Major Lord David (4 page)

While he waited, he set it as his task to reacquaint himself
with the library’s treasures. He was not in the habit of dwelling
overmuch on what he could not change. He was, however,
well-used to prolonged periods of enforced patience-and of
the need to make himself comfortable. Before long he was
pleasurably immersed in his chosen volume.

More than an hour passed before he was called to attend the
Caswells. After Barton helped him into his greatcoat, David
presented himself as escort to his neighbors. Sir Moreton
properly introduced the other three members of his familythe two sons and the daughter. As the girl curtsied before him,
David caught one glimpse of her face beneath her bonnet, a
glimpse abbreviated enough that he was reminded of how
much he disliked bonnets.

Since his horse, Incendio, stood tethered to the back of the
coach, David knew he would be traveling inside with the family. And just as he’d anticipated, there were at least two grooms
with the coachman, making the Caswells’ party a veritable
army, all to travel such a trifling distance.

He was permitted to face forward, but he soon learned that
the arrangement was not intended as a favor. The position deprived him of the pleasure of gazing upon Miss Caswell,
who also faced forward from her place at her father’s far side.
The two brothers sat opposite. David had the dubious reward
of confronting sour Morty. The younger brother, Edward
Caswell, though still a student at university and trying enough
to one’s patience, would have been his preference.

Apparently the girl was to be shielded, or neatly confined,
as though she were as much an offender as David. He, who
had failed to observe propriety, was to be bullied, which
struck him as lacking propriety in itself. The ritual seemed so
pointless. He wondered what else Sir Moreton could possibly
have wanted from him. Though not usually a stickler concerning the niceties, David did puzzle over the Caswells’ highand-mighty sense of entitlement. He, after all, was the duke’s
son, though to his thinking he rarely acted the part. At the moment he sorely wanted to.

For the nonce he was clearly to be kept in suspense and denied any immediate response to his very timely, proper offer.

“You have urgent business today, Sir Moreton?” he asked
politely before the horses were set to. “I should have thought
it more comfortable for you to outwait the snowstorm’s end
here at Braughton”

“M’ wife is an invalid, my lord,” he responded gruffly. “I am
rarely away, and then only for short periods. Last night no
member of the family was home with her. I do not like to leave
her alone.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir.” David tried to peer around
Caswell to his daughter but succeeded only in catching sight
of her gloved hands upon her lap. He wondered how long
the mother had been ill. He nearly asked about the prospects
for Lady Caswell’s recovery but decided the matter was best
let lie. Meanwhile, Miss Caswell’s slim fingers seemed to
taunt him.

“How many sons have you, Sir Moreton?”

“What? Oh-four. Morty here, the eldest. Aged twenty-seven, is it, Morty? Yes. Then Jack-that is, John Henry. He was a
captain in the Light Dragoons”

“Ah! I understood he’d been with the Royal Horse Guards”

“No, no, the Eleventh Light Dragoons. Brought home-oh,
two years ago now. And he sold out last summer. Just recently
wed, my boy Jack. Livin’ in Staffordshire. Then my youngest,
Edward, you see opposite. He’s up at Cambridge, as you know,
and will go to the Bar. And there is Christopher, who is three
years older than Billie-er, my daughter, Wilhelmina.”

“And is Christopher also at home?”

There was an uneasy silence. Perhaps Christopher was not
to be discussed. Something jogged David’s memory-some
recollection of the ever-present band of boys and urgent yells
for “Kit.”

Sir Moreton cleared his throat. “When will you be selling
out, my lord?” he asked.

“I have not yet decided to do so, sir.” David heard the girl’s
sharp little breath and felt Caswell stiffen beside him. “There
has been some suggestion that I might join His Grace the
Duke of Wellington in Vienna this spring.” He tossed out the
possibility as more of a challenge to Caswell than an option for
himself. Chas had recommended a stay in Vienna, but David
was hungry for home.

“But your regiment-was it sent to America?” Caswell asked.

