Louise Allen - The Officer and the Proper Lady

‘No. Are we going to the Literary Institute, or not?’

‘We’re not moving until we hear why you didn’t stagger out of the luscious Barbara’s bedroom, weak at the knees after a night of passion,’ Jameson said, obviously fascinated. ‘Cards can wait.’

‘I never stagger weak at the knees after a night of passion,’ Hal said. ‘I stride. Last night I changed my mind and, no, I do not intend telling you why.’

‘My God,’ said Grey, awed. ‘She’ll be hissing like a cat this morning.’

‘You are welcome to go and try putting butter on her paws, if you like,’ Hal suggested, making his friend blush and grin. ‘But naturally, I sent a note of apology.’

‘Citing what reason, exactly?’

‘Pressing military duties.’

They subsided, agreeing that even Lady Horton would be placated by such an irrefutable excuse under the present circumstances. Lieutenant Hayden, silent up to this point while he demolished the remains of the fruit tart and cream, looked up, his chubby face serious. ‘Turning over a new leaf, Carlow? New Year’s resolution or something?’ The others laughed at him, but he just grinned amiably. ‘I know, it’s May. Thought you might be getting into fighting trim—early nights, clean living.’ He sighed. ‘It’ll be the betting next and then we’ll all be in the suds. How will we know what to back if you give it up?’

‘I am not giving up gambling or betting and I am not giving up women,’ Hal said, trying to ignore the strange sensation inside his chest. It felt unpleasantly like apprehension. Or the threat of coming change.

He had watched Julia Tresilian walk away from him in her modest little home-made gown, her nose in the air, her words ringing in his ears, and he had laughed. It was funny, it genuinely was, that a notorious rake should give his head for a washing by a prim nobody who had about as much clue about the things she was lecturing him on as the canary in a spinster’s parlour.

And then he saw her cross diagonally in front of Barbara Horton and felt suddenly as though he had eaten too much rich dessert: faintly queasy and with no inclination to dip his spoon in the dish for another mouthful. What he wanted was a draught of sharp, honest lemonade.

He wanted Miss Julia Tresilian. As he stood there staring blindly at the chattering crowd, it hit him like a thunderbolt. He wanted Julia Tresilian.

It was impossible. It had sent him back to the hotel last night with his head spinning, and it woke him up at hourly intervals all night with waves of panic flooding through him. He was losing his mind, he told himself at breakfast, washing mouthfuls of dry toast down with cup after cup of strong black coffee. He never spent nights tossing and turning—not before battle, not before a duel. He, Hal Carlow, did not lose sleep over some prudish little chit.

She was an innocent, respectable young woman. A gentleman did not toy with such a woman—not unless he meant marriage. Hal did not want to marry, and he most certainly could not marry a girl like that. Not with his reputation, all of which had been hard-earned and was entirely justified.

He was not fit to touch her hand, he knew that. She might be almost on the shelf, she might be dowerless and of no particular family. But decency and integrity shone out of those expressive brown eyes and all he had was his honour as a gentleman—and that was telling him to run a mile before he touched her, physically or emotionally.

Hal drained his glass. If he had fallen in love with her, he could understand it. But he had not. He hardly knew the girl. Men he knew who had fallen in love mooned about writing poetry, or lost weight, or likened their beloved to a moonbeam or a zephyr.

Not his brother Marcus, of course, Marcus had spent most of his courtship in a state of violent antagonism to Nell, but they were obviously the exception. Marcus was the sort of virtuous son and heir who did things properly, took his pleasures discreetly and then settled down, married and produced heirs. But a second son did not have that obligation, although that did not stop family disapproval when he acted on his freedom.

Hal shrugged away memories of tight-lipped arguments, sighs and youthful disgrace. He wasn’t a youth any more, he didn’t feel like mooning, he couldn’t think of a line of poetry, and Julia was neither a moonbeam nor a zephyr. She was innocent, sharp-tongued, painfully honest, intelligent and pleasant to look at. He was not in lust either. In fact he shocked himself even thinking about physical passion in the same sentence as Julia’s name. And he could not recall the last time he had shocked himself. And yet, he wanted her. Ached for her.

This is a passing infatuation, an inner voice lectured him, or you’ve been overdoing things. Just keep out of her way and you’ll get over it.

‘Right.’ He grounded the empty bottle with a thump. ‘The Literary Institute it is.’

The eminently respectable Institute was where the gentlemen of the British community retreated daily to use the library, write their letters, read the London papers and argue about the best way to deal with Napoleon.

It was also a front for a gaming hell. How their sharp-nosed wives had not discovered this was a mystery to Hal. Men whom he knew were living in Brussels on the economic plan, necessitated by excessive gaming, could be found cheerfully losing hundreds of pounds a night, often to him. It just went to prove, he thought, handing his cloak, hat and sabre to the attendant, that men were incapable of reform, whatever women believed.

‘I’ll see you down there, just need to look something up,’ he called, turning into the library as they clattered off down the stairs into the candlelit fug of the gaming rooms. The Landed Gentry was on the shelves and he began to thumb through until he found Tresilian.

Here they were: her father David, younger brother of the present baronet. Hal cross-checked Sir Alfred Tresilian, Bt. A modest marriage, a quiverful of children, so presumably uncle had no great resources himself. David had married Amelia Henry, there were two children—Julia Claire and Phillip David—and he was marked as deceased 1810.

What had that achieved? Hal asked himself, as he walked into the card room and chose a table. Nothing, except to feed this ridiculous obsession.

Julia had been correct about her mother’s reaction to the Reverend Mr Smyth. After checking with the vicar of the English church in Brussels she pronounced him eminently suitable. ‘Not that we must put all our eggs in one basket,’ she warned Julia. ‘There is nothing wrong with meeting more eligible gentlemen.’

‘No, Mama,’ Julia agreed. She allowed herself the pleasure of a ride in Mr Smyth’s smart curricle and then, in the space of three days, was gratified by introductions to Mr Fordyce, the confidential secretary to Lord Ellsworth, a diplomat dealing with British relations for the new King of the Netherlands, and Colonel Williams, a widower in his forties with a fifteen-year-old daughter. She attended a small dance, a musicale and a charity luncheon.

At none of these events did she see Major Carlow, which was, of course, a relief. At frequent intervals she recalled the way she had spoken to him and his laughter as she had stalked off, and her cheeks burned afresh. Frequently she saw the blue uniform of the Light Dragoons amongst the scarlet and the green of other regiments and her heart would behave oddly for a beat: but it was never Hal.

She did see Major Fellowes at the musicale, and whispered to Lady Geraldine that the slimy dragon was there. Her ladyship kept her close and raised her eyeglass when she saw him watching. His retreat was highly gratifying.

Julia was becoming accustomed to her new life. In the course of one week her world had been turned on its head and she felt as she had after that glass of champagne: slightly dizzy and surprisingly confident. Mrs Tresilian, receiving every detail with great interest, was delighted.