Chapter One

“He’s not coming, dear,” her grandmother voiced from behind her, pacing in from the kitchen.

Grandmother sighed in such a way that Eliza could hear the pity and dismay in the very breath. Then, to drive the knife in deeper, she added, “The comforting little lies we tell ourselves.”

The elderly woman meant no harm, and Eliza knew that. She was only trying to get her granddaughter to embrace the truth. Eliza was the illegitimate and unwanted daughter of Baron Lockhart. She had been cast into the humble home of her grandmother in Thetford Forest since birth. She would never know of the riches and wonders of the life of nobility like her father.

Many in her region of England had long lists of desires; more land, gold to fill their pockets, a bounty of food on the table for every meal. Eliza’s only want was for her father to be timely in his visits. It seemed like such a small request in the grand scheme of things, but one that would mean the world to her. Every time he was late, her easily troubled mind would work itself into knots. No matter how hard she tried to resist the impending swirl of anxiety, she knew she was already becoming swept away in its dreadful storm.

“We’re having potato soup and some bread tonight,” her grandmother called to her, likely attempting to distract Eliza from her troublesome thoughts. “I think this is my finest loaf so far,” she added with a rueful chuckle.

“I am sure it is,” Elia muttered resignedly in response, just loud enough for her grandmother to catch.

“You would think after all these years, making something as simple as bread would be something I would have evolved into an art form.”

Since the age of seven, bread making was a chore that had fallen into Eliza’s talented hands. As wonderful as she was at growing herbs and vegetables, making stews and porridges so delicious that they would satisfy a King, her grandmother was a horrible baker. In fact, Eliza enjoyed the task, feeling the flour stiffen into a rough dough and then kneading it until it was stretchy and limp. As a child, she delighted in checking the bowl to see how much it had risen every few minutes. Yet, because of what day it was, her grandmother had taken to doing it without complaint.

“Mhm,” Eliza replied, her mind already slipping back to her painful thoughts.

Eliza didn’t have to look at the time to know too much of the day had slipped away. The setting of the sun would bring upon her a bitter and overwhelming sensation of disappointment. Yet, she continued to stand by the window, watching a pair of gentlemen retreating from the woods, presumably to return home to a warm hearth and abundant meal after a day of hunting. They would go about their lives as she remained frozen in place, waiting for an opportunity she had wished for all her life. Eliza practiced holding her spine straight and her face perfectly composed as though being an elegant lady would ever change her father’s mind. She pretended for a moment that her posture and expression would be enough to convince her sire to look upon her with adoration and admiration and proudly fold her into his arms.

Her sage green gown with handstitched seams stared back at her in the faint reflection of the window. She tucked a strand of her mousy blonde hair behind her ear as Eliza recalled the day she picked out the fabric, how she had loved its unique hue. Perhaps it was a lie she convinced herself of, knowing she would never have the fine red dyes like the higher class. She never would be the daughter the Baron wanted, no matter how much grace she possessed. Eliza was the offspring of her commoner mother, who was not his wife, and that was all she would ever be to her father.

It was callous of her to waste so much time in desolation over her absent father when her grandmother had provided her a happy, if humble, life. Their abode was quaint and as modest as they come, but there was never a day that Eliza went unloved or hungry. Eliza had learned to provide for herself off the land alone under the gentle guidance of Mathilda, her grandmother. A skill no pampered young miss of the ton could claim.

As always, her mind split in two. One side encased in the woes provided by her father, and the other berating herself for feelings of discontent. Eliza was usually fulfilled with her role as Mathilda’s devoted granddaughter. Nothing made Eliza happier than going about her chores as her grandmother filled her ears with stories of her past. Often evenings consisted of Eliza reading to the woman after a simple but satisfying meal. And could there be any better sensation than spring moss under bare feet or any better sound than waking to the birds every morning? Anything Eliza could possibly need was before her.

Still, a persistent portion of her mind held onto some hope that she had the qualities of noble blood that ran through her veins. Eliza looked on to the people traveling the narrow dirt road that led from the forest to the little village. Would she ever be in their sphere? Or would she only ever be a dull face in the crowd, going from the grocer to home and back again? There was something in her deeply unsatisfied with that possibility. Yet, that was the very summary of her life. Unnoticed, unwanted, unimportant.

Since she was a young child, the Baron had come on the fifteenth of every month to meet her in secret, providing financial support and a minor fatherly presence in her life. However, in recent years, he had been coming by later and later in the day, making their visits briefer and briefer. Last month he had seen her for mere minutes.

He had never missed their appointment completely. Eliza’s jaw set in place as she held back tears. “I suppose it is his right to not come,” she spoke suddenly in a faint voice. “I am no longer a child. I don’t necessarily need a father about. Perhaps he saw me for the woman I was last month and knew he would no longer be needed. I have all that I need here, and surely he could see that.”

Eliza wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince with her sentiment, and her stomach churned at hearing herself defend the gentleman who caused her such heartache. Why couldn’t he have just sent a letter that he would not come? It was torture for her, waiting by the window all day, thinking of what he would say and how he would act when around her. It provided her too much time to fantasize about a life with him in it, and even more time to realize it would never happen. It was a fantastic arch of excitement and then depression she would go through once a month.

“I think it’s more likely he got tired of the double life he’s been living, love.”

She was thankful her back was still to her grandmother as her lip began to quiver. Some part of Eliza longed to be angry with the woman, but it was hard to when she knew she was right. The Baron had a wife and legitimate children at home, and Eliza was certain he longed to discard her with the hands of time. Had the time finally come for her to no longer exist to her own father?

“Come, join me for supper.”

Biting back tears, Eliza cleared her throat and shook her head. She chastised herself to maintain her composure, to be the strong woman her grandmother had raised. She may be nothing more than a poor commoner, but she had the strength of her maternal family holding her firm, providing her a strong will and pride. Unfortunately, there was no convincing her heart of such a thing, and the terrible sting of a cry began to form in her throat. “I’m afraid I’m not hungry at the moment. I’m going to step out for some air.”

Before another word could be spoken, Eliza hurried across the old wooden floor, snatched up a warm shawl, and slipped out the door. The walls she had known her entire life suddenly felt so close that she struggled for breath. Just as the door closed, tears fell from her eyes. Walking toward the trees, she let out the pained cry she had been managing to smother underneath the surface for too long.

The brisk evening wind stung her cheeks as she lifted her face up to the mulberry-colored sky. Nightfall was approaching, and with that, she knew that all her fears and circling thoughts were proving to be fact. She needed to accept her childlike fantasies of her father were nothing but the idle dreams of a naïve young girl. The looming close of their father-daughter relationship had been on her mind for months, but never did she think it would hurt in such a deep and dreadful way.

Eliza loved her grandmother and the handful of friends they had in town, but she couldn’t help feeling lonely. She was the product of sin and made to be a dirty little secret. It had always defined her, and she would forever be the living consequence of her mother’s actions. Sometimes, she found herself angry and bitter toward her, but it made her feel as horrible as she possibly could. Who was she to think so ill of the dead? Beyond that, she knew her mother had lived in great regret of her daughter never being able to live the life she should have had by right of her blood. Never could Eliza find it in herself to be genuinely angry with the woman who birthed her. After all, had it not been for Genevieve’s and the Baron’s affair, Eliza would have never been conceived and would have never known the beauty and wonders of the woods or known a love as pure as her grandmother’s.

In many ways, it felt like Eliza had been living in the shadows all her life simply because she existed. And just for once, Eliza would like to be in the light. The thought alone seemed pitiful and silly to her, but was she to deny her emotions even to herself? Her chin lowered as she took in a sharp breath.

Perhaps this is what madness feels like… Feeling so conflicted with your own thoughts. Wanting to fight your inner self if for no other reason but to have some solace.

The tears continued to flow as she thought back over all the hours she had spent waiting at that window for her father. Why must he be so important to her? Sure, he gifted her books and provided some financial support, but what else? The Baron had missed out on her life. He should be the one feeling so awful. It wasn’t fair Eliza was the only one grieving for something that never was.

Nevertheless, she knew she was lying to herself. Her only wish wasn’t for the Baron to keep his appointment—it was that he would love her as a daughter instead of viewing her as a secret burden.

Chapter Two

“Is there any better way to live, old chap?” Matthew bellowed to his dear friend after the deafening blow of a rifle echoed through the woods.

“Only thing that comes to mind is the company of a fair lady,” George replied, a sly grin stretching the length of his face.

Matthew’s ivy-green eyes slid away from his friend and back to the wilderness before them. They were there to hunt partridges, perhaps the elusive and rare quail, and any other sort of fowl they fancied – not to discuss women. He scowled at his own thoughts, knowing he sounded more like a school-aged boy who still feared the company of their female counterparts. However, the Earl fancied a beautiful lady as much as any other gentleman. He simply didn’t want the conversation to find its way onto the topic of marriage.

“Come now, old chap,” George continued. “You can’t say being out here in the stinging cold is better than having a gorgeous, vivacious lady in your arms.”

“How many ladies do you know that are vivacious?” Matthew grumbled as he packed another shot into his firearm.

“I recall us reuniting at such a lively woman’s ball,” he retorted with a wiggling of his eyebrows.

They had, in fact, run into each other at a ball hosted at the Clifford estate, held in honor of Lady Emily Clifford’s debut the year before. While it was meant to be the final hoorah of the season, it had been a rather dull affair until the two men met up and proceeded to attempt to drink their body weight in cognac. It led to a smashing evening and a smashing hangover the following day.

“Now, now, George. Best not speak too fondly of a married lady.”

His friend opened his arms wide in an exasperated gesture. “Am I not here with a dear friend? Or do I suspect a rat for the Daily London Report?” His query was in jest, a humorous twinkle in his walnut eyes.

Finally, George earned a short burst of laughter from Matthew. “I assure you, while I may have stooped low in life a time or two, my friend, I am happy to inform you I have never gone that low. Do you really take me for a gossip monger? I must say, I’m hurt, old chap.”

“No, not a gossip monger,” he tutted, drumming his fingers against the butt of his rifle as he leaned against it. “Just a depressed bachelor.”

Matthew knew he was trying to get him to open up about his love life, and he simply wasn’t in the mood. George always meant well and likely was trying to assist with some friendly arm-twisting over the matter of marriage. He was of the age that marriage and children were expected, and it was only a matter of time before his name began to be whispered amongst the ton. Hell, it already was. However, he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it for idle gossip. He leveled another shot at a rustling bush in the distance. After the explosion of gunpowder and lead, the woods fell silent. He hadn’t struck a single thing that day. He sighed and looked over to his friend once again. “Perhaps we will have better luck hunting foxes next time.”

“I won’t hold my breath with your poor aim,” George chuckled.

“Careful what you say to an armed man,” he warned his friend, flashing a toothy smirk.

George only rolled his eyes and waved a dismissing hand at the Earl. “We should be getting back to the estate before dark.”

Matthew gazed up to the sky and was surprised to find the colors of a setting sun above. It was a glorious display of deep purples and maroon, reminding him of the tales his mother told him as a boy. She’d said that angels took turns painting the sunrises and sunsets, and each was as unique as the last. A deep wave of satisfaction washed over him as he recalled those simpler times. Though, perhaps they were only so simple because he had not yet realized his place in society and the duties that would fall upon his shoulders.

“Well, we certainly know how to kill an entire afternoon.”

“And evening. We’ve missed dinner, and I’m utterly famished,” George corrected.

With another deep breath, he came to terms with the fact they would have to go back. Matthew was delighted to be spending some time with George at his estate in the North. It was not only a joy to catch up with his friend after years apart but also a wonderful break from the stresses of the city and his home life. Maybe some would view him as selfish for going away for so long, but he didn’t much care. It was time for him to relax and gather his thoughts before returning home. For the time being, he had to agree with George. It was late, and his stomach was beginning to rumble.

“Fear not, my dear George. We will return just in time for supper and pudding.”

The two men found their way back through the woods, their hunting boots leaving small imprints in the soft moss. Matthew absently wondered if they would still be there the next day if they happened to find their way back to the same place. His eyes wandered about the trees and foliage, finding himself at peace and hoping that they might return there. Something about that place felt like a piece of him, or maybe he was only romanticizing.

Once they had untied their horses and mounted, Matthew followed his friend’s lead back through the woods in the direction of the estate, though if left to his own devices, Matthew knew he wouldn’t know his east from his west. The wind was much colder that evening, hopefully marking the arrival of an early winter. Getting snowed in at George’s was an attractive idea. Just the two men, hunting, smoking cigars, and arguing philosophy and literature by a roaring fire. It sounded like a dream or like the only way to get away from his obligations.

George briefly looked over his shoulder at Matthew before kicking his horse into a full gallop. Brimming with excitement, he followed suit. A boisterous laugh escaped him and fled into the autumn air as they soared between the trees, feeling a rush of life fill his body. Never before had he been able to ride so wildly. Sure, there were plots of land his family had designated for riding horses, but this was a different sort of feeling. His mind slipped into daydreams about riding endlessly through the wild country, seeing the land for what it was before civilization took it in its cold, firm grasp.

I feel alive out here. This is what living is meant to be, isn’t it?

It was dangerously delicious, something he was sure he could get addicted to if provided such an opportunity. His steed, Excalibur, was a beast once more, not all regal and proper the way he had been trained to be. Matthew felt that Excalibur, too, was feeling a sense of freedom come over him. He moved with fascinating precision but with a strong sense of will and force that made it seem as though the horse was the one commanding the land instead of merely navigating it.

When was the last time I felt this much happiness? Why must it be fleeting?

Then, at the peak of his exhilaration, he heard something in the near distance. It sounded like a moan or a cry. It was distinctly human, not at all animalistic. In an instant, he feared for the person, worried that someone was hurt or lost. He peered in the direction of George and called out to him, “Did you hear that?”

George merely shrugged. “It’s the sound of the woods, Matthew. You can’t be worrying over every little sound.”

“No. It was a cry, I’m sure of it. Perhaps someone is in distress.”

“What business is it of ours?” George snorted.

For a moment, Matthew was offended by the crassness of his friend. Then, the crying grew louder. “If someone is in need, we should at the very least see what the concern is. Assess if we could lend a hand, if nothing more than getting word back to the nearest town. It shouldn’t take long, George.”

George only faced forward again, dismissing the very notion of assisting others. It was only a moment that Matthew debated on what to do before he turned his horse toward the sound and began to ride away.

          I will be quick, just long enough to make sure there isn’t any danger. Then I’ll turn back and catch up to his friend.

A pang of anxiety hit him, knowing it would be a feat to find his friend in the dense forest. However, he could not resist the instinct to help the person in duress. He slowed his steed down to get a better idea of where the sound was coming from. The cry had softened, so much that he felt he was blindly searching. If he heard it over the sound of Excalibur’s hoofbeats, surely, they had to be close.

“Is anyone there? Are you in need of assistance?” Matthew called into the empty air.

It sparked another soft cry, and he turned left to right, trying to see if he could spot anything at all. Daylight was slipping away from him, causing his eyes to squint to see the finer details of the landscape. Still, he saw nothing and no one. Was his mind playing tricks on him?

Just as his mouth opened to call out to the person again, he heard a sound from behind him. Turning his head in hopes of finding his friend coming back to help, Matthew wasn’t provided the time to see the face before a sharp pain overtook him. Before he could register anything at all, he felt himself fall from his horse, and the world grew black at an alarming rate.

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

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

Chapter 1

Flatford, Suffolk, England

1812

“Walter? Walter! How can you seriously still be asleep at this time?”

Walter rolled over in the bed, pulling the pillow across his face in the effort to block out the shrill voice of his sister, Lucy.

“Walter!” she called again, this time coupling the words with sharp bangs to the door.

“Ergh…” he groaned aloud as the knocking matched the thumping in his head.

“Did you go to the alehouse again last night?” Lucy’s voice was growing more and more impatient now.

“Yes,” he called back at last, pulling the pillow down off his face and blinking a few times to look around his chamber. The sunlight of the late morning was streaming through the windows gloriously, casting the room in a bright yellow glow. The four-poster bed had its curtains pulled back, revealing the white wooden-paneled room, and the brown leather furnishings.

“Argh! Fine, if you want to send yourself into an early grave by drinking, that’s your business,” Lucy called again, banging on the door, “but you made a promise to come out walking with me this morning, so you’re going to do that first.”

“You realize you don’t exactly sound ladylike right now,” Walter complained, thinking of the groaning sounds Lucy was making.

“Since when I have concerned myself with that?” she laughed through the door before banging on the wood another time. “Now, get up. I’ve got my boots on, ready to go.”

“All right,” he called back, pulling the blankets off and struggling to get out of bed. He only got two steps before the world slid sideways and he dropped to his knees. He grimaced at the thumping pain in his head. “How far are we walking?” he asked. Ordinarily, he would do whatever Lucy asked. One of three of his siblings, he often pandered to all their wants, but especially Lucy’s.

“As far as it takes for you to walk off that headache,” she said smartly through the door. Walter turned a narrowed glare toward the closed wood, as if she could see his glower through it.

“When did you become such a know-it-all?”

“When did you become such a drunk?”

“I’m not a drunk, Lucy,” he said in full seriousness, reaching for the bed and standing straight again. “I just went out with Peter last night for a drink.”

“Do you mean drinks?”

“Maybe,” he acknowledged and turned to the far end of the room, beginning to get changed, since Lucy wouldn’t allow him a moment to wait for his valet.

“I’ll be waiting for you downstairs. If you’re not there in five minutes, I’m going by myself.”

“You’re not to go alone into those woods, I’ve told you before,” Walter reached for a serious tone as he pulled the white linen shirt over his head. It hadn’t escaped his notice that every day, Lucy was growing into a fine young lady. With curly copper hair, just like their late mother used to have, she was a striking presence, with beautiful and petite features. When Lucy’s twin brother, Harry, wasn’t watching over her, then Walter was.

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“I’m not having this argument with you again. Least of all through a door,” he said tartly as he pulled on some breeches.

“I quite agree. I’ll see you downstairs in a minute.”

With her footsteps in the corridor signaling her retreat, Walter turned to the mirror nearest to him above a sideboard where a carafe of water was sitting. He eagerly poured himself a glass and downed it in one to quench the thirst of his hangover before his eyes settled on his reflection.

Fortunately, his night drinking with his friend hadn’t left too much of a mark on his features. The light brown curly hair that hung around his ears was a little bit messy from sleep and he hurried to flatten it into some semblance of neatness. His hazel eyes bore bags beneath them, but they weren’t too heavy. The strong jaw line was beginning to show a dappling of bristles, that he made a note of to remove later, as he preferred the clean-shaven look.

He smiled at himself, seeing his handsome face in its glory before laughing at himself and turning away to finish changing. He knew he was handsome. The string of women he’d had in his life was evidence enough for that.

He finished changing, pulling on his jacket and a quick cravat haphazardly, along with some walking boots, then hurried out of the door, half falling over in the corridor as he slipped on the rug in his haste to get to the entrance hall in time. There was no chance he was going to let Lucy go out alone into the forest. It was too dark and far too many strangers wandered that area.

“You’re late.” His father’s chuckling voice on the staircase didn’t even make Walter pause. He looked to see the Lord Thomas Aregton, Marquess of Suffolk, walking up the grand staircase the other way. The stairs curved at right angles repeatedly until they stretched the entire way up the manor, leaving Walter to cling to the banister as he hurried down. “Lucy is already out the door.”

“She’s impatient, Father.” Walter laughed too, watching the way his father’s aging face crinkled with the smile. “You’ll have to get her a governess again soon.”

“She doesn’t need one yet.” Thomas shrugged as he paused on the stairs and let Walter rush past him. “She’s still enjoying her childhood.”

“She’s practically a grown lady now,” Walter called back just as he reached the bottom step.

“I’ll think about it,” his father called after him.

“I know! You’ve said that before.” He shot one glance back across his shoulder before bounding through the entrance hall as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the headache pounding behind his temples.

It was a recent argument between the two of them about Lucy’s character.

Walter didn’t want to change her, he loved who she was, this adventurous and sometimes reckless natured young lady, but it had to be accepted that growing up with three brothers and a father was taking its toll on her. She was already sixteen and when it came to making her debut, she would not have the skills for the event if she were not prepared first. She’d had a governess once, but since their mother’s death, Lucy had grown even more rebellious. In the end, on Lucy’s twelfth birthday, the governess had resigned, claiming Lucy was such a wildling that no one could ever tame her.

“Lucy?” Walter called as he ran the length of the long entrance hall that was swathed in a long red Persian rug, dappled with white and gold embroidery. The front door was open, revealing sunlight streaming in. He hurried beyond it to see Lucy was already striding down the driveway. “I’m coming, all right?” he called after her, running and reaching her side quickly.

She turned her head to him with her traditional smirk in place. Much shorter than he was, she still held her chin high with a good deal of self-confidence.

“I knew the faster I left, the faster you would follow,” she said with a giggle.

“Hmm, it worries me sometimes how easily you make me dance for you. Well, if it’s a walk and some exercise you want, then that’s what you’ll get.” He shook his head and hurried ahead down the driveway with her in hot pursuit.

When they were a little distance from the house, he looked back, surveying the surroundings. They really did have a beautiful home. The Meadowbank estate was a grand one indeed. Built scarcely a hundred years before out of red brick, it towered in the landscape with triangular roofs and little white turrets here and there. The white accents in the brick work and around the windows shone in the strong sunlight of the day. The most recognizable part of the house was the white clocktower at the very center and top of the building, as it was the tallest part of the house and could be seen for miles around.

At the end of the pebbled driveway, the house slipped out of view as they descended into woodland. The main forest Lucy had begged him to explore with her was a little distance away, but one of the most popular spots nearby for walkers. Commonly nicknamed Mystic’s Wood, each curve in the path through the woodland revealed new wonders and anomalies in the trees, such as effigies carved into the bark of trees or a river that appeared out of nowhere and passed through a stone shaped perfectly like devil’s horns.

“Why do you go drinking so often with Peter?” Lucy’s words startled Walter so much that he whipped his head round, nearly slipping on tree roots as they stepped deeper into the woodland.

“I daresay you’ll discover such enjoyments when you’re older,” he said with a low voice.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever enjoy drinking as much as you do.” She scrunched up her nose in disgust. He was rather relieved she didn’t know the hidden meaning of his words. For after he and Peter had gone drinking, he’d spent most of the night in the company of one of the barmaids from the ale house. That was the enjoyment he had been referring to, and he certainly didn’t want Lucy thinking of such things.

“Well, I’m pleased to hear it,” he acknowledged. “You do realize after your debut when you attend events of the Season, you’ll be offered punch, wine and goodness knows what else.”

“That I hope will be put off for as long as possible.”

“Surely you do not mean that?” Walter said with amazement in his voice. “I know you’re not yet ready for it, but all we need do is find you a governess who is willing to help.”

“Oh right, for that went so well last time, didn’t it?” Lucy’s voice suddenly lost all sense of jesting and she turned to look at him with her arms open wide. Walter paused in the walk and looked back to her in surprise. “The last one said I was as feral as a wild dog.”

Walter bristled at the recollection of the words; they were cruel indeed.

“Not all governesses will be like that one,” he assured her and beckoned Lucy to continue their walk. “We’ll find you a governess who is much kinder than that.”

“Someone kind who is willing to put up with a girl compared to a feral dog? Pah!” Lucy scoffed. “No such governess exists, I am sure.”

Walter smiled and tried to bring some cheer to the moment as he placed a hand around Lucy’s shoulder and bumped her against his side in a brotherly gesture.

“Wait and see. You never know who’s going to be around the corner.”

***

Mary lugged the bag behind her again, but it just dropped to the floor, as heavy and sodden as her own dress was. She paused and looked up at the sky, pushing the strands of wet brown hair out of her eyes and away from her damp cheeks. Up until an hour before, it had been raining heavily. Now, the sky didn’t have a cloud in it and the bright blue shone above her, practically mocking her drenched state.

How has my life come to this?

She looked down at the dress, far too fine to be wearing when trudging through a woodland alone, drenched to the bone. Her slipper-style shoes with the small heels were now covered in so much dirt that it had reached up around the edges of the shoes and slipped in, dirtying her stockings. Even the petticoats beneath her dress were damp with the mud riding up far past the hem.

“Come on,” she talked to the bag as though it were an animated thing, live and well that could talk back to her. “I will not let you drag me down.” She heaved it onto her shoulder, the bag slapped against her back, making her topple sideways from the weight, but not quite fall over. She winced and carried on, wading through the damp mud and puddles.

She knew had it not been for the coach driver throwing her out that she could be far away from this place by now. She could be onto the next county, Norfolk perhaps, and far away from London, but it was not to be. The coachman had given her the heave-ho, quite literally, as she didn’t have enough money to pay him. So, she had been abandoned in this strange wood in the middle of Suffolk with nothing but her bag for company.

