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pleasurable,” he said gently.
    She shooed aside the platitude. “You must pursue your lady.”
    “It is too late.” He placed his emptied glass on the side table, grimacing at the pain that shot through his shoulder. “I have nothing to offer her.”
    She made a dismissive sound. “Ridiculous.”
    “It’s true. The boy who left her no longer exists.” He rubbed his shoulder. “And the man who returned is…complicated.”
    “Have you experienced more bouts?”
    He shook his head. “No, but one never knows when I will experience another.” He looked at her with stark eyes, feeling dead inside. “It’s been that way since Talavera.”
    Compassion etched her face. He knew she understood his demons; Elena had faced them herself. “We can never forget, mi amor , not really. But that is not an excuse to stop living. We must create the future we desire.”
    Shaking off the melancholy, he asked, “What is it that you want, Elena?”
    She shrugged. “To do as I please. After my visit here, once your prince has bestowed my award, I shall return home to my people and live as I choose.”
    “Coming close to death certainly does change how one sees life,” he mused. “Society’s dictates no longer seem so important.” He rose to go. “I cannot imagine you living any other way.”
    She watched as he reached for his coat. “If you prefer not to be alone, you are welcome to stay in my guest chamber.”
    “I don’t think so.” Pulling on his coat, he bent to brush a kiss atop her head. “If these past few weeks aren’t proof of my malady, then I don’t know what is. No sane man would reject the pleasures offered by the most beautiful woman in Spain.”
    “You most assuredly have a malady, but it has nothing to do with me,” she said. “It has to do with a certain senorita who looks like an angel and has promised herself to another.”
    “Balderdash.”
    “And when you decide to rejoin the living,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken, “I suspect she will be yours for the taking.”
    “She was never meant to be mine,” he said gruffly against the weight pressing on his chest. “It was my mistake to have ever thought otherwise.”
    ...
    “The last straggler arrives.” Rand and his eldest brother, Arthur, the Marquess of Camryn, watched their younger brother make his way across the grass toward them.
    “You’re late,” Cam said when Will reached them.
    Rand took amused note of Will’s rumpled appearance and unruly short golden curls. “I see you didn’t bother to dress for the occasion.”
    A slight frown marred Will’s forehead. “We’re unlikely to encounter anyone here.”
    True enough. Perhaps mindful of Rand’s preference for avoiding crowds, Cam had tactfully suggested they walk in Kensington Gardens. Unlike Hyde Park, the gardens rarely drew the hordes—and certainly not the fashionable set.
    “Sorry for the delay. I was observing a dissection with Doctor Drummond,” Will explained as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
    Cam shook his head. “Rather morbid, don’t you think, even for you?”
    “It’s not a hobby as you well know.” Will focused on his fingers, peeling away the dried paint. “The greater my understanding of the anatomy and musculature of the human body, the more realistically I can capture it on canvas.”
    “ Human anatomy?” Rand grimaced. “Good Lord. What happened to horses?”
    “I’ve recently progressed to the human form.” They set off walking. “I think you would find Drummond interesting, Rand.”
    “I have no desire to examine the innards of human cadavers.”
    “He’s very interested in injuries suffered by returning soldiers.”
    The war not being a subject Rand cared to discuss, he picked up the pace, pulling a fresh surge of air into his lungs. “I assure you, I am not interested in discussing my injury with anyone. And certainly not with this Drummond fellow. Besides, I thought corpses were more to his