Chapter One

1814

London, Grosvenor Square

Aurelia hurried through the grand rooms of the house until she reached the duchess’s sitting room, a space that in ordinary cases might have been a peaceful area.

The duchess had never known peace. In another life, she might have been a general, standing stiff-backed before her army. In this household, she ruled with a rod of iron, and when Aurelia came upon her, she sat before the fire with her cane in one hand, her narrowed eyes fixed on the door.

Aurelia almost stumbled at the sight. She jumped to a halt and dipped into a curtsy. Her hands shook, and she buried them in her skirts.

“You summoned me, ma’am,” she managed in a shaking voice.

The duchess clacked her cane against the ground. “I did. Can you tell me what you have done to incur my wrath?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Insolent!” The duchess rose, her eyes flashing fire. “Think again. What took place when my nephew visited?”

Aurelia’s stomach dropped into her shoes. Lord Redwood, the duchess’s nephew and the apple of her aging eye, had thought himself at liberty to grope and paw at her as though she were not his aunt’s companion but a lady of the night.

Aurelia had resisted, and evidently, he had run to his aunt with stories of how unobliging she was.

Hateful man.

She couldn’t say that, of course, so she merely cast her gaze at the floor. “I don’t understand what Your Grace is meaning.”

“Is that so?” The duchess clicked her tongue. “I’m disappointed in you, Miss Dufort. I had thought, after taking you in when your mother died, that you would treat my household with more respect.”

“I—”

“Instead, you attempted to seduce Lord Redwood in my own home. Imagine my shock when he informed me of your betrayal. Attempting to ruin yourself in the hopes of his marrying you, no doubt. As though a man of my blood—and an earl, at that—would ever commit himself to a shameless hussy like you!”

A carriage clock ticked obnoxiously loudly on the mantelpiece, and Aurelia squeezed her jaw shut so tightly, it ached. If she called Lord Redwood out for his lies now, the duchess would never believe her.

So much for her home and mode of employment. She knew where this was going.

“But, Your Grace,” she tried, measuring each word, “I—”

“I will not hear your excuses!” She bashed her cane against the floor again, and Aurelia recoiled physically. The hard metal end had never been used on her, but there was always a first time. “If you cannot admit to it, then say nothing at all!”

All the indignities Aurelia had endured, all to secure a place in a prestigious household that would pay her a small amount and offer food and board. All this, and for the most basic securities. Aurelia wished she could throw it back in the duchess’s face—but if she did that, where would she go?

She had nowhere to go. No family to receive her, no home to retreat to.

And so, she cast her dignity to the wind as she fell to her knees and clasped her hands together. “I would never disrespect you in your own home, ma’am. Please believe me. I—”

“Stand up, girl.” The duchess huffed, her grip tightening on her cane. “You ought to have known better, given your position. If you had merely done what I asked of you and kept your head down, I would have allowed you to stay. But I will not countenance this.” She tapped her cane against the carpet. “You have an hour to collect your things and get out.”

Aurelia’s fingers trembled. “Please—”

“Leave.”

Aurelia’s amenity to humiliating herself came to an abrupt end, and she rose, dusting off her skirts. No amount of begging would restore her position, so she gave up on the attempt.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said flatly. Then, because the duchess would never give her a good reference regardless, she added, “Your nephew is a boorish pig, and he has no right to attempt to seduce the help, then complain about her licentiousness when it fails miserably.” She bobbed an ironic curtsy and left the room, ignoring the duchess’s spluttering fury. Without looking back, she strode along the hallway, anger and determination alive in her chest.

She would find something else. When her mother and uncle had died, she had not despaired; she would not despair now.

A gentleman stepped in her way. Lord Redwood, leering down at her from his position of privilege. His hand snaked out to grip her elbow. “Scared, little mouse?”

Aurelia wrenched her arm free. Now that she had been dismissed, what did a little incivility hurt?

“Do not touch me,” she snapped, loudly enough for a passing footman to raise his head. If Lord Redwood were to force her, the footman would do nothing, but the servants would talk. Servants always did. “If you do, I’ll scratch your eyes, you see if I don’t.”

“Now then, Miss—”

Without waiting for him to say another word, she strode through a servants’ door and down through the servants’ quarters. To her relief, he didn’t follow, and she was left to gather what little remained of her dignity, along with the rest of her possessions, and leave.

***

A carpet bag under one arm, Aurelia made her way out of the servants’ door in the side of the house. The first thing she ought to do, with what little she had, was to place an advertisement in the paper. For a lady’s companion, perhaps. Or a governess. Perhaps there might already be a placement she could apply to—so long as the duchess didn’t poison the well against her.

That theory seemed hopeless.

As she made it to the main street, where the façade of the grand house stared down at her, a carriage came to a halt beside the front door. She spared it half a glance, noting the well-sprung, plain black carriage, bare of any coat of arms.

She would have paid as little attention to the older gentleman stepping out, too, had he not seen her and done a double take.

“Excuse me,” he called after her, glancing from her face to the grand house. “Are you by any chance Miss Dufort?”

Pausing, Aurelia took in his appearance. He was perhaps in his fifties, gray playing through his hair and a pair of spectacles perched firmly on his nose. Although he dressed well, it was obvious he was not of nobility.

She could not relax. What would any man want to do with her?

She hugged her carpet bag to her chest. “Who inquires?”

Immediately, he snapped to attention. He inclined his head, giving her a kindly, fatherly smile. “My name is Mr. Arnold, the solicitor to the Duke of Ravenhall. I came here to bid Her Grace to give me an interview with you, but I see I am fortunate enough to find you independently.”

“I no longer live in Her Grace’s household.” As of an hour ago, if that. Still, it was her reality. “Why do you care to speak with me? I have never met the Duke of Ravenhall.”

“No, indeed. Ah—” Mr. Arnold leaned into the carriage and retrieved a letter sealed with red wax and the unmistakable Ravenhall crest. “Would you be so polite as to accompany me?”

One glance at the seal dispelled any lingering suspicion. Although Aurelia had spent little time in fashionable London, through her time in the Duchess of Fenwick’s household, she had come to be aware of many members of the nobility.

The Duke of Ravenhall, she had never met personally, but she had seen correspondence bearing his seal. As a member of one of the oldest and most influential families of the ton, Aurelia knew the duchess had been trying to ingratiate herself with him some more.

“I assure you I mean you no harm,” Mr. Arnold coaxed when she still hesitated, staring at the letter as though it would bite her. “In fact, my proposition would change your fortune exceedingly.”

She raised her gaze to his face. “And what is your proposition?”

He smiled reassuringly at her, as though his smile alone could banish any fears she might have. And perhaps they might have done—the duke had chosen his solicitor well. The man was charming in a very understated, non-threatening way, and he exuded a sense of calm control. In a world where everything felt increasingly out of her control, Aurelia found herself wanting to believe he could fix all her problems with a magical wave of his wand.

Then he said the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard in her entire life.

“The duke proposes that you accept his hand in marriage and become his wife.”

 

Chapter Two

Aurelia gawked at Mr. Arnold in confusion and no little alarm.

Marry the Duke of Ravenhall?

She could almost have believed in an offer of being his mistress; after all, Lord Redwood had done his best to put his hands on her, and if news of that had gotten around, perhaps other lords might have thought her worthy of their grand attentions.

But marriage?

“Er—I see you are shocked,” Mr. Arnold said gently, his offered hand faltering only just a little. “Come with me, and I will take you to my office where we can discuss the matter in greater detail. I also have correspondence from the duke confirming his wishes.”

“He wishes to marry me?” Her voice ended in a squeak.

“He does.”

“But—why?”

“He has his own reasons. Suffice to say, he is in need of a wife, and one for whom courting Society’s notice has no particular allure.”

“But why—”

“If you feel as though you could become his wife and provide him with an heir, then I can make the arrangements for a wedding to take place. In the meantime, of course, the duke would provide for your accommodation and everything else you require.”

