Her Gallant Captain at Waterloo

by Diane Gaston

  Suddenly, strong arms pulled her back, slamming her against a rock-hard chest.

  Rhys held her against him, his arms encircling her, as the carriage thundered past, making the ground tremble beneath the horse’s powerful hooves.

  Helene’s senses seemed to come alive at the moment. The fright at almost being run down. The glory of being held by him. “Rhys,” she whispered.

  He abruptly released her. “Take more care, Helene,” he said gruffly.

  He blamed her? She had not seen the carriage coming. No one could have.

  He seized her arm and led her across the street, letting go of her the minute they were on the pavement again. What? Did he think she could not safely cross a street now?

  Madame Desmet was several paces ahead of them. Helene glanced at Rhys, whose expression seemed to have soured.

  Had touching her been that abhorrent to him? Even to save her life? Helene felt tears of anger sting her eyes. She blinked them away, determined not to allow his animosity to affect her. She had come to terms with what she had done in not marrying him. Why couldn’t he?

  Author Note

  One of the joys of writing historical romance is fitting in the real history of the time period. In this book I’ve tried very hard to be accurate in my historical details, particularly concerning the Duchess of Richmond’s ball and the Battle of Waterloo. The Battle of Waterloo continues to captivate me and I never tire of setting books in and around the battle. Perhaps it is because I am the daughter of an army colonel (US Army, that is) that most of my heroes are army men who value duty, honor and country.

  To those readers who love this pivotal episode in history, look for those real historical details and forgive me if I’ve gotten anything wrong. I’ve tried hard not to. To others, I hope Rhys and Helene’s story sparks an interest in the battle and the people and events around it—the real heroes and heroines.

  DIANE GASTON

  Her Gallant Captain

  at Waterloo

  Diane Gaston’s dream job was always to write romance novels. One day she dared to pursue that dream and has never looked back. Her books have won romance’s highest honors: the RITA® Award, the National Readers’ Choice Award, the HOLT Medallion, the Golden Quill and the Golden Heart® Award. She lives in Virginia with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. Diane loves to hear from readers and friends. Visit her website at dianegaston.com.

  Books by Diane Gaston

  Harlequin Historical

  The Lord’s Highland Temptation

  Her Gallant Captain at Waterloo

  The Governess Swap

  A Lady Becomes a Governess

  Shipwrecked with the Captain

  The Society of Wicked Gentlemen

  A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

  The Scandalous Summerfields

  Bound by Duty

  Bound by One Scandalous Night

  Bound by a Scandalous Secret

  Bound by Their Secret Passion

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  To my longtime good friend Helen, whose name I borrowed for my heroine and who first introduced me to Regency romances. Oh, what she started!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Excerpt from The Rags-to-Riches Governess by Janice Preston

  Chapter One

  Brussels, Belgium—June 1815

  Raucous laughter, loud voices, and the scent of hops and male sweat assaulted Helene Banes as she stood in the threshold of the Brussels tavern. Her mother’s voice rang in her ears. Ladies do not enter such places. But her mother was not here, was she? And Helene had already visited three other such establishments before this one.

  Resolutely she stepped through the doorway, followed by her weary old manservant.

  ‘’Tis a bootless errand, Lady Helene,’ her servant said. ‘We’ll never find him.’

  The poor man. She’d dragged him from Northamptonshire to Ramsgate, across the Channel to Ostend and Ghent and finally to Brussels, with very little rest.

  ‘This will be the last, Wilson. I promise.’ Helene craned her neck to peruse the dark, crowded room. ‘If he is not here, we will return to the hotel.’

  They were searching for her younger brother, the only family member she had left since her parents died not even six months ago. David, only eighteen years of age, had tricked her, saying he was visiting school friends. Instead he ran off to Brussels. His letter, posted from the Hôtel de Flandre, had reached her six days before, breezily explaining that he refused to miss the event of the century—the impending battle with Napoleon.

  But David was not a soldier. He was little more than a boy with no ounce of sense!

  She pushed her way slowly through the crowd of red, blue or black-coated soldiers and plain-clothed Belgians, ignoring the hoots and whistles that had also followed her at the other establishments. She searched for one scrawny blond-haired youth, almost impossible to see in the dim light of the oil lamps and the crowd of larger men. Poor Wilson. Her servant looked dead on his feet, but he’d refused to let her search alone.

  One man’s laugh broke through the din. Her head swung around to the sound and all thoughts of her brother fled. A red-coated soldier with dark brown hair and a certain air about him sat at a nearby table. He took a swig of beer and turned his head slightly.

  Helene gasped and quickly averted her gaze. Her heart pounded.

  It could not be him.

  Could it?

  She stole another glance and her chest ached.

  He looked older, of course. And thicker—more muscular. Even though she’d only caught a glimpse, that grin was painfully familiar. It was, though, only a glimpse, so she could not be certain. It could be him. He’d left for the army immediately after...after...

