Love's Challenge

By Dalia Trevino

Major Anthony Aubrey is a much sought after catch in the bon ton of London society.  But he hasn't a whit of interest in any of it as he is off to serve his country and fight the Corsican upstart, Napoleon Bonaparte. Never in his wildest imaginings would Anthony have conceived that he would meet in a war ravaged land, the woman that would hold his future in her command, and his heart in her hands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590884843

Book preview

One

London, England, November 1808

Anthony struggled to hide his amusement. He’d only been back in England for a fortnight, but as soon as he’d arrived, he’d been besieged by the young ladies of the ton . And the one he was dancing with was more tenacious than the rest.

Major Kanterton, Caroline Whitworth simpered, as she moved across the floor. You are a most splendid dancer.

Thank you, Miss Whitworth, but any skill you detect is entirely due to my excellent partner.

Following the moves of the cotillion, they separated briefly and came together with the lilt of the violin. Her gaze settled on his lips as he took her gloved hand.

So firm and sensual. I wish that they would touch mine.

She stumbled, but quickly caught herself. Anthony, knowing she couldn’t have meant to say that out loud, fought the urge to laugh. Better to pretend he’d not heard her.

Losing her embarrassment, she plastered a fatuous smile on her face and caressed his arm through the red sleeve of his uniform. He wished he could shake off her touch.

Perhaps you would like to join me tomorrow for a ride in the park?

"I would like to, but unfortunately I cannot. I leave

soon for Portugal and have much to do before I go."

When the final strains of music floated across the room, he led her in the direction of her mother and past the many well-dressed ladies and elegantly clad men, most of the latter in their dress regimentals. His gentle hint that he wasn’t interested was lost on the lady.

She didn’t relinquish her hold on him even when they’d halted in front of her mother, who didn’t pay them any mind as she was in the midst of regaling her companion with the tale of her daughter’s afternoon shopping expedition.

Anthony, how are you? came a deep voice from his left.

Relieved at the timely interruption, Anthony turned to grin at his friend, Philip Haulton. I continue to improve.

Glad to hear it. Philip’s gaze fell on Caroline. He nodded at her in polite greeting. Miss Whitworth.

Then he turned to Anthony. What news have you of Bonaparte and his brother Joseph, King of Spain? Even now I cannot credit that fool, the emperor, would do such a thing, he said distastefully. Does he believe the people of that country will simply roll over and let him do as he wishes, first with their monarch and then their lives?

Anthony could feel Caroline’s annoyance grow as he and Philip became engrossed in their talk. With pursed lips, a practiced, angry toss of her well-coifed dark blond head, and a flounce of her white crape evening gown, she turned and went to join a group of young ladies beside the terrace doors.

Anthony knew he was meant to follow, but he couldn’t make himself. When Philip laughed outright, Anthony allowed his expression to reflect his relief.

I thought you looked in need of rescuing. Though she is a pretty piece, she is only interested in becoming your wife.

Well, I know it, and she isn’t the only one. I let my aunt talk me into dancing with her, but now I’m leaving. I’m going to White’s.

I’ll join you.

Anthony didn’t mind that Philip found his predicament humorous.

He ignored the touches of mirth evident in his friend’s blue eyes and around his mouth.

Despite being the younger son of the Earl of Kanterton, you are a very sought after catch. Why, your money alone makes the chits and their mothers chomp at the bit to get to you, Philip said, his lips splitting into a grin.

You’re one to talk. As your father’s only son, you should be married already. For me, I have no plans to wed. You know I will not. Since I cannot give the time and attention due to a wife, it would be wrong. The life I have planned is for the military. I leave the rest to Edward.

Anthony, leaving the Carlsons’ ball with Philip, frowned at his gloves as he pulled them on. He still wasn’t sure why he’d even attended tonight. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. His aunt had persuaded him, and wanting to please her, he had promised to come, though he’d not said how long he would stay.

She would have been better off putting the whole of her efforts behind trying to marry off his older brother, Edward. Edward was the one who needed to produce the obligatory heir. Anthony would allow, though, that she did try to divide her time equally between the two of them. She always waved away his words when he told her of his plans not to marry.

