridotto that he was out of town. Can you believe that? And not a word!”

Her mother looked alarmed. “I'll make an inquiry through Lord Caulfield.”

“You most certainly will not. I'll not go groveling for explanations to a man who doesn't even think enough of me to cancel an appointment.” She got up from the table. “And now to publish news of our betrothal. It's too much!”

“I'm sure it was Lord Caulfield who was responsible for the announcement, not his son,” her mother explained. “No doubt there's a very good explanation for all this. In any case, I'm glad about the announcement. This makes everything official.

“Now, we must set a date,” the duchess continued, forgetting Gillian's outrage and getting down to the more important business of wedding plans. “I think a wedding during the Christmas season would be lovely. Lord Skylar would be out of mourning. I shall discuss it with Lord Caulfield.”

Gillian was no longer listening. Her glance strayed to a society item in the copy of the
Morning Post
she'd been reading. It described the theatrical performance of the previous evening. The name “Captain Hawkes” caught her eye.
The much-decorated war hero, Captain Hawkes, was seen in Lady Winthrop's box
….

When her mother finally dropped the subject of the wedding date, Gillian sat back down and took a sip of tea to strengthen her resolve.

“Mama, I have invited Charlotte to go and view the construction of the pagoda at St. James's this afternoon. Might I drive the phaeton?”

Her mother turned to Templeton. “Can you accompany the girls?”

“Oh, Mama, we would be too crowded. The phaeton sits only two comfortably. Charlotte and I shall be fine.”

“I would prefer you take Templeton with you. There are so many undesirables about in the parks these days.”

“I can send a note over to see if Lord Skylar has returned. Perhaps he could meet us there,” Gillian suggested on a sudden burst of inspiration.

“That's a splendid idea! But I still want Templeton to ride with you.” Her mother went back to her newspaper.

Gillian stood up and excused herself, frustrated once again in her plans for seeing Gerrit.

As soon as she was alone in her room, guilt assailed her. How could she be behaving in such a way? She'd been ready to use Lord Skylar as an excuse to see another man. It brought back the time three years ago when she had concealed her meetings with Gerrit from her mother. How could she find herself in such a position again?

She remembered Lord Skylar's stipulation that one thing he required in a wife was her fidelity. She had given him her word.

Her heart pounded as she remembered the gravity of his tone. What would he think if he knew she was planning to meet her former lover?

She hid her face in her hands, too confused to know what to do.

She had to see Gerrit. Then she'd know what to do.

Just this one last time and then she would know.

One last time to determine what Gerrit really felt for her. She would tell him it was over. He had come back to reclaim her too late.

Was it too late?

If she were free, would he do the honorable thing this time?

A betrothal was a legally binding agreement. It was not easily broken.

No, even if Gerrit wanted to marry her, her mother would never countenance the match. The only course would be elopement.

The word filled her with terror. It conjured up tales of young girls brought back by a father or older brother in disgrace. But other couples had returned and been welcomed back into society after a period.

Hope sparked within her. But how to see Gerrit alone with Templeton following her around like a terrier?

 

Lord Caulfield pounded on his son's door and jerked it open before giving anyone a chance to answer it.

“What in thunderation is going on here? I get word from my secretary that your man is holding you hostage in here, away from all the other servants—” He stopped dead at the sight that greeted him.

The shadowy interior of the room was stuffy and had that closed, sickly sweet scent of medicine.

The oath died on his lips as he approached the bed. “What's wrong with him?” he asked the black man sharply.

Tertius cracked open an eye. Thankfully, his head no longer ached. He touched a temple tentatively, almost afraid the pain would return. “I would wish you good-morning or afternoon, Father, but I'm not quite sure which it is.”

His father stood looking down at him. “It's afternoon,” then as if realizing how ludicrous his reply was, he frowned.
“What's happened to you? How long have you been like this? I was told you were out of town—”

Tertius turned his head slowly toward Nigel, still afraid of experiencing pain. He arched an eyebrow at him. “How long has it been?”

