What would now become of poor Miss Lockhart? Would her parents find her a better match? Or would she be a spinster, with her nose ever in a book, muttering about butterflies and beetles to anyone who’d listen? It seemed wrong for those piercing-blue eyes not to light up as they had at the pond. She should be outdoors, her pale hair shimmering in the sunlight, net in hand, sketchbook waiting. Would she, instead, be condemned to a parlor, serving tea to her husband’s guests? Or hidden in a cramped space in a boarding house, left behind as her much older siblings gradually were lost to her?
William didn’t like these thoughts at all. He shook himself mentally to cast them off. He was not responsible for Miss Lockhart. And, just down the corridor, sat Miss Fairchild, with lips that begged to be kissed.Shecouldn’t hurt him. And he owed her nothing. It would only be a moment of bliss, a tendermemory. She would blush whenever she saw him again. A secret shared. That was all he needed now.
If he said it often enough, he could convince himself of it.
William got up from his chair. He still needed to hang the mistletoe. The evening was full of promise. The past should stay in the past.
He made his way back to the bright space of the yellow drawing room. Seizing the branch of mistletoe, he looked about for a suitable spot to place it. All at once, Miss Penrose launched from her seat with what could only be described as a squeal of delight.
“Oh, Lieutenant Cole, you are standing under the mistletoe, and so am I!”
William looked at the bough in his hand. “Well, strictly speaking, I am not quite under it. Not yet, anyway.”
“That is easily remedied,” she purred. “You merely have to lift your arm, and I am yours.”
“Frances!” Lady Penrose’s voice was thick with shock. “This isnothow ladies of good breeding conduct themselves! Sit down at once!”
“But, Mama, I might not have another chance if…”
“That is quite enough,” Lady Penrose hissed. “Sit. Down.”
Frances Penrose sat down sulkily, all grace and decorum quite forgotten.
Her mother looked up rather helplessly at William.
“I apologize for my daughter, Lieutenant. She is a little overzealous, what with this being her first experience of Twelfth Night. She is not aware that we wait until after dinner before the more, shall we say,frivolousevents of the evening.”
William grinned at the glowering face of Frances Penrose. “Then may I be so bold as to say, I hope dinner may be brief.”
The effect was immediate. Miss Penrose settled at once, all traces of sour mood gone as quickly as it had come. Her fingers lifted to her neck, which she arched coyly at him.
Saints above, she is such a minx!
“Um, I will probably need a ladder to hang the mistletoe,” William said to no one in particular.
Lord Penrose turned to a footman. “Fetch the lieutenant a ladder and hold it for him.” While he waited for his instructions to be carried out, he inquired of William, “Where were you thinking of, Cole? The chandelier?”
“Oh, goodness no!” Lady Penrose exclaimed. That is in the center of the room. People will be constantly coming and going beneath it and there will be far too rapid a depletion of the berries. No, I think a quiet corner somewhere. What catches your eye, Lieutenant?”
“What about above the mantelpiece?” William ventured. “A toasty spot to soothe the nerves of whichever maiden hopes to claim a kiss.”
“Ha!” came the gruff laugh of their host. “You do not think it will be the menfolk, then, who do the stalking tonight? Well, I daresay you’re right. These are modern times. Women are far more brazen now than they were in my youth.”
As if to lend gravity to his statement, a heavy knock at the great doors echoed into the room. Moments later, the sound of footsteps preceded the appearance of the sinewy butler at the doorway to the drawing room. “Brigadier Fairchild, your lordship,” he announced.
Fairchild marched into the room. He was a burly chap with a ferocious moustache and a booming voice to match.
“Sorry I’m late, Penrose!” the brigadier all but shouted. “The meeting ran long. Nice crowd you’ve got here. All the better to celebrate the news, what ho!”
“If you’re referring to the treaty with America,” said the baron, “that is hardly news anymore. It was ratified a week ago. All of England has been apprised of the fact.”
“My dear!” Lady Penrose chastened her husband. “Whether it is a few days in the past, surely the end of a war is worth celebrating? Especially with so many of our officers here who have now been spared battle.”
“You are right, of course,” said the baron. “Fetch the brandy!” he called to the footman. “We shall toast to peace and the fine men who may stay in England to enjoy it.”
William wasn’t so sure it was something he wanted to drink a toast to. It was all well and good. War was a messy thing. He hadn’t particularly looked forward to it. Not at all, to be honest. But the absence of war made for a military that served little purpose. How was he to earn a higher commission without a battleground on which to prove himself? Certainly, flaunting his uniformed good looks in front of the ladies was a pleasant pastime. Evenings with his comrades-in-arms were enjoyable. But they had their limits.
William had other dreams. He never talked about them to anyone. He wasn’t sure people would believe him if he did. He had played the role of a Don Juan so long and so well that he had almost become persuaded it was his true self. Until he had met Ellena. She had stirred up a forgotten desire within him. Not carnal as such, but deeply passionate. He had wanted—more than anything—to woo her properly, to be worthy of her. She would have been the great love of his life. For her, he would have been a better man, a good man. Everything else had turned on the axis that was Ellena.
