Lettie pulled at her bonnet, attempting to hide her shorn locks from his view and then tugged at her coat, a size too small for her. It had been so long since she’d felt even a prickling of doubt with regards to her appearance. On the battlefield, no one gave her a second glance as long as she tended to the wounded, kept the cooking fire blazing, and mended uniforms.

Unthinkable that the mere presence of a man from her past would have Lettie acting the insecure debutante of her misguided youth. Not misguided, never misguided, she chastised herself.

There was nothing more she could do about her haphazard appearance. She was a soldier’s wife—was being the operative word. Now, she was nothing more than a soldier’s widow. She’d experienced things far worse than a crowded taproom at The George and faced harrowing circumstances far greater than the scrutiny of these strangers.

She would not be ashamed of her appearance; yet still, embarrassment heated her cheeks.

Even standing here before a man she’d once thought she would spend her life with, she should not hide herself in shame.

Lettie straightened her shoulders. Confronting the man she’d jilted did not frighten her. She had no regrets about her choice to marry Gregory and follow him into battle. In fact, at the tender age of twenty, it had been the only thing she’d been certain of.

The man before her was a drunkard, a scoundrel, and a gambler—or he had been when she left.

Daniel Greaves, Lord Linwood, her childhood friend and confidante, turned with agonizing slowness.

When his glare settled on her, she noted the stiff line of his jaw and the tense set of his shoulders. Lettie didn’t remember him being so…hardened. He’d been untroubled and lighthearted in their youth, only concerned with things that affected him. He’d spent each day in search of pleasure and fun, ignoring his duties and her.

But now, something had changed.

Then again, she had changed, too.

Though, he was as handsome as she remembered. His ebony hair was so dark in the dim lighting it almost appeared blue. His skin was tanned, much like hers, but that could be a trick from the limited glow of the room.

His boyish appearance, however, was gone, replaced by an older version of his former self—empty and lifeless. His hooded glare finally softened as he settled his gaze on her face.

Betrayal lanced through her, sizzling down her spine. She was in mourning for her late husband—whom she loved and adored. Thinking any man, even one she had all but wed, was handsome was an offense and disparaging to Gregory’s memory.

“Colette? It cannot be.” He took a step toward her before halting, his stare surveying the room. “Are you alone?”

It was obvious her father hadn’t told Daniel of her return, or explained why he’d undertaken the task of collecting her—he didn’t know it was her he’d been sent to collect. She had also noted her parents never mentioned Daniel in their frequent letters. She’d often asked after him, but they’d always sidestepped those sections of her writings, refusing to write even a simple word of him.

“It is I, your grace.” She suspected he’d chosen another bride, married and started a family of his own. Lettie knew once her and Gregory’s service was over, they’d return to England and settle at her mother’s country home—an estate and title that would settle on her one day, or so the letters patent had established decades before—and she’d be forced to see Daniel again, a wife and children at his side. “I am alone but for my traveling…sack.” She shifted her shoulder, repositioning the bag she carried.

“Allow me to carry that.” He took the final step toward her and took hold of the shoulder strap, attempting to alleviate the weight. Unfortunately, her bonnet strings had become wound in the strap of her tote, and when he hefted the bag onto his shoulder, the covering fell from her head, revealing her short hair. He cleared his throat and turned toward the door before continuing, “My carriage is waiting outside. It was wise of me to bring it as opposed to my horse.”

A pang of hurt smacked her when he continued to avert his stare from her noticeably lacking locks. She reached up and pushed one short curl behind her ear.

“Yes, I suppose the long walk to my parents’ townhouse would be uncomfortable in Hessians,” she replied, hoping a bit of levity would bring his eyes back to hers. It had been so long since she’d been free to gaze into their inky black depths. However, they remained averted, as they had since she’d snatched back her bonnet. “But I assure you, I am quite an able horsewoman.”

She nodded to the barkeep and followed Daniel toward the door. At some point, clouds had covered the bright afternoon sun, and a light drizzle had begun.

