How to Beguile a Beauty (11 page)

Rafe looked to Lydia, and smiled. “What say you, sister? Shall I meet with the man, or simply toss him out on his ear for being an ass?” He put out his hand to the baron. “It's been a long time, Justin. You look none the worse for wear.”

“It's my tailor,” Justin drawled as the two shook hands. “He's the making of me. How have you been, Rafe?”

Lydia looked back and forth between the two men. “You know each other? Well, of course you do, don't you. That was a silly question.”

“London is large, but society as a whole is small, Lydia. Justin here and I traveled much in the same company the single Season I was in town before my uncle purchased my commission.”

“We met in a gaming hell in Piccadilly, as I recall the thing,” Justin told her. “You were about to call out the dealer as a cheat, and I stopped you.”

“Which probably saved me several broken bones. I hadn't noticed the two hulks waiting in the shadows to take care of any troublemakers. I haven't gambled since, you know, except for playing at tame stakes with my wife. Who beats me nearly every time, I must say.”

“Ah, yes, your wife. Tanner tells me she's soon to present you with an heir. My congratulations.”

“Thank you. And
soon
may be the operative word, I found out this morning. We'll be heading for Ashurst Hall tomorrow, even as Lydia is on her way to Malvern.”

Justin slid his eyes toward Lydia, and smiled. “Yes. I've heard that, as well. In fact, I shall be a part of the party, which is what brings me here, not that I'm not delighted to see your ugly puss again. If you have a moment, Rafe, and a place where we two can be private…?”

Lydia rolled her eyes and looked away, now confident that the baron was doing his best to make a May game out of her, and then turned her head as the butler announced the Duke of Malvern.

Tanner walked into the drawing room with a smile of greeting on his face and the easy manner of a frequent guest, but then stopped where he was, to look at the baron. “Justin?”

“Tanner?” the baron replied in the same questioning tone, with only a hint of mockery to be found in it.

“Rafe…Lydia,” Tanner said, joining them all in the center of the large room. “I'm here to escort Lydia to a shop I wish her to see.”

“A shop? You're here to take her to a
shop?
Such a man of adventure, Tanner. Bordering on the hey-go-mad, one might say. How exciting for her,” Justin said, and then raised a hand to his mouth. And yawned.

Lydia bit the insides of her cheeks, to keep from
giggling, but Rafe seemed to know she was struggling, and winked at her.

Tanner ignored the sarcasm. “I saw you not an hour ago, and you made no mention of coming to Grosvenor Square.”

“Oh, I
wager
I did, old friend. You must have forgotten. That fresh bandage looks quite rakish, however. Lydia,” the baron said, pivoting to face her, “wouldn't you say that our friend Tanner looks rakish?”

“I'd say he looks ready to knock you down,” Rafe interjected, putting his arm around Justin's shoulders. “You said you wanted to speak to me privately? My study is at the end of the hall. Tanner—good to see you.”

“What was that all about?” Lydia asked as she gathered up her reticule and the rest while Sarah stood by the door, ready to accompany them. “Why would Rafe say you want to knock Justin down?”

“He's invited you to call him Justin?”

“Yes, right after I suggested he call me Lydia. It seemed simpler, as we're all going to be together for more than a week, in an informal setting. Tanner? What's wrong?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” He took his hat and gloves from the footman and slipped a small coin in the boy's hand. He always did that, and the footmen vied to be of assistance to him each time he visited. “No, that's not true. Lydia, Justin is a good man. I'm glad you two have cried friends. Really.”

“But?” Lydia nudged as they passed through the doorway and down onto the flagway.

“But it might be unwise to take anything he says with more than a grain of salt.”

“Oh,
that,
” she said, still pulling on her gloves. “I already knew
that
.” She looked toward the Square and saw that Tanner had driven his curricle this morning. She turned to her maid. “Unless you wish to hang on the back like a tiger, I think we can safely dispense with your company this morning, Sarah.”

“Yes, mi'lady,” Sarah said, bobbing a curtsy. “I'll get back to packin' up your duds, then.”

“Do you have many
duds?
” Tanner asked as he helped her up onto the plank seat. “I'd planned on only the one extra coach for luggage and servants.”

Lydia waited until he'd walked around the back of the curricle—surreptitiously watching from beneath the brim of her bonnet, to see if she could ascertain any
spring
in his step. Alas, she didn't. Or perhaps this was a good thing. Justin had clearly upset him in some way, and she was fairly certain that she figured into that discomfort somehow. It was really rather delicious, all this attention from two handsome, likeable men. She must be careful, or it all would go to her head, make her silly.

