Prologue
April 1812
“There are not enough elephants in Africa to make me consider marrying him, Annabelle!” Diana Pearson said after staring at her dearest friend, Annabelle Windhill, as if she had lost her mind.
“Well, that is a rather peculiar thing to say, but he is an earl, Diana,” Annabelle insisted, and Diana peeked from behind the curtain to look at the subject of their conversation, a portly middle-aged man who had just picked his teeth with his fingernails when he thought no one was watching him and was now inspecting them.
Her stomach turned when he wiped his hand on his waistcoat. If he could do that in a ballroom full of people, she shuddered to imagine what he did in private. He had asked her to dance earlier, and she was hiding from him in an alcove with Annabelle.
“I do not care if he is the Prince Regent himself. I cannot accept the suit of such a man, let alone marry him.” Diana followed that with an indignant huff. She was positively outraged by her friend’s suggestion.
“Earl or not, my heart is spoken for.”
“Are you referring to that man you have been writing letters to?” Annabelle asked in a whisper.
“…Perhaps,” Diana replied.
“You cannot love him when you do not even know his name or what he looks like.”
That was true, but Diana had been corresponding with him for two years. He was the most charming and intelligent man she had ever known, nothing like the pompous fops who asked her to dance or tried to catch her alone. Every time his letters arrived, she would lock herself in her bedchamber, heart leaping in anticipation, and break the sealing wax to read every word and commit it to memory.
“I know him, Annabelle.” Diana smiled dreamily. “And I know his name.”
“What is his name?” Annabelle folded her arms across her chest. Her questions today were rather forceful, and it puzzled Diana.
“James,” Diana answered.
“Are you certain it is his actual name?”
James was not the man’s actual name but Diana did not tell her friend that and instead nodded, for Annabelle would likely continue to ask questions she did not want to answer yet.
Annabelle shook her head, her straw-colored curls bouncing around her neck. “You have to abandon this fantasy, Diana. This is our second season and we must secure husbands.”
“I will not marry an old man.”
“Why ever not? You will be eternally young beside him.” Annabelle was quite fond of youth and beauty, and she often used pomades that promised to keep her face from freckling. Diana was unsure of their effectiveness, though. She dismissed that thought and returned to the subject of their conversation.
In James’ last letter, he had expressed his desire to see her, and Diana had begun to dream of meeting him and perhaps finding love with him. On her parents’ insistence, she attended balls and tolerated the company of gentlemen who could not hold her interest, but three nights ago, her father, Viscount Edgington, had summoned her to his study and spoken to her about marriage.
“You must find a husband before the end of this season or I will choose one for you,” he had told her the instant she sat.
“But, Father—”
“Do not interrupt me when I am speaking to you. You have wasted your first season and my money. I will not have you waste another. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” Diana replied with her head bowed, and thus, desperation in her was born.
If she could meet James and have him court her and propose to her before the end of the season, then she would not have to worry about her father possibly choosing the earl she was hiding from for her. She had written back to James and told him that she wanted to meet him, as well, and had been waiting for his response now for almost a fortnight.
“Oh, Diana, I just remembered something I wanted to show you,” Annabelle’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“What is it?”
“I saw a painting by one Marguerite Gérard in one of the rooms here that I think you will like.” Annabelle’s green eyes sparkled.
Diana smiled. She was fond of paintings and admired the art wherever she found it, particularly landscapes. But a portrait from the French virtuoso was always something to behold. “A painting of Marguerite Gérard? Here? Why did you not tell me this before? I would have had a good reason to leave the ballroom before that senile earl asked me to dance.”
“Now you can flee, my dear friend,” Annabelle giggled. “My mother will not be pleased if she sees me leaving the ballroom. Go first and I will meet you once I am able to sneak out. The painting is in the last room in the hallway outside this ballroom.”
