Chapter One

“Josephine!” Josephine’s friend cried out as her coachmen helped her from her carriage, her arms outstretched and open wide. At first, Josephine stood there with a smile, not wanting to seem too eager. But as Josephine began to tear up a little, she picked up the bottom of her dress and ran over to her. The two of them embraced tightly.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” Josephine said as she let Erica go, Erica’s ebony curly bangs bouncing around her face. Her eyes were still the same steel grey Josephine remembered, full of the same childlike wonder they’d always had, but yet, she seemed like she’d matured past her years in the months they’d been apart.

“Shall we go inside for tea today?” Erica asked.

“Oh, no,” Josephine said, shaking her head. “On a beautiful day like today, with you finally here? This calls for something special… follow me!”

Josephine took Erica by the hand, and the two of them ran off giddily, dashing off towards the place where they’d spent many days of their childhood, rain or shine – Josephine’s mother’s coveted rose garden.

“It’s so lovely to see you again, Erica,” Josephine said as her friend sat down at the stone table by the rose bushes, Josephine reaching forward and pouring Erica a cup of tea. It had been quite a while since the two had seen one another, and it was always a grand time when she was around. They’d been friends since they were young, their mothers entirely close themselves, and their bond had survived the sands of time. But with Erica now married to the Duke of Berkshire, tea times had gone from weekly bouts to few and far between, leaving Josephine often feeling rather lonely at the Compton estate.

“Indeed, it is,” Erica said with a smile.

“Sugar?” Josephine asked, placing her hand on the dish of sugar cubes.

“Yes, please,” Erica replied, and Josephine slid the container and poured a cup for herself. The citrusy smell of bergamot filled the air as the steam rose from their drinks, rivalling the soft aroma of the roses nearby.

“So, what has life been like in Berkshire with the duke? Your letters have been few and far between,” Josephine couldn’t help but tease her newly wed friend.

“I’m so sorry, Josephine,” Erica said.

“You are forgiven, I suppose,” Josephine said with a mischievous grin. “Well out with it, Duchess of Berkshire. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“Oh, so many things,” Erica replied. “Your life truly changes when you marry a duke.”

“I can imagine,” Josephine replied. “I recall my mother saying as much when she spoke about marrying father.”

“Being a duchess is certainly more work than I imagined,” Erica sighed. “I mean, I wasn’t entirely oblivious about it either, I knew appearances must be kept, but it feels never-ending. And then when he goes off on business, I hate being alone in the manor, you know?”

“If being alone bothers you that much, you could always come here to visit whenever he leaves,” Josephine suggested. Josephine had missed Erica terribly since she’d been wed and hoped that putting out the suggestion would prompt her to come more often.

Josephine did enjoy the company of her father and aunt, but Erica had been the sister she never had. She could think of incidents her father and aunt were ignorant of, but Erica was present at all of them.

“I will keep that in mind,” Erica replied. “Though I can’t be away from home too much, lest the vulturous journalists claim some scandal in the papers.”

“Ah yes, the gossip sheets,” Josephine replied as she rolled her eyes. “Always a nuisance.”

“Agreed,” Erica said with a nod. “You know, I miss when we were little, to be honest. Though I do enjoy the parties and gatherings, I miss when your mother, my mother and the two of us would frolic right in this very garden. Rain or shine.”

“I know what you mean,” Josephine replied with a sigh. “Those were certainly simpler times.” Times I genuinely treasure and pine for…  Josephine didn’t dare to say this last part out loud. The last thing she wanted was for Erica to worry about her, especially when her visits seemed to be fading away…

“We could most undoubtedly let our hair down when no one was looking,” Erica replied with a giggle. “Nowadays, I am lucky to get a true moment to myself, and there’s so much pressure with everyone asking if I’m with child yet…I didn’t think I would be so busy answering such personal questions most of my days. I knew how the ton was but still… It’s enough to infuriate you sometimes.”

Josephine truly sympathized with her friend. Children and family making were a part of marriage, and the fact that she wasn’t already with child as it was expected of her had upset Erica, though she was probably too proud to admit it. Having children was a miracle of life; Josephine was quite sure of that; however, she felt for her friend and their position as women.

A woman’s place in the ton was to be prim, proper, and beautiful representations of le beau monde. They were to be picturesque reflections of their husbands and bear children to carry on their lineage. Continuing to give birth to children until an heir was produced to pass down their role to, whether it be duke, earl, viscount or baron. Wanting to keep their positions etched in history under their family name for the rest of time…

Traditions Josephine herself found to be ignorant of women’s concerns, but she could never openly say so, not wanting to bring dishonour on her father, the Earl of Northampton.

“Do you remember that one day when we were children, and my mother brought us out in our dresses just to jump in muddy puddles?” Josephine asked, a smile slipping across her face.

“I recall your father turning redder than a beet when he saw we were covered in muck, and we all had a giggling fit—”

“—Yes, including mother,” Josephine chimed in, trying not to let their reminiscing get to her too much. She found sometimes it was hard to talk about her mother, but with Erica, she felt it was a little bit easier. As if she could be more herself, let her emotions out a little, where in the house she felt as though she had to be strong…especially for her father’s sake.

“‘It isn’t ladylike’, father would huff every time, and mother would laugh, not at all bothered by his scolding,” Josephine said with a grin.

“She was truly remarkable,” Erica replied with a chuckle. “I was sad to see her go.”

“As was I,” Josephine replied. “It truly hasn’t been the same since she left us….” Josephine felt swept away in a current of her own emotions, the smile disappearing from her face as she tried to remember her mother’s beautiful face. Her mother had been said to be the most beautiful woman of the entire ton, but the more time went on, the more her image faded from Josephine’s memories. She sometimes had trouble remembering what she sounded like, making her wish that there had been some way to preserve her voice for all eternity. Listening to it whenever she’d liked. Instead, all she was left with was paintings on her walls to try to keep it all pieced together.

In those playful moments in the downpours, Josephine had felt normal. No expectations, no ‘this isn’t ladylike, nor ‘act civil’ echoing about, no ton rules nor etiquette. Just Josephine and her mother being themselves as if the ton didn’t exist. They were recollections that Josephine kept close to her heart as treasured. They were different from the ton, not stuffed shirts but real people, her mother would joke, and that’s what Josephine had tried to be to this day.

Real. Genuine. Not just some painted woman in a dress on display.

“Enough about me and all of that; what about yourself?” Erica asked. “What mischief have you been engaged in while I have been gone?”

“Not much has changed, honestly,” Josephine sighed. “Still going to the same old balls, dances, and tea parties as per usual. Same boring talks about the same droll subjects…it never truly deviates.”

“Yes, but now you are on Lord Henry’s arm,” Erica replied with a mischievous grin. “He seems like a more than worthy fellow to receive your admiration. How is everything going with him? Do not spare the details!”

Josephine struggled to find the words she knew Erica expected to hear. It was true that she and Lord Henry Watson were courting and had been for a while now. However, from the very beginning, it had been more a relationship of convenience rather than one of romance; nothing like it had been with Erica and her husband. Neither Henry nor Josephine cared for any of the ton’s rules and traditions but they also knew that neither of them had any other choice on the matter.

With Josephine being the Earl of Northampton’s daughter, many had an eye on her, and many a man had wished to court her—which had been taxing, to say the least. That was why she had felt so thankful that she and Lord Henry Watson had connected.

Henry wasn’t like the rest of the haut ton either, not so much a black sheep like herself, but a free thinker nonetheless. Though Josephine had initially agreed to start courting him to retain some seeling of stability, she’d come to like him and someday hoped she’d learn to love him past their friendship.

It wasn’t that Henry wasn’t charming or handsome, he truly was, and they’d been acquaintances since they’d been children. But it hadn’t been until recently at a ball that they’d gotten to know one another, and from the dance they’d shared there, a natural rapport had bloomed between them.

From that cordialness sprouted a courtship which had begun to blossom as well, and she found she immensely enjoyed his company. Being on his arm at events was not only a fun experience—their conversations were actually engaging, but not the same pompous drivel she was used to—it also meant she could breathe at the events.

But she knew Erica didn’t want to hear any of that. In fact, her attitude about engagement and courtship was quite…strange compared to others of her age. They all couldn’t wait to be partnered off with some wealthy bachelor, but for Josephine, she wanted to take her time and make sure that Henry was someone she could truly spend her life with. So, instead, she embellished their situation a bit to reassure Erica she experienced the same exciting emotions her friend did ever since she had found true love in her husband, the Duke of Berkshire.

“Things between the two of us seem to be going quite well,” Josephine replied, allowing her imagination to run wild. “We are so much in love, more than I could have ever imagined.”

“Oh? Do tell!” Erica replied enthusiastically.

“Well, Henry and I love to walk in the park, and we’ve been to the opera just recently. We’ve been to many a ball together, and he is quite the dancer, sweeping me right off my feet….”

“Being a good dancer is important at these events,” Erica replied. “Are there any settled plans in play for marriage?”

“Well, yes,” Josephine replied. “I am already familiar with his mother and father, and they are quite lovely. We are dying to get married, but we want it to be perfect. We miss one another so much when he’s gone, and he sends me a letter each week. He even writes on the days we do see one another. It’s like…a fairy tale.”

“Wow,” Erica breathed, seeming to be caught up in the whimsy of Josephine’s forked tongue. “That sounds amazing. Much like Harold and I when we first met. He used to write me poetry, pining for me when I wasn’t there.”

“That sounds so lovely,” Josephine said as she put her hand to her heart, wishing that Henry would send her a poem. Maybe someday we will get there, Josephine thought with hope in her heart. He is quite perfect for me in personality and intelligence, and he is so very handsome. So, I can only hope poetry will flood in soon…

The two ladies talked and tittered together until it started to sprinkle. With the impending storm signalled by the quickly darkening skies, Erica begrudgingly decided to take her leave.

“I’m sorry to cut today short,” Erica said forlornly. “It’s not often I can make the trip here anymore.”

“No worries, my dear friend,” Josephine said with a smile. “There will be other times, I’m sure. The duke cannot keep you all to himself forever, right?”

“I suppose,” Erica replied with a giggle. “Though if he had the chance, he just might!” Erica held out her arms wide, and Josephine came in for a hug, the two of them embracing for a moment as the carriage came around to the front door, the horses’ hooves pulling the rather garish carriage clomping on the ground. Erica let Josephine go gently, walked out towards the cabin, and climbed into it.

Josephine waved as Erica peered out the window at her, watching until the wagon was all but out of sight, and headed inside, to her bedchamber. Feeling a little streak of melancholy as she always did when Erica left, Josephine grabbed a book and sat by the window, staring as the gentle droplets of rain ran down the glass. Josephine closed her eyes as she savoured the soft, muted pangs of the water as it hit its smooth surface, calmness washing over her as she started to drift off. Dreaming of Erica, their mothers and herself all playing in the rain…

“Lady Josephine,” a familiar voice called out to her, and she sighed, her moment of sanctity now interrupted. It was her maid standing at the doorway.

“Yes, Miss Valentine?” Josephine asked, unmoving from her chair. She didn’t want to get up, especially not with the calm still lingering despite Miss Valentine’s intrusion on such a lovely day. As she woke up a bit more, she realised how unusual it was for Miss Valentine to come barging in like she had, completely out of character for the always calm and collected maid. But something seemed off, and she wasn’t going to reprimand her. At least not just yet.

“I’m sorry for bothering you whilst you’re resting, but a letter from Lord Henry Watson has arrived,” Miss Valentine said as she stood at the door. Josephine’s icy, blue eyes flickered back open as she looked towards her maid, arching an eyebrow at the mention of Henry. It wasn’t like him to write her much more than a letter a week, so it was odd to receive yet another letter. Especially with the disjointed way in which their relationship seemed to operate; more for presence’s sake than anything else.

It truly bothered her, knowing she might have to settle for keeping up appearances. Josephine felt if love were to find her after she’d eventually agreed to take his hand, she would be devastated, it would be too late to change her mind, and she’d be stuck.