Although she was rarely silly, so that the idea of simply allowing the Fates to carry her along held more appeal than she would have thought a week ago, even a year go. Ever.

“You won't have to go to the bother of another coach. I'll be sending most of my things straight to Ashurst Hall with Rafe and Charlotte. Unless you travel with all of your belongings?”

“Not me, but I have a feeling Justin will bring more than his share. As I remember it, he includes his own linens, much of his own food, and at least three changes of clothes per day. Very impressive, if you're not the one responsible for toting his trunks.”

“So you're saying he's a fop?”

“Hardly. If he meant any of it, then he'd be a fop. But as Justin himself says, he dresses only for effect. He does, says, very many things in order to see how others will react. It amuses him.”

“I've noticed that, too. But he's your friend. You like him.”

“I like him very much. And I shouldn't have said anything. It was unfair of me. You're perfectly capable of making your own decisions.”

“I agree,” Lydia said, nodding her head, while inwardly wishing Tanner would just say what was on his mind, because she was hoping what was on his mind was what was on her mind, and if he said what was on his mind, and she said what was on her mind—no, that wouldn't work; clearly
her
mind was currently too muddled. “But thank you. You're a good friend, to warn me about your own good friend.”

“Yes. A good friend,” he said running his gaze over her face, his eyes rather bleak suddenly, although he quickly smiled. “Something to aspire to, I suppose.” He then unwrapped the reins from the brake and looked at her once more. “The horses are still fresh, so I'd like to take them around the Square a time or two, until they've settled. Ready?”

She held onto the metal ring at the side of the plank seat, that fleeting look in Tanner's eyes enough to tell her she was in danger of losing her balance, although not because of the horses. “Ready,” she said, and they were off.

T
ANNER KNEW HE'D MADE
an ass of himself, but he was still uncertain as to just why he'd been so eager to throw his friend Justin to the wolves, as it were.

He could tell himself that he was only protecting Lydia, console himself knowing that Justin was a tease and a flirt, and breaking feminine hearts was a bit of an avocation for the man.

He could tell himself that, but he didn't believe it. Justin wouldn't amuse himself with the sister of a friend, the friend of a friend.

So why the warning?

Was he that unsure of himself where Lydia was concerned?

Well, of course he was. Only any idiot would think he could crook his finger at a woman and have her come running. although, now that he was a duke, he had been fairly well besieged with invitations from hopeful mamas and avaricious papas. That had been the only good thing about Society believing he would wed Jasmine. It gave him time to be with Lydia without her name being bandied about Mayfair, which he instinctively knew Lydia would have loathed.

But now there was Justin. He'd been happily chased by females since he was in short coats, none of them caring that he was wild, and fickle, and certain to break their hearts.

In fact, that may have been his main attraction for them. At least the sorts of females Justin seemed to favor. Tanner couldn't remember the man ever making a serious push at a woman like Lydia. He shied away from intelligent females the way a long-tailed cat stays clear of a rocking chair.

Maybe the man
was
smitten. Perhaps one melting smile, one quick, smart riposte about Molière—Molière, for God's sake!—had been enough to turn Justin away from his long-held disdain for anyone in petticoats…unless, of course, they were beautiful, dim-witted, and…and, well,
pliable.

Tanner felt the muscles in his jaw tightening. Lydia wasn't pliable. Lydia was a lady. And if Justin didn't remember that on his own during their time at Malvern, Tanner would be more than happy to remind him, even if that meant knocking his good friend down. Repeatedly.

“How is your cheek today?”

Tanner turned to Lydia, only then realizing that he'd been quiet since they'd driven out of Grosvenor Square, perhaps even sulking, and wasn't that a marvelous way to impress her? She was sitting very primly beside him, her gloved hands folded in her lap, as if she had been content to wait until he was ready to speak with her. And how did she know he had needed a few minutes
of quiet thought and reflection? But that was Lydia. She seemed to sense things. Did she know him that well, or was he simply that easy to read?

No, he couldn't be, or else she'd know how much he longed to take her to his bed, wake her from her dreaming, release the fire he felt sure burned deep inside her.

He hastened into speech.

“Much better, thank you. I only consented to the bandages so that I wouldn't frightened small children we might pass along the way.”

“Then it is not merely a scratch, as you tried to tell me.”

“No, it's not. However, the surgeon my butler summoned against my wishes has assured me that there should be no permanent damage beyond a scar that will fade with time. I should probably be grateful for it, as it will serve as a constant reminder to never believe myself superior to anyone, even a drunken fool who could barely remain upright on his own. It was an act of arrogance to turn my back on any angry man, no matter how incapacitated he might be, and a mistake I won't make again.”

