Read Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) for Free Online

for revenge. And she had not lost sight of that for one second. His heart thumped and warmth flooded his soul to know there were still people who could judge so truly and care so much. It was the unerring instinct of true humanity.
    “He is all right,” he said, reassuring her with a half smile. He squeezed her small hand, wishing it were gloveless so he could feel the tender skin under his callused palm. “I went to him and helped him up. Poor fellow, I was right. He lost his foot at Quatre Bras, and counted himself lucky to be alive. He had been in Mayfair looking up his commanding officer, who had promised him work after the war; somehow he did not know that his captain was one of the unlucky ones. Died at La Haye Sainte. I knew him; he was a gallant fellow, one of the best, poor man.”
    He was silent for a moment, gazing off into the distance. “I could not see him just disappear on me. I took him to a tavern and we talked long into the night, about the war at first, but then the conversation turned to our intentions now that peace has finally arrived. He has a wife and children, but no one would hire a cripple, he said. It was all very well to celebrate the brave men who fought and died for this country, but what about the living? Do we not owe them something, at the very least, a job? I have hired him to do some work on my estate, Thorne House. He is a master carpenter; he hired himself out in his regiment to do carpentry that needed taking care of—made extra money to send home to his wife. He repaired wheels, carts, anything and everything. But he has a true brilliance when it comes to fine carpentry, and I have put him in charge of a crew of ex-soldiers; they are renovating my library.”
    True, tucked in to his side, so close to him she almost could not breathe, gazed up at Lord Drake. From her angle below him—she was not very tall, and the major-general was—she could see the muscle that twitched in his jaw, signaling some inner tension that she was not privy to. She had just met this man, but she felt already that she knew him better than she would ever know Mr. Bottleby, and she was to marry that man! Or perhaps not. That was what she had come away to decide.
    “Your anger against those thoughtless young men was understandable, you know,” she said, and knew that she had read what his thoughts had returned to when his head swiveled and he gazed down at her with surprise in his changeable eyes. They strolled to a garden wall at one end of the terrace—she matched her gait to his limp—and leaned against it companionably.
    He shook his head. “You have no idea how fierce that anger was, nor how close I was to killing someone. It made me wonder if I was fit to be around people anymore or if the war had made me so dangerous. I still dream of the killing, and the death.”
    Her heart ached for him and for the edge of fear she heard in his deep voice. “You cannot know you would have shot the gentleman. Though the impulse was there, it does not mean you would have acted upon it. We all have impulses every day that we do not act upon.” Like her own impulse to reach up and touch him, his face, his hair, the harsh lines of pain that marred his good looks, and yet gave him a depth of expression lacking in most young men. She wanted to strip off her gloves and lay her naked hands against his skin; that impulse shocked her to the core.
    “Perhaps you’re right. I hope you’re right. It was all so raw those first few weeks, the memories and the pain, and then to see that poor man mocked and bullied in that way! It was too much to take.”
    “But you did the right thing,” she said, her tone bracing. She squeezed his arm. “And because of that incident the man has employment. You made a good end out of an unpromising beginning.”
    “Optimist,” Drake laughed, gazing down into blue eyes that were surprisingly warm for so cool a color. He reached up and pinched her cheek, letting his fingers linger