It Started at Waterloo Read online

  Does she love him enough to let him go?

  After three straight days working beside surgeon Will Kennaway to treat the wounded of Waterloo, Amelia Hartwell collapses on the nearest bed to sleep. Surely she can be forgiven for not caring that the warm body sleeping next to hers is Will’s.

  Amelia’s status-hungry mother, however, couldn’t be more pleased to have an excuse to get the painfully shy, socially awkward Amelia married off, albeit to a less-than-ultra-rich husband.

  Will doesn’t keep his title a deep, dark secret. His little-known earldom simply affords him the financial freedom to focus solely on healing the sick. But now that he has a wife to think about—and to admire, thanks to her unstinting bravery at Waterloo—he reluctantly takes up the mantle of earl to do his duty.

  Missing her meaningful work as a nurse, Amelia finds herself floundering in society’s glaring spotlight, wondering if Will regrets being forced to marry. Perhaps it might even be better to give him his freedom, even if doing so will break her heart…

  Warning: Steamy, battlefield kisses under a tent canvas lead to steamy scenes in the bedroom.

  It Started at Waterloo

  Lynne Connolly

  Chapter One

  June 16th, 1815

  Amelia spent a lot of time at balls watching the officers and their sweethearts dancing the night away. She rarely grew bored, even though she’d made an effort to look her best. Although she wore her old blue gown, she’d saved her pin money for new white gloves and ribbons for her hair, so her appearance pleased her.

  Not that many noticed what she was wearing. The officers, resplendent in their dress uniforms, were too intent on dancing with the prettiest women. Amelia could not consider herself one of those. Neither was she in the first flush of youth, or wealthy. Either of those eventualities would have assured her partners aplenty.

  Despite the facts, she was perfectly content. Which was more than could be said for her mother.

  Lady Hartwell cast around restlessly for young men to aim her sights at on behalf of her daughters. With an objective as accurate as any military man’s, she had secured a respectable husband for her first daughter, and now she was hunting someone down for the second—namely, Amelia. Despite Amelia’s protests that she was content on the shelf, her mother refused to believe it.

  She leaned over to murmur in Amelia’s ear. “Major Lord Brookes seems a little lost, dear. Why do you not show him the way to the supper room?”

  “I daresay he knows where it is,” she responded waspishly. “He is probably searching for the card room. Lord Brookes has wagered his estate away, Mama.”

  Lady Hartwell waved her fan in a dismissive gesture. “Pooh, child! His father is a duke. No doubt he will get another.”

  Amelia did not want to live that way, waiting for the next handout. If she married, she wanted a husband she could rely on. But at least with her mother determined on Lord Brookes for Amelia, it meant she would not be concentrating on him for one of her younger daughters. Mary in particular had an unfortunate penchant for dashing soldiers in uniform, and although his material attributes were not great, Lord Brookes had a breadth of shoulder and strength of thigh that would please her sister.

  Tonight, at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, Mary could take her pick of all the most eligible officers in Wellington’s army.

  Amelia fixed a polite smile on to her face and tried to look interested when one of her mother’s cronies discoursed on the likelihood that lavender lace would become fashionable again. “Because depend upon it, the gown I have laid up this three years and more will come back into fashion the moment I decide to have it remodeled.”

  How could they behave thus on the eve of battle? Did they not care?

  Napoleon was advancing and this ball was by way of a morale-improver. However, Amelia detected no tension in the throng. Dancing took up the center of the ballroom, and people gossiped and laughed as if they were in the middle of London instead of Brussels, within hearing distance of the guns.

  The guns were silent tonight, but they would not stay that way for long.

  “You see, he is going,” Lady Hartwell said crossly. “You have missed your shot.”

  “He needs to marry a fortune,” Amelia said absently. Lord Brookes was indeed leaving. So were one or two others. Amelia narrowed her eyes.

  Something was happening.