“That would probably be wise. You've been injured before. I remember the condition of your uniform when you came directly from the battlefield to tell us about the captain. There was dried blood on your torn pants leg, and you were limping.”

She was bringing up that day, the events of that day, on her own? She was right, though. He'd left the bat
tlefield as soon as he'd gained permission from Wellington himself, and ridden back to Brussels, then to the coast, to be one of the first to arrive back in England. He'd looked like seven kinds of hell by the time he arrived, but he had to be certain Fitz's name wouldn't appear listed among the casualties before he could tell Rafe and Lydia the news. That had been a part of the promises he made to Fitz.

Now he hid his surprise at Lydia's words by launching into a quick story about his wound.

“A near thing with a French infantryman's bayonet, yes, as we broke their forces and rode through the ranks. But only a slice. My mount took the worst of the thrust, unfortunately, and went down. That put me in the thick of things. I was lucky that Boney took that moment to leave the field, make good his escape back to Paris. Once that word got shouted about, his men laid down their swords and the day was ours. It had already been ours, we all knew that, but soldiers fight until they're told to stop. Or until their generals turn their backs.”

“You don't see Bonaparte as a good general?”

Ah, now they were on to a broader conversation. Good. He wasn't sure he was up to another competition with Fitz at the moment. Once they were at Malvern, certainly. But he'd rather they were someplace quiet when she finally asked him how Fitz had died.

“On the contrary. He was, is, a brilliant tactician. But he truly believed he could come back from exile, return to France and rule the country in peace, rebuild it, preserve it for his son. That was his argument, at least,
that as the emperor he no longer harbored any ambitions to conquer, but only a desire to serve the French people.”

“Then why didn't he do that? Why did he fight?”

“Because
we
didn't believe him. What else could he do once we'd made our own intentions clear? I'm convinced the heart went out of him when his wife agreed to allow the Alliance to brand him an outlaw, an enemy of nations. It was the final betrayal, taking their son, his heir, and returning to her father's protection. As for the rest? The bravado, the march to Brussels? I'll always believe that he was a man going through the motions, Lydia, doing what was expected of him. All of Europe, along with us, had turned against him. He couldn't prevail, and he had to know that. But he was at heart a soldier, so he fought. One last decisive battle, perhaps even a miraculous victory, or at least a glorious death.”

Twin flags of color burned in Lydia's cheeks. Clearly, what he'd said had angered her. “And all for nothing. There's nothing glorious about death, not his, not any of the soldiers on both sides of the battle who died for his supposed
glory.
”

Tanner wove the curricle through the traffic and turned onto Regent Street, now completely convinced he knew what was happening. Once again, Fitz's ghost was sitting between them on the plank seat. Even when he and Lydia were alone, they were never alone.

He pulled up the horses as he noticed that traffic ahead of him had come to a stop. “Bonaparte had to be defeated, Lydia. We have to believe that those who died
sacrificed their lives for a reason. For a greater good. To put an end to war.”

She worked the fingers of her gloves more closely over her hands. “Do you think Caesar's legions thought that as they marched out to die? And what about those of Genghis Khan, Alexander, Hannibal? Aren't all wars touted as being the
last
war, the one that will ensure everlasting peace? Didn't all of these
great
leaders believe they were the one with all the solutions?”

“I'm sure they did, yes. Lydia? Has something happened? Are you all right?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I'm fine.” Then she sighed. “No, actually I'm not. I've been thinking quite a lot lately about the battle last June. Nearly a year, Tanner. Nearly a year, and I'm still trying to make some sense of all of it in my mind. Find some reason for everything that happened. Not just to the captain, but to everyone. To everyone involved in the war.”

“Everyone?” Was this conversation about Fitz, or about herself? Suddenly Tanner wasn't sure.

“Yes. The soldiers, that's for certain. But also those who were left behind to try to somehow comprehend why all those deaths were so…so bloody necessary.”

Bloody necessary?
Well, he'd wanted to see her fire, hadn't he?

An overturned cart up ahead kept them where they were, and he put on the foot brake, took advantage of not having to watch the roadway. Ignoring the loud apologies from the drayman and the curses emanating from the various carriages and a few passersby who
were shouting just for the tickle of the thing—none of which Lydia seemed to have noticed—Tanner put a hand on hers, squeezed it, and pointed out the obvious. “You're angry, aren't you?”