Josephine wanted what her parents had had, true love. Not a fake relationship that she’d have to cultivate into something tolerable. Not even a friendship or companionship would do. She wanted to wake up in someone’s arms, feel their warm embrace, or even lock arms with them walking in the garden full of rose bushes and other blooms. A love they would talk about for years to come, transcending the very stars themselves…

“Well, don’t be shy, Miss Valentine. Bring it here,” Josephine replied as she returned to her senses. Miss Valentine’s feet seemed to echo in her ears as she stepped closer and closer, Henry’s wax seal visible as she passed the note.

Josephine carefully wedged a finger underneath the decorative emblem, pulling at it gently until the paper gave way, opening the envelope and taking the letter out. As she unfolded the paper, she noticed that Miss Valentine was still standing there, eyeing her carefully as she seemed to wait with anticipation.

Gadzooks! What seems to be the trouble? Why is she acting so strange?

“That’ll do, Miss Valentine,” Josephine said with a smile, and Miss Valentine nodded.

“If you need anything else, call for me, my lady,” she replied as she hurried out. With Valentine gone, Josephine set her sights back on the letter, and she began to read:

‘My Dearest Josephine,
I hope that this letter finds you well. It’s been weeks since we’ve seen one another, which usually isn’t a problem for either of us, but I find myself missing you more and more, which makes this last letter excruciating to have to write.’

Last letter? Josephine thought. Why would it be the last? What could have possibly happened?

‘I have heard of your father’s latest troubles, and it is with a heavy heart that I must break ties. My father is not pleased, and he was able to look away for a while, but your father’s latest difficulties are very troubling, to say the least.’

 The more Josephine read, the more her chest tightened, her eyes burned with tears that threatened to fall.

‘I do hope that you will be able to recover with your father’s current situation. However, I cannot stand by you at this time. Maybe when everything clears up, things will be different. But we cannot have such a scandal marring our family’s reputation…’

Losing all of our money? What is this about? We haven’t lost all of our money…have we? I mean, father has long had a gambling problem, but he wouldn’t risk it all…right?

Josephine panicked, crumbling the letter in her hand and tossing it to the floor. How could Henry do this to me after all we’ve been through? Josephine grumbled in her mind. For him to leave me in my time of need, like I’m some street urchin he can toss aside when I am not convenient to him… I must get to the bottom of this at once! Josephine thought as she strode into the hallway, down the corridor and straight to her father’s study. My very future seems to be melting right before my eyes, and I must know why.

Chapter Two

As the rain carried on into the night, Edward felt the lull of sleep tugging at him, the smell of the rain like a natural insomnia cure. Edward, however, shrugged off the pull of his bed and instead decided to curl up with a good book where he could hear the pitter-patter of the rain hitting the windowpane.

Having spent the day with his mother, entertaining friends at a luncheon, he felt an itch to have some alone time to unwind that he desperately needed to scratch. And what better way to do that than to get lost in another good book—one that his dear friend Lord John had suggested, handing off his copy to Edward once he was finished with it, and giving it rave reviews.

Edward drew in a deep breath as he opened The Mysteries of Udolpho and began to read, getting quickly drawn into the story and characters, surprised at how fantastic a writer Ann Radcliffe indeed was. I’ll have to thank John for suggesting this; he settled in, his eyes scanning each page carefully, soaking up every bit of story his brain could muster like a sponge.

Though the goal had been to keep himself awake, Edward’s eyelids started to become quite heavy, and before he knew it, he had dozed off. His dreams went from pleasant to wild, a mixture of real-life and the book that remained in his hands, its pages lying face down on his chest, rising and falling with each breath that Edward took.

“Sir, I hate to interrupt you while you’re reading,” Mr Braunsworth—Edward’s long-trusted butler—said quietly as he rapped gently at Lord Edward’s chamber door. Edward jumped slightly, between falling asleep and the spookier title having him a bit on edge, the book sliding off his chest and to the floor as the old man had scared him awake.

Edward put his hand over his chest. His heart thumped so hard he could hear it in his ears. That settles it. He thought to himself as he tried to calm his breathing. No such books before bedtime.

“Criminy!” Edward exclaimed, wide-eyed. “You nearly made me faint!”

“I am sorry, sir,” Mr Braunsworth replied solemnly, “May I please come in, sir?”

“Yes, yes, come in,” Edward replied.

“Again, I apologise, Master Edward,” Mr Braunsworth said as he opened the door, bobbing his head quickly in respect. But as Mr Braunsworth looked up at Edward, he noticed something different about his usual gaze. It was as if he were troubled by something, though Edward couldn’t imagine what. He was a very stoic and serious man.

“It’s quite alright, Mr Braunsworth,” he said as he picked his novel up from the floor and placed it beside him on his nightstand. Edward took his pocket watch out of it and saw that it was getting pretty late, a pang of worry bolting through him. “What is it?”

“Well, there’s sort of…It is to say…an incident has occurred—”

“—an incident?” Edward asked. “What incident?”

“It’s your mother,” Mr Braunsworth replied as he hung his head. “Something is the matter with your brother, His Grace.”

Edward furrowed his brows in confusion. What exactly could be wrong? he thought. He got up from his chair and rushed into the hallway, his mother’s cries loud and resounding down the long hallway. Had Andrew finally got himself in too much trouble with his countless affairs? Had he finally made someone angry enough with his gambling that he’d been picked off? The cogs in Edward’s brain were running over time, and he could feel them tense as he continued down the corridor, noticing the reading room door was wide open. Which was quite peculiar, especially at that hour? And mainly since it seemed like Andrew wasn’t home, given Mr Braunsworth’s statement.

He was nearly breathless as he reached the reading room, his mother sitting with her hand to her head, looking down at a handwritten note. Her maid stood there next to her and attempted to console her, but to no avail. His mother wailed as she gripped the paper tightly, rocking back and forth in her seat.

“How could he do this to us….” his mother muttered, shaking her head furiously as her fist tightened even tighter around the note, the envelope of which had fallen to the floor at her feet.

“Mother? Is everything alright?” Edward called out to her, and his mother looked up at him, appearing to be very troubled. She stopped crying as she saw Edward standing there and tried to force a smile, sniffling to herself as she sat on the edge of her chair. But as Edward neared closer, she began to sob all over again. Her tears came down harder than the rain that poured outside.

“Oh, Edward! It’s dreadful!” she whined, her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

“Leave us,” Edward said as he turned his attention quickly to his mother’s maid. The older woman nodded quietly and said nary a word before scampering out the door, closing it behind her. “What on earth is going on here?”

“The butler didn’t tell you?” his mother asked, sniffling as her voice cracked.

“No,” Edward said, shaking his head. “He just told me you were feeling unwell, and it had to do with Andrew.” Again, he thought to himself, trying to keep his irritation hidden from her. His mother was already upset enough, and he didn’t need to add to the stress she was under by speaking poorly of his brother.

“He’s left us,” she replied, anger seeming to bubble up over the sadness she’d felt just moments before.

“I beg your pardon?” Edward asked, his breath nearly taken from his lungs at the lash of her words. Indeed, she must be mistaken, Edward thought to himself. Why would he do something so foolish?

“Andrew,” she spat angrily. “He’s gone! Gone, gone!”

His mother was panicing, and Edward wasn’t entirely sure what to do.

“How could Andrew do this?” Edward’s mother sobbed as she shook the note she held. She looked up from her hands, her eyes meeting Edward’s, and they narrowed slightly. “Did you know he was going to leave like this? Did he say anything odd?” his mother asked.

“No, of course not,” Edward said with a head-head shake, trying to console her. “I am just surprised as you are. I wouldn’t have let him.”

Edward felt bad that the lie so quickly slipped off his tongue, but he thought it was better to tell a beautiful lie than a harsh truth. He wasn’t surprised with his brother’s behavior, not once taking his duties as duke seriously—an unwanted job thrust upon him with their father’s untimely passing. But to run away? That seemed strange, even for Andrew.

Andrew had always been like an untamed steed as a child, fun to be around and entertaining despite their parents’ protests. Often, Andrew had got stuck in trees, ran off into the woods for hours at a time, skipped events to paint—all things leaving his parents to worry. However, like a good brother and son, Edward found himself cleaning up after Andrew and his follies, even as a young boy. Something that made fate’s game to leave the dukedom to Andrew and not himself even more bitter.

Andrew had been the heir. And their father, despite his oldest son’s lack of interest in the position, believed he would do well in his role as duke, thanks to his commanding personality. That’s all he could hope for. Because he had to follow the rules of age, even if Andrew had only been born mere minutes before Edward. He, unlike Andrew, would have been happy to honor the family tradition, even though he wasn’t one to seek out the position to gain authority or attention.

Despite evidence to the contrary, their mother also appeared to think neither of her boys could do any wrong, which made it even harder to reprimand Andrew. She only ever saw them both as two cherubs, and Edward wasn’t sure if it was willful ignorance or her constant mourning of their father that caused her to be that way.

She had been much different when their father had been alive. But after his passing, she’d been left a husk of her former self. As she ranted and raved about Andrew, it was the most emotion that she’d shown that wasn’t sadness over their dear old father for years.

“What will happen to us? Did he even stop to think of that? Paris to be an artist?! Ridiculous!” Edward’s mother said as she raised her hands. “I don’t know how I’ll survive the embarrassment!”

Edward’s mother had stood now and paced the floor, and he sighed as he watched her, hating to see her that way. It had to be hard being in denial of his behaviors for so long, then to be blindsided with him running away from the dukedom…it had to be quite the shock for her.

“Let me see that if you don’t mind?” Edward asked. His mother thrust the letter forward, her hands shaking as he took the piece of paper, and he began to read:

Dear Mother,

I know this may come as quite a surprise to you, but I cannot do this anymore. Becoming a duke has beautiful perks, but it was never the life I was truly meant to live. With power and money comes great responsibility, which I no longer want a part of.

I am leaving for Paris. By the time you receive this, I will be on my way. I’m sorry you must find all of this out in a letter, but I am not good with goodbyes. I want to become the artist I was meant to be, and I do not think I can do it while abiding by my duties as Duke. Hopefully, you’ll understand.

I love you all.

Edward eyed the message carefully a few times, and although his brother had had an affinity for art, it still didn’t make sense. Even though he hated being a duke, Andrew had become fairly comfortable and lavished in the luxuries he afforded. So, taking off and abandoning the loose lifestyle he’d been able to maintain due to his status seemed suspicious.

Plenty of people in the ton wrote books, created art, composed the music, and the like—and not one of them just abandoned their position to go to France. No. There is something else going on here…I can’t quite think of what it might be… He needed a plan to save the family from his brother’s latest drama, but then the oddest thought occurred to him.

“Well, the way I see it, we have a few options. None of which will save the family name completely, I can imagine, unless….”

“Unless what?” his mother asked, confused, her brows furrowing.

“You need to stop calling me Edward,” Edward replied, only to bewilder his mother further.

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“It would look better if it were me, Edward, who left. Not the Duke of Richmond, a role that apparently, he’s thrown away on a whim…” It wouldn’t be the first time to take the responsibility for a choice Andrew made. He always helped his brother and he did the same, in ways much different to Edward’s.

“I don’t know…that sounds so farfetched…” his mother said quietly, shaking her head. “It’s very…convoluted.”

“Is it?” Edward asked. “We are identical, a rarity. No one will be able to tell that I’m not Andrew. So, we will press on, and no one will be wiser. I was taught how to do everything by father as well. No one has ever truly cared I exist as the second son, mother, so I doubt anyone will question it.”

“So, you think you can just take his place?” his mother asked. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“I know everything he knows,” Edward replied. “I have been taught how to run the land by father too.”

“I know, but—”

“—Mother, we need to think about saving the family name, our position in the ton, our money—”

“–All we have to do is stall for time, Edward,” his mother said. “It’s not unheard of for a duke to go on a business trip.”

