Lettie only exhaled when she closed the door to her bedchambers, blocking out the laughter and conversation drifting up from below. Everyone was having a marvelous time and entirely unaware of her heart thumping wildly in her chest. Something was wrong with her—something that had come about since witnessing all she had on the battlefield. She’d never be as she was before. It was no longer within her capacity to enjoy a gathering or sit down to a meal with others.

Every mention of family, children, home—normalcy—triggered a deep-seated response within her she was unable to control. Her lungs froze, her heart pulsed erratically, and words failed her. After years of flintlocks, muskets, cannons sounding at close distances, men shouting orders outside her medical tent, and the cries of agony as soldiers littered every available spot, the nonsense and coquettish chatter of the women certainly shouldn’t have sent her into a panic. But it had. And Lettie feared it was her newfound reality.

And with each day that passed, her mind became more and more jumbled—the pieces of a complex puzzled which were fated never to fit together.

Polite society was no place for her. Her disposition and state of mind were far too unpredictable. She was doomed to embarrass her family—and disgrace herself.

A single candle stood lit on her washstand, her bed turned down for the night, and a pristine white nightshift laid across her rose-colored eyelet bedspread.

She’d spent years surrounded by activity: soldiers, cannon fire, musket rounds, and wagon wheels.

Years had passed without a single moment of silence.

Now, it seemed the only place that could bring her calm was somewhere free of others.

Deafening silence.

She didn’t think she’d be able to enjoy a still, quiet room again; however, neither did she delight in a salon full of inane idle chatter—fashion, travel, and then talk of family and children. All the things she’d never be capable of.

But quiet and isolation did not stop the churning of her mind. The endless nights reliving Gregory’s final moments. Even her trip through the plum trees with Daniel several days ago had only given her a momentary reprieve, a glimpse at peace.

It was too much. She’d rather spend unending days tending to brave, injured soldiers than an hour surrounded by the ton. There had been nothing but heartache, loss, and carnage during her time away from London. Though at least with her hands occupied, her mind did not wander to things she could not speak of to anyone who hadn’t witnessed the horrors firsthand. They would not understand.

Her time in the salon with the women had proven this.

She’d once counted the ladies as her closest friends, but the years and her circumstances had driven a solid wedge between them.

Her only saving grace was Daniel, which galled her.

One moment, he was the man she’d longed for him to be during their betrothal; and the next, he retreated behind a wall she could not climb over.

Days had passed, but she continued to be irate with him. Annoyed he so obviously kept something from her. But he had witnessed her shortcomings firsthand, heard all of her tawdry tales of war, and had woken her from one of her worst nightmares. Even with all that, he hadn’t abandoned her to deal with the women alone. He’d even made certain she knew he still came by Carrolton House, though she’d demanded he stay away.

She’d opened up to him, yet he didn’t value her enough to do the same.

Everything about him was in conflict. She knew him well, but at the same time suspected she knew nothing of him.

She’d been tempted to confess the damage and irreparable harm caused by war to the entire gathering. The immense isolation she’d felt during the last six years, though Gregory had only left her side during battle. They’d slept next to one another every night unless she had injured men to see to, and even those times, Gregory had forgone sleep to help her, gathering supplies and medicine as she needed them.

But Daniel’s presence stopped her.

The women, even now enjoying a meal of delicate dishes and sweet desserts, hadn’t experienced the last breath of a soldier lying prone on a gurney as they worked diligently to staunch the flow of his life blood. Or the way it felt to be greeted with the rattle of death as a man exhaled for the final time. She could not think past the differences between her and the other women. It shouldn’t matter, yet it did.

Could Daniel understand the damage left behind after witnessing everything she did while at war?

Lettie’s legs quaked, and she searched her room for a place to sit. The girlish white dressing table was not fit for a woman who’d seen as much crimson as Lettie had. Despite the chill of Waterloo and the unrelenting rain, her hands had been coated in warm, red blood for most of her waking hours. No amount of lye soap had removed the flakes left under her trimmed nails.

The bed was no better an option. If she took to its softness, she’d likely never gain the willpower to leave it. After years of sleeping on the hard, muddy ground, the delicate, plush, four-poster bed with its sheer drapes was more than she’d ever expected to enjoy again. Even the night before had been a restless, fitful sleep. No amount of indulgent pillows or well-sprung, straw-stuffed bedding could dispel the dreams that plagued her nights.

Her cavernous bedchambers were too tranquil—and still foreign to her even after nearly two weeks home.

It made her erratic heart rate spike once more, the sound of her thrumming blood deafening in her head.

She was uncomfortable in a boisterous group and panicky in a quiet room.

Could it be she would never again feel any sense of rightness?