Peeking to ensure the earl was not in the path she needed to take to leave the ballroom, Diana stepped out from behind the curtain and moved toward the large double doors that led out of the room, keeping close to the walls. The earl was now dancing with a young dark-haired lady, and when they turned, Diana saw that she looked miserable, and she dearly commiserated with her.
The earl’s eyes met hers and she quickly looked away, then quickened her pace. Once she was out in the hallway, she gathered her skirts and hurried down the hall to the room that Annabelle mentioned. She closed the door behind her and looked around. There was no painting, only tall bookshelves covering the walls, and French doors that opened out to a terrace.
“Am I in the right room?” she asked herself as she moved further into the room to search for the piece. Perhaps it was a very small one.
The door opened and she turned immediately, expecting to see Annabelle. Her eyes instead found a handsome gentleman with blonde hair and dark eyes. She recalled seeing him dancing with other ladies in the ballroom earlier, and Annabelle had given her his name. Unfortunately, she could not remember the name now.
He smiled at her, taking several steps in her direction. “I did not think I would find anyone here. Are you waiting for someone?”
“Yes,” Diana replied cautiously. “My friend is supposed to show me a painting here.” She looked around again, uncertain. “Although I do not see anything of the sort. I might be in the wrong place.”
“There is no such thing as being in the wrong place.” He was standing before her now. “Though, I do believe I saw a painting here the last time I was in this room.”
“Could it have been moved?” she asked.
He smiled. “Perhaps, after all, it was only a small, framed portrait of some French artist.” He bowed. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Baron Crawford.”
Diana narrowed her eyes at his implication but curtsied politely. “I am Miss Diana Pearson.”
His brows rose as if he was surprised. “Are you Miss Annabelle Windhill’s friend?”
“Yes. Are you well acquainted with her?”
“Indeed, I am, and I presume you are waiting here for her.” His smile was pleasant, and Diana’s wariness began to vanish. He was acquainted with Annabelle, and he seemed to be an agreeable gentleman.
“I am.” She returned his smile.
He held out his arm. “Shall we search for the painting while we wait for her?”
Diana accepted his arm because she did not want to be impolite. They began to walk around the library, and when they reached the open French doors, he stopped and looked up at the full moon that illuminated the terrace, then back at her.
“Your eyes are as bright and lovely as the moon, Miss Pearson.” His dark eyes gleamed dangerously despite the softness in his voice, and he reached up to stroke her cheek.
Diana’s caution returned, and she quickly pulled her hand from his arm and took a step back.
“Do not be afraid, Miss Pearson,” he said, grasping her arms. “I only wish to show you the passion you have awakened in me.”
“I do not even know you!” She pushed against his chest to free herself but his hold on her was firm.
“Now you do, my dear.” He leaned forward and tried to kiss her, his fingers biting into her arms from the force with which he was holding her. Panic rose within her, and she began to kick his shin whilst pulling her face away. That did little because he cursed and started pushing her against a bookshelf, a few feet behind, likely to trap her. Diana struggled against his heavy breath, as he leaned closer, both arms still pinned against her shoulders.
The library door burst open and Annabelle walked in with several ladies. “Diana!” she shrieked when she saw her. “What are you doing?”
“I was not doing anything,” Diana quickly defended, tears brimming her eyes and blurring her vision. Baron Crawford released her at once, and darted out onto the terrace, away from sight, leaving her to suffer the consequences of being caught in a room alone with a man.
“That is not what we saw, Miss Pearson,” said a plump woman with disgust.
“Diana, how could you?” Annabelle asked, looking betrayed.
Diana could not understand why the women had followed Annabelle, and she did not have any time to think about it before their harsh accusations came, their voices filling her ears with words she never thought she would hear.
“You are ruined now!” someone exclaimed. “How shameful,” another rebuked.
Diana covered her face with her hands, stepping back until she felt a bookshelf bar her way. Her heart was beating violently in her chest, and her legs were weak.
“What is happening here?” came her father’s thunderous voice soon after.
“Your daughter has fallen, Lord Edgington,” someone answered.