“Well, from the sounds of it, he isn’t coming back,” Edward said quietly. His words appeared to sting his mother, who began sobbing so hard her shoulders shook.

“He wouldn’t do that, Edward,” she said, shaking her head.

“Just like he wouldn’t drink and make a fool of himself in public?” Edward asked, and his mother got quiet again.

“That’s just him enjoying his youth. He’ll calm down one day,” Edward’s mother insisted, beginning to walk away. Edward knew she wouldn’t want to hear it, but he had to get through to her somehow. Their very livelihood and positions depended on it.

“And what of the ladies of the night and philandering?” Edward asked.

“I—”

“—He’s gambled a lot of our money away as well; did you know that?”

“Well—”

“—Andrew is most likely in trouble,” Edward said as he heaved a heavy sigh. He wasn’t quite sure if that was the case or not, but it seemed to be the most likely causation for the debacle before them.

“And while he is sorting himself out, something must be done to save the family name and the dukedom.”

Edward’s mother sniffled, nodding in agreement as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it daintily from betwixt his fingers and dabbed her eyes with it, folding it as she did so, all the while shaking her head in disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” Edward’s mother said. “You never want to believe that your son is falling from grace. No mother wants to believe that about any of their children….”

“I’m sure he will come back around in time,” Edward sighed, putting a hand on his mother’s shoulder and gently squeezing. Though in his mind, he didn’t truly think it to be true. In fact, he wasn’t sure that Andrew would return at all, given the way he’d written that letter. “But right now, we need to come up with a plan. And the plan that seems the easiest at the moment is just for me to take over.”

“Well, we can’t tell them you took off to be an artist,” his mother said.

“No,” Edward said. “But as you said, it wouldn’t be unusual for me to be off on business for Andrew, maybe…something he was too busy to attend to himself. Somewhere far off…maybe India. Besides, no one will ask questions. Andrew is the main attraction; I am just the other son.”

“Don’t say that,” his mother insisted exasperatedly. Seeming surprised that Edward would even suggest such a thing. “You are much more than just some other person—”

“—but in the eyes of the public, it’s true, mother. No matter how much you love me, no matter how much you support me, I am just the duke’s brother.”

“So, how do you propose we do all this?” his mother asked after a pause. “You may look the same but in personality….”

“You don’t think I can act like Andrew?” Edward asked, chuckling at the notion. “Think of it like I am playing a part in a play, right? I have known Andrew my whole life; we shared your womb at the same time… I think I can handle acting like him.”

“Can we at least tone down on the nefarious deeds?” his mother sighed. “That way, he has a fresh slate to work with when he comes back.”

“Of course,” Edward said with a smile. “I have no desire to continue on the way he was. That’s not the kind of life I wish to lead, even if it’s just playing a role.”

“I’m still unsure about all this,” his mother replied, looking at the floor. “It seems so wrong to lie to everyone.”

“Would you rather the alternative? Would it be better for people to know what’s come to pass here? His actions tarnishing the family name further? I don’t think you want that any more than I do.”

“O-of course not,” his mother stammered.

“I can do this,” Edward replied. “So please, just let me help you and Andrew.”

Edward’s mother looked up with him, tears welling as she nodded quietly. “You’re right. We have to use any tools at our disposal.”

“And when he comes back, we can all sit down and discuss things,” Edward said with a grin. “Fear not, mother, all of this will be resolved in due time.”

“Okay,” Edward’s mother said, a beam breaking through the tears.

“You should get some rest, mother. You look like you haven’t slept.” Edward requested.

“Thank you, Edward,” his mother said as she hugged him tightly.

“No,” Edward said as he shook his head, wandering over to the window as the thunder rolled in the distance. “It’s Andrew now.”

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter One

The woman sprawled across the sofa was beautiful. Ethereal, even. Her golden hair splayed against the pillow and tumbled over her shoulders in thick, sunny curls. Her arms, slender and freckled, lay across her torso in a way that was both alluring, and just modest enough to give the impression of shyness.

Except, of course, for the fact that she was entirely naked. Her dress and undergarments lay in a neat pile somewhere to the side, along with her boots. The woman herself was bare from head to toe. Her fair skin was unmarred, perfect in the afternoon sun that streamed in from the window behind her. If her soft smile was any indication, she seemed to be luxuriating in the warm rays.

The easel in front of Evan Grey, however, didn’t quite capture her beauty. He had perfectly captured her hair, the slope of her curves just as stunning as the real thing, but when Evan looked down at the painting he saw that something was off.

Evan couldn’t quite get her face right. His blue eyes flickered from the canvas to the woman, then back again. Was it her jaw? Her nose? Eyes? No, it was something else. Perhaps he hadn’t mixed the colours right, and her skin tone was off?

The woman on the sofa – Kitty – let out a gentle sigh and rolled her head to the side. “Are we nearly done, love? I’ve been sitting like this for three hours.”

Love. It was an odd thing for somebody to call him, although Kitty wasn’t the first. The women he painted often thought there was more to their arrangement than there was – but Evan, always grateful for the company, never dared to correct them. At least, not until it was time to part ways, whether it be after weeks or only days, and the poor women always left disappointed.

Shaking his head, Evan rolled his eyes at his own thoughts. All the women whom he invited to his countryside retreat knew what was expected. It wasn’t his fault if they deluded themselves into thinking there was more to this.

Turning back to Kitty, he said, “Just another hour, no more. I just can’t seem to figure out what’s wrong…”

Kitty’s eyes brightened. “Can I see?”

“Not until it’s finished, you know that.”

Kitty was his newest muse, having never been here before. She looked beautiful amongst the vibrant red pillows, backed by the enormous window that looked upon acres of perfectly cut grass and tall, towering evergreen trees.

Yet Evan knew already that she wouldn’t stay for long – she was too young and overeager. It was always the most excitable women who got bored the fastest.

Kitty stretched, allowing Evan the perfect view of her slender torso. She had freckles on her ribs, dark against her otherwise fair skin, and he had to admit it was a lovely look.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” she said sleepily, “what’s a marquess like you doing in the middle of nowhere? You don’t strike me as the country type.”

Evan frowned at his canvas again. It was true that his countryside home was modest for a marquess; large enough for a family, with several spacious rooms that Evan had no use for, but it was nothing compared to the scale of the home he had grown up in. Still, the small size was cosy and he preferred not to be reminded of home.

He didn’t say any of what he was thinking aloud though, instead he replied, “I like the quiet. It’s peaceful, and I can do as I please without the responsibilities of a marquess.”

Kitty hummed in response. She was petite, barely coming up to Evan’s shoulder. She looked tiny compared to the vastness of his painting room. Even the sofa looked too big for her. Yet Kitty appeared perfectly content nonetheless, a delicate yawn leaving her lips as she stretched again.

Evan knew that this was all for show, nobody stretched with their back arched at such an angle or their head tossed back like that, but it was attractive, nonetheless. Attractive enough to make Evan smile as he gazed at her.

“Well, I think this is a beautiful home,” she said sweetly, returning to her lounging position. She flipped her hair just so, letting the curls fall across her bare chest, and closed her eyes. “Wake me up when you’re done, would you, love? I want to see the finished piece.”

Evan smiled as he picked up a fresh brush. Now that he could study Kitty in peace, without the disturbance of her voice or movement, he knew exactly what was wrong. It was her skin tone, after all; he hadn’t accounted for the warmth of the sunshine and how it turned her face a gentle golden shade. If he just added a touch of yellow, perhaps some white – ah, perfect!

The door behind him creaked open, reminding Evan that he needed to have somebody oil the hinges. He turned, still holding the brush and artist’s palette, to chastise the butler for coming in unannounced – only to see his father standing in the doorway.

“I see you’re busy,” his father said, voice cold.

Although it was unlikely that he could see Kitty fully from his position, his expression was still stony cold; barely concealing his disgust.

Evan stood, grabbing a thick blanket to drape across Kitty’s sleeping form. She didn’t stir, and Evan felt a stutter of relief knowing that she wasn’t aware of his father’s presence.

“What do you want?” he asked, trudging across the room to stand in front of him.

His father rarely came here, preferring to keep his distance from Evan and his country home – why was he here now?

Although Evan was taller, it was his father who had the stern expression capable of frightening even the hardiest men. With narrow grey eyes and a heavy brow, he didn’t look like the kind of man who would allow his patience to be tested.

“I want her out of here.”

“Father,” Evan said warningly, “let her sleep -”

“Get her out!”

Finally, Kitty stirred. Her wide eyes fixed on his father as she blinked slowly, perhaps still coming to wakefulness. Seeing an unfamiliar man, she darted for her clothes, bundled them in her arms beneath the blanket, and fled from the room without a word.

Evan could only stare. In the two years since Evan had moved to the country, his father had visited only twice. Once, to ensure he was settled in – and then again to ask if he had reconsidered the arrangement – he hadn’t.

“I see that you still enjoy art,” his father said, his lips curling at the corners. “Always so much like your mother. I’ll never understand why she thought it was appropriate to teach you such trivial things.”

Evan winced. It was bad enough that his father was here to begin with, but bringing his mother into it was like a slap to the face.

“She believed it was a way of expressing your soul,” he said, his voice quiet.

“And you think that spending time in sin with naked women is a way of expressing yours?”

If Evan had been just a few inches closer, he could have hit him. Yet no matter how much he wanted to; Evan had never allowed his anger to take over – especially not when it came to his father. It was exactly what he wanted, the final straw so that he could write Evan off as a complete failure.

Instead, Evan folded his arms across his chest and said, “Why are you here? You can easily insult me by letter, so that’s not why you’ve come.”

His father considered the room. It was vast, with paintings stacked to dry in the corners, more hung on the walls. There was little furniture save for the sofa and a small dining table by the window

Lord Howard Grey chose to continue standing, turning his disapproving gaze on Evan.

“I came to inform you of my decision. I’ve let this go on for too long – giving you my country house, letting you do as you please. At first, I didn’t care, so long as I didn’t have to acknowledge your behaviour, but I can’t ignore you any longer.”

Evan’s features twisted; he knew where this was going.

“Just be out with it already,” he said, venom in his voice.

His father’s eyes narrowed until they were little more than slits. “You’re a disgrace to the family name, Evan. I’ve tolerated your behaviour for too long, but it’s time I put a stop to it. You can’t be allowed to destroy the Grey name-”

“By doing what?” Evan snapped before he could stop himself. “By living the life I want?”

“Exactly! You have responsibilities. Expectations. You cannot be allowed to do as you please – which is why I’m here. You have one month to give up this revolting hobby of yours and destroy these awful paintings.”

Evan’s blood ran cold. “Pardon me?”

“I’m not done.” His father cleared his throat. “On top of that, I want you to start looking for a wife; that is, if you can find a willing woman. If you fail to give me an heir within a year, I will cut off your allowance. All of it.”

An heir? In a year? That was a ridiculous demand. Cruel, even! Even if he did somehow find himself a wife and give up his most beloved hobby, how was he supposed to guarantee a male heir within a year? Of all of his father’s words, this was the most ridiculous.

“You can’t mean that,” Evan stammered. “That’s…well, it’s simply mad.”

He only grinned. “Oh, Evan, I mean every word I’ve said.” His father glanced at the door, as if he expected to see Kitty still lingering in the hall. His features soured.

How dare he look inconvenienced. He is the one who walked into the room whilst I was working. The nerve of the man!

“I’m on my way to Bath for an important business matter. However, I will be home before the end of the Season to make sure you’re doing as I commanded.”

The entire situation was ridiculous. Absurd, even. Evan felt physically sick at the prospect of it all and a good part of him was tempted to tell his father to leave immediately. It wouldn’t do any good though, they both knew it.

“Fine,” he snapped, turning to glare out of the window.

It looked out over the modest garden and the woods beyond, the leaves already beginning to turn orange and gold.

“I really don’t see any way out of this. You won’t allow me to say no, will you?” Evan asked, his gaze still fixed outside.