“Not my regiment of the Guards, sir. I have been serving on
the duke’s staff, detached from them in any event. But many
of the men with whom I served in Spain, some of our very
best troops, are now in America, in the Louisiana Territory.
With last month’s peace, I anticipate their return shortly.”

“Kit is wild that he shall have missed everything,” Edward
volunteered, only to firm his lips at a look from his father.

“He should instead consider himself a lucky man,” David
observed.

“Denied the many privations that have brought you honor
and renown?” Morty sneered.

David fixed him with a steady look. “Denied death, perhaps, Mr. Caswell. Assuredly the ultimate privation.”

In the silence that befell the occupants of the carriage, David
proceeded to pull from his greatcoat the volume he had spirited
away from the library. The road here outside Braughton was
clear but slow; the faint daylight reflecting off the snow gave
him enough light to read. Though he considered himself a cordial enough conversationalist in the usual way, the Caswell
clan confounded him. He was not often so sharp; his brother,
Myles, more frequently employed quick retorts. Yet somehow
Myles managed these encounters with finesse. Had Myles
said something similar, the Caswells probably would have
laughed.

David knew he had always been too frank. But he had made
it a rule to keep friends-and to choose not to make enemies.
He and Morty Caswell clearly had a difference of outlook.

“What do you have there, my lord?” Edward Caswell asked
with some sincerity. David decided that perhaps not all of
them were entirely boorish.

“Thucydides, Mr. Edward”

“I have been reading some of the same”

“I must rely on you to explain it to me, then, as I find it
heavy going.”
“

Edward Caswell blushed. “I would not presume, my lord. .

I hope I might depend upon you, Mr. Edward,” David said
gallantly. “My reading has never been of a disciplined nature,
though I am extremely fond of books. They are invariably a luxury for soldiers, as your brother, Captain Jack, no doubt knows”

“Surprising to hear there is any luxury denied a Trent,” Morty
commented.

Again Sir Moreton cleared his throat. “Jack isn’t bookish,”
he said. “Edward and Billie, now-that is, Wilhelmina . . ” He
stopped, which was for the best, since David found it irritating
that the girl should be discussed as though she were absent.
He noted her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“I heard you were sent down from Oxford,” Morty supplied.

“Yes. With but a month to go” David smiled broadly, though
in his estimation Mr. Morty deserved a hearty smack. “My
dearest wish was to be a scholar.”

“You?” Morty snorted rudely. “Hard to believe, given that
you were sent down”

David shrugged. “I still had the desire. Is there any higher
qualification for scholarship than a love of learning?”

“Surely as Braughton’s-as a duke’s son-you might have
been reinstated?”

“Perhaps. But at the time it did not strike me as quite fair
that I should be reinstated when others had no chance for the
same” As he smiled, he could feel Billie Caswell’s attention.
Did she think he made excuses? The incident had certainly influenced his choices since; he had had time and reflection
enough to review it.

The carriage came upon a drift of snow blocking the road.
The grooms scurried down and cleared a path. During the process David itched to exit the carriage himself. He was used to
doing, and Thucydides could scarcely distract him from the
chill among the company. His father’s notion of punishment,
in detailing him to escort the Caswells, was proving to be
penance indeed.

At the next obstacle of a drift, which looked larger, David
opened the door on his side and quickly swung down into the
roadway.

“My lord-” Sir Moreton objected, but David had already
walked ahead to confer with the grooms and coachman; he
held and spoke to the horses-a fine team of matched bayswhile the men cleared the wheel tracks. Then, on resuming,
he lent a shoulder to pushing the carriage beyond the slick
patch of roadway.

When he climbed back into the carriage, he briefly met Billie Caswell’s gaze before taking his seat. That one quick look was enough to assure him that what he had imagined of her
perfections the previous evening had been no trick of high
spirits or candlelight. Her eyes, longlashed and immense,
were only slightly darker than her hair; he could not rid his
mind of images of toffee, creamed coffee, amber honey. For
David, who now found himself endlessly hungry, Miss Wilhelmina Caswell looked appealingly edible.

