The hot July days crept past. Caleb's trip across the dry Spanish landscape had led him to Wellesley's encampment near Talavera, but the fighting had yet to begin and the waiting seemed interminable as men and equipment poured in.

In the last few days, the atmosphere in the camp had changed, as if the troops sensed that now the time was right; the attack on Joseph Bonaparte's massive army was ready to commence.

Mounted on Solomon, Caleb rode at the head of the column making its way to the top of a rise that overlooked the battlefield below. For miles around, the ground was barren and dusty. For the soldiers of Wellesley's army, the march to Talavera had been an arduous one and food supplies were low. The heat was unbearable, the sun scorching down with merciless intensity. At night lightning cracked overhead but not a drop of rain fell to quench the parched earth.

One of the horses nickered. Solomon sidestepped and tossed his head, beginning to get anxious. "Easy boy. It won't be long now." Not long before the carnage began, before bodies littered the desolate landscape as far as the eye could see. Scattered along a defensive line across the field, Joseph Bonaparte's forty thousand men waited to face nineteen thousand of Wellesley's troops aided by the Spanish army commanded by General Cuesta.

Caleb had been assigned to the 4th Dragoons, led by General Sherbrooke, Wellesley's second in command. His squadron had been ordered to the rise, ordered to take up their position for the assault. For the past twenty-four hours, a calm detachment had been with him, a skill he had developed over the years. He used it now to study the tens of thousands of armed soldiers across the field, the dozens of cannon loaded with grapeshot, ready to rip men and animals apart.

He knew what he would face once the fighting began, knew he might not survive it. But today was the first time he had ever felt regret.

Regret for the life he had chosen, for all he had so readily given up. The keen ache of loss for the woman he loved and the children he would never have. He thought of Lee and prayed that whatever fate awaited him, she would be happy.

A bugle sounded. Caleb watched a sweep of men and horses rush down from the knoll onto the field at his left. Cannon roared. Guns began firing, clouds of thick black smoke filled the air. Horses screamed and dozens of men fell beneath the vicious barrage.

"Hold your position!" his commanding officer shouted.

Solomon pawed the earth. In minutes, it would be time. He wasn't afraid to die. Perhaps, in truth, he had been afraid to live.

In joining the army, he had found a retreat from the world and at the same time, a way to prove himself to his father. He had chosen this life, gained the love and approval he had always wanted and never had, but now he wondered…

If he could choose again, if he could start over, would the choice he made be different? As clearly as if a voice had spoken in his head, Caleb knew that he would not choose the solitary existence he lived now. He would choose a home and family. He would choose Lee.

But he had sworn an oath to protect his country. He was an officer in the British Army and he had a duty to perform. If only things could be different.

But it was too late for that. Too late the moment he heard his resounding command, "Charge!"

Caleb raised his saber above his head, urged Solomon into a gallop, and plunged off down the hill.


There was no word from Caleb. No letters, not even a note. Lee hadn't expected there would be. The newspapers were filled with accounts of the terrible battle that had been fought at Talavera and the costly victory the British had won. Lists of casualties were printed, more than fifty-five hundred British soldiers had been wounded or killed. Caleb's name had not appeared on any of the lists and for that she was grateful. Still she worried about him.

She thought about the traitor who had been passing information to the French and wondered if he had been responsible in some way for the high number of British casualties, but there was no way for her to know.

The days drifted past. August was slipping away. She was officially Lee Montague now, though the upheaval it caused between her father and his sons made her question whether the price was worth it.

It was a warm summer afternoon when the marquess called her into his study. Lee knew he wanted to talk to her about the problems with Aaron and Bronson, but she wasn't exactly sure what he would say.

Or what she should say in return.

"I cannot begin to tell you how disappointed I am in both of them," her father began.

"It isn't entirely their fault," Lee said. "They see me as an intruder. In a way they are not wrong."

"I know that's the way you feel. That is the reason I wished to speak to you." He indicated the teapot on the tea cart a few feet away. "Will you pour for us?"

She did as he asked, handing him the cup, nervous at the set of his features.

