Prologue

1804

North Riding of Yorkshire

“Lydia, darling! Get back here!”

Clawed branches ripped at Lydia Swinton’s clothing as she lurched through the woodland. Dusk had fallen, the final embers of day settling low in the sky. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she let out a choked sob.

Leaving York. Leaving for London. Lydia had never visited London before, but she knew of it—knew it was busy, noisy, overwhelming. And she also knew that her best friends would not be leaving with her. She would be alone.

Another harsh sound—too raw to be a sob—broke free. She swiped ahead of her blindly with her arms. Her father’s calls behind her melted into the encroaching darkness.

Good. If he was going to travel to London, he could do it on his own.

When her mother had died, he had awkwardly held her, her head on his shoulder, his arms curving around her back with the stiffness of a man not given to physical affection. “We shall contrive together,” he had told her. “Just the two of us. You’ll see.”

But for all she knew he was trying, she was a young girl—thirteen now, leaving girlhood behind in favor of adulthood—and he was a man. They had nothing in common. If it were not for her friends, Eliza and Marie Radcliffe, she would be lonely indeed.

Yet her father insisted she must leave them behind.

First she lost her mother, and now she would lose her home. Her friends. Everything that had made her life feel bright. All that was left was her father, who had never recovered from the loss of his wife a few months earlier.

Well, neither had she. And leaving the last place that had memories of her would be a blow too far. Too much. Her chest hurt, and she rubbed at it with the heel of her hand as though she could scrub away the pain. More tears blurred her vision, spilling down her cheeks, their paths cool in the night air.

She stumbled through some bush and came face to face with a pond. Here, her father’s voice had faded into the night breeze. Finally, truly, she was alone.

The water almost seemed to mock her. There was little light left, but what there was, the surface of the pond reflected back to her. Moving more out of instinct than conscious thought, she moved closer. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, and she wanted to turn, to run, to demand her father listen to her for once in his life.

But desperation had her slipping her shoes and stockings off. The frozen moss burned her bare feet with its chill, but she ignored the discomfort as she stared down into the dark, endless surface of the pond.

Logically, she knew the water must have an end—and probably not a deep one. But as she stared into its depths, she could trick herself into believing that there would be no floor, nothing to support her if she stepped in.

She sucked in a ragged breath as she took the first step. Then the next. The water was so cold it almost burned, and although it was barely night, already patches of brittle ice lined the surface. So cold. Her teeth chattered. Yet she kept moving, welcoming the pain, letting it distract her from the overwhelming hurt in her chest. Before her mother’s death, she had not known a heart could hold so much pain. Although she knew it could not be true, she felt as though the organ itself was splitting apart. Her mother had been the only person in the world who had understood her, and now she was gone.

All this time, Lydia had been living in the memory of her mother, burying her face in her mother’s perfumed shawl and reading her mother’s favorite books. She would wander the hallways and recall conversations they’d had. In the library, she would curl up in her mother’s favorite armchair and pretend the cushions were her mother sitting underneath her, preparing to read her a story.

All this would be gone in London.

Her breath grew harsher as the water reached her thighs. She was no longer crying, but she didn’t know if that was due to shock. Her chest felt tight, as though breathing itself was a challenge she could not overcome. She no longer felt her feet, but the water felt like icy knives in her legs.

Laughter reached her, the sound so incongruous that she stopped, blinking and looking up. Shadows wrapped around the tree trunks. The laughter sounded male, but it was not her father—the timbre of the sound was different. Rougher, sprightly, perhaps. That of a young man rather than an older one. If anything, he sounded a little like the stable boy they employed, the one who was a mere couple of years older than she.

But surely it could not be the stable boy.

Confusion and indecision had her pause, her feet sinking into the mulch and the water slicing her into ribbons. She shuddered, arms wrapping around herself, as the shadows parted to reveal a man.

No, a boy.

No, older than a boy. He was taller than her, although not quite as tall as her father. His shoulders, too, were not as wide. But as he approached, she saw he had grown out of the awkward, lanky phase that boys so often went through. Definitely not the stable boy.

The laughter stopped as suddenly as it arrived. He stared at her, soaked in the water of the pond and drenched in the last remaining light from the sky above. When next he stepped forward, the movements were jerky.

“Miss?” he ventured, extending a hand, although he could not quite reach her without entering the water himself. He stopped right by its edge. “What are you doing, miss?”

