Excerpt from
The Earl’s Honorable Intentions
HOW LONG HAD he been like this?
Gavin felt as if he were immersed in a deep pond. Often he sank to the still, dark bottom, knowing nothing and caring even less. But at intervals he would float closer to the surface, near enough to hear and feel—or was he only dreaming? All the while, that flimsy barrier between sleep and consciousness remained strangely impenetrable. Certain sensations could pass through it to reach him, but for him to break through required greater effort than he could muster.
Among his few connections with the waking world, were those voices—one softly pleading, the other fiercely challenging. They seemed to wage a tug-of-war over him. At times he longed to flee them both in search of peace, though he sensed they would follow and continue to plague him until one or the other prevailed.
Besides, he had heard a third voice—that of his fallen comrade. It reminded him of urgent unfinished business.
That reminder gave Gavin the strength to pry open his eyes and look around him. He found he was not lying in a pool of warm water after all, but tucked up in his own bedchamber back at Edgecombe. It must be very late at night for the room was wrapped in deep shadows with only the fitful flicker of a single candle to relieve the darkness.
How had he come to Edgecombe? Gavin plundered his memory for the answer to that question. The last thing he recalled with any clarity was the cavalry charge at Waterloo.
In the stillness of the darkened room, he fancied he could hear echoes from the battlefield—the rolling thunder of horses’ hooves punctuated by the crash of artillery, the crack of rifle fire and the cries of wounded soldiers. The whiff of gunpowder, sweating horses and blood seemed only a breath away.
While those sensations hovered, just out of reach, the tumultuous emotions of that day seized hold of his heart once again. First came the grim satisfaction of being on the move and able to strike a blow at last after frustrating hours of waiting. Then he relived the fierce rush of triumph as their charge turned the tide of battle, bringing hope to the beleaguered infantry. Beneath both of those churned a sickening sense of futility that his men should be fighting and dying once again, scarcely a year after their last hard-won “victory.”
A spasm of alarm caught him by the throat when he realized some of the hussars had ridden too far and risked being cut off from retreat. Among those were his commander, General Beresford, and his dearest friend, Anthony Molesworth.
A faint sound and a flicker of movement from nearby wrenched Gavin away from the battlefield and thrust him back into the shadowed tranquility of his bedchamber. His gaze flew toward a slender figure slouched in an armchair beside his bed.
It took him a moment to recognize Hannah Fletcher. Even then, part of him had trouble believing it could be her. Amid his hazy memories of recent days, he had one vivid recollection of Miss Fletcher’s face. Her fierce blue glare had accused him of all manner of shortcomings that he could not deny.
Was that why she had chosen to sit a vigil by his bedside—so she could be on hand the moment he woke to take him to task for all his failings? She need not have put herself to the trouble. His own conscience was capable of reproaching him with greater severity than even his son’s formidable governess.
Not that she looked very formidable at the moment, Gavin had to admit. Seeing her features softened and relaxed in sleep, he judged them a good deal more attractive than he ever had before. Strands of honey-colored hair had fallen loose from the severe braided knot in which she usually wore it, gently framing her face. She looked far younger than her years and rather vulnerable. Her pallor and the dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes heightened that impression and roused Gavin’s protective instincts in spite of him.
He wondered how long Miss Fletcher had been sitting by his bedside. Ever since he’d reached Edgecombe? And how long ago had that been? Days? Weeks?
Could one of the voices that had pierced his darkness and ordered him to live have belonged to his son’s brisk, disapproving governess? That would not have surprised him. But what about the other voice—the gentle, coaxing one? Could that have belonged to his wife? A returning memory struck Gavin a stinging blow and warned him it could not have been Clarissa he’d heard.
He tried to stifle a groan, but it escaped his lips before he could clamp them shut.
Faint though it was, the sound brought Miss Fletcher bolt upright in her chair, her eyes wide with alarm and her features tensed in a look of urgent concern.
Could that worried expression be on his account? Gavin wondered. Surely not. In all his life, no one had ever looked so anxious about his well-being.
“Sorry I woke you.” It cost him considerable effort to produce that softly rasped apology.
