Lord Harry's Daughter (20 page)

Chapter
35

It was not until nearly two months later, however, that Sophia was able to assure herself thoroughly and completely of Major Lord Mark Adair's survival. She was attending Lady Montmorency's ball, a splendid crush, and she had just taken her usual seat among the dowagers on one side of the room when her eye was caught by a dark head and a lean tanned face that rose above the rest of the crowd that was pushing its way into the brilliantly lit ballroom.

Even before her mind had consciously recognized the major, her ragged breathing and the rush of blood to her cheeks told her that he had arrived, for no other person in the world was capable of making her feel light-headed and exhilarated in that same way. Sophia told herself that the weakness in her knees and the trembling that seemed to affect the hands she gripped together in her lap were merely a reaction to the natural anxiety she had felt for his and everyone else's safety. But some minutes later as she viewed with perfect equanimity the arrival of Andrew Leith Hay along with Frederick Ponsonby, she knew that her happiness at seeing the major was more than relief at his safe return.

The room seemed to grow brighter after that. Conversations seemed wittier, people friendlier, and in general, Sophia found herself enjoying this particular ball more than any other one so far. Even the self-congratulatory air of the foppish and fashionable Lord Wardale or the pedantic pronouncements of Sir Ernest Tudway were less irritating than usual. In fact, Sophia hardly heard them at all, but nodded and smiled at the appropriate places as her eyes followed a tall figure in uniform around the room.

Would he notice her? Would he still wish to be friends with her now that she was not one of the few young women available to talk to? Would there still be that special undercurrent of sympathy and understanding or would it degenerate into mere polite acquaintance? Sophia tried to put such anxious speculations out of her mind, but she could not. What did it matter, after all, how Major Lord Mark Adair conducted himself? For the first time since her mother had died, she felt fully alive.

She would have been astounded to learn that the major, casually greeting acquaintances and accepting congratulations on his safe and victorious return, was scanning the ballroom as intently and eagerly as she was, searching for one particular face, whose eyes sparkled with intelligence and humor. A face that scorned coquetry and flirtatiousness. Would she still be the same forthright Sophia or would she have become just another fashionable beauty? To those around him, the major looked appropriately bored by the brilliant throng around him. Long years as an exploring officer had taught him to conceal all thoughts and emotions with extraordinary skill, but at the moment he felt as though in some odd, inexplicable way his entire life hung in balance.

At last he caught sight of her sitting on the edge of the crowd, listening politely, if without any great enthusiasm, to a young buck holding forth. It was not until he felt his heart pounding and his breath strangled in his throat, that Mark realized just how very much he had missed her.

The long hours of hard riding, drawing maps of roads, hills, marshes, and French pickets while avoiding foraging parties and peasants ready to sell him out to their compatriots had been a blur for him since she had left. He had carried out his duties to the best of his abilities, even participating in a final cavalry charge at Toulouse, but the excitement had gone out of it all for him. At the time, he had attributed it to having been a soldier too long, but now he knew it had been because he had not had Sophia to share it with.

Over the months he had come to know Sophia, he had grown accustomed to sharing everything with her, and knowing that he would be sharing it with her had made him exert himself all the more so that he could report a job well done. Without her as an audience, the challenge seemed to have gone out of it all and it had become routine. Of course he had had his fellow officers, but Sophia had brought a unique perspective to things that increased his own appreciation and understanding. And she also accepted and sympathized with the difficulties he had with his role as an exploring officer while the others could never quite get over their disdain for the covert nature of his duties even though their lives depended on the information he brought to them.

When Mark finally pushed his way through the crowd of eager young misses and self-important bucks, Sophia looked up immediately, as though some sixth sense had told her he was there.

He heaved a sigh of relief at the welcoming smile that lit up her face. At last he would have someone to talk to, someone intelligent and sympathetic, someone who did not have to have every detail explained to the fullest degree so they could comprehend what he was discussing.

“Major Adair!” She greeted him happily and then turned to the older woman next to her. “Aunt Lydia, this is Major Lord Mark Adair, a friend of mine from the Peninsula."

Not
a
friend. Aunt Lydia amended silently as she saw the glow in her niece's eyes, but
THE FRIEND.
“Happy to meet you, Major. My niece has spoken of you."

“She has? Nothing bad, I hope.” Mark tried desperately to read the older woman's expression, but the sharp eyes and angular features revealed nothing beyond a lively intelligence. Before Mark could question her further, her attention was demanded by a portly gentleman with spectacles.

“I'm delighted to see you back in one piece. How did the Spaniards hold up? I saw from the papers that once he left the Seventh Division at Bordeaux, Wellington was forced to rely on the Spanish infantry to support him."

