Page 11 of A Bachelor’s Lessons in Love (Bachelors of Blackstone’s #1)

Chapter Eleven

A n acquaintance from Blackstone’s club had invited Edward and his ward to a garden party a few days after his most unsatisfactory conversation with Miss Price. Precisely whether or not his ward’s companion was invited was unclear so, wearing a fine dark green coat and a deep brown embroidered waistcoat, he alone escorted his ward and made introductions.

The greenery of Mr. Thomas Norman’s townhouse stretched out in neat, ordered rows. Every hedge clipped, every bed of early spring blooms precisely arranged—and yet, for all the effort, it looked as lifeless as the blasted rose garden at Briarwood. Decorative, cold, and utterly unremarkable.

Rather like himself, according to Miss Price.

Edward adjusted the position of Daphne’s gloved hand on his arm as they strolled along the outer path of the gathering, nodding politely to a passing couple but hardly seeing them. His mind remained fixed on Felicity Price’s voice, sharp as a blade, still echoing in the back of his skull. It didn’t matter that she had not attended; uncertain invitations notwithstanding, she had caught Daphne’s cold after the young lady recovered from it, and her words still echoed in his mind.

“You are exactly like your house. Hollow. Unwelcoming. Cold.”

Heaven help him.

“Are you quite well, Colonel?” Daphne’s voice, sweet and uncertain, tugged him from his irritating thoughts.

He looked down to find her watching him with polite curiosity, her brow faintly creased in the way Felicity’s often did when studying him, though the expression was softer. Less judgmental. A great deal more cautious, too.

It was the first time the two of them had gone anywhere without her aunt, an occasion he ought to make the most of as he proved to his young ward he held her success as a high priority.

She looked quite innocent, dressed in a modest gown for one of her age, the soft blue fabric bringing out her eyes. She had to take after her mother in coloring, given that her father and aunt were both of a darker complexion.

“Yes, I am well,” he lied. “I am only considering the layout of the grounds in comparison to my gardens.”

Daphne tilted her head, clearly unconvinced, but she did not press him on it. “It is very pretty here,” she offered instead, though with little conviction. “Not as large as your gardens, of course. Nor as lovely as Briarwood will be in a few weeks. Aunt Felicity says once the roses bloom, it will look as though the house is floating amid a sea of them.”

Of course Miss Felicity Price noted such things. She paid more attention to his house and its appearance than anyone.

He could practically hear her voice in the remark, perhaps already plotting improvements, as if Briarwood belonged to her rather than him. Edward was not blind to the small changes to his home in the weeks since her arrival; even the hours at which the meals were served had changed. Mrs. Lane deferred to Miss Price in household matters, even when he had a question or suggestion. The staff already fully trusted her opinions on things, following her instructions without hesitation.

They all liked her.

“Aunt Felicity has a talent for seeing what something could become,” Daphne added, as if reading his thoughts. “She did the same at home. With the house, I mean. With Papa. With me.”

Edward glanced down at his young companion, surprised by the frankness of the admission. “With your father?”

“Yes. She helped him remember life after Mama died. I think he would have been perfectly content to retreat from the world forever, but Aunt Felicity refused to let him.” Daphne’s eyes widened somewhat and her smile grew. “She is…she is very good at reminding people to live, I think. She does not like to see people wither away when there is so much good in life. After Papa died, I was certain I could never abide anything beautiful again, but Aunt Felicity would not allow it.”

Edward cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware that Felicity had said nearly the same of him. The woman had a way of making him feel exposed, as though she had scouted out his weaknesses before every one of their verbal skirmishes.

“I had thought,” he said slowly, “that her primary interest was in your welfare. Your protection, your safety?—”

“Oh, it is,” Daphne said cheerfully at once. “But she believes life is more than simply being safe, Colonel. It’s about... I don’t know. Joy. Beauty. Music and gardens and all the things that make us glad to wake up each morning.” She smiled faintly, her gaze distant. “I cannot explain it so well as my aunt. She says that the lovely moments are what makes all the rest worth enduring.”

Edward glanced down at her. So young still, yet she spoke with the quiet assurance of someone who had already walked through life’s shadows and survived them. Perhaps, in a small way she had, orphaned so young as she was.

He wished, in that moment, he had someone who had insisted on beauty when he had returned from the war. Someone who had refused to let him retreat into the cold silence of an empty house. But there had been no benevolent aunt, no Felicity Price waiting for him then. Only the ghosts of men he could not save and a father still ashamed of him. A father who had sent him to war to keep him out of sight.

A tightness formed in Edward’s chest. He hadn’t intended to have his convictions challenged by a seventeen-year-old girl with freckles across her nose and lingering grief in her eyes.

But there it was. It felt rather like standing on a battlefield with the wrong map and realizing, too late, that you’d underestimated the enemy. Except Daphne was not his enemy in the least; she was his responsibility. He had agreed that her aunt was his ally, though he hadn’t exactly acted that way during their last private conversation, either. They had been polite to each other, at meals, the way one was civil to a distant relative. It was excruciating.

“Oh, Miss Banhurst.” Daphne slowed to greet another young lady, curtsying with a graceful ease that was almost startling. When she had first arrived at his door, he hadn’t seen the confidence in her she bore now.

Felicity’s doing, no doubt.

And where was Felicity now? Home, recovering from her cold, no doubt commanding the servants of Briarwood from her sickbed and rearranging his life without asking permission.

Rather ridiculously, he almost missed her presence.

“I suppose,” he said, after a pause after pleasantries with the Miss Banhurst had been exchanged and the young lady had continued on her way, “that your aunt is more formidable than I gave her credit for.”

Daphne gave a soft laugh. “Oh, yes. Most definitely.”

