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Prologue

The carriage wound its way through Twicham at an impossibly slow pace. Up and down it went, bobbing along the small country roads as the night crawled by. Charlotte shuffled closer to the window, sliding the first pane of glass past the second. She stuck her nose outside and breathed in deeply, thinking herself the most rotten girl in the world.

Fortunately, the postilion seemed unconcerned when he picked her up at the posting house. The drabness of her attire had done its job. Her brown skirt contrasted with the blue of her traveling coat, she’d even scuffed her boots against an oak tree trunk for good measure.

She drew back and looked at her reflection in the glass. Her dark, wavy hair fell in tendrils around her face, and she looked rather wan in the absence of rouge. Her eyes seemed darker for her deception, but perhaps this was for the best.

Dressed as she was, no one would guess she was a lady of the ton, let alone the daughter of a duke. But she was the daughter of a duke, and was bloody miserable for it too.

Oh, her father. Her poor, harrying father. She didn’t dare think of him. Who knew what he might do once he woke up to find her missing? He would undoubtedly have men scouring the duchy from dusk till dawn until they found her. With any luck, she would be on a boat by then and on her way to Italy, France, or Spain, or any other place that wasn’t England.

Because in England, she was Lady Charlotte Fitzroy, daughter of the Duke of Richmond; a spinster in the making at the tender age of three-and-twenty. She was three Seasons deep with nothing to show for it. And now she was set to marry a man she completely abhorred.

Really, they had forced her hand—but she still couldn’t bear to look at herself.

With a sigh, she pulled down the window screen and settled against the silk backing of the rear quarter. Her skull rolled against the headrest, and she closed her eyes. If it weren’t for the pinch of guilt below her heart, she might have succumbed to sleep.

But she couldn’t rest, not now, and certainly not when the most thunderous clap shot through the silence of the night.

Charlotte gasped as the coach jostled on the road. In an instant, the party was thrown into chaos. She leaned against the window, hoping to see who was about, but could hardly make anything out in the faint, violently swaying light of the carriage lantern. The horses reared, and the coach went with them. She heard a loud thud from outside, where no doubt the postilion had been unseated. And then came the whinnying—the terrible, desperate whinnying of the horses.

“What’s happened? Hello?” she cried, but her supplications were no match for the neighing. That was, until there was silence because the horses had bolted off.

Charlotte knocked on the window, chewing viciously at her lips to keep her fear in check. She knew her plan had gone suspiciously well so far, that she had snuck away too easily. Her mind raced as she looked out into the darkness, feeling like she was trapped in a coffin, waiting.

When no one stirred, she pounded against the box’s back panel, hoping to rouse the post-boy. Still, all was eerily quiet. Terror seized her, and her heart felt like it might leap from her throat.

“I’ve never asked for anything,” she prayed in a whisper and pressed her eyes shut, “But I am pleading with you now. Do not let me die here, Lord. Do not let me die, and I swear I shall never do anything so silly again, not for as long as I live.”

She opened an eye and then laughed nervously as nothing happened. No angels appeared, no fire and brimstone either. Only the night stretched out before her, interminable and calm.

Charlotte mustered all her courage and reached out for the door handle. “I cannot simply sit here,” she murmured shakily. “I cannot—” she continued, but she was cut off by the distinct sounds of a struggle outside. The postilion was on his feet. She could see his shadow in the lantern light.

But then another shadow appeared. And another beside that.

And they did not look like angels.

She heard shouting. They were arguing. She needed to hide, and she needed to hide fast. She looked around the box for anywhere she might stow herself away. She found herself crawling in the legroom, pressing up the bench, pressing against anything that might open, but it was no use.

She had to flee. She couldn’t wait for them to rob her, kill her, or worse. Her father deserved better. She grabbed her travel valise and reticule as quickly as she could, stealing nervous glances outside as the scuffle continued, and sat back up. She had to escape while the path was clear.

“On three,” she murmured breathlessly, “One, two—” and the door was opened.

But the path was not clear. It was far from clear, for a man stood before her, holding a gun.

He tutted three times over, each sound a funeral toll. Charlotte was unable to move. She could do nothing but stare up at him, her gaze fixed on the barrel of his flintlock, glinting in the moonlight. He had it leveled against her face so close she could lean forward and taste gunpowder.

“Do as you are told, and you will be free to go.”

His drawl was confident and deep, like smoke and velvet. There was a lilt to his words that sounded playful, and it only frightened her more. She couldn’t see his face behind the tall, black collar of his coat, and his eyes were shadowed by a tricorn hat. He was English, of that much she was sure, but he didn’t sound anything like the lords of her acquaintance.

From the corner of her eye, she looked for the postilion. As she feared, he was lying on the ground, subdued by the man she assumed was her assailant’s partner.

Charlotte nodded. It was the only thing she could do since her life was on the line. She was biting her lip so hard she had drawn blood. In her daze, she lapped at it, and could’ve sworn she saw a smile form in the man’s eyes. He sighed and swung the gun at the box. Charlotte flinched back.

Wordlessly, he climbed in after her. There they sat, the daughter of a duke and a highwayman, like two lovers riding through Hyde Park in a phaeton. The other man stepped around the carriage to the back. It sounded like he pushed something off the vehicle as it bounced and swayed: the body of the post-boy, Charlotte thought, who she realized now had been shot.

“Don’t worry yourself overlong. You’ll be back on your way to your tryst in a minute, and can pretend none of this ever happened.”

The man with the gun spoke to her again, but his words sounded distorted and distant. He reached forward and swiped her reticule, and she watched as his calloused, long fingers struggled with its clasp. Charlotte’s surprise turned to indignation as she took in the full measure of his words.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, sounding as disbelieving as she felt.

The man stopped and looked up at her from beneath his hat. The lower half of his face was shrouded in dark fabric, but she knew he was smirking. “What did you say?”

Charlotte swallowed. She didn’t know what she was doing, only that it felt better than sitting in silence and watching him rifle through her belongings. “I asked for your pardon, not that I am eager to receive it,” she scoffed, “Thieving is one thing, but assuming a lady’s promiscuity is quite another. I can assure you, I am no adventuress.”

The man drew back, and the conveyance suddenly filled with low, dark laughter. Charlotte stared in incredulity as he set his flintlock aside and rubbed his gloved palms against the linen of his breeches. “I dare say I have touched a sore spot.”

“I dare say you are quite mistaken. Rob me of my—” she gestured to her reticule “—lemon bonbons, handkerchief, and coin purse all you like, but you shan’t find any dignity there. Nor any manners.”

With a little gasp, she sank into the corner of the box as if it might shield her from his ire. Her father had always said her sharp tongue would be her downfall, and she feared he was right. But the man didn’t look angry. He didn’t hold himself any differently for her caustic comments. He watched her as one might watch the opera—with marvel and a slight lethargy.

The second man began rifling the coach for loot, but neither stirred within. He could steal her shifts and slippers to his heart’s content. Everything that mattered had been packed in her personal valise, and she nudged it closer to herself with her foot.

The soft scraping sound caught her assailant’s attention. His eyes darted down and then back at her. “What had you hoped to find at your journey’s end, if not a lover?” he asked wistfully, the softness of his low voice sending a ripple of nervous energy down her spine.

“A new beginning,” she admitted as a trembling hand reached for the door handle behind her.

But it was no use. The man was quicker than she was and stronger, too. He sprang for her, and he seized her wrists with his hands.

“Let me go! Don’t touch me! You have no right to me!” she wailed, but the man only chuckled. She pressed her lips together, fighting for traction against the cushions. She clawed at his face, wanting to remove his mask, but he pushed her hands away. He soon had them pinned above her head, her wrists in one of his hands.

“It’s not your body I want,” he growled, and Charlotte swore he sounded offended by the accusation. He grunted and reached down between her ankles for her portmanteau. With a shake of his head, he brought it to his lap.

“You’ve no right to that either! Please,” Charlotte pleaded breathlessly, “Take what you will from the back. Take all the money I have. Leave the rest alone. You’ve no use for it, sir! No use at all!” She wriggled in his hold and kicked at him, trying to knock the case from his legs. “Help! Help! I’m—”

She couldn’t say anything more, for he smacked his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. He held it there, and she tasted salt and leather. He shot a look around him, then leaned in close and whispered fiercely, “The more you yowl, the harder this will be.” He hesitated and listened for the other highwayman. “Do you understand?”

Charlotte began crying and could barely see beyond the veil of her tears. She nodded and breathed back a sob. Her body slackened, and he let her go.

“Good girl,” he murmured and cupped her face with his hand. He made quick work of the bag’s lock, snapping it off like a biscuit. “I shall only take what I can pawn.”

“Look,” Charlotte whispered, giving him pause, “My whole life is in that bag. What will it take for you to turn a blind eye to it? I swear to you, my father is a very powerful man. Give me an address and name, and I shall send you as high a ransom as you desire. You could feed yourself not only for a day—but for a lifetime.”

The man stopped in his tracks and dipped his head low. “You wish to know my name, little girl?” They locked gazes, and it made Charlotte dizzy. She could not make out the color of his eyes in the dark, but their gleam was so rich she felt she needed to turn away. But she did not, not even as he said, “I’m your gentleman’s master.”

His voice carried on the air like smoke. Charlotte knew then that he would not listen, not even if she offered him the world itself. She could only sit back and watch as he opened her case and tore through her effects—she had never felt so violated.

Out flew her white lace shawl and her mother’s heirloom fan. He pocketed a length of pink and white pearls, her golden brooches and hairpins, and her hanging opal earrings. He cast aside her diary and found her vinaigrette and an additional coin purse beneath it. She had little in the way of money, having saved up as much as she could from some of her published writings, and the purse jingled sadly for it.

And then, by luck or fate, he found the clasp that opened the bag’s false bottom. He looked up at her, and his eyes arced with the same infernal smile as before. “What secrets lay beyond your threshold, I wonder?” he mused aloud, and Charlotte was powerless to respond.

All amusement fell from his expression as he lifted away the leather panel. He dropped it aside and buried his hands into the bag. The sound of crinkling paper filled the box, and Charlotte recoiled.

“What on earth…?” he began to question but trailed off. He lifted his hands up in confusion. He was holding her poems—which were most dear to her—on their bunched up, wrinkled and ink-stained sheets of paper. Her newest collection. He set them back down and picked up her leather-bound journals, flicking through the pages like he was in a library.

“You’re a modern-day Milton,” he murmured in jest, but there was nothing funny about it to her. Her heart had dropped to her stomach.

“Milton was a man,” she quipped back, growing angrier by the second. “Put them down,” she grizzled and balled up her fists, “or I shall scream again.”

The man looked at her as if he were transfixed. “Scream. I shall be delighted to hear it.” He grinned, but there was contempt in it. “I am no great admirer of the arts. ‘Tis a gentleman’s habit, and I am anything but. I shall cast these away with all else I cannot sell, don’t you worry.”

Suddenly, a loud banging came from the top of the coach. Charlotte covered her ears and gasped.

“Lieutenant!” she heard the man from outside shout.

“That’s my cue,” her thief said flatly. He sighed and slammed the valise shut, taking it with him as he swerved out of the box. She followed him, but he turned around just as she put a boot to the carriage step. “Surely, you’re not thinking of following me, princess?” he hummed and leaned in. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, and all she could see were stars.

The sound of hooves came rolling from behind them. The second assailant was riding past, his mare saddled with Charlotte’s other belongings. He held the reigns of another horse, though they looked nothing like the sandy thoroughbreds the postilion had been commanding.

“Perhaps we shall meet again in another life,” the man before her crooned. Then he turned on his heel and hopped atop his horse as it galloped past.

Charlotte dashed after him, off the carriage and into the night. She kicked up dirt as she ran, following them down the lane until they outpaced her.

And then they were gone, and she was alone.

Alone and lost, with only the broken dream of her freedom for company.

Chapter One

“Hail, to see her beauty, sobered. Lips soft and petaled as… as… Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Charlotte slammed her quill down against her vanity and breathed a guttural sigh. “Can you recall what came after this verse, Josephine? Something about flowers, or doves, and—” She waved her hand in the air as though her genius might swoop in and save her.

Josephine smiled behind her, contentedly plaiting her hair. “Hail, to see her beauty, sobered. Lips soft and petaled as the roses of your garden. Sire, to be with you is to be reborn.”

Charlotte clapped her hands together. “Blessed that you are, Josephine! That’s right!”

She leaned back over her vanity, taking the lengths of her hair with her, and scribbled down the last of the poem’s verses. And with that, she was done.

It had been a month since she had tried to run away—a month since the robbery. She and her modiste had made short work of replacing the gowns, shifts, and reticules the thieves had done away with. But restoring her anthology was not so easy a task—second only in its labor to the healing of her pride.

She beamed as she looked down at the poem and read it over. She knew it was a little scandalous, a little avant-garde, too. But it was hers, and she was proud. She dipped her quill back in its ink and gleefully signed it, Charles F. Huxley.

She was proud, but she was not a fool. Should the ton come to learn of her salacious writings, her entire family would be shamed. Thus, Charlotte became Charles so that the poems might become tolerable, which felt like a fair enough price to pay.

“Unless my memory is failing, I do believe that’s the last of them,” she confessed dreamily and twisted around to look at her fair-haired lady’s maid. “I truly cannot express just how grateful I am to you, Josephine. How ever did you become so smart?”

Josephine grinned bashfully. “It’s nothing to do with smartness, my lady. I’ve heard you recite your poems for nigh on four years. Some of it was bound to stick.”

Charlotte looked up at her. “Still, I am so thankful.” She twisted back around, resolved to stop making Josephine’s coiffing twice as hard as it need be, and took off her reading spectacles. “I shall send them off to my publisher on Piccadilly soon, as long as one of your young cousins is willing to go for me. Who knows who might be reading and renting these soon?” Charlotte watched Josephine in the mirror, and the girl’s expression dipped. “Unless you think that’s quite a foolish idea. Perhaps I should not push my luck.”

Josie blinked and started. “No, it’s not that. Not at all, my lady,” she stammered, but she was hardly convincing.

“Speak plainly, Josephine. You know I trust you with my life,” Charlotte cooed, and it was true. When she had fled the duchy, Josephine had been the only one she had trusted enough to tell. She picked up her poem. “And these are my life.”

Josephine reached for a champagne-colored ribbon on the vanity. “I worry what the Duke might do if he finds out. His Grace was none the wiser when you published the first set of poems… but what if people start asking after you? The Season is already heavily underway, and you’ve yet to find a better match. I hate to think of you lumbered with that old, dribbling duke your father is truest friends with.” She hesitated and smoothed out the ribbon. “Oh, but I do hope this doesn’t deter you. Why, I hope everyone has the chance to read your work one day! I’m only nervous. I cannot lie and say I’m not. I know it’s not my place—”

Charlotte hushed her maid by bringing a hand to rest atop her own. “It is precisely your place,” she stressed, and her eyes were wide with kindness. “Your place is with me, and you are right—I am pushing my luck. Although Papa isn’t nearly as determined to wed me off to the Duke of Gamston as he was before my,” she whispered the next word as though it were sacrilege, “aborted flight.”

She wrangled with a smile, because really, there was nothing funny about it. She could hardly remember anything from the night—not her fear, nor her pleading—nothing but the snorting of the horses and the glint in the man’s eye as he had toyed with her. He was a phantom to her now, but not a thing of nightmares as she imagined he would be.

She quite liked that she had a secret. It was the only experience to separate her from the vast sea of damsels with whom she brushed shoulders… not that they were wise to her attempted escape.

Her Papa had not been nearly as insouciant about the whole ordeal. He had been inconsolable when she had returned at last, having been picked up along the road by some riders from the Penny-Post. He had forgiven her that same day, and when she had shared her side of things, he had promised leniency in the matters of matrimony.

The leniency was as follows: one final Season to make her own way, to find a man of her choosing, provided he was of noble birth. One last chance to find love or forever be saddled with the detestable Duke of Gamston. To forever live a life of regret and torment.

“I cannot say I am eager to see him,” Charlotte murmured, voicing her fears aloud. “Gamston, I mean to say. Anyone would think he had only my father for friendship, though I suppose the same could be said of Papa.” She paused. “It is so strange to think the man had been like a second father to me for so long. He has known me since I was in pinafores. He taught me to play chess, to read Shakespeare, for heaven’s sake! That he should be my prospective husband…” She shook her head in revulsion.

“Well, my lady,” Josephine replied, “It’s not so strange to me. A man is a man, no matter the blood running through him. You are the perfect lady, and the Duke of Gamston has no children. If you’ll pardon my saying, you know better than most what the world thinks of us women.”

There was nothing to forgive, for Josephine was not wrong. The Duke had shown no interest in making a wife of Charlotte, not until his father had suggested the sordid thing when she turned six-and-ten. It did not mean he had not been thinking about it.

“I suppose it will do me no good to consider the matter now. I have bought myself a pocket of time. Rather, those dratted brigands did.”

Charlotte supposed she owed the bandits a great deal. Without them, she may have been married by now or dead in a ditch in Italy. She didn’t quite know which of the two sounded more promising.

She looked back at Josie, who was putting the finishing touches on her coiffure. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I don’t know how you manage to joke about what happened. If it were me, I’m not sure I would ever be able to live normally again. Were you not terrified of the bandit?”

Charlotte breathed a laugh. “I was at first, I shall not lie, but he seemed to have no interest in causing me harm—quite the opposite, actually. By the end of it, I pitied him more than anything else.”

“Pity?” Josephine echoed in disbelief before laying the thick, French plait over Charlotte’s shoulder. Her fringe had been coiled in ringlets. “Of all the things he deserves, my lady, pity is not it—irons, more like it.”

“I have no doubt those are precisely what they were fleeing. The debtor’s prison, or something of the sort. Not that it matters now.” She smiled and shifted in her seat. “No, I would take my chances with those assailants over Gamston any day. What a frightful prospect…” she said through a laugh, and Josephine looked at her as though she had lost her marbles before giggling as well.

The girl moved over to her armoire, and she followed. “Oh, my lady… Frightful though it may be, unless we can secure a match for you before the month is up, it may be quite real as well.”

Charlotte sat on her bed and reached over to her side table. She pulled open its top drawer and sneaked a sugar plum, leaving one aside for Josephine. She took a bite from it as she said, “I can hardly be blamed for rejecting all those who have asked for my hand when they are all so terribly dull. The Marquess of Hexam almost bored me to tears at his house party last week, and his son was no brighter.”

Josephine sighed and walked over to her, carrying Charlotte’s gown for the evening. It was a gorgeous affair of peach silk, with white puffed sleeves and lace along the bodice. Pearls had been dotted down multi-tiered skirts, and Charlotte had to suck in a breath at the sight of it.

