fter the London season had ended, the peerage continued their social amusements in the country. Invitations were sent for balls, dinners, and dances; gamekeepers prepared grouse to be released for shooting; guns were freshly oiled and cleaned for wildfowling; riding courses were trimmed and repaired; and wine and delicacies were brought from the ports of Bristol and London.

The most sought-after invitation in Hampshire was the mid-September soiree to be held at Ramsay House, to announce Beatrix’s betrothal to Christopher Phelan. Usually any event the Hathaways hosted was well attended, but this was different. Everyone they had invited had accepted immediately, followed by a flood of letters and inquiries from people asking for invitations. Demanding them, in some instances.

The Hathaways could only attribute their newfound popularity to the fact that Christopher, England’s most admired war hero, would be attending. And Christopher, with his unconcealed loathing of crowds, was glum about the entire matter.

“You must admit,” Leo remarked, “it’s rather amusing that the one of us least inclined to mingle in society is the one all of society wants to mingle with.”

“Sod off, Ramsay,” Christopher muttered, and Leo grinned.

But the phrase “one of us,” used so casually, warmed Christopher’s heart. Their relationship had acquired an easy, friendly feeling that reminded Christopher of how it used to be with John. Although no one would ever take John’s place, Christopher found a great deal of enjoyment in the company of his future brothers-in-law. At least, he found enjoyment in the company of Leo and Cam. Whether the same liking would extend to Merripen remained to be seen.

Merripen and his wife Winnifred, or Win, as the family called her, returned from Ireland with their young son on the first of September. The Hathaways, hardly a subdued lot to begin with, had erupted in a frenzy of joy. Christopher had stayed at the side of the family parlor during the chaotic reunion, watching as the family merged into a tangle of hugs and laughter. Cam and Merripen embraced and thumped each other’s backs enthusiastically, speaking in a rapid volley of Romany.

Christopher had met Merripen on one or two occasions before the war. However, Christopher remembered little of him other than as a large and brooding presence, a man of few words. Certainly Christopher had never expected they would belong to the same family someday.

Win was a slim and graceful woman with large blue eyes and light blond hair. She had a fragile quality, almost ethereal, that set her apart from the other Hathaway sisters. Separating from the group in the middle of the room, Win came to Christopher and gave him her hand. “Captain Phelan. How lucky we are to be gaining you as a brother. The men in the family have been quite outmatched—four to five. Now you’ll make our total an even ten.”

“I still feel outmatched,” Leo said.

Merripen approached Christopher, shook his hand with a strong grip, and gave him an appraising glance. “Rohan says you’re not bad, for a gadjo,” he said. “And Beatrix says she loves you, which inclines me to let you marry her. But I’m still considering it.”

“If it makes any difference,” Christopher said, “I’m willing to take all of her animals.”

Merripen considered that. “You can have her.”

The discussion at the dinner table was fast-paced and ebullient at first. Eventually, however, the talk turned to Ireland, and the estate Merripen would soon inherit, and the mood became somber.

Approximately ten years earlier Ireland had suffered a prolonged potato blight, leading to a magnitude of disaster the country had still not recovered from. England had offered only minimal assistance in the form of temporary relief measures, assuming that the problem would somehow solve itself through natural means.

Ireland, already impoverished, had fallen into nationwide starvation, followed by a plague of diseases, with the result that entire families had died by the roadside or in their mud huts. And landlords such as Cavan had evicted their penniless tenants, and fought with the ones who remained, resulting in lawsuits and bitterness that would last for generations.

“The Cavan lands and tenants have been neglected for years,” Merripen said. “Grandfather was too preoccupied with his properties in England to make improvements or repairs. The land has no drainage, and no machinery for ploughing. The tenants themselves know only the most primitive methods of farming. They live in cottages made of mud and stone. And most of their animals have been sold off to pay the rents.” Merripen paused, his face grim. “I met with Cavan before we returned to Stony Cross. He refuses to part with a shilling of his fortune to benefit the people who depend on him.”

“How long does he have to live?” Amelia asked.

“Less than a year,” Merripen replied. “I would be surprised if he survives past Christmas.”

“When he does go,” Win interceded, “we’ll be free to invest his fortune back into the Cavan lands.”

