Prologue

Spring, 1808
Lenox Townhouse, Mayfair, London.

Eugenia Humphries’ heart soared with unbridled joy as her eyes skillfully spied the time on the huge wooden clock that hung from one of the walls in her family’s drawing room.
One more hour! One more hour and she would be free from this miserable lesson, all the way until the week to come. Surely, she could get through another. After all, she’d survived three so far.
With an indomitable will, she suppressed the urge to let her eyes roll in exasperation. For what felt like the umpteenth time, she found herself contemplating the audacity of those who had, at some point in history, awakened with the notion that it would be the pinnacle of virtue to demand that young, blossoming women sacrifice four precious hours of their existence solely to acquire the knowledge of being a “proper Lady.”
What did that even mean? “A proper lady?” She blew a hot breath through her lips.
It was disheartening to consider how countless others had endorsed that singular perspective, and that this tradition had persisted for decades, being passed down each year to young girls who had little agency in shaping their own upbringing.
She couldn’t help but suppress a sigh and shake her head. No wonder many Ladies of the ton turned to gossip and counted on the latest scandal sheets to fill their days with, if only a little modicum of excitement.
As far as Eugenia had always been concerned, all that time could be better put towards more rewarding endeavors such as horseback riding, painting, fencing, and her particular favorite, reading a truly intelligent novel filled with wit, humor and just the right kind of unrealistic romance to make her heart swoon. Now, that, was true education.
Nonetheless, she tried to reassure herself as she rose on her tiptoes, making certain that that her arms assumed the perfect curves, their heights, and proportions in flawless harmony. And ah yes, her feet, had she missed a step? Surely not.
The season was about to begin in full a fortnight from now, with the first ball being thrown by the Viscountess Malborough. Her mother wanted her to be ready to shine as the debutante amongst debutantes–the diamond of the season, hence the more intense lessons of late. This time, Eugenia scoffed, giving in to the urge to tumble her eyes. As though she cared about any of those.
The one reason she was looking forward to the endless turns of balls and soirees at all, was the same reason she was looking forward to tonight.
She would get to see him again. One hour, just one hour more and she’d be able to dash to her chambers, sit by her window and wait till her heart’s content for that familiar sound of pebbles softly hitting windows.
The thought alone instantly lifted her spirits, the strain of the dance lessons, as well as apprehension towards the upcoming season instantly vanishing, as her lips found new stretching limits.
Alas, she should have known that it would never be easy to have anything her way because in that moment, she actually did miss a step this time, and trust her instructor, Ms. Faraday, to quickly mete out words of reprimand.
“Oh-oh, Miss Humphries. I asked that you be attentive now, did I not?” She asked, brown eyes glaring. “Alas, I can tell that your mind has been wandering. I suggest that if you truly wish to be ready in time for this season’s debutante ball, you quit your woolgathering right this moment and truly join us in the room. Because trust me, my dear, with these skills? You shall indeed become the sole object of attention at the Malborough ball, and it wouldn’t be for the reasons your mother hopes, I fear. Now, watch me carefully, and make certain to move exactly as I move. Let’s make both our time worthwhile, shall we not?”
So much for finally having a good time, Eugenia thought to herself as she muttered hurried words of apology, and attempted to do just as the tall, no-nonsense instructor had instructed.
After all, Ms. Humphries had been right, Eugenia was a passable dancer, but nothing stellar––nothing worthy of the diamond of the season, that’s for certain. And because Eugenia truly cared about her dearest mother’s happiness, she made a decision then, that thoughts of the night’s secret rendezvous could wait one more hour, and proceeded to pour her entire heart into the rest of the lesson.

***

Four hours later, the skies had turned dark, and Eugenia was seated by her window, belly filled with the delicious, yet restless supper that she’d shared with her mother and father.
Restless because she’d found that with every passing minute, she simply couldn’t wait any longer to behold the face of her beloved. To step into his always open arms, ever so warm and ready to welcome, engulfing her in safety and such pure affection, she felt it to her soul.
She’d sat in the same spot for an hour before dinner, and since then, two more hours had gone by. Still, there was not one sign of him.
Adamant on ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach that only seemed capable of digging deeper, she used the incandescence from the candle on the stool beside her, to trace her way to the small clock above her bedside.
Those tiny hands only had to make four more turns around, and it would be midnight.
I wonder if anything went wrong, he should have been here by now, she pondered.
They’d been doing this for over three months, you see, meeting every other night they’d agreed upon, and not once had he ever arrived even a minute late. No, each time, as soon as the clock struck 7, she’d hear those pebbles against her windows, so soft that only her ears could ever pick them up.
So, whatever could have gone wrong today? Why was it taking forever for him to arrive?
As those thoughts passed through her mind, it occurred to her that mayhap, she would not be so anxiously counting every tick-tock if she kept her hands, as well as mind, busy.
Smiling at the genius of that idea, she jumped to her feet and began to search out the novel she’d begun reading just the day before.
Picking a shawl to wrap around her petite self as the night air was beginning to get chilly, Eugenia glided back to her window, sat on the large sill so that her back would rest on the supporting well, then gently wedged her leg against the opposing pillar. Afterwards, she drew the stool that was holding the candle closer and settled in to lose herself in reading.
She soon found the page she’d last stopped, yet even as she began to read, her heart wouldn’t stop racing.
I truly hope that whatever it is, he’s safe, and that he makes it to me in one-piece, she whispered to herself.
Suddenly remembering that the entire point of getting a book in the first place had been to keep herself distracted, she tried once more to read the first few lines on the page she’d opened.
Alas, it didn’t take long before she found herself peeking out the window again, her head straining towards the east and west, desperate to finally catch a glimpse of him approaching, even if from afar.
It might be dark, but she would always know what he looked like, would always be able to make him out of any night shadows, or any crowd. Her heart would simply know it was him, it always did.
Sadly, no matter how many times she poked and peeped, no one approached, save for a few unknowing servants who were going about their nightly duties.
Soon, the book was forgotten, and her lids began to grow heavy. Determined to wait for as long as it took for him to arrive, Eugenia knew that she could not afford to give in to the wiles of slumber. She began to try every trick she knew in order to stay awake, shaking her head, and even blinking her eyes as fast as she could.
As it would happen, her body appeared to be overly exhausted from the dance lessons, and apparently in that moment, stronger than her mind. Hence, as the soft rhythm of rain began to patter against her window, it was only a matter of time before her head dropped onto her shoulders, lolling to the land of dreams.

***

The first thing Eugenia felt as she stirred awake was pain, everywhere. From the stiffness of her neck to the biting cramps in her legs, and the muscle pull that stung her arms.
She was still trying to make sense of it all, as she couldn’t remember ever waking up in such a sore state before, when she realized that she actually had no recollection of falling asleep.
Quickly, her eyes flew open, and she almost screamed at the assault of bright rays of sunlight that were pouring in effortlessly through the open windows.
That was when it all began to return to her. Slowly, she turned around to take in her surroundings, her soulful blue eyes––as her mother often liked to call them, finally adjusting to the daylight.
She was still seated on the windowsill, which meant she must have fallen asleep there, despite her best attempts. Beyond that, the book she’d been reading laid carelessly on the ground, every piece of evidence pointing to the fact that it must have slipped from her hands as she dozed. Managing to rise to her feet, she swallowed cries from the pinpricks that immediately shot up her legs, eventually succeeding in bending down to retrieve the book.
As she straightened, she chose to take her time to collect her thoughts, and hopefully memories, of what exactly happened before her eyes had drifted close.
When precisely had she lost the fight between waiting for her beloved and needing some good rest after the day’s lessons? And had he ever made it?
Her eyes widened in panic as that thought struck her mind.
Had he eventually come after she’d fallen fast asleep, and no amount of pebbles had been able to wake her?
Eugenia shook her head again, that was highly unlikely. She was famous for her feather-like sleep. If someone had been throwing pebbles into her ears, she would have known.
So that meant only one thing. He hadn’t been able to make it, and now, she couldn’t help but contemplate why that was.
Coming up with a million plausible and totally safe situations did nothing to dissolve the knot of unease in her belly that only continued to grow bigger and tighter with every step she took.
Deciding that she couldn’t simply sit still until she received an explanation that would make some sense, Eugenia began to plan her next course of action. It required a piece of parchment, some ink, and her most favorite quill.
Soon enough, her letter had been carefully written, folded and sealed, ready to be sent. She set it aside, intending to do so first thing after breaking fast. And with the help of her lady’s maid, Sophia, who arrived just in time, Eugenia was ready to descend to the dining room at exactly 8 o’clock.
As always, her mother and father were seated and waiting when she arrived.
“Mother,” she greeted softly, leaning down to kiss the one woman she adored with all her heart, on the cheek. “A lovely morning to you,” she whispered.
Her Grace, Medea Humphries, Duchess of Lenox, smiled warmly at her daughter in response. “A lovely day to you too, my dear. Fine weather is it not? I couldn’t have been more grateful for the rain. Your father and I were just discussing yesterday, how unusually warm this spring has been so far. We were both happy to have been able to enjoy the nice, cool wind that blew all night long, thanks to the skies’ blessings.”
Eugenia simply smiled in response as she walked over to her father, His Grace, Peter Humphries, Duke of Lenox, to press an equally affectionate kiss to his cheek.
Her father who’d lost his sight to the war years ago, had had to learn to see without them. He had the sharpest senses Eugenia had ever seen any human possess, and had raised her to be able to make her own way through the world, were––heavens forbid––she ever to lose any of her senses as well.
It was just one of the many reasons why she loved and respected him with all her heart.
“A good day to you, Father. I hope mother didn’t hog all the blankets to herself as always,” she teased, making a point to avoid her mother’s bashful side eye.
Her father’s response was a warm chuckle, reverberating so thickly through his throat that she could tell it had come from his stomach.
He found the hand that held his cheek and cupped it with his palm, holding her to his side for just a little while longer––he often did that. “Your mother has since long learned how to share. We thank the heavens for small miracles,” he too teased in response.
They were all laughing now, and her father pressed a soft kiss to Eugenia’s inner wrist, before finally releasing her to go to her seat.
The warm, absolutely familiar interaction with her family centered Eugenia a little bit and as they dug into their meals, she found that even though the knot in her stomach was not loosening, it wasn’t growing any tighter either.
It was as they finished breakfast and headed to the drawing room for morning tea, that things took a turn for the worse.
Roger, their old and feeble, but ever faithful spaniel yipped his way onto Eugenia’s thighs, settling in for a good cradle as soon as she sat. Her mind had just begun to search for the perfect excuse with which to take her leave, in order to go have that letter sent, when the latest scandal sheet arrived for her mother.
Eugenia had never cared for them, so she made no attempt to go see what this one was all about. However, as soon as her mother’s loud gasp filled the room, her heart immediately rammed against her chest. In the same instant, her stomach sank more deeply than ever, with an unshakable knowing that whatever was amiss, it had to do with her beloved.
Jerking up before she could stop herself, curious words tumbled from her lips, “What is it, Mother? What has happened?”
Thank goodness her mother had never been one to fancy suspense, for the Duchess immediately responded.
“It’s the Towsends!” she cried. “The Duke and Duchess of Richmond are rumored to have been seen fleeing London in the thick of the night, on a boat bound for Boston, no less!”
Her mother continued to read on as soon as she finished her announcement, oblivious to the fact that her daughter’s world had just toppled on its axis.
“It says here that whoever this writer is, sent investigators to their home this morning to confirm facts and indeed, they seem to have stripped their mansion in Grosvenor Square clean. There aren’t enough servants left to cause one to think that they’ve simply gone on a quick trip. It would seem that the Duke and Duchess, along with their son, Lord Dorian Townsend, and daughter, Lady Arabella Townsend, have bade goodbye to London for good!”
The entire drawing room faded to the background as Eugenia’s ears filled with nothing but the thumping beats of her heart growing louder, and slower by the second.
What had she just heard? Dorian? Her Dorian? No, it couldn’t be. Surely not. Most certainly not!
Unmindful of her actions, only aware of the unbearable pain of her chest splitting into two halves, Eugenia reached out and snapped the sheets from her mother’s hand.
Not her Dorian, she prayed again, as memories flooded her, all the sweet moments they’d shared together.
There just had to be a mistake somewhere. He wouldn’t simply leave without telling her. Not without a single letter, at the very least. Not when he must have known that she would have been waiting for him, as always.
Yet, as she stared at those words written in bold, certain letters, she realized she no longer could deny the truth.
Dorian had forsaken her, as well as all the promises he’d so wickedly made her believe he would keep. And now, all she had was nothing but her heart in crumbled pieces, and her soul, drenched in betrayal and disappointment.

Chapter One

Spring, 1814.
London, England.

Dorian Townsend understood that this endeavor wouldn’t come without challenges. Rectifying situations after extensive lapses of time was daunting. Regardless of his readiness, they could no longer evade their past, forsake their identities, and elude their truths.
He had urged his mother that their return to their birthplace needed to be dignified, in stark contrast to that dreadful night he preferred not to remember. That night they had stolen away like exposed thieves, frightened of capture, with just enough clothes for the six-week sail to Boston.
Now, as the carriage wheels turned, inching them closer to a new beginning, a suffocating sensation enveloped him, constricting his chest.
It’s harder than I expected.
As the new head of the household, he had to lead with authority and confidence, never showing weakness, never crumbling. He had to be strong for his family. So, instead of displaying his trepidation, Dorian gazed out of the carriage window, taking in the sights.
Not much had changed. England still felt familiar, particularly the scent of rain in the air. Rain in London always smelled the same, a memory he had missed during his six years in bustling Boston.
He sighed softly, barely audible in the stillness. His slumbering mother and his book-engrossed sister remained oblivious.
Another sigh as he stretched his legs, relaxing into his seat. He had no clear plan for restoring the family’s glory and reputation as a powerful Dukedom, but he was determined.
The only promise he could make to his dying father was that he would rebuild their legacy. He had realized the guilt his father carried, the same guilt that led to the late Duke of Richmond’s early demise.
Dorian had never expected to assume the Dukedom at twenty-eight, but life dealt unexpected hands, much like a game of cards. Despite his father’s influence, he understood the line between indulgence and earnest work to secure a livelihood.
He was grateful he didn’t inherit his father’s tendency to mix money and cards. While they shared physical traits, his resilience, stubbornness, and overbearing nature came from his mother.
“Penny for your thoughts?” his mother’s voice broke his reverie.
Startled, he smiled. “I’d demand no less than a thousand pounds.” Despite their disagreements, he cherished her.
Her amber eyes sparkled. “Ah, a thousand pounds? I shall ask my rich son then.”
Dorian chuckled, thankful for her trust. “Amen.”
“We’re close, aren’t we?” she asked, her smile fading, the atmosphere growing more serious.
Dorian nodded solemnly. “Just another hour. Then, we’ll be home.”
“Home,” his mother echoed. They both understood the weight behind that word.
The remainder of the ride was quiet, and soon they stopped at their grand ancestral home. Dorian steeled himself for the nostalgia as he disembarked and assisted his mother and sister.
Ignoring curious onlookers, Dorian led them inside, embraced by memories of happier times – games, family dinners, and laughter.
He had a vision to restore their former happiness. With determination, he guided his mother to the study.
Memories surged as he stood there. It was now his study. He had his own memories here – his father’s lessons, his first taste of liquor, his father’s presence.
Overwhelmed, he sank to a sofa just as the doors opened, revealing his mother.
“Mother,” he said softly.
She joined him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I miss him too, you know. We all do. Even Arabella.”
He smiled softly. “Arabella is the way she is because we had to mature away from England. But we must address her behavior soon.”
His mother nodded. “We shall hire a governess, though a year isn’t ample time.”
Dorian agreed. Arabella’s upcoming debut was critical. He longed to restore their family’s strength.
“You’re capable, Dorian,” his mother reassured him. “Your father was good, but he had weaknesses. We need to regain our standing.”
She turned more serious. “And, you must consider marriage. It’s time to secure our future.”
Dorian panicked. “Marriage? We’ve just returned!”
His mother’s voice remained firm. “It’s necessary. We need that dowry to recover.”
Dorian felt his world shift. He agreed, feeling trapped. He’d do it for the family’s sake.
His mother held his face. “We’ll get through this together.”
Long after she left, he felt lost. Seeking solace, he returned to the carriage with one command. “Take me to White’s.”
His father had had his cards.
Well, Dorian, had his liquor and the women.
First, he would drown himself in the former, and afterwards, he would visit Madame Lacroix’s, and find an ever willing lass to bury himself deep inside of.
The drinking part went well enough. And soon, he was at Madame Lacroix’s.
Unfortunately, the first lass he came across had hair too blonde, yet just the right enough shade to threaten to bring back other memories he’d keep buried. Memories of her…
Shaking his head, he turned to Madam Lacroix who’d chosen to attend to him, herself.
“I’ll go for the brunette, if she’d have me,” he said, nodding at another fine woman he could spy from across the room. She would have to do. He had taken enough trips down the memory lane for one day. No more, and perhaps, not ever.

