CHAPTER1
Charleton Manor, London, January 1816
The sun cast an ugly shadow over Philip’s face as it burst through the window, obscuring the better half of his countenance. He ran his fingers over the jagged edges of the mark on his forehead, scrutinizing himself in the standing mirror by his bedside. His valet had just finished shaving him, and the skin of his jaw felt tight and exposed.
His sister had hired the young man before Philip’s return to England a month ago. The gentleman had pinched features, reminding Philip of a pale whippet. The valet’s face was so different from the broad, dark mask that stared back at Philip in the glass, and was no doubt much more appealing to the fairer sex because of its lack of disfigurement.
Though what vanity I may have once possessed scarcely served me well,Philip mused.
The ghost of a smile played on his lips before he caught himself and resumed his brooding.
The ladies of the ton may have been eagerly awaiting my return, but I had not personally anticipated our reunion with any measure of joy.
The unsightly laceration had taken the outer half of his right brow—would have taken his eye too if not for the intervention of talented field doctors—and stretched up into his hairline in a gnarled pattern. He winced at the memory of the bayonet appearing in the periphery of his vision on that warm, decisive day at Waterloo. The pain had been blinding. The shame was even worse.
The brigadier-general had ordered him not to join the frontline, sensing Philip’s eagerness to engage in direct combat on a death wish. Hours later, knocked off his horse, blood had streamed down his face until he could taste it. But he had vowed not to die in front of his regiment. Not with their victory so close.
That sharp resolve was the last thing Philip remembered before he awoke to Wellington’s aide-de-camp directing his remaining cavalrymen to drag their wounded colonel off the field when the fighting was all but done. His body had been battered in the fray. They had said that it was by the grace of God alone that Philip had survived the onslaught.
His hand dropped from his scarred face to his ribs. He drew in a shallow breath. It still hurt to breathe.
Suddenly, a familiar feminine voice cut through the memory like a blade, clearing her throat to get his attention.
Philip looked over his shoulder. His younger sister stood in the doorway to his room with her arms crossed over her chest. Elinor had the same dark hair as him. They had both inherited the shade from their father.
The less said about him the better.
His sister’s hair, combined with her mourning clothes, gave her an almost spectral appearance that was unnerving.
“I dare say that the longer you stare at the man in the looking glass, the more intensely you will dislike him.” She gave a tepid smile, crossing the threshold into his domain without asking for his permission. “I find that to be the case with my own reflection. I pick away at my imperfections until I no longer see a woman but a beast staring back at me. My long nose becomes a snout. My moles, gaping holes in the fabric of my skin, and so forth…”
Philip laughed under his breath. The quiet sound rang hollow even to his own ears. He busied himself with tying the cravat that had been hanging loosely around his neck.
“In my case, the beast does not have to be drawn out,” he replied evenly. “And he cannot be chased away by whatever optimism you think I am lacking.”
“Do I look to be in any position to counsel you on optimism?” She gestured to her black mourning gown, then sighed and sat down on the bed behind him, running her hands over the heavy jacquard coverlets. “I was not attempting to improve your mood. In the few weeks since your return, I have found that to be a most impossible task. And you know me, Phil. I do not waste my breath unnecessarily.”
He furrowed his brow, unconvinced, completing his knot in silence.
“A familial trait,” she concluded. “You are heading out with your old boys,then?” She grimaced. “Though I do so hate the word. Mother used to call you that, do you remember? Philip and his old boys. But I have never understood that way of speaking. If any of my friends called me an old woman, I would not be friends with them for very long.”
“I have not seen George and Simon for five years, and we are almost thirty, the lot of us. Doubtless, we will be old men to one another now.” He paused, suppressing the memories of his youth that rose unbidden into his mind. “Is that more to your liking?”
“No…” Elinor rolled her eyes. “For we are barely one year apart in age. So the implication thatyouare old is likely to make me cross with you—more cross than I have been for your keeping me in perpetual solitude these past few weeks. How lonely it has been to take my breakfast alone in the mornings. But you always go out for those walks of yours so early, before even most of the staff is up and about…”
She rose from the bed and came to join him before the mirror, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm and observing their reflections. They had entered no small number of balls in this fashion nearly a decade ago, when she had been unmarried and he had not yet been a colonel, let alone the Duke of Wells.
“Though perhaps it is time to face the music,” she said gravely. “Twenty-nine years old and a widow. What am I if not a crone? Too old to be an old maid, even!” she scoffed in disgust. “I cannot tell which of us looks more miserable.”
“You are hoping I will say it is you so that at least you will win in that,” he joked, straightening beside her and forcing her to do the same.
It brought a smile to his sister’s face—a victory for him.
“You’re right,” she said, pausing to look up at him with her large, clear blue eyes. “But I would like it more if you just spoke honestly with me. Do you miss Graham as much as I do? Are you thinking of him tonight?”
Philip dropped his gaze to the floor. He had not intended to be so distant with Elinor since his return to England. His sister, for all her flaws, was the one constant bright light in the otherwise endless stretch of darkness that had been his life.
When he had received word of his brother-in-law’s passing over half a year ago, he had half-hoped that Elinor had been playing a cruel prank on him. It had been almost too much to bear to meet her again after so long and find her approaching thirty, without the children she had so desperately wanted, and now without a husband. She had come to the port directly on that January evening to mark his homecoming, breaking the code of her mourning, because she had been so desperate to see him, to no longer be alone.
