Major Westhaven's Unwilling Ward

He concentrated only on the steps. And on the woman in his arms.

This dance was more than slightly risqué in the eyes of society, he knew—and to perform it with an unmarried virgin of Lily’s class was nothing short of scandalous.

He wanted to kiss her. In fact he could not remember ever wanting anything so clearly, so intensely, as he wanted this now.

He wanted to forget the vow he had made to protect her. He wanted to take her up to his room, pull the emeralds from their leather case, put them around her smooth white neck and undress her so she was wearing nothing else.

He wanted to lose himself in her. To forget what he was and be with her what he might have been had he never gone to war.

For a moment he stood, mouth inches from hers, and they swayed together as if dancing still, pulled in towards one another, her gaze locked with his. All he could hear was her breathing, somehow soft and harsh all at the same time, threaded raggedly within and around his, in time with the pulse that throbbed faintly, sensuously, in the hollow at the base of her throat.

Daniel took his hands off her before he did something he knew they would both regret…

Author Note

It’s been a while since my last book, but I knew that I was not yet ready to say goodbye to the Westhaven family—so I was excited at the chance to revisit Oakridge.

A generation has passed since a highwayman met his match in THE ROGUE’S KISS, and now it is his son, Daniel, who lives alone within Oakridge’s imposing walls, recently returned from war with his life and hopes for the future in pieces. This is his story, and that of Liliana, the woman he is honour-bound to protect—whether she likes it or not!

I hope you take as much pleasure in reading MAJOR WESTHAVEN’S UNWILLING WARD as I did in writing it!

Do e-mail me at [e-mail]—or come and visit me on Facebook—to let me know what you think!

Major Westhaven’s Unwilling Ward

Emily Bascom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Emily Bascom lives in London with her boyfriend, a sunflower, and a dog named Giles. She has a degree in English and Drama from Royal Holloway University, London. In her quest to find a real job she has been a milk(wo)man, a charity fundraiser and a station assistant on the London Underground—all of which she loved. She craves olives, hates cricket, and dreams of retiring to Uganda.

A previous novel by Emily Bascom:

THE ROGUE’S KISS

To Errol, who picked himself up and learned to walk again. I will love you all my life.

Prologue

South Carolina, America—April 1781

Major Daniel Westhaven knew he was dying from the moment he opened his eyes.

He was lying on muddy grass, still on the battlefield, the air around him filled with smoke, the stench of burning flesh—and the cries of his men. As he blinked, he became aware of the pain coursing through his lower body, robbing him of breath, making him so dizzy he thought he would pass out again.

He took a deep breath and tried to take stock.

The ground beneath him was wet, his breeches similarly sodden. When he put out a hand to explore this wetness he found it was blood. His blood. Panic ran in quicksilver streams through his limbs.

Focus on something else…

His men.

Turning his head, he could see his second-in-command lying motionless beside him, face ashen, eyes tightly closed. ‘Pevensey?’

There was a low groan and, slowly, Captain Robert Pevensey opened his eyes. ‘Daniel?’ A hand, caked in blood, reached out and, after fumbling in his direction, grabbed his arm.

‘It’s me, Robbie.’

Fear showed clear on the man’s blanched white face. ‘I can’t see!’

There was a large wound in the younger man’s chest and blood matted in the hair and long grass at the back of his head. From what Daniel could see, Robbie had not long to live, either.

Daniel was growing ever more dizzy, but he managed to disengage the hand that gripped him, taking the cold fingers of his friend tightly in his own.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he said thickly. ‘Try to sleep a little.’

‘You’re a damned dreadful liar.’ The voice was weak, but there was a wry smile in it. ‘What state are you in?’

‘Not too bad.’

‘I hope to God that’s true, at least.’ Robbie’s eyes closed slowly.

Daniel squeezed his fingers, but he was no longer sure the younger man could feel him. ‘Pevensey?’

‘Wait.’ Withdrawing his hand, Pevensey reached into his jacket and pulled something out—a miniature in an oval frame, Daniel realised, as it was handed across to him. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m here.’ Daniel, with some effort, took it and squinted at the tiny likeness, exquisitely detailed. Green eyes stared back at him, flowing honey-blonde hair and a sweetly smiling mouth. ‘Who’s this? Your sweetheart?’