Mark grinned. “How well you guess the difficulties involved in
that
maneuver. They were paid and given rations as well which kept them from plundering, thank goodness, but you know how the Spanish are. They followed Freyre in double quick time before Beresford even began his attack, so they were somewhat tired when they reached the French entrenchments on the hillside. And once they found cover they did not move. Naturally the French
voltigeurs
moved down among them and sent them running back down the hill. It was only the, ah,
encouragement,
of the heavy dragoons at their back that rallied them."

“Ah yes. They do not lack for bravery, but they are easily discouraged."

“Precisely."

As he talked, Sophia felt as though she were once again back in the old life. It was a relief to discuss something, really discuss it, with a man who actually paid attention to her opinion and respected it instead of expecting her to sit quietly, nodding and approving, while he did all the talking. Unlike other men, Mark would pause to watch her reaction or ask her what she thought of some particular detail. Having experienced what passed for polite conversation, Sophia was more appreciative than ever before of his willingness to listen to her.

However, as he spoke, she could not help noticing that some of his old energy, his exuberance and brashness, had disappeared to be replaced by something more cynical. What had caused it? When she had first met him, he had already been in the Peninsula for over three years and though he had spoken ironically of his role as an exploring officer, there had not been the world-weary, self-mocking, and satirical air that now seemed to hang over him. She hated to think that he might have changed and lost the sensitivity that had made him special to her.

Sophia rode home to Brook Street that night in a reflective mood, both relieved and disturbed by their reunion—relieved that he was safe, but disturbed by the change she sensed in him.

Chapter
36

Sophia was not the only one suffering from conflicting emotions. As Mark headed back to his brother's mansion in Grosvenor Square, his temporary quarters until he found his own, he hoped that the cool night air and the relative emptiness of the streets would help him sort through the feelings that had overwhelmed him the moment he saw Sophia again.

Much as he had resisted doing so, he had admitted to himself several months ago that there had been an empty spot in his life after Sophia left the Continent, but he had not realized how empty it had been until the moment he had seen her that evening, sitting calmly at the ball, watching the crowd with that bright, observant, half-amused, half-deprecatory expression on her face. She was an oasis of calm good sense in a desert of purposeless vanity.

What had also surprised him was his own lack of self-assurance as to her feelings. Until now, Mark had never really stopped to consider his effect on women. He had always been assiduously pursued by attractive matrons in search of a dashing antidote to their boring husbands and young misses who sought a husband of suitable wealth and rank. How they felt about him personally had never really entered into the picture before because he had never really cared. He had decided long ago that any marriage he made would have nothing to do with feelings and everything to do with logic. Even his passionate relationships with women were about desire, not tenderness. Now, however, he found himself caring tremendously what Sophia felt about him.

There was no doubt that she had been glad to see him. Her smile had been warm and welcoming. But would she have been just as welcoming to any other friend she had not seen for some time, Andrew Leith Hay or Fitzroy Somerset, for example? For the first time in his life Mark felt a strong attraction to one woman above all others, and he wanted Sophia to feel the same way about him.

But did she? When he had held her in his arms in her quarters at Saint Jean de Luz, Mark had been ready to swear that she cared for him as much as he cared for her. Her eyes had glowed with a warmth and tenderness that spoke only to him. He had felt her heart beat faster as he had pulled her to him and her lips had responded with a passion that matched his. But perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps the strength of his own feelings had projected itself onto hers.

Perhaps in London she had found someone else with whom she shared things, someone who was less reckless, someone more stable and dependable than her father had been, than any cavalry officer could be. She had lived among them all her life. What could one cavalry officer offer her that would make him mean more to her than all the other men in London, men whose variety of experience would make her life more exciting than it ever had been?

Entering Cranleigh House, Mark hurried up to his bedchamber, where he allowed Finbury to help him out of his coat, poured himself a large measure of brandy from the decanter on his dressing table, and threw himself into a chair in front of the fire.

What was he to do? How was he to proceed? Any exploring officer worth his salt ought to be able to discover a lady's state of mind and heart on any topic, but how was he to do so without Sophia's being aware of it?

Mark tossed off another glass, and then another. Life had been more dangerous, but a good deal simpler in the Peninsula.

Life at home was a different thing altogether and it hit Mark full force the next morning in the breakfast room. Ordinarily, by the time he returned for breakfast after his early morning ride, the room was empty, his brother having eaten while he was out riding, and his sister-in-law and nephew taking chocolate in their bedchambers considerably later.

