How To Beguile A Beauty Part 8

TANNER KNEW HE'D MADE an a.s.s of himself, but he was still uncertain as to just why he'd been so eager to throw his friend Justin to the wolves, as it were.

He could tell himself that he was only protecting Lydia, console himself knowing that Justin was a tease and a flirt, and breaking feminine hearts was a bit of an avocation for the man.

He could tell himself that, but he didn't believe it. Justin wouldn't amuse himself with the sister of a friend, the friend of a friend.

So why the warning?

Was he that unsure of himself where Lydia was concerned?

Well, of course he was. Only any idiot would think he could crook his finger at a woman and have her come running. although, now that he was a duke, he had been fairly well besieged with invitations from hopeful mamas and avaricious papas. That had been the only good thing about Society believing he would wed Jasmine. It gave him time to be with Lydia without her name being bandied about Mayfair, which he instinctively knew Lydia would have loathed.

But now there was Justin. He'd been happily chased by females since he was in short coats, none of them caring that he was wild, and fickle, and certain to break their hearts.

In fact, that may have been his main attraction for them. At least the sorts of females Justin seemed to favor. Tanner couldn't remember the man ever making a serious push at a woman like Lydia. He shied away from intelligent females the way a long-tailed cat stays clear of a rocking chair.

Maybe the man was smitten. Perhaps one melting smile, one quick, smart riposte about Moliere-Moliere, for G.o.d's sake!-had been enough to turn Justin away from his long-held disdain for anyone in petticoats...unless, of course, they were beautiful, dim-witted, and...and, well, pliable.

Tanner felt the muscles in his jaw tightening. Lydia wasn't pliable. Lydia was a lady. And if Justin didn't remember that on his own during their time at Malvern, Tanner would be more than happy to remind him, even if that meant knocking his good friend down. Repeatedly.

"How is your cheek today?"

Tanner turned to Lydia, only then realizing that he'd been quiet since they'd driven out of Grosvenor Square, perhaps even sulking, and wasn't that a marvelous way to impress her? She was sitting very primly beside him, her gloved hands folded in her lap, as if she had been content to wait until he was ready to speak with her. And how did she know he had needed a few minutes of quiet thought and reflection? But that was Lydia. She seemed to sense things. Did she know him that well, or was he simply that easy to read?

No, he couldn't be, or else she'd know how much he longed to take her to his bed, wake her from her dreaming, release the fire he felt sure burned deep inside her.

He hastened into speech.

"Much better, thank you. I only consented to the bandages so that I wouldn't frightened small children we might pa.s.s along the way."

"Then it is not merely a scratch, as you tried to tell me."

"No, it's not. However, the surgeon my butler summoned against my wishes has a.s.sured me that there should be no permanent damage beyond a scar that will fade with time. I should probably be grateful for it, as it will serve as a constant reminder to never believe myself superior to anyone, even a drunken fool who could barely remain upright on his own. It was an act of arrogance to turn my back on any angry man, no matter how incapacitated he might be, and a mistake I won't make again."

"That would probably be wise. You've been injured before. I remember the condition of your uniform when you came directly from the battlefield to tell us about the captain. There was dried blood on your torn pants leg, and you were limping."

She was bringing up that day, the events of that day, on her own? She was right, though. He'd left the battlefield as soon as he'd gained permission from Wellington himself, and ridden back to Brussels, then to the coast, to be one of the first to arrive back in England. He'd looked like seven kinds of h.e.l.l by the time he arrived, but he had to be certain Fitz's name wouldn't appear listed among the casualties before he could tell Rafe and Lydia the news. That had been a part of the promises he made to Fitz.

Now he hid his surprise at Lydia's words by launching into a quick story about his wound.

"A near thing with a French infantryman's bayonet, yes, as we broke their forces and rode through the ranks. But only a slice. My mount took the worst of the thrust, unfortunately, and went down. That put me in the thick of things. I was lucky that Boney took that moment to leave the field, make good his escape back to Paris. Once that word got shouted about, his men laid down their swords and the day was ours. It had already been ours, we all knew that, but soldiers fight until they're told to stop. Or until their generals turn their backs."

"You don't see Bonaparte as a good general?"

Ah, now they were on to a broader conversation. Good. He wasn't sure he was up to another compet.i.tion with Fitz at the moment. Once they were at Malvern, certainly. But he'd rather they were someplace quiet when she finally asked him how Fitz had died.

