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  His father’s voice unraveled the silence. “We are all honored for your concern, Lady Mary, and yours, Your Grace. This is not a subject for the ears of ladies. Let us say, he’s been convalescing. Now that he’s recovered, we can give him a hero’s welcome!”

  Sean Starrett’s laugh was met with smiles and nods except from Mary, who looked quite alarmed.

  She set down her teacup, her hand shaking ever so slightly. “What happened?”

  “Oh, nothing to be concerned about, milady,” his father said. “He’s fit as a fiddle now.”

  Her mouth tightened as she gave him her haughtiest and most commanding look. “I demand to know the truth.”

  “Mary—” the duke began with a tone of admonition, attempting to intervene. His efforts were met with an impatient flick of her wrist.

  Duncan heaved a sigh. “I was shot.”

  Mary’s hand covered her mouth, her eyes wide.

  “The ball hit too near the spine to remain. When we evacuated to Bremen, the surgeons saw fit to remove it.” He paused, watching her swallow, her eyes closing briefly before locking on his again. “They notified my father, who came straight away.”

  His father’s jovial mood darkened. “Butchers, the lot of them. Butchers whose breath smelled of spirits. Arrived to find my boy living on gruel. They’d never faced the wrath of Colonel Sean Starrett, for they had the gall to tell me I could not take my son home since he would not survive the journey. Well, I said, I would rather take my chances than see him die surrounded by sawbones. And look at him now. Fit as a fiddle.”

  Duncan tried to lighten the mood by chuckling when he said, “And he’s right. I am. There’s a twinge now and then, but I’ve never been better.”

  “It’s all to do with a mother’s love,” his mother Georgina said, smiling brightly as she refilled empty cups and plates.

  He accepted his mother’s offerings with little more than a glance, his eyes trained on Mary. The best word he could think of to describe her expression was troubled.

  Digging deeply, he searched for a reason to smile. Everyone’s smiles so far, his own included, had seemed artificial and tense, as though all were waiting to learn the two love birds no longer favored each other; or perhaps they were waiting for him to collapse from exhaustion and injury. He wanted to reassure her all was well.

  Anchoring his emotions on a memory of her at sixteen, regaling him with a heartfelt story, he allowed that vision to fill him with a warmth he had not felt in years. Channeling that into his expression, he smiled.

  Her affect relaxed, shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch, hands unclenching, and the corners of her mouth twitching into a returning grin that brightened her eyes and pinkened her cheeks. His body thrummed at the sight of her shy smile. Oh, what he would not do to get her alone, to capture her in his arms and tell her that memories of her had kept him alive. In an instant, the years faded, and it was only the two of them in the room, making eyes at each other.

  She had not changed. And yet she had. She had become a woman. His recollections were of a pretty, slender girl, with long, coltish legs, a contagious laugh, and a rebellious streak. The person sitting across from him was a composed, handsome, and voluptuous woman with curves he had no business admiring in present company. How had he ever left her?

  As she had done to him when she first walked in, he did now, allowing his eyes to sweep over her and take in the coiffed black hair, the dark eyes with lashes long enough to fan against her still-porcelain skin, the Roman nose she had grown into since the last time he saw her, the arching neck that curved into a heart-stopping expanse of chest accentuated by a plunging neckline. Duncan barely noticed the mauve dress as his eyes moved over her curves. Good God.

  With a sharp intake of breath, he met her eyes, knowing full well she would see the blatant passion burning in his.

  So enraptured, he forgot all pain, at least until his leg cramped, followed by a sharp pain lancing from his spine to his thigh. Tightening his smile, he clenched against the discomfort, refusing to allow her to see anything but a fit, whole man.

  The visit ended after more polite conversation, including the annual shooting party the duke and his duchess planned to host. Though it would not occur until late autumn, the duke extended a personal invitation for the Starrett family to attend.

  Duncan hardly knew how a half hour had passed with so few words exchanged with Mary. But then, words were unnecessary when there was an invisible cord linking them. Surely, she had felt it too.