"Yesterday Jon Parker came to see me." Her head came up. "Jon has asked for permission to marry you, Lee."

She tried not to let her uneasiness show. She had known of his interest, of course. She wasn't certain he would actually make an official offer. "Jonathan is a very fine man," she said carefully.

"Yes, he is. He is kind and generous and very well respected. I think you should accept him, Lee."

The tea cup rattled. She steadied it with her hand. "I don't love him, Father."

"I know you don't—not now, but in time perhaps you could come to love him." He set his untouched cup and saucer down on the table in front of him. "I loved your mother very much. I didn't believe I would ever get over losing her and in some ways I never did. But I found great comfort in Aaron's mother, Sarah. I never told you that. In my own way, I came to love her."

Lee mulled that over. Was it possible? Could love grow out of mutual caring and respect? Over the years, Charles had fallen deeply in love with Elizabeth. They were happy. Unbelievably so. In her life at Parklands, Lee would have chosen Jon as her protector. Why not a husband instead?

"Jon wants children, Lee. I know how much you would love to have a family of your own."

It was said that when one door closed another opened. Perhaps this, at last, was a door to the life she had finally discovered she wanted. Certainly she could be happier with Jon than she had been in the world of the demimonde, where she had never fit in.

"Jon enjoys racing," the marquess went on. "Your horses will have the very best of care."

She set her cup and saucer down next to his. "Do you really believe marrying Lord Nash is the right thing to do?"

The marquess reached out and captured her hand. "I have done all I can to protect you. Jon is aware of your former… relationship… with Captain Tanner and yet he believes, in time, you will come to care for him. As the wife of a viscount and respected member of the ton, your future would be completely secure."

His hold gently tightened around her fingers. "Shall I give him my approval?"

She thought of Caleb, closed her eyes and forced his image away. "Tell him if he proposes marriage… if he is certain that is what he wants, I shall be honored to accept."


Lee could scarcely believe it. In only a few short months, her life had completely changed. She was betrothed to a well-respected member of the aristocracy and soon would be wed.

It was less than three weeks till the wedding when she made a trip to London for the final fitting of her trousseau. Though she missed Jeannie, her maid was happier at Parklands where she was more readily accepted. Beatrice was her lady's maid now, the two of them staying at her father's town house. She had buried thoughts of Caleb deep in her heart, never to be resurrected, and so she was surprised when, standing at the top of the stairs, she saw his brother, Lucas, striding into the entry.

The moment she realized who it was, a wave of fear hit her and the breath froze in her lungs. She flew down the stairs, her pulse hammering so madly she was afraid she might swoon. "Do not say he is dead!"

Lucas shook his head and relief rushed over her, so strong her legs went weak. Luc took her arm and led her into the nearest drawing room, urged her down onto the sofa.

"Caleb is alive, Lee, but I'm afraid he's been very gravely injured. There was some sort of mix-up and he was believed to be someone else. Word only reached us a few days ago."

Her hands were shaking. She clasped them together in her lap. "Where… where is he?"

"The hospital at Portsmouth."

She started to get up. She had to go upstairs, change into something for the journey.

Luc caught her arm. "My brother is in some sort of a coma, Lee. He has sustained a serious head injury. On top of that, he took a musket ball in the chest. He's been out of his mind with fever off and on for days. The hospital is a place of horrors, but they are afraid to move him. I came because in his lucid moments, Caleb calls your name."

Her eyes burned with tears.

"I heard you were here," Luc continued. "I thought that perhaps—"

"It won't take me a moment to change and pack a few things for the trip. If you would see me to Portsmouth, Lord Halford, I would be forever in your debt."

He gave her a weary smile. "I hoped you would say that." He looked tired. Faint smudges darkened the skin beneath his blue eyes and beard-stubble roughened his usually clean-shaven cheeks. "I probably shouldn't have come here, but if you are willing to suffer the horrors of that place and there is any chance you can help my brother, I can only say that I am grateful."

She simply nodded. Caleb was injured, perhaps even dying. Her throat ached and a film of tears blurred her vision. Turning away from Luc, she hurried out of the drawing room and raced up the stairs shouting for Beatrice.