Near Whitly, Yorkshire, November 11, 1815

It was violent, even for a North Sea storm, and the sound of relentless waves pounding upon the rocky seashore seemed far too close. Above the water’s roar, the bitter seawind howled, blowing and sucking at the cottage’s windowpanes. Bolts of lightning lit the small room, sending a cat behind the woodbox, where he crouched, his green eyes round with fear.

“Merowww,” the animal cried pitifully. “Merowwwwwww.”

Charlotte Winslow reluctantly put her brush into the water jar and stood back to survey the poster. No, she decided, Madame Rondelli appeared utterly insipid, when by all accounts the Italian diva was a striking beauty. It had to be the pomona green gown Mr. Burleigh had suggested. It simply was not rich enough to stand out.

But before she changed it, she would have to wait until morning, when the light was truer. Just now, her eyes were smarting from the smoking whale-oil lamps. Leaning over, she blew them out, darkening the room eerily, leaving only the red-orange glow of the hearth’s fire.

“Meowwwww,” Rex howled insistently. “Meowwwwwwwwwww.”

“I shall be done in a trice,” Charlotte promised him as she deftly cleaned her brushes.

A flash of lightning lit the room, then vanished as thunder rolled loudly through the small cottage. The cat cringed. “What a coward you are,” Charlotte murmured, bending to pick up the animal. “You are a disgrace to your name, Rex, for there is naught kingly about you at all.” Taking it to the chair nearest to the fire, she crooned soothingly, “It’s all right, you poor big pussy cat. Poor kitty, poor big kitty,” she whispered against the soft, orange fur.

Her hand stroked the cat’s back, calming it. The big tomcat settled against her chest and purred loudly. Across the narrow room, her mother’s old clock valiantly counted out the hour. Eight o’clock, she realized wearily. She’d been so absorbed in trying to finish the theater poster that she’d not stopped to eat her supper.

But she’d hoped to be finished with the playbill ere now, for she had to begin Madame Cecile’s fashion plates before she lost the money she’d been advanced. Briefly, she allowed herself to think of the modiste’s utterly exquisite, shamefully expensive designs. The gowns of a young female’s grandest dreams, she reflected, sighing. She could still remember those dreams—dreams fifteen years had made but a distant, treasured memory. Once there had been a time when she’d had fancy gowns, when she herself had had an abbreviated season filled with parties, routs, and grand balls.

She caught herself before she dwelt on what might have been. No matter how eccentric her life must seem before the world, it was still infinitely better than that of being a governess to grubby little boys or a companion to a crotchety old woman, which was the usual fate of females too highborn to be parlor maids and too poor for anything else. No, she reminded herself resolutely, she had no wish to be like her younger sisters, whose every letter betrayed their unhappiness.

But to Sarah and Kate, it still seemed impossible that Charlotte could wish to live alone without so much as a maid or elderly female relation for propriety. Or that she would wish to live in a simple cottage perched between the moors of Yorkshire and the cliffs above the North Sea. A godforsaken place, Sarah had called it. Utterly improper for a female of good but impecunious breeding, Kate had declared. In truth, Charlotte lived near the village of Whitby for two very compelling reasons—her cottage was cheaply had, and its remoteness from London allowed for a necessary deception.

She sighed again and looked down at Rex. “I suppose after I have made my tea, you will expect to share a bit of mutton stew with me, won’t you?”

As if it understood, the cat snuggled closer and kneaded its paws against her muslin skirt.

“If I were a Buddhist, I daresay I should think you were a notorious rake in your last life,” she decided. “You have a definite propensity for working the wheedle, you know.”

“Merowww.”

“But at least you try to talk to me, don’t you? I vow I should not know what to do without you for company. Sometimes, I find myself going into the village on the smallest excuse, when if the truth be known, my purpose is but to hear another human voice.”

Easing the animal off her lap, she stood and took her ancient teapot from its niche inside the hearth, murmuring, “Quite enough water for one, and as Mr. Burleigh has paid me for last month’s work, I think I shall use fresh tea leaves tonight. And once I have had my tea, I shall warm our stew.”

“Merowww. Merowwwr.”

“I suspect you are ever so much more comfortable a companion than a man, for most of them are utterly selfish and neglectful,” she observed. “Only yesterday, I overheard poor Mrs. Bottoms complaining to Mrs. Wilson that Mr. Bottoms meant to be off to sea again, that he’d only been home long enough to put another loaf in her oven, as she said it. That will make eight, if you can but imagine coping with such a number. And she has the cheek to pity me. Fancy that, will you? I may have no husband about, but then the only mouths I have to feed are yours and mine. And I think I do rather well at that, if I may say so myself.” Glancing down at the huge marmalade tabby, she smiled. “At least you do not look deprived in the least.”

While she spoke, she made her tea and set it aside to steep while she fetched the cream pot. Just as she was about to strain the leaves out of the steaming brew, she paused, thinking she’d heard someone shouting outside. No, it had to be her fancy. It must surely be nothing more than sound of the howling wind.

But there was no mistaking the pounding on her door, nor the jiggling latch. Startled, she hesitated for a moment, then called out cautiously, “Who goes there?”

The answer was lost as rain peppered the windows like shot. Rex’s hair stood on end as he backed behind her.

She tried again. Moving closer, she shouted through the door, “Who are you?”

“William Beggs!” he yelled back. “Coach went over the side—took th’ horses with it! Gor blimey, but we was nearly killed! And th’ earl’s ’urt real bad! We got to ’ave help, missus! Mebbe yer mister—?”

Hearing the panic in the man’s voice, she threw the latch, and he hurried inside. Water from his cap ran down his face, and his cloak dripped a puddle on her floor.

“’Pon my word!” she gasped. “Whatever—?”

“Horses bolted. We was—” He stopped to gulp air, then spilled his words, running them together. “I was drivin’—we was bound fer Durham when th’ team shied. Wheel hit a rock and over she went quicker ’n Jack! God aid me, missus, but ’twasn’t me fault, I swear it!” He caught his breath again, then rushed on, choking out, “Lord Rexford’s hurt bad—’e jumped, but th’ door caught ’is leg—took ’is boot plumb off, it did and ’e hit ’is head when ’e fell. ’E’s out, ’e is, missus. I came down the road and saw yer light, I did.”

For a moment, her world stood still, and she could only stare at the shaking man before her. He’d said Rexford, she was sure of that. But while her heart paused and her stomach knotted, she echoed hollowly, “Lord Rexford—did you say ’tis Rexford who is hurt?”

“Aye, missus. ’E’s got ter ’ave ’elp, or ’e ain’t survivin’. If yer ’usband…”

It was as though the years had faded away, and she could see the earl’s handsome face, the shine of his black, waving hair, the reflection of Lady Conniston’s chandeliers in his brilliant blue eyes, the warm smile that lit his face. What grand hopes she’d had of him in what now seemed another lifetime ago.

But by some stroke of ill fortune, the earl lay injured nearby, and she was going to see him again. Collecting herself, she moved to take her cloak down from the peg. “Where did you wreck?” she asked purposefully.

“Just beyond the bend in th’ road, missus,” William Beggs said, pointing with his hand. “If ye got a man as could—”

“There is none at home just now, I’m afraid.”

“But ’is lights is out—’e don’t know nuthin’, and that’s without saying ’is leg’s broke by the look o’ it, and ’is head’s cut real bad. Ain’t no sight fer a female, missus,” he protested.

“I am accounted to have a strong stomach,” she declared flatly. Turning quickly, she went to a drawer and retrieved a stoppered bottle. “I think there is plenty of laudanum,” she decided.

“We was going ter Durham,” he mumbled. “Be in a real takin’, ’is mum will, when ’e ain’t there. And God aid the man ’as tells ’er, for the old harridan’s got a temper worse’n is, she as.”

Charlotte disappeared briefly into her small bedchamber, then came back with a rolled blanket. “It’ll be soaked in a minute, but at least it will provide some cover against the wind.” She hesitated, then crossed the narrow room to the tea she’d prepared. On a night like this, Rexford was going to need something warm. “Do you have a flask?” she asked.

“Aye, but—”

“But you left it in the coach,” she finished for him.

“Nay, but…” Reluctantly, he reached beneath his soggy coat and pulled out a flat bottle. “Got a bit o’ rum in it,” he admitted, handing it to her.

“That won’t hurt—at least I don’t think it will.” She held it up to the firelight. “There’s not much, anyway.” Taking off the lid, she poured some of the hot tea into it, then added a little of the opiate. “Perhaps this will ease him.”

“But yer a mort—a female,” he muttered disgustedly, following her out the door. “And ye ain’t even big enough ter ’elp lift ’im, I’ll be bound.”

“There’s no time to waste!” she shouted as she threw open the door. Without waiting for him, she pulled her cloak closer and forced her way through the driving rain, stumbling almost blindly up the narrow, muddy road.

Her face stung, and her cloak provided no warmth against the biting wind. She turned around, trying to back into it, but the steep drop between road and sea made that dangerous. The sound of the roiling sea hitting the rocks below was too near for a misstep. The coach driver caught up to her, catching her arm, and pulled her to the inside of the road.

“O’er there!” he yelled. “’E’s over there!”

Struggling under the weight of her soaked cloak, she sloshed to where Rexford lay upon the ground. As lightning flashed, she could see he did not move. Another bolt showed one leg turned at an unnatural angle to his body. She pulled the rolled blanket out and dropped to her knees to place it over him.

“Damme, Thomas! ’E still ain’t come to ’is senses?” Beggs asked.

“Naw,” was the grim reply. “He ain’t doin’ nuthin’.” The fellow looked at Charlotte. “Devil a bit! Billy, ye was s’posed ter fetch help, and ye brung a female!” he howled indignantly. “’Is lor’ship’s in need o’ more’n ’er, I can tell ye.”

“Damme if there was another body ter be found—and ’tis Mister Beggs ter ye, Tom Tittle!”

Forgetting maidenly modesty, Charlotte slid her hand beneath the unconscious man’s shirt to feel of his skin. His flesh was chill and damp. “He’s losing his body heat!” she shouted over the wind at them.

“E’s breathing, ain’t he?” Beggs yelled back.

She moved her hand over the earl’s rib cage. “Yes, but ’tis labored!” Reaching to touch the injured man’s head, she felt through his wet hair with nearly numb fingertips until she found the lump at the back. It was sticky with blood.

“His scalp is torn, but I don’t believe his head is fractured,” she murmured to herself. As she spoke, she moved her hands down over the blanket to his lower leg. She did not have to uncover him to feel where the bone came through the skin. She looked up at the hovering driver and coachman. “You were quite right, Mr. Beggs, it is broken!”

Rexford lay there, vaguely hearing them, his whole being paralyzed by the hot, searing pain in his leg. He’d taken a ball, maybe worse, and without help he was going to die in this godforsaken place—he was going to die in the mud in Spain. He had to stay awake if he were to live—he had to let them know he was still alive. Otherwise, he’d be stacked with the corpses.

“Unnnhhhhh—unnnhuhhhhhh.”

“Why, e’s comin’ ter ’is senses! Lawks a mercy, if ’e ain’t! Look at ’im, Mr. Beggs!”

“Leftenant…” he whispered hoarsely as she leaned close to hear. “Leftenant Howe—is he—?”

“Eh?” Behind her, Tittle was momentarily taken aback.

“Promised him…” He struggled, but could not sit up. “Got to tell him…”

“You are all right, my lord!” Charlotte shouted above the wind. “There has been an accident, but you have survived!”

“Don’t let them cut—don’t let them cut it off,” he gasped.

“Gor blimey, but ’e’s out of ’is ’ead, ain’t ’e?” Beggs cried. “’E thinks as ’e’s still in the bloody war! Hit ain’t th’ peninsula, milord!” he yelled into his master’s face. “Ye done came back from there, ye know, and Boney’s been beat, ’e ’as! Aye, and ye done as much as any ter see it!”

With an effort, the earl managed to open his eyes. Blinking blankly, he tried to think. “Sorry about the boy…sorry…but I—”

“You aren’t in the war, my lord. You are in Yorkshire, just outside Whitby,” Charlotte told him loudly. “There has been a carriage wreck.”

“My leg. I cannot move it. I…”

“’Tis broken.” She leaned closer and cupped her mouth so that he could hear. “We shall have to send for the doctor. In the meantime, we shall give you a bit of laudanum to ease you.”

“No,” he croaked. “Don’t…want anything. Got to keep my leg…”

It was obvious that he was too confused to understand, probably because of the force with which his head had hit the rocky road. In any event, it would do him no good to lie in the cold mud. Wiping wet hands on her wet cloak, she looked up. “Can you carry him as far as my cottage, do you think? I know we ought not to move him, but he cannot remain here.”