Aurelia’s jaw hung wide.

It was as though an angel had fallen from the heavens and handed her everything she ever could have wanted, but she didn’t know how to trust in her mysterious benefactor.

He wanted her to be a duchess? The idea made no sense when there were plenty of other, far more eligible ladies in London.

Aurelia wavered only a heartbeat before finally accepting Mr. Arnold’s offered hand. Whatever this was, running from it would hardly improve matters.

He helped her into the carriage with brisk, professional ease, and the moment she settled onto the seat, they lurched forward. London blurred past the window, and with each turn of the wheels, she felt the odd, breathless sense that her life had stepped onto a path she had never planned—and couldn’t quite step off again.

“Ah,” Mr. Arnold piped suddenly. “Here we are.” The carriage came to a stop beside a smart building, a sign hanging from it. “If you come with me, Miss Dufort, then we can get everything sorted in a jiffy. That is, assuming you agree to the proposal and the conditions attached.”

“Conditions?” Aurelia shivered as she stepped into the cool spring air. Although the days had warmed with the sun, the nights were still cold, and evening fell quickly. Already, the sky was becoming obscured with thick, navy clouds. “And what happens to me if I refuse?”

“Why, nothing.” The solicitor gave her a kindly smile as he opened the door, ushering her inside. The entryway was narrow, but it opened out into what appeared to be a small saloon and an office affixed with a brass plaque titled Arnold. “In here, my dear. I know this must have come as quite a shock.”

Aurelia clutched her carpet bag to her side as she sat upon the seat offered and looked around. Mr. Arnold’s study looked like any other, with a bookshelf filled with large tomes and a collection of folders. His walnut desk dominated the space, and he sat on the other side of it, gesturing to the letter she still held in one hand.

“For your peace of mind, I recommend opening that,” he pointed out. “As you can see, it is a letter from the gentleman himself, outlining his intentions and verifying that his interest in this arrangement is legitimate. If, after reading that, you wish to proceed, there are a few things I would like to clarify and establish before the wedding takes place.”

It was a good thing Aurelia was sitting down, or her legs might have given way underneath her. With shaking fingers, she broke the seal and spread the paper.

Miss Dufort, the note ran.

I have been made aware that your circumstances may benefit from an advancement, which I would be pleased to offer in the form of my hand in marriage. If you are amenable, I would be eager to bring about this union as soon as possible. Mr. Arnold holds the details; I hope you will give this offer some consideration.

With regards,

Sebastian Hale, His Grace the Duke of Ravenhall

Aurelia blinked slowly. The letter came in and out of focus. With the duke’s own seal and words behind the offer, she could hardly dismiss it out of hand as being erroneous—yet what was he doing applying for her hand in marriage in this way?

What was he doing applying for her hand in marriage at all, in fact?

“He knows my circumstances are… less than ideal?” she asked numbly.

“Of course! He could not have known you were dismissed—I discovered that fact by chance today when I came to speak with you. But he knows in general of your situation. You see, I made him aware. It is my job and duty to know what occurs in London, and I take my duty seriously.”

“I—” She didn’t know what to say. “So you knew that I was the Duchess of Fenwick’s companion?”

“I did.”

“And, knowing that, you proposed the match to the duke?”

“I did.” He beamed with a ceremonious sort of pride and reached across the table to pat her hand. “The duke has his requirements, and I believe you will suit them well enough. And, if I may say so, I believe that your situation means you will be amenable to the match, even under these unusual circumstances.”

In other words, he knew she was desperate.

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? As bizarre as this situation was, she had no choice. If she didn’t agree, this same smiling man would gladly turn her out on the streets for another candidate, and she would be left to find her own way.

It was that or become the Duchess of Ravenhall.

How was that, really, a choice?

“If I accept…” she began slowly, “what would happen next?”

“Next, I would arrange for you to stay at a hotel with a maid. Grillon’s, perhaps, as would be befitting a duchess. You would have wedding clothes made up, a new wardrobe commissioned—all at the duke’s expense, of course—and the wedding would take place in a few days.”

“Days?”

“With your consent, there is nothing to do but make the necessary arrangements.”

“Of course,” she murmured. What else was there to delay for? “And the… duke is amenable to marrying me, without ever having met me?”

“If he were not, he would not have agreed to this arrangement at all.” Mr. Arnold shuffled his papers and drew out a single sheet. There, printed neatly, was a contract. “You will sign this, agreeing to remain at the hotel and proceed with the marriage, and to tell no one about the unconventional method of your meeting and arrangement.” He tapped a space at the bottom for her signature. “You will not gossip. You will not betray his trust in any manner.”

Aurelia barely hesitated before signing the agreement. She would have a place to stay that she had not paid for. And what did it matter if the duke was, most likely, old with crooked teeth and bad breath? When a lady was out of options, she accepted even those that seemed unpalatable.

Her husband might be a tyrant, but he would offer her safety and security, two things that had been lacking since her uncle had died.

“There,” she said, putting down the pen with an oddly final clack. “I have agreed.”

Mr. Arnold smiled once more. “Then we may begin.”

***

Sebastian Hale, the Duke of Ravenhall, stood with his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out of his study window at the gale twisting the trees below. In the distance, the angry sea lashed at the cliffs. The weather reflected his mood, although what little reflected of his face in the glass did not show it.

He was not a man given to freely expressing his emotions.

A knock came behind him. He half turned. “Come in.”

“A letter, Your Grace,” Fellows, the butler announced, holding out a letter in an immaculate white glove. “It arrived express.”

With a grunt, Sebastian accepted the letter and ripped it open to reveal its contents. Three words, signed by his solicitor’s hand.

It is done.

Well then. She had agreed, and his life would change. No doubt for the worse, but he required an heir, and a wife would provide one. After…

Well, after she had done her duty, he could ship her off to one of his other small estates, and they could live separate lives. This Miss Dufort cared little for London Society, Mr. Arnold had assured him; she would be, therefore, content to live out her days far from the capital, and far from him.

“Prepare the bedroom adjoining mine,” he instructed, returning to gazing at the sea. “It will shortly have a visitor.”

Fellows inclined his head. “Will they be staying long, Your Grace?”

Sebastian gave the matter little thought. “No. No, she will not.”

Chapter Three

The wedding took place with dizzying speed. One moment, Aurelia was accompanied to Grillon’s Hotel by a maid and Mr. Arnold himself, who assured her she would be accepted no matter her appearance. And although Aurelia was certain the servants gossiped about her, everyone had treated her with the utmost respect.

A dressmaker had come, muttering under her breath about the depths to which she was obliged to sink, but measured and pinned every aspect of Aurelia’s body, promising a wedding gown for the following day, and a full wardrobe to be delivered to the duke’s address.

Aurelia had merely nodded.

Her maid had ventured out to purchase all the other necessary wedding garments—stockings and nightgowns and silky chemises that, in private, Aurelia rubbed her cheek against and wondered at. She had never worn anything so fine.

Then the wedding had taken place.

Aurelia’s gown was a soft rose pink, embroidered with tiny flowers, and gathered below her bust. The silk glimmered whenever she moved, and she thought it was the finest gown she had ever seen.

When she reached the church, however, a fresh wave of alarm washed over her. Instead of the duke, she found Mr. Arnold standing in the duke’s place before the priest.

“I—” Aurelia started when she saw him.

He smiled kindly at her. “I know, this must be a shock. I don’t blame you for your surprise.”

“But His Grace—”

“I will be attending the wedding as his proxy. Fear not; you will not be legally married to me.”

Aurelia attempted to draw herself up. A few ladies and gentlemen sat in the pews, watching them and whispering behind their hands. Although most of their words were lost in the acoustics of the church, she caught a few:

How very like the duke to have done this.

Do you suppose he’s too ashamed to show his face in London?

Poor mite, she looks terrified. I would be too, in her place.

