~ Love's Challenge ~

by

Dalia Trevino

London, England, November 1808

Anthony struggled to hide his amusement. He’d only been back in England for a fortnight, but as soon as he’d arrived, he’d been besieged by the young ladies of the ton. And the one he was dancing with was more tenacious than the rest.

“Major Kanterton,” Caroline Whitworth simpered, as she moved across the floor. “You are a most splendid dancer.”

“Thank you, Miss Whitworth, but any skill you detect is entirely due to my excellent partner.”

Following the moves of the cotillion, they separated briefly and came together with the lilt of the violin. Her gaze settled on his lips as he took her gloved hand.

“So firm and sensual. I wish that they would touch mine.”

She stumbled, but quickly caught herself. Anthony, knowing she couldn’t have meant to say that out loud, fought the urge to laugh. Better to pretend he’d not heard her.

Losing her embarrassment, she plastered a fatuous smile on her face and caressed his arm through the red sleeve of his uniform. He wished he could shake off her touch.

“Perhaps you would like to join me tomorrow for a ride in the park?”

“I would like to, but unfortunately I cannot. I leave soon for Portugal and have much to do before I go.”

When the final strains of music floated across the room, he led her in the direction of her mother and past the many well-dressed ladies and elegantly clad men, most of the latter in their dress regimentals. His gentle hint that he wasn’t interested was lost on the lady.

She didn’t relinquish her hold on him even when they’d halted in front of her mother, who didn’t pay them any mind as she was in the midst of regaling her companion with the tale of her daughter’s afternoon shopping expedition.

“Anthony, how are you?” came a deep voice from his left.

Relieved at the timely interruption, Anthony turned to grin at his friend, Philip Haulton. “I continue to improve.”

“Glad to hear it.” Philip’s gaze fell on Caroline. He nodded at her in polite greeting. “Miss Whitworth.”

Then he turned to Anthony. “What news have you of Bonaparte and his brother Joseph, King of Spain? Even now I cannot credit that fool, the emperor, would do such a thing,” he said distastefully. “Does he believe the people of that country will simply roll over and let him do as he wishes, first with their monarch and then their lives?”

Anthony could feel Caroline’s annoyance grow as he and Philip became engrossed in their talk. With pursed lips, a practiced, angry toss of her well-coifed dark blond head, and a flounce of her white crape evening gown, she turned and went to join a group of young ladies beside the terrace doors.

Anthony knew he was meant to follow, but he couldn’t make himself. When Philip laughed outright, Anthony allowed his expression to reflect his relief.

“I thought you looked in need of rescuing. Though she is a pretty piece, she is only interested in becoming your wife.”

“Well, I know it, and she isn’t the only one. I let my aunt talk me into dancing with her, but now I’m leaving. I’m going to White’s.”

“I’ll join you.”

Anthony didn’t mind that Philip found his predicament humorous. He ignored the touches of mirth evident in his friend’s blue eyes and around his mouth.

“Despite being the younger son of the Earl of Kanterton, you are a very sought after catch. Why, your money alone makes the chits and their mothers chomp at the bit to get to you,” Philip said, his lips splitting into a grin.

“You’re one to talk. As your father’s only son, you should be married already. For me, I have no plans to wed. You know I will not. Since I cannot give the time and attention due to a wife, it would be wrong. The life I have planned is for the military. I leave the rest to Edward.”

Anthony, leaving the Carlsons’ ball with Philip, frowned at his gloves as he pulled them on. He still wasn’t sure why he’d even attended tonight. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. His aunt had persuaded him, and wanting to please her, he had promised to come, though he’d not said how long he would stay.

She would have been better off putting the whole of her efforts behind trying to marry off his older brother, Edward. Edward was the one who needed to produce the obligatory heir. Anthony would allow, though, that she did try to divide her time equally between the two of them. She always waved away his words when he told her of his plans not to marry.