“Well, what are we going to do now then?” she asked as though the bag would reply to her. “I think I’ve already gone mad, as I’m talking to you. That’s worrying enough in itself.”

She sighed again, paused and looked up to the sky, hoping a brilliant idea would appear between the branches of the trees, yet nothing did. “At least I am away from London.” She tried to take comfort in this idea as she strode forward, walking through a dense thicket of trees.

In truth, she could take little comfort in it at this time. Running had only got her into this situation, where there were little prospects and only the seeping coldness of her damp clothes.

“This is hopeless,” she muttered to herself as her feet stuck in the mud. Almost trapped, she had to jerk her legs forward and she hurried forward, nearly falling another time before she dropped the bag to the ground.

Tears were threatening to fall, but she wouldn’t let them. She placed the backs of her hands to her eyes, trying to stop those tears from coming as she lifted her head and looked at her new surroundings.

The dense thicket had opened a little now into a clearing where there was a river. Startled by its appearance, she whipped her head round, watching as the babbling stream that echoed against the stone bank either side of it past under a giant rock. Built of flint stone, it appeared to be carved into something that looked like a pair of devil’s horns.

“What is this place?” she whispered into the air, leaving her bag behind her as she moved forward to the stone in wonder.

Other times, she would have found it beautiful. Yet today, the devil’s horns seemed to be an omen, making her wonder why she had come here at all.

To avoid living a lifetime in hell. Remember that.

She breathed deeply as her eyes danced across the stone, watching intently. No matter what the omen, this was preferable to the life she had before. The one where two nights ago, she had felt such fear and terror that it had forced her to flee. Two nights without sleep and barely any food was preferable to being back in London.

She looked down at her clothes that were dirtied and clinging to her body. There was one good thing out of this day. Freedom. If her parents could only see her now, they would undoubtedly be horrified that their perfect, lady-like daughter, the one they had carved to be like a fine marble statue, would behave in such a way.

She was about to laugh at the idea when she heard something. She darted her head to the side, looking around the devil-horned stone to see what the source was, but she lost her footing. Slipping in the wet soil, she began to fall forward. She reached out her arms to break her fall, but it was too late. She came down at the side of the riverbank where the line of stones sat and felt her head crack against hard rock.

She tried to move but she couldn’t. Nothing happened at all and even her fingers refused to move. Then her eyes closed, and the world went black.

Chapter 2

“This way,” Lucy called. “The rock is round here.”

“It’s strange you find such fascination in it.” Walter shook his head.

“I think this place is amazing,” she giggled and pushed on ahead, walking a few feet in front of him avoiding the path entirely and pushing between the trees. “The quickest way back from here is the track with the carved faces too. The ones in the trees that all seem to be watching you.”

Walter laughed at the idea. Clearly the people in the village nearby had had far too much time on their hands over the years to whittle such scary faces in the tree trunks.

“Walter!” Lucy suddenly screamed his name.

He didn’t ask what was wrong, he just lurched ahead, sensing the note of panic in his sister’s voice at once. He pushed past the silver birch trees with the pale white bark and appeared at his sister’s side, nudging her shoulder in the effort to reach her quickly.

“Lucy?” he asked, his voice piercing with concern. She lifted a shaky hand and pointed ahead. He turned to follow the gesture.

At the bottom of the devil horns and prostrate out on the earth was a woman.

“Zounds!” Walter exclaimed and ran forward. He didn’t hesitate, he just dropped down at the woman’s side, reaching for her quickly. There was blood pooling a little beneath her head on the stone. She had to have fallen and struck her head there.

He gently lifted her head, inspecting the wound as carefully as he could. The skull wasn’t broken, to his relief, but she was bleeding from the bump and may well have a concussion.

“What has happened to her?” Lucy asked in shrill panic from where she stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.

“Perhaps she has fallen,” he said gently, not wanting to return her head to the ground.

“Here? Of all places, here!” Lucy gestured to the devil-horned stone.

“This is not the time for superstitions, Lucy,” Walter said off-handedly, just as his eyes drifted down from the woman’s wound to her face. He felt his breath hitch at the sight.

Her brown hair had fallen mostly out of its bun and was long, practically reaching down to her waist. A few loose wet strands hung about her face and were now plastered to alabaster white cheeks. The bones of these cheeks were high, creating a regal and ornamental face. The nose was gently sloping, and the lips were bold compared to the rest of the face. Such lips, he’d rarely seen before.

He snapped his gaze away, realizing just how awful it was for him to be considering the stranger’s beauty at a time like this.

“Lucy, we need to get help. A physician.” His mind was working quickly, leading his sentences to come out short and staccato.

“It’s a fair walk back to the house,” Lucy said miserably, walking around the woman and dropping down to her other side. She placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and softly tried to stir her. “Can you wake up? Please, please wake up?”

Walter watched the woman’s face as he cradled her injured head for any sign of movement, but there wasn’t a flicker in her cheeks.

“She’s out cold,” he said tightly. He moved slightly, kneeling a little straighter, knowing now was the time for action and they had to be quick, in case she was hurt worse than he feared. “You mentioned the quickest path back to the house.”

“Yes?” Lucy said, looking up to meet his gaze.

“Take it. Run as fast as you can,” he said, moving his stance as he prepared himself to lift the woman. “Don’t stop if you see any stranger.”

“I don’t think we need the stranger conversation right now!” she gestured to the current situation, making him wince.

“I know, I know. I’m your brother. Looking out for you is what I do,” he pointed out quickly. “Take the path and get home as quickly as possible. Get Father to call for a physician. I’ll be right behind you.”

Lucy nodded and jumped to her feet, then she hovered, nearly tripping over something.

“This must be her bag,” she said, lifting it slightly. “Oh my, it’s heavy.”

“Then we’ll come back for it later. Go. Now.” He ordered. This time, she didn’t hesitate, and she ran off down the nearest track.

Once she was gone, Walter turned his gaze back to the beautiful stranger, his eyes tarrying for a while on the woman’s bold features.

“I am sorry about this,” he murmured softly, “but I can think of no other way to get you to safety.” He knew it was an imposition to carry a woman so, especially a stranger, but he was trapped. He just needed to get her to help as soon as possible.

He shifted his position, releasing the gentle hold on her head at last so that he could adjust his grasp. He slipped one arm under her waist and the other under the crook of her knees, then he slowly lifted her up into his arms and stood to his feet.

The task was not easy for she was tall, but her slender form made her quite light to carry. Her dress was sodden, he wondered how she was not shivering beneath it. That’s when he pressed her body against his own, the better to carry her with.

He was acutely aware then of the sharing body heat between them. Yet it was a heat beyond what should have been normal. It came because he couldn’t stop thinking of the woman’s beautiful face. It was a surreal sensation, one he was not used to feeling.

Furious at himself, he looked back down to her features again. It struck him rather how like a fairy she was. It all made sense, appearing in the Mystic’s Wood in such a way. He cursed himself for being so distracted by her.

“This is about her life, you fool,” he muttered under his breath. “Get her home. At once.”

He hitched her higher in his arms and turned to the track Lucy had just taken, walking down it as quickly as he could. In this way, it would take some time, but with a little luck, by the time he was home, the physician would be on the way too.

Despite his determination not to be distracted by the woman’s beauty, his eyes slipped to her face that was now flung backwards, more than once. The fact that this woman was alone in the middle of a woods felt odd to him. The kind of protectiveness he usually associated with Lucy emerged in him, only it was particularly strong, almost electrifyingly so now.

“Who are you, Fairy of the Woods?” he muttered, starting forward again.

***

Mary couldn’t open her eyes, but she could hear movement. Every time she tried to lift her head and even move a single finger, she couldn’t; her entire body was paralyzed. She felt her breathing grow faster with the frustration and panic of not being able to move.

“There is no need to fear,” a deep voice rumbled against her. She grew aware of the body pressed against her own.

Who is that?

Her breath grew even quicker. She tried to push away from whoever was carrying her, yet still her body refused to abide by her will.

“I’ve got you,” the deep voice came again, even gentler this time. “You’ll be safe now. Don’t you worry.”

He said words she’d longed to hear, and her breathing settled a little. Whoever was carrying her, they clearly had no intention of hurting her.

She focused all her energy on opening her eyes. This time, they flickered open. Unable to lift her head up from the carried position, she could see the world upside down. They were walking past trees and through long grass, heading somewhere.

“Not long now, Fairy of the Woods. I’ll get you there soon,” he spoke again. The name perked Mary’s ear. The stranger had given her a mystical name, one that felt odd. Then she felt his hands move, holding her tighter to him.

To her amazement, heat spread through her body. Whether it was because of the pressure of his hands, one under her knees and the other on the curve just above her waistline, or because of his soothing gravelly voice, she wasn’t sure.

She decided not to think too much about it. Lots was happening right now and all she wanted to think of was the safety in this stranger’s arms.

When his hand adjusted on her knee, moving closer to her thigh, she could feel the heat of those fingers through the layers of her gown. A coil of excitement spiraled in her stomach before shooting much lower.

Why do I feel like this?

She couldn’t believe that sensation of excitement. She couldn’t even see the stranger carrying her and for him to cause such a feeling didn’t make sense. He could look like a gargoyle for all she knew, twisted with a stone-like face and as grey and ashen too, unyielding.

She imagined that was what was really happening to her. That a great beast-like gargoyle with giant stone wings and a curled lip with sharp teeth was carrying her between the trees.

As though in answer to her thought, the trees they were walking past changed. Where smooth birch tree trunks had been before, holes had been carved into the trunks that bore grisly and grotesque faces.

She tried to recoil away from the sight of them, but she couldn’t, her body still refusing to move. She was forced to let her eyes flick from one face to the next, looking between surreal and contorted features. One face was dominated by large eyes and missing its nose, another had great black eyebrows that circled down past its cheeks, and another had teeth the size of hands.

At one point, she was certain one of these carved faces was staring straight back at her. Fear jolted through her stomach, and she tried to recoil away again. This time, her body managed to twitch, but that was all.

“I’ve got you,” the stranger’s voice came again. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Sighing, Mary closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of the twisted faces and focusing on the calming depth of the stranger’s voice instead. In his arms at least, she was safe. That sensation was overwhelming to her.

The safety of the gargoyle’s arms.

A few minutes later, more voices were nearby. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to reveal to anyone that she could stir just yet. Sounds changed, suggesting they were walking up some driveway and were no longer in a forest at all.

“Walter? What’s happened to her?” this man’s voice sounded older, with more gravitas and a gravelly tone to it.

“Her head is bleeding,” the stranger carrying her answered.

Walter. That’s his name.

“She fell and hit her head on some rocks. That’s how it looks, at least,” Walter said again, striding forward and still carrying her firmly in his arms. “Is the physician here?”

“He’s on his way now. Quick. Into the house. We’ll take her into the guest wing.”

There was a bustle around them and a clamor of voices, young ones with fear in their tones. She couldn’t bear to open her eyes, so she kept them closed and focused on the feeling of Walter’s arms around her.

“Where do you think she came from?” a girl’s voice asked from nearby.

“Who knows,” a boy answered. “She must be someone of importance though.”

“Have you seen her dress?” the girl said, with apparent amazement.

Mary cursed herself for not considering changing into something demure before fleeing her parents’ home in London. If this family reported her to the magistrate because they thought her a fine lady, then she would be delivered back to London within days. After all, how many wealthy ladies would have fled their homes in this manner? They would discover who she was quickly enough. She couldn’t let that happen.

She’d lived that fear and gone through it all to escape. She wasn’t going to go back now. She had to find a way to hide the truth of who she was.

That was when an idea occurred to her. If she didn’t appear to know the truth either, then there was little chance anyone would have of linking her to her past. Appearing in that vulnerable state too, if she was lucky, these people might take pity on her and let her stay in the house whilst she recovered.

If I recover.

She had to pray she would and that the strike to her head wasn’t too bad. Her mind returned to her plan, pushing this awful thought away.

Maybe if these people took her in, she could even work for them for a while. Perhaps as a maid, she could learn the trade and she would work hard to prove her value. First, she would just have to convince them she knew no more who she was than they did.

Memory loss.

Without specifics to give to a magistrate, there would be no way she could be handed back to her parents.

The voices grew louder abruptly. One at a time, they all called up ideas of where she should be placed. Some were far too close, and she even felt someone pull at her skirt. Out of fear, she tried to move again, still, nothing happened, but her body twitched just once.

“Quiet!” Walter’s voice boomed across the others, vibrating against her body. She tried to press her body closer to his, taking comfort in it. “None of this is helping. Harry, open that door. She needs to rest. Aaron, when the physician comes, you bring him up here at once. Understand?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Now stand back.” Walter strode forward with her again, carrying her close.

Mary’s mind was made up. Sadly, it would mean lying for a while, even to the gargoyle in whose arms she felt so safe, but her future safety depended on it.

This will be my life from now on.

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

CHAPTER ONE

January 1824, Assam, India. 

Aaron watched as Captain Jonathan Lambton ducked out of the mess tent that his battalion was occupying on the outskirts of Cachar, the site of the first battle of the war. It had been bloody work. Colonel Aaron Fitzwilliam had led his regiment into Cachar where they had engaged the Burmese army in hand-to-hand combat. Aaron had lost many men and knew the memories of their bloody, broken bodies would live in his memory as long as he drew breath. He clenched his hand into a fist, anger flooding him again. The idea that one of the men he had travelled with, slept alongside, and fought shoulder to shoulder with was a traitor was overwhelming.

“Are you sure, Lieutenant General?” Aaron asked, dropping the flap of his commander’s tent to turn and face him. The Lieutenant General was several years older than him and much more seasoned. He bore the evidence of previous service across his face with an ugly looking scar along his jaw. Aaron trusted him with his life.

“I am afraid so, Colonel.” The Lieutenant General nodded gravely. Aaron’s heart sank. “Someone amongst our ranks has turned traitor against the King. They have been sending messages to the Burmese dissidents, and they fed them our tactics for the Cachar battle. They are the reason that Colonel Chambers’ regiment was nearly wiped out.”

“The bastard,” Aaron muttered to himself, feeling a swirl of anger as he remembered the way the Burmese soldiers had cut down the men who had been hidden for cover fire. Their leading commander had not been able to understand how they had been given away.

“There’s more,” the Lieutenant General said furiously. “Our intelligence suggests that the traitor is being supported by a peer of the realm.”

Aaron cursed and pinched his nose between his fingers. The Lieutenant General watched him sympathetically.

“I know this is hard for you, Fitzwilliam,” he said quietly. “Your position is delicate; however, the order comes from the General and you are my best soldier, the only man I trust with it.”

“Do not worry, Lieutenant General, I do not have my title yet.” Aaron’s mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. “Until I take up my own mantle as Duke of Abercorn, I am entirely yours to command. What are the orders?”

“Captain Lambton must die,” the Lieutenant General said flatly. Aaron’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“There is to be no court martial?”

“We cannot risk it.” The Lieutenant General shook his head ruefully. “If we court martial the captain, then whoever is pulling his strings in England shall be alerted to his discovery. We must allow the East India Trading Company the best opportunity to uncover the traitor at home.”

“So, what is to be done?” Aaron shifted uncomfortably. “For surely I shall face my own court martial if I am to shoot a fellow in arms.”

“He shall be leaving tonight on a mission. It is a ruse. Follow him out of the encampment until you are in the wild then shoot him.” The Lieutenant General pushed a box of tinder and a single shot pistol across the desk. “Check him for incriminating documents. Bring anything relevant back with you. Burn his body and any other evidence. We shall put about that he was killed by rebels. There will be no questions brought to your door, only the thanks of your General.”

Aaron stared at the tinder box and pistol. Like most men of his rank in the army, he carried a sword and fought with a rifle. Single shot pistols were rare, but Aaron was very familiar with them. His own father had trained him in all manner of firearms.

“You are the best shot in the camp, Fitzwilliam,” the Lieutenant General said, quietly. “Do not miss.”

“I never do,” Aaron said lightly, stuffing the tinder box into his pocket and checking the hammer on the pistol. “Though I admit, it will be the first time I have fired upon a brother in arms.”

“Captain Lambton is the traitor and cannot be allowed to continue in his actions. He will ruin us all if he does.” The Lieutenant General walked around the desk and clapped Aaron on the shoulder, looking at him with steely brown eyes. “We have lost many good men this month. We shall no doubt lose more in this war. I shall be damned if any of them fall because of the treacherous machinations of Captain Lambton.”

Aaron nodded firmly at his commander. “Yes, sir.”

“Get going, Colonel.” The Lieutenant General walked back around the desk, unbuttoning his coat and slinging it over the back of his chair. Without it, he suddenly looked much younger. Aaron couldn’t help wondering how many times his commander had given orders like this one and if they were what caused the years to wear so heavily upon him. “Report back when it is done.”

“Yes, Lieutenant General.” Aaron threw a salute and tucked the pistol into his belt. Carefully he slipped out of the commander’s tent and walked through the camp. They had not been there long, only a few weeks since the battle of Cachar, but already the men were treating it like a sort of home. Aaron passed by a few infantry soldiers playing cards over an upturned barrel, another few trying to tempt a monkey down from a nearby tree with hard tack.

He smiled at the men as he passed and they nodded and saluted, smiling back. They trusted him. He was a strong leader, compassionate but firm. He could laugh with them but also kept enough distance that they respected him and the rank he held, both in the forces and society. Some of the men, he knew, were soldiers raised on land that belonged to his future Duchy. They were his soldiers and his tenants. When they fell in battle –If they fell in battle, Aaron tried to correct himself- it would be his duty to write to their families and then his further duty to give those families on his estate the support they needed. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders as he walked past them. God, how he prayed that they all lived. How he prayed he would not have to bury another man.

“Anyone seen Captain Lambton?” Aaron asked when he came across a friend, Colonel Gregory Chambers, lounging against one of the posts erected at the edge of the camp, smoking a cigarette. The two of them got along well in the Officers mess, both of them destined for the Peerage in the future. Chambers would become the Viscount Ellerton when his father passed. Aaron found him good company and hoped they would remain friends after the war. If they both survived. Chambers was looking out over the makeshift graveyard, no doubt mourning for the many men he had lost in the battle. All due to Lambton. Aaron felt a flash of rage.

“Over there.” Chambers nodded towards the edge of the forest, his eyes catching the pistol at Aaron’s belt. “Have business with him, do you?”

“I do,” Aaron said levelly. “Orders from the Lieutenant General.”

Chambers nodded knowingly, taking a long inhale of Indian tobacco.

“I’ll watch for your return,” he said quietly. “Good luck, Fitzwilliam.”

Aaron nodded silently, wondering if his friend in arms had surmised the situation. Chambers would have likely volunteered for such a mission if it had been advertised. He had many friends to avenge. Yet it fell to Aaron to act for him. He would not fail him.

Stepping away from the camp and towards the green leaves of the jungle, he passed by the pyres they had built to burn their dead comrades. Aaron’s anger flared once again when he saw the wooden crosses stuck in the dirt. In the unbearable heat of the subcontinent, it was dangerously unwise to bury bodies, since they brought both scavengers and disease, yet Aaron hated the fact his soldiers could not be given a proper Christian burial. He briefly took solace in the fact that at least this traitor would be denied one too.

Lambton looked up as Aaron approached, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He was a handsome man, Aaron had to admit, younger than him by a few years and his complete opposite in looks. Whilst Aaron was dark, his skin tanned almost as dark as the Burmese they fought against in the endless sunshine, Lambton was fair. His blond hair curled close to his head, almost bleached white in the sunshine and his skin burned red in the sun, like strawberries and cream. He looked like an innocent almost, except for his eyes. Aaron found that eyes were a good measure of a person’s truth and by his measure, Captain Lambton had something of the rake about him. His eyes were scheming and dark blue, full of secrets and anger.

“You’re roped into this mission too, sir?” Lambton asked respectfully enough, but Aaron found himself flinching at his tone.

“Yes, Captain,” he said in clipped tones, “Reconnaissance in the jungle. Let us go.”

“I see,” Lambton eyed him snidely. “Lead the way, sir.”

“I shall bring up the rear, Captain,” Aaron had no intention of turning his back on this traitor. “You are a skilled navigator. Lead on.”

Lambton looked for a moment like he might disagree but then shrugged sullenly, and began clearing a way through the undergrowth, snapping twigs intentionally so they could find their way back. Soon, they were absorbed into the tight, heavy silence of the jungle. Aaron knew that he needed to make sure Lambton was far enough away from the camp so that the smoke from his burning body would not attract immediate attention but walking behind the man he was about to murder was its own kind of torture. This was a man he had shared a cigarette after the battle, both of them bloody and exhausted, dirt in their hair, their uniforms filthy. How many of those men’s deaths could be Lambton’s fault? How could anyone have looked down on all that destruction that they had helped bring about and not feel guilty?

“You’re a Duke, are you not, Colonel?” Lambton asked suddenly as they carefully moved thick green leaves out of their way.

“Not yet,” Aaron answered automatically. “My father still lives.”

“Though not for long, I hear,” Lambton responded.

Aaron almost froze up to hear such words from a subordinate. Not only were they utterly inappropriate, it was the kind of thing no regular Captain in the King’s Army would know. Only fellow Peers knew that his father was rapidly degrading, a lifetime of drinking and gambling finally catching up with him. His mother’s last letter had informed Aaron that his father’s liver would not last more than a year. Only his father’s equals and family knew of the diagnosis. Aaron realised that Lambton was revealing his connection to someone of that high society.

He knows I’m going to kill him, Aaron realised coldly.

“You seem very well informed, Captain,” Aaron said tightly. “Might I inquire as to your source?”

“Ah, now, Colonel,” Lambton chuckled softly, “a good man takes such secrets to his grave.”

“Those kinds of secrets are dangerous,” Aaron snapped back, thinking wildly of the dead men he had dragged from the battlefield, their blood soaking into the sandy dirt. “Those are the kinds of secrets that lead to other men’s graves.”

“I don’t think that’s why you’re here, Colonel.” Lambton stopped in his tracks. They had reached a clearing deep in the jungle. Lambton didn’t turn around but stared straight ahead.

“Get on with it then,” he said.

“Jonathan Lambton, you are a traitor to the crown. Turn around,” Aaron swallowed hard. “Face me like a man.”

“Like a man?” Lambton laughed cruelly. “I don’t think we can talk of manners when you have followed me into the jungle to kill me.”

“I have my orders.” Aaron drew the pistol and levelled it at the back of Lambton’s head. He might be a traitor, but Aaron would not shoot any man in the back. “Turn around. Face me like a soldier.”

“That’s the thing, Colonel Aaron Fitzwilliam, future Duke of Abercorn,” Lambton chuckled darkly. Aaron tried not to be disquieted by the way he used his full name like an insult. “I’ve never been much of a soldier.”

In one fluid movement, Captain Lambton spun around and raised a knife, murder in his eyes. Aaron did not think twice. He pressed the trigger and fired. The one shot rang out, the reverberations instantly swallowed by the thicket of jungle around them. Lambton staggered back, crumpling at the knees, a trickle of blood between his dead, blue eyes, a bullet in the centre of his forehead. The traitor fell forward, his head hitting the soft jungle floor with a dull thump. Aaron let out a long breath, lowering his firing arm slowly. He pulled out the tinderbox, amazed to see his hands were shaking. There was something about a pistol in his hand that took away his nerves, but now guilt was creeping back in. This man was an Englishman, a son of a sovereign nation, and Aaron had cut him down like a common stag. Lowering himself to his knees, Aaron pushed the dead man over, wincing to see the look of surprise still etched on his face. Trying not to flinch, he closed Lambton’s eyelids. He reached inside the man’s jacket pocket to carry out the rest of his orders. He pulled out a sheaf of a paper and a small keepsake portrait. The woman featured was beautiful. She had an angelic face, long red hair which she wore loose, as was common in lover’s portraits, and green eyes.

“Damnation,” Aaron breathed. “You were loved, weren’t you, Lambton?”

With trembling fingers, Aaron checked the letters. Each one was signed, “your dearest love,” and addressed to “my dearest intended, Jonathan.” Lambton had clearly been engaged to the enchanting woman. His stomach churned at the thought of this young lady receiving a brusque letter from the Lieutenant General, explaining her betrothed had been killed in action. Sighing, he checked the last letter. It was a sealed envelope, addressed to Miss Catherine Headon. Aaron touched the name with his thumb, wishing that his actions this day would not cause her pain. He knew that his wishes would be in vain. Not only had he taken a life today, but he had also ruined another.

“Well, Jonathan Lambton,” Aaron sighed heavily. “I shall give you more honour in death than you deserved in life. I shall return your darling’s letter and portrait and she shall never know of your betrayal.”

Aaron got to his feet, gathered dry leaves from the forest floor which he put around and over Lambton’s body before he pulled out the tinderbox and started the fire. He waited until he saw the flames catch Lambton’s dry uniform and curly hair before turning back into the jungle. By the time he saw the familiar graves and tents, the smell of burning was in the air. Slowly he approached Chambers who was watching the skyline intently.

