The Major's Faux Fiancee (12 page)

“Blackpool!” called a voice alongside the carriage.

A distraction.
Thank God
.

“Who goes there?” Bartholomew leaned his head out of the curricle and faked a shudder. “Good Lord. Not even a mother could love a mug that ugly.”

The Marquess of Sainsbury’s handsome face split into a grin. “Good to see you back, old man. A few of us are off to race phaetons here in a few moments. I see you’ve better company this time, but we’ll meet again next week if you think your ancient nag can manage Rotten Row. I’ve twenty pounds that says it can’t.”

“A snail could outpace you,” Bartholomew shot back. “But I’d hate for you to lose your money. ’Tis the only way you’ll ever attract a bride.”

The marquess laughed. “How on earth did you get yours? Congratulations to both of you. I never thought I’d see the day!”

Bartholomew kept his smile pasted on as the marquess snapped his reins and rode away. Pensive, he turned to look at Daphne. The sunlight caught her golden curls, softening the no-nonsense exterior she liked to project. Her lips were rosy and her cheeks flushed pink from the winter wind. Her warm green eyes were intelligent and discerning, and looked back at him with the same intensity that he gazed at her.

“You
are
one of the good ones,” he said softly. “You could have a real husband if you wished.”

She shook her head and glanced away. “It doesn’t matter what I wish. I wouldn’t fit into a husband’s life. Nor would he fit into mine.”

He nodded. Perhaps. And perhaps not. Someone out there had to be a match.

She was right that it would be difficult to reconcile a wife’s duties with her current obsessions, but he couldn’t imagine her
never
finding love. There was passion hidden within her. Passion for more than displaced weavers and children’s rights. Passion waiting to be explored by the right man.

His heart beat faster. The other night at the musicale, there had been several moments where it had taken all his self-control not to tilt her face up to his and kiss her. Even now, her arms looked soft and inviting. She smelled like heaven. And her lush pink mouth was simply begging to be tasted.

But she was not to be his.

The two of them were beyond incompatible as a married couple. On that, they could agree. But he imagined they might have quite a bit in common when it came to matters of the flesh. He swallowed hard.

How different things might have been if they’d only been thrown together back when he was a whole man.

A few days later, Bartholomew found himself calling upon the Ross house once again.

This time, it wasn’t to whisk Daphne off to a musicale or for a drive in Hyde Park. They wouldn’t be leaving the town house. This was the night of the soirée Lambley had referred to weeks ago, when he’d asked Daphne if she would be in town visiting his cousin.

Everyone, it seemed, was visiting Lambley’s cousin.

Carriages had queued from around the next block. Hackney carriages, private coaches, even a donkey cart. Bartholomew couldn’t imagine what all these people had in common, much less why they’d all be under one roof. He was intrigued by the mix.

For once, perhaps he wouldn’t be the oddity.

The butler motioned him in the door without questioning whether Bartholomew had an invitation. Fortunate, that. Given that he didn’t have one.

On the other hand, it didn’t look like any of the guests were being questioned too closely, or even at all. They were simply welcomed in, relieved of their coats or bonnets, and motioned to join the others in the parlor.

The amount of people crammed into one spacious, but clearly inadequate room put even the annual Sheffield Christmastide ball to shame. In fact, Bartholomew could have sworn he’d glimpsed Lord Sheffield himself on the other side of the teeming horde. Perhaps he and his wife were taking notes on how to outdo themselves next year.

“You came,” said a surprised voice from just behind him.

Daphne
. He tucked her hand around his upper arm and lowered his lips to her hair to breathe in her scent. “Of course.”

Was it scandalous to feather a light kiss against those sweet-smelling red-gold ringlets? Perhaps.

Was he going to do it anyway? Absolutely.

He lifted his head to survey the motley crowd in wonder. Even Vauxhall wasn’t this diverse. “Who
are
these people?”

Daphne lifted a shoulder in sympathy. “The only people I know in London are you, Katherine, and Lambley.”

“But what kind of party is this?”

“A Katherine party,” Daphne answered with a little smile. “Katherine is… eccentric. She doesn’t think there is any reason why earls and poets and solicitors can’t mingle.” Her eyes softened. “It’s why I love her.”

An elderly woman with white powdered hair caught his attention. She made a beeline straight toward them. “Daphne, is that you, dear? Introduce me to this fine gentleman at once. Hoarding the handsome ones is strictly verboten.”

“And have you steal him from me?” Daphne’s smile widened indulgently. “Mrs. Havens, this is my fiancé, Major Bartholomew Blackpool. Major Blackpool, this dear lady is Katherine’s great-aunt and the widow of the previous Maidstone vicar. Mrs. Havens is a legend.”

The name clicked in Bartholomew’s brain. “Of course! Mrs. Havens, how wonderful to meet you. Daphne’s father was vicar in my earliest memories, but I cannot recall a time when you and your husband weren’t spoken of with great admiration. It is an honor to meet you.”

Mrs. Havens beamed at him, then stage-whispered to Daphne, “Handsome
and
charming. Hold tight to this one.”