‘Lily. My sister, you remember.’

How could he have forgotten? Daniel cursed his befuddled brain. He had seen this painting before, six months ago, during the most serious conversation of his life—and he knew with a dreadful sinking feeling what was coming next.

‘Daniel?’ The other man’s breath was coming in gasps now. ‘I need to ask you…’

Alarmed by the way the colour was draining from his friend’s face, Daniel touched his arm and attempted to sound authoritative. ‘Save your strength, Captain. There’ll be time enough later.’

With an effort, Robbie shook his head. ‘Please. Listen to me.’

His friend knew he was dying, that much was obvious. Daniel frowned, trying to concentrate, though his own mind felt increasingly fuzzy. ‘Go on.’

‘Remember…what I asked you?’

‘I remember.’

‘You still have the…’ Robbie groaned, eyes closing momentarily.

‘I still have the papers, yes. Of course.’

‘You…are the best man I know. She will need a guardian. Please, promise me you will do as you said and care for her—watch over her. Find her…a husband. It pains me to ask…but I am all she has, and without me…’

Daniel hesitated. He knew he would never make it back to London. This sister of Robbie’s would be alone in the world regardless of what he had said six months ago, and it was no longer in his power to prevent it…However, the belief that she would be helped was important to this man, among the most loyal of his officers but—more importantly—among the best of his friends. And God knew he would do it if he was able.

‘Daniel?’ The face that turned towards him held all manner of pain, sightless eyes wide and panicked. ‘Are you there?’

‘I’m here,’ he said again. ‘I promised you, and I’ll not go back on that promise. I’ll see that your sister is provided for.’

A long sigh escaped Robbie’s pale lips. ‘God bless you.’

‘She is fortunate to have such a brother.’

‘And…’ A grimace of pain crossed the young man’s face. ‘I am fortunate to have a friend such as you…to…’ He bit down on a moan of agony. ‘Just…tell her…I died well…will you?’

‘I’ll tell her.’ He shoved the miniature into his jacket and found his captain’s hand once more. ‘You’ve served bravely and well. Better than most. She will hear of it, I promise.’

‘Thank you, my friend. Now, just—’

‘Robbie.’ As his own pain gnawed more intensely, Daniel was struggling to maintain his focus. ‘Rest.’

‘Just…one more thing.’

‘Name it.’

Green eyes turned to his face. ‘It has been an honour fighting with you—but more so, knowing you. Your father will be…beside himself with pride.’

Daniel’s throat closed. ‘God go with you, my friend.’

Robbie’s blood-caked lips parted in a radiant smile, even as his eyelids drifted shut. Then, where the space between them had been filled with his ragged breathing, there was nothing but silence.

The fingers in Daniel’s grip went slack.

He closed his eyes and tried to force down the grief that welled up from within. He told himself it did not matter, this lie to a dying man. His soul was condemned at any rate, he was sure. But he would have liked to fulfil his promise…if only for the sake of this friendship, forged in a futile war.

A horrible cold was creeping over him now, seeping into his bones as the blood flowed from his body. He would be grateful to sleep a little, also…But just for a moment the image of a beautiful woman, all honeyed tresses and smiling green eyes, floated before him. Her full lips smiled at him, as soothing as they were sensuous, and Daniel thought they formed his name, just for a moment.

‘Major!’

Very far above him, a voice penetrated the fog of exhaustion and pain. An Irish accent, urgent. His lieutenant was calling him.

Daniel knew as he slipped away from the pain, body slackening, that whatever it was, it was important no longer.

Chapter One

London, England—Spring 1782

‘You call that kneadin’, Miss Lily? We’ll never make a kitchen hand out of you at this rate!’

Looking up from her work with strands of honey-blonde hair in her eyes, a smear of flour across her face, and laughter on her lips, Liliana Pevensey grimaced good-naturedly across the kitchen at her companion. Straightening her elbows, she pounded her fists into the dough anew.

