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!

Prologue

1804

North Riding of Yorkshire

“Lydia, darling! Get back here!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet her father insisted she must leave them behind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All this would be gone in London.

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

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

But surely it could not be the stable boy.

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

No, a boy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps all three combined.

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

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

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

If anything, that made her cry harder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A few months back.”

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

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

“My friends are here.”

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

1813

London

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lydia had no such misconceptions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, is that not also reasonable?”

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

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

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

“He is rich,” Lydia pointed out.

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

Lydia said nothing.

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

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

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

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

 She still, on occasion, missed York.

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

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

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

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

“You are not on the shelf!”

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

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

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

She had known.

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

Penelope glanced at her nervously. “Is that—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was he doing in her house?

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

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

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

Passed.

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

Dead. That was the word he meant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baron Scunthorpe, she thought distantly.

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

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

Another shuddering sob racked its way through her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Precisely.”

“And then… annul said marriage?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I accept.”

***

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

I, Alexander, take thee, Lydia…

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

He did not kiss her.

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

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

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

And then the journey.

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

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

The questions died on her tongue.

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

“We are here.”

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

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

His fingers curled around hers as she stepped down.

“Welcome to Halston Manor,” he said quietly.

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

“Philips. Is everything prepared?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

The words took a moment to penetrate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the annulment. The words struck like a slap.

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

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

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

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

Then it was gone.

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

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

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

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

He was really leaving. Right now. This moment…

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

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

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

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

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

They were all watching her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she was alone again.

Chapter Two

One year later

Halston Manor, North Riding of Yorkshire

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

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

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

“Not at present, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It looks very icy, ma’am.”

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

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

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

“The green muslin,” she decided.

“A very pretty choice, ma’am.”

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

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

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

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

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

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

So she had decided to do something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then froze in the doorway.

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

Lydia’s heart catapulted into her mouth.

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

He had returned.

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

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

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

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

He could not know she knew he was here.

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

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

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

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

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

“My apologies, Your Grace,” he said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER ONE

1816

Oaksgrove, London

Harriet stood before her full-length dress mirror. The afternoon sunlight bathed her in a warm glow. Her dress was resplendent purple and dark blue, glittering in the sunlight with lighter shades that mirrored the sky. Her long hair was black, and her slightly tilted eyes, green. A smile played across her lips, lifting her rosebud cheeks. The mask that accompanied the dress sat on the dressing table beside her, a black raven—emblem of the Earls of Oaksgrove. 

If only Mama and Papa could see me. Would they be proud? I hope so.

For a moment, behind her in the mirror, she could see the tall, slender woman with flowing black locks and the green, tilted eyes that her daughter had inherited; sitting on the bed and watching her with a proud smile.

“You are beautiful, Harriet. Enjoy this moment. A ball is a celebration of beauty and you will be the center of attention.”

“And who knows, perhaps you will meet your husband this evening? He had better be worthy of you.”

That was the deep voice of her father, with his long, shaggy light-colored mane and square-jawed face. Sitting next to her mother, one strong arm protectively around her, as Harriet had seen many times when they were alive.

“Who knows indeed,” Harriet whispered, letting the memory of her parents fade.

She could not think of them without some sadness, even today when she was at her happiest. They had been taken so suddenly from her and Ralph. Neither of them had been given the chance to say goodbye.

Ralph copes by throwing himself into the role of Earl. Master of the house and my guardian. Perhaps a little too zealously, but I must forgive him that. He only wants to protect me. As Mama and Papa did.

And this evening, Ralph would escort her to the masquerade ball of the Duke and Duchess of Chelmsford. She snatched up her mask, affixing it to her face, and dashed from her rooms. Along the carpeted hallway past the many landscape paintings created by her father, down the stairs to the second floor, and along the hallway there to her grandmother’s rooms.

She knocked quickly and opened the door. In the sitting room with its south-facing windows, she saw her grandmother sitting in her favorite seat, looking out over the gardens planted by her daughter-in-law, Harriet’s mother.

“No, child,” Agnes Tisdale, Dowager Countess of Danbury, began, “I was not in conference.”

