Prologue

1802

Caerleon Manor, Berkshire

“You’re doing it wrong!”

Little Catherine lifted her hands from the keys and turned on the bench to look at Aaron. Her friend was perched on the arm of the settee with one leg dangling, a stolen apple in his fist, and juice already on his chin, watching her with the particular expression he wore when he was enjoying someone else’s difficulty.

“I am not!” she pouted.

“You are. The third part. You keep rushing it.”

“I don’t rush it, Your Grace.”

“You do.” He took another bite of the apple, entirely unconcerned. “You rush it because you’re trying to get to the bit you like best, and you skip over the slow part, and my Mama would say the slow part was the best part.”

Well, it is my Mama’s piece—she opened her mouth to say, then closed it. He was, infuriatingly, correct.

She turned back to the piano and found the place again, the beginning of the melody her mother had taught her. Not a real piece, not one with a name in any book. Something smaller than that. Something that lived only between the two of them, her mother’s humming and her small hands on the keys, and Catherine had carried it here to Caerleon the way a bird carries a thread back to its nest.

She played it again. Slowly this time. The slow part especially.

Aaron was quiet while she played. This was one of the things she liked best about him, though she would not have said so. He listened the way other boys her age did not bother to listen. He actually heard it.

When she finished, the last note still hanging in the cool air of the parlor, he pushed off the settee and crossed the room toward the door.

“Where are you going?” she called after him.

“To get something. Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“What something?”

But he was already gone, his footsteps quick and uneven down the corridor, the way they always sounded when he was excited. Catherine rolled her eyes in a way she had learned from her nursemaid and turned back to the keys.

She played the melody again. And again. Each time a little better. Each time the slow part a little slower, held out like an offering.

She was halfway through it for the third time when she felt it.

Not heard. Felt. A movement of air near the parlor door, as though someone had passed very close to it. Catherine lifted her hands and listened. The house creaked and settled. October wind pressed against the tall windows.

Nothing.

She slid off the bench and padded, barefoot and stockinged, to the doorway.

The corridor was empty. But at the far end, where it turned toward the servants’ stair, something moved. Quick. Low. Gone before she could be sure she had seen it at all.

Catherine followed.

The servants’ stair was narrow and poorly lit, and it smelled of beeswax and dust. At the bottom, a door stood ajar. Beyond it, stone steps led down into a cool darkness that breathed out the smell of old wood and damp earth. A cellar. Catherine had never been told she could not go down there. She had simply never thought to.

She thought to now.

The steps were crooked beneath her bare feet. She went carefully, one hand trailing along the wall, and at the bottom, the darkness was not quite as dark as it had seemed from above. A narrow window, high up, let in a wedge of grey October light. Enough to see by.

Enough to see him.

A boy stood at the far end of the cellar, half turned toward her.

Catherine’s breath caught.

“Aaron? Is that you? What are you doing down here?”

For a moment, a full and genuine moment, she thought it was Aaron. The same dark hair. The same slight build. The same face, almost. Almost.

But not quite.

The clothes were wrong, for one thing. Rougher than anything Aaron wore. A shirt that had not been pressed, tucked unevenly into breeches that sat too high at the ankle. And there was something in the way he held himself that was different. Aaron stood in a room the way he owned it, easy and careless and warm. This boy stood like he was waiting to be told to leave.

He looked at her.

Catherine looked back.

For a breath, neither of them moved. Then the boy turned and slipped sideways into the deeper dark of the cellar, quick and silent, and was gone as though he had never been there at all.

Catherine took a step forward. Her mouth opened.

“Miss Ainsley!”

She spun. Mrs. Pallard stood at the top of the cellar stairs, a basket of linen balanced against one hip, her face arranged in an expression of calm pleasantness that Catherine, even at eight, could tell was not entirely real.

“There you are, love. Come up out of there. His Grace would not take kindly to someone snooping about the house—even the daughter of his late Duchess’ friend.”

The very mention of the old and brooding Duke of Winchester had her spine tingling. Catherine looked back into the dark. It was empty. It had the feeling of a room that had been empty for a very long time.

She climbed the stairs and took the hand Mrs. Pallard offered.

Aaron was back in the parlor when she returned, sitting on the piano bench with his legs swinging and a second apple in his hand, as though he had never left at all.

“I found it,” he said.

“Found what?”

He grinned. That crooked, quick grin. “The echo. In the parlor. Listen.” He leaned forward and struck a single note on the piano, high and bright, and Catherine listened, and heard nothing but the note fading into the quiet of the room.

She did not think about the boy in the cellar again that afternoon.