Lydia tightened her hands into fists by her chest. What was she doing? What did she hope to achieve here? She was so cold she could hardly think straight. All she knew was that there was kindness in his voice, and she had felt as though she had been empty for months, and now, finally, someone had come along to fill that forgotten place inside her.

She let out a ragged sob. One, then another. Messy, raw sounds that racked through her and threatened to send her tumbling headfirst into the dark water.

“Miss!” After a second, she heard a splash, and then hands were on her arms, hauling her backwards into a warm body. The boy cursed, using words Lydia had never heard before, and set an arm around her waist as he hauled her back to the shore. Disoriented, she made no objection, merely crying harder when he stood her upright again.

“That’s bloody cold,” he shuddered, almost to himself, then brushed his fingers over her arm. “What happened, miss?” he managed, gentling his tone.

She shook her head, unsure whether the tremors racking her body were from the chill of the water or the shock at having been dragged from it by a strange boy. Or if it was just leftover from the news that they were leaving York.

Perhaps all three combined.

“I—” he started, looking around as though searching for something. When nothing appeared, he dragged a damp hand through his hair. Dusk had well and truly fallen, disguising its color, but Lydia suspected it was light. A sandy brown, perhaps. Soft blonde. She caught only glimpses of him when she glanced up, but it was enough to tell her that this boy was handsome.

At the realization, she cringed and put her hands over her face. Now her disgrace was complete—not only must she endure the worst thing to have ever happened to her, but this handsome boy bore witness to her every weakness.

“Now then,” he said, the hand on her arm traveling to her shoulder. “Don’t cry, miss.”

If anything, that made her cry harder.

He exhaled gustily, and drew her against his body in an embrace. She froze, mid-sob, shocked at the unexpected warmth of his chest. Though he wore a waistcoat and coat, the heat of his body blazed into her, feeling like a warm bath after being so, so very cold. She shuddered, and he drew a hand up and down her spine.

“You shouldn’t go in the water at this time of year,” he said, both soothing and gently chiding. “You’ll freeze.”

“I-I-I—” Lydia’s teeth were chattering too hard to get any words out. Unlike her father, whom she knew loved her but at a distance, this boy felt as though he was accustomed to handing out embraces left, right, and center. His breath gusted by her ear.

Lydia closed her eyes. Her heart, so bruised and bloodied from her mother’s death, gave a little leap. He felt so warm, so right, so solid and reassuring in front of her. She had read about these moments in novels, an illicit embrace between a man and a woman, and the entire sensation was so very nice, so very welcome, that she forgot to cry. All she could do was stand within the circle of his arms and feel.

“Alexander?” a girl’s voice called, and suddenly, Lydia was pulled out of her relief. Someone else was here. The boy’s arms loosened, and she turned to find a girl stepping out from the same set of bushes that he had emerged from.

“I found her in the water, Hel,” he replied. “She’s frozen.”

“Oh, poor dear.” The girl came closer, revealing herself to be a few years older than Lydia. Perhaps sixteen, her figure soft and womanly. Her features, though Lydia could see little of what she looked like, were pretty, ringlets of indeterminate hair color framing her round face. She, too, seemed kind, but there was a way that she looked at the boy—who held her rather more loosely now—that made ice from in Lydia’s chest.

These were not merely two playmates. They shared a history, a past, and some kind of affection Lydia could not even hope to access or guess at. All she knew was that the boy who had made her feel so warm and safe belonged to this girl, not her.

“Don’t you worry,” the girl soothed, feeling around on the ground until she located Lydia’s shoes and stockings. “Rub her hands, Alex, before she catches a chill.”

“What do you think I’m doing, Hel?” he rolled his eyes, though he obediently took Lydia’s hands and rubbed warmth into them. “There,” he coaxed. “Are you feeling better now? What happened?”

Mutely, Lydia shook her head. Explaining her troubles to this boy and girl felt incomprehensible. Although they had been nothing but kind, nothing but determined to save her, she felt certain the illusion would shatter once they understood she had knowingly run away from her father. That she had walked into the pond with no clear idea of what would happen after the event.

The girl fell to her knees and squeezed Lydia’s dress onto the grass. “Here,” she said, easing Lydia’s feet into her shoes, abandoning the stockings altogether. Some part of Lydia felt as though she ought to be scandalized, but she didn’t have the energy. “We must get you back home. What’s your name?”

“L-Lydia,” she stuttered. “Lydia Swinton.”