"On the contrary. He was, is, a brilliant tactician. But he truly believed he could come back from exile, return to France and rule the country in peace, rebuild it, preserve it for his son. That was his argument, at least, that as the emperor he no longer harbored any ambitions to conquer, but only a desire to serve the French people."

"Then why didn't he do that? Why did he fight?"

"Because we didn't believe him. What else could he do once we'd made our own intentions clear? I'm convinced the heart went out of him when his wife agreed to allow the Alliance to brand him an outlaw, an enemy of nations. It was the final betrayal, taking their son, his heir, and returning to her father's protection. As for the rest? The bravado, the march to Brussels? I'll always believe that he was a man going through the motions, Lydia, doing what was expected of him. All of Europe, along with us, had turned against him. He couldn't prevail, and he had to know that. But he was at heart a soldier, so he fought. One last decisive battle, perhaps even a miraculous victory, or at least a glorious death."

Twin flags of color burned in Lydia's cheeks. Clearly, what he'd said had angered her. "And all for nothing. There's nothing glorious about death, not his, not any of the soldiers on both sides of the battle who died for his supposed glory."

Tanner wove the curricle through the traffic and turned onto Regent Street, now completely convinced he knew what was happening. Once again, Fitz's ghost was sitting between them on the plank seat. Even when he and Lydia were alone, they were never alone.

He pulled up the horses as he noticed that traffic ahead of him had come to a stop. "Bonaparte had to be defeated, Lydia. We have to believe that those who died sacrificed their lives for a reason. For a greater good. To put an end to war."

She worked the fingers of her gloves more closely over her hands. "Do you think Caesar's legions thought that as they marched out to die? And what about those of Genghis Khan, Alexander, Hannibal? Aren't all wars touted as being the last war, the one that will ensure everlasting peace? Didn't all of these great leaders believe they were the one with all the solutions?"

"I'm sure they did, yes. Lydia? Has something happened? Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm fine." Then she sighed. "No, actually I'm not. I've been thinking quite a lot lately about the battle last June. Nearly a year, Tanner. Nearly a year, and I'm still trying to make some sense of all of it in my mind. Find some reason for everything that happened. Not just to the captain, but to everyone. To everyone involved in the war."

"Everyone?" Was this conversation about Fitz, or about herself? Suddenly Tanner wasn't sure.

"Yes. The soldiers, that's for certain. But also those who were left behind to try to somehow comprehend why all those deaths were so...so b.l.o.o.d.y necessary."

b.l.o.o.d.y necessary? Well, he'd wanted to see her fire, hadn't he?

An overturned cart up ahead kept them where they were, and he put on the foot brake, took advantage of not having to watch the roadway. Ignoring the loud apologies from the drayman and the curses emanating from the various carriages and a few pa.s.sersby who were shouting just for the tickle of the thing-none of which Lydia seemed to have noticed-Tanner put a hand on hers, squeezed it, and pointed out the obvious. "You're angry, aren't you?"

"Is that so wrong? Oh, I don't know what I'm saying, or even why I'm saying it. I only opened my mouth just now and heard myself blurting out the words. I'm so sorry."

Tears dampened her lashes and she tried to blink them away. Those unshed tears were a figurative punch to Tanner's gut. She was suffering, struggling with some deep dilemma, and clearly had been doing so for a long time. Worse, unless she told him more, he didn't know how to help her.

"Don't apologize, Lydia. You lost Fitz in that battle. You have every right to question the reason." Tanner sensed that she was finally going to confide in him, and he'd be d.a.m.ned if he'd miss this moment, no matter that they were far from private and he couldn't take her in his arms, comfort her. He didn't know what he'd said that had seemed to have inspired these sudden confidences from her. If she stopped now, how long before she'd dare to broach the subject again? He couldn't risk it. If she was suffering, then he was suffering, too. Did she understand that? Couldn't she see that? G.o.d, probably not. And why should she? He was just Tanner, the comfortable family friend.

He framed his question carefully: "Perhaps, if you're willing, I can help?"

She looked up from her meticulous smoothing of her gloves, her eyes still shining with unshed tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. "Yes, perhaps you can, for I've had precious little success on my own. You see, I can understand one man believing himself specially chosen for great things. I cannot understand so many others willingly putting their lives in his hands, dying for his dreams. Women don't do that Tanner. Women take care of their own, defend their own. It's only men who will leave their wives, their children, to ride out and die for somebody else's vision of what is right. Why is that? Why do you men do it, again and again and again?"