“I did knock, grandmama,” Harriet grimaced.

“Barely,” Agnes replied with a pointed chin.

She had a croquet hoop on her lap and wore her customary black, mourning that had begun for her husband and continued for her son and his wife. She had a strong jaw and the Tisdale’s fair hair, though the only color remaining was white.

“What do you think?” Charlotte asked, turning in a circle with arms widespread.

“A truly beautiful example of Corvus Corax,” Agnes noted.

Harriet tilted her head, a birdlike gesture, confused. Agnes rolled her eyes expressively.

“Child, your parents should have paid more attention to your tutors. It is the Latin name for the raven.”

Harriet smiled, removing the mask and shaking her raven-dark hair loose.

“Ah, Latin was never my strong suit, though I did love my natural history studies.”

“They gave you and your brother a great deal too much leeway when it came to choosing your studies. He wanted to do nothing but ride and shoot, and you wanted to run wild in the woods. Your parents would not be told. They were too keen to see the pair of you happy, even if unhappiness was in your own best interests.”

Harriet gave her grandmother a level look, taking a seat opposite her.

“You do not fool me, grandmama. I remember the stories Papa told me about his upbringing. I think you indulged him as much as he indulged Ralph and me.”

“I did. I was foolish. And look what happened, child.”

She wagged a stern finger at Harriet, who took it and kissed it. Agnes allowed a rueful smile to break through her customary stern expression, drew her granddaughter to her, and kissed the top of her head.

“I am glad that Ralph has overcome his usual excessive protectiveness and is taking you to the Chelmsfords’ ball this evening. A bird should be free, not cooped up in a cage. Even one as gilded as Oaksgrove.”

Harriet rocked. “I am so excited I could barely sleep! I am sure that by the end of this evening, I will be asleep before my head hits the pillow,” she laughed, “I have not been to a ball since my debut. Not to a luncheon or a promenade in Chelmsford. This estate has felt like a prison at times.”

She looked out of the window at the gardens that her mother had loved so much; at the woods beyond which clustered thickly around the southern end of the Oaksgrove estate and included the ancient grove that the estate took its name from.

Though she had the freedom of the grounds and the woods, it felt limiting to know that she was not permitted to go beyond without either Ralph or her grandmother as escort. Not permitted to ride or be carried by carriage alone, either, and never to travel in any carriage that did not belong to Ralph and, therefore, was kept in a state of meticulously good repair.

“Your brother bears the weight of an Earl. Guardian of this house, these lands, his sister and aged grandmother both. It is a heavy burden, and he does the best that any man can,” Agnes remarked somberly, her voice dry with age.

“Of course he does,” Harriet murmured, “and I am one year away from my majority. Then I shall be able to carry some of that weight myself.”

A knock at the door was followed by the door opening, almost before the sound of the knock had reached them. A tall young man with long legs and a shock of coal black hair stepped into the room. He wore an overcoat and carried a top hat. Behind him was a groom carrying two suitcases as well as Oakgrove’s butler, Mr. Beecham.

“Ah, you’re both here. How fortuitous! I just wanted to say goodbye. I received a letter this morning and must bring forward my plans to travel to Bristol. I shall be away for about a month, I should think.”

He spoke in a clipped voice, ever efficient when talking of business. He had the same green eyes as Harriet, his prominent jaw looked out of place with his lean physique, the former from his father; the latter from his mother. Harriet felt a cold chill run through her.

“But this evening is the Chelmsford ball, Ralph… You were to escort me,” she reminded, rising from her seat.

He clapped his hands by his chest. “Ah, yes, I appreciate you must be disappointed, Hattie. But there is nothing for it. I must be in Bristol by daybreak to catch the tide. My ship is due to sail, and I must speak to her captain regarding his trading instructions. There will be other balls.”

It was put in dismissively, as though this occasion were of no consequence.

To him, it quite possibly isn’t. He has the freedom to come and go as he pleases. It does not matter to him that he will not attend the ball. But to me, it is the first time in more than a year that he has agreed to allow me to leave Oaksgrove!