Making sure that his aunt saw him leave, he acknowledged that she wasn’t pleased at his early desertion. He briefly thought about his brother, home in the country and safe from her machinations. Perhaps a good idea, that. He would have to remember it in the future.

Warm, sultry air greeted them as they waited for Philip’s curricle to be brought around. The fog wasn’t too thick tonight, and their conversation turned once more to the fighting.

When do you return to Portugal? Philip asked, his voice wistful.

The end of the week, Anthony said resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Though Wellesley is yet to remain for the inquiry at Chelsea, he has given orders for my regiment and the other two that

accompanied him to return without him."

Philip sighed, not trying to hide his frustration. They stepped into his curricle and rode the short distance to White’s. Well, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll not see or be involved in any of the fighting, but still... You must promise to keep me informed of everything that happens.

I will. It would not do to have you become bored here while the rest of us are experiencing the adventure of grinding the French under our heels.

Damnation!

Easy. Anthony chuckled as he stepped out of the carriage and tried to pacify Philip. Someone must remain behind to protect the mother land from invaders.

Aye, Philip said as he rose and jumped out of the curricle to stand beside Anthony. You may be assured that Napoleon and his soldiers will never step foot on British soil.

Iberian Peninsula, Portugal, December 1808

Unutterably weary, shoulders slumped, Diana stared with blank, unseeing eyes at the fresh, dirt-covered grave. Though she felt as frozen as the cold, hard ground, she didn’t shed a tear as Father Duyos spoke over her mother’s grave. The foreign words were no longer strange, for she’d learned the language quickly.

Her father wasn’t there to comfort her. The last he’d written, he was in Spain, and his regiment was soon to engage in battle with the French. There was no one else. She was alone. Her

head lowered, she wrapped herself in a cocoon of anguish.

The priest finished speaking, and she forced a smile at the dark-haired older man. Thank you for your kind words. I know my father would have appreciated your compassion.

He nodded slowly, acknowledging her words before turning and leaving her. She watched him depart before looking at Mr. Smythe, brother to her father’s country estate solicitor, who stood to her right.

He took her arm and led her back to the small home she’d shared with her mother and his sister, Portia. That young woman had served as lady’s maid to both her and her mother until four days ago, when she’d surprised them all by departing in the middle of the night in order to marry the recently widowed linen maker.

Mr. Smythe had a room in the only inn of the village but spent most of his time at their home. Well used to his presence and more often than not having to disregard his words, she found herself falling into that pattern once again. But his declaration jerked her out of her musings.

Stepping over a blackened puddle of snow she blinked quickly and withdrew her hand from his arm. Had she heard him right? My apologies, Mr. Smythe, but how can that be?

I would not wish to regale you with the trivial.

Pray, Mr. Smythe, do. For I cannot believe all the money my father left for us to live on is gone.

His countenance, usually deferential and compliant, changed briefly. Trying to ascertain if what she’d seen was truly aggressiveness, she pulled the folds of her mantle tighter around her.

You have no money and nothing of value to sell, he said forcefully.

She followed his gaze to the gold pin on her mantle. It had been her mother’s. She’d never sell it. It sparkled in the sunlight as she straightened her shoulders. His gaze shifted and lingered on her body, so she cleared her throat and met his gray eyes when he finally raised his stare.

I would, in spite of your position, be willing to marry you, he said.

Her throat closed in indignation, and briefly she was without words. She eyed the somewhat decrepit house behind him, her home. He was waiting for an answer, and she smoothed her hand down her gown before stopping the nervous gesture.

Staring at him now, suddenly she noticed what she had not before, as she’d been more interested in her mother’s downward-spiraling state. His clothing was fine and new. A fit that suggested it had been made for him and not bought ready-made. The walking stick in his hand was inlaid with mother of pearl and encircled with a thick, gold band.

His short brown hair was topped with an expensive fur-trimmed cap. Had he taken her father’s money for himself?

Sir, I thank you for your kind offer, but I must refuse.

No, you will not. You will wed with me.

He took her arm and led her to the door of the small house. Indignation was replaced by anger. She wouldn’t let fear enter her being. She was stronger than that.

Father Duyos expects us at the church before the luncheon meal is served, he said matter-of-factly. You may change out of your mourning clothes and into a more appropriate gown.

