The Officer and the Proper Lady

Chapter Two

Two days later, Lady Geraldine duly called and was received by Mrs Tresilian and Julia, Phillip having been deposited with the landlady and a litter of kittens in the kitchen.

‘My niece has just gone back to England to be married,’ Lady Geraldine observed once tea had been poured. ‘I find I miss having a young lady to go about with quite dreadfully—I have no daughter of my own, you see, and I do so enjoy the company of young people.’ Mrs Tresilian made sympathetic noises. ‘So, if you would lend Julia to me, I would be delighted to chaperone her to parties and so forth.’

‘Lend?’ Mrs Tresilian said faintly. ‘Parties?’

‘And balls: we seem to have them every night, after all. Routs, receptions, picnics. You know the sort of thing.’

‘Me?’ Julia felt she had to add something, however inane.

‘You do enjoy parties, Miss Tresilian?’

‘Yes, ma’am. But I know no-one in Society…’

‘But I do. Mrs Tresilian? I would not be depriving you?’

‘Not at all,’ Mrs Tresilian said with emphasis. ‘I live very quietly, which is so dull for Julia.’

We cannot afford to live any other way! Julia thought in alarm. Parties? Balls? Picnics? That means gowns and silk stocking and gloves and…money. What is Mama thinking of? I cannot spend like that just to enjoy myself!

Lady Geraldine stayed the regulation half hour then departed in a froth of green muslin leaving promises of invitations, a wave of chypre perfume and two astonished Tresilians behind her.

‘Mama! I have not got a thing to wear.’

‘Well, that would present an original appearance!’ her mother observed with a smile. ‘Let us make a list of what you will need. We can trim up some things with fresh ribbons, and we can look at my lace, see what can be done with that. But a ball gown is essential. A new afternoon dress, a walking dress. And something for half-dress occasions. We will make a list.’

‘But how can we afford it?’

‘It will be an investment. This is a miraculous chance, to be here just now when Brussels Society must be full of men who do not need to hang out for a rich wife. It will not be as it has been up to now, with so many people like us, here to save money. Diplomats, confidential secretaries, chaplains, officers—think of it!’ Julia did, and very improbable it seemed that any of them might be interested in her.

‘We cannot hope for a title, of course, just a comfortably circumstanced gentleman, but even so, it will be worth the effort.’ Mrs Tresilian gave a happy sigh. ‘You are a good girl, Julia, you deserve some enjoyment and the opportunity to find a husband worthy of you.’

Julia sat down on the hard horsehair sofa and tried to imagine being part of that social whirl. But it would be a huge responsibility, and a gamble. If Mama spent their precious savings on gowns, then she must find a husband. It had been so long since she had come to accept that without dowry or connections she was never likely to marry, that the idea of setting out in cold blood to find a husband was daunting.

‘You are quite right, Mama.’ Julia managed a smile. This was her duty and she must try, however diffident or awkward she felt. ‘It is a wonderful opportunity and I will do my best to attach a respectable gentleman.’ It was disconcerting to find that despite this worthy resolution, the only feature she could imagine that this unknown paragon should possess was a pair of stormy blue-grey eyes.

Hal sauntered into Lady Fanshawe’s reception on the stroke of eleven with every intention of enjoying himself and no particular scruples about how. He had spent a hard day drilling with his troop at their base near Ninove, ten miles from the city. It had meant a long gallop to get back to bathe and for his valet to insinuate his long limbs into his skin-tight dress uniform. After that, he had been ready for supper and a bottle of claret with friends in one of the little bistros that had sprung up to serve the influx of officers.

Now, refreshed and relaxed, he smiled at the prospect of an evening surrounded by beautiful, intelligent and, above all, sophisticated women. He would drink champagne, find a willing partner and arrange an assignation for later. He greeted his hostess and turned to view the throng: heated, chattering, animated with the heady mix of alcohol, gossip and sexual intrigue.

And there was a woman who might have been designed for exactly what he had in mind: Lady Horton. Her husband, as always, was nowhere to be seen. Hal strolled across, amused by the way in which she pretended she had not seen him, posing and laughing to show off face and figure to best advantage.

And what a figure, he thought appreciatively—lush, graceful and provocatively displayed in shell-pink satin silk that clung to every curve. And if she was wearing a stitch of underwear beneath it, he was a French general. Hal made himself a small bet that he would discover the truth of that by sun-up.

‘Lady Horton. Barbara—’ he lowered his voice ‘—you look edible.’

She turned, laughing up at him, every line of her body confirming the wanton message in her big brown eyes. If he wanted her, she was his.

‘Edible?’ She pouted and his body tightened as the tip of her tongue touched her full lower lip.