“Absolutely not. You have one month, Evan. Not a day more.”

Why not make me marry this instant? he wanted to snarl. Choose somebody for me. If you’re going to ruin everything anyway, you might as well get it over with.

Yet, Evan held his tongue, biting down on the inside of his mouth to keep from speaking.

Satisfied, his father turned away. “Good. Perhaps now, there will actually be hope of salvaging your reputation, and mine.”

Evan wasn’t sure when he left, but when he turned back around, the painting room was empty. Evan’s stomach plummeted. He had one month to get rid of every painting he had ever made, give up the only interest he had ever enjoyed, and somehow not only find a woman and marry her, but have her with child within a year. Did his father even realise how impossible that was?

A pale face poked through the door, hair a mess and eyes wide with nerves. Kitty.

“Is he gone?” she asked.

At least she is dressed now.

“Yes,” Evan said heavily. “And if you don’t mind, you should be going too. I have… a lot to do.”

He didn’t know how much Kitty had heard, but she offered him a sympathetic smile. “Being married isn’t the worst thing,” she said softly. “A man like yourself could find a wife in no time-”

“Kitty,” he snapped, “just leave.”

She did, and Evan was alone once again.

Chapter Two

The ball was beautiful, as anything hosted by Lady Emma was; the room had elegant high ceilings painted white and soft gold, with expensive, delicate decor to match. Everything was perfect, not a single chair out of place, and it looked like something out of a dream.

Unfortunately for Bridget Bennett, she had no desire to be here. The beginning of Bridget’s second season had brought the expected dances and social gatherings with it, and Bridget had no choice but to attend each one.

It was her father’s doing, of course. He couldn’t fathom the idea of Bridget remaining unmarried. A spinster, he called her, even though she was only nineteen and not quite one yet.

Shaking her head to free herself of those thoughts, Bridget took a moment to look around the ballroom. Couples danced past, the women in bright and beautiful dresses, the men demurely dressed in dark browns and blacks. A gaggle of women stood by the refreshments table; heads bent low as they chattered about the latest gossip.

Bridget, being something of a wallflower and lacking in close friends, had never experienced the sort of gossip and drama that a lot of women craved.

Yet, inching closer now, she hoped to overhear a tidbit, anything of what was being said.

“I heard that the Earl of Nundendale was off searching for a new wife,” one of the women tried to whisper; but the roar of the excitable violin music paired with the chatter and laughter of hundreds of other guests meant that she was still talking loud enough to broadcast her voice quite clearly.

A second woman scowled. “Six daughters and still no heir. I feel bad for him, honestly.”

“I think it a shame both of Lord Spencer’s previous wives passed. Those poor children.”

The first woman scoffed. “His oldest is only a year younger than you, Annette, I’m sure they’re fine. Besides, with his penchant for woman I’m sure they won’t have to wait long for another mother.”

“Then more children will follow, I’m sure.”

Bridget flushed pink at the conversation, quickly turning to face the other way before the women noticed her listening in. This really wasn’t polite conversation, and should not be had in public. Yet, she still found herself wanting to know more.

Of course, everyone knew that Lord Spencer was searching for his third wife, which was why Lady Emma, their current host, and Lord Spencer’s sister, was left looking after his daughters in the meantime.

Some even thought that Lord Spencer had killed his previous two wives when they failed to produce an heir, but Bridget wasn’t one to believe silly stories. They both passed in childbirth, which was terribly sad, but hardly uncommon.

Her thoughts were soon drawn away from gossip when Bridget caught sight of her father wandering over. He weaved through the crowd with expert grace despite his advanced age, a smile on his face as he caught sight of Bridget. People often said that he and Bridget looked alike, with the same bright green eyes and narrow, angular jaw. Although the similarities were less noticeable now that his dark hair had turned grey.

Bridget stiffened as she saw him approaching, for he wasn’t alone. There was a tall and lanky man beside him, his dark blue suit embossed with delicate gold stitching that almost seemed to glitter under the flickering candlelight of the ballroom. Even here where everyone was wealthy, this man appeared especially eager to flaunt said wealth.

“Bridget!” her father boomed as he closed the space between them, “I’d like you to meet Lord Jennings.”

Bridget’s eyes slid from her father to Lord Jennings, and her heart sank. It didn’t take much to figure out exactly what her father’s plan was, and it made Bridget wish she could simply disappear.

Yet, never one to appear rude, she offered a reluctant smile. “It’s good to meet you,” she replied meekly, “I’m…”

“Lady Bridget Bennett, I know.” His smile was dashing, revealing perfectly white teeth, but there was something unsettling about it. Just a little too wide to be entirely genuine. “I was hoping that you might let me share the next dance with you?”

Oh, right. Balls were for dancing. Truthfully, nobody had ever asked Bridget to dance before, and thus far, she had been perfectly happy with that. Dancing led to talking, which often led to expectations of something more… it was how a man expressed interest in a woman, and Bridget had no plans of making herself available to possible suitors, not after she had seen her father and mother fall out of love during the years of their marriage – if they had ever been in love to begin with.

She saw her father’s sharp look from the corner of her eyes as he cut in with, “Bridget would love to, wouldn’t you dear? Now, I do believe I saw an old friend by the refreshments, I should say hello.”

With one last pointed look towards Bridget, he wandered off to the refreshments table, which was piled high with delicious drinks such as punch and wine.

Bridget was left smiling awkwardly at Lord Jennings as he led her toward where the dance floor was most crowded.

People twirled and laughed around them, their joy spilling from every little sound, but Bridget felt none of it. Especially when Lord Jennings took her hand in his, and she felt the way his long fingers curled around her palm. The room was too hot, and she could feel his sweaty hands through his white gloves.

Bridget was nothing if not polite, however, and so she let out a quiet sigh and allowed Lord Jennings to lead her through a dance. It had been a long time since her old governess’ lessons in dance and Bridget remembered little. It was difficult not to stand on his toes.

Lord Jennings had noticed her struggle, a scowl tugging at the corner of his lips, his hand clamping down on hers.

Even so, he forced a smile and said, “Lady Bennett, please tell me something about yourself. What do you like to do when you’re not attending these lovely balls?”

Something about herself? Well, that was easy. “I like to read,” she confessed with a little shrug, only to be cut off as Lord Jennings swept her across the dance floor. For a moment, their faces were so close that she could see the exact shade of his copper-brown eyes.

Then he righted himself, once again keeping Bridget at arm’s length, as was proper. “Reading?” he asked, and even above the upbeat country music, she could hear the disgust in his voice. “And what is a woman of wealth like yourself doing with books?”

Ah, so he was one of those men. “I enjoy them,” she replied tersely, “fiction mostly. I find them quite fascinating – however, I also enjoy history and geography, and sometimes even philosophy books. They’re so educational.”

“A woman doesn’t need to be educated, and you don’t need to be thinking about such things. Philosophy, Lady Bennett, shouldn’t be your concern.”

Their dance wasn’t yet over, the music thrumming in Bridget’s ears, but she wanted nothing more than for their time together to end.

She saw it in his face as well, in the purse of his lips and the way he kept looking around, refusing to meet her eyes. He was much taller than Bridget herself, and kept his head high as if to purposefully avoid looking at her.

Well, at least he won’t ask me for another dance, or try to talk to me at the next ball.

He wasn’t the first man that Bridget had chased away, but he was the first that had wanted to dance with her to begin with.

By the time the music changed, Bridget was ready to run. She parted gratefully from Lord Jennings and offered him another awkward smile.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said simply, “you’re a good dancer.”

His face twisted, perhaps because he knew he couldn’t say the same for Bridget.

“It was good to meet you. Oh, I think I see my cousin over there, I think I’ll say hello.”

Bridget watched as Lord Jennings made his hasty exit, and she let out a grateful sigh. No doubt her father would be angry, but it didn’t take much these days to anger him. Frankly, she was simply glad that Lord Jennings was gone.

Now to return to her previous place and watch the ball from afar.

***

The next morning, the family ate breakfast, awkward silence filling the air in the enormous dining room. It was always dark no matter how many candles or lamps they lit, perhaps because the dining room didn’t have a single window to its name. All it served to do was to turn Bridget’s mood increasingly sour. Thus, she was eager to turn to the drawing room once breakfast was done.

Given that Bridget’s father was the Earl of Benningdale, their home was the type of lavish that most people could only dream of. The drawing room was huge and spacious, filled with expensive, plush furniture that was more comfortable than most beds.

Everything was a shade of white or cream; a nightmare for the poor maids. It was a welcome contrast to the dour dining room.

Bridget sat on her favourite sofa, curled up with her feet tucked beneath the blanket tossed across her lap. Not that she really needed a blanket, given the warm sunshine spilling through the windows, but it was a comfort to have the weight on her legs. There was a book on her knee, open to the middle, but Bridget wasn’t paying attention to the words.

“It’s no secret that father wants me to marry somebody wealthy,” she muttered to the empty living room, “but why does he have to force it on me? Surely, he knows the more he demands it, the more I’ll fight.”

She wasn’t like her mother, content to sit around and let her father walk all over her. Perhaps Her mother hadn’t always been so quiet and demure, but she had been like this for as long as Bridget could remember.

If there was one thing Bridget refused to do, it was to turn into her mother and let her father break her.

With a heavy sigh, Bridget settled back against the sofa and cast her eyes to the ceiling. She really did love her parents, and they wanted the best for her in their own way.

However, her father either didn’t understand or didn’t care what Bridget really wanted. He was a man with singular mind and determination, and wouldn’t hear Bridget’s protests.

Somewhere to her left, floorboards creaked. Then a voice huffed, “Bridget?” She knew it was her father.

Her eyes flickered to him; brows furrowed. He was dressed to go out, in a dark grey waistcoat and long coat. His eyes narrowed as he regarded her coolly.

“The ball yesterday was a disaster,” he snapped, “you danced with Lord Jennings, but I saw how quickly he left you after. What did you say to scare him away?”

Bridget’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “He asked about my hobbies, and I told him that I like to read. Nothing more.”

Her father scoffed. Although he hovered by the doorway rather than coming inside, he still peeked over the arm of the chair to see the book resting in her lap.

“Gentlemen don’t want a woman who reads, Bridget. This is your second season and you’ve chased off every man I’ve sent your way – it’s getting difficult to find anyone who is willing to meet you now.”

“Good,” she replied, “I don’t want to meet them either.”

Her green eyes flickered down to the book. Thoughts of the Education of Daughters by Mary Wollstonecraft. She had read this particular book twice now, and was making her way through it for a third time.

But her father wasn’t the type of man to let things go. His thick arms folded across his chest; he strode forward until his shoes touched the foot of the sofa.

He loomed over Bridget and her book. “I will not have you bring scandal on yourself or this family, Bridget. I expect you to be married by the end of this season.”

Bridget’s hands tightened on her book, knuckles turning white. She bit her lip until it hurt, but refused to look up at him. Instead, she stared at the words of Mary Wollstonecraft until her vision blurred.

“I don’t want to get married,” she said, steel in her tone.

“You speak as if I’m giving you a choice.”

Bridget’s chest stuttered, her eyes filled with hot tears, but she wouldn’t let her father see how much his words affected her. It was what he wanted, to see her lose the will to argue.

“Then if you’re going to force me to marry,” she said coolly, “just do it. Don’t convince men to dance with me or try to talk me into it, as if this is all my decision.

Just admit that you don’t care for my opinion and do whatever it is you’re going to do. At least then, there will be no illusions about where I stand.

Her father’s eyes narrowed. He had finally noticed what Bridget was reading, his features twisting as he scanned the words.

“This book again,” he practically growled. “This damned reading is the reason why you’re talking like this, Bridget. It’s putting these ridiculous ideas in your head, making you think you’re somebody you aren’t.”

He plucked the book from Bridget’s fingers before she had the chance to stop him, holding it at a distance as if it was somehow capable of physically harming him.