“Aye.” William Beggs looked to his coachman. “Well, Thomas, are ye game fer it?”

“’E’s a ’eavy bloke, but, aye,” Thomas Tittle responded.

Despite the earl’s refusal, she gestured to the driver for the flask. Taking it, she opened the bottle and held it to the injured man’s lips. “You are going to need this, I assure you.”

Still dazed, he pushed it away. “No…got to…get up,” he gasped.

“Mr. Beggs, you’ll have to hold him, else he will strangle,” she ordered.

“’E’s got the devil’s own temper,” the driver warned her. “If ’e says ’e don’t—”

She reached to touch the injured leg, and she felt the earl’s whole body go rigid. Again, she put her mouth close to his ear, telling him, “You shall wish for more than laudanum ere you are inside.” She waited until Beggs braced his shoulders before holding it to his lips again. “Try to take as much as you can,” she said as she tipped it.

He pushed it away. “No…don’t want…”

“Nonsense.” Looking up, she appealed for help. “Mr…er…Tittle, is it? Can you straighten his leg ere he is lifted?”

“Aye, missus!”

Excruciating pain shot from his shin to his hip, and nausea washed over Rexford, nearly overwhelming him. This time, when she put the flask to his mouth, he took great gulps of the mixture. As his driver eased him down, he closed his eyes briefly. “Damn,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

She started to explain that they were going to take him to her cottage, but her throat was raw from shouting. And whether he understood at this point did not truly matter. She stood, then waited as the two servants thrust sturdy shoulders beneath the earl’s arms and crossed arms behind his soaked back, lifting him from the muddy road. A flash of lightning lit his face, betraying eyes closed against nearly unbearable pain.

“Hit ain’t far, milord,” one of the men assured him.

Despite the storm that tore at them and the slippery mud beneath their feet, they managed to carry him the short distance to her cottage. Soaked to the skin and cold beyond bearing, she trudged ahead of them to open her door.

“You can put him in the chair by the hearth,” she said, removing her dripping cloak. Leaning over, she wrung out her hair, then pushed it back, where it clung to her face and neck. “You’d best get him out of his wet coat while I prepare the bed.”

“Aye.”

Picking up her two cruzie lamps, she carried them to the fire, where she handed one to Beggs. “There’s enough wick left, I think, but there’s not much oil. I hope it will last until we are done.” Lighting the other one herself, she took it with her into the small bedchamber. “I shall be out in a trice,” she promised as she closed the door.

She undressed quickly and found dry clothes. Her teeth chattering, her body shivering from nerves as well as cold, she managed to pull them over her head. As she dragged a comb through her dripping hair, her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d still not eaten. But there was no help for that, at least not until Lord Rexford was gotten to bed and Dr. Alstead summoned. As the last button was fastened, she turned her attention to the room.

He was going to bleed onto the bed, she knew, and yet there was nowhere else to put him. Pulling off the coverlet, she removed her sheets and replaced them with old, worn blankets.

The room was too cold. He would have to have a brick heated for his feet, else he’d never get warm. How humble everything was, she thought as she surveyed the plain bedstead, the small table, the cabinet that served for her wardrobe, and the flat wooden box where she stored everything else. Definitely not fit for a man of Rexford’s means. Picking up the lamp, she went back to the main room.

The earl was leaning back, his eyes closed, his teeth clenched, his face ashen beneath his wet, wavy hair. She moved closer, drawn as much by curiosity as by memory. And as the lamplight caught the glint of silver amongst the black at his temples, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, she realized with a start that he was no longer the grand buck of her youth, but rather a man close to forty. It just didn’t seem possible, for she’d always remembered him as being boyishly handsome. She’d always remembered him as he’d been that night at Lady Conniston’s ball.

Beggs looked at him and shook his head. “Gor, but he’s a bloody mess, ain’t he?” he murmured, breaking into her thoughts.

“What? Oh…yes…yes, he is,” she managed.

The earl’s eyes opened, and as he stared upward she was struck by the same brilliant blue. In that at least her memory had not failed. Looking into those eyes, she felt anew the pang beneath her breastbone. Would he even remember her at all, she dared to wonder.

“How bad is it?” he croaked.

She fought the urge to lie to him. “Well,” she answered cautiously, “I daresay it must be better than it looks just now. I expect we shall know a great deal more when you are cleaned up, and when Dr. Alstead sees your leg, of course.”

“The ball…”

“Ball’s out, milord,” Beggs reminded him. “Ye ain’t in Spain no more.”

“Hurts like the devil.” As he spoke, he clenched his jaw, biting down hard against the pain. “Don’t want to lose the limb.”

“Hit’s just broke,” Tittle reassured him.

But Charlotte was by no means certain that the leg could be saved after being snapped like a stick. Exhaling, she forced herself to take charge again. “As it is some distance to Dr. Alstead’s, if we do not clean your wounds ere he gets here, they will fester,” she stated matter-of-factly. “And my father used to say there was nothing worse than a bone infection.”

He’d closed his eyes again. “Was he a doctor?”

“No. But we raised sheep and horses at Buckley, and he was forever treating them for nearly everything. I think Papa once wished to be a surgeon, but his father felt it quite beneath a Winslow.” She looked down, hoping for a glimmer of recognition, but there was none. Hiding her disappointment, she asked, “Do you wish for more laudanum? If you take it now, it ought to work before the doctor gets here.” As she spoke, she lifted the wet blanket up to examine the leg.

“No.” As he felt her fingers touch him, he forced himself to look first at her, then down to where the sharp edge of his displaced bone broke through his muddy, blood-soaked breeches. He didn’t have to be told now, he’d seen enough on the battlefield to know he’d be damned fortunate to keep anything beneath the knee. “All right,” he decided.

She took the laudanum bottle and poured the rest into a cup. As she went to dip from the water bucket to dilute the opiate, Beggs spoke up. “’Is lordship was dec’rated by the Regent, ye know.”

“Oh?” she murmured politely.

“Aye. ’E fought th’ Frogs, ’e did, until ’e was wounded at Salamanca,” the man declared proudly.

“Most noblemen of my limited acquaintance stayed home, I’m afraid.”

“Guess ye know the neighborin’ Quality, eh?”

She started to retort that she’d had her moment amongst the ton, then bit the words back. It didn’t matter anymore, anyway. It didn’t even matter if Rexford didn’t remember her. Indeed, it would be less humiliating if he did not, she told herself resolutely, for the last thing she would want of him would be his pity.

Bringing the cup back, she held it for the earl. “Go on, drink,” she urged him. “None of this is going to be pleasant, I’m afraid.”

He opened those blue eyes again, nearly unnerving her. “I know.” He swallowed half of it, then pushed it away, grimacing. “Enough. ’Tis enough.”

She put the empty vessel on the table, then reached beneath the battered cupboard to retrieve the dishpan, a cake of strong lye soap, a clean cloth, and her sharpest knife. The cat rubbed against her leg and looked up at her reproachfully, making it plain that he resented company. She stopped to pour a saucer of milk and set it on the floor before she carried her supplies to the water bucket. Ladling another dipper of cool water into the washpan, she told herself that no matter how inclined she might be to retch, she must not give over to the weakness.

Taking care not to spill it, she brought the pan back to the fire, where she added steaming water from her teapot. She swished it around, then tested the temperature.

“Lean him forward, and hold him lest he faints,” she ordered Beggs. “The laudanum has not taken full effect yet, so he is going to feel this.”

“’E ain’t no man-milliner, I’ll be bound ’e ain’t. Tough as the Iron Duke ’imself, ’e is.”

But contrary to Beggs’s belief in him, Rexford felt utterly sick. The last laudanum had hit the pit of his stomach, and on top of the mixture he’d had before, he was having to swallow to keep it down. He was dizzy, far too dizzy, and everything in the room was moving while he struggled to keep what little dignity he had left. He bent his shoulders and held his head with both hands, trying to fight each new wave of nausea.

Charlotte wrung out the cloth and began washing the matted, sticky hair above his nape, revealing the nasty gash she’d suspected. His wet, muddy shoulders shuddered as she touched the raw scalp.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “If you feel the need, go ahead and curse, or whatever you wish. I assure you I am not missish in the least.”

“If I wished to curse, I would,” he gritted out.

She tried to be matter-of-fact, but for all her appearance of assurance, she’d never been closer than a country dance to him or any other man before she’d brazenly felt of his body in the road. She rinsed out the bloody cloth. “This ought to be stitched,” she murmured, “but having no experience beyond watching Papa sew up a lamb torn by the miller’s dog, I shall not attempt it. Besides, the leg is in greater need of attention.”

Working intently now, she poured out the contents of the pan, then refilled it. Picking up the knife, she sought the seam of the expensively tailored, close-fitting breeches. “At least there is no boot to remove, which is a blessing, for your leg is already quite swollen.” Taking care not to cut him, she used the tip of the blade to rip the seam open, exposing his shin.

“Gor blimey!” Beggs gasped, turning away. “Tom, ye got ter ’old ’im, fer I ain’t up ter it.”

Charlotte’s stomach knotted as she looked upon the jagged bone that punctured the skin. Where the bone had snapped, thick, congealing blood seeped from the marrow. Afraid to actually touch it, she hesitated.

“Go on.” As he spoke, the earl closed his eyes yet again to stop the spinning room. “Do what you have to, and get it over and done.”

“I’m…I’m going to pour water over it, then leave it to Dr. Alstead,” she answered. “After that, we’ll get you out of your wet clothes and into bed.”

Whether from the opiate or from the combination of it and the rum, he felt almost detached despite the intense, hot ache of his broken bone. Until she poured the soapy water over it. Every nerve between his hip and his foot was on fire. He jerked in reflex, then everything went black.

“Damme if he ain’t swooned!” Tom Tittle exclaimed.

“If he has, it is a blessing,” Charlotte murmured.

As cold as she still was, she could feel the perspiration on her forehead. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, then went back to work, flushing the wound until she was satisfied that it was as clean as she could make it. When she was done, she rose, shaking, and went again into the area that served as her kitchen to find a cloth. Tearing it into strips, she came back and wrapped it lightly over the break. Standing again, she exhaled her relief. She looked into the admiring gaze of the nearest coachman.

“Ye got the ’ealing gift, missus,” Beggs declared.

“You’ll have to get his wet clothes off and put him to bed,” she said wearily. Handing over the knife, she added, “Use this to cut what does not come off easily, and when you are done, see that he is between the blankets. In the meantime, I shall warm a brick for his feet and write a note to the doctor.”

She waited until they had taken him into her bedchamber, then she found her writing supplies, carried them to her eating table, and sharpened a pen. Dipping it into her ink, she composed a plea to Alstead, telling of the accident, adding, “As I doubt he can be moved, his lordship will be needing whatsoever nightshirts and other clothing you may spare,” before signing it, “Your obedient, etc., Charlotte Winslow.”

While the hastily fetched physician examined the earl in the other room, Charlotte sat staring absently over her scarce-touched stew, while the marmalade cat curled contentedly at her feet. No, it did not seem possible that she was seeing Rexford again, that he was actually in her cottage. Not after the passage of fifteen years. If she couldn’t see the remainder of blood spots on her floor, she’d be inclined to believe she was merely dreaming.

Not that she hadn’t tried to follow what little gossip and news there’d been of him. She’d known when he’d wed. Indeed, she could still feel the pain that had cut through her breastbone like a knife when she’d read the announcement in the Gazette. As she recalled them, the words seemed to echo in her ears. “Henry, Duke of Fairfax, announces the betrothal of his daughter, Lady Helena Heversham, to Richard, Earl of Rexford. A spring wedding at Heversham Park is intended.”

And she’d known that after Lady Helena died in childbed, Rexford had demonstrated his grief by going off to war, where he’d distinguished himself in the peninsular campaigns. The gossips had speculated that without his beautiful wife, he no longer wished to live, but that was a hoax if she’d ever heard one, for he’d fought against Boney nearly ten years before coming home.

Still, upon seeing him now, Charlotte was stunned by the changes aging had wrought. For a moment, she stared into the hearth, seeing him as she so often had, a young man famed nearly as much for his address as for his handsome face. Perhaps ’twas her memory that was faulty, she conceded.

On impulse, she rose to rummage in her sketch boxes, taking out a yellowed folder of pictures she’d drawn in what now seemed another age. Carrying it back to the table, she opened it gingerly. Shuffling through her drawings, she came to those of him, and for a long time she studied her favorite one as though she willed him to come to life again for her.

Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to think back, to see again the pretty young girl smiling at her from her mirror. And now it seemed as though Lady Conniston’s ball had been but yesterday, as though she could still smell the clean scent of the Hungary water he’d worn that night. Just as he was in the picture she’d done of him, he’d been so very handsome, and his bright blue eyes had been so warm, so filled with admiration then.

Though he’d signed her dance card at other affairs, that night his manner had been different. He’d actually singled her out, dancing not once but twice with her, taking her into supper on his arm while the tabbies had watched and speculated between themselves as to the significance of every smile he gave her.

And from somewhere behind the potted ferns, she’d heard Lady Leffingwell titter, “’Twould seem that Rexford means to fix his interest with the country chit. How vexing for all those who have cast such lures at him.” “Why, she is but a nobody,” someone had replied. To which Lady Lavinia had countered, “Pish and nonsense. There is good breeding on her mother’s side, and Rexford certainly does not have to catch himself an heiress. Why”—Lavinia Leffingwell’s voice had lowered, and Charlotte had strained shamelessly to hear the rest of it—“why, Arthur tells me all the Lindens cut up warm, and Richard’s father was no different from the rest of them—left more than seventy-five thousand pounds to his only heir, not to mention all those houses. Though why he has let Beatrice remain at Durham, I am sure I don’t know, for dowagers always amuse themselves by meddling. I ought to know, for I am one myself,” she added definitely.

How heady it had been just to hear her name linked with Rexford’s. Her fanciful mind had taken to the notion, going so far as to consider how Charlotte Caroline Maria Winslow Linden, Countess of Rexford, might sound. It had seemed impossible even then.

And once again she felt that ache, the yearning that came with memories of what might have been. Usually, she forced her thoughts away, telling herself she had much for which to be grateful. But just now she had not the will.

She’d had every green girl’s dreams then, daring to believe that a man of wealth and title could throw his hat over the windmill for her. As much as she’d wanted to hope Lady Leffingwell had been right, in the end she’d had to concede what she’d mistaken for interest had merely been kindness. She’d been so easily swept off her feet because she’d encountered far too few kind gentlemen amongst the ton. Most were too concerned with the cut of their coats, too filled with their own conceit to care for anything beyond themselves.

Anyway, none of it mattered anymore, for the green girl was long gone, her dreams dead, dashed upon the shoals of a grim reality. Instead of presiding over Rexford’s table, she lived scandalously alone, far removed from the gilded, glittering ballrooms of his world. And by passing herself off as Charles Winslow to her clients, she earned everything from the roof over her head to the food on her table, something no respectable female would dare to admit.

But for one enchanted evening at Lady Conniston’s ball, the most sought-after buck in all of London had singled her out for two dances. And beyond that, he’d asked her mother’s permission to “take Miss Charlotte for a turn about Hyde Park tomorrow at five o’clock.” How everyone had envied her that night. She swallowed, remembering her mama’s excited chatter on the way home.

“Oh, I vow I am in alt, dearest! I must tell William that the economies we have practiced to bring you out have paid off most handsomely! Now I should have been content with a plain mister of substance, of course, but ’tis Rexford! Who could have thought it—Rexford! Mark my words, Charlotte, he means to make you his countess!”

How very wide of the mark her mama had been, she recalled regretfully. That night had proven to be the most fateful of her life, but for a very different reason. And if she lived to be one hundred, she’d never forget the subdued manners of the servants or the stricken look on her mother’s face when Dr. Crowe had said her papa was dead of heart failure at forty-seven.

And so had ended her only London Season. They’d withdrawn to Buckley Hall to bury her father, then remained there to mourn him for the requisite year. But within a week the awful truth had come out in a visit from her father’s solicitor.

“Mr. Winslow has made some rather unfortunate investments, I’m afraid,” he’d explained apologetically. “He gamed excessively, you mean,” had been her mother’s acerbic retort. But it was worse than Mama or Charlotte or the younger girls could ever have imagined—Buckley Hall itself had needed to be sold, and the extent of debts to be satisfied had been utterly overwhelming, ending any thought of their ever returning to London.

She’d written Rexford, of course, apologizing for missing the turn about the park, explaining her abrupt departure. But she’d not been quite able to tell him all of it, for she’d not wanted his pity. And it was just as well, she supposed. After all, for all her hopes of him, he’d never so much as bothered to answer. To add to the pain, it had taken him but a year and a half to wed another. Miss March, who’d actually seen his countess, confided to Charlotte’s sister Sarah that Lady Helena had been that year’s reigning beauty. And so she’d had to put away her dreams of him and go on.

Once the proceeds of Buckley Hall had partially settled William Winslow’s staggering debts, his destitute family had gone to live with one of his wife’s brothers, who had seemed to begrudge them every pea they ate. Finally, in the end, Mama’s spirit had failed, and she died the year Charlotte turned twenty-one. Uncle Henry, under the guise of being helpful, had secured Charlotte a position as companion to a spiteful, ill-tempered elderly female. It had lasted a week.

“Ahem.”

Startled, she looked up to catch Dr. Alstead’s frown. “I’m sorry,” she responded apologetically. “I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”

“I said I shall require some assistance. While his lordship’s coachmen hold him down, I would have you hand my instruments to me. He has refused any more laudanum, despite the fact I have told him ’twill be excruciatingly painful,” he explained irritably.

“You…you aren’t going to amputate the leg, are you?” she managed to ask. “I mean—”

“I’m going to have a go at saving it first, Miss Winslow,” he snapped. “However, I might point out that the longer the delay, the greater likelihood of infection where the bone is exposed. And gangrene, if it sets in, will take the choice from me, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed. Quickly shoving her pictures back into the folder, she rose. “I did try to clean him up a bit for you,” she added.

“So I was told. They said ’twas you as cut his breeches off,” he said stiffly. “But then I suppose I ought not to be surprised, Miss Winslow, for to my notion you are a very singular sort of female.”

As he spoke, he emphasized the word singular rather dampeningly, as though she’d committed some sin, when in fact all she’d done was live alone. She bit back a retort. It didn’t make any difference what he thought of her, she told herself as she followed him back into her bedchamber.

Rexford’s face was ashen, his jaw clenched tightly against the pain. Beggs looked up, then shook his head. “’E ain’t having no more o’ the medicine, missus. I told ’im—”

“Nonsense,” she cut in shortly. Reaching for the bottle that the doctor had set out on the table, she unstoppered it and started to measure some into an empty cup.

“No,” the earl gritted out.

“Don’t be foolish,” she chided him. “You will need it.”

“Don’t be wifely,” he shot back. Even as he said it, he winced visibly. “I don’t want anything.”

“’E’s a stubborn man, ’e is,” Tittle maintained stoutly.

“We have already been through this more times than I care to count,” Alstead muttered. “Man’s an obstreperous fool, if you’d have my opinion of him.”

“But why?” she persisted, her eyes on Rexford. “Without it, you will be in agony, sir.”

For a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, then reopened them as though his will could somehow master pain. “Because,” he rasped out, “I have seen too many dosed into oblivion who have wakened with one less limb.”

“You’ll be damned sorry, but who am I to tell a nob like yourself how you ought to go on.” Taking out a knife, the doctor shrugged, then nodded to the coachmen. “Hold him down like I told you, boys. If he screams, don’t let him go, particularly not if you are the one as is holding his leg.”

“I got ’im,” Beggs promised. “’E ain’t movin’ none.”

“See as he stays that way.” Alstead handed Charlotte his surgeon’s bag. “Keep it near and open, ’tis all I ask. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

He lifted the sheet off Rexford’s broken leg, studied it appraisingly for a moment, then exhaled heavily. After casting one last warning look at Beggs, he went to work, slitting the flesh next to the exposed bone. The earl gasped audibly, stiffened reflexively, and bit his lip, drawing blood. At first, Charlotte thought he’d fainted, but the determined clench of his jaw told her he hadn’t.

“Snapped like a stick,” Alstead muttered. “Bring the lamp closer, will you?”

“Aye, guv’nor,” Tittle responded promptly.

Charlotte kept her eyes on the break, watching as the elderly physician matched the sharp edges, joined them together, dug beneath to wrap some sort of cord around them, then finished by dusting the whole with basilicum powder. With each move he made, the muscles of Rexford’s calf jerked, but Alstead did not seem bothered by it. Finally, he turned around and ordered curtly, “The threaded needle.”

“Where?”

“In the pouch.”

She found it and gave it to him. Despite unsteady hands, he managed to take neat stitches, pulling the torn flesh together, closing the wound over his handiwork. It wasn’t until he straightened up that she breathed her relief.

“Gor blimey!” Billy said. “Where’d ye learn ter do that?”

“In the colonies.”

“Eh?”

Alstead looked across at him. “I served as surgeon under Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne ere you were breeched, boy.”

“You was in the army?” Thomas asked, awed.

“Aye. Counter to recent opinion, Napoleon did not invent war nor the means to man’s destruction,” the old man reminded him dryly. “In my time, it was the damned rebels in America.”

“What did you use to hold the bone, sir?” Charlotte wanted to know.

“Gut—boiled gut.” Wiping his hands on his surgeon’s apron, he returned his attention to Rexford. “Now let us look at that head. A few stitches there, and I am on my way.” He nodded significantly, prompting the two coachmen to ease the earl onto the unaffected side. His tension gone, he began to whistle “God Save the King” rather tunelessly as he sewed. “There,” he declared finally. “Gently put him down, boys.”

The earl’s eyes remained closed, his forehead wet with perspiration. “If the leg don’t fester, you’ll keep it. As for the head, the wound’s in the hair, so you’ll remain a handsome enough devil,” Alstead told him. “Miss Winslow ought to be able to tend the dressing. If naught’s amiss and I’m not called back ere then, I’ll come day after next to look at my work. I’ve told this fellow”—he pointed to Billy—“how to make a crutch. Ever use one before?”

“Yes.” Rexford’s voice was scarce above a whisper. “When I was wounded before.”

“Aye, I saw where the ball took part of the muscle. Guess bullets don’t know the difference between a nob and anybody else, eh?” When the earl didn’t answer, Alstead went on explaining, “If the leg is hot or if you are fevered, Miss Winslow is to send for me immediately.” He leaned over Rexford’s face. “No hill too high for a man as was shot at Salamanca, eh?”

“No.”

“Demned fortunate you didn’t bleed to death in Spain, you know. That ball couldn’t have missed the artery by more’n an inch.” Turning to take his bag, he added, “You’d best pay Miss Winslow to keep you, for it’ll be weeks ere you ought to travel. And I daresay the foolish creature hasn’t a feather to fly with, as the saying goes. Can’t be much to be made in drawing pictures, after all.”

She felt the heat rise to her face. “Oh, but I assure you—”

“Pride don’t fill stomachs, missy,” Alstead snapped. “And from all I’ve heard, he’s got gold to spare. Yes, well, that’s all I can think of just now.”

Rexford took a deep breath, then exhaled. “My thanks,” he managed tiredly.

The doctor looked to Charlotte. “He’ll take the laudanum I’m leaving for him now, no doubt about it. Eight drops in half a glass of water whenever he asks for it until tomorrow. Then no more than six and be sparing with it—four times to the day at most.”

“And the dressing? You mentioned I would be tending the dressing,” she reminded him.

“Oh, aye. Change it daily, and wrap clean linen loosely around it. Don’t cut off any circulation. Tie it so as two fingers can be got between the string and the dressing. When you take one off, wash the wound with good soap, and be sure to keep it dry with basilicum. All there is to it.” He glanced down at the earl again. “Keep him quiet—gruel today, food tomorrow. If you are wishful of it, I can send Mrs. Adams from the village for propriety.”

“I scarce think him in any condition to compromise anyone,” she responded dryly. “And I am not at all sure she would wish to come here.”

“Humph! For a look at an earl, she might.” Turning away, he rearranged the contents of his bag, then snapped it shut. “I am leaving another nightshirt on the chair. ’Tis too wide and too short, but it’ll do for now. Well, you got these boys as can help you with him, I suppose, though where you are to put them, I don’t know.”

“There is a feather mattress on the truckle, or I might sleep in the other room on a chair.”

He started to leave. “Give you one thing, Miss Winslow,” he shot over his shoulder, “you never flinched so much as an inch.”

“I shall choose to take that as a compliment.”

“Meant it so.” Alstead hesitated. “You know, with the least encouragement, you could bring Raggett up to scratch…fellow’s not put off by your pictures.”

“Oh?”

“Told Mrs. Adams you are still a fine-looking female, Miss Winslow. Though what he’s to think of having Rexford here—”

“Mr. Raggett and I should not suit,” she interrupted him hastily. “Indeed, but we have scarce spoken.”

