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Authors: Natasha Blackthorne
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matter how many times
he had experienced it travelling with the Dragoons, it always filled him with a
sense of liberation. Change was something he craved, needed.
But on this trip,
there was no feeling of exhilaration. He was not sitting here as usual, tapping
his foot and trying to control the rise of anticipatory excitement.
Jon watched Anne as
she slept, curled on the seat across from him.
Did she look a little
pale? Well, that was understandable. Carriage travel was still a strain for
her. That was something he had not known about love. He had not expected how it
would tie his feelings so closely to those of his beloved. He couldn’t take
pleasure in a trip that was so unpleasant for her.
But she was holding
up well. He had been prepared for tears or carriage sickness, possibly a few
hysterics. He’d known grown men who had suffered similar fears born of trauma,
and he had witnessed their complete undoing when they were forced to face
something that triggered old memories and viscerally recalled terrors. And a
little hysteria in a young, sheltered woman would not have been unexpected.
Warmth entered his
heart and he smiled to himself.
She had been brave
the past couple of days.
Damned brave.
He knew what it cost
her. His admiration for her grew with each passing day.
The blanket he had
put over her earlier had fallen and he reached across to reposition it. He
noticed, again, the shabbiness of her travelling dress. The garment must be at
least three years old. And such an unbecoming colour. How could he have
forgotten that she needed new clothes? He’d known the deficiencies of her
wardrobe from what he’d seen her wearing at Whitecross Hall. However, lately he
hadn’t exactly been paying close attention to any of her clothes. He’d mostly
focused on keeping her out of them.
Then again, she
wouldn’t have required a new wardrobe secluded with him at his hunting box.
He hadn’t planned on
coming to Mayfair so soon.
Resentment burned
through him again.
He refocused on the
paper he’d been reading. But he kept hearing her words, from the night before
they had set out for London.
It is your duty as a peer of this realm to take a pivotal part
in this debate.
The Massacre at Saint
Peter’s Field. The possibility of rebellion, of civil unrest or even war,
raised the prospect of needing to raise a regiment and return to military life.
All of that would have excited him before.
But that was when
marriage had simply been something he contemplated to gain heirs to fulfil a
duty. Maria Waterbury, his former fiancée, was a woman who had been ready to
exchange her feminine fertility for his title. Blackmore Castle had been just a
place, an inheritance and encumbrance he had never wanted.
Now everything was
different.
He had a wife. Now he
had someone he cared for deeply, a woman who would bear their children.
Blackmore Castle was her security, something that already belonged to their
sons.
He did not relish the
prospect of a war in way now.
He felt, for the
first time in his life, an investment in peace. And he was becoming possessed by
an uncomfortable urgency to take action to prevent unrest and war.
Jon himself was
incredulous that battle-tested British troops—Hussars, for God’s sake– could
have so poorly handled the affair at St. Peter’s Field, in Manchester.
Some where between
fifteen to eighteen people dead, the exact number was not certain.
Hundreds wounded.
All over mere a mere
oratory.
To make matters
worse, Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, had sent a letter to the commander of
the yeomanry and the Manchester magistrates— thanking them for their
prompt action in preserving the public tranquillity.
And this
congratulatory message had been approved by the Prince Regent himself.
Good God!
The government was
apparently bent upon doing what it could to incite a full-scale rebellion.
But then Jon had
always held politicians in contempt. How could he not? The almighty, the
he had experienced it travelling with the Dragoons, it always filled him with a
sense of liberation. Change was something he craved, needed.
But on this trip,
there was no feeling of exhilaration. He was not sitting here as usual, tapping
his foot and trying to control the rise of anticipatory excitement.
Jon watched Anne as
she slept, curled on the seat across from him.
Did she look a little
pale? Well, that was understandable. Carriage travel was still a strain for
her. That was something he had not known about love. He had not expected how it
would tie his feelings so closely to those of his beloved. He couldn’t take
pleasure in a trip that was so unpleasant for her.
But she was holding
up well. He had been prepared for tears or carriage sickness, possibly a few
hysterics. He’d known grown men who had suffered similar fears born of trauma,
and he had witnessed their complete undoing when they were forced to face
something that triggered old memories and viscerally recalled terrors. And a
little hysteria in a young, sheltered woman would not have been unexpected.
Warmth entered his
heart and he smiled to himself.
She had been brave
the past couple of days.
Damned brave.
He knew what it cost
her. His admiration for her grew with each passing day.
The blanket he had
put over her earlier had fallen and he reached across to reposition it. He
noticed, again, the shabbiness of her travelling dress. The garment must be at
least three years old. And such an unbecoming colour. How could he have
forgotten that she needed new clothes? He’d known the deficiencies of her
wardrobe from what he’d seen her wearing at Whitecross Hall. However, lately he
hadn’t exactly been paying close attention to any of her clothes. He’d mostly
focused on keeping her out of them.
Then again, she
wouldn’t have required a new wardrobe secluded with him at his hunting box.
He hadn’t planned on
coming to Mayfair so soon.
Resentment burned
through him again.
He refocused on the
paper he’d been reading. But he kept hearing her words, from the night before
they had set out for London.
It is your duty as a peer of this realm to take a pivotal part
in this debate.
The Massacre at Saint
Peter’s Field. The possibility of rebellion, of civil unrest or even war,
raised the prospect of needing to raise a regiment and return to military life.
All of that would have excited him before.
But that was when
marriage had simply been something he contemplated to gain heirs to fulfil a
duty. Maria Waterbury, his former fiancée, was a woman who had been ready to
exchange her feminine fertility for his title. Blackmore Castle had been just a
place, an inheritance and encumbrance he had never wanted.
Now everything was
different.
He had a wife. Now he
had someone he cared for deeply, a woman who would bear their children.
Blackmore Castle was her security, something that already belonged to their
sons.
He did not relish the
prospect of a war in way now.
He felt, for the
first time in his life, an investment in peace. And he was becoming possessed by
an uncomfortable urgency to take action to prevent unrest and war.
Jon himself was
incredulous that battle-tested British troops—Hussars, for God’s sake– could
have so poorly handled the affair at St. Peter’s Field, in Manchester.
Some where between
fifteen to eighteen people dead, the exact number was not certain.
Hundreds wounded.
All over mere a mere
oratory.
To make matters
worse, Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, had sent a letter to the commander of
the yeomanry and the Manchester magistrates— thanking them for their
prompt action in preserving the public tranquillity.
And this
congratulatory message had been approved by the Prince Regent himself.
Good God!
The government was
apparently bent upon doing what it could to incite a full-scale rebellion.
But then Jon had
always held politicians in contempt. How could he not? The almighty, the
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