‘I found nothing to complain about in last week’s loaf,’ she retorted.

Josephine—ladies’ maid, cook, housekeeper and, lately, companion to the lady of the house—rolled her eyes.

‘Only because I rescued it at the last minute!’

Lily shook her head fondly at the younger girl. ‘What would I do without you?’

It was said in jest, but true enough. It had been four years since her brother had been sent to fight for his country against the rebels in America. Four years since she had been taken in by her aged Aunt Hetty, and come to live here, in the middlemost of a row of cottages in Highgate. Yet it was only in these last three months—since the old lady had died—that Lily, alone in the world with a slowly dwindling income, had begun to know the maid who had laid out her clothes every morning.

Jo was resourceful and hard-working in equal measure, as well as ever ready to cheer up her young mistress. Lily, realising she would soon be unable to pay the household its wages, had gradually let the other servants go, expecting her maid to seek work in a more prestigious household. Yet Jo had stayed, uncomplainingly taking on further tasks as her wages ever dwindled, though Lily knew a ladies’ maid of her talents could have found work anywhere.

She was also, Lily mused, her hands slowing on the dough as her carefree mood slipped away, about the only person in the world who knew her mistress’s true circumstances.

Money had been tight since her brother Robbie had been killed in the war in America. He had always provided for them, ever since the death of their parents when Lily had been fifteen. The money they had been left had been enough to keep them going for a while, and Robbie had sent back most of his salary once he had joined the army. Lily had been provided for, indeed, and proud of her brother, in his smart red uniform, going off to quell the rebels.

Who could have known it would go so badly wrong—that he would be killed so shortly before Cornwallis surrendered, before the war was over and the British soldiers—those that were left—at last came home? Lily had been left reeling from a grief so all-encompassing that she did not remember with any clarity the weeks following the news of his death.

‘Miss Lily?’ Jo was at her elbow. ‘I think that’ll do.’

Lily smiled. ‘I was dreaming.’

‘Worrying, more like.’ With a wry smile, Jo scooped up the dough and pressed it into a pan. ‘Something will turn up, you’ll see. It always does.’ She brightened slightly. ‘Just take your mysterious benefactor, fr’instance.’

‘Hmm.’ Lily crossed her arms, brow furrowing. ‘I would feel more comfortable if I knew who he was.’ The money had been coming regularly each month, since last summer. It was forwarded through her solicitor, and she could not for the life of her prevail upon the crusty old man to tell her who was behind it. ‘A friend of your brother’ was the only clue he professed himself ‘at liberty’ to give. In all honesty, the funds had been her lifeline these past few months, especially with the expenses for Aunt Hetty’s funeral. But she hated being beholden to someone she had never met.

‘Perhaps you could marry him,’ Jo mused teasingly. ‘He must be rich, surely.’

‘T’ would be hard, without first having met him,’ Lily countered with a faint smile. ‘Especially as—’

She broke off as the sound of the huge brass knocker against the front door echoed through the house.

Jo sighed dramatically. ‘I’ll just be a moment.’

She was back in no time, holding up a crisp white packet of paper. ‘It was only a messenger, miss. With this for you.’

‘A letter?’ Lily held out her hand for it. ‘How exciting—no one ever writes to me!’ Her face fell somewhat upon seeing the seal. ‘It’s from Mr Morley.’ Hastily, she wiped her hands on her apron and tore the packet open, revealing a single sheet of paper.

‘The solicitor?’ Jo made a face. ‘Perhaps he’s found some money hidden somewhere and he’s sending it so we can all live happily ever…Miss Lily?’

Lily, face white, looked up from her hurried perusal. ‘He says he regrets to inform me that Cousin Jack has returned from the Continent.’

‘Your Aunt Hetty’s boy?’ Jo snorted. ‘It never failed to confuddle me how such a sweet old lady could have such a gallivanting good-for-nothing for a son. God rest her soul,’ Jo added belatedly, crossing herself.

Lily nodded dumbly, the kind but firm lines that her solicitor had written still burning in her mind.

Jo put her hands on her hips. ‘Well—what of it? Are we expected to give him free board and welcome him with open arms?’