“Lord Blackmoor’s daughter?” the girl asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She exchanged a long look with the boy. Alexander. “Well. My name is Helena Perry. This is… Alexander Rayment.” The pause suggested she was going to say something else before changing her mind, but Lydia did not have the energy to examine what that might have been. Instead, she looked up into the face of her savior, just able to make out a handful of features. She had never met him before, but she memorized what little of his expression she could, determined that if they were to meet again, she would recognize him.

Helena rose, putting her arm around Lydia’s waist. “Come now,” she said, and Lydia could have sworn her hand brushed Alexander’s behind her back. “Tell me what the problem is. Are you running away from home?”

Lydia shook her head jerkily, though had she been running away from home? She had certainly been running—and she knew there was no home for her to return to.

“My father wishes us to move,” she whispered through chattering teeth. “To London.”

“I see,” Helena said. “And you don’t want to?”

“He wants to dispose of the last memories of my mother.” This time, the crack in Lydia’s voice sounded as though the earth under her feet had split entirely. “But how can I?”

Helena held her a little tighter. “Oh, poor child. Your mother died?”

“A few months back.”

“I’m so sorry, dearest,” Helena cooed, so gently it made Lydia cry all over again. “That must have been so terrible. But, you know, memories don’t leave us just because we’re no longer in the place that birthed them.”

“London is a place of possibility,” Alex nodded.

“My friends are here.”

“Do you think it impossible to make new friends?” Helena asked, brushing tears from Lydia’s cheeks. “Because I can assure you now, that is not the case.”

“Let us take you home,” Alex urged. “Things won’t seem so bad in the morning.”

Lydia looked up at him, needing the reassurance he was offering. “Do you promise?”

He nodded, steady and certain. “I promise.”

Chapter One

1813

London

The winter air stroked cool fingers across Lydia’s face as she strolled along the street. Her friend, Lady Penelope Marshall, frowned at the sudden burst of pale sunlight.

“I should have brought my parasol,” the blonde lady shuddered.

“For this? Dearest, it’s winter.” To demonstrate her point, she tilted her face back to the sky.

“You know you’ll get freckles regardless.” Penelope tugged at her arm in false exasperation. “Your complexion is too pale.”

Lydia cast a laughing glance at her friend. At two-and-twenty, she knew precisely what would happen if she spent too long in the sun. Her red hair and pale skin ensured her skin was frequently painted with freckles across the summer months. Not the handsomest feature, but they always faded in winter, and she barely had any at present.

“I hardly think a single walk will do me any danger,” she remarked, biting back her amusement. “Besides, no one will care. Lord Scunthorpe began courting me last summer when I had a multitude of freckles.”

Penelope gusted a sigh at the sound of Lord Scunthorpe’s name. Unlike Lydia, who had seen three London Seasons now—the slightly younger girl hadn’t quite abandoned her romantic leanings. She still dreamed of a hero sweeping in on a white steed to rescue her.

Lydia had no such misconceptions.

There was no such thing as heroes. At least, none on whom she could rely to stay in her life.

“Lord Scunthorpe is such a bore,” Penelope groused.

“Don’t be cruel. He’s…” Lydia paused, trying to find a way to describe the baron in a flattering light. Perhaps he was not the most dashing or young of men, but he was perfectly kind, and she knew he would provide for her. “He is very devoted to me.”

“Is he now?” Penelope asked, arching a brow. “And what of his other wives?”

“To be sure, he has had bad luck in the past, but I hardly think you can blame him for the death of his wives.”

Her friend wrinkled her nose. “I think he wants someone to be the mother of his children.”

“Well, is that not also reasonable?”

“And you are the daughter of a viscount,” Penelope pointed out. “Imagine if you were not. Would he have the same interest in you then?”

“Well, I can’t say for certain, but he knows I won’t inherit any of Papa’s property regardless,” Lydia shrugged. “It’s all entailed away, and Papa made that very clear at a dinner earlier this year. And Lord Scunthorpe hasn’t retracted his suit. So whatever his motivations, it is not because he thinks, as my husband, he will be my father’s heir.”

Penelope pursed her lips. “But your father is a powerful man,” she reminded. “A union would benefit Scunthorpe far more than you. He is a baron. Twice married.”

“He is rich,” Lydia pointed out.

“Not so rich that he wouldn’t benefit from your dowry.”

Lydia said nothing.

The move to London nine years ago had been a difficult one, just as she had known it would be. She had made few friends, and in her three years on the marriage mart, she had received interest from only one eligible gentleman.

She would be a fool to turn that down. And really, he had come along at the perfect time, when she had despaired of making a match. The estate being entailed away was likely one reason; the other she expected was her unfashionably red hair, and her difficulty making casual conversation with the few gentlemen who spoke to her.

