Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(75)

“No. Your grandmother was the kind of woman I thought I should marry. I was in love with someone else—a far less suitable girl. And I let her go, to my everlasting regret.” He sighed, pondering some distant memory. “A lifetime without her . . .”

Fascinated, Christopher wanted to ask more . . . but this was hardly the time or place for such a conversation. However, it gave him an unexpected insight into his grandfather. What would it do to a man, to marry a Prudence when one might have had a Beatrix? It would be enough to turn anyone bitter.

Later in the evening, trays of champagne were brought out, and the assembled guests waited expectantly for the betrothal announcement to be made.

Unfortunately, the man designated to do it was temporarily missing.

After a brief search, Leo was found and urged into the drawing room, where he launched into a charming toast and listed any number of amusing reasons for marriage. Although most of the guests listened with close attention and chuckled throughout, Christopher heard a pair of women gossiping nearby, whispering in disapproving undertones.

“. . . Ramsay was found flirting in the corner with a woman. They had to drag him away from her.”

“Who was it?”

“His own wife.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes. How unseemly for a married couple to carry on so.”

“I suppose the Hathaways know no better.”

Christopher suppressed a grin and fought the temptation to turn and inform the two old hens that the Hathaways actually did know better. They just didn’t give a damn. He glanced down at Beatrix, wondering if she had heard, but she was oblivious to the gossip, her attention fixed on her brother.

Leo concluded the toast with heartfelt wishes for the betrothed couple’s future happiness and prosperity. The guests raised their glasses and cheered in agreement.

Taking Beatrix’s gloved hand in his, Christopher lifted it and pressed a kiss to the back of her wrist. He wanted to carry her away from the crowded drawing room and have her all to himself.

“Soon,” Beatrix whispered, as if she had read his thoughts, and he let his gaze caress her. “And don’t look at me like that,” she added. “It makes my knees wobbly.”

“Then I won’t tell you what I’d like to do with you right now. Because you’d topple over like a ninepin.”

The private, pleasurable moment ended all too soon.

Lord Annandale, who was standing near Leo, pushed his way to the fore, holding up his champagne glass. “My friends,” he said, “I hope to contribute to the happiness of this occasion by sharing some news from London.”

The crowd quieted respectfully.

A cold feeling slithered down Christopher’s spine. He glanced at Leo, who looked bemused and shrugged.

“What is it?” Beatrix whispered.

Christopher shook his head, staring at his grandfather. “God help me, I don’t know.”

“Before departing for Hampshire,” Annandale continued, “I was informed by His Grace the Duke of Cambridge that my grandson is to be invested with the Victoria Cross. The medal, created this January past, is the highest possible military decoration for valor in the face of the enemy. The queen herself will present the medal to Captain Phelan at an investiture ceremony in London next June.”

Everyone in the room exclaimed and cheered. Christopher felt all the warmth in his body drain away. This was nothing that he wanted, another bloody piece of metal to pin to his chest, another f**king ceremony to honor events he didn’t want to remember. And for that to intrude on one of the sweetest moments of his life was revolting. Damn his grandfather for doing this to him without giving him one word of advance warning.

“What will the Victoria Cross be awarded for, my lord?” someone asked.

Annandale sent a smile to Christopher. “Perhaps my grandson can hazard a guess.”

Christopher shook his head, regarding him without expression.

Annoyance crossed the earl’s face at Christopher’s demonstrable lack of enthusiasm. “Captain Phelan was recommended for this honor by a regimental officer who gave an account of seeing him carry a wounded officer to safety under heavy gunfire. Our men had been driven back in an attempt to overtake Russian rifle pits. After rescuing the officer, Captain Phelan held the position until relief arrived. The Russian positions were captured, and the wounded officer, Lieutenant Fenwick, was saved.”

Christopher didn’t trust himself to speak as a volley of cheers and congratulations filled the air. He forced himself to finish the champagne, to stand still and appear calm, when he could feel himself sliding toward a dangerous precipice. Somehow he found the traction to stop it, to hold the madness at bay, reaching for the sense of detachment he both needed and feared.

Please, God, he thought. Not for saving Fenwick.

Chapter Twenty-three

Sensing the explosive quality in Christopher’s stillness, Beatrix waited until he had drained his champagne. “Oh, my,” she said in a voice loud enough to carry to the people around them. “I fear all this excitement is bringing on a touch of the vapors. Captain Phelan, if you wouldn’t mind escorting me to the parlor . . . ?”

The question was greeted with sympathetic murmurs, as any evidence of a woman’s delicate constitution was always encouraged.

Trying to look fragile and wan, Beatrix clung to Christopher’s arm as he led her from the drawing room. Instead of proceeding to the parlor, however, they found a place outside, a bench set on a graveled walkway.