Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 2

  At that moment, little Dickon started to toddle towards the newcomer, holding out his arms and grinning toothily. His inarticulate squeals of joy at his own prowess carried across the lawn. The nursemaid started forward, arms outstretched to catch her darling before he fell. Richard—apparently unconcerned—smiled benignly. Dickon took two more steps, rocking unsteadily from one side to the other. His precarious balance was obviously beginning to desert him; his infectious grin was turning into the quivering lip that promised a wail of disappointment.

  And then the stranger turned back towards the child, bending forward to catch him and lift him high in the air. In a matter of moments, Dickon was convulsed in shrieks of delighted laughter.

  When, at last, the man moved to return the child to his father, Emma caught sight of his profile once more.

  She could scarce believe what she saw. Why, he was almost like a different person. Playing with Richard's child had transformed the unknown from a harsh, forbidding man into someone much younger, someone whose face was alight with laughter and a flashing smile. And all because of one tiny child.

  Emma suddenly felt as if she were eavesdropping on the visitor's innermost thoughts. Instinctively, she urged her mare towards the house.

  The door opened well before she reached it. The butler stood waiting for her, his normally impassive countenance wreathed in smiles for the young lady who had been running around the Harding estate almost since she had learned to walk. "Good day to you, Miss Emma. Her ladyship will be delighted to learn that you have called, I am sure. If you will step into the blue saloon—"

  "Oh, I don't think her ladyship would have us bother with such formality, do you, Digby?" Emma bestowed a dazzling smile on the butler. "I'm sure I don't need to be announced." Laying her whip and gloves on the hall table and lifting the generous skirts of her blue velvet habit with both hands, Emma started to run lightly up the stairs. "I assume Lady Hardinge is in her sitting room?"

  "Why, yes, ma'am," the butler called up to the disappearing figure, "but her ladyship is—"

  Emma was not paying attention. She was much too keen to see her dearest friend again.

  She knocked quickly and entered the countess's sitting room without waiting for an invitation.

  Lady Hardinge was seated on the low chaise-longue by the bay window, looking out across the lawn towards the oak tree. "Emma," she cried delightedly. She started to rise from her place, leaning heavily on the back to push herself up. After a second or two, she abandoned the effort and sank back into the cushions. "Forgive me, Emma. It is difficult to rise from this seat. You see—"

  Emma flew across the room to embrace her friend. They hugged for a long time. Eventually, Emma stood back and said, in a voice of concern, "Are you unwell, Jamie, that you cannot…" Her words trailed into nothing as her eyes came to rest on Jamie's middle. "Oh. I see," she said, a little uncertainly, mentally calculating the months since she had last seen her friend. "You did not tell me you were increasing before you left." Emma regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. They sounded like an accusation.

  "No," agreed Jamie with a somewhat tired smile. "I didn't—" she reached for Emma's hand "—because I wasn't."

  Emma looked at Jamie in disbelief. Surely she was at least six months' gone?

  "The midwife in Brussels said it was twins," Jamie explained, "and, judging by how tired I feel—never mind the size of me—I think she must be right."

  "Twins?" Emma sat down quickly on the footstool by the chaise longue. "But—"

  Jamie patted Emma's hand reassuringly. "I know it sounds frightening, but I've had time to get used to it now. And it's not my first, remember."

  Emma forced herself to return her friend's smile. "Congratulations, Jamie. I should have said so at once, but I was so— You looked so—"

  Jamie laughed. "Richard was at a loss for words, too, when I told him. I don't think I've ever seen him look so stricken. I told him there was nothing to worry about. I'm as strong as a horse. And I say the same to you, Emma. Don't worry. Please."

  Emma squeezed Jamie's hand. "I promise I'll try not to. When is it—when are they due?"

  "Ah, now, that is more difficult. In the autumn, I think, but the midwife said twins are always early, often by several weeks. So I don't really know. Probably not before October."