In the other room, she retrieved Alstead’s spattered greatcoat for him, then saw him to the door. As he was about to open it, Rexford’s coachmen emerged from the sickroom.

“’E says as we are ter see ye ’ome,” Beggs told the doctor. “’E don’t want ye fallin’ over the cliff yerself.”

“Young man—”

“If ye was ter let me ’ave the ’orn lantern so’s we can get back, I’d bring it ter ye tomorrow,” Thomas added.

“Tomorrow’s today,” the old man muttered, then he relented. “But as the night’s half gone already, you’d might as well finish it at the Red Bull. If you haven’t the blunt, I’ll have the bill put down to Rexford.”

“But ’is lor’ship—”

“After eight more drops of laudanum, he’ll be beyond knowing, I expect.” The doctor jammed his hat over his unfashionably long white locks, then bowed slightly. “Goodnight, Miss Winslow.”

“Wait. I don’t suppose you could see that Mr. Beggs is able to engage a horse, could you?” As Alstead seemed taken aback, she explained, “Lord Rexford’s mother awaits him at Durham, and I’d have her know what has befallen him. Well, she must be worried, I should think.”

“Me?” Billy Beggs eyed her askance. “Ye don’t know ’er, do ye? Nay, but it ought ter be Mr. Tittle as goes,” he protested.

“And I thought ye was me friend,” Thomas said mournfully. “I ain’t going alone ter beard th’ dowager, I tell ye.”

“Well, someone ought to tell her he’s going to be all right,” she said, exasperated.

“I’ll see they get word to Lady Rexford,” the doctor assured her. “Goodnight again, Miss Winslow.”

She waited until the doctor’s tilbury was safely on the road, then she closed and latched the door. Alone now, she rubbed her arms against the chill air before moving to lay another log upon the fire. Poking it until it settled, she stood there, her hands outstretched, drawing warmth from the popping coals.

She supposed she ought to have welcomed another woman’s assistance, but there simply wasn’t any place to put Mrs. Adams. Indeed, if Rexford’s coachmen hadn’t gone with the doctor, she’d have had to put them on the floor.

She was tired, nearly too tired to sleep, and her mother’s clock chimed once. One o’clock, and she still had to give the earl his pain-killing medicine. And in a morning certain to come too soon, she had to finish Mr. Burleigh’s poster. Squaring her own aching shoulders, she walked into the bedchamber for one last look at Rexford.

He appeared to be asleep. In the faint light from the smoking cruzie, he seemed younger, more vulnerable than before. The shadows played tricks before her, obscuring the silver sprinkled in his dark hair, the lines at the corners of his lips and eyes. Unable to resist the temptation, she reached to brush at the unruly hair with her fingertips. His eyes opened, startling her. Embarrassed, she stepped back.

“I…uh, that is, I was wishful of seeing if you slept…or if you had decided to take the laudanum now.”

He stared up at her, his eyes betraying how much the leg throbbed. “No to both,” he muttered.

“You are fortunate to still have your leg, you know.”

“I’ll be thankful tomorrow.”

“Yes, well, if you are quite determined, I shall take my blanket and withdraw to the fire, my lord. Tomorrow, no doubt, either Mr. Beggs or Mr. Tittle will apprise your mother of the accident.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

There was such bitterness in his voice that she was momentarily taken aback. “But you were going to see her, weren’t you? I thought Mr. Beggs said—”

He passed a hand over his face, then shook his head tiredly. “I want her out of my house and my life. And I want her to take Sedgely and his simpering daughter with him.”

“Oh.”

Again he sucked in his breath and held it until he could speak over the pain. “My mother has misled them into thinking I wish to step into the damned parson’s mousetrap again,” he said finally. “Once burned, twice warned, isn’t it?”

“Never having been burned at all, I cannot say.” Feeling very awkward, she retreated. “If you do not mind it, I shall collect what I need and bid you good night, my lord.”

“Wait—”

“Yes?”

“I’d take water…without the laudanum.”

“Yes, of course.” Turning back, she quickly dipped water from a pitcher into a cup. Leaning over to lift his head with one hand, she gave him his drink with the other.

He swallowed, then lay back. “My thanks.”

She longed to ask him of his wife—if Lady Helena had been the beauty Miss March had reported. Instead, she reached for the blanket.

“God,” he muttered, “what a sinner I must’ve been to deserve this.”

“At least the Almighty saw fit to spare you the fate of your horses.”

“Are you always so cheerful?” he gibed.

“No. Sometimes I am positively blue-deviled. Sometimes I wish for things I cannot have. And sometimes I worry that Mr. Burleigh or Madame Cecile will not like what I have done for them. But in the end, the Almighty always provides.”

“Does He?”

“Perhaps not precisely in the manner I have wished,” she admitted, “but I have never gone hungry, nor have I had to endure the importunities foisted upon females in service.”

Bustling about the small room setting things right, she opened her cabinet and found her heavy woolen nightgown. Moving to her storage chest, she took out her last blanket. When she finally turned her attention back to him, it appeared as though he had dozed off.

“Good night, my lord,” she said softly.

He didn’t respond until she reached the door. “Wait,” he said again.

She stopped. “Did you need something else?”

“I don’t know what I need.”

“Oh.” Then the obvious dawned on her. “Would you like for me to leave the chamberpot on the table so you can reach it?” Even as she asked, she could feel her face redden. Before he could say anything, she drew the folded blanket and nightgown to her chest like a shield. “I assure you I shall try not to be missish in such matters.” Not daring to look at him, she reached beneath a corner of her bed and drew out the pot. Setting it beside him, she turned to leave again.

“You appear to be one of the few sensible females,” he murmured, smiling faintly.

“Well, as there is no chambermaid—nor any other servant, for that matter—I expect I haven’t much choice.”

“Alstead called you Miss Winslow.”

She had her hand on the doorknob. “Yes.”

“And you mentioned Buckley Hall.”

She felt her breath catch painfully. “It was my home—a long time ago, I lived there. My father was William Winslow.” When he said nothing, she blurted out, “I am sure you will not remember me, Lord Rexford, but we were briefly acquainted. I was—that is, I am Miss Winslow—Miss Charlotte Winslow, to be precise.”

Had he not been in such agony, he would have pursued the matter. He would have asked how she came to be alone in such a godforsaken, isolated place, but he didn’t. “I see.”

“You can be forgiven for not remembering, for I have not been to London since—well, I have not been there in the past fifteen years. And the acquaintance was the merest one, I am sure. But you were quite kind, I recall.” She was rattling on, making a fool of herself, no doubt. “Yes, well, if I am to finish Mr. Burleigh’s poster, I really must get to bed. I shall leave the door open lest you need to call for me. Good night, sir.”

He stared after her, thinking he would ask more on the morrow. “Good night, Miss Winslow,” he murmured.

But long after she left, long after he no longer heard her moving about in the other room, he lay awake, fighting the throbbing in his leg. A clock struck three, and he began to wish he’d not refused the drug. But he wouldn’t give in and wake her. He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything, everything but the pain.

Fixing his thoughts on Charlotte Winslow, he considered where he’d last seen her. It could have been at one of Sally Jersey’s parties. No, it wasn’t. With an effort, he tried to remember how she looked then. As her image came to mind, he recalled his disappointment when she’d suddenly gone into mourning. He’d written his condolences to her, but there’d been no reply, indicating he’d been mistaken in her.

Fifteen years, she said. Then it dawned on him. He’d last seen her when Meg Conniston had come out in one of the grandest balls of that season.

Unable to stand the pulsing ache in his leg any longer, he turned his head and saw the laudanum bottle. And as much as he hated giving over to the nightmares that were certain to come with it, he reached for it. There was still a little water in his cup. He unstoppered the bottle and poured liberally from it. Putting it back, he swirled the dose, mixing it, then he gulped every last bit down.

The raging storm had abated, replaced by a cold, steady rain. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and pulled the worn blanket closer. It was without doubt one of the longest nights of her life. She slept fitfully, dreaming wild, fanciful dreams where she was young and Rexford was still coming to drive her about the park. And her mother was vowing to buy her all manner of dresses, even a ballgown from Madame Cecile’s, saying it was no extravagance at all. Sarah and Kate were still at home, waiting eagerly to follow in her footsteps. And Papa was proud of her, so very proud of her.

But something was wrong. It was winter; she could feel the cold in her bones and smell the smoke from a winter’s fire. Rousing, she stared about her, seeing the heavy shadows, the faint, familiar outlines of the furniture in her cottage. The wind must have shifted, for despite the glowing coals in the hearth, the room was chilly, the blanket inadequate.

Rising, she wrapped the blanket about her and hobbled on nearly numb legs to poke at the fire. What she needed was to lie down, to curl up in a bed for warmth. There had to be some other wrap, something else she could use.

Tiptoeing to her open bedchamber door, she listened for a moment, hearing only silence. Alarmed, she crept into the room and walked closer to her bed. The wick in the cruzie lamp was drowning, a small, valiant flame flickering its last in the sea of oil.

“My lord,” she whispered, “are you quite all right?”

He didn’t answer.

Her hand touched the blanket where it lay over Dr. Alstead’s nightshirt. “You were quite the best of the lot, the grandest buck of your day, you know. We all thought so. There wasn’t a female amongst the ton who did not cast out lures to you,” she recalled softly. “But I expect war changes a man, doesn’t it? The old things no longer seem so very important, I suppose.”

Reluctantly, she drew her hand away to rub warmth into her arm. Moving stealthily to the other side of the bed, she reached down to pull out the truckle, hoping to find another blanket. Her cold, stiff fingers felt the feather mattress, but it was too heavy to pull out without waking him.

He’d never know she’d slept in there, she reasoned. Or if he did waken, she could say he’d called out, that she’d been afraid she might not hear him the next time. Parting with the small warmth of her worn blanket, she added it to the one on the truckle, then slipped under both of them.

Slowly, even so slowly, the cradling featherbed warmed, giving back the heat to her body. The sound of rain beating steadily upon the roof combined with that of Rexford’s rhythmic breathing to lull her. And this time when she slept, there were no dreams to plague her.

Moaning in his sleep, he tried to turn over. But his wound pained him. Cradling his head on his hard saddle, he listened to the sounds.

Somewhere in the distance, the church bells still tolled for the dead. As he lay there in the darkness, he could hear the screams, and he could smell the awful stench of burning flesh and of blood. It was hot, close, stifling within the confines of the tent. His leg burned as though someone had thrust a hot poker into the hole in his thigh. Gentler hands pushed his away from the bandage, while a soft voice told him he was going to live. But he knew she lied. He could hear the screams everywhere. Everywhere. He could smell the blood. He heard her summon the surgeon, he heard her say he was far too hot.

The light. The light was too bright, the tunnel leading to it oddly dark. He was being sucked into it, but he would not go, not yet. Bracing his legs against the pull, he struggled to stay. He could hear his own voice shouting hoarsely that he wasn’t ready to die.

She heard him scream, and she came awake with a start, rolling her tired body from the truckle. The wick in the cruzie had gone out, leaving the room in darkness, forcing her to grope for the edge of his bed. She found one of his clenched hands.

“Too much blood…lost too much blood,” he gasped, his fingers closing painfully over hers. “Hot…too hot…”

In truth, his hand was ice cold, and he was shivering uncontrollably. She leaned over him. “You are all right,” she said soothingly. “You are all right.”

“Benson…Benson took a ball…saw him…took his head…”

“Shhhhh. You have a broken leg, ’tis all, my lord. It will mend, it will mend,” she repeated over and over.

“Got to…stop the blood,” he mumbled. “Losing too much blood.”

“No, the wound has been closed.” With her free hand, she brushed his hair back from his temples as one would for a fretting child. “You are all right, my lord,” she whispered yet again.

“Thirsty…so thirsty…”

She glanced at the laudanum bottle and saw that it was nearly empty, indicating that he’d taken too much. Disengaging her hand from his, she tucked the blanket closer about his shaking shoulders, promising, “I shall get you a drink of water in a trice.”

“Don’t go—don’t leave me to die—don’t…” He fought the blanket, tearing it away, grasping for her arm.

“You are not going to die, my lord, you have a broken leg,” she said more loudly. “You are not in the peninsula, you are near Whitby in Yorkshire.”

“The Frogs…”

“We beat them.”

“Cotton—did Cotton…?”

“It is over. We won at Salamanca, sir. We pushed them back all the way to France. We have beaten the French, and it is over. Boney’s gone into exile, and the czar has been here to celebrate our victory.”

“The rain…I still hear the rain,” he mumbled. “Worms everywhere—in the tents—everywhere.”

“The rain you hear is on my roof,” she answered patiently.