‘A perfect bonbon. Sweet strawberry cream encased in wicked dark chocolate,’ Hal murmured, reaching out to flick one glossy curl over her shoulder. ‘It makes me want to bite. And lick. Very slowly.’ She moved close so the scent of her skin—warm woman, musky perfume, desire—filled his nostrils.

‘How will you keep your elegant figure,’ she murmured back, reaching up to brush an imaginary fleck from the braid on his chest, ‘if you eat such naughty sweet things?’

‘I will have to exercise it off.’ Hal held her eyes. ‘Hard.’

Barbara’s lips parted and her lids drooped heavy over those insolently beautiful eyes. She adored this, lived for it—the compliments, the suggestion, the intrigue. And by reputation she was magnificent in bed: skilled, demanding and tireless. ‘We should discuss that at our leisure. You know where I live. The side door will be open,’ she said, husky promise in every syllable. ‘Until later.’

‘Later,’ he agreed, lifting her hand to kiss her fingertips. Then as he straightened up, he found his gaze captured by another pair of fine brown eyes, only these were wide, clear and, he could tell from right across the room, shocked.

Hell. Miss Tresilian, here, looking like a snowdrop in a hothouse, all simple purity against glaring colour and elaboration. And with an expression akin to a nun who had walked into a brothel. What was she doing here? His assessment of her as outside Society must have been adrift. Hal was conscious of the tingling along his nerves, a sharpening of his attention that signalled the urge to flirt, to hunt, to…No, this one was an innocent.

By his side, Lady Horton had turned to another guest. She would flit through the rooms, garnering compliments and outrageous offers, laughing and teasing, becoming heated and excited. Becoming ready for him.

Hal bowed slightly towards Miss Tresilian, and her chin went up, infinitesimally. She inclined her head and turned back to speak to the young lady at her side. A display that would not have shamed a duchess acknowledging a distant, and not very desirable acquaintance—if it were not for the fact that she had blushed like a peony.

And now he felt uncomfortable to have been under that clear-eyed scrutiny while he set up his liaison. Damn it, is she judging me? She knows what I am, I told her. The fact that he had just told himself off for wanting to pursue her made him feel irrationally indignant. He was trying to behave himself and she was giving him the cold shoulder. The urge to hunt resurfaced, and this time he did not attempt to control it.

Hal walked straight across the floor towards the chattering group of single young ladies gathered under the eyes of the seated chaperones while they waited for suitable, approved gentlemen to come over. He was not a suitable, approved gentleman of course. This could be amusing. It would certainly teach his virtuous new acquaintance not to send him disapproving looks.

‘He’s coming over,’ Miss Marriott hissed.

‘Who?’ Julia enquired, fanning herself, her shoulder turned to the room. She knew perfectly well who, and she had seen clearly the way Hal Carlow’s eyes had narrowed and his chin had come up when he had found her staring. He had not relished her scrutiny, it seemed. Well, he should not flirt like that with provocatively clad ladies in public. If flirting was the word: they had looked as though they were mentally undressing each other. She put a hand to her cheek, dismayed at her own blushes.

‘Major Carlow of course! Do you think he will talk to us? He is quite shocking you know—did you see him just now with Lady Horton? Mama will be furious if he does come over. Only he is so good looking.’ She pouted as Major Carlow was stopped by an artillery officer. ‘Oh. Anyway, even he would not talk to us without an introduction, I suppose.’

Julia had known Felicity Marriott for some time. Her father was a baronet and he and his family were visiting Belgian relatives by marriage, not living in exile to save money. Miss Marriott was used to parties of this kind, and her mother had assured Mrs Tresilian that she was more than happy to keep an eye on Julia as well as Felicity. Lady Geraldine might be kind enough to obtain invitations, but Julia must not expect her to play the chaperone the entire evening, her mother had warned.

‘I have met Major Carlow,’ she admitted. Her pulse was beating erratically; it had been from the moment she saw who it was talking to Lady Horton in her utterly indecent gown.

The conversation had been indecent too, she was certain. They had stood so close together, the eye-contact had been so intense, that Julia felt scorched by it. And he had seen her staring at him again and now he was coming over and she was probably going to sink through the floor with shame.

‘Really? How?’ Felicity broke off, simpering. Here he was. How he had got into that uniform, which was skin tight and blatantly showed off his quite excellent physique, she could not imagine. Perhaps he was sewn into it. Thinking about that made her decidedly flustered and cross with both of them. He should not wear such shockingly tight trousers and she should not notice.

‘Miss Tresilian. Miss Marriott, I believe? A charming affair, do you not think?’

‘Delightful, such fun, such lovely flowers,’ Felicity babbled, beaming at him in a way that was going to earn her a severe word from her mother later.

‘And do you think it delightful too, Miss Tresilian?’