  After he’d learned she’d changed her mind about marrying him.

  Helene closed her eyes and again remembered the pain—her father informing her that all was settled. Her father had informed him that the elopement was off and that he would instead become a lieutenant in the army. She edged away, hiding her face with the hood of her cloak. If it was him, he’d have no wish to lay eyes on her again.

  An angry shout and a scraping of chairs made her turn back. A few tables from where he sat was her brother, nose to nose with a man twice his size. The man was dressed in town clothes.

  ‘David!’ she whispered. Her servant caught up to her.

  David swayed on his feet, tankard in hand. ‘Napoleon will be defeated!’ he shouted. ‘He’s not half the general Wellington is!’

  The man shrugged and responded in French, ‘Napoléon pourrait gagner. Wellington ne l’a jamais affronté au combat.’ Napoleon might win. Wellington never faced him in battle.
>
  ‘Napoleon will not win!’ David flung his drink into the man’s face.

  The room got quiet. Soldiers half rose from their chairs.

  The large man’s eyes blazed with anger.

  ‘No!’ Helene cried.

  Suddenly he was there, his hand gripping David’s shoulder.

  No doubt now. It was Rhys Landon. The man she almost married.

  She’d never learned what regiment he’d joined, because no one would speak of him to her. She’d known he was alive, because she’d searched every list of the wounded and killed in every battle and breathed relieved sighs when his name did not appear. She’d realised he might be in Brussels, because many British soldiers were sent here to face Napoleon’s army, but what were the chances of encountering him? She’d intended only to find her brother and return to England straight away.

  Yet here he was. With her brother.

  ‘Apologise to this man, boy,’ Rhys said in that silken voice she remembered so well, only now it was even deeper. ‘Before he beats you to a pulp.’

  ‘I’d like to see him try!’ David cried.

  Rhys laughed. ‘No, you would not like to see him try. He will kill you.’ He shook David. ‘Apologise. You were out of line.’

  ‘No,’ growled one of the soldiers. ‘Fellow deserved it.’

  Rhys glared at the man. ‘We do not want a fight.’ His voice was firm and commanding and the soldier backed down.

  David bowed his head and looked sheepish. ‘My apologies, sir. I am sorry I threw my beer in your face.’

  ‘Say it in French,’ Rhys demanded.

  Since Belgium was annexed by the French Republic in the late 1700s, French had become the dominant language.

  David obeyed. ‘Je regrette beaucoup, monsieur.’

  The man shrugged again and sat back down in his chair.

  A tavern maid appeared with a towel and the man wiped his face. She turned to David with a question on her disapproving face.

  He had difficulty meeting her gaze. ‘Bring me another.’ He sounded sheepish. ‘Please.’

  David should not have more to drink! But if Helene tried to stop him, Rhys would certainly see her.

  David turned and peered into his captor’s face. ‘Rhys?’

  Rhys released him and his brows drew together, an expression so familiar to her that it was like a shaft to her heart. ‘Do I know you, pup?’

  ‘I’m David!’ her brother answered. ‘David Banes! The Earl of Yarford’s son.’

  No. David was Earl of Yarford. When their father died, David earned the title. He was simply too young and callow to accept the responsibility of it.

  Helene watched the look of shock come over Rhys’s face, a look he immediately schooled into something devoid of emotion. ‘David Banes? What the devil are you doing here?’

  The maid handed David another tankard of beer. ‘Here for the battle, of course!’ He grinned at Rhys. ‘Would not miss it for the world.’

  ‘Lady Helene.’ Wilson tapped her shoulder and pointed to David. ‘There he is. There is your brother. Shall I get him now?’

  His voice was loud enough for both Rhys and David to hear. They turned her way. Rhys’s expression hardened.

  David gaped, then broke into another inebriated grin. ‘Helene!’

  ‘Come with me, David,’ she said. The sooner she left this place, the better.

  David shook his head, ‘Too early! Not done drinking.’ He took a long swig of his tankard, smirked at her, then suddenly collapsed. Rhys caught him before he touched the floor.

  ‘David!’ she cried in alarm.

  ‘Too much drink,’ one of the soldiers commented. ‘He’s had quite a few.’

  Wilson rubbed his brow. ‘What are we to do now?’

  Indeed. What was she to do? She glanced up and caught Rhys’s gaze, but it was too painful to hold. ‘We take him to the hotel,’ she said. ‘Somehow.’

  Rhys gave a weary-sounding sigh and slung David over his shoulder. ‘I’ll carry him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you, Rhys.’

  He scowled and retrieved his shako from the table where he’d been sitting. His companion, a fellow soldier, stood and touched his arm. ‘Shall I assist you?’

  ‘No need,’ Rhys responded. ‘I can do this.’

  Rhys started towards the door, still without acknowledging Helene. His companion tossed her a curious glance before she hurried to keep up with Rhys. He carried David out into the street as though he weighed a feather.