  Chapter 3

  The steady sound of hoofs meeting earth and the sway of the beast between his thighs coupled to produce one of the finest mornings Duncan had experienced in ages. He had not been atop a horse since that ill-fated battle. Should a day come when he could not ride, he would as soon be dead.

  Thankfully, life was good to him, for despite the hiccup of the surgery, all was righting itself—Caesar beneath him, Mary reunited with him, and his strength returning. Soon, he would be fit enough to return to his regiment.

  “Feeling fiddle fine, brother?” Quinn asked, riding alongside Duncan.

  “Quite fine, in fact. Concerned I’ll fall off?” Duncan laughed at the absurdity of his own question.

  “Not in the least. Your grin tells me you’re a man on top of the world.”

  The two rode from Cois Greta Park to the village. The grand scheme was to pay a call to Quinn’s family, after which Duncan would leave Quinn at the vicarage and return home on his own.

  Earlier that morning, the proposition of such a scheme had raised a cacophony of disagreements. No one had thought him ready to ride, much less ride alone save a shadowing groom. He was not a young boy, he reminded them. He was a man, an officer, a colonel, as a matter of fact, and if he could not challenge himself to such a simple task, there was nothing for him.

  As though knowing today was a momentous day, the weather gifted him with a bright sun, a cool breeze, and the harmony of birdsong. With such beauty surrounding him, it was easy to ignore the pain in his back.

  The closer they came to the village center, the more frequent were the stone cottages and white-washed buildings, each progressively closer to the next until they morphed into terraced homes and shops. Villagers gawked when they spotted Duncan, many waving. No doubt, his brother had spoken about him in sermons and visits, not to mention what his parents might have said to their friends. To them, Duncan was the returning hero.

  Being conspicuous did not shock him so much as the village itself. Nothing had changed. A thousand lives he had lived. Here, time had stopped. All too familiar faces lined the road to greet him. They had not changed. Children were older, parents had a new wrinkle or two, but nothing had changed. Duncan Starrett, stepping back in time, he mused.

  However refreshing that should have been, it disturbed him. He was not the same man as when he left, but he had little doubt they would expect him to be.

  “Is that not the Duchess of Annick and Lady Mary?” Quinn asked, nodding in the direction of a sizable cottage.

  Duncan’s pulse raced at the sound of her name, his eyes surveying passersby. At first, he could not find her. He chuckled to himself, realizing he was searching figures and faces for the Mary of his memory, the wisp of a young girl rather than the grown woman. And there she was. His Mary. Her back was to him. She and her sister-in-law were paying farewell to a family. Waiting behind them were a footman and maid laden with baskets.

  Without consulting his brother, he halted Caesar and swung his leg over, dismounting. Only when boots touched ground did pain stab from lower back to thighs. The sensation washed over him with such intensity, he feared he might collapse.

  Teeth clenched and eyes closed, he gripped the saddle for support until the sensation subsided to a dull throb. Damned infernal wound, he cursed to himself. Both his groom and his brother dismounted and approached, ready to help.
/>   Jerking his elbow away from Quinn’s hand, he muttered unintelligible curses, desperate not to appear weak. An exhale later, he pivoted in Mary’s direction, hoping she had not seen, or if she had, thought nothing of it.

  They were mere feet away. Mary flashed a smile while the duchess eyed him with curiosity. He barely noticed the duchess who, by all accounts, should attract more attention than Lady Mary. However, nothing could divert his attention. Oh, she was a vision of loveliness, his Mary, wearing a dress of canary yellow that shimmered a darker shade with her movements, mesmerizing him.

  “Colonel Starrett! It is you! And Mr. Starrett, as well.” Mary nodded to them both, giving only a cursory glance to his brother, her eyes bright and focused on Duncan.

  He gave as dignified a bow as he could through the rhythmic pulse at his spine. The tightness of his jaw reminded him to unclench his teeth.

