Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Captain of Her Heart

Captain of Her Heart
Lily George
With her family's fortune in ruins, Harriet Handley has given up her aspirations of becoming an author.All effort must go to helping her pretty sister Sophie marry well. But when Sophie's wealthy beau returns from the war, he is no longer a wild, lighthearted youth. And while Sophie is dismayed by the transformation, Harriet finds this thoughtful, war-weary man utterly intriguing….Waterloo left Captain John Brookes scarred in body and mind, and Sophie's lukewarm reception only adds to his pain. In contrast, Harriet's compassion and gentle faith bring solace as they collaborate on his memoirs. Perhaps joyful new memories can be made—if the wrong sister turns out to be the right wife.



Captain of Her Heart
Lily George
A Father’s Sins
Hannah Alexander


Harriet bounced from one bookshelf
to the next, exclaiming in delight.
“What do you like to read, Harriet?” Brookes asked.
“Classics—like the fall of Troy in Homer’s work. It’s so heroic and romantic.”
Brookes gazed deeply into her dark eyes. “Not all wars are heroic or romantic.”
She colored under his gaze, staring at the floor. “I suppose that’s true.”
He had gone too far, lecturing like a stern schoolmaster. “I’m sorry.” He studied her a bit longer, mesmerized by the pretty flush warming her cheeks. He attempted a lighter tone. “After being in battle, one realizes there is very little romance in war.”
She looked up at him. “Someone should write a realistic novel about war.”
Drowning in those eyes, he had to tear himself away. “I doubt anyone would read it.” He cast a rueful grin her way.
After Harriet was gone, Brookes stood at the window. He was not easily flustered by anything, especially a pretty face. Rarely did anyone cause him to change his purpose or his mind.
But what if he had chosen the wrong sister?
LILY GEORGE
Growing up in a small town in Texas, Lily George spent her summers devouring the books in her mother’s Christian bookstore. She still counts Grace Livingston Hill, Janette Oke and L. M. Montgomery among her favorite authors. Lily has a BA in history from Southwestern University and uses her training as a historian to research her historical inspirational romance novels. She has published one nonfiction book and produced one documentary, and is in production on a second film; all of these projects reflect her love for old movies and jazz and blues music. Lily lives in the Dallas area with her husband, daughter and menagerie of animals.
Captain of Her Heart
Lily George
Dear Reader,
In 2012, Love Inspired Books is proudly celebrating fifteen years of heartwarming inspirational romance! Love Inspired launched in September 1997 and successfully brought inspiration to series romance. From heartwarming contemporary romance to heart-stopping romantic suspense to adventurous historical romance, Love Inspired Books offers a variety of inspirational stories for every preference. And we deliver uplifting, wholesome and emotional romances that every generation can enjoy.
We’re marking our fifteenth anniversary with a special theme month in Love Inspired Historical: Family Ties. Whether ready-made families or families in the making, these touching stories celebrate the ties that bind and prove why family matters. Because sometimes it takes a family to open one’s heart to the possibility of love. With wonderful stories by favorite authors Linda Ford and Ruth Axtell Morren, an exciting new miniseries from Regina Scott and a tender tale by debut author Lily George, this month full of family-themed reads will warm your heart.
I hope you enjoy each and every story—and then come back next month for more of the most powerful, engaging stories of romance, adventure and faith set in times past. From rugged handsome cowboys of the West to proper English gentlemen in Regency England, let Love Inspired Historical sweep you away to a place where love is timeless.
Sincerely,
Tina James
Senior Editor
I’d like to thank my wonderful agent,
Mary Sue Seymour, who talked me down
off the proverbial ledge when all hope failed me.
To my critique group, who kindly and patiently pointed out my many writing foibles and helped me to become a stronger writer in the process.
To Melissa Endlich, my editor,
who brought me so much joy and hope.
To my pastor, who encouraged my writing, and never forgot to check my progress every Sunday.
To my husband, who made sure I had time to write and always encouraged me.
To my daughter, who is the reason I chose to write inspirational books.
* * *
I can do all things through Christ
who strengthens me.
—Philippians 4:13
Contents
Chapter One (#u0567d634-5e62-5ae0-9c8c-79d6b58bc251)
Chapter Two (#u00b0c128-04a8-5336-8cc6-f5ca15750c81)
Chapter Three (#ubfefd541-461b-5208-b5f6-c8c4a0a4f333)
Chapter Four (#u678c2e7b-2d89-5433-bf37-b79b0a7f030c)
Chapter Five (#u60109640-2e86-5434-9934-844b471cc4a0)
Chapter Six (#u466a0a36-dc6e-5627-afd4-485ce0c263dc)
Chapter Seven (#u8eca7cc8-4820-5e40-82c4-b4158feb3de2)
Chapter Eight (#u5b98341a-18d6-578f-8d31-f5ada88d5df7)
Chapter Nine (#ue52ccbd9-e489-576a-98d4-3be743819e6c)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Tansley Cottage
Tansley Village, Derbyshire
July 1816—the year without summer
“What does the letter say, Mama?” Harriet ducked as her mother cast the missive aside, scattering sheets of paper around her bedroom. Alarm bells clanged in Harriet’s mind. If it were good news, Mama wouldn’t carry on so. Harriet gathered the foolscap sheets into a bundle, scrutinizing the bold handwriting scrawled across each page.
“They refuse to help us. Your father’s own family. And what are we to do? What is left to us? I vow I am a prisoner in this dreadful cottage.” Mama burst into angry tears.
How many times had Mama cried over the past year since Papa died? Harriet had long ago lost count. Their lives had gone from easy pleasantness to perpetual sorrow in just a few short months. Now—well, they had all poured their last hopes into assistance from Papa’s family, and Mama’s hysteria was frightening. ’Twas time to grasp control of the situation, and steady her mother’s nerves.
With the expert precision borne of months of practice, Harriet flicked open the bottle of smelling salts on Mama’s bedside table. The acrid smell filled the little chamber, causing her eyes and nose to burn.
“Here, Mama,” Harriet murmured gently, trying to hold the vial under her nose. But Mama knocked it aside with a brusque gesture. Goodness, was it broken? Harriet scrambled after the bottle. No, but it had spilled. That was a waste they couldn’t afford. Harriet sponged the solution with her handkerchief, wringing the cloth against the lip of the jar. She had to salvage as much of it as she could.
“Rose,” she called to the family’s faithful remaining servant, “could you please bring Mama some chamomile tea?” Sometimes the chamomile worked when the smelling salts didn’t.
“Of course, dearie,” Rose called back, banging the kettle in the kitchen below.
“Mama.” Harriet placed the bottle back on the dressing table and sank onto the foot of her mother’s creaky mahogany bed. “Even if the Handleys won’t help us, I know Captain Brookes will. You know he has inherited the estate after his brother’s death. He’s a wealthy man now, and when Sophie marries him, I am sure he will see to our welfare.”
“This whole situation is absurd.” Mama lay back on her pillows, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I am Lady Handley, after all. I am no longer Cecile Varnay. I should need no one’s assistance. I should have to depend on no one’s sense of duty. Your father was wealthy beyond measure.”
“Papa died bankrupt.” The harsh words fell before Harriet thought them through, and she scrambled to lighten her tone. “Thanks to his vast library, I am an educated woman. But you know as well as I do, Mama, that we spent it all. On books or on jewels, it makes no difference now.”
Mama turned on her side, away from Harriet. A brief knock on the door announced Rose’s arrival with the tea tray.
“Here you go, my lady.”
“I don’t want it. Take it away.” Mama buried her face in a lumpy pillow.
Harriet sighed. Usually the smelling salts or the chamomile tea did the trick, but this hysteria wouldn’t back down. There was one last resort. She shrank from using it, because it cost so much, but there was nothing else that could be done. “Rose, if you please, go fetch Dr. Wallace. He can be here quickly if he’s not out on another call.”
“That’s a good idea, dearie.” Rose patted Harriet’s shoulder and ran downstairs.

The floorboards squeaked in protest as Harriet paced the length of Mama’s bedroom, seeking the solution to their problems. Mama’s sobs had eased until she fell asleep, and that suited Harriet just fine. As she slept, Harriet racked her brain for a way out of their situation. They had to have money. Some other means of security than her sister’s possible marriage. All of their possessions were gone. What was left? Harriet’s head began to pound. There had to be a way they could survive. Harriet caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cracked mirror over Mama’s vanity. Her face, drawn and pale, contrasted sharply with her eyes, which had darkened to an inky blue. Distracted, she tried to tuck a few of her dark brown locks back into their pins. She looked as disastrous as the situation she now faced.
A commotion sounded in the front entry. Relief washed over Harriet as she recognized a gruff, masculine voice that must belong to Dr. Wallace. She hurried down the stairs to meet him.
He strode into the tiny vestibule, dumping his black leather bag on the rickety bench at the foot of the stairs. Harriet steadied the bench and glanced at his wrinkled but kindly visage. “Oh, Doctor, thank you for coming. We don’t know what to do with my mother—she took ill and finally cried herself to sleep.”
He didn’t spare her a glance, or any common courtesies. “Well, I’ll have to awaken her to do a proper examination. What caused this outburst of hysteria?” he grumbled as he dug through his case, bringing forth a small vial.
“She received a letter that made her most upset.” Hopefully that was enough explanation to satisfy him. She refrained from revealing the entire sordid tale.
With a curt nod, he hurried up the stairs.
Rose embraced Harriet, holding her as tenderly as a mother. “Come into the kitchen, dearie. We’ll have a nice cup of tea.” Drinking in Rose’s steadfast strength, Harriet leaned on her, allowing the old servant to lead her away.

After an agonizing half hour, Dr. Wallace entered the kitchen, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. Harriet leaped from her chair. “Is…is she all right?”
He leaned against the doorframe and gave her a curt nod. “Sit down, Miss Handley. You look a bit peaked yourself.”
Harriet complied, but grasped her teacup, hoping the movement would steady her hands.
The doctor peered at her from under his grizzled eyebrows. “I’ll come straight to the point. Your mother is suffering from a bout of nervous hysteria.” A deep frown creased the corners of his mouth. “Rest is the best thing for her at the moment. I’ve given her laudanum and I want you to administer more whenever the hysteria returns.”
“Yes, Dr. Wallace. Is there anything else I can do?”
“If there could be a change in your mother’s situation, it would be best. Something more like the style of living she knew. Are there any relatives who would take her in?” He folded his handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket.
“None that speak to us, sir.”
The doctor was already turning to leave. “Too bad. It’s her best chance. Work on that, my girl. And keep giving her the laudanum.” He wagged a warning finger at her.
Harriet swallowed. She must improve Mama’s situation. The Handleys wouldn’t lift a hand to help, so ’twas up to her to make things right. Squaring her shoulders, she pronounced, “I shall persevere, Dr. Wallace.”