Aurelia squared her shoulders. Over her years, she’d had more than enough time being whispered and pointed at to know both how easily people latched onto perceived differences, and how cruel and hurtful it could be.

She would not let their vile whispers get to her.

Even if a small part of her wondered what reason the duke had for being ashamed. What could his reputation be? The Duchess of Fenwick had courted his interest still, so surely it couldn’t be that terrible.

Or perhaps—could the duchess have been searching for gossip? The woman did enjoy gossiping, as little as Aurelia liked it.

She stood opposite Mr. Arnold as required, nerves squirming in her stomach as the priest ran through the barest bones of the ceremony. Fortunately, Aurelia had not expected romance, for she found none in this declaration of marriage. They were to be united as husband and wife, but her husband was absent, and they certainly did not care for one another.

The instant the ceremony ended, Aurelia was officially the duke’s wife in the eyes of the law and God. Mr. Arnold took her arm and led her back down the aisle.

“I had your belongings packed,” he said matter-of-factly as they emerged back into the sunshine. Perhaps the passers by would think him her husband; truly, she felt as though she knew this strange man more than any shadows her husband left behind him. “This carriage will take you to the duke’s estate.”

“There will be no wedding breakfast?” she asked timidly.

“I’m sure the duke will offer you a hearty dinner when you arrive,” Mr. Arnold assured, just as amicably as ever, but Aurelia had the distinct impression his kindness was now tinged with pity. “Your maid, Jane, will accompany you.”

“Thank you,” Aurelia managed, gripping his hand for a moment. The tiniest part of her waited, hoping perhaps he would tell her this was a terrible dream—a lie cast into being out of desperation and hallucinations. But he merely extracted himself from her and bowed formally.

“Your servant, Your Grace.”

Oh Lord, that was her now. She was a duchess. Numbly, Aurelia climbed into the carriage, finding her maid sitting opposite her.

“I hope you don’t mind me darning these stockings,” Jane said cheerfully as the carriage lurched into motion. “They’re mine, see, so the quality of the stitching don’t matter, and I may as well have something to do before we get there.”

“Do you know how long the journey will take?”

“A few hours, if I recall the coachman correctly. The duke lives by the sea.” Jane’s eyes gleamed with honest excitement. “I’ve never seen the sea before. Lawks, this is so exciting. My ma will never believe I’ve gone and seen the ocean, and as a lady’s maid at that.”

Aurelia attempted the thinnest of smiles—though it didn’t feel right on her lips. If the servants knew she had been one of them—or near enough—they would never respect her, but she wanted nothing more than to confide in a friendly face.

I can’t do this, she wanted to scream. I will never be able to do this.

Instead, she murmured, “I’ve never seen the sea either.”

“I’ve no doubt the sea air will do you good, ma’am.”

“No doubt.”

Until she saw her husband and knew what manner of man she was to call her husband.

***

The journey took four hours, with a brief stop to change the horses and partake of a light luncheon. By the time they arrived at the duke’s estate, the sun was beginning its inevitable slide toward the horizon, and the distant sea gleamed. All around, evidence of rain lingered in the damp beads of water on fresh leaves and dark, dampened earth, but the sun shone to greet her at the estate.

Although… perhaps she ought to call it more of a castle. The great house rose from atop a small hill, ramparts built above a luxurious expanse of glittering windows. From there, they would have a direct view of the sea.

“Lawks,” Jane breathed again, peering from the window.

“Quite,” Aurelia replied.  

Of this house, she would be mistress.

She had never felt so unequal to a task before. Her mother had run the small home she had lived in with her uncle, and when they had died and she had become the duchess’s companion, she became more of a servant than a lady, in charge of nothing but seeing to the duchess’s whims.

Now she would be at liberty to have whims of her own. And she would have servants to obey her every command.

As the carriage came to a stop on the gravel front, the door opened, and two servants emerged. The butler and the housekeeper, Aurelia surmised from their uniforms. Neither looked particularly pleased to see her. If anything, as she stepped out of the carriage and onto the gravel, the housekeeper’s mouth pressed together in an unusual display of displeasure.

“Your Grace,” the butler declared, endeavoring to imbue the word with copious quantities of disdain. “I am Mr. Fellows, and this is Mrs. Hodge, and we are the butler and housekeeper. Welcome to Ravenhall Manor.”

It may once have been a manor, but the house now had far outgrown that, expanding into a vast display of wealth and grandeur.

Aurelia shivered, in part due to the cool sea breeze.

“Is His Grace inside?” she chattered.

“He is.” Mr. Fellows made no further attempt to clarify his answer and instead gestured at the door. “Your luggage, such as it is, will be brought through shortly.”

“You are to have the Duchess’s suite,” Mrs. Hodge explained as she followed Aurelia with the sharp clack of keys. Aurelia had always gotten along with housekeepers at her previous places of work and employment, but this was entirely different.

She was now mistress, and the housekeeper would answer to her.

It was obvious from the coldness of Mrs. Hodge’s demeanor that the elder woman disliked the notion greatly.

Well, Aurelia could hardly blame her. She would hardly have chosen herself as a duke’s wife; when Mr. Arnold had found her, she had been summarily dismissed, though she doubted Mrs. Hodge knew that.

Whatever the housekeeper did know, it was enough to ensure Aurelia could not make a favorable impression. After all, she wore the wedding clothes that had been made up especially for the wedding—the wedding the duke had not arrived at.

“I gather His Grace must be very busy,” she said, hurrying after Mrs. Hodge.

The housekeeper sent a brief, derisive glance back. “He has his things to be getting along with, ma’am. Now, you’ll find this is the Red Parlor. We use this for guests if we do not want to invite them further into the house.” By her tone, Aurelia could only imply she would have been one of those guests if she had not been married to the duke.

Married.

There was a gold band on the third finger of her left hand. It felt like a chain, tying her to a gentleman she had never met and felt nothing for. And whom, she could only presume, felt nothing for her in turn.

Mrs. Hodge took her on a tour of the house, all the rooms bleeding into one another and blurring into a confusing mass of grand spaces. The drawing room had a high, Stucco ceiling and a fireplace larger than Aurelia’s former bed.

The library had more books than Aurelia could ever have dreamed of reading, and the chamber centered around a fireplace in the center. Comfortable sofas framed with tables lined that spot, and Aurelia presumed that was where one chose to read, if one read.

There were other rooms, of course. A music room, a room that had once been used as a nursery for the current duke; a schoolroom used for the same purpose.

As they made their way upstairs, Aurelia happened to glance down the corridor—purely by chance, of course—and saw a man emerging from a room. He closed the door behind him and walked away with long, assured strides.

She stared after him, her thoughts skidding to a halt. That could not be her husband. Her husband was supposed to be elderly, stooped, possibly asleep in a chair at all hours. Not… that.

Tall. Capable-looking. Broad enough through the shoulders to make a doorway consider its life choices. And from the brief angle she caught, his face seemed precisely the sort a sculptor would chip into marble when he wished to ruin other sculptors’ confidence.

Aurelia blinked hard.

What color were his eyes? She didn’t know, and yet she felt absurdly determined to find out. Gadz, she hadn’t even seen the man’s face fully, and already her stomach was performing a small, mortifying flutter.

Would he look at her kindly? Or at all? And if he did, would he see a bride—or a girl who’d been polished up for the occasion and was trying very hard not to gape at him like a country cousin in a London sweet shop?

Would he find her as pretty as she found him… handsome? She doubted it, though if ever there were a time for him to find her pretty, it would be in her wedding gown, her hair made up as though she were a lady.

Because she was a lady now, she reminded herself. A duchess, no less. She should not forget it.

But this sighting—the man could be no one else except the elusive duke—proved beyond doubt that he was here. If he was avoiding her, presumably it could not last forever. He had not sent a proxy in his stead because he was too senile to leave his bed or out of the country on urgent business; merely that he did not care to.

That realization stung more than it ought, given the circumstances.

