Never An Officer’s Bride

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

There was no mistaking Major Reynolds. The scar was livid across the left side of his face, stretching from temple to jaw. He was a soldier; that was clear as he escorted Gussie across the dance floor. It wasn’t just the military cut of his clothes, it was the way he held himself, the unconscious air of authority, the alertness with which he scanned the room, the hardness of his mouth and eyes. A dangerous man.

Isabella looked away. She tried to concentrate on Lucas Washburne’s conversation.

“The ogre comes,” a lady murmured behind her, and smothered a laugh.

Irritation surged in Isabella’s chest. That word—ogre—was her fault, but the spreading of it was purely Sarah Faraday’s doing. Wretched, wretched woman.

“Isabella, I’d like you to meet my cousin, Major Nicholas Reynolds.”

Isabella swallowed her crossness. She fixed a smile on her lips and turned her head.

Major Reynolds stood before her, tall, with cold eyes and a scarred face, precisely as Harriet had described.

No, not precisely. Major Reynolds wasn’t old. Early thirties, at a guess.

“. . . ogre,” she heard whispered behind her.

“How do you do, Major Reynolds?” Isabella said hastily, giving him her hand, hoping that guilt wasn’t stamped across her face. If he discovers that I’m the source of that appellation . . . She suppressed a nervous shiver.

The major made no sign that he’d heard the whisper. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Isabella.” He bowed over her gloved fingers.

“Be warned, Nicholas,” Gussie said with a bubbling laugh. “She’ll try to thrust a stray animal upon you.”

The major released her hand. “No lapdogs, I beg of you, ma’am.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Unease prickled over Isabella’s skin. He’s angry.

“It will more likely be a kitten with half a tail,” Gussie said. “Or a flea-ridden puppy.”

“Both of which we have,” her husband said dryly.

For a fleeting second the major looked amused. He smiled faintly. The corner of his right eye creased slightly. The left side of his face, scarred, showed no sign of amusement.

The musicians began to tune their instruments again. “The quadrille,” Lucas Washburne said, holding out his hand to his wife. “This is our dance. If you’ll excuse us?”

Isabella watched them go. She transferred her gaze to Major Reynolds and smiled at him politely. “How long have you been in town, Major?” She knew the answer. Harriet had told her in the carriage: Major Reynolds had come to London three weeks ago, in search of a bride.

A man who acts swiftly.

“Three weeks.” The major’s eyes were on her face. Their color was disconcerting, a clear, chilly green. “Are you claimed for this dance?”

Isabella hesitated. I wish I were. “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

The major’s face hardened. He’d seen the hesitation.

Shame made her flush. “It would be my pleasure to dance with you,” she said, opening her fan.

Major Reynolds offered her his arm. “Then let us join a set.” The words were politely spoken, but she heard an edge of irony in his voice.

Isabella bit her lip. She fanned herself, hoping to take the heat from her cheeks, and laid her hand lightly on the major’s sleeve. The cut of his coat was plain, almost austere, and the fabric was a green so dark it was nearly black.

They walked onto the dance floor amid the murmur of conversation and rustle of fabric. “How long have you been in town?” Major Reynolds asked.

Isabella heard the word ogre whispered to her right. “I arrived two days ago,” she said hastily, loudly. “On Saturday. I’ve been in Derbyshire visiting my brother and making the acquaintance of my newest nephew.”

The major had heard the whisper. Anger glinted in his eyes. He halted. “Perhaps you’d prefer not to dance, Lady Isabella?”

I would prefer not to. But guilt made it impossible to take the proffered escape. “Nonsense!” Isabella said, shutting the fan.

“You can hardly wish to dance with an ogre, ma’am.” The major’s voice was light, his expression sardonic, his eyes glittering with anger.

“You are mistaken,” Isabella said, lifting her chin and silently condemned Sarah Faraday to perdition.

Major Reynolds made no answer. He led her to a set that was forming. His manner was quite composed. He paid no attention to the sideways glances, the whispers.

Isabella took her place opposite him. She met his eyes—bright and hard and so clear they seemed to look right through her—and curtsied as the musicians played the opening chords. She understood why Harriet was afraid of him. Not the scar, but his eyes.

She observed Major Reynolds obliquely as they danced. His resemblance to his brother was strong. The bones of his face were well-shaped, his features regular. Without the scar he would have been an attractive man. With it . . .

An ogre.

