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THE PERFECT HERO
By
Madeleine Conway
© copyright November 2007, Madeleine Conway
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright November 2007
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One:
In which dogs cause difficulties
Hero Veasey looked with distaste at Achilles and Ajax. There they lay, curled in a cream and toffee mass by the fire, deeply uninterested in leaving the comfort of the hearthrug for the horrors of a walk in the gloom of a December afternoon. They were charming in their sleep, snuffling slightly, twitching occasionally as a fresh scent crossed their dreams. But roused, they were fiends in canine form, and it was she who must escort them for their afternoon exercise. She usually liked dogs, but Achilles and Ajax were different. They had no purpose: they did not catch rats or collect game or herd sheep. They were toy dogs and Aunt Lydia imposed no discipline on them. Hero and Beattie would take them down to the gardens to the north of George Street and the little menaces would tangle their leads and snarl at each other, and when they were not snarling at each other, they would snarl in tandem at any passing creature, united only in their suspicion of every moving thing.
A footman came bearing a serviceable cloak, for the chill, drizzling day was too harsh for one of her prettier pelisses, and Beattie followed him up from the servant's quarters. The maidservant was warmly wrapped up and bore a dull, sturdy bonnet for Hero. Taking the pair of King Charles Spaniels for their afternoon constitutional was Hero's only obligation as a guest with her dear aunt and uncle, but on some afternoons, on dank winter afternoons, it seemed an onerous one. She tied her bonnet and signaled for the cloak, which Hero buttoned with nimble fingers. Then the footman slipped leads around the dogs' necks while she and Beattie drew on their gloves and within seconds the room was filled with a confusion of yapping and growling. Exchanging a glance of mutual commiseration, the girls each took a lead and set off into the fresh air, their charges tumbling alongside.
Walking briskly, they soon reached the iron railings of the gardens where residents of this fine new area of Edinburgh were entitled to roam, provided they had paid their subscription. Hero handed Ajax's lead to Beattie, dug about in her reticule for the key, and opened the gate. The spaniels strained to enter and started leaping up and yapping once again to be released. Beattie and Hero bent down, slipped the leather from each of the animals and watched as the creatures raced off into the shrubbery bordering the square.
They were in the easternmost of the three squares planned by the architects of the New Town. There were as yet no mature trees there, but the bushes that had been planted only a year or two previously thrived and there were plenty of nooks and crannies in which two small dogs could happily lose themselves.
"Let's stroll about the paths, Beattie. We must keep warm somehow." The two girls walked, and Beattie asked what Hero was planning to wear that evening.
"One of the new gowns, I think. The bottle green satin, perhaps? I like that better now it is made up."
This encouraged Beattie to chatter on, much to Hero's relief. It was curious how little the new gowns interested her. A year ago, she would have been agog, vying with Beattie in her enthusiasm, but such things no longer seemed particularly important to her. In fact, all her previous interests seemed altogether frivolous and irrelevant. It was astonishing what a change six months could render. But Beattie, who was still very young, rising sixteen, and thrilled by the opportunity to train as a proper lady's maid, could scarcely resist exclaiming over the delightful items delivered to the house in George Street for the delectation of Miss Hero Veasey.
It was ungrateful to be so unmoved by all the pretty things that were showered on her by her father and her uncles and her aunt, Hero knew, and she did her best to conceal how little she was captivated by baubles and bangles and ribands. Her family could no more stop giving them to her than they could cease eating or drinking. She had given them a fright, had suffered a terrible blow and a dreadful sickness, and was more subdued and sombre than she had ever been. Papa, Uncle Anthony, Aunt Lydia, and Uncle William wanted their little Hero back again, and thought to bring her back to her former self with trinkets. She sighed. Even the most delicious of gewgaws and bibelots and pretty new gowns would not restore her silly girlishness. She did not regret it, but she did regret that she could not act as gaily and light-heartedly for her loving family as she had been used to do.