“But Ralph, I have been so looking forward to…”

He looked at her tolerantly and crossed the room to take her hands. There was a kindly look on his face, but also a resolute expression.

“Dear Harriet, I assure you there will be other occasions, but no other chance for me to conduct the business arrangements that are for the good of us all. Please don’t make a fuss.”

Agnes frowned. “No, Ralph, your sister has gone to a great deal of trouble for this evening. Surely, she can be accompanied by—”

“No,” Ralph snapped, “she will not attend alone. Under no circumstances!”

“I am a grown woman…” Harriet protested weakly.

“Only just, and with no experience of the world,” Ralph added.

“But how am I to gain experience of the world if I am locked away here!” Harriet cried.

“Hardly locked away. You have the run of the estate. I am merely saying that you cannot attend the Duke of Chelmsford’s ball,” Ralph said patiently, “come to think of it, Beecham, I would like you to keep a close eye on my sister.”

He directed this last to the butler who stood behind him. The man was shorter than his master and stocky with close-cropped red hair and a freckled, pale-skinned face with blue eyes. He nodded sharply.

“As you say, mi-lord,” he said in a steely tone, glancing once at Harriet.

“And I will hear no more on the subject from you, Hattie. It is for your own good. Perhaps I will find a suitable husband for you during my time in Bristol, think on that.”

He kissed her forehead and gave her hands a squeeze. He smiled benevolently, and Harriet returned the smile weakly.

The house was a prison once more.

“If you will excuse me, I think I will take the air for a while,” she breathed shakily.

Without waiting, she left the room, heading downstairs and for the nearest door that would let her out into the grounds. The hallways and rooms of Oaksgrove seemed smaller all of a sudden, and she felt a craving for fresh open air.

***

“Psst! Harriet, are you alone?”

Harriet was startled out of a reverie that had engulfed her as she walked through the gardens of Oaksgrove. Beside her was a low wall of stone that separated the gardens from the woods beyond. A head of fiery, gold hair was peeking above that wall, framing pale blue eyes.

Harriet looked around. Not for Ralph, he would have left without a second thought. But for Beecham. A very loyal servant and one who took his instructions very seriously.

There was no sign of the butler in the gardens, but Harriet could not be certain that the man was not watching her from one of the house’s windows.

“I think so, Jane. I will meet you at the gate,” she whispered back. 

The gate that allowed access to the grove and the woods beyond was a quarter mile along the wall.

“That is far too far! I will meet you at the arbor over there. The wall is not high.”

The head disappeared behind the wall. Harriet hurried along the path to the rose arbor that was a few yards away. She walked under the bright red and white flowers, breathing in their heady aroma. Jane Sullivan appeared atop the wall, scrambled over it to drop to the other side before carefully sidestepping her way through the clutching rose thorns. She grinned at Harriet, who could not help laughing at her friend’s brazen daring.

“What would happen if you fell and twisted an ankle?” Harriet chided gently, “Or tore your dress on a rose thorn?”

Jane shrugged. “I would get the dress repaired, and as to the ankle, Papa is frequently hobbling about on crutches with gout. I should pretend the same.”

The idea of the slender, quick-footed young girl being afflicted with an illness that struck down old men was comical. Harriet laughed despite the sadness that threatened to drag her down into a pit of despair.

“I know you well enough, Harriet, to see through that smile. I arrived just in the nick of time. Whatever is the matter?”

She threaded her hands through Harriet’s arm, hanging on tightly. They walked through the rose arbor.

“Ralph has been called away on business. I will not be attending the Chelmsford ball after all,” Harriet said despondently.

“What rot!” Jane exclaimed. “I am being escorted by my cousin Phillip Hamilton of Heybridge. He is entirely respectable and would gladly provide an escort for you from among his brothers. I think his next younger brother, Edmund, is to take clerical orders. You cannot get more respectable than that.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Harriet sighed. “It is not the lack of an escort that prevents me from attending, but that Ralph himself cannot be there. He is very protective, as you know, ever since…” 

They reached the end of the arbor, and Harriet stopped. She looked back over her shoulder at the house. In one of the windows on the second floor, she thought she saw movement, as of a figure standing at the window, watching.

