Kate’s chin rose stubbornly.
A faint glimmer of amusement appeared in Jack’s eyes. She was calling his bluff, was she? After tossing that coffeepot, she had a right to expect that he might want to throttle her. And then she’d slapped him—slapped the master of the house. So foolhardy. He could snap her in two if he chose; she would surely know that. She wasn’t to know he’d never hurt a woman in his life. But did she shrink back in fear? No, on she came, chin held defiantly high. His amusement deepened. Such a little creature, but with so much spirit.
Harlequin Historicals is delighted to introduce 2000 RITA Award finalist Anne Gracie and her North American debut book
Gallant Waif
Harlequin Historical #557
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Tori Phillips
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Carolyn Davidson
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Jillian Hart
Gallant Waif
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MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Prologue
Kent, England. Late summer, 1812.
“No, no, Papa. I won’t. You cannot make me!”
“Please, my sweet, I beg of you. It will not take long and I fear he will take no notice of me.”
The tall dark-haired man waiting alone in the drawing-room reacted to the voices, which seemed to come from outside. He turned sharply and let out a soft expletive, his face tensed in pain. Moving more cautiously, he flexed his leg carefully, supporting himself with his cane. His sudden pallor gradually disappeared as the pain ebbed slowly away.
He glanced towards the sound of the voices and swallowed, tugging nervously at his cravat, thus ruining the effect that he’d taken hours to achieve. His clothes were of the finest quality, although somewhat out of date; they seemed to have been tailored for a slightly larger gentleman, for the coat that should have fitted snugly was loose everywhere except across the shoulders. The gentleman himself was rather striking to behold as he stood staring blankly out of the window, tall, broad-shouldered and darkly handsome, yet thin, almost to the point of gauntness.
Jack Carstairs had done enough waiting. It had been bad enough being closed up in a carriage for hours upon end to get here…then to be left closeted in the front parlour for almost half an hour was too much for a man who’d spent the last three years out of doors, commanding troops under Wellington on the Peninsula. He opened the French doors on to the terrace and stepped outside into the cool, fresh air, and was immediately rewarded by the sweet, melodic tones of his beloved.
Jack stepped forward impatiently. Three years, and now the waiting was at an end. In just minutes he would hold her in his arms again, and the nightmare would be over. He limped eagerly towards the sound of the voices coming from the open French windows further along the terrace.
“No, Papa, you must tell him. I do not wish to see him.” Julia’s voice was petulant, sulky. Jack had never heard it so before.
“Now, now, my dear, I will speak to him and put him right, never fear, but you must see that it is necessary for you to at least come with me, for you know he will not believe me otherwise.”
Jack froze. He had received a letter full of sweetness and love from Julia, only a month ago, just before he was wounded. It was in the same batch of letters that had told him of his father’s death. Months after the event, as was all mail received on the Peninsula.
The lovely, well-remembered voice became more petulant, almost childish. “I don’t want to see him, I don’t. He’s changed, I know, I saw him from the window.”
Her father’s voice was coaxing. He’d always been wax in the hands of his beautiful daughter, but for once he was standing relatively firm. “Well, now, my dear, you have to expect that. After all, he has been at war and war changes a man.”
Julia made a small sound, which from anyone less exquisite would have been called a snort. “He…he’s ugly now, Papa; his face is ruined.”
Unconsciously Jack fingered the harsh, still livid scar that bisected his cheek from temple