She may have detested being a duke’s daughter for reasons beyond number, but she would never tire of the gowns—or the sweetmeats.

“If this does not do the trick, I truly do not know what shall,” she joked, and clapped in delight. She primed her arms as Josephine lifted the gown over her head. The maid had to stand on the very tips of her toes, as Charlotte was quite a bit taller. She turned so Josie could fasten the back, looking herself over in her brass standing mirror.

“Do you know who’s attending this evening, my lady?” Josephine asked as she worked her way down her back.

Charlotte brought a hand to her bosom, quite enamored with herself. “The Earl of Singberry is hosting, which undoubtedly means his horse-mad sons shall be there. Matthew mentioned his friend Ambrose will be in attendance—though he’s as tolerable as Matthew himself, which means he isn’t tolerable at all. Father mentioned something or other about a few prospective marquesses. Naturally, Gamston will be looking to tag along,” she listed off and groaned. “It shall be a fairly large soirée. If nothing else, there shall be plenty to look at.”

“With any luck, someone will catch your eye, my lady,” Josephine said with finality as she fastened the last button of the gown.

Charlotte gave a small turn to admire herself and nodded. “Well, it has been rumored that Lady Singberry is a literary at heart and has invited a few writers along that we might engage in some sort of recital or competition, I’m not sure.” She paused and smiled in earnest. “So, should there be a man in attendance worthy of my heart, that is one way in which he will make himself known.”

***

Charlotte hurried down the grand staircase of Richmond Court, the hem of her gown trailing behind her like froth on a stream. Her gloved hand slid down the railing, burning against the varnished mahogany. She looked down over the entrance hall, where her stony-faced sister and brother were waiting for her.

“How long can it take to put on a frock?” Matthew chided as she hit the last step. “I could have sworn I saw Josephine in the hallway a quarter of an hour ago.”

Charlotte struggled to catch her breath as she spiraled past him, hooking young Eleanor under the arm and dragging her along. Her younger sister appeared almost too nervous for words in her bright blue gown, her dark hair piled high atop her head. Charlotte cupped her face reassuringly.

“I got rather carried away with some writing, brother dearest, though I’m not surprised the concept of creative passion is lost on you,” she quipped. “How are you, darling?” she asked her sister, who looked like she could be sick at any moment.

Matthew walked toward the vestibule, snatching his hat from a footman. “It’s the first ball of the Season. How do you think she is faring?”

“I’m not sure I want to attend,” Eleanor moaned. Her dark blue eyes were full of worry, and Charlotte felt her heart feel for her sister. Her sister had attended only four balls since her debut and was fostering a wallflower’s reputation. “What if no one wants to speak with me?”

“That’s what Matthew is for,” Charlotte said, then shot a look at her brother. She was struck by how much he looked like their father in his hat and redingote, with his chestnut hair and hooked nose, albeit thirty years younger. “Is that not right, Matthew?”

Matthew tutted and pulled out his pocket watch. “I suppose. Now would you please—” he groaned and gestured for the doors. “Father is probably driving himself mad inside the carriage. You know how his humors are, as of late,” he added with a pointed look towards Charlotte.

She had to restrain herself from sticking out her tongue at him. He left the two Fitzroy sisters alone, and the vestibule felt suddenly lighter for his departure.

“I really don’t want to attend if I’ll only have our brother for company,” Eleanor murmured. Charlotte had to hold in a laugh. The evening was already turning out to be a lesson in self-control. “I must find a man to dance with. I simply must!”

Charlotte slipped her arms into her cape and shook her head. She tried to remember what life was like at six-and-ten, but the memory of those years was only stained with grief from the passing of their mother. She shook the thought away and held out her hand.

“You are the funniest, sweetest, silliest thing,” she lilted, and her sister seemed to calm. “You owe nothing to no one. Not a dance, nor a smile, and certainly not a match. Enjoy the evening for what is it, as a diamond or a wallflower—it matters not. They will look at you. And if they don’t, we shall make them look.”

Eleanor looked up at her, a little less crestfallen than before. “How can you be so hopeful?”

Charlotte stilled and brought her sister’s gloved hands to her mouth. “A little dreaming, a little pretending,” she confessed, and the girls sighed cheerfully before stepping outside.

Chapter Two

As Benjamin glanced around the grand hall of Rector’s Hall, he decided there was nothing more loathsome than a London party. Perhaps he was being too sweeping with his statement, too sentimental. After all, this was the largest party of this kind he had ever attended—and it was, for lack of a better phrase, utterly overwhelming.

Even for a gentleman of his caliber.

He was no true gentleman, of course—he didn’t have the complexion for it, nor the leisure. Not that it mattered. The lords in attendance couldn’t see beyond the tips of their noses, which were colored red not by sun, but by overindulgence; the ladies fluttering their eyelashes behind their brilliant-dappled fans.

The room was draped from top to bottom with red silk tapestries and ribbons, most likely left over from Christmastide just passed. Chains of ivy had been fastened to the beams, running from the musicians’ balcony at one end of the room to the other. Glass chandeliers sparkled overhead, matched only in their luster by the twinkling of crystal glasses on the refreshment tables.

Every inch of the place was colored gold with wealth, making Benjamin sick to his stomach.

The guests had been called to the ballroom, but no dancing seemed to be underway—for which he thanked his lucky stars. A few ladies had shot him wary, curious glances with a touch of desire in them too. He supposed he did look fairly handsome, catching a sidelong glimpse at his reflection in a nearby set of windows. His double-breasted suit was darkly opulent; his cravat a dazzling white. He had swept back his dark, unruly hair, and his sideburns had been shaved to a point along his jaw.

Despite all this, not a single chaperoning mother had sought to make introductions, and Benjamin had never felt more relieved for his lack of fancy friends.

Still, he had found himself trapped in conversation, by an acquaintance of a friend of the host, Lord Singberry, or some such thing—his wife had extended Benjamin an invitation. The man’s name was Pollock—Mr. Rafael Pollock—whose father was a baron and mother a Spanish heiress. He seemed almost as uncomfortable as Benjamin, clutching his glimmering glass of punch for dear life. He was speaking with another man, who slurred his name so badly that Benjamin had no chance of understanding it. And the topic of discussion was Benjamin’s second favorite thing: money. Since the first was his own self.

“…which is why,” the drunken lord drawled, “it is most unwise to overhaul plots the tenants have tended to for generations. Really, you would think your father knew this, Pollock. He’s in no situation to act the philanthrope now.”

Pollock was visibly disquieted by the man’s rambling, and Benjamin had to mask his amusement. “I will be sure to relay your advice, my lord, but my father is not so destitute as you think. He owns half of Milchester—and some farms further out.”

“A burgh like Milchester is hardly worth the trouble. A money pit is what it is,” he further slurred. What remained of the man’s blonde hair, all three stands of it, wafted in the breeze from an open window close by—the night was unusually mild for January. “No, the way I see it, you should do ol’ Milly a favor and do as he did.”

“Which is to say?” Pollock mumbled.

“Marry a woman with twice your wealth and pump her full of heirs.” The pot-bellied lord let out a most vulgar laugh, sloshing his drink about and doubling over.

Pollock hopped back, his dark eyes narrowing in disgust. Doubtless, he would have sprung further away had the man’s grip not been a vice on his shoulder. “Really, Lord Butland, the ladies will start to look.”

“All the better, for catching a wife,” the drunkard—Butland, Benjamin noted with a discreet snap of his fingers—laughed some more. He shot back up, wiping his eyes. “Ah, but fat chance you’ve got of bagging a wife with this pretty cad standing next to you.” Butland turned, and Benjamin leveled the man a look that cautioned him against speaking. He spoke anyway, “So, what it is you do?”

Benjamin sucked in a breath. The last thing he needed was for people to start looking over. He would need to subdue the man. Quickly. “I write,” he declared, with a sweep of his hands.

The lord blanched. “You what?”

“I write,” he repeated. “Things,” he added less convincingly.

“Are lords in the business of writing things these days?” Butland pressed. Beside him, Pollock was clearly relieved to have escaped his interest, wiping away a cast-off drop of liquid from the lapel of his jacket.

Benjamin breathed a laugh. “I can assure you, I am no lord.”

“Our friend is one of the writers Lady Singberry invited as part of the recital,” Pollock explained offhandedly, then seemed to curse himself as Butland turned back to him. “I believe. I’m sure the man knows more of himself than I do,” he added, throwing Benjamin back to the wolves.

“Right, right,” Butland mouthed. “Are you any good, sir?”

“Oh, I’m the best.”

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Prologue

It had been years since Thomas had been around such revelry and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. Smiling faces, laughter, and sweet wine were always welcome, of course, but his soul felt remarkably… unsettled. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t slept well the night before, or maybe it had something to do with the eyes that lingered on him for moments too long. Just as Thomas’ pulse quickened and his breathing dared to hitch, he reminded himself that the day wasn’t about him. His gaze panned to the couple of the hour: his brother, Anthony, and his wife, Isabel. How perfect they looked… The epitome of happiness and resilience.

After all, it had to have taken a great deal of tenacity on both parts to bring those two back together. Anthony had been so heartbroken…

A firm hand gripped Thomas’ shoulder. He snatched it back and began to turn instinctively. The owner of the hand rumbled a warm laugh, and he looked up to see Isabel’s father looming over him.

“Didn’t mean to give you a fright, dear boy,” the Duke of Radford assured him. “Only wanted to say, hello and thank you for coming. Wonderful luck of yours, to have arrived home just in time for your brother’s wedding.”

Luck had nothing to do with it, Thomas mused internally, though even he could see that the timing had been at least serendipitous. Still, the youngest Moore put on the same polite smile that he had been forcing all week, and gave a seated bow to the Duke. “I am thankful to have arrived for such an occasion. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The Duke chuckled and patted his shoulder carefully before saying in a lower, softer tone, “And thank you for your service, Lord Thomas. Who would have ever thought one of the Moore boys would become a war hero?” The laughter of the man grew louder, sounding from his belly before it dissipated with ease. “It’s good to have you home.”

Off the Duke walked, but his words and their meaning festered inside of Thomas’ chest. He knew better than to think that the Duke had meant anything other than kindness and warmth to him, but Thomas had only been back in London for a few days, and he already tired of the gratitude and smiles.

It was an awful thing to think, an ungrateful thing, too—but it didn’t make it any less true. As much as the people could mean it, certainly wanted to mean it, none of them really did. Not a one of them understood what he was coming back from. It wasn’t as though he blamed them—he couldn’t.

When Thomas left at six-and-ten for military service, he hadn’t any real idea what he was signing up for. Even after years of reading all he could about battles and strategy or training his body to be at peak performance. Thomas had gone into war a boy and had returned a man. Everything else was up for speculation. Decorated Sergeant, the honorary title of Lord bestowed upon him by his father upon his arrival. Hero.

A bout of laughter, rising and falling like waves at sea, brought him out of his sardonic thoughts. He forced a light smile to pretend as though he had been paying attention. It was then that Thomas knew he needed some fresh air. It was his brother’s wedding, after all; now wasn’t the time, nor the place, to get sucked into such self-centered rumination.

And yet, as he stood and found himself instantly having to shift his weight onto his cane, Thomas couldn’t help but feel alone amidst the crowded ballroom. Even though he longed to run for the door and find a spot in Isabel’s beautiful gardens to relax and center himself, he couldn’t.

As he gradually hobbled his way outside, and the joyous sounds of the wedding grew softer behind him, Thomas wondered what civilian life would hold in store for a man like him.

Chapter One

Messy, nonsensical, tedious—all words that Phoebe’s sister, Ruth, had used to describe her painting. It might annoy anyone else, but it only made Phoebe chuckle. The sisters, though only two years apart, couldn’t be more different. Especially on days such as this. Spring was finally upon them! The fair season had appeared and then vanished rather suddenly a few weeks ago, but it was finally back. It was warm outside, with a gentle and inviting breeze. The sky was showing her lovely face, colored blue, and the wildflowers next to the Tulk home were in bloom.

How could Ruth stay indoors on such a marvelous day? Her sister was no doubt still flitting room to room, preparing for the arrival of her husband’s dearest friend. Napkins, tea selections, menus, centerpieces, and any other indiscernible detail that no man would ever notice was being agonized over. Even though Phoebe knew better than to interfere, she had been ordered to stay away. That was no matter, as she didn’t much tolerate party planning anyway. Besides, she couldn’t think of a better way to spend a day as beautiful as this one than painting on the patio.

“Can I get you anything, Lady Phoebe?”

She peered over to the maid with a slight smile. “I think some tea would be wonderful. Thank you, Margaret.”

The maid bowed her head in respect and walked inside. In the brief moment the door was open, Phoebe could hear Ruth talking a mile a minute, an anxious edge to her voice. Then the door was closed and all was well again. Her eyes returned to her canvas; there was a pale blue pigment smoothed across most of it, and splotch by splotch, Phoebe was adding a darker shade to blend into the pale base. Her goal was to capture the exact blue of the sky.

As silly as it was, the day had a funny quality to it that she wanted to capture forever. She couldn’t describe it in words, knowing only that the day would be important somehow. Perhaps it would simply be one of those warm, blissful days that she would look back on for years to come; or maybe the ebb and flow of her life was destined to change irrevocably, and this was one last moment of normalcy.

Margaret returned with her tea before she was called away inside to help Ruth. It was no matter—Phoebe wasn’t really in the mood for idle chatter. Even though it had been a couple of years since she had begun living with Ruth and her husband after her parents had died, Phoebe wasn’t particularly close to any of the staff. They liked her just fine, and she liked them just the same, but there wasn’t any intimacy between them. Not enough to discuss aught else than the weather or scheduling, anyway.

Loneliness was a word that could be used to describe the state of her life, but she shied away from such harsh observations. Instead, she did her best to fill her time with hobbies. Like painting.

After a little while, the blue was perfect. When she held her head down to stare at the edge of the canvas against the sky, there was trivial difference between the two colors. With pride in her heart, Phoebe quickly mixed together green, blue, white, yellow, and a smidgeon of black to make the perfect shade of green for the grass. Using the flat of the paint spatula, she dabbed the color onto the canvas and then haphazardly spread it about.

While it was said that art was made in the details, Phoebe found more fun in the mess and playfulness of her endeavors. There would always need to be a certain level of care when painting, she knew, but there was a chaotic freedom in composing base layers that she adored. It didn’t matter which way she dragged the brush or spatula: every line, swirl, and scrape would be smoothed into one mass and detailed over into something new and special. There was beauty in that process.

Phoebe was in her own little world by the time she had begun adding fluffy white blotches to the blue expanse. Once she had added some more color and shading, they would look like clouds. For right then, she wanted to capture the colors and placement of everything. Her eyes went to the field and studied the way the flowers moved in the tall grass. If her sister was not so attached to etiquette and decorum, Phoebe would have loved to lie in that field. She was quite certain she could remain on the grass, among the flowers, and watch the clouds from dawn to dusk; even later, she could stay and count the stars. However, Ruth would not consider lying in the dirt ladylike, and Phoebe was not in the mood to get under her sister’s skin.

Standing back to admire her work, she was satisfied with her color-matching and outlines. It didn’t look like much yet, but it would serve as an excellent foundation for the rest of the painting.

“Your eye for color never disappoints,” a soft purr of a voice called from behind her.

Phoebe didn’t have to turn her head to know who it was. Her sister’s husband, Earl Ralph Tulk. Even though it shouldn’t, her heart skipped a beat and perhaps a few more after that. As naturally as she could, Phoebe turned to look at him. Her lips betrayed her, a wide and girlish smile spreading across her face. “Good day, Lord Meridown.”

He was as becoming as the first bloom in spring. Tousled, raven hair that contrasted ever so perfectly with his eyes, as cool and deep as a river. Chiseled jaw, perfectly sloped nose, and skin that held the slight olive tone of his ancestors.

How lucky Ruth is to have married a man as handsome and kind as Ralph!

The Earl chuckled at Phoebe, the sort of soft and polite laughter she imagined royalty to have. “Please, Phoebe. We are family, after all! Call me Ralph, don’t make me ask you again.”

A deep blush came over her cheeks. She knew it was within reason to call him Ralph, and she didn’t really understand why his formal address always passed her lips. Perhaps it was out of respect, since she lived with the couple; maybe it was merely habit, since he had been in her life before he and her sister were formally wed. In the pit of her stomach, Phoebe had a feeling it was because calling him by his first name felt too personal. Especially when she felt the way she did about him.

“Y-yes, Ralph,” Phoebe stammered, her smile somehow managing to widen even more.

“Much better,” he approved and took a few more paces forward. Those gorgeous blues of his were scanning her face, narrowed for close examination. Phoebe forced herself to swallow the lump that was growing in her throat as she tried to ignore it—or at least, to not show it was there. Once more, he chuckled and shook his head lightly. “Are you always so nervous, Phoebe?”

Only around you.

Phoebe shrugged and turned back to her painting. “I was lost in thought, I fear. You startled me a bit.”

There were footsteps behind her, and a tingle traveled down her spine at the feeling of him standing mere inches from her. “I’m afraid you always seem as nervous as a little hare, Phoebe. Though, I suppose there are kinder things one might compare you to.” The Earl’s hand gently rested on her shoulder, and Phoebe had to remind herself again and again that he viewed her as nothing more than a sister. His friendliness was only that—friendly. No matter how much her mind longed to make his little touches and their brief, private conversations mean something—well, it didn’t make it so. “Absolutely beautiful,” he breathed.

With wide eyes, she peered up at him and saw his gaze was not on her. He was looking at her painting. Shaking her head, Phoebe cleared her throat and said, “I’ve only the base of it so far. Nothing special.”

“It may only be the base,” he began, his eyes flickering to Phoebe, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not special. I see a great deal of talent on that canvas, dear Phoebe. Technique, vision, creativity!” The amount of gusto behind his words made her giggle, and he smiled down at her with gentle fondness. “I have yet to see anything you have done that isn’t special. And I won’t hear a word otherwise.”

“Yes, Lord— Ralph.”

He chuckled as he stepped away from her. “That’s my girl,” he cooed. Phoebe kept her eyes on the painting, attempting to collect both her breath and thoughts. She was always left an utter bumbling mess in the wake of Ralph. Her bones never failed to turn to jelly when he was around her, and her heart always took too long to recover its rhythm.

“Oh, Phoebe,” Ralph called. She spun around in an instant, her eyes wide and hands clasped in front of her. “I’d love to see the painting once it’s done. There’s never a bad time to see a work of beauty.”

