Dawn in My Heart Read online

  She smiled in relief. “That would be delightful. Where are your family’s estates?”

  “Oh, the main one is in Hertfordshire—a monstrous thing. There’s another up near Leicester, another down in Dorset and there’s even a very gothic property way up in the West Riding in Yorkshire. I haven’t been there since I was a child. I daresay we shall have to visit them all once we’re married. Who knows when my father has last been to them, except for the family seat in Hertfordshire, of course.”

  “Well, I shall enjoy touring them all!” she said, her eyes shining in delight. “May we entertain at each?”

  “Entertain away. As long as I have a few good hunting and fishing companions, I can always manage to avoid the rest of the company if they prove too tedious.” As he was speaking, they walked around the animals being walked about the courtyard.

  “What do you think of this one?” he asked Gillian of the black horse snorting and pawing the ground.

  The groom holding the animal spoke up before giving Gillian a chance to reply. “Oh, he’s a high-spirited fellow, but you’ll get sixteen miles an hour outta ’im once you’ve got ’im well broken in…”

  “He’s not broken in?” Gillian asked.

  As the groom continued listing the selling points to Gillian, Sky walked around the animal. He bent down and examined his knees and fetlocks, then went to his hindquarters. When he felt the animal’s hock and cannon, the horse fidgeted.

  “You take it easy,” the groom spoke to the horse.

  Straightening, Sky asked the groom, “Has he ever thrown a splint?”

  “Naw, me lord, never!”

  Sky touched Gillian on the arm. “Come, let’s see what they have in the stables.”

  “But guvner, this one here’s the finest you’ll see today. He’ll be up on the block soon.”

  They left the man talking and entered the stalls.

  “You didn’t like him?” Gillian asked curiously.

  “The groom was lying about him. That horse has clearly had some injury near his hind cannon.”

  They ignored the hunters and matched pairs and concentrated on the riding horses. Gillian liked a high-stepping bay mare. Sky kept going back to a gray gelding.

  “He’s a beauty,” agreed Gillian, smoothing down his forelock. “Aren’t you?” she asked, directing herself to the horse.

  “We’ll see how he performs,” Sky said, watching her fondness for the horse. She had an affinity for animals, and the tenderness in her manner drew him. Her skin was so soft he craved to reach out his forefinger and touch her cheek, but he didn’t know how she would react. Her embarrassment over his mention of their wedding told him she wasn’t ready to face the physical aspects of marriage. It was understandable. She was a young lady, probably as innocent as a babe. He’d have to be patient and initiate her into the ways of a man with a maid gradually.

  “Shall we stay for the auction?” he asked.

  She turned to him with an eager smile. “Oh, yes. I haven’t been to one since Papa passed away. Will you bid for this one today?”

  He shook his head. “Likely not. There’s still time. I just came to look around today.”

  “You must have been quite a whip in your London days,” she said in a teasing voice as they continued along the dim, straw-strewn passages of the building.

  He smiled. “Yes, I was a member of all the clubs…the Four-in-One, the Jockey, the Whip…Edmund and I would compete against each other. Our favorite pastime was bribing the jarvey of the stage to let us have a go at the reins. We’d start out at the White Horse and ride neck-or-nothing between London and Salt Hill.

  “We’d come roaring into the inn, our horses in a lather, all of us caked in mud, our poor rooftop passengers hanging on for dear life. It’s a wonder we didn’t break our necks. Father would be livid when he’d find out. But Edmund would just laugh and tell him it was nothing he hadn’t done himself when he was young, and Father would have to admit the truth of that.” Sky sobered, remembering his brother’s end.

  “I never thought it would be a coaching accident that would get my brother.”

  “Were you and Edmund close?” she asked softly.

  “We were only a year apart.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Not anymore. I hadn’t seen him in over a decade.”

  “Why didn’t you come back to London in all those years?”

  He shrugged. “There was nothing for me here once my mother passed away.”