“There are certain rules you must abide by,” Mrs. Hodge announced suddenly, interrupting Aurelia’s gaping. Her lips pressed tight with more of that lemon-tinged disapproval. “You may venture where you will, except for the east wing, which is the duke’s suite. He is a busy man, and you may not interfere with his schedule in any way. When he is in his study, he is not to be disturbed. If you wish to address him, you may let me or Mr. Fellows know, and we will apprise the duke of your intentions. He may then seek you out at his leisure. Do you understand?”

Aurelia frowned, her heart in her mouth. “I… I thought I was also a duchess? And this is my house too?”

“This is His Grace’s house,” Mrs. Hodge corrected. “You are his wife, admittedly, but nothing more, and he did not invite you to live here so you could upend his life.”

Then why? she wanted to demand. Why had he invited her here if he wanted nothing to do with her?

“His Grace has—” Mrs. Hodge continued as she led Aurelia through the second-floor rooms, “—done you a great favor by taking you out of your situation and bringing you here. You ought to be grateful.”

“Oh,” Aurelia replied hastily, “I am very grateful. And I have no intention of being a problem for His Grace in any manner. I—I merely wished to speak with him and express my gratitude in person. We have yet to meet.”

“You will meet when the duke wills it,” the housekeeper said dismissively.

“What can you tell me about him?” Aurelia asked. “Is he well-liked by the servants?”

“Of course!”e

“Can you tell me anything more? His personality, his likes and dislikes?”

“When you meet him, you will see all this for yourself.” Mrs. Hodge’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “And whatever opinion you come to, I advise you keep it to yourself. The duke does not care for sentimentality.”

So, Aurelia surmised, even if she were to dislike the duke on sight, even if he were to be cruel, she would have no recourse. No one would hear her out. No one would so much as care, it sounded like.

What else had she expected? He had come from nowhere with an offer of marriage, having never met her. Had she expected that he would be a young, charming man with no dark habits and nothing in his past to warrant such an unusual course of action? The young ladies had whispered about his reputation, and now seemed the perfect time to ask.

But the housekeeper was leading her back down the stairs, past a small wooden chamber organ, and seemed disinclined to answer any further questions. Aurelia picked up her skirts, resigning herself to knowing nothing until she finally met this enigmatic duke in person.

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 21st of December

Chapter One

Mayfair, London, 1809

Dowager Countess Lydia Montrose’s Estate

“Here you go, my dear.”

With pleasure, Cecilia took the glass of champagne from her husband-to-be and took a sip. “Thank you.”

As she looked around the ballroom, she caught the faces of various ladies giving her the eye. Blithely, she ignored them.

It was to be expected when she was to marry one of the most eligible bachelors of the Ton.

At eight and twenty, Gabriel Whitmore, Duke Rutherford, was tall and breathtakingly elegant, a study in elegance from the top of his head to the champagne shine of his boots. There was not one blemish to his name; the man treated every lady with respect, he had no affairs, and donated to charity every year.

He was perfect.

They had just finished a spirited Vienna waltz, and while they rested for the next dance, Cecilia used her thumb to nervously twirl the ring on her finger.

“Gabriel, how far are we on the wedding?” she asked quietly. “We haven’t spoken about this in over a month.”

His jaw tightened a bit, but when he spoke, his voice was calm, nonchalant even. “There is no rush, my dear. People have been engaged for longer than we have.”

It’s been nearly two years, and with how we started on so strongly, people are starting to talk.

“Would you like to take a turn through Hyde Park later this week?” She pressed. “We have not had an outing in over a month, too.”

“I’ll arrange something,” Gabriel murmured, his tone dismissive. What irked her, too, was that while he spoke with her, his gaze was trained on something—possibly someone—over her head.

Was it that hard to pay an ounce of attention to her?

“Gabriel, please—”

“I am terribly sorry, dear, but please excuse me.” His voice was flippant and even held a hint of contempt. It felt like he could not wait to get away from her. “I need to speak with someone.” He took her hand, swiftly kissing the back of it before he walked off.

Cecilia gave herself a minute to look at the broad span of the gold of his waistcoat, fashioned to mimic Alexander the Great’s golden breastplate.

It was fitting for the lady’s masquerade party, but there was nothing noble about his dismissive treatment of her. Glumly, she retreated to the seating area and joined her friends.

“That is not an expression I’d expect to see from a lady who just had a romantic dance with the love of her life,” Miss Rosalind Winston, or Rosie for those close to her, Cecilia’s bosom friend, said.

“I—” she sighed. “I do not know what to do. When I speak, it seems like it is going through one of his ears and out the other: It’s as if he’s just… absent.

“A far cry from the man who would send me a bouquet of flowers every day and would call twice a week when we were first engaged,” Cecilia groused. “He hasn’t called in the last month and—”

“A month!” Emma gasped in horror. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I…” she blew out a breath. “I did not think too much of it, you know. Dukes are men with constant business after all. But when he had not sent any flowers or cards, no invitations to take a drive, or to the opera. Not even luncheon, I felt confused and ashamed.”

“Don’t fret,” Rosie cautioned. “We can find a way to solve this. Surely, one of the many novels we’ve read has an answer to this.”

Gabriel’s bright golden hair was a beacon, and Cecilia followed it as he went to speak with some of his gentlemen friends. Friends, she belatedly realized he had never introduced her to.

Looking at the ring on her finger, a magnificent diamond, she wanted to smile—but it fell flat.

It was hard not to feel snubbed, and little by little, her hopes of one day becoming Lady Cecilia Whitmore were extinguishing. 

The whole of the ton had been in agreement that the match between her and Gabriel was the love story of the season. Those present on the night of her debut swore that the moment their eyes had met across the room, every guest there had fallen silent as though sensing that the epic meeting of two perfect souls had just occurred.

It does not seem so now, does it…

All her life, she had done everything right—excelled in school, had no missteps, no scandals, not even whispers, and when Gabriel had offered her marriage, she’d been elated—so why is she still waiting for her marriage two years in?

“Cecilia?”

“Hm?”

 “Could there be a way for you to force him to pay attention to you?”

“Like what?” Cecilia asked dourly. “I doubt I’d get his attention if I suddenly rode into the dancefloor on an elephant’s back while juggling apples while balancing a teacup and saucer on my nose.”

“Oh! I know,” Emma practically bounced in her seat. “We can send a note to him, by a footman, to ask him to meet you in the library upstairs.”

Cecilia listened with half an ear.

“Now, he’s dancing with Ophelia Hawthorne,” Cecilia nodded. “This year’s diamond-of-the-first-water. I—I wish I could understand the male mind.”

“Good lord, not tonight,” Rosie muttered. “I wish the good lady would not invite such riff-raff to such genteel events.”

“What do you mean—” Following her friend’s line of sight, Cecilia muttered, “Oh.”

Instantly, her heart walloped in her chest, moments before ire sparked in her veins. There was one secret Cecilia held dear to her heart, one that would never leave her lips.

Two years and three months earlier, the very night of her debut, before she had met Gabriel, she ran—quite literally—into Cassian Fitzroy.

“Easy there,” he’d said, steadying her from toppling. “Where is the fire?”

He’d looked so lean and powerful in somber grey; mesmerized by the intensity of his slate grey eyes, she’d whispered, “Thank you… um, who are you?”

His slow, self-deprecating smile devastated her senses. “My manners aren’t usually this shoddy. Forgive me, Cassian Fitzroy, newly minted Duke of Tressingham, at your service.”

A silly little infatuation had birthed in her naïve chest that night, and even when she’d learned that he was one of the worst rakehells in London—it still happened.

Emma whispered, “His Grace is here.”

“You mean his scapegrace,” Cecilia said sourly.

Reaching over, Rosie patted Cecilia’s free hand, “Dearest, it is about time you let that incident go.”

She dropped her bread on a platter and wiped her hands. “Let it go? The man humiliated me and then jabbed salt into the open wound.”

