Chapter Two

Davenport Hall—Devonshire

E dgar Davenport, formerly the Earl of Hatchley, awoke with a start. When he slept, nightmares of the war plagued him. Men dying. Crying desperately for their mothers. Bleeding into the soil, limbs mangled, holes shot through them.

He should be grateful he was fortunate enough to come back to the green peace of England after six years on the battlefront. Those years, though, had aged Hatch. Ruined him beyond repair. Even now, guilt flowed through him, knowing that he had left good soldiers behind, ones who had followed him into battle without regard to life or limb.

War was hell. It should be outlawed. It ate a man's soul alive, leaving an empty shell.

Of course, his return had been because his father died, the only event which would have caused Hatch to return home. Take up his title. Look after the tenants at Davenport Hall and the other ducal estates scattered about the country.

And to hope that Evie might have waited for him.

He'd come straight to Devonshire once news of his father's death in September reached him. The letter caught up to Hatch, who'd been constantly on the move the following April, after Wellington had captured Badajoz. He'd requested an audience with Wellington himself, informing his commander of the Duke of Wentworth's death. Wellington had studied Hatch a long moment before telling him Godspeed and sending him back to England.

Duty lay heavily upon him, knowing no one had taken up the mantle of the duke for many months. While every estate manager on each of the ducal properties was experienced and held in high esteem, Hatch had wanted to personally come first to Davenport Hall. Then he traveled to his other estates, staying at each a few days, making certain the transition of authority had gone smoothly and everyone was cared for.

By the time he'd visited each estate and returned to Davenport Hall, the Season was almost over. He'd written his mother and brother, telling them of his plans when he arrived home. He'd never been especially close to either, preferring the company of David and Evie, who seemed more like family to him. In his letter to his mother, he had inquired about Lord and Lady Valwood, along with their children. He learned all four were in excellent health and that Lady Valwood was lamenting the fact that her daughter had yet to wed.

Evie had written to Hatch four times over the years since they'd parted. When she'd promised to do so, he hadn't thought much of it. Evie wasn't one for reading and writing, preferring to be out on the land. The fact she had written that many times touched him. He carried her letters inside his scarlet regimental coat, close to his heart.

Hatch had always loved Evie. He had never spoken those words to her, however. She was six years his junior, on the cusp of womanhood and yet still a child when he went away to the Continent and war. It would have been unfair to burden her with a proclamation, declaring his love for her. At the same time, Evie was practical to the bone. To her, love was nothing but nonsense. He'd hoped one day, though, he could come home and tell her of his feelings for her. Now that she was a woman, still unwed, he prayed that she might give him a chance.

He didn't deserve her. No man did. Evie was sunshine and happiness. And while Hatch might now be a powerful and wealthy duke, he was scarred, both physically and in his soul. His cheek now bore a scar. Half the length of his index finger, a painful reminder of a brief tangle with a French bastard Hatch had dispatched to Hell. Inside him was a black chaos, swirling, making him restless.

Evie could ground him. Evie might give him hope. Evie would show him the way to a better tomorrow.

For the both of them.

That is, if she hadn't accepted a marriage proposal during the last part of the Season. Even Hatch knew how after weeks of social activities, a sudden rush to the church occurred between many couples. Some were men trying to neatly tie up a dowry of the lady they had wooed during the Season. Some betrothals were urged by parents, wanting to see their sons and daughters in a state of matrimony. A few engagements, he supposed, might be actual love matches, men and women who had fallen in love with one another and chose to spend the rest of their lives together in bliss.

He wouldn't hold out hope that Evie hadn't become betrothed. If she had, it was what was meant to be. After all, she had told him she would take three Seasons and then enter matrimony with an agreeable fellow. But if she hadn't chosen a husband—if no one had caught her fancy—then perhaps, scar and all, he might have a chance to make his case to her for why she should become his duchess.

Instead of riding, as he usually did upon rising, Hatch decided to go for a walk. The bridge between his estate and Valwood Park called to him. It had been the last place he had seen Evie, and his thoughts drove him there.

Much to his surprise, he saw a figure at the center of the bridge. As he drew closer, he realized it was a woman. Then he halted in his tracks.

It was Evie . . .

Heart racing, Hatch forced one foot in front of the other, moving silently toward her. She leaned, elbows on the rail, her palms nestled against her cheeks, waiting for the sun to appear.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said, his deep voice breaking the quiet.

