Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) by Donna Lea Simpson Page A

willow branches languidly danced and waved over the water while the ducks busily cruised up and down the waterway.
    How serene it was! And how very beautiful, with old stands of woods in the misty distance over a small stone bridge that crossed the stream. They were in a valley, and she could see, rising on the other side of the narrow brook, fields broken up by hedgerows and copses of scrubby brush. Her companion had told them at lunch that no one had lived here for many years, though the home farm was still in use and the orchards tended, but that he intended to make it his home now that he had resigned his commission. She didn’t think she had ever found a place she liked so well. She could imagine Lord Drake in some hazy future, striding about the place with a brace of children and dogs following him as he came down to the stream to fish for the silvery trout that flashed and sparkled in the depths. In her daydream Drake was healthy and happy, all the gloom of his present convalescence dissipated by years of blissful and tranquil enjoyment of his home.
    Their acquaintance was brief, but she had come to believe that gloom was not his normal state of mind. He had been deeply affected by the war, as every thinking, feeling man must have been, but he would recover, given time, and his lucky wife, whomever she was, would reap the benefit of being wed to a courageous, good-tempered and deeply moral man. Perhaps it was too soon for her to judge him thusly, but there were some things one knew from the first moment of meeting someone.
    All too soon Arabella’s high, excited voice floated on the breeze as she and Conroy came back from an invigorating walk. Drake awakened, stretching and yawning widely, just as she and Lord Conroy approached.
    It was time to leave. Before they did, though, Arabella insisted, with a saucy toss to her blonde curls, that they have a proper tea first, so they went back up to the house, consumed the rest of the basket of delicacies, and then packed up to go. They were rather later getting on the road than Lord Drake had anticipated. Dark clouds on the horizon gave an ominous hint that the weather was going to turn sometime in the evening hours, and they had best make haste if they were going to beat the rain.
    But at least Lord Drake looked rested, True thought, gazing at him from her seat with her back to the horses. His eyes were the color of amber, clear and bright, and his conversation was as light and witty as even Arabella could wish.
    Experiences were given, True reflected, as they trundled along the road back to Lea Park, to teach one about life. For instance, meeting Lord Drake had helped her understand what she had only guessed at before. To her the men who fought and died, or lived after risking their lives, were heroes. She had read every newspaper article, every dispatch she could find in her little village. But meeting the major-general had truly shown her what a price the survivors paid for living through a long and bitter war. Physical impairment was the least of Lord Drake’s wounds, True thought. The worst ones went deep into his soul, and cut up the peace of every waking moment.
    And Lord Drake had hinted that even sleep did not “knit up the ravell’d sleave of care.” For him there were only nightmares and dreadful battlefields lurking in his slumber. How long could he expect to fight this battle, the battle of his conscience? She would send up a prayer every night, when she lay herself down to her peaceful sleep, in the hope that God would grant him serenity. At least the hour’s nap on the riverbank had been peaceful and seemed to have lessened his exhaustion.
    The drive back was proving to be quieter than the ride out that morning. When they started the clouds were confined to the horizon, but soon the sky darkened. Minutes later, the driver gave a shout of alarm. One of the horses shied, and there were a few moments of stark terror as it appeared certain that they would