Edith Layton (2 page)

Damon and his wife danced by. Annabelle saw them through the side of her eye. She didn’t have to; she knew where he was whenever he was in the room. This time she refused to turn her head. She looked at Lord Raphael Dalton instead. “You know,” she said, “Mama wanted to stay in London. I was the one to insist on going home, but now I think…” He watched her intently. “I think I’ll return to London, after all…Rafe. You did say you’ll be there too?”

The wedding was over, the festivities ended; the guests went back to their homes and lives. But the next day after breakfast, Rafe and Drum still lingered at the inn they’d stopped at.

“Too nice a day to stay cooped up in a coach,” Rafe finally said, looking out the window. “I think I’ll ride back to London, instead.”

“If it was raining hot coals, you’d say that,” Drum laughed. “So she gave you the time of day and now you’re planning your own wedding feast? Take care, my friend,” he said seriously. “Sometimes a woman with a broken heart can only heal herself by breaking others.”

“Mine’s not that fragile,” Rafe said.

“More so than you know, I think,” Drum said
slowly. “I’m happy for you, but a bit disappointed. You were going to Italy with me for the rest of the summer, remember?”

Rafe looked stricken.

“No, no,” Drum laughed, “I won’t hold you to it. I’m not such a fool, or a child. I’ve been there before. I think I can find my way back myself.”

“Thank you for understanding,” Rafe said in relief. “Another time, maybe—though to tell the truth, I hope I can’t then either.” His voice lowered; he seemed embarrassed but determined. “Look, Drum, you know me well—too well. I don’t anymore. Or at least, I don’t recognize myself when it comes to her. I can take females or leave them, and in truth, if I take them, it’s usually only for an hour, and an expensive one at that. I like them well enough. I love what I can do with them. But I’ve never felt like this about any woman. It’s nothing like me.”

His friend tapped a spoon on the table. “No, really? And what about Mary Hastings?”

“She was a girl, I was a boy,” Rafe said, shrugging one shoulder.

“And Catherine Deveraux?”

“Just flirtation. She married where her family led,” Rafe said with another shrug.

“And Maria Sanchez?”

“Her family would have skinned her—and me—if they’d thought she’d even looked at me!” Rafe said, in shock. “Damme, Drum! She visited me in hospital when I was in the Peninsula, that’s all. Like many a well-bred señorita did, for the morale of the troops.”

“She’d have married you in a heartbeat. Now
you
look, Rafe. You’ve never valued yourself, so far as the ladies go.”

“And they do,” Rafe muttered.

“The point is they don’t. It’s just you’ve never looked for more than an hour with any of them—except those you knew wouldn’t involve that well-protected heart of yours. The Deveraux chit, Mary, the Sanchez woman, I can think of a dozen more. You wrote them off before you even tried courting them, so of course they sheered off, in time. You’ve been considered an eligible
parti
by everyone but yourself.”

Rafe gave him a grim smile. “Need your wits examined, Drum. You’re talking about yourself, though why the female population finds you so enthralling, I don’t know. Aside from the fact that you can talk them up sweet. They ignore that great trumpet of a nose and all those bones of yours at one word from you. But me? I’m a simple fellow, at a loss for pretty speeches, and no great lover. I mean in the sense of enthralling them,” he added hastily. “Never had any other complaints. Not that they’d dare,” he added gloomily. “I look too dangerous for that. And besides, they get what I pay for, just as I do.”

“My point exactly,” Drum said with satisfaction, “You don’t bother with decent women because you don’t think they’ll be interested. But they are. And why not? You’re brave, honest, thoroughly kind and good-hearted.”

Rafe threw back his head and laughed. That expression did suit him, softening all the hard planes of his face, making him look almost handsome.
“Aye!” he said. “Just what any maiden prays for in a man—all the attributes of a faithful dog. That’s not a dream lover, Drum. Females want the fellows with silky manners and faces to sigh over. And certainly not one with red hair! It’s considered ugly as sin and unlucky to boot. I’ve known that since I was a tot. First fellow I punched was one who called me ‘ginger nob.’ Not the last, either. I’m not complaining. That might be what showed me I could handle myself in battle and set me on the path to the military. Which I did like. I never said I wasn’t a good man, by the way. Only I don’t think that’s what the ladies look for.”

