The Perfect Bride (11 page)

"With
all these weapons hanging about, I daresay the place was a boy’s idea of
heaven,” Amanda said. “At all events, a new face will be a welcome addition to
our rather thin company.”

“Who
knows?” Felicity said mischievously. “Perhaps he will be a dashing and
thoroughly eligible bachelor. He might even give Mr. Thornton a bit of
competition.”

Amanda
merely gave her a speaking look. 

***

"Do
you remember the party we had to celebrate your birthday? Half the kingdom was
here. There was revelry for a week."

"Yes.
Edward ruined it by threatening to remove Sommersby as keeper. Poor Sommersby.
His only fault was asking Edward to share in the cost."

"Be
reasonable, Isabella. Edward had a civil war on his hands. And disastrous
harvests. You should not have expected him to pay for a party for three hundred
people."

"I
always suspected that you sympathized with him, Mortimer."

"Sympathized
with him! How can that be? I helped roast him on that spit. All for you."

"For
us."

"Anyway,
you had your revenge, Isabella. You outlived him by thirty years."

"Which
is why he looks so much younger than I. As do you, for that matter."

"My
earthly life may have been cut short, but in the context of five hundred years,
I did not have to wait long for you to join me."

"No,
but what of it? All we have done since then is whistle through the
rafters."

"I
cannot help it if the spirit form is less than satisfying, Isabella."

"We
almost managed it the other night. I thought we were onto something. For a
moment I felt almost human."

"I
fear the plan was flawed. How could we hope to experience the delights of the
flesh when the forms we sought to take were themselves no longer flesh?"

"It
was nice seeing you again in your court clothes. I had forgotten how
stimulating a codpiece could be."

"And
you were beautiful as ever I remembered."

"Hmmph.
I rather imagined you had taken a liking for the dear departed Mrs. Thornton."

"The
earl's mother? She was lovely, but no one compares to you, my dear."

"I
believe you were on to something a moment ago, Mortimer. Do you think if we
tried to inhabit the forms of people who are still alive, we could manage
it?"

"You
are speaking about our tenant?"

"The
very same. And the prim chaperon."

"He
is betrothed to the other, a comely lass, to be sure. Why try to change what
already is?"

"Mortimer,
you know me better than that. Besides, the one with the violet eyes needs no
help. She understands passion."

"I
thought her rather innocent."

"There
is innocence, and then there is innocence. That one will manage quite well. It
is the other who is the true innocent."

"The
tall one? The chaperon?"

"Yes.
But the real problem is that our tenant has too much discipline over his
passions. It will take some doing to stir them. I believe our little scene the
other night at least had him considering just how much he owes his conception
to the very thing he shuns. But we must work fast. They mean to depart soon for
London."

"I
do not see how you can hope to change our tenant, Isabella. He is an honorable
man."

"So
were you once, Mortimer."

For
a moment, the wind whistled idly through the cobwebs of the tower's vaulted
ceiling.

"You
know...I have never made love to such a tall woman before."

"The
earl's proportions are more than ample, Mortimer. You will enjoy inhabiting
them."

"How
is it that you are familiar with such details about the man, Isabella?"

"The
fact that I am no longer alive does not mean that I am dead to appreciation of
the finer things in life, Mortimer."

***

The
problem of Miss Fitzhugh continued to preoccupy Simon as he went about the
castle, approving the various renovations his architect had suggested. He did
not for a moment suspect that she would adhere to her promise to seek help in
negotiating stairs and other parts of the castle that could prove difficult on
crutches. She was the most stubborn and independent woman he had ever
encountered, rather like one of his men hell-bent on returning to the battle
before a wound healed.

That
she was not one of his men was quite evident every time he encountered her at
the dinner table or in his parlor, which occurred with maddening frequency. He
wondered why she was determined to play the dried-up prune of a spinster,
pulling her hair back so severely and wearing frocks that hid what all evidence
suggested was a perfectly adequate feminine figure.

She
seemed to say whatever came to her mind, as if it was her right as a woman who
no longer had a reason to dress up a thought in pretty packaging. Although
Simon found such directness refreshing, her blunt speaking kept him on edge,
waiting for the next unwelcome surprise. Their rather startling conversation this
afternoon, when he encountered her taking the air by the lake, was a good example.

After
pointing out some plants she said would aid in treating gout should he ever
need it, Miss Fitzhugh fixed him with that clear, direct gaze of hers and asked
whether he thought sentiment was altogether foreign to his nature.

"I
beg your pardon?" Simon had replied, hoping he had not heard correctly.

"I
merely wondered whether you are capable of delicate feelings, my lord,"
she explained. "I myself decided long ago that an excess of sentiment is
to be shunned, but some tender feeling is necessary between a husband and wife.
Do you not agree?"

Simon
eyed her warily. “I suppose so.”

"I
did not mean to cause discomfort, Lord Sommersby. I know that as a soldier you
are not accustomed to dwelling on such matters. Now that you are to wed
Felicity, however, I believe it is not inappropriate to consider them. She has
some rather romantical notions about marriage."

"Does
she?" Simon wondered whether he could invent some domestic crisis to call
him away from this exceedingly uncomfortable conversation. Miss Fitzhugh's
determined gaze told him that she would not allow him to escape that easily,
however.

"Felicity
is not altogether unrealistic, of course,” she continued. “I believe she is
prepared to wed in the absence of...of love."

