Gareth blinked his eyes open. He saw candlelight and shadows and unfamiliar bedhangings. Where was he? He turned his head and found Cecily, seated at the dressing table, writing, and memory returned: this was his wedding night.

A wedding night that had been far, far worse than he’d imagined it could be—and also far, far better.

He watched Cecily for several minutes. Candlelight gilded her tousled hair and played across her cheek. My wife. He felt drowsy, and contented, and more than that, he felt whole. Not in the way he’d been before Waterloo, but in the way he was now. And Cecily had given him that.

The luckiest day of his life, the day that he’d met her.

He watched her write, watched the candlelight and shadows move across her face, watched her frown slightly, purse her lips, dip the quill in ink, write another sentence.

He’d fallen halfway in love with Cecily the afternoon he’d met her, captivated by her slender figure, her blonde hair, her face. And then he’d fallen wholly in love with her the morning they’d talked and he’d realized that beneath the delicate, golden-haired prettiness was a strong and intelligent woman.

It had been an interesting conversation, that one. Perhaps the most interesting conversation of his life. Certainly the most important, because he’d gone into it a bachelor, and come away from it as a man about to be married. Cecily hadn’t simpered or flirted. She’d spoken matter-of-factly, laid out her background, told him of her feelings for him, and he had fallen so hard in love with her that there had been no going back. Not then, not now, not ever.

He’d always liked petite blondes, but he’d realized during that conversation that what his heart most longed for was a petite practical blonde.

Gareth watched his wife write, and thought about words, about how whole had meant one thing to him yesterday and another thing to him today. And then he thought about words like loss and less and never. Words that made him feel unhappy and frustrated. Words he wasn’t going to use about himself anymore. Yes, he’d lost his arm. Yes, he’d never get it back. But right now, in this cozy bedchamber, he was happy. In fact, he was quite certain that he was happier than he’d ever been before.

From now on I won’t think about what I’ve lost; I’ll think about what I have. His life. Cecily. Ned. Higgs, with his whistling and his deft way of fastening bandages. Mulberry Hall. The baronetcy.

He smiled to himself and watched Cecily write. His beautiful, practical wife.

Cecily glanced at him, saw that he was awake, and laid down her quill.

“What are you writing?” Gareth asked.

“A journal for our daughters.”

Gareth lifted his eyebrows. “Our daughters?”

“I’m telling them what to expect on their wedding nights. If I should die while they’re still young, I don’t want them to go into their marriages as ignorant as I was.”

Gareth thought this through. After a moment he said, “Practical,” although what he really wanted to say was, I won’t let you die.

“I’m a practical person,” Cecily said.

“I know. It’s one of the things I like most about you.” He smiled at her, and then stifled a sudden yawn. “I’d better get back to my room before I fall asleep.” He groped for his discarded nightshirt.

“You can sleep here,” Cecily said. “If you’d like.”

Gareth stilled. “What would you prefer?” he asked cautiously.

“I’d like you to stay.”

Gareth felt himself blush with pleasure. His wife wanted to sleep with him. “All right.”

Cecily smiled at him and blew out the candle on the dressing table, then she came back to the bed. She slipped off her wrap and stood in the candlelight for a brief moment, naked and beautiful, and then climbed in with him. She rearranged the pillows, tucked the bedcovers around them, and nestled close, her cheek on his chest.

Gareth put his arm around her. His wife, who made him feel whole again. He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Was tonight what you expected?”

“No,” she said. “It was a lot better. Was it what you expected?”

“No.” Only a few hours ago he’d stood in his bedchamber and listed all the things he mustn’t do tonight—and then he’d gone and done them all, plus a few more, and the end result had been . . . miraculous. “It was a lot better.”