hristopher delivered Audrey safely to London, where her family, the Kelseys, had welcomed her eagerly. The large Kelsey brood was overjoyed to have their sister with them. For reasons no one had quite understood, Audrey had refused to allow any of her relations to come stay with her in Hampshire after John’s death. She had insisted on grieving with Mrs. Phelan unaccompanied by anyone else.

“Your mother was the only one who felt John’s loss as keenly as I did,” Audrey had explained to Christopher during the carriage drive to London. “There was a kind of relief in that. Any of my family would have tried to make me feel better, and surrounded me with love and comfort, which would have kept me from grieving properly. The whole thing would have been drawn out. No, it was the right thing to live in grief for as long as I needed. Now it’s time to recover.”

“You’re very good at organizing your feelings, aren’t you?” Christopher had asked dryly.

“I suppose I am. I wish I could organize yours. At present they seem to resemble an overturned drawer of neckcloths.”

“Not neckcloths,” he said. “Flatware, with sharp edges.”

Audrey had smiled. “I pity those who find themselves in the way of your feelings.” Pausing, she had studied Christopher with fond concern. “How difficult it is to look at you,” she commented, startling him. “It’s the resemblance you bear to John. You’re more handsome than he was, of course, but I preferred his face. A wonderful everyday face—I never tired of it. Yours is a bit too intimidating for my taste. You resemble an aristocrat far more than John did, you know.”

Christopher’s gaze darkened as he thought of some of the men he’d fought with, who’d been fortunate to survive their wounds, but had suffered some manner of disfigurement. They had wondered how they would be received upon their return home, if wives or sweethearts would turn away in horror from their ruined appearances. “It doesn’t matter what someone looks like,” he said. “All that matters is what he is.”

“I’m so very glad to hear you say that.”

Christopher gave her a speculative glance. “What are you leading to?”

“Nothing. Except... I want to ask you something. If another woman—say, Beatrix Hathaway—and Prudence Mercer were to exchange appearances, and all that you esteemed in Prudence was transferred to Beatrix... would you want Beatrix?”

“Good God, no.”

“Why not?” she asked indignantly.

“Because I know Beatrix Hathaway, and she’s nothing like Pru.”

“You do not know Beatrix. You haven’t spent nearly enough time with her.”

“I know that she’s unruly, opinionated, and far more cheerful than any reasoning person should be. She wears breeches, climbs trees, and roams wherever she pleases without a chaperone. I also know that she has overrun Ramsay House with squirrels, hedgehogs, and goats, and the man unlucky enough to marry her will be driven to financial ruin from the veterinary bills. Would you care to contradict any of those points?”

Audrey folded her arms and gave him a sour look. “Yes. She doesn’t have a squirrel.”

Reaching inside his coat, Christopher pulled out the letter from Pru, the one he carried with him always. It had become a talisman, a symbol of what he had fought for. A reason for living. He looked down at the bit of folded paper, not even needing to open it. The words had been seared into his heart.

“Please come home and find me...”

In the past he had wondered if he were incapable of love. None of his love affairs had ever lasted more than a matter of months, and although they had blazed on a physical level, they had never transcended that. Ultimately no particular woman had ever seemed all that different from the rest.

Until those letters. The sentences had looped around him with a spirit so artless and adorable, he had loved it, loved her, immediately.

His thumb moved over the parchment as if it were sensitive living skin. “Mark my words, Audrey—I’m going to marry the woman who wrote this letter.”

“I am marking your words,” she assured him. “We’ll see if you live up to them.”

The London season would last until August, when Parliament ended and the aristocracy would retire to their country estates. There they would hunt, shoot, and indulge in Friday-to-Monday amusements. While in town, Christopher would sell his army commission and meet with his grandfather to discuss his new responsibilities as the heir of Riverton. He would also renew acquaintances with old friends and spend time with some men from his regiment.

And most importantly, he would find Prudence.

Christopher was uncertain how to approach her, after the way she had broken off their correspondence.

It was his fault. He had declared himself too early. He had been too impetuous.

No doubt Prudence had been wise to break off their communications. She was a gently bred young woman. Serious courtship had to be approached with patience and moderation.

If that was what Prudence wanted of him, she would have it.

He arranged for a suite of rooms at the Rutledge, an elegant hotel favored by European royalty, American entrepreneurs, and British aristocrats who did not maintain town residences. The Rutledge was unparalleled in comfort and luxury, and was arguably worth the exorbitant price of lodging there. As Christopher checked into the hotel and conversed with the concierge, he remarked on a portrait that hung over the marble mantel in the lobby. The subject was a singularly beautiful woman with mahogany-colored hair and striking blue eyes.

“That is a portrait of Mrs. Rutledge, sir,” the concierge said with a touch of fond pride. “A beauty, is she not? A better, kinder lady could not be found anywhere.”

Christopher regarded the portrait with casual interest. He recalled that Amelia Hathaway had said one of her sisters had married Harry Rutledge, the owner of the hotel. “Then Mrs. Rutledge is one of the Hathaway sisters of Hampshire?”