  Emma's eyes opened wide. Jamie had sounded almost nonchalant. "I see," Emma said non-committally. To be honest, she was not sure she really wanted to see at all. Marriage was bound to involve babies, but it was such a dangerous business, besides being plaguey uncomfortable in the months before. Only a very special man would make it worth the pain and risk, in Emma's view. Jamie and Richard were a special case. They adored each other. But to marry a man one did not love…

  Emma suddenly realised she had heard not a word of what her friend was saying. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. "Forgive me, Jamie," she said. "I was wool-gathering. What were you saying?"

  Jamie looked indulgently at her friend. "I was telling you about our trip. There is so much devastation, Emma, you would be horrified to see it. Houses and villages in ruins, people in rags and starving. And everywhere, mutilated men begging for a crust. We helped where we could but honestly, Emma, I wept sometimes at what I saw. Oh, I know we had to defeat that tyrant, but the cost was so much more than any of us could have imagined."

  Emma nodded. "Yes," she said seriously. "The beggars are in England now, too, and it seems that very few of us are grateful for their sacrifice. Papa said he saw several of them being driven out of town only last week. He has taken one of them on as a stable hand, but he was unable to do much for the others, unfortunately. The money he gave them will not last all that long."

  Jamie was silent for a space, thinking. "Your father is a good man," she said at last. "He cares for the weak." She looked up suddenly, her eyes alight. "We, too, have an extra hand in the stables now, a man to whom we owe a debt we can never repay. He helped save the life of Richard's dearest friend. Richard was sure he was dead on the battlefield. I never told you—for Richard asked me not to speak of it—but we went to Brussels in hopes of finding the grave. Instead, we found— Well, suffice it to say that Richard is over the moon at what has happened. He says that finding Hugo alive is more than he had dared to hope for. Against that, it matters not a whit that—"

  "Hugo? Hugo Stratton?" cried Emma, jumping up from her stool and knocking it over in her haste to reach the door.

  "Why, yes," replied Jamie, puzzled. "You don't know him, do you? He's down in the garden with Richard and Dickon, but— Emma, wait!" Jamie was again trying to lever her ungainly bulk out of the chaise-longue. By the time she had regained her feet, Emma was gone.

  Emma raced across the lawn, berating herself at every step. How could she have failed to recognise Hugo Stratton, the man whose wickedly smiling face had haunted her girlish dreams for months on end? The identity of the stranger had burst upon Emma like an exploding star, the moment Jamie had mentioned his name.

  The little group was still sitting under the oak tree. Emma smiled to herself, deliberately slowing her pace to a more ladylike walk. How apt that they should meet again under an oak, even if not the same one. Emma had climbed Richard's oak, too, many and many a time when they were children. She knew it almost as well as she knew her own.

  And much better than she knew Hugo Stratton.

  What on earth was she going to say to him?

  Emma gulped. Would he recognise her? She was a fine lady now, nothing like the grubby little brat he had generously allowed to tease him. She had been a mere child when Hugo left to join the army. To be honest, there was absolutely no reason why he should remember her at all, especially after all he had been through. And yet…

  As Emma neared the little group, she saw that Dickon was now sound asleep in his father's arms. Richard looked proud and happy. And a mite self-satisfied, too. Hugo was talking quietly to Richard, his back towards Emma. It seemed that neither was aware of her app
roach.

  She hesitated. Then, noticing the enquiring look thrown at her by the nursemaid, she lifted her head a notch and marched across the lawn, arms swinging, skirts trailing unheeded on the warm grass.

  "Why, Richard," she began.

  Richard, Earl Hardinge rose to his feet in a single athletic movement, the child in his arms cradled snugly all the while. He smiled broadly, nodding sideways towards the nursemaid to come and relieve him of his son. He did not speak until he had carefully transferred his burden to her waiting arms. Even then, he whispered.

  "Emma. How wonderful to see you so soon. I had planned to call tomorrow."

  Richard's words were cut off as Emma threw her arms round his neck and kissed him heartily on the cheek. "I could not wait to see you both. No, all three of you." As Emma spoke, she became conscious that she had not included Hugo in that number. And that Hugo had not risen to meet her. Intrigued, she turned round.