“But it will take far more than money,” Merripen said. “We’ll have to replace the mud dwellings with sound cottages. We’ll have to teach the tenants an entirely new way of farming. They need everything. Machinery, fuel, cattle, seed...” His voice trailed away, and he gave Cam an unfathomable glance. “Phral, it makes what we accomplished with the Ramsay estates look like child’s play.”

Cam reached up and absently tugged a forelock of his hair. “We’ll have to start preparing now,” he said. “I’ll need all the information we can obtain on Cavan’s finances and holdings. We may sell some of his—your—English properties for capital. You’ll have to make estimates for what is needed, and set the priorities. We won’t be able to do everything at once.”

“It’s overwhelming,” Merripen said flatly.

From the stunned silence at the table, Christopher gathered that Merripen seldom, if ever, declared that something was overwhelming.

“I’ll help, phral,” Cam said, his gaze steady.

“I’m beginning to have the unpleasant feeling,” Leo said, “that I’m going to be handling the Ramsay estates by myself, while the two of you devote yourselves to saving Ireland.”

Beatrix was staring at Christopher, a slight smile on her lips. “It puts our situation in perspective, doesn’t it?” she murmured.

Which was exactly what he had been thinking.

Merripen’s alert gaze went to Christopher’s face. “You’re to inherit Riverton, now that your brother is dead.”

“Yes.” Christopher’s lips twisted in a self-mocking smile. “And while John was thoroughly prepared for the responsibility, the inverse is true for me. I know little more than how to shoot someone or dig trenches.”

“You know how to organize men,” Merripen pointed out. “How to form a plan and carry it out. How to assess risk, and adapt when necessary.” He threw a swift grin in Cam’s direction. “When we started to restore the Ramsay estates, we told ourselves the best thing we could do was make a mistake. It meant we would learn something.”

It was then that Christopher fully grasped how much he had in common with the men in this family, even though they couldn’t have come from more different environments and upbringings. They were all grappling with a rapidly changing world, facing challenges that none of them had been prepared for. All of society was being tumbled and sifted, the old hierarchy crumbling, power shifting to unfamiliar hands. A man could either let himself sink into irrelevance, or step forward to shape the new age that was upon them. The possibilities were both intriguing and exhausting—he saw that in Merripen’s face, and in the faces of the others as well. But none of them would shrink from what had to be done.

Christopher contemplated Beatrix, who was sitting a few places away from him. Those eyes... midnight-blue, innocent and wise, alarmingly perceptive. What a curious mixture of qualities she possessed. She was capable of extraordinary composure and yet she was willing to play like a child. She was intellectual, instinctive, droll. Talking with her was like opening a treasure box to sort through unexpected delights.

As a man not yet thirty, Christopher was only six years older than Beatrix, and yet he felt the difference between them as a hundred. He wanted, needed, to be close to her, while at the same time he had to close away the worst of what he had seen and done, so that it would never touch her.

He had not made love to her since that afternoon two weeks earlier, having resolved not to take advantage of her until after they were married. But the erotic memory tantalized him constantly. Beatrix was an experience for which he had no reference point or comparison. The women he had known from the prior time in his life had offered easy and sophisticated pleasures. Nothing remotely similar to Beatrix’s headlong passion.

She was too innocent, too fine, to be what fate had intended for him. But he wanted her too badly to care. He would take her, and whatever calamity fate might choose to inflict in return, he would keep Beatrix safe from it.

Or from himself, if necessary.

A shriek came from the drawing room, disrupting all conversation at the Ramsay House soiree.

“What the devil was that?” Christopher’s grandfather, Lord Annandale, asked with a scowl. He was holding court in the family parlor, occupying a settee while various guests came to offer their homage. The long journey to Hampshire had made him querulous and exhausted. As a result, Annandale had demanded that Audrey, who had accompanied him from London, stay at his side.

Christopher suppressed a grin as he saw his sister-in-law staring at the doorway of the drawing room with patent longing. Although she had always gotten on fairly well with Annandale, she had spent the entire previous day shut away with the old codger in a private carriage.

“Why would someone scream at a soiree?” Annandale persisted, scowling.

Christopher maintained a bland expression. Since it most likely involved one of the Hathaways, it could have been anything.