Rose pushed Harriet out the door. “Go for a breath of fresh air, dearie. The doctor was right—you do look peaked. Ramble over to the millpond and back, there’s a good girl.”
She breathed deeply of the damp afternoon grasses, which smelled sweet as they dried in the pale afternoon sun. She meandered up the hill toward the pond, a large, flat oval that glinted in the sunshine. The moor grass tugged at her skirts, catching her hem, slowing her progress. Gazing out over the scrubby trees, Harriet paused for a moment, bowing her head in prayer.
Dear Father, please show me the way. I don’t know what to do. Help me find the answers.
As a woman, her options were limited, but still, there had to be a way she could prevail. At one time, she thought she would become an authoress, but that idea died along with her father. He encouraged her writing, but Mama called it a dreadful waste of time. Could some sort of position be the answer to her prayers?
The bright jingle of a bridle pierced her reverie as a horse and rider approached. Harriet glanced over at the pair, as they crossed the field by the millpond, the black horse stamping easily through the tall grass. She frowned, her mind fixated upon her troubles. She was in no mood for politesse.
But wait—that man was familiar. He wore an army uniform with the same careless assurance that a dandy might wear an outrageous cravat. Her pulse skittered. Something was not right about his leg, though. His muscles didn’t flex with the movements of his mount, yet his hands grasped the reins easily, as though he were born to the saddle.
She smoothed her hands over her wrinkled attire. Why hadn’t she put on something more attractive than her lavender gown? Too many washdays had left the once-pretty dress worn and limp with age. She was perfectly attired for housekeeping, not for social graces.
The soldier reined in the horse and gazed down at her, a brief smile touching his lips. A faint scar zigzagged across his chin. She was gawping at his handsome yet rugged visage. Where were her manners? She shut her mouth with a snap.
Dismounting with care, he limped toward her, extending one gloved hand. “Miss Handley?”
“Sir?” Harriet bobbed a quick curtsy as she clasped his hand. Who was he?
“Don’t you remember me? I am Captain Brookes.”
“Oh!” Harriet gasped. Where was the dashing young lad who swept Sophie off her feet? Standing before her was a square-jawed man with a somber expression in his gray-green eyes. He had little in common with the wild youth she remembered. She picked up the pieces of her shattered composure. “I am so happy to see you home safe, Captain. My family will want to see you again. Have you been home long?”
“I settled in Tansley yesterday. I am home to set up house in Brookes Park and to clear up my brother’s business affairs, but I haven’t yet had time to make social calls.”
“We were very sorry to hear of his passing, Captain.” She dropped her gaze, staring in fascination at the burrs clinging to her skirt.
“Thank you.” He offered his arm, and she allowed him to guide her back down the hill toward the cottage. He tucked the reins into his other hand, leading his black mount along beside them. Harriet slowed her steps to match his pace. Was he always this tall? Her head didn’t even reach his shoulder. And his shoulders—were they always so broad? Being in the army made a boy into a man.
His touch burned through her sleeve. She needed a distraction, anything to curb her reactions to his presence and his touch. She cleared her throat. “I’m sure you saw a lot of Belgium, sir, what did you think of the country?”
“Not too much, I confess. Most of it was spent on horseback or slogging through the rain and mud. I spent some time at a home in Brussels.”
“Brussels? The dispatches never mentioned that. I thought you remained at Waterloo.”
“No, the surrounding villages were too crowded to contain all of the wounded, you know. The townspeople collected many of us who were injured.” His eyes darkened to gray, and his lips stretched into a taut line.
“So, you didn’t stay in a hospital?” The Handley girls were never privy to what happened after he was nearly killed at Waterloo.
“No, the hospital was full. I spent much of my time recuperating in the home of a Belgian merchant. I…I did not see much of the city, though…” His jaw tightened and he fell silent.
His brief tale had carried her away. Her fingers itched to write it all down. What a fascinating book it might make. Did his injuries cause the changes she observed in him, or his entire experience in the war? But asking such a question would be beyond rude. She had to find a more well-mannered response.
“How good of them to save you and your men.” A feeble response, but a polite one. She stumbled on a rock in the path, and he gripped her, steadying her until she found her footing. A tingle zipped up her arm at the pressure of his gloved hand.
“Yes.” The curtness of his reply signaled the end of the interview.
They meandered on in silence, over the rolling hills leading to the village. Birds twittered and flitted through the scrubby trees, and a cool breeze ruffled the moor grass. Brookes paused, gazing out over the vista. “I’ve missed this.”
He had a wonderful voice with a dark and husky tone. But his responses were altogether too brief. Could she draw him out more? She smiled. “Beautiful, isn’t it? There’s nothing so pretty as a Derbyshire view. I come out here often. I feel closer to God out here.”
“Closer to God?” He looked down at her, a harsh light kindled in his eyes.
“Yes. On the hilltop, it’s easier to feel closer to Him, as though I can touch the sky.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t know a view could inspire such reveries.”
Was he mocking her? She must have sounded lonely, like an old maid with no one but seven cats to talk to. After all, Brookes certainly wasn’t her confidant. Harriet gave herself a brisk mental shake.
They continued slowly down the hill. Harriet halted, regaining her sense of decorum as they neared the cottage door. “My sister is away from home this afternoon, Captain. She is visiting a friend in Riber. But if you would care to call tomorrow, she will be home.”
“I shall be delighted to see all of your family. Until then?” He released her arm and touched his fingers to his brow in a brief salute.
“Until then, Captain.” She bobbed a curtsy.
He led his horse to the mounting block in front of the cottage, levering himself into the saddle with ease. But then, she reminded herself, he had made a career in the saddle and would always ride well, wooden leg or no. He clicked his tongue and the horse sauntered off, switching its tail. Harriet gazed after him, aware that a brief niggle of jealousy was working its way down her spine. Sophie possessed beauty that caused strangers to turn and stare, and a graceful manner that inspired poets. Harriet never resented her little sister. On the contrary, Sophie’s loveliness inspired pride. But now she held the heart of a man like Captain Brookes. Why, Sophie had everything—and she had nothing.
Chapter Two
Brookes shifted in the saddle, breathing deeply of the damp grass as he headed home. The first hurdle lay behind him. The visit went much better than expected. Nervousness flowed away from him. No, indeed. In point of fact, he had enjoyed his conversation with Miss Harriet more than he’d first imagined.
Had she changed so much in the space of just a few years? Brookes remembered her as a spinster, a bluestocking, forever locked in her father’s library. Sophie had captured his interest and later his heart with her bright beauty. Long golden ringlets, large blue eyes that twinkled with merriment, full rosy lips kissed with a dimple on each cheek—Sophie was the acknowledged beauty not only of the Handley family, but of Matlock Bath.
And yet…
An image of Harriet’s dark blue eyes, fringed with sooty lashes, flashed across his mind. He could still smell her scent—violets, was it? And something else, purely feminine—mingled with the late summer breeze. Some women grew harder as the years passed, especially women who were forced to live in poverty. But Harriet had blossomed. Now, she was a truly lovely woman.
And she spoke intelligently, too. Hers was not the silly prattle that other young ladies might attempt, frivolous girls like—well, like Sophie. Harriet’s conversation had spice to it—reminiscent of the gingerbread cookies that Cook used to make when he was a boy. When you devoured one, the ginger burned your tongue and made your eyes water a bit, but you couldn’t resist eating another, and then another. Refreshing, that’s what Harriet was.
He cleared his throat, which caused Talos to prick up his ears. It didn’t matter a whit what Harriet had become in his absence. His thoughts lingered on her and he still discerned her violet scent simply because he had been away from women so long. That was all there was to it. He should concentrate solely on pretty Sophie, his intended. If his visit with Harriet foretold anything, it was that Sophie was as beautiful as ever. That was all he needed to focus on. He would see her tomorrow, and within a year, they would be wed.
Suddenly tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Brookes kicked Talos into a canter, speeding toward the elaborate gates that marked his estate. He might ask Cook if she still had the family gingerbread recipe, and if she would bake a few. For old times’ sake.

The next day, rain streamed from a leaden sky. Sophie, still clad in her chemise while dithering between two gowns, pounced on Harriet for the millionth time that morning.
“He’ll never make it. Not in this weather. Oh, Harriet!”
“Stop, Sophie. A little rain won’t deter a man like Brookes. He slogged through the mud at Waterloo, you know. A sprinkle won’t keep him from you.”
“Is Brookes still handsome? Did he say he missed me?”
“Silly goose, he couldn’t have said that to me. But yes, he is handsome. More so, I think. The war made him…” Harriet cast about for the right word. “Distinguished.”
“And…his leg?”
“He limps a little, but I did not discern any real change in him. He still rides better than anyone in the county. If anything, Sophie dear, the war has improved him. He’s not so rowdy or childish anymore. He is a man now.” Heat flamed in her cheeks. She sounded too approving, betraying her careful study of his character.
Sophie’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “I am not used to hearing praise about young men from you.”
“So few young men deserve it.” Harriet pursed her lips, assuming a spinsterly manner to cover up for her earlier warmth. “Now, for goodness’ sake, go and finish dressing. You must be ready for his arrival. I’ll go sit with Mama in her room, and make sure she is all right.” With a gentle shove, Harriet sent her sister back down the hallway to the room they shared, then turned toward Mama’s bedchamber.
Harriet knocked softly on the door, but Mama slept. She leaned over and kissed her mother’s smooth brow. Harriet drew a chair close beside the bed and pulled out the shawl she was knitting for the winter. Perhaps she should change into a prettier dress, too? No, it was Sophie’s afternoon to shine. Captain Brookes would only have eyes for Sophie.
She glimpsed a movement out the window and spotted the captain picking slowly down the hill on his black horse. She sprang from her chair, heart hammering like a bird beating its wings against a cage. Compose yourself, she scolded silently. Tiptoeing across the room, she slipped through the doorway.
“Sophie? Sophie darling, he is here.” She dared not raise her voice, for fear of waking Mama.
Her sister collided with her at the top of the stairs. “You meet him, open the door—I can’t!” Sophie whispered fiercely. She stayed rooted on the landing, out of sight of the entry hall.
Harriet inhaled deeply to calm her nerves, but still jerked the door open with a lightning-fast motion. Captain Brookes, hand poised to knock on the door, fell back a step in astonishment. “C-Come in, Captain,” Harriet stammered.
He wore a heavy greatcoat that emphasized his broad shoulders, his Hessians still polished to a gleam even after the long ride from Brookes Park. Harriet opened the door wider, casting a tentative smile his way when he crossed the threshold. He stood in the hall, raindrops rolling down in rivulets from the brim of his hat, and gazed up. Sophie stood on the landing. How beautiful Sophie was, her lovely curls tucked up and glowing like a burnished cloud of gold in the dim hallway light. But when Sophie’s gaze fell on Captain Brookes, the color drained from her face. Two bright red patches glowed on her cheeks.
Why was Sophie behaving so strangely? Why did she stand so still on the landing? She must be in shock—of course, that was the only answer. To cover for Sophie, Harriet sprang into social action. “Please, Captain,” she burst out, in a voice a shade too loud. “Let me have your hat and coat. I’ll spread them out so they can dry by the fire.”
Captain Brookes, rooted in place beside the door, started at the sound of Harriet’s voice and tore his gaze away from Sophie. He allowed Harriet to guide him into the parlor, where a fire burned brightly.
“Sophie dear, tell Rose we will take some tea,” she called, in that same unnatural tone. She spread his coat over a chair and laid his hat on the warm hearth to dry. “It’s the shock, you understand,” Harriet whispered to him urgently. “Until we received the word that you had survived, she thought you were dead. She must feel like she is seeing a ghost.”
Captain Brookes graced her with a solemn expression. She too had met him yesterday, but her reaction was very different. At the memory, her cheeks grew warm, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.
“Yes.” His tone was frosty. “I am sure it is a great shock.”
Harriet ushered him to one of the chairs near the fire, a spindly one included with the original cottage furnishings. He sat, his tall frame dwarfing the chair. Sophie entered with Rose and the tea service, but her face still had the stunned expression of one recently slapped. Harriet drew a table near the fire and helped Rose and Sophie with the teapot and cups. Those few rapid domestic chores jolted Sophie out of her trance. She even managed a pale smile for the captain.
The little mantel clock chimed the quarter hour, and Harriet peeked at it in startled confusion. Surely an hour had passed already? Carrying the social niceties was exhausting. For the fifteen minutes since his arrival, Sophie refused to speak to the captain. Harriet was primed to cheerfully throttle her baby sister the moment he left. She took a small sip of tea. It tasted bitter, like stewed dandelion leaves, and a wave of nausea hit her.
Despite the tense atmosphere, Brookes responded to her stilted questions and followed the social rites like any good soldier would when confronted with a changed situation. Harriet burned with shame. When the clock chimed the half hour, he rose from his chair, nodding briefly at Sophie. Harriet helped him gather his greatcoat and hat, and showed him to the door, leaving Sophie sitting like a graceful wooden statue on the settee.
“Please, Captain.” She grabbed him, ignoring the tingle that ran through her fingers when she clasped his muscled forearm. “Forgive my sister. I am sure it is the shock of seeing you again that has affected her so. I beg you, please call again soon. Sophie will rally, of that I am sure.”
“Please do not distress yourself, Miss Handley.” He put on his hat with careless assurance. “I had a pleasant afternoon and am most happy to see your family again. I shall be delighted to call on you soon.” He closed the door behind him with a decisive click.
Harriet grasped the cool brass doorknob for a moment, her head bowed. What a bitter reception Sophie offered the captain. He deserved better. A lump formed in her throat when she pictured him riding out into the rain, returning to his lonely home. How humiliated and angry he must be. She longed to run after him, and beg his forgiveness on Sophie’s behalf. She closed her eyes, praying for strength. Then she lifted her head and trudged back to the parlor. Assuming her best “elder sister” expression, she prepared to take Sophie to task.
Sophie raised her tearstained face when Harriet entered. Her beautiful curls were no longer tucked up neatly, but instead cascaded down her back, giving her the look of a Botticellian angel. She twisted her handkerchief in her hands. “Oh, Hattie,” she whispered. “He’s changed so much…” Her voice broke and she wept anew. “Sister, I don’t love him. I don’t love John Brookes.”
She glanced at the spindly chair that Captain Brookes had occupied earlier. It looked so insubstantial without his tall frame pressing it into the rug.
“Oh, Hattie, he is not the man I remembered. He is so strange.”
“Sophie, he went to war. He was dreadfully wounded and lost his leg. Surely you expected some change?” Harriet sat on the settee beside Sophie, drawing her sister’s head down on her shoulder.
“But oh, Hattie! He used to be so wild, so dashing. And now…his hair is gray!” With that, Sophie pushed Harriet away and draped herself over the opposite end of the sofa, weeping in earnest.
Harriet laughed at her sister’s dramatic display. “He has a few gray streaks here and there, but I vow you make him sound like Father Time.”
“Don’t laugh at me! Of course you can feel coolly about it. He wasn’t your young man.” Sophie balled up her handkerchief and flung it at Harriet.
“True.” Harriet looked daggers at her sister, not caring to discuss her spinsterly state.
Sophie raised her head. “True,” she echoed. “But you handled him very well, didn’t you? Since you are comfortable with him, you can help me. From now on, when John comes to call, you must entertain him.”
“But he will be coming to see you.” Harriet flushed deeply. The thought of spending hours in Brookes’s company was too enticing to even consider.
“Oh, please, Hattie, be a darling. Can’t you see? If you are sociable to him, no one will think anything of it, because we’re sisters. And it will give me time to get used to him. Perhaps I can fall in love with him again.”
Harriet winced. She would agree to help Sophie, but not out of sisterly loyalty. She dared not admit her thoughts, even to herself. But a small, insistent voice piped up, refusing to be shushed.
You would enjoy spending more time with the captain, wouldn’t you?
Chapter Three
Wounded men moaned on every side of him. He struggled to sit up and fell from weakness. His hands sank into the mire, catching his weight. Sophie’s lock of hair still clung to his right palm. Brookes tried to pray but his brain refused to form any words. God wouldn’t save him. No one else would, either, unless he made it through the night. Wellington himself ordered that no man be carried off the field until daybreak.
A bark of laughter filled the air. Brookes raised his head enough to see. Two soldiers—Prussians, by their uniforms—looted the dead and finished off the dying. “Kurpi! Kurpi!” whispered one urgently, while the other removed the dead soldier’s boot. “Ja! Ja!” He held up a miniature portrait in triumph, flipped it in the air like a coin, and then stuffed it in his pocket.
They moved through the corpses, picking them clean like vultures after carrion, stabbing through the wounded with expert precision, then looting them as well. By the sound of their voices, they were less than two yards away. It was only a matter of time until they found him—
Brookes jerked to awareness, bathed in cold sweat. Had he screamed out loud? He grasped around under the settee until he found what he sought. There it was—the decanter of brandy and an empty glass. He poured a tall measure with shaking hands. He was grateful that Stoames agreed to return to Brookes Hall with him after the war. Stoames was the one who set up his sofa so Brookes could sleep sitting bolt upright near the fire, and thoughtfully placed the brandy decanter within close range. Good man. He deserved a raise in pay.
On cue, his batman emerged from Brookes’s dressing room, where he slept on a cot. “Everything all right, Captain? Thought I heard something.”
“I was pouring myself a drink. Care to join me?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” He ducked back into the dressing room and brought out his shaving mug. “A short one.” He politely held out the cup.
They drank in silence for a moment.
“Dream?” Stoames asked shortly.
“Yes. Same one. The looters. Before you found me, and stopped them.”
They drank again, staring at the fire.
Stoames sighed. “Let’s talk of something else. Your visit to Miss Sophie—how did you fare? Is she as beautiful as ever?”
Brookes hesitated. He refused to think about Sophie since returning from his disastrous visit to Tansley Cottage. But now, prompted by Stoames’s question, he tried to wrap his mind around her reaction. Among other soldiers, his wooden leg wasn’t even worthy of comment—a sharp contrast to the blank expression of horror in Sophie’s eyes. For the first time it dawned on him that a young and pretty woman might find him unattractive, repulsive even. “She is lovely as ever, but I think she found me sorely altered.”
“Surely she expected some change in you. After all, you went to war.”
“I don’t think many people can comprehend what happened, unless they were there.” Brookes swirled the brandy around in his glass. If he wanted to capture Sophie’s attention again, he needed to prove the changes the war wrought were merely superficial. That meant proving himself as lively and charismatic as he had been before he left for the peninsula—but was he? Pondering this, his thoughts drifted to Harriet, and he surprised himself by adding, “Her sister was looking well.” Not that it mattered, of course. Only Sophie’s opinion of him counted, since she would be his wife some day.
“Miss Harriet?” The edge of Stoames’s voice was sharp as a saber’s edge.
“Yes. She seemed…” He paused for a moment, searching for the elusive words. “She took the changes in stride.”
“Ah, well,” replied Stoames. “I’ve only seen the two lasses on occasion, but from what I recall, Miss Harriet was a steady girl. Quiet like. Not like Miss Sophie at all.”
“No.” Brookes stared into his brandy. “Not like Miss Sophie at all.”