  Before she could ask him anything more personal, he said instead, “Enough about me. Tell me instead how a young lady would ever have been inside a place like Tattersall’s. I imagined you with the typical upbringing.”

  She gave him a saucy smile. “What is that, may I ask?”

  “Oh, a French governess until you were about twelve, then off to Miss Something-or-Other’s fine establishment on the outskirts of London. You’d see your parents on the rare occasion until your come-out….”

  She laughed. “How did you know? And what about you? Your boyhood, let’s see…” She put her finger up to her lips, pondering. “Eton, then Cambridge, probably sent down a few times.”

  “You can’t imagine how many,” he replied dryly. “I probably wouldn’t have graduated if not for a young lad I met in my last year at Eton—a brilliant fellow. Latin declensions rolled off his tongue with the ease of a Roman orator.”

  “So, you were a lazy scholar.”

  “I never believed in exerting myself over anything until—”

  “Until?” she prompted.

  He shrugged. “Until I made a bargain with Father. In exchange for his paying off my last gambling debt, I would go out to the Indies and take over a failing plantation. I told him I’d turn it around and make it yield a profit.”

  “Did you?” she asked.

  “Not at first. It took a few years longer than I’d anticipated.”

  They walked back into the sunshine of the stone courtyard in time for the auction. Gillian became wrapped up in the bidding. When the black horse went for a hundred pounds, Sky shook his head and looked at the young buyer in disgust. “He wants a showy mount and doesn’t bother to look further than its appearance.”

  After the auction, Sky returned Gillian to her house. Before helping her down from the carriage, he removed the small jeweler’s box from his pocket. “I got you this the other day. I was going to give it to you at the Prince’s fete, but now seems the best time.”

  Her eyes widened in delight as she reached for the box he held out to her. “What is it?”

  He smiled at her childish enthusiasm. “Why don’t you open it and see? If you don’t like it, you can pick out something yourself.”

  She bowed her head over the velvet box and, with a flick, undid the tiny clasp. Inside lay the diamond-and-ruby ring. The ruby shone brightly against the white satin cloth.

  He heard her sharp intake of breath. “It’s beautiful!”

  “May I?” Before she could move away, he took the box from her hands and removed the ring. He held it out to her. “Would you like me to try it on you?”

  “Oh yes!” She removed her glove and held out her hand.

  He took the pale, slim hand in his darker one and slipped the ring onto her finger. The gesture made him think of the marriage ceremony and the finality of that moment when he’d slip the wedding band on her finger. It would signal the beginning of their life together.

  The ring fit perfectly and looked nice on her. Maybe it was a good omen.

  “Thank you…it’s lovely.”

  “Not more so than its owner.”

  The smile on her face grew, lighting her pale green eyes and parting her rosy lips.

  He strained to lean forward and kiss them, but he held himself back.

  Next time, Jilly-girl, he promised, liking the sound of the nickname that popped into his head. He would taste of them the next time they met.

  Gillian glanced across the carriage to her mother. They had spent m
ost of the day on their coiffures and dresses, and by eight in the evening, they sat in a queue of carriages that inched along the cobbled street. They had finally left Bond Street and now stood at the top of St. James’s Street.

  She chanced a look out the open carriage window to see how many coaches were lined down the street behind them. The interior was hot and stuffy so they had been forced to keep the windows down, to the displeasure of her mother.

  She could see why. As soon as she did so, the crowds packed along the sides of the streets began ogling her.

  “Hey, ducky, you’re a comely thing.”

  “Come, lean out farther, so we can see that pretty frock.”

  “Look at those pearls.”

  “Are the flowers in your hair real?”

  “Gillian, put your head in immediately!” her mother said.

  “Who’s in there with you, love?” a female bystander demanded. “Is it Lady Bessborough?”

  “I think it’s Lady Hertford,” her companion decided. “The prince’s favorite.”

  “No,” decided a poorly dressed man who had the effrontery to press his head into the coach window. “This lady’s not fat enough!”