As he opened the door and stepped inside, Ralph winked at her. Winked! It took all of her determination to remain composed as he slipped inside. “Oh my,” she whispered to herself, a hand going to her chest in an attempt to calm her beating heart. A wink from Ralph was obviously nothing—a friendly, even brotherly gesture. Despite the lack of crime, guilt festered in her stomach. Then again, she shouldn’t be feeling such things for her sister’s husband.

Had she only seen what she wanted to? Turning back to her painting, Phoebe chewed on her lip nervously. “As one might interpret a work of art…” She sighed. Perhaps he had not winked at her at all.

Chapter Two

With one hand firmly gripped on the railing and the other carrying his cane, Thomas made the slow and arduous journey down the stairs of his parents’ house. He had been home for a couple of weeks by then, but he had rarely left his room. At first, he had secluded himself to catch up on some much-needed rest; then, to reminisce about his childhood room; and then, it was simply because he hadn’t any clue how to spend his time as a man of leisure anymore.

And, if he were honest with himself, Thomas loathed the stairs. It was equal parts painful and humiliating to hobble his way down one step at a time. He wouldn’t say a word, however. Even though it would be obvious to anyone who witnessed him, Thomas simply didn’t have it in him to voice how much he was struggling with the simplest of tasks.

As he neared the landing, he reminded himself just how far he had come already. It had been almost a year since he had first injured his leg during the Battle of Waterloo, and during the first couple of months of recovery, he couldn’t so much as stand—let alone walk. The physicians had told him there was hope that he would one day regain all control over his leg, but Thomas hadn’t held his breath on such a thing occurring.

The lord stopped once on the bottom floor and took in a deep, relieved breath. Never would a man that had spent years in the King’s cavalry thought the little things, such as getting down a flight of stairs, would be a moment of victory. Yet, there he was. Shaking his head, he sighed and headed toward the dining room. His father hadn’t been in his study that morning, so he assumed he was having breakfast. Thomas didn’t need to talk to him about anything in particular; he just needed some company.

Being alone is a new feeling… I’m used to my comrades at my side every moment of the day. Even at hospital, we were always together.

The brave face he managed to muster faltered a little when he rounded the corner to see there were already a couple of strange men sitting at the table with his father. However, they stood almost immediately and announced that they should be going. His father looked remarkably unbothered, muttering goodbyes as he stirred his tea. The two men, who were beginning to look vaguely familiar to Thomas, dashed toward the door. But as  they approached the youngest Moore, they bowed politely and shook Thomas’s free hand.

“Thank you for your service, dear boy,” one said before hurrying off.

“What an honor it is to have a hero in our midst!” the other remarked before following the first.

Thomas’s smile was tight then, but he tried not to show his displeasure beyond that. Walking over to the table, he sat across from his father and began pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Good to see you up and about this morning, Thomas,” his father complimented. “How are you feeling?”

It wasn’t meant to be a loaded question, he didn’t think, but it weighed heavily on him. How was he feeling about being out of the military? Was he coping with no longer being a soldier but being praised for it? What about his leg and whether he was adjusting to being crippled?

“I’m all right,” Thomas landed on replying before he studied his father. “How are you?”

Even though he was certain his father would give the same sort of temperate response, there was no hiding the fact that the years seemed to be catching up with the Duke. Of course, there were the telltale signs of age that had appeared since Thomas had departed for the military. Gray hair, fine lines about his face, and the odd liver spot or two. And while he still had a plumpness to his form, there was something… frail about his appearance. It was almost as if his skin itself looked breakable. His face was a permanent shade of pink, the area about his eyes was swollen, and his hair had thinned. The qualities of his father he had once seen in his own reflection were muted and distorted with age and illness.

His mother had told Thomas upon his return that his father hadn’t been well, but she hadn’t gone into detail. Something about the way she had phrased things told him he wouldn’t be getting any details—not out of her, at least. Whether it was to protect Thomas from a nasty truth or to protect his father’s dignity, he could not say.

“I can’t complain,” his father chuckled, though it developed into a cough. He withdrew a handkerchief to cover his mouth, and once the fit was over, he tucked it away and looked back to his son. “I am glad you have joined me with morning. There are some things that I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

“Very well,” Thomas nodded before sipping his coffee. How wonderful coffee is! A truly fine treat—I have missed it so. “What is on your mind?”

The Duke folded his hands on top of the table and cleared his throat. “I want you to take the news I am about to tell you in stride, dear boy. I want you to remember that you are always welcome here at this house for a meal or bed, no matter the time of day,” he began. “However… I have arranged a townhome for you in London. I think it only right for a grown man to have a place to call his own. It shall be ready tomorrow morning. Know that it will have all of the basic furnishings, as well as some staff for you. It is yours to do with as you please, but I wanted to make certain that you had everything you needed to get started in life.”

“That’s very gracious of you, Thank you, Father,” Thomas replied with a dip of his head. Internally, he was edging toward panic. While, of course, it was a wonderful gesture for his father to have put in so much thought and effort, Thomas simply didn’t feel ready to be on his own. The thoughts and memories would surely close in on him and swallow him whole. It was one thing to stow away in his room upstairs, and another entirely to live alone. His throat tightened at the thought.

The Duke of Mondale nodded slowly and gave a gentle smile. “While I haven’t gone into service myself, I have known many men who have returned from battles less bloody than the ones you have seen. I cannot personally imagine how hard the transition back into society must be, but I can certainly sympathize. With your permission, of course, I do have some further suggestions and paths in the works for you.”

Thomas was genuinely moved. Many people had spoken words of gratitude and admiration, but it was the first time someone had been honest in saying they couldn’t imagine being in his position. And it was only made better by his father offering to take such heavy burdens off of his shoulders by taking charge of Thomas’s entrance back into society. “I am most grateful,” he breathed. “That means a lot to me, Father. Thank you, again.”

“Not another word of thanks,” the Duke smiled and then sipped his beverage. “I don’t wish to overwhelm you all at once, so most things can wait for another day. For now, I have arranged a dinner party for you. You do remember the Earl of Meridown, do you not?”

His face brightened at the mention of his old, dear friend. A true smile stretched his lips then. “Do I remember the Earl of Meridown? Ralph Tulk?” he repeated in humor. “He was only my best sparring partner for the better half of my formative years. And the greatest pain in my side when it came to debating politics.”

The Duke laughed and nodded. “Very good. Well, I have been in correspondence with him, and we have arranged for you to join him and his family at his country estate tonight for supper. The coachmen have been informed and will take you this evening. Be ready by six.”

“Wonderful.” Thomas grinned. “It will be a delight to see an old friendly face. I wonder how he has been all these years.”

“You will find out for yourself,” the Duke replied in kind.

Thomas longed to thank his father for such sentiment put into those plans, but he knew better than to utter words after being told not to. Besides, his mother had warned him not to even so much as agitate him, as it would make him poorly. He did his best to brush those thoughts away. After making a mental note to ask one of his brothers about it in the morning, Thomas put his focus on looking forward to the dinner he would have with Ralph.

Had he and Ruth married? Was he leading his earldom well? And was he still a sore loser? Thomas chuckled and finally began making a plate for himself. For the first time in quite a while, he had a bit of an appetite. He savored his breakfast, made small talk with his father, and held onto the flicker of hope for a normal life that had sparked in his chest. He wasn’t under any foolish idea that life would be easy for him, but perhaps with family and friends, a hard life could still be a happy one.

Whether he still deserved a happy life, however, he could not quite decide.

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

My beloved.

I trust that you are well… Ah, I could go on rambling, trying to find myself an excuse for writing, but there is none. Truthfully, there is no reason for this letter other than to say that I miss you. Alas, I set eyes upon my coat, which had just been cleaned and returned to my chambers, and it reminded me of how it looked around your bare shoulders that first night as I tasted your lips on a balcony.

Of course, this in turn led me to think of many other things, starting with your eyes, sparkling like sapphire jewels as you smiled at me, letting me in your window. I know it has only been a few nights since then, but can you blame me? I am a man lost to your charms. I find myself longing for your kiss again… No matter how many times your soft lips succumb to mine, it could never be enough.

It has been too long, my lover. I wish to hold you close once again… to feel the softness of your skin against mine, without our clothes to bar me from my fill of you. I catch myself at many points in the day, dreaming about your breasts and how your back arches when I bring my lips to them. It is with great effort that I am able to put thoughts of you aside for even a moment. How loathsome it is that we must run around like this, as though ashamed of our love. I cannot wait to hold you in the open… Perhaps then I would not need to write letters such as these, detailing how bereft I feel when you are not here.

Alex.

Alexander Mannfield put his quill down. The letter he had just finished stared back at him, a mirror showing just how infatuated he had become. Heat bloomed slightly on his face from embarrassment as he watched the ink dry on his penmanship. I am absolutely being led by the nose here, am I not? His thoughts put a wry smile on his face.

It was one thing to realize it and another entirely to want to do anything about it. He knew that he was much more taken by Isabella Levingston than she was by him, but he did not mind at all. He still counted the days until he could see her again; and did silly things like sending her a frothy letter because he saw a coat that reminded him of her.

Sighing to himself, he folded the letter up, preparing it to be sent. Before he could convince himself to change his mind, he rang the bell in his room, calling for his valet to collect and deliver his message. It did not take long before his call was answered. However, when he looked up, it was not the valet but the old butler who had come.

A concerned frown settled on Alexander’s face from the surprise. “Baldwin? Why are you here?” he asked.

“Why, I am responding to your call Master Alex,” Baldwin said.

“Why would you respond to my call? You are to be resting Baldwin!” The old butler had served the Mannfield family for two generations already, with Alexander being the third. Recently, his eyes had begun to fail him, signaling that it was time he retire. He was immediately relieved of most of his duties and made to focus on training his understudy to replace him. Baldwin was an important member of their family, to the point where he had practically raised Alexander, so of course everyone wanted to pamper him. Despite their efforts, Baldwin, who had been busy all his life, did not know how to rest.

Baldwin had the grace to look sheepish. “Master Alex, I have been resting all day. This is nothing,” he said.

Alexander folded his arms over his chest. “Well, you should not have come anyway, I wanted to speak to Barnaby.”

“Oh, you must not have heard it yet. After he helped you dress this morning, Barnaby received a letter from his sister saying his mother had an apoplexy. He asked the Baron for permission and left in a hurry,” Baldwin said.

Alexander’s eyes widened in shock. Barnaby was his valet, and just that morning he had been asking him if he missed his family yet as the young man helped him put his clothes on. The thought of something happening to Barnaby’s mother worried him greatly. “An apoplexy you say? That is terrible! I can imagine how anxious he must have been when he left. I hope she is alright…”

“Indeed, we all do. The Baron made sure he had enough money to see a physician; a most generous extension of aid,” Baldwin said, seeming proud of Alexander’s father. “What did you needed him for?”

“I was going to have him deliver a letter for me,” Alexander said, waving it off as nothing. It was not as though the letter was truly urgent anyway.

“Why not have the footman deliver it instead?” Baldwin asked.

Alexander shook his head. “No, I think it best not… the contents are rather… sensitive.” His cheeks warmed again, making it obvious to Baldwin, who knew of his relationship, the contents of the letter.

“My, my, Master Alex, I am sure I told you before to be careful of the liberties you take with the young Miss Levingston,” Baldwin said, a trace of teasing in his voice.

“I never said the letter was for her,” Alexander said, struggling to hold back a smile.

“Oh please, young master I was not born yesterday,” Baldwin said, giving him a look. “Anyway, seeing the nature of the letter, I can deliver it for you in Barnaby’s place.”

Alexander refused immediately. “You shall do no such thing, Baldwin. I have told you that you should be resting! There is no way I am sending you on an errand.”

Baldwin waved a hand. “Pah. I might be blind as a bat, but I can still get things done easily! You all are overreacting! My bones will go brittle if I stay still.”

When Alexander did not budge, the old butler sighed. “Everyone is occupied, and I was going to deliver a letter to the butler of a neighboring estate during my daily walk anyway. I can just deliver the letter for you while I’m out on my own errands. How’s that?”

Alexander’s resolve cracked a bit. If he was already on his way out he could just drop the letter off. He had already accepted it in his mind.

Baldwin smiled at him as he took the plain envelope. “Do not worry, your secret is safe in my hands,” he joked.

Alexander could not help but return his warm smile. “Indeed. Just remember when you deliver it, to ask that the letter go straight to the young Miss and no one else.”

“Of course, Master Alex.” Baldwin bowed as he left.

Chapter One

It was a day like any other for Caroline Campbell. She was sitting in the drawing room of her family’s London house with her mother and three sisters after having breakfast. She was practicing her needlework. A most banal activity and one that was her least favorite, but her mother was sitting right in front of her, and she could not complain lest she got her ears filled with nagging and lectures.

Her sisters, Ann, Marjorie, and Alice were also practicing their needlework, with her mother paying special attention to Alice who was the youngest. Marjorie and Alice had yet to debut and in Caroline’s opinion were still free. She and Ann, however, were in the public eye and now had to watch themselves very carefully as the slightest error or incompetence could lead to their ruin.

“Caroline, look, I made a duck,” Ann whispered to her, showing her what she was needling.

Caroline looked over to see that her sister had sewn a grotesque duck onto the handkerchief she was needling. “That is the ugliest, yet most detailed duck I have ever seen in my life.”

Ann was the best at needling. She could make the most beautiful patterns and could recreate images as well, if she had the time. Recently, she had taken to needling images off the top of her head. Today it was a hideous duck. Their mother, who had them needling the gardenias in the center of the table, would not be pleased. Ann snickered, clearly pleased with herself.

Caroline was thinking of how their mother was going start ranting about how Ann could put her talents to better use again, when a knock disturbed them. She did not pay much attention when the butler came in because she figured she had no business with him; and though she had made her debut two seasons ago, no one came calling for her as she had no friends aside from her sister.

To her surprise, however, Carlisle handed her a letter. She looked up at the butler in surprise, but his expression was blank. The letter had no seal, recipient, or sender, leaving the exterior blank. Caroline, who was bored of needling and all too happy with the distraction, did not bother asking where the letter came from and dismissed Carlisle.

She glanced over at her mother, finding that she was engrossed in directing Alice and was not paying attention to Caroline. She opened the mysterious letter curiously, and after only reading the first line, she closed it again, her jaw falling open. ‘Beloved it says?! Have I gotten a letter meant for another?’

She already knew there was no way the letter was intended for her as she was no one’s beloved. She was still at loggerheads with her mother because she was not in the least bit interested in having a marriage set up for her and always ran the boorish men off. She wanted to marry only when she fell in love, so if she were to be anyone’s beloved, she would know of it.

She opened the letter again and read it through this time, her face contorting as she did. What manner of filth is this?! She could not keep the blush from her face. Ann, noticing that she was turning red, frowned in curiosity, and leaned over to see what she was blushing about. She let Ann see it, after all she was old enough, and her best friend.

Ann started to giggle almost immediately. “Around your bare shoulders?!” she whispered, quoting the letter as she tried to stifle her laughter.

Hearing the words from her sister’s mouth made Caroline’s face heat up even more. “I know! Who could even conceive such filth, not to mention having the boldness to write it?!” She whispered back to Ann who was almost falling apart in a fit of giggles.

“Frankly, I am more taken by the fact that he is climbing in through her windows to make her lips ‘succumb’ to his,” Ann said, keeping her voice low as she wiggled her eyebrows.

“Stop!” Caroline scolded in hushed tones, pressing a hand to her sister’s face, and pushing her away.

The snickering Ann dodged her hand and leaned in close again. “I for one think it is romantic. Although they are having a scandalous affair right now, he seems to want to make an honest woman of her.”

Caroline reread it again and saw that Ann was right. Although he was filthy, he did seem like a man truly in love. Her gaze dropped to the last line of the letter where there was finally a signature. Alex… I wonder who it is. Perhaps a commoner? No, if he were a commoner, he would not even dream of marrying this lady who is clearly a noble since he needs to sneak in through her window.

Her sister leaned in again, interrupting her thoughts. “Do you reckon that when he says, ‘hold you out in the open’ he means for them to frolic naked on their estate?” Ann whispered.

Caroline, who was tired of her sister’s misbehavior, forgot their mother was there, and smacked her face with the letter. Ann leaned back, also forgetting herself and letting out a cackle.

“Girls.” Their mother’s voice brought them back to reason in an instant. Lady Campbell stared at them with murderous intent. “Let me see that. Just what is causing such foolish behavior.”

Caroline stared at her mother’s outstretched hand, not wanting to give her the letter for how embarrassing it was. Lady Campbell did not wait for her to decide and reached over the table to snatch the letter from Caroline’s hand.

Caroline exchanged a glance with Ann as their mother read the letter, and Ann had the grace to look apologetic. Their mother reacted just as they thought she would. With dramatics.

“Ann, Marjorie, Alice. Give us the room.” The girls could not defy their mother and Ann mouthed an apology to her sister as she led the younger girls out of the drawing room.

“Caroline.” Lady Campbell clutched her chest in horror, fanning her face as though faint. “Caroline, are you trying to ruin our family name?!”

“Mother-” Caroline spoke knowing she would be cut off.

“Caroline who is this Alex you have been allowing to sneak in your window at night?!” Lady Campbell thundered.

“Mother! How could you think that of me?!” Caroline was offended.

“With all the rubbish you spew about your lofty and strange expectations of marriage, can you blame me? How do I know you have not begun some ill-fated relationship in the name of ‘love’?” her mother said.

“With how you direct my everyday life, I wonder how I’d find the opportunity.” Caroline crossed her arms over her chest. “I have not been letting anyone in my window and I know no man by that name. I am sure there has been a mistake in the delivery of the letter.”

“A mistake? The letter says, ‘eyes sparkling like sapphire jewels,’ you have blue eyes!” her mother said exasperatedly.

“Well, they are not sapphire!” It was true, Caroline’s eyes were a sky blue that was almost green.

Her mother was not impressed. She summoned Carlisle while Caroline massaged her forehead tiredly. She knew better than to get involved in any type of scandal. She was already in enough trouble for continuously rejecting the advances of the men who came calling for her hand in marriage.

“Yes, Madame?” The butler returned to the drawing room.

Her mother wasted no time asking. “Where did you get this letter?” She held the offending sheet of paper up.

“The old butler from the Mannfield estate brought it personally and insisted that I give it directly to the young lady of the house. I simply assumed he meant Miss Caroline as she is the oldest.” Carlisle responded. He looked over at Caroline when she snorted with laughter. “Is there a problem?”

Lady Campbell seemed deep in thought. “No, you may leave.”

“See, mother? I told you it was a mistake. If it is the Mannfield estate, then ‘Alex’ is certainly Alexander Mannfield. I have never spoken to that man in my life. I haven’t even gotten a proper look at him,” Caroline said with a chuckle, thinking that things would be cleared up easily. “He was always quiet and distant at balls. I suppose we know why now.”

