Page 1 of The Untamed Heart

Chapter 1

The Opening Salvo

Ocean View Villa, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 21st September 1816

Lieutenant Colonel Marcus Hamilton opened the door to the spare bedroom in the wonderfully cosy little house he had rented in Little Valentine. Hesitating on the threshold, he eyed the small chest tucked unobtrusively in the corner of the room with a baleful glare.

“Buck up, you spineless cretin. It’s only clothes, not a venomous snake,” he told himself sternly.

Squaring his shoulders, he strode into the room, lifted the chest and practically slung the thing down on the bed.

His chest grew tight.

Marcus was used to the sensation. The French bullet that had torn through him at Waterloo had done a fair amount of damage that made breathing and any form of exertion difficult.

This lack of breath was different, however, and stemmed from pure anxiety, guilt, and fear.

With reluctance he lifted the lid of the chest, exposing his regimental uniform and the glitter of medals, dozens of the wretched things. The glint of gold, silver, and bronze winked at him reproachfully.

He slammed the lid shut.

Miss Foxworthy had wanted to see the outfit in which he would be painted for the bloody damned portrait he was being forced to have done, but she would just have to wait. She had told him the first couple of sittings would be informal, with her sketching and talking to him, to ‘get to know him a little.’

The idea made his hair stand on end.

The Duke of Wellington had got it into his head to have an exhibition celebrating the ‘heroes of Waterloo’ to be displayed to the public on the next anniversary of the battle at Horse Guards.

A first private viewing was to be given to a select audience in December, however, and Miss Foxworthy was already protesting the lack of time she had to produce a portrait of the quality that would satisfy her.

For his part, Marcus rather wanted it to be so dire no one could recognise him but, having seen the quality of the woman’s work, that was a forlorn hope. Marcus had viewed the portrait Foxworthy had done of Miss Clara Honeywell, and the way her paintbrush had laid every aspect of the woman’s character bare both impressed and terrified him.

He had been adamant that this portrait should not glorify him as a knight of old, with his armour dazzling in the sunlight. If it must be done, then let it show him only as a survivor, as a man who had done his best, as shabby a job as that had turned out to be.

Marcus made his way downstairs, the prospect of sitting and ‘chatting’ with Miss Foxworthy becoming increasingly horrifying with every step. She was expecting his arrival later that morning and he had yet to hire a horse to get his unwilling carcass up the wretched hill.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, there was a knock at the door.

A boy stood on the doorstep, cap in one hand, a letter in the other. “Fourpence due, sir,” he said politely.

Marcus muttered, reaching into his pocket. Whoever it was writing to him could be no one he wished to hear from. Most of the men he had considered his friends were dead, the only ones left were from his school days—Hawkney and Sheringham—and it could hardly be from them as they were both in Little Valentine at present.

He paid the fee, thanked the boy gruffly, and took the letter. Closing the door, he stared at the unfamiliar hand before breaking the seal.

The contents were short and brutal, the words standing out starkly against the crisp, white paper.

You are no hero. Withdraw from the exhibition or I shall ruin you.

His blood chilled in his veins, a shiver of horror tiptoeing down his spine, and the paper fluttered from his nerveless fingers, sliding across the polished wood floor.

Seagull Heights, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 21stSeptember 1816

Eustacia gave a peremptory knock on her brother’s bedroom door and strode in, heading for the window.

“For God’s sake, Stacy!” Sebastian exclaimed crossly, sitting bolt upright in bed as she snatched at the curtains and opened them with brusque efficiency. “I might have been naked.”

She sent him a scathing glance before turning back to the window. “Don’t be so absurdly dramatic. What do I care for that? Oh, he’s still not here,” she said in frustration, staring down the winding road which ought to have delivered Colonel Hamilton half an hour ago.

“Well, he’s a grown man. A war hero, no less. It’s hardly cause for concern. He’ll be here soon enough.”