What a strange and intense conversation. Had Lydia been trying to reconcile Fitz's death with what she saw as a foolish sacrifice? He said what he a.s.sumed to be obvious. "We had no choice, Lydia. Bonaparte had-"

"Yes, I know that," she said quickly, and with some heat, at last giving up all pretense and openly wiping at her damp cheeks. "And if it hadn't been him it would have been somebody else. Just like Caesar, Alexander, and all the rest. I just don't understand why. What if n.o.body answered the call to battle? What if Caesar had called out for soldiers, and no one had taken up a sword? What if Bonaparte had declared he wanted to capture the world for France, and no man had said, yes, that sounds like a grand idea, let us help you?"

She took in a breath, sighed. "I think I've decided it's because you like it," she said, searching his face with her lovely blue eyes. "All the trappings, all the pageantry and boasting. The fine uniforms, the swords and the cannon and...and maybe even the killing. I think you all like it."

And you'd probably be right, Lydia. We just don't expect to die.

Tanner didn't say the words, knowing she wouldn't understand such insane reasoning. Men did like war. Some even lived for war. For victory, for power, while always hungry for another victory, more power. Men like Bonaparte, Caesar, the others she'd mentioned-they all had one thing in common. They were insatiable. And that would probably never change. Bonaparte was caged now, but somewhere out there was another man just like him, with the same ambitions. And if there weren't now, there would be. Even if mankind had to invent him, and then eventually raise up an army to defeat him.

"We fight for our country, Lydia. For our women, our children, our futures. That's why Fitz fought. England, and that means every man, woman and child in the country, was threatened by Bonaparte's ambitions. I can't speak for why so many Frenchmen took up his cause, but I know why England couldn't allow the man to invade these islands. Fitz died believing he was protecting you. Don't take that away from him. He was a good soldier, fighting for a good cause, in a war not of his making. Don't let him have died for nothing."

Lydia put a hand to her mouth, stifled a small sob. "Please, forgive me. I've been so...so obtuse. I saw only my own pain. Of course the captain didn't sacrifice his life for nothing. I...I was so angry with him when he left for Brussels, and perhaps ever since. That wasn't fair of me, was it?"

"It was reasonable," Tanner told her. "Did he know you were angry with him?"

She shook her head. "n.o.body did, until now. I should have spoken with you sooner. Instead, I've been so ashamed of how I felt. I think...I think that's why it's been so hard to...to let him go. I've been too appalled with myself at having been angry with him. Thank you, Tanner."

He didn't respond with "You're welcome," because that would be ridiculous. Instead, he asked a question he'd wondered about for a long time. "You don't call him Fitz. Why?"

Lydia frowned for a moment. "I sometimes think of him as Fitz. But...but he's always been the captain. I was always Lady Lydia. When I look back on those few months now, I realize we were...dancing around each other. Neither of us daring to say what was in our hearts. But there was time for all of that. There was supposed to have been time for all of that. I believe he felt I needed some time to...to grow up. But I think we both knew what would happen when he returned home."

A small smile played around her lips. "Once, in a letter, his very last letter, he called me his dearest Lyddie. You brought that letter to me, remember?"

Tanner remembered. He'd never forget.

Take care of her for me, Tanner. She's so young, so gentle and pure. She won't understand. Promise me! On your mother's eyes, d.a.m.n it. You'll take care of my Lyddie. Make her forget me. She needs a good man, a gentleman and a gentle man. You've a good heart, and she needs someone with a good heart. Promise me, Tanner. Don't let me die without your promise.

You're not going to die, you Irish b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You'll go home to your Lyddie yourself. Let me talk to the surgeon. I'll find a litter and some men and we'll carry you back to town and- Don't try to lie to me. I don't have time for lies. I'm sorry, boyo, more sorry than you can know, but my journey ends here. Mine, not hers. Listen to me. She's easy to love, I promise you that. Give her smiles, Tanner, give her little ones to cuddle. Take my hand, Tanner, and look me in the eye. Yes, like that. I have your hand on it now. I'm giving her to you. I'm placing her in your keeping. My Lyddie...