Chapter One

1817

Holborn, London

“Spare a penny, miss?” came a desperate voice from the shadows.

Catherine jumped, clutching her worn cloak closer around her slender frame. She looked into an alleyway where a grimy hand was extended to her from a bundle of rags. She made out a face, eyes dull.

“Yes, of course,” she said, breath pluming in frosty clouds. The coins were meant for emergencies—but what emergency could be greater than hunger?

Fumbling in her purse, she produced a penny, which she pressed into the sullen hand. There were precious few, but she could not ignore the plea.

“Shouldn’t be on your own in these streets, lass,” the beggar croaked, accepting the coin, “but thank ye nevertheless.”

“I understand,” Catherine tried for an earnest smile.

She resumed her walk along Gray’s Inn Lane. The rapid puff of icy vapors were testament to the fear that clawed at her throat. This journey was a desperate roll of the dice.

It is foolhardy, but it is my only hope of escape from Haventon Manor. From Aunt and Uncle.

She tried to keep thoughts of them from her mind, of what they would do when they discovered she had gone. It brought a fresh wave of panic that clenched her stomach in nausea. She slowed, putting a hand to her stomach, fighting down the feeling of sickness that was all too familiar in the last few months.

Disturbingly familiar.

Her heart thrummed against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Most people treat caged birds very well. They are kept to show off their plumage or their song. Not treated as worse than a servant.

Ahead was the Spencer club, its facade grand in the classical style. An ornate entrance was framed by broad bay windows. It was a stark contrast to the grimness of the life she was seeking to escape. These places were not for ladies, particularly those who did not have a male escort. But the alternative turned her blood to ice.

An arranged marriage to a cruel man who will view me as his property. A man who does not love or care for me but simply desires my dowry. And my body.

This last sent a shudder of horror through her. She would much rather enter a convent and never know the touch of a man than submit to such a scoundrel as the Earl of Stafford.

She adjusted the simple bonnet she wore. Her long, silky brown hair was ordinarily a source of comfort to her, but presently it felt like a shroud. Hazel eyes, flecked with lighter accents that shimmered like gold in the lamplight, took in the building as she drew nearer. The homey-orange light that spilled from its many windows mocked her with its warmth, offering a comfort that she did not believe she would find within.

For a long time, she hovered near the entrance, smoothing her skirts, adjusting her bonnet, then adjusting it back. A gentleman emerged and she nearly darted forward—but lost her nerve. Then another. Her feet seemed rooted to the cobblestones.

Stop being such a coward, Kate! He’s Aaron. He used to let you beat him at chess just to see you smile. He is my only hope. He would not turn me away, I know it.

At last, she walked up to the doors and pushed them open. Inside, what had been a murmur from outside became a muted roar. Men laughed and spoke loudly. Glasses clinked. The air was thick with the smell of cigar smoke and brandy. She stood in a hallway facing an imposing staircase. Open doors to either side gave a view of rooms filled with furniture of leather and ancient wood, bookcases and tables on which games of cards were being played.

A liveried man stepped forward.

“Madam, while ladies are not forbidden from Spencer’s, they are discouraged unless with an escort. Are you here to see one of our members?”

“Yes, the Duke of Winchester,” Catherine said, putting as much assurance as she could into her voice.

The serving man looked her up and down, hands clasped behind his back and lips pursed.

“Hmmm, the Duke of Winchester indeed.”

“Is he here?”

“I will check.”

“Yes, he is, Devinson, old boy. I spotted him a short while ago,” boomed another man, emerging from one of the side rooms. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth and donned the uniform of an army officer. “Follow me, I will take you to him, Miss…?”

“Ainsley. I am Catherine Ainsley. He does know me,” Catherine emphasized.

“Of course he does. Lucky fellow,” the man murmured, “I am Jeremy Bexley, by the by, Viscount Everdon and a Captain of the Royal Wessex Rifles for my sins. Come along.”

He must help me. He must help me.

It had become a mantra for Catherine ever since she had thought of recruiting his help. It was a lifeline that she had put all of her hopes in. What would happen if he rejected her—if he refused—she did not want to contemplate.

He must remember the girl who used to chase butterflies with him in summer fields. In happier times.

Lord Everdon offered his arm courteously, and Catherine took it. He led her through the club, a veritable maze of rooms. Finally, they came to a dimly lit room in which men talked quietly or simply read and smoked. A fire roared in a stone fireplace at one end of the room. There was a large armchair in front of it, and in it a man lounged. The brightness of the fire rendered him a silhouette, obscuring his features.

As they approached, Catherine made out the gleam of bright eyes, the line of a noble nose and chin.