To his astonishment, he was rewarded by a complete transformation of Miss Fletcher’s face. The corners of her mouth flew upward in a smile of almost blinding radiance, while her eyes glittered like the dew on bluebell petals at the break of dawn.
“You’re awake!” She surged up from the chair to clasp his hand with a degree of fervor Gavin would never have expected from her. “You’re alive!”
Her first exclamation of relief muted to a sigh of prayerful thanksgiving. “What a mercy.”
Gavin scarcely knew what to make of the lady’s reaction. If Miss Fletcher cared in the least whether he lived or died, he had assumed she would favor the latter. He never imagined a simple thing like his return to consciousness would provoke such a joyful outburst from her. Yet the tone of her voice, husky with unaccustomed emotion, betrayed the fact that she was the woman who had hovered nearby, tending him and pleading with him to live.
The clasp of her hands around his was a strangely familiar sensation and a surprisingly welcome one. The gesture made no demands on him, nor did it judge him. It only seemed to celebrate his continued existence.
But no sooner had he begun to savor the feeling than Miss Fletcher abruptly let go. “I beg your pardon, sir! I did not mean to take such a liberty. I was only half-awake and not in full possession of my wits.”
What was she making such a fuss about? Gavin wondered. He was not offended by her unexpected gesture. On the contrary, it seemed to infuse him with fresh life.
“I was so pleased to see you awake at last,” Miss Fletcher rattled on, more flustered than he had ever seen her. “I forgot my place. I assure you nothing of the sort will happen again.”
Her place? The woman had never seemed concerned about that before. From what he could recall, she had been almost as much mistress of Edgecombe as his wife. The thought of Clarissa raised questions that demanded answers while he was still sufficiently awake to ask. “How long… have I been… like this?”
“Three days, sir.” Miss Fletcher stepped away from the bed as she spoke, her gaze avoiding his. Her face, so pale just a moment ago, suddenly looked flushed. “Or was it four? Ever since you collapsed at her ladyship’s… funeral.”
The instant that final word left her lips, she grimaced, as if wishing she could take it back.
So he had arrived in time for Clarissa’s funeral. A brief flicker of satisfaction was quenched by a surge of guilt that he had not been in time to prevent his wife’s death.
Gavin turned his mind from that troubling thought to one that promised welcome diversion. “The battle… was it a victory?”
He must find out before the darkness overcame him again. Perhaps Bonaparte had been killed on the field and he could rest a little easier.
Miss Fletcher nodded. “Waterloo was a great victory for the Alliance. Word arrived yesterday, and the church bells rang for so long I am surprised they did not wake you. The French army is in retreat with the Duke of Wellington and Prince Blücher chasing them to Paris. I hope it will put an end to this wretched war once and for all!”
Relieved as Gavin was by news of the victory, Miss Fletcher’s final pronouncement sent a qualm of misgiving rippling through him. Waterloo was a good beginning, but there could be many more lives lost before peace was secured. As the French army retreated, Bonaparte would be able to consolidate his forces while the Alliance would need to stretch theirs thin in order to secure the country through which they advanced toward Paris.
Lasting peace would never be possible while Bonaparte remained at liberty. Gavin knew he had a vow to keep. And he must keep it, no matter the cost.
Left wounded in body and spirit after the Battle of Waterloo, Colonel Gavin Romney vows he will return to arms and make certain Napoleon Bonaparte never wages war again. The only thing standing in his way is Hannah Fletcher, his children’s formidable governess. Clever, capable Hannah cannot bear the thought of her three motherless charges being orphaned entirely, as she once was. She wants Gavin to give up his military career, the only thing he’s ever been good at, and focus instead on the daunting task of becoming a devoted father.
Though the earl and the governess have never much liked one another, Hannah nurses Gavin back to health and supports his first tentative efforts to bond with his children. As they become better acquainted, her feelings for him begin to change in ways that threaten her heart and her conscience. Meanwhile Gavin fears his growing affection for his children, and their governess, could lead him to forget his duty. When he offers an impulsive proposal, will it only be a marriage of convenience for the sake of his children, as Hannah fears? Or can a wounded warrior become her knight in shining armor?
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