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Prologue:

There was a constant stream of people entering and leaving her house, and Venetia watched them with wide eyes, one hand tightly clutching her favorite doll. These were not the kind of people she had occasionally sneaked out of the nursery to catch glimpses of during her parents’ lavish parties and balls. They were not the ones in glittering clothing with bright smiles and cheery voices that mingled with the music from the large ballroom. Nor did they resemble the elegantly dressed men and women her mother had once introduced her to in the blooming garden.
Instead, a somber atmosphere hung over the visitors. Men with stern and worried expressions, dressed in dark, heavy garments, carried closed bags that Venetia had been strictly warned never to touch. Occasionally, plain-dressed women would appear, their heavily starched and bleached clothes emanating the distinct aroma of medicine. The women paid no attention to Venetia, save for curt instructions, and the men never spoke to her at all.
Venetia had little concern for the people around her, except for a lingering curiosity about them. However, she had been driven out of her nursery rooms by intense loneliness. A few days ago, her governess had departed and never returned, leaving her without companionship or someone to play with. Miss Wilkes, the cook, made sure she received her meals and occasional clothing changes, but her own duties often kept her too preoccupied for much more than that.
Worse, she hadn’t laid eyes on her mother in what felt like an eternity. The countless days blurred together, making it difficult for her to keep track, separating the time in her young mind between ‘now’ and ‘before’. Before, her mother had enjoyed dancing and strolling in the gardens, singing her favorite songs in her beautiful voice. She had spent hours reading Venetia tales of enchantment and magic, her words making the stories come alive and filling the house with wonder. Before, the entire manor had been filled with her mother’s bright, wonderful laughter.
Now, the air was heavy with a leaden silence that seemed unbreakable. The laughter was gone. Her mother had secluded herself in her room, and nobody offered Venetia any explanations or permitted her to visit. The few attempts she had made resulted in finding the door locked or one of the stern women blocking the entrance and shooing her away.
Her father, too, seemed distant and detached. Their encounters were brief and silent, limited to passing glances as he hurried through the halls or shared meals that he ate quickly and without interest. His expression was devoid of smiles or laughter, even when she tried to elicit a response from him through words and gestures. Overwhelming sadness and exhaustion seemed to fill him, and he rarely offered her anything more than a gentle pat on the head before turning his attention to the staff or retreating to either his study or her mother’s room.
As the door to her mother’s room opened, Venetia darted forward. “Mother? Father?”
She was almost through when a pair of strong arms, wrapped in heavy cotton, caught her around the waist and halted her progress, before lifting her up and pulling her back. Venetia let out a cry of frustration and hurt. “Mother! Father! Please come play with me!”
“Hush, child. Hush now, sweet girl,” Miss Wilkes said, setting her down and crouching in front of her. The cook tried to smile, but the expression looked wrong—sad somehow, as if she was trying not to cry at the same time. “Now’s not a good time to be disturbing your family, my darling. Your mother isn’t feeling well. She needs her rest, and your father is looking after her.”
Miss Wilkes had never called her darling or sweetheart. Only Anna, her governess, and her mother did that. Sometimes her father did, but not often. Venetia pouted, her hands clenched around her doll. “I want someone to play with me. Where’s Anna?”
“Anna had to leave, child. And never you mind why.” Miss Wilkes looked around the halls, then sighed. “I know you’re upset, Venetia, and who wouldn’t be? You’re a young thing, stuck inside. So, if you promise to behave, I’ll take you out to the gardens. Would you like that?”
Venetia nodded eagerly, her distress forgotten in the waves of excitement. The gardens held a special place in her heart, their delightful scents always filling the air. Her mother had taken her on countless strolls, acquainting her with each flower and promising to teach Venetia the art of cultivation and floral arrangements that adorned the beloved Manor. The thought of brightening the estate with bouquets brought a spark of joy to Venetia’s eyes.
“Will Mother come too? Perhaps the flowers will uplift her spirits,” Venetia inquired, her voice brimming with hope. Her mother always found solace amidst the blooms, her happiness evident with every step she took in the garden.
Miss Wilkes responded with a peculiar smile, a blend of sorrow and fondness. “Not today, my dear. Perhaps another time.”
Assisting Venetia in donning her outdoor shoes, Miss Wilkes draped a warm cloak over her delicate dress. Despite the chill in the air and the drizzle of gray rain, Venetia’s laughter echoed through the garden as she playfully darted forward, arms outstretched, attempting to capture glistening droplets on her sleeves.
An enchanting symphony of earthy scents enveloped Venetia, awakening her senses to the fragrant embrace of new growth. With a skip in her step, she embarked on a playful run, relishing in the delight of darting through the garden’s winding paths. The bushes danced in the misty rain, transforming the surroundings into a mystical playground straight out of her mother’s stories.
“Venetia! Do not wander off, young lady!” Miss Wilkes urgently called from behind, but Venetia, captivated by the intoxicating blend of earth and untamed rainwater, paid no heed to the caution.
Deeper she ventured, following the labyrinthine paths with a child’s whimsy. Pausing here and there, she plucked a blossom or an intriguingly shaped leaf, creating a modest yet vibrant bouquet within her small hands. She knew her mother’s fondness for flowers and hoped that bringing a piece of the garden inside would hasten her recovery.

Suddenly, Venetia found herself in an unfamiliar part of the garden, uncharted even by her explorations with her mother. She paused, her gaze fixed on the mysterious path before her.
Unlike the meticulously groomed hedges and neatly shaped bushes adorning the rest of the garden, this new section possessed an untamed allure. The path seemed almost devoured by nature itself, its stones nestled beneath a lush carpet of verdant moss and blades of grass. Towering trees, their branches intertwining overhead, cast a cloak of shadows upon the winding trail.
As Venetia’s gaze penetrated the depths, glimpses of weathered statues emerged, barely visible amidst the dense foliage. Time had cloaked them in moss, transforming them into haunting figures akin to hunched, green-bearded gargoyles.
Shrouded in mist, the scene resembled a fairy tale come to life. Venetia stared in wonder for a moment before darting up the path, her heart pulsating with hope.
A gentle breeze brushed against her face, whispering words of encouragement that quickened Venetia’s pace. Legends of fairies granting blessings to children stirred her young mind. If these mystical beings had chosen this hidden realm as their abode, perhaps they would be willing to grant her a favor to aid her ailing mother.
Just as Venetia reached the edge of the overgrown path, Miss Wilkes swooped down, firmly grasping her shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going, miss?”
“I wanted to see what lies beyond,” Venetia explained, pointing towards the wild, untamed path. “There might be something to assist Mother.”
“Indeed, there is nothing—certainly nothing to aid Lady Fairchild. Moreover, a young lady like yourself should not venture into such places,” the cook scolded, gripping Venetia’s hand tightly. She began guiding her back along the paths to the house, their hurried pace leaving Venetia half-trotting to keep up.

With each step, the cook’s scolding continued under her breath. “I warned you about wandering off, little miss, did I not? Your sudden departure nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I just wanted to gather flowers for Mother,” Venetia pouted, wrinkling her nose at the cook. “And I wanted to see where the path leads.”
“That path doesn’t go anywhere you need to go. In fact, your lord father forbade anyone from entering this section of the gardens years ago,” the cook replied sternly.
“Forbade?” Venetia blinked in confusion.
“It means you’re not allowed to wander into that area. Neither you nor any other member of this household. Even your lady mother hasn’t ventured there in quite some time, my dear. Frolicking along those paths like a hooligan is not at all appropriate.” The cook huffed and paused briefly, then turned down another long garden path.
Venetia’s gaze lingered on some bushes farther ahead, in a section she hadn’t explored. She tugged at the cook’s hand. “But I want to keep looking for flowers.”
“You may want to search for more flowers, young lady, but it would be wise not to linger for too long in this inclement weather. Besides, Lord Fairchild is likely to come looking for you soon.”
Venetia’s eyes lit up, and she quickened her pace, eager to see her father.
They had just reached the polished stone steps leading from the garden to the house when the door swung open, revealing her father in disarray. His usually immaculate hair was tousled, his face mottled with patches of red and white, and his clothes disheveled.
He spotted her moments later. “Venetia!” His voice was louder than she had ever heard, cracking oddly as he rushed toward her.
Miss Wilkes stepped aside as her father swooped in and scooped her up, his grip so tight that Venetia whimpered and dropped the flowers to the ground as she clutched her father’s arms. “Father?”
“Venetia. My darling girl.” Tears streamed down her father’s face as he held her close. “Venetia.”
“Father, are you alright?” She had never seen her father cry before.
“I…” His voice choked, and he paused, taking deep breaths against her shoulder. “I fear it’s just you and me now, my darling daughter. Only you and me.”
Venetia furrowed her brow. “But what about Mother?”
Her father made a soft, hiccuping sound, like the one she made when trying to stifle her sobs. “I’m sorry, my dear Venetia. Your mother is with God now. It’s only the two of us left.”
She didn’t understand, but she heard the sounds her father made and saw the sorrow in Miss Wilkes’ eyes as she stood behind him.
Something was wrong. And somehow, in her young mind, she knew that her world had changed forever—and not for the better.

Chapter One:

Ten years later…
A residence in Vienna

Richard Wilmont, the second son of the Duke of Ashbourne, smirked as he stumbled slightly over an uneven cobblestone. The night had been particularly fine, beginning with an excellent and decadent meal, and ending in a small townhouse with a welcoming lady of Viennese nobility. He could still smell the alluring scent of her perfume lingering on the collar of his shirt, mingling with the musk of his own cologne and a faint hint of sweat—a heady blend reminiscent of the wine that still lingered on his tongue.
He made his way up the steps and into the house, fumbling with the door before it swung open to reveal his valet, Joseph, standing with a carefully expressionless face. “Lord Richard.”
“Joseph,” Richard acknowledged, stepping carefully over the threshold. He watched the door shut behind him before allowing Joseph to guide him into a front room, where the scent of Viennese coffee wafted from a pot. “I had an excellent evening, Joseph.”
“I had gathered as much, sir, when you did not return home,” Joseph remarked, gently settling Richard onto a low divan. “I can also deduce that you discovered amiable companionship to fill your hours.”
“Of course, I did. Viennese women are very welcoming, you know,” Richard grinned, feeling warm and slightly relaxed as he slouched in the seat and watched Joseph fussing around with the coffee and a tray of small finger foods. “You should have joined me, Joseph, sought your own delightful company for the evening.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Someone must mind the house while you’re away,” Joseph replied with a polite smile.
“But you don’t always need to watch the house or watch over me. That’s the point of traveling!” Richard gestured expansively. “New experiences, new locations, new things to see, and people to meet—travel is an adventure, Joseph!”
He smirked at his valet. “And I chose you to come with me on this glorious venture. You should be pleased and enjoy the experience.”
“If you say so, my lord,” Joseph replied, handing him a cup of strong and fragrant Viennese coffee. Richard took it, sipping cautiously.
“You know, you make a stunning cup of coffee. Viennese coffee, at that,” Richard complimented. He blew gently on the dark liquid before taking another sip, feeling the strong, bitter taste wake him up and clear his mind slightly.
“You have another letter from home, sir,” Joseph said, proffering the morning missives, with the envelope bearing his father’s official seal prominently on top.
“Probably another scolding from Father or Mother, whoever happens to be more offended by my little jaunt across the continent at the moment,” Richard shook his head and set the mail aside for the moment, focusing on the plate Joseph handed him.
“It has His Grace’s official seal on it,” Joseph pointed out, eyeing the envelope.
“That only means the old man is feeling a bit more fussed than usual,” Richard waved a fork at the envelope. “They’d like me to act more like my older brother, Alexander.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t hope to fill his shoes—business management, tiresome social obligations, handling the affairs of the estate. I could never do it. Haven’t got the head for it.”
He gestured to the rented house around them as Joseph refilled his coffee cup and placed a fresh pastry on his plate. “This… this is what being a Duke’s son is about. Taking a chance to see the world—the shores of Scotland, the vineyards of France, the churches of Rome, not to mention the mountains of the Swiss Alps and the beer halls of Germany. I’ve been to so many places, and I’ll see more yet.”
Joseph shrugged lightly, a small smile playing over his features, though he kept his overall expression respectful. “The benefits of being a second son, my lord. One must serve to carry the family.”
“And thank God above it’s not me!” Richard toasted his valet. “I get to fulfill all of my wishes to travel, with you by my side.” He rose and thumped his valet on the shoulder. “I’ll wager you never thought you’d be seeing the world when you applied to be a gentleman’s valet.”
“No, sir, I confess I didn’t,” Joseph relaxed and smiled a little more. “And I have quite enjoyed the journey at your side. However, I do feel one ought not to ignore news from home, whether Duke’s son or valet.”
Richard huffed and dropped back onto the seat. “All right then. I suppose I’ll have no peace until I’ve read Father’s latest scold. Of course, if I don’t read and reply, the next one will be twice as vitriolic,” he said, picking up the letter.
As Richard grasped the envelope, he felt an unusual weight to it. Upon closer examination, he noticed that the wax seal adorning it was darker than usual, almost black in hue. Perplexed, he pondered whether his father’s preferred sealing wax had been marred or if some soot had inadvertently found its way onto the wax. Perhaps the long journey had taken its toll, though it seemed strange that the parchment of the envelope was unmarred if that were the case. With a nonchalant shrug, he accepted the letter opener Joseph handed him and carefully severed the wax seal.
To his surprise, the letter was remarkably short for a scolding from his father. Richard frowned again, then flicked the letter open and began to read.

To My Son, Richard Wilmont:

I must interrupt your current wanderings and implore your immediate return to England. Allow me to be frank, Richard, for there is no room for ambiguity.
With great solemnity, I must convey the devastating news

of your elder brother Alexander’s untimely demise. During a recent hunting excursion, his horse stumbled, causing him to be thrown from the saddle with great force. Unfortunately, he suffered a fatal injury, breaking both his back and his neck. Despite the best efforts of those present, he passed away shortly thereafter.

Regrettably, circumstances prevent me from delaying the funeral arrangements to accommodate your return. Thus, I must bear the responsibility of explaining your absence. Nevertheless, I implore you to acknowledge the inescapable truth that the weighty responsibilities of the Dukedom now rest upon your shoulders. Therefore, I command you, my son, to expedite your journey back to England without delay.

I beseech you to make haste upon receiving this letter, for my heart is burdened with sorrow in anticipation of your return.

Your Father,
Gerard Wilmont, Duke of Ashbourne

Richard read the letter once, then again, his heart pounding in his ears as he stared at the familiar handwriting, hoping against hope that the words would change. But they remained the same.
His older brother, Alexander, was dead.
The paper slipped from his nerveless fingers, fluttering to the ground like a dying bird.
“My lord?” Joseph’s voice seemed to come from a distant place.
Richard struggled to find his voice. Everything felt numb, wrapped in cotton and shrouded in a thick, heavy haze.
“Richard?” The unusual use of his name, coupled with the unexpected touch on his shoulder, jolted Richard out of the gray mist that had enveloped him. He blinked and looked up at Joseph’s concerned face.
Whatever expression he wore caused Joseph’s eyes to widen, and the valet crouched in front of him. “My Lord…may I inquire as to what has happened?”
Richard swallowed hard and managed to force the words past the boulders lodged in his throat. “Pack our belongings and make arrangements for our immediate return to England and Ashbourne by the fastest means possible.”
“Your father has commanded your return?”
The words threatened to elicit a hysterical reaction from Richard—laughter, tears, or screams. He couldn’t decide. What finally emerged was a soft, broken sentence. “He’s dead.”
Joseph froze. “Lord Richard?” A soft, stunned pause. “Lord Gerard is dead?”
“Not my father.” Each word felt like a struggle to utter, suffocated by a cloud of grief.
Richard sat on the low divan, the cooling coffee nearly forgotten at his elbow, contemplating how the world had changed in a matter of minutes.
When he had entered the house, he had been brimming with joy, perceiving a world filled with color, excitement, and boundless possibilities.
Now, everything appeared gray, cold, and lifeless. The air itself felt heavy upon his shoulders as the weight of the position he had been content to avoid settled upon him, shrouded in a cloak of grief.
Richard bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to focus. There would be ample time—perhaps too much—to mourn during the journey, to ponder what it meant to be his father’s heir. For now, arrangements had to be made, and a response had to be written.
A touch on his shoulder drew his attention back to the parlor and to Joseph, who watched him with concerned eyes. “My lord, who has passed away?”
He took a deep breath, meeting his valet’s gaze, his heart heavy and his father’s written words weighing on his shoulders like leaden burdens. “My brother, Alexander, is dead.”

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Chapter One

Iris

Tears gathered in Iris’ eyes as her finished dress reflected at her in the mirror. While one might think they were tears of joy, she felt anything but happy. None of it felt right, from the tight corset to the scratchy fabric. The material seemed to bind her, forcing her to gasp in big breaths while her skin grew hot.
It was all too much.
“Is everything alright?”
Pulled from her stupor, she glanced at her maid’s reflection, brows brought together with worry.
Iris had known Anna since she was just a child, a gentle girl with sandy-blonde tresses and a complexion as rosy as a summer dawn. Despite the age gap between them, their bond had only strengthened over time, a source of comfort to Iris.
With a slight tremor in her hands, she pulled and tugged at the corset. “How am I expected to frolic in a gown that restricts my breath with such severity?”
“Allow me,” the maid murmured, quickly reaching for the corset laces. “I’m afraid we cannot let the dress be quite so lax at the ball, yet I don’t see why it must be tight at present.”
As the corset loosened enough for her chest to move as it should, Iris released a deep breath.
“Is that better?”
“It is a small fix for now, yet it won’t mend the rest of my mounting problems,” she murmured, aware of how red her cheeks looked through the mirror. The reminder made more tears well in her eyes.
Anna’s expression softened as she continued to muse the light blue toile around her legs. “It is only for one night. Surely you can put on a brave face until you have the chance to get into something more comfortable.”
“One night will soon bleed into the rest of my life,” she uttered, wiping her eyes. “This is a nightmare I cannot wake from.”
“Don’t think of it like that,” the young maid urged her, gently taking a hand in hers with sincerity in her eyes. “Perhaps he will be a noble man with virtue and a handsome face to gaze upon. Having him as your husband may not be so harrowing.”
“I can’t be sure my father had a handsome face in mind when he made the arrangements,” Iris said bitterly, feeling the constriction of the dress once more at the thought of being forced into a marriage she had no say in. “How would you feel if you had no choice in who you were to marry?”
A grave look crossed Anna’s face as she busied herself by fussing with the dress. Her cheeks reddened. “I do see how it could cause some distress. However, I know not how it feels. I can only pray your match is kind-hearted and of sound mind. You must trust that your father has your best interest at heart.”
She huffed a big breath and urged her cheeks to lose their muddled color. “I don’t see why my father must make that choice when he won’t be the one forced to live with that decision. I will bear the brunt of it, whether he is a good man or not.”
“It is an unfortunate truth,” the maid murmured, seemingly in agreeance.
Iris took another look at herself in the mirror, overwhelmed by it all. She found it impossible to manage the fluttering of her heart and the dread that crept within her chest. “I may very well collapse before I even make it to the ball!”
As she felt short of breath again, Anna never left her side and tried to make the dress more comfortable with her fretting. “Breathe deeply, my lady. Struggling will only cause more discomfort.”
Urging herself to relax despite the weight of the unknown on her chest, she did as her maid urged her, and she was able to slow her heart down enough to swallow back the fear. While it remained in her stomach as raging butterflies, it helped her to find composure.
“That is better.”
An embroidered handkerchief was handed to her, and Iris used it to dab beneath her eyes after she gave her murmured thanks.
A loud gasp tore her attention away from her own reflection as two other figures appeared behind her. Her mother, Matilda, strolled in with her younger brother at her heels, dress sweeping as she went.
Tristan was only ten, with his boyish face and a tendency to muse his clothes to feel more comfortable, to their mother’s dismay. It seemed she didn’t bother to fix the untucked material of his linen shirt.
Matilda’s eyes watered as she gazed upon Iris with such awe that she wondered if that feeling should be mutual. Yet, her subdued cooing only gave her the urge to roll her eyes in response.
“My lovely daughter,” she beamed, reaching toward her as she approached. “You look beautiful, my darling!”
She knew the dress was fitting for any debutant, especially one prepared to announce her engagement. Yet, it felt like a waste on her. It seemed like it was made for someone more willing to accept the marriage on her behalf.
“I feel like a prized cow on the way to slaughter.”
Her sarcasm earned her a laugh from Tristan, and while she wished to savor that joyous sound, her mother’s straight face was void of amusement. Surely, she saw no humor in the situation.
“We selected the finest dress for you, Iris. That is no way to thank us or the modiste for her hard work.”
Groaning internally, she knew there was no point complaining about the gown to her mother. She would never understand how she truly felt about it.
“I don’t see why I can’t have the freedom to choose my husband as you once did,” she mumbled, unable to look at herself any longer.
Matilda took a pensive breath and fussed with the toile as Anna had. “Your father put a lot of effort into making this match for you,” she returned, matter-of-fact. “He met the young man himself and even said he is very pleasing to the eye if that will help quell your worries.”
Pleasantness is objective, she thought to herself but refrained from speaking it aloud.
Instead, she huffed. “I don’t even know his name.”
It was true that she knew nothing about the gentleman. They were meant to announce their engagement at the ball the following day, but she was yet to be made privy to his identity. The unknown only made her more apprehensive.
Her mother ran her fingers through her hair and carefully spread it over her back. “Your father will arrive in the morning and tell you all about your betrothed then. You needn’t fuss about the details.”
She found it difficult to not fuss, for it was her future that would be changed forever, all at the hands of her father. He would decide whether or not she would marry a man suitable enough or beyond horrible—all out of her control.
When she said nothing, Matilda continued with a small smile. “If I were in your position, I would be excited and intrigued by the mystery.”
Iris curled her lip mockingly at that, bristling at how ridiculous it sounded. It was a foolish thought, and she couldn’t agree less.
While other debutantes surely basked in the opportunity to be met with surprise and the chance to be wed to the man of their dreams, she had no such wish. She never longed to have her wedding arranged without her input in mind.
“I don’t want to marry,” she muttered, lifting her chin with a surge of confidence. “I want to explore the world and live for myself. There are many beautiful places in England that I have yet to see, and I wish to do just that.”
Her mother snickered as if she didn’t take her wishes seriously. “You will have all the time to explore after you are married. Your honeymoon will involve exactly that, in fact.”
Her cheeks flared with color, angry from the lack of understanding she received. While she was aware her mother was used to the many customs expected of her and the family, Iris had hoped she would understand, given her arrangement with her father.
She wondered what it was like to have the chance to find love on her own accord when she was ready. The pressure of being rushed into marriage made her want to scream.
“I highly doubt that,” she returned, her voice sharp. “After our wedding, I will be expected to birth and raise his children. I will never be young and free like I presently am. It’s unfair that Tristan has the freedom to do as he pleases, and yet I don’t.”
Matilda’s eyes hardened. “You mustn’t say such things, and there’s no need to bring your brother into this.”
Iris folded her arms over her chest and averted her eyes. She watched as Anna stood to the side with her hands neatly tucked before herself, gaze shifted down to the floor.
With the uncertain silence that lingered between them, her mother sighed. “I was like you once, my dear. Free-spirited and wild, unlike many others. But I soon came to find that marriage and raising a family is one of the most fulfilling things a woman can do. With time, I am certain you will see it the same as I do.”
Despite the gentle hand on her shoulder, she didn’t feel comforted by the prospect of being married off and sent away. “I will never change my mind. You and Father are forcing me into a life of misery.”
Steeling herself from her mother’s disappointment, she only caught a glimpse of her annoyed expression, surely from her refusal to see it any differently.
“Enough of this now,” Matilda murmured, eyes piercing through her reflection. She put an arm over Tristan’s shoulder and ushered him toward the door.
Without another word, the two of them left the room. Left to stare at her irritated face in the mirror, Iris forced herself to not cry, no matter how the tears threatened to spill. She reached for her own lacing, to no avail.
“Could you help me get out of this?” she asked Anna, struggling with her flurry of red cheeks and watery eyes.
“Certainly,” the maid said just above a whisper as she hurried over and began unlacing the dress.
By the time she was freed from the ball gown and in her regular dress that fit more comfortably, her cheeks were muddled with tears as she sat on the edge of the bed, hands in her lap.
The mere idea of throwing away her freedom to marry a man she didn’t know made her heart ache and felt like a cold hand gripping the back of her neck. It was all so sudden, and she scarcely had the time to think it over properly.
Before long, her engagement would be announced to make it even more real and unavoidable. Everything was ready, yet she wasn’t prepared to seal her fate.
She couldn’t take it. She couldn’t stand to marry a brute she knew nothing about.
She had only one choice left.
Standing from her place, she hurried over to the writing desk and plunked herself down. Reaching for her quill pen and ink, she began to write.
With trembling hands, she inked the words onto the paper, addressing it to the two people who had brought her into this world. The words were heavy on her heart, but she knew they had to be said…
“I am but a young woman,” she wrote, “with so much of the world yet to explore. I cannot be tied down by the yoke of marriage just yet. Give me six months, and I shall return to my duties as a daughter and wife, but not before I have had a chance to truly live.”
As she signed her name, she felt a sense of freedom wash over her, a feeling she had never known. These six months were for her and her alone, a time to break free from the shackles of convention and explore the world on her own terms. She would go where the wind took her, follow her heart’s desires, and experience all that life had to offer. For six months, she would be her own person, a woman in charge of her own destiny.
Once the note was written and set aside to dry, she regarded it with an apprehensive eye. As if the reality of her decision had hit her at once, she couldn’t ignore how torn she felt doing so without anyone’s permission.
She had never done anything so bold, yet it felt like the right choice. She couldn’t turn back on the idea.
Sighing to herself, she stood with resolve. She moved around the bedroom, gathering everything she would need for a long journey ahead.
She had to leave by nightfall.

