Мэри Бэлоу - Someone to Romance

Yet here she was, seated in the midst of a number of her fellow villagers, dreaming of a lover.

Specifically, of Major Harry Westcott.

Who very probably scarcely knew she existed.

She had never flirted with him or tried in any way to engage his interest. She would not even know how to go about either one, anyway, if she wished to try. She had no serious designs on him. The chance that she would find a lover, any lover, here in this small village, was slim to none. Actually, slimmer even than that.

But a woman could dream, could she not? Dreams were often ideal pleasures, because one could make of them whatever one wished. And if they never came true, as most did not—and this one certainly never would—then what did it matter? Her real life was very nearly perfect as it was. Her dreams merely brightened it a little more.

Major Westcott was a young man, probably about her own age. He was tall and lean— not thin. That was too negative a word. Besides, his arms and shoulders and chest looked strongly muscled beneath the well-tailored coats and waistcoats he always wore. And his legs were long and shapely and powerful-looking under his pantaloons. They looked even more so in riding breeches and boots, she had noticed on other occasions. He was fair-haired and good-looking, even if not outstandingly handsome. He had a goodhumored face, with blue eyes that almost always smiled. She was not deceived by either his face or his eyes, however. What had always fascinated her most about him was the suggestion of darkness that he kept very well hidden.

Perhaps it did not even exist. His mask—if it was a mask—never slipped in public, or never had when she had been present to witness it, anyway. And he was generally known as an even-tempered, sunny-natured man without a trouble in the world now that he was back home after the Napoleonic Wars in which he had fought. Lydia did not believe it. She knew very little of his past, but she knew enough to understand that there had been much suffering in his life, and that it was unlikely he had either dealt with it all or otherwise put it behind him. It was far more likely that he had repressed most of it. Lydia knew all about repressed suffering.

Once, very briefly, after the death of his father, he had been the Earl of Riverdale, with properties and fortune that had made him a very wealthy and socially prominent young man. He had been brought up and educated for just that life. But he had lost everything after the bigamous nature of his father’s marriage to his mother had been discovered. It all must have been absolutely devastating to his family. And to him. Oh, he was treated here with great deference despite that huge change in his life. Most people here had known him all his life and had always liked him. He was still treated as lord of the manor, somewhat above all of them in rank. He could no longer be called my lord or Lord Riverdale , of course, but he could, and was, called Major Westcott as a mark of their respect, even though he was no longer a military officer.

He had been severely wounded at the Battle of Waterloo and had spent years recovering, first in France and then here at Hinsford Manor. He seemed perfectly fit now and had no visible scars, but Lydia doubted his recovery was complete, or ever would be. Perhaps there were wounds of war that were not entirely physical. She had no evidence of that, but she had always thought it. How could one fight other human beings to the death, slaughter them by the dozens, watch one’s friends and comrades being slaughtered, be wounded almost to the point of death oneself, and come away from it unscathed?

How did one live with memories of hell?

Why did people speak of battlefields as fields of glory? They must be as close to hell as it was possible to get in this life.

Oh, there was surely darkness in Major Westcott. Lydia could sense it. But it served only to make him more impossibly attractive to her than his appearance and outer manner already made him.

Could something be more impossible than impossible?

Lydia smiled to herself, gave herself a mental shake, and focused more of her attention upon Mr. Carver, who was still speaking even though Mrs. Bailey was playing again.

“Perhaps,” he was saying, “he has just grown too old and is ready to be put out to pasture. Do you think that might be it, Mrs. Tavernor?”

“Perhaps he just needs to rest for a while until his leg is better,” Lydia suggested.

As soon as the music had finished, Mrs. Bartlett, Lydia’s next door neighbor, approached Lydia and smiled apologetically down at her.

“Mrs. Tavernor,” she said, “I am sorry to interrupt your conversation. My daughter-in-law has persuaded me to go out to the farm with her and my son to stay for a few days. There is room in the carriage for me to go with them tonight. I have things out there and will not need to go back home first. I always welcome the chance to spend some time with my grandchildren. I will not need you to walk home with me after all, then. I know you are not afraid of the dark, but I do hope you will not mind going alone.”

“But we can squeeze Mrs. Tavernor into the carriage too, Mother, and give her a ride home,” her daughter-in-law protested, appearing at her side. She smiled at Lydia. “It will be no trouble at all.”

“There really is no need for you to go out of your way,” Lydia assured her as she got to her feet. It was indeed growing late. “I will enjoy the exercise and the fresh air after all the excellent cake I have eaten. And I really do not have far to go.”

“But—” the younger Mrs. Bartlett began, while all about them other guests were also getting to their feet and preparing to leave.

“Mrs. Tavernor will not have to walk alone, Mrs. Bartlett,” Tom Corning called across the room. “I’ll run upstairs and fetch a coat and come with you, ma’am. I doubtless need the exercise, and you really ought not to walk on your own at night.”

Lydia opened her mouth to protest. The main street of the village was not terribly long, after all, even though the Cornings lived at one end of it and she lived a little beyond the other end. A number of people between here and there would be at home, with lamplight or candlelight illumining their windows. There was absolutely nothing of which to be afraid. And then another voice spoke up from the direction of the pianoforte, where Mrs. Bailey was gathering up the music and Major Westcott was putting it away neatly inside the bench.

“I am going in that direction anyway, Tom,” he called, “and would be happy to escort Mrs. Tavernor home. You will be perfectly safe with me, ma’am. I can fight off wild bears and wolves with my bare hands.”

“That would be a sight to behold,” Tom said derisively, grinning as he spoke. “Do you wish to take the risk that he is merely boasting, Mrs. Tavernor?”

“Since I have never in my life seen a wolf or a bear, stray or otherwise, in this neighborhood,” Lydia said, “I believe it is safe to take the chance. Though I hope I am not dragging you away earlier than you intended to leave, Major Westcott.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” he assured her. “Tom and Hannah will probably be glad to see the back of me. And it will be my pleasure to walk with you.”

He smiled at her. A sweet, quite impersonal, devastatingly attractive smile.

“Then thank you,” she said.

Oh goodness.

P

RAISE FOR THE

W

ESTCOTT SERIES

Someone to Honor

“A strong, compassionate heroine and a hero who learns to appreciate his worth discover the true meaning of love in this tender, perceptive, and infinitely entertaining romance that delightfully continues the saga of the unconventional Westcotts.”