Diana could not remove her hands from her face to look at him for fear of the condemnation she would see in his eyes. A moment later, a hand circled her arm and she was pulled forward. When she opened her eyes, she saw her father leading her out of the room, then out of the house altogether.
***
“You’ve ruined us! Why did you do it?” her father, Jacob, asked as he paced the drawing-room in their house in short quick steps an hour later, and her mother, Helen, was sobbing in a chair.
“I did not do anything,” Diana cried, “He was forcing himself on me. I rejected him.”
“Oh, did you?” Jacob stopped and gave her a cold stare. “Because that is not what I heard, Diana.”
“You will believe the words of others over your daughter’s?” she challenged, furiously wiping her tear-stained cheeks.
“Who is he?” her father demanded, ignoring her question. She hesitated because she did not know what her father would do if he got his name. “Who is he?” he demanded again with his voice raised.
“Baron Crawford,” she answered, trembling.
Her father cursed under his breath. “Did you know that he is betrothed?”
“No, I did not. I only made his acquaintance today.” She wrung her satin gloves in her hand.
“And you decided to seduce him just after meeting him?” Jacob accused, his face red with fury. Her mother sobbed harder.
“Why would you think that of me, Father?” She was unable to stop the tide of tears that besieged her eyes.
“Women often do vile things to snare men.” He was looking at her mother as he said that with the corners of his mouth turned down and his nose scrunched. He turned to Diana, and the tone of his voice chilled her bones. “You will leave for Kent tomorrow and stay with my sister, Margaret. And you will find a husband.”
Diana shook her head, her heart twisting painfully. “Please, do not send me away,” she implored, sinking from her chair to her knees. She barely knew her aunt, and her life in London was all she had ever known.
“No one in London will marry you now, and pray this scandal does not reach Kent.” Jacob did not wait for her to respond before he marched out of the room, his boots hammering against the parquet.
“I hope you are happy with the misfortune you have brought upon us,” her mother said at last, and Diana raised her head to look at her. The contempt she saw in her eyes should never appear in a mother’s eyes.
“Mother, please allow me to explain,” Diana begged.
“I will not hear any of your lies. You have disgraced us and made us regret birthing you.” Helen walked past her toward the door. Diana caught her skirt, but she slapped her hands away.
Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed. Never had she imagined something like this happening to her, and now she could be doomed to live the rest of her life as a disgraced spinster, unwanted even by her parents.
Diana had grown without her parents’ love because she should have been born male. Although she never expected them to comfort her during a time of misfortune, for they never did. she did not think they would ever send her away. Gathering herself and holding her sobs in until they turned into tiny hiccups, she rose from the floor and made her way out of the room and up the stairs to her bedchamber.
The first thing she saw on her bureau when she closed the door was a letter. She picked it up, her throat tightening when she saw James’ handwriting, and she moved to sit on her bed to open it.
My dearest Dee,
I wish you could have seen the smile your response bestowed upon my face, and felt the happiness that filled my heart. I was once an aimless wanderer, but the honor of knowing you has given my soul something to strive for. Before I come to London to see you, I wish to give you my full name. I am Matthew James St. Wulfstan and the Marquess of Ashford.
I now truly believe that we share a bond that I cannot ignore any longer, and if you will allow me, I wish to court you and, perhaps, offer you my—
Diana’s tears blinded her and she was unable to finish reading the letter. A gentleman without a title would not court her after tonight’s events, much less a marquess. Matthew must never learn of the scandal, and she must never write to him again.
She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes as her heart broke anew. If she had left the library as soon as that loathsome Baron Crawford walked in, she would have prevented her misfortune, and her wish to have Matthew court her would have been granted. She saw nothing but desolation in her future now.
Chapter One
May 1814
Matthew stretched his neck and winced at the tightness he felt in the long scar that ran from the back of his left shoulder down to the middle where his ribs stopped. It was the result of a battle wound that had nearly changed the course of his existence.
