its English-rose complexion, gazing up at him. She possessed a delicate beauty, he realised with a start. He wondered how he’d overlooked it before. But the highly conventional widow was also not his type.
Kit was very strict about the women in his life and his rules surrounding them. They asked for no more than he was prepared to give. They were experienced and knew the rules without them being clearly stated. He always ended it before emotions were involved.
Mrs Wilkinson was trouble, but he was also loath to leave before this lesson in mild flirtation finished.
He turned the conversation to more mundane subjects as they continued towards the tree. To his surprise, the conversation about gardens was far more enjoyable than he had considered possible at the start of the journey.
‘Behold the tree. We can turn back now,’ Mrs Wilkinson said as they rounded a bend.
‘Yes, the tree. It is a magnificent sight.’
A gentle breeze moulded her skirt to her remarkably fine legs. Mrs Wilkinson possessed a far better figure than he’d first imagined. Kit struggled to keep his gaze on her face and not wonder why she had failed to remarry. None of his business.
‘You keep changing the subject.’ She laid a gloved hand on his arm. ‘Why keep your service a secret? Weren’t you supposed to be there?’
‘I rapidly acquired a lieutenant’s commission in the Life Guards once I heard of Boney’s escape and was lucky to get that. Everything was snapped up in days. The whole of London society seemed to be in Brussels last year. A number of friends couldn’t even get a commission, but they came anyway. They got out when the fighting got too hot and left it to the proper soldiers.’
The green in her eyes deepened. ‘But you stayed until the end. You didn’t run, even though you are determined that I should think the worst of you. If you had run, it would have been the first thing you said.’
‘I know how to be a soldier.’ Kit’s shoulders became light. Even without his saying it, she believed he’d done the right thing. He hated to think how few people ever believed that of him. It mattered. ‘Eton prepares one for it.’
The memory of those long-ago days swept over him. Back then, he’d thought himself capable of anything. In his final year, he’d believed himself in love and that Constance Stanley would marry him once he asked her.
His illusions were shattered when he’d arrived at her house unexpectedly with the engagement ring in his pocket. He’d overheard her assessment of him as the son of two wicked people and how her family needed his money and how she’d feared that she would have to marry a devil. He had stepped out of the shadows. Constance’s shocked face had said it all. All of his father’s warnings thudded into him. He bid her and her companion good day and gave the ring to the first beggar woman with a baby at her breast that he saw.
Never again had he allowed himself to contemplate marriage. Never again had he allowed a woman to get close, preferring to end the thing before it happened. Kit had a variety of presents he’d send—a bouquet to end a flirtation, a strand of pearls to end a brief but hugely enjoyable weekend, sapphires to end something longer.
Mrs Wilkinson turned her back on him and walked with quick steps over to the cedar. She stood there, unmoving for a moment, her brows drawn together in a frown. He waited for her to make a remark about the weather or society.
‘Why aren’t you down in London? With Rupert’s father?’ she asked.
He turned from her and stared towards where the great cedar towered over the garden. Everything was so peaceful and still, except for the distant cooing of a dove, calling to its mate. No danger here. This was the England he’d fought for, not the bright lights of London. He wanted that peace that had eluded him. He wanted to show that he had changed and that he did deserve a future, a future that he did not intend to squander. ‘Rupert’s father died.’
‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry for you and for Mr Hook.’
‘False sympathy fails to matter. You never knew him.’
‘You’re wrong. Any man’s death should be remarked on and he was your friend. You must miss him,’ she said with an intense earnestness. ‘When did you decide to come up to Northumberland?’
‘When I was on the battlefield, surrounded by men dying on either side, I swore that next year I would be somewhere which epitomised what I was fighting for.’ The words came from deep within him. He wanted her to understand that on the battlefield he’d decided what was important and how his life needed to change. She, of all the people he’d met recently, might understand and the very thought unnerved him. ‘I thought of the fair, the Stagshaw Bank Fair, and how it is held every year on the fourth of July.’
Her dusky-rose lips turned up into an incredulous smile. ‘You are asking me to believe that you decided to come to Northumberland when you were at Waterloo? I can think of a dozen other more likely places that should have sprung to mind.’
‘It seemed as good a place as any to my fevered mind. When I was a lad, my uncle brought me here. The day has long stood in my memory. He bought me a wooden jumping-jack.’ He shook his head.
There was no need to explain that it had been the first time since his mother’s departure that he’d received a gift or anyone had taken notice of him beyond cuffing him on the ear. He’d kept that jumping-jack for years, hidden in his handkerchiefs so that his father would not stumble across it and destroy it.
‘It seemed like a place worth fighting to see again. I said as much to Brendan, who was on my right—there will be time enough to reminisce as the years go by, but next year I would be up in Northumberland and would go to the fair. He agreed to go with me.’
‘And that is why you and Mr Hook are here,’ she breathed. ‘To honour your vow.’
Kit closed his eyes and said a prayer for Brendan’s soul. He had said enough. She didn’t need to know the rest. He’d asked Brendan to exchange places with him because he thought he’d get a better shot. Brendan had agreed with a laugh and a clap on his back. The next thing he’d heard was the soft thud of a bullet hitting Brendan in the chest. Brendan’s last words were about his son and his hopes for Rupert’s future. Kit had promised and he intended to keep that promise.
‘But he would have been here. We made a vow together.’
‘Is it why Rupert is with you? To fulfil his father’s vow?’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘It would appear that I misjudged Mr Hook. There are not many men who would have done that.’
‘His mother died soon after he was born.’ Kit stared at the grass. There was no need to explain that Rupert’s mother had been a courtesan and they had only married on her deathbed, at Brendan’s insistence. Seventeen and a widower with a baby. Brendan always claimed his heart had died with the woman. Kit tended to counter that at least he had a heart. ‘Rupert’s grandmother took charge of the boy, but she died shortly after hearing of her son’s death. I promised her that I’d make sure her grandson would become the fine man that his father wanted him to be.’
He willed her to understand his reasoning.
‘I hope the fair lives up to your expectations.’
He forced a smile. ‘I’m sure it shall. Anyway, I was invited along with Rupert to the ball, but I found I needed time alone to reflect,