With Beattie running on, full of the invitations and excitements of the past week and the week to come, it was easy to walk several times round the square while the dogs burrowed in the undergrowth and came leaping out to chase after twigs and bark at the saplings planted on the lawns. But the light was leaching away, and they needed to return home before it became entirely dark.
"Let's try to catch the little horrors, Beattie. I will seek out Achilles, you look for Ajax. I last saw him over there, digging amidst the camellias."
The girls separated and started calling the dogs. Achilles immediately broke cover and hurtled up the incline to where Hero stood, only to scuffle under the bushes by the gate where they had entered twenty minutes before. Hero picked up her skirts and chased after the tiresome pest. She squatted and tried to peer through the leaves, then stood again in exasperation only to jump back in surprise. A man loomed over her.
"Excuse me, I must beg a favor of you."
His voice was educated and his cloak looked expensive. He wore a smart hat and silk scarf, and carried a fine walking stick. In seconds, Hero had taken this in but the sudden apparition still startled her.
"What favor?" she asked, examining him. He was not much taller than she, had dark eyes and was slightly breathless. He glanced back over his shoulder. As he turned back to face her, his eyes danced and his smile was rueful.
"You may slap me afterwards, any distraction will do." He stepped towards her and reached a gloved hand towards her chin, which he tilted upwards. Hero's eyes widened in astonishment as his face drew nearer and nearer. He was intending to kiss her! She was so astounded that she stood stock still while his lips touched hers, once, gently, tenderly, meltingly. He stayed still, and his eyes flickered away towards the gate once, but then seemed to focus once again on her, and she felt his other hand come up to her arm and then round her back.
He pulled away and murmured something incomprehensible as she gazed up at him, then he pressed his lips to hers again and she felt a shiver of response as he kissed her again, deepening the kiss. Her mouth opened, and she heard him give a brief moan. His tongue parted Hero's lips. An entirely unfamiliar tingle assailed her, first in her breasts, then her abdomen, then lower. She found her body pressing closer to his, despite their heavy winter cloaks.
His fingers were on her neck and jaw and the tender skin beneath her ear, exerting the slightest pressure, but a pressure which made her lean into him and meet his kiss and reach one gloved hand to his shoulder. Her hand should have pushed him away, but she could not help slipping her arms about his neck, clinging a little closer, meeting his kiss, returning it. She was melting, she was incandescent. Valentine had never kissed her like this, never!
Beattie's shocked voice only slowly cut through the miasma of desire that had overcome both Hero and the plundering stranger.
"Miss! Miss Hero! Let her go, you brute!" Then Beattie launched herself at the broad back that separated her from her mistress and began to pummel it, accompanying every wallop with her vehement words. "LET--HER--GO!"
Hero sprang away as his hold on her fell away, and she watched him turn and easily catch Beattie's flailing hands. She raised her fingers to her lips, still dazed. The man held Beattie off with ease and looked over the young girl's shoulder at Hero, "I do apologize. I'm not sorry I kissed you, but I shouldn't have done it, I know. I do hope we'll meet again, but in the meantime, I must dash. I have to see some chaps about a boat."
"You might at least help us get our dogs," said Hero. Her knees felt as though they might give way: chasing after the dogs would be impossible in her current state.
"Look, calm the girl down and I'll do what I can. But I don't have much time."
He propelled Beattie over to Hero who opened her arms to the girl and held her close. "Calm down, Beattie, calm down, it's all over now. We must get the dogs."
He placed two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. The two dogs arrived at his heels in seconds, and he held them, allowing Hero to bend down and loop their leather leashes to their collars. The man stood again, doffed his hat and said in farewell, "Beg pardon, ladies, must toddle." Away he strode into the gathering dusk.
"Miss Hero, are you alright?" Beattie wittered on as Hero stood, gazing after the young man. "What are we going to say to Mrs. Macdonald? Will I lose my position? I'm meant to protect you and I was about as much use as a limp halibut!"