  Polite greetings exchanged, the duchess made for Quinn, leaving Duncan with Mary. Ah, he could not have planned this better. It had been not but three days since their reunion over tea but seeing her now was like seeing her for the first time all over again. He was as giddy as a schoolboy. However grumpy he had been that his father had pushed him into seeing her before he felt physically ready, he was happy to have her back in his life.

  When she reached her hand towards him, his heart leapt, thinking she would touch him in front of all, brand him as hers. Only when her slender wrist extended past him in a sensual arch did he realize her intention—to stroke Caesar.

  “How handsome you are,” Mary said.

  Grinning, Duncan leaned in and asked in hushed tones, “You still think so?”

  The blush that spread across her high cheekbones heightened the twinkle in her eyes.

  “I was referring to the horse,” she said coyly, peering at him from beneath long lashes.

  Caesar’s ears flicked as though he recognized her compliment.

  “And what is your name, you magnificent beast?” she cooed, running a gloved hand down the stallion’s neck and shoulders.

  “Lady Mary, allow me to introduce Caesar, my dearest companion. Caesar, this is Lady Mary.”

  “Oh! So, you’re Caesar! Yes, I’ve read all about you.” Turning to Duncan, she said, “I didn’t realize you could keep a warhorse.”

  “We’re nigh inseparable, truth be told.” He rubbed Caesar’s muzzle, receiving a snort for his efforts.

  Duncan glanced at his brother and the duchess, an idea forming. “Would you and your sister-in-law consider joining us for tea at the vicarage? Now that I have you in my sights, I’m loath to part too soon.”

  At his bold flirtation, her blush deepened.

  Not for the first time, it struck him how much she had matured, the reddened cheeks the only outward sign of her pleasure, so unlike her youthful exuberance. The Mary of old would have reacted more dramatically with a feigned swoon or a fit of giggles.

  She turned away from him to steal a private moment with her sister-in-law. Unable to control himself, he let his gaze fall to the arch of her neck where the alabaster skin, smooth as velvet and immanently kissable, was teased by black ringlets of her hair. Roaming eyes swept down slender shoulders, ample bosom, narrow waist, and long legs. His body ached to touch her. He moistened his lips at the thought of kissing her.

  Reining in his thoughts before he embarrassed himself, he tore his eyes from her to look at Quinn. His brother eyed him over their heads, a raised brow his only expression. Duncan grimaced. Leave it to him to invite nobles to his brother’s home without consulting him first, much less the lady of the house—Miranda would have vapors.

  After conferring with the duchess and sending the footman and maid to finish visitations on their behalf before meeting at the vicarage with the carriage, Mary returned to Duncan’s side, unaware of Quinn’s silent panic behind her.

  The two pairs ambled through the village, Duncan and Quinn’s grooms trailing behind with the horses. Not so subtly, Duncan dragged his feet, eager to create a respectable but private distance between his brother and the duchess. He wanted nothing more than to have Mary to himself.

  Once out of earshot, Mary said with a twitch of a smile that contradicted her words, “I’m most cross with you.”

  “With me? Why?” He eyed her askance.

  Before she could answer, several villagers paused to say hello, showing deference not only to Lady Mary, but also to him, a reaction he was not used to.

  When they passed, she continued, “I’m cross because you’ve been home all this time and not sent word. It wasn’t even you who invited us to tea. After all this time, you didn’t spare me a second thought.”

  “What nonsense.” Duncan laughed. “After five years, what’s a few months?”

  “What’s a few months?” Mary echoed. “What’s a few months?”

  She stopped walking, her smile fading.

  Running a hand through his hair, Duncan turned back to her. “Don’t frown. In the darkest moments, I lived in hope of seeing your smile.”

  Her eyes widened. “Then…then why wait so long? Your father said you were convalescing, but that didn’t inhibit your hand from writing.”

  Offering his arm, he nodded in the direction of the receding figures, not wanting to fall too far behind. She hesitated before accepting.