Chapter Two

Euan

The Season was a dreadful time to be in London, especially for those reluctantly searching for a wife. At the very least, his bride had already been found for him.
Euan let go of a heavy sigh as he walked into the ballroom, immediately overwhelmed by the grand display of people and noise.
The debutants were dressed as finely as ever with their feathers and frills, the most eager of gentlemen had their sights set on certain young ladies in particular. The orchestra played their plucky music to put the entire building in the proper mood for dancing.
The disingenuous grins and insincere flattery were utterly draining, and he considered himself lucky to be immune to their ploys. The air was thick with deception as these men and women donned their masks hoping to lure a wealthy partner or gain entrance into high society.
The flirtations and feigned interest were all part of an elaborate charade, a game he had no interest in playing. The thought of engaging in such artificial and meaningless conversations made his stomach churn
Euan wished he were with his mother in Cheltenham and away from the hustle and bustle of the marriage market. Unfortunately, she was unable to accompany him, and instead, he was left in the company of his younger brother, who was sent to meet his future bride.
Darragh strode up beside him with a wide grin spread across his face, looking into the sea of gowns and finely dressed gentlemen. He took in a satisfied breath and nodded. He was certainly more excited about the event and the chance to celebrate as he wished.
At least one of them felt the desire to rejoice for the engagement.
When a servant strode by with a silver platter of champagne, his brother wasted no time grabbing two. He handed one to Euan with a smirk.
“I hope you don’t plan on standing there all evening.”
“And what if I do?”
“That is hardly a way to celebrate your upcoming engagement, brother!” Darragh chided, clapping his shoulder despite his lack of amusement.
“Do as you wish, but I am only here to meet my betrothed,” he grumbled, looking out across the crowd of partners dancing and basking in the merriment. He refrained from sipping from the glass, not wishing to be under any sort of influence when she eventually arrived.
“Your appearance will scare your new bride. You should relax. Drink and find something to be joyous about,” he joked, elbowing him enough to receive a sideways glance.
His jaw twitched, irritated by it all—to which his brother did not help the matter. “I will relax when I can escape this foolish affair.”
Darragh gave him a mock look of authority. “Mother was very clear about her orders. It has been five years since Father died, and you cannot afford to delay the inevitable. You must marry soon.”
It wasn’t news to Euan. He had been the unlucky recipient of his mother’s scolding on many occasions, especially as of late. It seemed the only thing she would discuss, even if he wasn’t in the mood.
By then, he was quite tired of hearing about it and gave in to his mother’s arrangement.
Though he had the opportunity to seek out a wife for himself, he simply couldn’t be bothered. As a result, a debutante had been selected for him. While the entire affair was nothing short of irksome, he found solace in the fact that the worst of it was now behind him.
He chuckled humorlessly. “Perhaps I should relinquish my title and let you have it instead. You fare much better at these events than I do.”
While he half expected his brother to give him a look of interest in return, he threw his head back and laughed. “I could never become a good duke. I fancy my freedom too much.”
It was an undeniable truth that of the three brothers, Euan was the only one who had taken the responsibilities of a duke seriously. He had been groomed for the role since birth and had dedicated himself to learning the ins and outs of governance and leadership.
In stark contrast, his brothers had never shown much interest in the weighty obligations that came with their noble birth.
“I never wanted the title either, yet here I am. If it were up to me, I would have nothing to do with the ton,” he admitted, hardly able to stomach the noise and commotion around him.
“That is where you allow your prejudices to cloud your capacity for merriment, brother,” he murmured, leaning in before taking a sip from his glass. “If you drink and dance enough, you can forget where you are entirely!”
Euan rolled his eyes, tired of his brother’s nonsense. “You ought to do exactly that and leave me in peace.”
He snickered with a shake of his head before heading out to mingle with the others.
He watched as Darragh glided to and from, unable to help himself from flirting with the debutants. He did so naturally, jesting and charming them with his words. It seemed that each time he smiled, they did the same, and he was soon swept into the dance along with them.
He had always been the charmer, while Euan didn’t do well with crowds, given how he tucked himself away, hoping to hide from anyone seeking a dance partner.
Those who didn’t dance stood in their social groups and gossiped as always, leaving him to stand on his own while he watched and waited. He didn’t mind not being intertwined with the others, for he didn’t stand to benefit from it.
However, several of them looked at him oddly, as if he had some feature about him that stood out from all the rest. As if he didn’t belong.
It had always been the same with those people, no matter where he went or what the occasion was. They looked down upon him due to his Scottish lineage.
When words got around that his father married his mother, the scandal gripped London by the throat. It was all they could talk about with their whispers and prying eyes. It seemed that habit never went away, even as he grew older and found himself in the position of a man.
Even as a duke, he and his family had never truly been accepted by the ton.
It only made balls and events that much more unbearable.
As the night wore on, each minute seemed to crawl by at an excruciatingly slow pace. Darragh, lost in the moment, drank himself into a stupor and danced with reckless abandon. Euan watched on, a growing sense of unease festering within him as he worried that his brother’s behavior would embarrass them both.
As he stood there disengaged from the ball, his attention was interrupted when several mamas stood before him with smiles that spoke of exactly what they wanted.
“Isn’t this a most agreeable ball, Your Grace?” one of them asked, eyes twinkling with the prospect of speaking with a duke.
“Most agreeable indeed,” he said flatly, allowing his lip to flicker into the slightest smile.
“I hate to overstep, but perhaps I may offer you the chance to meet my beautiful niece, Lucienne. She plays the most magnificent pianoforte, and her voice is even finer than a canary’s,” the woman turned and pointed toward the crowd of dancers. “That is her in the yellow gown. Isn’t she the fairest lady you’ve ever seen?”
“There are many fair ladies here this evening. However, I must interrupt before you continue.”
The hopeful mamas seemed shocked by his statement. One brought a hand to her collar. “Does this mean you already have a lady in mind?”
“You could say I am otherwise engaged,” Euan murmured. Unwilling to share the full of it, he knew the small crumb would keep them preoccupied long enough to grant him his freedom once more.
“Oh,” she said under her breath, glancing with her companion scandalously. Surely, they would run with the hint and tell the rest of the ton by the end of the evening.
The mamas excused themselves with their polite curtsies before they scurried off to gossip with the others.
Able to breathe in peace, he folded his arms behind his back and scanned the group of partygoers for any sign of Lord Linfield or his daughter. When he saw no sign of them, his anger only festered and bloomed.
Before long, Darragh left the dancing behind and returned to his brother’s side, where he slung an arm around his shoulder, smelling of drink.
“Are you not amused, brother?”
“Not at present,” Euan muttered, more angered by his wasted time than his brother’s uncomely state.
“And why might that be?” he asked, eyes glassy with his drunken stupor. “You have all the reason in the world to be elated!”
His blood boiled at the thought. “Not when my betrothed doesn’t have the decency to make her appearance this evening. I cannot stand the dishonor and embarrassment it brings me! They have no right to make me wait here like a common fool.”
“Perhaps they are merely running late.”
“I have been waiting nearly all night. Surely they mean to mock me,” he uttered, aware of the fire in his veins just from the thought. “Linfield will hear about this—”
Before he could continue with his grievances, Henry Linfield arrived accompanied by his wife, both wearing grave expressions. However, their daughter was nowhere to be seen.
Henry met his eye as he walked in, and surely he could feel the intense anger from Euan’s gaze. He cleared his throat and approached him, visibly faltering in his presence.
Linfield bowed his head as his wife, Matilda, curtsied.
“Your Grace,” he murmured, swallowing thickly.
He knew whatever news they had for him couldn’t be good. Not while their daughter was absent from the very place she was meant to be.
“The hour grows late,” Euan said, expression hard to show his displeasure. “How much longer do you intend to make me wait?”
“It is exactly that,” Henry began, barely able to meet his eyes even if he was well aware it was proper. He glanced nervously toward his wife. “Our daughter Lady Iris ran away from home last night, and we were unable to find her despite our efforts.”
While their distress was palpable, and indeed they were worried for their daughter, he was blinded by his fury.
He had been promised her hand at the arrangement of his mother and Lord Linfield. While he had been apprehensive himself, the very idea of being disrespected so blatantly made him wish he had never shown up in the first place.
“We fully intended to have her here this evening and announce—”
“Enough.” Unable to hide his rage, Euan straightened his waistcoat and gave the couple a look made of stone. “If you cannot uphold your end of the agreement, then I will hear no more of it.”
Henry gave him a bewildered expression, surely grasping at whatever excuses he could conjure, but he was not interested in hearing any of them.
He glanced at his brother. “We are going.”
While Darragh went to object, he promptly shut his mouth and nodded. He knew what was good for him occasionally.
Without another word, Euan trudged away from the Lindfields with his brother in town, stewing about the girl’s insolence. The shame lingered in his mind like a foul taste, poisoning his thoughts and fueling his growing ire.

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Chapter One

Lucious

The smell of ale and sweat was an assault to Lucious Skelton’s delicate nostrils. The Duke of Devonshire was not a man accustomed to, nor tolerant of, the other noxious odors to be found inside this particular tavern. It was certainly not the sort of place he was supposed to be.
By all accounts, this was a very lively place. Dare he say it was even a place that was meant to provide some sort of reverie and escape for its patrons? A distraction for these sad, pathetic excuses of humanity to pretend for a while that they did not have the misfortune to have been born poor. They laughed, drank the piss water they called ale, and told stories to their hearts’ content. Two gentlemen in the corner were locked in an arm-wrestle, though it was clear they were both cheating and that the competition could potentially escalate into a brawl.. He rather hoped it would. It would delight Lucious more than anything to see a fight erupt here and now. He would mentally take bets on whom he thought the winner would be and assign bonus amounts if they were to cause any sort of destruction to the assembled company or the tavern itself.
He felt it was ironic that these people never appeared to care about the state of their meager belongings. They abused their homes and taverns, mistreated their clothing and ignored their personal hygiene.
Lucious stuck out like a sore thumb. He was an anomaly. They had to serve him because he had good coin to pay the barkeep and keep him in the finest ale they could provide. While he covertly watched the other patrons, Lucious took secret pleasure in their misfortunes, using them to boost his own sense of power. If they knew he was their patron and not just some high-born idiot come to observe them, they might treat him a little differently.
Better or worse, he did not care to guess.
Not a single person in the bar was worthy of even a word of conversation from his lips. It was why he came here month after month—his little ritual to remind himself just how far he had come in life and how he would never, ever wish to be like any of these sorry creatures. Superior. That was what he was. Superior in every possible way.
He scoffed to himself and brushed off the bar stool with an embroidered handkerchief before sitting down and pulling his own mug of ale closer, watching the arm-wrestling match with growing fascination. He had lost count of how many pints of ale he had drunk this evening. All he knew was that every time he thought his glass was getting low—it was refilled. At least the barkeep was proficient at his job.
The arm-wrestler in the stained brown shirt would be the champion, he was certain of it. He had seen the fellow in here a couple of times over the last handful of visits. He was always moving, a restless, burly sort of fellow. The gleam in his eyes convinced Lucious the brown-shirted fellow would win; he was certain the man in red seated across from his opponent did not have a chance.
Lucious had just lifted his tankard to his lips, barely wetting them with the ale, which he was too intoxicated to taste any longer when somebody jostled into him heavily from behind. His arm jerked and the contents of his full pint sloshed clear over the sides of his tankard. Ale splashed over his arm, soaking through his sleeve and splattering his pants, discoloring the fabric. He knew the stink of it would linger in the fabric, no matter how many times they were washed!
Slamming the pint down on the wooden counter, Lucious spun and rose from his stool—towering over the red-cheeked, ruddy-faced man behind him. His ire knew no bounds. The man whipped out a filthy cloth from the inside of his vest and started to flop it uselessly in Lucious’s direction as if it would somehow improve the situation.
“Whoa! Apologies, good sir. I do not know my left foot from my right sometimes! Makes me a terrible dancing partner!” the man slurred, smiling far too brightly.
“Your apology is not enough! Do you have any idea who I am?! You ought to get on your knees and beg for my pardon!” Lucious spat as he swatted the man’s hands away from his person.
At that, the man seemed to sober up a little, or at least he attempted to, as much as he could. He swayed on the spot. He seemed up to his eyeballs in ale, practically swimming in it—the stench of it radiated from his oily pores. It was disgusting!
“Well?! This shirt is worth more than your entire home! I would stake anything on it!” Lucious fumed.
“No need ta’ . . . hic . . . no need ta’ be rude, friend, I can get you another drink, have a—” the man lifted two fingers as if to summon more ale.
“I would never share a drink with swine like yourself! I demand you beg my pardon, or so help me—” Lucious’ speech was cut off by the drunken man’s face suddenly hardening into a scowl.
“Or you will what, fancy man?” he growled, clearly too drunk to see sense or reason, but he knew good and well that he was being insulted.
“I shall have you—” Lucious would never finish his sentence.
Having lived such a privileged and protected life as he had, Lucious never would have imagined that one of these peasants would ever dare to strike him.
But this one did.
The man’s fist collided with the broadside of his cheek, hard enough to cause his vision to explode with colors and send his body careening into the wooden counter. But Lucious was no dandy, and he wasted no time in allowing all of his self-righteous anger to drive his own fist directly back into the face of the commoner, with no intention of stopping there.
He could not have said who hit who next or just where the blows were landing, but he was vaguely aware that the band had stopped playing. But all he could focus on was keeping his already sluggish limbs moving and attempting to pry the ape of a commoner off of his esteemed personage.
Then the barkeep dumped a whole bucket of filthy water on the both of them.
Lucious sputtered, angrily flicking water out of his face, but before he could retort, he was being lifted by his collar and physically thrown out of the front doors of the tavern. He had never been treated that way in his entire life! If they had known who he was they never would have dared touch him! When he got home, he was going to purchase the tavern just so that he could delight in burning it to the ground in front of their faces. He would . . . he would . . . he would . . .
Then, the world tilted on its axis.
Bile threatened to rise in his throat.
He needed to lie down. But he certainly was not going to do that here in the street. It was dark—far darker than he had expected it to be when he left. If the moon high in the sky was any indication, he was supposed to have left hours ago. But he had been enjoying himself so much . . . no! Lucious blanched at his own thoughts. Enjoying himself? Him? In that shithole? He thought not. He was tolerating it. Yes, that was what he had been doing.
He nearly tripped over his own feet as he staggered to the post where his horse was tethered. His gait was awkward and clumsy. He could not seem to focus on unknotting the reins until, by some miracle, he was able to focus enough for them to come free. Then came the issue of mounting his faithful horse.
“Good horsey . . .” he muttered in a childish voice as he patted the side of the horse’s neck. He mounted gracelessly, awkwardly, and nearly ended up sitting backwards before spinning on his stomach to regain the correct position for riding. However, the moment the horse started to walk toward the wooded path that would lead him home, Lucious was nearly violently sick. Perhaps it would be better to walk? Then he would not feel so very dizzy. It felt like all of his innards were floating inside his body, sloshing back and forth with every sway of his horse’s slow walk.
The Epping Forest loomed all around him, impressive in the height of its trees, with a canopy so thick that seeing the stars was impossible. It seemed more oppressive this evening, however. It was a place he was very familiar with, but in his inebriated state, he could not shake the feeling he was not alone—that perhaps there was something, or someone, watching him.
On reflex, he urged his horse to go a little faster. The quickening of the hoofbeats distracted him from the fact that there seemed to be no other sounds at all. Not even the usual nocturnal creatures, the badgers, foxes, and owls, seemed to wish to disturb the forest’s silence. Perhaps that was his crime, breaking the silence. He could not have guessed any other reason why his horse should seem so nervy beneath him other than that the beast was attempting to punish him for his clumsy management of the reins.
He was no stranger to the route. He took it often when he wished to escape the dull monotony of the city.
Suddenly, his horse whinnied and brayed at what seemed to Lucious like nothing. Frowning, he paused to peer into the pitch-black spaces between thick tree trunks. Darkness. The unease was getting to him. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising in fear.
“Enough. Settle.” He slurred the command, but the horse moved forward at a slow pace only for a few moments before jolting forward so violently, Lucious nearly fell off. He was not nearly sober enough to cope with the sudden motion. Lucious wrapped the reins around his hands and wrists, to hold on more tightly as his horse panicked and broke into a gallop. The hoof beats sounded far louder than they should have. It is all in my mind. He tried to scoff at the idea that he, the Duke of Devonshire, could be startled so easily!
But it was not in his mind.
The galloping of his horse’s hooves separated into an uneven rhythm, and it dawned on him that at least two other beasts must be galloping behind him. He glanced backwards over his shoulder, moving too quickly and nearly losing his balance. When he steadied himself, a disquieting sight met his eyes. Two riders in black cloaks came up fast behind him on the trail with their hoods pulled up and over their faces. He squinted, trying to clear his vision, for he could not possibly be seeing what he saw. He was not being chased down by two riders in the woods. It was impossible. Nobody would dare to chase him down!
Suddenly, the canopy parted, and the moonlight reflected off what was unmistakably the black circle of the barrel of a pistol. Lucious’ heart plummeted like a block of ice. The riders were real. They were trying to kill him! He had never felt more sober in his life. A cold sweat broke out over his forehead as he bent low in the saddle when the first shot rang out. Then another and another. They must have a pair of pistols each . . . But it did not matter, for the sudden and cacophonous noise terrified his poor horse, and the beast reared up on its front legs in blind panic. He tried to hold more tightly to the reins, but it was of no use.
Despite having wrapped the reins around his hands, he fell, and he could feel the angry bite of leather against his hands and wrists as he was forced free despite his best efforts.
The riders laughed as he was thrown to the ground into the mud and dirt.
His vision was blurred—but he could not tell if it was from the ale or the fall.
Lucious forced one foot in front of the other and staggered between the closest two tree trunks. He did not know where he was going. He could see nothing. He moved quickly, hoping the riders would not see him in the darkness.
They lit a lantern, illuminating the dark spaces around them, and fear gripped his chest tightly. Who were these people? What did they want with him? To kill you, you moron! Were they commoners or thieves? Looking for gold or revenge? He could not think of a single person who would want to—another booming pistol shot cut off his thought.
He tore recklessly through the trees on unsteady legs, branches and brambles cutting and biting into his skin, tearing at his clothes greedily. He was losing them. He was winning. He nearly laughed. Take that, you fools! I am not so easily killed!
His ankle caught on a stone and down he went, tumbling clear over a precipice and down a steep hill. His body gained momentum; no matter how much he grappled and struggled to regain control, he failed.
He was vaguely aware of his head’s sharp crack against the boulder waiting for him at the bottom—and then the world went black.