“Shall I go and find out?” Audrey asked, clearly desperate to escape her grandfather-in-law.

“No, you may stay here, in case I need something.”

Audrey suppressed a sigh. “Yes, my lord.”

Beatrix entered the parlor and made her way through the clustered guests. Reaching Christopher, she said in a low tone, “Your mother just met Medusa.”

“My mother was the one who screamed?” Christopher asked.

“What was that?” Annandale demanded, remaining seated on the settee. “My daughter screamed?”

“I’m afraid so, my lord,” Beatrix said apologetically. “She encountered my pet hedgehog, who had escaped from her pen.” She glanced at Christopher, adding brightly, “Medusa’s always been too plump to climb the walls of her box before. I think her new exercise must be working!”

“Were any quills involved, love?” Christopher asked, repressing a grin.

“Oh, no, your mother wasn’t stuck. But Amelia is taking her to one of the upstairs rooms to rest. Unfortunately Medusa gave her a headache.”

Audrey glanced heavenward. “Her head always aches.”

“Why do you keep a hedgehog as a pet?” Annandale demanded of Beatrix.

“She can’t fend for herself, my lord. My brother rescued her from a fencepost hole when she was still a hoglet, and we couldn’t find her mother. So I’ve taken care of her ever since. Hedgehogs make delightful pets, as long as they’re handled properly.” She paused and regarded Annandale with frank interest. “My goodness, you are an eagle, aren’t you?”

“A what?” the elderly man asked, his eyes narrowing.

“An eagle.” Beatrix stared at him closely. “You have such striking features, and you exude power even while sitting still. And you like to watch people. You can assess them instantly, can’t you? No doubt you’re always right.”

Christopher began to intervene, certain that his grandfather would incinerate her with his response. To his astonishment, Annandale practically preened under Beatrix’s admiring regard.

“I can,” the earl allowed. “And indeed, I am seldom mistaken in my judgments.”

Audrey rolled her eyes again.

“You look a bit chilled, my lord,” Beatrix observed. “You must be sitting in a draft. One moment—” She bustled off to fetch a lap blanket, and returned to drape the soft blue wool over him.

It wasn’t the least bit cool in the room, and there couldn’t possibly have been a draft. However, Annandale received the blanket with obvious pleasure. Recalling the overheated rooms in his grandfather’s house, Christopher reflected that he probably had been chilled. How Beatrix could have guessed it was a mystery.

“Audrey,” Beatrix implored, “do let me sit next to Lord Annandale.” As if it were some coveted privilege.

“If you insist.” Audrey leaped from the settee as if she had been launched by a spring mechanism.

Before Beatrix took her place, she bent to rummage beneath the settee. Dragging out a drowsing gray cat, she settled it on Annandale’s lap. “Here you are. Nothing warms you faster than a cat in your lap. Her name is Lucky. She’ll purr if you pet her.”

The old man regarded it without expression.

And to Christopher’s astonishment, the old man began to stroke the sleek gray fur.

“This cat is missing a leg,” he remarked to Beatrix.

“Yes, I would have named her Nelson, after the one-armed admiral, but she’s female. She belonged to the cheesemaker until her foot was caught in a trap.”

“Why did you name her Lucky?” Annandale asked.

“I hoped it would change her fortunes.”

“And did it?”

“Well, she’s sitting in the lap of an earl, isn’t she?” Beatrix pointed out, and Annandale laughed outright.

He touched the cat’s remaining paw. “She is fortunate to have been to able to adapt.”

“She was determined,” Beatrix said. “You should have seen the poor thing, not long after the amputation. She kept trying to walk on the missing leg, or jump down from a chair, and she would stumble and lose her balance. But one day, she woke up and seemed to have accepted the fact that the leg was gone for good. And she became nearly as agile as before.” She added significantly, “The trick was forgetting about what she had lost... and learning to go on with what she had left.”

Annandale gave her a fascinated stare, his lips curving. “What a clever young woman you are.”

Christopher and Audrey glanced at each other in shared amazement, while Beatrix and Annandale launched into a rapt conversation.

“Men have always adored Beatrix,” Audrey said in an undertone, turning toward Christopher. Her eyes sparkled with laughter. “Did you think your grandfather would be proof against her?”

