The Major's Faux Fiancee (15 page)

He deepened the kiss and she met him with equal urgency. Tasting. Taking. She was everything he wanted and knew he couldn’t have. He pulled away, gasping for air. Straining for self-control. He could not kiss her again.

If he did, he might never stop.

Daphne stared blankly into the looking glass as her lady’s maid plucked a few artful tendrils free of the elegant chignon the girl had managed to twist from Daphne’s stubborn hair. She didn’t register any of it. Her mind was still replaying the last few moments of the previous night.

A small stack of correspondence rested on her escritoire. Unread. Katherine had no doubt already summoned a carriage meant to whisk them to the new exhibition at the antiquities museum. And yet the only thought Daphne’s muddled brain was capable of forming was:

He’d finally kissed her
.

And regretted it almost instantly—there was no misinterpreting his vociferous self-reproach—but before he had practically shoved her into the town house, before they had spent an awkward half hour in stony silence, he had lifted her face to his and kissed her senseless.

Worse, she hadn’t just
let
him take such a liberty. She’d
liked
it. Welcomed it. Wished he’d done so sooner. Wished he’d
keep
doing it. Charity work be damned.

Impossible.

Upon realizing that the attraction she’d tried so hard to deny was just as reluctantly reciprocated, Daphne’s second reaction was horror. She
couldn’t
wed. And absolutely not
Bartholomew
. He was her opposite in every way and would clearly never condone the rootless, monkish life she intended to live, traveling wherever help was most needed, immersing herself in every walk of life.

But wasn’t that putting the cart before the horse? All they’d shared was a kiss. A single, beautiful, utterly addicting kiss.

Mutual attraction didn’t have to mean marriage. Bartholomew had left a trail of broken hearts and happy sighs before leaving for war. He hadn’t felt compelled to wed any of those women. None were debutantes; they knew precisely what they were and weren’t getting: a chance to indulge mutual attraction for a few hours.

Perhaps a woman destined to a scandalous life of lonesome crusading could spare a night or two before setting out on her journey. Indulge in something utterly and completely for herself.

The question was, could
she?

A year ago, Daphne would have been wholly against the idea. Today—or, rather, the moment that he’d kissed her—the desire coursing through her traitorous body strongly felt that a carriage was as good a place as any to do something scandalous, and Bartholomew was precisely the right man to do it with.

As maddening as he could be, she’d wondered what it would feel like to have his lips on hers ever since the faux engagement began. Now that she knew the answer, keeping a safe distance would be that much harder.

She bit her lip. Was restraint necessary, if the man in question was as disinterested in marriage as she was?

Not only could he be trusted with her best-kept secrets, he was actively campaigning for her to jilt him first. If there was ever going to be a man with whom a crusader for the unfortunate could exchange the occasional bone-melting kiss, that man was Bartholomew Blackpool.

The better question was, how would she feel about it once they parted ways? Would he be a pleasant memory of stolen moments and passionate kisses? Or would she turn into a rabid harpy and long to claw the eyes out of all the other women that would replace her in his arms?

There would undoubtedly be many. Daphne’s hands curled into fists. She wasn’t blind. Neither were the glamorous, worldly women who cast heavy-lidded gazes at him across the room.

She hadn’t missed the obvious intent in Mrs. Epworth’s sashay up to Bartholomew’s side, and the lewd invitation she’d no doubt whispered into his ear. The widow believed him to be betrothed and still hadn’t wished to let an opportunity slip away. Once he was single again, there’d be no end to the buffet of eager, elegant ladies lined up to help fill the void.

Not that she’d be there to see it, Daphne reminded herself sternly. She’d be in Manchester or South Tyneside or wherever help was needed. And she absolutely wouldn’t be stupid enough to scan the scandal sheets for mention of his name.

Probably.

“There.” Esther slid the last of the pins into Daphne’s hair and stood back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect.”

Daphne blinked at the looking glass.

The woman reflected back at her was a calm, coiffed, elegant stranger. The kind of woman who would be completely unconcerned about her faux fiancé’s many admirers because she, quite frankly, wasn’t one of them, and looked forward to dissolving the temporary alliance and never crossing paths again.