Chapter Two

Esther

If there was one good thing about living in the country, it was that the sun seemed to shine more brightly than in the city. It had been a great many years since she and her mother had been forcibly ousted from their home in London. The sheer number of adjustments they had had to make had been shocking, to say the least. Though now, she saw it as a blessing. Esther felt it was a kindness to be allowed to live among such beauty. She was able to wake each morning to the roosters’ sounds and feel the sun’s warmth on her face through the window. She could laze about in bed if she felt like it. There were no strict schedules or calendars full of engagements she was forced to adhere to, nothing but the routine of her daily chores.
If only she could speak to the younger version of herself and tell her of her future. She would be shocked to find that Esther enjoyed the chores. She liked the satisfaction that came from a day’s work well done. When she settled in at night, her sore arms and exhausted limbs were just a little bit stronger than the day before. She loved it. She had never slept better in her life.
Most nights, anyway.
Today, she was up before the sun. There was no warmth on her face as she rubbed blearily at her eyes. Something was different. For an unknown reason, she felt restless for the first time in many years. She tossed and turned for a while, hoping that sleep might be kind enough to reclaim her and enfold her in its comforting arms, but the restlessness would not leave her.
Silently she rose and slipped her feet into the soft woolen slippers by her bedside. Swift and nimble fingers braided her long blonde hair into a rope she knotted with a ribbon and flung over her shoulder. She dressed quickly, hoping to make the very best of the opportunity she had been given. If sleep would not have her, then the quiet of pre-dawn would welcome her happily.
She bundled her skirts up into her arms as she tip-toed past her mother’s bedroom door. With her lip firmly between her teeth, she held her breath and carefully avoided the loose and creaking floorboards. She only relaxed when certain that her mother’s soft snores continued undisturbed, indicating she was still caught in the contented bliss of slumber. Esther knew her mother deserved the rest. Far be it from her to wake the hardest-working woman she had ever known.
Downstairs, she changed her slippers for her shoes by the door and lifted a basket into the crook of her arm before carefully slipping out of their small house. It was not much to look at from the outside, but it was the place she had made the happiest of all her memories. It was all she needed, she and her mother. She pressed two fingers against her lips and blew a kiss in the direction of her mother’s window.
She prayed she would continue to sleep well . . . and that she would not be too cross with her for slipping out of the house so early, again.
Esther walked at a leisurely pace as she watched the sun start to cast a pretty pink and gold glow over the tops of the trees. Their town was small and filled with close-minded folk, but this time of day was when she liked it the most. It was just her, and the early-rising livestock. She had hardly made it to the front gate before the front door was pulled open. Esther flinched as her mother’s hissed voice registered.
“Esther! Come back here at once!”
She turned slowly, a sheepish smile on her features. “Good morning, Mother.”
“It is hardly morning! Get in here before you catch your death of a cold!” Her mother beckoned her back inside, sticking one arm out of the blanket she had bundled herself into up to her chin. Her eyes still squinted as if sleep wished to snatch her back but could not.
Esther skipped back up the path to her mother and placed a reassuring hand on what she guessed was her arm, which had withdrawn beneath the blanket. “I will not be long, I promise. Go back to bed, sleep in, and I will wake you with tea when I return. How does that sound?”
Her mother eyed her skeptically. “Just where do you think you are going, running off at this hour?”
“I am going into the forest to fetch mushrooms.” Esther lifted the basket on her arm as proof that she was speaking the truth. “Soon, the whole town will wake, and if I want to go and return unnoticed, then I cannot afford to waste any time.” She grinned at her mother. “I think they will go nicely with some eggs for breakfast. What do you think?”
Tempting her mother with the promise of a fresh, hot breakfast and a warm cup of tea was the recipe to get the woman to agree to just about anything. She loved a good meal more than anything else, which had always surprised Esther, as her mother was frail and as thin as a rail. Her health rarely kept up with her appetite.
“You hardly have to wake up in the middle of the night in order to collect mushrooms, you know. They will still be there even if you were to rise at a reasonable hour.” Mother sighed and pulled her blanket around her more tightly. The unspoken understanding that Esther would go to great lengths to avoid the townsfolk and their cruel whispers passed between them.
“I prefer the early mornings,” Esther said finally.
Her mother did not seem convinced, and she frowned. “You cannot avoid them forever.”
The smile finally slipped from Esther’s face. “It is for their own good that I avoid them, Mother! Do you not think that I hear the cruel things they say about me? I am not ignorant to their hate or the pointed way they make sure to ‘whisper’ loudly enough about me that I can hear it with ease. Even after living here all of these years, contributing to the town, and being a part of their community, we are still ostracized. They blame us for what happened, Mother, plain and simple.”
“They . . . they just do not know what to think of the situation.”
Esther gathered the basket in her hands and squared her shoulders. “I do not care what they think,” she lied easily. “If they think that what happened with Father was somehow our fault, that we are to blame for his infidelity or resulting actions, then I would rather never be accepted by them. He was the only one to blame for his actions,” she insisted firmly. “His leaving us and abandoning his obligations was his fault and his alone. I want nothing to do with them.”
“I wish you would not speak of them so firmly.” Mother appealed, her gaze softening. “I do not care what their opinion of me is, but there is still hope for you yet. I happen to have it on good authority that there are a great many eligible bachelors who are smitten with you.”
Esther rolled her eyes. “I do not care for their attentions, Mother. I have put all of that nonsense behind me. I am perfectly happy all on my own, with just you for company.”
Mother reached forward and cupped her daughter’s face with sadness in her eyes. “You are not quite yet old enough to be so cynical, my dear daughter. Someday, I will not be here, and you will be all alone. The world is not forgiving to women on their own. I cannot be here forever, my sweet.” She brushed her thumb over her daughter’s cheek. “You will need someone to take care of you.”
Esther shook her head and stepped back away from her mother. “The way that Father took care of you?”
Her words were cruel. They came from the unhealed wound inside of her that she liked to pretend did not exist. She grasped the basket in her hands so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She knew it was cruel to speak that way to her dear mother. It was not done with the intention of causing hurt, but Esther had long since vowed never to allow such a thing to happen to her. Not when she could so easily prevent it.
Her mother sighed and nodded sadly. “Just promise me you will be careful in the forest, please.”
“Of course I will, Mother. I always am.” Esther kissed her mother’s cheek. She did not like when they argued. She liked it even less when she was forced to talk about her father. Even in the slightest capacity, it wounded her. It was the only real way to spark her temper to such a degree that she could not control it.
Mother turned back into the house, shutting the door behind her softly. Esther waited until she saw her shadow passing the upstairs window before turning and running toward the woods. The ache in her legs was a distraction. It soothed her to be in motion. The sun was rising higher and illuminating everything with its soft golden light. Smoke was starting to billow from the chimneys of the houses where the occupants were already rising to make their breakfast, likely reheating last night’s porridge. Any moment now, they would be out and starting their morning chores or attending to their livestock. She did not wish to be seen by them, not even for a moment.
Esther did not dare to stop or slow down until the safety and cool shade of the forest surrounded her. She was just about the only person in town who ventured into the woods, superstitious lot that the townsfolk tended to be. She liked it here. It had become a sort of private haven for her. One she would not part with easily.
At last, she slowed her steps, breathing deeply of the rich, crisp morning air. She meandered to the patch of mushrooms she had located in the time of new growth and fanned her skirt around her as she knelt to start examining which was safe to eat. She had to be careful with such things, as her mother was prone to illnesses, and they certainly did not have enough money for a physician to treat her like the last time. While Esther had become quite good at making remedies and tinctures, she was a far cry from a skilled herbalist.
A sudden gasp of pain from nearby startled her, drawing her attention.
At first, she thought she had imagined it, a frightening intrusion to her morning activities. It was likely something produced by the forest that she could not easily explain but would happily dismiss without needing to understand. She glanced around despite her better judgment, hoping that it was not one of the town boys come to play tricks on her or tease her again. She had outgrown such childish things a great many years ago.
Then it came again.
She rose, looking for the source of the sound. She felt more foolish with every step she took in search of its origin. Her basket forgotten, she turned in place, searching. It sounded like a wounded animal. She was not going to allow some poor, defenseless creature to suffer if there was something she could do about it.
She walked backward slowly, turning this way and that as her eyes narrowed in an attempt to search the dimness for signs of life. Her heels collided with something cool and soft, and the unexpected obstruction forced her to topple over backward. She rubbed at her backside, having landed heavily on it and turned to see what had tripped her.
A man.
An unconscious, pale man, with a great deal of red staining his shirt and hair. There was so much of it, she felt sick. Only she did not get sick. She screamed.

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Prologue

London

October, 1813

“Faith, why did I think this was a good idea?” Medea Linfield groaned, grabbing onto the majestic oak tree’s thick branch with both arms. The bark scraped against the thin material of her white silk gown and grazed her skin. If she tore it, her mother would censure her most severely.

That is, assuming she survived her mother’s wrath. At present, that was not a certainty. What in the world had possessed her to sneak out of her bedchamber this way? It would have been far more prudent to escape through the servant hall or the wash house. But no, she’d chosen the most precarious egress available—through her window and down the tree.

She’d often exited this way when she was a child. Alas, she was a child no longer. At nineteen, she was taller and less flexible than the last time she attempted such a feat.

“Medea, hurry,” a deep, gravelly voice came from the bushes below, making her heart leap. Yes, even while suspended in the air with her legs dangling in the most unladylike fashion, she could not help but color up at the thought of meeting up with her beloved. For it was he, Peter Humphries, the Duke of Lennox, who’d inspired her daring venture.

The two of them had engaged in a thrilling, and at times secretive, romance for the past three months, and Medea was certain he was the one for her. Not only was he dashing and the most handsome man she’d ever laid her eyes on, but he was also intelligent, witty, and all-around marvelous. With him, she felt beautiful, graceful, and smart—though the last two were less prevalent at this moment.

“I thought you’d done this before,” he called up, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“I have,” she called back. She and Peter saw each other in the confines of a proper courtship, but they also met in private to enjoy each other’s company without being bothered by proper etiquette. They frequently met in the very early mornings or late at night under the cover of darkness. Unfortunately, they had to meet in the middle of the day today—a most awkward time to avoid prying eyes.

She never got past the drawing room without her father summoning her to his study. So, she devised this scheme. However, if she remained there with her arms hanging, her father would see her, and she would wish she had been sent to war instead of Peter because her father’s temper could be downright fiery.

She swung back and forth as the tree creaked under her weight, and then she made her way along the thick branch and down the trunk. But then her gown ripped, snagging on the bark. She fiddled with it, losing her grip in the process. She slid and slithered down the tree like an ungraceful, dizzy squirrel, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She was going down whether she wanted to or not.

“What in the—” Peter got no further because she came flying out of the tree, arms flailing desperately for something to grab onto. Alas, there was nothing, and before she knew it, her body slammed against his with full force, sending him tumbling backward.

He let out a puff of air as he thudded to the ground. With Medea on top of him thus, it might have been a desirable position if their relationship had progressed that far; however, it had not. Nor was their present situation particularly romantic, for he gasped for air, and she realized she’d brought down half the tree’s orange and yellow leaves with her, all of which seemed to be tangled in her golden blonde hair.

“Gadzooks, I think you broke my ribs!” Peter groaned. A healthy dose of jest tinged his words, and the twinkle in his sapphire blue eyes told her he was not entirely serious. Still, Medea sat up and boxed him squarely on the arm, her bottom lip stuck out petulantly in a mock sulk.

“I’m not that heavy, Peter Humphries. Besides, if you were any sort of gentleman, you would have caught me,” she argued, and he laughed.

“If I’d had any warning you were coming down as fast as you did, I might have. But you were upon me like a strike of lightening out of the blue sky,” he replied with a beaming smile. Medea looked at him, mesmerized by his lovely face and strong features. His nose reminded her of the Greek statues in her father’s sculpture garden, and his chin spoke of his determined character.

“Medea?” he called and dipped his head to one side. “Have you bumped your head? You look a little dazed.”

Mortified, she clambered to her feet and dusted off her white dress. Her matching gloves were stained from the dirty ground, but she didn’t care.

“Not at all,” she said quickly, not wanting him to know she’d been woolgathering.

“Well then, shall we—”

“Hello? What is this ruckus? Foxworth, is that you?” Her father, the Baron of Foley’s, deep voice boomed from his study window just a few steps ahead. Peter grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her around the corner, where they squatted behind an azalea bush. In spring, this was one of Medea’s favorites. When the bell-shaped flowers bloomed, her entire chamber smelled sweet and inviting. Alas, it was autumn now, and the bush was a sad shadow of its glorious summer self. Still, it served itself as a satisfactory cover for them while her father poked his balding head out of the window in search of the source of the disturbance.

“Will he see us?” Peter asked with a hint of worry in his voice.

“Not in here. He’ll blame one of his dogs and forget all about it,” she said, hearing her father’s window close not a second later. “See?” she said triumphantly.

“I do,” Peter replied. His eyes sparkled so bright they reminded her of the sea in Italy, where her parents had taken her when she was a little girl before the wretched war had taken over the continent. She saw her reflection in his eyes as though she were looking in a mirror, and then he smiled broadly. “I see indeed,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire.

Medea’s mouth parted, and Peter bent forward until his lips met hers. The sensation was mesmerizing as lust, tenderness, excitement, and love all mingled and overwhelmed her until there was nothing but the two of them in all the world. As they sat, concealed beneath her window with her hair in disarray and both their attires stained, Medea knew with absolute certainty that Peter was the one for her. She loved him with all her might and heart, and today she would tell him so.

***

Medea lay on a bright red blanket underneath an ash tree and looked at the sky. She saw a sliver of bright blue sky through the leaves that battled against the stiff afternoon breeze. Sunbeams streamed through the tree and tickled her skin as she listened to Peter’s smooth voice reading from her favorite novel, Gulliver’s Travels. Listening to him was as comforting as drinking a glass of hot milk with honey on a cold night.

She raised her head and smiled, taking in his pointed chin and sharp jawline. His black hair grazed against his sun-kissed skin, and his nose sloped up at the end. Her heart pounded, and when he stopped reading to look at her, she thought it might burst with love.

Would he reciprocate? Knowing tomorrow he’d be gone… she had to tell him today.

Her stomach tightened and her heart grew heavy as she considered his impending departure. The unpleasant thought must have shown on her face because he put the book aside and touched her cheek. It felt soft and comforting, like a pillow filled with the finest goose down.

“What is it, my dear? You look sullen suddenly. Does Gulliver’s adventure in Lilliput not please you anymore?”

“No,” she replied and sat up at once, facing him. “I love Gulliver. I love the way you read it to me. Oh, Peter, there is so much I adore about you. It is just that…” Her eyes stung with sudden tears. She rubbed at them, but he took her hands in his, his expression one of infinite compassion.

“You worry about my leaving, do you not?”

“Of course. You are going to war. I do not understand why you must. You are a duke. You should be exempt.” She willed her voice to remain strong but cracked like a brittle leaf left in the sun for too long.

“The Duke of Wellington is a duke, yet he fights for his country. Indeed, there are too few of us high-born gentlemen who fight. Only one hundred and forty peers or heirs are in the forces; it is shameful.” His tone grew severe, sounding much older than his three and twenty years. While Medea hated that he was leaving to fight in the blasted war, she had to admit that his conviction only strengthened her love for him. He was a man of honor.

“But you could be hurt,” she replied, her voice catching, for this was her greatest fear.

“I will not. It is a short campaign, and I will return in a few months. And when I do, I shall make you my wife.”

“Wife?” she exclaimed. “You wish to marry me?”

He chuckled, exposing his brilliant white teeth to the sunshine. “Doesn’t any man who loves a woman wish to make her his wife?”

She wetted her lips and allowed her eyelids to flutter.

“You love me?”

“Is it not obvious?” he replied with a grin. “I love you more than the sun loves the sky, or the moon loves the stars. I want us to be like the swans on my lake. My father used to tell me they mated for life, and I think it’s true. They’re always together, which is what I want for us.”