“Yes. He doesn’t like anyone.”

“Apparently he makes exceptions for young women who flatter his vanity and appear to hang on to his every word.”

Christopher stole a glance at Beatrix’s glowing face. Of course the earl couldn’t resist her. Beatrix had a way of looking at someone with undivided attention, making him feel as if he were the most interesting person in the room.

“I’ll never understand why she hasn’t married before now,” Christopher said.

Audrey kept her voice low as she replied. “Most of the peerage view the Hathaway family as a detraction. And although most gentlemen are delighted by Beatrix, they don’t want to marry an unconventional girl. As you well know.”

Christopher frowned at the gibe. “As soon as I came to know her, I admitted I was in the wrong.”

“That is to your credit,” Audrey said. “I didn’t think you could ever view her without prejudice. In the past, there have been more than a few men who were quite taken with Beatrix, but they did not pursue her. Mr. Chickering, for example. He absolutely begged his father to be allowed to court her, but his father threatened to cut him off. And so he has had to content himself with adoring Beatrix from afar, and flirting madly with her at every opportunity, knowing it will come to naught.”

“Those days are over,” Christopher said. “If he ever comes near her again...”

Audrey grinned. “Careful. Jealousy is quite unfashionable these days. One must have the sophistication to be amused by the attentions paid to one’s wife.”

“I’ll take great amusement in tossing him through the window.” Christopher paused as Audrey laughed. Clearly she thought he was jesting. Deciding to change the subject, he said, “I’m glad to see you’re out in society again.” He meant it. Audrey had spent nearly her entire marriage taking care of John, who had been diagnosed with consumption soon after their wedding. That, combined with the mourning period, had made it a lengthy and lonely ordeal for her. She deserved to find some enjoyment in life, and most definitely some companionship. “Are there any gentlemen you’ve taken a liking to?”

Audrey made a face. “You mean the ones my brothers haven’t managed to frighten off? No, there’s no one who appeals to me in that way. I’m sure I could have my choice of nearly any fortune hunter in London, in light of my generous jointure. But it counts against me that I’m barren.”

Christopher looked at her alertly. “Are you? How do you know?”

“Three years of marriage to John, and no children. Not even a miscarriage. And it’s always said that women are to blame in these matters.”

“That’s a belief I don’t happen to share. Women are not always at fault for infertility—that’s been proven. And John was ill for most of your marriage. There’s every reason to hope that you’ll be able to have children with another man.”

Audrey smiled wryly. “We’ll see what fate has in store for me. But I don’t aspire to marry again. I’m weary to the bone. I feel like a woman of five-and-ninety, instead of five-and-twenty.”

“You need more time,” Christopher murmured. “You’ll feel differently someday, Audrey.”

“Perhaps,” she said, sounding unconvinced.

Their attention was caught by the increasingly animated conversation between Beatrix and Annandale. “... I can climb a tree as well as any of the Ramsay estate woodsmen,” Beatrix was telling him.

“I don’t believe you,” the earl declared, tremendously entertained.

“Oh, yes. Off with the skirts, off with the corset, I put on a pair of breeches, and—”

“Beatrix,” Audrey interrupted, before this scandalous discussion of intimate apparel progressed any further. “I just caught a glimpse of Poppy in the next room. It’s been ages since I’ve seen her. And I’ve never been introduced to her husband.”

“Oh.” Reluctantly Beatrix turned her attention away from Annandale. “Shall I take you to them?”

“Yes.” Audrey seized her arm.

Annandale looked disgruntled, his black brows lowering as Audrey propelled Beatrix away.

Christopher bit back a grin. “What do you think of her?” he asked.

Annandale replied without hesitation. “I would marry her myself, were I five years younger.”

“Five?” Christopher repeated skeptically.

“Ten, damn you.” But a slight smile had appeared on the earl’s time-weathered face. “I commend you on your choice. She’s a spirited girl. Fearless. Lovely in her own way, and with her charm she has no need of true beauty. You’ll need to keep a firm hand on the reins, but the trouble will be worth it.” He paused, looking wistful. “Once you’ve had a woman like that, you can never be content with the ordinary kind.”