“Winchester, I have found a lost little bird that claims to know you,” Everdon bellowed.

The viscount stepped aside neatly, and Catherine was left alone in front of the man in the chair. She felt naked before him. He had been reading, but now set the book aside.

In a deep, rich voice, he stated, “Madame, you have the advantage over me.”

“Aaron?—I mean, Your Grace. It is I, Catherine… Catherine Ainsley,” she forced a small, tentative smile to her lips, feeling sick to her stomach at the indifference.

“Catherine Ainsley…?” he repeated slowly. “Forgive my brutishness, dear, but I do not believe we have ever met.”

He picked up his book again, attention shifting back to its pages.

“Well, there’s no time like the present, is there?” Everdon cheered into the silence, “Your Grace, allow me to introduce the fair Miss Catherine Ainsley. Miss Ainsley, this rude fellow who cannot put his work aside even in a place of revelry is the Duke of Winchester. There, now you have met.”

“Don’t play the fool, Everdon,” Winchester muttered. “If I cared for company, I would have situated myself in one of the common rooms. I have a great deal of work to do. If you would like to entertain Miss Ainsley, then have at it, but leave me be.”

“But… you mean you don’t remember Summerfield?” Catherine said, disbelieving and with rising panic, “We spent so many summers together with our mothers. Playing by the river? The treehouse? Or—or perhaps the time we found the badger set?”

Please, you must remember!

Everdon shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat as Aaron continued to look at his book.

“Perhaps it would be better to do as His Grace says,” Everdon broached quietly.

“Wait,” Aaron declared, closing the book with a snap and sighing. “Catherine. Of course. It has been far too long.”

There was no emotion in his voice. No joy in remembering or being reunited with a childhood companion. His shadowed eyes fixed on hers, and she felt them as a physical touch. She felt relief tinged with apprehension at his lack of a response.

“This is hardly the place for a reunion, though. Women are seldom seen within these walls. You are fortunate that the first gentleman to find you was one of honor. Well, just about.”

There was a hint of dry humor in the response, which further enhanced her anxiety. Aaron had always been so open and amiable. Dry wit was not something she remembered. He rose, and she found herself looking up at a giant of a man. He was towering and broad, a remarkable physical presence and one that seemed to command the room.

Catherine swallowed, glancing around and seeing eyes turned in their direction. Simply by standing, Aaron had drawn eyes. Like a savage warrior chieftain.

“Come,” he said, indicating a small door to one side of the fireplace.

Without waiting, he strode towards it. Catherine hesitated. He seemed so different from the boy who had once been her most cherished friend.

“His bark is worse than his bite, Miss Ainsley, I assure you,” Everdon grimaced.

Catherine nodded, took a deep breath, and followed Aaron to the door. On the other side was a corridor with a small, richly decorated room at the far end. The room was lit by two lamps and gave Catherine her first proper look at Aaron.

He had flowing hair that hung to his shoulders. His cheeks were high, giving his eyes a slanted appearance. He looked like a wild, oriental prince. A bold jaw was topped by a mouth pressed into a firm line. He was as beautiful and hard as Michelangelo’s David. If a touch less polished.

“State your business,” he said bluntly, folding his arms.

“You may remember my Aunt and Uncle, too? Benjamin and Nora Tresswell of Haventon Manor?”

He nodded curtly, saying nothing.

“You may also remember my parents. They passed away within weeks of each other. An attack of fever. I have been living with my Aunt and Uncle since I was four and ten. It is… it has never been a comfortable life, but… but now I am expected to repay the kindness they have shown by agreeing to a marriage which I do not want.”

She felt the tears bubbling up within her as she explained. The anxiety chewed at her resolve, weakening her tongue. She wanted free of the worry that weighed her down, and wanted someone to take it from her shoulders.

I will not break down in front of him. I have come this far, and I can go a little further.

Aaron was silent, as though expectant. Catherine looked into his eyes. They were so cold, not the bright and warm, expressive eyes that she recalled many a twilight ago.

What happened to him to make him so cold and hard?

“I… see. That is the whole of the problem. I was waiting for more. Well, Catherine, it seems you are in a situation many women find themselves in. You are hardly the first to enter an arranged marriage to a man of dubious character. It is a hazard of the society we live in. Irrespective, I do not see how I can become involved in such domestic matters. Or even that anyone ought to.”

“You don’t understand… he is a brute. I cannot—I cannot marry him,” Catherine stammered.

“Nevertheless, there is nothing immoral or illegal in a guardian marrying off his ward. And nothing unusual in being married to a man the bride deems unsuitable or even actively dislikes. It would be inappropriate for me to become involved in what is none of my business.”