Sophie and Harriet put their plan in action the next day, in the event that the captain called later in the afternoon. After luncheon, Sophie hitched the family’s one faithful nag, Esther, to the gig and drove off to call on Mary in Riber. As the gig beat a squeaky retreat, Harriet took her few remaining books outside, to read until the captain came to call. One had to take advantage of the brief break in the rain for a bit of fresh air.
Harriet’s mouth went dry as she watched Captain Brookes approach. With shaking hands, she picked up a book from the stack at her feet. She forced herself to gaze at the pages, even though the words blurred into a single black line. When it was polite to look up, she saw the captain dismounting with care, and striding toward her.
“Captain Brookes, so happy to see you again.”
“Miss Handley.” He bowed over her extended hand.
“You find me alone this afternoon, Captain. Sophie is in Riber, and my mother is resting.”
“I don’t wish to intrude upon your solitude,” he replied stiffly, waving a hand at her stack of books.
“Oh, no, Captain, join me. It’s a pleasure to have conversation. Mama says I read far too many books.”
“So I see.” He stooped and picked up a volume. “Homer? You read the classics?”
She smiled. “I read anything I can get my hands on. These are a few I managed to salvage from Papa’s library…before we lost it all.”
He looked at her sharply. “I have a library at Brookes Park. Not grand like your father’s, but you are welcome to it.”
Harriet leaped out of her chair. “Can we go right now?”
For the first time since his return, Harriet saw Captain Brookes smile. It changed his whole expression, causing a tingle of awareness to flash through her being. Then she grinned in entreaty. “Please, Captain?”
“Of course. Get your horse and we will ride over together.”
“Oh!” Harriet’s excitement deflated. “Sophie took our horse to Riber. We only have the one.”
“Then we’ll walk.” He offered her the crook of his arm.
Harriet glanced down at his leg, then up at the grey sky. It looked like rain at any moment. She couldn’t ask him to walk that distance, especially in a downpour.
She swallowed her disappointment and shook her head. “I shall claim the horse for tomorrow and ride over when the weather is fine.”
“The weather is never fine. I vow I have never seen such a chilly and wet summer. I have a better idea.” He smiled down again and Harriet’s heart leaped with joy. “We’ll ride together on Talos.”
“Together? How on earth?”
“You can ride pillion. Surely you’ve seen it, if your father had any medieval manuscripts.” Then he added, with a soldier’s air of authority, “It is the most sensible solution.”
Harriet nodded reluctantly. “How do we manage it?”
“I’ll get on first. Then you can put your foot on mine and swing yourself up behind me.”
Harriet swallowed. “All right.” She made a mental apology to her mother and Sophie, who would be horrified if they ever found out. When Captain Brookes was settled, she placed her foot on his in the stirrup and he tossed her up behind the saddle. Riding astride left nothing to the imagination, she realized in embarrassment. Her skirt hitched up much too high.
“Ready?” he called over his shoulder.
“Y-yes,” Harriet stammered. He wheeled Talos around and started back up the hill.
Harriet’s cheeks flamed. She leaned forward a little, against the taught smoothness of his back. Though she was precariously perched on Talos, Harriet was cherished and safe, like Mama’s jewels nestled in their leather boxes at Handley Hall. She closed her eyes, relishing the security that radiated from Brookes’s broad shoulders. Mercifully, he could not see the expression on her face.
A light rain began falling. “Hold on tight. I’m going to speed him up so we can get out of this wretched weather,” Brookes called.
Obediently, Harriet tightened her hold on his waist and squeezed her legs around Talos’s flanks. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. She must stop any nonsense right away. Any affection she felt was simply because she had never been this close to any man. He was her sister’s intended, after all. Remorse washed over her, and a heaviness settled in the pit of her stomach. Once, when she was a little girl, she had taken one of Sophie’s hair ribbons without asking, and then lost it when she was riding. The mortification she felt long ago was nothing compared to her shame today. A hair ribbon could be replaced. A man such as Brookes—well, he was one of a kind.

