Free The Major's Faux Fiancee by Erica Ridley Page B

Frowning, she held fast to the crook of his arm. He let out a slow breath.
    “They’re going to be so disappointed in me.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his face pale. “I’ve no idea how they learned I was here, of all places, but to discover me a half mile from their door when I haven’t left London since returning from war…”
    “You haven’t seen them?” she whispered in disbelief.
    “I saw my father. Once.” He nodded to the footman. “Show them into the parlor, please.”
    The footman glanced at Daphne, then behind her at Captain Steele.
    Her guardian lifted his hand. “By all means, the parlor. We’re not animals. I’ll fetch the port.”
    She glared at him. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning!”
    “I’ll fetch two bottles.” He winked and disappeared back into the study.
    Daphne shook her head. Only a pirate. She kept her fingers curved around Bartholomew’s arm as they headed toward the parlor. Her head, however, was still spinning from his casual admission of little to no contact with his parents. What in the world could cause such a thing?
    She frowned. During the first few months of recovery, he wouldn’t have been able to leave his bedchamber, much less take a carriage ride to Kent. Yet his father had visited his sole surviving child only once? She narrowed her eyes. Something was amiss. If anything, the Blackpools had always struck her as overly doting on their twin sons.
    Surely they didn’t blame Bartholomew for Edmund’s death! That blame lay with Bonaparte’s army, not with the honorable soldiers dedicated to defending against it.
    Then again, she, too, had felt abandoned when the twins left for Eton and then to war, leaving her adrift in the countryside with an absent father and nothing to keep her company but her own loneliness. She had dreamt of them coming home. Of having friends. Of mattering to someone.
    No doubt Bartholomew’s parents had been even more desperate for the safe return of their sons.
    And now this.
    She bit her lip. With such an obvious rift in their family, the worst thing to do was to spring a surprise betrothal on them, but there was no way to avoid it now that they were here. Her stomach churned. Bartholomew’s parents were bound to think the reason they knew nothing of their relationship was because their estranged son hadn’t deigned to inform them.
    The only thing she could do was smooth their ruffled feathers as quickly as possible. But was that even a help, when they’d be crying off the engagement in a few weeks’ time? Her stomach soured. No matter what, hopes would be dashed. What was the best plan?
    She didn’t want to make too good of an impression. She might never speak to his parents after today. Bartholomew, on the other hand, was going to have to go through a heart-rending dust-up with them all over again when the wedding fell through.
    Presuming they were still speaking to him.
    Daphne would instruct him to blame everything on her, of course. She would never forgive herself if his relationship with his parents worsened because of her involvement.
    Familial relationships were to be cherished. One never knew how much time one had left.
    She settled onto a wingback chair to await the inevitable disaster.
    Bartholomew took the wingback chair opposite. His posture was stiff, his eyes glassy.
    She frowned. They didn’t look like a besotted couple. They looked like strangers. Awaiting sentencing.
    Hollowness seeped inside her chest. Of course that’s how they looked. Why should she have expected anything else?
    From childhood, she had been taught that her needs were of secondary importance. That she herself was of little importance, forgotten by her flock-minded father and their entire little town.
    A part of her had always hoped that someday, someone would look at her selfless life, her years of devoting herself to the welfare of others, and think, Miss Vaughn has made a difference . Or Miss Vaughn matters .
    A deeper part of her once