“With this sort of stiffness you would think that I have been sitting for more than three hours,” he said to Glover, his valet of seven years. “I feel as though I am fifty years old instead of a mere thirty.”
Glover picked up the tea he had just poured for Matthew and came to set it down in front of him on his desk. “Would you like me to prepare more of the soothing oil for you, Your Grace?”
“I suppose that would be wise.” Matthew picked up the teacup and raised it to his lips. He had never been fond of mint tea until recently when he found himself in want of its calming properties.
“Might I suggest a short walk in the garden, Your Grace?” Glover picked up the letter that Matthew had just written.
“I still have much to do but I will consider it,” he replied. “Please post that for London immediately.”
“At once.” Glover bowed and left.
Matthew swiveled his chair to face the tall window behind his desk which overlooked an immaculate garden. Dee loved beautiful landscapes and gardens, and he had never failed to think of her every time he saw a garden. Now, he wondered if she was even alive.
She never replied to the letter he had sent her giving her his name, and he sent several more over the course of three months with no response. At the time, he assumed she no longer wished to correspond with him and complained to both Glover and his dear friend, Albert Kingsley for days, much to their dismay. But after eight months, he began to fear that something had happened to her.
His mood darkened from the hollowness her silence had created in his life, and his father’s deteriorating melancholy pushed him to purchase a commission and leave England to join Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon. He was wounded in the Battle of Vitoria and was forced to retire from the military, but he did not return to England until he received news of his father’s death five months ago.
Matthew was now the Duke of Stormwood, and nothing in his life was as it should be because his dreams were lost. He thought he would find a letter from Dee upon his return but all he received were condolences and felicitations from vague acquaintances of his father’s past.
Gulping down the rest of his tea, he turned away from the window, his thoughts more tempestuous than before, and set the cup down before opening the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out a stack of letters, loosened the twine binding them, removed a letter from the bottom—the last one Dee had sent him—and unfolded it.
My dear James,
I feel as though you have the power to perceive my thoughts from wherever you are, for I was thinking of seeing you moments before your letter arrived.
Yes, James, I would love to meet you one day. I wish to see the face that has only been shown to me in my dreams, behold the eyes of the friend I found under the most unlikely of circumstances and feel the satisfaction of finally completing a journey.
I love the pressed blue daisy you sent me, and I have placed it between the pages of my favorite book so that I may think of you every time I open it.
Now, regarding your suggestion to eat fish so I can learn to like it, there are not enough elephants in Africa to make me do it. My father eats kippers some mornings for breakfast, and I always smell them before I reach the morning room. No, James, I will never eat fish! I confess that I do enjoy this pleasant little debate we are having even though I am not fond of below-water delicacies.
I eagerly await your response and your next preposterous suggestion, my dear friend.
Yours truly,
Dee.
Mathew placed the letter on his desk and started to reach for the one on top of the stack but stopped. I should not read anymore, he thought. It would only make matters more difficult. He grunted. Heedless of his advice, he picked up the letter, but then a knock came at his study door.
“Come in,” he called.
His butler, McGill, appeared. “You have a caller, Your Grace. It is the Baron Crawford.”
“Show him to the salon. I will join him shortly,” Matthew instructed, putting the letters away. It was time to conduct business, and not wallow in reveries of has-beens.
He stepped out of his study, taking note of the bustling around him as the servants made final preparations for tonight’s ball. He was hosting for the first time since his return on Albert and Glover’s suggestion to reacquaint with society and present himself as the Duke of Stormwood. Suggestion? More like coercion.
“Crawford,” he said as he walked into the salon.
Crawford rose, bowing and smiling. “Stormwood. The castle looks splendid. I have never understood why you do not host balls more often. It should be a regular occurrence. ”
“We shall see.” Matthew sat in a chair near the fireplace and Crawford retook his seat.
“I imagine you know why I am here, Stormwood,” Crawford said with creased brows. “The loss our business is suffering is most alarming.”
