Chapter 1 #3
But where was the deep curtsey of the past?
Where the warm and bashful smile she had used just for him?
She must be tired from the ball the night before.
A tiny knot of uncertainty began to form in his belly.
He pushed it away. It was simply nerves; it could be nothing but.
He had no reservations, no doubts. By her every gesture, from every sidelong glance, she certainly liked him.
“Miss Ingalls,” he stepped forward to take her hand to kiss, but she forestalled him by moving towards the small sofa, where she sat in the very centre, leaving him with no option but to take an adjacent chair. He did so, and then, leaning forward over one knee, began his suit.
“Miss Ingalls, it cannot be any surprise why I have come today. I am no man for speeches, but I have come to admire you greatly. Your beauty and elegance first drew my eye, but they are only the first part of your charms. Your quick wit, your deep feeling, your lovely smile, speak of a treasure far richer than mere physical beauty, and I must admit I am lost to you. I have, I believe—I hope—reason to understand your feelings might echo my own.” He moved forward off the chair to kneel at her feet.
Ladies, it seemed, wished for proposals to come from bended knee.
“Can you love me as I have come to love you? Will you relieve my pain, grant me such great happiness, as to do me the honour of becoming my wife? Miss Ingalls, most beautiful and excellent Miss Ingalls, will you consent to marry me?”
He raised his eyes to hers, anticipating the ice in her eyes to warm once more to passionate fire.
But instead of the tear-choked words of acceptance he expected, Richard was faced with silence.
And then, worse, the sounds of laughter.
This was not the happy laughter of one’s fondest dreams being met, but derisive laughter, almost a cackling, so unexpected from Miss Ingalls’ perfect lips.
His eyes widened in disbelief, and that tiny knot of doubt exploded into a sickening lurch that threatened his stomach.
“Marry you?” Her voice, once so sweet and beguiling, was hard and edged with scorn. “No, indeed, Major. I certainly shall not. Whatever gave you the idea that I might accept you?”
He blinked at her, barely comprehending her words. She had refused him? Laughed at him? Taunted him?
He staggered to his feet, grasping the back of the chair to maintain his balance.
“Not? But… I believed… you gave me every indication.” The sickening lurch was now tinged with a thread of anger.
“What were you about? You flirted with me. For months now, when I sought you out in a crowd, you seemed so pleased to be with me. You always found a set to dance with me, even when I knew that dance had already been taken by another. You always found a reason to be at my side, and you had that special smile, that quiet one, that you saved for me alone. I cannot understand… What was your meaning in all of that? Surely, I did not mistake your attentions!”
He was assaulted with more laughter, but the lady said nothing in response.
She merely sat there on the elegant sofa, laughing at him.
This did not seem like the demure ingenue he thought he had been wooing!
Where was the shy smile, the sweet humour, that he had come to enjoy so greatly?
The Miss Ingalls of the ballroom would never deliberately injure a man so cruelly.
Had he been mistaken in his estimation of her?
Had Darcy been right after all, blast the man?
The thread of anger grew stronger, as much at the lady as with the pique of his cousin’s percipience as to Miss Ingalls’ true character.
Richard breathed deeply, a technique he used to remain calm while dealing with infuriating and inept young military recruits, but he could not keep the edge of iron from his voice.
“Tell me I was not mistaken. You did encourage my suit, did you not?” A growing awareness moderated the hurt that had until now been burning through his veins, replacing it with cold fury.
“But I did, of course I did. I had to find some way to make Lord Worthiston jealous. He would never have spoken had I not.” She gave her perfect head a shake, but the bounce of her curls did not seem so alluring now.
The scales were falling from his eyes; Miss Ingalls was nothing like the sweet creature he had believed her to be.
She was a calculating termagant, an unfeeling harridan.
“Worthiston? That peacock?” The world still swam, but a cruel image was forming from the tumult.
Worthiston had been at every ball over the past several months.
Richard saw the man in his mind’s eye: of middle height, but well-made and handsome, with dark hair and pale blue eyes.
