Page 15 of Lady Mary's May Day Mischief
Blake and she excused themselves and took the stairs together.
Mary leaned close to him. “Is Lord Charlton always so assertive?”
“Comes with being an infantry man, I’d say.”
Truly, a brave man, but brusque. “Fiona doesn’t need to be ordered about.”
“I’m sure. Charlton does act oddly. Not certain why, but whatever it is, we must forgive him. Men home from battlefields have challenges with the ordinariness of peace.”
“Still,” she worried, “I wonder what he hopes to achieve.”
Just as the footman stopped and indicated they were to separate, Blake to the east wing, and Mary to the west, she caught his sleeve. “Will you ask him to apologize, please?”
“Frankly, I doubt I’ll have to. He’s a good man. He’ll come around to act more the gentleman.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t fret, Mary.”
She grew wistful of a sudden. “Am I not Birdie to you any longer?”
“Birdie was the girl I knew. This Mary before me is older, lovelier.”
She’d never thought of herself as lovely. Nor had he ever been so complimentary. “I’ve not had anyone tell me that.”
“I am pleased to be the only one.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Until later. Mary.”
Tickled, she sank in a curtsy. “Lord Bridges.”
* * *
What was he doing complimenting Mary so?
Blake listened half-heartedly to the footman William as he pointed out the features of his accommodations. The sitting room was large with a small settee and two chairs. The bedroom, facing the parterre in the lee of the house, offered a chair, wardrobe and a bed with heavy red and gold brocade hangings. The fittings brought a stab of nostalgia for his family’s home on the river Ouse. Surprise at that wistful desire swept him as he had been honest with Mary that he held misgivings about living there permanently. Of course, it was his family duty to take on the running of the estate. Yet he knew more about Spanish coastal roads and French rivers than he did about the land and waterways of his childhood home.
Seeing Mary had revived happy memories of his laughing parents and his two precocious brothers. Of her family, too, who were their fondest friends, sharing celebrations of birthdays and Christmas. He hadn’t counted on the desires her presence inspired. Not for home or hearth or kin—or her. She breathed and walked, more vivid than memory. She laughed, flesh and blood reminder of his childhood, his follies and his pranks. She sparkled, a kaleidoscope of dreams, the talisman who helped him to survive barbaric nightmares of his dismemberment and death. She was sympathetic, worried for her friend. That commended her to him and made him ask himself the true depth of his mistrust of her.
She had hurt his friend and cohort, an infantry officer who was also friend to Charlton. Captain Lord Langdon had met Miss Weaver three years ago in London and found her so delightful, he’d proposed within days of meeting her. But a friend of Millicent’s—Mary—had dissuaded her from accepting him. Langdon was stunned, furious and returned to his men in France, a bewildered man. One who drank and gambled far too much and much too rashly. Foxed to his gills day in and out, he sobered before he went before the French at Quatre Bras. In the barrage, he’d received shot in his left arm. Though he’d not lost his limb, he’d lost its use and he repaired to his country home a bitter man.
Blake could not discount that harm she’d done his friend two years ago. He’d known Mary as a girl saving his own life. Rescuing a dog from the river. Dragging him from it, too. Parting two people who cared for each other was quite another. Did she know how damaging her involvement was? He’d ask her. He must. For how else could he trust her? Love demanded that. Lust required none.
He desired her, he had for years. But convention and status had barred her from him. Now, he was titled and astonishingly rich. He was the equal of the earl’s daughter. Dastardly, that now he had the means to court her, he suddenly met this road block. It should be easy to fix the problem. Yet he worried.
He ran a hand through his hair.
“My lord?” One footman beckoned from the doorway.
Two more footmen arrived carrying his trunk, and as they did, the doors to the hall stood open. Charlton passed by, led on by the footman who’d been assigned to show him his rooms. Another scurried behind them, a brandy decanter in hand.
“Yes? William, is it?”
“It is, my lord. Shall I arrange your clothes?”
Neither he nor Charlton employed valets, home in England too recently to hire servants. “Take your time. ”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“I’ll return in a few minutes.” At that, he left to track down Charlton.
The door to the next suite was open. He knocked for permission to enter.
Charlton beckoned. “Ah, good. Do sit, if you wish.”