  Gillian had pulled her head back in as the soon as the man approached. Now, she imitated her mother who sat in icy silence until the man removed his head from the window.

  “The line of carriages seems endless. I can’t see how far down Bond Street it stretches, but there are certainly many more coaches than when we first arrived.”

  “That is why I insisted we leave early. Remember at last year’s fete for poor King Louis?”

  Gillian was thrown back in her seat as the coach suddenly lurched forward. It only traveled a few yards before stopping again.

  “They should have guards to control these crowds,” her mother complained.

  Gillian didn’t reply, having heard the same lament several times already.

  She and her mother had eventually received their invitation from the Prince Regent. Whether Lord Skylar had expedited it or whether they would have received it anyway, she had no way of knowing. In any case, they were on their way to Carlton House to greet the great Duke of Wellington.

  An hour later, their bodies damp with perspiration, they arrived at the gates of the Prince’s official residence. The wide, colonnaded portico was lit with dozens of torches. At long last their carriage came to the front and they were handed down onto the red-carpeted steps and ushered into the high-ceilinged entry hall.

  Gillian glanced ahead at the long line of guests inching past the dark red porphyry marble columns. She didn’t see Lord Skylar’s dark head in the crowd, but countless guests had already headed into the rooms beyond. Once they had received their invitations, he had told them he would meet them at the fete.

  She had been through these rooms before on other state occasions, but she knew the Prince was always carrying out renovations, so there would doubtless be new things to see. She was also curious to see how the Prince would outdo himself to welcome home the returning hero, after his splendid celebrations the month before to honor the Austrian, Russian and Prussian royalty.

  Gillian and her mother moved with the line of guests through the Blue Velvet Room, the Rose Satin Drawing Room, the new Gothic Dining Room, the Golden Drawing Room, and the long Conservatory—each room a brilliant display of gilded cornices, elaborately painted doors, frescoed ceilings, thick French carpets matching the colors of the walls and furnishings. The finest Dutch and French works of art from the Continent, old masters and new, decorated the walls.

  Gillian was struck again with wonder at the luxury of the palace. In the giant ballroom, the guests filed past the Prince Regent, his corpulent body dressed in a magnificent, medal-laden uniform. Beside him stood the smaller Arthur Wellesley, the First Duke of Wellington, his slim body erect.

  Gillian curtsied deeply to the Regent.

  “What a pretty thing you’ve become, Lady Gillian,” he told her gallantly.

  “Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” she replied demurely, knowing that was all that was expected of her. She followed her mother to greet the Duke.

  He bowed his head over her hand.

  “Congratulations on your many victories, Your Grace. I…read about each one in the Courier and Gazette,” she told him shyly, wishing she could express her admiration for all he had done for his country. How his men must adore the thin-faced commander with the deep-set dark eyes and brows. His dark hair was beginning to gray. His uniform, a splendid red with a dark sash and high, braided collar added to his regal bearing.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he answered quietly. “If every soldier has such a beautiful and loyal follower at home, that must be a reason they were so brave and stalwart on the battlefield.”

  She smiled, feeling the tears smart in her eyes. With a final squeeze of her hands, he let hers go and turned to the next guest.

  She followed her mother blindly for a few moments, remembering the Duke’s words. It was as if he knew the deepest secrets of her heart. Secrets buried so deep, no one on earth knew of them.

  They continued through the crush of people out into the gardens. The architect, John Nash, had specially designed a muslin-draped corridor leading to an immense hall with an umbrella-shaped ceiling. In the center was a temple wreathed in masses of flowers. From it emanated the sounds of orchestra music. More covered walks led in all directions out from the hall. Gillian could see supper tables laid out in the different tents leading from them. The muslin walls of these corridors were painted with battle scenes. Gillian looked curiously at one of the titles, The Overthrow of Tyranny by the Allied Powers.

  Her mother was talking with acquaintances.

  “Hello, Lady Gillian.” Cubby Eaton greeted her, the sickly sweet scent of his toilette water identifying him before she turned to see him. “You look absolutely ravishing this evening.”