“Yes, I know,” Matthew sighed, “and I am investigating the reason for the loss.” His father had managed Stormwood’s properties very well and invested in several other ventures. Matthew had been tasked with the management of fabric trading, which Crawford had invested in, and he had neglected those duties before he left to join the campaign against Napoleon. Upon his return, he discovered unexplained losses that he was now inspecting.
Crawford scowled. “When do you expect to know the cause of our problems?”
“I cannot say,” Matthew said simply. He suspected that someone was embezzling but he was yet to know who. He did not tell Crawford for it could be anyone, and displaying his suspicions so openly may only encourage the perpetrator to slip away. “I will inform you the instant I learn something.”
Crawford grumbled. “I might be forced to withdraw my investment if this persists.”
Crawford was not Matthew’s friend, and their paths would hardly have crossed if they were not doing business together. However, he did not want him to withdraw his investment for he wanted to pay more attention to the businesses he had inherited. He wanted all of them to prosper. The letter he had sent Glover to post was for his solicitor in London, and it was about this business.
“Rest assured that you will not lose your fortune here, Crawford,” Matthew spoke calmly, his voice almost devoid of life. He used to be very passionate but one tended to lose passion upon an encounter with the horrors of war.
Crawford looked uncertain but he gave him a nod, then smiled as he rose. “I look forward to the ball, Stormwood, and I am happy you have decided to rejoin society.”
“As am I,” Matthew said impassively.
“I shall see you tonight.” Crawford bowed and left.
Matthew remained in his seat for a while before deciding to take that walk that Glover recommended.
Chapter Two
Diana was famished, not because she had no food, but because her aunt was preventing her from eating. They had to prepare for a ball at Kendall Castle, the home of the Duke of Stormwood, and her stays must be very tight for her to fit into a dress that had been made two sizes too small for her.
“It is not tight enough,” her aunt said, resting her hands on her wide hips and glaring at Diana. “Tighten it, Abigail,” she ordered the maid, and Diana’s stays were pulled tighter until she felt as though the air was being squeezed out of her lungs. She cursed inwardly. Tightly laced stays were not in fashion, but her aunt was imposing them upon her to punish her.
“Why must Diana go to the ball, Mother?” asked her cousin Florence Dervin, innocently, as she tried on a tiara in front of the tall mirror in the dressing room. “I doubt she even knows who the Duke of Stormwood is.” They were getting dressed in Florence’s chambers, and two maids were helping her while Abigail helped Diana.
“Her father thinks it would do her some good to rejoin society now that it appears everyone has forgotten about that horrid incident two years ago.” Margaret’s hawkish gaze moved over Diana. “And she has changed quite a bit.”
“If you mean I am now as skinny as a broomstick, then yes, I have changed,” Diana said.
“Oh, be quiet!” Margaret dismissed. “I would not keep you in this house if your father was not paying me well.”
Diana might not have been tossed out on her ear but her life had gotten considerably worse in the two years that followed the scandal. Her parents had refused to allow her to return to London, and her aunt ensured every minute of her day was spent in misery. She was given less food than she needed and was forced to stay in her bedchamber unless she was called upon.
Her father sent funds every month for her upkeep but her aunt spent most of it on herself and Florence, claiming it was hers to do with as she pleased.
Diana did not know if Matthew had written to her, and often wondered if he was affected by her sudden silence.
Her stomach rumbled as Abigail was helping her into a lavender dress. Their eyes met in the vanity mirror and Diana saw pity in Abigail’s eyes and quickly looked away. She only had to endure living in this house until she turned one and twenty in November.
Her late maternal uncle had been so generous as to bequeath to her a sum that she could claim once she turned twenty-one. She could leave this house then and find a small cottage far away from Kent and London in which to live the rest of her life. This was Diana’s dream now, and she believed it was fate’s kindness that made her uncle remember her before he died.
“This color suits you, Miss,” Abigail complimented after fastening the buttons on the back of her dress.
