Page 16 of A Bachelor’s Lessons in Love (Bachelors of Blackstone’s #1)

Chapter Sixteen

F elicity hadn’t meant to watch for him. Yet here she was, standing at the music room window, eyes on the path she knew Colonel Halstead took to return to the stables. It simply happened that way.

The morning sun warmed the music room, where Daphne’s fingers flitted with ease over the keys of the pianoforte. Then the melody faltered, slowed, and resumed at the correct speed. Her efforts were earnest but unpolished.

“You are doing well, darling. Try again,” Felicity said, somewhat absently, her attention drawn beyond the window’s glass. Then she saw him.

Edward rode along a path tucked behind tall hedges, his dark coat fitted close to his frame. He guided his towering bay gelding with a precision she could not help admiring. She had seen him ride before, he was an elegant horseman, utterly at ease in the saddle; but something about the sight of him unnerved her this morning. Perhaps because, for the first time, she realized how much effort he put into that measure of control.

Felicity had spent half the night trying to resent him, nursing the sharp sting of his quiet rebuke. She wanted to be angry with him, offended—insulted. Anything that would make her feel unlikely to forgive him for his slight against her abilities.

Now, in the daylight, watching him move so naturally on horseback, she had to admit another truth entirely.

He had been worried. More so, he had been genuinely afraid for Daphne’s well-being.

That did not excuse his words, to be sure, but it made her understand them. Still more, it made her compassion for him overcome her own frustrations. Which was, in itself, frustrating.

“Daphne,” Felicity said as she pulled her deep gray shawl tight around her shoulders. “I need to step out. Keep practicing until I return.” She walked at quite a normal speed to the door, which was very much on purpose.

“Yes, Aunt Felicity.” Daphne did not sound enthusiastic, but she would do as asked. She always did. She was an obedient and responsible girl.

Once the music room door clicked shut, Felicity lifted her skirts and walked at a brisk pace through the house. In all honesty, one could call her movement a run if one was not feeling charitable.

Making her way outdoors, she increased her speed to gain the stables quickly. After all, Felicity knew an opportunity when she saw one. Everyone in the household knew that Edward preferred to care for his horse himself. The servants thought it an odd habit left over from the war, but Felicity suspected it was something he did to soothe himself as much as to care for the beast he rode.

She preferred to stroke a cat purring in her lap, but why wouldn’t an enormous man derive the same satisfaction from brushing an enormous animal?

Entering the stables, Felicity placed her hand over her chest, slowing her breathing as her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness of the building. The scent of fresh hay and saddle leather filled her senses and had a subtle calming effect. Adjusting her shoulders, she strode inside with her head held high, making her way to Voltaire’s stall.

Yes, the Colonel had named his battle steed after a French philosopher. When she had initially heard the name, she had giggled, but the housekeeper, Mrs. Lane, had warned her that Edward was fond of quoting the Frenchman every time he was brought up. Felicity kept her lips pressed together rather than ask questions. Men quoting philosophers rarely entertained anyone.

Now, as she approached, she wondered what about the philosopher Edward had admired.

But she was not here to hear him quote anyone, or to placate him. They needed to talk.

Felicity halted outside of Voltaire’s stall, peering over the high wall. Edward stood inside, his back to her, one hand brushing the gelding’s neck in slow, methodical strokes. The animal stood patiently beneath his touch, shifting only to snort softly when he caught sight of Felicity.

She hesitated a moment, admiring the breadth of Edward’s shoulders as he worked. The careful way that he moved. He had to have sensed her there, surely. “Colonel.”

“Miss Price.” He did not turn as he addressed her. “Are we on formal terms again?” His voice was calm. Level.

“We needn’t be.” It was infuriating, how easily he contained himself while she had spent the last several hours simmering with emotion. Still, she kept her voice measured. “Edward, I believe we need to have a conversation.”

The man continued brushing Voltaire’s coat in long, firm strokes at a steady rhythm. “Are you here to remind me that I spoke out of turn last evening?”

She lifted her chin. “If I thought it would make a difference, perhaps.”

He paused. Then, finally, he turned to look at her holding the brush in both hands. “I was harsher than I meant to be.”

It wasn’t precisely an apology, but the acknowledgement helped.

Felicity let out a slow breath, her fingers curling around the edge of the stall. “And I do not believe you meant to imply that I have no care for Daphne’s well-being.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I did not.”

Well. That was some progress.

But she was not finished. “Still. You cannot watch her every moment of the day, Edward—nor can you control the choices she will make, nor the people she will encounter. All you can do, all either of us can do, is guide her and hope she chooses wisely.”

Turning away again, Edward resumed brushing Voltaire, his focus seemingly on his horse. But she knew better. “A man who hopes is a man who has already lost control of the outcome.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes at his back. “Control?” She shook her head. “Is that what you value most?”

His hand slowed, but he did not answer.

