Chapter One #3
“He certainly has an impressive set of lungs,” Bertrand said as the colonel bellowed out orders to his men. The company turned and made its way back along the parade ground to take up the remaining space at the center. He commanded them to halt, and halt they did, the horses as still as the men.
How did the men train them to do that? In her experience horses invariably tossed their manes and their tails and wiggled their hind quarters even when called to a halt.
The regimental bands fell silent. The regimental flags, also apparently known as the colors, held aloft by the officers who led the men, fluttered gaily in the breeze, the only movement on the parade ground.
The cheering and chatter among the spectators in the grandstands had died away, replaced by an almost expectant hush.
Everyone awaited the main event of the morning, the parading of the colors past King George IV. Only one thing was missing.
“Trust the king to be late,” Owen murmured out of the side of his mouth.
“Did anyone expect him not to be?” Bertrand asked, his voice also lowered.
Winifred smiled. She was in no hurry. She was enjoying herself enormously.
—
Trust the king to be late, Colonel the Honorable Nicholas Ware thought, resisting the dire need to scratch an itch at the side of his nose and wondering idly how many similar itches were being ignored all about him.
He was pleased that Owen had come, since he was the only member of the family currently in London.
He had, of course, seen his brother as he rode past. There was not much he missed when he was leading his men, despite the obstruction his beaver could present to his line of vision.
It was always important to see ahead and to either side without having to turn his head or tip it back or even swivel his eyes for a clearer look.
Sometimes his very life and those of his men depended on it.
He had also procured a ticket for the young lady Owen wanted to bring with him.
He had been very nonchalant with his explanation.
“She is up from the country for a spell and believes she despises London,” he had said.
“I thought it would be good for her to see it at its most splendidly festive. Besides, she is a niece or cousin or stepsister or some such thing to Bert—Lamarr, that is. Viscount Watley. I daresay his father will see to it that he comes too. Actually, his father would probably have seen to it that Miss Cunningham came as well. He is married to her grandmother.”
Presumably he referred to the marquis. But the young lady must certainly be Watley’s stepniece, Nicholas had thought. Also, she appeared to be someone of interest to Owen.
Nicholas had had a good look at her too as he rode past the three of them a short while ago—Owen, Watley, and a young woman, presumably Miss Cunningham, standing in a row between two of the grandstands, her hands drawn through the arms of the two men.
She was not a beauty. She had nothing much for a figure, and her face was unremarkable.
She had a wide brow, her hair pushed unbecomingly beneath her bonnet.
She was neatly though not elaborately dressed.
He guessed her clothes had been purchased or even handmade in the country, where she lived.
Bath, he seemed to recall Owen saying. She had steady eyes, which had looked unwaveringly upon him without discernible expression.
Had she been assessing him as a future brother-in-law?
He liked the fact that she had not gazed at him with open admiration.
Nicholas had been blessed with good looks all his life.
It was not conceited of him to admit it.
Women had adored him when he was a child and growing boy.
They had continued doing so after he grew up, though the sixteen years since he had joined the military at eighteen had hardened him and weathered his face.
He had also always been told that he had a natural charm women found irresistible.
It was not a conscious thing with him. He did not set out to conquer and seduce.
Indeed, he had always been guarded in his manner toward the women to whom he found himself attracted.
He had never wanted to give the wrong impression or, worse, find himself trapped in a marriage that was not of his choosing.
But he was now thirty-four years old. He had always planned to marry at some time. He wanted the companionship and, yes, the regular sex. He also wanted a family before he was too old to enjoy it.
He was aware that he could have almost any woman he chose.
Apart from his looks and apparent charm, he was the son of the late Earl of Stratton, younger brother of the present earl, and in addition to his salary as a cavalry colonel, he had the generous portion his father had left him.
He could more or less have his pick of potential brides.
It was not necessarily a blessing.
He was constantly assaulted by the lures of all the most beautiful young women in search of husbands, and pursued by fathers who approved his suit and mothers who were as susceptible to his charms as their daughters.
He would not have been human, perhaps, if he had not looked with interest upon all that loveliness on offer.
But being a bit perverse, he sometimes longed for an ordinary woman—whatever he might mean by the word ordinary.
Someone…real. Someone who would see him as a person, not just a bundle of looks and charm and eligibility.
Was the infernal king never going to come? It was hard to keep his mind off his itching nose. The sounds of conversation were resuming in the crowded stands that surrounded the parade ground, in marked contrast with the silent stillness of the gathered regiments.
His thoughts wandered to Grace, to whom he was not betrothed, though he was perilously close.
She was the only daughter of General Haviland, Nicholas’s superior officer at the Horse Guards.
She was twenty-nine years old and still unmarried, having suffered the loss of two fiancés during the wars, when she was still very young.
Now it seemed that Nicholas had been chosen to put an end to the long period of her mourning, if that was what the last eight or nine years had been.
The general and Mrs. Haviland had singled him out for more than usual attention in the past few months, and Miss Haviland herself seemed accepting of their choice, though perhaps she genuinely fancied him even without their prompting.
It was hard to tell since her manners were always impeccable, perfectly refined and correct, and she was ever amiable.
She was also incredibly beautiful, with very dark hair and eyes and a figure no man could resist admiring.
Nicholas had become something of an expert over the years at avoiding entrapment.
This time, however, he had made less of an effort.
It was time he married. Why not Miss Haviland?
She had all the beauty and refinement he could ask for, she was familiar with military life, and he had to marry someone.
He had been beginning to wonder if he would ever find that special someone he would instinctively recognize as the woman with whom he could happily live out the rest of his life.
Miss Haviland was also the right age. He had no wish to pursue a young miss fresh out of the schoolroom, all giggles and surface charm.
Soon he was going to have to force himself to take the plunge and make his declaration. It was a somewhat alarming prospect, but once he had done it, he would be able to relax. There would be no going back from a formal betrothal.
Suddenly the band struck up a lively tune, and a great cheer went up from the grandstands.
The king, it seemed, had arrived.