The Major's Faux Fiancee (13 page)

He shrugged. “I see your point. Why should the achievement be limited only to females?”

Daphne’s lips pursed. “Don’t be obtuse on purpose.”

“Why not?” he demanded. “You’re being obtuse on accident, so I figure we both might as well get angry enough to make it a good fight.”

Lambley stepped out of the crowd and bowed toward Daphne. “I promised you the first dance. Is it still open?”

She arched a brow at Bartholomew as if to say,
What was that about no one wishing to marry me?
Her chin lifted defiantly as she placed her hand into Lambley’s and allowed the duke to twirl her into the crowd.

Bartholomew’s fists clenched. He wasn’t jealous, of course. He couldn’t be. Daphne was his fiancée, not Lambley’s… for the next few weeks, anyway.

Besides, Bartholomew couldn’t dance. Probably. He might be able to if he worked at it hard enough, but it wasn’t worth the risk of public humiliation if he fell.

He missed it, though. Not just dancing.
Music
.

That’s why he’d ordered the pianoforte in his parlor. He’d never entertained in his town house—well, not more than one person at a time—so there’d been no reason to invest in such an instrument before his confinement.

After the accident, banging at the keys had given him something to do in the early days when he wasn’t weeping or looking for things to break. When he’d given up whisky, he’d discovered he actually had some talent. Deciphering sheet music and memorizing foreign melodies had been a welcome respite from the agony of his endless stretches and exercises.

To him, skill at the pianoforte wasn’t a
female
accomplishment. It was an
accomplishment
. Full stop.

Particularly for an ex-soldier who’d had to drag himself out of the darkness note by painstaking note.

But he’d be damned if he plunked out a waltz in front of all and sundry, just so Lambley could hold Bartholomew’s fiancée and swirl her about the dance floor in ways Bartholomew would never be able to do again.

He forced himself to look away from Daphne. Away from the crowd. Now everyone was dancing, save for a few young bucks here or there who couldn’t tear themselves away from their champagne glasses or the biscuits on the refreshment table.

And him, of course. He was still in the corner, in the shadows. All of the other men were strong enough,
whole
enough, to sweep Daphne into their arms waltz after waltz, and dance until the sun rose.

Bartholomew was just broken enough to let her go.

Daphne twirled about the crowded parlor in the arms of a duke, but Bartholomew was the only man she could think about. Her chest tightened with self-recrimination. She should not have left him like that. She should not have left him at all.

He wasn’t likely to understand her passion for championing the invisible class of people High Society never even thought about, but had she truly expected to change his priorities and his worldview overnight? Why should anyone? But their useless argument wasn’t why she was so disappointed in herself.

She couldn’t help wishing she was in Bartholomew’s arms instead of Lambley’s.

Foolish, of course. Bartholomew didn’t want her. She was a temporary fiancée who would be out of his life in less than a month. She had intended to be distant with him in order to make parting easier. If they found each other vexing, it would be easier to say goodbye.

Except it wasn’t working. The only reason she found him vexing was because she could not quit him from her mind. She had even begun to dream about him at night. Every night. In her dreams, they didn’t have to say goodbye. They were too busy kissing to say anything at all.

The unbidden image sent a shiver down her spine. She missed a step and inadvertently trod upon the Duke of Lambley’s toes. Her cheeks flushed.

The duke’s quick blue eyes flashed with chagrin. “It only now occurs to me that I’ve never seen you dance. Forgive me for not inquiring if you had permission to waltz, or even knew how.”

Permission? Daphne smiled weakly. Wonderful. Something else she hadn’t considered. Katherine had first butted against the various rules of Almack’s patronesses and Polite Society so long ago, Daphne had forgotten them completely. She probably embarrassed Bartholomew every time he escorted her in public.

Unlike Katherine, Daphne hadn’t had a formal come-out. This was her first visit to the city. There was much she didn’t know. Would never know. She couldn’t fit into London life even if she wanted to. She was precisely the green rustic they likely all thought she was.