This time, however, not only the duke, but the duchess, awaited him. From the unmistakably determined expressions on their faces it was clear that they were bent on having a
talk.
Mark swore softly under his breath. He had taken up residence in the Duke of Cranleigh's town house against his better judgment, but after years of soldiering, he had no desire to live in the barracks, nor had he had time yet to find himself suitable lodgings. It was now brutally obvious that this had been a serious lapse in judgment on his part.

“Ah, good morning. Mark. This encounter is fortunate indeed, for we are all so busy that our paths rarely cross."

“Did you have something particular you wished to say to me, Richard?"

The Duke of Cranleigh cleared his throat uncomfortably. Five years ago he would not have hesitated to point out familial duties to his younger brother, but facing this lean, tanned stranger with the cool air and eyes that looked right through one was quite another matter. “No, dear boy, just happy for the opportunity to talk."

The duchess stole a quick glance at her husband. It was not like him to lose any opportunity to hold forth on his favorite topic—what every family member owed to the illustrious name. “What Richard means"—she leaned forward to smile encouragingly at her brother-in-law—"is that you have been off fighting that dreadful war for so long that now you are safely returned you must want to settle down to a home of your own and forget all the miseries and discomforts of the last five years.

Not nearly so dreadful as kicking one's heels in one ballroom after another with nothing more exciting to do than gamble away one's fortune for high stakes,
Mark could not help thinking. “Why, Letitia, am I to infer that you have selected some delightful young lady to share this domestic bliss with me?"

“Oh no.” The duchess tittered nervously. Really, Mark was far too acute. She had warned Richard that he would know what they were about the instant he walked into the breakfast room, and he had. She glanced uneasily into the dark brown eyes that bored into hers. “Well, yes. Richard thinks it is time you settled down. It is wonderful that you have been out defending your country, but it is time now to think of your family, you know."

With an effort, Mark refrained from pointing out that to some people, duty to one's country outweighed all other duties. “I see. And who are these paragons that you have chosen as being worthy of an alliance with the illustrious Adairs?"

The duchess glanced pleadingly at her husband.

“Ahem. Well, I am sure you are aware that Father and I always considered Lady Laura Carlow to be the most advantageous match for you. Her family goes back nearly as far as the Adairs. Their lands are considerable and it has always been understood that his daughter would be an excellent wife for you."

“But of course, if you find you cannot like Lady Laura, who is quite lovely, there is also Lady Cecilia Warburton, who is most unexceptionable,” the duchess added with an encouraging smile.

“Thank you for arranging my future so carefully for me. I gather that I shall encounter both of these paragons at the Countess of Roxley's rout this evening, to which you seem to have committed me."

Husband and wife exchanged a congratulatory look at a job well done. Richard was the first to respond. “Naturally. All the most important members of the
ton
will be there."

“And what else would you be doing now that the army's services are no longer needed?” Long inured to her husband's overbearing ways, the duchess sympathized with her brother-in-law's annoyance.

“What else indeed?” Mark tossed off a cup of coffee and strode from the room, too furious to remain in their company a moment longer.

Still seething, he headed over to Gentleman Jackson's boxing saloon to wear off his annoyance and keep himself in fighting trim. In the back of his mind, he had known it was coming. Even before he had left for the Peninsula, his brother had been urging him to set up his own establishment, and the name of Lady Laura Carlow was frequently mentioned in these conversations.

When he considered it rationally, divorcing it from his brother's irritating tendency to run everyone else's life, it was not such a surprising suggestion. Mark had always known that he must marry, and to a woman such as Lady Laura. Marriages among people of his station in life had everything to do with family and connections, and nothing to do with love. Love had led his mother into an ill-advised and unhappy marriage, and her son had resolved never to make such a mistake. Even attraction to his wife seemed problematic to a man who had been so recently betrayed by the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna. At least someone like Lady Laura would scorn to act as the condesa had acted. A lady such as Lady Laura would consider seduction and deception unworthy of her. She knew the rules as well as he. She would never stoop to embarrassing them both by pretending to be attracted to him. And with a wife such as those his brother suggested. Mark would be protected from the designs of any other women he might be attracted to.

Would Lady Laura be the most reliable, most trustworthy candidate for the position of Lady Mark Adair? Not caring a whit about Lady Laura or Lady Cecilia, and recalling from the dim recesses of his memory that the physical charms of both of them were about equal, Mark found himself wondering how he was to choose between them.

As he mounted the steps to the boxing saloon, he decided that he would just have to hope that something would occur to give him a preference for one of them over the other. Ruthlessly he squelched a picture that flashed across his mind, a picture of the one woman who did not flirt or act the coquette, a woman with whom a man could enjoy an intelligent conversation, a woman who observed the foibles of the fashionable world instead of participating in them.