Chapter Three
“My name is James Markham, Viscount Tidworth, heir to the Earl and Countess of Rossbury.”
The innkeeper of the Four Swans gazed at James consideringly.
James pushed back his shoulders, tilted his chin, and gave the fellow an inimical glare. Confident not only of his station in life but also of his own physical strength, he succeeded in making the innkeeper, no mean specimen himself, back down.
“Apologies, zur,” the man said, bowing. “You’re a long way from home, I reckon, and not known around these parts.”
“Never mind.” There was no point in further speech—he’d no time to lose. He’d left Birney House in plenty of time to reach Ashleaze Court, but the heavens had opened, making his way treacherous, and then that blasted cart had spooked Lawrie into throwing him.
He strode out of the taproom, then stood in the inn yard, looking gloomily down at his clothing. There were scratches on his boots and faint smudges of mud all over his buckskins, not to mention dark stains up the back of his coat, probably made worse by the inexpert scrubbing of the tavern wench who’d attended him. In fact, he hadn’t felt quite so dirty and wretched since Waterloo, and that was a memory he did not welcome.
A groom led Lawrie forward, and James stroked the beast’s soft muzzle, blowing into his nose and murmuring sounds of reassurance. “It’s not your fault, boy,” he whispered. “That damned carrier should have slowed his wagon as he approached the crossroads. He should have known he couldn’t see properly in the rain. And as for that stubborn chit who said it wasn’t safe for me to ride—what did she know? We’re as one, aren’t we boy, when we ride together? I know you’d never throw me off except under extreme stress.”
James stepped onto the mounting block and vaulted lightly onto Lawrie’s back, then pulled the animal’s head around and pointed him back toward the crossroads.
As the horse broke into a canter, he freed a hand from the reins and checked his fob watch. Tarnation! He’d been delayed a full two hours, and Robert Cornwallis could easily have beaten him to it, damn his eyes.
He sucked in a deep breath and urged Lawrie to a gallop. Belinda Carslake, the woman he wanted to marry, had once confessed to corresponding with her old childhood friend, Cornwallis, during the fellow’s absence abroad. It was not at all the kind of thing James wanted his sweetheart to be doing, but he’d been so besotted with Belinda, he hadn’t had the heart to correct her.
Belinda was young, vivacious, innocent, and beautiful. Her pedigree was unsullied, her person captivating. The perfect wife for a future earl.
The perfect wife for him.
Ever since his older brother Nathaniel’s premature death after Waterloo, his parents had been pressuring their one remaining son to marry and set up his nursery. Life was so precious, and hung by so slender a thread. James knew the heir to an earldom must marry a wife of high status and produce children on an industrial scale. If his first wife were to die in childbirth, he must find another, until he had sufficient progeny to ensure the succession would never fall to a less deserving branch of the family.
So why hadn’t he proposed to Belinda when he’d had the chance? Perhaps because she seemed so young—a mere eighteen years of age compared to his twenty-six. She was like a butterfly, and it seemed wrong to pin her down too soon. She must be allowed to flutter around the parties of the ton and meet other gentlemen. Then, when she settled her choice on him, he could be sure her heart was true, and there would be no rival to ruin their wedded bliss.
But now Cornwallis was back in England after his long sojourn in India. Back to stay, apparently. And Belinda’s letters to James were filled with news of his rival.
As he sped through the dank countryside, he ruminated on Cornwallis’s attributes. No, the man wasn’t quite the thing. He’d be unfashionably brown from the unrelenting Indian sun, and had no doubt acquired his wealth in ways prejudicial to the natives. The Carslake family would surely not want an alliance with such a questionable personage. Wasn’t Belinda as much against the exploitation of the poor and ignorant as was James, himself?
Still, he’d try not to make an enemy of Cornwallis. Such a nabob would make an excellent patron of the new war veterans’ hospital he was determined to build.
His jaw clenched as he thought about Nathaniel’s death, the driving force behind his project. His older brother had been so strong, so courageous, and had acquitted himself well at Waterloo. He’d received a minor injury—a piece of shrapnel in the leg—and had broken his journey home to get the metal removed by a surgeon at a veterans’ hospital. But the wound had festered, and gangrene set in. Nathaniel had died within the week.