“The smart ones do. But how would you know?” Drum asked, tapping his spoon on the table for emphasis. “You’re hanging after a lady who doesn’t treat you as well as a dog.”

Rafe’s smile faded.

“No, listen,” Drum said. “You’ve followed her for weeks now. Then, finally, she sees you, whistles you to her side, and you trot after her. I don’t think that’s any kind of love on your part. It’s boredom complicated by loneliness. Anyone knows weddings are catching. I believe you’ve caught the dread matrimonial fever. It’s as much because you’re at loose ends for the first time in your life as anything else.”

“Loose ends?” Rafe echoed, surprised.

“With no war for you to fight, my friendly warrior. Not in the field, or on the Continent as a government agent when you couldn’t march to the drum anymore. Peace is taking a terrible toll on you, Rafe.” Drum smiled. “You’ve dashed from London to the
countryside and back again more times than I can count, looking for something to do. And most of them things you’d never have done a year or two ago. You’ve gambled and whored, and now, as a last extremity, even taken to going to Society balls and fetes. The gaming and the wenching, I can understand, if not approve. Neither did you, not so long ago. But Society balls?
You?
You’re vulnerable now, my friend. That’s why I worry about you, and not some chit who plays with men’s guts because she hates having lost the one she really wanted.”

“You’re saying there’s something wrong with her?” Rafe said tersely, his hands closing to fists on the table.

“No, perhaps not, at least not permanently,” Drum said wearily, passing a long-fingered hand over his eyes. He looked up, piercing his friend with his azure stare. “It’s been over a year now since Damon wed Gilly, and all Lady Annabelle’s done is flirt, lead suitors on, and then drop them. Who knows when or
if
she’ll change her mind and seriously consider another man?”

“She has a constant heart,” Rafe said.

“Let’s play no more games,” Drum said. “You know very well she lost the man she really wanted. Yet you court her even though all know she hasn’t changed her mind about that? Before God, Rafe, why would you settle for being second choice?”

“Because I always have been, Drum,” Rafe said simply, “you know that.”

His friend fell still. “But it isn’t right, it never was,” Drum eventually said.

Rafe shrugged. “It’s what I’m used to. What I can do—what I want to do—is to show her second best can be best for her, in time.”

“Have you got that much time?” Drum asked.

“I hope so,” Rafe said. “If not, I’ll make it so. I don’t disbelieve in myself, Drum. I can fight for myself if I must. So I will. She’s lonely, she’s lost. I can help find her.”

“And you said you were bad with speeches?” Drum asked, shaking his head.

“I’m only speaking truth. I never have trouble with that—that’s part of my problem. Well, I’m packed and my horse is standing,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m off to London now. Fare thee well in Italy, old friend. Come back soon. Wish me luck?” he asked, offering his hand.

“I suppose I do,” Drum sighed, rising and taking his hand. “Though the truth is, I still hope you find a woman who sees you, knows you, and instantly wants no one but you.”

“Not too many attractive madwomen about these days,” Rafe said as he turned to leave, “but be sure, I’ll keep an eye out for one, if it makes you happy.”

“No, my friend,” Drum said softly as Rafe went out the door, “it’s to make you happy. God knows you deserve it. Even if you don’t believe it.”

T
he town house was on a quiet street near the park, and looked as neat and unpretentious as its owner usually did. But its owner wasn’t very neat when he arrived in front of his house just as a soft purple twilight began to blur its familiar outlines. Rafe was dust covered, travel stained, and weary. He’d started out later than planned and made the journey back from his friends’ wedding before night, but it had been a long day of hard riding.