Even so, her situation now was far superior to any she could have imagined when she was picturing the move. Her father had promised to try, had promised they would find happiness, and they had. She had. Together, they had carved out a quiet, contented life for themselves.

Different from the childish joy she had known when her mother was still alive, where grief had yet to touch her, but happiness nevertheless.

 She still, on occasion, missed York.

She never stopped thinking about the boy by the lake, though she knew how improbable it was she would ever see him again, and she always missed her mother. Still, she found other things to enjoy, such as her new friendships. And Lord Scunthorpe. Not the daring man from her dreams, but a man who would offer her a home and security. Provided, of course, he would offer for her.

“I am certain we would do well together,” she finally said with conviction. “All I need is for him to offer. He is a little shy.”

“Odd for a man over twenty years your senior to be shy,” Penelope said slyly. “And only a baron! Just think how much better you could have done.”

“If I could have done better, Pen, I would have done so before now, don’t you think?”

“You are not on the shelf!”

“No, but I may be if Lord Scunthorpe doesn’t muster the courage to offer for me soon.” Lydia sighed, but commotion further down the street disrupted her contemplation. Several servants stumbled down to the street, and a page boy dashed down the road past them, his face a mask of such concentration, he didn’t so much as recognize her.

Lydia recognized him, however. He belonged to her household.

Dread trickled down her spine. People only looked like that when something terrible had occurred. Immediately, instinctively, she thought of the day her mother had died. Lydia hadn’t been sitting by her mother’s side then, but she had felt the ripple move through the house. The immediate distress of the servants. Panic, moving through walls like a ghost.

She had known.

And now, too, she had the same feeling sitting in her chest.

Penelope glanced at her nervously. “Is that—”

“Hurry!” Lydia dragged Penelope faster down the street, her heart in her mouth. As they approached, it became abundantly clear that this truly was her house. A stable boy had dashed off down the road, and several coachmen lingered by an unfamiliar carriage on the cobbles outside. There was a crest emblazoned on the side that made Penelope gasp, but that Lydia didn’t recognize.

“Wait here,” she told her friend, ensuring her maid was still beside them before she freed her hand and hurried up the steps to where the door was ajar. Inside, footmen rushed about in an atmosphere of panic.

“Branfield,” she called, searching for the butler in the chaos. “What is going on?”

When she didn’t immediately see him, and when no one stopped her, she swept upstairs to where the source of the commotion appeared to be coming from. The dread sitting on her heart froze, the way water crystallized on blades of grass when the frost came. Just as she reached the doors to her father’s chambers, the door swung open and a gentleman stepped out.

He was tall and broad, a coat clinging to his wide shoulders and his cravat neatly pressed. At a glance, she could tell this was a man of fashion, his clothes of high quality, although the colors were sober: a black coat overtop a navy waistcoat. Even the buttons were small, mother-of-pearl, but with a muted shimmer.

His face, however, was what caught her attention the most. Blonde hair in carefully tumbled curls, stern blue eyes that seemed to her incredibly cold and distant, like plunging into freezing water. She had experienced that once before, and seeing this man now brought back all those memories. The chill of the water, and the kindness of the boy who had once rescued her…

That boy had possessed this man’s features, but nine years had given them a sharper edge.

“You…” she gasped, but he seemed not to hear her.

“Miss Swinton?” he asked, standing so utterly in the doorway she couldn’t see past him.

“Yes. What is going on? Why are you here?”

“Please, Miss Swinton, allow me to guide you to a seat.” Holding out a large hand, he ushered her to one of the benches lining the corridor. They were wooden and uncomfortable, polished carvings digging into her back that her father had not yet come around to replacing.

“What is happening?” she managed through her tight throat.

“It’s your father.” The man—Alexander, she remembered—gazed at her with those cool blue eyes, so distant, as though he was watching someone else deliver this terrible news. “I am afraid there has been an accident.”

Lydia lurched to her feet. “What accident? Let me see him!”

The man blocked her way, another large hand hovering just above her arm, as though he was loath to touch her, but would if necessity dictated. “That would not be wise. Please resume your seat, Miss Swinton.”

Do you not recognize me? She wanted to scream. Her stomach twisted so violently, she wondered if she would empty her accounts all over the man’s polished Hessians. The tassels along the side almost seemed to mock her.

What was he doing in her house?

“Please…” she breathed, looking into his face once, searching for the kindness she had once found in him. “Tell me what happened? Will he be all right?”

