Page 14 of Romancing the Rifleman
But… there was nothing here that he disagreed with.The first proposed pensions for disabled soldiers.The next one would institute pay increases for soldiers who agreed to sign on for another seven-year term of service.
The proposals certainly seemed like good ones.
He looked up to find William Windham regarding him.“Well?Will you throw your support behind these Acts?”
“I will,” Harrington said slowly.He cleared his throat.“I must confess, I’m hard-pressed to understand why anyone would vote against pensions for injured soldiers.”
“Ah.”Mr.Windham steepled his fingers.“War is exceptionally expensive.In addition to the cost of maintaining our own army and navy, our allies have become dependent on us to bankroll their military forces.”He laughed darkly.“And certain parties insist on building and refurbishing multiple palaces, even during wartime.”He cleared his throat.“I trust that you will not repeat that last remark.”
Harrington nodded.He didn’t disagree.First, the Prince of Wales had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds refurbishing Carlton House in the most extravagant style, only to turn around a few years later and commission a new royal residence at Brighton.The Pavilion at Brighton was still being built, but all indications suggested that it would cost every bit as much as Carlton House.
“In light of these expenses,” Mr.Windham continued, “some of our members are looking to economize where they can.It is my belief, however, that we should not attempt to balance the budget on the backs of our wounded soldiers.”
Harrington nodded.“I agree.”
Mr.Windham leaned forward.“May I count on your support, then?”
Harrington released the breath he’d been holding.He was still nervous about putting a foot wrong.
But… pensions for wounded soldiers.That couldn’t be a bad thing.
Could it?
“You may,” he said, wondering if he was committing a great blunder.
Mr.Windham smiled broadly.“Excellent.”He plucked another paper from his desk.“Here is a list of our fellow MPs who have been, shall we say, recalcitrant.”He handed the sheet to Harrington.“See how many of them you can bring around.We’re at least fourteen votes short at the moment.Try to secure more votes than that for a comfortable margin.And send me updates every day.I need to know where we stand.”
Harrington rose and bowed, sensing that he had been dismissed.“Yes, sir.”
He stepped outside feeling worse than he had before the visit.What the hell was he going to do now?If the Secretary of State couldn’t drum up the votes to pass these pensions, how in God’s name washesupposed to do it?
He swung up onto his horse and started toward home, cutting through St.James’s Park.Half the men in Parliament never showed up.Why couldn’t he be one of them?Goodness knew he’d never made a proper effort at anything in his life.It should have been what everyone expected, given his history.William Windham obviously didn’t understand who he was dealing with.
The problem was the particular issue.How would he look the men of the 95thRifles in the eye, knowing that better pay and pensions had been within his grasp, and he had responded with a shrug?
He had to dosomething, but he was hopelessly inept at this sort of thing.He needed help.
Edward.His brother would help him.He knew he would.And this was more Edward’s area, anyway.
He would ask Edward to write him a speech.He couldn’t do much better than that.
He also wanted to speak to Diana Latimer.She was close to his youngest sisters, Lucy and Izzie, and he knew from their letters that she had a keen interest in politics.She’d proved it last night, hadn’t she, reciting the details of that canal scheme off the top of her head.She would have good advice for him.He had a feeling about it.
Or maybe you just want an excuse to talk to her again.
He had to admit it was true.The mere thought of speaking to her, of having her regard him with those still, ice-blue eyes, had him sitting up straighter in the saddle.But what of it?It wasn’t as if anything would come of it.Trevissick had made it clear as cut crystal last night that he didn’t want Harrington even dancing with his beloved sister, much less… anything else.And at this point, Harrington couldn’t even define whatanything elsehe wanted with Diana.
Well.That wasn’t quite true.From early in their acquaintance, she’d captured his attention in a way no woman had ever done before.Specifically, from the moment at her come-out ball when a feeble-minded matron had made a snide remark about Diana’s missing hand, and Diana had cut her to ribbons in front of the entireton.
Most men wanted a woman who was as sweet as spun sugar.Not Harrington.He had a taste for the piquant, and it was Diana’s tartness that set her apart from the dozens of pretty girls who populated the ballrooms of Mayfair.On that night three years ago, he’d had a dance with her—Trevissick had been worried she would be tongue-tied with nerves and had made it clear that the only reason he’d granted Harrington the supper dance was because he was the sort of tedious fellow who never shut up.Suffice it to say, the discovery that Lady Diana was every bit as sardonic as he was had fanned his spark of admiration into a raging inferno.
Ever since that night, she had been the woman fueling his fantasies, the one he pictured when he lay naked in his bed, stroking himself to completion.And no wonder—not only was she pretty, she happened to fit flawlessly into his most secret, most shameful fantasies.He could picture her now, standing over him, her expression stony.She would order him to undress, then reach for a?—
“Hey!Watch where yer going, ye stupid toff!”
He shook himself, waving an apologetic hand at the driver of the wagon he had cut off.Clearly, this was not the sort of thought he needed to be entertaining in the middle of a busy street.
He was wasting his time.He was a wastrel.A waste of good linen, that was him.Good for only one thing, and that was cannon fodder.