Butterflies soared in Medea’s stomach, and she took hold of his hand.

“Oh, Peter, that is what I want: a future with you at my side.”

“And you will have it,” he replied, pressing his hand further into her cheek. He dropped his forehead against hers, and she felt his eyelashes tickle her skin as he closed his eyes. “The moment I return from this campaign, I will visit your father and make an offer.”

Encouraged, she sat back and flashed an impish smile. “You could ask him today. I believe you are aware of the location of his study.”

She knew she was being bold, but she couldn’t resist. He kissed her gently and shook his head.

“As much as I wish to, we must wait. I want everything to be right. My father has not been buried for a year, which would be improper. Besides, I do not want to make an offer with my immediate departure hanging over us like an anvil.”

She took a deep breath and caught a whiff of his sandalwood scent before letting her shoulder drop. He was correct; she knew this. Medea had understood Peter wanted things to be just so, for he was a perfectionist.

Besides, she wondered, would her father agree to a union with a man about to be shipped away to the war of his own volition? Surely, he’d wish to wait before announcing an engagement. And yet, Medea hoped for nothing more than to be his wife. Sensing her apprehension, he lifted her chin and pressed his lips against hers.

“There is no need to worry, my love. We have all the time in the world.”

She smiled at him then, knowing he was right. They were young, his mission was not to be dangerous, and they would be married when he returned, just as he said. She forced herself to let go of his hand and reached for her reticule from beneath the blanket, withdrawing her favorite gold patch box. She adored it because of the lovely coral and shell motifs that were applied over the stunning Montrose lace agate base.

‘What is this?” he asked as she opened it.

“I read that it is customary to give a departing soldier a keepsake to remind him of home and the lady waiting for his return.”

He drew his eyebrows together, intrigued. Then, he smiled broadly at the box’s contents.

“A lock of your gorgeous hair,” he said, examining it in the light. She’d cut a strand of her rich locks the night before. Held together by a pin and one of her finest silk bows, it seemed a good idea. Now, she wasn’t as confident as doubt crept in. Was she making a cake of herself? What if he thought her action foolish, childish even?

She was about to apologize for the gift when he leaned forward and kissed her tenderly.

“I love it. Thank you. I shall always keep it with me until I return.” He kissed her again, longer this time. Peter’s kiss tasted sweet, like the life she hoped they would share. When he pulled back, he patted his lap.

“Shall I read to you more?”

She nodded and lay on her back, her head once more in his lap and his hand in her hair. This time, she did not close her eyes when he began to read, determined to soak in the moment. She knew she’d need these memories to keep her strong over these next few months. Since she had no portraits of him, she would need to commit his face to memory.

As he read out loud, each word enunciated with care, her eyes caught sight of the sky above.

Grey clouds had obscured the bright blue of the autumnal sky, and a threatening blackness spread across the horizon like spilled wine on a pristine tablecloth. A chill hung in the air, and thunder rumbled in the distance. It was too far away to be a threat, as they were only a short distance from her father’s hunting cabin.

The eerie atmosphere, however, did nothing to alleviate Medea’s lingering sense of oppression. A small voice had surged in the back of her mind, whispering words of caution. This was more than just a passing storm in the afternoon. It was a foreshadowing, an omen of what was to come. Doom was heading their way, and neither could do anything to escape it.

Chapter One

March 9th, 1814

The Netherlands

A thunderous boom in the distance caught Peter’s attention, and he looked out at the scene ahead. A flash of yellow followed by another boom told him they were being fired at.

“Get down,” Wilson Smartell, a fellow soldier with whom Peter had been playing cards each night during their crossing to the Netherlands, yelled and shoved Peter hard. Peter fell against the ground as the sound of commands being shouted in English, French, and Dutch mingled around him, and he realized they had lost. Their assault on Bergen op Zoom, so carefully planned by their commander, Thomas Graham, had gone awry and terribly so.

“Wilson?” Peter called over the deafening melee and mayhem that unfolded around them. Dutch citizens had joined forces with the French garrison, and the British were hopelessly outnumbered. He’d seen his fellow soldiers fall and be taken captive, seen them die before his eyes. What had he done?

“Wilson?” he called again as smoke from a nearby fire filled the air with a thick black curtain that robbed him of his vision. He extended his hand and reached out blindly for his friend when another boom rang out like thunder in the middle of a storm. Beside him, something exploded. His ears rang, and his skin burned with what felt like a thousand needle pricks all at once.

He cried out as his eyes stung and his skin screamed out in pain, and then…nothing.

***

March 20^th

Scotland

Peter’s eyes fluttered open, but his eyelids brushed against something. He could see nothing. Darkness surrounded him, but unlike the last time he’d experienced such an onset of blackness, his surroundings were quiet. As he listened, he heard low groans nearby and, somewhere, further away still, whimpering. Someone was crying. Footsteps came and went, and something clattered, like silverware at dinner.

Occasionally, a heart-wrenching cry filled the air. Where was he? Why could he not see properly? Disoriented, he sat up but found himself restrained. Something was holding him in place. He yanked his hands and felt rope digging into his wrists.

A mortifying thought came to him: he’d been captured. He was in the enemy’s hands, somewhere deep inside the Netherlands, or worse, France. He knew his battalion was overrun and would not make it, yet he’d somehow assumed he would escape. He’d been wrong. He was caught, a prisoner of war.

His breathing increased, and his thoughts raced. He was a duke, a valuable captive. If the French knew he was high-born, would that aid or harm him? And what of his fellow soldiers? Had they been captured as well?

“Wilson?” he called out for his friend. “Wilson?”

“Ain’t no Wilson here,” a gruff voice replied from the darkness. The accent was British—Liverpool, if he wasn’t mistaken. So, there were other soldiers here.

“Hello? Who is this?” Peter called out. “Why am I tied down?” He pulled on his restraints again but dropped back when the searing pain of rope against raw skin burst through his body.

“Laisse-moi partir! Je suis le duc de Lennox et j’exige de parler à votre commandant!” he shouted in French, demanding to see their commander and stating his station.

“There ain’t no French here, you noble fool,” the voice replied, mockery rife within it.

No French? Then where were they? Who had taken them? Peter struggled against his restraints once more, desperate to get up, when he felt something wet against his wrist.

“Help!” he called out as he writhed on the bed and realized his legs had also been tied down. “Help!” His tone was desperate, and his breathing increased more and more, so much so that he thought he would die at any second.

“Your Grace,” another unfamiliar voice called out, and footsteps grew closer. “You must not struggle so hard. You will hurt yourself.”

“Set me free,” he demanded as someone hovered above him. He couldn’t see the person but felt them close by.

“I am the camp physician, Mr. Donovan,” the man’s warm voice said in a low tone as if speaking to a wild bull gone mad. The man fiddled with the restraints on Peter’s wrists and then felt them fall away. “Sit up but with care.”

“Am I captive?” Peter demanded as the man moved to his other side and released his restraint there as well.

“You are not. You are in a medical tent in Scotland. You will be moved to England once you are stable. After the campaign, you and your fellow soldiers were brought here from the Netherlands.” His voice grew thick, and Peter understood he’d been correct. Their campaign had been a disaster.

“How many dead?” he demanded.

“Hundreds. Thousands more captured. You were lucky.”

Peter sat up and raised his hands to his head when the physician grabbed his wrist just as he felt a blindfold around his eyes.

“Your Grace, please. You were gravely wounded. Do not touch your bandages. Do you know what day it is?”

Peter frowned. “Of course, March sixth. Although given I was asleep, perhaps it is the seventh now.” An ache crept into his head and pounded away behind his eyes. Had he said they were in Scotland? It took more than a day to get to Scotland. What day was it?

“It is March twentieth, Your Grace,” the physician said gently as if afraid he might scare him.

Peter’s head snapped toward the man. “The twentieth?”

How was this possible? Had he been asleep this long? Peter squinted, desperate to remember what had happened to him, but his memory was as black as the vision before him. He recalled the assault, Wilson, the pain and…

“Wilson! Where is Wilson? Wilson Smartell—he was in my unit. He was beside me when—”

His mattress shifted as the man sat beside him and placed a hand on Peter’s upper arm.

“Officer Smartell passed away last week from his injuries. He was in the bed beside you. You held his hand as he passed, but you do not remember.”

Peter’s lips trembled at the news. Wilson was dead? And he’d forgotten? His friend was dead, and he was injured. Wilson’s mother and sister were at home in Bath awaiting his return—one that would now never happen. He’d have to do something to help them somehow.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Donovan drew his attention. “Your injuries are grave.”

“I know it. I can feel my face burning and—”

“There was an explosion close to you. It would have killed you if you hadn’t been on the ground already.”

A memory flashed across his mind of being shoved. Wilson Smartell had pushed him out of the way and saved his life. But it had cost him his own.

Peter sat up, dazed and overwhelmed with grief and hopelessness. He raised his hands once more, this time feeling the coarse bandage over his eyes. He moved his hand down over his face, where raised mounds covered part of his cheek. They were rubbery to the touch, and when he put his fingers to his nose, he smelled a foul vinegary odor that made him gag.

“What happened to me?”

“The explosion sent burning shrapnel into your side and face. We were able to remove most of it, but I am afraid your eyesight may be impacted.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning your eyes were scratched and pieces of…” his words trailed off, and he cleared his throat, the discomfort evident in his voice. “You may never see again, Your Grace.”

“I am blind?” Peter demanded and turned to the man, though he could not see him.

“I am afraid so. It may change in time, but you had better prepare yourself for the possibility that this state is permanent. As for your other injuries, they are…”

Peter did not hear the rest of the man’s speech because his head buzzed as though he had plunged directly into a bees’ nest. He was blind. And for what?

They were defeated. His friend was dead. It had been futile. He’d given his eyesight and perhaps more, only to return home as a failure. He dropped his head into his hands, and a horrid stench entered his nose when he did so. The biting metal of ammonia mixed with spilled blood and vinegar made him dizzy. But those were not the only smells assaulting his nose. The overpowering stench that put all others to shame was the gangrene; that sickly odor that once encountered was never forgotten.

Though he could not see, a picture of his present condition emerged. He had to be in a camp hospital with beds all around him, filled with dead and dying soldiers.

“Your Grace?”

He heard the physician’s voice but couldn’t respond. Panic gripped him at the thought of returning home ruined. What would Medea say? She certainly would not want a broken shell of a man as a husband. He’d ruined everything. His future lay in ruins because he wanted to be righteous, to set a good example. He wished to be a hero and fight for his country, but it had come at a high cost.

“Your Grace, you must calm yourself,” the physician ordered, but he could not comply. Peter breathed harder and harder with every passing second and felt as though he might faint when hurried footsteps approached him, and someone placed a cup to his mouth.

“No,” he protested and shook his head, but they forced the liquid down his throat. Bitterness filled his senses, and he immediately knew what this was—laudanum. In a moment, he would know nothing of his fate or company. He’d slip away into darkness, but he knew that the darkness would remain once he awoke. He would not see the light of day again.

As they laid him back, he grappled with his trouser pockets. “My matchbox,” he mumbled, the words coming out slurred as though drunk.

“Here,” came a soft female voice, the medical officer’s assistant, no doubt. She pressed the precious box into his hand, and he snapped it open with one finger, extracting the lock of golden hair that had comforted him over the past few months. But this time, curling his wounded, filthy fingers around it didn’t bring him the same relief. Instead, as he imagined Medea’s beautiful, heart-shaped face, plush red lips, and striking blue eyes, he realized with dread that her beauty would live only in his mind from now on, for he would never see her face again.

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Prologue

“You are no son of mine!’’

Philip Sedgewick paused with his hand on the door as his father’s words echoed in his mind, his blue eyes glistening with anger and frustration as he set his jaw.

“You were born to be my heir, the dukedom should be your sole focus of interest,” his father repeated for the hundredth time since Philip had announced his plans to leave a few days prior. “And don’t think you will ever see a penny from me ever again if you walk out that door,” his father went on, his voice thick with ire.

“Henry, please…” his mother tried to reason with him in an attempt to bridge the gap. “Philip could still join the Royal Navy Academy and be your heir when he’s done…” her kind voice pleaded, concern dimpling her beautiful face.

“I will not allow it!” his father yelled, sweeping out an arm and sending the items on his desk crashing to the floor.

Philip shut the door and turned back to his parents as hundreds of documents fluttered to the floor in a blizzard of paper. A single letter opener slid across the floor, landing at his feet. Bending down, he picked up the miniature sword that proudly boasted the family crest, turning it over in his hand.

The look of anger on his father’s face let him know that no rational agreement would be reached between them, not for a while, at least. His mother shot him an apologetic look with her bright, blue eyes.

“Father, although I respect the role I am to play in this family. I have to be true to my dreams and follow my heart. Joining the navy has been a dream of mine ever since I sailed across the coast. I am old enough to make my own decisions.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have let him run free with that blasted boat!” His father shook his head while storming across the room to the window overlooking the estate. “Your place is here, learning how to be a duke, not sailing across the ocean like a sitting duck! What if something happened to you? Who would take my place? This family would be in ruin!” Henry marched back over to his desk.

“It’s a risk I am willing to take,” Philip said coolly.

“What?!” His father slammed his hands on the top of the desk, sending the final remnants of parchment fluttering to the floor.

“I have to be true to my dreams, Father; if you can’t understand that, I may as well be dead to you since you are threatening to disown me in any case,” he regretted the words as soon as he saw the expression on his father’s face. He hadn’t wanted things to unfold like this, but now, here they were. There was no turning back.

Elizabeth Sedgewick, his mother, looked at him with tearful eyes, a mixture of pride and hurt displayed across her face. She wanted nothing more than for her son to follow his dreams, but she knew those dreams came at a price.

“I’m sorry you don’t accept what I am doing, Father, but it’s done. I’m leaving tomorrow for my training. You may have been content with this life as a duke,” he said, opening his arms and gesturing to the large room with its high ceiling, lavish décor, and fine furnishings. “But I want more; the sea calls to me with an insatiable thirst that must be quenched.” He looked at his father with pity for the lack of understanding on his face. “I want more, and I hope, in time, you can be happy for me.”

He turned to leave without giving his father a chance to reply.

“Don’t you dare take another step, Philip!” his father yelled as Philip placed his hand on the door. “If you leave this room, you will never see my face again! I promise you that!”

Turning again, he looked at his mother, mouthing the words, ‘I love you’ before turning the handle and exiting the room.

***

The salty air whipped at his face as Philip’s carriage rattled into the bustling port of Portsmouth, home to the Royal Navy Academy. His heart sang with joy at the sight of sailors and overly zealous merchants flogging their wares. This is home, he thought as he stepped from the carriage and onto the street. His heart was never more at home than when he could hear the crashing of the waves, with the gulls crying overhead; even the odor of freshly caught fish filled him with a sense of peace.

He hoped and prayed that his father would accept his decision in due course; he belonged on the sea just as much as a fish belonged in water, and birds belonged in the air.

His mother had been proud of him for leaving, she’d told him so the night before he’d told his father. Follow your heart, my darling… He smiled to himself as he stepped onto the dock with his sack of belongings slung over his shoulder, joining the queue of men for the navy.

Amongst these men, he was an equal, not Philip Sedgewick the heir or Philip Sedgewick the son of Henry the Duke. He was himself, stripped of all convention.

“This is it, Philip,” he whispered with a contented heart. “Your life has finally begun.”

Chapter 1

Mighty waves beat against the ship as midshipmen scurried about the decks, dropping the anchor and ensuring all was in order. Rain beat down, and seagulls screamed; the storm had raged on throughout the night, showing little sign of letting up anytime soon.

Philip Sedgewick stood at the helm with his hands behind his back, his once-youthful face aged and handsome with a hint of stubble on his chin. He planned on shaving as soon as the ship was in port; his rooms were ready and waiting for him back at the Academy, something he’d been looking forward to all night.

“All is checked and in order, sir. Ready to disembark at your word.”

He turned to see one of the midshipmen standing behind him with his hand raised to his brow in a salute; he still wasn’t used to being addressed as sir since his recent promotion to captain. “Very well,” he said with authority and pride. “You may give the orders to disembark. Ensure all the men are at ease; this storm is nasty even at port.” His legs stood firm as the rain beat down.

“Aye, aye, Captain.” The young man saluted as he turned around and descended the stairs leading to the decks. His neat white shirt and breeches with the signature black tie and cap reminded Philip of himself when he’d started as a midshipman all those years ago.

The time had flown by in the blink of an eye since the day he’d stepped onto the docks. He’d seen his mother a couple of times whenever she managed to sneak away, but his father had remained true to his word and kept his distance, never showing his face again. Philip also knew better than to go home, flaunting his disobedience in his father’s face. Perhaps this time will be different. He thought as he looked out over the waves. He was an officer now; surely, his father would be proud.

“Sir?” The same midshipman from earlier drew his attention back to the present.

“Yes?” he straightened the buttons on his navy coat and fixed his sea-blown hair that was soaked to the scalp.

“A gentleman is awaiting your presence in your cabin, sir,” the midshipman half yelled with respect over the crashing waves as he hung onto the ship’s railing.

Philip frowned at him. “We are about to disembark, who would request my presence in my cabin? Could he not have waited for me in my rooms? Is he an officer?” He wondered if it wasn’t one of his friends coming on board to congratulate him.

“The gentleman did not offer a name, sir, and I do not think he is an officer, but he was most insistent that you’d be happy to see him in your cabin, sir.” The boy spoke with the stiff manner taught by the navy when addressing a superior.

“Very well,” Philip nodded his head. “Thank you for your service, midshipman,” he saluted the boy. “You may disembark.”

“Thank you, sir.” The lad saluted a final time before turning and marching across the deck with wobbly legs.

Philip smiled to himself; the boy would go far in the ranks if he kept up his manners and will to succeed. He was eager and willing, much as he had been at that age. His thoughts drifted to his cabin as he descended the stairs, curiosity igniting a spark of hope in his chest. Perhaps Father has changed his mind after all. The thought brought him joy as he reached the deck and pushed open the door to his cabin.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, young Master Philip…? My apologies,” he added, smiling with what looked like pride, “it’s Captain now, isn’t it?”

Philip’s disappointment quickly withdrew as excitement took over at the sight of his father’s lawyer sitting in his cabin.

“Mr. Wetherbee!” he exclaimed with joy. “How did you manage the trip?” He teased in the way they’d both been accustomed to as he grew up. “Aren’t you too old to be traveling by carriage?”

“Away with you,” the old man laughed and shook his head as he struggled to stand. “There’s life in this old body yet.”

Philip came forward and gripped his arm, helping him back into his seat in front of the desk. He could feel through his suit that the man had gotten on in years. George Wetherbee had been a lawyer to the estate as far back as Philip could recall. Once a tall and proud middle-aged man, he was now thinning and frail, with a scarcity of hair on his head.

Philip shut the door against the storm as he walked around his desk and took his seat. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked with a smile.

“I’m sorry to ambush you like this, Philip, but the news simply couldn’t wait, and, as you know, your mother is in no fit state to travel.”

He frowned at the look of concern on the old man’s face, and a sinking feeling in his stomach let him know something was wrong. “Is all well with the estate?”

George nodded solemnly. “The estate is standing just as it was when you left and will be so on your return,” Wetherbee said, his kind eyes searching Philip’s face. “It’s your father, Philip.”

He took a deep breath as the panic began to set in. “Has something happened to him?”