“Seems like the rebels are having some kind of fire,” Chambers said conversationally. “Is Lambton not with you?”

“Lost him in the forest,” Aaron lied easily, leaning against the post next to his friend.

“I see,” Chambers offered him his pipe and Aaron took a drag, grateful for the calming smoke and taking a deep breath. He exhaled heavily, smoke and guilt laced on his breath. Chambers looked down at his pistol and then back up at his face, holding his eye with a steely glare.

“You didn’t miss, did you?” he asked quietly.

Aaron didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. Justice had been served, but it did not make Aaron feel less guilty for ruining an innocent young woman’s happiness.

“No.” Aaron handed the cigarette back to his friend and turned towards the Lieutenant General’s tent. “No, I did not.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I am so excited!” Maria squealed from her seat in the parlour, watching as the dressmaker pinned the sleeves of Catherine’s wedding dress. “It is so wonderful! You are getting married!”

“Yes, it’s a miracle,” Catherine’s cousin Lavinia said, rolling her eyes obnoxiously.

Catherine tried not to flush at her cousin’s casual dismissal. Lavinia could not stand it when her cousin was in the limelight, even for a moment.

“You are right, Lavinia, that dress is miraculous,” Maria gushed, deftly turning Lavinia’s insult into a compliment. Catherine saw the way it made Lavinia frown in frustration. “It is so lovely with Catherine’s delicate complexion.”

This made Lavinia frown even more.

“Yes, I suppose… If red-headed simpletons could be called delicate,” Lavinia said cruelly. Catherine knew she could say nothing. Lavinia would take any hard word she said back to Catherine’s uncle, and then he might decide it was too much trouble to pay for her wedding gown. Catherine caught Maria’s eye and tried to shake her head, even lightly, but Maria seemed undeterred by Lavinia’s spite. Maria was Catherine’s best friend, and the only friend she had maintained from her childhood before her parents’ untimely deaths. Maria was the daughter of a local Viscount, so was always welcome to visit at Catherine’s uncle’s home due to her status, but Maria only endured socialising with Lavinia in order to spend time with Catherine. The two friends walked a careful balancing act, making sure Lavinia never completely realised their deception. Maria’s friendship with the Viscount’s daughter was all a ruse to cover up a friendship with her poor cousin. Catherine knew that Maria endured Lavinia’s spoiled character and mean habits in order to stay close to her, and she couldn’t be more thankful for her friend.

“The lace is astonishing,” Maria added gently, sipping from her teacup. “That particular shade of cream makes you look like an angel.”

“Charmant,” the dressmaker added quietly, flicking her eyes deferentially up to Catherine. “You shall be a beautiful bride if I have anything to do with it, Miss Headon.”

“I’m bored,” Lavinia announced, setting her cup down with a sharp click and rising to her feet, gliding towards the door in her fabulous silk gown. She always wore the best. At a mere sixteen-years-old, she was already become a fashionable beacon of society. “I’ll be back in an hour to fit my ballgown, Madame Fleur. Hopefully you’ll be done with … this by then.”

Catherine winced at her cousin’s implicit disregard. She had even declined to be Catherine’s bridesmaid at her wedding, stating that it would be beneath her status as the daughter of an Earl to be part of her poor cousin’s wedding, especially when the poor cousin was her father’s ward, no less. It had stung but Catherine was used to bearing pains caused by Lavinia. She had been enduring them since she was orphaned at the age of twelve. She had appeared on the Earl of Gordon’s doorstep mere hours after her mother’s passing only to find herself face-to-face with an aloof young Lavinia.

“You have red hair,” Lavinia had said, looking her up and down slowly, sniffing. “Do you curl it?”

“No,” Catherine had stammered, fingering her red curls. “It curls naturally like this.”

Lavinia’s eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed with dislike. She petted her own blonde curls, clearly the result of hot irons.

“You’re pretty,” Lavinia had stated, as if it gave her no pleasure at all to say so. “Yet you dress like a peasant. Which I suppose you are, really.”

She had grinned nastily at those words, a mean idea coming into her head.

“You’re twelve and I’m ten, but I am still in charge of everything,” Lavinia took her arm and pulled her upstairs to her bedroom. “You can have my leftover gowns, but not new ones and as soon as we debut, you can’t dance with more gentleman that I at balls.”

“I understand,” Catherine had muttered in a haze of grief and confusion, letting herself be led away. When she looked back on it now, standing with the dressmaker making careful adjustments to her wedding gown, she wished that she had the presence of mind at the time to stand up to Lavinia then. She wondered if it would have made a bit of difference.

“Do you like it, Madmoiselle?” Madame Fleur asked, pulling Catherine out of her reverie and turning her to face the mirror standing on the dresser.

“It is beautiful, Madame Fleur,” Catherine said honestly.

The cream lace gown was very simple. Lavinia had thrown a fit when her father told her that Catherine would be having a new gown for her wedding, bought for her by her betrothed. To pay Catherine back for this unfairness, Lavinia had demanded that Catherine not be allowed any flourishes or expensive accessories. Nevertheless, Catherine had never felt so beautiful.

“Non, you are beautiful, Mademoiselle.” Madame Fleur smiled at her in the mirror. “You would shine in any garment.”

“Amen,” Maria echoed sharply. “Ignore Lavinia. She is only jealous.”

Catherine didn’t answer. She knew it was true. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, admiring the way that the new tight lace cuffs flattered her slim wrists. As Catherine had grown, she had only become more beautiful. Her skinny, childish frame growing into a willowy, womanly figure whilst Lavinia stayed thin and awkward. Catherine’s reddish hair had only grown more lustrous as her hair thickened, and her skin softer and more supple as she became a woman. Lavinia, by comparison, had lost the lustre of her blonde childhood hair and now had mousy blonde hair that she still had to curl nightly. Resentment had only built, and Catherine had been miserable. Then Catherine had met Jonathan. Catherine knew that Lavinia hated and loved her upcoming wedding in equal measure; she hated the attention Catherine was garnering, but loved the idea that soon, Catherine would be gone from her family home forever.

“I hope Jonathan likes it,” Catherine whispered, brushing her hands down the front of the gown, feeling the soft lace underneath her fingers.

“Captain Lambton will adore it,” Maria said firmly, “he is besotted with you. I saw you both, that night of your uncle’s ball.”

The night in question had been the best night of Catherine’s life. She had started it miserable, wearing yet another one of Lavinia’s hand-me-down gowns in a creamy yellow that didn’t suit her at all, watching Lavinia hold court with her friends and various gentlemen and feeling incredibly lonely. Maria was yet to arrive. Then, to her utter surprise, the most handsome man she had ever seen bumped into her, spilling her drink a little.

“Oh, excuse me, Miss!” he exclaimed. “I am dreadfully sorry.”

“It is quite alright,” Catherine had demurred, dabbing her wet hand with a napkin.

“You must forgive me, my manners are not as they should be, for I am little used to polite society.” He grimaced and gestured to his scarlet uniform.

“Oh, there is nothing to forgive, officer,” Catherine said, darting her eyes down from his open face and charming blue eyes.

“Captain Jonathan Lambton at your service,” he said, dipping into a smart bow, the blond curls on top of his head gleaming in the candlelight.

“Miss Catherine Headon,” Catherine said quietly, curtseying as elegantly as she could and wishing that Lavinia had let her borrow a more flattering gown.

“Well, Miss Headon, it seems I might owe you a dance to make up for my manners.” Jonathan’s eyes had shone with a mischievous light that Catherine found equally delightful and exciting. He offered her his hand. “Would you honour me with the first?”

It was not just the first dance of the night; it was the first dance of her life. At seventeen-years-old, Catherine had never danced with a gentleman before. She took in a small breath, trying to savour this moment, feeling like an enchanted princess whose spell only lasted until midnight.

“You may, Captain Lambton,” she said, taking his hand. By the end of the dance, she was in love.

Catherine snapped out of her memories as one of Madame Fleur’s pins caught her shoulder. She winced slightly, noticing Maria looking at her and flushing, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming.

“Must have been a happy thought,” Maria teased lightly. “To evoke such a reaction.”

“I was thinking of Jonathan,” Catherine confessed, not wishing to elucidate further.

“Of your courtship?” Maria rolled her eyes. “It was obnoxiously prolonged.”

“Yes, but only because we could not truly court,” Catherine said softly. Jonathan had made it clear early on that he needed to save some money before his suit would ever even be entertained by Catherine’s uncle, despite Catherine’s insistence that her uncle would be more than glad to get rid of her if he could. Consequently, they had danced around one another for months, chatting at balls but never declaring their intent. Finally, after an agonising three months, Jonathan expressed his suit to her uncle. A month later, he had proposed before his commission took him away to India.

“Well, you quickly made up for that,” Maria waggled her eyebrows. “You’ve been engaged for nearly nine months!”

“It’s not that long,” Catherine said, defensively. “He has been at war.”

“He should have married you before he left,” Maria sighed. “You could have run away to Gretna Green!”

“Oh, and you think I could have survived living here when I was Mrs. Jonathan Lambton?” Catherine raised her eyebrows at her friend. “Imagine my cousin’s feelings.”

“Yes, she would be insufferable,” Maria mused, speaking as Catherine never could about Lavinia. “She would not like that you were married before her.”

“Exactly,” Catherine said tartly. “It is better now. He returns from India this week and then, god willing, we shall be wed the next and I shall leave Gordon House behind forever.”

“Do you not think you shall come back occasionally?” Maria’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “To lord your married status over Lavinia?”

“Oh, trust me, Lavinia will not stand being unmarried for longer,” Catherine snorted. “She has her heart set on being a Duchess.”

“Oh, does she now?” Maria shook her head, dismissing the younger lady’s materialistic nature. “She better hope that the young eligible heirs involved in the war all come back in one piece.”

“They shall all come back in one piece,” Catherine said firmly, her stomach swooping as she said it. There had been a slight unease in the back of her mind the last few weeks. It had been nearly a month since her last letter from Jonathan. They wrote regularly to one another, declaring their love and tenderness and exchanging tokens, but it seemed like an unusually long time for him not to write, even if he was due home so soon. He would usually write on the journey.

“What is it?” Maria asked, catching up her friend’s hand gently. “You look pale suddenly.”

“Oh, it is probably nothing,” Catherine waved her other hand dismissively. “It is only that I have not had a letter from Jonathan this month. I had thought he might write on the journey, but he has not.”

“Well, it hardly matters. You shall be his wife by the end of this month.” Maria smiled softly. “How wonderful it shall be for him that his first sight of you after all this time shall be your wedding day.”

“Yes,” Catherine agreed, turning her neck in the mirror and trying to dismiss her fears. “I admit, when I heard about the skirmish breaking out in Cachar, then I realised he was stationed there, I was down on my knees every night, praying for his safe return.”

“Of course you were,” Maria murmured, squeezing her hand. “I should hate to have a suitor in service. I am sure I could not endure the waiting.”

“It shall be no easier being a military wife, I am sure.” Catherine squared her shoulders and tried to look determined. In truth, the waiting for her future husband to come home from danger was almost torture, but she knew it would be worth it. Living with Lavinia and her uncle all these years had been its own torture and she would rather be alone, waiting for Jonathan, than bear another year in their company.

“You are stronger than I, my friend,” Maria said softly. “But then, you have had to be.”

Catherine caught her best friend’s eye in the mirror and the knowledge of all the nights Catherine had been pushed aside and made to feel worthless flowed between them. Maria knew the truth of Catherine’s loss. That her father had been a Baron and if both her parents had lived, she would have been eligible and beloved. Yet as they had no son, upon their deaths, the Baronetcy had ended and Catherine was forced to endure the guardianship of her father’s older brother, who had no love for his niece.

Her father and uncle had hated each other since her father had won the hand of Catherine’s mother, a beautiful lady that her uncle had coveted. Catherine didn’t know the full story of her father’s rift with her uncle, but she knew enough. Her uncle had envied her parents’ happiness and resented her because of it. He constantly sneered at her, needled her with comments about her father’s inferiority, and never turned down an opportunity to suggest her mother had made a poor choice. Catherine had borne it all, learning early on that showing her distress and crying only resulted in more disgust and cruelty. Maria had been the only one to see the true impact of all those years of unkindness and rebuke.

“Soon I shall be rid of them,” Catherine said quietly, nodding at her friend. “I shall no longer be a burden.”

“You were never a burden,” Maria said, voice quiet but firm. Her eyes flashed with anger for all the pain her friend had endured. “That they made you think so is their fault and is a flaw on their own conscience, not yours.”

Catherine felt that after six years of daily insults, dismissals and being made to feel inferior, it was hard to truly believe it. Yet here she was, standing in her wedding dress and soon she would be married to the man of her dreams, a man who knew exactly who she was and loved her entirely. She thought of Jonathan’s whispered words before he had left for India, the press of his warm lips against her palm as he held her close, closer really than she should have allowed. Yet he was the man she loved, the man who would be her husband.

“My beautiful girl,” he had whispered, brushing her red curls. “Do you love me?”

“Yes, Jonny,” she had whispered back, leaning into his touch. “Yes, I do.”

What harm could have come from allowing him to embrace her when it was the dearest call of her own heart?

“Everything will be different,” Catherine said firmly, distracting herself from longing for his touch again. Soon she would see him, soon he would hold her in his arms. Soon she would be his wife. “Everything shall be different with him.”

“So it shall,” Maria smiled at her softly. “Captain Lambton shall make you very happy.”

“He already has.” Catherine shrugged gently, trying to make light of it but couldn’t stop the red flush creeping up her cheeks. It was true; she felt it right down to the fibre of her being. Captain Jonathan Lambton had changed her life and she loved him more than she had words to say.

“Miss Headon? A letter has come for you,” a footman offered a silver plate to her, a letter sat in the centre.

“Right on time!” Maria exclaimed. “Here must be the Captain’s last letter, no doubt full of words of love and encouragement now your wedding day is so close.”

“It is not his writing,” Catherine frowned, breaking the seal at the back of the page and unfolding the letter to peruse it. “Oh, it is from his mother, Mrs. Lambton, it must be her arrangements for the wedding …”

Catherine stopped speaking suddenly, staring at the creamy parchment, the words dancing before her eyes.

“Catherine? Catherine, what is it?” Maria asked beside her, grasping her elbow with a strong hand. Catherine recognised faintly that Maria was holding her up. Her knees had sagged.

“Read it!” she gasped, pushing the letter into her best friend’s hand. “Read it, please! I cannot.”

“Why? What on earth is happening?” Maria looked down at the page and began to read aloud. “Dear Miss Headon, it is with a broken heart that I must write and inform you that I have received a letter this very day that has told me my dearest son, Jonathan, has fallen in action in India —”

“Dear God, no!” Catherine moaned, slumping to her knees as Madame Fleur rushed to get water and help and Maria held her up, continuing to read as if it was imperative.

“— he was killed by Burmese rebels outside of Cachar. I am sorry for your loss, my dear girl, please forgive the shortness of this note. I am too overcome to say more.”

“Let me see the words again,” Catherine demanded shakily, her hand trembling as she ripped the letter back. This cannot be true, please God let it be a mistake. “I must see them!”

She stared at the page, her eyes already wet with tears. Blearily, she saw the words, written in Mrs. Lambton’s shaky hand: he was killed. It was true. It was real.

“Oh God, Jonny!” she cried out, her private pet name for him bursting out, as if part of her knew that she would never be able to speak it to his face ever again. She collapsed into her friend and felt the world tilt away from her. Everything was going black, and Maria’s cries of worry were becoming distant, but Catherine didn’t care. Her Jonny, her one true love, was gone from the world and now there was nothing more for her.

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

Prologue

London, England

1810

“Will you stand still?” Timothy turned to Andrew at his side. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Aren’t you? You’re the one getting married,” Andrew pointed out with raised eyebrows.

Timothy just laughed in response. He wasn’t nervous, of course, he wasn’t! Today was the day he had been dreaming of for so long. Any minute now, Diana was going to walk through that church door, and she would no longer be just Diana Bartlett, daughter of Baron Wharton, but Diana Dunn, Countess of Moray and his wife.

“In your position, I would be breaking a sweat by now,” Andrew said, pulling at the collar around his cravat.

“It looks like you are breaking that sweat,” Timothy gestured to what his best man was doing with his collar. “Would you relax? Everything will be fine.”

“She’s late, in case it hasn’t escaped your notice.”

“This is Diana we’re talking about,” Timothy held Andrew’s gaze. “Not some chit with a changeable heart that I have just met.”

“I know,” Andrew nodded, though, in truth, Timothy knew his friend did not know all. Andrew could not see into Timothy and Diana’s hearts.

Timothy had known Diana since they were children. At the age of fifteen, he had met her roaming one of the sprawling parks in the center of London. She had been only twelve at the time, astride a horse. She had nearly knocked him over, hence her mad dash to climb down from her horse and check that he was alright. Diana…his Diana had been flushed with exercise and had sprigs of flowers in her hair. Apparently, she’d gained the blossoms just by riding through the trees and bushes all day.

From that first moment, he had been hooked. She like Diana, the Roman Goddess of wild animals, the countryside, and the moon. Even at that tender age, she had been a beauty, and that fact struck him harder than her horse did, nearly toppling him over a second time.

After that first meeting, they crept out of their houses every week to see each other, growing up, side-by-side. By the time Timothy was twenty and she seventeen, they had shared their first kiss. Oh, Timothy had orchestrated it very well indeed! He had imagined for so long kissing his Roman Goddess that he had arranged a horse ride for the two of them along with her chaperone, of course. Knowing the chaperone, he had purposely led Diana to race through unkempt bridle paths and even across a river, leaving her poor chaperone far behind. They had both been in trouble for it later, with their parents arguing how fortunate it was that no one saw them lose the chaperone, not that Timothy cared. Their reprimands were worth those few stolen minutes together.

They’d climbed down from their horses under a sweet chestnut tree. He had drawn her close so that the leaves concealed them a little. There they’d their first kiss. It began as just a brush of lips, each of them exploring and testing this new territory. By the end, Timothy had to cling to the tree trunk behind Diana’s head to keep from tumbling them both to the ground. The teasing of her tongue against his own had driven him wild and made his arousal very evident through his breeches. She had not been worried in the slightest when she felt it, only intrigued, making jokes on the subject, with her green eyes sparkling up at him.

Now, they were to be married. That first kiss was three years ago. They had waited, just as his father had requested, for him to be a little older before taking a wife. Today was the long-awaited day.

Timothy looked away from the ornate church altar to the back of the room. Down the aisle lined with pews full of guests, the wooden doors at the end of the church stayed closed, with the black steel handle still in place.

“That makes half an hour now,” Andrew said at his side, checking his pocket watch.

“She’ll be here,” Timothy said again, beginning to grow resentful of Andrew’s comments. Diana was coming. She loved him as much as he did her; there wasn’t a doubt in his mind! They had lived in each other’s pockets for the last eight years. They were best friends, and he had seen how much she loved him. She would come.

Though Timothy’s eyes began to wander around the people in the pews. Where happy smiling faces had been before, there were now frowns and curious gazes. People were leaning toward each other, speaking in hushed breaths. Timothy looked across the church, even the vicar was reaching under his white robes to check his own pocket watch. Behind him, at the far side of the room, the organist had practically fallen asleep on his chair for waiting.

She will come.

Timothy kept repeating this in his mind as he looked away from all the apprehensive faces. He had seen Diana only two days ago. They had stolen a few minutes alone in the hothouse at the back of her father’s townhouse. His Roman Goddess Diana had been dressed all in white, her elegant features resembling that of the marble statues he saw so often in ornate gardens. She had whispered in his ear how much she was looking forward to their wedding day. Even now, he could practically hear her words in his ear.

“We’ll never have to part from each other again.”

It was all he had ever wanted. He had stolen a kiss then. Diana had clung to the lapels of his tailcoat, pulling it so tightly that she nearly tore the seams. At least tonight was their wedding night, and he wouldn’t have to imagine any more what being with her entirely would be like. He wouldn’t have to take his own pleasure beneath his bed covers but take pleasure with her, making love to her as often as they wanted.

“Timothy,” Andrew said at his side, his voice wary. Timothy looked up from his musing to his friend. He and Andrew, Viscount Boyne, had become fast friends, seeing each other at least twice a week, if not more. Timothy had never seen the concern that now resided on Andrew’s face.

“Don’t say it,” Timothy pleaded. Andrew just winced in reply.

There was a sound at the church door. Timothy whipped his head toward it. She was here, at last. Diana would walk in now, with her dark hair flowing behind her, wearing the brooch he had given her: a crescent moon, the symbol of the goddess.

“I told you, she’d be here,” Timothy smiled, then the door opened, and his smile faltered.

There in the doorway was Baron Wharton, and Diana was not at his side.

Whispers erupted in their congregation, so loud that they could hardly be called whispers anymore. Timothy walked down the aisle, going to meet Baron Wharton in the middle, his feet so shaky beneath him that he feared he might collapse to the cold grey stone floor. The Baron was sweating, with his complexion flushed, as though he had been running.

“Where is she?” Timothy asked in trepidation, his voice barely audible.

“I don’t know,” the Baron shook his head. Those nearby spreading the news to the rest, each utterance growing in volume.

“What?” Timothy felt his voice echo off the stone arches around them, momentarily silencing the mounting gossip.

This is not possible. Where is my Diana?

“I cannot find her anywhere,” the Baron said quietly to him.

“This makes no sense,” Timothy said, as much to himself as to the Baron. “She loves me. She has told me as much for…” he trailed off. For at least the last three years she had professed to love him.

“I’ve checked everywhere, she’s not in her room or anything,” the Baron shrugged, seemingly defeated. “I found only this,” he lifted his hand. Timothy hadn’t noticed it before, but the Baron clutched a crumpled piece of folded parchment. Across the top was Timothy’s name. Just Timothy, no title or formality, written in Diana’s familiar hand.

Timothy wrenched it from the Baron’s hand and tore open the missive. It couldn’t even be called that; in fact, it barely constituted a note. There were only three words in the center of the page, the lettering so tiny that it was as though as spider had been squashed between the folded parchment, forming the devastating words.

‘I am sorry.’

Chapter One

London, England

1815

Timothy tossed back what was left of the brandy in his glass, enjoying the burn as it traveled down his throat. It was gone all too quickly. His glass always seemed to empty too quickly these days. One snifter was never enough; neither was two. Maybe five or six would do the job if he’d already had claret earlier in the evening.

“My Lord, it’s your bid,” the gentleman at his side urged him.

Timothy placed the glass back down and looked around the table. This gentlemen’s club was not the most reputable, but it did serve its purpose. Timothy liked the miasma of danger that permeated the place. It made him tingle as though a wrong turn in its shadowy corridors could lead to disaster. The room he was in was clothed in near darkness, with just a few candles to chase the shadows. The scant flames revealed a green baize card table with five players, including himself, all with chips piled in front of them and a dealer.

“I’m in,” Timothy picked up his chips and added them to the pile, aware that he hadn’t even looked at his cards yet.

The man beside him puffed on his cigar, the smoke curling in the air billowing around Timothy’s face.

“You’re an odd player, my friend,” the man said, never taking his eyes off Timothy as he peered through the smoke.

“Odd, how?” Timothy asked, slurring his words as he sat back in his chair and pulled at his cravat, unraveling it completely.

“You didn’t look at your cards,” the man explained as he too added his chips to the betting pile in the center. It was growing more significant as they started their next round. “Do you not care if you win or lose?”

“Should I?” Timothy laughed as he asked the question. This was how he lived his life, with no heed to anyone or anything.

“Well, you’re running out of chips,” the man gestured down at the table in front of Timothy.

Timothy’s head lolled to the side, his focus going slightly blurry as he stared at where his chips had been before.

“I need two cards,” the man opposite said to the dealer. This was the Duke of Rutland, one of the wealthiest men in all of London. Timothy had been surprised to see such a well-respected man at such a seedy establishment. It had made it far too tempting for Timothy to sit at this particular table. The thrill, the adrenaline rush of taking such a man’s money…it was all Timothy lived for these days, that all too brief rush.

“My Lord, it’s you again,” the man puffing his cigar said at his side.

Timothy picked up his cards for the first time. He had two Queens in his hand, plus some others that weren’t of any note.

“Three,” he said to the dealer, discarding the cards he didn’t need. “More brandy!” he called behind him to one of the ever-present servers.

“Don’t you think you have had enough?” The Duke of Rutland asked tightly. He was an interfering man, tall with white hair that was coiffed back impossibly tidily.

“Not by half, your Grace,” Timothy looked away from the Duke and beckoned the server again to refill his glass. “Thank you,” Timothy muttered as the brandy sloshed into the wide-bottomed glass. He stared at the Duke. His officious interference had stirred Timothy’s need for that rush even more.

“I’ll raise two,” the Duke added to the pot in the middle, followed by the others. As they turned and waited on Timothy, he checked his hand. He now had three Queens.