She had said that last part playfully, thinking that the next line of conversation would be gossip on who the true recipient of the letter was supposed to be. She was wrong. Her mother jumped to her feet, not looking any less concerned.

“Your father needs to see this,” Lady Campbell said.

A frown wrinkled Caroline’s brow as her mother stood up, rushing toward the door. “Wait, you want to tell father? This is much too trivial an issue to bother father with-” she began to say, but her words were cut short as her mother left her in the drawing room, the door slamming shut with a finality.

…..

Two days had passed since he sent his love letter and Alexander was still thinking about Isabella. He hoped at the very least that his letter had made her smile. Isabella was not exactly forthcoming with her replies, if she ever replied at all, so he was not waiting for a response, only imagining her reaction. Though she often did not respond to his letters, she always let him know how much she enjoyed them whenever she did meet him.

They had been meeting once a sennight for the past few months, and it was more recently that their interactions took on a more carnal nature. Perhaps that was why Alexander had become so obsessed, but then how could he not be? Isabella was a dream in the sheets. The fact that she was somehow more experienced than him did not bother him in the slightest when she showed him new ways to please her, and new ways she could please him with every encounter. She was naturally gifted despite him being her first lover as she was his. They were just so compatible and as creative as she was, their lovemaking was never boring.

Now that he thought about it, they barely spent any time talking anymore. The past four meetings since the first time they slept together, had been spent lost in each other’s bodies. I wonder if she minds… usually she initiates it, so I would think not…

He was supposed to be looking over reports of the taxes in the Mannfield’s lands and comparing them to the harvest, a duty he was given in preparation for when he would become Baron. Instead, he was daydreaming about Isabella. Perhaps that was why he jumped when there was a sudden knock on his door.

“Yes, do come in.” He shuffled the reports on his desk, making it look like he had been doing what he was supposed to.

“Young Master Alex,” the footman, Oliver, said, poking his head in through the door before coming in. “A letter for you from Lord Campbell. I was told to relay that the message is urgent and they expect you immediately.”

Alexander took the letter from Oliver with great confusion and dismissed him. The Campbells were not a family he was acquainted with. He had heard of their daughter, Caroline, who was said to be quite the beauty and had a habit of breaking the hearts of the young men who sought her hand. Word went around that her standards were high. He was in a relationship with Isabella, however, so he did not take much interest in the gossip.

He wondered what business they had with him as he read the letter and found that it was a summons from the Lord. If this were a business call, would he not reach out to my father and not me?

Alexander was confused, but he was also too polite to ignore the invitation which, quite frankly, seemed more like a summons. It was strange that the Lord would summon him like this. He wanted to find out what was going on, so he did as the letter asked and went to the Campbell house. It seemed they had been waiting for him. As soon as he arrived, their butler, a middle-aged serious man, took him to the Lord’s study.

Alexander could not help feeling a bit worried when he stepped into the office and found both the Lord and Lady Campbell staring at him. The Lady, standing beside her husband, looked even more intense, as though he had done something wrong.

“The Honorable Alexander Mannfield,” the Lord said.

Alexander bowed in greeting. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Campbell. I received your summons and came as fast as I could, but I admit that I am confused by the sudden call.”

Lady Campbell sniffed at that and threw her nose in the air. For some reason… this does not seem to be a friendly call…

“You are confused? So not once did it occur to you when you were sending my daughter that illicit letter, or as the letter suggests, meeting her secretly, did you think that you would end up in this situation?” the Lord asked, barely masking his anger.

Alexander blinked in confusion. “Meeting? With all due respect, Lord Campbell, but I have never met any one of your daughters out in the open, not to mention secretly. I have never sent them any letters either. So yes, I am indeed confused,” he said, being firm but also respectful.

The Lord reached into a drawer in his desk and smacked a familiar letter on the table. “Are you saying this letter was not written by you? Your family butler came here insisting that this be delivered directly to the young lady of the house.

Picking up the letter, which was meant to have gone to Isabella, Alexander immediately understood what had happened. There was no way he could have suspected that anything went wrong. If the Campbells had not summoned him, he might never have discovered the error, unless he mentioned it to Isabella when he met her next. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a tired sigh. Oh Baldwin, what have you done?

“My deepest apologies, Lord Campbell.” Alexander bowed again and put the letter back on the table. “I did write this letter, but it was by no means meant for your daughter. Forgive me, but I cannot state the intended recipient’s name in order to protect her reputation.”

“If the letter was not meant for Caroline, then how did it end up here?” the older man asked, bemused.

“It is an unfortunate mistake,” Alexander explained. “Our family butler, Baldwin, has served the Mannfields for two generations now and he is getting rather old. Recently, his sight began to fail him. We have relieved him of most of his duties, but that day there happened to be no one else I could send to deliver my message, due to its sensitive nature. I asked Baldwin to deliver my letter to my lover’s house. He knows who she is, so it is clear that he made a mistake coming here due to his condition. I am truly sorry for this.”

He saw relief flash over the Lord’s face. “Oh. I understand what happened now, although it is a rather ridiculous turn of events. That is good. I usually trust my daughter and know that she would not involve herself in scandals, but in matters between lovers, you never know,” he said.

Alexander nodded with a smile. He could imagine how the older man had felt. He almost laughed in relief himself. When he thought of being in a position such as this, he had imagined it would be if Isabella’s father caught on to what they were doing.  Who would have thought it would be due to a silly mistake?

The issue seemed to be over when Lady Campbell suddenly spoke. “It does seem ridiculous! So ridiculous that I do not believe it!”

Alexander turned to her in shock to find that she was glaring daggers at him. He winced. It made sense that the mother would be more incensed in a situation such as this, but Alexander knew he had nothing to do with her daughter, so he just wanted her to calm down and see the truth.

“Dear… as wild as it sounds, it is also plausible… besides, do not you think it is better that this blows over?” the Lord murmured to his wife.

“No. Even if it is plausible, he still sent a letter to an unmarried young woman, when he is not even engaged to her,” the woman said, throwing her nose in the air.

Alexander knew there was some truth to her words as that could also bring about a scandal, but it was not like anyone knew of it. It was not an issue as long as they blew over it quickly.

“There is already gossip among the servants of letters being exchanged between the two of them. People think they are courting! It is made even worse by the fact that he has shown up here to meet us today as though meeting his intended’s parents. It will be a scandal of immense proportions if this is not handled appropriately.” She glared at him.

Alexander was shocked, and to his credit, the Lord seemed just as surprised. “If I may ask, what would be an appropriate handling of the situation?”

Lady Campbell turned to him with a blank expression. “What are you talking about? Marriage of course.”

Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose, almost laughing from how awful it was. “Marriage?  I’m sure Miss Campbell is a lovely young woman, but I do not know her. How could I marry her when I already have a lover? Besides, I only came here because I was invited. Would it not be clear if that were explained?”

“Do not be naive. Explained? They will think any explanation we give is simply an excuse… a cover up. You know how the gossip mills of London run. I will not have my daughter be a laughingstock for your mistake,” the Lady said firmly.

Alexander looked to the Lord, hoping he would see reason, but Lord Campbell stood by his wife. “It is most unfortunate, but it seems this is the only way we can resolve this, given the circumstances. I understand your plight, but I cannot allow my daughter to be made a fool in social circles. I trust that you will make the responsible decision. I shall give you some time to do so on your own.”

The finality of the words hit Alexander like a ton of bricks. He was still finding it hard to come to terms with how quickly he had been cornered. Just an hour ago, he was still going about his life believing all was well. Now, in a matter of minutes, his future had become bleak.

“I… I should go… Perhaps we should continue this conversation another time,” he stammered. The Lord nodded, dismissing him, and Alexander could not get out of there fast enough. He was in such a hurry as he stepped out of the room, he bumped into someone who was standing just outside.

“Pardon me,” he said, steadying them by the arms to keep them from keeling over.  It was a woman standing no taller than his chest, and the skin of her upper arms where he grabbed felt so soft, he unconsciously loosened his grip lest he bruise her. He caught a glimpse of long, sandy blonde tresses, and the lightest blue eyes he had ever seen, before the lady took off in a mad dash and stowed herself in the closest room. He stood there for a moment with his hands still outstretched. She had moved so fast it almost made him dizzy.

Was that the Lady Caroline? He did not have time to consider this much longer as the butler appeared, followed by a group of older women who seemed to be Lady Campbell’s friends, who were being led inside. Their words quickly drew him out of his thoughts and returned him to the harsh present.

“Oh dear! I heard the gossip, but to think it was true that The Honorable Alexander Mannfield was Caroline’s intended!”

Chapter Two

Caroline’s heart was pounding in her chest as she leaned against the door of the drawing room she had escaped into. Her cheeks were red up to her ears, and her arms felt like they were on fire in the place where he had placed his hands. She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself, but it was futile. That was the best looking man I have set eyes on in my entire life!

She had sneaked up to the door of her father’s study, trying to listen in after Ann had told her that their parents had summoned Alexander Mannfield to the house. She did not feel too sorry for the man at first, as it was not her fault his letter had landed in her hands, but she wanted to know what her parents would tell him, since it involved her as well.

She did not like what she heard at all, and it seemed Alexander, who wanted to marry his lover, did not either. She had been furious, considering whether she should throw her dignity away and burst in there to make her outrage known, when the door had suddenly opened. His hands were so large, going all the way around her upper arm with ease. His eyes were an icy gray made even more stark by his dark locks. His voice, deep and polite, had rumbled in her chest, and set a strange feeling free in her guts.

She ran away like a coward, too shocked to process what she was feeling and still have rational words leave her mouth. It was better I left. I would have made a fool of myself for sure.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard voices in the hallway. She pressed her ear to the door just in time to hear Carlisle’s uncomfortable tone. “Ah, ladies, the drawing room is this way. It seems Sir Mannfield was just on his way out, shall we let him go? I’m sure he has a lot to do today,” the butler was saying. Caroline cocked her head to the side. We have visitors?

“Oh please, I’m sure he has time to greet us, we are friends of his soon-to-be mother-in-law after all!” a voice Caroline recognized to be Lady Silverstein said. Her face paled at that and the reverie from meeting Alexander vanished instantly, bringing her back to reality. She frowned as she heard the responding laughter from the other women. Why are mother’s friends talking as though I am betrothed to the man?

Caroline was not pleased at all, and from the sound of it, neither was Alexander Mannfield. “I am sure conversation with you lovely ladies would be wonderful, but I do really have to go.” He sounded like he was walking on broken glass. Caroline had to wince.

“That’s too bad, I would have loved to hear all about the wedding plans straight from the source. I’ll just have to hear it from Lady Campbell it seems,” Lady Silverstein said.

It seemed Alexander began to see himself out as Carlisle said, “Ah, Sir, let me walk you out.” His words were followed by hurried footsteps and then he added, “Ladies, please use the door in front of you. Lady Campbell will be with you soon.”

Caroline moved away from the doors just before they opened. The four women who stepped into the room all widened their eyes at the same time.

“Oh, hello Caroline, so you were in here,” Lady Silverstein greeted.

Caroline gave a courteous curtsy. “Hello. A pleasant morning, ladies,” she replied.

The women waved her greeting away and headed over to find themselves seats, chattering as they went. Caroline tightened her fist. “I could not help overhearing your conversation with Sir Alexander Mannifield. It seems you think that we are in a relationship and to be wed?” she said, allowing the latter end of her statement to become a question.

Four pairs of eyes turned to her blankly. “Indeed, it is not that we think so, but that it has become a well-known fact. Have you two not been exchanging love letters?” Lady Silverstein spoke for the group.

Caroline rushed to explain, a bit of desperation seeping into her voice, “No! No, we have not been sending each other love letters, it was just one time that I received a letter from him, and it was a mistake!”

The older women exchanged glances and giggled to each other. “Sweetheart you do not have to pretend to be innocent in front of us. We are not judging you for being a little naughty,” the raven-haired beauty, Lady Wittlesworth, said from beside Lady Silverstein.

“Indeed, there’s no harm in a little fun, especially when he is not taking advantage of you and is taking responsibility by marrying you. We are your mother’s friends dear, there is no need to keep up appearances in front of us,” Lady Silverstein added.

Caroline opened her mouth and closed it again. There was nothing she could say that would make them believe her now. This was the frightening power of the gossip mills. She could not help the frustration that flooded her. Pretend to be innocent?! Me?! As if I care about any of that! I cannot believe they think I’m lying!

Upset, she left the drawing room, not wanting to spend another second listening to the women assuming things about her and her nonexistent relationship with Alexander. How did the rumor even spread so far? It has only been a couple of days.

As she hurried off, she bumped into her mother who was heading for the drawing room. “Oh, Caroline, I did not know you were here.”

Caroline grabbed her mother’s hand and pulled her into the closest room which happened to be the library. “Oh dear, what do you want to talk about in such a hurry that you had to pull me like this?” Lady Campbell asked, brushing down her skirts as though they had been ruffled by the quick movement.

“Mother, I listened in on you and father’s conversation with Sir Mannfield earlier,” she said, to which a frown wrinkled her mother’s face.

“Eavesdropping? That is unbecoming of a lady, and you know it! I hope he did not see you,” the ever-proper Lady Campbell scolded, seeming to worry about how Caroline would come across to Alexander.

Caroline waved her hands in the air out of frustration. “That is not important right now! Why would you try to make Alexander Mannfield marry me? It is so clear that this whole situation was just a mistake, and more importantly, that he wants to marry his lover!”

Her mother gave her a blank look. “I do not see why we should care about that,” she said.

Caroline rolled her eyes. “Alright, then do you think you should care about your daughter, who only wants to marry for love? Did you consider how devastated I would feel if a marriage were forced upon me? And did you consider how badly I would do in a marriage with a man who loves another and as such, is not even open to loving me? He will probably hate me since he will see me as someone who took away his chance to be with the woman he loves.” She was truly devastated at the thought of such a marriage. Every time he looked at her, he would be reminded of the woman he could not be with. She shuddered at the thought.

Her mother did not share her worries. “Please, Caroline, whatever your relationship turns out to be, you two will get used to it. Besides, Alexander Mannfield seems like a gentleman. I do not think it possible that he will maltreat you.”

A frown settled between Caroline’s brows. “What about the other woman, mother? It is clear his lover expects to marry him. What is she to do if he marries me? Not only does she love him, she gave herself to him. Do you not care about that young woman’s pain?”

Her mother sighed. “It is indeed unfortunate, but we are not at liberty to think of others right now. Everyone is already aware of the correspondence between you both. What is a mother to do? Of course, you are to marry, there is no other solution,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“What do you mean everyone is aware? How could they have known? The content of the letter was only known to us and Sir Mannfield and I doubt he would want that information to go public. So how exactly did it happen?” Caroline voiced her questions. She did not see how they ended up in such a predicament so quickly.

“Leave it be, Caroline. Of what use would it be if you found out how the news got out? It will not change the fact that everyone knows, so stop asking these questions. That’s what happens when you encourage men to send you letters with such filthy words.” Lady Campbell sniffed, turning her nose up.

Caroline felt her anger rise at her mother’s words. She would not be blamed for something she had no control over, she was a victim in this situation after all. Her mother knew very well that she was innocent in this matter, yet she continued to avoid the truth. It made suspicion rise in Caroline’s mind. “Mother, you know that letter was not meant for me. You also know that I have never been in close contact with Sir Alexander until today when he showed up in our home, so you cannot blame me for what has happened. Now I need you to please answer my question, please mother,” she said.

Caroline watched her mother look everywhere but at her.  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you the reason why everyone knows of the letter, mother? Did you spread the rumors?”

Lady Campbell’s eyes widened at the direct question, and she made a show of being angry. “How can you accuse me of something like that, Caroline?” she asked, but her face held traces of guilt.

Caroline concluded that her mother was responsible for the spread of the news, as she watched her try to avoid the question. Seeing that Caroline wasn’t falling for it, she tried to leave the room to escape her daughter.

Caroline blocked her mother’s path, stopping her from leaving. “I will not let you leave until you tell me the truth, mother.”

“Fine, I did it. Is that what you want to hear? I circulated the rumors about a relationship between you and Sir Mannfield,” Lady Campbell finally admitted.

Caroline felt the shock run through her at her mother’s words. Although she had suspected her of spreading the rumors, her mother’s confirmation still filled her with betrayal. “How could you do this to me, mother? All I ever wanted was to find someone who would love me just as you and father love each other. Do you not want me to marry for love? Is that why you are trying to force me into a loveless marriage? Do you not…” she paused as her voice cracked. “Do you not want me to be happy?” she finished.

Lady Campbell appeared to be shocked at her daughter’s outburst, and Caroline could see her eyes cloud a bit with uncertainty, but she ultimately pushed it away, her expression hardening again. Caroline could feel a pain in her heart at her mother’s actions. She fought to stop the tears that threatened to spill, her mother’s next words making it harder.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic Caroline. I am your mother, of course, I want you to be happy. Why do you think I am doing all of this? Sir Mannfield will be a baron someday and he will have all he needs to make you happy. Soon you will have children of your own and they will fill you with joy. All I ever wanted was to find you and your sisters suitable husbands. It does not matter if you do not love him now, you will learn to love and respect him after you marry.” The words came to her so naturally that Caroline was convinced that her mother truly believed this. She could tell that they would never see eye to eye on this matter.

“When you marry, you will understand that everything I have done was out of love and in a bid to secure a good future for you. I promise, you will see,” Lady Campbell said, moving to take her daughter’s hands in hers.

Caroline moved away from her mother, avoiding her touch, and heading for the door. “I did not ask you to do any of this, mother. I am embarrassed that you would go to such lengths. Pray Sir Mannfield does not find out your deception, else your plans will be ruined.” Caroline slammed the door closed behind her, unable to control her rage, and headed for her room.

In fact, pray that no one else ruins your plans.

…..

Alexander felt dazed as the butler showed him out of the Campbell home. As he stood in front of the gates, he could not help feeling like a child in need of guidance. He dug his nails into his palms, almost drawing blood as the scene that had just taken place played in his head repeatedly.

How can this be happening? What am I supposed to do now? I am out of my depth here. He pressed a hand against his forehead and pinched, trying to massage away the headache he could feel forming. He wished there were something he could do to make the situation go away. He could not even pretend to be calm. The last of his composure had been spent getting through the group of Lady Campbell’s friends. His mind was reeling but standing in front of the Campbell gates would not solve anything.

“Master Alexander?” his footman, Matthew called out to him as he walked past the carriage, confused about why he was choosing to walk on foot instead of boarding the carriage that awaited him.