Yanking her arm from his grasp, she held her fisted hands straight beside her and controlled her angry breathing. My father will not allow you to treat me in such a way.

Your father is no where near here, and I’ve no doubt he will perish like so many of the foolish men who’ve rushed here to fight.

She shook her head and decided she’d not enter her home

with him. She was safer out here in the open. "You will leave

my home and return to me the money you’ve stolen."

I’ve taken only what’s due me, he snarled, confirming her suspicion and leaning closer to her. Your damnable father paid me nothing to take care of you and your mother.

Very well, Mr. Smythe. I’ve no intention of arguing with you. I will return to Lisbon to await my father. Enough of his men’s wives are there that one of them will take me in.

You haven’t the means to make that journey, he said, his tone mockingly superior.

He was right but she wouldn’t admit it out loud. Striving for a conciliatory tone, she spoke quietly. Mr. Smythe, perhaps you will give me a bit more time to consider your proposal? You must understand what a surprise your declaration is.

He stared hard at her, as if trying to ascertain if she were speaking the truth.

Please, why do you not speak to Father Duyos and arrange for us to meet on the morrow?

That did it. He believed her and probably assumed that ultimately she would wed him. She shrank from the salacious gleam in his eyes. He bowed to her, and taking her hand within his, he raised it to his lips.

Miss Diana Burrard, soon to be Mrs. Milton Smythe. He smiled a wide toothy grin now that he believed he was getting his way. I will join you shortly, and then we can make arrangements for our return to England.

She nodded and watched him leave, his walking stick thumping on the hard ground. Grasping her skirt in her hand, she ran into the house and locked the door behind her.

Suddenly overcome, she sat down, giving in to the depression she couldn’t keep away. For endless long minutes she wept and the wretched gloominess that had haunted her eased a bit with the release of her tears. With one last shudder, she swatted back the tears and sniffed once before standing up, her back straight with resolve. She didn’t have time for self pity.

She’d already begun packing away her mother’s clothes and other belongings, so she finished that task quickly. Hearing a crinkle, and feeling a sharp edge jabbing her finger, Diana pulled out from under her mother’s shawl a bundle of letters. They were from her father to her mother, and the ribbon used to tie them together had come undone. She sniffed seeing her father’s rigid handwriting. She missed him now even more.

Putting the letters away, she pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she turned to her own belongings. She was leaving, and she hadn’t any time to lose. Mr. Smythe would be back soon.

Thinking hard, she halted briefly in her packing and chewed her

bottom lip. If she went to Lisbon, as she’d just told Mr. Smythe, he

would only follow and find her easily.

But that was the only place she could go. She couldn’t stay here. Mr. Smythe had made himself well-liked in this village. She’d seen the way the locals treated him with so much deference. Even Father Duyos was pleased with the donations Mr. Smythe had given the church. Now she had to wonder if the village’s goodwill toward the man wasn’t because of her father’s money that he’d used for himself. There was no one here she could go to for help.

Her father was in Spain—in Zamora, as his last letter had informed them—and she couldn’t wait for a messenger to find him. By then Mr. Smythe would have caught her and forced her hand.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the flintlock pistol her father had left them, but only after assuring himself they could at least fire it once. She didn’t imagine he thought they would really have to use it. It was more for morale than any practical use; nevertheless, it did work. Lifting it slowly, she fingered the barrel. Zamora wasn’t too terribly far from here.

Diana looked around at the few possessions she had left. When they’d arrived in the summer, she and her mother hadn’t brought warm clothing, hoping they’d be returning home before it turned cold.

And Mr. Smythe hadn’t allowed them to purchase anything for a long time, telling them they had to make the money last as long as possible. Only after her mother had worsened had they been allowed to obtain warm gowns and a cloak, though not of a good quality.

She found Branca, the woman who’d helped her care for her mother and their house, preparing the luncheon meal and asked her to keep the remaining items for her until she could send for them.

Changing into her riding habit, she stuffed two gowns into a small valise that she could carry with her on her horse, and peered outside through the crack in the partially opened door.

She saw no one. Quickly she went around the house and saddled Nell, the mare her father had purchased for her before he departed. Leaning low over her horse, she smoothed her hand down Nell’s neck

and whispered low, Don’t look back.