“It was late yesterday evening when your mother sent for the doctor. She thought there’d be time for you to come, but I’m afraid he didn’t last the night. I’ve been traveling all evening to get to you here.” His light-brown eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Phillip, but your father is no longer with us.”

Phillip pulled out a chair at the desk and sank into the seat. He never knew of my promotion… he thought as the shock took hold. The letter he’d written to his mother wouldn’t have had time to reach them yet. He’d still thought he had plenty of time to mend the break. The meager hope of a possible reconciliation with his father was now cruelly dashed.

“I know this must come as a shock to you,” George said kindly, leaning in and patting his hand. “Your relationship with your father was always strained, I know, but he was your father. As you were his son, even after the things he said about cutting you off, his will was never changed.”

The old man’s words washed over his mind, leaving a void. “Was he ill?” he asked as he looked up, raking his hands through his sandy-blond hair.

George nodded in response and pursed his lips. “He’d taken ill quite a while ago; he forbade your mother from telling you… Dropsy of the heart, I am afraid. There was nothing anyone could do about it.” He looked at his hands for a second before continuing. “He was a proud man, Philip. He didn’t want you to know.”

Nobody needed to tell him about his father’s pride; he’d experienced the brunt of it in his life, and the shock was replaced with guilt and anger as he thought of him now. Images of the proud man he was with a muscular body and upright spine filled his mind. How did a man like that end up dying overnight? No, it wasn’t overnight. He didn’t want me to know.

“I have already spoken to your commanding officers on your behalf,” George continued after a while, breaking through Philip’s thoughts. “They have given you leave until further notice and sent for your things to be packed. You will be leaving with me at once.”

Philip’s head shot up in disbelief. “Until further notice? I have a duty to the navy; I’m an officer. Surely, the funeral will take no more than two weeks?” He dreaded the answer as the man stared back.

“This can’t come as a shock to you, Philip,” George said slowly, allowing time for the news to sink in. “This is standard procedure for a midshipman, and even a captain, with other responsibilities. You are the sole heir of the estate.”

Philip suddenly stood and turned about the cabin, feeling like a deer caught in a snare. The walls suddenly felt too small. “I have a life… A duty…” Lightning struck suddenly as the storm raged on, rocking the ship back and forth.

“To your family and the estate,” George said sternly. “This is the station you were born into.”

“Surely, as my father’s widow, my mother will inherit the estate?” He sought a solution that wouldn’t include the downfall of his dreams. “This does happen from time to time, does it not? Someone will be appointed as an aide while you search for a distant heir. My mother will not be left alone if I decline the position.”

“The entail law does not apply while you are still alive. You are and will remain the heir and your mother’s protector until you pass.” The kind look returned to the old man’s eyes as he lowered his voice. “And I hope that is very far off.”

“Do I have any choice in the matter?” Philip asked quietly, pushing his wet, matted hair aside as he looked at the lawyer.

George pushed himself up, retrieving his cane from beside his chair. “I’m afraid not,” he said as he placed his hand on Philip’s shoulder. “I have always been very proud of you for all you’ve achieved, but life has dealt you a new hand, and we must all play with the cards we receive. I hope that in time, those words will bring you comfort.”

Philip continued to stare at the wall with a blank expression as the man made his way out of the cabin, hobbling on his cane against the storm.

“And, Phillip,” he said from the doorway, “I’ll be waiting for you in the carriage… Your mother needs you, so I hope you will come for her sake. Nobody can force you, but your mother will be left alone otherwise.”

“So, I’m forced by obligation in that case. The illusion of choice.”

George said nothing as he left the room, letting the cabin door slam shut in his wake.

Philip sank back into his seat, weeping as he placed his face in his hands. Everything he’d worked so hard to achieve was slipping through his fingers like sand. After all these years, he had no choice but to return to the place he’d left behind. Standing again, he straightened his jacket and walked over to the mirror beside his bunk.

The interior of the tiny wooden cabin was as neat as a pin, with enough room for a bunk, a desk with two chairs, and his trunk.

His hair was damp and tousled, and his eyes were tired and drawn from the shock. He began to remove his coat but stopped. No. He spoke firmly to himself as he pulled on the hem and fixed his hair. He’d worked hard to earn his current station in life; he’d return to the estate with his head held high, wearing his uniform with pride. Come what may, a navy captain he was.

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Prologue

Devonshire, England.

June 1806

Crushed strawberries and tangy apples mixed with a healthy dose of desperation; Jace touched Anne’s lips with his. She knew he was tasting her to remember. His tongue sought solace within the confines of her mouth, entwined with her tongue, and they tangled in a feverish kiss.

Jace weaved his fingers into the wildness of her hair, and deepened the kiss, spurred on by her soft moans, the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Behind them, the ocean crashed against the Devon cliffs in a wild frenzy that echoed Anne’s turbulent mood.

We sail at dawn.

Anne pushed those damning words from her mind and leaned into him, breathing in his scent, in a desperate bid to memorize it. Her fingers clung to the front of his shirt as she buried her face into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her, his head dipping so his lips rested on the crown of her head. Anne craved everything. She wanted the moment to last forever.

“Don’t go, don’t go,” Anne whispered against his chest.

It was small, but she felt Jace tremble.

“I can’t lose you,” she mumbled, her heart splintering as her mind ran to the worst possible outcomes. She raised her head, going up onto her toes so her lips could find his. She poured her anguish and hunger into that kiss, then raked her hands through his brown curls. Jace groaned into her mouth.

“I wish I didn’t have to,” he whispered.

Blinking back furious tears, she released him and sat facing the vast waters with her feet pulled up, her toes digging into the sand.

Jace threw his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

“I must sound like a selfish oaf,” Anne mumbled.

“Annie, don’t say that,” he soothed, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She’d wanted to be brave for him, for this moment, but she could not stop the spill of words. “Our life now . . . I thought it was perfect. I thought you were happy.”

“I am. With you, I am happy. But—”

“But?”

Jace let out a frustrated breath. It had always been hard for him to explain his true feelings, his brows contorting as he considered his words. “Anne,” he said gently, holding her face and staring deep into her eyes, his voice raw with honesty, “you know what I am, and you know I cannot live off my brother’s largesse forever. I do not have the brains for a career in the law, and do you think I would make a successful clergyman?”

That surprised a laugh out of her, even if every part of her wanted to argue with him.

“See? Even you, who have always believed I can do anything, admit I’m not cut out for a career in the church or the courts. But the military, my love? Don’t you think I will look dashing in my regimentals?”

Anne’s gaze scoured every inch of his face. “I wish I didn’t understand you,” she sighed. “I wish you could stay here with me.”

Their stares collided, and for a breathless second, his face flickered in doubt, and Anne realized he was struggling just as much as she, despite his bravado. He drew in a ragged breath and placed a feathery kiss on her forehead.

“Your father would be proud of you for following in his steps,” she said.

“I’d like to think that.”

Jace’s hands slid down her arms until they reached her fingers, which he clutched tightly. Anne looked out at the sea, imagining what it would be like when he was on the other side of the waves.

“I know you have to go, Jace, and I know I’m being selfish asking you to stay, but I keep thinking of all the dangers, of all the things that could happen to you . . .” She trailed off. She remembered her father’s reaction to learning Jace had purchased a commission in the army, as well as his dark comments about the state of the war on the Continent.

Jace pressed her closer to him. He placed his fingers gently on her cheek and guided her to look back at him.

“Come now, Annie; don’t think like that. Of course, I will return; look who I have waiting for me.” He tickled her, and she laughed at the unexpected sensation. His lips crinkled into the mischievous grin she loved so much, and it was the most beautiful thing she’d seen all day. So he tickled her again.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” she shrieked between giggles. Then, she gave his chest a light shove and sprang to her feet. Off she went, in a staggering run down the bank of the beach, with Jace hot on her heels.

A few stumbling steps in, he caught her by the waist and twirled her around. When the laughter stopped, he stood behind her and held her about the waist. Together, they looked out over the brooding ocean as the torturingly brief moment of levity faded before their impending separation.

“What did Sidney say?” she asked, breaking the heavy silence.

He lifted his shoulder in a shrug, “You know my brother. He gave his support, but adventures like these have never been a part of him.”

Anne groaned, leaning into him. “I chose the wrong twin.”

Jace grinned into her hair. “That could be awkward, considering he’s married to your best friend. Besides, I’m not sure you’d hardly last a day with Sidney, as you’d die of sheer, mind-numbing boredom. Trust me, you have the right man.”

“The right man with a giant, swollen, arrogant head.”

Jace shifted, nudging some locks of hair aside from her neck and placed a kiss on its graceful line. “Yes,” he whispered on her skin.

“You’re making it harder to let you go,” she said, feeling goosebumps cover her body at the contact.

Jace turned her to face him. “I’m going to miss these emerald eyes staring at me. How will I know if I’m in trouble if I can’t see this pert little nose wrinkled up in annoyance? And this rosebud mouth of yours; my God, how will I stay sane without being able to kiss these lips again?”

Anne looked away. She knew what he was doing; memorizing her face as though he would never see her again. She almost hated him for it.

“Don’t let me go,” he said, bringing up her hand and placing it on her chest, “keep me alive here, and I promise, I’ll return to claim you wholly.”

She smiled but could not make it reach her eyes. “For a second, I thought you’d changed your mind.”

She shrugged out of his arms, ignoring the questioning glance he threw at her, and began to root around in the deep pockets of her skirts.

“Anne?”

“I have something for you,” she muttered and then smiled in triumph as her hand closed on the small ebony box.

“You’re not allowed to forget me,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him as she passed him the box. Jace opened it, and his gaze softened as his eyes fell on the delicate miniature inside. It had cost all of her pin money to commission her portrait to be painted, but his expression made it worth it.

“I couldn’t even if I tried, Annie,” Jace said in a hoarse voice. He tucked the portrait into his coat, his eyes bright.

“You are not allowed to forget your promise to come home to me, either. Because if you don’t, I will march straight to the Continent to find you and give you a real piece of my mind.”

“You’ll scare the men half to death,” Jace said with a chuckle. He averted his gaze, blinking several times. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Anne felt her throat clog. “I mean it.”

Drops of tears slid down his cheeks, and Anne leaned in and kissed him. It was tender, belying the raging, longing passion between them. When they came apart, Jace regaled her with stories about everything they would do together upon his return. Anne wanted to share his enthusiasm, but she could not dredge it up.

He had been a part of her life longer than she could remember. Now, faster than either of them wanted, the hours slid by, and it was soon time to go.

Anne felt a cold that had nothing to do with the weather. Arm in arm, they traipsed back in silence, her anxiety growing with each step. She kept stealing glances at his profile, at his ruffled curly brown hair and strong cheekbones that tapered to a wide, arrogant mouth; his thick brows, beneath which lay twinkling brown eyes and a slightly broken nose.

Inside, she’d always known he’d leave one day. She had no idea how badly it would hurt her all over. He was a part of her, and she was unwilling to bid him goodbye.

Jace took a longing look at her and turned away with his back to her. Before she could question him, he pointed at the starry sky. “Annie, if you’re ever lonely or scared, all you have to do is look up. We’ll be looking at the same pretty stars, at the same sky, and I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Oh, Jace.” Anne felt a hitch in her throat as prickles of tears burned behind her eyes. Jace had never been one to get sentimental. It made it all the worse to bear.

He faced her, his eyes darkened with hurt. Then, he reached up to his collar and withdrew a golden chain with a ring dangling from it, pulling it over his head. Anne gasped. Jace never took off that ring.

“My father’s ring,” he said. Silently, she lifted her hair. He slipped it onto her neck. “Will you keep it safe for me?”

“Yes,” Anne replied fervently.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Thank you.” He stroked a finger down her wet cheeks and wiped the trail of tears, “Don’t cry, Annie . . .”

Dusk had fallen. Her maid was waiting on the path, looking nervously around the corner to accompany her home. She uttered the last words: “I should go.”

He locked his eyes on Anne for another long moment before throwing caution and propriety to the wind and luring her into his arms, kissing her with a depth and passion that took her breath away. She only paused for a second before kissing him back, pouring all her fear, love, desperation, and hope into it.

Then she veered away, afraid to look back at him or watch him leave, afraid that if she stayed any longer, she would start crying and never stop. She turned and ran away, her maid hurrying to keep up with her.

Nothing would ever be the same. Even if he returned in a matter of months safe and in perfect health, Anne knew the trajectory of their lives was forever altered. Nothing could stay the same, no matter how desperately she wished it.

CHAPTER ONE

Six years later

It was always her beautiful smile that dazzled Jace. The wash of sunlight on her gorgeous body. The swirl of her white dress as she twirled around, filling his nostrils with the scent of lilies woven into her riotous dark curls.

Heaven.

There was no other explanation. He dashed toward her, seeking to embed himself within her pure warmth. She swept up her dress and ran, her hair flowing behind her. Then, her tingling laughter rang out. His heart gave the tightest of squeezes when the sound of it reached him.

It broke and healed something in him. How he’d missed hearing it. He lengthened his stride. Soon, he caught up with her, wrapped his arms around her slender waist and faced her.

The smile was gone from her lips. Her eyes drooped, heavy with sadness, thrusting Jace into confusion.

“Fight it,” she said, reaching up to caress the sides of his face.

“You have to fight, please. You promised.”

Jace’s heart started to pound. A rapid burning began in his gut as her eyes flashed with conviction.

“You have to hold on, Jace!”

Jace tried to cover the space between them, but she pushed him back. “Wake up!” Her eyes were pleading. “Wake up!” she shrieked.

A peculiar heat surged through him. He did not want to be anywhere else. He needed to be with her. All of him craved to be in that moment.

“Wake up!” she screamed and slammed her palms into his chest.

Jace’s eyes popped open, jolted by excruciating pain all over his body. Breathing hurt, the rancid smoke of gunpowder and burning buildings clogged his lungs like ground glass. He wiped his dirty hands across his eyes, blinking several times to clear his vision.

A high-pitched ringing noise had invaded his ears, refusing to go away no matter how hard he shook his head. He attempted to get back to his feet but fell back to his knees due to dizziness.

Sound slowly began to creep back in. Musket balls whipped through the air around him, burying themselves into bodies and sandbags without distinction between the two. Drumming, screaming, shouting, and the relentless sound of battle rose up and filled the world until he almost hoped for the ringing noise to come back and drown it out.

His head pounded as though the entire canon brigade had taken up residence in his brain, and the urge to vomit was strong. His mouth already tasted of blood and ashes, and he longed for silence, for sleep, and the absence of pain. In sleep, he could get away from this, and return home, back to her arms.

“Damn it, man, get to your feet! We have to move!” he heard someone shout.

“Leave me,” he murmured, his eyes closed tight as the pounding in his brain grew stronger.

“We have to move, Major! They’re rallying, and we can’t hold them here!”

“Leave me,” he repeated. He could hear screaming. It wasn’t just the sound of soldiers; there were citizens inside the citadel’s walls as well, and the Spanish were their allies.

They were supposed to fight for glory and honor. It was not supposed to be this kind of butcher’s yard.

“Jace! Wake up! Damn you, I need you to wake up!” he heard.

“Annie?” he croaked. He struggled to push past the pain, eager to turn his head in the direction of her voice.

“Not bloody likely in this hell hole. Now get up!”

His mind snapped to minor clarity. This voice was male and familiar. Captain Willis, or possibly Denny. One of the captains, at any rate. That was good. That meant they weren’t all dead.

Jace braced his hands on the ground, attempting to rise. They felt as though they were made of pins and needles and failed to hold him up. He fell back. From behind, a pair of hands slid into his underarms. They attempted to drag him to a sitting position. Jace opened his mouth to scream in pain. The Captain was relentless, forcing him to his feet and talking incessantly as he compelled him to take step after laborious step toward God knew what or where. When he stumbled and asked to be left alone to sleep, the Captain called him something coarse and rather rude.

“That’s insubordination,” he slurred. “Want to see Annie.”

“Aye, and that’s why I’m trying to save you, you ungrateful idiot. Keep walking, and I’ll get you back to your Annie.”

“Get back to Annie,” he repeated, but when he tried to nod in agreement a fresh scream of pain cut through his skull.

He kept walking, but his vision blurred and the ringing returned, and he must have succumbed to the darkness at some point during his walk, because the next thing he was aware of was the thin material of the pack he was lying on, and the flapping of the tent above him. The air smelled like blood, gin, and smoke. There were still battle sounds in the distance, as well as cries of pain and quiet sobs from much closer by.

The moans of the wounded sent a moment of panic through him. He balled each hand into a fist and opened his palm, raised and folded both legs, then brought them down. Relief poured into him. Though they were sore, all his limbs were intact, and he retained control over them. If only the pain in his head would subside, he would be able to return to his men in no time.

He cleared his throat and tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, and his gums cracked. He risked opening his eyes long enough to see if there was someone he could ask to bring him water. But he quickly realized he was surrounded by injured men, many in far worse condition than he, and that the ragtag collection of women which always followed in the wake of the army was busy making the wounded and dying as comfortable as they could under the circumstances.

He put his head back down, trying to recall who had rescued him. He closed his eyes and searched through the darkness in his mind for the memory, but his ears started to ring, and the headache tripled.

“Not dead, are you?” came a gruff voice.

Jace opened his eyes slowly and smiled.

“Colonel Hayworth,” he said in acknowledgement of his superior officer. “Excuse me if I don’t get up, but I have a devil of a bad head.”

The large-framed man dropped to sit on the ground beside him. His scarlet regimentals were caked in dirt and blood, none of it appearing to be his own, and he looked exhausted.

“Captain Willis said you took half the wall to your head and were then staggering around without any cover. It’s a damned miracle they didn’t pick you off, but I suppose you had your angel with you again.”

Jace smiled, even though it hurt to do so. All the officers knew he carried Annie’s portrait into battle and had long ago begun to attribute his seeming immortality to her influence.

Hayworth frowned at him, and then called to one of the nearby women to bring Jace some water.

“No, don’t talk yet, Jace. Wait until you’ve had some water. You look terrible, by the way. They assure me you’ll survive with some recuperation, but they made no promises about your wits being intact. I laughed at that, and asked if they’d heard of Crazy Jace, for if you’d ever had wit in the first place then you’d likely have been dead four years ago.”

The Colonel paused as a middle-aged woman Jace vaguely recognized as a serjeant’s wife approached with some water. She held his head and placed the cup to his lips, scolded him like a schoolboy for attempting to sit up, and then ordered the colonel to move him to more appropriate quarters as soon as it was safe to do so. Hayworth meekly agreed to her demands, only to be met with an annoyed huff from the woman before she moved on to assist another unfortunate soul.

“Backbone of the army,” he murmured.

“Who?” asked Jace, his brain still feeling thick and heavy.

“The camp followers,” replied the Colonel. “It takes a strong woman to follow the drum, and whatever the old men at Horseguards think of them, it’s after every battle that I’m reminded how much the soldiers’ wives do to keep us alive.”

Jace’s mind wandered to Anne, and for the thousandth time, he caught himself wondering whether she would willingly follow the drum if he asked her to. He dismissed the thought like he always did; it was a hard life the camp followers undertook, even those married to officers and noblemen, and her silence had made her thoughts on the matter clear.

“So, how are you feeling?” asked Colonel Hayworth, running an appraising eye over Jace.

“About as good as you look, I suspect,” he replied. “Give me an hour or so, and I’ll be ready to rejoin the push on the walls again.”