Harriet bounced from one shelf to the next, exclaiming in delight. Brookes watched her closely, folding his arms over his chest. This room, so isolated and lonely before her arrival, now burst with vivid life. Harriet had completely ignored the sumptuous tea tray pulled near the fire. Apparently, tea meant little when she was faced with stacks upon stacks of books.
“I have never seen you so animated.” Brookes chuckled.
“You have hardly seen me at all.” She laughed.
As their gazes locked, a need to make her happy suffused him. Her smile intrigued him most—he wanted to see it again. “You can borrow them all, if you want.” A mischievousness threaded through his voice, designed to provoke a response.
“Oh, Captain, thank you!” Unshed tears filled her eyes. “Truly, you have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”
“Think nothing of it. Come have some tea.” He unfolded himself from his deep leather chair and pulled a velvet wingback closer to the fire. “What do you like to read, Miss Handley?”
“Please call me Harriet. Miss Handley sounds ridiculously formal.” She sat gracefully.
“Very well, then, Harriet. What do you like to read?”
“Anything I can,” she replied. “Before Papa lost his library, I had so many to choose from. It was his weakness, you know, collecting books. It led to our downfall, I’m afraid. I gravitate toward the classics. I salvaged the few you saw today. They are my old friends.”
“Homer? What do you like about his works?”
“‘Wherefore I wail alike for thee and for my hapless self at grief at heart, for no longer have I anyone beside in broad Troy that is gentle to me or kind, but all men shudder at me,’” Harriet quoted promptly. “Helen, Paris, the fall of Troy—it’s all so heroic and romantic.”
Brookes gazed deeply into her dark eyes. “Not all wars are heroic or romantic. After all, thousands of innocent people were slaughtered because of Helen’s fickleness and her beauty.”
She colored under his gaze, staring at the floor. “I suppose that’s true,” she said quietly.
He had gone too far, blundering and lecturing like a stern schoolmaster. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“No, I am the one who should apologize.”
“Not at all.” He studied her a bit longer, mesmerized by the pretty flush warming her cheeks. He attempted a lighter tone. “After being in battle, one realizes there is very little romance in war.”
“I’m sure.” She looked up at him, her eyes darkening to a deep, fathomless blue. “Someone should write a realistic novel about war.”
Drowning in those dark eyes, he had to tear himself away. “I doubt anyone would read it.” He cast a rueful grin her way. They sat together in silence, which was broken only by the chime of the mantel clock.
“I should be going. Mama will be wondering where I am.” She stood and brushed off her skirts with a practical air.
“Let me order my carriage,” Brookes replied, and pulled the bell pull. “It’s raining in earnest. Do take a few books home.” She selected a volume of John Donne, he noted. He would read the book when she returned it.
“This should keep me occupied.” She smiled again, and a warm glow flowed through him.
“Come back whenever you wish.” Then, remembering his manners, he added, “Bring your sister, too.”
Her smile faded. She was all business and practicality again. “Of course. Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”
The carriage was ready; in an instant, Harriet was gone. Brookes stood at the window, mulling over his daily obligations. His afternoon was completely wasted. He was late to see his mill manager, and he needed to speak with his steward about this spring’s crops. But it was worth it. He hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in years.
He prided himself on his reputation as a career soldier, not easily flustered by anything, especially a pretty face. Rarely did anyone cause him to change his purpose or his mind. But the trained tactician in him sensed a problem.
What if he had chosen the wrong sister?
Chapter Four
Harriet stabbed her spade savagely into the dirt. She reached into the moist earth and tugged, pulling out a small potato. Shaking the dirt off the vegetable, she tossed it into the basket by her feet. She promised to help Sophie, but she found herself in dangerous territory. If only she could dig out her devotion to Brookes as easily as she dug out roots here in the family garden.
Harriet shifted from kneeling to squatting back on her heels. Falling in love with Brookes simply was not allowed. Ridiculous, too. After all, he was the first young man that she had come into close contact with. That was the reason for the attraction, and nothing more. Her visit to his library, and the warm companionship that had settled between them bespoke nothing more than a friendly acquaintanceship. So just like a spinster perilously near to the shelf, she attached too much significance to her visit. He provided her with the first challenging conversation she shared in ages—that was all.
She needed a plan. If there were some way she could keep her promise to Sophie while keeping the captain at arm’s length, she could protect her own heart. A strictly platonic arrangement, one that would allow her to enjoy Captain Brookes’s companionship, but kept any romantic nonsense at bay. What could she do?
“Hattie? Where are you?” Sophie called from the kitchen window.
“Garden,” Harriet hollered back. Sophie’s blonde head disappeared from between the curtains. She popped around the corner of the cottage, picking her way across the muddy garden rows.
“Oh, good. You’re alone. Where’s Rose?”
“She’s in the village, doing the marketing. Help me, I am digging potatoes. Rose thought we could boil and mash them for our supper.” She handed Sophie her spade, but her sister remained standing.
“Hattie, I am worried about Mama.”
Harriet sighed. She slanted her gaze up at Sophie. “I am worried about her, too. But what in particular is causing your alarm?”
“I don’t think the laudanum is helping. Or rather, it’s helping too well. Mama sleeps all day long, and all night, too. It can’t be good for her. Perhaps she should call on old friends, or go back to Matlock Bath for a day to see home again…”
“Sophie, if Mama were to see someone else living in our home in Matlock Bath, it would kill her. And none of her old friends will see us anymore, not since Papa lost his fortune.” Harriet grabbed the spade away from Sophie’s useless hands and began digging again.
“Still, there must be something we can do.”
“Dr. Wallace did say that a change in her situation might help. But you know none of the family will have her.” Harriet sat back on her heels and tossed another potato into the basket. “I will think of something, Sophie. Don’t fret. I am sure there is a way to help Mama.”
“I know you’ll find a way, Hattie. That’s why I always come to you.” Sophie patted Harriet’s shoulder. “I’ll go look in on Mama.”
Harriet gazed after her sister’s graceful back as Sophie wove her way across the garden. She stripped off her gloves, slapping them against her knee. The damp earth smelled sweet where she had been digging, and it calmed her jangled nerves. Time to think clearly.
She had three problems now: her infatuation with Captain Brookes, her promise to Sophie and her need to help Mama. Surely she could find a way to solve all three at once. Harriet’s mind flashed back to the day they lost their home. Her own copybooks were burning. Flames licked the pages, and every now and then, a single word flared up from the page while the paper was consumed. While the duns combed through Handley Hall, she fed the fire in the great hall with her manuscripts, watching every single one smolder in the hearth. Writing about nonexistent people seemed such an extravagant waste of time, when one’s own world was collapsing.
But what about now? Women could write books and sell them for money, could they not? And she wouldn’t have to leave home to seek work if she became an authoress, would she?
She rose, dusting the dirt from her backside.
She had the solution.
Picking up her skirts, she dashed from the garden. Her solution would only work if she had Brookes’s help.

Brookes’s eyes glazed over as he stared at the ledgers piled in front of him. Henry kept meticulous records, in a tiny and cramped script that left Brookes cross-eyed after hours of reading. He spent the morning studying the mill’s profitability. After examining the ledgers closely, he decided to look at making adjustments to the spinning mules. A few tweaks here and there could save valuable time and labor. He resolved to formulate a plan with the mill manager for increasing the mill’s profits and saving labor. He needed to prove himself as twice the man he had been before the war, as though gaining more wealth from the mill could make up for his lost leg. Maybe it would impress Sophie, anyway.
The door to the library swung open, and his butler, Bunting, entered, his eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Miss Handley to see you, Captain.”
“S-Sophie?” he stammered in bewilderment. Had she come to make amends or offer some explanation of her standoffish behavior? Her rejection stung more than he cared to admit.
“No. Miss Harriet Handley.” Bunting opened the door wider, and motioned Harriet into the room. A look of astonishment was still pasted to his usually blank countenance.
A rush of pleasure suffused Brookes. An afternoon spent in Harriet’s company was preferable to proving himself anew to Sophie. But his happiness faded when he spied her. No wonder Bunting was dumbfounded. She looked positively untidy, with her rumpled gown and none-too-clean apron. He rose from the desk and grabbed her hands. “Whatever’s the matter?”
She dropped his hands as though they were on fire. “I have a proposition for you, Captain.”
The most adorable streak of dirt bisected her cheek. Against his better judgment, he reached up to rub it with his thumb. “Proposition?” he echoed.
“Oh, sorry.” She laughed ruefully, scrubbing her cheek with the corner of her apron. “Yes. Or a business deal. Whatever term you like.”
A tug of his old mischievousness pulled at his insides. He liked the sound of proposition. “Tell me.”
“I want to write with you.”
His hope deflated. Well, after all, what had he expected her to say? That she wanted to court him? He motioned her to the settee, and sat down across from her. “I don’t understand you. What do you mean? Do you want to write a book?”
“Yes. Remember how we spoke about the need for realistic books about the war? Well, I want to write one. And I want your help so I can do it well.”
Her words cast him into unfamiliar territory, so he fell back on his soldier’s training. He peered at her, trying to assess her thoughts. Did she really want to write his memoirs? The thought of sharing what he had suffered made Brookes recoil. His palms began to sweat.
“I’ve always wanted to be an authoress. In fact I wrote a few books before Papa died. But I want to try it again. I want to write something and sell it. For money.”
He quirked the corner of his lip in amusement at her unnecessary afterthought. Then he directed his attention back to her scheme. He shook his head, attempting to clear his thoughts. “Why write anything new? Why not try to publish what you already have?”
She looked away, blushing. “I don’t have it anymore.”
“Why do you need me?” His words held an edge. While he liked the idea that Harriet might need him, was she merely using him for her own gain?
“I thought we could be a team. An equal partnership. I will write, and you supply the facts.”
In the army, he had been carefully schooled never to show weakness. He did not forget that training now.
“I can see how I can help you. And it’s not that I don’t want to assist you. But if you’ll forgive me—how does this help me? Aren’t most partnerships mutually beneficial?”
“Um…” She bit her lip, looking at a complete loss. “It might help you to talk about the war.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do. He shook his head. “I may not want to.”
“You’d only have to talk about what you want, or verify facts, I promise. And—” she stared at him beseechingly “—if we worked at Tansley Cottage, you could see Sophie more often.”
Brookes turned away. Could he really talk about the war? His ghastly experiences might shock this slip of a girl. He wanted to help her, but his memories of the war still bled like open wounds. He had no desire to take off his bandages and show the gashes to Harriet.
A compromise was in order. He sighed and turned back, staring deeply into her pale face. “My answer is yes, on two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“First, you speak with Stoames, as well. He served as my batman and he is a walking military encyclopedia. He knows a great deal more about the war than I do. Any details beyond what Stoames can supply, I will endeavor to help.”
“Agreed.”
“Second, we work here at Brookes Park. I get very busy and may need to beg off at a moment’s notice. There’s more room to work here, too.” It was safer, too. He liked the security of his own four walls, his own familiar territory.
She nodded, but a shadow of uncertainty crossed her face. “All right.”
What had he done? Brookes swallowed nervously. He needed to get away from her, and get back onto sure footing. “I’ll fetch Stoames, and we will explain the plan to him.”
“I would love to.” She dazzled him with the brightness of her smile.
He loved that smile. Remembering her weakness, he added, “Feel free to choose a book or two while I am gone.”

The blood pounded in Harriet’s temples. Pressing her hands together, she forced herself to stop trembling.
Now she might see him often, to keep her vow to Sophie, but the arrangement was strictly business. And she would write a book, and possibly save her little family in the process. Harriet gulped several lungfuls of air. Her composure returned, and her hands ceased shaking. She gazed down at her lap, startled to see she still wore her dirty gardening apron.
She looked a perfect sight. No wonder he seemed so shocked by her proposal. Sophie would never visit anyone looking less than flawless. Even in poverty, Sophie still managed an elegance that Harriet could never attain. But then, she sought his advice on a business matter and did not make a social call. He was Sophie’s intended and not her young man. So who cared what she looked like?
Harriet shut off her thoughts with a snap. She gazed around the library, taking in the floor to ceiling shelves crammed with volumes bound in red and brown Moroccan leather. Brookes’s offer of a new book tempted her, but she was too indebted to him already. She’d stayed awake until the wee small hours of the morning reading the volume of John Donne she borrowed the day before. She wanted to reread the book, savoring Donne’s words again before returning it. Still, it would do no harm to look over the vast selection, and make a mental note of which books to borrow next time. She rose from the settee and studied the shelf in front of her, arms clasped behind her back.
Footsteps echoed in the hall, and the library door swung open. A man strode into the room, followed by Brookes. He looked about a decade older than the captain, his features roughened by long exposure to the weather and hard living. But his brown eyes held a kindly twinkle that put Harriet at ease.
“Miss Handley, allow me to present Matthew Stoames, my batman. I believe you met him once or twice before the war.”
“Mr. Stoames, it’s been so long I hardly remember the occasion. How do you do?” Harriet bobbed a little curtsy.
“Very well, Miss. Though you may call me Stoames. Everyone else does. Don’t know what I would do if someone kept calling me Mister.” He swept a courtly bow in her direction.
“Miss Handley is writing a book about the war and requires our assistance. I told her that you were the best military authority she could hope for.” Brookes leaned against his desk, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’ll be happy to help the young lady whenever she wishes.” Stoames nodded at Harriet.
Harriet flashed a grateful smile in return. “I really must be going, but I would like to start work this week. Is that all right?” The sooner the better. After all, if she finished quickly, she might provide Mama with a comfortable living in the space of a year or so.
“Yes, but if we work on Friday, we’ll have to finish quickly. The village is having the Blessing of the Wells.”
Harriet had completely forgotten the village fete. “Will we have time to work, then?”
“Of course. Come over later in the morning, and we will be done in time for the well blessing and afternoon tea.” Brookes cast a glance over his shoulder at the window. “The clouds are gathering again. I am sure it will rain soon. Let me call my carriage for you.”
Another kindness she might never repay. “No, I am happy to walk. The cottage is only a quarter of an hour from here, and I love the exercise. Until Friday, then, gentlemen.” Her voice squeaked a little, betraying her nerves. She quit the library with a speed usually reserved for one being chased by yapping hounds.
She didn’t cease her sprint until she reached the crest of the hill that looked over home.
I did it. It’s over. He said yes!
Chapter Five
Harriet handed her precious few coins to the shopkeeper.
“Thank you, Miss. Can I get anything else for you?”
“Oh, no. This is all I need.” Harriet tucked the parcel under her arm.
“Very good. Don’t forget now, we’re having the Blessing of the Wells later on this morning, to be followed by a cream tea at the village hall. Please come, and bring a friend.”
Harriet smiled warmly in reply. “This will be my first time to attend the event. My family came here shortly after the ceremony last year. I must confess I am intrigued. Such a funny custom, don’t you think?”
“Oh, it’s a tradition in Tansley. We do it to give thanks to God for the many hot springs that run through our village. They bring us our good health.”
Harriet glowed in the warmth of human interaction. The buzz of activity in the little country store mounted as villagers dropped by to do their weekly marketing. She thoroughly enjoyed the chance to talk to someone outside of her tight-knit family circle, but the shopkeeper was busy and had other customers to attend to. “I shall be there. I cannot wait.” She turned to leave, halting when she spied a line of soldiers on horseback creating a commotion in the middle of the street.
“What on earth?” Harriet turned back to the friendly shopkeeper. “Who are those soldiers?”
“A regiment of cavalry officers. From what I hear, they will be summering near Tansley.”
“I see.” Harriet reached for the doorknob. “Good day.”
“Good day, Miss.”
Harriet left the store, inhaling the aroma of fresh paper and ink that wafted up from her paper packet. The paper smelled fresh and crisp, like newly felled trees. The ink had a sour, tangy scent. The two odors excited Harriet, reminding her of late-night sessions spent writing by candlelight, trying to get to the heart and the soul of the stories that ran constantly through her mind. Her fingers practically itched to take up the pen right then and there. Hugging the parcel a little closer to her chest, she quickened her pace. Harriet crossed past Tansley Cottage, trudging up the hill toward Brookes Park. She hastened her steps, afraid she lingered too long and ran late for her appointment with the captain.
The imposing gates of Brookes Hall loomed up ahead. Those gates enforced dignity and majesty onto the scrubby hill. Harriet swallowed her nerves as she hurried past. The meticulous and handsome nature of Brookes Hall struck her nerves, setting them on edge. The house, made of gray stone, grew darker with every passing year, lending the estate an air of weathered distinction. The counterpanes faced the courtyard squarely, needing no shutters, framed with no curtains. This house had nothing to conceal.
The pale sun rose higher in the sky. Harriet was late. Even so, she paused briefly in the courtyard, resting her package on a nearby planter. She clasped her hands together, willing composure and calm into her inner being. Unbidden, her favorite Bible verse flashed across her mind. I can do everything through Him that gives me strength.
Spirits lifted, hopes buoyed, Harriet stiffened her spine and crossed the courtyard to the front door.

