Prologue

Prologue

"It is a hot June day, is it not?"

Ernest gasped as he trudged through tents erected across the battlefield. War was brewing on the horizon, and nobody knew when it would arrive. They were little under two weeks into the summer month, and it seemed every man held his breath on the battlefield, eyes on the horizon, waiting for the cries of war to come for them.

Graham Courtenay, a fellow army surgeon and Ernest's apprentice, tugged on his high-collared greenish-brown uniform jacket, kept relatively clean, thanks to their aprons they'd left back in the field hospital.

"Indeed," Graham muttered. "I am tired of the blood, and the war has not even begun."

Several soldiers had already been injured. Scouts and messengers caught in the crosshairs were sent back with limbs hanging on by a thread and gouges in their muscles and bodies, messages sent in blood on paper. It was unthinkable.

"Do you think the war might even begin?" Ernest could not help asking as they walked through the hard ground in Waterloo. "It has been several days now, and there has been sight nor sound of the French. Perhaps we have been called to war for nothing."

Graham snorted. "That is wishful thinking." He frowned. "I am sure the French only wish to keep us waiting. They are a pompous lot; are they not?"

Ernest grunted, not quite agreeing nor disagreeing. He was not there to play politics, only to treat the wounded under the obligation of being called to service. He was following in his father's footsteps—a physician for the king, in what was said to be a great battle and an even greater victory.

Dread and excitement filled the air, anxiety lingering among the fields.

"Still, I suppose Archibald shall be glad to see our mangy faces."

Ernest could not help laughing. The battlefield was already too grim not to take a light-hearted moment when it was to be found. They made their way to the tent occupied by Viscount Archibald White, who served as a captain for the king's army. It was closed, but a soft candlelight emanated from the large blue tent.

"He is no doubt anxiously poring over those maps," Graham muttered. "He shall be seeing the lay of the land in his sleep if he is not careful."

"Perhaps that is what he wishes for."

Several men walked out as they approached, inclining their heads to Ernest and Graham. Ernest recognized one—the Duke of Colchester, whom he had seen at a spring ball only three months ago. The man had danced a wonderful quadrille with a lady in the scandal sheet the following day. He had been somewhat upset over it, yet to Ernest's knowledge, they had married. Now, the man strode out, stone-faced, a general, ready to lead his troops at the first call of war. He shuddered at the insanity of it. Ernest was a healer, not a fighter, and he was glad for his father's gifts for being a medic.

"Knock, knock, old man," Graham called out as they entered the viscount's tent.

He is a captain now, Ernest reminded himself. That is all he is now. Until we … return.

He cast one more look back out at the empty field, frowning, before he ducked inside.

The tent was indeed lit up by candlelight, and the scent of rum filled the room.

"Good evening," Archibald said, nodding his head at them. He had a strong face and piercing ice-blue eyes that looked right through a man as if he could immediately assess everything in his field of sight. "How was the hospital?"

"Hard," Graham muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Archibald glanced at Ernest, who nodded. "Hard. But it is our job, and we are proud to serve in the king's army in such ways, are we not, Graham?"

"Most proud," his assistant muttered. "But yes. Indeed, it is an honour."

"Well, I have just finished up my meeting. We have assessed the land. General Whittingham is moving some of his troops to higher land for a better vantage point. He thinks the French shall strike any moment now."

As if to prove a point, the air went silent, and they strained to listen for gunfire. None came, and they all visibly relaxed. It was possible, even if it felt foolish.

"It seems God is looking kindly upon us at this moment." Archibald laughed. "Men, tomorrow, we might go to war good and proper. We might lift our rifles and tend to broken bodies or cover up the dead, and we might serve our country. But tonight, we drink, and we remember." The captain's face was bright and optimistic. "But most of all, we shall think of the day we return to our loved ones."

"Oh, here he goes," Graham said. "Do not make me listen to one more sonnet about your beautiful betrothed."

"Do not mock me, boy." Archibald laughed. "For I have power back in London and on the battlefield. Perhaps you would like to empty the chamber pots for the soldiers in the trenches?"

"I am content to listen to you talk about your betrothed, General." He cleared his throat, nodding his faux agreeance. "Do go on."

Ernest coughed to cover up a snicker as Archibald pulled up three glasses and poured them each a serving of rum. "Lady Samantha is rather beautiful, is she not? Only many weeks ago, she wore a delightful pink gown to the last ball of the season. It was quite a spectacle. I could scarcely pull my gaze from her. She is very generous with her time, and I cannot wait to promenade with her once again. Oh, those eyes. And her dark hair. It spills like night down her back. Her eyes are the beacons upon which I am guided by in my darkest of days."

Graham groaned as Archibald got louder.

"I am loathe to think I did not have the chance to marry her before we were called to service," Archibald lamented. "But she will make a fine wife and mother to our future little viscount."

He spoke so fondly of his betrothed, and Ernest could not help smiling.

"Her smile speaks of mystery as if she is always holding a secret to her chest that she cannot wait to confess. And her skin … My, every doll maker in the world must be envious, for she is porcelain. A beautiful lady I should not be worthy of, but she makes me feel as though I might just be."

"Archibald, are you drunk or love drunk?" Graham teased, laughing boisterously. "You fool."

As the captain poured more rum into their glasses, some splashed on Graham, who merely wiped at the stain with little care.

"I must say, I would have a thousand glasses of wine spilled on me at one of the marriage-minded mama's balls back in London than see one more smear of blood on my apron," Graham muttered as they all lifted their glasses.

"Hear, hear," Ernest answered.

"A toast, men," Archibald said. "To winning this battle and returning home so Graham shall be drowned in wine."

"Hear, hear!" Graham toasted, and they all drank.