Simon
wondered why she stumbled over the word.

"But
she fully expects to grow to love her husband, and to have that love returned,"
she finished.

Simon
could think of no response to this. Unfortunately, Miss Fitzhugh’s attentive air
suggested she fully expected one.

A
rather awkward silence ensued.

"Let
me be plain, my lord," she said at last, with a touch of asperity.
"Are you capable of loving my cousin, or at least of treating her with
tenderness? Because if you make her miserable, I shall find some way to make
you regret it."

Simon’s
hope that the conversation would die for lack of nourishment was, he recognized,
entirely futile. “Miss Fitzhugh,” he said with a sigh, “do you take me for a monster?"

"No,"
she replied. "It is just that I —"

"That
you are sufficiently concerned about my character to fear that I will make Miss
Biddle miserable. May I ask what prompted your apprehension?"

Miss
Fitzhugh shifted on her crutches, which in Simon’s judgment only made her
precarious balance more so. Mentally he calculated whether he could reach her
side, should she start to fall, in time to prevent her from tumbling into the
lake below them. It would be a near thing, he decided, and took a step in her
direction, which caused her to look momentarily alarmed.

"I
meant no offense,” she said quickly. “It is just that as a soldier, there must
have been times when you put aside sentiment so that you could —"

"Maim
and rape and plunder?”

"Certainly
not," she replied, reddening.

Simon
arched a brow.

“Well.
. .perhaps,” she conceded.

"I
have never raped a woman in my life.”

“I
did not mean—”

“I
have killed, and yes, I have maimed, though killing is kinder. War is like
that, madam. I did not, however, enjoy it, nor do I plan to subject my wife to
such treatment." Simon felt his temper rising.

"I
know that war is difficult," she began in a mollifying tone, but he cut
her off.

"I
doubt that you do,” he said coldly. “There is a fine line between life and
death, Miss Fitzhugh. Until you have walked that line, you cannot understand
how quickly one can become the other.”

“I
lost my father in war. I know too well the price that must be paid.”

“I
do not minimize your loss,” he said, in a milder tone. “But a man must needs
banish sentiment during war. If a fellow soldier is run through by an enemy
sabre in battle, it does not serve the one who survives to allow grief to blind
him to the next attack, or the next.”

“Of
course not, but —”

“It
is equally useless,” he continued ruthlessly, “to think about loved ones who
wait and worry at home. That, too, disrupts a man’s defenses. But reining in emotion
in the interest of the battle does not render a man incapable of them.”

Simon
halted, finally, and waited for her to speak. But this time she said nothing.
In fact, she looked stricken. Her eyes held a suspicious moisture. Doubtless
she was thinking of her father.

Regret
filled him. His tirade had but proved her point — war left a man utterly inept
at sentiment. He had failed to comprehend the depths of her feelings on the
subject, and in any case had willfully disregarded them.

"I
apologize,” he said. “I have lived with death as a daily companion. Awareness
of its power to rob us of all we hold dear is ever-present within me, but I have
mastered the force of that knowledge so that it does not interfere with my
goals. I accept that it is not so for others. I am sorry for your loss and regret
that I caused you to remember it anew."

Mutely,
she shook her head, and Simon cursed himself for a thoughtless fool as a tear
finally spilled over onto her cheek.

"In
time,” he said quietly, “one does not feel the loss so acutely. Or perhaps it
is that one learns to insulate oneself from its full impact."

Quickly
she brushed the tear away, teetering alarmingly on the crutches as she did so.
“Forgive me for being a watering pot, my lord. I am in no way an emotional
person.”

He
sighed heavily. "Miss Fitzhugh, I do not know whether I can make your
cousin happy. I do not know whether I am capable of giving her the affection
that she seeks. But I am not a cruel man, nor am I unaware of a woman's needs.
I will do all within my power not to make her miserable."

"Thank
you, my lord." She mustered a game smile.

For
the rest of the day that crooked smile tugged at something inside him.

Something
surprisingly soft and tender.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The
years had not been kind to Julian, Simon decided, studying him over the rim of
his glass and recalling the youthful dedication his former colleague had
demonstrated on the Peninsula. Lines of dissipation marred his bold, dark features,
and a haunted look inhabited the deep-set eyes. Simon had seen that look in the
faces of wounded soldiers who no longer cared whether they lived or died. He
never thought to see it in Julian LeFevre, who had seemed immune to the
frailties that beset lesser men.

When
Simon had assumed the title, he discovered that he and Julian were distant
relatives. The late Lady Sommersby had been a cousin of Julian’s mother, a member
of the French nobility whose family lost everything during the Terror. After
Julian’s mother died, his English father, the Duke of Claridge, showed little
interest in the result of his hasty foreign marriage. Lady Sommersby had taken
pity on Julian and invited the lad to stay at Sommersby for a summer.

Recently,
Julian had sent Simon a letter requesting permission to visit the castle. He
offered no explanation for his sudden interest, but Julian had never been one
to provide explanations.

"I
congratulate you on your betrothal, Simon." Julian lifted his glass.
"No man of my acquaintance is more deserving of marital bliss, although I
will wager it is not a love match."

Simon
was taken aback. "Why do you say that?"

"Simple.
I have never known you to put personal satisfaction above duty." A smile
spread across features many would have called cruel.