Beattie looked as though she might fall to sobbing or screeching, neither of which prospect cheered Hero. She gave Beattie Ajax's lead.
"We'll say absolutely nothing to Mrs. Macdonald. Do you think we'll ever be let out by ourselves again if we say anything to her of that gentleman? Which means that you will not lose your position, provided you keep absolutely quiet about this. No backstairs gossip at all."
"But he was kissing you." Beattie left unsaid the fact that Hero had been kissing the man back with equal enthusiasm.
"He was. But what am I to do about it? I have no idea who he was. Come along, Beattie, otherwise they'll start sending out footmen in search of us. It's dark."
As they stood on the steps leading up to the Macdonalds' house, Hero whispered, "Remember Beattie, not a word." The maid nodded and the door swung open for them. "And I want you up in my room as soon as you've shed your outdoor clothes. I shall need your help with the new gown, it has so many buttons."
Before Beattie could respond, Hero headed upstairs. In her room, a fire had been laid and lit, all the sconces were ablaze with candles. It was full of light and warmth, a haven from the afternoon's chill. She sat in one of the chairs by the fire. Unwittingly, she raised her fingers to her lips. Valentine had never kissed her thus and she had been betrothed to him. He had crushed her and squashed her, and she had never questioned it because everybody said men were great rough creatures with base impulses. Of course, Valentine was bigger than the man from the gardens.
But that man had been strong and firm. The way he had drawn her close to him, the way he had held off Beattie, the way he'd summoned the dogs: everything she'd seen of him demonstrated his power. But he hadn't frightened her, not for a second, not the way Valentine had. He'd just made her realize that she too had impulses, instincts, sensations. Glorious, fascinating sensations. She thought back to his kiss and tried to recall the exact motion of his lips on hers, his arms around her, his body pressed against hers, and she began to feel once again the feelings he had aroused in her then. She looked down. Her breasts seemed to ache for his touch, and deep within her, she was conscious of a strange lassitude and heaviness. She wanted his touch again. She wanted more than his touch. The door clicked open and in came Beattie, looking a little hesitant, and Hero gave a little sigh as the memory of that strange moment was dispelled.
Mercifully, Beattie was relatively subdued this afternoon, and said little. The less they talked about the incident in the gardens, the less likely Beattie was to chatter about it below stairs. There was little point in fuelling the fire. But gradually, as Beattie shook out petticoats and tied ribbons and combed out Hero's hair, the girls relaxed with one another until Beattie was chattering away as normal.
"Is Mister Valentine likely to be there this evening?" asked Beattie. She thought Valentine Wemyss was the most glamorous creature imaginable. But then she was an impressionable sixteen year-old, just the age Hero had been when she first met the dashing lieutenant. Of course, he'd sold out now and reverted to being plain Mr. Wemyss. But he was still tall and very handsome, even if he no longer wore a red coat nor rode a great grey horse.
"I believe he will be present." Which was too matter of fact a reply for Beattie, who then launched into a flurry of ideas for making her mistress even prettier and even more likely to earn the address of the gallant Mr. Wemyss. And as the maid tugged at locks and heated curling tongs and brought out lace and wove who knows what into her hair, a cloud descended on Hero, because sooner rather than later, she must make up her mind about young Mr. Wemyss and either accept him or send him on his way. Six months was quite long enough to have recovered from her travails, and now the Macdonalds were beginning to make noises and her dear Papa was quite reconciled to Mr. Wemyss, and everyone was saying that spring would be a lovely time to get married. Everyone except cousin Rosamond, but she was far away on the estates of her adored husband, preparing to have her first child in the summer. Her stalwart letters saying that Hero need not have Mr. Wemyss if she did not wish were reassuring, but they could not have the same force as the combined good wishes of her aunt and uncles and father, all suggesting that Mr. Wemyss would be welcomed back into the fold if she chose to have him.