“Why do you insist on seeing the worst in people?” Felicity leaned slightly over the wooden edge of the stall. “Mr. Montague is a fine young man, and Daphne appears to enjoy?—”

“Montague is not the one who concerned me,” Edward cut in smoothly, voice still calm, though she caught an undercurrent of something else. Something sharp and protective. Only then did understanding dawn.

“The man you met last night,” she said urgently. “This Mr. Arnold—you recognized him? Or know something of him?”

His shoulders tightened. “No. But I recognized his sort.”

He did not elaborate, and she did not press him. She knew the type, too.

“Did you let Daphne explain matters to you?” Felicity asked quietly. “Have you asked what she made of the conversation you overheard?”

“No.” He was quiet for a long moment. “I…I did not give her a chance to say much at all.”

“Perhaps you should have.”

“Perhaps.”

For a long moment, Felicity simply studied him. She watched and admired the steady, gentle way he worked the brush over Voltaire’s coat. The methodical care in his hands. The way he did not rush, even in his frustration.

“You do this often.” She surprised herself by speaking aloud. When he looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, she clarified. “You care for the horse yourself. Mrs. Lane told me.”

Edward exhaled, the brush slowing to a stop. “Since the war.” He glanced up briefly. “Most cavalrymen had to replace their horses often, as did the officers. I did not.”

Felicity frowned, her brow furrowing. “Voltaire was with you—in France?”

A nod. “For the last five years of my service.” The Colonel put his empty hand on the horse’s shoulder. “He had more patience than I do.”

Voltaire, as if knowing himself the subject of conversation, let out a soft huff of breath, lifting his head almost regally.

Felicity could not help but smile at the animal. “That is not difficult,” she teased.

Edward released a quiet chuckle, a low and unexpected sound that warmed her inside and out. “Perhaps not.”

A small shift in the air between them made her relax. She rested her hands more fully on the wooden door, the tension in her body finally easing. “You named him after a philosopher.”

His answer was a small shrug, then a pause before he said, “Seemed fitting. Voltaire’s philosophy was rooted in reason, which I once thought I valued above all else.”

“Once thought?” she echoed the word, puzzled.

The man’s gaze lifted, his eyes meeting hers, and the moment stretched between them. Long, and heavy with something unspoken. For the first time since the previous night, Felicity saw something as potent as anger and frustration, but an entirely different emotion. Something more dangerous. Something she did not dare name, even as her heart sped up.

Edward was the first to look away, returning his attention to Voltaire’s mane. “I will do better,” he said at last, his voice quieter than before. “For Daphne’s sake. But I cannot, will not apologize for protecting her.”

Felicity considered him for a moment, letting her pulse slow to normal. Then, slowly, she stepped away from the stall. “Then I suppose we understand each other.”

“It seems we do, Captain.”

“Good.” She turned. “I will see you at dinner, then.” Felicity walked down the central walkway of the stables and back into the morning light. She didn’t look over her shoulder once. But she felt his gaze following her long after she left the stables.

* * *

Hours later, Felicity and her niece were in the drawing room, Daphne seated by the window, embroidering handkerchiefs with colorful flowers to match the younger woman’s gowns for the season.

For Felicity, it was slow going. She enjoyed embroidery, generally, as it let her mind rest while her fingers worked. Today, however, her thoughts kept distracting her. Every jab of the needle made her think about Edward—not that she wanted to stick him with a pin or anything. Not anymore. But it felt somewhat satisfying to think of his stubbornness every time she pushed the needle through the cotton.

Except when she lifted the handkerchief to examine her work, her apron came up with it.

Felicity groaned. She hadn’t made such a novice error in… Well. She didn’t know how long it had been.

“I suppose it serves me right,” she muttered, giving the hoop a tug and realizing it would be best to remove the thread more delicately. “Daphne, darling. Your scissors?”

Her niece did not answer.

Felicity looked up. “Daphne?”

The young woman’s embroidery hoop lay cast aside on the table beside her. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers twitching as though she wished for a more interesting way to employ them.

Felicity had seen that exact expression before, years ago; when Daphne had been eight years old, made to sit through an unbearably long sermon, and had nearly vibrated with impatience in the pew beside her.

But this was not the same child who had once tugged at Felicity’s sleeve and whispered shy complaints about the length of the vicar’s droning voice. Daphne was nearly grown, and her frustration was not born of childish restlessness but of something far weightier.

“You’re brooding,” Felicity said lightly, putting her hoop and apron down.

Daphne huffed, her breath fogging the glass where she leaned against the windowpane. “I am thinking .”

“Thinking usually requires less glaring at the garden below.”

Daphne turned her head slightly, enough to give Felicity a sidelong glance. “Does it?”

Felicity smiled despite herself, but she knew better than to tease overly much. She had been a young woman once, hemmed in by rules, watched too closely, told that everything was for her own good.

She rested her hands over her skirts, studying the profile of her nearly grown niece with a tender heart. “Shall I guess the subject of your brooding thoughts?”

Daphne sighed, finally turning fully from the window. “Do you think I am foolish?”

