Major Lord David (3 page)

“I know him from here at Braughton, not from London.
Just as I know you and your cousin Charles.”

“Then you are not one of Hayden’s … friends?”

Again she drew a sharp breath. “I have been away at
school, my lord. You are hard on me-and on him.”

“Forgive me. Hayden and I are used to teasing each other.
You must not consider it cruel.”

“He has always looked out for you.”

“And you are his defender! Querida, you must tell me why
you think Hayden cares one jot for me.” She was permitting
him to hold her-lightly, it was true, but hold her nonetheless.
In their private enclave, an ancient ogee of arched stone
screened them from the rest of the party.

“Why, I remember that time at the weir-” She broke off
abruptly. And David knew he must look shocked. She could
not know about the weir; only Myles and Chas knew of that
incident, so many years ago, when Myles had risked much to
save him from drowning.

As he frowned, he felt her slight attempt to withdraw, but
the effort lacked will. His clasp on her was not tight; she
might have fled him had she wished. But he did not intend to
let the mystery elude him.

“Hayden told you about the weir,” he suggested softly.

“I believe the dance is ending, my lord. We should-we
should return” Just then she seemed to notice their distance
from the company. But she worried her lips, which she should
not have done.

“I wonder what might have prompted Hayden to relay the
tale. In general he does not boast of heroics. No doubt”-David
leaned closer-“he yielded to your considerable charms”

“It was not at all as you suppose! Ah …” Her attention had
flickered beyond him. “How beautiful! ‘Tis snowing….” At
the mullioned window a gust of snowflakes eddied in the
dark, patting at the panes, obscuring the already snow-dusted
spruce trees beyond. The dance had closed; the dancers were
dispersing to refresh themselves. The orchestra had started to
play Praetorius’ tune, in anticipation of the New Year.

David knew the signals by heart. Braughton, both the duke
and the legacy, had always introduced the New Year with this
overture, and as Braughton had always done, so it would always do. But David would not release the senorita. Despite
his awareness of the noise echoing in the high-ceilinged hall
and the frolicking crowd so close to them, he felt curiously
still, as though she and he were trapped together, muffled by
snow. The rest of the world could only be a distraction.

“This music-it is a Christmas carol,” she said, unwisely
drawing his attention again to her lips.

“‘Tis my grandmere’s favorite,” he explained. “My father
has it played for her every year, just before the turning of the
new. Just now,” he breathed, “it is apt” And he sang, very low,
and for her ears alone:

His fingers captured one bright, luxurious lock of her hair.
She did not pull away. For an instant her face was close
enough that her breath mingled with his. Then the horns and
clapping and cheers announced 1815.

“Querida,” he murmured against her ear. “I believe you owe me your name” Flattering as it was that her masked eyes were
closed, David pulled away to observe her. And just in time.

“David!”

That was his father, with every ounce of reproach he could
command-which, for His Grace of Braughton, was considerable. David turned to find his father flanked by an amused, unmasked Hayden and a furious Sir Moreton Caswell, Baronet.

“Wilhelmina Caswell!” Sir Moreton hissed. “This is how
you choose to behave?” Thankfully, the man kept his voice
low, though he was rapidly turning purple. David felt the girl’s
arm tremble in his grasp.

“Papa .. ” she said.

And David quickly withdrew his hold. He had to comprehend. This, the lovely senorita, was his neighbor, Caswell’s
daughter? The girl his father had been scheming for months
for him to meet and marry?

“Sir-” he tried.

“Oh, this is too much!” Sir Moreton snapped. “Four years
of fine schooling, Billie, and you must still..

But David no longer heard Sir Moreton’s fuming. His mind
had seized upon the name Billie. Surely not the “Billie” Caswell
who’d plagued him for years? The youngster who’d hounded
him, tortured him, injured him, and interfered in every conceivable way with his pleasures at home? The “Billie” Caswell
whom he’d believed just another of his neighbor’s troop of
boys?

He stepped back from her.

“Billie Caswell!” he charged, careless of the company. “Infuriating infant! My shoulder still aches in the cold! What a
shock it must have been for you-to find yourself a girl!” He
snatched the mask from her face. But the shock was his. For
the senorita was even lovelier than he’d supposed. And the
look in her eyes was an unforgiving blaze.

Her brothers had whisked her away. In the midst of
Braughton’s revelry they had hurried her, looking white as the
snow outside, out of the ballroom and far from him. Immediately David had done what he had to do, the only honorable
thing to do; he had turned to Sir Moreton Caswell and apologized. He had requested to pay his addresses. He had, in
essence, offered for her.

Caswell had muttered unintelligibly, but he had not said no,
and David’s father, the implacable Duke of Braughton, had
said nothing at all.

After tentative, disheartened efforts to rejoin the celebrations, David had retired as well, and, like any practiced soldier, he had slept.

But as he stood staring at the next morning’s bountiful
breakfast buffet, and feeling as he now almost always felt at
mealtimes-ravenous-he knew he deliberately avoided contemplating the previous night’s happenings. He did not know
whether he was promised or not; he did not know whether he
was to be married. He could only hope that the rest of the year
would not continue as it had begun.

There were too many people in the house. Despite the early
hour there were too many people, easily forty or more, packed
here in the breakfast room, and they were all still too happy. In
the usual course, he would have enjoyed the company. But as he
filled his plate, he wished he were not required to be sociable.

