The Perfect Bride (2 page)

"Nonsense.
I know my assets, or rather lack of them." Amanda smiled. "I am a
long Meg, whereas you are charmingly petite. My eyes are ordinary brown; yours
are violet jewels. My face is plain, and I have neither your delightful curls
nor your angelic countenance. Your hair is the color of spun gold. Mine is
rather like the dishwater the scullery maid throws out at the end of the day. I
do not begrudge you your considerable assets, Felicity. Indeed, they would only
prove an inconvenience for one bound to live alone for the rest of her
life."

Felicity
sighed. Her cousin was determined to don the oppressive mantle of old age long
before she reached that deplorable state. Even though Amanda was past her first
blushes, she was still quite attractive for a woman of twenty-eight, though her
appearance would be much improved if she did not discipline her hair into such
a severe knot. And since that long-ago indiscretion, Amanda had conducted
herself with such modest propriety and decorum that Felicity's mother, Lady
Biddle, suffered no qualms in charging Amanda with the responsibility for
Felicity's come-out, although Sir Thomas had stroked his chin thoughtfully
before agreeing to the proposal.

Lady
Biddle had brought out Felicity's five elder sisters with stunning success, as
all were married to men of wealth and title. Now, however, the prospect of
another London Season seemed to weary her. When she tumbled from her horse and
severely sprained her ankle a month before the start of the Season, Lady Biddle
immediately — and rather happily, Felicity thought — summoned Amanda to step
into the breach.

Delighted
to have Amanda's company, Felicity nevertheless worried that her phlegmatic
cousin might take her chaperon responsibilities so seriously as to depress the
attentions of any true romantic. Amanda eschewed sentiment with such fervor
that Felicity shuddered to think of the fate of any suitor who dared quote the
poets or offer a fulsome compliment in her presence.

"Cheer
up, dear." Amanda regarded her younger cousin affectionately. "I am
not a dragon. I promise not to chase away any lovesick gentlemen. Unless,"
she added with mock severity, "they try to do battle with phantasms."

A
vague image of a fearless warrior astride a white horse, churning up the dirt
as he raced to Felicity's side, caused the younger woman to sigh in longing.

Amanda's
brow furrowed thoughtfully as, unbidden, an image appeared in her mind as well.
It was of Julian LeFevre in all his satanic glory, looking down at her with
gleaming midnight eyes that promised a wild paradise of sinful delights.

A
shiver rippled through her, though the fire still blazed warmly in the hearth.
Thank goodness she no longer believed in fairy tales.

***

His
pitifully thin collar provided scant protection against the rain, but Major
Simon Hannibal Thornton had never had the luxury of minding the elements.
Downpours that had left his fellow soldiers shaking with cold and cursing the
heavens had never affected him. He had simply slid under his clay-smeared
blanket, made a pillow out of straw, and slept.

Rain
was blessed, life-restoring, and it held off the battle to come. Better to
sleep whole and miserable in a quagmire than to rot senseless under the sun in
a field of broken bodies. It was what followed the rain one always had to watch
out for.

A
betrothal would likely follow this rain, a tedious foray into the frivolous
world of the Marriage Mart with a woman he had not yet met. She would hold him
accountable for her protection and happiness, and he would provide those things
for her because that was what was expected.

But
facing Napoleon and his entire Imperial Guard paled in comparison to this
onerous duty of finding a wife.

Jeffers
was partially to blame for his foul mood. The man had outdone himself in
procuring a broken-down horse to fit Simon's masquerade. Surely even an earl's
impoverished cousin could afford a better mount than this nag. The grey would
not make Mayfield by dusk. Simon could not imagine that Sir Thomas would
welcome the delay of his dinner.

The
real cause of Simon's dour spirits, however, was the fact that his mission had
suffered several setbacks.