Daphne averted her gaze. She didn’t wonder when she’d ceased being that cold, disinterested woman. She wondered if she’d ever truly been her to begin with.

She thanked Esther and rose to her feet, determined to make it through the evening with some semblance of self-control. No more pining for Bartholomew. Katherine was thrilled about her antiquities museum’s new exhibition. Daphne would smile and applaud and be thrilled for her. That’s what friends did.

Even if it meant going to an antiquities museum.

When their carriage arrived, the bounce in Katherine’s step and the nervous excitement in her eyes made Daphne rethink her initial reluctance to attend. Her escritoire contained a mountain of correspondence pertaining to dozens of worthy causes, but did that truly make Daphne the better person? She now recognized that one reason she cared so deeply about charity work was because she wanted people to care about
her
.

In contrast, Katherine cared about her antiquities museum because she wanted people to care about… antiquities.

Put like that, whose motives were purer?

Daphne’s cheeks heated in shame. Bartholomew was right. She’d let her prejudices alienate the very people she ought to have been befriending. She reached over and gave Katherine’s hand a squeeze. “Everyone will love your new exhibition. The party will be splendid.”

Katherine’s face lit up. “I hope so. Thank you so much for coming with me. I hated to tear you away from more important work, but it wouldn’t feel like celebrating without you here, too.”

Daphne swallowed a lump in her throat. “It’s my pleasure. You’ve worked just as hard as I do, and you deserve to succeed.”

Katherine pulled her into a quick hug. “You’re the best. Promise me you’ll try to have fun tonight?”

Daphne nodded wordlessly. She didn’t regret the path she’d chosen in life, but for the first time she wondered if there could be more than one right option. The choice between pleasure and charity work had always been clear. She now wished there was a way to have both. To travel to all the families who needed her, fight for justice and employment and safety, and have someone to come home to when the day was done.

Her chest felt oddly hollow, despite the steady stream of excited guests flooding into the museum. At least she wouldn’t be required to speak coherently with anyone. Antiquities were Katherine’s expertise. Daphne was just there for support. She could fade into the shadows and try to imagine a life where she not only got everything she’d been working toward, but also something extra. Something even better.

Love.

She grabbed Katherine’s arm when the very object of her thoughts strolled through the main doors on the other side of the room.

“What’s
he
doing here?” she whispered, simultaneously delighted and despondent to spend the next hour under the same roof.
He
was the reason her easy decisions were suddenly so hard. Charity work was a sure thing. Love was a risk.

And Daphne wasn’t much of a gambler.

Katherine flashed her a smile. “Major Blackpool? I invited him. The more the merrier, and he’s a treasure with crowds.”

Daphne wished she’d worn a prettier gown.

Her best friend was right, of course. The more attention Katherine could bring to the new exhibition, the better. And Bartholomew
was
incredible with crowds.

Daphne wasn’t the only one who found him charismatic. Even when every word falling from his silver tongue was unadulterated balderdash, people listened to him. Gobbled it up. Sought him out for more. He appeared more energized with every such encounter.

She, on the other hand, hated to be on display. She went wherever people needed help because it was the right thing to do, not because she had any particular fondness for crowds. She much preferred the distance and anonymity of letter writing and a good pseudonym. The only reason she and Katherine had become friends was because Katherine had never not made a friend in her life.

Much like Bartholomew.

He was currently regaling a group of preening fops with an anecdote so sidesplittingly hilarious, several dandies looked dangerously close to soiling their buckskin breeches.

What must it be like to be universally admired? Exhausting, she supposed. Daphne sighed. She would never be effortlessly popular like Bartholomew or Katherine. She was made of different stuff.

No matter. While her name would never appear in scandal sheets or history tomes, her life still had meaning. She would be the woman who made the world a better place.

Just as soon as she quit gazing across the room at Bartholomew.

If she hadn’t been watching him with as much focus as a lioness stalks her prey, she might not have noticed the slight wince in his smile every time he was forced to move a few inches in one direction or another.