Finally, his gaze flickered, the stoic expression there faltering for just a second. “Miss Swinton,” he repeated, and this time, his hand did land on her elbow, supporting her as he said, “I’m afraid your father has passed.”

Lydia didn’t recall her legs buckling, but she did recall the way the man supported her, leading her back to the bench so she might sit without fear of tumbling headlong to the ground. But awareness of this faded under the awful, sickening ringing in her head.

Passed.

That was one of those ridiculous words people used when they didn’t want to admit to the reality of things.

Dead. That was the word he meant.

Her father was dead. Her stomach lurched again, her chest tightening until she thought she might pass out. Her fists tightened, knuckles whitening, and she attempted to focus on the stranger’s face as he knelt before her.

“Dead,” she said, her voice too flat, not sounding at all like her.

He hesitated, searching her face, before he nodded. “I’m so sorry, Miss Swinton.”

The ice around her heart cracked. The numbness fled, leaving her with that feeling she had experienced before, the one where it felt as though that precious organ in her chest was being crushed. A physical, damning pain. If she could have dug her fingers through her skin and ripped it out, she would have done.

Dead. The last member of her family, gone forever.

A ragged breath left her lips, and her face crumpled. She gave one hoarse sob and leaned in to the man, silently asking for comfort. All around them, chaos still reigned, but all she wanted was for someone to hold her, make her jagged, twisted world make sense once again.

But Alexander hesitated, the hand on her elbow moving to her shoulder to stop her from sinking into his arms. This time, there would be no embrace. Humiliation flashed through her, and she placed both hands over her face, tears wet against her fingers.

This was not the man she remembered, so cold and unwelcoming. What happened to the boy who had drawn her into his arms without a second’s thought?

“He was all I had left,” she sobbed. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Baron Scunthorpe, she thought distantly.

Perhaps he would be prevailed upon to offer for her sooner rather than later—but without her father, she didn’t know if he could be persuaded to take that final step. After all, her father was an influential man. He held a position in the House of Lords and had a vast fortune to his name. Would that fall to her? She suspected not; all she had to her name was her dowry.

In one moment, she had lost her home, her world, everything she had come to hold dear. Where would she go next? Who would take her in? As far as she knew, she had no immediate family. Her father had been the last person in the world to care for her…

Another shuddering sob racked its way through her.

“As for what will happen to you,” Alexander said gruffly, “I was with your father until the end, and his last words were to make provisions for you.”

His words barely penetrated. She attempted to listen, but nothing made any sense.

“You may not know this, but I am the Duke of Halston, and your father requested I marry you so you are provided for.”

Lydia lifted her head, blinking through the tears to bring his face back in focus. He was looking at her with perfect seriousness, which suggested this was not some kind of cruel jest. But the things he was suggesting—marrying her when he barely knew her, all for the sake of providing for her now her father had died—seemed utterly ridiculous.

She sniffed, fishing for her handkerchief. “You wish to marry me?”

If anything, his eyes grew colder. “I feel a certain… responsibility toward you,” he clarified, which explained nothing. Why would he have any responsibility toward her when he clearly didn’t even recognize her as the girl he had rescued all those years ago? “The marriage will be a temporary arrangement, lasting a single year. After that, we shall annul it, but you will be forever after protected as my wife, and with a portion of my fortune placed on you. I will also gift you a property of mine.”

She mouthed a property, trying to wrap her head around what he was saying. “You wish to marry me for a year…?”

“Precisely.”

“And then… annul said marriage?”

He nodded curtly. “I believe that would be the best course of action.”

Lydia pressed her fingers against her lids, watching as light bloomed in red flowers, wishing she could just wake up and escape this awful nightmare. Over the years, after she had last met Alexander, she had dreamed about him coming into her life and sweeping her off her feet. But since then, nine years had passed. And, in her daydreams, she had imagined that he’d fallen madly in love with her.

Instead, she had this. A man who refused to hug her even at the worst moment of her life, and a father lying dead in the next room. Not even at her mother’s passing had she felt so alone. Abandoned in a world that seemed to be doing its best to impress upon her its cruelty…

“I made this arrangement with your father,” Alexander said now, still kneeling at her feet, though he seemed too large, too present, for the gesture to be a supplication. “Do you accept?”

“Do I accept… your hand in marriage?” she croaked.

“I can marry us this afternoon. Let the world think it happened just beforehand.”

