Prologue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

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

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

“Can I get you anything, Lady Phoebe?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only around you.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Lord— Ralph.”

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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