Bunting showed Harriet into the library. A fire glowed in the fireplace, warding off the morning chill. “I’ll let the captain know you are here, Miss Handley. Do you require anything to get started?”
“Is it all right if I sit at the desk? I need to spread my paper out so that I can begin writing notes.” Harriet wiped her clammy hands on her skirts.
“That will be fine, Miss. Though I can bring you a table of your own if you wish to sit closer to the fire.”
“Not at all, Bunting. If you don’t think the captain will mind, then this will do nicely.” Harriet began unpacking her parcel onto the blotter of a massive mahogany desk.
“Very good.” Bunting bowed and closed the door behind him so that it almost made no sound at all.
Harriet smoothed the sheets of foolscap with shaking fingers. She breathed deeply, inhaling the masculine scents of leather-bound books and polished wood. The familiarity of the room struck her anew, causing her eyes to mist over. She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes to dry the unwanted tears. Gazing up, she spied a portrait occupying the place of honor over the mantel. The painting showed a pretty young woman with deep gray eyes who held a baby in her arms. A toddler stood proudly beside them, resting his chubby hands on his mother’s arm. Harriet crossed over to the mantel and peered at the picture closely. That sweet tableau must be Brookes’s mother, his older brother, Henry, and the captain as an infant. The cozy domesticity of the painting aroused feelings of panic in Harriet. She bit her lip and looked away.
A clock ticked in the corner. Each swing of its pendulum struck Harriet’s nerves, like an omen or a warning. She had made a mistake in coming back, in proposing the whole ridiculous idea to begin with. Closing her eyes, she pictured her papa. He seemed so close to her in this familiar room. Papa had secrets. Her family had secrets. She did not need to go delving in Captain Brookes’s personal life for the very selfish reason of writing a book. Why invade a good man’s privacy to suit her ambitions? Harriet’s cheeks burned with shame.
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. It was time, long past time, for her to leave.
The door creaked open, announcing Brookes’s arrival. “Good morning, Harriet.” His rich, warm baritone filled the room, startling Harriet. “I apologize for taking so long to meet you.”
She spun around, her pulse pounding.

Harriet looked up at him, her eyes so blue they were almost black. He had seen this expression in her eyes once before, the first day they had met on the hill. At that time, she had been speaking of her faith, but now her eyes were so dark, they reflected something else. Fear, perhaps? He surveyed Harriet as he would a battlefield, raking his gaze over her, trying to gauge strategic points and weaknesses. Her lips trembled nervously, and she bit them in an effort to hold still. This observation gentled him, and his mouth curved into an encouraging smile. “I had to approve our well dressing. The servants finished the decorations this morning.”
“Well dressing? Do you have a hot spring here at Brookes Park?”
“Yes and the servants have it properly kitted out in a mass of flowers. It’s impressive. When we finish here, I would be happy to take you to see it.”
She blinked and nodded, giving him a little half smile. He motioned her to a chair near the hearth. “I’ll ring for some tea.”
“I’m afraid I will take up too much of your time, Captain.”
“Not at all. Next week, when the celebrations are over, we will have more time to talk. Today, we will get started. Where do you want to begin?” He sat down across from her, stretching his good leg out toward the warming blaze.
Her brow furrowed. She reached a hand up, tentatively touching her right temple. “I don’t know.”
“Would it help if I asked Stoames to join us?”
“Yes!” Her quick acceptance caused Brookes to lift an eyebrow. Why would Stoames make that big of an improvement to her manuscript? She colored under his gaze.
Bunting bustled in, balancing a tray with a lavish tea set in one hand. “Bunting, will you find Stoames, and ask him to join us?”
“Of course, Captain.” Bunting placed the tea tray gently on an inlaid table near the fire.
“We’ll have a little refreshment and start the discussion in that manner. Perhaps we both will feel less awkward.” He motioned her toward the table.
She smiled at him, the pinkness in her cheeks ebbing, busying herself with the teapot. He regarded her squarely. “What interests you about the war?”
She poured the tea. If she was still nervous, her hands did not betray her. Not a single drop spilled outside of the fragile china cups. “I want to know the truth about war. Perhaps I feel it is time to write a realistic history, so that those of us who never go to war can know what it is like.”
That sounded a bit daunting, but he nodded anyway. Best not to show any reluctance. “Then where should we begin?”
“What made you decide to become a soldier?” She gingerly sipped at her steaming hot tea.
“Well, you know I was the second son. My elder brother, Henry, inherited the estate. I had to seek my fortune elsewhere.” He took a careful taste.
“Well, yes, I know,” Harriet replied, stirring her tea with a small silver spoon. “But why the army? Why not the navy? Why seek the service at all? You could have been a curate, or sought a career in the church.”
“Army life is most appealing, especially to a young lad full of romantic notions. I love to ride. Riding is my passion, since boyhood, and I wanted to make my living at it. I sought adventure, desired to fight grand battles. And I never had much faith in God, so following the church simply never occurred to me.” He attempted a laugh to soften his words, but it caught in his throat, making an odd, strangling sound.
Her mouth dropped open. “You don’t have faith?”
“I had very little when I embarked on my career. I’ve lost it completely since Waterloo.” Absentmindedly, he stroked his leg, where wood joined ravaged flesh.
“I am very sorry to hear that.” She met his steady gaze. He might well have bared his wooden calf, he was so exposed. No, it was worse even, he had bared his soul to her. And judging by the expression in her eyes, Harriet did not like what she saw. Was it possible that his lack of faith was more unattractive to her than his wooden leg?
He pretended not to understand her look, and set his teacup down with a defiant clink. They needed boundaries. He would talk to Harriet about the war, but never about faith. His mind flashed back to the fields of Waterloo, where men lay dying while their brothers in arms and enemies alike stripped them of their worldly possessions. Never once did they show mercy, not even to their fellow countrymen. His lack of religion was his own affair. In fact, he had earned it. “Where on earth is Stoames?” he barked in irritation.
“Here I am, Captain.” Stoames opened the library door with brusque swiftness. “My apologies for taking so long.”
“Not at all,” Harriet replied smoothly, and poured another cup of tea.
He accepted it with a hearty smile. “Now, what were you discussing?”
“The beginning of my hallowed career.”
Stoames raised his eyebrows at the captain’s biting tone. “Well, I started as the captain’s valet before the war, and then I joined up as his batman. We had some terrific sport in the fields of Belgium.”
“Tell me, Stoames, did you have any trepidation about joining the army?”
“No, no, can’t say I did. To young men, going off to war is a vastly exciting experience. Lots of pretty ladies kissing you goodbye, the pomp of military bands—it stirs your blood, you see. The captain and I were both young and a little wild, and the idea of seeking glory on a battlefield was like something in a story.”
“An epic poem,” Brookes said with a snap, and looked at Harriet from beneath his lowered brows. Did she recall her silly foolishness about Homer and the romance of war?
Harriet blushed anew, and the roses in her cheeks reminded him again of the roses in the courtyard. He remembered kneeling next to his mother in the dirt, handing her pieces of string so she could tie the roses down when the wind blew too hard. His mother had tended those blooms so carefully, nurturing them while they grew, sheltering them from storms. Like most young women, Harriet must have been raised like that, too. She couldn’t help her own naïveté. The anger melted away. He ran a weary hand over his face, scrubbing the last of his ill temper from his expression.
“Harriet, I must be off for a while.” The abruptness of his tone startled his companions, who both looked at him with questioning eyes. “I need to finish the preparations for the Blessing of the Wells.”
“Of course.” Harriet jumped up from her chair. “I’ve taken up too much of your time.” She scurried to the desk and began stuffing the paper back in a pile, spilling half of it in her haste. Brookes’s eyebrows drew together. Barking at an innocent young lady was certainly an unappealing trait in a man. His defensiveness about his lack of faith made him too snappish. A twinge of guilt assailed him.
“I can show you the well, if you like,” he replied with an elaborately casual air, remembering his earlier promise.
“I would love to see it, but I must return home. Sophie and I need to get ready for the Blessing service and the tea, and I must look in on Mama.”
Stoames helped her, neatly tying the sheets of foolscap with a piece of red twine. He then leaned over and whispered something in Harriet’s ear, which Brookes could not hear. Harriet looked up at Stoames, her features softening, and gave him a radiant smile. A terrible tenseness grabbed at Brookes, and he glowered at his batman. Stoames gazed back at him, an expression of innocence on his roughened face.
Unreasonable jealously tugged at his insides. Brookes’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed.
Stoames can’t be in love with her. I won’t allow it.
Chapter Six
“What was that all about?” Brookes spat out the words and turned to his batman. “What did you say to Miss Harriet?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Stoames gazed up at the ceiling, his features schooled to blankness.
“When you were helping Miss Harriet, you whispered something in her ear. Something that, judging by the beatific smile she gave you, made her excessively happy. I must know, what did you say to her?” He clenched his fists, flexing them, balling them up at his sides.
“Begging your pardon, Captain Sir, I don’t want to tell you. It’s a private matter and I don’t wish to provoke your anger.” Stoames clasped his hands behind his back but his shoulders hunched forward defensively.
“Tell me at once or I may lose my temper and plant you a facer. I may be getting older, and I may be lame, but I can still fight with the best of them.” Heat flooded his face, but he refused to recognize the overpowering emotion as jealousy. There was no possible reason to be envious of Stoames’s attention to Harriet. After all, Sophie was his future bride.
Stoames stared squarely at Brookes. “I told the lady not to lose heart. I told her that you would, in time, come around to talking about the war. You may not realize it, sir, but your behavior was almost uncivil. If Miss Harriet is to write her book, she needs your assistance, and she needs you to give it willingly.”
The fire inside Brookes extinguished. He slumped into the chair behind his desk, dropping his hands. Utterly defeated, he gazed at Stoames in discomfort. “I was uncivil, was I not?”
“I only said almost uncivil, Captain.”
Brookes leaned forward, resting his elbows on the mahogany wood. He toyed with the blotter, creasing it with his thumbnail. The paper crackled against his skin. “Next time, I promise to be kinder.”
Stoames sat in the chair across the desk, gazing at his master eye to eye. “You’ll have to face it, you know. You must make up your own mind about which young lady you want. It won’t do to keep taking your confusion out on Miss Harriet.”
Brookes’s thumb stilled, and ice replaced the fire in his veins. Had he tipped his hand? “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at Miss Harriet. You’re besotted. Admit it, man. Your unkindness to her this morning is nothing more than vain attempt to cover it. But I’ve known you for years. And I never saw you look at Miss Sophie the way you looked at Miss Harriet when she served the tea.”
A suffocating tightness seized Brookes’s chest. “You’re mighty blunt about it, anyway.”
“You know me, Captain. I speak as I find.”
Turning his chair away from his batman and closer to the window, Brookes faced the watery sunlight streaming in. The soft, insipid rays did nothing to warm his chilled skin. He took a few deep breaths, ordering himself to remain calm. “I snapped at Miss Harriet because she brought the conversation around to religion, a subject I don’t care to speak of.” He swallowed, measuring his words with precision. “Though I find Miss Harriet’s society pleasant, I am honor bound to propose to Miss Sophie.”
“Balderdash.”
Brookes swiveled back, regarding his batman with a critical squint. “You would have me go back on my word of honor?”
“You know I would never say that. But I believe no engagement existed between you and Miss Sophie.” Stoames tapped his forefinger on the desk for emphasis. “If you don’t have a formal arrangement, and if Miss Sophie finds you too altered, then why stick so stubbornly to her?”
“Our understanding was formal enough for both of us to comprehend. Neither of us sought another in the three years I fought with Wellington.” The blood pounded in his temples. “I cannot, in good conscience, back out of the understanding now.”
“You were at war. When would you have time to find someone else?” Stoames leaned back in his chair with a weary air.
“You and I both know more than one soldier who broke from his sweetheart as soon as they found a nice Belgian chit. But I stayed constant, and so did she. Sophie stayed here and waited for me when others could have taken my place. Even if she finds me repulsive now, I must work to win her over. To break from her now—especially with her family in desperate financial straits—would be most unfair.” He crossed his arms over his chest, daring Stoames to keep needling him.
“Then how will you control your feelings for Miss Harriet?”
“I don’t have feelings for Miss Harriet.” He swallowed the lie neatly. “I am helping her write a book. She wants to support her family, which shows a great deal of pluck. I admire her for it. I don’t think she cares for me anyhow.” He broke off and stared down at his hands for a moment.
Stoames heaved a forceful sigh that seemed to originate in his boots. “Yet you all but threatened me with pistols at ten paces for whispering in her ear.”
Stoames and his intuition. Brookes covered his embarrassment by shrugging nonchalantly. “I know you, you old dog. I merely tried to protect her honor.” Ridiculous excuse. He remembered Harriet pouring out tea with graceful hands, meeting his barbed words with graciousness. He recalled her fine brows, the straight bridge of her nose, and the tender curve of her mouth, her profile as pure as a cameo, a little bit of ivory transformed into vibrant flesh and blood. Her hair was dark and glossy. He imagined how the strands might feel, slipping through his fingers. He shook his head, his mouth twisting into a cynical smile.
Stoames raised a hand in defeat. “Well, then, what are your plans?”
“I’ve found my mother’s jewelry in the safe. I will propose to Miss Sophie after the dance in the village hall.”
“And Miss Harriet?” A challenge, rather than a simple question.
“I’ll keep helping her to write her book. I will endeavor to give her everything she needs to make a success of it.” But if she brought the subject around to God again, he had every right to leave off.

