Page 5 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

Such a foolish idea. Better to marry the son of a neighbor everyone approved of. Prudence and wisdom lined the path to true happiness.

Jane gazed at Captain Ingram, inwardly shaking more than she had the first time she’d fallen from a horse. Flying through the air, not knowing where she’d land, had both terrified and exhilarated her.

“I do not wish to dance,” she said. Captain Ingram’s expression turned to disappointment, but Jane put her hand on his sleeve. “Shall we walk out to the bonfires instead?”

The longing in his eyes was unmistakable. The captain had no wish to be shut up in a hot ballroom with people he didn’t know. Jane had no wish to be here either.

Freedom beckoned.

Captain Ingram studied Jane a moment, then he nodded in resolve. “I would enjoy that, yes.”

Jane led him from the ballroom, her heart pounding, wondering, as she had that day she’d been flung from her mare’s back, if her landing would be rough or splendid.

CHAPTER3

As much ashe wished to, Spencer could not simply rush into the night alone with Lady Jane. Such a thing was not done. Lady Jane bade two footmen, who fetched Jane’s and Spencer’s wraps, to bundle up and accompany them with lanterns. The lads, eager to be out, set forth, guiding the way into the darkness.

Five people actually tramped to the bonfires, because the youngest of the cousins, Thomas, joined them at the last minute.

“You’re saving me,” Thomas told Spencer as he fell into step with them. “Aunt Isobel wants me standing up with debutantes, as though I’d propose to one tomorrow. I ain’t marrying for a long while, never fear. I want to join the army, like you.”

“Army life is harsh, Mr. Randolph,” Spencer said. “Unmerciful hours, drilling in all weather, not to mention French soldiers shooting at you.”

“Not afraid of the Frenchies,” Thomas proclaimed. “Tell him, Janie. I want to be off. I’ll volunteer if Uncle won’t buy me a commission.”

“He does speak of it day and night,” Lady Jane said. She walked along briskly but not hurriedly, as though the cold did not trouble her at all. “Do not paint too romantic a picture of army life, please, Captain, or you might find him in your baggage when you go.”

“Perhaps Major Barnett should speak to him as a friend of the family,” Spencer said, trying to make his tone diffident.

Jane laughed, a sound like music. “It is Major Barnett’s fault Thomas wants to be a soldier in the first place. John writes letters full of his bravado. Also of the fine meals he has with his commanding officers, and the balls he attends, which are full of elegant ladies.”

Spencer hid his irritation. Lady Jane held a beauty that had struck him to the bone from the moment he’d beheld her—her dark hair and azure eyes more suited to a faery creature floating in the mists of a loch than a young miss dwelling on a country farm in the middle of England.

If Spencer had been fortunate enough to have such a lady waiting for him, he’d write letters describing how he pined for her, not ones about meals with his colonel and wife. As far as Spencer knew, Barnett did not have a mistress, but he did enjoy dancing and chattering with the officers’ wives and daughters. Man was an ingrate.

Barnett had mentioned the daughter of his father’s closest neighbor on occasion, but not often. Never rejoiced in receiving her letters, never treasured them or read bits out. Nor hinted, with a blush, that he couldn’tpossiblyread them out loud.

He’d only spoken the name Lady Jane Randolph that Spencer could remember a few weeks ago, when he’d announced he’d be returning to England for New Year’s. He’d obtained leave and had for Spencer as well.

Spencer had been ready to go. Melancholia commanded him much of late, as he saw his future stretching before him, bleak and grim. If he did not end up dead on a battlefield with French bullets inside him, he would continue life as a junior officer without many prospects. Bonaparte was tough to wedge from the Peninsula—he’d already taken over most of the Italian states and much of the Continent, and had his relatives ruling corners of his empire for him. Only England and Portugal held out, and there was nothing to say Portugal would not fall.

Even if Napoleon was defeated, there was noise of coming war in America. Spencer would either continue the slog in the heat and rain of Portugal or be shipped off to the heat and rain of the New World.

Even if Spencer sold his commission in a few years, as he planned, what then? He itched to see the world—not in an army tent or charging his horse across a battlefield, but properly, on the Grand Tour he’d missed because of war. But Bonaparte was everywhere.

More likely, Spencer would go home and learn to run the estate he’d eventually inherit. He didn’t like to think ofthatday either, because it would mean his beloved father had died.

John Barnett, rising quickly through the ranks, courtesy of familial influence, had this beautiful woman to return to whenever he chose, one with a large and friendly family in the soft Berkshire countryside.

And the idiot rarely spoke of her, preferring to flirt with the colorless daughters of his colonels and generals.

If Bonaparte’s soldiers didn’t shoot Barnett, Spencer might.

The village was a mile from the house down a straight road, easy to navigate on a fine night, but Spencer shivered.

“Are you well, Captain Ingram?” Lady Jane asked in concern. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have come out. You must be tired from your travels. Holidays are not pleasant when one has a cold.”

“I am quite well,” Spencer answered, trying to sound cheerful. “I was reflecting how peaceful it all is. Safe.” No sharpshooters waiting to take out stragglers, no pockets of French soldiers to capture and torture one. Only starlight, a quiet if icy breeze, a thin blanket of white snow, a lovely woman walking beside him, and warm firelight to beckon them on.

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