There was no hint of the romp about her, but of course that
was what she had to be. She had been a terror of a tomboy, a
most convincing little hellion; she must still be more than a
measure of trouble, else her father would not be attempting to
marry her off in such an unfeeling manner. The girl should
otherwise have had a proper London season, with better
prospects than David Trent.

At the next barrier to movement on the road, Sir Moreton
again protested, but given the persistent “milording,” David
concluded that the gentleman felt obliged to defer to him, at
least on minor matters. The day was not so very cold; the snow
had at least temporarily stopped. Helping the men gave him
an occupation. This time, as he stepped out into the weather,
both Morty and Edward stood to join him.

David wondered if they feared he might bolt. With some
amusement he made a point of checking on the well-being of
his horse tethered behind. He noticed that his man Barton,
used to the trials of campaigning, had packed him a saddlebag
of necessities; in a pinch David supposed he might escape
south to the Channel, and thence to the Continent. He patted
Incendio’s glossy black neck, murmured encouragement, then
moved around to the opposite side of the carriage. When the
coachman called “clear,” he smoothly stepped in to claim the
seat across from Billie Caswell.

He was making a game of holding her gaze; Billie was
aware of his design even as she met his challenge. She would not let him believe her ashamed or cowed. She had done nothing wrong, though her father might treat her as though she
had. And she had always loved to look at David Trent.

He had a wonderful face, older now than she remembered
but stronger-certainly less boyish. His dark hair still waved
above a high forehead, the blue Trent eyes were striking under
dark brows, the suggestion of a smile lingered, lending warmth
to his lips and his gaze. In his splendid regimentals the previous night, the breadth of his shoulders had been noticeable;
she had quickly forgotten the memory of him as much slighter
at twenty-two-Kit’s age. In his greatcoat now he seemed to
loom, to take up half the carriage, though her father and brothers were not small men. And he sat back against the squabs before her with an ease and an expression that was confidence
itself.

She had adored him for as long as she could remember.

Her gloved hands formed fists as she at last looked away,
out the window to the side. She made the mistake of firming
her lips, only to desist immediately. She could feel the intensity of his concentration on her face. The sensation was
not unpleasant-he had watched her closely last night as
well-but she colored. She wished she had more control.
She wished-oh, she wished that they had met again under
different circumstances, that they had not been seen and
trapped. That he had not been forced to offer-and forced to
resent her.

Father could not understand why she was refusing to consider Lord David’s proposal. She had always declared it the
dearest wish of her heart. Indeed, every member of her family knew of her years-long infatuation with Braughton’s
younger son. They had asked her what more she could possibly desire.

The answer to that, though unvoiced, had been “reciprocity”-some correspondence of feeling. That he should care as much as I do. Or at least as much as she had always believed
she had. She did not want David Trent as a sacrifice. But how
else were they to satisfy the Caswell honor?

Her gaze returned to him, to find that his own attention had
not wavered. She knew with certainty that he had never once
dreamed of her. He had not even realized she was a girl.

“Morty,” she said into the silence, even as she stared into
what she considered “the blue” of that gaze. Morty now sat
where David had, at her father’s other side. “You must pass
the major his Thucydides.”

She continued to meet his gaze as the book was dutifully
passed across to Edward and on to the seat at Major Trent’s
side.

“I have a much preferred pastime at the moment, Miss
Caswell,” he said. For a second he let his gaze fall again to her
lips, long enough that she felt a blush seek her cheeks. She
pointedly turned her attention out the window.

When the carriage abruptly halted once more, Billie anticipated his exit. But this time, as Edward and Morty sprang to
action, David Trent stubbornly kept his seat. He actually had
the gall to smile at her.

“Are you planning a season in town this spring, Miss
Caswell?” he asked.

“Most certainly you will have a say in that, my lord,” her
father said quickly, leaning toward him with urgency.

“And how so, sir? How can it affect me?”

“What! Do you want the girl or not?”

Billie drew a sharp breath, waiting for David’s definitive
no.

His eyebrows shot high. “Surely Miss Caswell must determine what she wants, sir?”