A Soldier’s Heart(2)

“Good evening, Lady Charlesworth.” His deep voice vibrated with strength as Serena had known instinctively it would. Then he bowed, lifting her aunt’s beringed fingers ever so briefly to his firm lips. She was fascinated by his slightest movement, overwhelmed by his courtly courtesy and distinguished air. A hero of the Peninsula, here at her ball. It was almost too much.

“…Mother sends her warmest regards and regrets she could not be in attendance,” he was saying.

“Dear Regina! I shall send her a missive the instant she and the duke arrive in town. It is still shockingly light for the opening of the Season, but so many of our more eligible parties are away in those dreadful Peninsular Wars. So fortunate you are home, and I believe I saw another soldier come in with you. I was just saying to—”

Knowing Aunt Lavinia’s habit of rattling on at length, often leaving her listener slightly glassyeyed, Serena did the only thing a well-brought-up young woman could do. Very carefully easing her foot from beneath the deep ruffle of her white gown, she slid it under her aunt’s puce satin hem until she could very gently trod on Lavinia’s slippered toes.

Aunt Lavinia’s slightly bulgy eyes widened, her darkened lashes nearly touching her brows. “Ahhh … as I was saying, so happy you are here so I may introduce you to my niece, Miss Serena Fitzwater,” she continued with a smoothness that inspired admiration.

Serena received the full power of a smile made dazzling by deepening the dimple in his square chin and darkening his eyes to near ebony.

“Serena, dear, it is my pleasure to make known to you Lord Matthew Blackwood, son of my dear friends, the Duke and Duchess of Avalon. Lord Blackwood is on leave from the Peninsula, where he has distinguished himself.”

Lord Matthew Blackwood; at last a name to put to this man who seemed to have stepped right from her dreams. Instead of her usual shy curtsy, Serena extended her hand. She wasn’t surprised at Aunt Lavinia’s short, not quite suppressed, gasp of shock. She was never so bold. Whatever had come over her?

Her boldness was rewarded. Lord Blackwood raised her hand to his lips and she felt a delicious tingle all the way up her arm when he pressed a correct kiss upon her fingertips.

“Miss Fitzwater, may I have the pleasure of the next waltz?”

As if he had commanded it—and Serena never doubted he could do so, for he appeared so magnificent and all-powerful in his green uniform, whose epaulets emphasized his already broad shoulders—the soft strains of a waltz floated through the air.

For just an instant fear froze her to the spot. Never had she been held in any man’s arms but dear Papa’s, and that only when they had practiced dance steps in the small parlor of the rectory. But she had been well schooled by Lavinia and forced herself to put her timid hand on his proffered arm, allowing him to lead her into the waltz.

She was rigid with nerves for the entire first circle of the floor. But he seemed so confident, his arms so strong and his steps so sure, that after a few minutes her nervous flutters were calmed. Tentative steps became a familiar pattern, and when she ceased to concentrate, she found she was actually enjoying the whirl around the ballroom. She looked up into his face, expecting him to be glancing beyond her left ear, as Papa always had. Instead he was watching her intently. The oddest sensations assailed her. Sensations Reverend Fitzwater’s daughter should rightfully know nothing about; but since the squire’s niece had kept her supplied with quite shocking novels purchased on her last trip to London, Serena had discovered a vast streak of romance in her usually sedate nature.

Papa would be shocked to know that sometimes she spun daydreams during his more lengthy sermons. In her romantic fancies her hero would have fair curls or raven black locks, like the novels she’d read. Lord Blackwood’s rich brown waves put those to shame. And, sometimes, the eyes gazing down at her with such speaking emotion were blue like her own, or a delicate spring green. Lord Blackwood’s deep chocolate eyes eradicated all memory of her visions.

“Where have you been all my life, Miss Serena Fitzwater?” he whispered, causing that deep cleft to mark his chin. “I’ve been waiting for you, you know.”

If she could pinch herself, she would. Was she dreaming? Was she lying tucked in bed upstairs in the rectory, reading by candlelight, her Bible handy in case Papa peeked in and caught her? These were the romantic words of a hero from those deliciously daring novels. Unfortunately she couldn’t recall what she should reply. So she simply spoke the truth.

“I’ve been at the rectory in Market Weighton, Lord Blackwood.”

“Well, you are here now, my angel. And I swear I shall never let you go away from me now I’ve found you.”