A SPANISH LULLABY
by
Emma Wildes
My Dearest Son,
I am so gratified to hear news of the end of this terrible conflict and the final triumph of our valiant soldiers. Everyone at Chedwick Hall cannot wait for your return. A celebration is the order of the day, as I am sure you agree. I expect you have not had much gaiety in Spain these four years. Praise to God you can return to us.
From the Duchess of Chedwick to her son, the Marquess de Santorino, upon hearing of Napoleon Bonaparte's defeat at the Battle of Waterloo Chapter 1
Chedwick Hall, Berkshire
1815
The house looked the same. Ivy-covered walls, the elegant stone façade imposing against the sweeping lawn of the park, the trees holding impossibly green summer leaves, the long drive well-maintained as he rode along.
He kept his horse at a slow walk in a deliberate attempt to put off the inevitable.
Odd. He wasn't a coward in battle. Of course, it depended on the enemy.
Carlos Verde guided his mount toward the stables, wanting to see to the stallion himself. They had come through four years of hell together and if anyone deserved to be cared for well, it was Cortez. The poor animal had been wounded more than once—actually they both seemed to have a knack for being in the line of fire. Even now Carlos slid from the saddle and stifled a wince.
His arm was usable, but far from healed. A stable boy ran forward to take the reins but Carlos said pleasantly, “I'll tend to him."
"Yes, my lord.” The lad was young, but not too young apparently to remember him. He stammered, “Wel-welcome home."
Home. That point was debatable. After all, he was half-Spanish and had significant holdings in his native land, not to mention a rich family history. Perhaps he had fought in the British Army, but he'd done so just as much for Spain as England. However, the rolling downs of Berkshire were where he was raised. “Thank you. Perhaps instead of tending my horse you could go up to the house to tell my mother of my arrival."
"Of course, sir.” The young man turned in the direction of the sprawling mansion. He hesitated a moment, swung around and then blurted out, “If you don't me saying so, my lord, bloody good show! We taught that strutting Corsican a thing or two now, didn't we?"
It had been bloody certainly, and nothing good about it except the grueling campaign had finally delivered a victory. But explaining that to a sixteen-year-old stable hand was probably futile, and besides, he'd ridden all the way from London and was tired as hell. Carlos murmured, “I suppose one can look at it that way. Please tell the duchess I will be up directly."
"I will, sir.” The boy hurried off.
He hadn't asked. Oh yes, he'd wanted to inquire in as detached a manner possible if Lady Juliet was in current residence. The last he knew she was in Bath with his step-aunt, her mother, but the post was notoriously slow and that information was months old. In her last communication, his mother hadn't mentioned her at all.
But the letter before that, well, he didn't particularly want to think about it. He'd gotten drunk the night after he read it, truly foxed perhaps for the first time in all four of those hellish years, and woken sick and ashamed and angry and a dozen other things the next day.
Of course the young lady in question was engaged. Certainly. Why not? She was beyond the age for it, actually, and not only beautiful and charming, but well-dowered. He hadn't seen her in four long years but somehow he doubted she'd grown less attractive and certainly the society bulletins in the letters he received indicated a dazzling success with the haute ton .
Golden hair, like silk under his fingers, soft lips parted beneath his, the warm feel of her breath against his cheek in a heated sigh...
It didn't matter that he still loved her. That he'd always loved her as long as he could remember.
She was going to belong to someone else.
With the ease of long habit, Carlos put up the saddle,
by
Emma Wildes
My Dearest Son,
I am so gratified to hear news of the end of this terrible conflict and the final triumph of our valiant soldiers. Everyone at Chedwick Hall cannot wait for your return. A celebration is the order of the day, as I am sure you agree. I expect you have not had much gaiety in Spain these four years. Praise to God you can return to us.
From the Duchess of Chedwick to her son, the Marquess de Santorino, upon hearing of Napoleon Bonaparte's defeat at the Battle of Waterloo Chapter 1
Chedwick Hall, Berkshire
1815
The house looked the same. Ivy-covered walls, the elegant stone façade imposing against the sweeping lawn of the park, the trees holding impossibly green summer leaves, the long drive well-maintained as he rode along.
He kept his horse at a slow walk in a deliberate attempt to put off the inevitable.
Odd. He wasn't a coward in battle. Of course, it depended on the enemy.
Carlos Verde guided his mount toward the stables, wanting to see to the stallion himself. They had come through four years of hell together and if anyone deserved to be cared for well, it was Cortez. The poor animal had been wounded more than once—actually they both seemed to have a knack for being in the line of fire. Even now Carlos slid from the saddle and stifled a wince.
His arm was usable, but far from healed. A stable boy ran forward to take the reins but Carlos said pleasantly, “I'll tend to him."
"Yes, my lord.” The lad was young, but not too young apparently to remember him. He stammered, “Wel-welcome home."
Home. That point was debatable. After all, he was half-Spanish and had significant holdings in his native land, not to mention a rich family history. Perhaps he had fought in the British Army, but he'd done so just as much for Spain as England. However, the rolling downs of Berkshire were where he was raised. “Thank you. Perhaps instead of tending my horse you could go up to the house to tell my mother of my arrival."
"Of course, sir.” The young man turned in the direction of the sprawling mansion. He hesitated a moment, swung around and then blurted out, “If you don't me saying so, my lord, bloody good show! We taught that strutting Corsican a thing or two now, didn't we?"
It had been bloody certainly, and nothing good about it except the grueling campaign had finally delivered a victory. But explaining that to a sixteen-year-old stable hand was probably futile, and besides, he'd ridden all the way from London and was tired as hell. Carlos murmured, “I suppose one can look at it that way. Please tell the duchess I will be up directly."
"I will, sir.” The boy hurried off.
He hadn't asked. Oh yes, he'd wanted to inquire in as detached a manner possible if Lady Juliet was in current residence. The last he knew she was in Bath with his step-aunt, her mother, but the post was notoriously slow and that information was months old. In her last communication, his mother hadn't mentioned her at all.
But the letter before that, well, he didn't particularly want to think about it. He'd gotten drunk the night after he read it, truly foxed perhaps for the first time in all four of those hellish years, and woken sick and ashamed and angry and a dozen other things the next day.
Of course the young lady in question was engaged. Certainly. Why not? She was beyond the age for it, actually, and not only beautiful and charming, but well-dowered. He hadn't seen her in four long years but somehow he doubted she'd grown less attractive and certainly the society bulletins in the letters he received indicated a dazzling success with the haute ton .
Golden hair, like silk under his fingers, soft lips parted beneath his, the warm feel of her breath against his cheek in a heated sigh...
It didn't matter that he still loved her. That he'd always loved her as long as he could remember.
She was going to belong to someone else.
With the ease of long habit, Carlos put up the saddle,
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