It was so complicated. A year before, there would have been no question. The summit of her ambitions had been to receive a proposal of marriage from Mr. Valentine Wemyss. And she had achieved that ambition. But then, Mr. Wemyss had repudiated her. He had denounced her publicly as a light-skirt, a hoyden ready for a tumble in the stable with a passing groom. He had been grossly misled by a fellow officer, a man who had deliberately set out to make mischief and destroy her happiness and for no other reason than envy of Weymyss' fortune in marrying into the Veasey family with its estates and investments. Of course, Hero's innocence was firmly established, the lies that had been spread were countered, and her reputation had been restored to her.
Initially, Hero had imagined that with a little time, she would be ready once again to hear Mr Weymyss' suit. After all, the whole unpleasant business had reconciled her cousin to Mr. Buchanan and led to their marriage the previous autumn. Mr. Wemyss had been most penitent and attentive. But doubts assailed Hero: how could Mr. Wemyss have so failed to trust her? What could have possessed him to accuse her of infidelity at a public gathering? Why had he failed to respond to her letters for so long in the months prior to his appearance in Yorkshire? The first two years of their correspondence, he had written weekly or fortnightly. Then it had dwindled to monthly, understandably as the great war against Napoleon progressed. But after Waterloo, Valentine's letters had dried up almost entirely, and she had heard no word at all in the five months before his return from Brussels.
Perhaps it was not fair to hold that against him. Perhaps she should just accept him and have done. But somehow, she could not. He had been about to declare himself any time these past six weeks, but every time he had appeared close to pressing his suit, she would swerve away, evade the speaking looks and turn the subject to something prosaic. Which should tell her something about her true feelings. If she were honest, she must finally concede that Valentine Wemyss was the last man on earth she wished to marry, and she ought to put him out of his misery sooner rather than later.
But that would mean losing the company of his sister, Elizabeth. And since Hero had met Lizzie, she had found a friend who promised to be as dear and true as Rosamund, but who as a married woman could be no longer. Despite a delight that her somewhat world-weary, cynical cousin should have fallen in love and married, it could not be denied that losing Rosamund had been as bad as losing a sister, for they had been raised together and shared every conceivable tribulation and trial, from visits to the dentist to the previous summer's difficult passage. Then, when Hero had come northwards to Edinburgh, Lizzie had come south, as representative of the Wemyss ladies. Mrs. Wemyss, of uncertain health and still with two daughters in the schoolroom, had insufficient funds to bring the whole family to Edinburgh simply to meet with a prospective daughter-in-law. But she could send her dear Lizzie to represent the Wemyss family and encourage the match in every way possible. For a good marriage would be the saving of this particular branch of the family, which suffered still for its unfaltering support of Charles Stuart in the Forty Five.
Lizzie Wemyss had stayed first with her cousins, but soon joined Hero under the Macdonald's roof. It had been agreed that she would extend her stay in Edinburgh and remain through Christmas and into January, when the Edinburgh season took off with an incessant series of parties and dinners. If Hero were to bring Valentine to the point and then turn him off, it would be deeply awkward for Lizzie to remain in Edinburgh. Yet, the Wemyss family desperately needed one of its children to marry well and, ideally, marry quickly. With Valentine's prospects dished, Lizzie might be their last hope, and the Edinburgh season was the ideal opportunity for her to find a suitable catch. Hero saw this clearly. While she was not convinced that Lizzie, who was a discerning young woman, would necessarily accept a suitor, at least she should have the chance. But Lizzie would have too much pride to remain in Edinburgh as a hanger-on in the house of the girl who had spurned her brother.
At last, Beattie stood back to admire her work. "Och, Miss Hero, I think you'll be pleased. Will you take a look?"
Hero stood and went before the cheval glass in the corner of the room. Beattie came over to shake out her petticoats and give a final tweak to her handiwork. Then she stood back and folded her arms in satisfaction.
"If that Wemyss fellow doesn't swoon at the sight of you, he's made of stone. You look like a fairy princess, you do."