Julia made herself meet his eyes, very blue in the candlelight. The dark smudges were still beneath them, making him look faintly dissipated. There was colour on his high cheekbones, but it was certainly not from shame or confusion. The thrill of pursuit, no doubt, although that woman had hardly needed chasing.

‘Utterly delightful, Major Carlow. But this is a rare treat for me, so my opinion is not the equal of Miss Marriott’s on the subject.’ Over his shoulder, she could see the lady he had been talking to, her pink satin gown clinging to her long limbs as she prowled around the room. ‘I have been admiring the gowns,’ she said, coming out with the first subject that came into her mind.

‘Indeed? And I am sure many will have been admiring yours, Miss Tresilian. A model of chaste simplicity, if I may say so.’ His eyes ran over it as though they could penetrate the modest neckline and the layers of petticoats.

Dull, he means. Prudish compared to the other gowns. Why even Felicity’s bodice is cut lower, and her mama is very strict. She had been pleased with the primrose silk underskirt and Mama’s idea of buying two lengths of gauze—one cream the other amber—when they saw it at a bargain price. It would be an easy task to sew alternative over-skirts onto the silk gown and give the illusion of her having a more extensive wardrobe than she did.

But chaste simplicity, when it was the result of having no money for lace or flounces, was not the fashion. Nor were home-made gowns a match for shell-pink satin. He had no need to patronise her, she thought, maintaining her expression of polite interest with some effort. Although how he managed to be both patronising and make her feel he was simultaneously undressing her, she had no idea.

‘Felicity!’ Lady Marriott swept her daughter away, leaving Julia stranded with Major Carlow. Apparently, in her haste, it did not occur to her to rescue her other charge. Julia realized she was unable to think of a single syllable of conversation to break the silence.

‘What did I say to make you poker up so?’ he enquired, placing her hand on his arm and strolling towards the buffet. Julia followed, chiding herself for being so meek. But just how did one snub a rake? ‘Have a glass of champagne, Miss Tresilian, and explain how I have offended you.’

‘You haven’t,’ Julia lied.

‘Nonsense, you were looking highly disapproving, like one of the chaperones. You must tell me or I will not let you go and ten minutes in my company is all your reputation will bear.’

‘You are outrageous,’ Julia said, alarmed, annoyed and illogically inclined to laugh.

‘I know. I did warn you.’ They halted by the buffet where footmen were pouring wine from bottles standing in long ice troughs.

‘You remarked on my gown,’ she admitted, twitching the gauze as though that would transform it into a creation from the pages of La Belle Assemblée.

‘I complimented you upon it,’ Major Carlow corrected her, handing her a flute of sparkling wine.

‘Sarcastically.’ Julia took a sip and sneezed. ‘Oh dear, I do not usually drink this.’

‘Then you must have some more and become accustomed.’ He took a bottle and topped up both their glasses. ‘You thought me sarcastic? I meant nothing but honest admiration. That style suits you.’

‘It would seem that your appreciation of gowns encompasses a wide range of styles, Major Carlow.’ Julia glanced down at her wine glass in alarm. It was empty, which could be the only excuse for such a remark. He was silent. Julia risked a glance up through her lashes. He was smiling, although whether that made it better or worse she had no idea.

‘Horses for courses, Miss Tresilian. Or in this case, gowns to suit personalities. You represent virtue most charmingly. Another lady may better represent…freedom.’ He reached for her wine glass; she held tight to it, but his fingers lingered.

‘Even when that lady is married?’ she asked, suddenly reckless, goaded by his touch. And jealous, she realized, appalled at herself. Which was insanity. The other day this man had yielded to a gallant impulse and saved her from annoyance. That did not change the fact that he was nothing but trouble for any virtuous woman. He was probably deliberately provoking her.

Major Carlow shrugged, still amused. Presumably cross and indiscreet virgins were an entertaining novelty for him. ‘If her husband does not build good fences, he must expect poachers in his coverts.’

‘Really, Major! Ladies are not game birds for you to bag,’ she snapped.

‘I am sorry to disillusion you, Miss Tresilian, but for some, it is always open season.’

‘Well, I am sorry for you then,’ she declared roundly. ‘For when you are married, you will have to spend all your time building your own fences and worrying about poachers. Poor woman,’ she added with feeling.

‘But I have no intention of marrying, Miss Tresilian. I have an elder brother already doing his duty by the family name, so your sympathy for my imaginary bride is quite unnecessary.’

‘I am certain she would do you a great deal of good.’ For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of bitterness in the mocking eyes.

Julia found she wanted to cry. Here she was at her very first ton party and not one of the respectable men of easy circumstances her mother dreamed of had exchanged so much as a sentence with her. And what was she doing? Bandying words with Hal Carlow, who was the last man in Brussels she should be seen with. No-one respectable was going to talk to her now, and she had lowered herself to discuss quite shocking subjects with him.

