Henry looked up at her, and she managed a little smile. “Henry, we can never know how our actions will turn out. We can only guess.”
“But I made such terrible mistakes,” he faltered. She could not have understood the significance of what he told her.
“We all make mistakes, Henry,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast. The thumb of one hand rubbed over the third finger of the other, precisely where she would wear a wedding ring. “If you knew my own past errors—well, I hope you know that I’d never think less of you for what you see as your faults.”
“But my arm…” He stepped close to her again, within reach, but he did not touch her.
“Yes, your arm,” she repeated. Her eyes flicked up and met his, suddenly hard. “What of it? If you could have waited in agony for heaven knows how long on the chance a surgeon would turn up, then your arm might be fine today. Or maybe it would not.”
He stared at her, stony. She didn’t understand; he’d disappointed himself. The army was his, not his brother’s. Not anyone else’s. His captaincy was his responsibility alone, and he had ended his stint in failure. His arm was a daily reminder of that.
Maybe that was why he’d been so determined to make a success of his life in London. He needed something to make him feel whole again.
“Well,” he said quietly. “Thank you for listening to my sordid little tale. I do appreciate your time.” At least she hadn’t been horrified. Only pitying.
Though maybe that was worse.
He turned toward the doorway, ready to leave.
“Henry, wait. Please.”
Reluctantly, he pivoted toward her. Her olive-tinted face was pale, her cheeks a hectic pink. Those lips, the dark rose of a madder pigment he could never again mix and mill with ease, were slightly curved. The expression looked sad somehow.
“Please, listen to me, Henry. I don’t mean to belittle your loss. Only to say—such things happen during war. Terrible things happen to good men, and there’s not always any way to prevent them. Even Wellington lost soldiers. It’s not right, and it’s not easy. It just… is.”
“Yes,” he said dully. “I know all of that. But don’t you see, it wasn’t chance. It was because of my own carelessness that they were killed. It was my fault.”
“So you’ve said. If you’d noticed the lancers and called for your men to retreat, don’t you think the French would have pursued?”
He stilled. The stone block of his body began to soften, deep inside. “I don’t know. I suppose… they might have.”
She nodded. “They might have. We can’t know. Or if you hadn’t gone to the ball, maybe things wouldn’t have gone differently after all. Maybe the lancers were very well hidden. Or maybe you did the best you could with the orders you were given. Maybe if Wellington hadn’t gone to the ball and danced his feet off, he would have found a stronger place to make a stand than Quatre Bras.”
Maybe. Maybe. Something inside the stone-Henry crumbled at the sound of that word. It was a possibility word; a possibility that simple accident, simple bad luck, had killed his men. He would give his right arm to think that was true, that their deaths weren’t his fault.
He had already given his right arm—another accident, more bad luck. Maybe… it was nothing worse than that. The loss would be bearable if it was not a reminder of lives thrown away, if it was his loss alone to bear and overcome.
Frances spoke on, her voice as quiet as a morning birdsong. “All through the war, Henry, terrible things happened, and lives were lost or saved on the slimmest of chances. Maybe if my late husband, Charles, had simply been able to slog through a swamp day after summer day without coming down with Walcheren fever, he would never have sickened and died. Or a bullet might have killed him instead. Or if I had been different myself, he need never have left me at all. He would never have wanted to.”
She turned her face toward the window, as though the outside world held some answers for all her unknowns. The high-slanting remnants of morning sun found her profile, gilded her skin, and picked out bright tints in her hair. Henry forgot to think in colors; he only let himself look at her—proud as ever, and limned like an earthy angel.
Somehow, it lessened his pain to know he wasn’t the only one who hurt.
Inappropriately, this talk of her long-dead husband made him want to touch her, stroke her, kiss her until she forgot the man.
He settled for a bit of comfort. “You cannot think that your husband went to war because he did not love you enough to stay.”
“Maybe.” That word again. Frances’s mouth twisted up at one corner, though it was not a smile. “No, I suppose he went because he felt he had to. Because we are all human, and we must all eat and drink and have the means to live. And we cannot live in agony.”
With a swift, decisive shake of her skirts, she stood and grasped both of his hands across the swooping back of the sofa. “Henry, you enjoyed the familiar pleasure of a ball during war. This does not mean you should never have pleasure again. And you asked the soldier to help with your arm because you could not imagine living in pain.”
She rubbed her fingers over his right hand, and he almost thought he could feel it, so starved was he for touch. “I’m glad you did. I could not wish for you to live in pain either.”
“And I would not wish it for you,” he said hoarsely.
“So we do the best with what we have,” she said. “We carry on even though our lives alter.”
“Simple as that,” he murmured.
“Oh, there’s nothing simple about it.” She dropped his hands and pressed hers together tightly in front of her chest. “Sometimes it seems like the hardest thing in the world. But what else is there to do?”
Now it was her turn to move about the room, fidgeting with the blotter on the desk, giving vases of flowers a little twist so the brightest blooms would face forward.
Just think of who makes you happy.
That’s what there was to do.
Two steps brought him behind her, only a breath away from her tall body. She faced the orpiment-yellow wall, seemingly studying the painting of the hunting scene, but she knew he had drawn close. He could tell by the way her shoulders tensed, her head turned a fraction to the side.
“Frances.” His voice still sounded hoarse, as though the name itself was weighty on his lips. A few loose strands of her hair danced in the heat of his exhale. He rested his left hand on the wall, circling her as much as he could with his body.
His right arm hung motionless, of course; he couldn’t encircle her completely. She could escape if she wished.
But she didn’t even try. She simply turned around and tilted her face up to him, so they were almost nose-to-nose. “Henry.”
The movement of her lips as she spoke his name, the quick sweep of her lashes as she blinked only inches away—these were bits of everyday magic, wrapping him in a spell of peace. The whisper of her breath was warm on his face, the slight movement of air a promise. A beginning.
It was easy, within the spell, to lower his head, to brush her lips with his own. It was a gentle question.
Her answer was immediate. Her mouth was hot on his, her hands swift as they slid up his chest and gripped his shoulders.
“Mmmm.” A sudden nervous laugh tried to escape his throat, and he lifted his mouth from hers.
He breathed deeply, trying to banish the sudden weakness in his knees. She fidgeted, so he slid his left hand to her upper arm and rested his forehead atop her dark hair.
Inhaling the clean scent of her hair, all sweet citrus and soap, and the warmer smell of a woman’s skin. One breath at a time.
“What is it?” She wiggled her head so she could fix him with those clear eyes, so true and honest. He would not hurt her with an excuse, making her feel as if she were not good enough.