Tanner wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her all that he'd promised the dying, increasingly frantic Fitz in order to help ease his pa.s.sing. Mostly, he wanted to tell her that he'd never considered that promise a burden. Never. From the instant he'd seen her that terrible day, from the moment he'd held her in his arms, uselessly trying to comfort her in her bone deep anguish, he'd known. He hadn't wanted to let her go that day...he didn't want to let go of her now.

But now wasn't the time. Regent Street certainly wasn't the place. And Malvern would be cluttered with Jasmine and her father and...his compet.i.tion. The compet.i.tion he'd talked about so casually with Rafe. If he'd known that compet.i.tion would have come in the form of Justin Wilde, would he have been so sanguine, so sure of himself? No, definitely not.

But only by letting her go, letting her move forward at her own pace, experience more of the world, could he hope to win her love. Him. Not Fitz's friend. Not Rafe's friend. Him.

"Tanner? I've disappointed you, haven't I?

He looked at her in some shock, realizing that once again he'd been silent too long. The cart was finally pushed back up on its wheels, and he released the brake, made ready to move on down Regent Street. "You could never disappoint me, Lydia," he said with all sincerity.

"Yes, that's very nice, and exactly what you would say. But I've just revealed myself to be shallow and selfish."

"It's selfish to wish Fitz hadn't died? It's shallow to wish there was no such thing as war?"

At last, she smiled, if that smile only appeared for a moment. "You make it all sound so reasonable. Perhaps I've been thinking too much. Nicole always says I think too much."

"No, your sister's wrong. The problem, as I see it, lies in that you were searching for logic where none exists. The only answer to the question of why there are wars, Lydia, is that there have always been wars. It's not a logical answer. It isn't even a good answer. But, sadly, until and unless someone finally finds a way to settle matters of ambition and greed without sending vast armies into the field, it's the only one we have. Fitz understood that. He knew what he was doing, and why, when he left you and went to Brussels."

"Forgive him, and also forgive myself. That's what you're saying, isn't it?"

"I don't see any other answer, do you?"

She was silent for some moments, while Tanner held his breath. A lot was riding on her answer, and he felt they both knew it. Their future, for one thing, if they were to have one, together.

Finally, she shook her head. "He's gone, and I can't change that. But I can do much better now in honoring his memory, without also being angry with him for having died. He was right, Tanner, I was still very much a child when he left me. Now, at last, I think I can forgive myself." She laid her hand on his forearm. "Thank you, Tanner. Thank you so much."

There really was nothing more to say, not without beginning the uncomfortable conversation all over again, a rehashing neither of them could possibly want. Tanner lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the tips of her gloved fingers. "And now you're ready to see this shop with me?"

"Of course," she said, closing her hand when he released it, almost as if she wanted to capture his kiss, hold it. Or at least he'd like to think so, which probably made him fanciful.

Then she frowned as she looked where he had indicated with a sweep of his arm, and then continued her gaze until she'd visually inspected the area from curb to curb. "Where are we? I've been to Bond Street enough to know we're not there. I haven't been paying attention, have I?"

Tanner set the brake and lightly hopped down onto the flagway, a young lad of no more than ten already running toward him with his hand outstretched, eager to trade a coin for watching the horses.

He then helped Lydia down from the seat, perhaps holding on to her waist a heartbeat too long as he looked into her eyes, hoping the shadows were at last gone. His fancifulness continued, because he thought perhaps their lovely blue was a little brighter now than it had been. Justin could probably put the light of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes, with his wit and shameless flirting. But could he give her what she really needed? Gentleness. Undertanding.

G.o.d, but he was like a comfortable old pair of hacking trousers, a warm pair of slippers. Could he be more pitiful, more pathetic? Less romantic...

"We're on Regent Street," he told her rather flatly as he tucked her arm through his and led her a few paces down the flagway. "Number 187, on the block between Conduit and Burlington, to be more precise about the thing."

"I don't think you need be that specific, no. It's enough that you know the way back to Grosvenor Square. Why are we here?"

Tanner stopped in front of a narrow shop bearing a hanging sign sporting a woodcut of a lady's boot. Also on the sign were the words JAMs. SLY. Laydies Boot & Shoe Maker. Est. 1808.

It had seemed such a good idea when he'd first thought of it, but now he wasn't as certain. Justin would have taken her to some fancy milliner's, coaxed her into a ridiculously flattering bonnet with bunches of flowers on it.

He was going to buy her a good, st.u.r.dy pair of boots.

Pitiful. Just pitiful...