The question took Felicity aback. “Foolish? Of course not. I have always thought you rather level-headed. Intelligent, too.”

“That is not how he treats me.”

Felicity did not need to ask who she meant.

Daphne crossed her arms, her expression tightening. “He—Colonel Halstead—watches me as if I am a child who might put a pin in her mouth and swallow it. It is growing intolerable.”

Felicity inhaled slowly, considering. Though she agreed with her niece, it would not do to encourage such thoughts about the girl’s guardian. They were, after all, supposed to be united. “You are frustrated,” she said at last. “That is understandable.”

Daphne let out a short, breathy laugh. “I have been almost continually frustrated. I must be beyond that by now.”

“Very well. You are absolutely seething with indignation.”

That won a slight smile, though Daphne quickly smoothed her features again.

Felicity leaned forward, softening her voice. “But the real question is this, my dear. Do you think he watches you because he believes you are foolish or because he is afraid?”

Daphne’s brows pulled together. “Afraid? The Colonel?”

Felicity pressed on. “You lost your father not long ago—and while Colonel Halstead may not admit it, I believe he is terrified that something might happen to you, too. That he will fail you in some way, and thus fail your father’s trust. He is a soldier, Daphne. Soldiers protect what is theirs, ‘tis what they are trained to do.”

“I am not his,” Daphne muttered, but the bitterness in her voice was less prevalent than before.

“No,” Felicity agreed softly, “but he has made you his responsibility when he could have ignored you. He could have done almost naught to aid you in coming out, and see how he has changed his routine, his habits, his expenditure. We have certainly seen he takes responsibility very seriously.”

Daphne lowered her gaze to her hands, tracing an invisible pattern along the folds of her skirts. “I do not mean to be ungrateful,” she said at last. “But I want to be trusted—to be seen as more than a charge to be managed.”

Felicity’s chest tightened. Was that not exactly how she had felt years ago? When she had still harbored hope that she might have the love she wished for? Her voice was gentler now. “Then prove you can be.”

Daphne looked up, startled.

Felicity tilted her head slightly. “If you wish to be trusted, then show him you are worthy of that trust. Obviously, you will not be sneaking about or practicing deception—but you need to make it absolutely clear, through your actions, that you are not reckless.”

Daphne frowned. “And how am I to do that?”

Felicity leaned back. “That, my dear girl, is for you to decide. After all, it would be no demonstration if I instructed you how to do it.”

Another moment of thoughtful silence passed.

Then, unexpectedly, her niece’s gaze turned sharp, almost assessing. “And what of you?”

Felicity had started gently tugging the thread out of her apron. Perhaps she did not need the scissors. She only needed patience. “What of me?” she asked without looking up.

Daphne’s tone did not waver. “What will you do when I marry?”

Everything within her stilled a moment, then she continued plucking at the thread. “I will find rooms to rent in a quiet seaside village, perhaps buy a cottage. I will pass my days gossiping with the locals, and I will visit you and your new husband whenever you wish.”

She had rehearsed the plans often to herself, and she knew Daphne had heard them before. So why these questions?

Daphne pressed on, though, lips turned down. “You came with me because you would not leave me alone with a stranger. But I am beginning to wonder, Aunt Felicity, are you only here because you think I need you? Or are you here because you do not want what comes next?”

Felicity’s breath caught in her throat. She met her niece’s stare. Surely not … “Do you wish me to leave?”

Quickly, Daphne shook her head. “No—no! I would keep you with me always. But Aunt Felicity, there must be more for you. More that you want.” She gestured to Felicity’s person. “Even now, you forget yourself too often for me. When will you put off your mourning? Father would not like to see you dressed so. He used to say mourning kept one’s heart aching, but color?—”

“—color returned cheer and warmth to the soul,” Felicity finished for her, smiling as she remembered her brother’s words. He had spoken them to her after they lost their parents, Daphne’s beloved grandparents, and repeated them frequently since then until his own passing.

“I do not want you to fade into the shadows of life.” Daphne stood and crossed the room to her aunt, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. “You have always been so happy. Always telling me to explore the world around me, to find the things I love and surround myself with them. You ought to do the same, Aunt Felicity.”

Uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of such sage advice, Felicity shifted in her chair and released a dramatic sigh. “Alas, my Daffodil, I am but a spinster. Not a young woman with the world at her feet.”

Her niece crossed her arms and scoffed, in much the way the Colonel had done several times since their meeting. “Aunt Felicity, really! You are a lovely woman of independent means. You could marry, if you wished, or travel. Stop speaking as though you are an old woman with life already spent. Please.” Daphne looked down at her aunt’s apron, and her eyebrows drew together. “Did you sew the hoop to your apron?”

“Um.” Felicity winced. “Yes?”

After giving her a confused glance, and then a smile, Daphne fetched her scissors. Together, they undid Felicity’s mess, and the topic shifted, much to Felicity’s relief. Yet the conversation stayed with her throughout the rest of her day…and then it followed her into her dreams.