Page 15 of Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly
Well, by God, he remembered her!
That night they'd danced and laughed, embraced and kissed, she'd never told him her name. And he didn't notice the lack. Not then. They'd had a meeting of minds and spirits. After all, which poet asked, "what's in a name"?
A rose.
She was. That crown of rich mahogany hair. The sweet round face. Her chubby cheeks. Her lips, plump and kissable. What was a name when he saw in her all her essence? A naive sylph that his battle-weary body longed to be near. An exuberant fairy that buoyed his soul. For him that night, she was perfect. An elixir. An antidote. He'd come home from Spain for a few days to bid farewell to his ailing father—not to find the love of his life.
Not to discover an effervescent creature who chuckled at his jokes without regard to how loud she was. Not to find a young woman who spoke of her abilities at cards and dice. Not to discover a siren who could lock her gaze on his and in a moment, become as breathless and smitten as he was. She was the air of life...refreshing and vital. God knew, he'd needed to find her that night. For she was—he believed then as he did now once more—his perfect mate.
He had not communed with the truth of himself for many years. That night, he had.
This afternoon, he would once more. And he welcomed it whole-heartedly. He must. Because he was imperfect now. Used up. Prone to melancholy for those he’d lost. Because…
War warped a man.
It had him. He could be churlish and bitter. Moody and ungrateful. His mother had admonished him for it just the previous day. He'd apologized, facing his new duties as lord of the manor and reviling the years he'd wasted ripping men's bodies to pieces, interring them in unhallowed, hastily marked ground.
Over the eleven years in service, he'd changed. He wished to snap his fingers and become once more the young fellow who had marched away, the one who could laugh easily and enjoy the flight of a butterfly or trace the line of a shooting star.
But today, he had her to admire. Older, yes, she was. But none the worse for the time. In fact, she seemed...(he had to grin and hide it)...healthier. The fullness of her sapphire blue gown and pelisse told him she was robust and energetic. The angelic blue of her clear eyes, the taut perfection of her profile, the sprinkle of freckles upon her nose and her lithe limbs told him she was a lady who took to the sun with frequency.
Yet though he had strode with her in his arms to his coach and she pressed her face to his shoulder, she presented a mystery. Comforted by him, allowing the intimacy of embracing her and tending to her bare injured flesh, she gave no sign she recalled him.
She'd gotten to know him well six years ago. That night, he'd kissed her after they'd danced and escaped to the balcony. He'd tasted her lips. Teased her tongue. Known the scent of her skin. The passion of her heaving bosom and her artful fingertips in his hair. Oh yes, she'd worn a mask. So had he. All others, too. Forbidden to remove them by the host and hostess, she and he obeyed and pondered who each could be. But without the covering, he'd have known her as his heart's contentment.
"You are my Juliet," he'd chanced a guess that night after their lips met the first time.
She'd laughed, horror flashing across her angelic face, enchantment in her blue eyes. "Do you want us to be doomed, dear sir?"
"Never." He had drawn her against him. The move was forbidden for such new acquaintances, but she'd nestled closer. A debutante of thetonand yet, she allowed the advance. He knew why in that she understood their destiny for each other. Odd how he was a man of action, a leader of men into the jaws of death and yet...she drew him like a magnet and he had no explanation nor a cure for the delightful malady of her allure.
"You're in the army, aren't you?" she asked in the tone of a woman condemned.
"How did you know?"
She threaded her fingers through his hair—and he welcomed the tenderness of a woman's caress. "You have a scar on your chin and many more on your hands. Calluses too. They are such, I'd say you hold pistols and rifles. Bayonets, too."
"I do."
"You return," she said with despair in her lovely gaze. "When?"
"Day after tomorrow."
Her large blue eyes misted with tears.
"My darling, there is no time to sweep you in my arms and take you to Scotland."
She caught her breath. "Tomorrow is all we have."
He crushed her long fingers in his own. "Meet me. We will walk and talk."
"You'll buy me an ice."
"A castle. A kingdom. Anything you want!"
"You," she'd whispered.
He had lifted her hands and placed kisses in each palm.