Startled, she swung around, facing him. Hatch caught his breath, gazing at her.

Evie Eastfield had grown into a lovely woman. Her caramel hair fell to her waist. Those moss green eyes loomed large in a face of delicate beauty. Her lips parted, and all he wanted to do was latch on to her and drink from them.

"Hatch! You scared me! I mean, Your Grace," she corrected, casting her eyes down.

His finger went to her chin, tilting it up until their eyes met. "I never knew Evie Eastfield to be afraid of anything."

Her throaty laugh caused desire to shoot through him. He made his finger fall away, wishing he could smooth it against the curve of her jaw.

"I am still afraid of grass snakes," she admitted. "Added to that are women of the ton who speak as adders." She shivered.

"You did not find Polite Society to your liking?" he asked, catching the faint scent of lavender coming off her skin.

Wrinkling her nose, Evie said, "I did make a few lovely friends. Unfortunately, they all wed the moment they received a marriage proposal. What I was left with were some very mean acquaintances, Hatch. I mean, Your Grace."

"None of that, Evie," Hatch commanded. "We are old friends. I am still Hatch to you, I hope."

"I still think of you that way. Or Colonel Davenport. Your father passed along news to mine of your rise in rank."

"Do I hear you chastising me in your tone? Because I did not write to you."

She sniffed. "I didn't think you would. You practically told me you wouldn't. And yet I did hope I would hear from you at some point. I do understand that chasing Bonaparte and his allies kept you quite busy, though." Now, her tone was teasing.

Taking her hand, Hatch said, "I would have written if I had anything I could have said to you, Evie."

"You wrote your parents. Your brother. David twice."

"Yes, a handful of letters which said nothing." He paused, their gazes meeting. "I told them a few amusing stories about my fellow officers or my men. But you? I could never have lied to you." Hatch swallowed. "War is deplorable, Evie. It's the greatest blight mankind ever saw. I was miserable the entire time, knowing my death could come any moment as I led men into battle. I hated every minute of it. If I had written you, that is what I would have said, and I would not have had you worry about me."

She squeezed his fingers. "That awful?"

"Violent death always is. I saw my fair share of it. It changed me. I am hollow inside now. Part of me feels guilty because I survived when so many others lost their lives. Another part rejoiced at the news of my father's death because I knew I would be freed from the bonds of war, something I took on willingly, having no idea of its true horrors."

With her free hand, the pad of her thumb touched his scar. "And this?"

"A never-ending reminder of my foolishness. I was so idealistic, Evie. I went to fight for honor. Glory. I thought it was the right thing, the only thing, and I was meant to lead men." He laughed harshly. "All it did was break me. Damage my soul beyond repair."

He was telling her this because she needed to know. He was broken. Flawed. Cynical. She was still so lovely. Fresh. Untouched. Unmarked by the sights and sounds he had endured.

Her hand fell from his face. She pulled her other hand from his. Standing on tiptoe, she placed her hands on his shoulders.

"You saw the harsh realities of war, Hatch. You survived. I know you did good while you were away. You are a man men trust. I'm certain your soldiers adored you." She squeezed hard. "But you are home now. Leave it to others to fight this war. Somehow, some way, Bonaparte shall be defeated. And you will have been a part of that effort."

Smiling up at him, she added, "In the meantime, you are come home to us. A duke, no less. You will make for a fine one. While your father was conscientious, you are a man apart. You will care for your tenants as no Duke of Wentworth has before now. You will keep old traditions and start new ones." Her eyes grew serious. "You will never forget what you saw, Hatch, but you will learn to set it aside. Close the door on it. Live your life here in peace."

Evie released her hold on him. He caught her hands, bringing them to his lips and tenderly kissing them, causing color to rise in her cheeks.

"Thank you. You have always been wise beyond your years. I value our friendship."

His throat grew thick. Hatch wanted to say more, but the words seemed to stick. He realized he needed to give her time to accept he was back. Grow used to his company again. Even watch to see if his scar was off-putting. Once he determined if things could be good between them, he would then speak his mind to her.

Or stay forever silent.

Her radiant smile bolstered him, though. For the first time since his first engagement in battle, he felt like the old Hatch. Hope sprang within him.

"I treasure our friendship, as well. And I have news for you. Something which I hope will make you happy. We are soon to be related, Hatch."

Confusion filled him. "What . . . do you mean?"

"Elias and I are betrothed. We plan to wed at the beginning of October."