Heart hammering, Bridget clambered to her feet. As her hair was down, it spilled into her eyes as she stumbled, reaching for the book.

“Father, please give it back. It took me ages to find a copy-”

“Mary Wollstonecraft?” He said her name like it physically hurt him. “How many more of her books do you own?”

Bridget scowled. She wanted to snatch the book from his hands, but her father was holding it just out of reach.

“This is the only one I could find,” she snapped in reply, “because men like you have made it near impossible.”

Her father’s scowl was cold. Harsh. It reminded her of the first time he had caught her reading, when she had stolen a history book from his personal library and hidden away on the servant’s stairs to read it through the night.

Bridget had only ever been allowed to read books that her father personally provided, and reading in secret had always been a risk. Except back then, she had still been a little girl. Back then, it had been met with mild irritation instead of disgust.

“Father, please!”

She saw his next actions, as if they played out in slow motion. Her father turned, still holding the book at arm’s length, the pages fluttering as it swayed. He them tossed it into the fireplace as carelessly as if it had been a piece of kindling.

The book sizzled as it caught fire, the pages curling the second it hit the flame. The heavy scent of burned paper and ink filled the living room as Bridget gasped.

It was already too late to save it. Even the leather cover had caught fire, the whole thing beginning to shrivel and blacken.

“Father!” Bridget exclaimed as she darted forward, falling to her knees in front of the fire.

The bright glow hurt her eyes but still she stared, horrified, as her beloved book twisted and burned.

“Perhaps now you’ll think twice about disobeying me,” her father said from behind her. “No more reading, understood? I will see you at supper.”

He turned, shoes clicking on the hardwood floor, and vanished.

Bridget didn’t follow him. Even as her mind demanded she storm after him, her body refused to move. Was it even worth it, just to fight further? Her favourite book was gone, burned to ashes, and her father had finally been honest about how little choice she had in her own life. Everything was crumbling right before her eyes. There was no point in lying to herself any longer.

She had until the end of the season to marry, otherwise who knew what her father would do?

She thought of her mother, so beautiful with her golden hair and rich coffee brown eyes. Perhaps her mother had a spark once, a joy for life; but that had been sucked out of her long before Bridget was born. Stuck in a loveless marriage, repeating the same routine day after day, living in a soulless house with a man she didn’t want… Bridget couldn’t allow herself to fall subject to the same fate.

Perhaps her mother had lost her will to fight, but Bridget refused; she would find a way out of this. Failing to do so was not an option.

The book was ruined. Mary Wollstonecraft’s words were now little more than a blackened husk, swallowed by the glowing fire. It had been Bridget’s only copy of  her works, and it was the book she held most dearly. The loss of it made her chest ache. Yet, she stood, taking a moment to compose herself, and blinked the tears from her eyes.

She wouldn’t cry over her father’s actions. He wasn’t worth it.

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter One

It was always a good indication that Ernest had gotten up to no good the night before when he awoke in such poor shape. His heart pounding in his ears, his mouth screaming for a drink, and his head begging for mercy or death before he even so much as opened his eyes. Feeling like that would have been enough to put anyone out of commission for at least the rest of the day, but Ernest was a bit too familiar with those sensations and knew just the cure for it.

Allowing himself to lay there for a moment, he rubbed his tender head. Finally, he mustered the strength to get out of bed. Every time he woke up in such a state, Ernest found himself thankful that he had requested thick curtains to be hung years ago. With them drawn, only the faintest amount of light would get in. It was enough to guide him as he pattered over to his dresser and fetched the decanter of brandy. He poured himself a drink, downed it, and poured another.

It would be enough to satiate the mouth and head. He would earn a little relief until he stumbled his way downstairs for some tea. It dawned on Ernest then, that he didn’t have the slightest idea what time of day it was, to know what meal came next. It was likely a countless number of days that he had performed that same ritual with the same lack of understanding of time. Should that worry or bother him? He shrugged off the curiosity and raised the glass to his lips again.

Before the liquor even so much as touched his lips, the night before came back to him in flashes. He had gone to one of his typical venues, The Maritime – a lovely club that sat over River Thames. They had one of the local musicians in there, wailing on the pipes. Ernest hadn’t been familiar with any of the songs, but they were so upbeat and got the men and women to dance. It had been the first steppingstone on a journey which landed him in bed with one of the many harlots that frequented the club.

What had her name been? Francine? Fanny? Francis?… Doris?

He shrugged off that train of thought as well. It wasn’t as though it mattered, not really. Ernest never remembered any of their names, even when he didn’t totally black out. It had been nothing personal to the woman of last night, it was just business, as usual. She would be one of many when one looked back onto the life of the Duke of Atholl. There wouldn’t be much to say that wasn’t tragic or dull, but at least that chapter of his life would make for a scandalous read for future historians. Many wouldn’t expect it, he was sure, from the Silent Duke.

A brief knock came at the door before it opened. Ernest peered over to see his valet, Joshua. “Apologies for disturbing you, Your Grace. However, it’s getting a bit late in the day and Lord Edward Cecil is here to see you.”

Uncle Edward? He’s come all the way from France to see me?

Ernest nodded at his valet, who then stepped to the wardrobe to select the duke’s clothes for the day. Ernest sat down on the bench at the foot of his bed and leaned forward onto his knees. He hadn’t seen his uncle since he was just a little boy. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it was that caused him to suddenly come visit. Had word of Ernest’s rather racy behavior traveled all the way to France?

That couldn’t be, could it?

Whether it was or wasn’t, Ernest should be excited to see a family member. It had been quite some time since anyone had come to visit him. Yet, Ernest couldn’t shake the queasy feeling that came over him at the thought, and he was certain it wasn’t the headache. The thought bothered him as he dressed for the day and fixed his hair. His mind obsessed over it, not knowing what it was. It wasn’t as though he worried for his reputation or his uncle seeing that he was in such poor shape because of his nightly adventures. None of that had ever been a bother to him. Ernest wasn’t blind to his own actions; he knew how he acted and the notorious status it had given him. He had accepted those outcomes before he had ever made a since move. No, it was something else.

When he stepped to the door with his valet, Ernest’s stomach twisted in a telling way. His nerves were high because his uncle reminded him of his father.

Just like that, Ernest was transported back in time. Waves of memories of his father, Martin Cecil—who should have still been the Duke of Atholl. He had been a kind man, a gentle one too, who knew when to be firm and when to take pause to think or hear others. He had taught Ernest to ride a horse himself, despite how much he hated it. By the end of their lessons, they had ventured out into the countryside. All the while, his father gave him life advice that he was unable to appreciate until he was an adult. Words he couldn’t understand the gravity of until his father was gone.

Some had whispered words that Martin Cecil had been nothing more than a coward to take his own life, but only Ernest knew the truth. He had been a broken-hearted man when he took his own life that fateful day. Ernest knew, because he had been the one to break his heart, pushing him to suicide. The guilt was something that he owned as much as he did his title – perhaps even more. Especially considering he was a horrible excuse of a Duke most of the time.

He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. There was no time to get sentimental. He needed to see what it was his uncle needed. As his father would have instructed, it was rude to keep guests waiting. Finding the strength to open the door, Ernest and his valet traveled through the house until they reached his study, where Joshua had indicated his uncle would be. He had to clench his jaw to keep from having a reaction as he walked through the open door.

Uncle Edward had aged but had aged well. His rust-colored hair was streaked elegantly with white, and his face was only touched by age because of laugh-lines and crow’s feet; not to mention he had thickened a bit around the waist. The markings of a jolly and full life. Standing from one of the armchairs, he paced over to his nephew.

“My dear Ernest,” Edward greeted, clasping him by the shoulders. “It has been too long, it truly has.”

The wide smile on his face made Ernest ache. Not only did it make Edward look too much of Martin, but he knew that it would soon fade. Smiles always did around Ernest; usually it didn’t bother him, but he knew this one would.

“Here, here,” Edward urged, tugging him to sit with him. He obliged and looked at his uncle with a weak smile of his own. “Please, let’s catch up. Business can wait. I want to hear how my nephew has managed to turn into a handsome, strapping gentleman in what feels like overnight.”

Ernest wanted to correct him. In fact, it had been nearly two decades since he had last seen his uncle. He was rather sure that the only reason he remembered him was because of the striking resemblance he had to his father, and the fact the three of them had stayed up until the early hours of the morning once playing chess when he was just a boy. No, Edward hadn’t even shown up to Martin’s funeral. He could have been bitter, but word traveled slowly, and Edward had already been living in France at the time.

“Well?” his uncle asked with a slight chuckle. “Are you well? You haven’t said a word, my boy. Is your throat sore?”

Right.

Turning to his valet, Ernest watched as Joshua stepped forward with his hands clasped behind his back. “I apologize for interfering, Lord Cecil, however, the Duke unfortunately cannot speak.”

Ernest watched as his uncle blinked in confusion. “Is he ill?” he questioned.

“No, My Lord,” the valet began with a frown. “It is merely a condition, not exactly an illness.”

Ernest was grateful for Joshua and his services. He had been born into servitude with the Cecil family, and he had been his closest servant all his life, as Joshua was only two years older than Ernest. His appreciation was short-lived as he was then distracted by the look on his uncle’s face. He could see the questions forming in his mind and honestly, Ernest was thankful to be in a position to not have to answer them. It would be tedious, annoying, and unsettling for Ernest. If he was going to see his uncle only every twenty years, give or take, then he wanted to make each visit splendid.

Yet, Edward didn’t chirp at all. It seemed he took it in and accepted it for the time being. “Very well, thank you,” he stated to the valet as he continued to eye Ernest. If he hadn’t been used to every nobleman and commoner eyeing him the exact same way, Ernest may have squirmed under such a gaze. “Well, I guess that means we cannot catch up in the way I was hoping. No matter, mayhaps, we will find a way during my visit,” he suggested with the same smile as before and clapped his back. “For the time being, let us get down to business.”

Edward withdrew his physical touch then and wrung his own hands. “I have to confess something to you, Ernest…” his uncle began with a heavy sigh. “You see, my boy… It just happened so long ago, surely you can understand that it slipped my mind.” The Duke’s eyebrows drew together, not entirely certain as to what his uncle was getting at. Then, Edward reached into his breast pocket and produced an envelope.

He held it out in front of himself and eyed it, taking in another deep breath. “You see, Ernest, your father wrote you a letter on your tenth birthday. He instructed me to hang onto it and give it to you on your twenty-first birthday if anything were to happen to him. Of course, I never thought anything would,” Edward’s lips pulled into a frown before he coughed and fixed his expression. “It completely slipped my mind until just the other day. One of my servants were going through my old trunks for me and found it. Can you believe it? Imagine the luck of timing to get it to you on your twenty-fifth birthday. My apologies about it being late. Better late than never, as the saying goes.”

Ernest’s heart was already thumping painfully as his uncle extended the envelope in his direction. He hardly registered the fact it was his birthday; if he reflected, he would have noticed he had forgotten just as his uncle had. There was no time, nor heart, for bitterness. Ernest was simply moved by the fact he got to cherish more words of his father. Words from beyond the grave. One last chance to read his words and hear his voice. With trembling hands, Ernest took the envelope and slowly opened it.

My dear Ernest,

Happy Birthday! Oh, where has the time gone? Your mother and I truly could not have raised a better boy than you. Every ounce of love we have poured into you is shining no brighter than it is today.

I hope that in time, you go on to be the earnest Ernest Cecil that Atholl needs. A Duke which carries his duties not as burdens, but as loving tasks. Many in the House of Lords lose sight of what it is we are to do for the people of our providence. We must carry ourselves with grace and goodness.

Balls and socials may be good fun – and certainly indulge yourself from time to time to make yourself a good life – but stay humble. Stay as humble as the day you fell off your horse when I was teaching you and you didn’t so much as cry or pout. You dusted yourself off, took a deep breath, and got back on.