That she knew how to dance at all was also Katherine’s doing. Whenever she’d visited Maidstone, Katherine had always dropped by the vicarage with amusing anecdotes about some exploit or another. That she’d taught Daphne to waltz was less surprising than the idea of boisterous Katherine paying attention to a dancing master in the first place.

“’Twas kind of you to stand up with me,” she murmured to the duke. Her response didn’t address his implied question, but then again, it was too late to worry about permission. “I don’t often attend dinner parties or soirées.”

His smile was droll. “I noticed. Eligible gentlemen might despair of catching your eye, much less your heart.”

Daphne swallowed. Eligible gentlemen, like him? Or did he mean gentlemen of her acquaintance in general?

It was true that she didn’t often attend events of any kind. It was further true that if she
had
attended said parties, she had done so under duress and likely bore a countenance so vexed it would have frightened away even a duke.

If someone had warned her at the time that her obvious disdain for the interests of those around her would give her a reputation for being cold and impossible to please, she wouldn’t have cared a button. Those weren’t the opinions that mattered. Then or now.

Except… She couldn’t stop herself from seeking out glimpses of Bartholomew. Or notice all the other young ladies who were doing the same. Even the gentlemen couldn’t help from going out of their way to have a word with him, and they all laughed heartily at whatever witticisms he said in reply.

He was handsome and popular and charming and competitive and everything that she’d never wanted, all wrapped into one gorgeous package.

There was nothing he hadn’t done. No horse he hadn’t raced, no pugilist he hadn’t boxed, and no heart he hadn’t won. The men wanted to dress like him and the women wished he’d take their dresses off. He knew everyone there was to know, and they all considered themselves the richer for it. He was
made
for London.

And the only reason he was here today was because of her.

The moment she cried off, he’d go back to the shadows, back to his town house. Back to his memories.

This time, with scandal attached to his name. Because of her. Her throat tightened with guilt.

“You’ve gone awfully serious,” Lambley said as the music came to an end. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is splendid. Thank you for the lovely dance. I must get back to my fiancé.” She curtseyed and hurried away, eager to return to Bartholomew. If they both had to be at this party, she wished to spend it at his side.

Or in his arms.

The more she tried not to think about how it might feel to be held, to be kissed, to be
wanted
, the harder it was to resist the temptation to find out firsthand. Their betrothal might be false, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t share a true embrace.

No reason except that if she dared to let her heart get involved, she’d be tempted to stay. To burrow in his arms, in his bed, and beg him never to let her go. To be the first person who chose to stay. Who chose
her
.

She came up behind him as he was speaking to a ruddy-faced gentleman.

“—as smart as she is beautiful,” Bartholomew was saying. “I am the happiest of men.”

A wave of pleasure flushed her cheeks. Until she remembered he was only acting a part. Then again, their scheme only required him to act betrothed, not besotted. If Bartholomew was saying nice things about her, it was because he wished to. Because
he
was nice. Not because she deserved it.

He’d gone so far above and beyond the initial favor she’d asked of him that she would never be able to repay this debt. She had been so desperate to deflect her guardian’s nefarious plans, she hadn’t given much thought to the false betrothal’s effect on Bartholomew at all.

Worse, whenever he was within sight, she was finding it harder and harder to remember the betrothal
was
false. She wanted him to see all the good works she was trying to do and conclude that she, too, was a good person. She wanted him to
like
her. More than that, she wanted him to miss her when she was gone. She would certainly miss him.

“I doubt a dandified rake would make anyone the happiest of women,” the man chuckled. “I’ve got fifty quid down at White’s that says even a peg-leg like you will be on to greener pastures by spring.”

Daphne’s jaw fell open. Outrage flooded her system, electrifying her nerves and freezing her in place.

“On the contrary,” Bartholomew replied evenly, as if he deflected these sort of comments every day.

She swallowed. Perhaps he did.

“A man in love spends extra blunt on a prosthesis, not a pegged leg. That way, the leg-shackle won’t slide off.” Bartholomew gestured toward his false leg, his tone light. “I’m afraid this rake is a reformed man.”

