He might have smiled.

He strode toward the bed, bent over her, and scooped her up.

Gwen set one arm about his neck and looked into his face even though it was disturbingly close. She could retain her manners even if he could not.

“What do you all do during your reunions?” she asked politely. “Reminisce about the wars?”

“That would be daft,” he said.

Was he always so rude? Or was it just that he resented her and could not even be civil to her? But he could have carried her to the village instead of bringing her here. Obviously he was such a strong giant that her weight was no object to him.

“You studiously avoid all mention of the wars, then?” she asked as he made his way downstairs with her.

“We suffered in this place,” he told her. “We healed here. We bared our souls to each other here. Leaving here was one of the hardest things we had had to do in a long while, perhaps in our whole lives. But it was necessary if our lives were ever to have meaning again. Once a year, though, we return to make ourselves whole once more, or to bolster ourselves with the illusion that we are whole.”

It was a lengthy speech for Lord Trentham. But he did not look at her as he spoke. His voice sounded fierce and resentful. It put her in the wrong again. It implied that she was a soft and pampered lady who could not possibly understand the sort of suffering he and his friends here had endured. Or the fact that that suffering never quite came to an end, that the sufferer was forever scarred by it.

She did understand.

When wounds healed, everything should be mended. The person concerned should be whole again. That seemed to make good sense. But she had not been mended when her leg knit together after being broken. Her leg had been poorly set. She would not have been whole even if her leg had healed perfectly, though. She had also lost her unborn child as a result of the fall. It might even be said that she had killed her child. And Vernon had never been the same after it had happened, though that did beg the question—the same as what?

When one had once suffered a great hurt, there was always a weakness afterward, a vulnerability where there had been wholeness and strength before—and innocence.

Oh, she did understand.

Lord Trentham carried her into the drawing room and set her down on the same sofa as before. But this time the room was not empty. There were, in fact, six other people present apart from the two of them. The Duke of Stanbrook was one, Lady Barclay another, Viscount Ponsonby a third. Gwen wondered fleetingly what his wounds had been. He looked dazzlingly handsome and physically perfect, just as Lord Trentham looked large and physically perfect.

It was obvious what was wrong with one of the other gentlemen. He hauled himself to his feet when Gwen came into the room, using two canes strapped to his arms. His legs looked unnaturally twisted between the canes, and it appeared as though he was supporting much of his weight on his arms.

“Lady Muir,” the duke said from his position before the hearth, “I appreciate your making the effort to join us. I fully understand that it must have been an effort. I am delighted to have you as a guest in my home, though I regret the circumstances. I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you during the coming week. You will not hesitate, I hope, to ask for anything you may need.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, flushing. “You are very kind.”

His words were courtesy itself, though his manner was stiff, distant, austere. But at least he was courteous. Unlike Lord Trentham, he was clearly a gentleman from head to toe. An extremely elegant gentleman too.

“You have met Imogen, Lady Barclay, and Flavian, Viscount Ponsonby,” he continued, crossing the room to pour a glass of wine, which he brought across to her. “Allow me to introduce Sir Benedict Harper.”

He indicated the man with the twisted legs. He was tall and slim, with a thin face and angular features that had once perhaps been purely handsome. Now they gave evidence of prolonged suffering and pain.

“Lady Muir.”

“Sir Benedict.” Gwen inclined her head to him.

“And Ralph, Earl of Berwick,” the duke said, indicating a good-looking young man if one ignored the scar that slashed across one side of his face. He nodded to her but neither spoke nor smiled.

Another dour man.

“My lord,” she said.

“And Vincent, Lord Darleigh,” His Grace said.

He was a slight young man with curly fair hair. He had an open, cheerful, smiling face, and the largest, loveliest blue eyes Gwen had ever seen. Now there was a man destined to break young hearts, she thought. There was no sign of any injury he might have sustained either to body or soul. And he was so very young. If he really had been an officer during the wars, he must have been a mere boy …

He seemed out of place in this group. He looked too young and carefree to have suffered greatly.

