Page 13 of For The Love Of A Widow

The young, impressionable woman who’d left him—and England—was no more.

The angry, hurt, and lost lady before him was unfamiliar.

A stranger.

Lettie was gone. Even Lady Colette, as she was properly addressed, had disappeared.

Before him sat a woman he didn’t know. Yet, he desired to know her…had to know her, at least enough to vanquish the sorrow from her eyes.

But how was he to do that if every time he spoke, his words were met with anguish and fury?

“Lettie,” he whispered to the woman before him, only familiar in appearance. “What happened to you?” He poured every speck of concern he had into those words as he trained a tender stare on her. Something awful had happened, something had changed her—and he wasn’t sure it was for the better.

“Gregory is dead.” She brought her hands to cover her mouth as if surprised she’d spoken.

“Dead, Lettie?” He shook his head to do away with his confusion. “I am so deeply sorry for your loss.”

It was then Daniel realized the change from optimism and light was not a hardening of her, but rather a spiral into despair and sadness. Her dark garb should have alerted him to her reason for returning to London.

“Thank you for your sympathy, your grace,” she sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders as her posture turned inward. “But there is so much more than the loss of Gregory. There are men dying every day during battle, and not only from wounds obtained during combat, but also from disease, famine, and…heartbreak. Women and children are left without their husbands and fathers. At least I was fortunate enough to travel with the man I loved for six years. There are many who will never know the fate of their loved one.”

She tugged her bonnet from her head and ran her fingers through her shorn locks, massaging the back of her neck.

Knowing the fate of a loved one who never returns from war is far different than knowing and having to deal with the loss. Avoiding a known truth is harder than remaining blissfully unaware.

Lettie may be conflicted about how to come to terms with everything, but Daniel was utterly baffled. She seemed to find more compassion for those lost during battle, but neglected to fully explore and heal from the loss of her husband.

“Why did your parents not send a carriage for you?”

“I was unable to send word of my homecoming until we reached port in Dover,” she confessed. “I used what little coin Gregory and I had managed to save over the years—and the few funds given to me by the other soldiers—to purchase my seat on the stagecoach. My funds did not allow to me find lodging for an extended period of time.”

“I am happy you arrived safely, and I am certain your parents will be, as well.” Even after all these years—all the hurt he’d suffered when she’d begged him to break their betrothal agreement so she could wed Gregory and depart with the soldier—he was happy to have her near again. “Your journey must have been harrowing. A hot bath and a warm meal surely await you at Carrolton Hall.” He glanced out the window. “It is not far now.”

No matter what Daniel had seen in the past year—the things he should have stopped—it was nothing compared to the horrors Lettie was burdened by. Carnage and death impacted a person.

Daniel had seen enough of death, and he fully understood the weight it left on a person’s shoulders. He could not fathom the extreme strain of bearing witness to hundreds—or even thousands—of such atrocities.

CHAPTER 6

L ettie stood frozen in the vestibule of Carrolton Hall, a place that should be familiar to her. She’d spent every London Season in this home when her family was in town. She’d run the halls at all hours of the day and night, helped Cook prepare meals in the kitchens, bottle-fed a litter of kittens when their mother had been hit by a carriage, and even hosted a gathering in her mother’s salon in hopes of gaining funds to help the homeless children who found refuge on London’s streets.

She’d hidden in her father’s study and devoured novels full of adventure. She’d dressed for her debut ball in her mother’s chambers. She’d kissed Daniel for the first time in the butler’s pantry. And she’d called off their betrothal in her parents’ dining room.

However, in that moment, as she stood there a changed woman, the grand home could have been Africa—though not a painting or rug had been moved since she’d last been here.

Nothing had changed. Not the décor in the foyer, not the scrutinizing glare from her parents, and not Daniel at her side.

She still did not understand why he’d allowed her to end their betrothal.

She’d never asked. Hadn’t remained in England long enough to inquire what he’d gained from the situation.

Lettie’s eyes strayed to Daniel, infusing a speck of resolve within her at his confidence.

Pushing her treacherous thoughts away, Lettie managed a weak smile for her parents, Barclay and Julianna Downing, Lord Percival, and his wife, the Duchess of Essex. They were as stately and matched as they’d always been. However, her father’s golden hair was now shot through with grey, and the duchess had taken to applying white powder to her blotchy skin. They’d aged. Remorse coursed through Lettie at the part she’d played in it all.

“Mother, Father.” She curtseyed to each in turn. “It is lovely to see you both.”

Silence stretched before Daniel cleared his throat and stepped forward, giving the earl and duchess a proper bow. “I am certain you have much to discuss, and many years to catch up on. I will leave you all and bid you farewell.”