Claiming the Forbidden Bride. Gayle Wilson

       September, 1814. England

      In an unthinking response to the image in the cheval glass, Major the Honourable Rhys Morgan, late of His Majesty’s 13^th Light Dragoons, lifted his left hand to help the right in the adjustment of the intricately tied cravat at his throat. Pain seared along its damaged muscles and nerves, reminding him that, although he was finally home, the effects of the years he had spent campaigning on the Iberian Peninsula were still with him.

      Incredibly, given the severity of his injuries—caused by a burst of grapeshot—the surgeons had managedto save his left arm. It was not the same, of course, and he had gradually become reconciled to the reality that it never would be.

      A minor consideration, he reminded himself. He was glad to be alive. And infinitely grateful to be back in England.

      This time, he used only his right hand to smooth over a persistent wrinkle that disturbed the line of his jacket. There had initially been some discussion of attempting alterations, but the scope of the required changes had proved those impractical. His chest was broader, for one thing; the muscles in his thighs and calves still hardened from long hours spent in the saddle. In addition to the debilitating effects of his wound, he had, since he’d been home, suffered another bout of the recurring fever he’d picked up on the Continent. As a result, his body was far leaner than it had been before his departure. In short, almost nothing he had left behind in England almost four years ago could be remade—not with the preciseness of fit that fashion demanded.

      The local tailor had been called in to produce the coat of navy superfine he was wearing, as well as his striped waistcoat and close-fitting pantaloons. The tasselled Hessians that completed the ensemble were the only item that had been salvaged from his preservice attire.

      The garments were neither in the most current style nor constructed of the finest materials, but theywould do for travel. Rhys had promised his brother that as soon as he arrived in London he would be properly outfitted from heel to crown by one of the capital’s premier tailors.

      A prospect he wasn’t looking forward to, he acknowledged. Other than his surgeons, no one had yet been forced to view the carnage that had been inflicted on his body.

      Determinedly putting that from his mind, he met his brother’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Shall I do?’

      ‘Very nicely,’ Edward said. ‘At least until you have time to visit my man in London.’

      Rhys smiled. ‘If Keddinton doesn’t turn me away from his door, the credit shall be yours.’

      ‘He won’t turn you away. You’re his godson.’

      ‘A godson he hasn’t seen in more than five years.’

      ‘That doesn’t matter. Keddinton knows his duty.’

      The word seemed to hang in the air between them, the crux of all the arguments that had marred the last few days. To break the suddenly awkward silence, Rhys returned his gaze to the reflection in the glass, tugging down his waistcoat.

      ‘A few more days can’t hurt,’ Edward said after a moment.

      ‘Unless the weather changes. Autumn can be unpredictable.’

      ‘All the more reason—’

      Laughing, Rhys turned to face his brother. ‘One more day of sitting by the fire, Edward, and I promise you I shall go stark raving mad. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience.’

      ‘You are mad. Surely, you’ve done enough for King and country. More than enough.’

      ‘I’m alive. Relatively