Lydia hadn’t precisely dreamed of romance for a long time—she was currently being courted by a gentleman almost twice her age who had been married twice before. But she had always hoped for something better than this. A quick marriage for the pure purpose of security when all she wanted to do was collapse on the floor and grieve her father.

After coming to London, he had tried. She had known, even if he couldn’t always articulate it, that he loved her. Adored her. She meant more to him than anything else in the world.

And that, finally, was what pushed her into making her decision. If he had requested this, arranged it for her sake, she could not deny him. This was his final wish.

“I accept.”

***

The wedding passed in fragments. Cold stone beneath her feet. The rector’s impatient fingers drumming against his prayer book. Alexander’s profile, carved from ice, as he spoke vows that sounded like terms of business.

I, Alexander, take thee, Lydia…

The words meant nothing. Everything meant nothing. Her father was dead, and she was marrying a stranger who had once been kind to her, and now looked at her as though she were a burden he’d agreed to shoulder out of obligation.

He did not kiss her.

“There,” he muttered as they emerged into pale winter sunlight. “It’s done.”

Done. As though their marriage were a distasteful task to be checked off a list.

The funeral blurred past, black crepe and hollow condolences, and her father’s coffin disappearing into the earth. Then the will, read in clipped tones by a solicitor who kept glancing nervously at the duke. Everything entailed away. Everything gone.

And then the journey.

Two days in the carriage with a husband who barely acknowledged her existence. Two days of watching the landscape shift from London’s soot-stained buildings to rolling countryside, the silence between them so complete she could hear every creak of the springs, every breath he took.

She wanted to speak. Wanted to ask him something—anything—that might crack the shell of ice surrounding him. But what could she say? Do you remember me? Do you remember that night?

The questions died on her tongue.

By the second evening, as dusk painted the sky in shades of violet and grey, they finally turned down a tree-lined drive. Through the window, she caught her first glimpse of Halston Manor. Stone ramparts softened by large windows, golden light spilling onto frost-covered grounds.

“We are here.”

Lydia jumped at the sound of Alexander’s voice. She turned to find him watching her, and something flickered in those winter-blue eyes. It vanished before she could name it.

The carriage came to a halt. Alexander descended without waiting for assistance and held out his hand. She took it, feeling the warmth of his palm through her glove, and let herself hope—just for a heartbeat—that perhaps inside, things would be different. Perhaps he would show her the chambers he’d mentioned, perhaps they would dine together, perhaps they could at least try to make this marriage something more than a legal formality over the coming year.

His fingers curled around hers as she stepped down.

“Welcome to Halston Manor,” he said quietly.

They entered an entrance hall glowing with candlelight. A tall, stern-faced butler materialized, bowing. “Your Grace. Your Grace.”

“Philips. Is everything prepared?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Alexander released her hand. “Good. Philips, this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Halston. See that she is made comfortable.”

Her Grace. The title sat strangely on Lydia’s shoulders. Too heavy, too grand for a girl who’d been orphaned and married in the span of a week.

“Of course, Your Grace. We have prepared the duchess’s chambers, and Mrs. Jones has arranged supper—”

“Excellent.” Alexander’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Show her to her rooms. I must speak with my steward before I leave.”

The words took a moment to penetrate.

“Leave?” Lydia’s voice came out smaller than she had intended.

He turned to her with that same distant politeness one might show an acquaintance at a ball. “I will be returning to London tonight,” he declared.

The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. “Tonight? But we have only just—you said you needed to see to the addition of a wife. To ensure my comfort…?”

“And I have done so.” He nodded once. “The house is prepared. The servants have their instructions—”

“Their instructions?” She couldn’t quite catch her breath. “Y-you intend to leave me here? Alone?”

“You won’t be alone. You’ll have an entire household at your disposal.” He gestured vaguely at Philips, at the housekeeper who’d appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Jones will see to your immediate needs. My steward will show you the properties I mentioned—you may choose whichever suits you best for after the annulment.”

After the annulment. The words struck like a slap.

“I-I don’t understand,” she managed weakly. Her hands had begun to shake. She clasped them together to hide it.

“I was clear about the terms, Lydia. One year. Then you’ll be free, with property and income of your own. It is more than most women in your position could hope for.”

“And in the meantime?” she muttered. “You’ll just—what? Abandon me in a strange house in the middle of nowhere?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something crack in his composure. Guilt, perhaps.

Then it was gone.

“You will have everything you need. Philips has my direction in London if any urgent matter arises.” He turned to the butler. “Treat her with the respect due any real duchess. She is to want for nothing.”