Clearly he was as much out of his head as he’d been when he lay in the road, and it was no use to try making him understand anything just now. She tucked the blanket about him again and rose to get him his drink of water. There were still enough live coals in the fire to give the main room an orange glow and outline the doorway. Shivering herself, she crossed her arms over her old nightgown, holding in what little warmth she could.

She put another log onto the waning fire, then felt along the mantel for her box of wicks. Finding it, she drew out one and took it to the lamp. With her fingertip, she fished out the black speck of the last one before inserting the new one. The oil was low, but it ought to burn a little while. Carrying the lamp back to the fire, she lit a piece of tinder, then the floating wick.

When she returned with lamp and cup, he’d tossed the covers from his shoulders again. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she tried to rouse him.

“I have brought you some water, my lord. You need to drink, for you have taken too much of the opium.”

“Give it to Thompson…or one of the others,” he rasped out. It was as though she were in a room of ghosts. “They have already had their share,” she said firmly, putting her arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him. “It is your turn to drink.”

The flickering flame from the lamp reflected eerily in his glazed eyes, frightening her. “You’ve got to drink,” she said again, holding the cup to his lips. “You must drink as much as you can.”

He swallowed obediently, then pushed the rest away.

“No, take some more.”

“The others…”

“They are being tended also,” she murmured soothingly. “Come on, just a bit more.”

He took another drink, satisfying her for the moment. Sinking back against the pillows, he closed his eyes. “Hell—I have seen hell,” he whispered hoarsely. “’Tis war. War is hell.”

“You are dreaming merely,” she said, persisting. “And you are freezing cold. In truth, so am I.”

He nodded as though perhaps he understood her. She sat there until she could stand the cold no longer. Rising, she reached into the truckle bed and struggled to pull off the feather mattress. Straightening, she peered intently into his closed face.

Still fearing the overdose of laudanum, she spread the mattress over the bed, then she crept between it and the blanket that covered him. Turning against him, she reached out to pull the featherbed over both of them.

Someone was pounding loudly at the cottage door. She stretched reluctantly beneath the weight of the feather mattress, until she felt the body next to hers. It all came back to her then. Embarrassed, she gingerly eased away from him and sat up.

Light already came through the small window. She looked back at Rexford, but he was breathing evenly. Grateful for that at least, she rose and dressed quickly behind the cabinet door. Taking the blanket above the mattress, she hurried into the outer room, where she dropped it into the chair, then went to answer the door.

It was Dr. Alstead with two crude crutches and what appeared to be short slats. She pushed back her tangled hair and stood aside. “’Tis rather early, indeed, but I wasn’t expecting you,” she murmured. “I’d thought Mr. Beggs or Mr. Tittle—”

“’Tis nigh to eleven o’clock. And both of them have already left for Durham. Neither wished to face Lady Rexford alone,” he recalled dryly. “I collect she is a Tartar of the first order.” His gaze went past her to the dead fire. “Quite an unpleasant night, eh?”

“Yes. I think he overdosed himself, for he believed he was at Salamanca, and I could not convince him otherwise.”

He nodded. “Best not to try. Fever’s not up, is it?”

“No. Quite otherwise, sir.”

“He was chilling?” he asked, frowning.

“I think it was that the hearth does not heat the bedchamber. I finally put the mattress from the truckle over him.”

He glanced to the blanket that had slid from the chair. “You must have frozen yourself.”

“I had the fire,” she lied.

“Is he better this morning?”

“I don’t think he is awake yet.”

He set aside the crutches. “I forget sometimes that the nobs are slugabeds. Don’t encounter too many of ’em myself.” He measured the narrow pieces of wood appraisingly, then apparently satisfied, he murmured, “About the right size, I’d say.” Carrying them with him, he sought his patient.

“Feeling more the thing, eh?” she heard the old man ask.

To her surprise, the earl had pulled himself up in the bed. For a moment, he regarded Alstead balefully.

“Which complaint would you hear first?” he countered sourly.

“Miss Winslow said you had a bad night. Leg pains you, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“And the head?”

“Like the very devil.”

“How long since your last dose of laudanum?”

“I don’t know,” Rexford muttered. “God, but it feels like an army marched through my head. And my mouth tastes as though I have drunk all the rotten rum in London.”

“A little vinegar in water will take care of that. Any problem with nature?”

Rexford looked up at Charlotte’s red face before he answered. “No. Where’s Beggs?”

Ignoring the question, the physician laid the slats on the bed.

“You are going to splint the leg,” Charlotte decided.

“Aye.” Alstead addressed Rexford. “Going to hurt, no two ways about it, but you’ll feel better when ’tis done.” He lifted the feather mattress and blanket off, then removed the makeshift dressing. “Hmmmmm. Well, it looks better than I had expected. A little warm to the touch, but that is the body’s way of healing a wound.”

Charlotte peered curiously over his shoulder. Where the jagged bone had protruded from the skin, there was an irregular row of stitches and a large bruise.

“Got to keep it dry.” As he spoke, the doctor opened his bag and took out the can of basilicum. “Infection breeds in moisture,” he murmured, dusting his handiwork. “No baths until ’tis healed. Oh, no harm to a wet cloth now and then, but always dry the area after,” he went on conversationally. “Can’t keep a wound too dry.” He took out a rolled bandage and began wrapping it around Rexford’s lower leg. “Don’t make a mess of it. Got to overlap it just so. There. Ought to keep the splint from rubbing.”

Picking up the slats, he lined them up on both sides of Rexford’s calf. “Thought I had measured about right,” he observed with satisfaction. “Miss Winslow, as you have assured me you aren’t missish, would you please hold them in place?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Just get on with it,” the earl gritted out.

“Even with these, I don’t want any weight on the leg,” Alstead said. “Nothing short of a miracle you are alive,” he murmured as he worked. “Way I see it the Almighty must’ve knocked you the other way for a purpose. Divine intervention, I’d say. Ever think of that, my lord? Ever consider there might be a purpose?”

“No.”

“Always wondered why a nob like you wanted to risk getting your head blown off in the war,” the physician went on. “Ponsonby went, but then that was expected. Long military tradition in the family. I suppose the same could be said for Lord Longford,” Alstead admitted judiciously. “Mad Jack’s son, after all. I guess some of you fellows go for the excitement, eh?”

“I don’t know,” Rexford gasped.

Feeling that the physician had overstepped his manners, Charlotte spoke up. “Perhaps his lordship chose to serve his country against Bonaparte.”

His face white, the earl managed to measure out his words. “No wars are just, and only fools fight them.”

Alstead straightened up. “Well, it’s not precisely pretty, but it’ll serve to get you to the privy and back, I think. Seeing as Miss Winslow is an unmarried female, she won’t have to worry over the pot, eh?”

“Alstead,” Rexford growled, “you are over the line.”

The doctor shrugged. “A pot’s a pot, and without a maid to do it for her, I expect she’s not entirely ignorant of my meaning.” He turned his attention to her. “He will need help to stand, for he cannot bear weight on that side.”

The earl shook his head. “I’m too heavy for her. ’Twill have to be Tittle.”

“Yes, of course, when he gets back, my lord. But for now—”

“Beggs, then.”

“Both gone to Durham.”

“No, by God, they have not!” The earl looked toward Charlotte. “Is this your doing?” he demanded furiously. “I told you I had no wish to see her!”

“I sent them,” Alstead answered for her.

But Rexford wasn’t listening. “I gave you no leave to meddle in my affairs, Miss Winslow!”

The vehemence in his words stunned her. “Whether I sent them to tell her or not, she is your mother. She has a right to know you have nearly been killed, doesn’t she?”

“No!”

“Here now, sirrah!” the doctor snapped. “I had it of your coachmen that you were on your way to Durham to see the countess.”

“To send her packing to her own property!”

“Of all the ungrateful—Lord Rexford, Dr. Alstead may have saved your leg for you!” Charlotte reminded him angrily. “We both thought you meant to visit her!”

“Visit her! My mother, Miss Winslow, is the last creature on earth I should ever wish to see,” he declared, biting off each word and spitting it at her. “And do you know what you have done? She’ll be here fawning over me in a trice!”

“She’s your mother!” Collecting herself, she tried to speak more rationally. “If I had a son, I should wish to know if he were hurt.”

“Very affecting, but you don’t have a son, do you?” Rexford reminded her sarcastically.

“No, of course not.”

“See here, sirrah!” Alstead snapped. “’Tis enough, I say! I am sure Miss Winslow has done nothing more than is proper. If Lady Rexford comes, no doubt she will give the appearance of propriety.”

The earl’s jaw worked visibly before he spoke. “Whether she comes or not, let me make one thing plain to the both of you. No matter what is said, hell will freeze before I succumb to matrimony. I will not be trapped by some ridiculous notion of honor again. Not ever.”

“And I have not the least notion of trapping anyone,” Charlotte replied stiffly. “Now, if both of you will pardon me, I have quite a lot to do. I do work for my living.”

As she walked out, Alstead continued to look at Rexford. “That was quite uncalled for, my lord.”

“I don’t want my mother here,” the earl muttered, looking away. “I cannot abide her or the silly creatures she is forever trying to foist on me. One wigeon for a wife was quite enough, thank you.”

“I fail to see where that touches Miss Winslow. You are, after all, dependent just now on her charity.” The elderly physician snapped his bag shut and turned to leave. “If nature should call, I expect you will have to fend for yourself, though how you will manage emptying that chamberpot while on crutches, I am sure I do not know. But then, that is your dilemma, isn’t it?” he said more mildly. “Good day, my lord.”

“Wait!”

“I am sure I am not the one in need of an apology, sir.”

“’Tis not that.” When the old man hesitated, Rexford took a breath, then asked, “What do you know of Miss Winslow?”

“Very little. If you would pry, I suggest you inquire of her.”

“I’m asking you.”

“For all that she lives alone, a situation I cannot approve for a female, I know of no scandal,” Alstead admitted grudgingly. “She came here without so much as a maid or female relation, possibly eleven or twelve years ago, causing a great deal of comment at the time. Somehow she managed to persuade Mr. Jenkins, then owner of this land, to lease this cottage to her—it was empty then. I believe Mrs. Bottoms said she pays twelve pounds per year. Not a princely sum, but no doubt ’tis all she can afford.”

Despite his earlier anger, Rexford was appalled. “I see.”

“Anything else I could say would be purely speculation, my lord, so I shall choose to leave it at that. Good day, sir.”

After the doctor left, Rexford lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. In the outer room, he could hear her moving about, maintaining a steady conversation. He had to listen for several minutes before he realized she was talking to an animal.

Miss Charlotte Winslow had come to a sad pass, he reflected soberly. The pretty, smiling girl who’d once spoken of books and roses was not only on the shelf but also she was eking out a living on the wild Yorkshire coast, reduced to living in a twelve-pound-per-year cottage. As much as he tried not to think of her, his thoughts turned to his dead wife.

Helena. He’d never forgive his mother for that. How he could ever have let his mother and Fairfax push him into offering for the creature was beyond belief. They’d all cheated him; aside from the girl’s beauty, there’d been nothing. Absolutely nothing. And when he’d found her boring beyond bearing, she’d committed the greatest perfidy of all, saddling him with another man’s brat before she died.

That was another score he wanted to settle with his mother. She had no right to blame him for Helena’s indiscretion. He’d never failed to pay the simpleton’s bills, nor had he denied her anything beyond himself.

He smelled food, and the growl in his stomach reminded him he was hungry. Even as he thought it, Charlotte rapped lightly on his door, then stepped inside, carrying a steaming bowl with a towel. As she crossed the room, he tried to guess her age. She was perhaps thirty-three or thirty-four, but her figure had remained trim, her dark eyes bright within an oval face, her step purposeful. And while she was far beyond that first bloom of youth, she was possessed of a dignity that Helena had never had, making him ashamed of his earlier outburst of temper.

“Your breakfast, my lord,” she said stiffly.

He caught the bedstead and pulled himself up. “What is it?”

“As it is rather hot, I shall set the towel beneath it,” she said matter-of-factly. After lowering both to rest on his lap, she started back toward the door. “Call me when you are done.”

“Wait.” He looked down and saw what appeared to be exceedingly thin oatmeal. “What is it?” he asked again.

“Dr. Alstead said you were to have gruel today, food tomorrow.”

He dipped the spoon, then let the stuff spill back into the bowl. “Look, I did not mean to rip up at you. My anger is with her, not you.”

She favored him with a disbelieving look. “Lord Rexford, I can recognize a wheedle when I hear it. Whether you are sorry or not, ’tis still gruel. For your own good, of course,” she added sweetly.

“Heartless jade,” he muttered.

“If you don’t eat it now, I will save it for supper.”

