“Before departing for Hampshire,” Annandale continued, “I was informed by His Grace the Duke of Cambridge that my grandson is to be invested with the Victoria Cross. The medal, created this January past, is the highest possible military decoration for valor in the face of the enemy. The queen herself will present the medal to Captain Phelan at an investiture ceremony in London next June.”

Everyone in the room exclaimed and cheered. Christopher felt all the warmth in his body drain away. This was nothing that he wanted, another bloody piece of metal to pin to his chest, another f**king ceremony to honor events he didn’t want to remember. And for that to intrude on one of the sweetest moments of his life was revolting. Damn his grandfather for doing this to him without giving him one word of advance warning.

“What will the Victoria Cross be awarded for, my lord?” someone asked.

Annandale sent a smile to Christopher. “Perhaps my grandson can hazard a guess.”

Christopher shook his head, regarding him without expression.

Annoyance crossed the earl’s face at Christopher’s demonstrable lack of enthusiasm. “Captain Phelan was recommended for this honor by a regimental officer who gave an account of seeing him carry a wounded officer to safety under heavy gunfire. Our men had been driven back in an attempt to overtake Russian rifle pits. After rescuing the officer, Captain Phelan held the position until relief arrived. The Russian positions were captured, and the wounded officer, Lieutenant Fenwick, was saved.”

Christopher didn’t trust himself to speak as a volley of cheers and congratulations filled the air. He forced himself to finish the champagne, to stand still and appear calm, when he could feel himself sliding toward a dangerous precipice. Somehow he found the traction to stop it, to hold the madness at bay, reaching for the sense of detachment he both needed and feared.

Please, God, he thought. Not for saving Fenwick.

Chapter Twenty-three

Sensing the explosive quality in Christopher’s stillness, Beatrix waited until he had drained his champagne. “Oh, my,” she said in a voice loud enough to carry to the people around them. “I fear all this excitement is bringing on a touch of the vapors. Captain Phelan, if you wouldn’t mind escorting me to the parlor . . . ?”

The question was greeted with sympathetic murmurs, as any evidence of a woman’s delicate constitution was always encouraged.

Trying to look fragile and wan, Beatrix clung to Christopher’s arm as he led her from the drawing room. Instead of proceeding to the parlor, however, they found a place outside, a bench set on a graveled walkway.

They sat together in wordless communication. Christopher slid his arm around her, pressing his mouth against her hair. She listened to the night sounds from the nearby wood; peeps and rustlings, the melodious conversations of frogs, the flappings of birds and bats. Eventually she felt Christopher’s chest lift and lower in a long sigh.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, knowing that he was thinking about Mark Bennett, the friend he hadn’t been able to save. “I know why this medal is so odious to you.”

Christopher made no reply. From the near-palpable tension he radiated, she understood that of all the dark memories he harbored, this was one of the worst.

“Is it possible to refuse the medal?” she asked. “To forfeit it?”

“Not voluntarily. I’d have to do something illegal or hideous to invoke the expulsion clause.”

“We could plan a crime for you to commit,” Beatrix suggested. “I’m sure my family would have some excellent suggestions.”

Christopher looked at her then, his eyes like silvered glass in the moonlight. For a moment Beatrix feared the attempt at levity might have annoyed him. But then there was a catch of laughter in his throat, and he folded her into his arms. “Beatrix,” he whispered. “I’ll never stop needing you.”

They lingered outside for a few minutes longer than they should have, kissing and caressing until they were both breathless with frustrated need. A quiet groan escaped him, and he tugged her up from the bench and brought her back into the house.

As Beatrix mingled among the guests, chatting brightly and feigning interest in the advice they offered, she kept stealing glances at Christopher whenever possible. He appeared calm to the point of stoicism, maintaining a soldierly demeanor. Everyone fawned on him, even those whose social rank and aristocratic blood far eclipsed his. Despite Christopher’s controlled façade, she sensed his unease, perhaps even antagonism, in trying to readjust to a landscape that had once been so familiar. He felt out of place among old friends, none of whom wanted to dwell on the reality of what he had experienced and done in the war. The medals and gold braid and patriotic music were all that anyone felt comfortable discussing. And therefore he could only allow his feelings to show in brief and cautious increments.

“Beatrix.” Audrey was at her side, gently drawing her away before she could become involved in another conversation. “Come with me. I want to give you something.”

Beatrix took her to the back of the house, to a set of stairs leading to an oddly shaped room on the second floor. It was one of the many charms of Ramsay House, that rooms and eccentric spaces with no apparent purpose seemed to have grown organically from the main residence.

They sat together companionably on the stairs.

“You’ve done Christopher so much good already,” Audrey said. “I thought when he first returned after the war that he had lost all capacity for happiness. But he seems far easier with himself now . . . not nearly so brooding or tightly strung. Even his mother has remarked on the difference—and she is grateful.”