The Colonel gave a grim smile. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the action, old chap, for you’ve been out cold for almost an entire day. The walls are breached, and the French garrison has surrendered to us.”

Jace struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, ignoring both the protests of his commanding officer and the wave of nausea that accompanied the movement.

“It’s over? My head must be worse than I thought, for I can still hear the sounds of battle.”

Colonel Hayworth’s expression grew dark. “That, I am afraid, is our own men. Whether it’s the alcohol they found or the pent-up rage of having seen so many comrades die in the ditches outside the city walls, they are taking out their frustrations on Badajoz, and will not listen to any officer or authority as they sack the place.”

“Sack the place . . . my God, Colonel, the people of Badajoz are our allies!”

“We know,” sighed Hayworth, rubbing at his temples. “We’ve been ordered to stand back and let them rampage, if only because Wellington is convinced the men will shoot their officers before they obey. He’ll hang the ring leaders later, but I’ll be damned if I can be proud of our achievements here when they are paired with such behavior.”

“My men . . .” Jace began, something like rage beginning to well up in his chest. “Surely, Willis and Denny would not allow them—”

“Willis and Denny are both dead,” said the Colonel flatly. “Denny was taken out by the same French grenade that addled your senses, along with most of his boys. Willis got you back to safety, but then rejoined the fight. Took a bayonet to the chest when on the walls after Colonel Ridge’s men made a breach. Ridge is dead, too. His regiment isn’t taking it well.”

The room was spinning again, the desire to vomit was almost overwhelming, and he could barely fathom what he was hearing.

“Willis and Denny? My God. And my men? How many made it out? What about Ensign Smith? He turned sixteen last week, and I told him to stick close to me. I promised I’d keep him safe.”

Colonel Hayworth didn’t say anything, but he reached over and, with a heavy hand, eased Jace back down onto the makeshift bed.

“I will see about finding you somewhere better than this to recuperate, Jace, but there’s no need for you to be here any longer than necessary, at least, not until we know what will become of the regiment now we’ve lost so many.”

“But my men . . .” Jace said weakly, not wanting to understand the implication being made by his superior officer.

They could not all be dead. Not Willis, whom he considered a friend, nor young Smith, who had stared up at him with something akin to hero worship.

“They don’t need you where they’ve gone, Major. I’m ordering you to return to England to convalesce for a while, for I’ll be damned if I see another one of my officers dead before the end of summer.” The older man’s voice cracked for just a moment, but he quickly recovered his austere mask.

“I can be of help,” said Jace, although, even to his own ears, it sounded like he was pleading.

Colonel Hayworth’s expression softened. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Jace, however, I must decline your request. Besides, it’s been six years since you went home. Don’t you wish to see that angel of yours?”

Jace swallowed. It hurt more than he expected.

“I’m not sure she will want to see me,” he admitted. He’d received no letters, no word at all from her in almost two years. He knew she was alive and well, which left only one explanation for her silence.

Hayworth gave him a pitying smile. “Six years is a long time, at war and in London. People change in both, but battles like this one . . . they take the best of you and spit you out. Major, you fought valiantly, but your angel will have faced her own battles, for I’d rather fight a whole brigade of Frenchies alone than face the judgement of the London ton at a single ball. You will not find your answers in Portugal or Spain, Jace. Go home. The war isn’t going anywhere soon, and I’ll welcome you back once you are fit and ready.”

All the Colonel’s words did was cause a rising disquiet in Jace, but he knew better than to argue with the older man.

“Let me help finish this mess, then I promise to return to England,” he said. “If what you are saying about the troops rampaging is true, then I owe it to the memory of my officers to ensure that order and justice are established.”

The Colonel stared at him for a long moment before nodding his agreement.

“Very well, but by the end of the week I expect you to be on your way back to England,” he said gruffly, before turning and walking away.

Jace reached into his scarlet, dirt-stained jacket to find the comforting presence of the miniature portrait against his chest. The ivory had cracked on the bottom edge and the gilding was chipped off the frame, but he knew without looking at it that his Annie’s beautiful face smiled out from it regardless.

Why had she stopped writing to him all those years ago? He had been gone much longer than he’d intended, but there had been no hint of anger in her letters, no suggestion she had grown bored of him.

But then he’d told her about his plan to return, to ask for her hand in marriage if she was willing to become an officer’s wife, and despite his pleas, he’d never heard from her again. He hadn’t sent her anything in over a year, despite his heart’s stubborn refusal to give up hope.

But he was certain it was Anne who had saved him on the battlefield. Anne, whose voice had told him to wake up, fight, and survive.

Hope flared again as he tightened his hand around the miniature. Surely, that had been a sign, had it not? Surely, he had been spared at the walls of Badajoz so he could return to his angel.

He was not aware that Colonel Hayworth was watching him from the tent entrance until the older man spoke.

“Go and be with her, you damned fool, and that’s an order,” he said in a stern voice, and then left.

* * *

Anne’s own scream woke her as she sat bolt upright in her bed. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and her body was drenched in sweat, even as the nightmarish visions of the siege of Badajoz faded from her memory.

Her maid Eleanor scrambled up from the truckle bed she had been sleeping on, looking harried.

“Another nightmare, Miss?” she asked, reaching out a comforting hand. Anne had never asked her maid to sleep in the room with her, but Eleanor had chosen to do so ever since the first time her father had read out an account of the siege in the papers, and she was grateful for her presence.

“I’m fine,” she lied quietly. “It was not so bad this time.”

Eleanor did not seem convinced, and Anne realized she must have screamed quite loudly to wake the young woman from her slumber.

“I will fetch you some tea, Miss,” said Eleanor as she climbed out of her bed. “It will help calm your nerves.”

The moment her maid was gone, Anne slid out from the covers and padded across the cold floor to her window. She pushed the sash open to allow the cool night air to wipe the last of the dream’s cobwebs from her mind. It was strange how the descriptions of the siege had taken ahold of her imagination in a way no other account of the war had. Perhaps it was because of the losses, or the despicable behavior of the soldiers afterwards, but for a solid month now she had been awoken by nightmares of a place she had never seen or visited.

She did not even know for sure if Jace had been there, only that his regiment had. The Gazette had not listed his name among the casualties, nor the honors lists, but in her heart, she was sure he had been at Badajoz.

“Where are you, Jace?” she murmured into the darkness. “Why won’t you write to me?”

Stuffed away in the back of her writing desk was a pile of unsent letters. After the abrupt end to his correspondence almost two years ago, she had sent many more, just in case there was good reason for his silence. But after twelve months she no longer asked her father to frank her mail for her and send out her letters. The pity in his eyes had been too much to bear.

She kept writing, though. Even when it felt foolish to do so. Even when she learned he no longer wrote to his brother, and that no one had heard from him directly since that last letter she’d received. Even though she never sent a single one.

He was alive, according to word Sidney had received from Horseguards, or at least, he had been some five months earlier. The news had been both comforting and devastating when Sidney and his Amelia came around to deliver it, and Anne had found herself unable to face her oldest friends and neighbors ever since.

But then, her father had read out the descriptions of Badajoz in the papers, and an overwhelming sense of dread had made a home in her heart.

“Here’s your tea, Miss,” Eleanor said, stepping back into the room. Anne closed the window and returned to her bed, forcing herself to ignore her wild flights of fancy.

“You are too good to me,” she told Eleanor as the maid set down the tray and poured her a cup of steaming tea. The maid hesitated, and Anne knew immediately that the second cup was not for Eleanor.

“Annie, my darling,” said her mother as she floated into the room in a cloud of muslin and lace sleepwear, her arms outstretched. “I thought we were past these terrible nightmares.”

As her mother wrapped her slim arms about her, Anne threw an accusing look at her maid. Eleanor simply shrugged and mouthed sorry at her.

“It is nothing, Mama, I am quite recovered,” she said, untangling herself from her mother’s embrace. “Eleanor’s tea has done wonders for me.”

“But it does not change the fact you are still having these horrible dreams, dearest,” said her mother in a tone that made it clear that Anne was not getting out of this easily.

She sighed. Her mother had a reputation for being formidable when she wished, no matter how ethereal she may appear. Helen Fitzroy, the Countess Fitzroy, had married an earl of long but penniless pedigree and was widely credited as being the brains behind her husband’s reversal of fortune, thanks to a clever mind and impeccable social manners. Lord and Lady Fitzroy were welcomed warmly in every home of the Ton, for more than one haughty duchess or lady had learned the hard way that to make an enemy of the Countess was to destroy one’s standing in the Ton. It was a mistake to believe that Lady Fitzroy’s sweet exterior did not mask a will of iron beneath it, and Anne knew better than to think she could fool her mother for more than a few minutes at a time.

Not that it stopped her from trying.

“It was just a dream, Mama. A bad one, I admit, but just a dream.”

Her mother was evidently not convinced. There was a moment of silence between them as Eleanor passed Lady Fitzroy a cup of fresh tea, and then retired from the room.

“You must stop punishing yourself, Annie,” said her mother the moment they were alone.

Anne was aware of a flare of annoyance. “I am doing nothing of the sort, Mama. I hardly have control over my dreams.”

“You have been crying again, and it breaks my heart.”

A familiar tightness gripped Anne’s chest as her mother spoke. She wanted her to stop.

“It was only a nightmare,” she said through gritted teeth.

Her mother was having none of it.

“Don’t try to bamboozle me, dearest. You’ve never succeeded before, and you aren’t going to magically succeed now. This is about Jace again, isn’t it?”

Anne glared at her half-empty cup, not quite brave enough to turn such an expression directly on the infamous Lady Fitzroy.

“I was dreaming about Badajoz again,” she muttered.

“So, Jace,” sighed her mother. She took the cup from Anne’s hand and placed it beside her own on the silver tray. “Darling, I think perhaps it is time to accept he is not going to return.”

Anne tried to hide it, but her breathing grew choppier with each of her mother’s words.

“Let go,” her mother’s soft voice urged.

“I sh-should have stopped him. I should have fought harder to keep him here,” Anne gulped, a knot the size of an apple forming in her throat.

Her mother pulled her into her arms.

“Oh, my poor lamb, you know very well you could not have kept that boy from adventure. Had he stayed, any affection between you would have soon festered into resentment on his part, and you would have lost him.”

“I’ve lost him anyway,” said Anne bitterly. “If only I knew he was safe and alive, not . . . not . . .”

“Not dead in a ditch on some Spanish battlefield,” said her mother matter-of-factly. “No, do not gasp at me like that, Annie! I am only giving a voice to your fear, not stating what I believe is the truth. But my darling, and I truly do not wish to cause you pain by saying this, but my darling girl, have you considered what it means if he has been alive and well this last year?”

“Of course, I know,” she whispered into the crook of her mother’s arm. Lady Fitzroy did not belabor the point, at least, and allowed Anne to take comfort from her embrace in silence.

They both knew full well what it meant if Jace was alive. It meant he had chosen to cut all contact with Anne and had lacked the courage to tell her that his heart had found a new direction. It meant that everything she had believed in, held on to, and sacrificed her future prospects for had been for nothing.

And the result was that, while half of her desperately hoped he was alive and well, another, darker place secretly needed to believe that something terrible had happened to prevent him from reaching her. Hence the nightmares.

Nothing appealed to her anymore, especially when her imagination veered wildly from imagining him safe and happy with another woman to the dark realities of the war in Portugal and Spain. Her father did not help matters. He told horrifying tales of what could happen to the men fighting the French, and the poor families that followed them, and often spoke of the permanently injured soldiers who returned to England, never quite the same. He seemed oblivious to the pain he caused, as though he assumed any affection that had once lain between Jace and Anne was nothing but a calf-love long forgotten.

At least her mother knew better, even if she insisted that Anne be honest and practical about the situation.

“Hearts heal, my darling, if you give them time. I know it does not seem that way to you right now, but it is the truth. Now, lie back down and get some sleep. Everything seems better in the morning, I find.”

Anne did as she was told, closing her eyes as her mother kissed her on the cheek. She yearned for sleep so she could spend a few hours without Jace interfering with her thoughts or her own inner voice chastising her for acting like an inept schoolgirl. She clutched the gold ring she wore on a chain around her neck, and while her dreams were still of him, they were pleasant memories rather than terrifying nightmares about the present.

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Prologue

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Prologue

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Prologue

The final ball of the Season was always particularly noisy, and this one was no different. Arthur Russell grinned at the glittering assembly and sipped at the wine in his hand. He wasn’t sure how many glasses he’d had, only that it was enough to leave him warm and loose and thoroughly pleased with life in general. A quick glance around his close friends, Ralph, David and Samuel showed they were in much the same state, all of them flushed with wine and satisfaction.

He redirected his gaze to the floor. Men and women from all levels of the ton were dancing, drinking, or talking. His gaze flicked disinterestedly over the men and the women who were obviously paired with someone.

“Got your eye on a pretty lass?” David nudged him lightly in the ribs. “Plenty of them around.”

“That’s as may be, but why should I have my eye on just one?” Arthur smirked. “After all, there’s nothing wrong with examining the field.”

“You have a point there. And each pretty miss with her own special charms.” Samuel grinned back. “Why, I’ve heard that Baron Cordell’s second daughter doesn’t make any man be a stranger for long…”

“And why should she? She’s far from the fairest of maids…” Ralph waved a hand dismissively. “There’s nothing to that. Now the Seville girl… there’s a chit to give a man a challenge and the enjoyment of a good game and a great reward, I’ll wager.” He winked. “Rumor is that it’s not corset stays nor clever tailoring that gives her that bosom.”

“You don’t say?” Arthur blinked, then scanned the crowd until he spotted the girl in question. “Well, that might be well worth the challenge. But I must say, a nice chest isn’t worth much if it comes with a frigid and strait-laced miss who’s not of a mind to share her charms. A bit of a warm welcome is more to my taste, and I’ve heard some things about the eldest Hargrove… pretty face, and a very warm welcome, if you take my meaning.”

They all chuckled. Then David frowned. “A pretty face and a good bed partner’s all very well, but I’d like my woman to have a bit of spirit. It’s no fun if they’re meek as a milkmaid.”

“Mayhap, but who wants a harpy?”

“You’re both right.” Ralph gestured expansively, swaying where he stood. “I mean, you’re right, and you’re wrong if you see my meaning…”

“I don’t think I do…” Samuel blinked with bleary eyes.

“Well, you’re all talking as if you’d only have one choice. But why should that be the case? Why not have a meek maid for when you want a quick, easy tumble and someone with a bit more fire when you’re in the mood for more fun and a little less lady-like behavior?” Ralph swallowed a gulp of wine. “I daresay none of us have been exactly chaste, and I’ll wager that none of us has tied ourselves to one set of apron strings, or corset strings, as the case may be.”

Arthur grinned at Ralph’s lopsided leer. “There’s truth in that. Plenty of willing ladies outside the ton, and in it too, if one looks well enough. And no shame in playing the field for a few years. Sow your oats and all that.”

“I’ll drink to that,” David smirked.

“I’ll not.” Ralph shook his head. “Why settle for a few years of freedom before tying yourself to one woman?”

David shrugged, swaying gently with the effects of the wine. “Well, who says a ring on a girl’s finger has to be the end of a man’s freedom? For myself, now that Ralph’s brought up the point… well, a wife who has to fight for the privilege of her husband’s attention is likely to be more attentive, no?” He smirked. “I see no reason why my wife shouldn’t have to compete for my commitment after the wedding as well as before? It’s not as if they’re so very shy about doing rounds in the Marriage Mart. Let your wedded wife know that her status and security depends as much on keeping your attention as it did in gaining it, I say.”

Ralph shook his head, barely avoiding toppling head-first into a nearby shrub. “Say what you like, and put a ring on a girl’s finger if you want. As for me, I’ll swear here and now that there’s no power on this earth that’ll see me tied to a woman with any sort of promise. I’ll die a well satisfied-bachelor, and never mind all this nonsense of marriage. I’ll take oath on it here and now; you’ll never see me at the altar unless it’s trying to talk one of you away from it!”

“No need to go that far. Some of us must carry on the family name and all that. Someday.” Arthur grinned and raised his glass. “But not for some years yet, I pray. So for now, let’s toast to friends and freedom and the glory of a vigorous and passionate manhood!”

“Friends, freedom, and a passionate manhood!” Glasses clinked, and Arthur downed the last of his wine with a smile.

The ton was full of lovely and willing women, and the lower classes even more so. His father was a duke, and there was plenty of time to sire his own heirs.

For now, he would enjoy his freedom and do as he pleased.

***

Another Ball. Another round of the same old dances and most of the same partners. Being in Bath was a nice change from her parent’s country estate, and her aunt was a much nicer chaperon. Her aunt understood that a young woman needed to have some freedom in her life.

But still… every Season was the same, in Bath or London. Balls, dancing, finger foods, and abundant drinks. Men looking for wives, and girls looking for husbands. All being so proper and correct that it was a wonder anyone ever got to know anyone else well enough to get married.

And half the marriages were cool, arranged matters with little passion and less association. A matter of continuing family lines and securing social ties.

How dull.

For all that she had no interest in being a working girl, in truth, at least they got to flirt and enjoy themselves while courting. It might be a bit scandalous, but they had the opportunity to know what the marriage bed was like before they entered into a permanent arrangement. They could fall in love and steal kisses in dark hallways or the scullery or the pantry.

Movement caught her eye, and she turned her head. Her breath hitched.

He was handsome, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with a lithe figure in a well-cut evening suit, his elegant features full of life and energy. And he was staring straight at her.

Their eyes met, and he smiled. It was a charming smile, with a dash of roguish humor and plenty of confidence, to say nothing of the interest she saw sparking in those dark brown orbs.

A subtle tilt of his head, a shrug of one shoulder, and an eyebrow raised in a question, and he slid the door to the terrace open with a languid, graceful movement. He held her eyes a moment longer, then slid through the door.

An invitation, and he was indeed a handsome man. He was clearly asking her to join him. And what could it hurt?

She took a step forward…

~

“Eleanora Beaumont! Are you listening to me?” Her father’s sharp voice dragged her attention back to the present.

“Yes, Father.” She dipped her head meekly, hands folded over her stomach.

Her father, Lord Beaumont, took a deep breath. Behind him, her mother looked pale and ready to burst into tears. Her two sisters were thankfully not in attendance. One was with her husband, the other was out with friends.

“You are certain on the matter?”

Eleanora sighed. They’d discussed this already, but apparently, it needed repeating. She swallowed back the hot flush of shame and the ache in her throat. The stiff chair – commonly used for receiving unwelcome guests in the front parlor – was no comfort to either that or the growing ache in her back.

“I am with child. A man I met in Bath. I have informed the father, and he will not – cannot – accept responsibility.”

“Rubbish. Any man brought up with proper manners would do his duty by a girl of your station. If he’s not honorable enough to do so on his own, I’ll call him out and have him either do right by you or meet him on the dueling field.” Her father scowled, his complexion flushed red with a combination of outrage at her, outrage at her erstwhile lover, and scandalized outrage at the world in general.

“It cannot be done, Father. He is gone. It would not be possible to challenge him.” To say nothing of the fact that she had no idea where his proper residence was. He’d hinted, during their liaisons, that he was visiting Bath, just as she was. She had known enough of his lodging situation to tell him of her condition, but he decamped soon after and she discovered that he had given her a false name so she could not track him.