“My lord,” Gwen said.

“You have the voice of a beautiful woman, Lady Muir,” he said, “and I am told you have the looks to match. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Imogen says that you are horribly embarrassed to be here, but you need not be. We sent Hugo down onto the beach today to find you. He has a well-earned reputation for never failing in any mission set him, and this was no exception. He fetched a rare beauty.”

Gwen was feeling a jolt of shock that had nothing to do with his last words. Indeed, for a few moments she did not even fully comprehend what they were. She had suddenly realized that despite the loveliness of his eyes and the fact that he appeared to be gazing directly at her, Lord Darleigh was blind.

Perhaps his was the worst injury of all, she thought. She could imagine little worse than losing one’s sight. Yet he smiled and was purely charming. Did his smile extend all the way inside himself, though? There was something slightly disturbing about his cheerful demeanor now that she understood the devastation the wars had wreaked upon his life.

“If Hugo had fetched a gargoyle, Vincent,” the Earl of Berwick said, “it would have made no difference to you, would it?”

“Ah,” Lord Darleigh said, turning his eyes with great accuracy in the direction of the earl and smiling sweetly, “it would not matter to me, Ralph, would it, provided she had the soul of an angel.”

“A hit indeed, Ralph,” Viscount Ponsonby said.

And that was when Gwen heard the echo of what Viscount Darleigh had said to her—We sent Hugo down onto the beach today to find you … He fetched a rare beauty.

“Lord Trentham came to find me?” she asked. “But how did he know I would be there? I did not plan that walk ahead of time.”

“You would do well, Vincent,” Lord Trentham said, “to tie your tongue in a knot.”

“Too late,” Viscount Ponsonby said. “Your secret must out, Hugo. Lady Muir, for a number of reasons, all of which seem sound to Hugo, he has decided to take a bride this year. His only p-problem is selection. He is arguably the finest soldier the British armies have produced in the last twenty years. He is not, alas, equally renowned as an accomplished l-lover and wooer of the fair sex. When he explained his situation to us last evening and added, wise man, that he was not in search of any grand love affair, he was advised to look about him for a personable female, explain to her that he is a lord and really quite f-fabulously wealthy, and then suggest that she marry him. He agreed that he would go down to the beach today and find such a woman. And here you are.”

If her cheeks grew any hotter, Gwen thought, they would surely burst into flame. And all her earlier embarrassment and anger had returned with interest. She looked at Lord Trentham, who was standing stiff and erect like a soldier at ease, but not at ease, and her chin lifted and her eyes sparked.

“Perhaps, then, Lord Trentham,” she said, “you would care to inform me of your stature and wealth now, in the presence of your friends. And make me your offer of marriage.”

He looked directly at her and said nothing. He was not really given the chance.

“Ma’am,” Lord Darleigh said, his blue eyes on hers again, though now they looked as troubled as his voice sounded. “I spoke to make everyone laugh. It was not until the words were out of my mouth that I realized how unpardonably embarrassing they were to you. We were, of course, all joking last evening, and it was pure chance that you were on the beach and hurt yourself and that Hugo happened to be there to offer you assistance. I beg you to forgive me and to forgive Hugo. He is blameless in your embarrassment. The fault is all mine.”

Gwen transferred her gaze to him. And she laughed.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I can quite see the funny side of the coincidence.”

She was not sure she spoke the truth.

“Thank you, ma’am.” The young lord sounded relieved.

“It is time that particular topic of conversation was put to rest,” Sir Benedict said. “Where is your home, Lady Muir? When you are not staying with … Mrs. Parkinson, is it?”

“I live at Newbury Abbey in Dorsetshire,” Gwen said. “Or rather, my home is the dower house in the park. I live there with my mother. My brother and his family live at the abbey—the Earl of Kilbourne, that is.”

“I knew him slightly in the Peninsula,” Lord Trentham said, “though he had a viscount’s title then. He was shipped home, if I remember correctly, after his scouting party was ambushed in the mountains of Portugal, leaving him close to death. He made a full recovery, then?”