Dawn in My Heart (8 page)

“Congratulations on your many victories, Your Grace. I…read about each one in the
Courier
and
Gazette,
” she told him shyly, wishing she could express her admiration for all he had done for his country. How his men must adore the thin-faced commander with the deep-set dark eyes and brows. His dark hair was beginning to gray. His uniform, a splendid red with a dark sash and high, braided collar added to his regal bearing.

“Thank you, my lady,” he answered quietly. “If every soldier has such a beautiful and loyal follower at home, that must be a reason they were so brave and stalwart on the battlefield.”

She smiled, feeling the tears smart in her eyes. With a final squeeze of her hands, he let hers go and turned to the next guest.

She followed her mother blindly for a few moments, re
membering the Duke's words. It was as if he knew the deepest secrets of her heart. Secrets buried so deep, no one on earth knew of them.

They continued through the crush of people out into the gardens. The architect, John Nash, had specially designed a muslin-draped corridor leading to an immense hall with an umbrella-shaped ceiling. In the center was a temple wreathed in masses of flowers. From it emanated the sounds of orchestra music. More covered walks led in all directions out from the hall. Gillian could see supper tables laid out in the different tents leading from them. The muslin walls of these corridors were painted with battle scenes. Gillian looked curiously at one of the titles,
The Overthrow of Tyranny by the Allied Powers
.

Her mother was talking with acquaintances.

“Hello, Lady Gillian.” Cubby Eaton greeted her, the sickly sweet scent of his toilette water identifying him before she turned to see him. “You look absolutely ravishing this evening.”

“Thank you, Cubby,” she replied. “I would say you look rather dashing yourself.” He wore a dark coat, but his waistcoat was yellow satin embroidered in shades of blue and green. His cravat was so wide and stiff it pushed his shirt points into his cheeks. His chestnut hair floated in stiff and shiny waves away from his forehead, its spicy pomade reaching her nostrils as he bent over her gloved hand.

“Had a chance to greet the Iron Duke yet?” he asked.

“Yes! Wasn't he dashing?”

“Perfectly so. I could just see him wielding that sword in battle.” Cubby took a stance and thrust forth an imaginary sword.

“Who else is here tonight?” she asked.

“Oh, the usual. The pointed absence of Princess Caroline, poor dear, amusing herself with one of her lovers at Kensington, no doubt. There's talk of her going abroad now that Paris is liberated.”

He looked around the room through his quizzing glass. “The Queen is here, of course, to support her son…all the royal highnesses…Princess Charlotte, looking well despite her heartbreak over that handsome hussar, Captain Hesse.” He glanced around as if looking for the person in question. “Ever since she met the dashing Prince Augustus in King Frederick's suite last month, I think the bloom is returning to her cheek.”

“I think it was heartless of the Regent to forbid her to see Captain Hesse,” Gillian insisted. “And to break open her desk and take all her letters from him. It was shockingly cruel.”

“Well, you can't be a mere seventeen and expect to have liberty in matters of the heart. You must wait until you are married at least,” he said with a twitter.

Just then Gillian saw Lord Skylar approaching. She smiled, looking at the contrast between Cubby and him. Short and tall, round and gaunt, gaudy and somber.

“Good evening, Lady Gillian,” he said, and bowed. “I am glad to see you made it in one piece to this sad press of humanity. You look lovely.”

Sky found he meant what he said. His future bride looked exquisite in a sheer white muslin dress over satin. A silver tissue wrap covered her shoulders. It looked liked gossamer. Silvery blue ribbons accented her dress and hair. A simple wreath of tiny flowers decorated her hair, in con
trast to the mass of diamonds in the room. All the pawnshops of London must have been emptied that afternoon to supply the ladies—and gentlemen—he realized, eyeing with distaste the large diamond stickpin in Cubby Eaton's cravat.

“Were you caught up in the line of coaches?” Gillian asked.

“I had my driver drop me off about a block away rather than swelter inside.”