“More like a deformed one,” the man said with a laugh. “Maybe she’s the one in search of greener pastures. Even a vicar’s daughter can do better than—”

Daphne darted forward and slid her hand around Bartholomew’s upper arm. His muscles were tight, as if he were poised to fight. If he wished to plant this knave a facer, she wouldn’t stop him. She lifted her chin. “There
is
no better man than Bartholomew.”

“Darling.” Bartholomew pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I’d introduce you, but this ‘gentleman’ was just leaving.”

The man’s eyes widened at the obvious cut. A sneer curved his lips. “Have it your way, Blackpool. You’ll be tripling my fifty quid.”

He stalked away before anyone could reply further.

Daphne’s mouth tightened. She clutched Bartholomew’s arm a little tighter. “Who
was
that odious blackguard?”

“Phineas Mapleton.” Bartholomew’s hands were curved into fists. He visibly tried to calm himself down. “The worst part about this whole charade is knowing it
will
line his pockets the moment you cry off.”

No, Daphne realized, her stomach sinking. For Bartholomew, the worst part of this whole charade was every single moment of it. She just hadn’t seen it until now.

He’d closed himself off from society for a reason. Soulless cretins like Phineas Mapleton were perhaps the bottom of the barrel, but she had no doubt Bartholomew withstood countless questions and implied insults about his injury and his ability to still be a man, even if he laughed them off.

Worse, she suspected, were the people who felt sorry for him. Who thought they were being kind when they showered him with pity or treated him like an invalid incapable of caring for himself.

As a woman, she’d long been familiar with a world that dismissed her concerns, opinions and aspirations, simply because she was female. As a champion for the poor and the marginalized, she well knew the maddening, soul-consuming frustration of being discounted for something over which there was no hope to change.

She had never thought it could apply to Bartholomew.

The back of her throat tightened. ’Twasn’t right. One could not change one’s gender, or one’s parentage, or grow back a leg. But that didn’t make one any less important, any less worthy. And she certainly couldn’t do anything that would make his situation even worse.

“About that…” she began, her voice unsteady.

Bartholomew’s brow furrowed. “About what?”

“About me crying off.” She bit her lip as she considered how to proceed.

If she was the one to cry off, she would make him a laughingstock. Perhaps make it impossible for him ever to find a real bride.

Bartholomew deserved better. He deserved to find love.

“You want to do it now?” He darted a glance about the crowded room. “Don’t you need to wait until your birthday?”

“Not here,” she said quickly, caressing his arm with her thumb. “And not until my birthday. But when I inherit my portion, I need
you
to cry off.”

“Out of the question,” he said without hesitation. “It would ruin your chances of ever getting married.”

Precisely why she couldn’t do the same thing to him. Not after all he’d been through. What she was still putting him through.

“I don’t ever want to get married,” she reminded him. “You’ll be doing me a favor.”

He shrugged. “I won’t do it at all.”

“You must,” she said firmly. “Because I won’t do it, and we’re not getting married. You
must
cry off.”

He laughed. “You cannot truly expect me to jilt you. It would be disastrous to your reputation under the best of circumstances. In our case, even worse. The gossip will already be horrendous. No man will ever play suitor to a woman even a peg-leg wouldn’t marry.”

“Don’t
say
that about yourself,” she said fiercely. “My goals hinge on me remaining single, but your dreams do not. Your injuries won’t preclude you from finding a wife. Not if you’re the one who jilts me. I’ll make it known that you’re the greatest catch this town has ever seen. By the time I’m done, there won’t be a marriageable young lady in the entire country who wouldn’t give her last penny for a chance to catch your eye. I’ll—”

Bartholomew spun her in front of him and grasped her wrists so hard she winced at the sudden pain. A mottled flush crept up the sides of his neck.

“Wrong,” he snarled, nostrils flaring. “Don’t you
dare
turn me into one of your causes. I don’t want your charity.”

He tossed her hands aside and turned and stalked away.