1815 had been a year of extremes for Gareth.

It was the year his uncle had died and he’d inherited not just the old man’s property, but his baronetcy, too.

It was the year he’d fought at Waterloo and lost one of his dearest friends in the battle—and lost his own left arm.

It was the year his fiancée, Miss Eugenia Swinthorp, had balked at marrying him, baronetcy or not.

And it was the year he’d met Cecily Dunn and fallen head over heels in love with her in the space of a few days.

1815 had quite literally been the worst year of his life, but now, halfway through December, Gareth had just had what felt like one of the best days of his life.

Because today was the day he’d married Cecily.

He allowed himself to remember the moment: the church in Gripton, the marriage license, Cecily holding his hand, the vicar’s dry, reedy voice as he pronounced them man and wife. They hadn’t kissed then, but they’d looked at each other and he’d seen shy delight in Cecily’s eyes and joy in her smile, and the sense of connection between them, of destiny and absolute rightness, had been so strong that he had literally felt it in his bones. Cecily and I are meant to be together.

Today had been perfect, and tomorrow promised to be equally perfect.

There was just the matter of the wedding night to get through, and it loomed large now, as his bâtman, Higgs, removed the neckcloth from around Gareth’s throat and folded it ready to be washed, ironed, and starched again.

Higgs had a habit of humming softly under his breath while he worked. Gareth had heard that hum so many times over the last few years that he rarely noticed it, but tonight he concentrated on that faint sound, because thinking about Higgs humming was a lot better than thinking about what would come next.

Higgs helped him out of his waistcoat, which meant that Gareth was one step closer to being ready for bed. One step closer to his wedding night.

Don’t think about it, Gareth told himself.

He focused on the humming while Higgs folded the waistcoat. Scarborough Fair. That was tonight’s song.

Higgs helped him strip off the shirt next. Gareth avoided looking at himself in the mirror. He tried to recapture the joy he’d felt all day, but it had drained away. In its place was an uneasy eddy of anxiety.

“Shall I check the bandage, sir?” Higgs asked.

“Please.”

Gareth’s left arm ended above the elbow. He kept the stump covered with a bandage, partly because that light, firm pressure seemed to help with the pain, but mostly because he didn’t want to look at what remained of his arm. Gareth examined the ceiling while Higgs checked the bandage; after six months he still couldn’t bring himself to watch while the bâtman touched that truncated limb.

Higgs didn’t hum. He never hummed when he dealt with Gareth’s arm. “All good, sir,” he said. “Doesn’t need changing.”

“Good.”

Higgs turned his attention to the portmanteau, humming again as he hunted for a nightshirt.

Gareth fumbled at the waistband of his breeches. Damn it, when had undoing a button become so difficult? He’d managed all right last night.

But last night hadn’t been his wedding night.

Don’t think about it. He concentrated on the humming while he shucked his breeches and peeled off his stockings—simple tasks that were so damned awkward to do one-handed.

Higgs shook out a folded nightshirt. “Here you are, sir.”

Gareth reached for the nightshirt—and caught sight of himself in the mirror, naked except for his linen drawers . . . and the bandage protecting the stump of his left arm. He flinched at the sight, flinched at the familiar kick of emotions, the grief and the disbelief—That’s really me?—and looked hastily away.

Higgs helped him put the nightshirt on. It was stupid how difficult it was to wrestle one’s way into a nightshirt when one only had one arm.

Gareth stood silently while Higgs pinned up the left sleeve. The bâtman had become deft at doing that in the months since Waterloo.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No. Thank you, Higgs.”

“Good night, sir.”

“’Night, Higgs.”

The door closed behind the bâtman, and suddenly Gareth’s wedding night was a whole lot closer than it had been a minute ago.

He should be eager for what was coming next. He and Cecily alone together, kissing and touching, making love. But he wasn’t eager. In fact, if he had any choice in the matter he wouldn’t consummate his marriage tonight. Or tomorrow night, or next week, or perhaps not ever.

When had he become so afraid of sex?

That was easy to answer: six months ago, when the battlefield surgeon had amputated his arm. And it wasn’t so much the sex that he was afraid of, it was disappointing Cecily with his awkward one-handedness, or worse, disgusting her with his body.

He couldn’t let her see him naked. That went without saying. No nudity, ever.

Thank God she’d been married before. Thank God she wasn’t a virgin. She knew what to expect between them tonight. That would make it easier.

Easier perhaps, but it was inevitable that she’d compare him to her first husband. A man who’d been youthful and vigorous and who’d had two arms.

Gareth squeezed his eyes shut. He really didn’t want to open the door between their two bedchambers.

Don’t you want children, Gary? Can’t have children without sex.

Gareth opened his eyes and stared at himself in the mirror. He tried to recapture the joy he’d felt when Cecily had accepted his offer of marriage, the joy he’d felt when the vicar had pronounced them man and wife. He loved Cecily. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He wanted everything that being married to her entailed.

