Chapter 21
Why do good things take their sweet time to make an appearance, while bad things never make one wait?
—Lady Caroline Lovell, for whom patience is not a virtue.
Lawrence Sinclair is going to propose!
Caroline barely restrained herself from bursting into song over the news, but, as she was a singer of very little talent, putting the words to melody wouldn’t have had the desired effect. So she hugged the knowledge to herself instead. Glowing like a candle, she hurried away from the spot just outside the smoking-room door where she’d been shamelessly eavesdropping, and headed down the corridor in search of her friends.
She might not be able to sing about it, but news like this wouldn’t keep.
How fortunate that she’d refrained from latching the door. Caroline had even pushed it ajar just a bit, so she could hear Lawrence’s conversation with his uncle.
It explained so much.
Now that she knew more about his early family life, and the source of his estrangement from Lord Ware, she understood him better. And cared for him even more deeply. That lump of tenderness that had started out small had grown to fill her entire chest. She was near to bursting with it.
Caroline was saddened by the snippets she heard about Ralph. Lawrence had taken the death of his cousin hard, his voice betraying suppressed emotion with a little raggedness when he spoke of him. Lord Ware only seemed angry and inconvenienced over the loss of his heir.
Well, he’s got another one on the way, Caroline thought, raising a hand to her mouth to hush herself. She’d have to guard her lips or she might let that juicy bit of intelligence slip to her friends. They’d learn about it in due course. Miss Braithwaite would soon be unable to fit into those gowns that vexed Horatia so.
Tongues always wagged when a new bride was brought to childbed early in the marriage. Lady Ackworth and her clique would be counting the months after the wedding on their bony fingers.
“It seems the first child can come at any time,” Caroline had overheard her saying once. “But the second always requires nine months.”
Her minions had tittered at this bit of wit and went on to rip the new mother’s reputation to shreds.
Caroline wouldn’t give anyone cause to sully Miss Braithwaite’s name ahead of time. Lady Ackworth would see to that eventually.
Besides, being married to Lord Ware would be punishment enough for anyone.
By the time Caroline reached the drawing room, supper was over and the guests were forming lines to dance more reels. She spied Horatia and Frederica accepting requests to dance from her brothers Thomas and Benjamin. Freddie’s coiffure had been repaired and her smile looked genuine as she accepted Ben’s arm. Evidently, she was none the worse for wear, despite her near disaster with Rowley. Freddie had no doubt put the whole debacle out of her mind.
Sometimes a simple heart is a blessing.
If the near ruination had happened to Horatia, she’d still be obsessed with the drama of it all and would bore her friends to tears by rehashing her narrow escape whenever they were alone.
Caroline was relieved not to see Oliver anywhere. Lawrence might not be able to restrain himself otherwise. She wondered if he might even challenge Oliver to a duel. It was illegal, of course, but she doubted Lawrence would feel himself bound by any law that kept him from protecting a lady’s honor.
But as pleased as she was not to see Oliver, she was just as disappointed not to see Lawrence rejoining the rout. She’d felt certain his conversation with Lord Ware was winding down as soon as he’d announced his intention to propose to her. Surely the two weren’t still locking horns.
Lawrence wouldn’t come down the main staircase as she had, so she positioned herself by a potted palm with a clear view of the almost invisible door that led to the servants’ part of the house.
She wondered if he’d propose before the ball ended. Perhaps during the last waltz…
Her view of the door from which she expected Lawrence to emerge was suddenly blocked by the slight form of Lord Henley. A spritely and elegant dance partner, he was one of her father’s oldest friends. Henley was a courtly soul who made it his mission in life to rescue every wallflower he saw.
To Lord Henley’s kindly eye, Caroline must have seemed as wallflowerish as they came. She had to admit she was trying to blend in with the potted shrubbery. Lord Henley had no way of knowing she was quite happy where she was, and she couldn’t very well tell him why her gaze was trained on the servants’ door like a tabby on a mouse hole. So, for the third time that evening, good manners required her to accept an offer to dance.
As she and Lord Henley took their places near the foot of the lines, Caroline decided Lawrence would just have to wait until after the reel to propose. In fact, a delay might do him good.
She didn’t want him thinking she’d swoon into his arms for the asking, even though that was exactly what she wanted to do.