Diana regarded herself in the mirror and smiled. Margaret clothed her well because she was concerned about what people would think or say if they saw her shabbily dressed.
“I want that dress,” Florence declared with a glint in her eye, tossing her deep blue dress onto the floor. “I want Diana’s dress,” she repeated.
Margaret huffed. “Diana, give Florence your dress and wear hers.”
Diana opened her mouth to protest but quickly closed it when she thought of the possible consequences of protesting. The harsh words and hunger she might suffer were not worth the protest.
With her mouth turned down, Abigail helped Diana remove the dress, and then she surprised her when she brought Florence’s dress over to her. When no one was looking, she loosened Diana’s stays.
“Thank you,” Diana mouthed with a smile. Abigail was her only ally in the house, and she helped her whenever she could.
When Diana looked at herself in the mirror after her change of dress, she found she liked the blue velvet dress more than the lavender because it would help her hide at the ball. She did not want any attention, and she was only going because she wanted to be cordial with her aunt until she was able to leave the house. Margaret could easily tell her father lies that could get in the way of her freedom, and she did not want that to happen.
“I cannot breathe!” Florence complained.
“We do not have time for you to change over and over, Florence,” her aunt replied, seemingly annoyed. “You knew Diana’s dress was much smaller than yours when you asked to wear it.”
Secretly, Diana smiled, grateful her stays had been loosened as her new dress was very comfortable. Margaret hurried them out to the carriage once they were dressed, and they were soon on the hour-long ride to Kendall Castle. Diana said nothing on the way but Florence talked endlessly about how eager she was to be introduced to the duke, while her aunt hoped her daughter would meet anyone of significance to marry.
When they arrived, Diana felt her stomach tighten with trepidation. She had not been out in polite society for a very long time, and she was positively nervous. She stopped at the bottom of the marble steps that led up to the front door to collect herself, and when she looked up at the grand edifice before her, she felt intimidated, for Kendall Castle was one of the most beautiful castles she had ever seen.
What looked like a dozen stone fire bowls illuminated the Corinthian exterior and the perfectly tended lawn. Statues stood between the tall columns as if they had been charged to guard the place, and every window sparkled like a gemstone. Diana wished she could capture the view in a painting.
“Do come on!” her aunt urged from the top of the stairs, and Diana hurried up to meet her. At the door, Margaret said to the majordomo, “Baroness Dervin and Miss Florence Dervin.” Diana was not surprised to find her name left out. In fact, she was rather relieved. Hopefully, it would cause her to draw fewer stares when she finally entered. They joined a long line of guests in the long hall that led to the ballroom but were moving very slowly.
“I wish those at the fore of the line would hurry,” Florence huffed.
“Patience, my dear.” Margaret fanned herself slowly. “The duke will still be in the ballroom when we reach.”
Unlike everyone eager to enter the ballroom, Diana instead admired the arched ceiling from which three crystal chandeliers hung and the marble leaves that decorated the top of the columns lining the hall.
They entered the ballroom, at last, and an apprehensive feeling crept into her stomach. Her eyes flickered about the ballroom to ladies chattering behind flitting fans, and judgmental gazes came her way. And for a moment, she felt vulnerable again, like two years ago at the ball. Was the incident still fresh in everyone’s memories as it was in hers?
She pushed the feeling down as curiosity overcame her and her eyes fought to see beyond an amassed crowd at the center of the ballroom. A small gasp escaped her throat when a pair of hazel eyes met and held hers. The dark-haired man they belonged to was a short distance away from her, and was so handsome he could make a woman swoon. She presumed he was the duke because he was surrounded by several ladies and gentlemen who seemed ready to lie on the floor if he asked them to.
“Mother, is that the duke?” Diana heard Florence ask.
“Yes, my dear,” Margaret replied, “Duke Matthew St. Wulfstan.”
Diana froze, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. The man whose eyes were still upon her was Matthew, and he was now a duke. Suddenly breathless and afraid, she turned on her heels.
Releases on 21st August