Making sure that his aunt saw him leave, he acknowledged that she wasn’t pleased at his early desertion. He briefly thought about his brother, home in the country and safe from her machinations. Perhaps a good idea, that. He would have to remember it in the future.

Warm, sultry air greeted them as they waited for Philip’s curricle to be brought around. The fog wasn’t too thick tonight, and their conversation turned once more to the fighting.

“When do you return to Portugal?” Philip asked, his voice wistful.

“The end of the week,” Anthony said resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Though Wellesley is yet to remain for the inquiry at Chelsea, he has given orders for my regiment and the other two that accompanied him to return without him.”

Philip sighed, not trying to hide his frustration. They stepped into his curricle and rode the short distance to White’s. “Well, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll not see or be involved in any of the fighting, but still... You must promise to keep me informed of everything that happens.”

“I will. It would not do to have you become bored here while the rest of us are experiencing the adventure of grinding the French under our heels.”

“Damnation!”

“Easy.” Anthony chuckled as he stepped out of the carriage and tried to pacify Philip. “Someone must remain behind to protect the mother land from invaders.”

“Aye,” Philip said as he rose and jumped out of the curricle to stand beside Anthony. “You may be assured that Napoleon and his soldiers will never step foot on British soil.”

Iberian Peninsula, Portugal, December 1808

Unutterably weary, shoulders slumped, Diana stared with blank, unseeing eyes at the fresh, dirt-covered grave. Though she felt as frozen as the cold, hard ground, she didn’t shed a tear as Father Duyos spoke over her mother’s grave. The foreign words were no longer strange, for she’d learned the language quickly.

Her father wasn’t there to comfort her. The last he’d written, he was in Spain, and his regiment was soon to engage in battle with the French. There was no one else. She was alone. Her head lowered, she wrapped herself in a cocoon of anguish.

The priest finished speaking, and she forced a smile at the dark-haired older man. “Thank you for your kind words. I know my father would have appreciated your compassion.”

He nodded slowly, acknowledging her words before turning and leaving her. She watched him depart before looking at Mr. Smythe, brother to her father’s country estate solicitor, who stood to her right.

He took her arm and led her back to the small home she’d shared with her mother and his sister, Portia. That young woman had served as lady’s maid to both her and her mother until four days ago, when she’d surprised them all by departing in the middle of the night in order to marry the recently widowed linen maker.

Mr. Smythe had a room in the only inn of the village but spent most of his time at their home. Well used to his presence and more often than not having to disregard his words, she found herself falling into that pattern once again. But his declaration jerked her out of her musings.

Stepping over a blackened puddle of snow she blinked quickly and withdrew her hand from his arm. Had she heard him right? “My apologies, Mr. Smythe, but how can that be?”

“I would not wish to regale you with the trivial.”

“Pray, Mr. Smythe, do. For I cannot believe all the money my father left for us to live on is gone.”

His countenance, usually deferential and compliant, changed briefly. Trying to ascertain if what she’d seen was truly aggressiveness, she pulled the folds of her mantle tighter around her.

“You have no money and nothing of value to sell,” he said forcefully.

She followed his gaze to the gold pin on her mantle. It had been her mother’s. She’d never sell it. It sparkled in the sunlight as she straightened her shoulders. His gaze shifted and lingered on her body, so she cleared her throat and met his gray eyes when he finally raised his stare.

“I would, in spite of your position, be willing to marry you,” he said.

Her throat closed in indignation, and briefly she was without words. She eyed the somewhat decrepit house behind him, her home. He was waiting for an answer, and she smoothed her hand down her gown before stopping the nervous gesture.

Staring at him now, suddenly she noticed what she had not before, as she’d been more interested in her mother’s downward-spiraling state. His clothing was fine and new. A fit that suggested it had been made for him and not bought ready-made. The walking stick in his hand was inlaid with mother of pearl and encircled with a thick, gold band.

His short brown hair was topped with an expensive fur-trimmed cap. Had he taken her father’s money for himself?