Never A Bride

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

“Well?” Kate asked the following morning. Her expression was expectant as she turned towards him. He’d found her in the library, seated at a large desk and surrounded by lists. The elegant silk gown had been replaced by a simple one of muslin with a delicate stripe woven into it.

“Not Marianne Charnwood.” Obliquely, he surveyed her face. The loveliness of feature that he’d seen last night was no longer evident. Kate’s face was put together nicely enough, but she wasn’t beautiful. The wine and brandy must have clouded his mind to make him think so. “And not her sister.”

“Not Caroline? Why not?”

“She agreed with everything I said. Tell me, Kate, does she do that to everyone, or is it just me?”

Kate’s brow furrowed as she thought. “Caroline does have a tendency to agree with people. She is easily persuaded to change her mind. Her disposition is very . . . compliant.”

“Hmph,” said James. He lowered himself into a leather armchair and stretched out his legs.

“You don’t like being agreed with?”

“Not to that extent.”

“But think, James. A wife who never argues, who never contradicts—”

“Would be exceedingly boring!”

“You want arguments?” Her eyebrows rose.

“Not necessarily. But what I don’t want is a wife who only says what she thinks I want to hear. Think how uncomfortable it would be, Kate.”

“Oh,” Kate said. “I hadn’t thought— Yes, I quite see it would be uncomfortable. Very well, I’ll remove Caroline from the list. And . . . I gather Marianne talked too much for your taste?”

“Definitely.”

“But she made you laugh.”

“Several times. Her conversation is very entertaining.”

“But . . . ?”

James leaned back in the armchair and steepled his fingers and frowned as he recalled Marianne Charnwood’s endless chatter. She’d skipped from one subject to another, barely stopping to draw breath, her comments and observations sometimes naïve, sometimes shrewd, and frequently amusing. She clearly had a lively and inquiring mind, but . . . “Is she ever quiet, Kate?”

“Very rarely.”

“Then she’s definitely off the list.”

Kate rifled through the papers on the desk and drew one towards her. She dipped her quill in ink and crossed out one item, and then a second, on what James guessed was the list of names. He wondered how many candidates remained.

“So that makes two new requirements,” Kate said, pulling another sheet of paper towards her. “Not too talkative, and not too compliant.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

The quill moved briskly as she wrote. “Honestly, James,” she said, faint amusement in her voice. “Your list of requirements grows longer every day. You are a great deal too fastidious. You really should consider modeling yourself on Mr. Collins!” She paused in her writing and looked up. Her gray eyes seemed to be focused on something behind him. “There is Miss Shield,” she said slowly. “I didn’t put her on the list, but . . .” She tapped the quill against her chin, thoughtfully.

“Miss Shield?” he asked, watching as the feather brushed below her lower lip. Tap tap. Kate still had a surprisingly kissable mouth. He’d not imagined that last night, however much else he’d imagined.

Her attention snapped back to him and she stilled the movement of the quill. “She’s a trifle . . . forceful. Definitely not compliant, and definitely not timid. Your frowns won’t scare her and she won’t agree with you just for the sake of it.”

“Why isn’t she on the list?”

Kate tapped the feather against her chin again, drawing his eyes to her mouth. “She’d manage Elvy Park admirably,” she said, and he watched her lips shape the words. “But . . . her manner is somewhat domineering. I should warn you that she’d probably tell not only your servants what to do, but you as well, and most likely your neighbors too!” Kate paused, watching him. The quill went tap tap against her chin. “Would you like to meet her?”

“No,” James said, wrenching his gaze from her mouth. “Definitely not. I have no wish to live under the cat’s paw.”

“She’s a very handsome woman.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Kate shrugged. “She’ll be at the ball, if you should change your mind. I’ll introduce you.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” James said.

Kate’s eyes gleamed. “Faint-hearted, James?” There was laughter in her voice, and for a moment she was lovely. It was more than her mouth. It was the golden eyebrows, arched now in amusement, and the small, straight nose. It was the curve of her cheek and the line of her throat and the shining gray eyes. It was everything.