“But, Your Grace—” Lydia tried as she stepped forward, reaching for his arm, but he had already moved out of reach.

“I am sorry,” he murmured quietly, almost too quietly to hear. “Truly. But this is how it must be.”

The front door slammed open, letting in a gust of winter air. The carriage waited in the drive, the horses stamping and huffing impatiently.

He was really leaving. Right now. This moment…

Humiliation burned through her grief. She was a duchess—a duchess—standing in her own entrance hall, being abandoned by her husband mere minutes after arriving. The servants were watching. They would pity her. Or worse, they would gossip about her. The poor duchess, married and cast aside in the same breath.

Lydia lifted her chin, forcing steel into her spine. She would not beg. “Of course. Do have a safe journey, Your Grace.”

If he heard the ice in her tone, he gave no sign. He simply bowed—that same formal, distant bow, and walked out into the night.

“Your Grace?” Mrs. Jones began. “Shall I show you to your chambers? We’ve a lovely fire going, and I’ve had Cook prepare something light for supper.”

Lydia turned to find the housekeeper’s round face creased with motherly concern. Behind her, Philips stood rigid, his expression carefully neutral. A young maid hovered nearby, clutching a candle.

They were all watching her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. That would be lovely.”

Her voice didn’t shake. Her smile didn’t falter. She even managed to climb the stairs with her head high, following the housekeeper’s broad back down a long corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced Rayments who had probably never been abandoned by their spouses on their wedding week.

It was not until Mrs. Jones had shown her the bedchamber—pretty, comfortable, utterly impersonal—and finally left her alone, that Lydia allowed herself to sink onto the edge of the bed.

The room was too quiet. Too empty. Too strange.

Her father was dead. Her home was gone. And her husband, the boy who’d once held her so gently, who’d promised her everything would be well, had married her and abandoned her in the same breath…

She pressed both hands over her mouth to muffle the sob that tore from her throat. Outside the window came the distant whinny of horses, the rattle of a carriage disappearing down the drive.

And she was alone again.

Chapter Two

One year later

Halston Manor, North Riding of Yorkshire

Lydia shuffled through the correspondence on her lap as she sipped her hot cocoa. Rosie opened the curtains, letting the harsh winter light inside.

“It looks like it will be another cold day, ma’am,” the maid shuddered.  

Lydia took another sip of cocoa. “Yes, I expect it will. This has been an excessively cold snap.” She glanced up. “Is there snow?”

“Not at present, ma’am.”

“Excellent! Then I will still be able to visit the poor with Eliza and Marie.”

After traveling back to York for her marriage, her old friends had rediscovered her, and they had struck up their friendship again as though no time had passed. In a moment where Lydia had felt as though she would perish from loneliness, they had brought light back into her life. This past year had become one of contentment, despite everything that suggested otherwise.

The manor was comfortable, and she enjoyed Rosie’s company. The other staff were kind, treating her with compassion and deference. And for the first time in her life, Lydia had a place in this small society. She held soirees and attended dinners and visited her tenants, just as a good lady ought to do. She hosted their local parson for afternoon tea, and always sat in her box at church.

Hard to believe her life was fuller here, in this tiny corner of England, than it had ever been in London.

Rosie made a slight noise of dissent as she fetched underclothes from the chest. “I don’t know if it’s sensible for you to be leaving the house in these conditions…”

“Nonsense,” Lydia said briskly. “I’m not made of glass.”

“It looks very icy, ma’am.”

“If I fall, the worst I will suffer is a bruise or two and a loss of dignity, which I like to think I can recover from well enough.” She clucked her tongue. “And what of the poor? I always visit today. Has Cook made up a basket?”

“Of course,” Rosie nodded. “What would you like to wear this morning?”

Something prickled at the back of Lydia’s mind, something she was forgetting, but she couldn’t bring it to mind. This past year, she had been keeping on top of London fashions, and it so happened that the current fashion was for puffed sleeves.

“The green muslin,” she decided.

“A very pretty choice, ma’am.”

Once Lydia had finished her chocolate, Rosie helped her into her clothes, fastening the green muslin at the back, and finding an appropriate pelisse to pair with the walking dress. Lydia intended to leave directly after breakfast, and she saw no point in changing again, particularly as there would be no one joining her in the morning.

She had come to rather enjoy her solitary breakfasts. Much like she suspected gentlemen did in similar situations, she planned her day and read the newspaper, and generally reflected upon her current choices. It was a time of peace in what had come to be a rather busy existence.