Harriet trudged home, her feet heavy and her mind clouded with self-doubt. Stoames assured her to keep trying, but she couldn’t fathom the bitter look on Captain Brookes’s striking face. His eyes turned from stormy green to almost slate gray when she questioned him about his loss of faith. She knew he had suffered deeply. But for Brookes to endure such tragedy without faith—well, that was enough to break her heart.
Her vain ambition led her down a slippery slope, exposing his weaknesses to her watchful gaze. She had no right to interfere, no right to pry. After all, why should she question his loss of faith? True, she suffered through hardship and deprivation, and the pinch of poverty squeezed her daily. Yet she never lost faith; she relied on it to carry her through her trials and tribulations. Papa nicknamed her “The Eternal Optimist,” and joked that she could find something good in every situation—even the plague. She shivered, tightening her shawl over her chest. Perhaps her hopefulness blinded her to the terrible reality of Brookes’s past.
When she finally arrived at the cottage, Sophie dashed down the stairs, an expression of blank horror in her blue eyes.
“What has happened?” Harriet assumed her usual air of sisterly authority.
“Mama took on so about the Blessing of the Wells and the Ball, I felt I had to call Dr. Wallace. It was dreadful, Harriet. I know that he is expensive, but what could I do?”
Harriet patted Sophie’s arm. “It will be fine, Sophie. But why was she so upset?”
“Mama says she will not take us anywhere, as she does not want others to see our reduced circumstances.”
“Whatever does that matter, in a country village? Come, let’s go and speak with her and the doctor.” Linking arms with her sister, Harriet pulled her up the stairs.
As they entered the room, Dr. Wallace stood beside Mama’s bed, pursing his mouth into a thin line. “I thought a mild dose of laudanum would help this nervous exhaustion. Whatever are we to do with you, my lady?”
Without stopping to think, Harriet tugged at Dr. Wallace’s sleeve. “The laudanum—it’s not too potent, is it, Dr. Wallace? I worry that Mama is taking too much.”
“The laudanum is the only thing that makes life bearable,” Mama snapped, offering her wrist to Dr. Wallace so he could take her pulse.
“A little laudanum never hurt anyone, Miss Handley.” Dr. Wallace smiled and placed his fingers on Mama’s wrist.
Harriet stood her ground. “Well, if Mama isn’t so very ill, then a mild dose of laudanum might help her now. If she takes it, though, she won’t be able to attend the Blessing ceremony. But she would be all right by herself for a few hours, wouldn’t she, while we go? And she might try to attend the ball tonight, Doctor?”
Dr. Wallace cast a searching glance over the patient. He nodded with satisfaction and gently let go of her wrist. “I have prescribed a regimen of rest to cure your mother’s nervous exhaustion.” He hesitated, and then smiled gently at Harriet and Sophie. “Still, perhaps I prescribed strict bed rest in haste. A brief social outing might help, your ladyship.”
Mama sank against the pillows, with the air of a sacrificial victim. Her face was pale, her lips drawn. “Very well. I am outnumbered. We will attend the ball tonight. But I must have rest up until the moment we leave.”

“Hattie, you are so good with Mama. I honestly did not know what to do with her. All I did was mention the events in the village, and she became hysterical. I sent Rose to fetch Dr. Wallace. It was all I could think to do.”
“You handled the situation very well, Sophie. Don’t fret.” They crossed the hall, entering the room they shared. “I apologize for being gone for so long. I feel guilty for not being here to help you.”
“But you were helping me! You were seeing the captain, were you not? How did you fare?”
“Poorly, I am afraid. I made a blunder, and questioned him too closely about his emotions and his faith. The whole affair grew a bit disastrous.” How embarrassing the entire unfortunate morning had been. Save for Stoames’s kind words, she was prepared to forget the whole episode.
“Poor Hattie. I am sure it will be fine. I imagine he is unused to speaking to anyone about his feelings.” Sophie splashed water from the pitcher into the basin, and began washing her hands and face.
Harriet regarded her sister’s back closely. “In truth, I treaded on sacred ground. It made me rather sick.”
Sophie turned to face Harriet, patting her face dry with a threadbare towel. She flicked her eyebrows quizzically. “Whatever for? I shouldn’t worry. He’s promised to share his memories to help you write the book. Surely he knew what that would entail.”
Harriet flopped onto the bed with a sigh. “Sharing memories and sharing facts are very different things,” she murmured into her pillow. Her stomach recoiled and she could talk about her awful morning no more. Looking up, she chose the one topic of conversation designed to distract her sister. “Shall we dress for the Blessing?”
“Oh, yes! What will you wear?” Sophie managed to grow both animated and serious at the same time.
Harriet grinned at her with indulgence. “I haven’t any idea.”
“I’ve made over two old muslin dresses. They look lovely. See?” Sophie pulled them out of the wardrobe, casting an approving glance over her handiwork. “Look, I put new ribbons on the bodices, and embroidered in white—I think whitework is so divine, don’t you?” She gave the dresses an expert shake. “Here, Hattie, you shall wear the one trimmed in blue, and I shall wear the pink.”
She traced one finger over the embroidery, and the delicate threads caught on her rough skin. A trickle of interest suffused her body. A dawning awareness of her looks, and the desire to be pretty assumed a great significance in her consciousness. There was no driving force behind this transformation, was there? Certainly not. She just wanted to look nice, that’s all.
Sophie studied Harriet with a judgmental air. “Hmm. I shall dress your hair, Hattie. I’ve wanted to experiment with braids. My hair is too curly, but yours is so straight it will hold a braid nicely.”
Harriet gazed into the looking glass over the washstand, running a hand over her dark brown locks. Her hair was tucked up into its usual severe chignon. She could never call it attractive. Would anyone else? She rather doubted it. After all, Sophie was the acknowledged beauty of the family.
“Oh Hattie, I have ideas for our ball dress tonight, too,” Sophie prattled on. She gazed into the mirror, fitting her cheek against Harriet’s shoulder. Reaching up, Sophie tucked a wayward curl behind one shoulder. “Do you know, Hattie,” she said breathlessly, an expression of satisfaction lighting up her china-blue eyes, “I rather think I shall fall in love with the captain tonight.”
Harriet’s heart dropped like a stone and she suppressed the sudden flash of jealousy that flooded her being. She closed her eyes, blocking out their reflections in the glass. “Well, I should certainly hope so, Sophie.”
Chapter Seven
Brookes glanced toward the village green, where a mass of blooms obscured the well. The riotous color of the flowers and the sun sparkling on the cornets and flugelhorns made his eyes smart. He blinked to clear his vision. Opening his eyes, his gaze fell on the two Handley sisters, strolling arm in arm, toward the garishly decorated well. The bleating of the horns died out, replaced by a buzzing in his ears. Every sense he possessed trained, with military precision, on the pretty girls clad in white, their heads so close together that their bonnets touched.
Sophie’s little golden curls framed her face. Brookes stared at her, running his assessing gaze over her figure. She looked like a Dresden china doll, he decided flatly. Very pretty, to be sure, but untouchable. Casting Sophie away, he focused on Harriet. Her bonnet irritated him, for it covered her glossy brown hair and cast her fathomless blue eyes in shadow. Drat the bright sun. Harriet would keep her hat on throughout the ceremony and he would miss the chance to see her pure profile in bold relief. He noted that their servant stood beside them, but not his future mother-in-law. Where was Lady Handley? Almost everyone in the clutch of nearby Derbyshire villages was in attendance, he observed, glancing over the crowd gathering on the green.
The crisp rattle of the side drum broke through Brookes’s trance, sending his pulse racing. The deafening drumbeat took him right back to Quatre Bras. Brookes and his men rode in a single column up the road to Waterloo. A drummer for the Twenty-Third Foot lay dying at the crossroads. Neither he nor his men stopped to help the lad. Everyone eagerly pressed forward, ready for their share of the battle. Brookes closed his eyes, seeing the lad’s face. So young, spots still covered his cheeks. His groans sometimes haunted Brookes’s nightmares.
The band launched into “God Save the King,” snapping Brookes back from Quatre Bras onto the village green. He tried to will the bad memories away by forcing himself to stand at attention and sing along with the crowd. His gaze focused on the two Handley girls again. Their backs were to him, giving him no chance to study their expressions. But even without gazing upon her face, he observed Harriet’s serenity. Sophie’s shoulders wriggled, her bonneted head twitched from side to side. Watching her drained what little energy he possessed. In contrast, Harriet stood still, her head charmingly inclined toward the band. He involuntarily relaxed, releasing a knot he hadn’t realized existed between his shoulder blades. Harriet’s mere presence refreshed a man—as restorative as a long drink of water from one of the streams that crossed through Brookes Park.
He gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders, the knot returning. Harriet’s effect on his spirit mattered little, and there was no call to wax poetic about her features, because she was not his intended. He would simply have to get used to a life of constant movement. Restful, peaceful moments would be few and far between once he married Sophie.