“I’ll raise…five,” Timothy threw what was left of his chips into the middle, leaving the green surface empty in front of him.

“I’ll fold,” said the man puffing the cigar.

“Me too,” said another.

“I’ll see your five, and…I’ll raise you two,” the Duke’s smile grew greater. “And I see you have nothing left to bet with now, my Lord.”

The remaining players folded, leaving Timothy and the Duke alone in the game. The excitement was burning now; he could feel it like a growing fire deep down in his gut.

“I’ll raise you,” Timothy sat up in his chair, aware as he did so that the world seemed to spin.

“With what?” the Duke laughed and gestured down at the empty stretch of table in front of Timothy.

“My townhouse in Oxford Street,” Timothy beamed, watching as this news rippled around the group. They all shifted in their chairs, their eyes now avidly watching the game.

“Then I’ll meet it,” the Duke added more money to the pile. “That should be worth your house.”

“Very well,” Timothy paused again. What he was about to do was a foolish risk, but he wanted to do it. No, he needed to do it. “I’ll raise my country seat in Buckinghamshire.”

“Pardon?”

“My Lord, think of what you are doing, I beg of you.”

There were pleas around the table, panic too, but he could feel it even more now, that rush, that buzz. It was as though his body was tingling with anticipation.

“As you wish,” the Duke sat back in his chair, staring down his long nose at Timothy. “I’ll call you with one of my country estates. There’s one in Devon.”

“Is it of equal value?” Timothy asked.

“Do you even care if it is?” the Duke’s question made Timothy smile greater. That was his only answer.

“Then it’s time to show,” the dealer looked to the Duke first. “Your Grace?”

Something in the Duke’s face twitched. It was tiny, just a flicker, yet somehow even in Timothy’s drunken state, he saw it anyway. He supposed he was used to looking for the signs of someone’s bluff when he was this drunk.

The Duke turned over his cards. It had been a bluff. All he had was a pair of Jacks.

Timothy smiled and drew out the moment. One by one, he placed his cards down on the table, revealing the three Queens.

With the placement of the final card, the Duke struck the table and stood abruptly.

Timothy laughed heartily; the rush had overtaken him now into a temporary thrill. He scooped up the chips, dragging them toward the dealer.

“Cash me out, please,” he nodded to the dealer and tried to control his mirth before looking back to the Duke. “And the deeds to your estate?”

“I’ll send them over,” the Duke shook his head, his pale face now turning red. “You – get me another drink!” he ordered a nearby serving boy who went off running.

Timothy placed the money the dealer handed him in his pockets. It was so much that it couldn’t all fit into one; it was practically falling out of his tailcoat from every side.

“You will pay for this humiliation,” the Duke’s voice was so sharp that Timothy looked to him, blinking through his drunken haze.

“You lost, your Grace. Accept it.” Timothy offered one last smile and staggered through the club. He could feel someone walking behind him, but he did not look back.

Even as Timothy walked away from the table, he could feel the thrill fading. It made his smile vanish entirely.

This was how he had lived his life for the last five years. Since the day Diana had left him. Always searching for the next thrill. Whether it was cards, dice, or horses, he bet on anything. He needed the danger and the excitement. He paid for women, visited brothels in the dodgy sides of town, almost hoping he would run into trouble. He’d had run into such trouble, more than once, with thieves and pickpockets trying to steal from him in the dead of night. Even drunk, Timothy was able to pull out his pistol, and they soon all went running. He’d attended illicit duels too, fighting when there really was no cause to fight, just as long as he could have another one of those sparks of excitement.

It was like an addiction. One that opium or cigars couldn’t feed, only danger could.

“May I congratulate you, my Lord,” the words made Timothy turn around. He was standing in the center of the gambling hall now rather than one of the antechambers. Here they were surrounded by dice tables and roulette wheels. Under a shabby chandelier, Timothy stood staring at a face he didn’t recognize.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Timothy squinted, trying to focus on the man’s features through the blurriness. He was middle-aged, with a large round nose and puffy cheeks that were so large they almost hid his beady eyes. Even the tailcoat he wore had a tough job trying to button together at the front around his protruding belly.

“My name is Ellis,” the man offered his hand, “Mr. Josiah Ellis. I own this establishment.”

“Well, good to meet you,” Timothy shook the man’s hand, retracting his own quickly when he discovered how sweaty Mr. Ellis’ was. He tried to dry his palm on his jacket, watching as Ellis frowned at the move.

“I happened to be watching your game,” Ellis tilted his chin up. “Quite remarkable luck you had there. I couldn’t help thinking it might not just be luck,” he went on.

Timothy wobbled a little on his feet, his drunken mind struggling to follow the conversation. .

“I am not a cheat,” Timothy said harshly. He would never cheat; it wouldn’t give the same excitement. There would be no unknown, no stepping off the edge into the precipice of the darkness to see what would happen.

“Aren’t you?” Ellis asked, tilting his head to the side.

“How dare you…” Timothy trailed off when someone appeared from the shadows beside Ellis. He was tall, stacked more like a beast than a man. Ellis nodded to him, and Timothy took a step back, slowly realizing what was to happen. “You would throw me out of your hall just because I won a game of cards?”

“Cheated. Cheated at a game of cards.”

“I didn’t cheat!” Timothy didn’t care if he earned the attention of other gamblers nearby anymore.

“Timothy!” There was a hand on Timothy’s shoulder, but it did not belong to the thickly set brute. Timothy flicked his head to the side to see Andrew. “I found you. What are you doing here?” Andrew turned his head to assess Ellis and the other man. “Time to go, I think.”

“No, of course not,” Timothy held his ground. “Mr. Ellis and I were having a charming conversation.”

“Well, I think that’s enough of conversation for one night,” Andrew tugged on his arm again, this time so firmly that in Timothy’s drunken state, he couldn’t hold his ground. He nearly fell backward as he stumbled. “Excuse us,” Andrew said to Ellis and dragged Timothy away.

“What did you do that for?” Timothy asked under his breath as they moved toward the exit. “It might have been fun.”

“Fun? Fun!? Have you taken leave of all of your senses?” Andrew asked, clearly flummoxed.

“I will admit that my sight sense right now is a little limited,” Timothy blinked a few times, aware that Andrew was opening a door for him to step through.

“How much have you had?”

“Ha!” Timothy laughed. “You think I can remember that?”

“You’re getting worse,” Andrew muttered. “I would stay away from this place, Timothy. Pick another gambling hall.”

“Why? I made quite the winnings here tonight,” Timothy nearly fell over again. The only thing that kept him standing was Andrew’s hand under his arm. Andrew dragged him out of the door and down a dark alleyway, stepping out into the main square of Covent Garden. Timothy recoiled from the brightly lit streetlamps lining the area.

“You just met the owner, Josiah Ellis.”

“Yes, he introduced himself and fancied I’d cheated. Can you imagine that? Pah!” Timothy laughed. “I’ve never cheated at cards. Where would be the fun in that?”

“I believe you, but Ellis didn’t. Have you not heard of that man?”

“If we’re to talk, can we stand still for a moment?” Timothy pleaded, suddenly feeling a wave of nausea. Andrew released him, and Timothy reached for a nearby wall. He leaned his forehead and palms against it. “No, I haven’t heard of the man.”

“Ellis owns half of the most disreputable gambling halls in London,” Andrew leaned his back on the wall beside him. “Not to mention the brothels too. Though those brothels are the ones that will steal from your wallet. They’re riddled with syphilis too.”

“You seem to know a lot about them. Have you been enjoying the wares at such houses of ill repute?” Timothy teased. He knew Andrew had no liking nor need for a brothel. Andrew was just as tall as him, though built a little leaner. His fair hair and blue eyes made him a handsome enough gentleman who was continually pursued by willing ladies. He had no need to visit a brothel. Timothy had no real need either, just the desire to steer clear of any scheming society misses and their mothers while slaking his lust on a female he was in no danger of forming an attachment to.

“Could have been fun,” Timothy smiled and turned so that he also had his back to the wall. “I could have taken that man.”

“What, the man stacked like a bull?” Andrew laughed. “You really have drunk too much.”

“I could have!”

“Really? Because as far as I can see, you can’t stand straight right now.” At Andrew’s words, Timothy leaned forward. “Case in point.”

For a minute, there was silence between them as Timothy just breathed in and out repeatedly.

“Timothy, please stop this,” Andrew said rather miserably.

“I can’t,” Timothy sighed.

“You can. You just have to want it,” Andrew pushed the point. “You’ll kill yourself one of these days with your drinking. The Earldom is being destroyed by it. What do you think people say of your reputation? How do you think your tenants fair on your land without you looking out for them?”

“I can’t think of this when I’m drunk, Andrew!” Timothy thundered and stood straight.

“Well, you’re never sober, so you’re going to have to hear it when you are drunk!” Andrew snapped.

“I don’t care, Andrew,” Timothy could feel the fury growing worse now. He walked off, heading toward the main road.

“Timothy, where are you going? We’re talking about this now!” Andrew followed him.

“We’re not,” Timothy barked the words. “I’ve told you before. It’s my life. If I want to drink myself into a gutter, I can.”

“Right, and what happens when I’m no longer there to pick you out of the gutter? How will you get home then?”

“I don’t need you to pick me up,” Timothy said wildly, just as they reached the main road.

“Oh, you think you can look after yourself?” Andrew scoffed and stood in front of Timothy, blocking his sight of the road. “You can’t walk in a straight line. How can you take care of yourself?”

“Well, then I’ll find a doxie who can look after me tonight, instead,” Timothy said.

“Another brothel? I’m shocked you’re not dying of syphilis yet.”

“Get out of my way, Andrew,” Timothy pushed his friend’s shoulder until he was knocked to the side.

“Fine, go get yourself killed, drink yourself into an early grave. See if I’ll be standing beside it when you’re gone!”

“Maybe I will!” Timothy roared and flicked his head around. He was in the middle of the road – how did he get there? He couldn’t remember stepping out.

“Timothy!” The panicked cry made him whip his head around. There were horses’ hooves clattering, a great whinny echoed in the air, and the screech of carriage wheels squealing against the cobbled road.

Timothy felt the thud against his face, uncertain if it were the horse or the carriage, the wheel went over him, of that he was sure, he could feel his back clicking and the pressure against the cobbles. He rolled a few times, his coat wet until he came to a stop, facing toward the night sky.

“You fool,” Andrew’s face was above him. There was a mad dash of other people around them. Timothy was aware of Andrew tearing off his jacket and placing something to his head, but somehow, he could make no more sense of it than that.

His body wouldn’t move or follow his wishes. He was aware of his new winnings spread around him in the center of the road.

“Timothy? Timothy, can you hear me?” Andrew’s face was beginning to fade. Timothy looked past him to the night sky. He looked away from the stars and sought out the one thing he always liked to look for these days.

The moon. It was a crescent moon tonight, the perfect symbol of the Roman Goddess. White and gleaming, its image began to fade too, until all Timothy was aware of was blackness.

Chapter 2

Devon, England

Diana was walking out at night, through the tall forest by her house. She could feel the grass blades between her toes and hear the hoots of owls nearby. She flicked her head around, trying to see them. In the shadows between the trees, she caught sight of orange-colored eyes from the branches, staring at her.

It was all so real, with the cold wind bristling against her exposed skin and rippling the skirt of her dress. But it was always this real.

That’s when she heard it, just as she always did. It was the church bell tolling; the wedding was near.

She looked around herself. It was night, and above her, through the tree branches, she could just make out a glimpse of the moon peering down at her. She looked away from it. It was too harsh a reminder of what had passed.

The bell tolled.

Diana began to run. With each step she took, her bare feet slipped on the soil, but she never stopped. She just kept moving forward, slipping quickly between the trees. Her hands brushed the exposed bark of each as she pushed by them, feeling their coarseness beneath her fingers.

The bell tolled again. It rang so intensely that she could feel it vibrating in her very core.

He was waiting for her.

She ran as hard as she could, the blood pumping fast in her veins as she tried to reach the church. Yet no church ever appeared. There was nothing except more trees in front of her; thick and dense larch trees, oaks, and sycamores too. Each one towering over her, enclosing her into the tiny space between their trunks. Dark shadows and deep green leaves. Their branches reached out to her like skeletal hands, trying to hold her back. She could feel them, snagging her clothes and in her hair, dragging her backward. She had to fight against them.

The bell rang another time. It was behind her now; she’d gone too far. She ran back the other way. This time, she had to be making ground, getting closer and closer to her destination. She felt it to be true, even if she couldn’t see the church through the darkness.

Diana started to shout his name, though she couldn’t hear the sound for it was masked by the bell, she felt her mouth strain to form the word. It hurt her throat to cry so loudly for him, yet she needed him to hear her. She was coming. She was on her way.

A stone wall appeared through the trees now. She was getting nearer to the church, the bell so close it deafened her ears. The pace of the ringing picked up too. It was no longer those solitary strikes but a faster beat, the rhythm so quick her body quaked to match the tempo. 

It was telling her that she was running out of time.

She called his name again, just as the church came into view. The door was open. She sprinted out of the tree line, fussing with her dress as though she could pull off all the errant leaves that had caught in her mad dash. She pushed through the open door and came to a sudden stop.

It was empty. The pews had no people, and no vicar stood by the altar.

 It was even colder inside the church than it had been out in the forest.

Diana turned her head away and stepped out of the door, back toward the trees. She screamed his name again, and this time, she heard it.

“Timothy!”

***

Diana woke up in bed. She was panting, breathing heavily. She was cold, freezing, leading her to pull the blankets sharply around her body in desperation to feel some warmth. It took a minute, just as always, to persuade herself that the dream was not real. They never were reality. Yet for the last five years, she had had to suffer them, again and again.

It was her punishment; she knew that—punishment for having played with Timothy’s heart the way she did. The nightmares were constant, her own guilt unable to let her find peace in this world.

She flung the covers off, hoping that by being out of the bed, she could move further away from the memory of the dream. She grabbed a dressing gown from nearby and flung it around her shoulders, needing the warmth of it, and moved toward the window. She took a moment every morning to stand here and look at the world around her. She rested her forehead against the window as she thought of the last five years.

Diana had run so suddenly, with no explanation of what had happened to her, she expected her father thought her dead. She’d had no choice. It was not like she could stay behind and explain what had happened or why she had to go. She just had to leave! It was for the best. She knew that. Even if she could never explain it to Timothy or to her father.

She didn’t doubt her father looked for her. He had been a wealthy man and had probably used that wealth to set up a search for her, yet he had never found her. She had hidden far too well for that.

Her breath clouded the window, offering a brief reflection of herself in the morning chill. Her long black hair was wild from the night’s sleep, the natural waves framing her usually porcelain skin that looked even paler in the cold,, and her copper flecked brown eyes could have been almost black in the reflection.

She looked beyond the reflection, out to the world around her. This was one of her few sources of solace these days, the beauty of the countryside.

So remote they were in their snug cottage, that no other house could be seen. In fact, there was only one other house nearby, a grander estate, that was never occupied by anyone but staff. It meant the countryside was their only company. Where in London there had been people, here there were squirrels, hedgehogs, and goldfinches. Where townhouses, shops, and theatres used to be her entertainment, here there were lush trees, hawthorn bushes, and snowdrops.

Diana traced the view from her window. Just beyond the enclosed garden by their cottage were the forest trees, and between their trunks, she could glimpse the snowdrops, like a sprinkling of sugar, they dappled the green and brown earth with their white flowers. Between these flowers, the ground itself still held the icy frost of the morning.

She loved this changing view. She knew in a month’s time, those snowdrops would give way to tulips, and a month later, bluebells would take their place. Just as soon as the cold snap they were enduring lifted.

She wrapped the dressing gown tighter around her body. To her mind, the cold would never lift, and the winters seemed twice as long as the summers.

She opened the window, just a crack, breathing in the fresh air. It made the chill in the room grow even worse, to the point that she shivered in the wind. With the window open, she could hear the river nearby. They were high up on the River Ex, where it began in the hills. Somewhere, miles from here, that river flowed into the sea. She had crossed shallower sections with her horse many times, but in some parts the tide was so vicious that it seemed like rapids, tossing against the rocks and the riverbanks.

She liked the sound of it; for some reason, it was a reminder to her of why she had run off in the first place.

To escape danger.

There was a gentle knock at the door.

“Come in,” Diana turned away from the window as her maid, Ally, stepped in. Just a few years older than Diana, Ally was one of the only three members of staff Diana kept in the house. As such, Ally often had to perform the role of both lady’s maid and scullery maid. “Good morning, Ally.”

“Good morning, Miss,” Ally said with a sweet smile and a quick curtsy. “How are you today? More bad dreams?” Ally didn’t know the truth of why Diana had left, but Diana trusted the woman enough to have spoken of her difficulties sleeping.

“A few,” Diana shrugged, as though it were no big thing. “How are you today?”

“Quite tired,” Ally rolled her eyes. “Robert has been up baking since four. So loud he is.”

Diana laughed softly at the image. Robert was their cook and the second member of her staff. Robert took his duties very seriously for working in such a small house and often woke Ally up with his early baking, as she slept so near to the kitchen.

“And how is Ethel?” Diana asked, moving away from the window as Ally began to prepare a dress for Diana to wear for the day.

“Already arguing with Robert,” Ally clearly had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes again. Ethel ran a tight ship as the housekeeper, but that meant she often butted heads with Robert, who could be just as stubborn as her at times.

“Well, I’ll talk to Ethel later,” Diana sighed. “Perhaps we can try and makes things a little more peaceful.” She almost laughed at her words as she cast a glance back to the window and the quiet view beyond. It was always peaceful around here. The most exciting thing to happen was Robert’s and Ethel’s arguments. “Is Jonathan awake yet?”

“Yes, Miss,” Ally presented her with a fresh chemise and corset to wear. “He’s in the dining room, waiting for you.”

At this news, Diana’s heart soared. Jonathan was the one person to give her happiness at times like this. He was the point of her life, after all—her entire life. Hearing Jonathan was awake, Diana hurried to change with Ally at her side. Within minutes, she was ready; with a simple gown of pastel blue and her hair tied into a neat chignon, she was prepared for the day.

“All set!” Ally said, tidying up the discarded nightgown as Diana moved out of the door.

The cottage was a far cry from the household she had been used to growing up, but she hardly had a lot of money to survive on these days. When she had run away from her father and Timothy, one of the first things she did was take the money that had been intended for her dowry and deposit it with an investment banker under a false name. The banker had made her decent money, though there wasn’t a vast annuity paid to her from it; it was adequate enough to support her quaint cottage with a few servants’ rooms. The living space was spacious enough, even if the stairs were a little poky.

In a way, despite its cons, the cottage was perfect. For no one would ever think to look for her here.

She hurried into the sitting room and along the corridor toward the rear of the house. The closer she got to the dining room, the more she felt her smile ping into place. Jonathan was awake, and their day together could begin! Her nightmare from her uneasy sleep was a thing of the past, and she need not revisit it as long as she was in Jonathan’s company.

Between the windows sat the table, with Jonathan seated in his usual place.

The small boy, still only five years old, was looking down at a piece of bread on his plate and attempting to butter it with a tiny knife.

“Jonathan,” Diana said his name, and he looked up. The moment their eyes connected; Jonathan’s little round face smiled.

***

Timothy was struggling to open his eyes. It was as though someone had placed leaden weights upon his eyelids, and he had to strain against that weight to open them. When he eventually managed it, his view was blurry, the room not in focus at all. It prompted him to close his eyes again.

He concentrated instead on his body. He was in a lot of pain. In particular, his lower back and on the side of his head. It was like a dull throbbing ache, persistent and unrelenting.

He sniffed, trying to gauge his surroundings. It didn’t smell like his home, for his house always smelled like brandy or claret. No…this smell was very different. It held the scent of sick people, perhaps even vomit, mixed with herbs, as though he were in the backroom of an apothecary. There was thyme, rosemary too, perhaps even chives.

It made him force his eyes open again; this time, the effort was a little easier.

“He’s waking up,” that voice was awfully familiar. Timothy tried to turn his head to see the source of it. Andrew had to be nearby.

Timothy could see the dark crimson curtains that always hung about his bed, startling him. So, he was in his chamber after all, but how had he gotten there? Why did it smell so strange?

Andrew appeared in his vision, rather unusually untidy. His fair hair was wild, ruffled, cravat and collar twisted, completely loose. His jacket had been discarded, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up.

“That’s a good thing, yes?” Andrew turned away, looking to someone else.

Timothy tried to see the second person. He was aware through the blurriness of a shadow moving toward him, a sort of silhouette, then a cold hand was pressed to his forehead. Though he couldn’t see the face, he could see the hand. It was white, bony, as though the hand of the grim reaper was touching his face.

“Ja, it is,” a gruff voice said. “The fever is beginning to break.”

“Then all will be well?” Andrew sounded excited, full of relief. Timothy had heard that tone when playing card games with Andrew; it was usually reserved for when he had won a game of cards to his own surprise.

“We’ll see,” the gruff voice was back. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Timothy heard the words as his eyes closed of their own volition. It struck him hard. He knew what the phrase meant. It spelled his doom; he could be dead soon and wouldn’t open his eyes again.

“Come on, Timothy,” Andrew said, his tone soft though full of urgency. “You need to fight this.”

If only he could, he thought, as the blackness swam in again.

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

CHAPTER ONE

I am so nervous I can barely think. Soon, I shall be a real lady of society! If he comes tonight, I don’t know what I shall do…  My heart belongs and will always belong to Henry Linfield. I cannot wait for the opportunity to dance with him tonight. It’s been two years since I have seen him. Will he even recognise me in my new gown? Will he ask for my first dance? Will he ask to walk on the terrace with me under the moonlight? I don’t even really care about coming out this season! Not really, I know I want Mama and father to be proud of me but the idea of being the centre of attention all night is disconcerting. But I’ll put up with it to be with Henry. I would do anything for him.

“Tilly! Tilly, come and play with me!”

Matilda sighed and looked up from her diary, closing the worn leather book on the section she had been re-reading from two years ago. Her younger brother barrelled into the room, a whirl of red hair and long limbs.

“Careful, Barty!” Matilda scolded, catching her seven-year-old brother’s arms to stop him from knocking something over. He was in the middle of a growth spurt, and was prone to not realising the length of his arms.

“Are you writing in your diary?” Barty’s brown eyes fixed on the red leather notebook with eager curiosity. “Can I see?”

“You know you can’t.” Matilda quickly slipped the book into the drawer, deftly locking it with a key she kept around her neck. Ever since her father had gifted her the journal on the night of her first ball two years ago, Barty had been trying his hardest to have a peek into it. “Come on, what shall we play?” Matilda asked him, trying to distract her nosy little brother.

“I have a new set of jacks that Holton gave me.” Barty bit his lip, thinking hard. “Or we could play cricket?”

“Boring,” Matilda teased, rolling her eyes. “What about … polo?”

“Really?” Barty’s eyes lit up and he jumped up and down. “Yes please! Let’s go!”

Matilda took his hand and ran down the stairs, the two of them laughing as they raced along.

“Matilda!”

They stopped in the hallway, turning to see Mrs Bury poking her head out from behind the parlour door. She had served the Duke of Sinclair and the Wynter family for so long and had been Matilda’s only mother figure in the intervening years between her mother’s death and her father’s second marriage. Matilda couldn’t help but responding obediently.

“Yes, Mrs Bury?” she called. “Little Lord Wynter and I are going riding.”

“You are expecting a suitor, remember?” Mrs Bury shook her head. “Honestly, Miss Wynter, you cannot avoid every gentleman your father suggests!”

“She can try, right Tilly?” Barty quipped, grinning up at his big sister as he parroted her usual phrase back to her. Matilda cuffed him gently on the back of the head.

“Hush you,” she said fondly. “But yes, Mrs Bury, you can tell my father that I have a much more pressing engagement with a future Duke, that should make him happy.”

“I imagine it shall make him less happy when he learns the Dukedom in question is his own,” said a lilting, laughing voice in the parlour. Frances appeared, smiling languidly as she leaned against the door frame in a beautiful gown. She was not yet thirty years old and still held onto that beautiful plume of youth, despite mothering a wild girl through her adolescence and now an even wilder son. Matilda had always loved growing up with a beautiful young stepmother, she had always been the envy of all her friends and Frances had been the jewel of society as the young woman who managed to catch the Duke of Sinclair, a man ten years her senior.

Now, as Matilda had reached adulthood, she had lived with Frances as her mother nearly as long as her birth mother and had quickly adjusted to calling her “Mama,” happy in the maternal bond they shared. She couldn’t wish anything to be different — Frances had made her father so happy and their family complete. Yet Matilda couldn’t help but feel the squeezing pressure of expectation for in reality there were only eight years between them. Consequently, Frances had always been a very current example of how to be an ornament to society; her courtship of Matilda’s father was the stuff of legends among débutantes. Though Frances had never been anything but encouraging of Matilda’s journey and the most supportive mother she could be, but Matilda had already been out for two seasons and she knew the truth deep in her heart: she could never achieve the same heights of glory as her Mama. How could she ever compare to the elegant woman who stood before her? So radiant with her hair that matched Barty’s, that same red shine of autumn leaves, and her unique, arresting eyes.