He wanted a cool bath and a bracing drink, in whatever order they came in. Or both together, he thought as he rode down the narrow alley behind his town house to the stables he shared with his neighbors. Rafe was glad to hand his horse over to the stableboy who ran to greet him. He gave his horse a pat for services rendered, shouldered the bag he’d slung on the back of his saddle, and made his way back to
his own front door. He went up the steps, raised the bronze door knocker, and let it fall. Then stood there, frowning, as time dragged by and no one answered his summons.

It wasn’t like his man Peck to be out at this hour, Rafe thought, but the fellow had free will, after all. Peck, his servant from his army days, was his butler, footman, and valet—his entire staff, a fact many of Rafe’s friends found amusing. It wasn’t a matter of economy. Rafe had more than enough money for his needs and was as free with it as any man. As he felt he had to explain too often to his friends, it was simple efficiency. Peck ran the house. He hired maidservants to come in to keep the place tidy, and he kept the pantry stocked—or at least stocked as much as a bachelor who seldom ate at home needed.

“As to that—Peck can cook up the only meal I require at home,” Rafe explained when Drum raised an eyebrow at his paltry staff. “He can fry an egg and toast a bit of bread as well as any man. Don’t need footmen either, because I don’t need protection in the streets. I could protect others, if it came to that. I run my own errands or have Peck take care of them. As for duties at the door, I can let myself out, and hardly anyone but you fellows come in.”

An old army man, Rafe insisted he didn’t need a valet either. “I shave myself faster and more efficiently than any valet could. Peck takes care of my clothes, I put them on. I’m not a demmed mannequin. What more does a man need?”

Well, he could use someone to let him into his house after a long absence,
Rafe thought with a sigh as he put
down his saddlebag and searched through it. He dragged a key from a hidden pouch in the side of the bag and let himself in.

The place was quiet and smelled musty. Rafe frowned. It wasn’t like Peck not to keep it aired. By now the lamps in the hall ought to have been lit. Rafe began to worry. He wasn’t a fanciful man, but Peck was getting on and London was a dangerous city. He hadn’t been home in two weeks, so he supposed the place didn’t need sprucing up. But Peck was as neat and methodical as he himself was, and where in hell was Peck at this hour anyway?

“Halt!”
a quavering voice commanded.

Rafe dropped his bag. He spun around and in one fluid motion sank to his knees and crouched low, the pocket pistol he secreted in his jacket whenever he traveled already in his hand.

A stocky man with a bald head stepped out of the shadows, the musket he held pointed straight at Rafe’s heart.

“Halt! I said—or I’ll…” the man warned—and then paused. “Oh, it’s you, m’lord!” he said with relief. Peck lowered the musket. “Gawd!” he went on, passing a shaking hand over his sweating forehead. “That close to blowin’ yer head off, I was! And what are you doing here? I mean,” Peck said, getting a grip on his diction and himself as Rafe uncoiled to his full height again, “you were off to the wedding and then to Italy with the earl, you said.” He looked down at the musket. “Sorry to have put you in the line of fire, m’lord, but you scared me out of ten weeks growth coming in like that.”

Now it was Rafe who raised a hand to his forehead. He gave himself a tap with the heel of his hand. “Damme! Where are my wits? The chit stole them along with my fancy,” he murmured. “I should have sent word. My plans changed, Peck. The earl’s off to Italy on his lonesome. I’m staying on here for the time being. We almost played Trooper and Frog right in my own front hall! Fine thing that would have been. Sorry. I wondered why the lamps weren’t lit. I should have thought.”

“No, it’s me who’s sorry, m’lord. I was packing, on my way out, when I heard the door open. I come creeping downstairs wondering who it was. No one was supposed to be here. I was out all day making arrangements for my trip. I only came home to get my bags, then lock the place up tight for the duration.”

Rafe’s eyebrows went up.

“Uh…” Peck said haltingly, “since you were going to be gone, you gave me the month off, if you’ll recall? Told me so just before you set off to the countryside for all the wedding festivities. So I was off to visit my sister in Kent, but don’t you worry, I’ll send her word and have the place set right and tight in two shakes.”