The major had a soldier’s physique; in that he didn’t resemble Lord Reynolds. His body was lean, not fleshy, hard-muscled, not soft. Like his brother, his hair was the color of honey—a shade between brown and gold—but his skin was bronzed from the sun. The scar covered the left side of his face, a thickly ridged burn, purplish-pink, barbaric, making him look half savage.

Was it a legacy of Waterloo, the battle that had claimed so many of England’s finest last year? Or did it date back to the conflict in Spain?

They weren’t questions she could ask.

Major Reynolds moved through the quadrille with calm confidence, seemingly oblivious to the sideways glances, whispers, and muffled giggles that his progress afforded. Only his eyes, bright with anger, showed that he was aware of the stir he was creating.

With each step that he took, Isabella’s guilt grew. It had been unforgivable, uttering the word ogre in front of Sarah Faraday. The major was no husband for Harriet, but he didn’t deserve this. And however much she might blame Lady Faraday, she knew who was truly at fault: Me. My wretched tongue did this.

And with the guilt was a reluctant admiration. The major had courage to hold his head up in the face of so much attention, that scar blazoned across his cheek.

There was no pleasure in the quadrille tonight, in the steps of l’été and la pastourelle. Each half-heard whisper, each muffled giggle, served to enhance Isabella’s guilt. Shut up! she wanted to hiss to the dark-haired débutante in the neighboring set. Her hand itched to box the girl’s ears.

The word she had uttered only a few hours ago was on everyone’s lips. I’ve turned him into an object of ridicule. The worst of it was, she couldn’t undo it.

The quadrille had never been so interminably long before, so filled with discomfort. Her relief, when the musicians played the last chord, was intense.

Major Reynolds escorted her from the dance floor, calm and smiling, with anger in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said politely, bowing.

“It was a pleasure, Major.”

He acknowledged her words with a slight lifting of his eyebrows, a tiny, wry movement.

The wryness gave her courage. Isabella took a deep breath and laid her hand on his arm. “Major Reynolds, you must dance every dance tonight.”

The wryness vanished. He seemed to stiffen. “Must I?”

“Yes.” The bright, cold anger in his eyes was daunting, but she held tightly to her courage. “Major, you must pay no attention to what is being said—and you must not leave early.”

His jaw seemed to harden. He thinks me impertinent.

Isabella took another deep breath. Guilt was lodged in her chest, a hard lump. “Come,” she said, smiling, coaxing, aware of nervous perspiration prickling across her skin. I owe him this. “I will dance the next waltz with you.”

“Charity, ma’am?” His eyes were bright and hard.

No, guilt. “Not at all,” Isabella said, lifting her chin. “I save my charity for animals.”

The major smiled abruptly, a genuine smile that took the anger from his eyes. “Lapdogs.”

He looked quite different, smiling. Isabella relaxed fractionally. “They are usually much larger,” she said. “And often quite ugly. It can be difficult to find them homes.”

Major Reynolds gave a grunt of amusement. “Very well. The waltz.” He bowed. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Lady Isabella.”

Isabella watched as he walked around the perimeter of the ballroom. Heads turned as he passed. Someone laughed, and turned it hastily into a cough. I did that.

She couldn’t take the word back, but she could try to undo the harm of it.

Nicholas endured a cotillion, two country dances, and a boulanger—the latter with a partner who met his eyes once, blushed vividly, and stared steadfastly at the floor for the rest of the dance—before the second waltz was played. He didn’t need to search for Lady Isabella Knox; he knew exactly where she was.

He returned his partner to her mother and walked around the ballroom.

“There he is. The ogre.”

It was a whisper, but loud enough to reach his ears. Nicholas gritted his teeth. He kept a determined smile on his face as he took the final steps that brought him to Lady Isabella’s side. His mood lifted as he led her onto the dance floor. It lifted still further when the musicians began to play. They made their bows to each other; Lady Isabella gave him her hand. Nicholas drew her close. For the next few minutes he’d forget about runaway brides and simply enjoy the pleasure of waltzing with a beautiful woman.

“How has your evening been, Major Reynolds?”

He met Lady Isabella’s eyes. They were a shade between gray and blue, and quite serious.

“I’ve had more comfortable evenings,” he admitted.

“Yes,” she said. “So have I.” A small frown marred her brow. “In fact, Major, I’ve given the matter some thought, and I think I know how to come about. You must become my beau.”

Surprise made him laugh. Heads turned as people looked at them. Nicholas ignored the stares. “Your beau?” He shook his head and almost laughed again. “I think your husband would have something to say about that!”