"Not quite bootmaker to the Queen, but he does come highly recommended for his particular talents."

"But...but we'll be leaving London tomorrow," Lydia protested. "Why would I order new shoes today? They couldn't possibly be ready in less than a week."

He steered her inside the shop, a bell hanging just over the door merrily ringing as they entered. "Ah, but Mr. Sly considers himself a merchant of innovation. I'm told he maintains a rather extensive inventory in addition to fashioning footwear to order. I'm hoping we might be able to find you a suitable pair of boots."

"Boots?"

He smiled down at her as a gangly youth straightened from behind a stack of boxes and hastened toward them. The entire shop smelled of fine leather and polish. "Yes. Boots. And they're to be my gift to you. Now, aren't you going to ask me why I wish to make you a present of a pair of boots?"

Lydia was looking avidly about the strange shop. A workman's shop, really, with shelves reaching to the ceiling, each of them lined with row upon row of ladies shoes and boots. "I thought I already had. When I said boots? And is it proper for a gentleman to gift a lady with a pair of boots? I'm afraid I am not familiar with the boundaries set up by polite society."

He took hold of her hands. "Polite society never went tramping over the Malvern Hills. I want to show you my home, Lydia, all of it. When I was young, I believed I could see the entire world from the hilltops I hiked, my dogs at my side. Cook would pack me a lunch and I'd be gone for hours. I don't expect you to want to climb all the way to the top of any of the hills, but there are some interesting paths and ancient ruins here and there."

"It all sounds lovely. And who is to say I wouldn't decide to climb all the way to the top of one of the hills? I might like to see the entire world."

And he'd like to give her the world. But he didn't say that. He didn't say a lot of things he wanted to say. But he would. Soon.

"Mister Sly will be with you directly, milord," the young lad said after patiently waiting for an opening. "He's just now finishing up the last st.i.tches on a pair of wedding boots for a young lady. Tapping on the heels, he is, red ones. They're a sight, they are. Would you be her, miss?"

"No, I wouldn't be her," Lydia said quietly, and then pointed to a pair of tan boots displayed on the countertop. "But I would very much like to look at those, if I might? I may be climbing mountains, you understand."

A deep, booming voice came to them from the back of the shop. "A fine choice. Turnshoe construction, every bit of it, except for the heels. Three-four lifts in those," came a voice from the back of the shop. "Best heavy French silk, stiffened, and all lined with softest linen for milady. But the soles are st.u.r.dy, which is the point of the thing, what?"

Tanner watched as a rotund man with bright red cheeks and puffs of white hair perched on top of his ears but nowhere else on his shiny dome of a head pushed his way through parted curtains and into the crowded shop. "Yes, yes, finest leather soles and heels, and with thirteen pairs of lace-edged holes, for fashion, you know. And all done up with a single cord laced up from the bottom and then back down again so the bow can be seen peeking out from under the hem of milady's skirt. Practical doesn't mean there's no need for pretty, what? Some of my best work, if I do say so m'self. Made up two dozen pair, knowing they'd fly out the door. All the world will soon be doing what I do. But I'm doing it first, and better than anyone else. Robert, don't just stand there, boy. Fetch me my forms."

In short order, Lydia was seated in a chair elevated from the floor on a box of sorts, and James Sly was looking down at her feet and urging her to lift her hem, "Just enough to stay decent, if you take m'meaning," and Tanner was deciding whether the glint in the jolly man's eyes belonged to his love of his boots or a taste for ladies' ankles.

He decided it was the ankles.

The boot maker sat himself down on the low stool his apprentice had placed in front of Lydia, his knees spread as he shifted the stool closer to her, and grinned at her. "If you'd just slip off your right-ah, yes, that's the ticket. Robert, come here. Now, look at that foot, will you? Long, slender. See the height in the arch? There's beauty for you, shows the lady here is no slouch. Like to walk, do you, miss?"

"Yes, um, I enjoy walking. I've been walking nearly all of my life." She looked up at Tanner, and shrugged as if to say, "What else would I do-flap my arms and fly?"

Mr. Sly-and Tanner was beginning to think the man's name fit him very well-cupped his hand beneath Lydia's stockinged foot and lifted-lifted!-her leg a good two feet off the platform. She quickly put her hands on her gown, trying to keep her leg covered.

"Here, now-" Tanner protested, but Mr. Sly paid him no mind as he turned Lydia's foot this way and that as if examining it for flaws.