“Yes, dear, we know,” Rosie monotoned. “We were there.”

Pushing the horrible memory to the back of her mind, she tried to train her thoughts back to the issue with Gabriel. She did not know what to do as there was no way she could force Gabriel down the aisle, but even worse, this new dismissive attitude from Gabriel rubbed her wrong.

Is this my fault? Have I done something wrong?

“Duke Tressingham is handsome,” Rosie sighed, while flapping her fan. “It is such a shame he is a rakehell.”

While refreshing her cup, Cecilia had to—silently—agree. Despite his erroneous character, the lord was Narcissus reincarnated.

With a lean face, the hollows of which highlighted his sculpted cheekbones and granite jaw, he always wore his inky black hair a bit long, brushing his shoulders instead of cropped like a true man of the ton wore theirs. His eyes, though… his eyes were spellbinding, like ethereal smoke caught in a glass.

Cassian Fitzroy was the god of wine personified, his hair wild and tousled, as if he had just rolled out of bed. Knowing his reputation, he quite possibly had. He was holding a comically large goblet in his hand while the wreath of grape leaves tilted on his head as he laughed.

Between a rakehell I cannot stand and my fiancé who seems to not want to stand with me… I don’t know what to do. I feel stifled.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need a breath of fresh air,” she said to her friends while she stood and brushed her skirts down. The bodice, constructed of white and silver satin, had a wide V-neck gown that almost left her shoulders bare.

The gown fitted tightly to her torso, then cascaded into full skirts covered in shimmering white feathers that, when she moved, made her look the most gracious swan.

Fixing her mask, a creation of lacework and seed pearl, Cecilia took a passing look in the mirror. Her blonde hair was pinned away; the carefully plucked tendrils cascaded down her temples, while her dress was the ace of perfection.

As she circuited a path around the dance floor, she thought—not for the first time—that the night’s endeavor was rather pointless.

The night air was cool, and this far in the countryside carried the smell of forestry and the nearby river. So far from the clustered houses in Mayfair or Grosvenor Square, she was able to breathe freely, which calmed her inner restlessness.

A few minutes of respite before she opened the glass door once more and heard the roar of a ball ahead of her. Maybe she should try to talk with Gabriel once more and get him to understand her anxiety.

“If he does not give me a fitting answer, I’ll count this night as a loss and go home,” she squared her shoulders and stepped back into the ballroom.

Spying Gabriel, she headed there only to get intercepted by a passing Duke Tressingham, who stepped directly into her path.  

Lifting his goblet to her, he asked, “What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?”

Her heart beat a rapid staccato at Cassian’s voice, but she kept her eyes on Gabriel. By rule of habit, she turned and curtsied to him but kept her voice sharp.

“Disdain shall not die while there is much food to feed it, Signor Nuisance, oh pardon me, I mean, Your Grace.”

He slapped a hand over his heart; his hurt expression was comical. “Oh, such a dagger to my soul. How ever shall I recover?”

“Jump out of another paramour’s window,” she slid an eye to him. “Breaking a bone might divert the pain.”

His lips flickered. “I have no idea what you are referring to.”

“Of course you don’t,” she said dryly. “And the Sahara desert is full of flavored ices.”

He tapped a finger on his chin. “You know, that might be the destination for my next travel. Shall I send you some strawberries?”

“No, thank you. It is probably laced with belladonna,” she muttered. “Now, please excuse me, I need to speak with my husband-to-be.”

He looked over his shoulder, “It seems he is occupied—” Cassian returned to her, his brows lowered over his mesmerizing eyes. “In the interim, would you like to dance with me?”

She gaped at him, “Are you mad?”

He cocked his head, “Possibly. I do not think there is a word for my condition.”

“I have many,” Cecilia put in. “Reckless, wild, madcap, rakehell, wanton, licentious, self-absorbed, brazen, lush, aimless, vagrant—”

His left brow lifted. “Do you think of me that much, my dear?”

“I am not your dear,” she spat.

Cassian looked to Gabriel once more as he bowed over Molly Attenborough’s hand. “From where I stand, it does not seem as if you are his either. Otherwise, you would be there and not here.”

That stung.

“Goodbye, Lord Jester,” she snapped.

“How long has it been?” his words stopped her. “Two years now since he proposed?”

“Sixteen months… and two and a half weeks,” she said stiffly while refraining from twisting the engagement ring on her finger. “Not that it is any of your business anyhow. And no, I will not dance with you. Not now, not ever.”

He turned his head to view the dancefloor, and Cecilia absently marked the cut of his jaw over the knot of his toga. “You do know that night was simply a jest.”

“You said I had stepped on your foot and pranced around with a limp all night.” The heat of that shame ran through her again.  “You even wore crutches to the next ball!” she accused him.

He raked a hand through his hair. “I thought it was funny.”

She stiffened, “It was not to me.”

“I’ve apologized countless times.”

“The ton called me Club Foot Cecilia for months,” she hissed.

“Do you want me to write my apology in the sky?” Cassian asked.

“Yes,” she said firmly while dipping out another curtsy and moving off. “And fetch me a hunk of cheese from the moon to go with my supper, too.”

As she walked away, she felt his hot gaze shiver over the back of her neck, his gaze as piercing as a scalpel. Bereft, she went to join Emma and Rosie at the sidelines and sank to a chair with a huff. She was on the verge of crying.

She dimly reacted when Rosie gestured for a footman to come to them and startled when he handed her a glass of champagne. “Your Grace,” he bowed.

That cut even deeper.

“I’m not a duchess,” she snapped.

“My apologies, my lady,” the footman bowed lower.

Emma piped up again. “What do you think about my suggestion, to send His Grace the note to meet you?”

Rubbing her eyes, Cecilia nodded, “We can do that. At this point, I do not see what else can go wrong.”

Chapter Two

“Cecilia, sweetheart…” Rosie dropped her voice, “You might want to leave off the sherry. You are looking quite piqued, and people are watching.”

The disparaging glances, raised brows, and secret smirks behind the champagne flutes and snickers behind fans were like pointed arrows, ready to fly.

They were not going to make their mark as she deflected them with stony composure. Years of experience had taught her that her best defense in such situations was to look past them as if they were nothing and smile. Nothing could get under one’s skin if one did not let it.

All through supper and the dancing afterward, she’d kept a brave face, never letting her smile slip even in the face of subtle—and not so subtle— snubs.

“Nonsense, I am fine,” she waved her friend away.

“He’s dancing with Molly Attenborough again,” Cecilia noted dully.

“Ah, yes, the American dollar princess with new industrial money,” Rosie bit. “She just arrived from Virginia and has taken all her flirty American mannerisms with her.”

“And monopolized the attention of all the lords around us,” Emma grumbled. “Who knew building railroads and dealing in steelworks was such a profitable industry?”

That is it!

Calling a footman to her side, Cecilia asked, “Can you ask her ladyship to assist me with a card and a pen? I have an urgent message to send to someone.”

The man bowed, “At once, my lady.”

With both Rosie and Emma soon twirling on the dance floor, she was all alone. Quickly, but carefully, she wrote out the note on the tray, then stood—and staggered a little.

“Maybe Rosie was right about the sherry,” she mumbled as she skirted the floor.

Sighting Gabriel in a trio of lords, she gestured vaguely in his direction, “Please give this note to His Grace when the set breaks.”

Heading to the stairs, she held on to make sure she did not slip, then headed upstairs. From there, it did not take her long to get to the display room she knew the Dowager Countess had under construction and found a chair to wait.

“I need to tell him…” she whispered. While blinking at the doubling walnut cases away from her sight, she mumbled the words she wanted to tell Gabriel the moment he walked through the door.

“Why are we not married yet!” She practiced, then huffed. “That sounds like a shrew or a fishwife. No, I need to be calmer—” Dropping her tone, she tried for calm. “Dear Gabriel, please may I inquire as to why we are not yet married?”