"You've done a grand job, Beattie." Hero could have told the girl that her elaborately curled hair, with its diamond pins and kiss-curls, was far too grand for a simple evening at home, even with company. But she turned and reached out her hands to the young girl. "It's not fair that you should have all the work and I should have all the fun."
"I don't mind, miss. I'd never look as pretty as you even if I spent all day primping and preening, and there's the sad truth. It's a treat to see you, and worth all the work in the world."
"Thank you, Beattie. I shall go down and hope to do you honor." Hero left the girl tidying up at the dressing table and went downstairs to her aunt's receiving room. There sat a young woman with fiery hair, great brown eyes and a merry mouth which she was chewing in vexation as she gazed at the broad back of her exasperating brother. Both brother and sister leapt and turned as Hero paused in the threshold. Lizzie Wemyss came forward and kissed Hero warmly on both cheeks.
"You look absolutely wondrous tonight! What finery!"
"All my Beattie's handiwork. I simply sat and let her do her worst."
"If this is her worst, we must all shade ourselves when she decides to do her best. You do look dazzling, Miss Veasey." Valentine Wemyss paused a little before speaking Hero's name, reminding them both of a happier time when he had been given leave to call her by her Christian name.
Lizzie shook her head and looked away. Unquestionably, she was cross with her brother, but there was no way to ask the cause of their falling out, not until more people had joined them. An uneasy conversation followed. Hero made light of her dampening excursion with her aunt's dogs, carefully avoiding any mention of strange young gentlemen. Valentine made heavy weather of a courtly insistence that Hero should not go out in such inclement weather and Lizzie resolutely avoided speaking at all. It was a relief to all three when Mrs. Macdonald came in, accompanied by her great friend Mrs. Grant, soon followed by Mr. Macdonald, Mr. Grant and two other gentlemen of their acquaintance.
It was not long before the assembled group went through to the dining room, but Hero found herself seated at some distance from Lizzie. She found no relief in her companions. Mr. Grant was a gentleman in his fiftieth year, who liked to pat young girls on the hand and pass on his tips for securing a husband. On her other side sat Valentine Wemyss who seemed of a singularly blockish disposition this evening, scarcely uttering a word, nor eating the food before him. Hero watched as he stared into his soup, then idly stirred his fork about the plate smearing puréed carrot liberally around its rim but bringing little to his mouth.
When Mr. Grant's attention turned to the lady on his left, Hero spoke in a low tone to her suitor.
"Is everything well with you, Mr. Wemyss?"
"Of course. I am sitting beside the loveliest woman in the room." He put his knife and fork together but continued to gaze at the plate as though trying to memorize its pattern.
"You seem out of spirits, sir."
"If I am, you know well enough what may be done to revive me." He turned to look at her, and she was taken aback by the ferocity of his expression.
"Sir, this is not the place," she murmured.
"It never is the time nor the place, is it? If you don't want me, you've only to say so, you know, and I shall leave off coming here and plaguing you."
"You don't plague me." The words escaped her too quickly. Wemyss looked away in disbelief. Losing her own appetite, Hero set her knife and fork down and looked about her. Turning, she caught Lizzie's eye; Valentine's sister rolled her eyes and shrugged, making it clear she had no idea what was so unsettling to her brother. She gave Lizzie a tremulous smile and reached to take another sip of wine. Fortunately, Mrs. Macdonald soon after signaled that it was time to retire. Hero hoped for a chance to speak with Lizzie, for Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Macdonald were perpetually in a huddle over their plans for the Christmas festivities. But her hopes were dashed when Lizzie was almost immediately approached by a footman. Her Aunt Killigrew was already there to take her and Valentine off to their Charteris cousins for the rest of the evening and the old lady had no intention of keeping her horses standing longer than necessary. Lizzie made her farewells swiftly and Hero was summoned to give her opinion on the decorations and food and guest lists that Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Macdonald were discussing in anticipation of Christmas, just over a week away.
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