‘I asked him an impertinent question and he lightly slapped me down. I suspect I overreacted.’
In the centre of the room, a narrow wooden beam had been suspended from the roof by two lengths of rope. Aubrey Kenelm was removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, amidst much cheering from the other guests. Shoeing the wild mare, the game was called, the amateur farrier expected to mount the wooden horse and to hammer the underside on a marked spot, four times in eight blows. It did not look particularly difficult, but Mr Kenelm was struggling to get on to the beam, which swayed alarmingly, and was just far enough off the ground for his legs to be unable to gain purchase on the ballroom floor when he was positioned in the ‘saddle’. Drummond had joined them now, standing next to young Mr Throckton.
‘I kissed him,’ Joanna confessed abruptly. ‘Drummond—Mr MacIntosh—I kissed him, and now I think that he might think—I don’t know what he thinks,’ she admitted, her cheeks flaming.
‘What do you think, Miss Forsythe? Did you enjoying kissing him?’
‘This is becoming a very personal conversation. Yes, if you must know, I did enjoy it. Very much.’
Lady Beatrice raised her brows. ‘I’ve always found kissing a rather insipid pastime.’
Joanna laughed, part scandalised, part in admiration. ‘That has been my limited experience, until today.’
‘Then you need a rapprochement with Mr MacIntosh, if you wish to experience more of it. If you do desire such a thing?’
Aubrey Kenelm, having finally succeeded in mounting the wild mare, was ignominiously thrown tumbling to the ground as he leaned over with his hammer.
‘Your silence speaks volumes,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘I rather think this game will provide much entertainment,’ she added, with what in a lesser-bred person would surely be called glee. ‘Let us go and enjoy the spectacle.’
* * *
One male guest after another had dismally failed to ‘shoe the wild mare’. Watching with trepidation, knowing he could not refuse his turn, Drummond was extremely relieved when Captain Milborne, exhorted by Miss Canningvale, finally achieved the feat.
‘You do not feel the need to try to equal the Captain?’
Drummond turned to find Joanna at his shoulder. ‘I have no wish to steal his thunder. Look, I shouldn’t have brushed you off as I did.’
‘There is no need to apologise. We have known each other for little more than a day. It was presumptuous of me to question you, and silly of me to take offence when you chose not to confide in me.’
‘I would like to explain, all the same,’ Drummond said sheepishly. ‘Our acquaintance may be short, but I don’t feel—I find that I would like you to understand. If you would like to...’
‘I would.’
He saw his own relief reflected in her eyes. And something else too. Not only liking. She too thought them alike, he’d not misunderstood. Drummond looked around anxiously for a way to escape.
A game of Blind Man’s Buff was getting underway. The majority of the guests were shouting out and running around while poor Miss Creighton as ‘it’, a silk cravat tied around her eyes, stumbled about in pursuit. At the other end of the ballroom, the Duke and Duchess were supervising the setting up of a huge shallow punch bowl filled with raisins. The Duke was pouring brandy from a decanter over the dried fruit. The Duchess was tugging at his sleeve, obviously concerned that he was utilising too much spirit. Later, the brandy-soaked raisins would be lit, the ballroom dimmed, and in the dark the foolhardy would try to snatch the ‘snap dragons’ from the hot punch. It had been a popular game in the Mess at Christmas. Drummond was very good at it, but he wasn’t in the least bit interested, at this precise moment, in demonstrating his prowess.
A round of applause signalled Miss Creighton’s success in handing over the mantle of ‘it’ to another. Drummond grabbed Joanna’s arm and rushed the pair of them through the nearest door. It led to a small retiring room lit by a single lamp on a round table, two low-backed chairs set opposite each other by the grate. ‘The Duke and Duchess’s retreat, I suspect,’ he said. ‘I wonder if there’s a spyhole into the ballroom? It wouldn’t surprise me. His Grace has a reputation for being all-seeing and all-knowing.’
He waited for Joanna to seat herself, then took the other chair. ‘When you asked me if I was in two minds about being here...’ He smoothed his finger over his brow, feeling the tiny indent of the scar. ‘Ach, the truth is that I am.’
‘You sound very Scottish when you say that. Akk.’
‘Ach,’ he said, accentuating the accent for her benefit, enjoying the way she smiled at him, the soft curve of her breasts above the neckline of her gown, the flush in her cheeks, the glint of red that the firelight reflected in her hair. He leant over to touch her hand. ‘Though I am glad I came, for if I had not I would not have met you, the reason I’m here in the first place is because the Duke of Wellington more or less commanded me to come.’
‘Wellington! You do have friends in high places.’
‘I wouldn’t exactly call us friends,’ Drummond said, thinking of the deafening silence between them since Waterloo. ‘He wants me to serve him as an aide, but unless I can persuade the Duke of Brockmore that I’m worthy of his support I’ll be of no use to Wellington.’
It was a convoluted enough explanation. Judging by the frown on Joanna’s face, it was no explanation at all. Her words proved him wrong. ‘A word in the right ears from the Duke of Brockmore will establish you with the right people, you mean?’
Re-establish more accurately, but to admit that was to encourage questions he could never, ever answer. ‘That’s the gist of it.’
‘But if you have the support of the Duke of Wellington, isn’t that enough?’
Drummond’s fingers strayed once more to the scar on his eyebrow. He jerked them away, knowing the habit betrayed his discomfort. ‘Two dukes are better than one,’ he said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. ‘When Wellington acts, he likes to be sure he will succeed.’
‘He has cause to believe he will. He is a national hero. What a privilege to serve directly under him—what an opportunity for you though...’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Is the position not to your liking? Are you—I don’t even know how you’ve been occupied in the period since you left the army. What have you been doing in the—what is it, three and a half years, since Waterloo? Or did you remain in the army for some time afterwards?’
Wednesday, the fifth of July, 1815, a mere two weeks since the battle had been fought, had seen his final day of military service dawn, preceded by what had seemed an endless night. A day that was over in a matter of minutes. Drummond hauled his thoughts back from that overcast parade ground, for Joanna was waiting patiently for an answer to her questions.
‘I’ve been in the country,’ he said, staring into the fire. ‘I have a small estate in Shropshire. When I took out the lease, it was sadly run down, the tenanted farms in great need of modernisation, the house itself in a state of disrepair. But it is astonishing what one can achieve in a relatively short period, when one has no other occupation to distract one. And how little effort it takes, when things are in fine fettle, to keep them ticking over.’
‘You mean you are bored?’
He gave a gruff little laugh. ‘To distraction.’
‘And so this offer of a post with the Duke of Wellington...’
‘Is a godsend. So I ought to think.’ Drummond winced. ‘That sounds damned ungrateful, and I’m not. You can have no idea, Joanna, what this would mean to me.’ He hunched forward on the chair, his fingers curled into his knees. ‘I have served my country for most of my life. My father bought my first commission when I was fifteen. It was all I’d ever wanted.’