“You could at least stay.”

“As I am not a wealthy nobleman, I’m afraid I have not the time.”

With that, she was gone, leaving him to wonder. Sighing, he dipped the spoon again and carried it to his lips for a taste. He’d been right—it was thin oatmeal mixed with something else.

“What the devil is this?” he called out.

She came back to the door. “I told you, ’tis gruel.”

“I would not feed this to a dog. You cannot have tasted it.”

“Well, as I am never ill, I’ve not actually made any before,” she admitted, suppressing a smile. “But it ought to be sustaining. ’Tis barley water, oatmeal, and pork jelly. Perhaps I forgot to add the salt. If so—”

“It needs considerably more than salt,” he muttered. “And what, pray, did you eat?”

“I had a coddled egg and toast.”

“Then I shall have the same.”

“Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he howled incredulously. “No, by God, today!”

“Are you always so obstreperous, my lord?” she inquired mildly.

“Come take this pigwash before I toss it!”

She shook her head. “I suspect if I got close enough, you might box my ears,” she answered.

“No, my dear,” he said tightly, “I should be more like to strangle you.”

“Yes, well, I do not mean to put it to the touch. I believe I shall wait until you have eaten.”

“I need coffee. I cannot eat until I have had my coffee.”

“I should like to oblige, but I have none.” Seeing that his face had darkened ominously, she offered, “But there is tea, should your lordship wish it.”

“No chocolate?” he gibed sarcastically. “I thought all females doted on the stuff.”

“Alas, no, it is rather dear.” Stooping down, she picked up a huge orange cat. “Come on, Rex, I daresay he does not like animals today either.”

He’d tried to apologize, he decided resentfully. But as he looked down on the gruel she’d made him, he felt distinctly out of sorts with the world. Of all the things he would be disinclined to taste, pork jelly must surely rank first. Nonetheless, to appease her, he had to attempt eating it.

In the outer room, she unfurled her poster and fastened it deftly to her easel. Stepping back, she viewed it critically, deciding she’d been right last night—the green definitely needed to be brighter. As for Rexford, she was severely disappointed. For whatever reason, the dashing gentleman of her youth no longer existed. This earl was far too bitter.

“Come take it!” he shouted. “I’m done!”

She went back to the bedchamber door. “You ate all of it? Or did you pour it into the chamberpot?”

“If you must know, I held my nose and drank it.”

She collected the empty bowl and spoon, then put the towel over her arm. As she started to the door again, she could feel his eyes on her. “Is something else the matter?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Were you always like this? I seem to recall you had a better temper when you were younger.”

She eyed him oddly for a moment, her expression fixed, then she recovered. “Well, perhaps memories play tricks on the both of us, for I seem to remember you were quite gallant.”

“Touché. How old are you now, anyway?”

“How old are you?” she countered.

“Nine and thirty. And you?”

“You don’t have a very precise memory, do you?” Relenting, she admitted, “I don’t suppose it matters anymore, but I am three and thirty—four and thirty in June.”

His gaze rested momentarily on her worn smock and the mobcap on her head. He supposed she wore the latter for dignity, but he didn’t like it.

“You ought to get rid of that, you know.”

“Of what?”

“That ridiculous thing on your head.”

She reached up to touch it, then smiled. “Oh, but I shall not, for it signifies that I have reached an age where I need not be governed by silly proprieties. Think on it. If I were to dress like a simpering miss, there is no telling what sort of gossip might go around, is there?”

“It marks you for a spinster.”

“I cannot think what else I could be considered. And with you here, there might be some to call me fast.”

“Put it on when company comes,” he suggested.

“And what if I should forget it?”

“Baggage.”

She lifted an eyebrow at that. “I think I prefer heartless jade, my lord.” She reached for the door. “You may have to call rather loudly, for when I work, I tend to become rather absorbed.”

“You aren’t going to stay and visit?”

“No. Alas, but Mr. Burleigh awaits.”

“Is that what you call that poor cat?”

“The cat is Rex.”

“At least spare me five minutes.”

“As long as I don’t mention your mother?”

“As long as you don’t mention her.”

“All right.” She hesitated. “I suppose I ought to offer my condolences for the loss of your wife. I read of it in the papers, you know. I understand you have a daughter.” It was as though his face closed for a moment. “Forgive me, it was impertinent of me to pry. I should not have asked about your private life.”

It was a question he had to steel himself to answer. “There is a girl,” he said finally.

To her, it was an odd way to put it. “How old is she? Your daughter, I mean.”

Again there was that rebellion within his breast. “Sophia is nine, I think—yes, nine,” he said more definitely.

The moment was awkward, for clearly he had little wish to speak of the child. “I really must get busy, my lord,” she said quickly.

“And you—how is it that you never wed?” he asked her, trying to keep her there a bit longer.

“I had no dowry,” she said simply.

“And you never had a tendre for anyone, I suppose?”

Her chin came up. “Yes, there was someone,” she admitted, “but he never came up to scratch, I’m afraid.”

“You ought to have gotten yourself a husband and children.”

“Really? How very odd of you to say it, particularly when you seem to have so little regard for the notion yourself.”

“Deceit makes for a damnable husband, Miss Winslow. A woman cannot trap a man into marriage and expect him to love her for it.”

“If I were younger, I should try to remember that, but as a confirmed spinster, I am resigned to leading apes in hell with the rest of my unmarried sisters.”

He watched her leave, thinking she moved with a great deal of grace. Thirty-three. It didn’t seem possible. He closed his eyes and remembered how close he’d come to pursuing her. She’d been pretty then, but it was more than that. She’d had a good mind and such an engaging smile that he’d begun to enjoy her company, to look forward to seeing her at all those interminable routs and balls a fashionable fellow had to endure. It was all coming back to him. He could even remember the gown she’d worn to the Conniston ball. It was white, with a rose satin sash, and as she’d danced with him, the scent of roses had wafted from her hair.

His leg throbbed, bringing him back to the present, but he was determined to take no more laudanum, not after the night he’d had. And now he had to get up either to use the damned chamberpot or to hobble to the privy. He swung his leg over the side of the bed, catching the splints on the bedcovers. For a moment, he thought he would faint, but the intense pain finally subsided. Somehow he managed to stand on his good leg, steadying himself as the room spun around him. Holding on to the bed, he reached for the crutches, retrieving one, knocking the other to the floor.

She came running at the thudding sound and saw him standing there. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded.

He hated being an invalid. To cover his embarrassment, he snapped back, “It ought to be obvious, Miss Winslow.”

She stared at him, thinking he looked rather ridiculous in Dr. Alstead’s voluminous nightshirt, his bare legs showing beneath it. To relieve her own tension, she giggled.

“What, pray tell, is so damned amusing?”

“Nothing,” she managed, sobering. Keeping her eyes averted, she walked to the table and picked up the chamberpot. “Here.”

“You were right—you aren’t the least bit missish,” he gritted out.

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Actually, I suppose I am in some things, but I shall no doubt overcome it. Uh…if you will but call, I’ll come back.”

“You ought to smile more often, you know. I seem to remember it became you.”

“Another wheedle, my lord?”

“No.” He waited until she had her hand on the doorknob. “Your nose is green, Miss Winslow.”

“Is it?” She rubbed at it with a finger. “Yes, I daresay it is,” she admitted. “Now, if you will pardon me, my lord, I should like to finish my project.”

It had taken her half a day before she was satisfied with her work. She made the last few strokes quickly, enriching Rondelli’s gown, then stood back to admire it. After putting her brush in the water and wiping her hands on her smock, she took out her writing supplies and smoothed a piece of paper. Should she perhaps reduce her bill because the picture had been finished late? Casting a look across the room to it, she decided against that. Very carefully, she made her distinctive letterhead, then wrote out her invoice beneath it.

“Lud,” she heard him groan.

Startled, she looked up, nearly oversetting the inkpot. Rexford was bracing his body between a crutch and the door facing, leaning his head against the jamb, grimacing from obvious pain. Afraid he was going to lose his balance, she hastened to help him.

“What on earth are you trying to do now?” she demanded, exasperated.

“Too damned weak,” he muttered.

“Of course you are. Of all the idiotish—”

“Got to sit. Sorry for the nightshirt, but—”

“Lie down, you mean,” she said. Thrusting her shoulder beneath his arm, she tried to steady him. He weaved slightly as she slipped her arm about his waist. “Come on, you are going back to bed.”

“I’m not an infant, Miss Winslow,” he managed through clenched teeth. “I want to sit up, by the fire.”

It was cold in the bedchamber. It always was when the wind blew, she had to admit that. “I don’t know if I could get you up from the chair,” she ventured slowly. “All right,” she decided.

She walked him slowly, steadying him as he struggled between her and the crutch. By the time he sank to the chair, beads of perspiration shone on his forehead.

“I thought I could do without it, but…”

Knowing that he meant the laudanum, she hurried to get it. When she returned he had his head turned toward Mr. Burleigh’s poster.

“You did this?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes. I hope it looks like Madame Rondelli,” she murmured, measuring the opiate into a cup.

“My compliments. It’s a very good likeness.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, trying to soften the throbbing in his shin. “So you are an artist.”

“Actually, it is Mister Winslow who draws.” Walking away from him, she explained, “Charles Winslow had to paint it. Otherwise, Mr. Burleigh should never have engaged me, and I should have starved.” She dipped water into the cup as she talked. “Charles is rather prolific actually, for he not only does the pictures for playbills but he also draws fashion plates and illustrates an occasional book.”

“But there isn’t a Charles Winslow.”

“I am sure there must be one somewhere, but I’m afraid I don’t know him,” she admitted. “When I first conceived the notion of doing this, I sent my drawings around to publishers, theaters, and opera houses. And of course they were scarce opened ere they were discarded. So after I came here, the deception was born, and Charles manages to keep the roof over my head.” She smiled rather impishly, adding, “And given my distance from London, none is any the wiser. I merely ask to be paid in tender rather than by draft, which they quite count as my artistic eccentricity.”

“My compliments.”

She’d half expected him to disapprove, but he was looking at the poster again, nodding. “I know it must seem rather odd to you, but—”

He shook his head. “Actually, I was thinking you have more talent than half those who—” He stopped, his eyes fixed on the window. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “Double damn and wish for hell.”

“What?”

“My mother,” he said tersely.

“Lud.”

“Precisely.” He tried to rise without putting weight on his splinted leg and couldn’t. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Already someone was knocking. She quickly stirred the mixture with her finger, then handed it to him. Smoothing her smock over her faded dress, she considered snatching off the mobcap, then decided against it.

“Yes?” she said, opening the door.

Beggs stood there, his hand raised to knock again, and behind him, Tittle was securing the reins. Charlotte tried to smile at the woman before her.

“You must be Lady Rexford,” she murmured politely.

The dowager surveyed the room with marked disdain before turning her attention to Charlotte. “I am, and I am come to take my son home,” she announced coldly.

“But he cannot be moved,” Charlotte protested. “Indeed but he cannot walk unaided, and Dr. Alstead says—”

The countess’s lips thinned, her disapproval obvious. “We shall see about that, shan’t we? I should never trust a country bonesetter.”

“Dr. Alstead was once an army surgeon,” Charlotte managed stiffly.

The older woman fixed her with sharp blue eyes. “Yes, and I am sure we know what they are—Mrs. Winston, is it?” she asked, her brow lifting. Her gaze dropped to the spattered smock and the worn gown beneath. “Dear me.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know what they are,” Charlotte responded evenly. “And it is Miss Winslow, my lady.”

“They are drunks and sots, the lot of them. Ask Rexford, for they very nearly let him bleed to death in Spain. Though why he went there in the first place, I am sure I don’t know.” Swishing past Charlotte, she spied him. “Well, Richard,” she declared acidly, “’tis a fine pond where you have brought your ducks to swim this time.”

“Mother,” he acknowledged grimly.

“The Sedgelys were most distraught, Richard, particularly dearest Meg. She’s such a lovely girl, truly she is. But I assured her I should have you safely home ere the morrow.”

“Did you now?” he murmured wryly. “How unfortunate I am unable to travel.”

“Well, you certainly cannot stay here. The place is drafty as a stable,” she sniffed.

“I have no complaints.”

“Indeed? And who, pray tell, will play propriety?” Lady Rexford snapped. “But of course I am sure Miss Winston must count your accident a gift of divine Providence,” she added knowingly.

Charlotte bristled. “The name is Miss Winslow, Lady Rexford, and I assure you—”

“No, Miss Winslow, ’tis I who will assure you,” the dowager retorted. “For all that he is possessed of wealth and title, Rexford is far too cognizant of what he owes his name to be embroiled in a mésalliance or a scandal.”