Catherine found herself gaping. This was not what she had expected. This wall of glacial ice. This face, as handsome as she remembered, but hard as steel and devoid of emotion.

“I… see,” she whispered, “this was not the answer I expected. Forgive me, I am somewhat at a loss…”

“Well, be lost somewhere else. This is a gentlemen’s club. I have always said that they should employ doormen here. Absolutely any Tom, Dick, and Harriet can wander in. I will ensure you have a safe passage back to Haventon, and we will say no more about it.”

He opened a door that Catherine had not seen. It led to a shadowed corridor and an open archway beyond which seemed to look out onto a cobbled back street. Aaron strode out into the street and gave a sharp whistle, then clicked his fingers over his head. Catherine heard the clatter and jingle of a carriage approaching. Panic gripped her.

“Do not worry about the fare. I will cover it to Haventon,” he added smoothly. 

“N-no, you don’t understand. I can’t go back. They will be furious—”

“Yes, I imagine they will if you have put them to some insult. But as your Aunt and Uncle, I’m sure their anger will be limited. One does not remain angry at a close relation for long. You are their niece and their ward, after all.”

“You don’t understand,” Catherine whispered in a flurry.

The carriage was approaching at speed, not yet seeing Aaron, who stood in the doorway. Catherine steeled herself for what she knew she must do.

This was always how it might end. I will not marry that ogre! I will not be coerced. I will have what control I can have over my own life. Or the end of it!

When it was too late for the driver to stop, she darted forward directly into the path of the horses.

Chapter Two

Gideon stood impassively as the carriage barreled forward, the driver oblivious. He had barely raised his hand to signal when Catherine flew into the street.

Instinct overtook him.

He launched himself forward and shoved her hard, palms flat against her back, sending her sprawling clear of the horses’ path.

The driver’s shout rang out into the night.

Leather reins snapped taut.

The horses screamed and reared, hooves slashing the air—and the iron-rimmed wheel caught Gideon square in the shoulder with a sickening crack.

He was hurled to the cobbles, landing on his back and sharply rapping the back of his head against the stone. Catherine, the woman he had pretended to recognize but who was nothing but a stranger, ran to his side.

“Oh my God, Aaron!” She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands hovering over his chest, his shoulder, unsure where to touch without causing more pain. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—I never wanted you hurt, I only wanted—”

The carriage bore two bright lanterns to either side of the driver. They cast a strong light down onto the woman who knelt beside him. A friend of his twin brother, Aaron. The man everyone believed Gideon to be.

Her friendship with Aaron can mean nothing good to me. Nothing that came from Aaron was good. Even his name. My deception can only be put in jeopardy by association with someone who knew Aaron well.

His eyes swam into focus, and he found himself looking up at an angel. She was haloed in the light from the carriage. It picked out the silky sheen of her flowing mane of hair. Her face was round, and her nose was pretty and delicate. Her mouth was a rosebud that begged to be kissed.

“Damn you…” he murmured before consciousness fled.

***

“I am sorry, Aaron. For what I have done to you and the bother I have caused you. More sorry than you can know…”

The sobbing reached Gideon, and he angled his head towards it, but did not open his eyes. Pain ruled his skull, and he knew that unshuttering his eyelids would only make it worse. It was only when Catherine gave a small moan, as if in pain, that his eyes opened instinctively. He was transported to his bedchamber, lying atop his bed, fully dressed and with a cool, wet linen across his forehead.

Catherine sat hunched over in a chair beside the bed. She had both arms wrapped around her middle, and her face was sickly pale. When she saw him open his eyes, she straightened and wiped her cheeks, but the pain remained writ large on her face.

“You are awake, thank the angels!”

“I am… indeed,” Gideon squinted, trudging himself up on his elbows, “what in the blazes happened? I remember leading you to the exit of Spencer’s, and then…”

“You summoned a carriage, and it hit you. The driver was going too fast without enough care,” she said, blushing.

Gideon frowned, touching his head and wincing.

“You are a friend of…” he stopped himself.

I was about to say a friend of Aaron’s! That would put the cat among the pigeons. And utterly destroy the lie I have been living as Duke. I must get control of myself. And get rid of this woman. She is the cause of it.

“Mine…” he corrected clumsily, “since boyhood.”

“Yes. Do you truly remember now?”

There was a question in her eyes, and he wondered if he had said anything else to make her suspicious.

“I… do. But my mind is addled due to the accident. I do not wish to be testing it, looking for long-lost memories. Why did you come and find me?”