James looked away from Kate and managed, barely, not to frown. I’m going mad, he thought as he inspected the sleeves of his olive-green riding coat, straightening them at the wrist although it wasn’t necessary. What were they talking about? Oh, the ball. “Who else will be there?”

“The Bellersbys are coming. The Ortons and the Inghams. The Charnwoods, of course—”

He looked back at Kate. To his relief, her face was ordinary again. “Horatia Charnwood?” he asked, remembering the girl’s fiery blushes and inability to speak to him. “I shall take care to avoid her.”

“Stop being so craven!” Kate said. “If you survived me at that age, then you can easily survive Horatia. I was much worse.”

The comment was so unexpected that he almost gaped at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did I ever apologize for being such a goose?” Kate’s voice was amused and self-deprecating, lightly flippant.

He shook his head.

Kate smiled at him, wryly, and again he caught the flash of beauty he’d seen earlier. “Then I apologize now.”

James shook his head a second time. “Not necessary,” he managed to say.

“Horatia would benefit from a Season,” Kate said, turning back to her lists. “It would help cure her of her shyness.”

“Won’t she have one?”

Kate shook her head. “The Charnwoods haven’t a feather to fly with. They can barely afford a good education for their sons. A Season for Marianne, let alone Horatia, is quite out of the question.” She shuffled her lists together. “What they need is a wealthy husband for one of their daughters. Someone who won’t mind a dowerless bride.” She glanced at him. “Are you quite certain . . . ?”

“Quite,” he said firmly.

“Do you perhaps know someone who would suit Marianne?” Her tone was hopeful.

“Matchmaking again, Kate?”

“No, it’s just . . . Marianne’s twenty-three. Practically on the shelf, poor girl. I should like to see her married. I know she wishes it.” She turned the quill over in her fingers, frowning thoughtfully. “It would have to be someone who doesn’t mind her chatter. Someone who likes it, even. I wonder . . .” She tapped the feather against her chin again. James’s eyes followed the movement. Kate really had a mouth that begged to be kissed.

But not by him.

Voices sounded in the hall. To James’s relief, Kate put down her quill. “That sounds like Eudora,” she said.

“Tell me about her.”

“She’s twenty,” Kate said, as she stood. “Her mother died some years ago. Her father’s an absent-minded scholar.”

Kate had heard Eudora Wilmot called a bluestocking, but only by those who were intimidated by her intellectual attainments. The term was inaccurate; although Eudora was highly educated, she was neither poorly dressed nor lacking in social graces, quite unlike her father who—when he ventured out in public—was clearly both. Kate was of the opinion that if Mr. Wilmot had cared to give his daughter a Season, she would be married by now. Eudora’s face, if not pretty, came very close to it, and her manners were charming. She met every one of James’s requirements, including the latest two, and, despite having flaxen hair when James had said he preferred darker coloring, Kate thought that Eudora had a fair chance of fixing his attention.

They took refreshments in one of the smaller saloons, a room decorated in green and with a fine view of the pleasure gardens. Eudora soon discovered that James had fought on the Peninsula. Kate frowned and tried to introduce a new topic of conversation. For a man who’d been mentioned in the dispatches (for his part in the action at Benavente), James was remarkably reticent about his war experiences. Perhaps he discussed them with Harry, but he’d never said more than a word or two in her hearing, and then only in passing. She had a feeling he wouldn’t enjoy talking about such things over cake and tea.

But Eudora refused to be diverted. “A hussar?” she exclaimed. “The Prince of Wales’s Own? How splendid! I wish I were a man and could go to war!”

“You do?” James’s eyebrows slanted together.

“Oh, yes,” Eudora said. “The excitement of it. The glory!”

James frowned formidably. “Glory?”

“Miss Wilmot has been working on her own translation of the Iliad.” Kate hurriedly changed the subject. “Haven’t you, Eudora?”

“Yes,” Eudora said. “Such a thrilling piece of work!”

Kate recalled—belatedly—that the Iliad contained a great many graphic and bloody battle scenes. “Eudora has also translated the writings of Pliny,” she said, turning to James. “His account of the eruption of Vesuvius is fascinating, I always think. Don’t you, James?”