  “May I fetch you some refreshments?” Amelia asked, and received an assent from her mother and her friend. With not a little relief, she got to her feet and set out for the supper room. Although supper was not yet served, tables were set up with light refreshments to keep the assembly from fainting from starvation.

  Appetizing scents filled the air. Amelia’s stomach grumbled, reminding her she had been working all day. She’d had little time for food. The doctors had required the volunteers to ready the beds and blankets. The Duke of Wellington planned to engage very soon, probably within the next two weeks, and they would have need of every bandage, every salve and every blanket they possessed.

  This was the final conflict. Nobody doubted that.

  Swallowing her apprehension, Amelia went to the punch table and poured out two cups, but as she turned around, she nearly collided with the man standing behind her. “Oh! I beg your pardon, sir!”

  Then she looked up and recognized the person whose yellow waistcoat she had almost decorated with cherry-red punch. “Mr. Kennaway!”

  He regarded her gravely, but a smile lurked in his eyes. “I had hoped to find you here, Miss Hartwell.”

  When she was helping him, it was Amelia and Will. But tonight, in a formal situation where people would seriously misconstrue the use of first names, they would have to use one another’s surnames.

  She always thought of Will Kennaway as “him”, as if no other male existed. The minute she’d set eyes on handsome Will Kennaway, battlefield surgeon, she was lost.

  Her brows drew together in a frown. “Is something wrong?” With a glance, she indicated the officers sliding out of the room.

  “There may be, Miss Hartwell. Would you take a turn with me?”

  He was standing very close. Not that Amelia objected. Will Kennaway was the reason she had not pursued any of the eligible connections her mother had thrust in her way. That and her natural reticence. Not at her best at society events, she could only be glad she knew most of the people here.

  She spent the majority of her time in a military hospital, tending to the needs of the soldiers her mother never failed to refer to as “common”. Amelia called them brave and in need of help, as did the other ladies who helped in a similar way. Though how many of them volunteered their assistance because of Will, she didn’t know.

  A handsome devil, but completely unaware of his appeal, Will Kennaway was a gentleman. However, he was a gentleman who had to work for a living. Thus ineligible in her mother’s eyes.

  The room the Duchess of Richmond had put aside for her ball was huge. They could promenade around it and easily avoid Lady Hartwell.

  She put the punch cups down and took his arm instead. She had to crane her neck to look into his face, for Mr. Kennaway was unconscionably tall, several inches over six feet. He had sometimes complained of his unusual height, but it served him in good stead when he needed to reach something from a high shelf.

  They strolled slowly. When they returned to the ballroom, the energy in the air crackled.

  “The duke has arrived,” she said. She had no need to say which duke. Although a prince was present this evening, the Prince of Orange, it was Wellington who controlled the army, Wellington who had the plans for the upcoming conflict in his head. She had often seen him at a distance. He had even spoken to her once or twice, but he p
robably would not remember her. Men rarely did.

  Wellington exuded fierce vitality, intimidating Amelia somewhat. She was not alone in her reaction.

  “Should I introduce you?” Will asked her.

  She turned wide eyes on to him. “You know the duke?”

  “He is a relative, of sorts,” he said carelessly. “But don’t get too excited, the connection is distant. However, I can say I know him, and he would at least recognize me.”

  “No,” she said, panic striking her. “I wouldn’t know what to say to him.”

  Will patted her hand. “Yes, you would. You will find no difficulty, I am sure of it. Come.”

  Clamping his arm over hers so she could not slip away, he headed purposefully in the duke’s direction. However, before they reached him, Wellington veered off to murmur to two of his officers. The men stilled and listened intently before they nodded to each other and swung away.

  “Damnation,” Will said, then shook his head. “Indeed, I beg your pardon, ma’am, I should not speak that way before a lady. Sometimes I’m not fit for company.”

  “I’ve heard worse.” That was only one reason her mother disapproved of Amelia volunteering, but it was a strong one. Normally her mother would not allow her within a hundred yards of a hospital, but this was war, and Amelia was but doing her patriotic duty. Several ladies did the same, but most concerned themselves with supplies rather than the patients.