Suddenly, he remembered the conversation in the club. Remembered her plea. She sought the help of the Duke of Winchester to escape a marriage she did not want. But it would involve him in a state of affairs he did not care to be involved in.

And the Quakers would not like to hear that I had interfered in the arrangement of a marriage. It would stink of sin to those God-botherers, and my investment would disappear. I must be hard as steel.

He tried to sit up, but Catherine was on her feet first, pressing him back to the bed.

“Do not restrain me in my own house, woman!” he snapped immediately.

She froze, leaning over him. In the subdued light of the bedroom, her face was changed from the glowing angelic beauty he once remembered. Shadows made her mysterious, took away her innocence, and added sultriness, though he doubted she intended it. Her hair fell around her face and tickled his. There was a fine, fresh fragrance to it that made him want to hold it to his nose, savor it.

Her features were round and smooth, eyes seemed to glitter gold as she glanced across the room. His eyes fell on her lips. So plump and deliciously feminine, while lacking any of the usual cosmetic additions of oil and color that women of modernity seemed to favor. His breath caught as he studied her, heart giving a leap.

“Your Grace? Should I send for Mr. McKay?” came a deferential male voice from a scarcely lit corner.

That was Gough, one of his manservants and his valet. Harold McKay was the butler at Caerleon Manor.

“No, Gough. But fetch me some wine. My throat is dry.”

Gough rose from his seat in the corner of the room and left, leaving the door ajar. McKay would have apoplexy to hear that the man had left the Duke alone with an unmarried female. It would offend his Calvinist sensibilities.

And inflame his protective instincts. That brute can be worse than my grandmother.

He took Catherine’s hands in both of his and gently removed them from his shoulders. When he did, she seemed to realize she had been leaning over him and holding him onto the bed. She gave a start and shrank back, then winced and put a hand to her stomach.

“You are unwell?” he asked.

“Quite well. Simply… nervous,” she replied.

Gideon slowly sat up, facing her.

“My head aches abominably,” he grumbled.

“That was… my fault. I apologize.”

“Do you indeed? How gracious. I was quite content at Spencer’s. Now my evening is ruined.”

Catherine looked down, her hands in her lap. Suddenly, she clasped them together tightly, fingers interlocked. Gideon spotted the tremor, though. It was hard to be certain, but he thought she looked pale, too. More than the usual delicate femininity. He frowned.

Whoever she is, I do not think she is well at all.

“I think perhaps that you should be in bed yourself. You do not look well,” he mumbled.

She looked up, seeming alarmed, and he raised his hands, palm outward.

“It was not an invitation, I can assure you. In your own bed, and preferably in your own house.”

“That would be my Aunt and Uncle’s house, and that is not a pleasant place for me.”

“I am sure you exaggerate,” he said dismissively.

“Why would I?” she demanded.

There was fire in her voice suddenly. She had been plaintive and deferential, but now her eyes blazed. Gideon watched her without replying. She held his gaze, and there lay something thrilling in the prolonged stare. He felt that he was being challenged.

Ultimately, he tore his eyes from hers first.

I must be rid of this woman. She knew Aaron from childhood. It must have been during the period that I was in exile. I have no knowledge of her. But if she knew Aaron, then the longer she is around me, the greater the risk of discovery.

“Do you think that I am someone who is attempting to spin a yarn and obtain a place in your good graces. Or in your household?” she sounded outraged and now stood up.

Gideon watched her curiously but kept his interest suppressed. He sensed that the slightest sign of his intrigue would make it harder to be rid of her.

“I do not know. You appear from nowhere. Out of the mists of time. So long ago that I barely remember. You beg for my help…”

“I have not begged!”

“It is a touch late for pride, don’t you think? After arriving at Spencer’s and pleading for my help in front of my acquaintances, and… by the way, how did we come to be back here?”

He had not questioned it until now, but realization suddenly struck him that he had no memory of the transition from Spencer’s to his house.

“I—I made the carriage driver bring us here,” she answered, chin upturned still. “I told him who you were and he obliged gladly.”

Gideon leaped to his feet and then regretted it. His head spun, and he tottered. Catherine moved to his side and steadied him. His head was full of her perfume, and it seemed to calm him somewhat. At least the spinning subsided. It was a pleasant, mild orange blossom scent. Deliciously feminine and with a hint of innocence.

“I am quite capable of standing,” he bayed, reluctantly disengaging from her.

But the memory of her soft, warm body against his was hard to dislodge. Part of him wanted her close again. He strode, somewhat unsteadily, across the room to where there rested a decanter of brandy and a single glass. He poured himself an unhealthy measure.