“That’s better,” she nodded to herself.

Tapping a finger to her chin, she pondered. “But what can I do to make sure he knows I mean business. He is a bit unflappable.”

As she deliberated the dilemma, she noticed the heavy velvet drapes to the left of the seating area. The curtains hung from ceiling to floor, and it looked like there were voluminous layers of drapery behind them.

She shook her head, “No, no, I need to find a way to certify my marriage…”

What would make Gabriel jolt out of his disinterest….

***

“This came for you, my lord.” A footman bowed and handed Cassian a note.

Brow furrowing, he broke the vanilla seal and unfolded the heavy stationery.

“What’s that?” Benjamin Hadleigh, solicitor by profession and Earl of Somerton by birthright, craned his head to look over Cassian’s shoulder.

 He was one of Cassian’s firm friends as far back as from Eton, Cambridge, and various other discreet organizations.

“I humbly ask your presence in the display room upstairs…” he skipped over the directions to the most important part. “I hope neither of us will leave disappointed. Signed X.”

“An invitation for a rendezvous and a parting salvo, even though this lady does not know it.” Cassian spun the card over. “It is anonymous too.”

 As far as I can recall, none of my old paramours are in attendance tonight.

“Are you going to take it on? Who do you think it is?” Ben asked, swirling his glass of whisky. “You are slated to go off to Greece on the morrow,” his friend added.

“Not a clue,” Cassian murmured curiously. “I cannot recognize the hand either.”

“A frisky debutante or newly minted widow,” Ben deduced, while flicking a lock of his auburn hair from a green eye. “And what room is on the third floor, second corridor, four doors on the left? Why ten o’clock on the dot as well.”

“No idea,” Cassian replied. “I do not know this house—” he slid an eye to his friend. “—appalling, I know. A rake like me should have already known the layout of every building, every hiding spot, and how dare the shadows move without my permission.”

“I am surprised you’re not simply doing a tour of the continent again,” Ben said. “You took a shine to Italy, didn’t you? The lovely city of Messina.”

Cassian’s mind flickered a certain slender, dark-haired lady with shimmering brown eyes, always clad in a dark, silk robe, and shook his head.

“I did,” Cassian smirked, “But I aim for something more permanent this time. You know very well that I aim to leave England forever. Besides, there is an entanglement in Messina that I am keen on avoiding.”

Ben’s eyes sharpened. “Please tell me you did not leave an encumbered woman behind, because in twenty years, you will be making my life hellish.”

“There is no child,” Cassian assuaged. “I simply could not give a lady what she wanted from me.”

“I… see,” Ben nodded. “You left a relationship behind while I aim to start one.” He nodded to a lady sitting near Cecilia’s friend, Miss Rosalind, and Cassian choked back a laugh.

“Lady Emma Montrose? The Dreamer? Are you mad? Her friends will scratch your eyes out before you get within a foot of her. You cannot be serious.”

“I am,” Ben replied somberly. “Have you heard her play the pianoforte? The girl is Mozart reincarnated.”

“A rake and a romantic dreamer,” Cassian laughed. “Tell me how that works out. In the meantime—” he pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. “—I have twenty-three minutes to idle away.”

A waltz began, and while two lords claimed Cecilia’s friends, he wondered where she was.

“Speaking of the lady’s friends, is anyone ever going to tell Lady Cecilia?” Ben asked. “Surely no one can allow that farce to go on. Everyone knows except her.”

“She will not believe that her Gabriel Whitmore, the Faultless, has a wandering eye and is only ever interested in the lady who has all the attention in the room. Every single one for the past five years has gained his eye, but he has only proposed marriage to one.” Cassian sighed while sticking a hand in his pocket.

“At least, with rakes, women know not to expect too much,” he said dryly. “With men like him, bounders who dangle the promise of marriage and faithfulness on the line while never lowering the hook. That rock on her finger is nothing more than a pretty bauble.”

“Poor girl,” Ben shook his head.

Even with their differences, Cassian felt some guilt for Cecilia; she hated him, but he did not want Whitmore to take advantage of her by trapping her in a loveless marriage.

No one should let such youth, beauty, and rapier wit fade into obscurity and hollowness. And, hell’s teeth, Cecilia was beautiful, he thought in bemused wonder.

He pondered how she might look if he pulled her hair from those pins and let her tresses cascade around her neck. How would those thick ringlets feel pouring through his fingers?

Her mouth, those lovely bow lips, and the divot in the bottom, were always pressed tight in an arresting thin line. Her pale blue gown had exposed the length of her neck, the slim clavicle, and the rounded swell of her breasts.

“Has she ever taken your apology for that night?” Ben asked.

“No,” Cassian shook his head absently. “And it might take divine intervention for it to take hold.”

Finally, he checked his watch again, fully intending to go to this room and meet this mysterious paramour. “Ten minutes now.”

***

Even with the door closed, Cecilia heard the deep chime of the grandfather clock. She lifted her head from her arm and grimaced at how light her head felt.

“I should have let off on the sherry…” she murmured.

Training her eyes on the door, she brushed her skirts down while waiting for Gabriel to enter. Surely, he had gotten the note, and no doubt she had appealed to his sense of curiosity.

“If he starts arguing… I’ll—I’ll do what I need to do to convince him,” she muttered as the door began to creak open.

Straightening, she hoped there was enough light in the room—she had lit a sole lamp to stave off the darkness. The door inched in a little, and soon, a shadowy figure stepped inside.

She rose, and her head spun something fierce. When Gabriel looked around, she made to speak—but decided actions were louder than words. He was not listening to them anyway.

Dash it all!

She flung herself to him, grabbed Gabriel’s shoulders, and pulled him down for a kiss—her first.

Her technique was sloppy, but it managed to get Gabriel to respond. This was madness! Utter madness… She’d never thought her first kiss would be this way, in desperation. Yet here she was.

The touch of his lips; it was like a lit match to oil.

Gabriel took command, and when he licked the seam of her lips, she gave a start of surprise, clutching onto his lapels for balance. A sound tore from his chest, and the kiss grew even more torrid. He penetrated her mouth with a stabbing force that made heat ricochet through every limb and nerve.

She clung desperately to him, and his kiss grew even more potent—he kissed her as if he owned her. The unrepentant, masculine possession of her sent a strange, singing sweetness through her blood.

How was it that Gabriel kissed like this? It was unlike anything she could have ever imagined… Hot promise rushed through her flesh.

In her drunken flurry, she hadn’t realized the force she’d thrown herself towards him had forced him to stagger out of the open door. Gabriel managed to steady them, but in the middle of the corridor.

It was fine, wasn’t it? Gabriel was her husband-to-be, after all.

It was a bit scandalous, yes, but surely anyone would understand. She sought his lips again. Who would have thought such a standoffish man like him could kiss this seductively? What other talents had he been hiding from her?

“Lady Cecilia? W-what are you doing?” The Dowager’s tone was aghast—but why was she horrified?

It was only when firm hands pushed her off and her eyes peeled apart did she realize three things in heartbreaking, blood-curdling succession.

The man she was kissing was not Gabriel…

It was Cassian Fitzroy.

They had an audience.

Four people in the corridor with them—one of whom was in fact Gabriel—were staring at her in abject horror. The frank truth of the moment slammed into her like a phaeton out of control.

I am ruined.

Her knees went out from under her as the shock and the drunkenness made her head spin even more. Ophelia Hawthorne’s eyes went alight with sadistic delight, and she snapped her fan out to hide her smirk. The second lady, Henrietta Ashbrook, openly gaped at the two. Soon their shock turned to palpable excitement, and Cecilia felt the weight of her ruination crashing down.

Darkness swept over her in waves, her body flashing cold.

Cassian grabbed at her to stop her from falling, but it mattered not. The damage was already done. If he pitched her over the balustrade and into the champagne fountain below, she could not be any less broken.