  Amelia preferred to render more practical help. But the courage she used in dealing with the ordinary soldier left her when confronted by the prospect of meeting the Duke of Wellington. She would pretend to trip and tear her gown, then make her excuses. Anything except meet him. Terror filled her soul, choked her throat.

  Will stopped, as if he sensed her distress. “What is it, my dear?”

  Another officer slid past them. “Something is happening,” she said. The knowledge became certainty. “We are not preparing for a week’s time. The time is now.”

  Will paused, and drew her aside, behind a gaggle of gaily-dressed ladies who did not appear to have the least suspicion of anything amiss. “I’m afraid you are right,” he said, his voice low. “The officers leaving so discreetly are the ones whose companies are farthest away. Today or tomorrow we will see action, but pray do not mention it to anyone.”

  She stared up at him, bewildered. “What?” She had suspected Wellington of holding a private meeting under the cover of the ball, not that the men were slipping out of the ballroom to go fight.

  He met her gaze frankly, his bright blue eyes alert with speculation. “The duke wants tonight for revelry. He desires to put heart into the troops and put the fear of God into Napoleon. We are enjoying ourselves while the Frenchman is riding at the head of his army. We are so confident of success, they will say, that we do not hesitate to take our pleasures. No doubt Napoleon has his spies here, and they will tell him of this ball.” He raised his voice for the last sentence. “Have you ever seen anything so grand?”

  Taking her cue from him, Amelia widened her smile and gazed around at the crimson, black and gold hangings as if seeing them for the first time. The Duchess of Richmond had turned this prosaic stable-block into a fantastical palace. The ladies glittered with jewels; the crystal reflected their glory back to them.

  “Nothing half so magnificent,” she agreed.

  A powerful voice that could make itself heard across a battlefield interrupted them. “Here you are, cousin!”

  Before them stood the one man Amelia was keen to avoid.

  The Duke of Wellington was tall, imposing and utterly terrifying. He glared down the full length of his impressive nose at Amelia, then turned his attention to Will, who clamped her arm to his side and met Wellington’s aggressive stare. “Decided to come here, hey?”

  “Since you made it all but an order, sir, yes, I did.”

  Wellington grunted. “We have to show the Frenchies we’re not worried. Not at all. Good show this, is it not? The duchess certainly knows how to hold a ball.”

  He moved closer, so close Amelia got a whiff of his shaving soap. The duke smelled fresh and appeared full of ginger. “A word with you, if you please.”

  Will stepped back. “May I present Miss Amelia Hartwell? She is a daughter of Major Sir George Hartwell, and she has been of signal use to me in the hospitals.”

  “A volunteer, eh?” Finally the great man turned his full attention on to her.

  Amelia was not good with great men. Or women, for that matter. She blinked and dropped her gaze. She had never enjoyed being the center of attention, so it was just as well it didn’t happen to her very often.

  The man before her burst with confidence and self-esteem. Well-earned self-esteem, she had to admit. He was about to embark on his final victory, or so she fervently hoped. If she asked him what would happen if Napoleon won, would he answer? He’d probably whip out his sword and slice her in two.

  His long, hooked nose—from which he gained at least two of his numerous nicknames—pointed at her as he studied her. “Pleased, I’m sure, Miss Hartwell. Now if you would excuse us—”

  “Miss Hartwell has my confidence,” Will said firmly. “She does not merely roll bandages and make beds, as other women do. She helps me with my operations.”

  The duke fixed her with a fascinated eye. “You don’t say. And here I was thinking you a respectable female.”

  The remark incensed Amelia. Her emotions reared up in a crazy rush and without considering the consequences, she ripped up at Wellington. “Indeed, sir, I talk to your men and I listen to them, as well as attending to their needs. Some of them need a respectable woman to give them the pride they have lost. We remind them of their mothers or their sisters. In their hour of dire need, it is those who mean the most to them who they want.”

