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Brat? She was not a brat anymore, she was a woman, and a very beautiful woman at that, more so because of her unusual colouring.
It was all he could do not to stare at her with his mouth agape. He tried to react in some polite way, and smiled, suddenly recalling one of Nerissa’s youthful misdeeds.
“Nerissa? Was it you who hid inside your brother Kevin’s portmanteau, because you wanted to come with us when we went to our hunting lodge near Cottesmore? And did we not discover you because you sneezed? Do you remember, Charles?”
Nerissa had not heard a single word.
Hunter’s sudden appearance had completely stunned her.
All her childhood emotions flooded back, crowding her mind, amplified with new meaning and significance. A rosy blush washed upon her face as she dared to smile back.
“She’s not a child anymore, Hunter,” broke in Alyse.
”She is a dear friend to us all, and I really don’t know how we would have managed without her. She is a sensible young woman, with a good head on her shoulders, and she gave us invaluable help when Mother was so ill after…” Alyse’s voice faltered “…after the accident…”
Hunter looked at his family: his sisters, pretty, vivacious, eager to try out their wings during the London Season, his mother, with her gentle face marked by loss and sorrow, his brother, suddenly scowling and dark browed, and the enchanting stranger in their midst. He felt rather like he had stepped into the centre of a whirlwind.
Suddenly he felt mortally tired, in dire need of rest and solitude.
He went to his mother and kissed her gently on her cheek.
“Will you please excuse me, Mother? I have had a long and tiring journey and I’m much fatigued. I believe that, if you will forgive me, I will have a bath drawn and a tray sent to my room. I am not really up to a formal supper. Tomorrow, we can all begin to catch up.”
“But of course, my dear. How thoughtless of me not having foreseen your needs… my happiness at seeing you again quite overwhelmed me. I have not all my wits about me, I’m sure… Jermyn, please, see His Grace to his apartments and make sure that his valet attends him.”
“Yes, my lady. Please follow me, Your Grace.”
To his chagrin, Jermyn did not lead Hunter to his bachelor’s quarters as he had unthinkingly expected, but to his father’s apartments.
That was the precise moment at which the full import of his new condition crashed in upon him like a dark and overwhelming wave.
He was the Duke of Melton.
Not his father, nor his elder brother, both now dead after a freak carriage accident. Himself.
He had not wanted it, he had not coveted it, truth to tell, he had no idea how to go about being a Duke, but there it was, with all its implications and obligations, including the need to marry, and to sire heirs to the title.
It was like a bad dream, but it was not going to disappear at dawn.
Chapter Two
Hunter rode along a rutted track, across a barren and ravaged landscape, under a dark and menacing sky. The stench of burned and rotting flesh, of death and decay was all pervading, a leaden overcoat on his shoulders. Far away, one could hear the great, long-distance artillery guns roaring, more like a muted vibration than a real noise.
Around him, there was nothing but destruction - bloated carcasses, untended fields, ruined buildings and skeletal trees - where once cattle had grazed, wheat had ripened and orchards had blossomed. Suddenly something, a white rag fluttering in the rank wind, half-hidden by the ditch, attracted his attention. He was drawn toward it, almost without volition, but stopped dead in horror when he was near enough to see.
Beatriz lay lifeless, among rubble and sundry discarded items, her skin beaten and bruised with the imprint of vicious hands, her body broken and bloody, her mouth still half open in a hopeless scream, her lovely dark eyes fixed, and staring in a desperate appeal into the eternity of death.
Beatriz. His love.
Beatriz, on whose grave he had cried until his throat was raw. Beatriz, whom war had wrenched from him and who had died alone, in shame and terror, ravished by French troops in rout after the battle of Vitoria.
Beatriz, one of the countless casualties of war.
Suddenly, something shifted, and a flickering image of another face, in a soft green and golden light, like a sunbeam on new leaves, flashed into his mind, and broke the grip of the dream.
Hunter woke, drenched in cold sweat, lurching to his feet, his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. At first, he stood bewildered, unable to recognise his surroundings, still gripped by the horror of his recurring nightmare, then, gradually, he calmed down, his heartbeat steadied and his anguish receded.
It was not real. He had never seen Beatriz like that, he had only seen her grave, been told of her death. He did not know, could never know, how terrible that death had been – but his imagination was all too able to present him with the ghastly possibilities. As it did – almost every night.
