The Accidental Countess (Accidental #2)(27)
“May I ask you something, Captain Swift?” Cass said, relieved that her voice didn’t crack.
He inclined his head, an inquisitive look on his face. “Of course, Miss Bunbury.”
She dared to meet his gaze. “What was the worst part of being in the war?”
His eyes narrowed briefly. His lips thinned nearly imperceptibly, but he did not hesitate. “Learning just how inexplicably unfair life is.” He hadn’t even paused. The answer had rolled off his tongue as if he answered that particular question daily. Perhaps he did.
Cass merely nodded. Life was unfair. That was the truth.
CHAPTER TEN
Julian strode into his guest chamber. He untied his cravat and yanked it from around his neck. He pulled open the front of his shirt and rubbed his throat. He could breathe again. Finally. Wearing a uniform had been his habit for the last seven years. Since he’d been back to England, to Society, he’d been forced to borrow some of his brother’s clothing and that included the stifling cravats. How long would it take before he got used to them again?
He took a sip of the brandy he’d requested from a footman before he came up to his room. Brandy was one thing he had missed about England. Not that the brandy didn’t come from France. But he’d never drunk any of it while he’d been there.
His thoughts turned to the night that had just ended. Miss Bunbury. Patience. He couldn’t get her visage out of his mind. She was beyond gorgeous, any man’s dream. But her quiet, calm demeanor had surprised him. He’d wondered at it. Many ladies of his acquaintance were talkative, always going on and on about fripperies and parties. His sister adored a party. Daphne never wanted to sit still. Penelope had certainly never seemed capable of sitting long enough to write a letter, let alone a long or meaningful one. In fact, the only female he’d known who seemed as quiet and contemplative as Miss Bunbury was … Cassandra.
Miss Bunbury had asked him what the worst part of war was. He’d been asked that question countless times. On the parcel riding back to England, on the mail coach to London, even in town when a few people had recognized him before he’d left for the house party. He usually answered with his normal, nonchalant, “I’m merely glad to be home.”
No one could understand the hell that was war. Not truly. They wanted their sordid details and the thrill of talking to a seasoned soldier. But no one truly wanted to know what it was like, the smell of wet warm blood, the dirt, the sounds of screams, and the fear that became so entrenched in your soul, you had no idea where it ended and where you began. No one wanted to hear about that. So he gave them the answer they wanted, a calm reassurance that there was life after war. Survival. That’s what he represented to his fellow countrymen. He was playing a role and he must continue to play it.
But when Patience Bunbury had asked him, all deep blue eyes and quiet resolve, he’d done something completely unexpected. He’d actually told her the truth. The worst part of war—the very worst—was learning how deeply unfair life was. Truly learning it. Was it fair that David Covington was dead? The young man’s body buried in foreign soil while his mother sobbed for him? David was an only son. Death shouldn’t have come for him. Was it fair that Julian had watched men die of infection, disease, thirst? Watched as they went mad from heat? Written letters to their mothers or their wives attempting to skim over the horrific details of their last moments on earth? No. None of it was fair. And it never would be. Least of all the fact that he, a second son, an unnecessary person, was still alive and well while his brother was now in danger.
Much to his dead father’s chagrin.
His thoughts turned to Donald and Rafe. They were lost in France, captured by the enemy, more than likely dead. Over the years Julian’s heart had hardened to hearing news of death. It was a hazard of his occupation after all. But it could not, would not happen to his brother, his big, strong, noble brother. Donald must live to fulfill their father’s expectations, to make their mother happy, to carry on as the Earl of Swifdon, as he was always meant to.
And Rafe. A few years younger, plenty more rash, a great deal more rakish, and hell-bent on causing trouble, the young man had run off to war the moment he’d had a chance. He’d been a solider, but his penchant for slipping in and out of places quickly, quietly, and unnoticed had earned him a spot as a spy. And he was a hell of a spy. Julian could only imagine that Rafe had been captured trying to save Donald, and that thought tortured Julian. He took another sip of brandy, swallowed hard, and stared into the fire that crackled in the hearth across the room.
Yes. Life was unfair. Fate sometimes made mistakes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Ah, Lord Berkeley. I’m so glad you are here,” Lucy gushed as she ushered the viscount into the foyer the next morning.
Cass stood next to Lucy, beaming at the viscount. “It’s good to see you, my lord.”
“Thank you for inviting me, Lady Worthing.” Lord Berkeley winked at them both and bowed. “And it’s lovely to see you again, Miss Bunbury.”
Cass smiled and curtsied to Lord Berkeley. She’d always liked him immensely. Tall and handsome and blond, Lord Berkeley was a great deal like Julian actually. No wonder she felt so at ease in the viscount’s company. Yes, indeed. He looked a great deal like Julian as well. Only whereas Julian had gray eyes, Lord Berkeley’s were sky blue. The viscount wore dark trousers, a sapphire-blue waistcoat, a white shirt with a perfectly starched white cravat, and black top boots. He was ever so dapper and appeared to be in high spirits today.