  Silence. The people in the crowd around them must be eavesdropping, their ears flapping wildly when she gave the duke what for.

  Amelia wanted to sink through the floor. How could she have said such things?

  She half expected him to blast her with fire. Instead, he only nodded “Then I owe you a debt, Miss Hartwell. Save as many as you can, so we may send them back to their respectable womenfolk. I fear you may find your work cut out in the next few days.” He glanced around. “Accompany me to the supper room, if you will.”

  Will gave Amelia no chance to escape. She had to match her small pace to the two taller men, who were intent on their discussion. Walking meant listeners would have a harder time. The duke lowered his voice.

  “There has been a skirmish at Quatre Bras, and we need a good man on the field. Blucher was routed, but he’ll come about, although the French may not realize that. We march at dawn.”

  Wellington’s men had cause to sigh when he said those words, as he had so often in the last six years. This time it was the worst. Over seventy thousand troops were mustering to meet Napoleon’s army.

  The trouble was, many weren’t here yet. Napoleon had moved much faster than anyone had hoped, and he was almost upon them.

  “Will the Frenchman arrive in Brussels?” she asked. If so, she’d tell her mother to leave tonight. In war, atrocities could happen, however well-disciplined the troops.

  “We must hope not, ma’am.” The duke shot her a frosty glare. “If you are sincere in wishing to help, you will waste little time. Casualties are arriving already.”

  “Then we must go,” Will said firmly.

  Amelia nodded. “I will come.”

  She would not tell her mother. Her family would no doubt insist she went with them. She knew where her duty lay…and it was not in the bosom of her family.

  Chapter Two

  Three Days Later

  Amelia passed a hand over her eyes and then pinched the bridge of her nose. She hadn’t known it was possible to be so tired. She’d worked through the night before, and then carried on through another, and then one more. She must have snatched all of an hour’s sleep a day since they’d begun.

  Around
her, men moaned and cried out in the depths of their pain and misery. Some were scarred for life. Others wouldn’t last the night. And still the stretcher-bearers brought them, still soldiers dragged their battered bodies into the field hospital.

  How could she turn her back on this? How could anyone?

  The confined space stank of vomit, blood, piss and the smell of dampness. The unseasonable weather added to everyone’s wretchedness. If it hadn’t rained so much, perhaps the field of battle wouldn’t have become so bogged down and the fighting wouldn’t have been so desperate.

  Napoleon had been battling for his life, but he wasn’t dead, or so she’d heard. The leader of the French had survived and was escaping, although the authorities appeared confident they would catch him. As long as this did not happen again, this senseless waste of life brought on by one man’s insatiable lust for power might not have to be repeated.

  “It doesn’t look like victory to me,” she murmured, getting wearily to her feet.

  She couldn’t help the poor unfortunate in this bed. He was beyond saving. She drew the stained sheet over the youth’s head. The signal was as much to the orderlies to take him away and clear the pallet for the next patient as it was a sign of respect.

  “Wellington’s coming,” a dark, male voice said. Will.

  She turned around. Despite her weariness, her heart beat faster when she looked into the face of this man, the one she’d worked side by side with all night and the day before, and the night before that. Will had sliced off limbs, set bones and praised her. Not many people noticed Amelia, but he did, though not as a woman. As a helper, a skilled one.

  Not that she had a chance with him. Will was of good family, as was she, but they were separated by a chasm of social differences. He was aristocracy, related to some of the best families in the land. She was gentry, her father a mere baronet. And he was handsome, while she was pretty at the most.

  Not today. She lifted her hand and brushed aside a strand of mousy hair with her wrist. “Wellington?”

  Will nodded. His eyes were shadowed and his face lined, not with age but with weariness. His brown coat had seen better days. But what idiot would wear their best when they’d spent the last two days sawing off human limbs and repairing gashes?