  Hugo was struggling to stand up, pushing an ebony cane into the soft turf in an effort to gain a purchase for his weak legs. His head was bent, but Emma could see from the heightened colour on his neck how much the effort was costing him. How awful for him. He had been gravely wounded, clearly—Richard had thought him dead—and he was not yet fully recovered. The explanation was simple enough. And obvious now she stopped to think about it. Probably it would be best to pretend that nothing was amiss.

  Emma fixed her friendliest smile on her lips and waited for Hugo to regain his balance. When, at last, he seemed to have overcome his weakness, she began, cheerily, "You may not remember me, Hugo, but I certainly remember the last time we met. I owe you a debt of gratitude for not betraying my presence to a certain mutual friend of ours—" she turned back to grin conspiratorially at Richard "—a friend who fails to understand the significance of apple cores."

  "I remember you very well indeed, Miss Fitzwilliam, and I was happy to be of service."

  His tone was flat and formal. And his use of her full name struck Emma almost like a blow. She whirled back round to look at this man who was so quick to reject the easy friendship she was offering.

  Emma could not suppress an audible gasp.

  If only she had been prepared.

  Hugo Stratton was nothing like the memory she had treasured. Gone was the handsome, eager young man who had smiled up into her favourite oak tree. Under his obviously new civilian clothes, this Hugo Stratton was thin and pinched, so weak that he could not stand upright without the help of a stick. The profile she had seen earlier was lined, right enough, but the lines were clearly lines of pain, not of joy or laughter. And, on the left profile that had been hidden from her, a thin purple scar ran from forehead to chin, bisecting his eyebrow and his cheek and continuing down below his collar. Heaven alone knew what damage lay below.

  He stared her out. And he did not smile.

  Emma swallowed hard and bowed her head politely, desperately trying to disguise the horror she instinctively felt. It was a full thirty seconds before she felt able to say, "How do you do, Mr Stratton?"

  CHAPTER TWO

  "I am so glad you have met Major Stratton again, Emma, since he will be staying with us for a time, while he recovers his strength." Jamie was sitting on a high spoon-back chair in the first-floor drawing room, dispensing tea from a fluted silver pot and looking hopefully at her inarticulate guests.

  Richard carried a cup to Emma with an encouraging smile. But Emma could not bring herself to speak again. Out on the lawn, she had wished for the ground to open and swallow her up. Now her feet were resting on a priceless Aubusson carpet, but the feeling was the same. She stared at the delicate pattern, willing it to slide back beneath her chair.

  The strained silence continued while Richard ferried tea to his friend, who was seated awkwardly on the sofa with his cane propped up beside him. His left leg did not seem to bend very well at the knee.

  "Hugo—" began Richard.

  "Major Stratton—" said Jamie at the same moment.

  Richard and Jamie broke off and grinned at each other, quite unabashed. Richard made a very grand bow, indicating that his wife should go first.

  "Ignore him, both of you," Jamie said. "He's playacting. Fancies himself to be dressed in a wasp-waisted satin coat and buckled shoes with red heels, making a leg like the veriest macaroni."

  Richard contrived to look pained. "Nothing of the sort, wife," he said. "I was merely conceding the precedence that you have so often informed me is your due."

  His face was such a mixture of innocence and mischief that Emma found herself laughing along with Jamie.

  But Hugo did not join in, Emma noticed. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself. And his tea sat untouched by his hand.

  Emma decided then that it was up to her to make the attempt to draw him out. After all, her total want of manners had been the cause of severe embarrassment to Hugo. She must stop thinking about how badly she felt. Hugo's position was surely far, far worse.

  "I am sure you will make excellent progress here, Major Stratton," Emma said, trying to infuse her voice with as much warmth as she could. "I know at first hand what attentive hosts Richard and Jamie can be. And the estate is a delight in summer."

  Hugo turned his head to look directly at Emma. There seemed to be a challenge in that look. It seemed, somehow, familiar. Now that she was beginning to see beyond his terrible scars, she could at last recognise something of the young man she had remembered so vividly. His hair was still glossy and dark, his eyes still gleamed like polished steel, and his generous mouth still looked as if it might smile at any moment. But it did not. And his eyes remained hard as they swept over Emma's figure. Emma detected not the slightest sign of approval of what he saw. Probably he favoured taller women. Or brunettes.