“No, don’t
you
worry,” Rafe said, his brow clearing, “I remember now. You haven’t seen her in ages. Time you paid a call, and past it. Off you go, my man. You think I’m such a poor specimen I can’t fend for myself here until you get back?”

“But there’s your breakfast—and the house to keep up,” Peck protested.

“I’ll eat at my club. Just send to the employment
service and keep a housemaid coming every Tuesday and Friday, like always,” Rafe countered. He began to strip off his gloves, frowning at the filth on them as he made for the staircase to the upper floors and his bedchamber.

“But—your jackets! Your cravats!”

That did give Rafe pause. He’d be calling on Annabelle, and couldn’t afford to look shabby. Inspiration struck. “No matter,” he said airily. “Give me the name of a tailor or cleaner or what have you, and I’ll get them laundered and such. I can dress myself. I always do. Do you think I’m a fop? But before God,” he added as he paused on the stair and frowned down at Peck, “one thing I do demand of you, my man.”

“And that?” Peck asked warily.

“I’m for the tub now. If I was any dustier, you could plant marigolds on my blasted head. So bring me a bottle of that good sherry we hauled home from Spain. And a glass. On second thought, you can forget the glass.”

Rafe woke early the next morning. He washed and began to dress. It took longer than usual. He was glad he’d talked Peck into leaving. The fellow would think he’d lost his mind during his travels if he saw him now. He himself wondered if he had.

Rafe flung off a second ruined neckcloth and frowned at himself in the mirror. Fellows from the dandy set spent hours in front of their looking glasses, discarding neckcloths they didn’t think were
perfectly tied, casting them off like trees dropping leaves in autumn. They weren’t the only ones to fuss over their clothing. A fashionable man dressed his part in London these days. Poets passed as many hours over their cravats as they did over their sonnets. Even bucks and bruisers such as the Corinthians, men who favored athletics over fashion, had a style of their own and tried to look like others in their sporting set.

Rafe didn’t trouble himself with fashion. His clothes had to be clean, but he dressed merely to go out, and chose his attire depending on where that was to be. That was it. Except this morning. This morning he was fretting over his appearance like a mincing fop, he decided, disgusted with himself.

He usually got things right first go. But right and well done were two different things, he muttered to himself now. He held his breath as he finally, successfully tied his neckcloth, and let his chin drop so he could stare at his completed ensemble in the glass.

The neckcloth was folded in a casual but correct fashion, and was crisp and white. His blue jacket and dark gold waistcoat were fitted close, but he could move his broad shoulders if he had to. The half boots on his feet were polished till you could see Wellington’s face in them—if he’d been there to see. Tan breeches were tight knitted and wrinkle-free. He couldn’t help the color of his hair, but it was brushed and neat, and he’d been careful to give himself an especially close shave.

Too bad he couldn’t shave his eyebrows too, he mused, staring into the mirror, those two rusty wings
swooping in a frown. Shave them down to the skin, the way he’d heard some eccentric nobleman had done to his redhead son—to erase all trace of the supposedly unlucky, unpopular color. A man could be bald and be more fashionable than a redhead, if only because that was more common. But he’d look stranger without his brows. He sighed. They’d have to do; they were a darker shade of copper than his head, anyway.

He gazed into his own troubled eyes, and then away from that bleak blue stare. He looked like himself and there was no help for it. He’d done all he could. He was an old campaigner. Preparation was done; he was armed and ready. It was time to go into battle. He’d have his breakfast, then pay his morning call—which was the reason for his getting dressed. No, he thought, it was the reason for his getting up today.

Rafe had dressed for a visit to a lady, but all he could see were men. Her salon was filled with them. Lady Annabelle, her beaming mama, the Countess Wylde, and a meek maidservant were the only women in the room. He could hear Annabelle’s clear laughter. He could catch glimpses of that lovely face, but only from between her other morning callers as they crowded around her. Some sat, some stood, some lounged against the fireplace or windows to show off their clothing. There were eight other men in the small front room. Finely dressed, socially facile gentlemen. Rafe quelled an impulse to call for his hat and
march out again. He stayed where he was, silent and glowering at his own helplessness. The other men were practiced flirts. He could only stand and listen, waiting for an opening. He had something to say.