‘You disappoint me, Miss Tresilian.’ And indeed, the amusement had gone from his eyes and there was a distinct hint of storm clouds back again. ‘I did not think you one of those ladies who believes that all rakes are capable of redemption and that it is their duty to try to accomplish that.’

‘Redeem you?’ Did he mean what she thought he meant: that she expected him to fall for her? That she wanted to reform his wicked ways, to have him run tame at her command? ‘You, Major Carlow, may drink yourself under the table, fall off horses and break your limbs, gamble until your pockets are to let and dally with married ladies until an enraged husband shoots you, for all I care.’ She thrust her wine glass back into his hand. ‘And, should you survive all that, I will pity you, because you will end up a lonely man, realizing just how empty your rakehell life is.’

That was a magnificent parting line, she told herself, sweeping round and stalking off without the slightest idea where she was going. It would have been rather more effective without the crack of laughter from behind her.

The reception room had been thrown open into a gallery running the length of the rear of the house with views south out over the ramparts towards the Fôret de Soignes. Now, late at night, a few lights twinkled from amidst the dark blanket of trees.

‘A splendid position, is it not?’ a voice beside her asked. ‘Of course, it is not good for security. The Capel household were burgled the other day by rogues with a ladder from the ramparts.’

‘Oh, how unfortunate.’ Julia pulled herself together and turned to find a sombrely dressed man of medium height and with mouse-brown hair standing at her side. ‘But the walks on the ramparts are very charming unless it is windy.’

‘I beg your pardon for addressing you without an introduction,’ the man continued. ‘Only there seem to be none of the chaperones within sight, and it does seem so awkward, standing here pretending we cannot see each other. I should leave.’

‘I am sure we can pretend we have been introduced,’ Julia said. How refreshing, a respectable gentleman who was worried about polite form. ‘I am Julia Tresilian.’

‘Thomas Smyth.’ He bowed, Julia inclined her head. ‘Are you a resident of Brussels, Miss Tresilian?’

‘My mother and I have been here for some months, Mr Smyth.’

‘A charming city. I am touring and had hoped to visit Paris, but that is out of the question now. I shall have to return home without that treat, I fear.’

‘Wellington will defeat Bonaparte,’ Julia said, mentally crossing her fingers, ‘and then you may return.’

‘I doubt I will be at liberty. In August, I take up a living in a parish in Suffolk.’ As Mr Smyth turned to face her, she saw he had calm hazel eyes and nondescript features. With his unassuming manner, he exuded a feeling of tranquil commonsense.

‘You are a clergyman, sir?’

‘A most fortunate one. I was a scholar, with little hope of advancement, then my godfather secured me the patronage of an old friend of his and I find myself with the most delightful country parish. It will be lonely at first, I have no doubt, to be a bachelor rattling around in a large vicarage.’

Julia murmured something polite, her mind racing. Was Mr Smyth, on the strength of two minutes’ conversation, telling her that he was available? Surely not.

‘Perhaps, if I were to find your chaperone, we could be properly introduced?’ he asked. ‘I have hired a horse and curricle for the duration of my stay: you might care to take a drive one afternoon?’

He is! Oh my goodness, one party and I have already met a respectable gentleman who is interested in me! Mama will be so pleased.

‘That would be most pleasant,’ she said, smiling. ‘Thank you. Lady Geraldine Masters or, if she is not free, Lady Marriott.’

She watched his well-tailored back as he left the gallery, contrasting his restrained neatness with a certain flamboyant gentleman. There was no comparison, of course, and no doubt which a respectable young lady of modest means should be associating with, she thought with a certain wistfulness.

Chapter Three

Hal had the reputation of never losing his temper. It was a valuable characteristic, whether on a battlefield, in a gaming hell or looking down the barrel of a duelling pistol. He reminded himself of it, while his friends ragged him about his assignation with Mrs Horton.

‘So you can’t describe her boudoir?’ Captain Grey said, pushing the bottle across the table to Jameson.

The major caught it as it rocked perilously. ‘Too caught up in the toils of passion to notice, old chap?’

‘You must recall something,’ Will wheedled. ‘Don’t be a spoilsport, Carlow. Mirrors on the ceiling? Silken drapes? Golden cords? A bath with swan-headed taps?’

‘I cannot describe it, because I have not been in it,’ Hal said, taking a swig of claret.

‘What?’ The captain’s chair legs hit the ground with a thump. ‘But we saw you, last night. Damn it, the way you were looking at each other, you might as well have called the town crier in to announce what you’d be doing later.’

‘I changed my mind.’ Hal stretched out and took hold of the bottle, just as Major Jameson reached for it again.

‘You changed your mind? Bloody hell.’ Grey stared at him. ‘Are you sickening for something?’

‘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.