Before he left the army, James had sworn no other soldier should suffer as his brother had, and lose their life so needlessly. He was currently in search of a suitable building in which to found his own veterans’ hospital, one that would be clean and well-equipped, employing the most able doctors in the land. It wouldn’t just house injured soldiers and their needy families but would also ensure they learned skills to help them make a living once they’d left military service.
He was determined to win the support of as many members of the ton as possible, so the place would never be short of funds and would continue to thrive long after his death.
Ah, at last. The gates of Ashleaze Court, Belinda’s family seat, appeared before him. A watery sunset broke through the purple clouds, touching the wet rhododendron leaves with a ghostly light as he slowed Lawrie to a canter. He dismounted in the stable yard, giving Lawrie into the care of a groom, and the chill of early evening whiffled through his damp clothing. He prayed the Carslakes had a good blaze going in the drawing room.
As he pulled at the bell by the double front doors, his thoughts flicked back to the stubborn chit responsible for his delay. Pah! There was nothing wrong with his head—he was a soldier, by Beelzebub, not a milksop! A small crack on the pate was nothing to him—he’d survived far worse and had the scars to prove it. Just because he was a gentleman did not make him weak—far from it. His remark about his right hook had been no empty boast—Gentleman Jackson himself had complimented him on it.
God have mercy on whoever came into that meddling girl’s sphere. She was pretty enough to be a heartbreaker, and her touch was a sensual experience he’d have enjoyed under other circumstances. Which made her a danger to men—to impressionable ones, at least. Fortunately, he’d never considered himself an easy catch when it came to women. And right now, there was only one woman in the world who mattered to him.
Belinda Carslake.
James handed the footman his begrimed coat and hat. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his cuffs and squared his shoulders as he was ushered into the drawing room.
“Viscount Tidworth, sir, madam,” the footman announced.
“Thank you, Hobson. James! How good of you to visit us, especially in this awful weather!”
“Mrs. Carslake, delighted, as ever. Sir, I trust you are well? How are the pigs coping with all this rain?” He knew Belinda’s papa was obsessed with his Gloucester Old Spots, so never failed to ask after them when he visited.
“Drusilla’s had a bit of a fever,” was the reply, “but I’m trying some excellent patent pig pills from a local chemist that seem to be doing the trick. How are Lord and Lady Rossbury?”
James did his best to hide his impatience, when all he wanted was to be alone with the vision of loveliness seated to the right of the fire screen. Attired in a high-waisted dress of duck-egg blue, topped with a splendid shawl of Indian design, Belinda truly seemed to make the lamps burn brighter. Her milk-white complexion was complemented by shining curls drawn back from her forehead to frame her ears, and her lips, though small, were a perfect pink. His heart beat rapidly, stealing his breath.
He pressed a hand to his chest, where it encountered the small bulge in his breast pocket. It was the box containing the ring he intended to present Belinda when she accepted his suit. Because, surely, she wouldn’t hesitate to accept him.
His head swam, overwhelmed with excitement. This was the moment he meant to ask for her hand. Such a step to take, so many changes to make in his life. He would have a townhouse that knew a woman’s touch, a country estate that would echo with the laughter of children. His sober bachelor existence and the daily weight of his concerns would be lifted by feminine fancies and lighthearted chatter. And at night, his bed would be warmed by a beauty, her golden tresses spread across the pillow, her cheeks glowing from the onslaught of his lovemaking…
“Oh, James!” cried the object of his desire, bouncing up from her seat and dancing toward him, “I have such thrilling news! You remember my friend, Mr. Cornwallis? He has just returned from India and came straight here to see me. You’ll never guess what happened. He said he’d missed me terribly, but my letters gave him hope. And now he has applied for my hand in marriage!” She all but squealed the last in her enthusiasm.
James swayed forward, and when his hand met the corner of a lacquered cabinet, he gripped it like a drowning man grips a spar. Swallowing back the bile that bit into his throat, he lifted his head and forced the words from his mouth, voicing a question he never expected to have to ask. “And have you accepted him?”
In answer, Belinda thrust out her hand. There, glowing with a soft light, was an enormous ruby ring in a splendid setting of gold.
He closed his eyes a moment and summoned every ounce of strength he possessed. “Allow me to congratulate you,” he said, attempting a smile.
Across his mind’s eye flashed a vision of the alluring she-devil who had delayed his arrival at Ashleaze.
And he cursed the day she was born.