The wince didn’t appear to be borne of pain. Nor did he even have a limp. With or without the handsome swordstick he occasionally carried, the man was more graceful now than Daphne had ever been. So why the wince?

She studied him even more minutely. The barely perceptible tic was more a grimace than a wince, and only occurred when he moved his right leg.

His
missing
right leg.

She tilted her head as she considered his prosthesis. Its wooden calf was just as shapely and equally concealed behind stockings and shiny leather footwear. She’d been told the ankle joint even boasted catgut tendons for greater flexibility and aesthetics.

The craftsmanship was a mix of artistry and the latest in modern technology. It certainly wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. Just by glancing at him, one would never guess that everything below the knee was false.

By
listening
to him, however… Daphne frowned. Now that she thought upon it, there was a distinctive
snick
as the articulated foot section clicked into place. Her eyes widened.

Up until now, she’d assumed his disinclination to rejoin society—much less to dance—was due to the very understandable concern that his false limb might not support his weight or activities, and he might injure himself even further in a fall.

She now suspected what he suffered was a visceral fear of humiliation.

He’d been a rake, a dandy, and a soldier. All three aspects had garnered him nothing but admiration from his peers. He no longer fit those roles because he no longer felt the part. Instead of being proud of his body, he was shamed by it. He’d obviously been mortified that morning in the vicarage when his leg had collapsed in front of witnesses. But it hadn’t been his fault.

Daphne doubted
she
could’ve withstood the force of Mrs. Blackpool launching herself deadweight into Daphne’s arms. Anyone would have fallen. Not everyone would have leapt back up. Bartholomew’s impairment hadn’t made him weaker. It had made him
stronger
.

He was still achieving victories that would have destroyed another man. The only person who thought him lesser for his injury was Bartholomew himself.

She edged closer to where he conversed with the other dandies.

His blue eyes sparkled when he saw her and he held out a hand to pull her closer to the group. “Have you all met my ravishing fiancée? This delightful young lady is Miss Daphne Vaughan. Darling, these ruffians are Mr. Dunham, Mr. Bost, and Mr. Underhill. Pay them no mind.”

“Betrothed!” teased one of the men. “Don’t you know wives are expensive?”

“They cost an arm and a leg,” Bartholomew agreed innocently, then winked as he gestured toward his prosthesis. “I’ve already paid the first installment.”

The gentlemen roared with laughter.

Daphne heroically refrained from throwing a slipper at her betrothed’s head.

His constant self-deprecation finally made sense. Bartholomew didn’t make light of his loss because he didn’t care what people thought, but because he very much did. He tried to belittle himself before others could do so, in order to save his pride the blow of public humiliation.

She wished she could shake some sense into him. Such efforts were misguided and unnecessary. The only people who didn’t flat out adore him were the ones who were jealous of him, like that horrid Phineas Mapleton.

As soon as Bartholomew realized that, he’d regain the only thing he was truly missing: his confidence. When would he realize he needn’t poke fun at himself?

She frowned at the dandies. Was she the first one to understand it took just as much courage to face his peers with gregariousness and wit on their own battleground as it did to purchase a commission to sail off to war?

That he could do so with charm and a swagger made him seem even more of a legend, even larger than life, than when he’d been at the height of his popularity three and a half years earlier. His determination was awe-inspiring. If he’d been irresistibly arrogant before… once he regained his confidence, he’d be nigh on unstoppable.

Already there were a gaggle of interested ladies making eyes at him from the other side of the exhibition hall. Daphne’s fingernails bit into her palms. Perhaps she should encourage him to make his leg-shackle jokes a little louder.

No
. She needed to cry off, not stake her claim. In fact, she needed
him
to cry off. Realizing he could return to his previous unencumbered rakish life might help him do that.

She swallowed her jealousy as a pair of giggling young ladies wiggled up to him to present their fingers for a kiss. Who cared if they ignored her? Daphne wouldn’t be around much longer.

Once she and Bartholomew went their separate ways, they would both be free to do as they pleased, to be whatever kind of person they wished. Separating was the only way to ensure happiness for both of them.