  “Thank you, Cubby,” she replied. “I would say you look rather dashing yourself.” He wore a dark coat, but his waistcoat was yellow satin embroidered in shades of blue and green. His cravat was so wide and stiff it pushed his shirt points into his cheeks. His chestnut hair floated in stiff and shiny waves away from his forehead, its spicy pomade reaching her nostrils as he bent over her gloved hand.

  “Had a chance to greet the Iron Duke yet?” he asked.

  “Yes! Wasn’t he dashing?”

  “Perfectly so. I could just see him wielding that sword in battle.” Cubby took a stance and thrust forth an imaginary sword.

  “Who else is here tonight?” she asked.

  “Oh, the usual. The pointed absence of Princess Caroline, poor dear, amusing herself with one of her lovers at Kensington, no doubt. There’s talk of her going abroad now that Paris is liberated.”

  He looked around the room through his quizzing glass. “The Queen is here, of course, to support her son…all the royal highnesses…Princess Charlotte, looking well despite her heartbreak over that handsome hussar, Captain Hesse.” He glanced around as if looking for the person in question. “Ever since she met the dashing Prince Augustus in King Frederick’s suite last month, I think the bloom is returning to her cheek.”

  “I think it was heartless of the Regent to forbid her to see Captain Hesse,” Gillian insisted. “And to break open her desk and take all her letters from him. It was shockingly cruel.”

  “Well, you can’t be a mere seventeen and expect to have liberty in matters of the heart. You must wait until you are married at least,” he said with a twitter.

  Just then Gillian saw Lord Skylar approaching. She smiled, looking at the contrast between Cubby and him. Short and tall, round and gaunt, gaudy and somber.

  “Good evening, Lady Gillian,” he said, and bowed. “I am glad to see you made it in one piece to this sad press of humanity. You look lovely.”

  Sky found he meant what he said. His future bride looked exquisite in a sheer white muslin dress over satin. A silver tissue wrap covered her shoulders. It looked liked gossamer.
Silvery blue ribbons accented her dress and hair. A simple wreath of tiny flowers decorated her hair, in contrast to the mass of diamonds in the room. All the pawnshops of London must have been emptied that afternoon to supply the ladies—and gentlemen—he realized, eyeing with distaste the large diamond stickpin in Cubby Eaton’s cravat.

  “Were you caught up in the line of coaches?” Gillian asked.

  “I had my driver drop me off about a block away rather than swelter inside.”

  “Mama would never have permitted that, although we were quite wilted by the time we arrived.”

  “You look as fresh as a newly opened lily at dawn.”

  She warmed under the praise. To regain her composure, she asked him, “Have you been to Carlton House before?”

  He glanced around the surroundings. “Yes, but it has undergone quite a transformation since I was last here.”

  She laughed. “I think it has gone from Oriental to Greek to French in the years you’ve been away. Now, it’s clearly ‘military mania,’ as Lady Bessborough would say.”

  “Shall we go in to supper?” he asked, offering her his arm.

  “Yes, certainly. Cubby, would you like to join us?”

  “My dear, I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure.”

  It was a long dinner, with over a hundred hot dishes served, from roast larks to roast beef, with truffles appearing in almost every dish.

  It was difficult to make conversation except to one’s immediate neighbors. Her mother sat on one side, Cubby on her other. Lord Skylar sat across from her. He conversed with a duke on one side and a marquess on the other.

  Afterward there was dancing in the main structure to the music of two orchestras. Dozens of scarlet uniforms stood out amidst the dark blue evening jackets of the men and the pale colored gowns of the women. Gillian scrutinized each officer, hoping for another glimpse of the Duke, but in vain. There were far too many people.

  When a Scottish reel ended and Lord Skylar led Gillian off the dance floor, the crowd momentarily prevented them from moving ahead. Gillian found herself standing in front of a Guards officer. She had studied enough uniforms to place this one.