“Cut line, Mother! You’ve said more than enough!”

“Nonsense, Richard. I want her to know that I shall not stand idly by and watch her ingratiate herself above her station. Are we quite understood, Miss Winslow?”

Two red spots rose in Charlotte’s cheeks. “Really, madam, there is no need for this,” she managed evenly.

“You will apologize on the instant!” Rexford shouted at the dowager. “Miss Winslow has saved my leg!”

“Of course you may expect reasonable compensation,” Lady Rexford continued smoothly. “Shall we agree upon twenty pounds? Obviously that is quite a sum to you.”

Furious, the earl lunged to his feet. As searing pain shot up his splinted leg, he staggered, catching at the chair for balance. Charlotte reached out to him, but she was too late. The chair toppled over, and he crashed to the floor, sending the startled cat scrambling for cover.

Heedless of the other woman’s presence, Charlotte dropped to the floor beside him. “Of all the cork-brained things to do…well, this is outside of enough, my lord,” she muttered, examining the splint. “Did you think I cannot defend myself?” Before he could answer, she asked almost angrily, “Did you hurt anything else?”

“Miss Winslow, have you no sense of decency?” the dowager demanded. “He is scarce covered!”

“A pox on propriety,” Charlotte snapped, sitting back on her knees. “Do you want him to lose the leg or worse?” She looked up. “Most physicians would not have tried to set it, you know, for the bone did not break evenly. As it is, there could still be an infection.”

He lay there, scarce able to move for the agony. “Don’t touch it again, I pray you,” he whispered.

“We’ve got to get you up,” she told him. “You only had four drops. Would you have more?”

He shook his head. “Rum.”

“Rum is scarce fit for a gentleman, Richard.”

“See if Mr. Beggs or Mr. Tittle has any,” Charlotte ordered brusquely.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Please. Rum is sometimes used for surgery, I am told. Can you not see how badly he has been injured?”

“Well, I am sure—” Lady Rexford stopped. “Yes, of course.”

“And ask them to help get him to bed also.”

“Sorry,” Rexford murmured. “Useless.”

“Just for now,” Charlotte reassured him. “In a fortnight, you’ll feel much better, and within a month or so, you’ll be all but well.”

“I’ll send her packing,” he mumbled. “Won’t have this.”

The laudanum was beginning to take effect, she could see that, and yet she wondered if it would be enough. She reached to take his hand, squeezing it. “You survived one of Boney’s bullets, my lord. You can survive this also.”

He didn’t answer.

Lady Rexford returned to stand over her. “I had this of Beggs.” Looking down, she asked, “Is he any better?”

“Until we move him.”

“Do you need a glass for the rum?”

“No.” Charlotte took the coachman’s flask and opened it. Leaning over the earl, she said distinctly, “One swallow, my lord.”

As she held it to his mouth, he drank.

“’E don’t look good,” Beggs observed from behind the dowager.

“Right peaked,” Tittle agreed.

“We are going to move you, my lord. Don’t try to do anything yourself,” Charlotte told Rexford. “Just keep the leg straight.”

He nodded.

At least it was easier than it had been when they’d carried him in the rain. This time the splint helped, and between them, they got him back to bed. Charlotte lingered to cover him with the blanket and the featherbed off the truckle.

When she came out, Lady Rexford had discarded her traveling cloak and was standing before the hearth. Turning around, she asked, “He is all right, isn’t he?”

“No.” Charlotte took a deep breath, then let it out. “Unless he was sitting too close to the fire, he has a fever.”

“But he cannot!”

“I think so.”

Both women waited in the outer room, one pacing nervously, the other sitting. By tacit agreement, neither spoke. Finally, Dr. Alstead emerged from the bedchamber.

It was Charlotte who spoke up. “How is he, sir?”

“Well, the leg does not appear infected, which I count a blessing. Oh, there is some swelling, of course, but the wound itself is not hot to the touch.”

“Then whatever—?”

He turned to Charlotte. “Perhaps the ague, perhaps the onset of a lung infection.”

“A lung infection!” the dowager gasped. “But he cannot!”

The doctor regarded her for a long moment. “Madam,” he declared, “if he has lungs, they can become infected. And if he doesn’t have them, he is dead.”

“If it is the ague?” Charlotte asked.

“It’ll run its course. Be damned sick for a few days, but then ’tis over.”

“But he has not been coughing,” Charlotte said, encouraging herself.

“I got that out of him. Been too sore, he says. Daresay he may have cracked a rib or two with the rest of it.”

“Perhaps if I took him home—”

Alstead looked at the countess as though she’d lost her mind. “It will be weeks before he can be transported anywhere in any comfort. Just now it is more important to keep him quiet and as comfortable as may be. We will treat the symptoms, of course.”

“He despises gruel,” Charlotte said.

“So he told me. Pork jelly, eh?”

“A restorative pork jelly, I believe the label boasted. It was a gift for a sketch.”

“Might as well give him what he wants. Make up honey and vinegar if he coughs, onion poultice for congestion, and give laudanum for pain.”

“And for the fever?”

“Willow bark tea. Not too strong, mind you.”

Charlotte sighed. “Perhaps I’d best write down the recipe for the poultice.”

“Common enough one.”

“Yes, but I am never ill, and I cannot say I have ever mixed one.”

“Lard and onions, that’s all. Cook ’em until the onions are shiny but not soft. Put it on while ’tis still warm. Every four hours for half an hour. If that doesn’t work, thump him.”

“Thump him?” Lady Rexford said faintly.

“Pound his chest to loosen the phlegm. Beyond that, if he gets markedly worse, send for me, and I’ll blister him. At this stage, I don’t favor a purge or a blood-letting.”

After he left, Charlotte broached the problem of sleeping to Rexford’s mother. “There are only two beds—the one he is in and the truckle. I have exactly three usable blankets to my name, and one featherbed that can be used for a cover when the weather is too cold. I am afraid I simply do not have any place for you or Mr. Beggs and Mr. Tittle to sleep, nor do I have any shelter for your horses. There, I have said it.”

“And just where do you intend to sleep, Miss Winslow?” the dowager asked archly.

“I had thought to ask the men to move the truckle out here. If I give Lord Rexford the blankets, I shall need the fire.”

“I see.”

“There are lodgings to be had in Whitby, my lady.”

For a long time, Lady Rexford stared into the fire. “No,” she said finally, “he may not wish it, but I intend to stay here. He is, after all, my son.” Raising her eyes to Charlotte’s, she decided, “I shall take the truckle, and you may take the chair.”

“Lady Rexford, this is my house.”

The dowager looked daggers at her. “At twenty pounds, I should think you handsomely paid for it. Thirty pounds, young woman, is as high as I mean to go.”

“I don’t want your money…or his,” Charlotte answered evenly. “I want him to live.”

At that, Lady Rexford looked away. “He wishes me at Jericho, I am sure, but I will not leave him like this.”

“No, of course not.” As much as she disliked the older woman already, Charlotte could almost feel sorry for her. “As you say, he is your son.”

“It was not always like this, Miss Winslow. He once was a kind, generous boy.”

“And now he is a man of thirty-nine,” Charlotte observed dryly. “Sit down, and I shall brew some tea.”

“You do think he will be all right, don’t you?”

“I hope so, but he may limp.”

“He has limped since he came home from the war, Miss Winslow.”

“Yes, of course. He took a ball, didn’t he?”

“And it was such folly. He did not have to go. But after Helena…well, it does not signify now.”

Charlotte measured tea leaves into the teapot, then got out cups and saucers. “I shall have to fetch the cream,” she murmured, excusing herself.

When she returned from the cold cellar, Charlotte saw that Lady Rexford stood before the opera house poster. The woman turned around. “You live with an artist, Miss Winslow?”

“I drew that.”

“Really? How very odd, to be sure.”

“Actually, I much prefer painting to rearing other people’s children.”

“It looks very much like the creature,” the dowager conceded.

“So Lord Rexford said.”

The older woman’s lips thinned in disapproval. “Well, I daresay he ought to know. But I shall say no more on that head, save that she is a grasping harpy. I have no use for opera singers, I’m afraid.”

“Nor artists, apparently,” Charlotte muttered.

“A mother wants more for her son, Miss Winslow. Above all else I would have him happy. There can be no happiness in a succession of lightskirts.” She looked up. “You sell these pictures for a living?”

“I am afraid I must. It puts food on my table, you see.”

“Yes, that is a consideration, I suppose. Unless of course you get your clutches into my son,” the woman added slyly. “You would not be the first female I have bought off, you know.”

“Lady Rexford—”

“But as we are thrown together for the moment, I shall say nothing more on that head.”

“No wonder he does not come home often.”

The woman blenched, then recovered. “That, Miss Winslow, is none of your affair,” she snapped.

“No, it isn’t. Well, in any event, if you should suffer a surfeit of boredom while here, you may look at my sketchbooks for amusement. I keep them in that box by the larger chair.”

Rexford’s mother looked again at the watercolor of Madame Rondelli. “You are rather talented,” she decided.

“Actually, I had a rather good instructor at Miss Finch’s Select Academy for Females at Chester. He told me I should not waste my time drawing poor flowers if I could master people.” Charlotte moved away to strain the strong tea through a cloth. “I still dislike doing the flowers, for I can never quite do justice to them. To me, only God can make a credible rose.”

“You went to Miss Finch’s?”

“Yes.”

Sitting down, Lady Rexford appeared to study a worn rug for a moment. “Surely you can afford a maid.”

“I have been here so long I should not know what to do with one.”

“But the cooking, the keeping of the house—”

“There is but Rex and me.” Seeing that the dowager’s eyebrow lifted anew, she explained. “Rex is my cat—for Reginald,” she lied, handing a cup of tea to the woman. “I do not particularly care for chopping wood, but then I daresay a maid might cavil at that task, anyway,” she added, taking the other chair.

“But if you went to Miss Finch’s, you must have been properly presented,” Lady Rexford murmured.

“So long ago I can scarce remember it. It was fifteen years ago. After my father died, I couldn’t afford to return to London.”

“Yes, gaming is the bane of gentlemen, isn’t it?” The other woman stared pensively into the fire, and the conversation ended. For a time there was no sound beyond the clinking of cup against saucer and the logs popping in the grate. “My husband died young, leaving me but Richard, you know,” she said ever so softly.

Finally, Charlotte could stand it no longer. “I quite understand what you fear, Lady Rexford, but I am not so green as to think he would care for me. At thirty-three, I am quite on the shelf.”

“Yes, of course you are,” the woman murmured, her voice nearly too low to hear. Setting her cup aside, she rose. “I should like to sit with Richard, I think.”

“As Mr. Beggs and Mr. Tittle must surely be freezing, they will wish to put up in Whitby, I should think. Would you mind terribly if I were to ride in with them?”

“But how will you get back?”

“I am used to walking, and I do not truly mind the cold.” Rising also, Charlotte carried the cups to her sink, then moved to roll Mr. Burleigh’s poster. “This must go out to London today.”

“Oh. Well, I am sure we shall not need you at all.” The dowager went to the small, distorted window and stared out absently. Then she turned and walked to the bedchamber to watch over her son. “But you’d best get coffee, for Richard does not like tea in the morning,” she said over her shoulder.

Between the laudanum and the rum, he slept too soundly to disturb. She sat there, looking into his face, remembering him as a grubby little boy, and she felt an intense loss. There had been a time when he’d run laughing across the terrace, when he’d come in from a romp with his dogs and put muddy handprints on her wide, full skirts. And she could remember how his boyish grin had lasted far past his school years. Until Helena.

She heard the cottage door open, then close. And she could not help thinking how very different Miss Winslow was from Helena. Very gently, she leaned to touch her son’s brow, feeling the heat beneath her fingertips.

“She still isn’t for you, my son,” she whispered. “An earl needs a wife of breeding, a girl like Miss Sedgely.”

There was no change in the rhythm of his breathing, no sign that he heard. Sighing, she stood and walked slowly back into the other room.

She surveyed the place Charlotte Winslow called home, thinking the girl must never know how close she had come to snaring Rexford. No, it was better to let that lie, to pretend it had never happened. After all, she could not have known just how foolish Helena would prove.

She walked to the box beside the larger chair and lifted the lid. There were several sketchbooks inside, and a folder beneath. Curious, she set the books aside and carefully took out the folder. She opened it, and her breath caught. For a long time, she stared at his handsome face, committing it to memory, until she could no longer see through her tears.

Charlotte’s face was ruddy from the cold when she stepped inside and threw the latch. Seeing that Lady Rexford sat before the fire, the sketchbooks on her lap, she moved closer.

“How is he?”

“He hasn’t stirred since you left.”