And the son of a wealthy baron, expected shortly to take up the title, if rumours about his father’s health were accurate.
Worthiston had been part of the cloud of beau mondains who flocked around Miss Ingalls wherever she went.
“Tut, Major. Did you not notice it? I am surprised; I thought you more observant than this. Worthiston is by far the better of the two of you. He is more elegant than you, and wealthier, and more handsome as well. Further, he has a title. I could not throw myself away for less than a baron. No, do not say a word. I know you are about to protest that your father is an earl, but you, yourself, have no title, and will not get one. I have done my work, sir. Your brother is the viscount, and he has two sons in line to inherit, and the chances of you becoming earl are very slim. Furthermore, you might be a major now, but I would insist upon you retiring from the military, and then what would you be? A mere mister! No, I could never deign to marry a man of no consequence. I was born beautiful, so I might become a peeress. Nothing below a baroness would ever do.” And with that, she resumed her derisive laughter.
Like a spell had been lifted, she changed completely in Richard’s regard.
Those glittering eyes lost their allure and grew hard and cold as she tittered at his broken heart.
The golden hair that had so entranced him turned to straw, and the silliness that he had excused as the exuberance of youth now rang with venom.
She was no innocent, sweet creature. She was, rather, manipulative and cruel.
With every word she spoke, his heart shattered, and at the same time, turned to lead, cold and dead.
All this while, she had been flirting with him, teasing him, not in response to him, but to attract the attentions of another.
Vile, wicked woman! He gave a curt bow born of habit and strode to the door.
“I shall leave you, then, Miss Ingalls, to your success.” And he left without another word, stopping only to collect his hat and coat at the door, not daring to vent his rage until he was out of earshot of the footmen who stood sentry at the great front door.
He recalled almost nothing of the walk home, for all that it had been a distance of less than a mile.
Had he come directly back from the Ingalls’ grand house in Marylebone?
Had he staggered aimlessly down dark alleyways?
Had he lain prostrate in the dirt in some corner of a great square?
Nothing, not even the dust on his boots, could supply the answer, so consumed was he with the bitter potion of turmoil and fury that filled the space that had, until so lately, been his heart.
Agony and anger roiled about each other until they blended into one, a knot of pain that threatened to consume him from within, rendering the rest of the world a black void.
Shameless, cruel, venomous woman!
Fortunately for his cousin, Darcy was out when Richard reeled back to the house. What Richard had to say was fit for no man’s ears, and especially not for the upright and serious man who lived behind Darcy’s handsome face.
The gall of embarrassment brought blood to his face.
How could Darcy have seen through Miss Ingalls’ facade?
Darcy—that same man who admitted he had no ear for hidden meanings in chatter and who kept well out of the whirl of London’s society—had discerned in an evening what Richard had not noticed in months of attention.
Had his own eyes been so blinded by her beauty and the traitorous yearning of his heart that he had refused to admit what had been before him all this time?
He let out another oath and hoped that none of the servants had heard him.
No, it was far better that his cousin was away from home now, for all that Richard needed to vent his pain.
Instead, he stormed around the building for some minutes in frustration and rage at having been so badly used, sending servants scurrying away as he slammed doors and let free some of his worst oaths.
Rattling the windows did little to calm his mind, and attempts at reading did even less; there was no food here to tempt him, and sleep seemed quite impossible.
“I must move!” Richard shouted at the walls. “I must do something!”
Perhaps a good, strong ale at a decent public house would serve him well, or a flagon of some heady wine. He would not start in on Darcy’s cellars, for he might drink his cousin dry. If only he had some real employment to take his mind off deceitful and conniving women.
“I need a new commission!” he stormed to the empty air. “I need to be away from this land.”
In two minutes, he was out on the street again, this time with a mission in mind. He would speak to his superiors at their offices rather than sending his stated wishes by post, and this time he would not allow his father to interfere. He was a soldier. It was time he grew up and went to war!