“Master Alexander?” Matthew repeated, running to catch up with him. Alexander startled as his footman called his name near his ear. He could not remember when he had walked past the carriage. It was all for the best anyway. He needed to clear his head after today’s dramatic event and the exertion of walking would do him better than if he sat in the carriage and stewed.

“I believe I will take a walk, Matthew. You can go on without me.” He watched as Matthew and Brunswick, the coachman, turned to stare at each other in bewilderment, knowing that it was out of character for him to send them off like that. Deciding that he did not care for their confusion, as he had bigger problems to worry about, he turned and continued on his way.

He walked on, the sound of the wheels and the clop of horse hooves as his servants trailed behind him fading out of hearing as he focused on his thoughts.

From Lord Campbell’s words, he knew that the Campbells meant to take matters into their own hands if he did not propose marriage to their daughter soon to curtail whatever gossip was going around. If he did not take responsibility, they would no doubt take the matter to his family and demand that he do so. He frowned as he thought of how his father would react to the news. The Campbells would probably make it seem like he was fooling around with their daughter and refusing to take responsibility. He imagined that was what Lady Campbell would do, given how she had reacted during their talk.

As he walked, it suddenly hit him. If the gossip was as widespread as they had claimed, then it would not be long before it reached his parents. Lady Campbells’ friends were agents of the gossip mills after all. His mother would hear it soon, even if his father did not. He had to have a discussion with them both as soon as he got home.

The next moment, he came to another realization and froze in his tracks, a weird groan emanating from his lips as the blood drained from his face leaving him pale. He was so stupid. If the rumor had already spread so far, then what if it had already reached Isabella? She would be going about her day only to suddenly hear that the man she was in a relationship with was getting married to another. She would think the worst.

Alexander spun on his heel, running toward his carriage, which was still following him. “I am so glad that you two did not listen to me,” he said breathing heavily as he got to the carriage. “To the Levingston house at once, Brunswick. Hurry.”

On his way to Isabella, Alexander thought of what he would say to her. She was probably heartbroken, thinking he had taken liberties with her and shunned her. He tapped on the roof of the carriage, telling Brunswick to pick up the pace. He was out of the carriage the moment they stopped in front of the Levingston house, flying up the stairs to the front door after he was allowed through the gates.

“Sir Alexander, welcome,” the Levingston butler said. Even though this was the first time he had come face to face with the man, Alexander knew from previous conversations he had shared with Isabella that his name was John.

“Thank you, John. I apologize for coming unannounced like this, but I really must speak to Lady Isabella at once,” Alexander said, hoping she was in. He knew her father was not usually in at this time, so he was not worried about bumping into him, but the sudden visit also meant he was not sure if Isabella was around.

“Certainly, Sir Alexander. The lady will join you in a moment. Please follow me and I will see you to the drawing room, while I alert her to your presence,” the butler said as he let him into the house. Alexander followed him, unable to stop his eyes from wandering. It was the first time he was seeing these parts of the house, after all.

He was drawn back to the butler very quickly however, as the man said, “Ah, by the way, congratulations on your upcoming wedding sir.” With a smile, the butler shut the doors of the drawing room, leaving Alexander with his thoughts.

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

Chapter One

“Thomas!” Marco screamed, staring through the blaze of fire around him, tears streaming and throat burning. “Thomas, where are you?”

“Sir!” A frantic voice called back, thin and reedy through the smoke. “I am trapped, sir!”

Marco tied his handkerchief around his face and fought through the thick smoke of his burning factory, forcing himself to keep moving despite his lungs screaming to run out into the fresh air. He saw with horror that a large wooden beam had fallen across the door to the office. Marco launched forward, desperately using all of his strength to pull the beam away. The wood was burning hot, and splinters lodged into his palms, but Marco gritted his teeth and prayed to God that he could save his friend. With a strength he didn’t know he had, he pulled the heavy beam away and wrenched the office door open. When he crossed the threshold, he almost gasped in shock. It seemed that the office had been close to the blast’s epicenter, and his long-time foreman, Thomas Cromer, was curled on the floor, his clothes blackened and his face red and bloody with gashes and horrible burns. Half of his hair seemed to have been singed away.

“Sweet Jesus,” Marco muttered, dropping to his knees. His foreman looked in his direction with bloodied and swollen eyes.

“I cannot see, sir,” Thomas coughed in a gravelly voice. “My eyes…”

Marco’s heart clenched for his friend and faithful worker, a man who he’d relied upon to be his eyes on the factory floor. Marco’s factory was burning around them, and Thomas was gravely injured, perhaps even blinded. Marco felt despair building inside him but pushed it away. They needed to get out of the building before the roof collapsed.

“Thomas, I am here,” Marco said, pressing his hands to Thomas’s chest to try to staunch the flow of blood. “We must get out of here.”

“God bless you, sir,” Thomas groaned, heaving himself to a seated position with a cry of pain. Thomas heard a menacing creak in the ceiling beams above them and knew they had no time to lose.

“Forgive me, Thomas,” Marco said as he swept his friend up and tossed him over his shoulder. Thomas let out a gurgling groan, but Marco knew they had to get out quickly. He steadied Thomas’ body and lurched through the factory, blinking away tears from the smoke. Reaching the factory yard, Marco gasped in breaths of the fresher air. He saw men gathered all around, throwing buckets of water through broken windows in a desperate attempt to save the building.

“A physician!” Marco croaked as loudly as he could, lowering Thomas onto the ground some distance from the blaze. “Someone send for a physician at once!”

“Right away!” one of workers shouted, racing away.

Thomas’s head lolled against the cobbled stones, slick with a dirty muck of fallen ash mixed with mud and water from the buckets.

“Do not trouble yourself, sir,” Thomas coughed. Marco was horrified to see blood around his friend’s lips, and he sent up another desperate prayer for Thomas to survive. “I must tell you what happened.”

“Not now,” Marco said. “Save your strength, my friend.”

“You have to know. This was no accident, sir,” Thomas coughed again, clutching his bloody chest. The man fumbled in his coat pocket as his body shuddered.

Accidents were not uncommon in a cotton factory. No matter how careful the workers were, sometimes disaster struck. There was always the danger of fire with the materials being so flammable. Marco would not blame his foreman for that.

“I’ll get it.” Marco reached into Thomas’ pocket; the wool of his jacket scorched and bloody. Marco pulled out a wrinkled piece of parchment and opened it. The handwriting was somehow familiar despite the block lettering designed to conceal any identifiable features. The words were simple but menacing: THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE.

“Another threat, sir,” Thomas whispered, his voice becoming weaker by the minute. Still, he kept going. “I read it… before I could do anything, there was a… a terrible explosion.”

Marco looked down at Thomas’s battered body as the man struggled for breath. He remembered the first time his foreman had come to him with a hostile letter.

“You have received a threat, sir,” Thomas said as Marco strolled into the factory office, closing the door, so the sound of the cotton spinners’ work did not disturb them.

“A threat?” Marco asked and was quickly reminded of his cousin, Giovanni, who worked closely with Silas Klane, also known as Lucifer of London. Giovanni regularly incurred threats against himself and his family, especially since becoming the Marquess of Bath. Marco had anticipated reuniting with his cousin would impact him, but he had not expected to be in danger. “Against my life?”

“No, sir, against your business,” Thomas replied. He handed over a piece of parchment with the message, “CLOSE YOUR FACTORY OR I SHALL BE FORCED TO TAKE ACTION. YOU WILL REGRET IT IF YOU IGNORE MY DEMAND” boldly printed on it.

“Who could have sent this?” Marco asked in consternation. “How was it delivered?” 

“I do not know, sir,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “The note was tacked to the door when I arrived this morning.”

“Would you care to speculate?” Marco asked, looking at the lettering carefully. The author had obviously taken pains to disguise their handwriting. He wondered if that meant he would recognize their actual hand. The thought was disturbing.

“You have many competitors, sir. Your business flourishes, but …” Thomas hesitated, looking toward the windows as if he wondered if they may be overheard. “There is one man in particular who may resent your success.”

“Name him,” Marco demanded.

“The Duke of Fitzroy,” Thomas said. Marco groaned inwardly. The Duke of Fitzroy was not known to him, but the mere fact that he was a duke would make confronting him more difficult should he prove to be behind the threats. 

“Tell me of him,” Marco said quietly, sitting opposite Thomas, who sat behind his desk. 

“His seat is near here. He owns many of the farms that surround us. He has heavily invested in a factory a few miles away. I believe he has been upset about the success of your business. More specifically, that you offer your workers higher wages,” Thomas said. “You are besting him in profits and popularity as it is well known that you treat your employees fairly.”

“Yet he is a duke, and I am merely a businessman,” Marco muttered. “If he chooses to hurt me, I cannot possibly bring action against him, especially if he does not sign his name to his threats.” 

“You are more than a simple businessman, sir. Your cousin is the Marquess of Bath,” Thomas said. “And your uncle is the Duke of Grasmere.” 

“That is true, but it means nothing. I cannot ask them to involve themselves,” Marco sighed.

“Then I shall keep an eye on it, sir,” Thomas said. “No one will stop your business from flourishing. I shall ensure it.”

Marco stood and handed the piece of paper back to Thomas.

“I trust you with this, Thomas. Let me know if anything changes or the Duke makes his identity known.” 

“He’s finally slipped up, sir,” Thomas wheezed, pulling Marco out of his memory. His breathing was becoming more shallow, and pain was etched on his face. Macro saw with growing fear that more blood oozed from his mouth as he coughed. “I saw it… just before the blast… the seal.”

Marco turned the paper over. There was indeed a broken seal on the letter when there had never been one on the threats before. The Duke of Fitzroy’s coat of arms was clearly visible in the red wax.

“The bastard,” Marco whispered, brushing his fingers against the seal. A violent fury rose within him at the carnage the Duke had wrought over his petty concerns.

“We now…. have proof, sir,” Thomas whispered hoarsely. His bloody hands groped blindly for Marco’s. Marco took his hands within his as gently as he could, wincing at the raw, burned skin on the backs of them. “You have him now.”

“I will make him pay for this, Thomas. Pay for the pain he has caused you,” Marco said fiercely.

Thomas gripped Marco’s hand for a moment, then his eyes dipped closed, and his hands went slack. Marco feared if the man went to sleep, he would never wake.

“Don’t close your eyes, Thomas,” Marco begged, squeezing Thomas’ hand again. “You need to stay with me, my friend. I need you.” He felt tears prick his eyes as Thomas’ remained closed.

The blaze nearby intensified, becoming a roar that seemed to eat up all the air around it. But Marco did not care as he watched Thomas struggle to breathe. “Where is the damned doctor?” he yelled.

One of Marco’s workers ran over to him. “Mr. Alegria, we must go!” He gestured to the blaze. The fire burned uncontrollably and licked at the bricks, reaching up to the roof. “The building is going to collapse. We need to move, sir!”

Marco saw that he was right. The building would not stand for much longer; if they stayed where they were, they would be in the path of the burning debris when it fell. “Help me carry him!” Marco yelled back.

He grasped Thomas’s limp body under his arms as the other man took his legs. Together they carried Thomas into a field where the other workers had gathered, watching the blaze in horror. They set Thomas onto the grass, and Marco ordered the other man to ensure no one else was near the building as more workers and villagers arrived to help. But there was nothing to be done but watch as the fire raged. Marco knelt next to his fallen friend and held his hand as the man took his last labored breaths.

“You will be avenged, Thomas. I swear it,” Marco whispered as he folded Thomas’s arms across his now-still chest.

“Father!” William, a boy barely seventeen and Thomas’ eldest son, ran through the crowd and dropped to the ground next to Thomas. “Father!”

“I am so sorry, William. He is gone,” Marco said, unable to stop his voice from breaking.

The words caused the boy to cry out in anguish, and Marco held him as William screamed his grief. The boy’s slim frame was wracked with sobs that Marco felt to his very soul.

“How did this happen, sir?” William asked when he had calmed a bit, his expression fierce.

“Sabotage,” Marco growled before he could stop himself.

“What do you mean?” William demanded any deference to Marco’s position he had previously shown gone. And Marco did not begrudge the boy his anger. “This was not an accident?”

“No. It was no accident. Your father warned me of a rival, but we did not think anything like this could happen. Did not think anyone would do something so sinister. You know your father was not just my faithful servant, William, he was my friend, and I have failed him. I am so sorry.”

The young boy’s face crumpled again when he saw Marco’s despair. He turned back to his father and placed a hand against his cheek. “Oh, Papa. I promise I’ll take care of mother and the others.” William’s tears fell onto his father’s bloody face.

Marco looked down at Thomas’ face and thought of the kind-hearted man who helped him build his factory and make it a success. He could not imagine rebuilding without Thomas at his side. He closed his eyes briefly and said a silent goodbye to the man who had worked so hard for him over the years. Who had mentored him and treated him more like a son than an employer. He again swore he would have his revenge.

William stood then and swiped his sleeve across his eyes. Marco stood next to him as they both watched the fire burn.

“I offer myself to you, Mr. Alegria,” William said, his voice hardening with conviction. “I will do anything you ask. Anything that needs to be done to make this right. It is what my father would want.”

Marco saw a glimmer of Thomas’ grit in William’s determined face. Now that Thomas was gone, the Cromer family would depend on William to support them. The best way Marco could honor his old friend was to offer his son a place. He had no doubt that the boy would prove to be strong and resilient, just like his father.

“I accept your offer, William. But first, you must take your father home and grieve. I will come to you as soon as I can,” Marco said, putting his hand on the boy’s slender shoulder.

William’s chin wobbled, but he nodded firmly. Marco turned to the men who were standing respectfully back. They held their caps in their hands, sad expressions on their faces as they looked at the body of their beloved manager. “Can some of you please assist young William in bringing his father home?”

“We’d be honored, sir,” they muttered. Those closest bent down and lifted Thomas reverently in their arms.

William watched the men begin the slow procession across the fields. Before following, he turned to Marco and bowed. Marco returned the gesture as fresh tears stung his eyes. “Thank you, sir,” William said. Then he turned and followed his father’s body.

It pained him to see such a young lad have to step into his father’s shoes. But Marco reminded himself that he and his cousin were already fending for themselves by William’s age. And they didn’t have someone like himself to help them. Marco vowed to teach the boy all he could. He would never be able to repay all that Thomas had done for him, but he would look out for his son and ensure he had a good start in life. It was the least he could do.

“Marco!” a man cried out.

Marco turned at the sound of his cousin’s voice. Giovanni slowed his horse and dismounted quickly. One of Marco’s workers took the reins and led the horse away, lest the blaze frighten it into bolting.

“What has happened?” Giovanni demanded, staring at the burning building.

“Sabotaggio,” Marco spat, reverting to his native Italian in his anger. Giovani’s eyes widened, and he cursed viciously, which Marco found oddly comforting.

He drew his cousin away from the crowd so they could speak privately. He did not know how the fire started, but he worried that the Duke of Fitzroy had manipulated one of his employees to cause it.

“I am sorry, cousin,” Giovanni said earnestly. The despair in his tone was enough to tear down the last of Marco’s composure.

“It is all gone. Years of hard work. Gone,” Marco whispered, swallowing his pain as the fire burst through the building’s roof. “And Thomas. My friend, he is…”

Marco found he could no longer speak and pressed his palm over his mouth, not wanting to appear weak in front of his men. Giovanni stood beside him and gripped his shoulder tightly in support.

“You will rebuild. You will be stronger,” Giovanni said fiercely. “You can overcome this, Marco, and I will be by your side.”

At that moment, there was a great creaking, drawing Marco’s attention back to the building. The factory collapsed in a roar of bricks and wood as the fire finally consumed the structure. The gathered crowd let out a cry of sadness. Marco felt hopelessness descend on him as all his dreams seemed to fall under the rubble.

His cousin’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present, and he fingered the wax seal on the letter in his pocket. A calm pressed upon him as one thought solidified inside his mind: I will have my revenge against the man who has taken everything from me. I will take everything he holds dear and crush him for what he has done.

Chapter Two

Alice paced along the marble floor of the Duke of Fitzroy’s entry hall, doing short laps across the black and white squares at the bottom of the stairs. The old Duke, as everyone below stairs called him, had been unwell for the last week and was quite likely dying. Her mother, the housekeeper, was beside herself, but Alice had busied herself to her usual work as the cook’s help in the kitchen and was relatively unaffected. Yet this afternoon, her mother had disappeared from her post for hours, and Alice had just been summoned upstairs. The butler had told her to wait, so Alice did, pacing and worrying about what might be happening. Alice knew her mother had been engaging in an illicit affair with the old Duke for years. She hoped her mother’s indiscretion was not going to get them sacked. Alice did not know what they would do if the Duke turned them out of the house, and she knew her mother would be utterly heartbroken if he abandoned her.

“He is ready for you,” the butler said, standing at the top of the stairs. Alice was astonished by the idea that the Duke would want to see her. She had imagined he would have the butler dismiss them. Yet Alice knew she was his to command, as a servant in his household, and she could not disobey. She brushed the flour residue off her apron. She nodded politely, climbing the stairs, and feeling conscious of her worn shoes on the beautiful walnut stairs. She had never been in the family rooms of the manor. Though her mother had climbed the back stairs almost every night for as long as Alice could remember. She felt horribly exposed as she was led along a beautifully decorated corridor until they finally arrived at a highly polished oak door. Alice’s stomach lurched when she realized it was the door to the Duke’s bed chamber. She was confused but obediently stepped forward when the butler opened the door and entered.

“Miss Proctor to see you, Your Grace,” the butler intoned, holding the door open.

“Thank you,” the old Duke rasped. Alice was disturbed to see that he was reclining in bed and even more surprised to see her mother seated next to him. After all, it was one thing for her mother to have been his secret lover all these years. It was quite another for him to openly have her by his bedside. The old Duke’s face was wan and thin, his chest heaving with each breath. She noticed that her mother held one of his hands on the coverlet. Alice stood at the end of the bed and felt a sudden rush of awkwardness. She dropped her head and dipped into a proper curtsey even though her mind was racing.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she uttered, trying not to meet her mother’s eye. She didn’t understand how to behave in this situation. Her mother was at the Duke’s bedside as if she was his duchess. He wasn’t treating her like a woman who had once been his late wife’s lady’s maid. His seduction of that maid may have helped elevate her to the housekeeper position, but she was still just a low-born servant, not the lady of the house.

“Thank you for coming, Alice. Please take a seat,” the old Duke said, gesturing to the empty chair at his bedside, near her mother. Alice shuffled uncomfortably. As a servant in the house, the rules dictated that she could not sit in the Duke’s presence. Yet he had asked her, and she could not disobey a command. Without meaning to, she caught her mother’s eye.