No. I need to be coy. I need to make him want my hand with all his heart and wonder until the last second whether I’ll deign to give it. Yes, a bit of waiting is just what the man needs.
As she moved into the first figures with Lord Henley, she cast another glance toward the door.
Could she stand a bit of waiting? Ah! That was the question.
* * * *
The string quartet had been rejuvenated by their supper break and now filled the air with a lilting melody. Conversation among the guests who were watching instead of dancing provided a low, rumbling chatter. They sounded like a flock of ducks to Lawrence, nattering away beneath the higher tones of the violins. Everyone’s attention was on the dancers, so no one noticed when he slipped back into the drawing room.
He spied Colonel Boyle standing near the open doors that led out to the garden. His old commanding officer was conversing with a young lady dressed in a pallid lavender gown trimmed with black piping. Her jet earrings gleamed darkly, but she wore no other jewelry.
Lawrence wasn’t an expert in ladies’ fashions, but he recognized half mourning when he saw it. The loss was distant enough for the woman to have put off her widow’s weeds, but fresh enough not to return to wearing more than the palest of colors.
He moved along the perimeter of the room to join the colonel and his companion.
Lawrence was ready to commit to purchasing that major’s commission this very night. After all, he couldn’t very well ask for Caroline’s hand without a way to support her. The military was a respectable profession. She’d be marrying down in the eyes of the ton, but as an officer, he’d still be judged a gentleman. Now that he knew she was keen to travel, he was certain the adventure of living in a far-off land would appeal to her. It would be a romantic and exciting way to begin married life.
The more he thought about it, the more he liked his chances.
“I wonder if I might have a word with you, sir,” Lawrence said to his old commander.
“Of course, Sinclair. Fine dancing this evening, what? But where are my manners? Allow me to present you to Mrs. Smythe-Marten.” Captain Boyle finished the introductions with a listing of the medals for bravery Lawrence had been awarded during his time of service.
He shifted uncomfortably under the colonel’s praise. He never felt he deserved those commendations when most of the time, he had little recollection of his actions on the field. When the warrior within burst out of him, he was driven forward on training and instinct alone. His memory of specific events grew fuzzy, which he counted a blessing, all things considered. Sometimes even the details he did recall felt as though they’d happened to someone else.
“Charmed,” Lawrence said to Mrs. Smythe-Marten once the colonel finished his accolades. He made a courtly obeisance over the lady’s proffered hand and then straightened to his full height. “Smythe-Marten, you say? That name is familiar to me.”
“It should be,” Colonel Boyle said. “Mrs. Smythe-Marten’s husband served under Macdonell. His actions during the Battle of Waterloo will never be forgotten.”
Though Lawrence had fought in that battle as well, there were several fronts and he’d only learned how other companies fared after the smoke cleared. The Duke of Wellington had designated the château of Hougoumont as the strategic forward position of the British army. During the battle, Lieutenant Colonel Sir James Macdonell of Glengarry, with only a thousand foot guards, defended the chateau against a force of eighty-five hundred Frenchmen. Captain Smythe-Marten had commanded the company that guarded the gate of the stronghold, which bore the brunt of the assault, but in the end held firm. Wellington himself said the outcome of the whole battle hung on the fact that the chateau had not been taken.
Captain Smythe-Marten, however, was.
“Your husband was a gallant gentleman and a brilliant officer, ma’am.”
Lawrence’s words were intended to bring comfort. It was what one said to the bereaved when a man gave his life in the service. But when Lawrence looked into the sad eyes of Captain Smythe-Marten’s widow, he saw that his words only meant her husband was dead and she was alone in the world.
Lawrence glanced across the room and saw Caroline dancing with an older gentleman. Her eyes were bright, her color high. She was full of promise. Of life.
For a moment, he imagined her clad in a black gown.
What if, after dragging her to some godforsaken outpost at the foot of the Himalayas, he fell in a skirmish?
She’d be half a world away from her family and friends.
Alone.
His dream of a life with Caroline at his side began to crumble. Not even the promise of showing her the Zanzibar of her dreams could hold it together.
“You said you wished to speak to me, Sinclair.” Colonel Boyle eyed him shrewdly. “May I hope that means you’ve decided to take the commission we discussed?”
“I would welcome the chance to serve with you again, sir, but…there are matters that require my immediate attention elsewhere.” He glanced at Caroline again, his heart like lead. “I have decided I…I will let you know before your company sails.”