“It is inconceivable that the driver will not talk of what he has seen. That the Duke of Winchester was delivered to his home in the company of a woman who was picked up outside Spencer’s. It is known that I am unmarried. The ton will have a field day with this gossip…”

“Perhaps the driver will not wish it to be known that he almost killed the Duke of Winchester,” Catherine put forth, mirroring his worry.

“He will omit that part and deny it if asked,” Gideon snapped, “that rogue Everdon will hear the rumor and put two and two together. Oh, blast, but this is a difficult spot.”

“I am truly sorry for the trouble I have caused you,” Catherine ushered, “I was simply desperate, trying to escape… well, a fate worse than death would not be hyperbole.”

Gideon finished his drink and scoffed, wanting her to see him as unpleasant and cynical. Anything to make her wish to leave.

“I have already given my opinion on that.”

Gough returned with a tray on which he bore a bottle of red wine and two empty glasses. The brandy had not slaked his thirst, and he took up the glass and filled it.

“Inform the stables that the carriage needs to be prepared for two,” he told Gough.

“Very good, Your Grace,” Gough turned smartly on his heel.

“No!” Catherine protested, “You cannot mean—I cannot go back!”

“You will. Or you can wander the streets of London, which you will not reach for an hour on foot. We are closer to Windsor than London here.”

I must be hard as stone. Impervious. No trembling lip or moist eye can sway me. I cannot afford to let it.

I will not let it.

Chapter Three

The carriage ride to Haventon from Caerleon seemed to take forever and yet was not long enough. Catherine endured it in silence, staring out of the dark window at the night-shrouded countryside. The odor of the night-soil men’s handiwork reached in through the open window until Aaron leaned over her to slam the window shut, irritably.

“I cannot abide that stink,” he groused.

“You used to call it the smell of the country, a sign of healthy land and growing crops,” she whispered, nostalgic for a time when they had laughed together at the outrageously offensive odour after muck had been spread by their tiny boots.

He grunted, lapsing back into silence. She peeked at him. The boy she remembered had possessed the same mane of dark hair, the same strong jaw and aquiline nose. But in those days, Aaron had been lithe and lean. It was as though the acquisition of a bull’s body had given him a bull’s temperament.

She looked away as he glanced in her direction, not wanting him to catch her staring. Though she wasn’t sure why it mattered—he clearly thought so little of her that staring would hardly register as an offense.

Still. The boy she’d known would have filled this silence with stories, terrible jokes, observations about the constellations. This man seemed content to let the quiet stretch like a blade between them.

The boy I knew, the sweet boy, has matured into a hard man. Like a sapling becoming an oak with a skin like iron. Impervious.

Yet for all his distance, he had saved her. When despair had overcome her, he had put his body between her and harm’s way. That had to count for something.

“Understand this,” he said into the silence, “I do not do this out of lack of sympathy. I am not a monster. But my life is saturated, and I have no room for complications. It would only put my goals at risk.”

“You do not have to justify yourself to me, Your Grace,” Catherine whispered, disguising the pain his words caused her.

“Honor demands that I do.”

“Honor?” She felt a stab of annoyance, which she tried to contain as she had been trained to over the last few years at Haventon.

Defiance brings punishment. Disobedience brings punishment. Only meek compliance is permitted.

“Yes?” he pressed as though daring her to gainsay him.

“I understand, of course,” she replied meekly.

He growled in his throat and looked away, only to look back a few seconds later.

“If you wish to berate me for my choices, then do so. If you wish to strike me for being a beast, then do so.”

Catherine gaped at him. “I can no more do that than you can fly, Your Grace.”

“Aaron! My name is Aaron. According to yourself, it is the name you used when we were children, though the memories are closer to you than I.”

“Why does that make you angry?” she asked, genuinely confused.

“Because…” he floundered, raking a hand through his hair, exasperated, “because nothing. It does not matter. Merely this bump on the head addling my thoughts. Ignore me.”

She wished she could, wished it were that simple. His presence so close beside her was as impossible to ignore as a wolf would have been. Each bump and sway of the carriage upon its leather straps pressed her shoulder to his or his thigh against hers.

The grazes set her blood afire, and she felt her cheeks heating. She glanced away, reaching for the window to cool herself.

“Leave it for devil’s sake!” he barked.

“I am hot!” she snapped back before she could catch herself.

For a moment, she gaped at him in horror as reason restored itself.

“I… I am sorry… I should not have…” she stammered.

He grinned. She had never seen that smile on his face before. It was the kind of grin that must have been worn on the faces of Vikings looking from the dark waves of the sea towards the wealth of England. Savage.

“So you do have some backbone then,” he muttered.