“Good morning,” she called to Mrs. Jones as she passed in the corridor. The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Don’t forget the soiree this evening,” she chimed, for once excited to host. It had been Eliza Parsons who had first convinced her to hold a soiree.

“After all,” she had chirped in her usual forthright way, “you are quite the highest-ranked member of society here. If you do not, who will? And we do long for a little society. This is not London. If you do nothing, no one else will!”

So she had decided to do something.

And what an excellent decision that had been. Music, dinner, conversation, and perhaps a little dancing if the festivities called for it. All with her good friends, and people in the community whom she had come to consider close.

Mrs. Jones frowned at her. “The preparations for the soiree are well underway,” she replied. “But I don’t suppose you’ve forgotten that—”

“Please ask the maids to build the fire in the breakfast room up,” Lydia called over her shoulder. “And, of course, in the drawing room when our guests arrive. Rosie informs me it’s particularly cold today, and I wouldn’t want our guests feeling the chill.”

“Of course not, Your Grace. I’ll do that right away. But I just wanted to remind you that—”

“I haven’t forgotten I’m visiting the poor this morning!” Lydia laughed. “Can you remember when I first came here, almost afraid to speak to a soul?”

Still smiling, she continued her way to the breakfast room. She had a few letters from her London friends to reply to, and then, of course, some final touches to be made to the dinner plans. Cook always sent them to her for her approval, and it was a part of the process she enjoyed immensely. She pushed the ajar door open.

Then froze in the doorway.

There, in the breakfast room, standing with his back to her, was a man. A tall, immensely broad man, his hands tucked neatly behind his back, and his blonde curls in that particular kind of dishevelment that he preferred to keep them.

Lydia’s heart catapulted into her mouth.

The duke. It had to be. No one else would stand in this room, with all the food already laid out for her, as though he owned the place, unless he already did…

He had returned.

Still frozen in place, she desperately tried to count the days in her head. Last year, when he had left, she had made a note of when she expected him back, but that had been a year ago. A year of life that she had come to fill with everything she could possibly manage.

Her hands shook. She wanted to vomit. All the fear and uncertainty from a year ago came rushing back. Eliza’s words about her position in society lay forgotten, because the duke outranked her. In his eyes, she was nothing but a nuisance.

And more than that, there was only one reason for him to be back here…

Slowly, she backed away from the door, closing it behind her, and thanking the gods that someone had oiled the hinges recently.

He could not know she knew he was here.

Evidently, he was waiting for her. To inform her that he was taking her away again, and this life she had made for herself—the one where she had a life, a purpose—was about to crumble about her ears once more.

All her plans for the week collapsed like a house of cards.

In some ways, she had forgotten her marriage. Her life had not felt like that of a married woman—at least, not one with a husband—and she had managed to dismiss the idea that it would end.

He would give her another property, but it would be in another part of the country. She would have to begin again, making new friends, befriending the servants. Everything would have to start again, and it felt like a cruelty. Just when she had settled in here. When she felt as though she belonged…

She pressed a hand against her heart, stepping backwards until she almost crashed into a footman. He swooped to one side to avoid her, a silver tray in his hand.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” he said. 

She shook her head numbly. “N-not at all, Oliver. Please inform—I am going to my room.”

Oliver frowned at her. As head footman, he was only one step under the butler, and she was certain that he, alongside Philips, knew about the duke’s return.

Everyone in the household knew. And, considering last week, she had begun planning this soiree, they all expected her to have known as well.

“I have a terrible megrim,” she explained, hating the concern in Oliver’s eyes. “When Miss Parsons and Mrs. Radcliffe arrive, please inform them that I will be unable to uphold our commitment today.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” His frown deepened. “But I really should inform you that—”

“Please don’t,” Lydia squeaked, backing away again. And this time, she didn’t collide with anyone. All her newfound confidence drained; she once again had the presence and self-possession of a mouse. “Please do not inform me of anything. I don’t need—I don’t need anything. Thank you, Oliver.”

Oliver’s mouth opened, no doubt to inform her that her husband was waiting for her, and it was terribly rude for her to leave him unattended. But terribly rude or not, Lydia could not face him like this.

Once her turmoil quietened and once she could resign herself to her life being uprooted again, she would be able to greet him with the composure he probably expected from his little temporary wife.

The humiliation of it all! To be released from a marriage in such a way. For the rest of time, everyone would know her as the former wife of the Duke of Halston.

It was all she could do not to burst into tears as she fled back to her chambers.

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 22nd of October!