“Just so, sir.”

That had brought a quizzical smile to Christopher’s lips. Harry Rutledge, being a wealthy and well-connected man, could have had any woman he wanted. What madness had inspired him to marry into such a family? It was the eyes, Christopher decided, looking closer, unwillingly fascinated. Hathaway blue, heavily lashed. Exactly like Beatrix’s.

The day after Christopher took up residence in the Rutledge, invitations flooded in. Balls, soirees, dinners, musical evenings... even a summons to dine at Buckingham Palace, where the composer Johann Strauss and his orchestra would play.

After a few inquiries, Christopher accepted an invitation to a private ball that, it was confirmed, Miss Prudence Mercer and her mother had consented to attend. The ball was held at a Mayfair mansion, built on a grand scale in the Italianate style, with an extensive outer forecourt and a central balconied hall that rose three full stories. Populated by aristocrats, foreign diplomats, and celebrated artists in various fields, the ball was a glittering display of wealth and social prominence.

The crowded atmosphere engendered a feeling of vague panic in Christopher’s chest. Battening down the anxiety, he went to exchange pleasantries with the hosts. Although he would have preferred to wear civilian attire, he was obliged to wear his dress uniform of rifle green and black, with epaulettes of worsted crescents at the shoulders. As his commission had not yet been sold, it would have caused much comment and disapproval had he not worn the uniform. Worse, he was also obliged to wear all the medals that had been bestowed on him—to leave one off would have been in bad form. The medals had been intended as badges of honor. To Christopher, they represented events he longed to forget.

There were other officers in their various uniforms, scarlet or black trimmed with gold. The attention they garnered, especially from women, only increased Christopher’s unease.

He searched for Prudence, but she wasn’t in the parlor or drawing room. Minute after painstaking minute he made his way through the crowd, stopping frequently as he was recognized by an acquaintance and forced to make conversation.

Where the devil was Prudence?

“... you could pick me out of a crowd blindfolded. Simply follow the scent of scorched stockings.”

The thought brought a faint smile to his lips.

Restless and full of wanting, he went into the ballroom. His heartbeat had lodged in the base of his throat.

His breath fractured as he saw her.

Prudence was even more beautiful than he had remembered. She wore a pink gown with lace-trimmed ruffles, her hands tucked into little white gloves. Having just concluded a dance, she stood chatting with an admirer, her expression serene.

Christopher felt as if he had traveled a million miles to reach her. The extent of his own need stunned him. The sight of her, along with the luminous echo of her words, gave him a sense of something he had not felt for a long time.

Hope.

As Christopher reached her, Prudence turned and looked up at him. Her clear green eyes widened, and she laughed with incredulous delight. “My dear Captain Phelan.” She extended her gloved hand, and he bent over it and closed his eyes briefly. Her hand in his.

How long he had waited for this moment. How he had dreamed of it.

“As dashing as ever.” Prudence smiled at him. “More so, actually. How does it feel to have so many medals pinned to one’s chest?”

“Heavy,” he said, and she laughed.

“I had despaired of ever seeing you...”

Thinking at first that she was referring to the Crimea, Christopher felt a thrill of heat.

But she continued, “... since you’ve been unforgivably elusive upon returning to England.” She curved her lips in a provocative smile. “But of course you knew that would only make you more sought after.”

“Believe me,” he said, “it is not my wish to be sought after.”

“You are, however. Every host and hostess in London would love to claim you as a guest.” A delicate giggle escaped her. “And every girl wants to marry you.”

He wanted to hold her. He wanted to bury his face in her hair. “I may not be fit to marry.”

“La, of course you are. You’re a national hero and the heir to Riverton. A man can scarcely be more fit than that.”

Christopher stared into her beautiful, fine-featured face, at the gleam of her pearly teeth. She was talking to him as she always had, flirtatious, light, teasing.

“The inheritance of Riverton is hardly a foregone conclusion,” he told her. “My grandfather could leave it to one of my cousins.”

“After the way you distinguished yourself in the Crimea? I doubt that.” She smiled at him. “What moved you to finally make your appearance in society?”

He replied in a low voice. “I followed my lodestar.”

“Your...” Prudence hesitated and smiled. “Oh, yes. I remember.”

But something about that hesitation bothered him.

The hot, joyous urgency began to fade.

No doubt it was unreasonable of him to expect Prudence to remember everything. Christopher had read her letters a thousand times, until every word had been permanently engraved on his soul. But he could hardly expect that she would have done the same. Her life had gone on much the same. His had changed in every regard.

“Do you still like to dance, Captain?” she asked, her long lashes sweeping over vivid green eyes.

“With you as a partner, yes.” He proffered his arm, and she took it without hesitation.

They danced. The woman he loved was in his arms.

It should have been the finest night of his life. But in a matter of minutes he began to realize that the long-awaited relief was no more substantial than a bridge made of smoke.

Something was wrong.

Something wasn’t real.