Catherine let her hand fall, face scarlet as she felt a thrill at the praise. Aaron leaned across her again and raised the window, latching it in place.

“There,” he said at last, “we shall endure the stink for the sake of cooler air.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, appalled at her own daring.

She could not get the image of the Viking from her mind. The notion of being an object of attention for such a savage. She pressed her thighs together to make herself smaller. It sent a pleasant, warm feeling through her, which only amplified as she squeezed harder. It had her breathless.

I am attracted to gentlemen. Gentle-men. Kind, warm-hearted. Soft.

Aaron was none of those things any longer. He was hard. Unrelenting. Selfish. Strong. She closed her eyes, pretending she was sleeping, wanting to forget his presence and the feelings it stirred.

She must have fallen asleep because there seemed to be no time at all before the carriage was coming to a halt. She opened her eyes to see the grandiose entrance to Haventon, rebuilt after her mother and father had passed away, in imitation of the Parthenon. She had always thought it looked ridiculous, tacked onto an English country house of Georgian style.

Now, it filled her with dread.

Aaron escorted her inside and through the grand hall, all marble and glittering chandeliers. Finally, they came to the drawing room where Aunt Nora and Uncle Benjamin were sitting. They rose as the Duke of Winchester was announced, but their greetings were followed by venomous darts at Catherine. She hung back by the door, ducking her head and wishing for the punishment to begin, so that it might be over sooner.

“Thank you for bringing our niece back to us, Your Grace,” Uncle Benjamin scathed, puffing out his chest, though it still did not match the circumference of his considerable stomach. “I sincerely apologize for the trouble she has caused you.”

“She will be disciplined, we can assure you,” Aunt Nora snapped.

She was as thin as a rake and taller than her rotund husband. While his hair was red and fiery, hers was graying and tied severely back so that it seemed her face was pulled tight as well.

“I thought it best to return her to you as a nod to our former acquaintanceship,” Aaron approached.

Aunt Nora and Uncle Benjamin glanced at each other.

“Is she… known to you?” Uncle Benjamin asked, glancing at Catherine.

“We had no idea. My sister’s family were little more than squires. Bumpkins, in fact,” Aunt Nora said, looking down at Catherine as she might look at dirty footprints tracked across her marble floor.

“Yes, a long time ago,” Aaron replied, “though I scarcely remember it.”

That cut Catherine deeply. She fought back tears of heartbreak at her former playmate’s indifference towards her and fear at her own predicament. Tears would only inflame Aunt Nora, who could not abide weakness.

Would it be the cellar this time? Locked away with no daylight and only bread and water.

Or perhaps the belt? A thrashing to beat me into submission. Or both?

A wave of sickness ran through her, and she suddenly felt dizzy. She staggered and put a hand to the back of a chair to steady herself. Aaron noticed first and moved to her side, taking her elbow and guiding her into the cushioned seat.

“You ought to take better care of your ward,” he said, his voice already beginning to muffle in Catherine’s ears as he fixed Uncle Benjamin with an accusatory stare. “The girl is plainly ill. She never should have traveled to London unattended—walked here, if I’m not mistaken. The roads are a damned sight more dangerous, even in broad daylight.”

The room was spinning around Catherine now, and she was terrified she might purge the contents of her stomach. That would earn additional punishment as the furniture in the drawing room had recently been replaced in the French style.

What is wrong with me? I ache all over. I am shivering and yet there is sweat on my brow! Oh Lord, if this is what took my parents, then let it take me quickly and end all of this.

“Oh, never concern yourself, Your Grace,” Aunt Nora chirped politely. “We have a supply of medicine that will cure these symptoms. The same ailment that took the lives of her parents, I fear.”

Catherine looked up, frowning. It had not been said to her before, not in those terms at least. Aaron was staring at her, but he looked away when she glanced at him. Had there been pity in those eyes? That would be something. An emotion. Anything would be better than his glacial coldness.

“Indeed. I fancied I knew what her ailment was, but… if it is something hereditary, then I suppose that explains her condition,” he murmured.

Uncle Benjamin heaved forward, smiling. “Do not trouble yourself, Your Grace. Come, will you join me for a brandy and cigar in the billiard room?”

Aunt Nora had whisked over to Catherine’s side and taken her arm. It was a pincer grip with bony fingers that dug into her flesh without giving any outward sign of doing so.

“No, I do not wish to make an evening of this. I have much to do back at Caerleon. I will leave her with you, Haventon, and bid you both a good afternoon.”

He did not wait to be shown out of the house but strode away. Catherine heard his footsteps across the marble floor of the foyer, followed by the front door being opened. There was a pause, a silence. Then it slammed closed.