“God’s breath girl! You didn’t even get the rascal’s name? He could be anyone. A stable boy or a servant, for all you know.” Over his shoulder, she saw her mother gasp and put a hand to her chest, either fainting or feeling faint. Tears sparkled in her eyes, tragic and forlorn in a way that made Eleanora’s stomach churn in a manner that had nothing to do with her… condition.

“I am sorry, Father.”

“Sorry does nothing for this situation, nor for the shame you’ve brought to this family!” her father scowled and began to pace. Eleanora watched him warily. He was not a man to strike his children or a lady, in a temper, but she’d never upset him quite so badly before.

Finally, he stopped. “If we cannot get your suitor…” he spat the word like it was a much stronger epithet. “… to behave honorably, then the best we can do is to have you married before your condition becomes common knowledge. Once you are married, your husband can keep you in seclusion until the babe arrives, and long enough to make it seem the babe is legitimate.”

Eleanora’s mother sat up. “But who…?”

“Lord Graven is a widower. He is much taken with Eleanora. At the least, he is fond of her and he has no other prospects nor any heirs who might complain. The dowry might need to be higher than usual, but he’s the most likely to be willing to take her in, and provide for her. And he’ll keep an honorable silence, if only for his own reputation.”

It felt as though her father’s words were frozen rocks, tumbling into her stomach and turning her numb and leaden with their weight. “Father… Lord Graven is near fifteen years your senior. He is… I could never have more affection for him than a child might feel for an uncle. A well-liked or even well-loved uncle, perhaps. But surely…”

“But nothing.” Her father spun to face her. “Do you not understand yet, you foolish child? After this, no man of younger years or better reputation would take you. You’d bring him naught but shame, bringing a bastard babe into the marriage. If you were an honorable widow, it might be less a problem, but as it stands… no, Lord Graven will give you shelter and some pretense of honor, and that is the best we can hope for.” He sighed. “I will write him directly.”

There was truth in her father’s words and sense, yet it stung like a slap to the face. Even more, the thought was unbearable. To be wed to a man older than her father, sent away and hidden away like an inconvenient painting or a horse put out to pasture. To be held in a loveless relationship…

She rose to her feet, arms crossed in front of her stomach, trembling with the pressure of her emotions. And terrified of what she was about to do. “Father… even if Lord Graven consents, I will not.”

“You will.” His expression turned thunderous.

She shook her head. “I will not.”

“You will do as you are told, child! You will behave with as much dignity as you have left in this shameful situation, and you will obey my directives. Or else you shall no longer be part of this family.” He loomed over her and never had he looked more like he might strike or shake her. Not even when she had embarrassed him at a family dinner when she was a child.

And still, she could not find it in herself to back down, not even with her mother’s tearful eyes pleading with her. “It seems I will not be a part of this family, whether I obey you or not. And if that is to be my situation, then I would do just as well to follow my own thoughts on the matter.”

Her father’s face turned an alarming shade of red. His hands clenched at his sides. Abruptly, he spun on his heel and marched over to the fireplace. Wrath was evident in the set of his shoulders. The cords of his neck, prominent with his effort to reign in his temper.

When he spoke again, his voice was deadly calm, like a winter wind slicing down from the sea and driving a ruinous storm before it. “Get out of my house.”

It was like a punch to the gut. “Father…”

“You have an hour to pack your things and leave this home. It is no longer yours. Neither is the Beaumont name. From this day and this hour, you are no longer a member of this family. You are hereby disowned until you come to your senses or prove that you can act with the decorum and propriety which you seem to sorely lack.”

Without another word or even a backward glance, he strode from the room.

The world seemed to sway, and there was a high ringing sound in her ears. She collapsed back into the chair, feeling as if the world had tipped sideways and thrown her off.

Disowned. She had not thought…

A hand jerked her from her thoughts. She looked up to see her mother’s tear-stained face. “Mother…”

“Hush, child. You must pack.” Her mother’s hand was firm as it guided her to her feet and toward her own rooms. “You heard your….Lord Beaumont.”

“Can you not speak to him?”

“Not now. He is far too angered. I will do what I can when his temper cools… but for now. You must leave.” Her mother led her upstairs and summoned a servant to bring two modest traveling bags. Together they packed a few essentials, a few of her plainer dresses, and other items.

Once the bags were packed, her mother gestured. “Downstairs and wait for me.”

Eleanora obeyed, feeling lost, sick at heart. She couldn’t seem to breathe properly.

This cannot be happening. It cannot…

But the packed bags were evidence, their very size a testament to her circumstances. Her vacation to Bath had taken twice the luggage easily. Her stomach churned, and it took all her willpower to stay on her feet.

Her mother appeared moments later, carrying a packet and a purse. The packet she tucked into one of the bags. The purse she folded into Eleanora’s hands. “This is the best I can do. It will at least give you a little help, I hope.”

Eleanora felt the tears she had not shed during the argument with her father break free. She gasped on a painful sob and huddled into her mother’s arms. “Mama… I am so sorry… I…”

“I know, dear. I know, my little Nora. But there is nothing to be done.” Her mother sighed. “I could wish you had shown more discretion or more obedience to your father. But your father is wrong to think that Society would not guess the truth of the matter if you were suddenly married to Lord Graven. And he might give you shelter, but I do not think he would lie for you. You would still be ostracized and seen as a wanton woman who preyed on a decent man when your ways caught up with you. Far worse, in the end, I think.”

“What am I to do?”

“Find a place in London or Bath. Do what seems best to you.” her mother’s clasp tightened a moment, then released her. “Be careful. Be safe. And write to me. At least…” Her voice cracked on fresh tears. “At least do send me word when my grandchild is born?”

“I will, Mother. I will.”

The clock chimed the hour. The family trap – an unassuming thing they seldom used – clattered to a stop. Her mother must have sent for it at some point. Her mother stepped back. “Goodbye, darling.”

She swallowed back further tears and the pain that threatened to send her to her knees on the cobbles. She forced herself to pick up her bags and lift her chin. “Goodbye, Mother.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

It was the hardest thing she had ever done: turn away and climb into the trap. To set her bags at her feet and direct the driver to start. Even then, she could not help looking back.

It was nearly her undoing. Fresh tears started on her face as she watched her mother – slender and pale with her sorrowful gaze – disappear around the bend of the drive.

For better or worse, she was disowned. The house she had grown up in was no longer her home.

She would have to find a new one.

***

London, in the days after the Season, was a cheerless place. And all the worse, if one was without friends or family to call upon.

Eleanora staggered to a stop, shivering as thunder rumbled threateningly overhead and little swirls of wind did their best to sneak through her dress.

She’d decided, after some thought, to go to London. She was fairly certain her aunt would take her in but equally certain that her aunt would be as appalled as her father at her actions. And even if she was not, even if she offered shelter and care, it would drive a rift between her aunt and her father, and she’d no desire to cause further harm to her family.

She had not thought of what it would be like to be in London in her current state. Disowned, she could not seek shelter with anyone who might have known her or her father. And in any case, most of the ton were in the process of leaving for the country now that the Season was ended.

She had no idea where she might seek lodging. She had no idea how long the money her mother had given her might last. She had no idea even of what a good bargain or a bad one might be.

Nor any concept of what she would do when the money ran out. It would, at some point, she knew.

She’d always been told that disgraced women were destined for the brothels and back alleys, and she was beginning to be terrified that it was true.

The plop of a fat, icy raindrop on her arm startled her out of her thoughts. She flinched, then huddled in on herself as more drops fell, increasing steadily until she stood in a fair deluge.

In minutes she was shivering, soaked, and completely at a loss for what to do next. Nothing looked familiar. Nothing looked like a source of shelter or of food. She was freezing, her stomach aching with a need for sustenance.

And she had not the slightest idea where to turn.

Tears prickled in her eyes, then escaped to join the rain sliding down her face.

Gods above… what am I to do?

“Hoi there, love.” Eleanora started as a voice broke the sound of the falling rain. She looked up.

A few feet away was a young woman. She was dressed in simple but comfortable-looking clothing, a dress topped with a shawl. In the dim light of the street lamp, Eleanora could make out her reddish hair and lightly tanned skin. Then her attention skittered to the most important thing.

The woman was holding an umbrella over her head, tilted just far enough that the light could touch upon her features.

The woman took a few steps closer. “Hello there.”

Eleanora swallowed and forced her nearly frozen jaw to unclench. “H-h-hello.”

The woman gestured. “I’ve some space here under the umbrella if you’ve a mind to share. You look like you’ll freeze else.”

“I… thank you.” Eleanor grabbed her bags and huddled under the offered shelter gratefully, too cold and wearied and heartsick to care much who the woman was. “I b-beg your pardon. I’m…” She paused, then decided on a name. “Nora. Just Nora.” Eleanora Beaumont was no more; Nora seemed more appropriate for her situation.

“I am Scarlett.” Nora blinked at the name, and the young woman – she was young, about Nora’s own age – smiled and shrugged. “It’s a name, and I’m well-pleased with it. It serves me well enough.” She began to move up the street. “Now, I’ve lodgings not far from here, if you like. Or if you’re looking for somewhere or someone in particular…” She trailed off. “You’ll pardon me, but you seemed a little lost… were you waiting for someone?”

Nora swallowed back a bitter laugh like a sob. “No. No one. And nowhere.” She curled her arms around herself. “There’s… no one. I’m alone.”

“Hard luck, that.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She tightened her arms over her stomach, feeling the faintest flutter of life there. “I shan’t be alone for long. There will be two of us before long.”

“That’s the way of it, is it?” Scarlett’s eyes and her voice were warm and sympathetic. She walked along in silence for a long moment. Then she paused. “I don’t mean to presume, Nora, but… I should very much like…”

She stopped, then started again. “My lodgings aren’t so large, but they’re big enough for two, I daresay. You could come in and get warm and dry, at the least.”

The idea of warmth, of being able to change into dry clothing… such simple things sounded like a definition of heaven. Nora opened her mouth to respond, only to flush as her stomach rumbled loudly. She ducked her head. “I… do you know where I might be able to find a place to procure food?”

Scarlett smiled. “I do at that. There’s food aplenty at my lodgings. It’ll be simple fare, hot stew, and yesterday’s bread, but it’s warm and filling enough.”

Nora blinked. “I don’t want to… I couldn’t put you to any trouble….” She fumbled for her belt. “I… I do have some funds…” She stopped as Scarlett’s hand closed gently over hers.

“I’ll not take your money for a day’s company, nor even if you should choose to stay the night. You’d hardly be causing me any issues. Truth, I’d welcome the company.”

Warmth banished the chill of the rain and the wind and some of the ache in Nora’s heart. “You mean… you would?”

“Of course. I know well it’s not easy being a single young woman on her own. And I daresay we could both do better together than apart.” Scarlett tipped her head thoughtfully. “And there’s an idea if you’ve a mind for it. “

“I… what?” Nora blinked.

“Stay a bit. It’s far safer to be two than one in London, especially in some of the rougher parts of town. And I’ll wager you need someplace until you’ve found proper employment, no?”

She hadn’t even thought of that. “Y-yes.”

“Then stay. I’d not mind some help on the rent and the housekeeping, nor a housemate. Stay until you’re in a better position. Or until after the babe is born, if you like.” Scarlett smiled.

Nora stared at her. “But, surely you have better things to do… ”

Scarlett shook her head. “And how so? I haven’t children or a suitor. But I do like caring for children. Helped raise three of my siblings. And if you’re willing, despite the fact we’ve barely just met, then I’d like to make your ‘two of us’ the ‘three of us’.” Scarlett smiled. “I’ll not say anything if you’d prefer other arrangements, but in truth, I miss somewhat of the noise of others in my living space. And I rather think both of us could use a friend. Or, perhaps, all three of us.”

Relief like a draft of the best mulled wine soaked through her. “Oh, I would. I would like that very much.”

“Well then, Nora, welcome to London. And now… let’s be off home.” Scarlett took one of her bags, and together they moved off into the rain-soaked night.

And for the first time in days, Nora felt that things might be all right after all.

Chapter One

Four years later…

The plants needed watering. Nora frowned at the delicate crystal vase and its carefully arranged blooms. It was a part of her duties as a maid in the household of the Duke and Dowager of Bedford, to see that the flowers were kept healthy and bright, or at least changed out if they’d reached the end of their lifespans.

These, she thought, weren’t quite to the point of needing to be replaced with fresh flowers. Carefully, she edged the stems aside and tipped a little water from her pitcher into the vase.

Three years ago, she probably would have spilled the water and had to clean it up. Unused to working, much less as a maid, she’d been clumsy and shy. If the Dowager – though she’d then been the Duchess – hadn’t taken a liking to her, she might have been dismissed.

Now though, she was a practiced and deft hand at any task she could be set to. Cleaning, laundry, setting tables, clearing tables… she did her work quickly, and even if it was immodest, she rather thought she did it well.

There was a certain irony in the situation, given that she’d once wished idly for the freedom of a working-class girl. And now she had it; she had no desire to pursue the amorous relationships she’d dreamed of at the time.

She’d very little interest in amorous relationships at all, in truth. After how the last one had turned out, she was wary of any man who might approach her.

The chiming of a bell – a very familiar bell – pulled her from her thoughts just as she finished with the water. She set down the pitcher and looked around.

The bell was for the Duke’s study, generally the domain of the man’s valet or the butler. But the butler was attending the Dowager, and the valet, given the hour, was most likely laying out his master’s clothing and drawing his bath. Everyone else was already about their assigned tasks for the day.

With a grumbling sigh, she set the pitcher down and wiped the condensation off her hands and onto her apron.  There was no point in letting the man get irritable and insufferable by waiting until one of his assigned manservants could come take care of the matter.

She strode down the hall to the correct door and rapped lightly with her knuckles.

“Enter.” She turned the knob and stepped inside.

The study, the private workplace of the Duke of Bedford, was a spacious, airy room, divided partially by bookcases filled with various tomes. There was a low couch behind one, on which the Duke could rest if he felt the need or sit to entertain business discussions.

Not that he was making use of it now. The Duke of Bedford was, at that moment, standing at his desk, trying to put himself to rights.

Nora watched him for a moment, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence and give her his orders.

The Duke of Bedford. Arthur Russell, who until two years ago had been the Heir of Bedford. The only son of the previous Duke, who had passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. Tall, lean, with blond hair and hazel eyes that went green in just the right light, he was a handsome enough man, with a teasing manner and a flirtatious smile. However, he was, like most men of his station, rather arrogant.

She worked primarily for the Dowager, and her duties meant she’d had few encounters with the Duke, none of them requiring more than a quick curtsy and a ‘Your Grace.’ Still, she could admit that he was good-looking, precisely the type of man she’d be attracted to…

Before. The type of man I might have been attracted to before. But I know his kind, and he cannot be trusted. She gave herself a quick mental shake just as the Duke happened to look up and see her.

Confusion crossed his face. “What the… oh! It’s you.” He blinked, swallowed, and smoothed back a stray lock of hair as he tried to adjust his cravat into a more proper position. “Where is my valet, then? Or one of my other manservants?”

Nora swallowed back a sigh of frustration and concentrated on keeping her eyes properly lowered and her voice calm and level, quiet as befitted a servant addressing her lord. “I fear they’re busy, Your Grace, seeing to the tasks of the morning. I do not think they heard the bell, my lord.”

“Oh gads, of course, they would be…” he trailed off, running his hands through his hair again. It only served to undo his previous efforts, though she was not about to point that out to him. “Well, I suppose if it has to be a maidservant who answers the bell…” He glanced over her, clearly wondering what her name was, then shrugged. “… at least you’re quiet. My mother’s little mouse. It could be worse, I suppose.”

Nora bit her lip to stop the retort that wanted to escape and kept her hands folded meekly in front of her. After a moment, the Duke cleared his throat. “All right then… I need you to do something for me. A favor, you might say, as it’s a bit outside your usual duties.”

“Your wish is my command.” Though she’d rather be tending the flowers still.

“Hmm… so it is. In any case…” He turned his head. “You can come out now.”

Nora blinked, barely keeping her expression in check and properly expressionless as a woman came around the bookshelves, from the area where the couch was hidden. Her hair was mussed, her dress creased, and her face curiously devoid of powders or gloss. Though she didn’t need it, with her thick, glossy chestnut locks and her fine porcelain skin. Deep brown eyes and a pert nose, and a perfect, lovely white smile. She was, in a word, stunning.

And clearly had been up to… activities with the Duke. Activities that Nora did not want to know about or think about.

“Right then. I need you to help Annabelle here out of the house and to the carriage. Without my lady mother seeing her.”

“My lord?” Surely he didn’t mean…

“Help Annabelle get outside and to the carriage. Before my mother catches on to the fact that I’m late for breakfast and guesses as to why. Or worse, comes up here and sees for herself.” He waved a distracted hand. “You can manage that, can’t you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” And so she could. No one ever paid much attention to quiet Nora, the Dowager’s maid. She took a deep breath and throttled back her feelings of outrage on the young woman’s behalf. From the expression on her face, the young woman the Duke was saying a quick farewell to didn’t find the matter nearly as alarming as she did. “If you’ll follow me, my lady?”

“Of course.” The lady stopped and tipped the Duke a wink. “Until next time, Arthur darling.”

He smirked, smug and relaxed as he leaned on one hip against the desk. “Until next time, gentle lady.”

Nora bit back a comment and ushered the lady from the room. The back stairs were closer and would avoid passing the Dowager’s rooms or the morning room where she commonly had her breakfast. At this hour, Nora herself was the only one who used them, or perhaps the butler, though he wouldn’t be coming down until breakfast was done, not unless there was a caller at the door.

It was a matter of moments to guide the lady down the steps – she seemed to know them well, so perhaps it was the normal route – to the floor below, then down a short hall, out a side door into the garden, and around front.

The carriage was already waiting as if this was quite the usual thing. Perhaps it was. The Duke was rumored to be somewhat of a rake.

It was that which led her to come to a stop just before they reached the carriage. For all that it was no longer her place to be concerned with such things; she couldn’t help being worried. She didn’t want someone else trapped in her circumstances, or worse. She swallowed and breathed deep. “Ah… my lady, I beg your pardon, but… might I be permitted a question? Even if it is… an improper one for my station?”

The lady – Annabelle – laughed. “Well, I do not see why not. After all, this is not exactly a situation for your station either.” She smiled. “You may ask.”

Nora took a moment to make sure her voice was properly meek. “The Duke… he is not… he is not coercing you? Or… using you unfairly? Taking… advantage?”

“My, what a sheltered young thing you are if you think I am being taken advantage of.” The words should have stung, but there was no malice in them and nothing more than lazy amusement, the kind a cat might show after a bowl of cream, in her face when Nora looked up.

The lady continued, smiling slightly. “No, dear, it’s nothing of the sort. Say, rather, that I am taking advantage of his known penchant for… indiscretion, shall we say?… to amuse myself.” One hand gently tipped Nora’s chin up. “It is sweet of you to ask, especially circumstances being what they are between us, and I do thank you for the consideration. Misguided though it is. But you’ve nothing to worry about on that score, little miss.”

Nora nodded, ducking her head as she was released. “As you will, my lady.”

“You are a quiet, sweet little thing. Farewell, then. Perhaps we shall encounter each other again, in less… compromising, circumstances.” With that, the lady stepped away, stepping up into the carriage with graceful steps. Less than a minute later, the whole conveyance was out the gate and out of sight.

Nora heaved out a frustrated breath of air. “Concerned… if you knew what I knew, Miss Annabelle, about fickle men of the ton and their ways, you might be a good deal more concerned. As you should be.”

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