I will not be around forever. Sad, but true; it’s a fact of life that we must merely accept and move on. In that moving on, you shall take over the title since you are my first, and only, son. Ernest Cecil, the Duke of Atholl. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

I believe that you can be a fine Duke, son. As I watch you from across the garden at this very moment, I can see it. I can see you leading with a kind but firm hand, just as I have. I hope that you find yourself the loveliest Duchess and have a child of your own. Not only to carry on the Cecil name, but so that you may live these days we have cherished again. Only then, you will have the honor of seeing it through a father’s eyes.

By the time you are reading this, I hope and pray you are well on your way to being the Duke I know you can be. One-and-twenty is a fine age for settling down, Ernest. You may not feel it to be so, and maybe you need a little more time. Just don’t waste too much of it. I can’t think of how much life would have turned out had I waited any longer to marry and have you.

Allow yourself to be tamed. Nothing good ever came from a Duke that was drunk on his own youth.

Once more, Happy Birthday.

                                                            With love,

                                                                Father

His heart was pounding painfully in his chest, his mind twisting and contorting into unfamiliar ways. Half of his heart was bursting at the seams with joy. Oh, how splendid it was to have one more conversation with his beloved father! Sure, it had been one-sided, but what child, no matter the age, wouldn’t die for something like that after their passing? That half of his soul wanted to clutch the letter to his chest and never let it go. He could have spent the rest of the day rereading it, reminiscing, and being forever grateful that his uncle had come all that way to give it to him.

However, the other half of him was absolutely tormented.

He stood from the armchair and paced across the room. That half of him couldn’t decide if he was angry with his father, or angry at himself. Angry at his father for having robbed him of that being an actual conversation for the two of them to have, for having the bollocks to mention his mother. Catherine Cecil had been the only reason Ernest hadn’t turned to anger after his father’s passing. She had been understanding, earnest, and compassionate. She had passed of a fever in spring just two years after his father took his own life.

However, there was still the possibility he was merely mad at himself, because he was nothing that his father had hoped for him to be. In the years of his dukedom, Ernest had never been graceful, good, and most certainly not tame. He had lived the life of a lonesome rake and he had enjoyed it. Then again, what sinner didn’t rival in sin?

Unable to take anymore, Ernest dropped the letter onto his desk and exited the room with a shaky breath. He knew in his heart that his father would have been appalled at the man Earnest had turned out to be. That pain was too much for any grown man to bear.

Chapter Two

“Gah!” Helena exclaimed as she poked herself for the millionth time that day with her needle. She longed so much just to throw her embroidery hoop and all the thread and needles out her window. She raised her finger to her mouth as a droplet of blood formed over the puncture, her eyes going to the window as she daydreamed about seeing just how far the hoop could soar before hitting the ground.

However, Helena knew what would come of her evening if she so much as set the task down for the day. Dinnertime would come, her father would ask what she did that day. She was a notoriously bad liar, so would have to say she spent most of it daydreaming whilst looking out the window. It would begin an all too familiar tirade that Helena really couldn’t stomach to hear again.

“You must perfect your feminine pursuits in order to find a good match, Helena,” she whispered to herself in a mocking tone of her father. “How do you expect to find a husband if your embroidery is sloppy or your painting too simplistic?”

She huffed as she angrily began stabbing at her project. There wasn’t enough bravery residing in her chest for her to find the words to tell her father that it wasn’t her knitting that gentlemen were seeing or inquiring about at the balls they attended. Not once had one of the gentlemen asked her to pull out a sample of her finest embroidery so he knew if she was to be his future wife.

No, it wasn’t her feminine accomplishments—it was something far worse. It was her personality.

Helena was a timid person, shy and a bit awkward; she couldn’t even picture herself talking to a stranger. Even when a person managed to get her talking, she never had anything extravagant or interesting to say. Helena found herself to be a rather plain person and no gentleman wanted such a painfully plain wife. They wanted someone lively, who loved to playfully argue and discuss the current gossip. Not her. Helena was… well, she didn’t quite know. She was boring because she had never been able to quite figure out who she was.

Helena hated feminine pursuits and really didn’t think she would make the best candidate for a wife because of it. Embroidery made her feel clumsy, painting made her hands cramp, and the pianoforte gave her headaches from how much concentration it took for her to get her hands to move in harmony rather than identically. It was a privileged thought to have, but Helena often fantasized about being a commoner. There wouldn’t have been much pressure to marry. She could have given her life to a job rather than only wifehood.

Why couldn’t she just be different? Helena’s frustration with herself was growing exponentially at that point. She longed to reach into her head and shut down her own thoughts. Maybe if she could, she wouldn’t be so anxious. The duties which were expected of her wouldn’t feel so mountainous and monotonous. Yes, it seemed like the best solution. The best solution being to find a way not to be herself. However, Helena had no idea how to even embark on such a task. Perhaps she was simply doomed to feel as conflicted and boring as she did in that moment.

There was a soft pattering of footsteps. Looking up from her embroidery, she saw her lady’s maid, Molly, standing by the door with her hands clasped in front of her. She had a look on her face that told Helena her maid knew just how miserable she was in there; Helena feared a little that the maid had heard her talking to herself. She would have never dared to ask her, the confirmation itself would have been too embarrassing for Helena to bear.

Knowing Molly, though, she would have lied to protect Helena from such an emotion.

“Lady Helena,” Molly began. “It’s quite a beautiful day. Perhaps a walk in the garden would suit you?”

“That does sound nice,” Helena stated, putting down her hoop and needle as though they were on fire. She did her best not to look at the work she had done that day, knowing good and well it was subpar and would need to be completely undone to be made right. Standing from her window seat, Helena moved quickly to the door, abandoning her work and the dread it was bringing her. She gave a kind smile to her maid, thankful that she had rescued her from her own misery, even if it would only be momentary relief.

That thought bothered her. Helena didn’t think herself to be a miserable person. She had met many people in her life, who could only talk about their sorrows or tell self-deprecating stories and had always found them to drain anyone in their presence. Helena was not miserable; she was merely lost.

A walk was the perfect remedy, as she hoped that the fresh air would declutter her mind and get rid of the gloomy cloud that was threatening to form over her head. They moved through the familiar halls of their house and descended the stairs. She glanced over the portraits they had of their family members and ancestors. Helena wondered if any of them had felt as lost as she had the past couple of years. She was so unfulfilled, so unmotivated. At that point, she wasn’t even sure if getting married would make her happy.

Not that marriage was looking like it was in the cards for her. It was her third Season, and she hadn’t so much as danced with a gentleman more than once. Helena felt strange about the possibility of becoming a spinster. It didn’t sadden her but it simply felt strange. Her entire life had been one large preparation for the next stage that very well may not come for her. Helena had to be alright with that, but she wasn’t sure her father would see things the same way.

She paused at the lovely portrait of her mother, as she often did. Helena had her mother’s curls, though her hair had been a vibrant red. A lady of class, grace, and most of all, personality. She had always made time with Helena, even if others rolled their eyes. Helena might not have been special to society, but she had been special to her mother. As she gazed up at the gorgeous oil painting, she wondered if there had ever been a time in her mother’s life that she had felt lost like Helena did. She doubted it, since her mother had been beautiful, lively, and witty. Her mother and father met during her very first Season, at her very first ball.

Her chest ached for a moment, worried that her mother was looking down on her with disappointment. However, she knew better. The pain lifted within seconds. Even though Helena had been having an abysmal time with finding a husband, she knew that her mother would have never treated it with fury or judgment. She would have offered advice, sure, but it wouldn’t have been a concern. Things would certainly have been different if her mother was still about. She sighed softly, longing to touch the painting. Sometimes she daydreamed about it, it felt like the only way to connect with her loving mother again. She had to shake off the thoughts before she grew too sentimental and cried.

Stepping outside, she sucked in a large breath of air, filling her lungs to their limit. Then, she let it out and with it, tried to blow away the stressful thoughts that had been plaguing her all day. Looking at Molly, she gave her a soft smile. “You were right, Molly; it is a beautiful day. Thank you,” she spoke kindly.

The maid nodded and gave a brief curtsy before the two of them walked down the stairs and headed for the garden. Only, the distant sound of hooves made them both pause. Looking down the cobblestone path, Helena watched as a carriage approached their house. The women stood on the side and waited for the arrival, too curious to see who it was to continue to the garden. Helena’s mind briefly pondered over what Lord or uncle could be by to see her father. There were a few who she quite enjoyed as dinner guests, as they always shared exciting stories that she could get lost in.

That idle curiosity was dead on arrival. Just then, the carriage door opened and much to Helena’s horror, her aunt, Lady Dorset, emerged. Her aunt would be described by the Ton as a boisterous and outspoken socialite, a Lady who had refined taste, and could make any occasion lively and any person feel welcome. Helena could only describe her as crass and overbearing. Lady Dorset was certainly not the same person in private that she was in public.

Helena and Molly shared a glance of the dismay they were about to feel, specifically Helena. There would only ever be one reason as to why her aunt was there unexpectedly: her father called upon her to help find Helena a match. Not a good match, not a decent match, just any match at all. Helena could only torture herself with the speculation of what was to come. She was certain her aunt would shove her into any social interaction she stumbled into and would brazenly ask if anyone in attendance had a son, nephew, grandchild, or neighbor that was unmarried.

She gulped and did her best to maintain her composure as she found her way over to her aunt. Lady Dorset was tall for a woman, something that many would have been criticized for, but she was so well-liked that people found it quirky instead. Her black hair was pulled tightly into a lavish hairstyle that looked fitting for a ball, her emerald and cream gown looked to be of the finest quality and fit her like a glove. If it weren’t for her slight wrinkles and aged hands, Lady Dorset easily could have passed for a younger woman with her small waist and rosy cheeks. She was a woman whose personality and appearance always seemed larger than life.

“Aunt Martha, it’s lovely to see you,” Helena greeted faintly. She did her best to sound confident and calm, but even she could hear the slight warble to her voice.

“My goodness, child, you have met me many times and you can’t even give me a proper greeting,” her aunt huffed, pulling a fan from her purse and fanning herself. It was something certainly being done for gesture, considering it was a mild day outside. “Are you really as anxious as your father has told me? I say, what is that you are wearing? You look as drab as a scullery maid. Have you and your lady’s maid here been down scrubbing the cellar, or is it just the fact you do not care a single measly ounce about finding a husband?”

There wasn’t enough time for Helena to process all her aunt’s harsh ramblings before the woman continued. “I mean really, my dear, do you own a mirror? Or are you absolutely clueless about the fact that men first get to know you with their eyes? You have to give them something interesting to look at or else you’ll blend in with the furniture and wallpaper.” Martha giggled to herself as she continued to scan her niece. “And really, we need to get you some face paint and teach your maid how to properly do hair. No, no, no. This simply will not do.”

Lady Dorset then stepped forward and clasped Helena’s hands. She gave her best sympathetic look that a woman such as herself could muster. “You truly are lucky to have me here with you. Don’t you fret, we will get this whole mess sorted and find you a husband,” her aunt assured her.

With that, her aunt headed into the house with her footmen trailing behind with her trunks. Helena’s heart plummeted to the floor. She knew for a fact that she was going to hate whatever it was that woman had in store. This was going to be the worst Season yet.

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter One

Rose Hudson sat at the pianoforte and allowed her fingers to linger over the keys as she took in a deep breath. The scent of roses lingered in the air – that was the work of her stepmother, Marianne, the Viscountess Hudsingham. Lady Hudsingham was the kind of hostess who paid attention to every minuscule detail when entertaining.

The viscountess made sure the maids cleaned every surface their guests might come in contact with, perfumed each common area, and made sure flowers were put out to her specifications. She was, in short, a born hostess. Rose, on the other hand, preferred quiet and tranquility. Why people had to make a fuss and host balls and fancy dinners all the time, she didn’t understand.

Alas, it was not up to her. Sometimes her home no longer felt like a home, not since her mother’s death seven years ago.

“Rose?” Her stepsister Letty poked her head through the open door. “The guests have arrived. You’re wanted in the drawing room. Mama is already vexed you missed the receiving line.”

