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I t was strange, William thought to himself, how much he had cared about his uniform before. It had mattered so much once upon a time. Here, surrounded by a myriad of lovely ladies for whom he could strut and preen, he would usually have been in his element.

Less than a hundred miles away, the war awaited them.

By daybreak, they would be marching into the face of it.

But tonight, they danced and feasted. William, Prince of Orange, and their general, the Duke of Wellington, were the honored guests amongst a multitude of dukes, counts, high-ranking military officers, diplomats, a few lucky additions like himself, and—perhaps to offer a blessing on the occasion—one reverend.

The ladies were dressed in unfamiliar fashion, their clothes and hair following the French influence. Their manners, too, were more formal, but that may have had something to do with the caliber of persons attending.

Six months ago, when William had first obtained his commission, it would have mattered that he compared favorably with the other gentlemen.

In appearance, that was. His looks and charm were undeniable.

The converted carriage-house, now papered with a trellis-rose pattern, was filled to bursting with young women all too eager to forget the horrors that lay less than a day’s march from their door.

And he would have been more than willing to help them do just that.

But tonight, as with every other night since he’d left England three weeks ago, the food tasted like ash in his mouth.

The ladies—despite making every effort to draw his attention—were all but invisible to his moody gaze.

William cradled the brandy in his hand. He did not actually drink it but stared morosely into its depths.

Eventually, all attempts to engage him ceased.

He sat alone, in his shiny uniform, without the one person whose company he sought.

Their farewell haunted him still. Seeing Miss Lockhart upon the arm of Dr. Westbridge had ripped any hope from him that she had rejected the man’s proposal.

And yet she did not seem happy. Was it simply that her betrothed had been leaving for Brussels?

Did she regret not being able to marry him sooner, having to wait for his return?

And what sort of man kissed a woman like Miss Lockhart on the edge of her mouth when he was to be parted from her?

How did Westbridge restrain himself from claiming all that he could?

The man had left her with nothing to long for, save the church bells upon his return.

William had revisited their own kiss over and over again in his mind.

She had wanted it. He had questioned this from every angle, driven himself to madness to establish the truth of her part in it.

He was finally convinced Miss Lockhart had only withdrawn because he had done so first. If that accursed doctor had not arrived, she might even have told him so.

Miss Lockhart had called William the best of men, worried for his safety, wordlessly desired his return.

And she had met his passion with her own.

He had misread her desperate clinging as a sign that she had been overwhelmed, that he had gone too far, but now he feared he had not gone far enough.

He should have stayed. Should have sent the doctor on his way.

If he had declared his feelings there and then…

But his reasoning had been off-kilter. He had almost lost her friendship an hour earlier at the picnic. He had not wanted to risk it again by claiming too much too soon. Only… now she would never be his.

Worse still, would she truly be happy with Westbridge? Had she accepted the doctor’s offer because William had not made one of his own? Was William to blame for her settling in this way?

William may well have spent the rest of the night in this manner, berating himself, scolding the fates, and generally wasting a perfectly good party, had it not been for the arrival of Wellington’s aide-de-camp.

He delivered a note, the contents of which were soon known to all, even though the general had only spoken them quietly to the prince.

The French army had crossed the River Sambre and were marching toward Quatre Bras, not fifty miles from where the general sat now.

The news was not so much announced as whispered from ear to ear around the dining room, and with it grew the disturbance of many minds and hearts, some of which belonged to those who must fight, while others were those of relatives, friends, and lovers who must watch them go.

The general alone remained undisturbed. He turned to his host and asked in a cool manner, “Do you have a map?”

“Indeed, I do. If you will join me in my study, I shall have it fetched down from the shelf.”

Wellington did not stand immediately, but finished his plate of food at an unhurried pace.

Several officers who had men camped near Quatre Bras left in far more haste, still dressed in their evening attire, calling for their horses to be readied at once.

William could picture their polished boots splashed with mud as they rode furiously to organize their troops.

How many of them would return? Too many had danced their last this night.

William remained unmoving in his seat. He had no orders. He had no purpose. No one to whom to say goodbye—not that she would use that word. He sat, staring into the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass.

Twenty minutes later, Wellington placed his cutlery down upon his place, stood, bowed to his hostess, and bid everyone a good night.

His host rose also, leading him from the dining room to the study.

Across the antechamber that led to the converted carriage house, the sound of music and laughter continued.

Evidently, not all young souls understood the gravity of events.

It was hard to countenance their frivolity, knowing how many other guests might be brought to dust in the days ahead.

Within half an hour, the general had left the house altogether. In his stead were orders for the officers who remained. Larson was not there, but their commanding officer was. He beckoned to William.

“Time to go, Lieutenant. There is men’s work to be done.”

William took a last look at his brandy. It would be sorry to waste it.

And a little bit of liquid courage wouldn’t go amiss.

He swirled the sweet liquor about—a last moment of tranquility—before throwing his head back and swallowing the contents in one go.

The heat of it was soothing, filling the darkness of his thoughts with its amber light.

He did not remember the ride back to his quarters, nor the scuffling in the dimly lit room to change into his field attire.

He vaguely recalled wishing that there were fewer buttons and that he had brought his valet with him.

At some point, he must have checked his musket, bayonet, and pistol by the light of the single lamp, for this was his habit whenever joining with the ranks.

What he remembered clearly, though, was the last sunrise as the lines began to march toward Waterloo.

His horse was restless, possibly sensing the dread in the hearts of the men about him.

But the sunrise bloomed into day, as if great promise lay ahead.

And there, flitting haphazardly until it came to rest on his glove, its distinctive color and pattern instantly recognizable, was a large blue.

William scarcely dared breathe. The butterfly pulsed its wings. It appeared in no hurry to leave, perched on his hand, holding on to it with its own tiny claws.

William drew comfort from it, as if Miss Lockhart herself were there with him. As if it were she who held on to his hand.

Then his horse shook its mane, and the butterfly was disturbed. It lifted gently into the air, hovered as though contemplating where to go, circled his hat, and disappeared over a scented field of wild rosemary.

William exhaled. For a moment, he thought he had dreamed it.

But his heart no longer pounded with angst. His thoughts were quiet—peaceful, even.

Slowly, as if the little creature were still perched upon it, he lifted his hand to his chest. The warmth of it spread as it had when Miss Lockhart had clung to him, willing him to stay.

It made him want to pledge himself to her fully. He was the right man for her. Not Westbridge. If this war did not kill him, he should insist she break with the doctor. He did not care if there was a scandal. They belonged together. The butterfly was a sign, and he…

William’s racing thoughts ground to a halt. This was exactly how he had behaved with Lady Howell. He would not tread this path again.

The lovely large blue was a sign, yes—that he had learned a great many things from Miss Lockhart.

The most important of which was to be a better man.

If she had chosen, he must respect her choice.

If they were to be only friends, he would be the best of them.

This was the man she wished him to be. Someone who did right for its own sake, even when there was no reward.

The momentary madness behind him, his equilibrium restored, William focused once more on the dusty road before him, while the face of Miss Lockhart—with her honest eyes and forgiving mouth—lingered with him like the presence of a guardian angel.

And the sound of cannon fire grew louder in the distance.