They continued walking in silence, but Edward’s thoughts churned. The weight of Felicity’s words, and her quiet power in his household, settled over him like a heavy, immovable cloak.

He still intended to protect Daphne, that mission would never alter. But perhaps there was more to protection than vigilance and rules. Perhaps there was something to Felicity’s belief in joy—and perhaps he ought to consider the shape of his role, not just as Daphne’s guardian, but as the man standing across from Felicity Price.

They had not gone three more steps before a lady Daphne’s age approached with a bright smile and an airy curtsy.

“Miss Price! We were just about to play a game of lawn bowling. Would you care to join us?”

Daphne’s face lit with pleasure as she cast a quick glance up at Edward. He felt the weight of it immediately, the silent question of permission.

He gave a short nod. “Of course. Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you, Colonel. Oh, this is delightful, thank you, Miss Anna.” Daphne linked arms with the other young lady and they walked rapidly to the back of the garden, where a small rectangle of grass held the game.

Edward walked along behind her at a slower pace. As he slowly approached the group, he caught the tail end of an exchange between Daphne and one of the young men. He was a dark-haired fellow, well-dressed and with the easy posture of someone accustomed to laughter.

“—and I tell you, Miss Price, if you cannot best Miss Norman at lawn bowling, I vow I shall write an ode dedicated to your defeat on the spot. A dreadful one, too, to punish you.”

Daphne’s bright laughter filled the air, and he was proud she took the teasing in stride. “Then I had best play well, I wouldn’t want my reputation ruined by terribly written poetry.”

“Then we are all in agreement,” Miss Anna said airily. “No one here wishes to hear Mr. Montague rhyme ‘Price’ with ‘precise’ again.”

The small circle laughed free, unguarded laughter, as young people did when they felt at ease in each other’s company. It gratified him. Daphne had found her footing with ease, had made friends of these people. She was liked.

Then Edward stepped onto the green.

The laughter died, a soft, halting death.

Mr. Montague noticed Edward first, straightening with an instinctual crispness, his good humor smoothing into polite neutrality. Miss Anna’s fan—half-lifted in the air—paused mid-motion before she delicately folded it shut. The other young gentleman, a fair-haired sort, cleared his throat and adjusted his gloves. Miss Norman cradled the bowling ball closer to her stomach.

Daphne, still smiling, hesitated before her expression adjusted.

Just slightly. Just enough that Edward saw it.

“Colonel Halstead,” Mr. Montague greeted him with a respectful nod. “I did not see you there, sir.”

“I thought to accompany Miss Price to watch the game,” Edward said evenly.

There was a beat of silence where no one said anything, but glanced at one another exchanging silent thoughts.

Miss Anna, the one who had seemingly taken charge of the game, recovered first. She turned to Daphne with an encouraging smile. “You do intend to play, of course?”

“Oh yes,” Daphne said quickly. “I have my honor to defend, you know. Mr. Montague’s poetry will besmirch me, otherwise.”

No one replied. The easy rhythm from before was gone, the teasing had died. There would be no poorly rhymed poetry, no genuine mirth, only careful politeness and sidelong glances at the guardian spectating from the sidelines.

Edward felt the shift viscerally in his gut.

And he suddenly, deeply, regretted it. He cleared his throat, stepped back a few paces, pretending to study a shrub of all things. What could he do? He could not leave, granting an opportunity for secret conversations or maneuverings by anyone present. He had a duty to watch over Daphne. No matter what.

Felicity Price would have a great deal to say on the matter if she heard about it, he had no doubt of that.

Edward took another step back, the damp grass pressing against the soles of his shoes. It could not be more clear that he did not belong here. Not in this moment, not with these young people, not even at a garden party where men of his standing escorted their daughters and sons to ensure they made friends with the correct set.

A soft laugh, somewhat forced and breathless, cut through the silence. Daphne, bless her, trying to recover what had been lost. “Goodness, we needn’t worry too much about the Colonel. He will hardly subject poor players to a court-martial.”

Stiff politeness already held them all in its grasp. Mr. Montague smiled, but it was mechanical, the ease gone. Miss Anna flicked open her fan again, filling the empty space with the soft rustling as she waved it. The other young gentleman reminded them of the rules of the game. Miss Norman asked politely who would go first.

Edward clasped his hands behind his back, watching, feeling keenly the change his presence had on the atmosphere.

The same as when a commanding officer appeared where the men tried to relax between assignments.

This is what Felicity meant.

She would not have stood there, looming like a headmaster waiting to bring order to unruly children. She would have laughed. Charmed them, perhaps, with some quick-witted remark to smooth over the awkwardness he had caused. She would have made herself belong, rather than standing stiffly at the edge, reminding them all of his presence by sheer force of it—and she most certainly would have taken him by the arm and none too gently steered him away, to leave the young people to their game.

But Felicity was not here. She was home, nursing her head cold in her bedchamber, and instead of sparring with him over breakfast, he had sat at the head of his too-long dining table, making stilted conversation with Daphne about the day’s forthcoming entertainment.

“—if you’d like, Colonel?”

Edward looked up sharply.

Mr. Montague stood near him, holding a lawn bowl in his palm, his expression nothing but polite. “Would you care to play?”

It was a kindness. An offering. A way to turn him into something other than a looming giant at the edge of the gathering.

Edward looked at the ball. Then at the expectant, if slightly wary, faces turned his way.

He should say no.

He did not.

Instead, he nodded. Anything to relieve the tension.

“If Miss Price does not mind my joining.”

Daphne’s eyes widened slightly. But then, bless the girl, she beamed. “Of course not, Colonel. Perhaps I shall best you instead—and I shall have to be the one to write an ode.”

A few nervous laughs sprinkled the air. The tension in the group did not vanish, but it eased. At least a little.

For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Edward Halstead rolled up his sleeves and prepared to play.