“Like a leopard,” her father used to whisper to Matilda whenever Frances was enraged, and her eyes glowed dangerously. “Like a hunting cat, watch out!”

Frances’ eyes held none of their furious fire now. She looked at her children with an indulgent smile, her arms folded across her chest and her reddish-brown eyebrows raised in amusement. Matilda knew she had room to wiggle in when Frances was wearing that smile.

“Come on, Mama.” Matilda rolled her eyes. “This gentleman is nearly forty!”

“And a Viscount,” Frances grinned, “and one of your father’s close acquaintances …”

“I’m half his age!” Matilda exclaimed.

“Oh, is there something wrong with that?” Frances laughed. “Don’t forget how many years lie between your father and I.”

“Ten,” Barty said promptly. He had been told the tale of his parents’ courtship many times. It was one of his favourite bedtime stories. “And Mama says it is what is inside a person’s heart that counts.”

“I do, indeed.” Frances laughed at her son, reaching forward to pet his head affectionately.

“Yes, well, ten is not twenty,” Matilda rebuked them both. “And I sincerely doubt the viscount is coming to court me on account of what he has heard of my heart.”

“For shame, Miss,” Mrs Bury tutted. “You shouldn’t talk so in front of Milord.”

“Talk about what?” Barty asked, looking between them.

“Oh, so we should lie to Barty should we?” Matilda raised her eyebrows as she stared between her two mother figures. “We should tell him that a gentleman twenty years my senior was enticed to court an eighteen-year-old on account of her personality alone?”

“I doubt it were that,” Barty piped up, wrinkling his nose. “People say you’re odd, Tilly.”

“Barty!” Frances scolded. “Don’t say such things about your sister.”

“I like it,” Barty pulled on Matilda’s arm affectionately. “She’s not silly and boring like other girls, she’s fun and adventurous and ex — ex —,”

Barty’s face was scrunched up as he tried to remember the right word and Matilda laughed, taking pity on her brother.

“I think ‘eccentric’ is the word you are looking for.” She smiled, poking her little brother’s nose. “And that is the word that society uses to describe pretty women who are not married or courting.”

“Is that why the gentleman is coming?” Barty asked his mother, turning to face her. “Because he thinks Tilly is pretty?”

Matilda bit her lip in amusement, raising her eyebrows at Frances who rolled her eyes in frustration and sighed.

“Yes! Lord give me strength.” She threw her hands up and looked up to the heavens as she often did when she was pressed by both of her children at the same time. “It is because she is very pretty, Barty, but also because she has a very prominent title and making a match with a lady of fortune and circumstance is appealing to a man.”

“But it’s not her fortune, it’s mine.” Barty frowned. “That’s what Tilly told me.”

“What?” Frances exclaimed, rounding on Matilda. “What did you tell him?”

“I merely explained that women are property in this world, and when they marry their status is transferred from the father or brother to their husband,” Matilda said innocently, watching in amusement as Mrs Bury crossed herself again and muttered under her breath about the things women should and shouldn’t talk about.

“Which means Tilly belongs to me, because I’m the heir and I’ll be the Duke one day and have all the money and the titles, so I’m keeping her,” Barty said, wrapping his arms around his big sister’s waist. “I decide that she stays here! Forever!”

Matilda grinned and looked up at Frances, who stared down at her son with an open mouth, utterly lost for words. Mrs Bury frowned and shook her head at Matilda as if she was a lost cause.

“Well, since the Master has the final word on the matter …,” Matilda began, slowly taking a step towards the door with Barty, eager to escape into the fresh air. “I think we’ll just …”

“That’s all very well, but Bartholomew is not the master here,” Frances said, recovering quickly and lifting her hand to stop them both from leaving. They both froze. Those amber eyes were beginning to glow dangerously, and Frances had used Barty’s full name. They knew they might both be in trouble now.

“Your father is, and he has arranged this meeting for you. Whilst he is still the Duke of Sinclair and you still live here, you will do as he wishes.”

Matilda felt a soft flare of temper which she tried to choke down. Just the mention of her father’s authority in this matter was enough to make her angry. She tried to hide it, squeezing Barty’s hand tightly and speaking with a curt, clipped tone.

“I am not leaving the property, I am not defying his wishes,” she said, holding Frances’ gaze. “If this man is truly interested in courting me, then he can come and find Barty and I and join us in some polo.”

“Heaven save us,” Mrs Bury exclaimed. “Viscounts do not play polo with ladies!”

“It’s alright, Mrs Bury.” Frances patted their housekeeper’s arm consolingly, shooting Matilda a frustrated look. “Fine, go. But don’t disappear! I don’t think your father will be very forgiving this time if you do.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Matilda breathed, rushing forward to kiss Frances gratefully on the cheek. “We’ll not be long.”

“Thank you, Mama!” Barty chorused, chasing off through the doors. “We’ll be back before the gentleman who wants to buy Matilda from me comes!”

“Lord in Heaven,” Mrs Bury groaned, disappearing back into the parlour as Matilda tried to stifle her giggles. Despite her frown, Matilda saw Frances’ lip quirking involuntarily.

“You know, when I had a son I had no idea that his big sister would be able to be such a corrupting influence on him.” Frances shook her head ruefully. “You are shaping him into a radical.”

“Says the woman who once persuaded my father to withdraw thousands of pounds from sugar because slavery was abhorrent,” Matilda retorted, and Frances chuckled appreciatively.

“You remember that, do you?” Frances sighed as Matilda nodded. “Well, enjoy it for now, my love. Wisdom comes with age, as does propriety.” She nudged Matilda’s side significantly. “Though I doubt you could ever be truly proper in that sense.”

“Could the daughter of Frances Fortescue, the woman who rescued the Duke of Sinclair from a poisoner and survived an attempt on her life, be anything other?” Matilda said fondly, holding Frances’ hand tenderly. She was proud to be Frances’ child. She was proud of everything Frances had done to protect her and her father, even before she was officially a member of the family. Some people had said Frances’ had been inappropriate in her ardent affection for both Matilda and her father. Matilda could only be grateful.

“Oh, my love.” Frances pressed her forehead against Matilda’s and Matilda took a deep breath: the scent of rose and warmth that instantly made her feel at home. “I am proud of your strength of mind, but your father …,”

“I know.” Matilda pulled away, not wanting to talk about her father at that moment. When it came to the subject of her lack of suitor their disagreement was intense. She looked out of the main doors of the house to where Barty was excitedly having their ponies brought up. “Will you defer him for us whilst we play?”

“Of course.” Frances squeezed her hand. “Be safe. Remember —,”

“Not to ride near the lake,” Matilda finished for her, both of them recalling the near tragedy that had occurred when Frances was still Lady Fortescue and had thrown herself into the lake to save Matilda from drowning after falling from her horse. “I never forget. Until later, Mama.”

Matilda kissed her mother’s cheek and pulled away, running down the stairs of the main house to meet her brother and the groom on the gravel courtyard. The groom had two polo sticks slung over his shoulder and Barty was tossing the ball up in the air and catching it. Matilda felt her heart lighten. There was nothing like a ride out in the fresh air to shake away dark thoughts about the future.

“Are you ready to lose, Barty?” She grinned, grabbing her brother around the waist, and helping him mount his pony. The groom handed him the junior polo stick, the same one that she had used when her father had taught her to play.

“I don’t think so!” Barty grinned, spurring his pony and trotting off towards the back lawn, twirling his stick in practice. Matilda let the groom help her mount the older pony, big enough to carry her light frame but not so large as to make it a dangerous game for Barty and his small steed.

“Thank you, James.” Matilda took her own stick and laid it over her shoulders. “I’ll take it from here.”

She clicked her teeth and the pony obeyed. It was not her normal horse; Matilda favoured a bay stallion named Shakespeare, but all horses responded to her well. She had been riding since she was a little girl, and it was her one great love. There was nothing more thrilling to her than cantering away over the countryside, the trees and hedges rolling past her. Every season that passed only made her more sure that society life was never going to be enough to satisfy her. She turned onto the makeshift pitch on the back lawn and saw Barty looking thoughtful as his pony nibbled grass.

“What’s on your mind, Barty?” Matilda asked, letting her pony trot in an easy circle around him.

“Daddy didn’t buy Mama, did he?” Barty frowned intently. “I thought they were in love.”

Matilda cursed her own hubris. She might be jaded from two years out in society, but there was no need Barty should be so disillusioned.

You are corrupting him!

“They are deeply in love,” Matilda said forcefully. “No, he didn’t do that. They would give their lives for one another. They are best friends. Their marriage is a marriage of souls, not only minds.”

“Oh. Good.” Barty looked relieved. “So have you never been in love like they are?”

His question, though gently asked, nearly knocked Matilda off her horse. She had always tried to be honest with her little brother, to tell him the truth even when it was difficult, but this was one thing she could tell no one.

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t think anyone is in love like Mama and Father. Besides,” she stuck her tongue out at Barty and twirled her pogo stick. “Gentlemen are boring and uninteresting.”

“Not all of them, surely?” Barty knocked the ball towards her, clearly more interested in their conversation than the sport. “You liked that boy who used to come and play when I was little.”

Matilda’s throat felt dry.

“What boy?” she asked innocently, knocking the ball back towards Barty with a little more force, hoping to egg him on and change the subject, but he let the ball roll past, barely looking at it.

“That boy!” he said insistently. “He used to visit our house, and we played with him. He was funny. He helped build the tree house in the forest.”

Oh goodness, the tree house.

  She remembered Henry’s smile as he gripped her hand tightly, pulling her up the tree to the platform he and Barty had nailed together. His sister, Althea had been there too. How she had fantasised about kissing him in that tree house!

“I don’t remember.” Matilda nudged the pony forward, chasing the ball half-heartedly. “Are we going to play, or what?”

“Henry!” Barty exclaimed behind her. “That was his name! Henry Linfield! What happened to Henry?”

What had happened indeed. Matilda had her back to her brother and allowed herself to close her eyes briefly, swallowing down her emotions. How quickly she remembered her disappointment when Henry had not appeared at her début, the crippling dismay when she overheard other ladies discussing his notoriety in town. Even at sixteen, she had known that Henry was developing a reputation as a rogue at Oxford, but it hadn’t stopped her heart from breaking. That night, barely holding back tears as she danced with gentleman after gentleman, wishing the whole sorry affair could be over, she had closed herself down. She had never seen Henry again. She had never felt that way about anyone else. Everyone in society might think she was eccentric and adverse to marriage and that was just as well, it was better than them knowing the truth: that her heart was foolishly and irrevocably given to Henry Linfield.

“Nothing happened.” Matilda tried to keep her voice light. “He grew up, that’s all. Now, let’s play some polo!”

CHAPTER TWO

After an hour, Barty was worn out from polo and ready to go back in and find some jam tarts in the kitchen. Matilda wasn’t so easily sated. The mention of Henry’s name had rattled her more than she cared to admit. Riding the young pony on the back lawn had only whetted her appetite for a good ride over the fields with the wind in her hair. The last thing she wanted to do now was to go back into the house and sit politely over tea whilst a viscount made eyes at her. She sighed heavily, dismounting to lead the pony back to the stables.

“What’s the matter, Tilly?” Barty asked, looking at her solemnly as she helped him dismount at the stable.

“Nothing.” Matilda smiled stiffly. “You should go inside and find something to eat.”

“Your suitor will be here soon.” Barty gazed back up to the house. “Shall I tell him to go away? That you’re not allowed to get married?”

“No! I don’t think father would like that.” Matilda smiled and petted her brother’s hair. It was soft and cold under her hand. She wondered at what age he would stop letting her touch him so affectionately. Time was so fleeting. Yet her father was ever more eager to find her a match. When that happened, she would be taken away from Sinclair Manor and lose these precious years watching her brother grow up. She couldn’t help but feel resentful. Suddenly, all of her goodwill about meeting the viscount vanished.

“You go on ahead.” Matilda gave the groom a significant nod as he took the pony’s reigns from her and gave Barty a little push towards the house. “I’ll be right behind.”

“You’re not coming?” Barty watched the groom walk towards Shakespeare’s stall and gasped. “You’re going out? Mama said not to!”

“Don’t you worry about that.” Matilda ruffled his hair and smiled down. “I know you’re hungry. Go on!”

“Alright.” Barty took a hesitant step towards the house, watching as Shakespeare was brought out with a slight longing on his face. Matilda knew that Barty had high hopes for one day riding Shakespeare — he was a feisty stallion with a reddish gold coat and a black mane. He had been a gift for her seventeenth birthday from her father, and the best gift she had ever received, aside from her diary. “Don’t be long?”

“Of course.” Matilda swooped down and gave her brother a kiss. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Barty pretended to scowl, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand as if full of distaste, but Matilda saw the happy blush in his cheeks as he ran away. As he trotted up the steps to the house, Matilda saw her lady’s maid, Betty, running down the stairs towards her. No doubt she had been watching anxiously out of the window, trying to keep an eye on her mistress, clearly on orders from Frances. Matilda sighed and gently rubbed Shakespeare’s nose, enjoying the velvety feel of his nostrils as she took a piece of apple that the groom gave her and fed it to him.

“We’ll have a nice little ride, hey Shakespeare?” she murmured, rubbing her thumb against the white whorl on his forehead. “Maybe we’ll go and call on Julia? That’s a nice ride.”

The horse snorted happily and pressed his nose into her palm. Matilda waited calmly for her flustered maid to arrive.

“Mistress, where are you going?” Betty gasped. “You have a caller coming —,”

“Yes, unfortunately, I have no interest in meeting a viscount today,” Matilda said breezily, watching in amusement as Betty wrung her hands and looked back towards the house. “But do not worry, I am sure I shall be back with enough time to catch the tail-end of his appointment with my father.”

“Oh, Lady Wynter, you cannot be earnest,” Betty groaned, rubbing her forehead. “Do you not remember the last time? Your father was so —,”

“I shall deal with Father when I get home,” Matilda said, quickly mounting Shakespeare. “At least then, I shall be in a better mood for it. Something that several tedious hours making small talk with a man old enough to be my father certainly shall not encourage.”

“The Viscount has an excellent reputation. He is a kind man, and do you not think it is time that you moved on from Lord —?”

“No, Betty.” Matilda gave her maid an intense glare, but Betty wouldn’t back down. She had been Matilda’s lady’s maid since Matilda was fourteen and wasn’t afraid of a little stare.  She stepped forward, gently pulling Matilda’s skirt down to cover her boot.

“I remember the night of your début, my lady,” she said, quietly. “You were so excited. So full of hope. It saddens me to think that you have lost that part of yourself.”

Matilda’s eyes stung suddenly with unshed tears. Betty’s words were touching the deep, sore place of her that still longed for Henry Linfield. Together, the two of them lapsed into silence as the memory of the night of her début rushed between them.

Betty was setting a crown of white roses and pearls into Matilda’s hair. Matilda was fidgeting, tugging at her gloves.

“Don’t worry, my lady.” Betty pressed her hands onto Matilda’s shoulders and caught her eye in the mirror, smiling brightly. “He will be there.”

“Do you think he will dance with me?” Matilda whispered, blushing terribly in her white muslin gown. It was all she wished for, to have Henry’s face close to hers and his hand in hers as they swirled perfectly in the centre of the dance floor.

“I am certain of it,” Betty giggled. “He is always so friendly toward you! I cannot imagine why he would not.”

 Betty spoke first, interrupting their reminiscing. Matilda both relieved and sad to leave that bitter-sweet memory, and looked down at her maid with glassy eyes.

“If you loved before, you could love again,” Betty whispered encouragingly. “Another gentleman might alight those same feelings in you that Lord Linfield —,”

“No,” Matilda cut her off, swallowing painful tears. She shook her head fiercely. “There is no other.”

“Oh, my lady. You cannot pine forever.” Betty sighed sadly, patting Shakespeare’s neck.

“I can do whatever I wish,” Matilda sniffed, feeling petulant, but Betty was undeterred and shook her head.

“Is that what you wish for your life, my lady?” Betty squeezed Matilda’s hand. “To long for a boy from the past and let your future disappear?”

I don’t want a future without Henry in it, Matilda thought, but it was too close to her heart to speak out loud. Besides, it would sound bizarre to Betty, who only wanted her to be safe and content like her parents did. How could Betty understand that Matilda would rather live alone than marry someone who wasn’t Henry?

“I won’t be long,” Matilda said, blinking away disappointed tears as she clicked her teeth.

“You’re not taking the groom with you?” Betty’s eyes widened. “Again?”

“I am perfectly capable of riding the five miles to Julia’s house alone,” Matilda snapped.

“You are a lady. You should not be riding anywhere unchaperoned, please!” Betty implored her, giving her the same look Mrs Bury did when she did something ‘eccentric.’

“I have been riding alone since I was a child, Betty,” Matilda sighed.

“But you are not a child any longer,” Betty countered. “You know it will enrage your father to know you have left, and left alone. It is most inappropriate for a lady.”

“I am my own person, Betty, I can make my own decisions!” Matilda pressed her heels into Shakespeare’s belly, turning him around to face the rolling fields. She saw Betty’s face, her sad, worried expression and the tightness around Matilda’s heart eased a little. She sighed and reached out for Betty’s hand.

“I do not wish to be rude,” she said softly. “I only wish to be free, Betty. I shall be safe, and you can send a groom to ride back with me, if you must. If you are worried. Just … let me have my ride.”

“Oh, my lady, I know better than to test my mettle against your strong will,” Betty smiled, squeezing her mistress’ hand, and then stepping back. “I shall tell the Duchess where you are. I am sure she can manage your father for a while.”

“If anyone can, it’s Mama,” Matilda smiled, setting Shakespeare into an easy trot towards the gate. “I’ll be back shortly!”

As she set her sights over the hills she let Shakespeare ease into a steady canter as he prepared himself to jump the fence to the field. When he took it with an elegant leap, she closed her eyes for a moment and imagined that she was flying. How nice it would be to be entirely free of all responsibility, to not have to worry about making a match or the future or what it would feel like to walk down the aisle on her wedding day and make promises to a man she didn’t love. The wind whipped through her hair and she unconsciously pulled it free of its bindings, letting her dark tresses stream behind her. She loved the feeling of it, and on a usual day it was enough to lighten her mood, but not today. Today she could not shake the memories of Henry.

“Henry, don’t!” She laughed, raising her arms to cover her face as Henry splashed water at her.

“Come further in, the water’s lovely!” Henry chuckled. He was knee deep in the brook on the Sinclair estate. It was a boiling hot summer’s day and Matilda was fourteen. She and Henry and Althea were playing in the Sinclair woods, but Althea had deferred the option to join them in the cool, rushing water of the stream, saying it was too cold. Matilda was revelling in this surprising moment of solitude in Henry’s company, helplessly giggling as she tucked her skirts around her knees and waded out towards him. Suddenly, her footing slipped away from her and she stumbled, plunged deeper into the water than she anticipated, soaking her gown up to her thighs and splashing water into her face. Henry doubled over in laughter, overjoyed by his prank.

“Henry! You beast!” Matilda cried, floundering to find her feet in the strong water, drenched to her skin. “You knew! How could you do this?”

“In my defence, Tills, it was very funny.” Henry grinned, grasping her by the elbows and pulling her up onto the higher ground he was deceptively stood on. Her gown clung wetly to her legs and she clutched his forearms to steady herself, feeling his warm, suntanned skin under her fingers.

“Don’t call me that,” Matilda had mumbled, her face flushing to be so close to him, her heart pounding furiously. “Don’t call me Tills.”

“Why not?” Henry teased, tugging on her wet hair, and flicking one of her sopping, wet curls into her eyes. “It’s funny. I like it.”

“Should you like it if I called you Linnie?” Matilda asked in mock bravado. “Linnie Lord Linfield?”

“Ha!” Henry threw back his head, laughing uproariously. He was so perfect to look at and Matilda hadn’t been able to stop herself staring. He was sixteen years old, already becoming a man. His blonde hair curled alluring against his forehead, slightly damp from the river. His skin had tanned a glorious gold in the summer sun and his throat was slightly red in a patch at the bottom of his neck, where gold curls of chest hair had begun to grow. His blue eyes sparkled humorously in the golden sunshine.

“You can call me whatever you want, Tills,” he joked, giving her his most charming smile.

Even in memory, Matilda felt like she had been given no choice. She would not have been able to stop herself falling in love with him even if she had tried. She sighed heavily, realizing that in her remembrances she had ridden all the way to Julia’s without a second thought. She reined in Shakespeare and dismounted, just as Julia opened the door and stepped out, smiling to greet her friend.

“Goodness, Matilda, you came here without a groom?” Julia shook her head, as if the whole thing was very funny. “You really have no intention of catching a husband, do you?”

“I find such things rarely interest me.” Matilda ignored the barb and handed Shakespeare’s reigns to a waiting servant.

“Oh, well, then I have some delicious news that I am sure will interest you,” Julia said, her eyes alight with mischief.

“Oh, gossip is it?” Matilda asked wryly. “I hope it is not about me.”

“No, it is not, but it is about a family that once was closely associated with yours,” Julia wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Can you guess?”

“I would rather not,” Matilda sighed, “and I should dearly like some tea, so can you cut to the chase, dear Julia? Who does this gossip concern and why should I care?”

“I cannot answer the second for you, only you know your own interest.” Julia giggled infuriatingly. “But as for the first question, I shall tell you. It is none other than the eldest son of Baron Foley.”

“Baron Foley?” Matilda’s heart cramped painfully. It seemed that wherever she went today, a certain name was destined to follow her. “You mean …?”

“Oh yes,” Julia nodded smugly. “None other than your old friend, Henry Linfield.”

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

      Chapter 1

“You look beautiful, Beatrice!”

“Thank you, Lydia,” Beatrice smiled politely at the Marquess of Loudwater’s eldest daughter, a society woman for whom Beatrice had no love at all. “So do you.”

“Thank you,”

As always, the other woman was pleased with the compliment, and pressed her hands down against her silvery silk gown. Beatrice noted that Lydia’s gown was the height of fashion, but that did not stop the other woman from looking at Beatrice’s gold satin and white lace gown with tremendous envy.

“What an exquisite fabric!” Lydia said, fluttering her huge ostrich fan with glittering eyes. “Did you choose it yourself?”

“No,” Beatrice almost rolled her eyes in frustration, groaning internally. She found this kind of conversation absolutely dire, and yet she had lost count of the amount of them she had endured with ladies like this at various society events.

“Mrs. Klane did,” Beatrice added, looking pointedly at her sister-in-law, Anna, who was barely paying attention to the conversation, her eyes wandering around the room with excitement. Unlike Beatrice, who was yet to meet a ball she actually enjoyed, Anna had been completely starved of balls for the last year and half since she had had given birth to her son, Caleb. This was Anna’s first outing into society since the birth and she was eager to dance with her husband, Silas, who stood nearby, chatting with business associates. Beatrice was happy for her sister’s happiness, but just wished she didn’t have to endure a ball for it to come about.

“Anna?” Beatrice prompted.

“Oh, yes,” Anna glanced at Lydia and then reached out a gloved hand to stroke the sleeve of Beatrice’s dress. “I found it in London. Doesn’t it flatter Beatrice’s skin so beautifully?”

“Completely!” Lydia gushed. “Such a perfect find, Mrs. Klane! You must give me the name of your dressmaker.”

Beatrice tried not to snort derisively as Lydia’s sycophantic remarks to Anna. At Beatrice’s first ball, Lydia had revealed her true colours as a terrible gossip and a manipulator by trying her hand at putting Beatrice down in front of Anna, and Anna had firmly put the fear of God into the young heiress. Now Lydia was sugary sweet towards them all. Beatrice couldn’t stand the falseness of it all, and how could she ever warm to a girl who had taken such delight in her discomfort at their first meeting?

Beatrice was distracted by her thoughts at that moment as a fair-headed young man with a large forehead approached Lydia.

“Lady Lydia, might I claim your hand for the first dance?”

“Oh, how flattering, Baron Clare, but I am unavailable for this set,” Lydia simpered, blushing with pride to be able to turn the young man down. She had her sights set higher, and everyone knew it. At the moment, Lydia’s gaze continually fluttered over to the Earl of Essex.

“But perhaps…my friend? Miss Klane?”

Beatrice saw the way the young baron’s eyebrows raised at her name. Once upon a time this would have been Lydia’s way of needling her, to highlight Beatrice’s comparatively low status beside her own, but since the Klane family had risen so high in society it was a different matter. Now, Beatrice knew that the young man would be considering her fortune, her brother’s desirable business connections, and her sister-in-law’s impressive social influence when he looked her up and down.

