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V erity woke up in a cold sweat. Her sleep had been disturbed by the turbulence of numerous nightmares. Shipwreck. War. A wedding with two grooms. A bride stranded with a driverless carriage. A stranger walking away, surrounded by butterflies that fell, motionless, at his feet.

It took some time for the disarray of images and their accompanying distress to subside into some sort of calm.

Yet some unease remained. Both a dear friend and her betrothed were to leave for foreign soil this day, their voyage risky, their destiny uncertain.

But what made the jumbled emotions more confused was the difficulty in concluding whose absence she would miss most.

She allowed herself a little grace. Arthur’s proposal had been sudden and wholly unexpected.

Until that moment, her hopes and expectations had been focused on Mr. Cole.

It was challenging to reel them in without warning.

If Arthur had given some indication beyond mere civility, she might have been better prepared.

She would quite possibly have given Mr. Cole no consideration at all.

But her betrothed had offered no preamble, nothing exceptional in his attitude toward her to suggest that he was interested in a life with her.

And that was where her thoughts took her on a treacherous detour.

What if the same could be said of Mr. Cole?

What if, behind his lighthearted veneer and his talk of friendship, he felt a tenderness for her?

Could his kiss have meant more? Had he realized it had been his last chance to show his true longing for her?

And why had he come back, only to leave again without saying anything?

Had it been Arthur’s proposal that had shifted his decision?

It had all happened so quickly, and Verity thought she had reasoned it all through adequately. This morning, however, she had more questions than answers.

There was no way to resolve any of it. She could hardly take herself over to the Trentons’ home and demand that Mr. Cole declare himself.

That was, if he had anything to declare.

Nor could she bring herself to call off the engagement on the basis of Mr. Cole’s unconfirmed affection.

What she really needed was time to think.

She should not have said yes so readily. But it had all made perfect sense the day before. To ask Arthur to delay the engagement until his return would be a terrible blow to a man going off to war, even if he only ever saw the aftereffects of battle.

And so it was without the uncontained excitement of a newly engaged woman that Verity dressed, had breakfast, and made her way to the docks situated upon the banks of the wide estuary that ran the length of Munro.

Daniel had insisted on accompanying Verity and Hope, saying it was no place for women to visit alone.

It was a decision both pragmatic and thoughtful, but Verity did not crave the company.

At least it gave Hope someone to talk to when, after a few worried glances at her sister, she gave up trying to draw Verity into the conversation.

The port was busy in a way that appeared haphazard and chaotic, yet boats were systematically being loaded and the number of red coats upon the decks was steadily increasing.

Arthur Westbridge—who had no need of uniform and was largely free to wander as he pleased—stood patiently waiting beside the gangplank of the transport to which he had been assigned.

As soon as he spied Verity approaching from the carriage, he hastened toward her, his face wreathed in smiles.

“Miss Lockhart.” He stopped awkwardly once they were face-to-face, clearly unsure what the appropriate next move should be.

“Dr. Westbridge,” Verity replied softly, noting that they had slipped back into old formalities. To set a new tone, she reached across on her toes and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek, balancing herself with her hand upon his arm.

The smile returned.

“I confess I am relieved to receive your affection, Miss Lockhart,” he said, running his fingers through his hair.

“Verity,” she corrected him.

“Ah, yes, of course. Your name is a privilege I have not yet grown used to.”

“We have all the time in the world to become so,” Verity replied. “But I am curious. Did you not think I would want to express my fondness for you?” she added, carefully avoiding the word “love.”

“My proposal was so sudden,” he explained, “I could not imagine you having fully taken it all in. Someone as young as yourself might need time to adjust to the idea. Even I, being close to thirty years of age, am not fully prepared for such a solemn shift in status.”

“It may be that our time apart is a hidden blessing,” said Verity, “giving us the opportunity to grasp the magnitude of it all.” If only Mr. Cole would stay out of her thoughts!

“Perhaps you would like to follow me aboard,” Arthur offered the trio. “I could show you where I will be spending the next few days—or the next week, as the weather will have it.”