“Yes,” he said, eyeing Eudora. “Quite fascinating.” The frown was gone from his face, but he was unsmiling.

“Pliny is all very well,” Eudora said. “But Homer is something else entirely. Such language! Such vivid imagery!” She put down her teacup and began to quote:

“Wedged in the trench, in one vast c*****e bruised:

Chariots on chariots roll; the clashing spokes

Shake, while the madding steeds break short their yokes . . .”

She turned to Kate, her cheeks flushed. “Can’t you feel it, Kate? Doesn’t it make your blood stir? Is it not exciting!”

“Well . . .” said Kate. She cast a glance at James. He was looking at Eudora as if she had suddenly grown another head.

Eudora didn’t wait for her answer. “Or this!” she cried, clasping her hands together.

“Tumultuous clamor fills the fields and skies;

Thick drifts of dust involve their rapid flight;

Clouds rise on clouds, and heaven is snatched from sight . . .”

Eudora drew a deep, quivering breath. Her blue eyes shone. “Can’t you taste the dust, Kate? Can’t you see it?” She turned in her chair to face James. “Oh, how I envy you, my lord!”

“Why?” James asked bluntly.

Eudora widened her eyes at him. “You’ve been in battle. How glorious it must have been. How romantic!”

“There’s nothing romantic about the battlefield, Miss Wilmot, unless you find blood and mud and death romantic.” James’s voice held a bite.

Eudora blinked.

“We have several pineapples growing in the succession houses,” Kate said, desperately. “They’re our first ones. Do come and see them, Eudora.” She stood.

Eudora looked from her to James and back again. Her expression was confused.

Kate risked a glance at James. The angle of his jaw was particularly grim and there was anger in his eyes. “Come, Eudora,” she said. “They’re such comical things. You really must see them.”

Eudora stood and allowed herself to be led from the saloon. Kate shut the door on James’s rigid countenance.

“Romantic?” she said in the corridor, turning to Eudora. “You think that war is romantic?”

“Of course,” Eudora said. “Don’t you?”

Kate shook her head.

“But . . . how can you not?” Eudora seemed baffled. She laid a hand on her breast and recited in a low, breathless voice:

“Loud over the rout was heard the victor’s cry

Where the war bleeds, and where the thickest die,

Where horse, and arms, and chariots lie overthrown,

And bleeding heroes under axles groan . . .”

She paused, her lips parted and her cheeks flushed with color. “Now, tell me Kate—is that not exciting? Is it not romantic?”

Kate stared at her. No. It was not romantic. She opened her mouth to argue this point, and looked at Eudora’s wide and uncomprehending blue eyes and gave up the notion. “Come and see the pineapples,” she said.

“I apologize,” she said to James, once Eudora had departed. He stood at one of the windows in the saloon and stared out over the pleasure gardens. She couldn’t see his face, but from the set of his shoulders she thought he was still angry.

James turned and watched as she closed the door. His expression was unsmiling. “Romantic?” He almost spat out the word. “How can war be romantic? It’s blood and filth. It’s men screaming. It’s—” His jaw clenched. When he spoke again his voice was flat, although no less angry: “It’s not romantic.”

“I know,” Kate said, her fingers resting on the door handle. “I’m very sorry, James. I had no idea Eudora held such views. It’s not a subject I’ve ever discussed with her.”

James frowned at her. “Do you think war is romantic?”

“Of course not.”

His mouth twisted, his lips thinning. “It’s an ugly business,” he said, turning back to the window. “Ugly.”

Stupidly, Kate felt like crying. Not because of James’s anger, but because of the pain that so clearly lay beneath it. Her fingers tightened on the door handle.

“Miss Wilmot is off the list,” he said, his voice harsh. “She may be able to read Greek and Latin, but she has no sense.”

Kate said nothing.

There was silence, while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Long seconds passed. James turned to face her again. The anger seemed to drain from him as he stared at her. Silhouetted against the window he no longer looked furious, merely bleak and weary. “War is butchery,” he said quietly. “It’s panic and terror and . . .” He halted. She thought a flicker of nausea crossed his face. He inhaled shallowly. “I’ve seen things, Kate. I’ve done things . . .” He swallowed. “I’ve killed men. You know that, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“I can still remember some of their faces.” He turned away from her abruptly and looked out at the gardens again. His figure was as strong and tall as ever, but there was something in the way he held himself, in the line of his neck and tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders, that made Kate want to put her arms around him and hold him tightly. Grief choked in her throat.