The band ended with an earsplitting flourish, and Harriet applauded with the rest of the crowd. She glanced around furtively. Excellent. None of the men in front of her appeared to be Captain Brookes. A pull of awareness gripped her, causing the baby-fine hair on the nape of her neck to stand up. He must be standing behind them. Harriet forced herself to remain motionless. It would never do to turn around and gape. Besides, he must be staring at Sophie. Harriet cast a sidelong glance at her sister. She looked so lovely, the pinkness of her bonnet highlighting the porcelain planes of her face.
A brief flurry of activity disturbed the green as the members of the brass band sat down. An elderly man with slightly stooped shoulders and a thick mane of gray hair approached the well. Facing the crowd, he smiled serenely. Harriet’s heart warmed, and she grinned back. This kindly old man must be the reverend of St. Mary’s, over at Crich.
“Let us pray,” the reverend began. Bowing her head, Harriet allowed the prayer to wash over her soul like waves caressing the shore. In the year or so since her family moved from Matlock Bath, they had not attended Sunday services. Mama had been too conscious of the family’s status, and unwilling to make the eight mile journey to Crich and back every Sunday. Tansley Village was too small to have its own church, so the Handleys’ spiritual guidance had gone by the wayside.
Harriet drank in the words of the blessing, allowing them to comfort her parched spirit. Even before the family moved, going to church services had offered very little solace. Now, if you were looking for a social affair, you were in luck. If only she could have been like Mama and cared more for her perfect dress than her spiritual well-being, then that church would have been perfect. But no pretty dress ever swayed Harriet, and she searched in vain for a church that promised more than a salon. Listening to the reverend’s gentle voice, Harriet discovered that elusive something more.
The simple little ceremony drew to an end, and Harriet detached herself from her sister’s side. Full of strength, shining with a steadfast and pure purpose, she must tell the reverend how important his words had been, how he cast a light on her shadowy soul. Why, she didn’t feel at all bashful as she glided over to the reverend. He smiled as he saw her approach. “Did you enjoy the ceremony, Miss?”
She beamed up at him, her heart glowing. “I did. Your words fell upon my soul like drops of rain in a desert.”
He patted her hand with a grandfatherly air. “Now, you don’t look familiar, my dear. Have you attended services at St. Mary’s?”
Harriet dropped her gaze, coloring a little. “I haven’t been able to, Reverend. My mother is unwell and the four miles there and four miles back would be too taxing.”
“Don’t fret, don’t fret. You don’t have to be in church to worship, you know. God is everywhere. Now, tell me your name.”
“Harriet Handley.”
“Well, Miss Handley, I am Reverend Kirk. If you should ever wish to join our little congregation, know that you are always welcome at St. Mary’s. But even if you cannot make the journey, you must remember that God is with you, and watching over you.”
Harriet’s heart welled and tears stung her eyes. Such warmth and compassion had expired from her life when Papa died. Her lips trembled, and her voice caught in her throat.
“Now, now, my dear, there’s no need for tears. Remember, as solitary as you may feel, you are never truly alone. Promise me you will remember that.” Reverend Kirk patted her hand gently.
Harriet nodded, her heart still too full for words. Blinking away her tears, she turned from the reverend. The vivid colors and brassy tone of the band pounced on her nerves. She longed to be somewhere quiet, where she could think clearly. No such luck. Sophie grabbed her arm, pulling on Harriet excitedly.
“Why did you leave me like that? To whom were you speaking?”
“Reverend Kirk, you goose. Did you not pay any attention to the ceremony?”
“Very little,” replied Sophie with her customary frankness. “I wondered if my half boots look too hideous with this gown. I think I should have worn my slippers.”
Harriet sighed, linking her arm through Sophie’s. “Your slippers might have been spoiled with the walk. Your half boots are very attractive.”
Sophie looked down at her feet, considering them closely. “I think so, too,” she pronounced.
Rose tapped Sophie’s shoulder. “Come along, you two chickens. Enough chatter. The cream tea starts soon, and we are nowhere near the village hall.”

Brookes watched the sisters enter the bustling village hall through narrowed eyes. Seeing Harriet and Sophie together had stiffened his resolve—he needed to break free of Harriet’s spell. At some point during the tea, he would make that all-important first move. His jaw hardening, he resolved to speak to Sophie alone, for the first time since he returned home.
His vision sharpened. The sisters and their servant were selecting a tea table. One of the ladies assisting with the tea brought them a fresh pot and china cups. He stretched his legs under his own table, wondering how on earth he would find Sophie without an escort. He watched Sophie’s head bobble around aimlessly. Then Harriet and the servant woman stood up. Harriet leaned down to say something to Sophie, who nodded and remained at the table while the two women strolled off. Their absence offered him the perfect time to strike. Brookes stood up, his heart hammering, and found his way through the crush of villagers to her table.
“May I sit for a moment?” His voice had a catch in it. He cleared his throat.
Sophie jumped in her chair. Her face turned as crimson as the cloth spread over her table. “Of course.” Her voice was unnaturally strained and breathless.
“Lovely tea.”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” Sophie began to pour some into her cup, but her hand shook so that she spilled a little on the cloth.
“Allow me,” Brookes said smoothly, whipping out his handkerchief. Sophie reached out to grasp her saucer at the same moment he began patting at the spot on the tablecloth. He knocked against the cup and sent it flying. It landed on the floor with a crash, splintering to a thousand pieces.
“Oh!” cried Sophie. She stooped down to gather the broken pieces. Brookes stooped to help but his leg gave out, lurching him forward. He collided with Sophie, knocking her soundly on the head.
Sophie sat back in her chair with a little huff, rubbing at her skull. “Ouch.”
“My deepest apologies. Did I hurt you badly?”
“I’ll recover,” Sophie snapped.
He cleared his throat again, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. Should he keep charging ahead? Or should he offer to look at her wound? He peered at Sophie closely. The irritated expression on her face decided it for him. Charge ahead, ignore the little incident.
“I shall look forward to seeing you at the ball tonight,” he began, hoping to restore his sense of savoir faire.
“Yes.”
“Will you save a dance for me?” He remembered how, before the war, they would dance together so often that it raised the eyebrows of the matrons of Matlock Bath.
“Can you dance?” Sophie asked, with a mixture of irritation and frank curiosity that shriveled his interest.
“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.” He inhaled deeply, seeking Sophie’s smell of violets and muslin. But the scent of spilled tea permeated everything.
“Well, if you can dance, then I will be happy to reserve one for you, Captain Brookes.” A pat reply, one that he instantly recognized. A sop, and nothing more. He saw her turn away countless other suitors with a similar vague gesture before.
He stood up. A good soldier recognized the right moment for retreat. “Until tonight, then, Miss Handley.”

“Ah, seeing the pair of you again, it was like old times.” Rose clasped her hands over her bosom. “Like the war never happened. Before we had to leave Matlock Bath.”
Harriet glanced over at her sister, carefully sidestepping a rut in the road. It had not looked like old times to her. She had watched the whole scene from across the room, where she and Rose had stopped to help themselves to scones and clotted cream. When she espied the captain making his way to the table, she stayed rooted to the spot, and bid Rose do the same. Watching the awkward tableau reminded her of the amateur dramatics that trouped through Derbyshire. In fact, Harriet could not bear to watch after Captain Brookes collided with Sophie. She turned away, embarrassment and tenderness for the captain overwhelming her, making her knees weak.
Sophie’s rosy lips pulled into a thin line. She kicked at a pebble in the road and remained silent.
“That marked the first time you two have been alone together since he returned from the war. If it felt a little strange, perhaps it can be linked to the passage of time.” Harriet took pride in her casual voice, even though her heart pounded in her ears.
“He broke my cup.”
“He did not mean to.”
“He bumped my head.”
“Another accident,” Harriet reminded her, adopting her most authoritative, sisterly tone. Sophie’s pettiness vexed Harriet more than usual. Though she hated to admit it, she was irritated that she cared so much.
“I thought you two made a pretty picture,” Rose broke in.
“I don’t wish to speak of it. When I see him at the ball tonight, I shall endeavor to be more civil.”
Harriet could only hope her sister told the truth, but she noted that Sophie’s dimples had vanished, her lips compressed in a stubborn line.
Harriet cast about for another topic of conversation. “Do you know, Sophie, Reverend Kirk invited us to attend services in Crich. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Sophie shrugged. “You know Mama will never attend. She is too worried about appearances.”
“I may go without her. The way he spoke of St. Mary’s, it sounds like a simple country parish. I doubt very much that everyone there is conscious of status to the degree they are at Matlock Bath.” She smiled hopefully. “I can’t go every Sunday, but I would like to go once every few fortnights.”
“Very well, if you go I will go with you.” Sophie sounded tired, the weight of the world resting on her young shoulders.
Harriet gave her sister’s arm an impulsive squeeze. A light breeze tickled her face, sending the ribbons on her dress fluttering.
“I’ll come, too, dearie. I’ve missed Sunday services.” Rose looked down at Harriet, her eyes shining with motherly affection.
“Thank you, Rose.” Harriet’s mood lifted, suffusing her with a sense of buoyancy. “I cannot wait for the ball tonight.”
The ball simply couldn’t come quickly enough, though it was just a few hours away. If only this lightness of spirit would last until then. For the first time in ages, she felt like dancing. Not, of course, that the captain would ask her to dance. Heat rose in Harriet’s cheeks, scorching her like a flame. He would dance with Sophie, naturally. That was the right and proper thing to do; in fact, the simple act of them dancing together would take Sophie closer to matrimony and the family closer to stability.
So why did she feel a wriggle of discomfort at the pit of her stomach? It wasn’t jealousy. Surely that feeling was just…nerves.
Chapter Eight
The cold, sharp edge of a razor blade scraped across Brookes’s chin. He willed himself to stay still and completely in the present, not allowing the feeling of steel on flesh to carry him back to the terrible night at Waterloo. Stoames squinted at him with a critical air, running the blade slightly over to the left. Wiping the blade on a towel, he paused. “You’ll have to pull your lips down, Captain, so as I can get the bit under your nose.”
Brookes pulled a face, twisting his lips down to lengthen the spot between his nose and mouth. Giving his skin a final swift swipe, Stoames stepped back. “Hot towel, Captain.”
Brookes pressed the steaming cloth to his face, inhaling the clean scent of shaving soap and fresh linen. He dabbed at the bits of lather that still clung to his face, and rubbed the linen hard against his skin for good measure. “Shaving is such a nuisance. Perhaps I should be like the men in the field, and grow a beard.”
“What’s practical in the field isn’t fashionable in the ballroom,” Stoames replied with mock sincerity. “Are you ready for your evening dress?”
“Yes, and I can put it on myself. I don’t need your assistance with tying my cravat, either. I don’t want the points so high they choke me or make it impossible to turn my head.”
“I’m hardly making you into a dandy. But will you need anything else from me at the moment?”
“Yes. There’s a jewel case in my study. Top drawer of my desk. Fetch it for me, there’s a good man.”
Stoames bowed and left. Brookes strode over to the bed, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his immaculate suit, which was laid out across the counterpane. From the moment he’d regained strength enough to stand, Brookes had insisted on dressing himself. No one, not even his faithful batman, helped him struggle to ease his trousers over his wooden leg. By the time Stoames returned, bearing a leather case, Brookes stood at the looking glass, tying his cravat.
Stoames handed the blue leather-bound box to Brookes, his lips turned down in disapproval. “What’s in there?”
“Mother’s jewels. The sapphires and diamonds.” Brookes snapped open the case. Candlelight refracted off the precious stones, dazzling his eyes.
“Why are you getting them out now?”
“Don’t get yourself in a swither. I’m looking them over, contemplating how they will look on Miss Sophie. Here’s what I need.” Reaching down inside the case, he dug out a ring—a large, winking sapphire surrounded by glittering small diamonds, a perfect match to the necklace and pair of bracelets the case also contained.
Stoames sniffed loudly. “Sapphires don’t suit blondes.”
Brookes laughed, regarding the batman with genuine interest. “Oh, no? What does suit blondes?”
“I can’t say as I know. Pearls maybe. But I do think that sapphires look particularly striking on brunettes.”
“Mother didn’t have a pearl ring.”
“Maybe you should go to town and buy one. The journey might give you a chance to clear your mind,” Stoames retorted with a gleam in his eye.
“I’m not going to propose to her tonight, not that it’s any of your business.” Brookes slipped the ring into his vest pocket. “But I need to be prepared. I must make my intentions known, and the sooner the better. We’ll dance together at the ball. Perhaps it will rekindle old feelings. And by tomorrow, I may be asking for her hand.”
Stoames snorted. “Fools rush in, Captain. Fools rush in.”