‘Worse. She left the house to him,’ Lily told her mournfully. ‘Don’t you remember, Jo? It was in her will. Now he is returned upon hearing of his mother’s death, and he wants to sell it.’

‘To fund more gadding about overseas, I don’t doubt! His good mother—God rest her soul—has been in the grave these three months, and only now he comes?’ Puffed up with outrage, Jo came closer. ‘Miss Lily—what will you do?’

Lily shook her head, trying to calm the panic within her. ‘I don’t know.’ She could cope with this as she had coped with everything else, surely. If she just thought a little, the solution would come to her…And yet her mind was a blank. There was no money, nothing to sell…There was no question of being able to afford to buy the house from her cousin.

‘Your mystery benefactor? Could we ask him?’

Lily turned a worried face up to her maid. ‘No—certainly not. Even if Mr Morley would tell me who he was, I cannot ask such a thing from a perfect stranger! It’s bad enough that I must be reliant upon his charity as it is.’ She bit her lip. ‘Not that I’m not grateful…It’s just…’

‘I know, Miss Lily.’ Jo pressed her hand. ‘But don’t you fret—there will be a solution. God never gives us more than we can take.’

Lily looked again at the letter, as if the answer was somehow hidden there. ‘I am sure you are right.’ But still she could not, for the life of her, think of anything.

‘You’ll have to ponder it later, miss,’ Jo said tactfully. ‘That is, if you’re still going to the ball.’

With a gasp, Lily put a hand to her mouth. ‘The ball—I’d quite forgot! What time is it?’

‘Almost five.’

Lily’s eyes widened. ‘I shall never be ready by the time Lady Stanton’s carriage calls!’

Untying her apron, she hurried from the room, leaving her maid, shaking her head indulgently, to follow.

‘Does it truly look good enough, Jo?’

Examining herself in front of the mirror, Lily bit her lip for the hundredth time and frowned into her own deep green eyes.

She was wearing a gown she had made herself and that she was proud of, a far cry though it was from those in the windows of the fancy dressmakers of Bond Street. The cobalt-blue silk complemented her light colouring and its full sweeping skirts, gathered and padded at the back, served only to further emphasise her slender waist.

Her hair, the colour of honeycomb, was swept up on her head in an array of soft curls that cascaded downwards in ringlets, brushing her shoulders. She was pleased with the effect her maid had achieved, but still she worried. This ball, a week into her second Season, was important for her future. She needed to make an impression, now more than ever—and that meant hiding her true circumstances from the world.

‘You look like any of them posh folks and more,’ her maid told her with affection. ‘’Cept you’ve still got flour on your cheek.’

‘Heavens—get it off!’ Lily angled her head into the mirror. ‘Where?’

‘Let me.’ Josephine deftly swept a hand over her mistress’s smooth skin.

‘Well, it is fashionable to be pale, I understand.’ Lily met the maid’s eye in the mirror and grinned. ‘And I don’t suppose any of the other ladies at Lady Langley’s ball will have baked their own bread ready for tomorrow’s breakfast.’

‘That they won’t.’ Jo beamed back.

But the smile had already faded from her mistress’s face as Lily turned her mind once more to the daunting task ahead of her. She must prepare herself, from today, for the action she had hoped never to take, reserved only for the direst circumstances.

Would that her brother were here to give her courage.

But then, Lily mused, if he was here she would be free to enjoy the Season like any other young woman, instead of living with the threat of bankruptcy and homelessness in her future. She pursed her lips. There was no use in wishing for what could not be—she had learned that lesson well, this last year in particular.

‘You’re thinking about Mr Robbie again, aren’t you?’ Jo said gently.

Thus prodded gently back into the present, Lily smiled at her. ‘Is it so easy to tell?’

‘He’d be proud to see how you’ve carried on, miss,’ said the younger woman softly. ‘How you’re makin’ a life for yourself.’

With a sigh, Lily looked at her glamorous reflection. ‘Is that what I am doing? I thought I was going out to catch myself a husband.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘God knows I never thought I would find myself here, forced to seek a marriage for money.’