Except the sex.

All day he’d veered away from thinking about it. He’d thought about everything but sex—but now, here it was, confronting him.

Oh, God, I can’t do this.

But he had to. He’d made a commitment to Cecily. He’d promised, before God, to be her husband.

Gareth met his own gaze in the mirror and made his second vow for the day: that he would do nothing to make Cecily regret marrying him. He’d be the husband she deserved—strong, not weak—and if he wasn’t whole, he would pretend to be whole. He’d conceal his limitations from her, never let her see just how helpless he really was, that he had difficulty doing up his buttons, that he struggled to shave himself, that even putting on his nightshirt was hard now. And he would never, ever do anything to inspire her pity.

The army had taught him to plan ahead, and he had. He and Cecily would have separate bedchambers, so she’d never see just how much Higgs had to help him. His cook had already learned to serve only meals that he could eat one-handed. His groom knew to lead his horse to the mounting block without asking and to hold the reins while he climbed into the saddle. In most aspects of his life, he’d learned to pass as competent.

Except in bed. The last hurdle. The worst hurdle.

Right now Cecily loved him—she’d told him so today, and the words had brought stinging tears to his eyes. His missing arm seemed not to bother her. More than that, she seemed to accept it, as if it was just another detail about him: that he had brown hair and hazel eyes and only one arm. Cecily didn’t avert her gaze from his empty sleeve as his former fiancée had done; she smiled at him as if he were a normal man. When he was with her he sometimes even forgot that he had only one arm, and in the times when he was aware of it, it didn’t seem to matter quite so much. But right now it was impossible to forget it, and it mattered. A lot.

Gareth looked at himself in the mirror. For the first twenty-nine years of his life he’d had two arms. Now, he only had one.

His fiancée, Miss Swinthorp, had made him feel as if he was an emasculated parody of a man. Worse than that, she’d made him feel ashamed of himself. Ashamed of his body. Ashamed that he’d thought, for even one second, that she would still want to marry him now that he had only one arm.

His engagement to Miss Swinthorp had been severed upon his return to England, but the emotion she’d evoked still lingered: shame. And that made him angry. Angry at her, angry at himself. He’d fought at Waterloo, he’d lost his arm, and this was who he was now. A different man with a different body. No longer Captain Locke of the Royal Horse Guards, but Sir Gareth Locke of Mulberry Hall, Somerset. He might wish he hadn’t lost his arm—might desperately wish it—but he refused to feel ashamed of it.

Cecily didn’t make him feel ashamed, and that was what he needed to hold on to. The kisses they’d exchanged had been sweetly eager, passionate even, and as long as she never saw him naked, as long as he wasn’t clumsy and awkward and fumbling in bed, everything would be all right between them.

If my arm pains me, I mustn’t let her see it. Because his arm often did still pain him, and that was a certain way to destroy Cecily’s enjoyment of their lovemaking: if she thought it hurt him.

Somewhere, a clock started chiming. Gareth didn’t need to count the strokes to know what time it was. Ten o’clock.

Gareth listened to the last note die away. He was almost as nervous as he’d been before battle. The muscles in his stomach were tight, and the ones in his chest, making each breath shallow, and the muscles in his shoulders, his neck, his jaw. Was he sweating? God, he hoped not. He rubbed his face roughly. Yes, that was sweat on his face, and that was just what Cecily didn’t deserve, a lover who was as sweaty as he was tense. “Pull yourself together, Locke,” he told himself aloud.

He inhaled a slow breath, and a second, a third, and looked at the door that led to Cecily’s bedchamber.

The man he’d been before Waterloo would have wanted to open that door. He’d have been a little nervous, yes, because it was their first time together, but mostly he would have been eager, looking forward to making love to his bride, learning her body, discovering what made her gasp, what made her moan, confident in his ability to please her.

He needed to be that man tonight—the proficient lover—even if it was only pretense.

He could do that: pretend. Hell, he’d pretended every time he’d gone into battle. Pretended a courage and confidence and calmness he hadn’t felt, and it had worked, he’d been that man on the battlefield, the clear-headed and fearless officer, even if he’d been terrified inside.

If he’d done it then, he could do it now. It wasn’t as if Cecily was a French cuirassier. She wouldn’t try to run him through with a sword.

No, she was no cuirassier, but her disappointment would be as painful as if she’d stabbed him, her pity even worse, and if she recoiled from him, if he somehow managed to disgust her . . .

It would slay him just as surely as any sword could have.

Gareth took a deep breath and set his jaw with determination. I can do this.

He crossed to the door, and somehow it felt exactly like going into battle. England’s future didn’t rest on what happened tonight, but his future with Cecily did. It would set the tone for the rest of their marriage. Success, or failure.

Be the husband Cecily deserves, Gareth told himself. Don’t make her regret marrying you.

He forced his mouth into a smile and rapped lightly on the door.