She had no illusions about war. She knew it was ugly, but until this moment, listening to James, she’d not realized quite how ugly. Three times his regiment had sailed to fight Napoleon’s army. She’d feared, each time, that he wouldn’t return. He had, but never as quite the same man. The reckless, merry, dashing young officer had become someone older and quieter, more serious—and until this moment she’d not realized how hard won that maturity had been.

Kate released the door handle. More than anything, she wanted to go to James and hold him. Instead she walked across the room to stand beside him. She placed her hand lightly on the sleeve of his coat. The olive-green superfine was smooth beneath her fingers and warm from the heat of his body. “I’m sorry,” she said. The words were terribly inadequate.

James shook his head, staring out of the window. For a moment they stood side by side in silence, her hand on his arm, then he spoke: “I thought as Miss Wilmot did once.” He turned his head to look at her. His brown eyes were harder than she’d ever seen them. “I was as foolish as she is.”

Kate shook her head, aware of the heat of James’s arm beneath her fingers. She wanted, quite desperately, to tell him that she loved him. She bit the inside of her lip.

“The first time I rode to battle I was as eager as a child waiting for Christmas.” He returned his gaze to the gardens. His jaw clenched briefly. “I never was again. I was always afraid. Always.”

Her mind supplied a place and date for that event: Sahagún, Spain. December 1808. More than seven years ago. “Then you have great courage,” she said.

His head swung around. His eyes were narrow beneath frowning eyebrows. “Don’t paint me as a hero, Kate, for I’m not!”

Kate studied his face. She saw anger and bitterness, and great strength. “What is heroism, James?”

He stared at her for a long and silent moment. The fierceness of his scowl faded. She thought that uncertainty came into his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, finally.

Kate knew. And she knew that James possessed it. It wasn’t the swaggering heroism of Homer’s heroes and it had nothing to do with the feat of valor that had earned him a mention in the dispatches. It was something quieter, something that required deep levels of courage. If he had been afraid and yet still fought, then he was very much a hero.

James turned away from the window, a movement that caused her hand to slide from his sleeve. “Excuse me, Kate. I’m going for a ride.”

James rode hard, pushing Saladin, taking risks he normally wouldn’t. He was angry at himself, furious, and that black emotion rode him as mercilessly as he rode the stallion. The anger wasn’t directed at Miss Wilmot, although he’d been furious with her in the saloon. How could he condemn her foolishness when he’d started his military career with dreams of excitement and glory? He’d been older than she was when his father had purchased him his colors. Twenty-one—and a fool.

James rode until there was a glaze of sweat over his skin and Saladin showed signs of tiring. He let the stallion slacken his thundering pace. They slowed to a canter and then a walk and then finally halted, both breathing hard. James leaned forward in the saddle and laid one hand on the horse’s damp neck. He shut his eyes for a moment and felt Saladin’s strength and heat and life through his riding glove. He’d lost several horses in the fighting, two alone at Waterloo, one of them killed outright and the other not so lucky.

And he’d lost more than horses. He’d lost men. Friends. Rupert.

The scent of death came to him for a moment, nauseating. The muscles in his throat became rigid.

James opened his eyes and saw gentle hills green with the beginnings of spring growth, and woodland and a church tower behind the trees and a high, pale blue sky. This was no smoking, muddy battlefield, heaving with figures and rent with screams and gunfire. He straightened in the saddle and inhaled, filling his lungs with air that was untainted by cannon smoke and the reek of death. Artillery didn’t roar here; instead there was birdsong and the lowing of cattle and a dog barking in the distance.

The memory of c*****e retreated before the peaceful sights and sounds and scents of the English countryside. His tension eased and the nausea retreated. “England,” he said, beneath his breath, while the sweat of his hard ride cooled on his skin. “Soft, green England.”