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himself admirably in the wars, but where exactly he’d served or what he had done, she had never known. He had a reputation as a gambler, but never sustained irreparable or even substantive losses. He had engaged in one or two duels, but why or over whom, she didn’t know. And she could never ask; she couldn’t risk revealing to Tom how much Aidan remained in her thoughts.
    She’d never been able to reconcile the stories. In some he was ruthless and remote; in others he was engaging and seductive. But none described the young man she’d loved. The Aidan she had known was confident and ambitious and witty and kind. His touch had made her feel safe long before it had made her burn.
    She still remembered the day they had parted. Aidan’s father—an armchair patriot—had bought his younger sons commissions as they came of age, promising a piece of land and an annuity when they defeated Bonaparte. For Sophia and Aidan, the settlement was their hope of a life together. Soon, he and his brother Colin were set to join their older brother Benjamin, an adjutant to Wellington, on the Peninsula.
    She’d waited in her uncle’s summerhouse to say good-bye. She had determined to be brave, to let him go without crying. But when he came to her—calling her “my only love, my heart”—his own eyes were already wet. She’d touched his face, wiping his tears away. He’d pulled her into his embrace, and they’d made love, savoring each tender caress as if it were their last; then they’d dressed each other tenderly, carefully, memorizing each touch.
    â€œWill you wait for me, Sophie?” His eyes had searched hers earnestly.
    â€œDo you promise to come home to me?” she’d teased.
    He refused to tease back. Instead, he’d pulled her into his arms and held her against his heart. “If you are waiting, there’s not a bullet in Boney’s army that will keep me from you.”
    She pulled back just enough to look in his eyes. “There’s nothing in the world that would keep me from waiting. No man alive compares to you.” She put both hands on his cheeks to emphasize her words. “You are my love, my only love.”
    He’d lifted her, laughing, and swung her around in a circle. “How can I be so lucky that the cleverest, most beautiful girl in the whole world loves me? A girl who can ride and draw and conjugate Latin and Greek. You know I’m not worth you.” He’d kissed her forehead. “But I’ll try, sweeting; I’ll devote my whole life to being worthy of your love.”
    She’d felt without a home for so long that his words had fed her lonely soul. She’d closed her eyes, savoring his love, the feel of his hands, warm in hers. The moment had been perfect. Then his hands were gone, leaving her bereft. She’d opened her eyes to find him kneeling before her.
    â€œSophia Elliot, when I return, will you marry me, be my wife, live with me, have children, laugh, cry, grow old with me? Will you be my fiancée from this day forward?”
    She’d laughed at his alteration of the marriage rite. “From this day forward, yes, my love, yes.”
    He looked sheepish. “I haven’t a ring or anything, nothing for you to remember me by.”
    She’d kissed him, longingly, sweetly. “I don’t need anything. But I do have something for you, a token of my love, to remember your . . . f iancée . . . by.” She’d held out a folded piece of oilcloth, no bigger than his thumb.
    He’d unwrapped the gift, a small hardboard wafer on which Sophia had sketched a self-portrait. “I drew it mostly with ink to get the lines sharp enough.”
    â€œIt’s beautiful. I can see your spirit, here in the shape of your eyes, in the curve of your lips.”
    â€œI know you can’t take it with you. But I wanted you to have it.”
    â€œI can take it. Look