“I would be most happy to,” Baron Clare bowed before her. “If you are available, Miss Klane?”

“Sadly she is not,” Anna stepped in, smiling gently at the Baron. Beatrice knew from experience that Anna considered the first dance of the night an indicator of intent. She would never allow Beatrice to stand up with a callow young baron that she and Silas were not sure of. With Silas’s reputation and history, they were very careful about who they entertained as possible suitors for Anna. Also, Anna would not permit Beatrice to take a partner who Lydia had rejected, simply out of spite.

“But thank you, Baron Clare,” Anna turned to Lydia, “and thank you, Lady Lydia, for being so considerate, but we would not want to take away from your opportunities. Do not be held back from a turn with the Baron on our account.”

“Of course,” Lydia smiled, clearly trying not to look put out that Anna had turned a situation where Beatrice was forced to take her cast offs into a situation where Lydia was cornered into doing the same. “I should be delighted, Baron Clare.”

He smiled, clearly relieved not to be coming away empty handed, and took Lydia’s hand. Lydia accepted it, but managed to glare some daggers over her shoulder at Anna as they walked away. Anna simply smiled sweetly and waved. Beatrice knew that her sister might look all sweetness and innocence, but she never forgot those who had wronged her family.

Beatrice noticed the way the assembled ladies and gentlemen watched the pair move towards the dance floor with interest. Every ball was the same. Beatrice sometimes felt as if she was the entertainment at these events, as though her only reason for being there was so the married ladies could provide commentary on who might be setting their sights at her this evening.

“He is a nice boy,” Anna sighed, fluttering her fan in front of her mouth to hide her words. “But though he is handsome and sweet, Silas tells me he has a gambling problem.”

Beatrice nodded, trusting Anna’s word. If anyone knew the financial status of every man in the city, it was her brother.

“You have an alternate in mind?” Beatrice asked, knowing Anna never attended a ball without a plan of how to use the occasion to advance her sister’s position in society.

“Indeed,” Anna smiled. “A viscount, no less.”

Beatrice wished she could feel more excited, but the notion of dancing with another pampered gentleman of the Ton only filled her with dread. Anna had begun a conversation with Lydia’s mother about eligible gentlemen, and just the thought of it made Beatrice’s blood run cold. She feigned interest, nodding to imply she was listening, but actually let her mind wander.

To distract herself, Beatrice looked around the room. Unconsciously, her eyes immediately sought out her brother. He was talking quietly with a small group of gentlemen with an ease that she knew he would never have been able to achieve before he was married. Anna had changed him in all the best ways. Still, their courtship had not been without its difficulties. Even now, nearly two years after it had happened, Beatrice felt a tightness in her stomach when she recalled the dreadful trauma of Anna’s kidnap at the hands of one of Silas’ old business partners.

Even though both Anna and Silas had recovered and moved on, Beatrice had struggled. In crowds like this, she found herself repeatedly seeking out the faces of those she loved, checking they were still here and well. Anna, Silas, and Silas’s right-hand man, Giovanni. It was how she reassured herself nothing bad would happen.

Across the crowded sea of gentleman in fine coats and ladies in soft silks and floating organza, through the whirling couples dancing in the centre of the wide polished floor, Beatrice saw her brother standing off to the side, as he often was at social events, near the doorway. Silas caught her gaze and jerked his head for her to join him.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Beatrice said, dropping into a curtsey.  She ignored Anna’s raised eyebrows at being left alone with Lydia, and walked to join Silas on the edge of his group.

“Are you well?” Silas asked quietly, linking her arm with his.

“I am,” Beatrice felt herself relaxing in her brother’s close presence. The warmth of his body next to hers gave her energy and strength.

“Fending off the suitors?” Silas nodded at the young Baron Clare as he stood talking quietly with Lydia by the windows. “Must I challenge that young rogue to a duel?”

“No!” Beatrice laughed softly, enjoying her brother’s ever predictable over-protectiveness. When everything in her current world was designed to remind her that she was a lady, soon to be a wife, she enjoyed this aspect of their relationship that still allowed her to feel like a young girl. “He was perfectly nice, but Anna sent him on his way. She has plans to introduce me to the—”

“—Viscount Milton, I remember,” Silas interrupted, nodding. “He’d be a good match for you.”

“I have not met him yet,” Beatrice quietly reminded him. It was a matter of small tension between the two siblings. Silas had only seen a picture of Anna before accepting her as a bride, and they’d only met once prior to their wedding. Silas sometimes forgot how rarefied their match was—that a couple brought together under the strangest of circumstances had found the deepest love and appreciation for one another.

“You will tonight,” Silas said diffidently, as if it were nothing to be worried about.

“I shall not marry a man I barely know, Silas,” Beatrice reminded him softly, trying not to get irritated.

“No one suggests you should,” he said in a placating tone, but Beatrice knew he didn’t really understand. He thought the way forward was to find a man she could imagine being comfortable with, a man she could consider knowing intimately. He never considered that the man might already be in her life.

“Where is Gio?” Beatrice asked.

“Over there,” Silas smiled ruefully as he looked at his right-hand man and best friend, gesturing to the other corner of the room. Beatrice’s stomach contracted slightly as she looked at Giovanni Amante, the man that she had secretly lusted after since her adolescence.

“It seems that the ladies here tonight are quite taken with his Italian charms,” Silas shook his head, laughing quietly. “It’s like Anna always says: Giovanni is a charmer!”

“Indeed,” Beatrice swallowed hard, trying not sound sour as she watched Giovanni laugh with a group of ladies simpering around him. As Silas’s bodyguard and right-hand man, he often had to blend in well with high society even though both he and Silas had grown up on the streets of London and Venice, respectively.

Beatrice had been hidden from most of their exploits throughout her childhood as they moved around the continent, running from their past. Silas was nine years her senior, and by the time Giovanni came into their lives Silas was twenty years old and had already accumulated a fearsome reputation. Giovanni was a seventeen-year-old bare-knuckle boxer who Silas had met when they were staying Lyon. Beatrice was only eleven at the time, but she remembered Silas bringing Giovanni home. She had stared at him, this dark, swarthy boy with his broad shoulders, sweet, heart-shaped face, chestnut brown hair and leafy green eyes. Those eyes had been full of hurt and anger and ambition.

“Ciao,”  he had said, smiling at her with such softness and sweetness, before winking roguishly. “I’m Giovanni. What’s your name, bella?”

She had been speechless, her dark eyes round as saucers as she gaped like a fish up at this young Italian who made butterflies take root inside her for the first time. He had been the most beautiful boy she had ever seen and he had only become more handsome as he had grown into a man. At twenty-seven, his soft jaw line had grown chiselled and strong, his soft hair had darkened and his eyes had lost some of their openness, becoming more seductive for the secrets they held. He had also kept that same Italian magnetism; throughout her adolescence Beatrice had been left in a giggling mess by those beguiling winks and smiles that had only become more intense and smooth over time. Tonight, that side of Giovanni was out in full force.

Clearly, Beatrice wasn’t the only one who found him beautiful. She watched, irritated, as the ladies around him laughed giddily, testing out Italian phrases under his instruction. It was a favourite tactic of his to captivate the ladies, one he had grown up practising on Beatrice. She’d blushed and stammered whilst his sensual lips sounded out the Italian words for “good morning.” She knew this routine well. Her brother was right, Giovanni had always been charming, but it was only when he had truly become a man that his flirtatiousness had begun to irritate her. Just as Beatrice was now firmly a debutante—a flower of society—Giovanni had cemented himself in the role of ladies man. She couldn’t help it—his teasing ways made her envious of the women who caught the twinkle in his eye, the slow rise of his exotic smile. Beatrice drank a little wine and turned away, noticing that Anna had slipped away from Lydia’s mother.

“Goodness, that woman has plans for her daughter!” Anna huffed, flapping her crimson fan. It was a perfect match for her crimson dress with golden beading. Silas had bought it for her as a special gift for her first ball. Silas looked at his wife with a radiant smile, the kind of smile Beatrice had rarely seen in their childhood together.

“Did you not enjoy Lady Loudwater’s company?” Silas laughed, slipping his arm around his wife’s waist with an ease that made Beatrice’s heart ache. How she yearned for that same ease with her future partner.

Anna shook her head, golden curls shining. “What are we speaking of?”

“We’re enjoying Giovanni’s performance,” Silas smiled, nodding towards his friend.

“Oh?” Anna slipped away from her husband’s side to link arms with Beatrice. She was instantly comforted by her sister-in-law’s strong, kind presence by her side, even if looking at Giovanni flirt was uncomfortable for her. She could see him now, brazenly allowing a blonde lady with silky hair to lay her hand on his arm with an arresting smile that made Beatrice feel like she had been punched in the gut.

“Are you alright, dear?” Anna asked, squeezing her arm. “You look a little flushed.”

“I am well,” Beatrice worried that her thoughts of Giovanni were beginning to show in her own face. Self-consciously she fluttered her white feather fan that was trimmed with gold leaf.

“Here he comes,” Silas grinned into his cup. “He looks a little flushed too, I must say.”

Beatrice jerked her head up in time to see Giovanni walking towards them, striding easily across the ballroom as if he were a duke, and not some Italian orphan picked up on the streets. He smiled as he approached them, puffing out his cheeks slightly and shaking his head.

“There’s a lot of call for the Italian parlour tricks tonight!” Giovanni laughed, joining them easily. Beatrice felt the subtle shift in their little unit of four as they stood together—now she felt safe, complete. All the people she cared most for were with her and safe. That was all that mattered to her.

“It’s always a winner, pulling out the Italian,” Silas said sarcastically, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Especially with ladies.”

“Indeed,” Giovanni laughed, toasting Silas with his own glass.

“You must not be struggling for dance partners tonight,” Anna said, smiling playfully at Giovanni.

“Sadly, no,” Giovanni shook his head, that handsome smile breaking over his face. “But I have managed to save a dance for Beatrice.”

Beatrice flushed and felt a flare of desire at the idea of dancing with Giovanni. She tried to look as if it was a matter of complete indifference to her.

“Of course, at least until my designated partner appears. Is it alright, Anna?”

Beatrice didn’t want to seem too eager, nor did she want to step on Anna’s plans.

“Yes, of course. We shall join you.” Anna turned to her husband, smiling. “Shall we all dance together, my dear?”

“I would enjoy that.” Silas smiled fondly at his wife. “It has been a while.”

Beatrice half wished that it was not a quartet dance as they took their places in a square, smiling at one another. She wondered how it would feel to dance a more intimate partner dance with Giovanni. He grinned at her playfully as they bowed and curtsied to one another, and Beatrice felt a thrilling mix of annoyance and excitement.

“So who is your lucky partner for this evening, bella?”

Beatrice’s mind snagged a little on the familiar nickname from her childhood and felt herself blush. Giovanni could always be relied on to make her feel special, though tonight she resented it a little.

“Viscount Milton,” Beatrice said, trying to keep her voice light. “You’ll not be short for partners either, I imagine.”

“I imagine not,” Giovanni laughed, the carefree sound making Beatrice smile. “Though none of them will be as delightful of you, Beatrice.”

Beatrice felt Giovanni squeeze her hand softly before letting it go, turning around to face Anna as Beatrice faced Silas. Beatrice wondered if she had imagined it.

“Are you well?” Silas asked. “You look flushed again.”

“I’m fine,” Beatrice snapped, trying not to draw attention to how flustered and strange Giovanni’s words and touch made her. Luckily, she didn’t need to speak to him for the rest of the dance, only coming back to stand opposite him as the dance ended. Still, it was as if his touch was burned into her hand. She noticed the way Giovanni was already winking at a girl standing nearby. Did he ever stop flirting? Before Beatrice could open her mouth to tell him to stop gawping like a youth, Anna had grabbed her arm.

“The viscount!” Anna hissed, her eyes darting through the clapping dancers. Beatrice turned to watch him approach. So did Giovanni.

“Ah, the viscount,” Giovanni spoke softly. His smile was broad but there was hesitation behind his eyes. He was staring at the incoming viscount with considerable suspicion—she knew that Giovanni was always cautious when new people were admitted into their close circle. For a moment, she thought she saw a slightly possessive glance flit across his face and her stomach lurched, but then it was gone. Just like that brief squeeze of the hand she thought she’d imagined, it was over, and he was backing away, eyes already fixed on that blonde woman. Maybe he did not care whom she danced with, or whom she married, especially with so many elegant ladies to simper over him. The thought made Beatrice feel hollow inside.

“Viscount Milton, allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Beatrice Klane,” Anna was saying, pulling Beatrice’s eyes away from the dark back of Giovanni’s head.

“I am charmed to make your acquaintance,” Lord Milton bowed low before Beatrice, with all the elegance of a man with incredibly high breeding.

“As am I,” Beatrice replied, curtseying respectfully. She recalled a time when she had first come out into society and the idea of curtseying before a viscount would have filled her with dread and uncertainty. Now it was second nature. She had lost count of the many curtsies, introductions, and first dances she had undertaken since coming out. They all blurred into one. The faces of eligible men, young and old, blending together, none of them shining so brightly as Giovanni’s. Yet Lord Milton was especially handsome.

He was the physical opposite of Giovanni—tall and willowy, with a soft, gentlemanly face, pale Saxon skin and reddish-golden hair. His eyes were pale blue but they twinkled with generous humour, and his smile was soft and seductive. Beatrice could see why Anna had selected him as a potential suitor.

“Might I have this dance, Miss Klane?” The Viscount asked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice could see Giovanni laughing with some gentlemen. A rather stunning red-headed woman had joined the group and was looking at him in fascination. Beatrice swallowed her envy and smiled at Lord Milton.

“I should like that,” she said, slipping her hand into his elbow and stepping towards the dance floor.

Chapter 2

“Who is that gentleman?” Giovanni asked Silas quietly, carefully watching Beatrice and Anna from afar. Beatrice was glowing. Beatrice was blessed with creamy, pale skin, but dark hair and eyes that were set off deliciously against the frosty white and warm gold of her gown. Giovanni knew it was a gown designed to make her look both alluring and tempting—Anna had chosen it so that Beatrice would look as appealing as possible to potential suitors, and it was clearly working. Wherever Giovanni looked around the room, gentlemen’s eyes were darting over towards Silas Klane’s sister as she smiled and laughed with her equally beautiful sister-in-law and the gentleman standing with her.

“Viscount Milton,” Silas answered, sipping his wine and watching his wife coordinate an introduction.

“What sort of man is he?” Giovanni asked, assessing the viscount carefully. To Giovanni, he looked like every other well-bred society gentleman—if perhaps particularly good looking—but Giovanni could see the way Beatrice smiled at him generously. It lit a flame of jealousy inside him. He wished he could look away, but she was too delightful to deny himself.

“A good man, by all reports,” Silas said. “Anna has done some careful research into his family, and she knows his mother relatively well.”

“And Mrs. Klane thinks he would be a good match for Beatrice?” Giovanni asked, trying not to sound awkward. He had known Beatrice for ten years, had been like another brother to her, but he had never really spoken to Silas about her prospects. No matter how close he and Silas were, no matter that Giovanni loved Silas as his own blood, the intricacies and politics of Beatrice’s marriage was something Giovanni had never been included in.

“He is wealthy, he has a proud lineage and title, he is young with a good reputation, no debts or vices to speak of,” Silas listed, each point making Giovanni feel resentful towards this dashing young suitor. “He would make a good husband for my sister.”

“If she likes him,” Giovanni added quietly, instantly regretting it. Silas had always been focused on how important it was for Beatrice’s future for her to marry a man of wealth, but sometimes he could be dismissive of Beatrice’s desire to marry a man she liked.

“Yes, of course,” Silas nodded. “But he is very well-liked. There is no reason why she shouldn’t.”

Giovanni loved his friend, would die in his service and fight his battles for him, but he couldn’t help but sometimes feel frustrated by his obsession with social standing. Giovanni understood, of course, that Silas had struggled brutally to achieve his status as the dreaded Lucifer of London. Silas believed that by marrying into a noble household, his sister would be finally and totally protected from any of the scrutiny that was attached to him. But it made Silas single-minded—he sometimes couldn’t see how high the standard was that he set for Beatrice.

“Beatrice is naturally guarded, Lucifer,” Giovanni said, cautiously trying to broach the topic. “She struggles to…to reveal her heart even to those in her family.”

“I know that,” Silas’s words were very soft, so he would not be overheard. “Especially after what happened to Anna.”

“Indeed,” Giovanni answered quietly, the two of them remembering together the terror and pain of Anna’s kidnapping two years prior. Giovanni knew that Silas still lived with the fear that something like that could happen again, but to Beatrice, or—God forbid—to his young son. Giovanni also felt that fear, but rather than  want to push Beatrice towards an attachment to someone wealthy who might protect her, Giovanni’s instinct was to hold Beatrice close, to protect her himself. The idea of her leaving Silas’s home and estate made him nervous. He just wished that Silas would feel the same. He tried to speak his thoughts again.

“With that in mind, should she not… be attached to someone she knows? Someone she trusts implicitly?”

“Gio, I would never bring someone into the family I did not trust,” Silas said quickly, reaching out to grasp Giovanni’s shoulder briefly. “I would never let anyone get close to us who I didn’t think would keep our secrets safe.”

On the one hand, Giovanni was glad that Silas didn’t suspect that his concern had more to do with wanting to keep Beatrice near to him, rather than protecting their old secrets. On the other, he was concerned that Silas had considered this so carefully already. How far had Silas and Anna discussed this match? Was this young viscount already preparing a proposal?

“And you think Lord Milton might be that man?” Giovanni asked, his mouth dry. “You’ve decided that he is appropriate?”

“I think he could be,” Silas said cautiously. Giovanni took a sliver of hope from his words. So Silas was not entirely sure of this man. Nothing was set in stone.

“You are not sure?” Giovanni asked, hoping to confirm his thoughts.

“I will be,” Silas said confidently, dashing Giovanni’s small hopes. “In time. Beatrice needs time to grow to know him, to be comfortable with him. I should never want my sister to marry a man she was not comfortable with. That much is a requirement.”

But you do not require her to love him, Giovanni thought to himself. He could not say it aloud. Even though Giovanni and Silas had always been able to be honest with one another—Giovanni had never held back from serving Silas some honest truths when it was necessary—this was one thing that he would never be able to share with Silas. His feelings towards Beatrice needed to be buried deep down inside. Silas had saved his life; Giovanni owed him everything. He would never jeopardize the family he had made here in England with the Klane’s. Besides, having Beatrice in his life, even if she only thought of him as a second brother, was better than nothing.

“Here comes my wife,” Silas said softly, “it seems Beatrice must like him at least a little.”

Giovanni turned to watch Anna detaching from Beatrice and her suitor as the music for dancing started up. Giovanni’s hand clenched around his brandy glass as he looked at Beatrice’s hand holding onto Lord Milton’s arm. It seemed the entire room was watching the young eligible couple moving forward to take their place at the head of the dancers. Giovanni noticed the twitching fans of the older women, the envious eyes of the young lords and ladies.

“She’s accepted him for two dances,” Anna said breathlessly, quickly slipping her arm into Silas’s, flushing a sweet pink that matched the crimson of her gown. “Two dances! That must be a good sign!”

“Indeed it must,” Silas responded, patting his wife’s hand at his elbow. Giovanni’s heart clenched at this impossibly intimate and sweet gesture between two people who loved one another dearly. It was that kind of familiarity with a partner than he longed for; a lover with whom he could share the passion of his body and the minutiae of his life. Watching Silas find it with Anna had been both encouraging and revealing; now he knew true love was possible. Now he couldn’t settle for less.

“Must it not, Gio?” Silas asked, smiling at his friend.

“I think it must,” Giovanni said, though the words stuck in his throat.

“Oh, she is the belle of the ball!” Anna sighed, her eyes following her sister appreciatively. “I am so glad I persuaded her to wear that dress. It is perfect on her.”

“Indeed, you have done very well with her, my love,” Silas said. Anna had been in charge of steering Beatrice’s entrance into society since she and Silas had wed. It was a good thing, too, for Silas and Giovanni would not have had a clue between them. Anna, with her excellent background and connections, had certainly aided the Klane family’s advancement in the Ton.

“Oh, it is all Beatrice’s doing,” Anna said, flapping her fan but smiling happily. “Even though she dislikes society, she has persisted with it, and has been rewarded indeed—despite a bumpy start. Why, she has more suitors than I did when I first came out.”

“Oh, I can only imagine,” Silas teased, rolling his eyes at Giovanni. It was a long-standing joke that while Anna had been a jewel of society, she had married beneath her in accepting Silas. What might have caused resentment and bitterness had blossomed into deep love and the advancement of both their families for the better. “I’m sure your dance card was positively overflowing, my love.”

“Stop it, Silas!” Anna swatted her husband playfully with her fan, her eyes drawn back to Beatrice again. “Oh, she dances so elegantly. And look how eagerly they prepare for the second,” she whispered.

Anna was not wrong, Giovanni noticed. Beatrice was laughing gently with her partner as they applauded the musicians at the finish of the dance. She looked to be enjoying herself. The notion stung Giovanni, and he sipped his wine, trying to distract himself by smiling flirtatiously at a red-headed woman who had been quite forward with him earlier. Her blushes and fluttering eyelids were little consolation when Beatrice was in his line of sight, glowing like a summer flower.

“I can simply not get used to all these gentlemen watching my baby sister with such fascination,” Silas sighed heavily. “It’s always terribly odd, isn’t it Gio?”

Giovanni nodded without thinking. It was odd for Gio, but not in the way that Silas meant. When he saw Beatrice, it was hard for him not to see her as she was at home, as she had always been before she came out into society. When he closed his eyes he could still see her with her hair loose and flowing in the wind, a laughing smile on her face as she ran across the grounds at Fallenbrook, chasing after Silas’ dogs. For Giovanni, Beatrice had always been all playfulness and lightness, an oasis of uncomplicated, innocent joy that he had always been thoroughly charmed by. He had always had a soft spot in his heart for Silas’s young sister, had always enjoyed the sweet flirtation they had shared together, her wholesome blushes. It was only since she had come out into society that those feelings of tenderness had deepened into something else. Yet now, unlike Silas, it was impossible for him to look at her without seeing the elegant young woman that everyone else in the room saw.

Beatrice was the most beautiful lady in the room. The characteristic playfulness and acerbic disdain that Giovanni knew Beatrice carried for the façades of society were carefully tucked away behind a tidy veneer of ladylike softness and propriety. Her wild, flowing hair was tamed into a stylish arrangement—piled on her head, with curls falling elegantly across her brow and behind her ears to reveal the long tapering of her white, alabaster neck. She was glowing. One might be fooled, Giovanni thought, into thinking it was merely a trick of the gold thread sewn into the white satin of her gown, or the sparkling diamonds at her throat or in her earrings, but it wasn’t. She was stunning. She always had been, but now everyone could see it.

“Her dancing has greatly improved,” Anna commented in a whisper. The music was slower this time, more reflective, and a quieter hush had briefly fallen over the room as everyone watched, mesmerized by the elegant, circling couples.

Beatrice and the viscount were at the top of the line of dancers, directly in front of Giovanni. He tried his best not to look at Beatrice, not to admire the soft shine of pale skin and the beautiful outline of her body, not to catch her eye in any way, but he failed. Beatrice’s eyes were like the catch of a fishing hook, and as he attempted brush his gaze casually past her, his own eyes snagged on them. For a moment, he was sure there was a spark of recognition, that his Beatrice—the girl beneath the glitter and finery that he knew so well and cared for so deeply—was staring back at him and seeing his true self underneath. It was as if she knew that those hidden compliments, the secret squeeze of her hand in the dance, was all concealing the deep attraction he felt for her. She could feel it; he knew it in his bones.

Then it was gone. In the blink of an eye she had turned away, the dance had finished and the dancers were once again applauding the musicians. It was like he had imagined it.

She didn’t see me, Giovanni thought to himself, automatically clapping along with the others. He turned and took a long sip of wine, trying to calm himself down. It didn’t happen.

“Well,” Silas muttered beside him. “That’s a turn up for the books.”

“Oh my!” Anna gasped. “That’s a very good sign!”

Giovanni turned back, following their gazes back to the couple on the dance floor. His stomach lurched as he watched them leaving, arm in arm, walking towards the relative privacy of the terrace, undoubtedly for a more intimate conversation.

Not on my watch, Giovanni thought, setting his wine glass back down.

“I shall go to work, Lucifer,” he said quietly, using his position as the family bodyguard as a welcome cover for following the couple.

“Thank you, Gio,” Silas said, smiling trustingly. He had no idea that inside Giovanni’s heart was a flame of anger and envy that was beginning to burn with even more fury. “Give them plenty of room.”

“Of course,” Giovanni said. Then he turned and made his way towards the terrace with the intention of doing no such thing.