Daphne’s hand tightened reflexively about Bartholomew’s arm. “Of course, ma’am. I wouldn’t dream otherwise.”

One of the footmen passed by with a tray of champagne flutes. Mrs. Havens stopped him to make certain both Bartholomew and Daphne took a glass.

“Moderation, not libation,” she cautioned with a wag of her finger. “Especially you, Daphne. Don’t let London go to your head.”

“No, ma’am.” Daphne shook her head gravely. “I certainly won’t.”

Emptiness filled Bartholomew’s chest. He doubted Daphne would stay in London a day more than necessary after she inherited her portion. She was too eager to leave. To seek out a better life than what she could find here.

“Blackpool!” The Duke of Lambley emerged from the sea of faces. He nodded in the direction of Daphne’s fingers curled about Bartholomew’s arm. “Cupid knock you off your cloud, did he?”

Bartholomew paused, unsure whether this was meant as a gibe for having “stolen” Daphne away from the others, but the last thing he wished was to cause a scene. He gave his best careless smile. “Cupid’s arrow was true. I fell hard, but as you see, I always land on my feet. Or foot, as the case may be.”

Lambley chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Losing a leg would slow anyone down. Of course you couldn’t dodge the arrow. Well, they say reformed rakes make the best husbands. Good to see you cheerful again. Congratulations to both of you. You make a lovely couple.”

Daphne’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you.”

As Lambley glided away, Daphne frowned at his retreating back. “He should not have made a teasing comment about your leg.”

Bartholomew placed his untouched champagne glass on the tray of a passing footman. “
I
made a teasing comment about my wounded leg.”

“You should not have, either.”

He shrugged. Jokes were all he had. “Ignoring it won’t grow it back.”

Before Daphne could respond, her friend Miss Ross slipped from the crowd to join them.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. “Good evening, Major. I do so love a party. How are you enjoying your evening so far?”

“It’s… overwhelming,” he admitted. “And impressive. Do you actually know all these people?”

“Of course!” She moved closer so that she could gesture without others noticing. “You see the older gentleman with dark hair and a cleft chin?”

Bartholomew scanned the crowd, then nodded. “The one who looks like John Kemble, the actor?”

“That
is
Mr. Kemble. He manages the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Which is why he’s at the opposite end of the room as that young gentleman with the foppish hair, the one sneaking all the biscuits from the refreshment table.”

“Is he another actor?”

“Heavens, no. Mr. Wyatt is too serious by far, when there are no biscuits about. He designed the other Theatre Royal, in Drury Lane. He and Mr. Kemble have already exchanged several heated words about parquet and acoustics.” Miss Ross grinned as if this were a hallmark of a successful party. “Can I help with any introductions? If neither the business nor the performance aspect of theatre pique your interest, surely the wonders of Egypt catch your fancy?”

Bartholomew arched an eyebrow. “Are there mummies or a misplaced pharaoh somewhere amongst all those people?”

“Close.” Miss Ross leaned closer. “Look for a portly gentleman by the piano. Balding, with tufts of gray hair over his ears? Mr. Bullock is a naturalist, the antiquarian behind the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly.” She lowered her voice toward Daphne. “I tried to get him to let me help manage the exhibit when it first opened. The knave categorically refused.”

Daphne’s eyes twinkled. “Is that why you sponsored a completely different antiquities museum?”

“Did I?” Miss Ross blinked back at her innocently. “Egyptian artifacts aren’t the
only
interesting relics in history.”

“You would have been the best thing to happen to the Egyptian Hall,” Daphne said staunchly. “It is his loss.”

“Yes, well, there are no hard feelings.” Miss Ross lifted her chin. “All of these people are very special to me or to this city, and I’d be delighted to introduce you to any one of them. Just say the word.”

Bartholomew kept mum. He was happy to stay in the shadows. The less attention, the better.

“Kate!” Mrs. Havens all but bounded over, her clear blue eyes sparkling against the pale of her skin and the powdered white of her hair. “What a lovely gathering.” She glanced at Bartholomew and Daphne. “Are you two enjoying yourselves?”

He smiled back at her. “How could we not, in company as delightful as yours?”

“I see you don’t have any champagne, young man.” Mrs. Havens flagged down a footman. “Champagne for the gentleman, please. But just one. Moderation, not libation!”

Bartholomew frowned and lifted a hand to forestall the footman. “None, actually. I no longer imbibe spirits. I thank you for your consideration, ma’am.”

Mrs. Havens’ eyes widened in pleasure. “I’m very impressed. So many young men these days have little restraint. Oh, is that Lady Grenville? If you’ll excuse me, I must greet an old friend.”

She was gone before anyone could reply.

Miss Ross shook her head, laughing. “That was Aunt Havens. She’s three times my age and has twice the energy. I’ll introduce you when she flutters back by.”

“I believe I did meet her.” Bartholomew darted a questioning glance toward Daphne. “A half hour ago, perhaps.”

“Ah, well.” Miss Ross’s grin didn’t falter. “Don’t be offended if you meet her a few more times tonight. She has good days and forgetful days, but she’s the best aunt anyone could possibly—is that Mr.
Godfrey?
I’ll be back, darlings. He owns a shipping conglomerate I’ve an interest in, and I must speak with him about his experiences contracting with the East India Company.”

