“Actually, it was my husband who came up with it. He has a delightfully wicked turn of mind, do you not think? Besides, I knew you would win any duel.”
“And you just do what you are told.”
Countess de Pontchartrain stroked his face, causing him to flinch. “
“Whether under a king or emperor?”
“Bonaparte—that upstart? Bah. No, Colonel, too many of my countrymen have died under that monster.” She grinned. “So, let the grand Seventh Coalition crush him for us. My kind will reclaim what is ours again when you are through.”
“The First Estate again the first among equals?”
The countess pursed her lips. “Do not mock us so. You English with your class structure are not so very different! Or are you a Republican now?”
“Do not be ridiculous.” Buford glared at her. “I can forgive you for your actions against me, but you should not have used my wife.”
The countess sighed. “
“Looks can be deceiving.” Buford could not keep the bitterness out of his voice as he took another gulp of his brandy. He could feel the alcohol racing through his veins, but he cared not.
Roxanne’s eyebrows went up. “Really?
Buford watched her depart, feeling betrayed, disgusted, and very stupid.
It was nearly midnight when Richard went in search of Buford. He found him speaking with Sir John Vandeleur, their commanding officer. It was a few minutes before the general begged his excuses and wandered off, allowing the two comrades to talk.
Richard frowned, for Buford seemed to be in his cups. “Buford, shall we leave now? I will get a hackney, if you like.”
Buford slapped his friend on the back. “No, no, you go without me, Fitz. I will be only a little while longer.”
“Buford, I think you should come with me.” When Buford refused him again, he would not relent until Buford grew angry.
“Blast it all, Fitzwilliam, you are not my nursemaid. Let me be!”
Richard knew there was no good in trying to convince Buford when he was so determined. “Forgive me. I shall see you at breakfast, then.”
Buford nodded, and Richard could do nothing but return to their inn.
The library was dark at this early hour in the morning, lit only by a solitary candle and the occasional flash of lightning from the thunderstorm raging outside. A lone figure, which had remained behind after the ball ended, sat in a chair and watched the illumination, sipping a cognac. His host had suggested that, due to the inclement weather, Colonel Buford take refuge at the castle and had ordered a room prepared for him, and Buford was waiting for his accommodations. The storm did not bother him; rather, he thought the weather mirrored his own feelings.
When he married Caroline Bingley, he knew her reputation as she knew his. He had labored to make himself a better man, and he was led to the conclusion that his wife had done the same. They were kindred souls, so he thought. During the time of their courtship and their marriage, he had grown to admire and finally love her.
A mistake. He feared it could be, and he was right. Apparently, Caroline’s devotion could not be relied upon once he was no longer in residence. They had shared passion but not true love. He had been deceived.
There was a reason that fashionable society frowned on love matches. It was because love matches rarely last. He knew the risk, but he never dreamed that her affections would not last a trip across the Channel.
Buford put down his glass and shook his head; he had felt tears coming on. No! He would not weep for her or for what might have been! He had made his bed; now he must lie in it.
“Sir John, your room is ready,” said the butler in French as he opened the door.
“
An hour later, he felt a soft warm body slip under the covers with him. Moist lips caressed his cheek and neck as practiced hands touched him. Groaning, half asleep, he responded to the attentions, returning the kisses and caresses.
He moaned aloud, “Caro.”
“Whatever pleases you,
Buford awoke with a start early the next morning. Looking about the unfamiliar bedroom, he tried to recall where he was. He moved again and groaned in pain; his throbbing temples reminded him of the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before, and his state of undress spoke volumes about his activities afterwards.
Buford got out of the bed and padded to the dressing room. He found it empty as expected; Roxanne had the good sense to return to her rooms during the night. He completed an abbreviated toilette and dressed in the same black suit he had worn to the ball. He knew he would not be conspicuous; many gentlemen would sleep off a great ball at the host’s home.
Within a few minutes, he was on the street, walking to his boardinghouse. It was early, and there were few coaches for hire available, but there was nothing for it. The last thing he wanted to do was encounter the countess.
Fortunately, the distance was not too great and the morning not too warm. The walk might have been pleasant had not his head and conscience tormented him. Buford had been shocked to learn that the naked woman in his arms the night before was not his wife but Roxanne. By the time he was fully aware of what was happening, his resentful desires got the better of him. He told himself it was not of his doing. Roxanne had seduced him while he was unable to resist. Why not take advantage of the situation? Caroline apparently did not care; the damn woman could not be bothered to post a single line to her own husband.
Buford tried to drive Caroline out of his mind with Roxanne, but once he had finished with her, his discontent remained, now augmented with regret. He passed out trying to tell himself that he had not betrayed the woman he loved. Caroline was the betrayer; she neglected him. However, Buford could not dismiss the fact that he had broken his vow of faithfulness.
It was not long before he reached the outskirts of Brussels and his boardinghouse. His empty stomach reminded him that he had yet to have breakfast, so he hurried his steps, hoping that he was not too late. Upon entering the common room, he saw Richard sitting at a table with a huge grin on his face. Before him was a tall stack of letters, all in the same stationery, tied with a string.
“They were just delivered last night after we left for the ball, old man!” Richard said with a self-satisfied grin. “Some blunder at the port. I always suspected the people at the post cannot read!”
Buford hardly heard what his comrade said. He approached the pile carefully, as if the mass of correspondence would leap up and attack him. Sure enough, the words he most desired and ultimately feared were written on the envelopes in a fine, female hand:
