Despite the unshakable attraction between them, Maeve and Lucian are uninterested in love and marriage; especially since they hate one another and couldn't think of a worse match.
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London, 1815
Maeve Langston's aversion to the opposite sex has...
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Two weeks... Lucian couldn't believe his luck. For the first time in his life, he was willing to believe there was a god up there, pulling strings. He had only been out of the country for two weeks, and he was already back, unharmed, continuing life as if nothing had happened.
However, it had happened, and Lucian now knew he was never going back to war again.
After his departure from Douvres, two weeks ago, he had rapidly joined the officers, posted in the general headquarters, in Waterloo. He had been glad to see a lot of familiar faces, and Wellington had welcomed him as an old friend. The battle plans were already well advanced, and Lucian had studied them, before giving his insight, correcting a few liabilities he had perceived.
They had spent the week organizing the garrisons, food supplies, and training the men. Most of the soldiers had never been to war before, and they had very little time to turn them into acceptable fighters.
On the fifteenth, Thursday, they were still organizing when they had heard Napoleon had crossed the frontier and entered Belgium territory. They had tried their best to coordinate themselves with Prince Blücher, who commanded the Prussian army. The day after, Friday the sixteenth, the Emperor had launched an attack on the Coalition and Blücher's army simultaneously. Whereas Wellington had managed to hold the lines, the Prussians had been forced to retreat.
It had only been Saturday morning that they had learned of the Prussians' defeat, and Wellington had ordered the troops to move back up North, near Waterloo, choosing a more suitable battlefield.
That day had been filled with shouting and yelling, moving garrisons around, preparing for the actual battle. Lucian had dealt with the men in his corps, trying to rouse the morals and entice courage. Then, after a long day of stress and complications, the rain had come. Although it hadn't been a good sign at first, since a muddy field was never easy to navigate on, this dreaded rain had turned out to be their salvation.
On Sunday, they were ready since dawn to face the French Emperor, but the man had delayed, hoping to be able to move his heavy artillery around, but the drenched grounds wouldn't allow it. The day had been a succession of attacks and retreats from both camps. Wellington was trying his best to hold the French men away, waiting for Blücher to arrive, as promised, with the Prussian army.
The battle was going nowhere. They were losing as much as they were killing. When Blücher finally arrived, attacking the French army from the southeast, Wellington and the coalition army were holding the north side, in an effort to prevent Napoleon from reaching Brussels. With a few more efforts, with the help of the Prussians, they had managed to discourage the French troops, and the soldiers had scattered, fleeing the battle. From there, the rest of the battle had been dealt with in a matter of minutes. Napoleon, surrounded by his most loyal men, had heroically tried to hold on, but not enough soldiers were left for the Emperor to be saved.
On the following day, Monday, they had assessed the losses, Napoleon locked in a cell. Despite the slightly superior numbers on the French side, and Napoleon's renowned heavy artillery, the losses of the Coalition side were fewer than the Emperor's.
