Regency Bride. Michelle Styles
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had an ulterior motive, but he would be disappointed. She would show him that at least one woman would not tumble into his bed with the merest crook of his finger or a seductive laugh. Two could play this game. He would learn a lesson.
‘Is that the only explanation I will get?’ She forced her voice to sound playful. You’ll trap more flies with honey than vinegar, she reminded herself.
‘You require more?’
‘The mystery intrigues me. Did you see the fan play between Mr Hook and my niece and know where the proposed liaison would happen?’
‘I was not playing an errant knight. Alas.’ Kit stopped and stared out into the garden with its low hum of bees and faint birdsong rather than at the soberly dressed woman who stood next to him. The scene contrasted so much with the thick mud and scent of gunpowder that had filled his nostrils a year ago. The feeling of being truly alive washed over him again.
The circumstances, rather than the company. Kit forced the brief panic down his throat. After his mother’s departure when he was four and his later experience in Brighton, he’d vowed never to care about a woman. In any case, Mrs Wilkinson was far too severe for his taste. She wanted an explanation, she would get it. That would be an end of the matter.
‘A year ago last Thursday, I attended a ball in Brussels. It was all gaiety, but like many other men I had to leave early. We went from the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom to the mud and stink of war. I returned, but many of my comrades didn’t.’ He waited for her to take the hint and politely change the subject.
‘You were at Waterloo? As a soldier?’ she asked, her eyes growing wide and luminous under her bonnet.
‘I was at Waterloo,’ he confirmed.
‘No one ever mentioned you being in the Army. Not a single word.’ She turned her head and all he could see was the crown of her impossible bonnet and the back of her shoulder.
‘Does it bother you?’
‘It is unexpected. I have heard stories …’
Kit could well imagine what was said of him. And for the vast majority of his life, he hadn’t cared. It was far better to be thought heartless than to be ridiculed as someone whose mother couldn’t love him, who had left his father because of him.
After Waterloo, it had changed. Brendan Hook had thought him a good enough friend to die for. London and his former pleasures lost their allure.
‘It doesn’t matter what others think. It has never mattered,’ he said. ‘The battle only occupied a few hours of my life. Being in the Army lasted a few short weeks and then I went back to my usual haunts.’
‘You are wrong to minimise it,’ she said, turning back towards him. ‘Very wrong. You played a part in a great victory. People will be celebrating Waterloo for years and you can say that you were there.’
Kit regarded her earnest face with its English-rose complexion, gazing up at him. She possessed a delicate beauty, he realised with a start. He wondered how he’d overlooked it before. But the highly conventional widow was also not his type.
Kit was very strict about the women in his life and his rules surrounding them. They asked for no more than he was prepared to give. They were experienced and knew the rules without them being clearly stated. He always ended it before emotions were involved.
Mrs Wilkinson was trouble, but he was also loath to leave before this lesson in mild flirtation finished.
He turned the conversation to more mundane subjects as they continued towards the tree. To his surprise, the conversation about gardens was far more enjoyable than he had considered possible at the start of the journey.
‘Behold the tree. We can turn back now,’ Mrs Wilkinson said as they rounded a bend.
‘Yes, the tree. It is a magnificent sight.’
A gentle breeze moulded her skirt to her remarkably fine legs. Mrs Wilkinson possessed a far better figure than he’d first imagined. Kit struggled to keep his gaze on her face and not wonder why she had failed to remarry. None of his business.
‘You keep changing the subject.’ She laid a gloved hand on his arm. ‘Why keep your service a secret? Weren’t you supposed to be there?’
‘I rapidly acquired a lieutenant’s commission in the Life Guards once I heard of Boney’s escape and was lucky to get that. Everything was snapped up in days. The whole of London society seemed to be in Brussels last year. A number of friends couldn’t even get a commission, but they came anyway. They got out when the fighting got too hot and left it to the proper soldiers.’
The green in her eyes deepened. ‘But you stayed until the end. You didn’t run, even though you are determined that I should think the worst of you. If you had run, it would have been the first thing you said.’
‘I know how to be a soldier.’ Kit’s shoulders became light. Even without his saying it, she believed he’d done the right thing. He hated to think how few people ever believed that of him. It mattered. ‘Eton prepares one for it.’
The memory of those long-ago days swept over him. Back then, he’d thought himself capable of anything. In his final year, he’d believed himself in love and that Constance Stanley would marry him once he asked her.
His illusions were shattered when he’d arrived at her house unexpectedly with the engagement ring in his pocket. He’d overheard her assessment of him as the son of two wicked people and how her family needed his money and how she’d feared that she would have to marry a devil. He had stepped out of the shadows. Constance’s shocked face had said it all. All of his father’s warnings thudded into him. He bid her and her companion good day and gave the ring to the first beggar woman with a baby at her breast that he saw.
Never again had he allowed himself to contemplate marriage. Never again had he allowed a woman to get close, preferring to end the thing before it happened. Kit had a variety of presents he’d send—a bouquet to end a flirtation, a strand of pearls to end a brief but hugely enjoyable weekend, sapphires to end something longer.
Mrs Wilkinson turned her back on him and walked with quick steps over to the cedar. She stood there, unmoving for a moment, her brows drawn together in a frown. He waited for her to make a remark about the weather or society.
‘Why aren’t you down in London? With Rupert’s father?’ she asked.
He turned from her and stared towards where the great cedar towered over the garden. Everything was so peaceful and still, except for the distant cooing of a dove, calling to its mate. No danger here. This was the England he’d fought for, not the bright lights of London. He wanted that peace that had eluded him. He wanted to show that he had changed and that he did deserve a future, a future that he did not intend to squander. ‘Rupert’s father died.’
‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry for you and for Mr Hook.’
‘False sympathy fails to matter. You never knew him.’
‘You’re wrong. Any man’s death should be remarked on and he was your friend. You must miss him,’ she said with an intense earnestness. ‘When did you decide to come up to Northumberland?’
‘When I was on the battlefield, surrounded by men dying on either side, I swore that next year I would be somewhere which epitomised what I was fighting for.’ The words came from deep within him. He wanted her to understand that on the battlefield he’d decided what was important and how his life needed to change. She, of all the people he’d met recently, might understand and the very thought unnerved him. ‘I thought of the fair, the Stagshaw Bank Fair, and how it is held every year on the fourth of July.’
Her dusky-rose lips turned up into an incredulous smile. ‘You are asking me to believe that you decided to come to Northumberland when you were at Waterloo? I can think of a dozen other more likely places that should have sprung to mind.’
‘It seemed as good a place as any to my fevered mind.