Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kitty’s eyes brightened. “Can I see?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want her out of here.”

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

“Get her out!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evan’s blood ran cold. “Pardon me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he gone?” she asked.

At least she is dressed now.

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

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

“Kitty,” he snapped, “just leave.”

She did, and Evan was alone once again.

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Father, please!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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