“Mama would never have permitted that, although we were quite wilted by the time we arrived.”

“You look as fresh as a newly opened lily at dawn.”

She warmed under the praise. To regain her composure, she asked him, “Have you been to Carlton House before?”

He glanced around the surroundings. “Yes, but it has undergone quite a transformation since I was last here.”

She laughed. “I think it has gone from Oriental to Greek to French in the years you've been away. Now, it's clearly ‘military mania,' as Lady Bessborough would say.”

“Shall we go in to supper?” he asked, offering her his arm.

“Yes, certainly. Cubby, would you like to join us?”

“My dear, I couldn't deny myself the pleasure.”

It was a long dinner, with over a hundred hot dishes served, from roast larks to roast beef, with truffles appearing in almost every dish.

It was difficult to make conversation except to one's immediate neighbors. Her mother sat on one side, Cubby on her other. Lord Skylar sat across from her. He conversed with a duke on one side and a marquess on the other.

Afterward there was dancing in the main structure to the music of two orchestras. Dozens of scarlet uniforms stood
out amidst the dark blue evening jackets of the men and the pale colored gowns of the women. Gillian scrutinized each officer, hoping for another glimpse of the Duke, but in vain. There were far too many people.

When a Scottish reel ended and Lord Skylar led Gillian off the dance floor, the crowd momentarily prevented them from moving ahead. Gillian found herself standing in front of a Guards officer. She had studied enough uniforms to place this one.

The gilt badge pinned to his sash bore the distinctive eight-pointed silver star of the Order of the Garter and the double row of brass buttons set in pairs down the front of his jacket further identified him as an officer of the Second Foot Guards, otherwise known as the Coldstreams.

Licking dry lips, she lifted her eyes higher. Wide gold braid edged the dark blue facing of the scarlet jacket. Gold epaulets showed a pair of broad shoulders to advantage. The high, stiff collar framed smooth-shaven cheeks bronzed by the sun. Dark hair, almost blue-black, was combed carelessly back from a wide forehead.

And finally—how could she ever forget—those blue eyes, like lapis lazuli, in which a wicked hint of humor always lurked? They stared into hers now. For one, long second that blue gaze held hers.

Laughter was evident in them. No surprise, no shock. Only amusement, as if it had been only yesterday he'd bid her adieu and gone off to fight the French.

“Lady Gillian,” he exclaimed. “Upon my word.”

Feeling the floor slide beneath her, she tightened her hold imperceptibly on Lord Skylar's arm.

“Are you all right?” he asked solicitously.

“Yes,” she managed.

Gerrit Hawkes turned to his companion, a beautiful lady whom Gillian recognized as a leading member of the ton, and said in a teasing voice, “This young lady was a mere slip of a girl out of the schoolroom when I last saw her.”

As introductions were made, Gillian could only hope her features revealed nothing of the turmoil inside her. Why now? Why here? Why hadn't she heard anything of his arrival from France?

He was so devastatingly handsome. The three years on the battlefield had not aged him, merely toughened the youthful features into the rugged lines of manhood.

“Captain Gerrit Hawkes of the Coldstream Guards,” he told Lord Skylar.

He'd been promoted from lieutenant to captain.

“Lately returned from Spain, I take it?” asked Skylar.

“Yes,” the captain answered with a grin. “Via Paris.”

“I congratulate you on your victories.” Gillian heard Lord Skylar's voice somewhere above her to her left, but she had eyes only for Gerrit.

The captain inclined his head a fraction. “Thank you. The credit belongs to our commander.”

“I heard he especially commended the Guards.”

“Morale was rather low before he came. But the Coldstreams are well disciplined so he was able to depend on us in battle. When the tide began to turn after Albuera, we were there to witness it.”

They chatted for a few minutes—an eternity to Gillian. How much longer could she endure standing?

“Well, I am sure we shall see each other again during the victory festivities,” Skylar told him.