“Five days,” the man answered quietly.

Tertius turned back to his father. “You have your answer.”

“Five days of what?”

“You tell him, Nigel. I find I am not quite up to it yet.”

“Fever, vomiting, dysentery.” He went down the list. “The same ailment that afflicted him in Kingston.”

“Haven't you seen any specialists?” His father ignored Nigel and directed himself to Tertius.

“Every quack from Kingston to Bridgetown,” he answered wearily. “I haven't yet given Harley Street the pleasure of diagnosing me.”

“Well, what did they say in the Indies?”

He placed a hand over his eyes. “Let me recollect. Dyspepsia, inflammation of the bowels, brain fever, tropical malady…the list went on. Forgive me if all the medical jargon escapes me.”

“And you've called no physician in now?” He turned furiously to Nigel. “What is the meaning of this? My son could have died!”

“I forbade him to,” Tertius interrupted him with a feeble gesture. “Their only remedy is to bleed me. It leaves me even weaker than the fever.”

His father turned away from the bed as if the sight of Tertius sickened him. “I cannot believe this. I thought you were well. You told me you were healed. Of all the calamities to befall this family…”

As his father fumed at the Fates, Tertius made an effort to sit up. Unwashed and unshaven, he knew he presented a spectacle. After the floor ceased to shift, he attempted to stand. Nigel came immediately to aid him.

“Hadn't you better stay abed?” his father called out in alarm.

“I've been prone for five days.”

“There must be something the doctors can do. I'll send for my personal physician. He's one of the best—”

“I don't need any more physicians. All they can do besides bleed me to death is prescribe some worthless physics and elixirs.” He held up a dark brown glass bottle. Suddenly, a wave of anger swept through him and he hurled the bottle toward the fireplace. Despite his weakness, he managed to make his target. The bottle cracked against the stone, its liquid contents spilling and immediately bursting into flames.

“I'd as lief drown myself in blue ruin,” he said. “As you can see, the composition is the same. And it will be less dear.”

His father approached him again. “You look at death's door.” He looked him up and down, and Tertius felt the disgust in his voice. “First Edmund and now you. Can't I have one son who will outlive me? If anything happens to you, your cousin George will inherit and I shudder to think of that….”

“Lord Skylar will be well again for a spell.” Nigel's soft tones startled them both.

“What's that?” Lord Caulfield frowned at the valet.

“Once the fever breaks, my lord recovers for a time…until the next bout.”

Lord Caulfield looked from one to the other. “So, it's a recurring fever.”

“It looks that way,” Tertius spoke up before sitting back down. His legs felt like wet dish rags.

His father clutched his jaw in his hand and stared at the carpet. At last he spoke, as if coming to a decision. “There's only one thing to be done.”

Tertius gripped the edges of his bed, bracing himself for what his father had in mind. Another exile?

“We shall move the wedding date up. The sooner you impregnate the chit, the better.”

Tertius stared at his father. He hadn't expected that as a solution.

Why was he surprised?

To his father, he was only a vehicle for breeding. He wasn't, nor had ever been, this man's son in all the ways that mattered.

 

“Don't you see, Duchess, we must have them married as soon as possible. It's the only way.” The marquess's eyes beseeched the duchess to understand the urgency of the situation.

“But if he's as ill as you say,” she began cautiously, “why should my daughter—my only child—be saddled with a man who might leave her a widow before the honeymoon is even up?”

“Not just a widow. A
countess—
with a considerable fortune. If the worst should happen, she can always remarry. But I'm counting on my son to last long enough to father an heir.

“As you know, our estates are entailed. If Tertius should die without a son, everything goes to a ne'er-do-well cousin of mine. You have already experienced that in your own fam
ily,” he added significantly. “Don't let such a disaster be repeated. All it needs is for Lady Gillian to bear a son. As mother to the future Marquess of Caulfield, your daughter will be in a very powerful position.”