Daniel was quick to intercede. “Have your lady take your arm, sir. There are a great many soldiers and sailors about, with no guarantee that they will show a woman the respect she deserves. We shall have to shield Verity and my wife from rough comments and other bawdy behavior.”

“Too right, Mr. Sinclair,” Arthur acknowledged. I had not thought of that. Your experience as a husband is an example to me. I have much to learn. But I am willing, for Miss Lockhart shall have all that is due her.”

“Verity,” she repeated.

Verity suppressed a sigh, reminding herself that she had chosen this: safety over sentiment, steadiness over passion. She had no right to complain when Arthur continued to behave as he had done throughout their acquaintance.

And yet, she found his commitment to her unsatisfying.

All was done as if he checked off a list. He did not express any fervor, only constancy.

It should have been enough. It could be, if she would let it.

But she ached for more. The thought that Mr. Cole might have given her all she now missed gnawed at her.

Even in this moment, when she took the arm of the man who would be her husband, nothing tingled or sang within her heart, her limbs, her womanhood.

It was a sturdy arm. It would be there for her whenever she needed it.

But she wanted to feel an undercurrent. To know that the owner of that arm wished they were alone, that he might wrap it around her, lifting his other hand to trace her curves, make her shiver with anticipation.

These thoughts fell away as they reached the deck. There were too many watchful eyes. Too many men who might want these very things of her.

She cast her own eyes down, looking only where Arthur pointed, until they reached the opposite side of the boat, the river lapping roughly at the timber frame. The water was deep and dark and murky, reflecting the clouds that gathered ominously above.

An officer approached with a businesslike air. “All non-passengers are to go ashore at once.”

Dr. Westbridge made a small protest. “I did ask the captain’s permission to bring my betrothed on board. She will leave when we sail.”

“Then she must leave now,” replied the soldier. “The tide is favorable and there is a storm coming. We are to set out to sea and escape the worst of it.”

Arthur turned rather helplessly to Verity. “It seems we are to part sooner than hoped. I am sorry for it.” He looked about him for something useful to say. “Let me at least walk you back to your carriage.”

They proceeded back down the roughly crafted gangplank. They steered through the mess of hurrying bodies, stacked crates, restless horses, and officers shouting orders as the eight boats transporting the regiment were readied for imminent departure.

Somewhere from within the hubbub, a rushing form bumped into Verity, narrowly prevented from knocking her off her feet by the sturdy arm of Dr. Westbridge.

“I say,” Arthur cried, “watch where you’re going!” The stranger untangled himself from sword and capsized shako hat, straightening to reveal none other than… “Mr. Cole! Great heavens! What a coincidence!”

But Mr. Cole did not marvel at the coincidence. In fact, he did not seem pleased to see any of them at all. He made no eye contact with Verity, only bowing his head to Arthur and saying, “I believe congratulations are in order, Doctor.”

“Ah, yes, indeed. Thank you.” Arthur smiled and patted Verity’s arm, which lay in the crook of his.

“For a time there, I thought it might be I who congratulated you , especially as I am more the tortoise to your hare in matters of the heart. But I do not begrudge you your friendship with Miss Lockhart. I am not a jealous man.”

If Dr. Westbridge thought his words reassuring, he was mistaken. Mr. Cole flushed a deep pink. His eyes remained on Dr. Westbridge by dint of great effort, for they flicked so often toward Verity that it was quite giddying to watch.

“I was never under the impression that Miss Lockhart wished for anything more than friendship from me,” Mr. Cole said with a hint of bitterness.

“So, your path to her was always clear.” He added, with a tone that was more civil than sincere, “I wish you both every happiness. Now you must excuse me. Our fleet is leaving within the hour and there is still much to do.”

“We wish you both safe travels,” Hope said warmly. “We would have all our menfolk return to England soon, and in good health.”

“‘Both’?” said Mr. Cole, his brow furrowed.