Christopher had been about to argue over the question of Beatrix’s beauty, which in his opinion was unequaled. But that last sentence caught his attention. “You’re referring to Grandmother?” he asked.

“No. Your grandmother was the kind of woman I thought I should marry. I was in love with someone else—a far less suitable girl. And I let her go, to my everlasting regret.” He sighed, pondering some distant memory. “A lifetime without her...”

Fascinated, Christopher wanted to ask more... but this was hardly the time or place for such a conversation. However, it gave him an unexpected insight into his grandfather. What would it do to a man, to marry a Prudence when one might have had a Beatrix? It would be enough to turn anyone bitter.

Later in the evening, trays of champagne were brought out, and the assembled guests waited expectantly for the betrothal announcement to be made.

Unfortunately, the man designated to do it was temporarily missing.

After a brief search, Leo was found and urged into the drawing room, where he launched into a charming toast and listed any number of amusing reasons for marriage. Although most of the guests listened with close attention and chuckled throughout, Christopher heard a pair of women gossiping nearby, whispering in disapproving undertones.

“... Ramsay was found flirting in the corner with a woman. They had to drag him away from her.”

“Who was it?”

“His own wife.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes. How unseemly for a married couple to carry on so.”

“I suppose the Hathaways know no better.”

Christopher suppressed a grin and fought the temptation to turn and inform the two old hens that the Hathaways actually did know better. They just didn’t give a damn. He glanced down at Beatrix, wondering if she had heard, but she was oblivious to the gossip, her attention fixed on her brother.

Leo concluded the toast with heartfelt wishes for the betrothed couple’s future happiness and prosperity. The guests raised their glasses and cheered in agreement.

Taking Beatrix’s gloved hand in his, Christopher lifted it and pressed a kiss to the back of her wrist. He wanted to carry her away from the crowded drawing room and have her all to himself.

“Soon,” Beatrix whispered, as if she had read his thoughts, and he let his gaze caress her. “And don’t look at me like that,” she added. “It makes my knees wobbly.”

“Then I won’t tell you what I’d like to do with you right now. Because you’d topple over like a ninepin.”

The private, pleasurable moment ended all too soon.

Lord Annandale, who was standing near Leo, pushed his way to the fore, holding up his champagne glass. “My friends,” he said, “I hope to contribute to the happiness of this occasion by sharing some news from London.”

The crowd quieted respectfully.

A cold feeling slithered down Christopher’s spine. He glanced at Leo, who looked bemused and shrugged.

“What is it?” Beatrix whispered.

Christopher shook his head, staring at his grandfather. “God help me, I don’t know.”

“Before departing for Hampshire,” Annandale continued, “I was informed by His Grace the Duke of Cambridge that my grandson is to be invested with the Victoria Cross. The medal, created this January past, is the highest possible military decoration for valor in the face of the enemy. The queen herself will present the medal to Captain Phelan at an investiture ceremony in London next June.”

Everyone in the room exclaimed and cheered. Christopher felt all the warmth in his body drain away. This was nothing that he wanted, another bloody piece of metal to pin to his chest, another fucking ceremony to honor events he didn’t want to remember. And for that to intrude on one of the sweetest moments of his life was revolting. Damn his grandfather for doing this to him without giving him one word of advance warning.

“What will the Victoria Cross be awarded for, my lord?” someone asked.

Annandale sent a smile to Christopher. “Perhaps my grandson can hazard a guess.”

Christopher shook his head, regarding him without expression.

Annoyance crossed the earl’s face at Christopher’s demonstrable lack of enthusiasm. “Captain Phelan was recommended for this honor by a regimental officer who gave an account of seeing him carry a wounded officer to safety under heavy gunfire. Our men had been driven back in an attempt to overtake Russian rifle pits. After rescuing the officer, Captain Phelan held the position until relief arrived. The Russian positions were captured, and the wounded officer, Lieutenant Fenwick, was saved.”

Christopher didn’t trust himself to speak as a volley of cheers and congratulations filled the air. He forced himself to finish the champagne, to stand still and appear calm, when he could feel himself sliding toward a dangerous precipice. Somehow he found the traction to stop it, to hold the madness at bay, reaching for the sense of detachment he both needed and feared.

Please, God, he thought. Not for saving Fenwick.