“And his fever?”

“It remains the same.”

“At least that is something,” Charlotte said, taking off her cloak. Walking to hang it on a peg, she added, “I brought more willow bark.”

“I cannot think it his lungs, for there is no rattle.”

“’Tis more like the ague. Mrs. Bottoms says it is going ’round just now.”

“I think so.” Seeing that the younger woman carried a bowl, Lady Rexford asked, “What is that?”

“Word travels fast here, ’twould seem, for Mrs. Bottoms, who can scarce abide me, sent up cabbage soup ‘for his lordship the earl.’ So now we have a choice at least—cabbage soup or boiled mutton and potatoes.”

“I have a French cook at home.” The dowager caught herself. “Yes, well, I daresay you will make what you like.”

“The soup, then. Rexford ought to be able to eat it.”

“He cannot abide soups. But,” the older woman sighed, “It is probably a great deal better than the dreadful things he ate during the war.”

Charlotte transferred the soup to the hanging kettle, then suspended it over the fire. “Odd he should have chosen to go,” she said casually.

“So I said, but Helena had just died.”

“I understand there is a daughter,” Charlotte added, holding her hands out to warm them at the hearth.

There was a brief pause, and when she spoke again the dowager’s voice was strained. “Sophie is nearly ten now. She’s quite lovely, really.”

“And he left her for the war? That is, it seems rather unnatural to me, but then Papa and I were always close.”

“She isn’t Richard’s, for all that she bears the Linden name. He was furious when Fairfax refused to rear her.”

“And you have her now?”

“Yes, she lives with me, Miss Winslow. I would not let him repudiate her.”

“The poor child.”

“She was the daughter I never had, you see,” the dowager answered slowly. “I’d had hopes of Helena, of course, but that was a mistake. So now I have reared Sophie.”

“He must have loved Lady Helena enough to wed her. I cannot think how she could have wanted to play him false, but then—”

“A man’s sense of duty and honor can be manipulated, Miss Winslow.” As Charlotte looked down at her, she nodded. “Once. She was my goddaughter. A duke’s daughter, and she was so very pretty. He ought to have worshipped her.”

“And he did not.”

“No. And when he would not live in her pocket, she quickly assembled a court of her own. In turn, he amused himself elsewhere. Now I can quite see they never suited. She needed constant admiration more than affection. In the end, it was a tragedy, Miss Winslow. When Helena died, I had to name the babe myself. Sophia Eugenia Linden.”

“And Miss Sedgely?”

“I thought to rectify my mistake. Meg is a dear, sweet, obedient creature, not nearly so empty in the cockloft as Helena, I assure you. She is the sort of female who could settle him down, I think. And the blood is good enough to pass to my grandson.”

“Don’t you think Rexford ought to decide that?”

The dowager’s face clouded, then she sighed. “Well, I am sure if I were to recommend the greatest paragon alive, he would dislike her.”

“Lady Rexford, why are you telling me this?” Charlotte asked suspiciously. “I cannot think you can possibly wish to wash your linen before a stranger.”

“It doesn’t matter. If it were left up to him, I daresay he would not wed again.”

“Which seems a pity. I knew him once, when I was presented. He was young and handsome then, and every girl I knew had a tendre for him. And of course he played the gallant for all of us.”

“He would.”

Charlotte sighed. “I was such a green girl then. I was like all the rest. I even wrote him when Papa died.” Then, afraid she’d said too much, she hastened to add, “But of course I can quite see everything different now. You must not think I expect anything from him, for I am older and no longer given to foolish notions.”

“I should hope not, in any event.”

“Knowing that marriage has passed me by, I have become content enough to paint here.”

For a moment, the dowager stared at the licking flames as though she could read them. “Yes,” she said finally, “I expect it has.”

It was in the ensuing silence that they heard him cough. “If you will watch the soup, I will give him the honeyed vinegar,” Charlotte offered.

“I expect he would spit it in my face if he could.”

“No.”

“He’s a bitter man, Miss Winslow.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“He was coming to Durham to send me packing, wasn’t he? I sensed it, you know. I was so frightened I summoned Meg and her family to support me, thinking he would not do it before them. It was foolish of me, for he would no doubt have cleared the house of all of us. I thought if he could see her with Sophie, he might be brought to relent.”

“You are telling the wrong person, my lady. You ought to speak to him.”

“But you can remember how he was.”

“He is not the same man now.” Charlotte stirred the mixture with her finger, then tasted it. She shuddered visibly. “He may very well spit it back at me,” she decided.

When she got into the bedchamber, he’d pulled himself up into a seated position, and yet he was still coughing. “Is she still here?” he asked between paroxysms.

“Yes. She’s worried about you.”

“No.” He coughed again. “She merely wishes to manage my dying also.”

“You are not dying.” Heedless of propriety, she sat down on the edge of the bed and poured a large spoonful of the cough mixture. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. “It is for your lungs.”

“Naught’s wrong with my lungs,” he gasped.

“Would you rather that I made the onion poultice?” she asked patiently.

“No.”

“Then you’d best take this. Here.” As she spoke, she carried the spoon to his mouth. “Open up.”

“I am not a child—arrrgh! What the devil is it?” He choked, then nearly collapsed from more coughing.

“One more,” she coaxed hopefully.

“When pigs fly,” he answered balefully.

She reached to touch his head. “Are you too hot?”

“I’m freezing,” he croaked.

“I’ll bring you a hot brick and some tea.”

“Rum.”

“Tea. Actually it is made with willow bark for your fever.” She slid off the bed and started to leave. Stopping at the door, she turned back for a moment. “She loves you, you know.”

He favored her with a withering look. “She’s bamboozled you.”

“She told me about Sophia.”

“She had no right.”

“Children are innocent. Besides, this one bears your name.”

“Miss Winslow—”

“All right. It isn’t my business, is it?”

“No. And I despise meddlers.”

As she came out, Lady Rexford waited. “Is he any better?”

“No. I’m going to make the poultice and the willow bark water. But,” she added, “I don’t think he is any worse.”

He lay there, reflecting that for all her tart words, Charlotte Winslow was possessed of a soft heart and a kind nature. And she deserved so much more than what she had been given in life. She was the sort of female a man ought to wish for, a woman who could keep a man’s interest, who wouldn’t suck the lifeblood out of a husband with incessant, petty demands. He almost wished he could go back and live that summer over.

But he’d written her that once, and she’d never answered.

Within the week, it became obvious that the earl merely suffered from a bad cold. And while the dowager did not go home, she took lodgings in Whitby, coming to sit with him while Charlotte worked. The result was an uneasy truce between mother and son.

It was not until Charlotte went into the village again that Lady Rexford was entirely alone with him. He sat bundled before the hearth, reluctantly holding a very determined, purring cat.

“At the risk of turning you against her,” the dowager ventured finally, “after watching her these days past, I must admit I was mistaken in Charlotte. She has a great deal of kindness, doesn’t she?”

He eyed her warily. “Yes.”

“And common sense. She is so very calming, don’t you think? Was she always like that, or don’t you remember?”

“I remember nearly everything about her,” he admitted.

Encouraged, Lady Rexford pushed a trifle harder. “As I recall it, you nearly fixed your interest with her.”

“I cannot think how you would know. You were much too busy foisting Helena on me.”

“Yes, and it was a tragic mistake, Richard. I know that now.”

“I don’t want to speak of Helena.”

“But there is Sophia to consider.”

“Mother—”

“Richard, the child is here! As much as you may wish she had never been born, she is here! Look how many children Oxford has had to accept, and scarce a one as looks like him! Indeed, it is speculated that perhaps Ponsonby even—”

“Can you and Charlotte not leave well enough alone?” he demanded angrily. “Now she even asks of her.”

“Richard, there is no help for it, the child bears your name. And she deserves a mother. If you cannot love her, at least give her a mother who will!”

“I should strangle Miss Sedgely within a fortnight!”

She retreated abruptly. “I wasn’t speaking of Miss Sedgely precisely.”

He regarded her narrowly. “What new face is this, Mother?”

“It is not a face at all, I assure you. But I am old and tired, and I no longer wish to brangle with you. Indeed, but I have been thinking of retiring to the house your father provided for me.”

“Is this some new scheme?” he demanded suspiciously.

“I am prepared to concede Meg is no match for you.”

“And I am sure that within the twelvemonth you will be advancing another candidate,” he gibed. “It is not in your nature to leave me alone.”

“But I shall try, Richard. I shall try.”

“There is a new wheedle—out with it.”

“There is none. In fact, I should not like to discuss this further.”

“Thank you,” he muttered dryly.

“Miss Winslow is a remarkable artist, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“One must admire her for daring to follow her heart’s work,” Lady Rexford murmured. “There are those who think her exceedingly odd.”

“And you were one of them,” he reminded her.

“But that was before I actually looked at her drawings. And I am not speaking of posters or fashion plates, Richard.” Reaching down, she opened the box by her seat. “Has she ever shown you any of these?”

“No.”

“You ought to look at them.”

“Mother—”

“No, there are people you will recognize on the instant,” she assured him. “It is most enlightening. Go on,” she urged.

He regarded her quizzically, then opened the first book. As he turned the pages, he realized Charlotte Winslow had recorded her one short Season in sketches. There was Maria Sefton, her head bent, listening to gossip from Sally Jersey. And the Regent, not in caricature as he was so often depicted anymore. But by the shape of his body, one could tell he wore a corset.

“I had no idea she could do this,” he admitted. “She couldn’t even publish them under her own name.”

“Yes, well, most men think us poor, weak creatures incapable of anything beyond the vapors. Though Miss Austen has done well, I must say.”

He was still looking through the sketchbooks. She waited until he had finished, then she held out the folder. “But these are the best, Richard. I believe she has poured her heart into them.”

Curious, he opened the folder carefully and was utterly stunned. It was as though he stared into a mirror that had not changed with time. Although it had been done in pen and watercolor, there was a glint of humor in his eyes, a sensual, almost Byronic softness in the mouth. And the tousled hair that fell forward in a reluctant Brutus had no gray. He gazed at it, wondering how she’d done it, how eyes made of ink could pull him into them.

“There are more, Richard. She did them all from memory. She has held you in her heart all these years.”

“My God. I had no idea…no idea at all.”

“She wrote to tell you that her father had died, that there was no money for another Season.”

“Did she tell you that? Did she tell you I wrote her also?”

“No. She never knew it. I don’t even think she knows I have seen these.” She raised her eyes to his. “But I know, Richard, because I burned both letters. I wanted better for you.”

It was some time before he could bring himself to speak. “I see,” he said heavily. “Why do you tell me now?”

“I wanted you to see yourself through her eyes. You are yet young enough to correct my terrible mistake.” Holding back tears, she leaned across to take his face in her hands. “I hope I have made my last match for you.” Releasing him, she stood up. “Now, if you do not mind it, I shall walk back to the village. I need air, I think.”

He sat stone-still until she opened the door. Then he let out his breath. “Thank you, Mother.”

Charlotte came in smiling. “Well, I shall eat for a year at least,” she announced happily. “Mr. Burleigh has not only sent his schedule, but he has also commissioned a twelve-month of work. And so I told your mother when I met her.” Aware he sat in shadows, she stopped. “Why didn’t you light the cruzies?”

“The smoke makes me cough,” he said. “But I did manage to drag a log onto the fire. It wasn’t an easy task, Charlotte.”

Her breath caught with the realization he’d used her Christian name. When she looked at him, the warmth in his eyes nearly unnerved her.

Her hands shook as she turned away to take off her cloak. “Well, I must say you do not look any worse for it.”

“Do you remember the Connistons’ ball?” he asked softly.

She was glad he couldn’t see her face. “Why do you ask that?”

“I think I fell in love with you that night.”

Her throat constricted, and her heart thudded painfully beneath her breastbone. “I remember it like yesterday,” she whispered. “I have never forgotten it. I can still smell the Hungary water you wore.”

“I can’t dance anymore, Charlotte. I may not even walk properly, you know.” He stood awkwardly on his crutches.

Tears scalded her eyes as she turned around. He was smiling crookedly, almost boyishly at her. “Miss Winslow,” he asked softly, balancing himself with one arm, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Without hesitation, she went to him. As the other arm closed around her, she clung to him, burying her head against his shoulder. “Yes. Oh, yes,” she managed, choking back the tears. “I have loved you such a long time, Richard.”

His arm held her tightly. “God, but I wish I’d done this fifteen years ago,” he whispered against her soft, rose-scented hair.

She could hear his heartbeat beneath his shirt, and she could feel the solid warmth of his chest. Charlotte Winslow Linden, countess of Rexford. Her heart almost sang at the very sound of it.