“I'm sure we shall, my lord.” With laughter in his eyes, he bowed over Gillian's limp hand. “Au revoir, my lady.”

As the crowd parted enough for them to continue on their way, Lord Skylar guided her forward. Looking straight ahead of her, seeing nothing, she kept walking where she was directed, her thoughts on only one thing. Gerrit was here. He was alive and he was back.

“Let me find you somewhere to sit and something to drink,” Lord Skylar said as they reached a frescoed wall at the outer edges of the room.

They finally found an empty settee in a secluded corner of the Rose Satin Drawing Room.

Once she had a place to collapse, her urge to faint disappeared. Instead she found herself restless. “Are you sure you're quite all right?” he asked her again.

Turning away from his concerned gaze, she fanned her overheated cheeks with her ivory fan. “Just a little faint with the heat,” she said.

He left her to go in search of some refreshment. She waited, hoping it would take him a long time before he returned.

How she wanted to go back outside to get a glimpse of Captain Gerrit Hawkes.

The only man she'd ever loved. The only one she ever
could
love.

She remembered his avowals to love her always in the few letters she'd received from him, which her mother had destroyed, but not before she'd memorized their contents.

It had been nearly three years since she had heard anything from him, although she'd followed the movements of his company from the newspaper accounts. She'd known of his first engagement in the Battle of Barrosa through to the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz.

When he had been wounded at Salamanca, she'd despaired, having no way of knowing if he had recovered. Through her close friend she had inquiries made and once again rejoiced when she knew he had survived.

She devoured the accounts of the assault on San Sebastian and the army's triumphal crossing into France and march to Paris. She had agonized and prayed for his safety until certain from the newspaper lists that he'd come out unscathed.

He'd received his commission as a lieutenant and now he was a captain in command of a company. He must have been decorated for bravery in battle. Of course he had been!

“Here is some ratafia.” Skylar handed her the glass and seated himself at the other end of the settee. She was glad of that, not knowing how she could bear it if he so much as touched her hand tonight.

She sipped the sweet drink and remained silent, wondering how she would appear normal for the remainder of the evening. It must be well after midnight. She feigned a yawn, although the last thing she felt was sleepy.

“Tired?”

“Yes, frightfully.”

He glanced at his pocket watch. “It's almost three. The festivities are still in full swing. I'm sure they will go on until dawn.”

“They usually do.”

“If you'd like, I'll fetch your mother and tell her you'd like to go home.”

She debated, part of her wanting to leave, the other longing for another glimpse of the captain. “I don't think she'd want to leave. I shall be fine if I sit quietly for a bit.”

He nodded.

Strains of music reached them, and the sound of guests, many of them walking through the room or standing in groups around it, but their own corner was solitary.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he told her softly, a warm look in his dark eyes.

“Don't say that,” she said more sharply than she'd intended.

He raised an eyebrow at her and she sat, caught by the question in his dark eyes. “Haven't you ever been paid a compliment before?” he asked.

She looked away. “It's not that. I…it's just…nothing. I must be tired. Maybe I should go home.”

“As you wish,” he said, rising and holding out his hand to her.

“Perhaps we could go riding tomorrow afternoon after you are rested from tonight's fete,” he suggested, escorting her out to the main hall.

“All right,” she replied absently.

“We can meet at the Stanhope gate of Hyde Park around five. Would that suit you?”

“Yes, fine,” she replied, surveying the people around her, searching for that blue-black hair.

 

As dawn crept over the city, Gillian sat up in her bed, her knees drawn up under the covers. On one sat a gold locket snapped open. It was the only thing her mother hadn't found when she'd ransacked Gillian's room in search of any evidence of her clandestine meetings with the young gentleman from her dance class.

Gillian stroked the black lock of hair that lay on one side of the locket. Soft and silky.

She had truly felt for the young Princess Charlotte this past spring when her father, the Regent, had pried open her private desk and confiscated every letter, every memento exchanged with the handsome Captain Hesse.