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

Chapter One

Charity loved feeling the wind in her air as her horse picked up more speed. This time of the morning, when the air was nicely cooler than the rest of the day, was perfect for going riding. Or, in her case, racing. She and her sister loved to do this every morning, providing the weather was good. Their parents thought they were mad, that someone was going to break their neck.

Charity didn’t care. It was a chance to get out and be free. The Cambridgeshire countryside was beautiful in the summer, and she spent as much time enjoying it as possible.

She reached the edge of the trees—where they had agreed to stop—and slowed her horse, Twilight, to a stop. Then she turned to look for Miriam. Her sister was not far behind, but she was looking flustered as she drew up beside Charity.

“What’s going on?” Miriam leaned over to look down at her horse’s front leg. “I think you must have knobbed my horse.”

Charity burst out laughing. “Why do you say that?”

“I always win. Every day, I win this race.” Miriam straightened up and frowned. “What have you done to Spring River?”

That was typical of Miriam. She was very competitive, always had to be first. Charity had the same streak, but she wasn’t as zealous as Miriam. As the younger sister, Miriam felt like she had something to prove. Charity had no idea what Miriam had to prove; she was the prettier and more popular of the two. She did better in social settings than Charity ever did—she could keep a conversation and she always knew what to say. Nevertheless, from the way Miriam told it, she couldn’t do anything right.

She was the perfect Society lady, and yet she thought she would never live up to standard. When she wasn’t trying to be better than Charity, that is.

“Maybe Spring River isn’t up to it today.” Charity stroked Twilight’s neck. “This is the fourth day in a row we’ve been out racing, and she’s probably worn out.”

“If that’s the case, why isn’t Twilight worn out?”

“Because she knows how to pace herself. She’s wiser.”

Miriam harrumphed and then straightened up. “Whatever it is, I hope she gets better shortly. I hate losing.”

“You hate losing at anything.” Charity nudged Twilight into a gentle walk. “Get Hodgins to check her over when we get back. I’m sure things are fine. I want to enjoy this morning, not have you sulking.”

“Apologies, Charity.” Miriam moved her horse to fall into step with her sister’s. “I guess I’m a little…on edge right now.”

“That’s an understatement. After all, you have a big occasion coming up.”

In less than two weeks, on the last day of March, Miriam was turning eighteen. She would be becoming a woman, and that means she would be ready for her first London Season next month. Miriam was excited, but also very nervous. As a perfectionist, it was no surprise. Charity could understand the nerves; if you said the wrong thing or wore the wrong dress , you ended up causing a scandal. It was unfair, but that was Society all over. Everyone had to follow the same unspoken rules. To Charity, that just made it boring. She didn’t want to be on edge all the time with their strict ideas of what was proper and what was not.

How was she supposed to show who she was when they wouldn’t allow her outside of the confines? If she had been able to do that, maybe she would be married by now. Her father, Viscount Chilston, was upset that she hadn’t received a proposal in her first Season. Now that she was into her second, there was more pressure.

Charity hated pressure.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be eighteen soon.” Miriam shook her head. “It feels so strange.”

“It always feels strange when you enter the next stage in your life.”

“And going to London as well. That part I am scared about.”

“Why? You’ve been to London before.” They reached a fork in the road, and Charity took the path towards the river. “You were there when I had my coming out last year.”

“But I went to London as a family in support of you, not as a debutant. I didn’t have the extra pressure of trying to find a husband. I know Father’s going to make sure I find someone this Season. That I should be married by this time next year.”

That was the problem. He would do that. Charity was sure of it. Lord Jonathan Norman, Viscount Chilston, wanted things to be just so. He followed Society to the letter. It was frustrating. At least their mother could talk him out of a few things when they were truly out of his control. Charity was glad about that, or their father would be completely unbearable if left to his own devices.

She loved her father, but hated his single-minded attitude.

“Father thinks far too much. And he’s impatient.”

“And quick to temper if you don’t do as he wants,” Miriam said gloomily. She glanced at her sister. “You know that more than I do.”

“Why?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

Charity groaned. She did not want to be reminded of the argument she and her father had gotten into back in May, when Charity had walked away from a suitor and a potential engagement. She had morals and she was going to stick to them. It didn’t matter what her father thought, or anyone in Society. Charity would not be treated with disrespect.

“I did what he wanted, and it made me look like a fool. I’m not going to do that again.”

“I understand.” Miriam sighed. “But going straight into the first social engagement looking for a husband is terrifying to me.”

Charity leaned over and squeezed her sister’s hand.

“You just need to take a step back, take a deep breath, and see the bigger picture. I’d say use this first Season to enjoy yourself, and then have a look around for a husband next time.”

“If I want one.” Miriam made a face. “After witnessing what happened to you, I’m not sure I do. It doesn’t fill me with joy as it used to.”

Charity winced. “It wasn’t my intention to upset your choices about marriage, Miriam.”

“You didn’t need to. It was Baron Hardwicke, not you, who made me question marriage.” Miriam shook her head. “I don’t want to think about what would happen to me if I ever had to marry a man like him.”

Charity couldn’t fault her for that. Baron Hardwicke was enough for any woman to question their faith in marriage. She had questioned it when she heard rumours about the man flirting with other women when he was meant to be courting her. Apparently, he had four other women he was stringing along. Charity had confronted him about it, and Hardwicke had simply said he was keeping his options open. That had hurt—a lot. Charity had been close to saying that she might have considered a proposal had she been given one. Instead, she had slapped him, called him a cad, and stormed out.

That had been three months ago, and thinking about him still made Charity angry.

“Is the baron still trying to contact you?” Miriam asked. “I keep seeing you put aside letters without opening them before putting them into the fire.”

Charity sighed, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She had forgotten to pin it back this morning, so now it was all over the place.

“I’m afraid so. But when do men ever listen?”

“Very rarely, from what I’ve witnessed with Father.”

“I mean, I’ve said no and asked him to leave me alone so many times. I feel like I’m going around in circles. Why he thinks I will continue to court him after what he said and what I found out is beyond me.”

Miriam frowned. “Maybe Father got hold of him and said that he needed to keep trying with you. That you would give in eventually.”

“Not a chance. I don’t want anything further to do with Baron Hardwicke.”

She would never accept him. If they did marry, she would never be able to stop questioning whether Hardwicke was still seeing all the other women. Would he be keeping his options open if this marriage didn’t work out? Charity would not be made a laughingstock just to keep her father happy. If she was entering matrimony, the least her husband could do was respect and love her without having to look elsewhere.

“Men think they can get away with a lot of things,” she grumbled, tightening her hands a little too much on the reins. She eased up when Twilight started getting fussy and tossing her head. “Including what they do with women. We’re put under great scrutiny, but men? It’s surprising how much freedom they’re given. They…they’re just pains.”

“Except for Father.”

“There are days when I wonder.” Charity tossed her hair over her shoulder. Maybe a few pins wouldn’t have been amiss when riding, now her hair was getting longer. “But he’s a better man than Baron Hardwicke.”

“Agreed.” Miriam tugged at her hair. She had kept it in a simple plait when they went out riding, pretty much what she had when she went to bed. Her sister thought ahead. “I wish there wasn’t so much pressure. We’re still young. I want to enjoy being eighteen for a while.”

“And you will do.” Charity gave her a smile. “As long as you don’t do what I did, you’ll be fine.”

“You got through your first Season all right.”

Charity wasn’t sure about that. It had been hard work trying to live up to expectations and be what Society wanted her to be, but it had felt hollow for her. What was the point of going out there to find a husband and get accepted into Society when you weren’t allowed to be yourself? Her future husband certainly wouldn’t appreciate seeing a picture-perfect lady and then finding out after marriage that his wife was nothing like that. Charity was not a picture-perfect person, and she didn’t want to be. She would take marriage if it came along, but she wasn’t about to be something she wasn’t.

Unfortunately, if she didn’t get a husband within a couple of years, she would end up unmarried. And that meant staying with her parents and living with her father’s disapproval. Charity loved them, but she didn’t want to be a burden.

She was stuck. She wanted freedom, but she wanted a family. And, for the most part, women couldn’t have both.

They were passing by the river now. The Great River Ouse had always fascinated Charity. It was the fifth longest river in the country, stretching from Northamptonshire up to the Wash and the North Sea. Chilston had made sure his daughters knew everything about their land, including the river. It was a beautiful area, and Charity and Miriam had spent many hot summers swimming in the river when they were younger. There were many nooks and secluded spots where you could simply hide away and enjoy the day without worrying about being bothered.

Normally, the current was slow and gentle, but the last week it had been something else. It had been raining for the last couple of nights, so the river had risen and the current was stronger. Charity had seen it on the way home from a dinner with family friends, and it was almost about to overflow onto the street. Now, the river was lower and it was back to its usual, calm flow through the countryside.

The path they took brought them right by the river and a small cove that had been made over time. The river had eroded this part of the earth, leaving it as a bunch of rocks sticking out of the wet sand, water trickling around haphazardly before going back on course. On good days, it was nice for a paddle on the flatter parts, but that was pretty much it.

Charity barely gave it a glance as they started to pass the cove, only to stop and turn back to stare. There was a body—a man—half in the cove. His legs were still in the gentle flow of the river. He was on his front, his head turned to the side. Charity’s heart stopped. Oh, God. Had they found a dead body?

“Charity?” Miriam had stopped just ahead and turned back. “What is it?”

“There’s a body, Miriam.”

“What?” Miriam twisted around in her saddle, and then she gasped. “Oh Lord.”

He didn’t appear to be moving. Charity knew they should run and get help. He could be dead, and she couldn’t cope with dead bodies. But what if he was still alive? He could end up getting carried down the river and further along. She started to dismount.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to get him out of there.”

Charity began to take off her shoes and stockings. Miriam was looking at her like she had gone insane.

“What the…? What if he attacks us?”

“I think him attacking us would be the least of our problems.” Charity put her things aside and shuffled on her seat to the edge of the cove, sliding carefully onto the wet sand. “He might be alive. We need to help him.”

“We do?” Miriam squeaked. “Why us?”

“Because I can’t drag him up on my own.”

Miriam huffed. “I’m not going in there. If he’s alive and won’t hurt us, I’ll come and help, but I’m staying here.”

Charity rolled her eyes. She flinched at the cold water—it was a cooler morning, but she was not prepared for this—and held her skirt up as she made her way slowly towards the body. From an initial glance, it was a man, wearing a shirt and breeches. The shirt was ripped, showing scrapes on his back, and the one hand she could see was also scraped badly. It looked like he had been dragged along the river for some time and must’ve been snagged when he got to the cove.

Hoping that he didn’t jump up at her, Charity crouched down and touched his back. He was cold. No surprise, seeing as he had been in the water. She wouldn’t be able to see if he was alive unless he was on his back.

Oh, great.

Grabbing his arms, Charity heaved and managed to roll him onto his back. And found herself staring at a muscular torso. Everything seemed to be carved like the Greek statues she’d seen at the museums. His shirt was a mess, several buttons missing, and there were bruises all over his chest and stomach. His face was a mess—one eye was swollen and his lip was split. There were bruises on his neck as well.

The man had been beaten. If he was still alive after that it would be nothing short of a miracle.

Aware that she was shaking, Charity pressed a hand to his chest. And breathed a sigh of relief when she felt the beating of his heart.

“He’s alive!” she called. “Help me get him out before he washes away.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Come on, Miriam!”

Chapter Two

Charity could hear her sister mumbling and grumbling as she got her shoes and stockings off and got into the cove. Miriam joined her and they each took an arm. Miriam flinched when she saw his face.

“Ouch. Are all of those bruises from the river?”

“I don’t think so.” They began to haul the man out of the river until his feet were barely in the deeper water. “From the look of it, he’s been beaten. I don’t think he went into the river willingly.”

Miriam stopped pulling and stared at her sister with wide eyes.

“Someone tried to kill him?”

“Or he fell in. Let’s not think about that.” Charity wobbled after another tug and regained her balance. She lowered the arm she had been pulling. “You can let go of him now, Miriam.”

“What? Oh.”

Miriam dropped the man’s arm like it was burning her. Charity flinched as the limp arm bounced on the rocks. More bruises to deal with. Miriam was shaking, looking like she was about to faint. Charity touched her arm.

“Miriam? We’re not far from Mr Trelawney’s. Go to his house and ask if we can borrow his carriage. Then we need a few people here to help get him in.”

“I…are you sure about this, Charity?”

“I’m sure. He’s hurt and unconscious. He could die if he stays out here any longer.”

Charity was not about to leave him out here. They had no idea who he was or if he was a bad person, but he was helpless and anything could happen. Her heart won out in wanting to help. If anything happened, she would take responsibility. She wasn’t about to be heartless and walk away from him now.

“All right.” Miriam hurried to the bank, tripping over in her haste. She clambered onto the bank and grabbed her shoes and stockings, swinging up into the saddle. “I’ll be as quick as I can. Be careful.”

Charity watched her sister ride away. Mr Percy Trelawney lived nearby, a friend of their father’s. He was very accommodating to them with everything, so it wouldn’t be too much for him to help them out. Charity was certainly not able to get this man out of the cove and onto her horse on her own.

She shifted around and cast her eyes over the unconscious man. Under the bruises, he was handsome. Very handsome, she noticed. Lean but muscular, he looked like he took care of himself. His black hair was plastered to his head in curls. Every part of his face was perfectly sculpted.

He must have broken a lot of hearts. Charity wouldn’t be surprised.

But who was he? She didn’t recognize him, and she knew everyone in the village. He had to have come from another town or village along the river. Huntingdon, maybe? Or Godmanchester? Charity barely went there, and when she did it was only for short visits. Or maybe he was a visitor who ended up in some sort of trouble. Either way was possible, and considering the problems Huntingdon brought, the latter was more likely.

She could search his pockets. That might give her some clue as to his identity. But anything that might have been on his person would either be soaking wet or lost. Maybe someone didn’t want anyone to know who he was. But it was worth a try.

Charity started to search, but his breeches didn’t have pockets. There was one in his shirt, and it was bulging with fabric. Charity drew it out and realized it was a handkerchief, folded perfectly. There was an ‘F’ stitched into the visible corner. Charity opened it out, and something dropped with a thunk onto the man’s chest. It was a watch, a very fancy gold one. She picked it out and opened it.

Somehow, it was still working. Charity remembered dropping her grandfather’s watch when she was three and it had shattered completely. It seemed some miracle had prevented the stranger’s watch from breaking after being soaked in water and bumping around in the river.

There was a name inscribed into the lid. It was just about visible. Charity squinted.

“Felton. Is that a Christian name or a last name?”

What on earth had happened to him? This Felton man had been through something horrible, yet someone he was still alive. Did he see something he shouldn’t? Or did he do something he shouldn’t?

Either way, Charity knew there were going to be a lot of questions.

*****

“Felton? Felton, can you hear me?”

Who was that? Why did it sound like she was far away? Then he remembered. He had been in the water. It had been freezing. But why had he been in the water? As far as he was aware, he had been on his way home.

Hadn’t he?

Now he was becoming aware of how cold his body was. He was shivering. His clothes stuck to him like a second skin. It felt disgusting. Rocks were poking him in the back, one scraping against his shoulder blade.

And then there was that voice. That beautiful voice, now getting closer. She kept saying a name. Felton. Is that my name? Is that why she keeps calling me that? Does she know me?

He managed to open his eyes. It was difficult when his head was screaming at him, but he managed. And then saw her. She was leaning over him, her brown hair loose about her shoulders. She kept brushing it away from her face and tucking strands behind her ear as she frowned down at him. Then he saw her eyes. They were the most striking blue he had ever seen.

She was beautiful. He had an angel leaning over him, surely. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was firm. No, this was real. He was alive.

Somehow. But he was alive.

He tried to get up, only for her to press more on his shoulder.

“Don’t try and get up. You could have hit your head.” That voice was so soothing, so gentle. “Just lie still.”

Lie still. He felt like he would completely seize up if he stayed still any longer. He licked his lips.

“I…I need to get up.”

Ouch. Even after being in the river, his mouth was dry. His angel shook her head.

“We don’t know if you’ve broken something. You were unconscious in the river, so you could be badly hurt.”

“Broken something?”

He wiggled his toes and lifted his hands. He stared at them as he flexed his fingers. He ached all over, but there was nothing standing out to him as badly hurt.

“I think I’m all right.” He started to get up again, the angel trying to get him to lie down. “I want to sit up. Please.”

She frowned, but she nodded and shifted back. Only to wobble and topple backward. He grabbed her wrist and stopped her fall. She gasped and stared at him with wide eyes. Then he realized what he had done and let go abruptly.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine.” She gave him a slight smile as she adjusted her footing. “My dress is already wet. I don’t think falling over would make any difference.”

She kept her distance as he sat up. His head screamed at him, and it felt like it was splitting open. Every part of his body hurt. How long had he been in the river? It must have slammed him around a lot for him to be in this much pain. His face felt like he had run face first into a rock. Getting slowly into a sitting position, he took a moment to wait for the world to stop tilting and then looked around. The river was brushing against his boots, and he noticed that he and his angel were in a small cove area. It was more rocks and water than sand, but it was like a ledge from the main river.

Which river? He couldn’t even remember. He had no idea where he was. This certainly wasn’t London, he knew that much. London was not this green, nor did the air smell so clean.

“Where…where are we?”

“Hemingford Grey.”

Hemingford Grey. That did not ring a bell.

“Is…is that in Berkshire? Where is it in relation to London?”

“No, it’s Cambridgeshire. We’re about two hours north of London.” She frowned at him. “What happened, Felton?”

Felton. That name again. He stared at her.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

She held something up that flashed in the sunlight. A watch. Something flickered in the back of his head. It looked familiar. Is it a family heirloom? Then it was gone, and his mind was a blank.

“I found this on you. The name ‘Felton’ is inscribed inside, and your handkerchief is monogrammed with an ‘F.’ So, I’m guessing that’s your name.”

Felton. No, no recognition. He tried again, but it still didn’t feel right. But it had to be his name, didn’t it? He wouldn’t be carrying someone else’s watch around with him, would he?

I don’t know anymore.

“I can’t remember anything. I…” He pressed his hands to his head. “I remember pain, and cold, but that’s it.”

“You don’t know who you are?”

She didn’t look convinced. But that’s what he meant. He really couldn’t remember anything. He plucked the watch from her fingers and stared at it, opening it up to look at the inscription. Felton. That had to be his name. Why didn’t it sound right?

Well, this angel could call him whatever she wanted. She had saved him from the river. It was a miracle that he hadn’t drowned. How long had he been in there? He had no idea.

“Maybe you should lie down again.” She shifted closer to him. “Your head could be making sitting up worse. You’re swaying as you sit there.”

“No, I’m not going to lie down.” He turned carefully and inspected dry land. It wasn’t far. “I’m going to get up on the bank. It’s freezing down here.”

She frowned.

“You’re in no position to walk.”

“I’m walking.” He glared at her. “I’m already helpless. Don’t make me feel any worse.”

She looked a little hurt. “That was not my intention, sir.”

He winced. Now he had upset his rescuer. Taking it very slowly, he moved onto his hands and knees and began to get to his feet. The change in elevation made everything tilt again, and he thought he was going to throw up. But it didn’t happen, and everything righted again a moment later. He took it slowly, stepping through the rocks towards the bank. He would be glad to get on softer ground.

His angel hovered close by, not touching him, but seeming reluctant to move away from him. He was grateful about that; while he didn’t think he was going to topple, it was nice to know someone was looking out for him.

Someone clearly hadn’t been looking out for him, if he had ended up in the river. He was still marvelling at the miracle of not drowning.

They got to the bank, and he managed to crawl his way up, slumping onto the grass. That felt better. The grass was softer than the rocks. His back was still complaining like he had been dragged over the rocks. Maybe he had. Maybe that was how he was out of the water.

His angel was still hovering nearby, looking up and down the trail they were on. They were in the woods, the only noise other than the river the birds waking up and going about their day. It had to be early morning or early evening. He didn’t even know what day it was.

His head was hurting from trying to remember.

“What are we going to do now?”

“My sister went to get help.” She didn’t look at him as she looked up and down the path. “Then you’ll come with me to my family home. We’ll get a physician to look at you.”

A physician. That sounded like a good idea. As did lying on a soft bed. He felt like he could sleep for a week—actual sleep, instead of unconsciousness.

How he hadn’t drowned was beyond him.

God, I’m freezing. He couldn’t stop shivering. His angel glanced at him, and her expression softened. Then she went to her horse, which stood placidly at the side of the path. She walked with a confidence that was rather refreshing to see. And that pale blue dress she wore certainly looked good on her. It went well with her complexion. She looked like she had pretty much rolled out of bed and gone riding. A woman who didn’t care much for propriety.

For some reason, he liked that. A woman with confidence was attractive. Wait, where did that come from? Don’t you have more important things to worry about?

She came back with a blanket, draping it around his shoulders.

“Here. It should help keep you warm.”

“Thank you.”

It was soft. And warm. He wrapped it around himself and shuddered with a sigh. That was much better. He couldn’t wait to get out of these wet clothes and into a hot bath. If he could move. Chances were he was going to end up aching all over for days. His head was certainly aching now.

“Do you have any idea why you were in the water?” she asked.

“None at all.” He glanced down at himself. “Although I’m guessing it wasn’t for a swim.”

Did someone throw me in? It did feel like he had been beaten. What on earth had happened? Whatever it was, it had been enough to smash his head hard enough to forget. He pressed a hand to the back of his head, where it hurt the most. It felt like something had broken the skin.

“Is Felton my first name or my last name?” he asked.

His angel sighed. “I have no idea. It could be either.”

That didn’t help. He looked at his other hand, almost as if the answer would turn up there. There was an indentation on his hand. A thick one around his wedding finger. Had he been married? The indentation was too big. A family ring, perhaps? That would have given him an idea of who he was. He looked at his clothes, which were soaking wet but made from good cloth. He had to be a member of the nobility, although what rank, he had no idea.

Maybe someone would miss him. If he was part of the peerage, then someone was going to ask questions when he didn’t turn up again. Wouldn’t they?

He could only hope. Because if nobody raised the alarm, he was on his own. With his angel, of course. At least he had her.

That calmed him more than he expected.

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

Prologue

London 1816

Lady Gloria waited until her maid was out of the room and safely down the hall before she pulled open the drawer in her dressing table and took out her diary.

The existence of this diary was her secret. Even Gloria’s sister, Ariella, now Lady Croydon after her marriage to the dashing Earl of Croydon, did not know about it. If Ariella had known, she would have demanded to read it, and then teased her younger sister mercilessly over its contents.

The diary was not a journal of wishes and unrestrained feelings. What would be the purpose of such a dreadful thing? It was a highly practical strategic plan for the achievement of the singular aim of Gloria’s young life, which was, it almost need not be said, to take her place in society as a respectable lady of the Ton by marrying a duke. An earl was also acceptable, but less desirable.

At nineteen-years-old, Gloria Green was a diamond of the first water. This assessment did not spring from vulgar arrogance. Her large and expressive eyes were sparkling and sea-colored, her golden hair was bright and silken, and her figure was enviable.

She was not conceited, but merely practical. The daughter of an earl must be an ideal beauty, as well as modest, graceful, and possess an unimpeachable sense of duty. For what other reason would she have been born? And born a beauty? She was not a pretty adventuress, like her sister. A married sister who now thought to advise her on matters of courtship and marriage. A sister who begged her to wait for true love.

Gloria allowed herself an indelicate snort. True love. As if it was a real thing, like a title or lands. What was true love anyway? Could it be touched? Or captured? Or held in one’s hand?

No. True love was an illusion that would fade away as surely as melting snow in spring. Leaving behind nothing but regret for not wisely planning for the achievement of the singular aim of one’s life.

At that thought, she listened a moment for Macy’s light-footed return. Satisfied that her lady’s maid was not close by, Gloria opened her diary to the most recent, and after tonight, final entry. She smiled to herself at the sight of all the lovely, inky numbers. At last, she had a perfect score in every category of the Nine Virtues of a Lady. Gloria had entitled the diary herself, reasoning that a strong plan with a good title would be taken more seriously by her younger self, than something such as Marriage Wishes of a Goosecap Girl: Or True Love is Real!

Long before her debut this Season, Gloria had applied herself diligently to the cultivation of the nine virtues, scoring herself in: beauty, figure, elegance, wit, sense, grace, expression, sensibility, and principles.

She judged herself critically but impartially and worked hard on the areas where she required improvement. The hardest to achieve were sensibility and wit. It was difficult to imagine different ways to appear clever when the task before her was so serious. As for sensibility, with its ungovernable feelings, it did not come naturally to her. She was not without emotion, certainly not, she was human after all, but if she loved or loathed something, she kept those feelings to herself.

Nine Virtues of a Lady was not the only secret in this diary. Turned over and turned upside down it became a different book entirely. After all, a virtuous, accomplished lady made up only half of a good match. Without assessing the gentleman, Gloria’s plan to achieve her life’s aim was incomplete, and a half-baked plan was no plan at all.