But no way to say it.

The conversation prattled on. One fellow told a joke, another capped it. A languid lord related an anecdote and laughed at the end, which was the only way anyone could tell it was a joke. An elderly earl told a pointless story, and a young fop praised Annabelle’s eyes again. Rafe stirred. It was time to call for his hat and leave. Because even though he was a man who could wait motionless for hours if need be—he didn’t see the need anymore. Nothing he could say could match what these men were saying. Most of the conversation was inane, but all of it was acceptable social discourse. He couldn’t compete. He didn’t have the gift of small talk.

But neither did he want to leave yet. A man couldn’t win a battle he didn’t fight. Rafe squared his shoulders, braced his legs, and waited.

He positioned himself so he could watch her, and he did, carefully. When he got over the shock of her loveliness, he could observe her. The lady Annabelle was a few years older than most women in the ton who were still available for marriage. This was because of her disappointment in love, but it was singular, and a thing that detracted from her perfection in the eyes of many gentlemen. Not Rafe. He watched her with fascination, as always. She was all delicacy and grace.

She wore a jonquil yellow gown this morning.
Her soft raven curls trembled when she laughed. Her skin was snowy white and clear, her retroussé nose charming, her lips pink and pouting, even when she was not. She was everything dainty, entirely feminine.

Rafe had passed too many years in the sole company of men not to be fascinated by such a wholly alien creature. The thought of putting his hands on that little body aroused him even as it alarmed him. Such fragility made him feel too rough, too big, too clumsy. But he knew about women. He might never have really loved or been loved by any female, but he’d liked many and been fortunate enough to have a few like him. The generous or incautious ones shared their bodies. Others rented them. The tiniest one could accept almost any man, and sometimes, if he was lucky, wear him out as well. This dainty woman held out that promise—and the hope of something much more. Something he’d never known.

He knew people too, too well to be entirely swayed by her physical charms. Unlike many men of his acquaintance, Rafe believed a woman’s mind could be as keen, or as dull, as any male’s. In his opinion, a person’s sex might skew his or her reasoning, but not impair it. A man had to judge accordingly. He’d met women as hard as rocks, survivors of war or their own difficult lives. He’d known hard-bitten sergeants with emotions softer than a dewy maid’s.

Rafe wasn’t entirely unhappy to stand back and let others take the stage. As a spectator, he could
assess the lady now. There were things only an onlooker could note. Like a man sitting in a window watching the passersby in a crowded street, he could see things that those who were moving could not.

She was not as charmed as she appeared to be. He caught flashes of impatience in those beautiful blue eyes. A certain calculation as she assessed a suitor. Sometimes there was more than momentary impatience to be seen in those lucent eyes. Sometimes, more often than he liked to see, she looked inward and stilled. That was sorrow, he could swear it. She was vulnerable. She stood in their midst, admired and yet alone. A certain pervasive sadness haunted her. It drew him, it called to him, it made him stay.

And she did notice him. She might not have said more than good morning when he came in, but she kept looking his way. He reasoned that could be because she was a consummate flirt. It didn’t matter to him, because that blue gaze found him, if only through the corners of her eyes. She saw him. Often.

She laughed with the other gentlemen. She made a few comments, but didn’t speak much more than he did. She hardly had the chance, with all the men vying for her attention. She listened and watched as much as Rafe did too. He could only hope she came to the same conclusions about her callers. They were three parts fool, two parts fop, three parts fribble, and all looking for acceptable matches.

Time crawled by, but it did pass. There was only so much time one could stay at a morning call. One by one, reluctantly, the gentlemen began to make
their good-byes. They took Annabelle’s little hand and bowed over it. They murmured last compliments, made promises, pledged their devotion, and filed past Rafe to fetch their hats and walking sticks and leave.