Since her parents had died in the fire that had destroyed their ancestral home six years ago, Robbie and Lily had been alone. Eight years her senior, he had seen her educated and provided for, whilst carving out a career for himself in the British Army, a career he loved second only to his younger sister. He had given her the freedom she craved, and, after his death, she had only been more determined to make her own decisions and remain self-sufficient.

All of which now made the thought of marriage to a stranger—especially marriage for financial reasons—repugnant to her. Lily had always hoped she would be able to marry for love, that she would be a wife to a man who respected her need to enjoy the independence her brother had always given her. But what choice was there, now that they no longer had a home to live in?

Jo echoed her thoughts. ‘We must survive any way we have to, Miss Lily.’

‘You did not have to stay with me, yet you have,’ Lily corrected her.

‘Who would do your hair, else?’ Jo looked fondly at her mistress. ‘You’ll not find a husband to support you without a little help, my lady.’

Lily nodded. ‘I will make it up to you, once my situation improves.’

She was determined that her life would be under her control again as soon as possible. Which was why this dress was so important—along with the charming, carefree persona she adopted for such occasions. She had been that girl once—without a care in the world—and she could play her again, for the sake of survival.

It was time to face up to the fact that she could not live on thin air.

It was time to find a husband.

Chapter Two

After four dances with four equally dull gentlemen, Lily was cursing her vow.

She was doing her best to be what they seemed to like best, effervescent and charming, simpering prettily at them between turns and promenades on the floor—but it was exhausting. She did not know how the other girls around her seemed to achieve such an effect so effortlessly—from the old hands to the veriest débutante.

Nevertheless, it seemed one man was particularly interested in her performance.

Looking up by chance at the end of an energetic country dance, flushed and smiling, she happened to glance across the room—and found a pair of smoky grey-blue eyes watching her.

He did not look away as their eyes met.

Tall, hair so dark as to almost be black, he stood upright at one end of the dance floor—despite his civilian dress an unmistakably military stance. He was immaculately turned out—dark navy jacket and matching waistcoat exquisitely embroidered about the sleeves and hem, close-fitting fawn breeches disappearing into boots, rather than the more fashionable buckled shoes that other men wore this evening. His shoulder-length hair, that unusually dark colour, was tied securely at the nape of his neck, and did not look like it would dare to attempt escape.

All this she took in as, for a moment of pure surprise, she stood fixed in the beam of his gaze across an expanse of laughing people. And, just for a moment, a single strand of awareness stretched between them, unbroken by the laughter, music and innumerable conversations happening around and between them. He did not look at her as the other gentlemen did: admiring her pretty dress, the way her hair curled about her shoulders in tendrils, her smile, even her much-praised eyes.

He looked at her as if he saw her.

It was not a comfortable feeling—and yet, even as she recognised her discomfort, Lily was aware of something else curling into life within her: a warm feathery longing, an unfamiliar but nonetheless unmistakable attraction to this handsome stranger. For handsome he was, she had to admit, even in this instant, held in his stare.

She wanted to smile, yet she could not. She felt the slightest of flushes creep across her cheekbones, and saw—did she imagine?—a response in his dark blue gaze, far though he was from her.

Who was he? Why did he look at her so, as though he could take all of her and more, see through her act and know her completely—all without moving from that spot. What did he want?

Because she did not know what else to do, she dropped her eyes and turned away, watching the dancers take to the floor again, needing a moment to compose herself.

When she looked back—simply because she could not do otherwise—he was talking to the gentleman next to him. In profile he was equally striking, slim about the hips yet broad shouldered, his strong features offset by a generous mouth that set Lily wondering, in a moment quite unlike her usual sensible self, what he looked like when he smiled.

Frowning slightly, she averted her gaze again before he caught her staring—what was she thinking, sizing him up so? Turning slightly away, she scolded herself for such foolishness—was this all it took—a handsome man to make eye-contact with her—for her to behave like a manshy debutante?

She needed something to distract her and, luckily, something presented itself in the form of a young admirer, bowing prettily over her hand and asking most courteously for a dance. Gratefully, she accepted and allowed him to lead her to the floor.