“I have no husband.”

No husband? He was suddenly aware of the curve of her waist beneath his hand in a way he hadn’t been before, of her gloved fingers clasping his, of the soft fullness of her lips.

“Knox was my father’s name, Major Reynolds, not my husband’s.”

Nicholas cleared his throat. “Oh,” he said, inadequately.

“I’m the daughter of a duke. London does not laugh at me.” There was no arrogance in Lady Isabella’s tone, merely a matter-of-factness. “And if you’re my beau . . .”

“London won’t laugh at me, either.” He was abruptly angry. “Thank you for the offer, Lady Isabella, but I don’t need your—”

“It’s not charity,” she said calmly, meeting his eyes.

His mouth tightened. “No?”

“No. I don’t like what has happened, Major Reynolds. It makes me quite cross!”

It seemed she told the truth: her lips pressed together and her eyebrows pinched into another frown. The frown faded as he watched. “I don’t like being cross,” she said, with that same matter-of-factness. “So I should like to fix this.” Her lips turned up in a smile. “What do you say?”

His own anger wasn’t so easy to relinquish. He frowned at her. “Are you in the habit of taking beaux?”

“No,” she said, apparently unruffled by his disapproval. “But given the circumstances, I’m prepared to make an exception. It will only be for a week, two at the most.”

“No one would believe it,” Nicholas said flatly.

Her eyebrows rose. “Why not?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, madam, I’m somewhat disfigured.” There was a bitter edge to his words he hadn’t intended.

Her gaze shifted to his cheek. Her brow furrowed again, faintly.

Nicholas gritted his teeth. He knew what she saw; he’d seen it often enough in the mirror: the thick ridges of scar tissue, the melted skin.

“It’s not important,” Lady Isabella said.

She meant it. He heard the truth in her voice.

Nicholas almost missed a step. He cleared his throat again. “Madam—”

“I’m an eccentric,” Lady Isabella said. “If I choose you as my beau, London will believe it.” She smiled at him, golden and beautiful. “Now, how shall we go about it? Two dances tonight, and then . . . tomorrow I shall meet you in Hyde Park and take you up in my phaeton. Are you free in the afternoon, Major?”

He eyed her circumspectly.

“Well, Major Reynolds?”

He turned her offer over in his mind. As a charade it had its appeals. Playing beau to a woman as lovely as Lady Isabella, driving in Hyde Park with her, dancing . . . “Yes,” he said, feeling almost cheerful.

“Five o’clock in the park,” Lady Isabella said as the waltz ended. “By the Stanhope Gate.”

Nicholas’s ill-humor returned as he escorted her from the dance floor. His ears heard the word ogre, half-whispered, to his right.

Lady Isabella heard it, too. He saw her bite her lower lip. She glanced at him.

Nicholas smiled tightly. If I knew to whom I owe that name, I’d make them sorry.

The candles in the chandeliers seemed to burn brighter for a moment. The crystal drops glittered, as sharp-edged as shards of glass. Nicholas inhaled, smelling the mingled scents of perfume and perspiration, and beneath them something darker: his own anger. Determination solidified inside him. He’d find out. It couldn’t be impossible. Someone must know. Ladies always talked among themselves. Perhaps Gussie knew, or even Lady Isabella . . .

Nicholas looked at his companion with renewed interest. “Lady Isabella?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know to whom I owe my sobriquet?” He tried to speak as lightly as he could, to hide the anger in his voice, but she must have heard it. Her cheeks flushed faintly. She opened her fan.

“Why do you wish to know, Major Reynolds?”

He shrugged. “It’s useful to know one’s enemies.”

“Enemies?” She glanced at him quickly. “I’m certain there was no malice intended, Major. Indeed, you must not think it!”

Nicholas’s interest sharpened. “You know who it was?”

Lady Isabella fingered the delicate ivory sticks of her fan. She didn’t meet his eyes. “I believe . . . it came from the lady who is sheltering Miss Durham.”

Harriet’s kind benefactress. Anger flared in his belly.

Lady Isabella glanced up at him. “I’m certain it wasn’t ill-meant, Major Reynolds. It was foolishness, nothing more. Pray, don’t think about it!”

He smiled, tightly. “I assure you, madam, I shan’t.” He wouldn’t think; he’d do. He’d find Harriet’s benefactress, and when he did . . .

He’d teach her a lesson.