The receiving line, she suddenly remembered with dread. She’d been on her way to join her family in the grand parlor, which was richly adorned with Spanish tapestries and marble statues of Greek gods, when the quiet of the music room called to her. Rose often found herself escaping into a world of her own – one surrounded by books, preferably. Today, however, she’d been so lost in thought that she’d missed the receiving line, an offense her stepmother would not soon forget.

“Very well,” she said. “You look lovely, Letty.”

Her stepsister blinked but then broke into a smile. She swayed left and right so Rose could better admire her primrose-colored taffeta gown. She’d paired it with a black and yellow bandeau that gave her auburn-colored hair a beautiful, distinct appearance. Rose had always found herself a little envious of Letty’s lovely hair, her own light blonde tresses being long and thick and thus difficult to manage. Tonight, Rose had pinned her hair around her head with an array of black pins adorned with flowers to complement her light blue gown. Not that she much cared for fashion – it was Marianne, her stepmother, who usually selected her gowns for her, as her mother had once done.

The chatter in the drawing room grew louder and louder as she walked down the empty halls after her stepsister. It was rather odd, she thought, that she, Letty, and Letty’s twin sister, Hetty had been connected by way of their parents for more than six years now, and yet she didn’t feel any particular connection to them. Hetty was perhaps the one she was closer to, but that was solely because they each knew they were behind Letty in the pecking order within the household. Letty was their mother’s favorite, and while she loved her twin, she never tired of letting both Rose and Hetty know who came first. Rose, meanwhile, remained closer to her best friend, Lady Mary, than to either of these so-called sisters.

With a sigh, she stood in the arched doorway of the drawing room and canvassed the merry group assembled before her. She knew most of the attendees, as they were friends of her father’s. Her stepmother was presently engaged in conversation with Lady Maxwell, one of the most avid readers of the scandal sheets – and, if Rose was not mistaken, an anonymous contributor to such publications.

The moment her stepmother spotted her; the older woman darted to her side.

“Rose, I expected you in the receiving line. Where were you?” she hissed under her breath.

“A trifling headache, I’m afraid,” Rose replied as her stepmother ushered her forward past several guests who greeted her warmly. Among them was Lady Charlotte, Lady Maxwell’s daughter. A vapid young lady who was rather close to the twins.

“It is impolite to miss the receiving line. You mortified your father and me. Now, come. I must introduce you to a dear cousin of mine,” her stepmother explained as they headed toward Rose’s father, who stood beside a short, rotund, red-eyed gentleman who wore a rather unpleasant smirk.

“Rose, there you are. We missed you earlier,” her father said in a gentle yet chiding tone. Rose swallowed. Why was it, she wondered, that her father could make her feel guilt with just a glance? Why was it that to disappoint him always felt like a stab in Rose’s heart? She was about to apologize when her stepmother drew her attention toward the red-eyed gentleman.

“Rose, this is my cousin, John Buckley, Baron Tibley. John, this is my stepdaughter, Lady Rose Hudson.”

Rose curtsied, as was customary, but noted that Lord Tibley had extended his hand for her to take. Reluctantly, she extended it to him, and she watched as he pulled her hand toward his thin, dry lips. It took all of her resolve to stop from shivering as his lips connected with her hand. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens for the blessing of the glove that kept her from having to feel the sensation of his lips on her skin.

“A pleasure,” he said in a cold and spine-chilling voice. “I was just talking to your dear papa about a meeting I took earlier this week with Lord Liverpool, the prime minister. It seems his wife heard that my imported spices and teas are superior to those of my competitors, and she would like to see about my supplying the prime minister’s office, and perhaps even court.”

Rose forced a smile upon her lips. She did not care for people who boasted, especially to people they’d just met.

“Isn’t that grand, Rose? John has been ever so successful since he got into the tea and spice business. He is already the premier importer in the country. And now even the Prince Regent might be using his services,” her stepmother smiled.

“Indeed. I already have some of the highest-ranking lords and ladies among my customers,” Lord Tibley continued and then suddenly turned to Rose’s father. The pride in his voice troubled Rose, as it was clear from his tone that he wasn’t simply pleased with his success; he was exceedingly proud and conceited. “Lord Wellington came into my shop just the other day. Can you believe it? The hero of Waterloo himself and he said to me, ‘Lord Tibley,’ he said…”

Just then, to Rose’s great relief, the dinner bell rang and interrupted the boastful gentleman before he could give a detailed report on his interaction with Lord Wellington. While Rose wasn’t particularly hungry, she entered the dining room with her mind a little more at ease. Alas, the emotion was not to last, for – to her mortification – she found that she’d been seated opposite Lord Tibley. This struck her as rather peculiar, as she ought to have been seated near someone higher ranking, given that she was the host’s eldest daughter.

She considered begging her stepsister Hetty to switch places with her but found it too late as Letty’s twin already sat on the other end of the table, engaged in conversation with Lady Charlotte. She could not ask Letty, as she had a habit of being rather too dramatic and would create a scene before switching seats.

Besides, the seating arrangements were another of her stepmother’s tasks when it came to planning dinners. Rose could not afford to upset the lady further. Thus, she did her very best to put on her politest smile and prayed that dinner might pass quickly.

The plea remained unanswered. For two seemingly never-ending, tedious hours, she had to contend with Lord Tibley’s tales about his encounters with the richest, most famous members of their society. All of these encounters ended with him making vast friends with them and increasing his business, or so he claimed.

“You must be the most famed trader in all of England, Lord Tibley. You’ll find yourself knighted for your services in due course,” she said. The sarcasm in her voice was quite evident to those around her, but the vapid lord before her didn’t take note of it.

“You are kind, Lady Rose. I am in good hopes.” He beamed and placed a large piece of venison in his mouth. As he chewed, Rose noted that his eyes wandered down to where her gown met her bosom. To her mortification, his eyes remained there until she shifted in her seat, uncomfortable at this obvious breach of manners.

She looked to her right, toward her stepmother, certain she’d distract her cousin to keep him from doing such a disturbing thing again. But to Rose’s surprise, the other woman didn’t. Instead, her stepmother nodded encouragingly at her cousin.

A cold shiver ran down her spine again. What was her stepmother thinking, Rose questioned. How could she allow her cousin to look at her in so lustful a way? It was uncouth, improper, and a rebuke of some sort was in order after dinner. However, she got a distinct feeling that her stepmother would do no such thing.

For the remainder of the meal, she found herself subjected to Lord Tibley’s stares and leers, along with assorted winks and comments of his admiration for her. Her appetite had evaporated fully, as she thought desperately of ways to escape his company. When at last the dessert – a delicious looking flummery – was taken away without her eating so much as a bite of it, she let out a sigh of relief. Her father stood and directed the gentlemen toward the billiards room for a game of cards and cognac.

“I look forward to joining you in the drawing room later,” Lord Tibley said with yet another wink of his beady eyes. Rose watched as a pearl of sweat separated from his bushy eyebrow and ran down his shiny, round face, and shuddered in disgust.

“As do I,” she forced herself to say before departing with the other ladies into the drawing room.

*****

“It will be grand! I shall dress as a sultana,” Letty exclaimed a little while later as the ladies gathered in the drawing room.

“No, I wish to be a sultana,” Hetty answered, quite indignantly.

“I said it first,” Letty replied in a stern tone that allowed for no refusal.

Rose looked over her shoulder at the assembled crowd. Her stepmother sat on the chaise lounge, her friend, Lady Maxwell, on one side of her while her daughter, Lady Charlotte, and an assortment of their friends gathered around her.

“You can both be sultanas. We will have costumes made in different colors. So, there is no need to fret,” their mother said, a slight hint of annoyance in her voice. “It will be the best masquerade ball of the Christmas season. We will spare no expense.”

Rose turned back to the window, quite puzzled that a ball could cause such excitement, especially a masquerade ball. She had no use for such frivolous things. Of course, she thought to herself, she was rather peculiar when it came to her aversion to balls and social events. She found them dull, for the only topics of conversation were the costumes and gowns and the latest on dit – and Rose couldn’t have cared less about those things.

She let out a deep sigh as she looked out of the window, but suddenly, a smile appeared on her face.

“Snow,” she exclaimed. Momentarily, Hetty joined her side and peeked out into the dark, where white snowflakes danced down toward the ground below. Briefly, Rose and her stepsister smiled at one another.

Hetty clapped her hands together in delight. “Mother, if the snow stays, we can go to Hyde Park and ice skate at the Serpentine. It will be magnificent!” Her stepsister sashayed away as quickly as she’d come, leaving Rose to look out into the increasingly white landscape.

Rose smiled as she remembered the last winter before her mother’s death. They’d spent it at her father’s country seat in Shropshire. Oh, how lovely a time they’d had. The three of them had built a snowman and fired snowballs at one another as their laughter filled the air.

That peaceful life was gone, long gone. In its place, she had a stepmother and sisters who were nothing like her. Rose thought of just how different the two ladies who’d filled the role of mother in her life were. While her mother had come from humble origins, the daughter of a skilled physician who herself was well versed in the art of herbs, her stepmother was brought up to be a lady. Her mother, Tabitha Hudson, had always told Rose she could do anything in life she set her mind to, while Marianne seemed to think that nothing mattered but making a good match.

“Rose,” her stepmother’s voice pierced the air. “You ought to join us and decide on a costume for the ball. You must make a good impression so you can find yourself a young lord to set your cap on. Your father wishes it. You’ve already had two failed Seasons.”

Rose turned, a heaviness settling in her heart at the thought of how different her life would have been if her mother hadn’t died. Her mother would never have pressured Rose into courting the way Marianne did.

“Woolgathering won’t get you a husband. It only leads to spinsterhood, my dear,” the lady continued.

Lady Maxwell nodded at this. “Indeed, my cousin turned down several offers of courtship, just as you did. I am sure you can imagine her fate. She’s a governess now, tending to someone else’s children rather than having her own.” She clicked her tongue as if this was the worst possible fate anyone could ever meet.

“I am not inclined to accept a courtship from a gentleman I find unpleasant. However, I think a lady ought to strive for more than to marry a gentleman for the sake of being married. A lady ought to be with someone who excites her, entertains her, and respects her.”

Lady Maxwell scoffed at this, and her stepmother rolled her eyes.

“Rose, you will never find a husband with that kind of thinking. I blame your mother – she filled your head with these silly ideas. Well, we will rectify this yet. Your father wishes you to marry, and soon. You cannot afford another failed Season.”

Anger rose within Rose’s chest at the mention of her mother. How dare her stepmother speak badly of the woman who’d birthed her? It was unconscionable. She curled her fingers into fists and stared at her stepsisters, who watched the exchange eagerly.

“If I recall correctly, I was not the only one who didn’t have a match by the end of the Season,” Rose said, her head tilted to one side as she allowed her eyes to linger on her stepmother.

Hetty’s mouth dropped open at this insult at the hands of someone who was usually her ally, while Letty’s eyes narrowed as she fired a furious glare at Rose.

“Now, now. It is not necessary to be so cruel. Besides, Letty and Hetty only came out last year, and that was their first Season. This next Season will be a smashing success for them, I know it. And it must be for you, as well. Anyhow, that is why I am hosting this masquerade ball, to ensure all of my daughters come away with a husband this year.” The lady blinked at Rose, but there was no kindness in her gaze, only thinly veiled rancor.

Rose nodded slowly and then stood up. As she smoothed her gown, she smiled at the assembled round as politely as she could. “I shall think thoroughly about a suitable costume, I promise. But for now, I must take my leave of your company, as I’m afraid my headache has returned.” She curtsied quickly before she could be challenged, and swiftly departed the room.

*****

Rose hurried out of the drawing room and along the hall leading to the staircase. She’d had quite enough of this evening. She’d have to find some way of getting out of this terrible masquerade ball because she already –

“….your daughter, Lady Rose,” Lord Tibley’s voice drifted out of the billiards room. Alarmed, Rose stopped in her tracks and hurried toward the door, which stood slightly ajar. She pressed her ear as close to the door as she could and held her breath.