  “You must know I would not have waited had it not been important,” he said.

  Expectant eyebrows raised for him to continue.

  “Even now, I’m—” He swallowed, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not recovered.”

  Concern etched her features, but she said nothing.

  “Not until recently could I stand on my own, much less walk. It’s humbling to admit that. I dislike saying it aloud and to you, of all people.”

  “To me, of all people, you should be completely honest.”

  “Yes, well, not all things are for a lady’s ears, and not all things are for an able-bodied officer to experience. I’ll not have you see me in any fashion but my strongest. Even as we walk, I feel, how should I say, less than my best.” The understatement of the century. The further they walked, the more intense became his discomfort.

  “If you’re still in pain, why are you not resting? Oh, you foolish man. You always were too proud to listen to reason.”

  He laughed, all the discomfort in the world nothing in comparison to the pleasure of her company.

  “Let’s not talk of the past. I want to get to know the new you and for you to get to know the new me.” He held a staying hand when she opened her mouth to argue. “Don’t say we already know each other. We know who we used to be. I want to know you now, this breathtaking woman who barely resembles the young girl who stole my heart.”

  When she worried her lip at his flirt, he felt a jolt of alarm.

  “Forgive my impertinence, Mary, but it’s been a long time since we last spoke, letters aside. Is there a special gentleman in your life? Anyone I should know about?”

  She laughed. “What a preposterous question. Of course not.”

  “Then you’ve waited for me?”

  Her hand on his arm tensed.

  However selfish, he had hoped she would wait for him. The thought filled him with both elation and guilt, for he had not intended to leave the army so soon. Even now, he was impatient to return. Would she continue to wait for him when he went back? To his mind, she was his, and he suffered a burning jealousy at the thought of another man flirting with her, but for how much longer could he expect her to wait?

  With a lift of her chin, she said, “I wait for no one. I’ve been busy with my own life, I’ll have you know.”

  He lowered his head and whispered, “You’ve been busy becoming the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  A pink tint blossomed across her chest and tendrilled up her neck.

  “You’re a shamele
ss flirt, Duncan Starrett.”

  “Only with you, my dear,” he admitted. “Would my attentions be welcomed if I called on you?”

  Handsomely composed, she glanced at him beneath sooty lashes. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  With a sly smile, she hastened her steps to catch up to her sister-in-law, who slowed at the sight of the vicarage ahead.

  Mrs. Miranda Starrett chattered about her children, her knitting group, the flower committee, and an endless stream of other topics, her attention riveted on Mary’s sister-in-law Charlotte. Mary doubted the vicar’s wife had ever taken tea with a duchess. Her talkativeness could be due to nerves, especially given she had no forewarning, but Mary thought it was excitement. She liked Miranda straight away.

  Being here in the company of Duncan and his brother’s family was like coming home. Mary found it difficult not to fantasize about a future with him. For as long as she could remember, she had wanted a large family, one with happy and boisterous children. She had wanted it while growing up, a household of siblings her own age; now she wanted it for herself, a dozen children of hers and Duncan’s.

  Mary wrapped her arms around the vicar’s youngest daughter, of similar age to her nephew Theo.

  “What’s her name?” Mary asked, smiling at the knitted doll in the girl’s hand.

  “Briana, like auntie,” said the girl, walking the doll along Mary’s knee. “She’s go to church.”

  A dimpled smile peeked up at Mary. Over the girl’s head, Mary spied Duncan watching them with a devilish grin. Her heart pitter-pattered.

  Was he thinking what she was thinking? Was he imagining their future together? Taking tea with the family, their own first child on her lap? It was not foolhardy to dream. He had come home to her after all.

  Seeing him now felt like a fantasy of its own. Any minute she would awaken to realize he was still on the continent. Yet no matter how many times she pinched herself, he remained seated across from her, making love to her with his eyes. Was it too soon to find a dark corner and kiss him? She had not felt those lips since she was sixteen. Did his kiss still feel the same?