Elizabeth smiled at Caroline’s use of her Christian name. It was the ultimate peace offering. “Thank you, dear Caroline,” she offered in return.
Caroline smiled and nodded to her former rival. Returning to Annabella, she said, “But it is comforting to know that in his eyes I hold inducements to devotion other than intelligence, accomplishments, and dowry.” Her hand drifted to her cameo. “But come, ladies, we are taking Jane from her duties. Shall we not return to the gentlemen? It is surely time for the dancing to commence.” With that, Caroline took Jane’s arm and turned to walk towards the ballroom.
Standing in front of her was Sir John, regarding her with a slight smile. He approached them and said, “Allow me,” taking Caroline on one arm and Jane on the other.
As the party moved towards the ballroom, he leaned over and whispered in Caroline’s ear, “Well done.”
Walking behind them, Marianne whispered to Elizabeth, “I am glad I am not her enemy.”
Chapter 4
Three colonels of cavalry waited in an anteroom of St. —— Church in London. One wore the red uniform coat of the Life Guards. The others were in the blue of the Light Dragoons, one with the red sash of the Bath. The man in the red coat, eldest of the three, was engaged in troubled mumbling.
“Brandon,” cried one of the blue coats, “what are you about, man? You carry on as if you were getting married!”
“I beg your pardon, Fitzwilliam,” said Colonel Brandon. “Pay me no mind—I am in a foul mood today.”
“We cannot have that, can we?” replied Colonel the Hon. Richard Fitzwilliam of the ——rd Lt. Dragoons. “You will put poor Buford off, and Miss Bingley will have your head!”
Buford observed the exchange with amusement. “What troubles you, Brandon?” he asked.
“I am reflecting over a report from my steward, McIntosh. It seems one of my tenants has accused another’s son of dishonoring his daughter. Mr. McIntosh refuses to do anything without my leave, but I cannot make a decision without seeing to the facts of the case myself. It will be at least a week before Mrs. Brandon and I return to Delaford, and I fear by then someone may grow inpatient and take matters into his own hands.”
“Indeed, you need to speak to my cousin Darcy,” advised Fitzwilliam. “He has had to deal with like situations before, thanks to a certain scoundrel whom I shall not name who has caused him great consternation in the past. Darcy has experience in settling such matters, I regret to say.”
The two men continued to discuss the problem, but Buford did not attend. Today was his wedding day, and mapping out campaigns or dealing with warring tenants was none of his concern.
Sir John Buford’s long campaign ended today—his campaign to find a wife.
Colonel Sir John Buford, a newly made Companion in the The Most Honorable Order of the Bath, stood against a wall in Almack’s, trying to look as inconspicuous as a fine-looking man could wearing the red sash of knighthood—and failing. As a trained soldier in the service of his Britannic Majesty, he recognized a battlefield when he saw one. The first rule for surviving such a war zone was knowledge of the placement of the troops opposite, and that was best done behind concealment. As rocks and trees were in poor supply in the assembly rooms, the best Buford could hope for was to blend into the wallpaper.
It was the beginning of the Season, and all the mothers on the hunt were dragging their daughters about from event to event, trying to attach their little darlings to a worthy gentleman before all the desirable ones were snatched up. Buford had to rank among the most sought-after—a hero with a title and two thousand a year whose wealth and status were certainly acceptable for a second son. Like geese scavenging a wheat field, the colorful birds of prey glided across the room, feathered headdresses bobbing in unison, searching for the most suitable match for their offspring.
It was not that Buford disliked women—far from it. Indeed, he had the reputation of being quite the ladies’ man, and it was whispered that he had dallied with some of the most illustrious young wives of the fashionable set. No, his reluctance stemmed from his character. He was a hunter and, therefore, was ill at ease being the hunted.
It was ironic. The reason Buford was at Almack’s at all was that, after considering his time of life—he would not be nine-and-twenty much longer—and all the entreaties from his mother and sister, he decided the time had come to begin thinking about taking a wife. Coupled with the death of his honored father and the horrors he had witnessed in Spain, the colonel had come to accept the inevitability of the idea.
This was ironic for two reasons: First, the aggressive matrons of the ton would not have paused for an instant in their labors had they known Buford’s mind. Second, those labors were just the sort of activity that would assure that their daughters would never be brought home to Wales.
“Buford!” cried his companion. “If you truly wish to be known as a respectable gentleman, there are other ways to go about it than imitating Fitzwilliam Darcy!” Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam gave his comrade-in-arms a lopsided grin.
Buford’s eyes never left the crowd. “I beg your pardon, but I am certainly not as stiff as Darcy.”
Fitzwilliam laughed. “Oh, Buford, you make a fireplace poker look flexible!”
Buford could not contain his smile at the jibe. He could always count on Fitzwilliam to lighten his mood or protect his flank—as had been proved many times in Spain and France. Through war, women, and song, they had become brothers of a sort.
Buford was closer to fellow soldiers like Fitzwilliam and Brandon than he was to Philip, his true brother—not that the two were estranged—not in the least. They had been very pleasant companions in his youth, and they would still do anything for one another, but now the brothers had little in common—save family. Philip could no longer understand him. No man could who had never taken up arms. Thomas, his younger brother, might have, had he not died a midshipman at Trafalgar.
“When such beauty is before you, how can you resist it?” his friend continued.
“Well enough. Are you not affected?”
“I?” Fitzwilliam asked with a laugh. “I am not on campaign!”
Yes, on campaign was a good way of putting it. Since he came to realize that he had been wasting his life, Buford sought out ways to set things right. His first step was to cut off all association with the more licentious members of the fashionable set. The next was to rebuild his reputation. His last task was to find a worthy occupation now that his fighting days were behind him.
His father had been generous in his will, but Buford could not tolerate being idle. Looking about for a calling, he closely observed his commanding officer. Field Marshall Sir Arthur Wellesley, now the Duke of Wellington, and his brother, Marquess Richard Wellesley, while of noble birth, were of Irish stock and limited in their expectations. They used their military and political talents to make themselves two of the most powerful men in the kingdom. Theirs was as good a model to follow as any other, but before he could find his destiny in Parliament or government, he needed a wife.
“’Tis rather crowded for the first night at Almack’s, Fitz,” remarked Buford. “What is the occasion?”
“Do you not know? The hounds of society are here for the debuts of Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy.”
“So I am to finally meet the famous Hertfordshire sisters? Excellent. I am sure that Bingley’s bride is just as pleasant and unassuming as he, but I am looking forward to meeting the woman who brought down Darcy. Your cousin is an excellent fellow, Fitz,” Buford assured his companion. “I like him very well, but he can be taciturn and withdrawn to an embarrassing extreme! Are you sure you are related?”