Lettie needed to go to her parents—and speak with Daniel. Needed to tell them of her brokenness, beg them to take mercy on her even if they couldn’t understand her turmoil. Something within her mind wasn’t right. It was as if whatever connected everything in her brain had been destroyed. They needed to allow her to journey to the country, away from any prying eyes, and give her permission to implode on her own. At least then, she could shield them from her disgrace.

Grasping the lone source of light in the room, Lettie shook her head before slipping through the open door of her dressing closet. Freshly laundered and pressed gowns hung neatly and orderly, blacks fading to greys, and finally her deep midnight-blue velvet gown. Her only turn of frivolousness. She reached out and allowed her fingers to caress the fine material—the stitching perfect without a visible flaw. The dexterity of the garment certainly must have taken hours to achieve. Then again, she’d stitched wounds so tightly and precisely nary a scar was seen once the soldier healed.

Lettie placed the candle on the floor, safely away from her line of brocade slippers and hanging fabrics. Her fingers shook as she undid the row of buttons holding the front of her gown closed. Pulling her arms from the black gown she’d selected for the evening, she pushed the material down and over her waistline. The muslin pooled at her feet, leaving her clothed in only her shift and underpinnings.

A shiver coursed down her spine, and she removed the new lovely gown from its hanger. The velvet was pleasing to her touch, at odds with the sturdy, thick, coarse garb she was used to wearing.

The dress was perfect.

It would be beautiful evening attire to any other woman, but for Lettie, it was a costume, a mask to hide from others what lay beneath—and within her. She’d thought her rash decision to have this particular gown commissioned was a piece of her youth coming back, her flight of fancy tendencies reawakening. But, no, it was her true self, the one who had been created while witnessing the travesties of life. That was the Lettie who had had to have the gown, regardless of the cost.

Slipping the dress over her head, she let it float down her body, hugging every curve. What little curves she still possessed anyway. The only flaw she found was that it did not extend far enough to cover her shortened hair. Her costume would be complete with a matching hood.

The hem appropriately swept the floor at her feet.

Lettie reached behind her to fasten the buttons at her back. After three, she reached just above her waist and stretched but was unable to secure another. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t leaving her dressing closet. No one would see her with her back exposed, the front gaping loosely.

It was only rightly so.

The gown was perfection.

Lettie was the epitome of imperfection.

The finest dress, gloves, hat, and slippers would never be able to mask Lettie’s flaws. It may be enough to mislead some, much as it had with her friends below; however, with time, the person she’d become would be apparent to all.

Shattered.

Fragmented.

Defective.

Unequivocally broken.

And with additional time, fractured or splintered so entirely a gust of wind would blow the remaining parts far and wide. Would her damage then affect others? Burrow deep inside those who inhaled her splintered being.

Lettie could not allow that to happen. If wearing a binding gown of rich fabric was all it took to keep the pieces together, maybe that was worth her dying inside so others didn’t have to.

It was likely a blessing she was at least conscious of her defects.

She pulled the door to her dressing closet toward her, cutting off the sight of her massive bedchamber and bringing herself to face the mirror that hung on the inside of the door. The small amount of light given off from the single candle was magnified with the mirror’s help, illuminating Lettie.

She gazed upon herself for the first time in many years—without her youthful trappings disguising her, without the mask of war garb hiding her weak shoulders, without the filth of the battlefield and blood of the surgical tent holding at bay her trembling, thin body.

Here, in the home of her past, she could not run from the woman she’d become.

Even if Gregory hadn’t perished and they’d returned to London as a wedded couple, she still would feel out of place. The nightmares would have still come. She had no doubt.

Lettie turned to the side, noting her trim waist and high cheekbones with hollowed face below. No veil would hide the empty vastness of her eyes.

Astoundingly, she didn’t want to keep hidden her deepest musings, her hurt, and her despair.

She lifted her chin. How could she ever hope to overcome it if her future was a carefully crafted lie to protect those around her? She could not expect anyone to accept her at present.

“Lettie?” The hinges on her bedchamber door squeaked, and boot steps sounded in her private space. “Are you within, my lady?”

Daniel.

She’d promised to freshen up and join them for the evening meal. It was best he learn now that all Lettie’s future held was disappointment after disappointment. If he chose to renew their childhood friendship or continue on her parent’s foolhardy mission to see them wed, then it was something he’d need to gain comfort with.

Broken promises.

Shattered longings.

And miserable disappointment.

“I am here,” Lettie sighed, reaching forward and running her finger down the glass, tracing the face she no longer recognized as her own. Loss etched every line. Sorrow hung heavy in her brow. Even her once plump lips were little more than a frown.

His steps moved toward her small sanctuary, and Lettie pushed the door open, revealing herself, candlelight at her back.

“Your mother was going to come fetch you, but I offered assistance. She does enjoy entertaining—” His words halted when she stepped from the closet; her stare focused on the floor. “My apologies. I was unaware you were changing gowns, though I must say you’ve selected a superb choice.”