He paused, and Lettie almost collided with his back. “I guess the London weather is another reason I brought the enclosed coach. This way.” With one final shrug, he lifted her bag and dashed out into the rain, moving swiftly toward his carriage, the growing puddles never slowing him down.

There was no other option but to follow and pray she didn’t slip along the way. She greatly needed a bath, but falling in a dirty mud puddle would do nothing to help her.

Lettie grasped her skirt in both hands and bounded out of the inn, circumventing a puddle. The sensation to giggle rose in her throat, but she clamped her lips shut. No matter how unexpected this moment, chasing after an old friend in the rain, was, she was still a woman in deep mourning. No one around her knew, but she did, and laughter of any kind was not acceptable, especially since her heart continued to bleed. If she laughed—if the cavity holding in all her despair, sorrow, and anguish were pierced—everything would come spilling out. She wasn’t ready for that. Not with Daniel so close. Truly, not with anyone close.

She’d been fixated on the source of her suffering since departing Waterloo. It was the only way she knew how to keep her grief from exploding outward and her mind from wandering so far she lost track of time and place. If that were to happen, Lettie would not be able to collect the pieces of herself to move on.

No, any cracks in the hard shell she’d constructed around her heart would mean a fall into utter helpless despondency.

Gregory would not want that for her.

He’d lived in the moment; gone wherever he was needed. He had fought—and died—for a cause greater than both of them combined.

He deserved better than her laughter.

She didn’t deserve to be happy or find any amount of joy while Gregory lay in that meadow, unable to experience another moment.

She owed him fidelity…and better than her laughter at a hurried run through the rain. Gregory would never again feel the cool, fresh raindrops upon his face.

Lettie stopped at Daniel’s side as his coachman opened the door, holding the sack Daniel had given him.

“I will take that.” She grasped the tote from the servant and climbed into the carriage unassisted, settling on the rear-facing seat. With trembling hands, she tucked the sack next to her on the cloth bench and turned her attention to her lap.

She could not allow her meager possessions to be stored in the carriage boot. What if there were a leak and the rain ruined her only portrait of the man she loved?

Would always love.

Lettie could not bear that. No, she’d had a difficult enough time keeping her belongings safe during her travels. She would keep them close until she reached the shelter of her home.

Not her home, her parents’ home.

The only home she’d known over the last six years was a bedroll beside Gregory—or the medical tent she was afforded when the soldiers were not moving.

The carriage shifted and creaked when Daniel entered, taking the bench across from her. She’d forgotten how tall he was and how his shoulders seemed to take up the entire width of the conveyance.

From his unease, she sensed he had many questions. Lettie didn’t have to take her gaze off her lap to notice. The continual tapping toe of his Hessian said it all. When he experienced anxiousness or uncertainty of any type, he fidgeted. A tapping of a toe. The clicking of his teeth. A nervous tug on his cravat.

Everything had changed in the last six years, yet…nothing at all.

She still knew him well.

Lettie risked a glance at him from under her lowered lashes, but her stare moved no farther than his hands sitting lightly atop his knees. The knuckles of one hand were bruised, and his skin appeared rough, similar to that of a workingman. A farmer, millworker, or soldier.

Her own hands were too filthy, stained by years of hard labor, to note if they were worn and rough, as well. Dirt clung to her fingers—still trembling from the shock of seeing Daniel after all these years—and settled beneath her fingernails, short from nervous biting.

The simple gold band on her finger—given to her on the day she’d wed—sat heavy on her hand, though it held no adornments of filigree or gems.

She twisted the ring on her finger. It was the only thing of monetary value she possessed, and it would not gain her enough to secure lodging for longer than a fortnight. Not that she ever planned to remove it.

“Will Mr. Hughes be joining you in London, Lady Lettie?”

Her glare snapped to his and Lettie couldn’t stop her eyes from widening, allowing him to see her despair. However, the sorrow he witnessed could never compare to the complete heartbreak within her.