  "I am sure you are right, Miss Fitzwilliam," replied Hugo at last, "especially about Lady Hardinge's hospitality, for which I am most grateful. As to the estate, I shall do my best, but as I am unable to ride or to walk very far, I doubt I shall see all that much of it."

  Emma was suddenly quite sure that Hugo was relishing her discomfiture. Embarrassment vanished, to be replaced by an unwonted surge of anger. How dared he? He obviously thought his wounds gave him licence to behave outrageously. Well, she would show him.

  Emma smiled dangerously. "I am sure that, with time and Lady Hardinge's care, you will soon regain your strength, Major. I pray it may be so. And, in the meantime, you may fish and shoot to your heart's content, may you not?"

  "No." He dropped his gaze so that Emma could no longer see the expression in his eyes. "I'm afraid not, Miss Fitzwilliam. My left arm is much too weak for either."

  "But I saw you throwing Dickon up in the air—" Emma blurted out the words without stopping to think. How tactless she was suddenly becoming.

  "Dickon is not exactly a heavyweight, you know," Hugo explained patiently. "And besides, my good arm took most of the strain."

  Emma looked away. She could think of nothing to say to cover yet another appalling faux pas. She ought to apologise, but that would probably make matters worse. What on earth had happened to the Emma who was held up to debutantes as a pattern-card of feminine grace and good manners? Emma cringed inwardly. Somehow, Hugo Stratton was making her forget all the lessons she had ever learned about how to be a lady in polite society.

  The chiming of the longcase clock in the hall broke the renewed silence.

  "Good gracious," said Emma, "how late it is. I must go." She rose quickly from her seat. "I'm afraid I was so excited about seeing you all that I failed to tell anyone where I was going. Papa will by worrying by now. I only hope he hasn't sent out a search party." With an apologetic smile, she started for the door. "Oh, pray, do not get up," she said hastily, as both Jamie and Hugo struggled to rise. "I know my way very well."

  Richard was only just in time to open the door for her.

  By the time Richard returned from escorting Emma to the stables, Hugo was alone in the drawing room, leaning against the folded wooden shut
ter for support as he gazed out across the park.

  "Miss Fitzwilliam has an excellent seat," Hugo said as Richard joined him at the long window.

  "Mmm," agreed Richard. "Almost as good as Jamie's. Where is my wife, by the way?"

  "Lady Hardinge went upstairs to rest. She was tired by all the excitement, she said." Hugo could not drag his eyes from Emma's retreating figure. The urchin had become a real beauty. Her manners were not exactly faultless, but her behaviour was certainly a remarkable improvement on the impossible child he remembered. Besides, she had been doing her best to conceal how repulsive she found him which could not have been easy. He should not judge her.

  Richard put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "What say we adjourn to the library, Hugo? It's more comfortable down there, and there's some decent Madeira."

  Hugo half turned from the window. Emma was passing out of sight into the trees. "I'd rather not, if you don't mind," he said softly, with a note of apology in his voice. "It will soon be time to go upstairs to change for dinner, and—"

  "And your host has the manners of a boor to wish to condemn you to incessant stair-climbing. I'm sorry I was so thoughtless, Hugo." He crossed to the bell pull. "I'll have the Madeira brought up here."

  Hugo looked at his friend and smiled warmly. He owed Richard so very much. And Lady Hardinge, too. Who else would have taken in the wreck of a man that he had become?

  "How long is it since you last saw Emma?" said Richard, dropping on to the sofa and stretching out his long legs.

  Hugo limped slowly across the room to join his friend, noting that Richard now knew better than to make any attempt to help him. "More than ten years." He lowered himself awkwardly on to the spoon-back chair that Lady Hardinge had vacated, grateful for its relatively high seat. "In fact, it was the day I left Harding to join my regiment. I could never forget that. I was so excited, so certain of adventure, and glory, and…" Hugo's words trailed off into heavy silence.