“Is that so wrong? Oh, I don't know what I'm saying, or even why I'm saying it. I only opened my mouth just now and heard myself blurting out the words. I'm so sorry.”

Tears dampened her lashes and she tried to blink them away. Those unshed tears were a figurative punch to Tanner's gut. She was suffering, struggling with some deep dilemma, and clearly had been doing so for a long time. Worse, unless she told him more, he didn't know how to help her.

“Don't apologize, Lydia. You lost Fitz in that battle. You have every right to question the reason.” Tanner sensed that she was finally going to confide in him, and he'd be damned if he'd miss this moment, no matter that they were far from private and he couldn't take her in his arms, comfort her. He didn't know what he'd said that had seemed to have inspired these sudden confidences from her. If she stopped now, how long before she'd dare to broach the subject again? He couldn't risk it. If she was suffering, then he was suffering, too. Did she understand that? Couldn't she see that? God, probably not. And why should she? He was just Tanner, the comfortable family friend.

He framed his question carefully: “Perhaps, if you're willing, I can help?”

She looked up from her meticulous smoothing of her
gloves, her eyes still shining with unshed tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. “Yes, perhaps you can, for I've had precious little success on my own. You see, I can understand one man believing himself specially chosen for great things. I cannot understand so many others willingly putting their lives in his hands, dying for his dreams. Women don't do that Tanner. Women take care of their own, defend their own. It's only men who will leave their wives, their children, to ride out and die for somebody else's vision of what is right. Why is that? Why do you men do it, again and again and again?”

What a strange and intense conversation. Had Lydia been trying to reconcile Fitz's death with what she saw as a foolish sacrifice? He said what he assumed to be obvious. “We had no choice, Lydia. Bonaparte had—”

“Yes, I know that,” she said quickly, and with some heat, at last giving up all pretense and openly wiping at her damp cheeks. “And if it hadn't been him it would have been somebody else. Just like Caesar, Alexander, and all the rest. I just don't understand
why
. What if nobody answered the call to battle? What if Caesar had called out for soldiers, and no one had taken up a sword? What if Bonaparte had declared he wanted to capture the world for France, and no man had said, yes, that sounds like a grand idea, let us help you?”

She took in a breath, sighed. “I think I've decided it's because you like it,” she said, searching his face with her lovely blue eyes. “All the trappings, all the pageantry and boasting. The fine uniforms, the swords and
the cannon and…and maybe even the killing. I think you all
like
it.”

And you'd probably be right, Lydia. We just don't expect to die.

Tanner didn't say the words, knowing she wouldn't understand such insane reasoning. Men did like war. Some even lived for war. For victory, for power, while always hungry for another victory, more power. Men like Bonaparte, Caesar, the others she'd mentioned—they all had one thing in common. They were insatiable. And that would probably never change. Bonaparte was caged now, but somewhere out there was another man just like him, with the same ambitions. And if there weren't now, there would be. Even if mankind had to invent him, and then eventually raise up an army to defeat him.

“We fight for our country, Lydia. For our women, our children, our futures. That's why Fitz fought. England, and that means every man, woman and child in the country, was threatened by Bonaparte's ambitions. I can't speak for why so many Frenchmen took up his cause, but I know why England couldn't allow the man to invade these islands. Fitz died believing he was protecting
you.
Don't take that away from him. He was a good soldier, fighting for a good cause, in a war not of his making. Don't let him have died for nothing.”

Lydia put a hand to her mouth, stifled a small sob. “Please, forgive me. I've been so…so
obtuse.
I saw only my own pain. Of course the captain didn't sacrifice his life for nothing. I…I was so angry with him
when he left for Brussels, and perhaps ever since. That wasn't fair of me, was it?”

“It was reasonable,” Tanner told her. “Did he know you were angry with him?”

She shook her head. “Nobody did, until now. I should have spoken with you sooner. Instead, I've been so ashamed of how I felt. I think…I think that's why it's been so hard to…to let him go. I've been too appalled with myself at having been angry with him. Thank you, Tanner.”

He didn't respond with “You're welcome,” because that would be ridiculous. Instead, he asked a question he'd wondered about for a long time. “You don't call him Fitz. Why?”

Lydia frowned for a moment. “I sometimes think of him as Fitz. But…but he's always been the captain. I was always Lady Lydia. When I look back on those few months now, I realize we were…dancing around each other. Neither of us daring to say what was in our hearts. But there was time for all of that. There was supposed to have been time for all of that. I believe he felt I needed some time to…to grow up. But I think we both knew what would happen when he returned home.”