Her heart sank.

Fear made her close her eyes until iron fingers gripped her chin, wrenching her head upwards.

“Open your eyes, you wretched hussy!”

Catherine’s eyelids dragged open at her aunt’s hiss. The room tilted, then steadied. Aunt Nora loomed over her, lips drawn back in a snarl. Behind her, Uncle Benjamin’s face had gone purple, his breath expelling in sharp bursts.

“I cannot believe what you’ve done—to bring a Duke to our door, to-to impose yourself upon him! How dare you!”

Catherine’s hands fisted in her skirts. Her throat burned. “I had no choice but to dare!”

The words ripped out of her before she could stop them. What did it matter now? They’d punish her regardless—silence bought nothing.

“I had to escape you somehow. I’m withering away in this house! If God is merciful, he’ll take me before you can shackle me to that beast!”

Her aunt’s laughter came sharp and bright as breaking glass. She reached down, patting Catherine’s wrist with feather-light taps that made her skin crawl. “Your medicine will set you to rights soon enough, my girl.”

“And it is not your place to question our judgment or malign the character of a gentleman who represents an exceptional match,” Uncle Benjamin stepped forward, jabbing a finger toward her face. “This is rank ingratitude, nothing more. I shan’t tolerate it! This is what comes of permissive, weak-willed parents who spoiled you rotten.”

He leaned in, close enough that she could smell the rum on his breath. “Frankly, we’d have been spared considerable trouble if you’d died alongside them.”

The words hit like a slap. Catherine surged to her feet, fury at the insult to her parents temporarily burning through the fog in her mind—but she was too dizzy, her legs too weak. Immediately, she stumbled, her hand catching the table’s edge and sending a vase toppling.

Porcelain shattered across the floor.

Aunt Nora gasped. Uncle Benjamin advanced, his face contorted with rage. “You ungrateful wretch!” He raised a large, meaty hand, teeth bared and spittle flying from his mouth.

“Strike her, and you’ll answer for it tenfold.”

The command rang out like a gunshot.

There—in the doorway—stood Aaron.

But not the polished duke who had left an hour ago. Gone was the charm and simple etiquette. This man looked ready to commit violence, his tall frame rigid, hands flexing at his sides, eyes burning with barely restrained fury.

Was that… was that truly Aaron?

Uncle Benjamin froze mid-strike, his jaw falling slack. Aunt Nora let out a strangled cry.  Catherine looked at the tall, powerful figure that seemed to fill the doorway. He was glaring at Uncle Benjamin with eyes that seemed wild.

“Your… Your Grace… I thought… we thought you had left,” Aunt Nora stammered with a faltering smile.

Sharp eyes flicked to the scrawny lady. “I thought better of it. I will be leaving in just a moment, and your niece will be leaving with me. She is evidently not welcome here.”

He crossed the room in three purposeful strides and gathered Catherine against his chest. Her body went limp in his arms—she had nothing left to fight with.

“Pardon? You cannot abduct my charge, Winchester!” Benjamin’s face purpled deeper. “I will have the Runners onto you within the hour!”

“Attempt to do so, and I will see you at a place of your choosing. At dawn.”

The color drained from the rotund man’s face. 

“We will—we will ruin you!” Nora shrilled, lurching forward in his stead. “The scandal will destroy you! They’ll call you the Kidnapper Duke from here to Scotland!”

“Now, now, dear…”  Benjamin ushered over to his wife, his earlier bluster evaporating, “No need to be so rash. Surely we can discuss this like reasonable people. Let me settle Catherine in her room, and we’ll resolve everything over a civilized glass of wine—”

Aaron was already heading for the door. Uncle Benjamin had to shout after him.

“I fail to see the problem. I’m removing an unwanted burden from your household,” the duke said flatly.

Aunt Nora flew across the room, planting herself between them and the door, arms spread wide.

“The scandal!” Benjamin’s voice climbed an octave. “You’ll ruin us all!”

“Then I’ll marry her.” Aaron adjusted Catherine’s weight in his arms, his grip tightening protectively. “No scandal. No gossip. No runners. Now move, madam, lest you wish to be the second in your husband’s duel!”

The steel in his voice sent Aunt Nora skittering sideways like a startled shellfish.

Aaron carried Catherine through the doorway and into the cool afternoon air. She tried to lift her head, but it weighed like lead. Her arms looped shiveringly around his neck, her cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. Through fluttering eyelids, she watched Haventon Manor grow smaller behind them.

Then consciousness fled.

Keep an eye out for the full release on 13th February!