Lady
Serena Fielding had possessed considerable beauty, youth, and the requisite
large family. Her reputation was spotless, her dowry considerable, her reading
skills superb. But she had proven to be a snob. Though she had treated him with
the respect due an earl's emissary, she did not trouble to hide her disdain at
his frayed collar. He could have told her that it was not wealth or clothing
that made a man, especially on the battlefield, but he elected not to bother.
He would not spend the rest of his life with a woman unwilling to welcome a
down-on-his-luck soldier for dinner. He crossed the Lady Serena off his list.

The
Honorable Harriet Dunham had no such pretensions. She read voraciously and
displayed an egalitarian spirit. Her birth and breeding were unexceptional, her
dowry superb, and she possessed a sufficient number of siblings to raise no
doubts as to the breeding abilities of her family tree. Even at nineteen, her
looks had nothing to commend them, but she had a friendly smile and a way of
engaging a man in conversation that made the time pass pleasantly.

She
had, however, articulated the shocking view that a woman had no obligation to
provide her husband with an heir and even hinted that intimate relations ought
to be solely a matter of mutual pleasure. Simon did not hold with such radical
notions, which he suspected were but an excuse for a roving eye. Nor would he
suffer a woman who would shirk her breeding responsibilities.

That
left only Miss Felicity Biddle. A baronet's daughter, she was the lowest-ranked
candidate on his list, but her father possessed sufficient means as to
guarantee a perfectly adequate dowry. Not that Simon needed the money; the
earldom had brought him great wealth. But a woman's family ought to contribute
to the marriage. It enforced the principles of duty and obligation, which had guided
his undertakings on the field of battle and elsewhere.

Youth
was on Miss Biddle's side — she was but eighteen. She had five sisters but no
brothers, a fact that gave him pause. He wondered whether the Biddle women
could only produce girls. That would not do, as he must have an heir. Still,
she seemed the most tolerable of the three ladies whose names Jeffers's
research had produced. If Miss Biddle were sufficiently biddable, he might take
a calculated gamble on her ability to produce a son. When one scattered enough
grapeshot, one was certain to hit the target.

Miss
Biddle was said to be fond of literature, and although poetry bored him — he
favored political treatises and military dispatches for his reading material —
Simon was gratified to know that she understood the importance of reading and could
see to the education of their children.

Sir
Thomas had sent a letter welcoming Lord Sommersby's emissary and inviting him
to stay at Mayfield to discuss the potential suit and business matters that
marriage to the earl would involve. The baronet was obviously inclined toward
the alliance. If Miss Biddle proved adequate, the courtship could be conducted
during the Season and a wedding held immediately after.

Simon’s
tedious mission would be accomplished with satisfying efficiency.

CHAPTER TWO

Amanda
stared at the man Sir Thomas introduced as Major Thornton, secretary and cousin
to the Earl of Sommersby. An uncommonly tall figure in a worn and somewhat
ill-fitting suit, he surely must be all of fifty, as his hair had gone
completely grey and his mustache wore a tired droop. Mr. Thornton's jawline had
held surprisingly firm for his years, however, and his keen gaze suggested his
wits had lost nothing to age. The eyes themselves ran to neither blue nor green
but seemed to change with the light. They radiated a coolly assessing air, and
Amanda had the distinct impression that beneath Mr. Thornton's politely
respectful exterior lurked a rather arrogant nature.

His
proudly erect bearing seemed in keeping with a former military man now in the
employ of an acclaimed war hero like the Earl of Sommersby. Were it not for his
age, Mr. Thornton might still have been a soldier. His shoulders spanned the
breadth of the doorway and appeared quite capable of bearing the entire weight
of the door frame, if need be. Never once did he slump to accommodate Sir
Thomas's diminutive form; he was quite at ease towering over his host, as if
there was nothing out of the ordinary about his proportions. Amanda wondered
why a man of Lord Sommersby's wealth and fame did not pay his employees well
enough to procure a decent suit. An imposing form like Mr. Thornton's demanded
quality attire.

But
of course, Amanda reminded herself, that was not her concern.