“Take a seat, darling,” her mother said gently, with a soft smile. Alice nodded and sat down at the Duke’s bedside. His eyes followed her, and Alice could see how they were yellowed at the edges. The cook seemed correct in her suspicions – the Duke appeared to be dying. He took an unsteady breath and turned his head to fully look at her.

“Alice,” he began, his voice croaking. It was bizarre for Alice to hear her employer call her by her name. He had rarely spoken to her directly before. “I have things I must say before I die, and time is now of the essence.”

“I am at your service, Your Grace,” Alice said awkwardly. It was surreal to sit there, listening to the Duke speak frankly about his coming death while he held the hand of his long-time lover. Her mother’s eyes filled with tears and Alice felt sorry for her. She knew her mother genuinely loved the man. His loss would be difficult for her even without the uncertainty of her future position in the household his death would cause.

“No, please. You do not need to use my honorific,” the Duke said. Alice tried not to show her amazement. She looked up at her mother, unsure what she should do, but her mother only smiled tremulously.

“It is all right, my dear,” her mother said, though Alice didn’t think it could be.

Alice nodded, thinking that she had never felt so uneasy. How could she possibly navigate such a strange situation? She was sitting with the man who had single-handedly ruined her childhood. Everyone in the Duke of Fitzroy’s household knew of his affair with his housekeeper. As a result, Alice had been ostracized by the other servants for as long as she could remember. The staff either resented her mother’s position or looked down upon her for having inappropriate relations with the Duke. These feelings trickled down to Alice. Her lot in life didn’t improve until the duchess passed away about six years ago, and Alice had won the respect of the cook during the elaborate funeral preparations. Being the cook’s assistant had given her a modicum of power that she had relished. She could not imagine how the other servants would react if they knew she was at the duke’s bedside.

“I have made many mistakes, and I must make them right, even if it has been too long in coming,” The Duke whispered. Alice wondered if he was speaking about her mother and his mistake in making her his lover.

“We all make mistakes, my love, but you are rectifying them now, and that is what matters,” her mother murmured. Alice almost reeled back in shock to hear such an endearment from her mother’s lips. While she knew her mother loved the Duke, she never understood why the woman allowed the affair to continue for so many years. Unless it was to secure their continued employment. But Alice had never felt like that was worth the damage to their reputations. She hated that their livelihood was attached to the whim of the man using her mother for his own pleasure. She always felt it would be better to have a lower position in another household and be respected than to stay there and be scorned. But her mother was too much in love to leave, no matter how much her daughter begged.

“I have been unkind. I have made decisions that have destroyed the joy of others, but I hope that I leave this earth at least making one thing right,” the Duke said. He leaned his head against the pillow and looked at Alice. She was surprised to see tears welling in his weak eyes. She had no idea what to say, for how could she comfort him? He had a ruthless reputation. It was one of the reasons Alice had always been so frustrated with her mother’s decision to continue their relationship. Alice had never once looked at the Duke of Fitzroy and seen anything in him that was worthy of admiration.

“It is… important to make amends for past wrongs,” Alice said hesitantly, feeling as if they were both waiting for her to say something. Surely a clergyman should be here to hear his confessions and not the daughter of his mistress.

“Yes it is,” the Duke sighed and looked toward her mother. “And as part of doing that, I have finally married your mother, Alice.”

Alice simply stared unblinking at the absurd announcement. Her mind turned back to when she was younger. When she first learned that the gentleman her mother had been in love with for so long was, in fact, their master, Alice had entertained immature ideas of a new life. She thought the Duke would abandon his wife and marry her mother. That she and her mother would live above stairs and be blissfully happy. That she might have a real father. Of course, these childish fantasies were swiftly dashed by the reality of their world. A duke had his duchess for status and appearances and his mistress for pleasure. It was then that Alice understood men’s selfishness and the world’s cruelty to women. She was brought back to the present when her mother began speaking.

“The Bishop of Coventry, an old friend of the Duke’s, came today with a special license and performed the ceremony before witnesses,” her mother said gently. Seeing the look of incredulity on her daughter’s face, she added, “We are indeed married, Alice.”

“Should have done it years ago,” the duke coughed out, his face turning red with the effort to speak. “But at least now you will both be able to live the lives you deserve.”

What does that mean? Alice wondered, unable to process his words. She couldn’t fathom what other life a servant could deserve than the one they led.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Alice?” her mother gushed. “Finally, we can be together, as we always should have been.”

Alice smiled tightly. Of course, she knew that she should be happy for her mother. She was now the Duchess of Fitzroy, if even for a short time. After the Duke passed, she would presumably be looked after by whoever the Duke’s heir turned out to be, as he had no son she had no idea who that could be. But Alice could only think of the notoriety this action would bring them. They would be shunned by both the servants they had once worked with and the ton alike. Society would never accept a former lady’s maid within their ranks, no matter how lofty her title now was. They would not belong to either world.

“You do not seem pleased, Alice,” the Duke whispered, fixing his eyes on her with shrewdness.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Alice stammered, fiddling with her fingers in her lap. “I am, of course, happy for my mother. She has cared for you for so long that this development is indeed wonderful for her. But I hope you will forgive me for saying that it does not truly have anything to do with me.”

“Alice,” her mother said. She looked supremely uncomfortable but took a deep breath. “There is something I must tell you.”

“Something that we must tell you,” the Duke added and gently squeezed her mother’s hand. Alice felt a sense of trepidation rising up through her. She felt the sudden urge to stand up and flee the room so that she might avoid whatever they were about to say next. She was unprepared for further life-changing announcements. Yet she could not move.

“Alice, do you remember what I told you about your father?” her mother asked. Alice’s heart lurched, and beads of perspiration began to form at her temples.

“You have only said that he was a naval officer and died at sea shortly after I was born,” Alice said mechanically. She simply repeated the only story she had ever been told when she asked about her father. She clenched her hands in her lap, knowing that whatever happened next would shatter that illusion of her parentage.

“I lied,” her mother said shortly, wanting to get the confession out. “I am sorry. I know that lying to you about your father was an unforgivable sin, but I didn’t feel I had any choice.”

Alice did not know if the lie was unforgivable, but she sensed that this was not the worst part of her mother’s confession. She sat immobile. Helpless to stop what would happen next. Only her eyes, darting between her mother and Duke, showed her growing distress.

“It did not give you a choice, Esther,” the Duke whispered. “I forced your hand, and for that, I am sorry. I should have done better by you both.” Alice’s mother brought her hand up to the Duke’s cheek, and they gazed into one another’s eyes for a moment.

“Why was I lied to?” Alice demanded, drawing their attention back to her. She did not want to hear the answer, but she knew it was inevitable. A wave of rage welled up inside her. Her mother had been lying to her for her entire life, and the Duke had forced her to. This was just one more confirmation that men were vile creatures who only cared about themselves.

“Because your grandfather would have cut your father off had he known of your existence,” her mother whispered.

‘Why would he do that?”

“Because the family was of high status,” Alice’s mother said.

Alice pursed her lips, her anger bleeding through. Her grandfather was another man who believed his sex and birth entitled him to trifle with the lives of those he considered beneath him.

When she looked at her mother, she could feel a revelation veering toward her at high speed, like a carriage rolling off the road in the rain, and she was powerless to stop it. Tears were slipping down the woman’s cheeks, yet Alice could find no way to lessen her outrage. She turned her angry expression upon the Duke, almost daring him with her eyes to be the one to speak the truth. “Who?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“The previous Duke of Fitzroy,” the Duke whispered. “My father.”

“So you are my father,” Alice blurted out and stared at him. The ramifications of this revelation were staggering. If she had not been seated, she surely would have lost her footing.

“I am,” he whispered. “I am so sorry that I did not acknowledge you, Alice. More sorry than you can ever know.”

It was suddenly too much to bear. Alice did not care if he was dying or if he was now her mother’s husband. She did not care that he held even more power over her than he did before. Her fury was incandescent.

“You say I am your child, yet I have spent my life toiling as a servant in your household,” Alice said. She was shaking with indignation. “And you continued to employ my mother after forcing her to bear a child out of wedlock like she was nothing but a courtesan. No, worse than that. You did not even give her the benefits of a real mistress. You did not set her up in a lovely house in London. Did not give her fine jewels or clothes. Did not even give her the opportunity to find a new protector if you ever tired of her. You kept her trapped here under your own roof, condemned to a life of drudgery and disdain simply for your own enjoyment.”

“Alice do not say such things!” her mother admonished.

“No, my dear, do not scold her. She has a right to her anger,” the Duke rasped, squeezing her mother’s hand. He looked at Alice with a broken expression on his face that startled her. “Alice, you must understand that I have never loved anyone but your mother. I tried to protect her as best I could under the circumstances. I know that I failed you both. I was wrong not to stand up to my father, but I am trying to make up for it by doing this.”

“Doing what?” Alice asked. She struggled to understand how the Duke felt he had protected her mother or her. Where was he when her mother was called a whore? When she had to endure the advances of the male staff and visiting nobleman who believed she should lift her skirts for them since she did it so obligingly for her master? Where was he when Alice was called cruel names and pushed around, sometimes physically, because she was nothing but the daughter of a common doxy?

“As you know, I have no other children,” the Duke said. “You and your mother will have an abundant inheritance upon my death. More than enough to live the life of luxury you should have had all along. I have also petitioned the crown and have been awarded a special dispensation. Your firstborn son will inherit my title, Alice. He will become the next Duke of Fitzroy with all that entails.”

“It is so generous, my darling,” her mother said, sniffing and wiping her tears away with a handkerchief.

Alice felt as if she could not speak. The idea of becoming an heiress was ludicrous. Would she now be launched into the world of society like a whey-faced debutante? The idea was so overwhelming she suddenly lost some of her anger to an intense queasiness. And her son, were she ever to have one, would be a duke. She could not think of anything she could wish for less. It was untenable to think that her child would ascend to the title of the man who had ruined her mother and left her to serve in his kitchens.

“I know it is not enough to make up for my mistakes,” the Duke said, his eyes fixing longingly on Alice’s face as if he hoped she would contradict him. “I have wronged you both, but I hope this action will help earn some forgiveness.”

“It is enough, my love,” her mother said desperately, grasping her new husband’s hand. “Isn’t it, dear Alice? It is more than enough.”

Nothing could be further from the truth in Alice’s mind, but she saw the pleading expression on her mother’s face and could not contradict her.

Despite the whirlwind of fear, fury, and despair inside of her, Alice could never knowingly cause her mother pain. Holding her breath tightly and not trusting herself to speak, Alice looked at the old Duke, at her father, and nodded curtly.

“Thank you, my child,” the Duke whispered, reaching his other hand for hers. Alice let him take it, feeling numb, noticing absently how cold and papery his skin felt. “Now, some people are coming to meet you both this evening. They will help you acclimate to your new positions in the coming days.”

Alice again nodded. She had no idea what would be expected of her from now on, but she knew she would do her best for her mother’s sake. The new Duchess would need her daughter’s support, and Alice promised herself that she would do anything she had to do to help her mother.

Over the next few weeks, Alice was given accelerated lessons in deportment and etiquette and was tasked with learning the names and titles of the peerage. It was a daunting task, but Alice threw herself into her studies. She didn’t want this new life suddenly thrust upon her, but she was determined to make her mother proud.

Her mother was allowed to skip such lessons as she had been a lady’s maid and possessed the pertinent knowledge already. She spent almost all of her time at the Duke’s side, only leaving it for fittings with the dressmaker who made frequent trips to the manor or for the few callers she received as the new Duchess. Alice was forced to endure the countless fittings for her new wardrobe as well. As she was not considered ‘out’ to society, she could forego the awkward encounters with the curious nobility, which was a welcome blessing.

However, she had to make time to visit the old Duke. His health was failing rapidly, and her mother begged her to spend time with her father before it was too late. Towards the end of his life, these visits mainly consisted of Alice sitting by his bedside and listening to his labored breaths while her mother sat beside her, quietly telling her stories of her relationship with the Duke. Alice suspected that most of these tales had been romanticized in her mother’s mind to make them more palatable. Still, Alice held her tongue and listened dutifully.

One morning some eight weeks after Alice learned of her parentage, the Duke had lapsed into unconsciousness. She and her mother had been summoned by the physician immediately. They sat vigil by his side well into the evening. A storm raged outside as Alice watched a ragged breath slowly exhale from her father’s lips for the last time. She watched as her mother cried out and fell onto the bed, pressing her face against the Duke’s still chest, and sobbing piteously, begging him to stay with her.

She allowed her mother to grieve for a time before ringing for the butler. She informed the man of the Duke’s passing and asked him to summon the Duchess’s lady’s maid, a former chamber maid recently elevated in status, and the physician. After they settled her mother into her room and gave her a dose of laudanum to calm her, Alice returned to her father’s chambers.

She stood over the man who had sired her in silence and felt a tear escape her eye. This man had held power over her and her mother for her entire life, and in the end, he was nothing but a wretched old man who had more regrets than joys. Alice felt some sorrow for this and for herself. Not because she had been denied the luxuries that being a Duke’s daughter should have given her, but because she had never been given a chance to get to know the Duke as a father. So many opportunities had been stripped from her without her ever knowing what could have been. It pained her to think of the kind of relationship she and the Duke might have had if only he had been brave enough to claim it.

She allowed her tears to flow freely for all they had lost as individuals and as a family. When her tears were spent, she leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss against the Duke’s cold, wrinkled cheek.

“You have my forgiveness, father. But I can never allow a child of mine to be anything like you,” she murmured as she straightened.

Her father had been born to one of the highest stations in England, and it still had not afforded him the life he had wanted. He had been forced to follow society’s dictates. He had married a woman he did not love and could never respect. He had kept the love of his life in the shadows rather than face his father’s wrath and lose his wealth. He had given up a relationship with his only child until it was almost too late, and for what? What did being a duke gain him in the end?

Nothing of real value, of that Alice, was sure. She turned and walked to the door. Before departing, she looked at her father one last time and made a silent vow. She would bear no child who would be forced to make the kind of choices the Duke and her mother had. The Fitzroy name would end with her.

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

Prologue

The King himself could have been there that fateful night and Isabel wouldn’t have noticed. Even though her mother had decorated their home with the grandest décor of the era and there wasn’t a surface or railing without ribbon, exquisite fabric, or candlelight, all she could see was Anthony Moore. The second son to her father’s best friend—and her childhood love. Ever since she could remember, Isabel had admired the dashing young man. She had the unique privilege of watching him go from a rosy-cheeked, round-eyed little boy that loved nothing more than chasing bugs and sticking them down the backs of his brothers’ collars, to the sophisticated and witty young man before her that night. He was sharp jawed, and his chestnut tresses were so expertly pushed back from his face, with those coffee eyes sparkling at her.

She could have almost forgotten they were dancing; she was so completely lost in him. Any time Isabel’s attention fluttered to the grin on his face, her heart skipped a beat. While he had always possessed a charming smile, it wasn’t the reason for her palpitations. No, it was because she knew that smile was hers. Hers because she caused it, and hers because that night was meant to be the start of their forever. It was her Debut ball, but she knew that the hunt for a potential suitor was over before it began. Anthony had been her end all be all since they were kids; she just hadn’t understood her fondness overgrew friendship until the year leading up to her Debut.

“I’m feeling lightheaded,” she had whispered to him.

His eyes narrowed at her before he asked, “Do you need to sit?”

Isabel, biting her cheek to hold in her excitement, she shook her head. “I could dance with you forever.”

Anthony chuckled and quirked a brow at her. “Then why are you lightheaded?”

He spun her on cue with the music and when she landed chest to chest with him, she finally answered in another whisper, “I think this is what love feels like.”

When their eyes met, he replied, “If that’s the case, I think I’m lightheaded too.”

Isabel hadn’t been lightheaded since that Season; a Season which her mind sentimentally coined the Era of Love. It had been the last time she had felt happiness and romantic love against her fingertips and in her heart. It was a melodramatic thought indeed, but it didn’t make it any less true. And all those years later, almost ten to be exact, she still wondered:

What if he had been the man I married?

Chapter One

A sharp knock on her bedchamber door startled Isabel and she shot to her feet out of habit, which she inwardly cursed herself for. Robert wasn’t there; she didn’t need to be sure to be standing when he entered a room. The door opened and her dear maid, Amy, peered inside. “Baroness Pratt is here, Your Grace,” she informed.

“Rebecca?” Isabel breathed. While it shouldn’t have surprised her that her sister would come to visit due to the circumstances, she hadn’t given it much thought. She was so used to being alone in the estate that it hadn’t crossed her mind people would then try to visit her. Clearing her throat and smoothing her dress, Isabel followed after her maid to greet her sister.

Just as Isabel exited her room, she could hear a commotion in the foyer. As she approached the stairs, she watched as Rebecca ordered about the footmen. “Be careful with that trunk, now. It has my gowns in it and they are worth quite the fortune! I would like a room selected with a view of the garden.”

For a moment, Isabel only blinked. Her sister didn’t appear to have belongings to stay only a night, but rather a long while. Brushing off the way Rebecca addressed the staff as her sister being tired from traveling, Isabel approached her.

“What a lovely surprise,” she spoke up faintly. She hated how feeble she sounded, especially because it would seem like she was still grieving that awful husband of hers, but also because she knew it was what years of being his wife had done to her. Weak, small, and as quiet as possible.

Rebecca spun about and took hold of her shoulders. While Rebecca was only a year her junior, Isabel didn’t think she had ever looked so youthful to her before. Flawless porcelain skin, bright and well-rested eyes, and not a blonde hair out of place. Her face shifted into a sympathetic pout.

“Oh, Bellie! It is so wonderful to lay eyes on you,” she oozed. “I haven’t been able to get you off my mind in weeks. I thought about keeping up our letters to see how you are coping, but I really had to come see for myself.”

Isabel nodded but her attention turned to the footmen hoisting trunks up the stairs. “What is… what is all this?” she questioned.

Rebecca’s sky-blue eyes had shifted to a rather serious gleam by the time Isabel looked back her way. “I have tried to give you your space to mourn, Isabel, I really have. However, the thought of you rotting away in this big house all alone for all of winter?” She clamped a hand to her chest. “I simply can’t stand the thought of it. No husband nor children to keep you company, and I know you haven’t exactly been a social butterfly since you married.”

Isabel had to bite her tongue from saying what was really on her mind at her sister’s last comment. That yes, she hadn’t been social—but because Robert wouldn’t allow her to be. After she had told him about her friendship with Anthony as children, albeit leaving out details of the blooming love they had shared, he had become horribly paranoid she would find a man to have an affair with. Women were marked as dangers as well, claiming that they would be bad influences on her. His need for control and his cruelty made Isabel glad they never had children. He blamed her for being barren, but he blamed her for everything, so it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for their marriage.