Nine Qualities of a Gentleman naturally contained different categories to Nine Virtues of a Lady. If a gentleman possessed all nine qualities, he would then be critically and impartially judged and scored (as Gloria herself had been) to determine if he would make a suitable husband. The qualities were: title, wealth, breeding, honor, reputation, elegance in dress and manners, choice of acquaintance, impeccable behavior in any situation, and appearance. The gentleman need only be healthy and pleasing-looking. Handsomeness was not a requirement and often, it seemed to Gloria, proved to be troublesome.

Since the Season began Gloria had scored and rejected numerous suitors. Only one possessed all nine qualities and scored a perfect ten in every category. That gentleman was the heir of the Duke of Crampton. As the wife of Lord Crampton, Gloria would take her place in society as a respectable lady of the Ton, and in doing so achieve the singular aim of her life.

A few minor details would have to be taken care of first. For starters, Lord Crampton would have to propose.

With that in mind, Gloria soberly twirled round in the room to judge how the movement of her fashionable bell-shaped skirt would appear on the dance floor. If only Mama had agreed to the considerable expense of acquiring a looking glass large enough to reflect her image from head to toe. She sighed.

Her gown for the night’s all-important ball was a delicate white gauze worn over a pale blue satin slip. In the modiste’s shop, Gloria’s lady’s maid Macy had advocated for blue rather than the popular maiden’s blush pink to call his lordship to her mistress’ ethereal beauty.

Gloria twirled once more to cast a final critical eye at the trimmings on the gown as they followed her graceful imitation of a dance. The crape and satin rolio at the very bottom were surmounted by a wreath of white roses and topped at last with ivory satin draperies. Her hair, again at Macy’s suggestion, was parted on her forehead and arranged low on the sides, with the back brought up high into a swirl of delicate plaits held in place by a head-dress of French rose sprigs.

Gloria allowed herself a flush of pride at her exemplary lady’s maid. If Lord Crampton did not propose at the ball that night, she would give this gown, after she had grown tired of it, of course, to Macy as a token of her appreciation.

She looked away from the dress and returned her diary to its hiding place.

Lord Crampton had been courting Gloria for a month and tonight he would propose. She was certain of it. Her plan would work. Love had nothing to do with it.

Chapter 1

Lord Nigel Dunley, Viscount Burham, entered the ballroom like he bloody damn well owned it.

The thrill of the hunt shot through his veins like an electric current. Nothing in life came close to the anticipatory pleasures of hunting for a new mistress. Brand new desires to discover and explore. Fresh expressions of ecstasy. New levels of experience. New breasts. New legs. New mouth. New laugh. New scent.

Along the wall, near the corridor that led to the garden, stood a golden-haired goddess and her older female companion.

Oh, yes. That one.

The fierce determination in the chit’s expression was palpable even at this distance. A woman who knew what she wanted, made the best bed partner.  He could already imagine her beneath him. Or riding him. Yes, this one would want to control her own pleasure. He almost laughed at his own good fortune.

He would have to catch her eye to disengage her from her watchful guardian. Once he had her attention, he would cross the room and claim her. Almost imperceptibly, the young lady searched amongst the dancers for something. Or someone, more likely. No matter. He would be that someone tonight. For several nights after, too.

Finally, her crystalline gaze met his. An electric jolt of a different sort stunned him.

He knew the lady in question, and not in the way he would have liked. She was Croydon’s wife’s younger sister, Lady Gloria Green. He had sought her out at his cousin’s wedding ball a year ago, after spotting her beauty from afar, but she had dismissed him as if he were nothing but a chawbacon.

That was something of an overstatement of what had occurred. She had treated him with nothing more than icy disinterest. Still, his bruised ego had taken time to recover.

Lady Gloria’s eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed pink. She must have recognized him as well. He grinned, holding her ice-fire gaze, and crossed the ballroom floor.

Let the game begin.

***

The ball, as was to be expected, was a crush. They had only just arrived and squeezed through the other guests, so Gloria was not too disappointed she had not yet spotted Lord Crampton. It would not do to appear too eager. She must always appear modest. She should dance at least twice with other gentlemen before accepting his lordship’s invitation.

“You are looking very well tonight, Gloria,” her mother Countess Watford said from her side.

“Thank you, Mama,” Gloria responded prettily.

“Your maid has outdone herself with your hair,” her mother said.

“She has, hasn’t she?” Gloria smiled, pleased with the praise.

“Lord Crampton will be enchanted,” her mother whispered.

I hope he will be.

She searched the ballroom for his elegant figure.

“Ah,” her mother said, “there is Croydon’s handsome cousin, Lord Burham. I wonder if Ariella and Croydon knew he would be here.”

Gloria could not answer. Burham’s eyes met hers and she felt something. Some strange heat. A sort of tightening in her chest. Or a longing. For what, she was not sure. He grinned that absurdly confident, charming grin of his and crossed the room. Her mother did not notice.

“Excuse me for a minute, my dear. I must go speak to the Countess Somerfield,” she said, already leaving Gloria’s side. “You will be all right on your own for a minute?”

“Of course.” Her mother went in search of the Countess.

Burham never took his eyes from Gloria as he moved through the room. Gloria felt like he was a stalking tiger. The strange heat and longing spread through her as though wildfire. She found herself unable to move or look away, despite her rational mind telling her that she should. The opening lines of William Blake’s poem rang in her head.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Fearful symmetry indeed. Luckily, before any foolish notions could truly take hold of her, a widow rumored to be having an affair with Burham appeared out of nowhere and took his arm.

Lord Burham winked at Gloria. Winked at her! Then led his mistress in the direction of the refreshment table.

Gloria exhaled sharply through her nose. This was precisely the trouble with excessive handsomeness in men and was precisely why she had no liking for marrying such a man. That thick dark hair and those star-bright blue eyes made it impossible to think clearly. Despite her years of planning for this moment, for this night, Gloria had nearly forgotten herself because of a burning blue-eyed tiger. Or was it she who was burning?

She exhaled again and glanced about for her mother or her sister, wafting her cheeks surreptitiously to try to calm that sudden heat. Lord Crampton was still nowhere to be seen. For that she was grateful. Lord Burham had vexed her grievously and she wanted to be in a good mood for Lord Crampton.

To calm herself Gloria silently ranked Lord Burham according to her Nine Qualities of a Gentleman.

Title: Viscount only. Not acceptable. Score: 3

Wealth: Unknown, but she had not heard anything shockingly bad. Score: 5

Breeding: She could not think anything ill of her sister’s husband’s family. Score: 5

Honor: He winked at her! With another woman on his arm! Score: 2

Reputation: He was rumored to have more lovers than Gloria had gloves. Score: 1

Elegance in dress and manners: She must be impartial. He dressed beautifully. Score: 9

Choice of acquaintance: His mistress accompanied him to a ball. Score: 3

Impeccable behavior in any situation: Possessed a mistress and winked at another lady! Score: 1

Appearance: Healthy and pleasing to be sure, but troublingly handsome. Score: 7

Total score: 36. Out of 90. A startlingly poor show indeed. Lord Nigel Dunley, Viscount Burham, would not make a suitable husband.

There, she thought, feeling calm and focused once more. She had nothing to fear from the blue-eyed tiger. She was no fool, and she would not allow herself to be devoured.

“There must be something dangerously wrong with the world when a woman as beautiful as you stand alone at a ball.”

There was no need to turn around to identify the owner of that husky, low voice scorching a path of sparks along Gloria’s bare shoulders. She waited, staring straight ahead as if completely unaffected by his midnight voice.

Undeterred by her refusal to turn round, not that it surprised her, Lord Burham walked around to face her.

He is even more handsome up close.

Somehow, she had forgotten that fact since she had spoken with him at Ariella’s wedding.

“Will you dance, Lady Gloria?” he asked.

The rogue! He knows I must accept.

He grinned mischievously, proving he knew and extended his hand toward her. That wretched heat fluttered through her again. She breathed calmly, ensuring there was no evidence of that heat in her face.

“Of course, Lord Burham,” she said in a disinterested voice. “I should be delighted.”

***

Deuced if she has not grown more beautiful since I saw her last.

The music began. Lady Gloria smiled politely, then bowed, and performed the first steps. Already she was adopting that icy manner she had held in their last meaning, her reserved countenance. It frustrated Nigel. Most women blushed in his presence at his attentions, or lowered their eyes demurely, but not Lady Gloria. She appeared unaffected by him.

“Shall I compliment the skill of your dancing?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?” she replied, her eyes flashing. He grinned at her as they clasped hands and spun around.

“If I remember correctly from your sister’s wedding,” he said, “your devotion to the rules of propriety is quite severe.” He released her hands and circled her. “I only wish to be certain to steer the conversation through the channels you deem appropriate.” She circled him, keeping her eyes away from his face.

“I was not aware we were engaged in conversation, my lord,” she said, her voice cool. He took her hands in his.

“Oh?” he said, with a note of surprise as they spun around again.

“Not strictly a conversation, no,” she said. “For you were the one doing all the talking.”

He grinned at her. There was some fire beneath all that icy reserve, it just took a little careful conversation to bring it out from her.

“You dance most gracefully, my lady,” he smiled at her, seeing she flicked her eyes to his face now, but still held that reserved expression.

“And now, you repeat yourself.”

“Not precisely,” he smirked, tilting his head to the side. “The first time I was requesting your permission to pay you a compliment.”

“Hmm,” she answered. “And yet, you still did not wait for it.”

Minx!

He took her right hand, raising it with his above their heads. Her left hand rested at his waist felt more erotic somehow than any other woman’s hand had before. He felt it in different, much more urgent places. Yet, she appeared to be unaffected by him, her expression indifferent.

Perhaps I am losing my touch?

That could not be. He had had dozens of women – if not more – comely, glorious, willing women since he had last seen Lady Gloria. She turned away from him and wove in and out of the other dancers. She did not look at him at all. He mirrored her movements, never taking his eyes from her.

No woman had ever remained so unmoved by his charm before her. He had seen resistance in the past, but within minutes after a few charming words, they would smile at him, signaling their relent. It was not arrogance to say so, it was a fact. In truth, he had not thought of Lady Gloria at all since they had last met.

That is not quite the case. I am telling myself a small lie.

For a few weeks after his cousin’s wedding to Lady Gloria’s sister, he was consumed with the idea of her. Then he had forgotten about her.

An unpleasant notion whispered in the back of his head. Were those weeks of longing due to his unsatisfied infatuation with her considerable beauty and physical charms? Acceptable. Ordinary. To be expected after no accomplishment of his desires and nothing for him to worry over. Or was he mooning about her for weeks because she had rejected him, and he felt that loss keenly? Felt the loss of her. Specifically, her.

That would be utterly unacceptable.

He had sworn long ago to never marry or to allow his heart to become tangled up in affection or something worse, such as love. He would keep that vow. His life depended on it.

They spun around again. This time, despite his gloves, he felt her tremble when he placed his hand at her waist just above the curve of her hip. She closed her eyes. A splash of pink on her cheeks spread down her throat to her breasts that swelled enticingly in her gown as she drew in a long slow breath.

So, she is not unmoved after all. Neither is she cold.

She was just deeply reserved and probably quite proud, but she was not unmoved.

She opened her eyes. Nigel unleashed his most devastating grin. When she barely stopped a sigh from escaping her lush mouth, he felt a rush of pleasure.

Perhaps there is something here yet, Lady Gloria.

***

Lord Burham is nothing but a rogue and a scoundrel.

Gloria could not stop her mind from whirring, thinking about his appalling behavior. He brought his dowdy, older mistress to a ball, yet winked at her. He received a thirty-six out of ninety on his qualities of a gentleman score. He had been with many, maybe hundreds of lovers. He was also only a viscount, yet she was dancing with him.

She would be the wife of the heir to a dukedom before the Season was over. Someday she would be a duchess. She had her heart set on such a prospect. If Burham smiled at her like that again, she would have to ignore it.

“Perhaps the safest topic of conversation would be the weather,” he said, his gorgeous voice rich with mock seriousness. “It has been uncommonly typical for this time of year; would you agree?”

She knew he was trying to provoke some sort of reaction from her, but he would not succeed.

“Yes,” she replied, arching her eyebrows to him in defiance.

He laughed and then his hot strong hand made a place for itself just above her hip in the dance. Gloria closed her eyes for a second and let that beautiful, strange heat wash over her once more. When the dance ended, she would find Lord Crampton. She would stop thinking of Lord Burham’s hand on her hip.

They moved through the remaining figures and steps without speaking. Gloria congratulated herself on maintaining her cool demeanor in the presence of the blue-eyed tiger, partly because she kept her eyes away from his face as much as possible.

On the last long, sweet note of the music, she bowed then gazed directly at him.

“I thank you, Lord Burham,” she spoke with reserve, grateful for the coolness of her voice despite the heat and how quickly her heart was beating.

He grinned again.

The scoundrel. No matter. I will not be devoured by you.

“Shall I escort you to the refreshment table?” he asked, offering his arm to her.

“Thank you, no,” she shook her head. “I must find my mother.”

He nodded and bowed. For a moment, Gloria thought he might kiss her hand. Not that she wished for that. Certainly not! She was merely looking forward to refusing him. Her heart fluttered too wildly. She felt her cheeks grow warm and bit her lower lip in consternation. That regrettable little habit of lip-biting – she had thought she had mastered it, in her effort for perfect manners.

“Are you certain you do not wish for some refreshment?” His eyes were warm with concern. “The punch is passable, I am told.” He leaned conspiratorially closer and winked again.

How dare he!?

Gloria’s determination to extricate herself from him returned tenfold.

“Thank you, my lord,” she spoke with clarity, “but I must decline your kind offer. My mother will worry herself if I am away from her for too long.” Gloria curtsied then left him in the ballroom to search for the safety of Lord Crampton.

***

The night was not going the way Nigel expected. He had performed several dances with pretty women, whose names and faces he had immediately forgotten, his mind much more on the figure of just one woman in the ballroom.

Lady Gloria’s indescribably lush expression when his hand had been at her hip during their dance, not to mention her breasts rising and falling in that delicate gown, had taken up residence in his imagination and would not let go. Like an intoxication after an indulgence of fine brandy.

The only cure then was hair of the dog.

He would see her once more, dance with her, then flirt outrageously until he had released her from his thoughts or won her to his bed. He had to do one or the other, he could not bear to be in such torment from her.

Prowling the edges of the ballroom and hunting the corridors did nothing to flush her out of his mind.

Perhaps she has left for home already. Is that a good thing?

He did not know. Bloody hell he should just go to the club and drown his sorrows there. Not sorrows, he chastised himself. Frustrations. Perfectly acceptably rakish frustrations.

God damnit. I need to remove the woman from my mind.

Searching the floor one last time, despite his vow to quit the ball, he spotted Countess Watford with an anxious look on her face. For a dark instant, he prayed a clumsy oaf had spilled punch all over her perfect daughter. Shaking off that unkind thought, he remembered Lady Gloria’s insistence that she find her mother after their dance. Why then did the Countess appear to be distressed? He went to inquire.

“My lady,” he bowed politely. “Are you enjoying the ball?”

“I am,” despite her words, she still appeared uneasy. “I was.” She glanced nervously about the room.

“Is something amiss?” he asked, his concern beginning to grow.

“No. I do not think so,” she attempted a straight countenance with some difficulty. “It is just…”

He waited. The older woman really seemed quite vexed. He felt guilty again about the spilled punch thought. She leaned closer. Her expression was pleasant and friendly, though it masked a voice laced with worry.

“Do you have any idea where Lady Gloria might be?” she asked. “More, much more, than twenty minutes have passed since I have seen her or known of her whereabouts. It is not like her to disappear without telling me of her intentions. Her behavior has always been irreproachable. So proper.”

Indeed, it has.

“Would you like me to look for her?” He was glad to offer his help, especially as Lady Gloria’s disappearance did not sit well with the woman that he thought she was either.

Countess Watford answered him with an anxious gaze but said nothing.

“I will be the soul of discretion, my lady,” he said, guessing her fear for Lady Gloria’s reputation of a rake, even one who was related to her family, making it known he was searching for the missing lady after midnight. “You have my word.”

Countess Watford exhaled and offered a shaky smile. “I thank you, my lord, for your assistance and your discretion.”

He nodded, then went off to search for her daughter.

Chapter 2

No golden-haired beauty appeared in that infernal cloud of white netting and blue silk flitting about the ballroom.

To the garden then. If Lady Gloria was not dancing or at the refreshment table, perhaps she was taking the air. The room was hot, and she had appeared to be warm earlier, so he strode out to the garden in search of her.

Avoiding stumbling into couples who did not require a third member for their activities proved to be more difficult than Nigel would have imagined, despite being a participant in such greenery couplings on more than one occasion. Nonetheless, he searched every moonlit path and bench and alcove for a head of pale gold hair.

Still, Lady Gloria was nowhere to be found.

Her mother had assured him that the young lady’s behavior had always been above reproach. He had no reason to doubt her, as he had been a witness to that impenetrable decorum on more than one occasion. Yet, there were only so many respectable places she could have disappeared to and even fewer respectable reasons to do so. He was beginning to have doubts that she wished to be found at all.

He left the garden to explore the house once more, but the ballroom was still lacking an ethereal beauty dressed in blue. That left only the upper halls, the music room, and the library. Careful to appear to be aimless, Nigel climbed the marble staircase slowly as if bored with the dancing below.

The music room held nothing but a freckled wallflower who seemed offended by his interruption of her private thoughts. She tossed him a surprisingly bold, chiding glare. He wondered briefly what thoughts he had interrupted.

“Forgive me.” He hurried to leave the room.

He had only just closed the door when a terrified scream tore through the air, coming from the direction of the library.

Has someone been injured? Or collapsed from apoplexy? Have thieves invaded the house?

The memory of screaming from long ago pursued him as he ran for the library. Terrible images he had fought hard to bury clambered like rats to the surface of his consciousness. With his heart in his throat, Nigel threw open the library door.

For a dreadful instant, time itself stopped.

In the center of the floor of the library, Lady Gloria fought like a tiger against a drunken beast intent on devouring her. Her hair, torn from its headdress of roses, fell in wildness over her bare shoulders. Her gauzy white gown was ripped in half, dragging on the floor like a broken wing, and nearly exposing her breasts to the room and the drunken monster’s ravenous hands.

Another scream roused Nigel from his shock.

The sloppy, drunken bastard turned and roared at him.

“Get out of here, Burham! This bitch is none of your concern.”

Crampton. The vile heir to the dukedom, and the dissolute member of his club who had punched him in the face not long ago.

“Get out, Burham,” Crampton slurred again. “Or this time when I plant a facer, you will not get up again so easily. If you get up at all.” He renewed his assault on Lady Gloria.

“Leave her alone, Crampton,” Nigel shouted, closing the door behind him to try and protect Lady Gloria’s modesty and slowly stepping closer to Crampton. “You are drunk. Return to the ball. Leave her.” He was nearly close enough to pull the ducal heir off the terrified young woman by now.

Crampton dropped Lady Gloria on the floor at Nigel’s words. Before she could run, he snatched her wrist and held it, fixing her in place on her knees. “Go to the devil, you rank bastard. This piece of torn muslin belongs to me. She is my betrothed. Mine. Mine to do with whatever the hell I desire, whenever the hell I want.” Crampton tried to pull Gloria close to him.

The words filled Nigel with disgust. He knew he himself hardly had the most respectable reputation in the Ton, but every affair he had experienced was consensual. The idea a gentleman would ever force a woman was disgusting to him – the mere notion made him nauseous and spurred him into action, closing the distance between him and Crampton.

Nigel grabbed the lout by the shoulder and turned him so he could punch him in the face with a powerful left hook. It struck painfully, knocking Crampton so far that it forced him to release Lady Gloria and stumble back.

“You will pay for this, you cursed rum touch!” Crampton shouted, coming unsteadily toward him, too drunk and disorientated from the blow to stand straight. “What do you care of this?”

Nigel laughed and stood ready to knock Crampton to the ground again, being careful to step in front of Lady Gloria to block the wretch’s path to her.

“I would rather be eccentric than a vicious no-account bastard like you.” To his words, Crampton’s face blushed purple. He swung at Nigel and missed. Nigel responded by delivering another blow to Crampton’s face.

Groaning, the heir to the Dukedom of Crampton shook his head several times before staggering to the library door, blood seeping from his nose.

“Go to hell!” he wailed on his way out. “To hell with both of you! You’re welcome to the slut, if you will have her now, Viscount Burham.” Swaying, Crampton turned and made an obscene bow. He slammed the door behind him, then immediately and noisily told up his account of the tale in the hallway.

***

Nothing in her life could have prepared Gloria for this moment. Nothing she read or heard or suspected. She stood to her feet, violently shaking in the center of the library. It seemed like it could not be her heart that was thrashing in her chest, for it was thumping so hard. It could be her breath rushing in and out, for she seemed to have no control over it. That could not be her head-dress crushed and ruined on the floor. Her hair was not undone and spilling over her shoulders. Her naked, exposed shoulders.

This is not me.

She heard muttered words of disbelief and apology escape her lips as she attempted to gather the torn remains of her gown to cover herself.

The gown. Ruined. She felt tears pouring down her cheeks. Was she weeping? She brushed at the tears, her hands switching between trying to dry her cries, and picked up the torn pieces of her beautiful dress.

Lord Crampton was supposed to propose to her that night. This had not been the plan at all. A quaking sob broke from her chest. She felt her knees give way and lacked the power to stop it.

Strong arms captured her and prevented her from falling. She flinched and tried desperately to escape.

“No!” she screamed pounding her fists against the body threatening to press close to hers. “No. No! I would rather die. You bastard! I’d rather die.”

“Hush,” a voice said soothingly, as the arms released her. “Hush. He is gone. He cannot hurt you now. He’s gone.”

Something of the reality of the moment swam into Gloria’s view and steadied her.

“Lord Burham?” she asked, the blue eyes of the tiger came sharply into view.

“Yes,” he reassured with his hands outstretched toward her, as though he were trying to calm a wild animal. “It is me. Crampton is gone.”

“I thought to marry him.” Gloria clutched the broken pieces of her dress to her chest.

“I know,” Burham said. “Sometimes we are mistaken about someone’s true character. Sometimes a man who seems unimpeachable is nothing of the kind.”

“I thought to marry him,” she sobbed again.

“I know.” Burham kept his hands outstretched, still offering comfort.

She gazed about her. Except for her destroyed headdress on the floor, the elegant room was utterly unchanged by what had happened. Shouldn’t the windows have shattered? Why did everything appear to be the same when nothing would ever be the same again?

Everything I have worked for… is all ruined.

Lord Burham picked up the sad, tattered head-dress and considered it for a moment, turning it over in his broad, gloved hand. He exhaled, then slipped it into the pocket of his coat, reasoning, correctly, that she had no wish to keep it.

That tiny sprig of understanding warmed her, and she felt at last capable of ordering her thoughts.

“Thank you, my lord.” She was surprised and buoyed by the steadiness in her voice. “If I had known his… his intentions when I agreed to meet him in the library…”

“What happened is in no way your fault, Lady Gloria.” His rich voice was vibrant and emphatic when he looked back to her. “The fault lies with Crampton alone.”

She gasped at hearing his name.

“Forgive me,” Burham said. “I’ll not say his name again. You have my word. You are safe now. He will not return.”

She was safe. It was over.

There was nothing to be done about the ruined gown, that was clear as she looked down to her body. She reached up to twist her fallen hair into a knot at the top of her head, but it would not stay. The realization that her appearance was so affected brought fresh tears.

“Shall I find your mother and bring her here?” Lord Burham asked gently.

“Yes, please.” She nodded, still clutching her hair.

“I’ll lock the door as soon as I leave.”

“Wait,” she called after him, suddenly afraid to be alone, even with a locked door. He came near to her again.

“I’ll return before you know it.” His voice was sincere, genuine. It was a part of him she had not seen before, a part of him she did not think existed. “Do not be frightened. It is over. He cannot hurt you again. Your mother will take you home. No one will see or know anything.”

Before she was even aware of what she needed, Gloria fell into Lord Burham’s arms and clung to him. He felt warm, strong, and safe. In a moment she would be brave enough to wait alone in this room, but now, for just a moment, she wanted to feel safe and warm. To remember that there was kindness and decency in the world.

“Hush,” he said, resting his chin on the top of her head. “You are safe now. You have my word, Lady Gloria.”

Her eyes were tightly closed, and her ear was pressed firmly against Lord Burham’s chest. She heard the door opening but could not fit that knowledge into her understanding of this moment. It was too late, anyway. A merry group of maidens and their laughing beaux stood open-mouthed in the doorway.

Gloria’s torn gown and loose hair, all evidence of the violence inflicted upon her, now spelled something totally different as she rested in the arms of an eccentric, wildly handsome, well-known rake.

Her life as she knew it was over.

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