Her vision grew blurry.

“Cecilia,” Gabriel stepped forward. “What is going on here?”

“I-I—” she felt faint.

“The good lady is drunk,” Cassian said calmly. “Can’t you see that?”

Gabriel straightened, his gaze imperious. “And she so happened to be kissing you to grow sober, is it? What were you doing with her at all?”

“I came here to have a quiet moment away from the hubbub downstairs,” Cassian answered. “And she flew out of the doors.”

Cecilia shook her head and grabbed at her temple as the room spun. “Gabriel, I sent a note for you to come and see me. Why—why weren’t you there?” She pushed away from Cassian to totter to him. “I thought it was you. Not—not him.”

Gabriel stepped away from her. The cut was not subtle at all. “I had received no such note.”

“I am sure, I sent it to you,” she pulled away and pressed her hand to her chest. “Gabriel—”

“You should return to Duke Tressingham, my lady,” Gabriel said with a condescending smile. “It seems he is your new fiancé. I should have known with how seductive you’ve been for these past few weeks.”

“Weeks?” She blinked. “You have never seen me once in a month.”

“Matters not,” he said, stepping aside. “You may have the breeding, but I was sorely mistaken about your class.”

His words had all the effect of a punch to her face.

“Wait a moment, Whitmore,” Cassian interjected. “Is this how much of a bounder you are? To reject your fiancée when she is clearly ill?”

“Ill or not, you took advantage of her,” Gabriel replied pompously.

Cecilia pressed a hand to her temple as small black spots began to pepper her vision.

“I am not surprised,” Cassian snapped coldly. “You never had the intent to marry her, did you? You’re a social vulture, Whitmore, and everyone knows it. Well, perhaps everyone but poor Cecilia here.”

Turning to Cassian, she blinked the double vision away. “What—what do you mean?”

The argument had drawn more people, but they stood silent in the periphery.

“Your fiancé has no interest in you anymore because you do not carry the swing of the attention in the Season,” Cassian said frankly. “Whitmore is a social buzzard flying to the scene of the freshest kill because he craves attention like a plumed peacock. He is only keeping you on the emotional tenterhooks while he roams.

“Surely you have noticed it. Ophelia Hawthorne tonight, and last year, was it Letitia Corrington? Both of them were Diamonds after you. Do you not wonder why they have the loaf of his attention while he gives you the crumbs?”

Horrified gasps swept through the room while Gabriel looked apoplectic.

“It does not detract from the issue that you were kissing her!” Gabriel spat.

“I—” Cecilia swayed as her stomach felt swoopy and her heart hammered irrationally.

“The good lady is drunk, and this is a massive misunderstanding,” Cassian repeated calmly.

“A massive misunderstanding that ended with the two of you kissing,” Gabriel’s sneer was cutting. “I think it’s by design. You are a rake after all, and Cecilia’s been growing infinitely desperate these past few months.”

Cecilia felt her stomach falling to her feet. Blindly, she reached out, grabbing for anything she could hold onto. That thing was Cassian’s jacket. “I do not feel well.”

Cassian turned from her, his brows furrowing, “My lady, are you—”

The black spots peppering her vision surged into a sheet of black, and the last thing she saw before the darkness took her was one man looking at her with disgust… and another with frenetic worry and tender care.

Chapter Three

It is the Scandal of all Scandals.

It is fair to say that every guest of Dowager Countess Montrose’s ball was aghast with horror to see Lady Cecilia locking lips with London’s most notorious rakehell, Duke Tressingham, Cassian Fitzroy—while her poor husband-to-be watched on in utter shock.

“You could see the pain in his eyes”—remarked Lady M. “Who would have thought she would do something as scandalous as that?”

“I always thought she had a defective streak in her”—Added Miss O. “I knew her from the schoolroom you know, and she always had that look in her eye. Always so proper, but it was a façade, you know. She was never a decent sort.”

“The lady was heartbroken and drunk”—said Lord J. “It’s the loudest secret in the ton. Whitmore has the attention of a gnat. He had no intention of marrying the poor girl.”

No one knows what to make of these sudden turn of events yet. Some are optimistic that the good lady can change the lord’s mind, others not so much…

That was as far as Cecilia got with that morning’s version of the London Gazette. Huddled into her room, with the shades down and a fort of pillows around her, she did not know what she wanted to do first. Scream or cry.

Possibly both.

She was ruined—the carefully crafted reputation she had forged over the years was now in tatters. She doubted she would ever show her face in Town again.

“Cecilia, dear,” her mother, Margaret, swept into the room, her face a mask of disappointment and censure. “Come on, you must get up and stop this wallowing.”

She sat up and considered her words. “Mother, what would you do if you were in my position? My reputation is in shreds, the whole town is mocking me, some are happy that I have fallen from grace, and now, I must marry the worst rake in London. Possibly, the continent!”

Margaret stopped at the end of her bed, her lips pursed. “I would find a way to make the best of it.”

A long silence rested between them. “I never intended this, Mother. You must believe me.”

Her mother’s rich golden hair shimmered in the small light from the fluttering curtains. “I believe you. But that still did not give you a reason to drink to excess. Ladies do not get drunk, Cecilia, it is—”

“Uncouth,” she said hollowly, “I know. Did you know Gabriel had no intention of marrying me? That once the attention of being the glorified Diamond of the First Water was off me, so was my appeal to him.”

Margaret’s thin brows met in the middle, “And how do you know that?”

“I learned it from Tressingham,” she whispered. “Apparently, all the lords have their own sort of conclave separate from that of the ton. They all knew he was only dangling me on, and that made it even worse.”

She let out a puff of disgust. “And to think no one would have told me the truth. A lot of seditious scoundrels they are.”

“You cannot blame yourself, Cecilia,” her mother warned her.

“No, no,” she shook her head, “I should have seen this coming. As I sit here, I try to think of what I saw in him—” that cowardly fop “—and all I can think is what I presumed to be excellence.

“He was handsome, titled, successful with nary a streak to his name,” she said. “Even father approved of him, and you know father is not one to be placated easily.”

“I do,” her mother nodded. Her slim shoulders slumped. “Cecilia, the best thing for you now is to stay out of the spotlight and keep your head down. Like every other scandal that has wreaked havoc in Town, this too shall pass.”

Cecilia wanted to believe her, but she did not see how it was possible that any of this would ever go away. Even ten years from then, she could see the snide looks and polite sneers. She would never live this down, much less stomach the prospect of living in a loveless marriage.

“Do you really believe so, mother?” she asked absently.

Margaret did not look so comforted herself. “It is the best we can hope for now.” She strode over to the window and swept the curtains open, flooding the room with light. “Your friends are coming by in under an hour, and you are going to meet them.” Turning away from the window, she added, “I’ll have your bathwater sent up.”

When her mother closed the door behind her, she sat up and rubbed her face.

Horror and shame collided inside her. There was no doubt that she had made a bungle of things, given the whole of Town another scandal to eat. She did not know how she could explain her scandalous behavior.

She was never a person to let herself drink to excess or follow her impulses—but she had allowed both four nights ago, and now she had to pay for her choices.

And now I will be forced to marry Tressingham.

Shifting from her bed, she donned her robe and went to splash water over her face. “Can anything good come out of this? How will I ever live this down…” She almost set herself to tears once more.

“My lady,” a maid interjected from the doorway. “We will be filling the tub now.”

Cecilia scrubbed at her red eyes, “Go ahead.”

***

An hour later, seated in the blue drawing room, and paging through a book she was barely reading, Emma and Rosie swept in, worry painted on both faces.

“Oh god, Cecilia,” Rosie shook her head. “I cannot tell you how worried I am. How worried we are.”

At Emma’s emphatic nod, Cecilia closed her book, “How bad is it out there?”

“You’d rather not know,” Rosie told her, her face falling in sorrow.