Stop. Stop thinking about him right now. He will only spoil your mood.

Clearing her thoughts, Isabel shook her head. “While I sincerely appreciate the thought, I don’t think that it is necessary for you to stay here all winter.”

“Your husband passed two months ago in that hunting accident,” Rebecca stated matter-of-factly, as though Isabel was overlooking the fact. “You should not have to be alone anymore. I wanted to come sooner, but I wanted to give you time to have your cries and such… and my Edmund was about, and I didn’t think you would want another marriage rubbed in your face.”

Isabel shifted a little, folding her arms. She could feel herself caving into her sister’s ways. Maybe it would be good for her to have someone around so she wasn’t only sat with her thoughts. However, Rebecca was a dominating presence and Isabel was longing to find herself. Having her sister there would mean living by her wishes and desires, instead of her own. And yet, Isabel didn’t have the heart to turn her away; particularly because she knew that Rebecca was so well-intended.

“What about Edmund? Where is he now?” Isabel asked, seeing it as her only way out of the situation.

Rebecca clasped her hands together, looking all too delighted to share her answer. “He has been sent away on business and shan’t be back until after New Year.”

It puzzled Isabel that she was so excited to announce her husband was gone, but she assumed that it was more so excitement to spend time with her. All the festering resistance left Isabel at that point. Even if Isabel knew she would have to approach learning to navigate her life as a widow in a more gradual manner, she simply couldn’t turn her sister way. Not when it meant she too would be alone for winter, even though she would likely have friends who would visit her frequently.

“Very well.” Isabel sighed. “Let’s get you settled in.”

Rebecca clapped and pulled her sister in for an embrace. “We will get through this cold, miserable season together. Even if we can’t go to parties or balls, we will have fun. I’m sure of it.”

Ah yes, Isabel wasn’t allowed to socialize until she reached six months into her widowhood. Robert was stunting her ability to be an individual even in the afterlife. Even though she had been granted personal and financial freedom in his death, Isabel was still under the control of a husband because of society’s look on men, women, and marriage. As the sisters ascended the stairs to oversee the unpacking of Rebecca’s belongings, Isabel thought back to the question of what life would have had been like if she married Anthony. It was a question she would never have the answer to, and their time together would be the only Era of Love she would experience—and that had to be alright. She had experienced love and knew what it was like, and she had known the cruel and dark reality of marriage. From then on, it was the Era of Isabel. Her person would not be defined by a man ever again. People would come to know her as Isabel, the Dowager Duchess of Edington. Not the wife of the Duke of Edington or any other edition of the notion. It would take time to learn how to be on her own and fill all the holes married life had left in her, but she would do it. Isabel would pave her own path and have a fulfilling future. Never again would she marry.

Chapter Two

A few months later…

The silly, erratic giggling of mild manner women when he whispered salacious ‘sweet nothings’ to them were one of the few thrills Anthony had left anymore. He knew that he shouldn’t find such enjoyment of making women teeter a fine line between discomfort and carnal intrigue, but he couldn’t help it. The blushing of their cheeks, the weak pleas for him to stop, and that awful little laugh they all had. The woman before him was no different. She fanned herself and attempted to look anywhere but at Anthony, but her eyes always found their way back to him. Her dull eyes sparkled with interest and a silent beg for him to continue his incessant flirting.

“Lord Moore, you are simply too much,” she replied in a hushed tone.

He smirked and dared to allow his fingertips to brush against her arm as he reached for his drink one of the club’s servants had poured him just moments before. “My dear, you do not know the meaning of too much until you have spent a night… joining me for dinner, shall we say.”

There it was, the sharp inhale of breath followed by an eruption of nasally laughter. One of her delicate hands flew over her mouth to try and muffle the sounds so not to draw attention to them, but it was far too late for that. Eyes followed Anthony Moore anywhere he went, hoping to catch a little taste of scandal from the Duke of Mondale’s disgraced son. Anthony felt he had calmed down in recent years since the marriage of his best friend, Ernest Cecil. No longer did he brashly disrupt balls or parade around London with a harlot on his arm with pride as though she were a family jewel. However, he still had to find ways to pass the time, didn’t he?

“My Lord!” she gasped once she had recovered from her giggling. She batted her lashes at him and attempted to convey coyness in her face. “I haven’t any idea what business a lady such as myself would have joining you for dinner.”

With a smirk on his face, he allowed his eyes to rake over her brazenly. Though he would go so far as to say she wasn’t his type, Anthony knew better than to lie to himself. Any woman at all was his type those days. “I can think of a number of businesses we could get up to together.”

There was a loud scoff to the other side of him and with a raised brow, Anthony turned to see who it was. Immediately, his face fell at the sight of his father standing before him, red-faced and nostrils flaring. “Anthony, might you escort me to my carriage?” his father requested, his tone stern and filled with warning.

“I haven’t finished my drink,” Anthony remarked meekly.

“Leave it,” the Duke demanded. As Anthony plucked up his glass and gulped down the remaining brandy, his father turned to the lady and muttered, “If you will excuse us.”

Once Anthony sat his glass down on the countertop, he shot the lady one last look with a shrug before following his father out of the social club. He could feel the anger radiating from his father just as much as the first warm breeze of the year on his cheek. They climbed into the carriage and just as the door shut, before Anthony could even sit, his father smacked his shoulder with a ledger he had been carrying. “What in the Heavens is wrong with you, son!” he shouted.

“What did I do?” Anthony asked, genuinely confused by the level of anger.

“You can’t be so daft,” his father snorted, glaring hard at him as Anthony sat. When Anthony clearly conveyed he didn’t know what the issue was, his father took a deep breath before jutting a hand in his direction. “I have overlooked your fascination with lower class women, but you cannot be flirting with married noblewomen in broad daylight! Are you really so bold?”

Anthony was, but he hadn’t the slightest clue that was what he had been doing. His eyes went out the window, though the club had already slipped out of view. “She was married?” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure if it was to himself or his father.

“That is the wife of Count Richard Vanderbilt!” his father exclaimed before taking a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face. Anthony’s mood softened at the sight. His father was getting older, making his heart weaker than ever and so intense feelings such as rage or discontent truly took it out of him. His face was an even darker shade of red than when he first approached him in the club. Once more, his father had to take a deep breath to compose himself and likely lower his heartrate. A pang of guilt coursed through Anthony. Never would he have wanted his own actions to impact his father’s health. It had seemed that he had gotten by since the Duke’s health had worsened without upsetting him so.

When he settled, his father’s dark eyes sliced into him. “I have had enough, Anthony. I have always attempted to look the other way as you dragged our family name through the mud as you galivanted through England with careless abandonment. And I even foolishly allowed myself to believe that once it was announced your partner in crime would marry, then you would be soon to follow. Or, at least, would have calmed down in your antics. You would not behave in such a way if you had a wife waiting for you at home.”

It didn’t surprise nor offend Anthony to hear himself and Ernest coupled in the same thought. The two of them had grown to be quite notorious and had for the longest time had acted in the same ways. However, he was a bit annoyed that he was expected to follow Ernest along to married life. He had guided his friend to marry Lady Helena because he could tell Ernest was writhing in misery. Anthony wasn’t happy per se, but he wasn’t miserable, either. He had found ways to keep himself entertained and content with life.

Shaking his head, Anthony retorted, “Marriage has nothing to do with one’s behavior. If that was the case, no one in the House of Lords would have a mistress, or a slew of them for that matter.”

“I will not deny the unsavory actions of our colleagues,” his father replied as calmly as he could. “However, what is the difference between your galivanting and theirs? Discretion. When you have a wife at home whose reputation rides on your behavior, you operate with an abundance of caution. And that is precisely what you are missing, my son. Someone to hold you responsible and make you accountable for your actions.”

“I don’t think that is entirely fair—”

“What isn’t fair, Anthony, is you disgracing not just our family name, but that Countess’ reputation and her husband’s! And all in the name of what? A cheap, temporary thrill for you?” his father interjected. There was a tense silence then, Anthony knowing his father was right in that regard. Sighing, the Duke continued, “Do you really think that you would be out, flirting with any woman that so much as glanced your way if you had a wife whose wellbeing was determined by your social stature?”

Anthony wanted to answer yes because he never thought he would change for anyone, let alone a wife he didn’t care for. Marriage was not something that was in the cards for him; it hadn’t been for nearly a decade. However, he knew that wasn’t the answer his father wanted to hear. “What do you expect me to say? What do you expect me to do? That simply isn’t who I am.”

His father fussed with the buttons on his jacket. “Well, it will be. You have done enough damage to our name, and I won’t have any more of it after this escapade is splashed across the gossip columns tomorrow morning. No. Either you find someone to marry, or you will go oversee the family merchant business in America.”

“You can’t be serious,” Anthony breathed.

“I am,” his father snapped. “Either you find someone to propose to and secure a wedding date this upcoming Season, or you will be on the first boat to America come summer.”

“You can’t force me to go to America,” he muttered meekly.

“I can’t, but I can cut you off. You will have no more access to the family finances, and I will sell off your townhouse or gift it to your brother Thomas when he returns from military duty,” he said, and then closed his eyes. His father was struggling to remain composed, and it was eating Anthony up inside. He was used to his father being frustrated with him, but he wasn’t used to visually seeing it have such an impact on him.

The carriage came to a rolling stop outside of Anthony’s home. His father spoke one final time. “You have until the first of June to make your decision. Good day, son.”

“Good day, Father,” Anthony murmured and stepped out of the carriage.

With a cloudy head, he moved into his townhouse and made his way up to his study. The room perpetually smelled of tobacco and brandy, and it always brought him a good bit of comfort. Though as he sank into his expensive, custom desk chair and looked about the stacks of meaningless paperwork on the desk he had re-stained four times until it was the perfect shade of amber, Anthony felt the full weight of his life crash down upon him. His father truly could cut him off without it being much burden to him, and maybe even relief. Anthony had been tasked with various duties in the dukedom to assist his father, but it allotted to busy work. It gave him the appearance of being important without actually being so.

He supposed he would be kissing it all goodbye, however. America would be his new home once a ship sailed him over the ocean blue if he decided to keep connections with his family. Marriage wasn’t so much as a second thought to him, knowing good and well he didn’t want to marry—and he couldn’t. Ernest had lucked out with Helena because he was a Duke, and because of the external forces at play on both parties. It had been a beautiful, perfect storm that guided his friend to true love and happiness.

Anthony wouldn’t have such luck, nor would he entertain it. His longing for love and marriage had started and ended with Isabel Wynn; though he supposed she went by Isabel Swinton these days. The day she refused to run away with him was the day his heart resigned from women forever—other than physically, of course. He had forced himself to try again for a couple of seasons but entertaining the idea of having anyone but Isabel by his side turned him bitter. The bitterness turned him into the carefree, womanizing rake he was. When a person gave up on gaining a partner in life, they only had personal freedom to indulge in. So, it became a game to Ernest and him. To collect women like temporary trinkets, and to make as much of a fuss as possible at balls and other various soirées when others dared to invite them.

It had been his glory days, even if Ernest no longer saw it that way. The two of them had lived life to the fullest being indulgent and reckless. He sighed, knowing that he would either have to kiss the life that he had always been accustomed to goodbye, or leave for America.

Anthony felt in his heart he would be sailing off come summer.

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

Chapter One

“You wait here, Mama,” Rosaline said, stopping her mother when they reached Fleet Street. Her mother was looking up at the red brick façade of Number nine, Fleet Market with a pale face. From the outside, a passing stranger might consider it a perfectly normal building situated on the popular Fleet Market square, but any Londoner worth their salt knew the truth.

“Very well,” her mother said quietly, tugging her shawl around her shoulders and gazing up at the debtors’ prison in despair. As many months as they had been visiting, her mother could still not cross the threshold without swooning with stress. “I shall go and fetch us some ribbon then.”

“Yes, do,” Rosaline encouraged her mother kindly. “Do not worry for me, Mama, I have done this many times.”

“I only wish there was no need for you to do so,” her mother said sadly, lifting a hand to cup Rosaline’s cheek, her fingers tucking a piece of Rosaline’s fiery red hair back into place.

“One day soon, there will be no need,” Rosaline smiled softly at her mother. “Go and fetch the ribbon, Mama. I should like green if they have it.”

“Of course, dearest,” her mother said, turning her eyes from the building. Rosaline squeezed her mother’s hand and watched her cross the market square to the stall with the ribbons hanging loose and blowing in the breeze. Then, assured that her mother was comfortably browsing the day’s wares, Rosaline squared her shoulders and set her sights on the door of Number nine. As she approached, she saw a gaggle of wealthy women and their gentlemen suitors waiting outside the door.

“Oh, I hear it is much less savage than Newgate,” one of the ladies was commenting loudly, fluttering an expensive fan in the breeze. “Why, you might even see a gentleman ensconced here!”

Rosaline hated the prison tourists, the wealthy ladies and gentlemen from outside London who thought it a great excitement to tour the capital’s prisons and mock or exclaim at those unfortunate incarcerated souls. She kept her back straight and her basket held out in front of her as she brushed past them, well aware of her tattered hem and patched shawl.

“Oh, how I should like to see that!” another lady exclaimed. “We have nothing so lurid to entertain us at home!”

“Well, ’tis not free to gawk, madam,” the warden at the door said snidely to the lady as Rosaline approached. He eyed her familiarly, nodding and opening the large door as she discreetly slipped a coin into his palm. Rosaline was well versed in the procedures of the prison by now. Bribery was the name of the game.

“Well, now, how is it that the young wench should be so freely admitted?” Rosaline heard the lady behind her demand as she slipped past the door warden.

“She must be visiting a person inside,” the first lady said knowledgeably.

“Her? Such a pretty young thing?” Rosaline bristled as she heard one of the tourist gentlemen commenting behind her whilst she stood inside the door, waiting for a second warden to quickly peruse the basket of food and essentials she had brought in. She caught the warden’s eye as he wordlessly slipped one of her mother’s home baked scones into his pocket. Nothing was free in prison and Rosaline knew that.

“You’d be surprised, milord, at how many pretty young things pass through these doors,” the door warden chuckled darkly. “Either visiting or staying.”

“Well, it seems to me then, that pretty girls have no sense,” the gentlemen scoffed. Rosaline felt herself blushing deeply. As soon as the warden had cleared her to proceed she turned around to glare at the gentlemen standing on the doorstep.

“Maybe so, but at least I have enough sense to know that touring inside these walls to gape at unfortunate souls is nothing short of ghoulish,” Rosaline snapped, spinning on her heel, and marching her way down the corridor, hearing the warden’s chuckle behind her and the gentlemen and ladies exclaiming with dismay. She found she cared not what they thought about her as she stalked angrily past barred doors until she reached the next guard.

“Aye, for Mr. Arnold is it?” the guard said, looking Rosaline up and down with slightly leering eyes that made her uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Rosaline said briskly, throwing back the tea towel covering her basket so the guard could take his pick. She only hoped she would not have lost all of her mother’s famous scones by the time she got to the cell.

“Not hungry,” the guard grunted. “At least, not for that.”

“Very well,” Rosaline sighed and pulled a coin out of her purse, offering it to him. He shook his head, smiling nastily.

“What if I have something else in mind, lass?” he said lewdly, leaning forward. His rancid breath was sour on her cheeks. Rosaline tried not to show her disgust and fear. She had been visiting Number nine, Fleet Market for months now. She knew that some of the guards and wardens traded in more than favors, coins, and food with visiting ladies; she was not naive, but she would not let herself be taken advantage of. She was suddenly very glad her mother was not here to see this.

“Then you’ll put it out of your mind or get nothing,” Rosaline said sharply, pulling a second coin out of her purse and offering it to the guard. “What will it be?”

He eyed her suspiciously for a moment and then pulled back, snatching the coins out of her hand, and opening the door, leading her along until they reached a familiar oak door with a tiny, barred window.

“A short time only,” the guard snarled, setting a key from his great ring of keys at his waist into the lock and turning it. “If you want longer you know what it will cost.”

Rosaline stiffened and said nothing, waiting until the door had swung all the way open to enter the room, refusing to look at the guard. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking he had unsettled her. Over the last few months, Rosaline had developed a spine of steel. She had needed to. She was the only one keeping her family together.

“Rosie!” A thin but happy voice exclaimed. “How lovely to see you!”

“Hello, Papa,” Rosaline smiled, setting her basket down upon the threadbare bed and walking into her father’s warm embrace. He was standing by the window with his sketchbook, which he set down on the sill in order to hold her close. He felt much thinner than the last time she had visited. She pulled away, frowning at him. “You seem reduced, Papa. Have I not been bringing you enough food?”

“No, more than enough, it is only . . . well,” her father coughed, and an abashed look crossed his wan face. “I may have made some trades for art supplies.”

Rosaline shook her head at her father and bit back her reproach. After all, it was her father’s trading and borrowing in order to finance his painting and work as an artist that had sent him to Fleet Market in the first place.

“Mama sends scones,” Rosaline said, removing her shawl from around her shoulders and setting it down on the thin blanket. “I have included some scouse for you, and some fresh apples too.”

“And books?” her father asked hopefully, a mischievous smile flickering across his face.

“Yes,” Rosaline sighed, rolling her eyes. Her father was an impossible bookworm and being locked up all day had done nothing to dim his habit. “A collection of the works of Shakespeare and Marlowe.”

“Well, perhaps I can read the different parts to myself when I become lonely,” her father joked softly. For a moment, he looked distinctly forlorn, and then he reached for Rosalind’s hand. “I do miss you both so. How are you?”

Rosaline looked down at her hand in her father’s. She swallowed back the truth, that her mother seemed like a shadow of herself without her husband, and that Rosaline was always fearful now of her father’s creditor knocking on the door, or that he might send ruffians to their house to steal away more of their furniture or goods. She could not tell her father the truth, that his incarceration was the worst thing to have happened to her and kept her awake at night, worrying about the pennies in her purse, and how they would survive this. Rosaline was only two-and-twenty, with no large fortune or wealthy brother or uncle to support her. She knew there was only one way for her family to make it through this tragedy of circumstance and poor decision-making. Rosaline was determined to make it happen.

“We are well,” Rosaline said quietly, stroking the back of her father’s hand with her thumb. “Do not worry yourself, Papa. Soon you will be a free man again.”

“Oh, have you been saying your prayers, my sweet Rose?” her father chuckled. “Or perhaps someone we know has died and left you a fortune in gold to repay my debt?”

“That would surely help matters, but no,” Rosaline smiled and kissed her father’s cheek. “Do not worry, Papa. I have a plan. I shall see it through.”

*****

“I am only suggesting that the performance would have been greatly improved if more time had been given to the soprano’s talents,” Owen said, falling in step beside Henry and Matilda as they exited the opera house.