“Dr. Westbridge has volunteered his services in Brussels,” Hope explained. “Though it does not appear you are on the same boat, which is a pity. It is always easier to travel with someone you know.”

“I have treated many families and even more soldiers,” replied the doctor. “No doubt there will be a familiar face somewhere on board.”

Verity did not care if Arthur knew absolutely everyone on the boat to which he was assigned.

Her thoughts were slamming into each other at great speed, and the conclusion was nothing less than earth-shattering.

She had wondered at Mr. Cole’s sudden coldness toward her, heard him say he felt his suit would have been wasted, and realized, with a tearing howl of her heart, that he had wanted her as much as she did him.

His kiss had been real. His friendship had meant everything, for it was all he had allowed himself.

And there it was—all the feeling she had been missing, tumbling out toward him.

She wanted to shake off Arthur’s arm and launch herself toward Mr. Cole, clinging to him and feeling her world shift beneath them as they held each other, united in love, forever and ever and ever.

“Cole!” shouted a voice drenched in authority. “Get yourself here on the double!”

William Cole finally lifted his sight to Verity.

The flush in his cheeks remained. His brows were lowered, his eyes red-rimmed as if withholding tears.

“Goodbye, Miss Lockhart,” he said. It sounded so formal, like something Arthur would have said.

But Verity could see his heart breaking.

She saw it so clearly now. Why had she not done so before?

Just one day earlier, that was the wisdom she would have needed. And she would have chosen differently.

How could she tell him she understood at last?

That she felt the same, though it could mean nothing now.

Such words could never be spoken aloud. Instead, she said, “As I have mentioned before, Mr. Cole, I do not like the word ‘goodbye.’ There is nothing ‘good’ about being parted from those we value deeply.”

Love! That was the word she wanted to shout! But she could never do so now. Her arm was still entwined with Arthur’s, as were the remainder of her days.

“And to you, also, Arthur, I shall not speak that terrible word, for it was meant for separation, and I am unwilling to dwell on what must happen now.”

What must happen was to lose, forever, her love. To live a half-life with a man who might tend to all her needs except those of her heart.

No, there was nothing good about it at all.

And then Arthur kissed her.

He chose the corner of her mouth, where cheek and lip met.

No doubt it was a thoughtful deed, not to rush her with intimacy.

But a man leaving for war should have been consumed with a sense of loss, with no room remaining for such courtesies.

Let him shock her with the depth of his anguish, rather than belabor her with his insistence on correctness.

She wanted a kiss like Mr. Cole’s. One that left her weak and craving more.

A testament to his inability to stay away.

But Mr. Cole had stayed away. When he should most have been himself, pushing Arthur from the carriage doorway and declaring himself, he had been most like the doctor—restrained, correct, ineffectual.

Oh, these men!

And now these very two departed from her, each to their own ship.

Hope stood tightly at Verity’s side, offering the comfort of her presence.

Verity was grateful for it, though she imagined her sister would be shocked to know what form her sorrow took.

For she mourned not for her betrothed, but for the man who was lost to her forever.

They stood thus, watching the dock empty of its people and cargo.

They felt the air thicken with damp. Verity would have stood there until the last sight of the ships had faded beyond the bend in the estuary, the wind teasing her hair, the growing darkness brought by the brewing clouds hiding the tears that now dripped down from her nose and chin.

But it began to rain. At first, small warning drops.

Then the wind whipped up and the drops fell more quickly.

Large, plashing things that blurred her view and threatened to soak her clothes.

Daniel bundled the ladies into the carriage and bid the driver head for home.

The roof drummed with the onslaught of rain.

Somewhere in the storm, Arthur would have made for his tiny private cabin, perhaps to read some academic works.

And Mr. Cole… He would have to swallow his pain.

He had duties to perform, men to manage.

It was only Verity, safe in the guise of grieving bride-to-be, who could cry freely.

Until the pain was numbed and the tears dried up.

Yes, she mourned the loss of the man she loved.

And when those tears were spent, she would have to learn to live with the choice she had made.