The Wager of War and Want

The ballroom is a-glitter with a thousand candles—their light dancing like fireflies against crystal and silk—as I watch *him* from across the room. Captain James Thorne, the most reckless man in Christendom, laughs at some jest his fellow officers make, his dark head thrown back, the muscles in his neck flexing above his regimentals. I sip my champagne (a touch too sweet, but I'll not complain when the bubbles tickle my nose so) and consider how best to approach him. Our eyes meet—a jolt like summer lightning—and he excuses himself, weaving through the throng with all the single-minded purpose of a hunter.

"Lady Ashford," he says, bowing over my hand. His lips brush my knuckles, lingering just long enough to set tongues wagging. "You look ravishing tonight. Like a goddess descended from Olympus to grace us mortals with your presence."

I arch an eyebrow, unimpressed by his flattery. "And you, Captain Thorne, look like a man bound for trouble. When do you sail for France?"

"Tomorrow at dawn." He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Shall I bring you back a souvenir? A lock of Bonaparte's hair, perhaps?"

"Only if you wish me to think you've gone mad," I murmur, stepping back to put some distance between us. "I hear he's rather attached to it."

James chuckles, low and rich. "Touché, my lady. You've always been quick-witted… among other charms." His gaze sweeps over me, bold and appreciative. "Tell me, what will you do while I'm away? Pine for me, I hope?"

"Persist in your delusions, if you must," I say lightly. "But I assure you, I shall be quite content managing Ashford Park and hosting the occasional soirée. London will not fall into disarray without your presence, sir."

He scoffs. "Spoken like a woman who's never known true longing." His hand captures mine, our fingers intertwining beneath the cover of my skirts. "I propose a wager, Eleanor."

My breath catches at his use of my given name—a scandal in itself. "What manner of wager, Captain?"

"If I vow to remain faithful to you—and only you—during my deployment…" He leans in again, his lips nearly brushing mine. "Will you promise to await my return without entertaining other suitors?"

I consider him for a long moment, this man who sets my blood aflame with a glance. "You're a fool, James Thorne," I whisper at last. "But then, so am I."

"Is that a yes?" he presses, his thumb tracing circles on my palm.

"It is." The words escape me before I can call them back. "I accept your wager, on one condition: we seal it with a kiss."

His grin is pure wickedness. "As my lady commands."

In the moonlit garden, far from prying eyes, we find each other—lips meeting in a conflagration of desire. His hands tangle in my hair, scattering pins as he pulls me closer; mine clutch at his shoulders, crushing the fine wool of his coat. We break apart only when breath fails us, foreheads resting together, hearts hammering in unison.

"Write to me," I command softly. "And think of this when you're far away."

"Every day," he swears. "I'll hold you in my thoughts, Eleanor… until I can hold you in my arms once more."

We part then, stealing back to the ballroom with flushed cheeks and swollen lips—our secret burning bright between us like a candle in the dark.

I watch him go, this man who has just turned my world upside down with a few careless words and a searing kiss. My fingers rise to touch my lips, still tender from his possession. He is everything I should avoid—reckless, impulsive, utterly unsuitable for a widow of my standing—and yet… I crave him like breath itself.

The remainder of the ball passes in a blur of polite conversation and forced smiles. I dance with other gentlemen, laugh at their jests, but my thoughts are miles away, across the sea already, with James. When I retire for the evening, I press my face into the pillow and breathe deeply, imagining I can still catch his scent—sandalwood and danger—on the linen.

Sleep eludes me, so I rise and pace before the window, watching as the stars wheel overhead. What have I done? A wager, struck in haste and sealed with passion… it feels foolish now, in the cold light of reason. And yet… there is a thrill to it, a secret shared between us that makes my heart race and my skin tingle.

I shall not entertain other suitors, as I promised. But oh, how I shall dream of him—his hands on my body, his lips on my throat, his weight pressing me down into the mattress as he claims me for his own. Such thoughts are wicked, improper… and utterly delicious. They will sustain me through the long months ahead, until he returns to me.

If he returns.

The thought is a cold knife in my gut, stealing my breath. War is no game, no matter how glibly James speaks of it. He could fall in battle, his life snuffed out like a candle flame… and where would that leave me? Alone, with only memories and might-have-beens for company.

No. I will not think of it. I will believe in his safe return, in the strength of our bond. He swore to be faithful, to write only to me… and I must trust in that. Trust in him, though every instinct screams that I am mad to do so.

With a sigh, I climb back into bed and close my eyes, conjuring his image behind my lids. "Come back to me, James," I whisper to the darkness. "Come back, and make me yours in truth."

And on that fervent prayer, I drift at last into dreams—each one filled with him.

The first letter arrives a fortnight after James' departure, bearing the postmark of Dover. I snatch it from the salver with trembling hands, my heart leaping into my throat at the sight of his bold, scrawling script.

> My dearest Eleanor, > > I write to you from the deck of the *HMS Valiant*, surrounded by the briny tang of the sea and the less pleasant odors of several hundred unwashed soldiers. We sail for Calais on the morning tide, and I find my thoughts consumed by a pair of emerald eyes and lips like crushed roses. You haunt me, madam—by day and by night, in dreams and waking hours alike. > > Life aboard ship is tedious beyond measure. We drill and polish our muskets, mend uniforms, gamble away our meager pay at cards. I've won a small fortune already, though I'd trade every penny for another moment in your arms. Do you remember the garden, my love? The scent of roses and your skin, the silk of your hair against my fingers? I ache for you, Eleanor. My cock stands at attention like a raw recruit whenever I close my eyes and summon your image. > > Forgive my crudeness, but you've driven me to distraction. Write back to me, I beg you. Tell me of Ashford Park, of the harvest and the tenants. Tell me you long for me as I long for you. Be my beacon in this wilderness of war, my lodestar guiding me home. > > Yours ever, > > James

His words set me aflame, kindling a fire in my belly that threatens to consume me. I read the letter a dozen times, until the parchment is creased and limp from handling. Then I take up my own quill and ink, determined to give as good as I get.

> My dear Captain Thorne, > > Your letter arrived today, bearing the scent of salt and masculine desire. I must confess, I am surprised by your eloquence—though perhaps I should not be, given your silver tongue. The harvest is well underway, the fields groaning with wheat and barley. I ride out each morning to oversee the reapers, clad in my sturdiest habits and broadest hats. You would laugh to see me, I'm sure—my face brown as a nut, my hair escaping its pins in wild curls. > > I dream of you too, James. Wicked, wanton dreams that leave me flushed and panting in the dark. In them, you take me in a tangle of sheets and sweat, your mouth hot on my breasts, your hardness filling me until I shatter like glass. I wake aching and empty, my fingers slick with my own arousal. You've ruined me for sleep, you wretch. > > Write again soon. Tell me of your adventures, your triumphs and trials. And know that I am yours, body and soul, until you return to claim me in truth. > > Eleanor

And so our correspondence begins—a flurry of parchment and ink winging its way across land and sea. James writes of skirmishes and bivouacs, of comrades lost and victories won. He describes the sun rising over the Pyrenees, the wind whistling through the passes, the bitter cold of mountain streams. His letters are vivid, poetic, laced with double entendres that make me blush and squirm.