The little lantern bobbed along in the deepening dusk, casting a gentle circle of light ahead of the Handley party as they walked toward the village hall. A gentle breeze ruffled Harriet’s silken skirts, and she pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders for warmth. One could hardly tell that her gown of robin’s-egg blue enjoyed a previous existence as an elaborate court dress for Mama. Sophie removed the train and stripped off most of the faded trimmings, revealing its simple yet elegant lines. Harriet had teased her sister about the process, which occupied many weeks the past winter. So many practical chores demanded their time, such as new curtains for the parlor, and a new dress was a waste of time. But now, gratitude flowed through Harriet for her sister’s handiwork.
“Sophie, you’ve outdone yourself this evening.” Harriet beamed at her sister, resplendent in reembroidered jade velvet, in the dusky twilight.
“Thank you, Hattie,” Sophie replied. “Doesn’t Mama look lovely?”
“Beautiful.” Harriet ran her eyes over her mother’s rosy gown, which set off the fading gold of her hair. Reaching out, she squeezed her mother’s hand.
Mama squeezed back, but in the fading light, Harriet noticed her face growing pale. “Mama, are you going to be all right?”
“I make no promises. I shall endeavor for us to stay past supper, but if I feel my nerves coming on, I shall need to go home.”
“Of course, Mama.” Harriet loosened her mother’s grip. They had reached the edge of the village. The Village Hall twinkled up ahead, lit with a thousand candles and torches. Harriet’s heart beat fast in anticipation.
She had not attended a dance since her London season. And really, those balls were never very much fun. She hated being a wallflower and always disappointed Mama, so pleasure was impossible. Refreshed in spirit after her brief discussion with Reverend Kirk, Harriet cast off the previous year of penury and grief like an ill-fitting cloak. That was the reason, and nothing more.
Carriages, horses and villagers in their country best packed the green in front of the village hall. Harriet clasped her gloved hands together. How delightful to be part of the milling crowd, especially after all those months of being shut up in the cottage. Not that she minded taking care of Mama, of course. Harriet snuck a glance at her mother. Mama’s face wore a drawn expression, as though she had tied a ribbon too tightly at the base of her neck. Harriet linked her arm through her mother’s. “Come, Mama, we shall find a place for you to sit and watch the dancers.”
The ladies handed off their wraps and stood briefly in the vestibule. The bright lights and crush of people dazzled Harriet, and she lost her bearings. She had to find Mama a comfortable place to sit. She peered around the room, her mouth going dry as panic set in. Relief flooded through her when she spied a clutch of dowagers in black, fanning themselves in a corner of the ballroom. She took her mother’s elbow, steering her toward the women.
One of the women rose, spying Harriet and her mother. “Lady Handley!” she effused. “Do come and sit with me.”
Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. She recognized the woman as Lady Reese, one of the gentry who had a home in nearby Lumsdale. Harriet blinked. Lady Reese did not seem as concerned about Lady Handley’s reduced status as her peers in Matlock Bath had done. Harriet shot her a grateful glance.
Lady Reese beamed in return, and linked her arm through Mama’s, guiding her over to a little wooden chair. Straightening her gloves, Harriet looked around for Sophie, whom she had lost in the crush of guests. Two women, one wearing a dancing ostrich feather, parted in front of Harriet. She stopped in her tracks, her mouth dropping open as she stared straight ahead.
Sophie was gazing up in wonder at a tall soldier in uniform, smiling frankly and openly. He smiled down at her carelessly, the smile quirking the corners of his mouth. They stood much too close together. Though they were ringed on all sides by a milling group of guests, they were apart from the crowd, as though covered by a bell of silence. Harriet gave her head an impatient shake. She needed to break through that spell.
“Sophie!” she called, starting forward. “I thought I had lost you.”
“Come, Hattie, I want you to meet someone.” Sophie smiled up at the young soldier dreamily.
He held out his hand. “Lieutenant James Marable, at your service.”
Harriet bobbed a brief curtsy. “How do you do, sir?”
“Very well, thank you.” He smiled down at Sophie meaningfully. She blushed and dropped her gaze.
Dangerous territory indeed. What if Captain Brookes walked in at this very moment? She tugged impatiently at her sister’s arm.
“If you will excuse us, Lieutenant, my mother wishes to speak to my sister.”
“Of course.” He bowed low. “Miss Sophie, may I claim you for the next dance?”
“You may.” Sophie dropped a little curtsy. “Until then?”
He smiled, flashing brilliant teeth, and moved away.
“Whatever is the matter?” Sophie huffed, her brows drawn together in annoyance.
“You were standing entirely too close to Lieutenant Marable. What if Captain Brookes had seen you?”
Sophie shrugged her shoulders, refusing to reply.
Harriet sighed. “Promise me one thing. Be courteous to the captain tonight. Do not provoke him to anger by flirting with another man.”
“I won’t provoke anyone. I want to enjoy myself.”
“Do not enjoy yourself at Captain Brookes’s expense.” Exasperation surged through Harriet. How dare Sophie toy with the emotions of a good man?
Sophie flinched. “I will not deliberately hurt him.”
The lively little orchestra struck up the next dance, a cotillion, and Harriet watched Sophie glide off toward the dance floor with Lieutenant Marable. Her high spirits evaporated like a puff of smoke. Embarrassment at being left alone rooted her to the spot. Her blue gown was too noticeable. She must look ridiculous. What was the phrase? Mutton dressed as lamb? Harriet’s face heated and little drops of perspiration pricked the roots of her hair. Perhaps she should find a comfortable spot to wedge herself, where she could stay unnoticed. After all, she perfected the art of being a wallflower during her London season.
“Miss Harriet?” A pleasant voice rumbled, bringing a smile to Harriet’s face.
“Captain Brookes.” She sighed with relief, turning to face him. He held two glasses in his hand and extended one to her with a smile.
“Would you care to sit down?” He motioned away from the dance floor with a brief nod of his head.
“Most definitely.” She wove her way through the throngs of people, spying two empty chairs along the wall. She sank down in one, patting the seat of the other with her gloved hand.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He sat beside her, taking a long draft of his drink.
“To be honest, Captain, no, I am not.” She took a tiny sip of her punch, allowing it to flow through her body, restoring her spirit.
“Why not?” He turned to face her squarely, cocking one eyebrow.
“Balls are not my favorite pastime, I’m afraid.” She took another refreshing taste. “Even during my London season, I never enjoyed attending one.” She cast a worried look over the dancers. Would Brookes spy Sophie in the cotillion with his ghost?
“I have not attended a ball since Waterloo,” he commiserated. “The Duchess of Richmond hosted one the night before the battle.”
“Before the battle!” Harriet echoed, caught off guard. “That seems a rather frivolous occupation before entering the fray.”
“It was.” He took another drink of his wine. “In the midst of the general merrymaking, we learned Bonaparte had crossed the frontier.”
“What did you do?” Harriet leaned toward him.
“Wellington and the Duke of Richmond shut themselves up in a dressing room, strategizing. Then Wellington decided we would attack on the morrow. I left when I got word so I had time to make my men ready.”
“Of course,” Harriet replied, gently urging him to keep talking.
“But many of the men elected to stay until dawn. They didn’t have time to change clothes, and fought in evening dress. The strangest thing of all was that, of all the men who danced that night, I reckon half were dead or wounded by the next evening. I was one of the lucky ones.”
His matter-of-fact voice cut her deeply. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. “I’m sorry.”
He looked at her, surprise opening his gray-green eyes wide. “Why are you sorry? That is a soldier’s lot in life.”
Harriet shook her head. “It seems a terrible waste, is all.” Her voice sounded so thick she hardly recognized it.
“No tears at a ball.” He took the glass from her hands. “I apologize for bringing the matter up at all. It seems strange to me, that this is the first ball I have attended since that fateful night.”
She swallowed and nodded her head.
“Would you like more punch? I might take another glass of wine myself.” He stood up, looking down at her expectantly.
“Yes, if you please.”
In his absence, she struggled to regain her composure. Flicking a glance over the crowded ballroom, she spotted Sophie, still dancing with Lieutenant Marable. A flash of anger suffused her, leaving her breathless. Did her petulant sister, so young and so headstrong, deserve a man like Captain Brookes?
Brookes strode across the ballroom, balancing the two drinks carefully while he navigated the throng. He halted in his tracks, staring at the dance floor. Ah, he had seen Sophie dancing merrily with someone else. Harriet could not turn away.
Brookes stared at the couple a moment longer. His head swiveled toward Harriet, his green eyes locking with her gaze. An inscrutable expression crossed his face. Then he vanished. Harriet peered around sharply. She could no longer pick out his broad shoulders in the crowd. She cast her eyes down, studying her blue kid slippers with intensity. Where he went was no concern of hers, was it? Perhaps he found a pretty dancing partner to incite Sophie’s jealousy.
Two very masculine feet shod in black leather appeared next to hers. She raised her head, heat rising to her cheeks.
“Miss Harriet.” Captain Brookes cleared his throat. He started again, speaking in an even tone, “Would you do me the honor of reserving the next dance for me?”
Chapter Nine
Brookes stood before Harriet, extending his hand. She cast her azure eyes up to him, and he willed his countenance to remain impassive. He refused to allow Harriet to read into his soul and discover his inner turmoil. Seeing Sophie with another man—a man who could have been him a few years ago—fired Brookes with an overwhelming urge to prove himself. His heart thumped painfully in his chest. Could he manage a dance? Riding a horse never troubled him but the hops and skips of a country dance presented a challenge that set his heart racing and his palms sweating. Hedging his bets, he requested a minuet of the orchestra. ’Twas the slowest dance in his recollection.
Time ceased to move. Only Harriet would break the spell. After an eternity, she slipped her hand into his, rising gracefully from the chair. “I would be honored, Captain.” Her touch, even through their gloved hands, sent tingles up his arm. He breathed deeply of her violet scent, willing himself to remain steady and composed.
They wound their way through the press of the crowd to the cleared area in the middle of the room. “A minuet, if you please, ladies and gentlemen,” cried the village shopkeeper, the impromptu master of ceremonies. Interest surged through the crowd of onlookers, and several of the younger couples began clearing the floor. “A minuet? How very old-fashioned.” One young lady laughed, swishing past Brookes on the arm of her partner. Yet Brookes noted with pleasure that some of the older couples, who had not been dancing, stood up. Taking their places on the floor, the faces of the couples reflected surprise and excitement.
The orchestra struck up a few stately opening bars. Brookes stood still, listening for a moment. Like the fifes and drums calling his men to standards, the delicate strains infused Brookes with a sense of purpose.
Brookes steered Harriet beside that mirror image of his youth who had claimed Sophie for the cotillion. Obviously they were proceeding with the old-fashioned minuet. Their second dance together. The young pup had serious intentions, did he? Bowing, Brookes moved to stand next to Sophie.
“Captain Brookes, allow me to present Lieutenant Marable.” Harriet indicated the young man with a wave of her gloved arm. He bowed low, and the lieutenant returned the salute.
“Captain Brookes, sir. I’ve heard tales of your sport at Waterloo.” Marable regarded him with something like awe. His openmouthed gaze sent a frisson of discomfort down Brookes’s spine.
“Have you, now?” Brookes turned and bowed to Sophie, who returned the honors. Facing Harriet, he made his salute. She curtsied, but kept her eyes trained on his face. She nodded, inclining her head ever so slightly. Her encouragement sent strength surging through his body.
“Oh, yes. The tales of your cavalry charge fill the men of my battalion with admiration.” Marable turned and honored Harriet, then Sophie.
Would that young idiot shut his trap? Honestly, ’twas enough to try a man’s patience. “Indeed.” Brookes took Sophie’s hands, leading her around to one side. He bowed to her, and she responded with a deep curtsy. He stepped gingerly at first, unsure if his leg would follow his commands. He shifted his weight slowly to the ball of his foot, then back to his heel, rising and falling in time with the music. He breathed a sigh of relief. Everything seemed to be going well. Time to engage in battle.
He reached out, taking Sophie’s hands. They slid a few paces to the left, and he drew her slightly closer. “This reminds me of a ball some three years ago.” He squeezed her hands, willing her to understand. He was the same wild lad as before he left for the peninsula, despite the outward changes she saw. Wasn’t he?

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lily-george/captain-of-her-heart-42487709/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.