“She is ever so lovely, and my cousin tells me she’s quite accomplished,” Lord Tibley added.

“She is, indeed,” her father replied. “A great beauty, just like her mother was.” Hearing her father speak lovingly of her mother still filled Rose’s heart with warmth to this day.

“I would rather like to court her, with your permission, my lord,” Lord Tibley suddenly said. Rose had to stifle the gasp that escaped her mouth by pressing her hand in front of it. Lord Tibley wanted to court her? What a ludicrous proposition, she thought. He was a terrible, arrogant man full of pride. Surely her father would never –

“I am not at all opposed to the idea, Lord Tibley,” her father replied. Rose’s mouth dropped open at this. How could her father even consider this? Her stomach twisted into knots as she heard her father clear his throat. “I would suggest waiting until after Christmastide, however. This is a difficult time of year for Rose. You may not be aware of this, but her mother passed at this time of year. Courting will be the furthest thing from her mind.”

“Of course, that is quite understandable, my lord. I will gladly give her the time she needs, just as long as there is a promise of courtship in the near future.”

Say no, Papa. Please. Deny him.

Rose held her breath and sent a prayer to the heavens, hoping her father would put the dreadful Lord Tibley in his place. But before she could hear his reply, the sound of footsteps distracted her. Someone was coming down the hall. She could not be caught eavesdropping, it was considered highly offensive, and her stepmother – and father – would be rather angry at her.

Rose turned on her heels and hurried up the stairs as her heart pounded and her thoughts raced. Her father could not possibly consider a courtship with a man as awful as Lord Tibley – or could he?

Chapter Two

Miles Lambert sat in his study at his family’s country estate in Hertfordshire and poured over the ledgers. The dim light in the study caused such strain on his eyes; he found himself compelled to sit back and rub them to bring some relief.

He glanced outside and noted that it was already getting darker, even though it was only mid-afternoon. As he stepped to the window, he felt a chill enter through the gaps between the glass and the wood – something else he had to tend to before the depth of winter was upon them. He curled his fingers to get rid of the stiffness brought on by the cold, but found himself unsuccessful.

He hurried over to the warming fire, and as he stood with his palm outstretched, he took in a lungful of the warm air when a knock on the door drew his attention.

“Enter,” he called, and within a moment, Robert Lewisham, his steward, entered. The older man had served as steward to the Lambert family for more than two decades, and was among Miles’s most trusted advisors.

“Robert, I didn’t expect you until dinnertime,” Miles said, and then noted the letter in the man’s hand. “A messenger?”

The steward nodded and handed over the correspondence. Immediately, Miles recognized the seal as his mother’s. A smile rushed across his face as he thought of his beloved mother. She used to love their country seat, but since the death of Miles’s father three years ago, she’d resided at their London address, Lambury Hall, along with his cousin, Humphrey.

Miles felt a wave of nostalgia as he thought of the many happy years they’d spent here in the country as a family. He hoped his mother would visit him here, but while she kept up a frequent correspondence with him, she’d never visited once in the past six months since he’d installed himself here. With a heavy heart, he tore the seal and unfolded the letter. As he read, a sigh escaped him.

“Bad news, my lord?” Robert asked.

“No, the opposite.” Miles lowered the letter and blinked at the steward, who stood before him in a regal-looking ensemble of a burgundy-colored waistcoat with a fine tailcoat. He looked like a young man still, except his formerly dark hair was now peppered with white. “She wishes for me to come to London, to spend Christmastide with her and Humphrey.”

The steward smiled. “That is good news indeed. One ought to spend Christmas with family.”

Miles nodded but said nothing. The idea of spending time in London vexed him, for it was there where his father had met his untimely end by way of a carriage accident. Going there, especially at Christmas, troubled him, for the accident had taken place just two days before the start of the festive Season.

He sighed deeply. It was peculiar, he thought, that while his mother could not bring herself to visit their country seat because she could not bear to be away from the place she and her husband had spent their last few happy months together, he could not visit London because he feared the memories the city would conjure up within him.

“My lord?” Robert’s voice pierced his thoughts.

“Yes? I apologize. I was deep in thought. I suppose being invited to London was to be expected. And I do wish to see my family, naturally.” He paused, suddenly at a loss for words.

“It has been some while since you saw her. Six months now since you returned from India, if I am not mistaken?”

Miles nodded. He’d been forced to spend two years in India to tend to his father’s textile business interests there; in his absence, his cousin Humphrey had overseen business operations in England while Robert tended to the estate. Upon returning, he’d spent two weeks in London with his mother and then headed to the country. Thus, in the past three years, he’d spent hardly any time with his beloved mother. Upon reiterating this to Robert, the steward cleared his throat.

“It is about time you spent some time with her and your cousin, if I may be so blunt, my lord,” the steward said.

Miles nodded. “I must agree. I suppose one day I must conquer my dislike of London. I am the Earl of Lambury after all, and I will need to take my seat in the House of Lords.”

The steward stood, his arms dangling at his side, and watched Miles as he took one last moment to push away the inevitable. Then, after taking one more breath of the comforting air, he raised his eyes at Robert.

“Please have my bags packed and the carriage made ready. I am going to London for Christmas.”

*****

The following afternoon, Miles stepped out of the carriage in front of Lambury Hall. It was located in Mayfair, the finest district in the city, where only the richest and most influential among the ton lived. He took a breath and noted just how different the air smelled in the city. A layer of soot and dirt seemed to cling to his lips, and he swiftly wiped a handkerchief over them.

He shook off the veil of discomfort that had settled on his shoulders and stepped forward. He’d climbed the stone stairs with three large steps and banged the lionhead-shaped door knocker against the heavy oak door. Within a moment, Peters, their butler, appeared.

The moment his eyes settled on Miles, the older man broke into a wide smile that lit up his blue eyes.

“My lord, what a pleasure it is to see you. I was not expecting you so soon,” he said and stepped aside, allowing Miles entry into the home he’d last seen six months prior. The warm, welcoming scent of the roaring fireplaces greeted him.

“I thought I would heed my mother’s invitation immediately,” he replied and handed over his cane, greatcoat, and hat. “Pray, where is she?”

The butler indicated the drawing room. “Shall I announce you?”

Miles shook his head, a mischievous grin on his lips. “I shall surprise her.” With that, he slipped past the butler and down the hall adorned with Grecian statues. At the drawing room door, he took a moment to settle himself.

Lambury Hall had hardly changed since his father’s death. All of his beloved paintings still hung on the walls, the carpet he’d selected during a visit to France decades ago still lay sprawled across the floor. It was as if nothing had changed. And yet, everything had. His father’s absence cast a shadow upon the opulent home even after three long years.

Or perhaps, Miles wondered, it was because he’d never been able to chase the oppressive guilt out of his heart. He shook his head, chasing the thoughts away. This was not the time to sink into melancholy. This was a time for joy.

With a swift step, he entered into the drawing room where his mother perched on the chaise lounge, her embroidery in her lap.

“I hope that piece is for me; I am in dire need of more doilies,” he said.

His mother spun around. Her kind, wrinkled face displayed surprise and then a heartwarming delight.

“Miles!” She dropped her embroidery ring beside her and rushed toward him. At once, he noted that she still wore navy-colored clothing. The same clothing she’d donned since her mourning period had ended two years prior. Just as he had never gotten over his father’s death, his mother had also clung to the comfort of her half-mourning attire, an outward display of her inner sadness.

She flung her arms around him; her fresh lavender scent enveloped him and brought him back to his childhood days when they’d come to his home for the Season.

“I cannot believe you are here, my darling. I feared you would not come,” she said in a shaking voice filled with emotion.

“Mother, I could never decline your invitation, especially at this time of year. I ought to have sent a messenger, but I wanted to surprise you.” He rubbed her arm, bringing a smile to her face.

“And you did, my dear. You did. Faith, now we can have a proper, merry Christmas.” Although, at the mention of the word Christmas, a dark shadow crossed her eyes. “As merry as we can make it,” she added.

“We shall. And I –”

“Miles! I thought I heard your voice,” someone spoke up behind him. Miles spun around, one arm still on his mother’s rotund waist.

“Humphrey!” he exclaimed and dashed forward toward his cousin and flung his arm around him. The two young men grinned at one another when Humphrey suddenly pointed at Miles’s head.

“Is that a bald spot I see? Has country life caused you to pull out your hair? And you’re so pale – the lack of the Indian sun, I imagine?”

“You must require an eye examination, my dear cousin. My hair is as lush and full as ever. Yours, on the other hand, is looking mighty thin around the temples. Is the textile business getting to you?” Miles ribbed his cousin right back. They grinned at one another, and Miles suddenly realized just how much he’d missed his cousin. The two often engaged in playful jibes and teases, a habit they’d fallen into almost as soon as Humphrey had come to live with them fifteen years ago.

Miles remembered the day well. His cousin, only two-and-ten at the time, had lost his father in a rather scandalous robbery at a gaming hall shortly after his mother’s death. It had been a tragic time for him, but he’d settled into the Lambert family and become a brother to Miles with time.

“Now, now, the two of you,” Miles’s mother said with a smile on her face. “I cannot tell you what joy it is to have both of you together again. And for a longer period this time.” She placed one hand on either of their forearms. “I cannot tell you what it means to me to have my family together for Christmas for the first time since…” her words trailed off as a thickness entered her tone.

Miles swiftly wrapped an arm around her. “I know, Mother. It will be difficult, but at last, we are all together, and we will make the very best of the holidays.”

“Indeed,” Humphrey added and wiped a dark-brown curl out of his pale face. “We will. It shall be grand, and I know Uncle Geoffrey will look down upon us and smile.”

Miles flashed a grateful glance at Humphrey. He’d always been more like a brother to him than a cousin, and even more so since the death of his father. Truly, had it not been for Humphrey, Miles would surely have lost his father’s textile business. There had been trouble on the horizon in that regard, even before his father’s death, due to competitors that had entered the market. His father had planned to travel to India himself to find new suppliers for the beautiful muslins and silks that made up the bulk of their inventory.

He’d been on his way to tell Miles the details of his plans for the business when the carriage had crashed, and death had put an end to his father’s plans – forever. To this day, the guilt over knowing his father had been on his way to see him troubled Miles. It was this, the knowledge that he might still be alive if Miles hadn’t requested that he call on him that day, that robbed him of his sleep even now.

The true depth of his guilt was not known to anyone but his cousin. It was Humphrey who’d sat by Miles’s side for weeks and comforted him through the worst of his grief. Every bout of rage, every fit of tears – Humphrey had been there to lend a comforting hand, a sympathetic ear. Without him, Miles truly would not have made it through.

And truthfully, neither would his mother because it was Humphrey’s presence during Miles’s absence that gave her the strength she needed to carry on.

“Shall we take tea?” his mother suddenly asked, interrupting his thoughts. He smiled and nodded.

“I would rather enjoy that, indeed. And perhaps some of the cook’s hot cross buns?” he asked. Humphrey raised an eyebrow.

“Ought you have hot cross buns? It seems you’ve expanded more than just the wealth of the estate.” His cousin grinned and poked Miles’s stomach. Of course, he was jesting, for Miles was in the best shape of his life, but that was the way they always acted around one another.

Miles pouted and scrutinized his cousin. “I can stand to eat a few hot cross buns. You, on the other hand…”

Humphrey jabbed him into the upper arm and then chuckled as the three of them made their way into the dining room. Perhaps coming here had been the right thing, just as Robert suggested, Miles thought. Perhaps it was indeed time to let the past rest.

Alas, just as he was ready to allow himself the hope of a new beginning, he entered into the dining room, and instantly, his eyes settled on the chair at the head of the table. The chair his father had sat in all of these years. A chair that would now be occupied by him instead – and the dreadful sense of loss and guilt gripped his heart like a vice once more.

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