He’d noticed at least one of the Caswell brothers at the
table-the eldest, priggish “Morty,” who had sent him several
baleful glances-but there was no sign of her.

Myles came to stand next to him at the sideboard. David
glanced at him with some temper, heightened by the sight of
that easy smile.

“You bounder,” he said. “You knew”

Myles’ smile fled. “I did not know.” For a moment he
plucked with tongs at the sausages, then abandoned the sport
and turned to him. “Wilhelmina Caswell and I have never been
introduced. You have my word on it. The only failing I will
claim, David, is my distraction last night, when I might have
observed your senorita’s company. Though why I should have
assumed that responsibility, given your own close reconnaissance, eludes me” He shrugged. “You yielded to an inclination, and duty binds you nonetheless. Need I say that is usually
the way of things? ‘Tis deplorable, blaming others when your
own choices cause the constraints. I’d presumed you a better
officer.” And after that-one of the longer speeches David
had heard from him in many years-the imperturbable Marquis of Hayden turned and abruptly left the room.

David noticed Grandmere-his father’s mother, the elderly
Dowager Duchess of Braughton-at the far end of the table.
Her presence surprised him, as she was not usually an early
riser, until he observed that she still wore the previous night’s
ball gown. She had not even been to bed. That explained
all; his inexhaustible French relative was a phenomenon indeed.

He walked the length of the table to take a seat next to her.

“Mon pauvre”-she spoke with some excitement-“what
was it you said to him?”

David shrugged. “Il se fache,” he said of Hayden.

“Oui. I see. He is indeed cross. Very good, David. Very good.”
But she examined his face with concern. “You must be brave,
mon enfant, for this will take some time.”

What did she mean by “this”? He was frowning when his
cousin Chas placed a hand on his left shoulder and, leaning
over, spoke in his ear.

“You must think of the girl,” he advised, and for a second
Chas’ grave brown gaze met his own. Then Chas patted his
shoulder and moved on.

At least his grandmere and Chas had not disowned him. But
they had always been the most sensible members of the family.

David stabbed his eggs.

“That is a sizable portion you have there, Major.” Smug
Morty Caswell was watching from across the table, with an
annoyingly superior tilt to his chin.

“Had you starved in the Pyrenees, Caswell,” David responded
lightly, “you would not remark it.”

As Morty Caswell turned pink, that end of the table fell
silent. David heard his grandmere’s “tsk,” but he continued
to eat undisturbed. In a moment the irrepressible spirits of the
New Year had reasserted themselves, and the lively conversation resumed.

“That was not well done, mon petit.” His grandmother eyed
him. “You forget you are a gentleman.”

“It is possible to be too much the gentleman.”

“Never! Ce n’est pas possible!”

“Hayden is your model, then, Grandmere, is he?”

“The model is for everyone the same-to be genteel, to be
kind! C’est tout! And though your brother is all that is proper,
David, you are more often the `model.’ To be kind takes the
warm heart”

He looked at her then, so tiny and silver-haired, and felt the
reproach. “How did such a pretty young one as you are grow
to be so wise?”

She smiled with that hint of shared confidence that had
charmed so many. “I have the example of my grandsons,” she
replied diplomatically, “who are gentlemen.”

He laughed, a sound that seemed to reassure the others at
the table that Major Lord David Trent was not mad. His
grandmere shook her head.

“You look most like him, David. Like your grand-pere.
When you smile so-eh, bien!-I am again eighteen. So I
must feel for this jeune fille. With les premieres amours.”

“Les premieres amours? Que vent dire-?”

“Oh, you know very well what I mean, else this Duc de Fer
Wellington would not have wished you in Paris last fall!”

“‘Puppy love’ is hardly a term old Hooky would use. And
in any event it scarcely applies. There is no `love’ involved. This
is simply a case of two meddling old men.”

“So? I believe you wrong. But this `puppy love’-it will
pass. You need only wait.”

For some reason he did not welcome the thought. David
finished the rest of his breakfast in silence and tried not to
think of himself as a soldier, at the disposal of others. Unfortunately, he found his status affirmed when he at last exited
the dining room. He met his father and Sir Moreton Caswell
heading into breakfast.

The Duke of Braughton, tall, stern, and well-used to exercising authority, did not trouble to wish his son a happy New
Year.

“You will, of course, accompany the Caswells on their journey home today, David.”

“Yes, sir.” He knew it was useless to argue that “the journey” consisted of at most eight miles-that with two strong
sons, and at least as many grooms, Caswell hardly needed aid.
Useless as well to suggest that they might more wisely wait a
day, until the snow stopped or cleared in the warmth of sunlight. Ultimately useless to question any command of his father’s, given in just that tone of voice. David was to serve at the
Caswells’ behest. His own folly had guaranteed it.

He sought out his bleary-eyed batman, Barton, with the news that he would be traveling that day, then chose to await
both his greatcoat and his summons in the library.

Of all that he loved about Braughton, and he loved Braughton
very much, the library was perhaps his favorite room, cool on
the hottest days, warm now as a fire blazed cheerfully away
and the snow still fell. The room’s many tall windows always
provided ample illumination. Braughton’s library, unlike so
many in country holdings, was not heavy-paneled and musty.
Despite the walls of stone and glass, the room was open,
light, and welcoming. As boys he and Myles had explored
endlessly among the shelves and ladders. They had known
the collection more intimately than had the several tutors
Braughton employed. But after so many years away, David
felt a stranger.