  ‘Where do I take him?’ Rhys asked, still not looking at her.

  ‘Hôtel de Flandre,’ she replied.

  Rhys gave a dry laugh.

  Wilson caught up to them. ‘May I assist you, Rhys?’

  Rhys nodded to the man. ‘Wilson. It has been a long time.’

  Wilson smiled wanly and swayed on his feet.

  Rhys noticed. ‘I do not need your help.’ He glanced at Helene, his expression disapproving, before turning back to the servant. ‘You look exhausted, Wilson.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Wilson. ‘I am a bit weary.’

  Helene bit her lip. She knew she’d pushed the older man much too far. She’d tried to insist he stay at the hotel, but he’d been adamant about accompanying her. Wilson, always a faithful and caring servant, had been there when she and Rhys played as children. He’d been there when her friendship with Rhys deepened. What he thought of her and Rhys parting ways, he’d never said.

  Wilson walked a few steps behind her, and she followed Rhys through winding streets up the hill to the Hôtel de Flandre. David, still flopped over Rhys’s shoulder, occasionally mumbled something. How Rhys could so effortlessly carry him this distance astounded her. When they finally reached the hotel, Wilson limped ahead to open the door.

  Without looking back at her, Rhys said, ‘What room?’

  She gave him the room number the hall servant had told her earlier that day was her brother’s room. There were several stairs to ascend. Wilson stumbled on the second flight and Helene turned to catch his arm.

  ‘You must go to your room, Wilson,’ she said with concern. ‘And do not rise until you are well recovered from our journey. David and I will go about quite well without you for however long you need.’

  The old man protested, but she insisted and finally he nodded and passed them up the stairs to make what she supposed would be a long walk to the small rooms procured for servants.

  Rhys waited for her, but again did not look at her. ‘You may go to your room, as well,’ he said. ‘I will see to David.’

  He wished to be rid of her, she suspected. ‘I need to see my brother settled first.’

  ‘Very well.’ He started up the stairs again.

  When they reached the room, Rhys slid David off his shoulder and leaned him up against the wall. ‘Search his pockets for the key.’

  The key. Of course. They would need the key.

  Reaching into David’s pockets put her inches from Rhys, so close she could feel the heat of his body and that scent that was so uniquely him. It brought her back to the time she’d been happy. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away.

  She found the key and unlocked the door. He brushed against her as he carried David into the room. Her heart beat wildly again, but he seemed unfazed. The room was dark except for a few glowing coals burning in the fireplace.

  Rhys dropped David on to the bed. He removed David’s boots. David groaned and mumbled, ‘Want to sleep.’

  ‘Will he be all right?’ she asked.

  Rhys removed his shako and held it under his arm. ‘He will have a prodigious headache in the morning. Otherwise he will live.’

  She hated to ask Rhys questions, presuming he wished she did not exist, but she had never dealt with someone as cup-shot as her brother. She did not know what to do
or even what to think.

  ‘Should I stay with him?’

  He made a derisive sound. ‘I doubt he’d thank you for it.’

  David mumbled something and rolled over, curling into a ball the way he’d done when he’d been a mere bantling.

  Rhys turned towards the door, still avoiding facing her. ‘Stay or go. It is all the same to me.’

  ‘I’ll go.’ She hurried out of the room behind him, closing the door behind her. ‘Thank you, Rhys,’ she said again when they were in the hallway.

  He did face her finally, but his handsome face was cold. ‘Are you here to witness the battle as well?’ His grey eyes seemed to glow in the flickering flames of the hallway’s wall lights but glowed with disdain.

  She bravely met his gaze, although it cost her fresh pain. ‘I came only to bring David home. I agree that his desire to witness the battle is a foolish one.’

  Two inebriated soldiers stumbled past them and continued down the long hallway.

  Rhys’s gaze followed them until he turned to her once more. ‘I will walk you to your room.’

  It was clear to her he would rather not. ‘It is not necessary,’ she said.

  ‘I will walk you to your room,’ he repeated, this time in that commanding voice he’d used in the tavern.

  They walked together. She spoke only to provide directions. He spoke not at all. When they reached her room, she wanted to face him, to gaze at those features that were once like manna to her.

  But she would not force him to look at her, so she turned her gaze away. ‘Goodnight, Rhys,’ she whispered before entering her room.

  When she was inside, she leaned against the closed door and listened to his footsteps receding down the hallway.

  * * *

  Rhys couldn’t shake her presence as he walked slowly away from her room.

  Helene Banes. His Helene.

  He’d only seen her in lamplight, but she’d looked even more beautiful to him than she had five years before. Her face was as smooth and pale as fine porcelain, but more angular, more haunting. Her lips remained pink and kissably full. One tendril of her mahogany-coloured hair brushed her cheek. It was her eyes, though—her intense blue eyes—that still held the power to ensnare him. He’d longed to stare at her but had not dared.