Lettie brought her eyes to his, startled to see nothing but gentleness in his soft expression. “I will not be re-joining the party.”

“I expected as much, though it is a loss to everyone below not to witness your stunning beauty in that dress.” She expected his eyes to travel from her face to her toes, only pausing to take in her gaping bodice; however, his eyes never left hers, making Lettie wonder if he could see past her emptiness—and more acutely, wondering what he saw there. “I was against this dinner. It is far too soon, and I should have worked harder to discourage them.”

“It was not your place,” Lettie sighed. They were barely friends—she and Daniel—their past betrothal notwithstanding, no matter how much he tried to prove otherwise. “None of this is your fault.”

“Mayhap not, yet, I endeavor to show you that I value our long friendship despite the rough trials we’ve faced.” He pulled the bench out from her dressing table and sat. When had he turned into the pure white knight, and she the black domino?

“Why are you trying so hard to prove something?” Lettie crossed her arms to cover her less than properly gowned bosom. “You owe me nothing…less than nothing, in fact. If it is not a mistress you seek, then what? My dowry?”

She’d heard her father declare Lettie’s funds his when they wed. They were so certain of the fact, they’d all but given Daniel a banknote in good faith.

He chuckled as if she’d said the most hilarious thing he’d heard in ages. Sobering, his brow rose. “Certainly you remember your parents did away with your dowry when you chose to marry a man they did not approve of.”

“I was aware of that fact every day of the last six years.” She’d only had the clothes on her back and the items assigned to her as the wife of a soldier. Nothing more. Not that it was Lord and Lady Percival’s fault. Lettie had insisted on leaving with nothing, only her damned principles intact. “The compromise was not a total hardship. I was with the man I loved.” She paused, swallowing a sob. “I still love him.”

“That fact is not in dispute,” Daniel consented. “I assure you, you are the expert in matters of the heart.”

She ignored his remark. “However, we both know if I were to tuck tail and give in to my parents’ demands to reenter society and wed—namely, you—my dowry would be reinstated, and likely tripled.”

“My wealth matches, if not significantly surpasses, that of the Percival and Essex titles combined.” The corner of his mouth cocked in a mocking grin. “Do you have any other arguments to prove my intentions dishonorable?”

She’d barely had any argument to start with. The need to make her his mistress hadn’t rung true. If Daniel had meant to compromise her, he’d had many chances before she wed Gregory and fled England, but he had never acted anything but the gentleman. Why continue a close association with her father if he meant to defile her honor? Besides, that explanation lent no credence as to why he’d volunteered to be her nursemaid during this travesty of a dinner party.

She threw her arms wide. “I give up, Daniel. I do not understand why you seek to befriend a woman who jilted you and returned to London little more than a shell of who she once was. I am in love with a man who is gone. A piece of my heart was left on that battlefield—the rest buried with Gregory. I am a penniless widow with little drive to go on…”

She pivoted and retrieved her candle from the floor in the closet before turning to face him once more. She needed to collect her thoughts—as disjointed as her mind was—and say all that must be said. This may very well be her final chance.

“If you insist on friendship, I cannot stop you, especially with my parents aligned with you, but know that I have nothing else to give you. I do not belong here. I am not the debutante and well-raised woman I once was; the female my parents are determined to make me once more. She is dead. Buried in a grassy plain far away under a sapling. Please, I beg you.” She inhaled deeply. “Please, do not expect anything more from me…I am incapable of it. I have nothing left to give.”

Lettie focused on him in the dim light, scared of what she would see, but needing to show him—and herself—that she was many things, including aware of her flaws.

He stood quickly, and Lettie feared he’d leave without another word.

It would be for the best. It had to be this way.

But he closed the distance between them and pulled her against him forcing her to hurriedly put the candle down. He settled his lips against hers. Shock stiffened her back, and she pushed at his chest, though with little conviction.

His kiss…their kiss…it was…

Demanding, yet soft.

Insistent, but not punishing.

His hand settled on the back of her neck, holding her to him as if he tried to pass his strength on to her.

Did he not realize it was her remaining strength that allowed her to speak her mind, no matter how much it had hurt them both?

Her traitorous body softened and melded against his, fitting perfectly to his contours.

It only increased her awareness of his attraction.

Daniel’s arousal pushed against her belly as his tongue darted out and slid across her bottom lip, severing their connection.

It was unlike any kiss she’d experienced before, holding more passion than she thought possible for any one person. And it all came from him—she had no desire or passion left within her.

Before this moment, Lettie was resigned to never know the passionate embrace of a man again.

As her will to push him away receded, her hands slipped around his back and pressed him to her, determined to take all he had to offer…

The consequences and disappointment be damned.

In his arms, their lips joined, she was not a broken woman. She was not living in her tragic past.

She was only Lettie.

A woman worthy of a man’s embrace.

This man’s embrace.