Page 26 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“I shouted at you like you were a wayward soldier in my regiment.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I tend to lose my composure when I see a lady walking into an open flame.”

Helena’s gaze dropped briefly to the burns on the side of his neck and jaw. He’d said he had been flayed alive by rebel sepoys. She wasn’t entirely certain what that meant, but if it was half as horrible as it sounded, then it was no wonder he had a healthy respect for the destructive power of fire.

“I’m sorry if I hurt your arm,” he said. “I didn’t intend—”

“Don’t. There’s really no need.”

“I think there is.”

“No,” she said. “In fact, I’d as soon we forgot this whole episode. That is…unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“About what?”

“Marrying me.”

He huffed. As if the mere idea amused him somehow. “No.” And then again, more emphatically, “No. But if you’re having second thoughts—”

“I’m not,” Helena said swiftly. “Truly, I’m not.” She forced a tremulous smile, hoping she looked braver than she felt. “Indeed, as far as I’m concerned, tomorrow can’t come fast enough.”

By the time Justin arrived back at the Abbey, the rain had started again. The wind was high and the sky was fast becoming gray. His horse, a raw-boned stallion called Hiran, stamped with impatience as he dismounted and led him into the stone stable. It was warm and dry there, the smell of fresh hay permeating the air.

Neville was mucking out one of the loose boxes. He came to the door as Justin entered, a pitchfork clutched in one brawny hand. “Does he want his mash?”

Justin proceeded to remove Hiran’s bridle and saddle. “He’s earned it.”

Neville cast aside his pitchfork and departed for the feed room.

“Where the devil is Danvers?” Justin called after him.

“Sleeping,” Neville called back.

Justin scowled. Sleeping off the drink, more like.

Between the coachman and the cook, it was a miracle there was a drop of alcohol left in the place. He had half a mind to give them both the sack. Then again, he was unlikely to find servants willing to replace them. Not in this part of the world, at least. Even worse, if he let the pair of them go, there was every chance they’d end up in the workhouse.

No matter. He preferred looking after Hiran himself. The handsome chestnut had belonged to one of his captors in India. He’d been in the nature of a parting gift. A measure of compensation, dispensed on the day the British recaptured Cawnpore.

It had been nearly one month after the tragic events at Sati Chaura Ghat. When the soldiers raided Nana Sahib’s palace, they’d found Justin there, chained to a dungeon wall. He’d been filthy and weak, the burns on his neck and sides festering for lack of care. After freeing him, the soldiers had gone through the palace and grounds, seizing everything of value. They’d taken the horses, camels, and elephants. And, when they were done, they had burned the palace to the ground.

It had been Hiran who’d carried Justin back to the safety of the British camp.

In the days that followed, no one had stepped forward to stake an opposing claim to the stallion. Indeed, no one had stepped forward to say much of anything at all. The camp doctor had treated Justin as best he could in grim silence, dabbing salve onto his burns and dosing him with laudanum. The weight of his judgment had been present in every touch.

Justin had returned to England less than three months later, Hiran in tow.

He was a fine horse with a valiant heart. He was also a constant reminder of what had happened in India. An equine albatross, Finchley had called him.

“You torture yourself more effectively than those sepoys ever could,” he often said.

Finchley was an endless fount of wisdom. Full of advice for everyone else, all the while he hid himself away in that office of his, buried in his dusty law books and briefs.

It would serve him right if some well-meaning friend submitted a matrimonial advertisement on his behalf.

Justin carried Hiran’s bridle and saddle to the tack room and retrieved two stiff brushes. When he returned, he set to work on Hiran’s coat, removing the mud and sweat with long, brisk strokes. As he brushed, his thoughts drifted from Finchley’s hypothetical matrimonial advertisement to the stark reality of his own impending marriage.

Not that he’d been thinking of much else lately.

He’d tossed and turned all night, knowing that in only a few more days he would have Helena Reynolds in his house and in his bed and wondering why in God’s name she’d chosen to marry him of all men.