LITMIR.BIZ

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spent the following two years sleeping on the ground or in vermin-infested billets and foraging for provisions, his mind and heart branded with the searing iron of a dozen successive battles. Nightmarish vistas of smoke-obscured chaos, the smell of hot gun barrels and fresh blood, the screams of dying men and horses amid the din of rifle and artillery, haunted him still.

      But over those years he’d also witnessed countless episodes of selflessness and self-sacrifice. He no longer believed, as his father had preached, that honor was a concept for schoolboys and fools. And he himself was no doubt a better man for having met the challenge of that hard, bitter trial.

      Better, perhaps, but not of course the equal of Colonel Garrett Fairchild and the other truly courageous heroes who had perished in the woods and fields of Waterloo. In a supreme stroke of irony, two of the lost were the men to whom he’d owed gaming debts, their deaths effectively canceling Tony’s obligations and freeing him to return to London without fear of being clapped into prison.

      He kicked his horse into action and rode up to the gate. “Whose house is this?” he called to a young man in livery loitering at the foot of the steps.

      “Viscount Fairchild’s, m’lord,” the boy answered.

      So she was staying at the home of her late husband’s family, Tony thought. Perhaps, even though she was likely to greet him with scorn, he ought to call on her. Garrett Fairchild had been a dedicated officer and an exemplary solder, and Tony did regret his loss. Besides, by the time he’d been lucid enough to carry on a conversation, he had been moved to a hospital, so he had never had the opportunity to thank Jenna for her care after the battle. Given the debt he owed her for that, he should deliver his thanks in person, even if she took that opportunity to administer a well-deserved snub.

      Yes, he decided, urging his horse back to a trot, he would definitely pay a call on Jenna Montague.

      Chapter Two

      ACCEPTING THE GROOM’S HAND, Jenna Montague Fairchild stepped down from the sidesaddle and looked with a sigh at Fairchild House. Riding in London’s parks, though better than remaining at home, barely allowed for a decent gallop.

      After three days in the metropolis, she was already wishing herself back in Brussels. Or Lisbon or Madras or anywhere near some vast open plain where she might ride for hours and escape the emptiness that echoed through her rooms, in her shattered heart, with Garrett gone.

      Four months had dulled the agony of losing him to a barely tolerable pain. Unconsciously her hand slipped down to rest on the swell of her abdomen. Were it not for the child she carried, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to force herself to return to the native land in which she’d lived exactly two months of her life, to reside as custom demanded in the house of her husband’s relations whom she’d met only once, and briefly.

      But with most of the casualties from June’s battles either dead of their wounds or gone home to finish recovering, Jenna could no longer use the excuse of nursing duties to justify lingering in Brussels. With the future of Garrett’s heir to consider, she’d been forced to leave the bittersweet comfort of the rooms they’d shared, the bed in which their child had been conceived, the simple grave in the rose-garlanded cemetery on the hill beyond Waterloo where she’d had his remains laid to rest.

      Hoping Aunt Hetty had slept late today, so she might avoid the unpleasantness of dealing with the woman until afternoon, Jenna made herself walk up the steps.

      The querulous feminine tones that reached her ears as soon as Manson opened the door told her that hope was not likely to be realized. Wishing Garrett had never invited his widowed aunt to move into Fairchild House, she put a finger to her lips to forestall the butler’s greeting.

      Silently she handed over her wrap. Perhaps she could creep by the front parlor and reach her room undetected.

      But a board creaked as she crossed the landing and a moment later Aunt Hetty called out, “Jenna, is that you? Come in! We are planning Garrett’s memorial service.”

      Swallowing her irritation, she bowed to the inevitable and reluctantly entered the parlor. From his seat beside Aunt Hetty, Lane Fairchild, one of the two cousins who had also accepted Garrett’s invitation to reside at the family townhouse, rose at her entrance. The other cousin, Bayard, seated at a distance from his other relations, continued to stare out the window, apparently oblivious to her arrival.

      Slighter and darker than his golden-haired first cousin, Bayard wore the abstracted expression that, she’d noted on her previous sojourn with the family, seemed to be his habitual mien whenever he was forced to remain in company. Probably he was mulling over one of the alchemy experiments on which, Cousin Lane had told her with faint contempt, he spent most of his time, hidden away in the basement room he’d converted into a laboratory.

      And to which, if the pattern she’d observed held true, he’d soon escape. A privilege that, as Heir Presumptive and supposed head of the family, Aunt Hetty allowed him.

      Lucky Bayard, Jenna thought with a sigh.

      A thin, older woman wrapped in a quantity of shawls, Aunt Hetty inspected Jenna with disfavor. “About time you returned. I cannot comprehend this penchant for riding! To promenade in the afternoon with the rest of the ton is quite proper, but to hare about at all hours with naught but a groom is simply not suitable in a viscountess.”

      “Now, Aunt Hetty, she has been a viscountess for less than a year and a Londoner for but a few days,” Lane said soothingly as he came over to kiss Jenna’s hand. “After a time, she will master the intricacies of ton behavior.”

      Giving her fingers a sympathetic squeeze, he continued, “How could anyone object, when the exercise seems to agree so well with you? The roses in your cheeks are as lovely as our Damask’s finest late blooms. Manson, a dish of tea for Lady Fairchild, please.”

      “Prettily said, cousin,” she replied, allowing Lane to lead her to a place beside him on the sofa and accepting the steaming cup the butler poured for her.

      After the butler bowed himself out, Aunt Hetty sniffed. “Well, I think it’s more than past time that Jenna gave due thought to her condition.”

      Stung, Jenna lost her grip on her temper. “I am quite protective of my ‘condition.’ After Waterloo, the doctors assured me most particularly that if riding eased my mind—and it does—I need on no account give it up. Do you really think I would risk Garrett’s child?”

      The peevish look on Aunt Hetty’s face faded and Lane’s expression turned shocked. “Do you mean to tell us,” he said slowly, “that…that you are carrying Garrett’s child?”

      “Of course that’s what—” she began. Stopping abruptly, she glanced at Bayard, still sitting distracted near the window. “I wrote Cousin Bayard several months ago, as soon as I was certain. He…he didn’t tell you?”

      “Aunt Hetty, did you know?” Lane demanded.

      “I had no idea!”

      “Well, this does put a new complexion on things,” Lane murmured, pacing over to his cousin.

      “Bayard,” he said, giving his shoulder a shake, “did Jenna write informing you she was in a delicate condition?”

      Bayard flinched, as if unwilling to be brought back to the present. “Oh, that,” he said, jerking away from Lane’s fingers. “Yes, she did. Of what importance is it to you?”

      “It’s of importance to any Fairchild! Dammit, man, she might be carrying the next heir!”

      “Precisely. But since that eventuality would affect only me, I cannot see why you expected to be informed.”

      “Trying to play autocratic head of the family, Bayard? ’Tis a role that don’t suit you.”

      “Boys!” Aunt Hetty reproved. “This is excellent news!” she said to Jenna. “After the despair of Garrett’s loss, what a joy that he shall have an heir!”

      “A

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