Shaking her head brokenly, Cecilia murmured, “I already know. Half of the ton ladies are celebrating my fall from grace, and the others are using me as a teaching moment to their girls. I am now a proverb.”

“That is… the gist of it,” Emma said as a footman came in with a tea tray. “They are crowing over your ruination. Before this, I never realized how cruel some of the ton women can be.”

“I would not expect any less of them,” Cecilia sighed. “People love to see others fall. Somehow it soothes their empty souls.”

“Have you spoken with or seen Duke Tressingham since that night?” Rosie asked. “At all? Anything?”

“No,” Cecilia murmured. “But I suppose he will contact me soon. He promised Papa to get the Special License, and it takes a few days, even for a Duke.”

While fixing her tea, Emma said, “Do you suppose something good can come from this? His Grace is a rakehell. Maybe matrimony can help him see not only the error of his ways, but perhaps even change him to an honorable man.”

Cecilia let out a short laugh. “That is a fairytale. A leopard never changes its spots, and neither does a rake.” She set her tea down and wrapped her shawl tighter around her.

“Tressingham…” she sighed. “—well, he is my betrothed, so I suppose it’s best to call him Cassian, or Fitzroy…” her nose scrunched, “None of those seem right.”

“You can still call him your eternal enemy,” Rosie suggested.

“Or the thorn in your side,” Emma added.

She pursed her lip, “I suppose I’ll just call him His Grace. It is not anything too personal, nor does it make me get closer to him. His Grace told me that Gabriel was worse than a rake. With rakes, you know what you’re getting. No commitment, no pledges of love.

“Gabriel, on the other hand, held onto me like a fish on the line, feeding me crumbs of his affection while keeping the loaf for others. He said Whitmore would never marry me, and I am thinking he was right.”

She huffed. “I cannot believe I was so blinded by his good looks and impeccable reputation that I’d fooled myself into thinking he was a good man. When he’d asked me to marry him, I’d thought it would be a month or two before we’d walk down the aisle.

“The month or two turned into nearly two years with me still not only wearing the wool over my eyes but voluntarily pulling it further down,” Cecilia ranted on. “I do not know what I saw in that fob!”

“Maybe you should tell that to his face,” Emma nodded archly. “If he is only with you for the attention you bring to him, he is shallower than a dry pond in summer.”

Her eyes shifted between both Emma and Rosie. “Do you think that is a good thing to do?”

Tucking her feet to the side, Rosie said, “You are not a wallflower, Cecilia. Do you remember what the headmistress at Madame Rosenberry said about you?”

“That I am spirited, opinionated, and held a cutting wit sharper than a double-edged sword,” Cecilia smiled deprecatingly. “All the synonyms for a hoyden. Frankly, it would have been more straightforward if she had just said it.”

“You’ve muffled yourself for years, Cecilia,” Rosie put in. “For the sake of being a duke’s daughter and under the many propriety lessons you were forced to abide by. I think it’s time you shrug that blanket off and be the person you know you are.”

“And you’re being married off to Tressingham,” Emma encouraged. “A married woman has more freedom than a debutante.”

“So does a widow,” Cecilia muttered instantly. Her eyes clenched tightly in dismay. “I see what you mean.”

Chuckling softly, Emma said, “I think it’s best that you do go and see Whitmore. Ask him, to his face, if he truly had no intention of marrying you, and I trust you have enough intuition to see through his lies.”

Sitting up, Cecilia thought the suggestion over. It would give her closure to know the truth coming from the source itself.

“What time is it?” She asked.

“One in the afternoon,” Emma replied.

“It’s time I sought out Gabriel once and for all,” Cecilia said hotly, getting up. “Help me find a dress.”

***

Cutting through the heated liquid of his bathhouse, Cassian reveled in the fiery temperature of the swimming water. The exercise calmed him, focused his erratic thoughts into a sensible line.

He’d already petitioned the Archbishop for the Special License, but that was as far as he’d gotten.

The bathhouse he’d had remodeled like an ancient Roman bath, decorated with replicas of Roman columns at each corner of the large rectangular pool.

His engineers were miracle workers too, making sure to fashion the pool with grates where heated coal could be placed under the furnishing to warm it. There was ingenious plumbing that took fresh water in and a valve that let the used water out into the pond beyond the house.

He got to one end of the pool and, with a quick flip, swam off to the other end. In the fleeting moment when he resurfaced for air, he heard the bathhouse door open and feet padding to him. Only when he got to the end of the pool did he hold onto the edge and shake the water from his head.

“What can I do for you, Somerton?” he asked.

Benjamin’s patent leather boots shone in the dim light. “Nothing much,” he grunted. “I just thought you’d like a friend to talk with.”

Hauling himself out of the pool, Cassian reached for the towel he had sat nearby. After drying off, he pulled on his robe. “The weather’s been lovely, hasn’t it?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “That is not what I am talking about.”

“Why not?” Cassian said blithely. “We could go to the countryside and have a hunting party?”

“With your new bride in tow?” Ben asked dryly. “I have heard a lot of stories about Lady Cecilia of late, but I am sure her being a sharpshooter is not one of them. Surely you know that everyone is talking about you and the good lady.”

“I’d be disappointed if they were not,” Cassian shrugged. “Bunch of civilized savages. Half of them are most likely spinning lies about us having an affair behind Whitmore’s back and that the kiss was the outcome of our liaisons.”

“I have not heard that one yet, but I will keep an ear out for it,” Ben replied. “Look, I know you were heading away from London for a while—”

“England,” Cassian corrected. “And not for a while. I had everything lined up to leave forever, and now all this…” he gazed at the plaster molding around the room. “Now I have a wife.”

“Scared?”

“Not exactly,” Cassian murmured while cocking his head to the left. “What I feel is… an unfathomable, sickening sense of dread that has carved a crater of inevitable doom and despair inside my gut.”

“And here I thought you were not the poetic sort,” Ben teased, “That almost rhymed.”

“Har, har.” Cassian mocked. Moving to a chair near the other side of the room, he sat.

Leaning on the wall near him, Ben asked, “It can’t be all that bad, can it? You are about to marry one of the most sought-after ladies in the ton. Surely you cannot despise that.”

“It is not who I am marrying that is the issue,” Cassian rolled his neck. “’Tis the fact that I am marrying at all that unsettles me. I am sure you know that a lot of gents have been bitten by the matrimonial infection, but I am impervious to the poisonous fangs.”

“Putting the marriage part to the side,” Ben pressed. “I know you and Lady Cecilia have a connection—”

“She despises the very air I breathe,” Cassian snorted. “That will make the best of marriages.”

“The only reason she hates you is because you gave her a reason to,” Ben added sagely. “You were like a mischievous boy tugging her pigtails, only magnified by ten. I can bet you she took so deeply it stayed with her for all these years.”

“And I’ll have a lifetime of apologizing and she’ll never forgive me,” Cassian said, his lips twisting, “For the taunt that night and for trapping her in a marriage she does not want. Which proper lady wants to be leg-shackled to a rakehell until she goes gray?”

“That’s the very thing,” Ben pressed on. “The church allows you to be married and have the marriage annulled in sixty days after the ink is dried. As long as it is not—”

“—Consummated,” Cassian finished, giving him a fleeting look. “I know the law as well as you do. I am a man of voracious appetites, Ben. Two months of celibacy will kill me before the damned period ends.”

“Eh, I don’t know about that…” Ben gave a sidelong glance. “What happened when you took that trip to Italy? You were gone for five months.”

“I had… friends in Italy,” Cassian said.

“Friends…” Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Or a paramour.”

Cassian’s shoulders slumped as he stood. “What difference does it make? I won’t be going that way again.”

“…She asked for a commitment,” Ben threw at his back. “Didn’t she? And you told her you could not give her one.”

“I told you,” Cassian looked over his shoulder. “We rakes have a natural immunity to such things. Now, will you join me for a coffee while we straighten out this marriage agreement?

Keep an eye out for the full release on 11th December!