In a blink, she was gone.

“She’s going to be just like her aunt,” Daphne lamented, lifting the back of her hand to her forehead in mock dismay. “Two whirlwinds under one roof. Be prepared to turn down a lot of champagne this Season.”

Bartholomew grinned before her words sank in. Her prediction was well meant, but flawed. He wouldn’t be around to turn down much more champagne. In a few weeks’ time, their fake betrothal would be over and Daphne would be gone. He would no longer have a reason to leave his home.

“Major Blackpool?”

A happy, smiling couple stepped out from the crowd. He smiled. It
had
been Lord and Lady Sheffield that Bartholomew had spotted across the room. Until her recent marriage, he’d known Lady Sheffield as Lady Amelia, sister to the Duke of Ravenwood, one of Bartholomew’s closest friends.

“If only my brother were here,” Lady Amelia said now, clasping her hands in delight. “He was so pleased to hear you were out in Society again. You really should pay him a visit. Both of you.”

Bartholomew shook his head fondly. The introductions hadn’t even been made, and already Ravenwood’s sister was organizing Daphne’s schedules. “Lord and Lady Sheffield, let me present my fiancée, Miss Daphne Vaughan. Daphne, Lord Sheffield is a very respectable viscount who wed the extremely managing elder sister of my friend, the Duke of Ravenwood.”

Lady Amelia whacked him on the shoulder with a painted fan. “Lies! And if not, then they’re secrets. Miss Vaughan, I’ll have you know I’m not the least bit…” She trailed off, frowning up toward the chandeliers.

“Now you’ve done it,” Lord Sheffield groaned. “That’s the expression she makes when she’s accessing her memory pantry.”

Bartholomew blinked. “Her what?”

“Vaughan of the Maidstone Vaughans,” Lady Amelia breathed. “Your father was vicar there for many years. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Daphne’s eyes widened. “How did you…”

“She just does.” Lord Sheffield lifted his wife’s fingers to his lips. “I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say she has the greatest mind in all of England.”

“And she’s not afraid to use it,” Bartholomew put in with a smile. “There was the time when Ravenwood—”

“Now, now, we don’t want to bore Miss Vaughan with stories from the past.” Lady Amelia pointed her fan toward Daphne. “Drop by for tea anytime you please.”

“She’ll probably have it ready and waiting when you do.” Lord Sheffield cast his wife a sly grin. “She has a way of… anticipating needs. Don’t you, my dear?”

Lady Amelia flushed scarlet and tugged him toward the crowd. “Benedict, if you’d still like me to—”

“Have you ever seen such a happy couple?” Bartholomew shook his head. “And to think, just last year, Sheffield was infamous for his rigid schedule. From eight in the morning until eight at night, he locked himself in his office and forbade all visitors. Then from eight at night until eight in the morning…” Bartholomew coughed into his hand. “He, er, attended to other matters.”

Daphne’s lip curled. “He wasted twelve hours a day on pleasuring?”

“Not… every day.” Bartholomew should have known she wouldn’t find the humor. “I’m sure he slept. Occasionally.”

Her eyes rolled heavenward. “I cannot stand the frivolousness of the
ton
.”

“Sheffield’s not frivolous,” he protested. Just because Daphne spent every waking moment with her charity work didn’t mean everyone else was idle. She didn’t even know the man. “Didn’t you just hear me say he worked for twelve straight hours, every day without fail? How many men do you know that do that?”

“I allow that taking infrequent breaks is important for one’s well-being, but you cannot expect me to condone the behavior or the character of a man who dedicates half of every day to self-serving debauchery.”

“Perhaps you should keep your prejudices to yourself.” His tone hardened despite himself. “If you don’t want your hallowed peasants to be dismissed unfairly, you shouldn’t make sweeping judgments against upper crust friends who might have helped you.”

Her mouth turned downward. “Shouldn’t I? How many of your friends will be at the demonstration next weekend?”

“At the… what?”

“Precisely. I doubt they know or care about merchants gathering on Gracechurch Street to discuss overthrowing the income tax laws. There have only been hundreds of pamphlets posted up and down Cheapside.”

“Let me guess.” He rubbed his temples. “I suppose you plan to attend?”

Her nose lifted. “Of course I will. I’m circulating a petition.”

He sighed. She was so focused on others, she was blind to her own needs.

“This is why you’re not married,” he muttered.

Daphne’s cheeks flushed. “Even if I were the most sought-after debutante in England, I couldn’t marry. There are too many people counting on my help. My personal desires are irrelevant.”

Before he could reply, loud clapping drew their attention toward the pianoforte.

“I’ve had another request for dancing,” Miss Ross called out. “With a room so full of talent, there must be dozens of accomplished ladies who can wring music out of this ancient thing.”

Several young ladies giggled and stepped forward.

“That, for example.” Daphne leaned toward Bartholomew. “Do you consider competency at the pianoforte a legitimate female accomplishment?”