With a soft click of her tongue, she urged Nell forward quickly leaving the town behind without anyone stopping her. Diana allowed a small smile at the thought of Mr. Smythe and his reaction when he found her gone. It was the first time in many days she had a reason to smile.

But she had to focus on her mission now, and she guided Nell around a deep, rutted ditch. With the first few miles behind her, she shook off the trepidation eating at her. She was doing the right thing.

As she passed the Portuguese regulars, she pulled the hood of her cape more closely about her face. No one should stop and question her now. If her luck held out, she would see her father soon.

Concentrating on the trail, Diana tried to keep Nell from

inadvertently stepping into a hole or crevice. The crunching of her mare’s hooves on the snow and ice became monotone, so she jerked when that sound changed.

It was the clop of another horse’s hooves.

Two

Anthony needed to break camp. But having been informed that not all his men were accounted for, he’d sent out several scouts to find them.

Impatient and concerned when none of the men returned as quickly as they should have, he set out himself to locate them.

As he rode past trees and bushes barren of leaves, it wasn’t difficult for him to spot one of his soldiers. Urging his horse in that man’s direction, he narrowed his gaze when it became apparent why the man was absent.

Standing beside a horse, he was gripping the reins with one hand while patting the horse’s neck with the other. He knew his men were tired from the endless marching, but he couldn’t allow them to take the local town peoples horses.

As he rode closer, he noticed that his soldier and the horse weren’t alone. There was someone on the other side of the horse... a woman.

Small enough to be hidden by the horse and his soldier, he could see she was upset.

Hold, he ordered Weft. Anthony should have known that this man was the one missing. He’d been trouble from the day he’d joined this regiment—mostly because he didn’t want to be here.

Dismounting, Anthony faced his soldier and took the reins from him. You will return to camp. Without this horse, he finished, seeing the man was about to speak.

Weft departed, but Anthony heard his mumbling about being sick to death of having to hike to every battle and camp site. His last mutter about only wanting the horse registered in the moment before he turned back to the woman. He’d take

care of Weft later.

I’ll not hurt you, he said, going around the horse to face her. Are you harmed? Though he was angry, his ire wasn’t directed at her, and seeing that she was already frightened, he strove to erase from his face any signs of irritation.

She didn’t answer him. Perhaps, then, she didn’t understand his words. He repeated his question in Spanish, thinking her to be a local woman from one of the villages.

No, I am fine. Please, I need to be on my way.

He was surprised at the voice. It was cultured and concise, and it was English. That I cannot allow. He walked toward her and gently but firmly pulled the reins out of her hand. When he did, she pulled up her other hand, and to his surprise, she held a small pistol. Its barrel was aimed directly at him.

Give me that before you hurt someone.

No, you will leave me alone. Please, move away from me.

He eyed her trembling grip and quick as lightning moved to take the pistol from her.

Her loud screech following the report of the gunshot made him shake his head. The force of the shot and her lack of preparedness landed her on the ground.

The ball having passed far above him, shattered the branch of a tree, and out of the corner of his eye he watched as pieces of wood drifted to the ground around them.

He eyed her indelicate sprawl and hid his grin. She slapped down her riding skirt and smoothed her palms along the length of her sleeves. Anthony pulled her to her feet, trying to ignore the rush of warmth that hit him when he touched her wrist.

Weft came running back, but when Anthony narrowed his gaze on him, he turned and left again. Anthony gave his attention back to the young woman.

She seemed to notice then that her gloves were blackened after firing her pistol and she was only spreading it on her riding habit. Pulling off the gloves, her lips pursed as she stared at the black streaks marring her dark blue habit. She glared at him as she tried to brush away the stain.

Now that you’ve demonstrated your abundance of courage in firing your weapon, you will give me that before you really hurt someone, namely yourself, Anthony insisted.

She picked up the gun, but dropped it again immediately. Oh, ‘tis hot.

He watched her slip her finger into her mouth, her pink lips closing about it. He shifted his feet, then reached down, picked up the pistol, and slipped it into his pocket.

His gaze went past her shoulder and around her. Where is your escort?