Mr.
Thornton displayed no embarrassment at his frayed lapel and worn collar. Indeed,
there was a subtle confidence about his demeanor, Amanda observed, as the party
gathered in the drawing room after a late dinner. Moving with a grace and
agility surprising in a man of his size and age, he surveyed the room with hawk-like
eyes. And though he was clearly a man of lesser means, there was nothing
subservient about his manner. Obviously, Mr. Thornton was a man to be relied
upon. Amanda suspected that Lord Sommersby allowed his secretary a great deal
of authority.

Lady
Biddle's ankle was troubling her, and she retired early. Sir Thomas assisted
her up the stairs, charging Felicity and Amanda to get to know Mr. Thornton, as
they would be spending no small amount of time in his presence.

Her
uncle's cryptic statement confirmed Amanda's suspicion that Sir Thomas favored
a match between Felicity and the earl. Over dinner there had been talk of a
visit to Sommersby Castle so that Felicity and Lord Sommersby could meet before
the whirl of the Season began. That meant the Mayfield party would probably
leave within a few days, as it was no inconsiderable distance from eastern
Sussex to the western Dorset coast. Amanda never doubted that Mr. Thornton was
quite capable of escorting them. The man exuded efficiency and leadership.
Indeed, the only awkwardness he displayed came when Felicity, in high spirits
over the prospect of meeting such a noted war hero as the earl, began to
question him about his employer.

"Is
it true that Lord Sommersby's brilliant distraction of French troops on the
Peninsula enabled Wellington to win at Salamanca?" Felicity asked, her
lovely face becomingly flushed in anticipation of hearing tales of the earl's
cleverness.

Mr.
Thornton stiffened. "Credit for the Peninsula strategy belongs to Wellington,
of course."

Felicity's
eyes grew dreamy. "But even Wellington accorded Lord Sommersby a hero, did
he not?"

Shifting
uncomfortably, Mr. Thornton regarded Felicity as if she had just said something
extremely unpleasant. "The true heroes of that mission," he
corrected, "were our ships, which held their positions and forced the
French to maintain a cordon defense around the entire perimeter of the
Peninsula."

Felicity
eyed him in confusion. She was not accustomed to being contradicted by any member
of the male gender and, in any case, had not truly comprehended Mr. Thornton's explanation.

Amanda
wondered why Mr. Thornton was so reluctant to sing his employer's praises,
which had already been trumpeted by Wellington himself and even the Prince. Still,
his point was well-taken.

"Mr.
Thornton means that the threat of sea landings forced the French to leave no
area undefended, greatly diminishing the number of French troops left to fight
in reserve," she told her cousin.

Felicity
showed no interest in the finer points of military strategy and stifled a yawn.
“I believe I will just fetch a shawl from my room,” she said, and left.

Mr.
Thornton shot Amanda a surprised look.

"You
seem to grasp the principles of war, Miss Fitzhugh."

"My
father fought on the Peninsula," Amanda said quietly. "I followed the
events most avidly."

His
eyes searched hers, and Amanda again noted their peculiar, changeable color —
now more green than blue. They held a question, but he did not ask it. She
readily comprehended the silent query, however, and his reluctance to pry
caused him to rise in her estimation.  

"He
is buried at Busaco," she said.

"I
am sorry." Was that compassion in his eyes?

"Thank
you,” she said. “Some people do not understand why I have so little enthusiasm
for the celebrations that have overwhelmed England in recent months. Many
families lost loved ones, of course, but I cannot bring myself to celebrate the
end of something I wish had never begun."

He
eyed her quizzically. "War is nothing to celebrate, to be sure. And yet, a
nation must fight."

"Must
it?" Amanda challenged. "I cannot see that the sacrifice of so many
lives serves any purpose other than to forever separate them from their loved
ones."

“Would
you have handed the Continent to Napoleon, Miss Fitzhugh?" Beneath his
neutral tone, Amanda sensed the accusation.