He hadn’t been able to do it, not even to please her.

“I’ll mourn in my own way,” Christopher had told her. “At a time of my choosing, not yours.”

“It’s not decent,” Mrs. Phelan said heatedly, “this lack of respect for him. Your brother deserves to be mourned, or at least be given a show of it, by the man who has profited so greatly by his death.”

Christopher had stared at her in disbelief. “I have profited?” he had repeated in a low voice. “You know I never gave a damn about inheriting Riverton. I would give everything I have, if it would bring him back. If I could have sacrificed my life to save his, I would have.”

“How I wish that had been possible,” she had said acidly, and they had ridden back to the house in silence.

And all the while, Christopher had wondered how many hours she had sat at John’s grave and wished that one son were in the place of the other.

John had been the perfect son, responsible and reliable. Christopher, however, had been the wilder, rougher son, sensual and reckless and careless. Like his father, William. Every time William had been caught up in some kind of scandal in London, often involving some other man’s wife, Mrs. Phelan had been cold and distant to Christopher, as if he had been the designated proxy of her unfaithful husband. When William Phelan died as a result of being thrown by a horse, it had been whispered in London that the only surprise was that he had not been shot by some outraged husband or father of one of the women he had debauched.

Christopher had been twelve at the time. In his father’s absence, he had gradually inhabited the role of wild-living rake. It seemed to have been expected of him. The truth was that he had reveled in the pleasures of the city, no matter that such enjoyments were fleeting and hollow. Being an army officer had been the perfect employment for him . . . he had found it enjoyable in every regard. Until, Christopher reflected with a grim, private smile, he’d actually been called to go to war.

Christopher had been far more effective in combat than he or anyone else had ever expected. And the more successful he’d become at bringing death to others, the more dead he had felt inside.

But there was Prudence. That was the only decent part of him left, the part that loved her. The thought of going to her filled him with agitation.

He still found it difficult to sleep, often waking up bolt upright in the middle of a nightmare. And there were moments in the day when he twitched at a sudden noise and found himself fumbling for a rifle that wasn’t there. But he was certain all of that would improve in time.

It had to.

Chapter Ten

Obviously there was no reason to hope for anything, where Christopher Phelan was concerned. Beatrix kept reminding herself of that fact. He wanted Prudence. Beautiful, golden-haired, conventional Prudence.

It was the first time in Beatrix’s life that she had wanted to be someone other than who she really was.

“I think you might be my only chance of becoming part of the world again . . .”

Perhaps Prudence, after all, was best suited to help Christopher. She was at ease with society in a way that Beatrix could never be. Very well. If that was best for him, Beatrix could not find it in her heart to blame him for that. The man had endured enough pain and hardship—Beatrix did not want to cause any further difficulties for him.

Except . . . she couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was like an illness. It was impossible for her to carry on as usual. She was constantly on the verge of tears. She felt feverish and fatigued and bereft of appetite. In fact, she had become so morose that Amelia had insisted on brewing a pot of sorrel tonic for her.

“You’re not yourself,” Amelia had said. “You’re usually so cheerful.”

“Why should I be cheerful if there’s no reason for it?” Beatrix had asked sullenly.

“Is there a reason to be miserable?”

Beatrix had longed to confide in her sister, but she had kept silent. There was nothing Amelia could do about the situation. Besides, telling a hundred people, a thousand, wouldn’t have made her feel any better. She was pining for a man she could never have, and she didn’t want to be told how ridiculous it was. She didn’t even want to stop pining. The desperate strength of her wanting was her one frail link with Christopher.

She was so obsessed with him that she had actually considered going to London for the rest of the season. She would be able to visit Audrey, and she would also be able to see Christopher. Except that she would also be forced to see him with Prudence . . . dancing, flirting, courting . . . and Beatrix was quite certain that she couldn’t bear that.

No, she would stay in Hampshire where she belonged.

Audrey had said that was a wise decision.

“He has changed, Bea, and not for the better. When Christopher first returned from the Crimea, I was so tempted to tell him the truth about the letters. That you were the one who had written to him, and not Prudence. But now I’m glad I didn’t. I wouldn’t want to encourage an attachment between you and Christopher. He’s not himself. He drinks more than he should. He’s easily startled. Sometimes he’ll hear or see something that isn’t there. And I know he’s not sleeping—I often hear him wandering through the house at night. But when I try to talk to him, he brushes my questions away as if I’m being silly. And sometimes a simple question—anything to do with the war, especially—sends him into a rage that he has difficulty controlling. I wonder . . .”

“What?” Beatrix whispered, wrenched with concern.