At his raised eyebrows, she spoke defensively. I don’t have one, nor do I need one. I’m on my way to meet with my father, and if you would please let me go, I will find him. He is all the escort I need.

Who is your father?

Without hesitation she answered, Lord Richard Burrard. I need only cross the mountains in Manzaneda to reach him.

He recognized the name but couldn’t put a face to the man. Then Anthony stared at her, incredulous. Do you mean to tell me that you intended to cross the Galician Highlands and the mountains in this climate? Alone?

She couldn’t be that foolish. He knew that terrain was rough and dangerous for even the most experienced of men, and she, a woman... Why, it would be absurd for her to try it.

Visibly bristling, she spoke angrily. Yes, and I do still plan on doing that. Just let go, and I will make it there all the more quickly.

He admired her determination while he ignored his remorse for deriding her. It was for her own good that he not let her continue on her quest.

She moved restlessly at his sigh. He had no wish to be a nursemaid. I cannot let you continue alone.

She clenched her teeth together. You needn’t worry yourself about me, sir. In any case, you’ve no say in what I do.

Come, you’re not safe here. Accompany me to my camp, and we’ll figure out a solution to your problem.

Nay, I will not.

I assure you, no harm will come to you in our camp. My name is Anthony Aubrey, and I am commander of this regiment.

When she didn’t speak, he stood for a moment without moving, studying her and giving her a moment to come to terms with the fact she couldn’t continue on her own. Her brilliant sapphire eyes met his, and a spark of fire seemed to ignite and pass between them.

His gaze traveled down her beautiful pixie face to a chin tilted in iron determination. Smooth white skin, without a blemish to mar it, held him in silent contemplation. She was breathtaking.

Her hair, which had been pulled back in a large roll behind her head, was coming loose, no doubt from her struggle with Weft. It was the black of a starless night—rich, glowing, and curling softly. The raven strands framed her face, making her seem far too fragile. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts in her agitation, and her slight form below the open flaps of her cloak.

Though the woolen riding habit she wore was obviously old, it served to accentuate her curves, its neckline stopping at her throat. His lips thinned as he gazed at a long tear.

Did Weft do that? he asked, reaching out.

She shook her head violently.

I did it when I fell off the horse.

She stepped back quickly, stopping only when she could go no farther, running into the horse blocking her path. She looked terrified, and her mouth opened, but closed without a sound when he pulled the edges of her cloak together, sealing in the warmth. His hand went to the hood of her cloak, and he pulled it up over her head.

He didn’t comment on her obvious relief. Her shoulders sagged, and she didn’t resist as he helped her into her saddle. Keeping her horse’s reins in his hand, he mounted his own horse and steered her in the direction of his camp.

You are English, are you not? he asked, taking in the fact

she easily controlled her mare. What are you doing here alone?

I told you. I am searching for my father.

Searching? I thought you were meeting him. Do not tell me you are traveling alone?

For the moment, yes I am.

He didn’t let go of her mare’s reins as they approached his camp and the English soldiers.

I do wish I had known I was so close to your camp. If I had I would have ridden the other way.

That hardly makes any sense at all. Would you not like to see if your father was part of this regiment? Were I you, I would check each regiment I passed. When her face reddened, he cursed low. He had no reason to make her feel foolish.

Dismounting and helping her do the same, Anthony gave the reins of both horses to a soldier with orders to have the animals fed and stabled. Then he walked with the woman into his tent, one of the larger ones.

Sit down. He gently, though firmly, pushed her into a chair beside a small table. We are only just inside Spain’s border and it will take many more days to reach your father.

He went to the fire and added more wood to it. It flared, and the flames beckoned. He turned to her when she stood.

Sir, I am not a soldier in your army. You cannot order me to do your bidding. I am leaving. Don’t try to stop me again.

Very well. You are, of course, free to go, but it is bitterly cold out. Would you not like to warm yourself first and eat something to fortify you for your trip?

He sensed her indecision, and he spoke again after her continued silence. What regiment is your father in, and who is his superior?

He reports to Sir Moore and is in the thirty-sixth Regiment.

Anthony looked at her thoughtfully. This is the forty-fifth Regiment, and we also report to Sir Moore. She did not respond to this bit of information. "What is your