Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That couldn’t be, could it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dear Ernest,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once more, Happy Birthday.

                                                            With love,

                                                                Father

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

However, the other half of him was absolutely tormented.

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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