“I suppose that had nothing to do with the fact that the soprano tonight was exceptionally beautiful, did it?” Matilda asked, smiling cheekily as she slipped her arm through her husband’s.

“Not a whit, I merely appreciated her talents,” Owen said stubbornly, flicking his cane as he walked.

“I am sure you did,” Henry said drily, raising his eyebrow. “After all, in that gown her talent was more than on display.”

“She was playing the goddess Athena, so, of course the garb of Ancient Greece was perfectly appropriate,” Owen said, refusing to rise to the bait.

“You know, I heard a strange little rumor last week, husband,” Matilda began, eyes sparkling, and Owen just knew that his best friend’s wife was preparing to make fun of him.

“Oh, really, love?” Henry said, smiling at Owen evilly. Owen glared back at his friend, who never once came to his aide when his beautiful wife began to tease Owen mercilessly. Owen sometimes thought Henry enjoyed it even more than when he used to beat the stuffing out of Owen at university back at Oxford. “And what was that?”

“I heard that the lady soprano in question, I believe her name is Mademoiselle Elise, received the most fabulous bouquet last week, as well as a gentleman caller after curtain call,” Matilda tapped her gloved finger against her lips mischievously. “Tell me, husband, which young bachelor do we know who always favors giving roses to those he courts?”

“Lady Linfield, you are incorrigible,” Owen said flatly, staring between his laughing best friend and his best friend’s wife.

“She is!” Henry sighed, wiping his eyes, and squeezing his wife’s arm. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“I imagine it is more endearing when it is not directed at your affairs,” Owen said tartly.

“Oh, do not be sour, Owen,” Matilda giggled, winking at him conspiratorially. “If you do not wish to be subject to rumors, then you must try to conduct a less exceptional love-life.”

“I shall bear that in mind, my lady!” Owen sighed, shaking his head ruefully but unable to stop himself smiling. The truth was that Lady Matilda Linfield was quite exceptional. She was Henry’s oldest friend, aside from Owen, and it had been Owen’s great pleasure to watch their courtship evolve. There was an ease about their companionship that Owen longed for in a spouse. After all, here was Matilda, a fine lady of the town, teasing her husband’s best friend about his dalliances! It was certainly unorthodox, but Owen relished the friendship of Henry and his wife. And he adored being godfather to their only daughter, Iris, and, sometimes, when he saw his best friend rolling with laughter at a witty comment his wife had made, Owen was filled with crushing envy.

“So, you are acquainted with the soprano?” Henry pressed, guiding them further along the street towards the carriages.

“Can a gentleman not send a young lady of exceptional talent a bouquet to congratulate her on her performance?” Owen demanded.

“He can, but if he is the young Duke of Lennox he cannot be surprised when there are rumors about it,” Matilda said tartly.

“Or when it ends up in the scandal sheets,” Henry said warningly.

“I am scrupulous about protecting my reputation, as you well know,” Owen said airily. “And what is a bouquet sent in congratulation for a perfectly sung aria? If that is all the scandal sheets can conjure up then they are surely dragging their feet.”

The truth was that Owen had indeed had a secret dalliance with Mademoiselle Elise, which had ended in an eager tumble in her dressing room, but he had no intention of revealing that to Matilda. She saw him as a romantic flirt, as the gentleman who would dance with every lady, complement each one lavishly, and then send them all roses afterwards. Henry, however, knew the truth. Owen did not like a cold bed. Since they’d gone up to Oxford, Owen had enjoyed the company of many fine ladies, and many pretty professionals. His father’s premature death had launched him into his dukedom earlier than expected. He had imagined he would have a few more years of bachelorhood to enjoy before settling down and finding a lady to marry. Then he would have felt ready to assume his father’s title, his days of carousing fully behind him, just a part of any young man’s youthful indiscretions. Yet now, he found himself, a year from being thirty years old, a duke of substantial property and fortune . . . and still unmarried.

“Every scandal sheet I open seems obsessed with you,” Henry commented lightly, his eyes fixed on Owen.

“Oh, you open many scandal sheets, do you?” Owen teased drily.

“No, but I do, and I simply have to tell Henry all about them,” Matilda said, stepping towards the carriage. “After all, it is such a delight to be so intimately acquainted with someone so famous!”

“Oh, why is that?” Owen said sarcastically. “Are there benefits in Society to being a dear friend of the Duke of Lennox, recently branded the most flirtatious duke in the land?”

Owen had not known whether to be flattered or insulted by the title, but then had arrived at his club to raucous laughter and had sorted his feelings out quite quickly. He loathed the scandal sheets. He hated the people who published them, who sent spies into balls and parties to take notes on who he danced with, spoke to, sent flowers to. It had become practically unbearable, especially because he had gotten no closer to discerning who the spy might be. It kept him awake at night, wondering who in the ton was in the pocket of the newspaper men. It had even gotten to the point where he had become convinced he could hear footsteps following him wherever he went, as if everyone in the ton was fascinated with exactly what His Grace, the Duke of Lennox was doing at each moment. It was almost unbearable. The hair on the back of Owen’s neck rose just thinking about it, and he had the horrible feeling that a pair of eyes was following him even then. He caught Henry’s eye and saw that his friend was watching him with a thoughtful expression.

“Oh, no, merely that I get the opportunity to correct public opinion of you at every turn,” Matilda said lightly, with a beautiful smile. “After all, most people seem wrongfully convinced that you are some kind of charmer. And as we all know, you are a perfectly hopeless dunderhead in real life.”

“How dare you!” Owen laughed, shaking off the sensation of being watched from the shadows. “Just because your sister-in-law refers to me as such does not give you leave to go repeating it in company!”

Henry’s sister, Althea, was never short of playful insults for Owen, which he never hesitated to return in kind. Althea was a friend with whom Owen could always be freely himself, as much family to him as Henry and Matilda.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Henry said, smiling as he helped his wife into the carriage. “Get comfortable, my love, I must catch a word with our resident dunderhead, if you do not mind.”

“I shall bear it,” Matilda chuckled, smiling as Henry closed the door. Then he gestured for Owen to join him in a side alley, his eyes full of understanding.

“Again?” Henry asked quietly. Owen nodded curtly.

“It’s the fourth time this week,” Owen sighed in frustration, running his hands through his hair. “I feel as if I am going mad, always imagining footsteps at my back and eyes on the back of my head.”

“You are not going mad, do not worry,” Henry squeezed his arm affectionately. He knew how hard being thrust into the sudden spotlight had been for Owen. “We will find the answer to it soon enough.”

“Thank you,” Owen said, breathing a sigh of relief. It was good to have a friend on his side. But for some reason, he had the unnerving feeling that they were only just beginning to unravel the mystery of who was watching him and why, and it would only get more complicated the more questions they asked. “I am glad you are with me.”

“I always shall be, my friend,” Henry said.

Chapter Two

“Come, Mama, we cannot dally!” Rosaline said firmly, tugging on her mother’s hand as they walked through the art gallery. Rosaline ran her eyes over the crowds of gentlemen and ladies bustling around before paintings and holding glasses of champagne. She could practically taste her heartbeat in her throat. For her plan to work, she needed to blend in as best she could with the other members of the ton, who were milling around and gossiping. She had deliberately worn her best gown, a soft, pearly satin of pale green, adorned under the bust and at the edge of the cap sleeves with the green ribbon her mother had purchased yesterday at the market. Whilst she never expected to be the most beautiful girl in the room, Rosaline prided herself that she could at least appear to be a respectable member of the ton. No one here would look twice at her or her mother and find them wanting.

“I do not know why we have to rush,” her mother mumbled and then, casting her fearful eyes around the gallery, sucked in a sharp breath. “Goodness, I have not been in the company of some of these people for more than twenty years.”

Rosaline slowed her feet. For a moment, her quest went entirely out of her head. She stared at her mother, at the slight lines around her beautiful eyes and her sad expression; her face was a picture of mourning.

“I am sorry,” Rosaline said quietly, slipping her hand into her mother’s. “I can do this alone, Mama. You can go home.”

“No,” her mother breathed out slowly, closing her eyes and then opening them again. “If twenty years has not made me strong, then nothing will.”

Rosaline said nothing and watched as her mother glanced forlornly around the room, her eyes lingering on a beautiful painting three times the size of Rosaline.

“Do you see the brushwork there?” her mother said softly, her eyes becoming gentle with affection.

“Yes?” Rosaline said, looking at the painting.

“That is one of your father’s,” her mother whispered so that no one else could hear.

“Papa’s?” Rosaline whispered in astonishment, looking up at the enormous painting surrounded by fine people. Why, the cost of the frame alone would surely be enough to settle a large part of her father’s debt!

“Yes, one of his earliest,” her mother mused quietly, looking at the painting with fondness. “One of his first big sales. In the days when he was still the talk of the ton, and I was just a young slip of a thing at her first ball.”

Rosaline watched as her mother drifted into memories. She was doing that more often these days. With a soft smile on her face, wearing a beautiful blue gown, and her head tilted to properly examine the painting, Rosaline caught a glimpse of the type of fine lady her mother would have become if she had never met Mr. Arnold, the new and exciting landscape painter, who had burst upon the ton twenty-five years ago. Rosaline had heard the story of their love many times as a child; it had been her favorite bedtime tale. Rosaline knew how her father had been invited to the seat of the Earl of Edgecombe to paint a landscape of the grounds, how her mother had caught sight of him . . . and instantly fallen in love with his perception and gentleness.

As a child, she had begged over and over to hear the romantic tale of how her parents had fallen into a secret love affair and, afraid of the earl’s disapproval, eloped. The infant Rosaline had considered it the pinnacle of romance, but now she knew romance was not without its sacrifices. Rosaline had never met her grandfather, the Earl of Edgecombe. She had never come out into Society or gone to balls or afternoon tea with other young ladies of the ton. Her mother had married out of Society, throwing her lot in with a talented but scatter-brained painter with no head for numbers or finances. She had never once complained, but Rosaline knew it must be hard for her mother to stand in these halls with these people again and not think about the family she had lost and the life she might have had.

“Do you ever regret it?” Rosaline asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“No,” her mother looked at her fiercely, her voice suddenly low and powerful. “How could I regret the greatest love of my life? The love that brought me my own little Rosie?”

“Thank you, Mama,” Rosaline said, smiling as she squeezed her mother’s hand. “And you do not regret all you lost in leaving the ton?”

“There is nothing to regret here,” her mother said, sniffing disapprovingly as she looked around at the surrounding ladies and gentlemen, all traces of nostalgia vanished. “I still have not the faintest idea why you insist upon this reintroduction.”

“I have my reasons,” Rosaline said, twisting a curl by her ear. Her mother watched her shrewdly.

“You are as much a gambler as your father,” her mother said, shaking her head. “Don’t you realize, precious one, that if there is so much of a whiff of the debtor’s prison about us, then this reintroduction shall all be for nothing? Less than nothing.”

“Well, it cannot be less than nothing,” Rosaline said glibly.

“It can,” her mother said firmly. “Nothing is what we are to them, Rosaline. They care naught for us; they do not know our names or our circumstances. It is worse, much worse, that they should know us and despise us. Then, we shall be in an even more terrible situation than when your father and I eloped.”

“Mother,” Rosaline said in a soothing tone. “You shall have to trust me. I have our family’s best intentions in mind. I am going to free father and make sure that we are all happy again.”

“I suppose you shall also end all wars and fill every hungry belly in the city?” her mother joked sarcastically, shaking her head at her daughter. “Really, Rosaline. You cannot expect miracles.”

“I do not. I only need you to trust me,” Rosaline said, staring into her mother’s eyes. “Can you please trust me, Mother?”

Her mother looked at her for a long minute, eyes tired, but then she sighed, her shoulders slumping for a moment before she rolled them back, her face becoming firmer by the second.

“I shall trust you, sweet Rose,” her mother whispered, tucking her daughter’s hand into her elbow. “Besides, for you to appear as a proper lady of the ton you must be appropriately chaperoned. Come. Let me show you some other pieces of interest.”

Rosaline allowed her mother to guide her around the gallery, talking in a level voice about the pieces of art on display with such clarity and an informed manner that Rosaline could feel some of the other ladies and gentlemen looking at her with approval and interest. It amazed Rosaline to see how these people of the ton communicated so often with nothing more than sideways glances, significant looks, and whispers behind fans. It was a world that ran on gossip and intrigue.

“You know, Mama, I think Marc would have loved to have joined us here,” Rosaline mused, thinking of her lifelong friend, Marc, the son of an Italian artist with whom her father had worked many times.

“I have never known Marc to enjoy art,” her mother commented. “Perhaps a life of over-exposure to his father’s work has ruined him.”

It was true, Marc’s father was a much more successful painter in Italy than Rosaline’s father had ever been in England. Perhaps to spite his father and his consistent criticism of Marc’s life, Marc had permanently relocated to England and declared himself finished with Rome. Consequently, he spent a lot of time with the Arnold family. Now, unlike some other fair-weather friends, he had become an even more ardent supporter following the incarceration of her father. He was a true friend.

“No, but you know he would revel in the intrigue,” Rosaline whispered. Marc had taken a job working at the local newspaper preferred by the ton, working in the gossip and scandal section. It suited him well. The only benefit, he always said, to living inside the art world for so long with his father was the plethora of delicious titbits about Society he gleaned whenever the painters gossiped together. He and his father had not spoken since Marc took on work at the newspaper, but where other Society folk might judge Marc for his profession, Rosaline would never dare. After all, she thought darkly for a moment, am I not benefiting from his profession too?

“Oh, yes!” Her mother laughed, throwing back her head. “My, how Marc has a talent for always knowing exactly what is going on, everywhere!”

“Helena? Helena Arnold, is that you?”

Both Rosaline and her mother turned towards the voice. Rosaline felt her mother’s hand tighten on her arm in fear. Rosaline knew her mother had been most dismayed by the prospect that someone might recognize her from her younger days and bring up her elopement. However, as soon as they looked into the face of the smiling woman in front of them, Rosaline felt her mother relax.

“Your Grace, how wonderful to see you,” Rosaline’s mother said, relief in her voice as she dropped into a curtsey. “Your Grace, might I introduce my daughter, Rosaline? Rosaline, this is the Duchess of Sinclair.”

“Lovely to meet you, Your Grace,” Rosaline said, copying her mother’s respectful curtsey before the beautiful older woman. Rosaline knew her mother had kept one friend from her younger days, the only friend who still kept up correspondence with her and had never judged her. But Rosaline had never imagined that such a friend would be none other than the Duchess of Sinclair, the most fashionable duchess of the ton!

“Now, none of that,” the duchess said firmly, reaching out to take hold of her mother’s hands. “You must call me Frances, if I may still call you Helena?”

“Of course,” her mother said, smiling broadly with slightly wet eyes.

“As for you, you beautiful child,” the duchess said, reaching out to take Rosaline’s hand, “you may call me Frances also. I have known your mother such a long time.”

“Thank you, Your Grace . . . Frances,” Rosaline said, feeling humbled but also a little anxious. For her plan to work, she needed to blend in and be as inconspicuous as possible. That was hardly a possibility with the Duchess of Sinclair around. She was known for her excellent sense of style, her talent for rooting out gossip, and her knowledge of everything to do with the ton. Rosaline thought it best to distance herself a little from her mother and the gracious duchess, and so she carefully attempted to move away. She gazed at a painting with feigned interest, hoping to hear some whispers about the gentleman who was the real focus of her attention, the only reason she had come at all to the event. Then, as she gazed at a portrait of a stern-faced admiral, she heard none other than the Duchess of Sinclair mention his name.

“Mrs. Arnold, please meet one of my son-in-law’s closest friends, the Duke of Lennox.”

Rosaline whirled around, unable to stop staring at the man who, at that moment, was bowing so formally and respectfully to her own mother. The Duke of Lennox. The very man she had come to the gallery to find, whose footsteps she had been haunting for days now but had never seen face to face, being always hidden around corners and away from prying eyes. And yet here he was!

She swallowed hard, feeling terror pooling in her belly. She did not know whether to run and hide or brave it out, but for the plan to work effectively it would be so much safer if she was not known to the Duke of Lennox. Perhaps she should simply duck into another room of the gallery? But, unfortunately, her mother was already looking over in her direction. Rosaline tried not to hold her breath as the faces of her mother, the Duchess of Sinclair, the lovely looking couple whom Rosaline recognized as the Duke of Lennox’s friends, and that of the man himself, turned towards her expectantly.

“Darling do come over here,” her mother called, and Rosaline walked forward reluctantly, her head in a daze as her mother slipped an arm through hers.

“Allow me to make introductions,” the duchess said smoothly. “Miss Rosaline Arnold, please meet my daughter and her husband, Lord Henry Linfield and Lady Matilda Linfield—”

Rosaline curtsied before the tall blond gentleman and his dark-haired, very beautiful wife. Lady Linfield smiled at her courteously, but Rosaline was sure she spied a glimmer of excitement cross the lady’s face as she looked significantly at the Duke of Lennox.

“—and this is a great friend of our family, Owen Barton, the Duke of Lennox.”

He was taller than Rosaline had noticed before, always capturing sight of him at night, from behind or far away. He towered above her. She took in the dark hair that curled close to his head, the strong, masculine jaw, and the rather unhelpfully beautiful pale-blue eyes that reminded her of forget-me-nots and were twinkling with a roguish type of mischief. Rosaline couldn’t help it. She stared into them, feeling tingles run up and down her body. There was no other word for it; he was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Arnold,” the duke said, bowing low.

“And yours, Your Grace,” Rosaline whispered, watching as the duke straightened up. There was a distinctive note of playfulness in his eyes, and she was sure, just for a second, that he had winked at her. Against every part of her mind crying out that she absolutely must feel nothing for this man, Rosaline felt a flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. Her heart began to race, thumping furiously in her breast. Her hands felt sticky as she was mesmerized by those forget-me-not eyes.

Oh, bother! Rosaline thought to herself. This is going to make everything so much harder. 

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh? Do tell!” Erica replied enthusiastically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, yes, come in,” Edward replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Mother,

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

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

I love you all.

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you saying?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—”

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

“Well—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kitty’s eyes brightened. “Can I see?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want her out of here.”

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

“Get her out!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evan’s blood ran cold. “Pardon me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he gone?” she asked.

At least she is dressed now.

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

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

“Kitty,” he snapped, “just leave.”

She did, and Evan was alone once again.

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Father, please!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That couldn’t be, could it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dear Ernest,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once more, Happy Birthday.

                                                            With love,

                                                                Father

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

However, the other half of him was absolutely tormented.

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say no, Papa. Please. Deny him.

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bad news, my lord?” Robert asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We shall. And I –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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