After Ernest swallowed, he winced, recalling all those social events. "Although, I must admit, aside from the circumstances in which we are here, I am glad for the reprieve from those mamas." He shuddered. "They are insufferable, are they not?"

"They parade their daughters around like peacocks!" Graham exclaimed. He had already taken some of the vodka they gave to injured soldiers to ease their pain and was quite boisterous in his volume. "And yes, they are beautiful, but some are just dull. I am sorry that I do not care to hear the fifth woman tell me her skills include three languages and an instrument. That bores me. In the end, they all blend into one unpleasant stretch of a future."

"Be glad you are not a viscount, then," Archibald said, laughing. "I promise it would be far worse. They flock and swoon."

"But you are betrothed," Ernest pointed out.

"Indeed I am." Archibald smiled. "And the first thing I shall do upon my return is marry the beautiful Lady Samantha."

"Another toast?" Ernest suggested.

"Another toast." Archibald refilled their glasses, and as they prepared to toast and have the tang of rum chase away the day's fatigue, Ernest couldn't help thinking of his own future.

"Perhaps we should toast to you finding your own wife, Ernest," Graham suggested.

"And perhaps I shall toast to you doing most of the cleaning tomorrow, then," he joked in return, gesturing with his glass.

"I am with Graham on this," the viscount countered. "This battle cannot deprive you of the chance to find a wife. You are not content alone, nor should you suffer the Ton's judgement any longer simply because your mother made a decision they did not agree with."

Ernest nodded distantly.

"What sort of woman would you wish to meet?" Graham's question came after he had drunk their toast portion before pouring another glass.

Ernest paused, thinking. "Oh," he said, squinting. "Well. I must admit … I do not know for sure, but there are some traits I would seek over others. A clever woman. For me, intelligence is key. Now, I would love her to know a couple of languages, something that would really catch me off-guard."

Archibald nodded, stroking his moustache as if in thought of someone he might know who would match Ernest's very short list.

"I would like her to be independent," Ernest admitted and received two laughs in response from his friends. "It is a fine thing to want!"

"Of course, but … Well, you said yourself, the mamas are rather insufferable. They practically make their girls lack independence and then expect them to run a household. It is rather barbaric! So, we shall have to put that down as a lesser priority."

Ernest shrugged. "Okay, well … Perhaps I would like some brave, no-nonsense sort of woman. Someone who would not agree with everything I say with a doe-eyed look in her eyes but would debate with me good and proper. She could possibly have a very unladylike interest. Say, law, for example."

"Law?" Graham exclaimed. "Ernest, I fear I hope you shall not meet this girl, for I might fall asleep when you host dinner parties."

"Oh, do not listen to Graham. I do hope you find such a woman. You shall be hard-pressed, but I hope you do find her. A toast: to the Earl of Bannerdown finding his countess." The two other men cheered as they drank their rum, but Ernest's thoughts lingered on Archibald using his title.

Earl of Bannerdown.

He much preferred Army surgeon Ernest Barnes, medic in the king's army. For that was where his passion in life lay: in helping others. Two weeks prior, he had received a visit from a crown barrister, who informed Ernest of his uncle's death—alongside their heir to the Bannerdown fortune. The title and estate had been passed onto him. Once the war was over, Ernest would not return to his normal life, where the Ton was of little importance to him. He would return to life as an earl.

He glanced at the opening of the tent, half wishing the war would end and half wishing it would not. For he did not know if he could continue such a title. Besides that, he would need to find a wife, especially now. But romance was the furthest thing from his mind.

The Countess of Bannerdown. Who would she be? How would she feel to inherit such a title? No doubt she would love it, as would her mama. He thought of every marquess and duke above him to whom he would be compared. His title ranked him above even the viscount. Archibald was above him as a captain in this tent, but back in London, it would be him above Archibald.

The thought was sobering, so he poured another glass of rum. He did not wish for responsibility. He wished for freedom and the ability to continue his work as a medic, but he would have to give that up.

"Well, men," Archibald said when the rum was almost two-thirds gone. "We do not know what shall start—or end—this war. Be it casualties or victory, I shall be honoured to return to London with you both as my friends and comrades."

"Indeed," Graham answered. "It is an honour to serve with you both, and I look forward to when we are back in those ballrooms, wishing we were on the battlefield."

"At least the alcohol shall be better," Archibald joked, looking at them both. "I shall woo My Lady Samantha with my tales of bravery—"

"—and Ernest shall woo his prospective wife with his tales of heroic dealings."

He grimaced. "Men, I shall learn the dance of war before I understand the intricacies of marriage as an earl."

"It is rather easy," Graham said. "As we said, the ladies will simply flock to you."

"I am not a tossed piece of bread for birds to peck at," Ernest grumbled. "Besides, it is not just romance that I must think of. My cousin, Matthew, the deceased heir, had a daughter who survived. She is ten and six years old, and I shall be her guardian."

"Oh, heavens help her, then," Graham teased. Ernest just shook his head, but he agreed.

"Two female adjustments, then," Archibald added. "A wife and a ward. That makes a good family, does it not?"

"Not," Ernest muttered. "I fear there shall not be enough wine in London to help me through it all. How do I speak to her since all the family she knows is dead, and I shall be her new guardian? And that it will not be her father presenting her to suitors but me. She might despise me."

"She might." Graham nodded, and Ernest swatted him over the head with a laugh. Together, the men all pushed through the tent's entrance, breathing in the thick, earthy smell of the field. "But for now, we are in arms with one another, serving our king."

"Indeed," Archibald answered. "One last toast." He disappeared inside to get the rum.

Ernest made the toast this time as their glasses were refilled. "To returning home as one."

Their glasses clinked, and they finished their drinks, toasted to the hope—and dread—of new horizons together.