“Let’s stay here for the moment. Where we cannot be seen,” she murmured.

Jane peered through the interlaced roses at the house.

“Is your brother spying on you?” she demanded, sounding outraged at the notion.

“Not personally. He asked Beecham to keep an eye on me, and the man takes his orders far too literally.”

“The man is a servant! And you are the lady of the house now. You can order him not to.”

“He will not take my orders where they contradict his master’s.”

Jane frowned, stroking her chin as she always did when thinking.

“And will he bar you from leaving the house?” she asked.

Harriet nodded.

“Then we must sneak you out. I have sneaked myself out of the house enough times,” Jane said.

Harriet laughed in astonishment.

Sneak out against Ralph’s orders? The very idea is… well, it is quite preposterous. I could not… could I?

“Beecham will be fully occupied around dinner time with preparation for dinner. And I will be expected to be in my room dressing. He will not know if I dress for the ball instead,” Harriet began, excitement at the plan growing within her.

“Exactly! If you send a note down to Beecham telling him that you feel unwell and will take a light supper in your rooms, then you will not be missed for hours!” Jane encouraged.

“I could even instruct that my meal be left for me in the sitting room while I rest in my bedroom. He would not dare put his head in there unless I gave leave. Which I will not!”

Harriet giggled, and Jane echoed her. It was mad and reckless, but it was also exciting, both the idea of attending the ball alone and disobeying Ralph.

“So? Are we going to defy your brother and go to the ball?” Jane asked.

“Yes!” Harriet said emphatically.

​CHAPTER TWO

“Penhaligon, old chap. You are slowing down the game. We await your hand with bated breath!” called Reuben Ridlington, the Earl of Colchester, from beneath a thatch of brown hair. An hour into the Chelmsfords’ ball, and his cravat was already draped over a bust with his collar undone.

“Play it for me, would you?” murmured Jeremy Cavendish, Duke of Penhaligon, distractedly.

He had long blonde hair and fierce blue eyes above a hawk’s nose and bold mouth. He looked every inch the Teutonic barbarian, a testament to his Germanic heritage on his paternal grandmother’s side. He leaned on a marble balcony, looking down onto the ballroom of the Chelmsford Manor. On the index finger of his left hand idly spun a set of keys. His eyes roamed the gathered guests.

This evening must be planned with military efficiency. I must impress the Winchesters, show myself to be the very image of the respectable English gentleman. But then there is Mademoiselle de Rouvroy. How can a man be respectable when confronted with such temptation?

“Are you sure, sport?” Nash Sullivan, Viscount Maldon, asked.

He flipped a coin over his fingers with dexterity, eyeing the pile that had accumulated over the course of the hour.

“There is quite a pot built up,” he noted, “and you will require every penny if you want to go ahead with this pipe dream of owning the Winchester Opera House.”

Jeremy turned from the balcony, then peeled back the corners of the hand of cards that lay face down on the table. He casually tossed forth a couple of coins.

“I’ll take another,” he said, discarding one of his cards.

“And raise the bet? You’re feeling confident. Which makes me feel poor. I will fold,” Reuben muttered, turning over his cards with an expression of disgust.

Jeremy grinned, the smile of a rogue.

“Your trouble, Colchester, is that you are too cautious. Even when we were at school.”

“I got whipped half as many times as you,” Reuben pointed out, leaning back in his chair and fetching his wine glass from a precarious perch beside the bust which wore his cravat.

“And I got twice as many girls as you. It was worth the whipping,” Jeremy shrugged. He looked across the table at his other old school friend, who watched him with shrewd, green eyes.

“I will meet your wager and take two!” the fox-haired fellow declared with gusto. 

Reuben guffawed at the boldness, clapping his hands together. Jeremy winced, looking back over his shoulder at the gathering guests below.

“Keep it down, would you, drunkard!” he hissed, “I do not wish it to be public knowledge that I am up here gambling with you two reprobates.”

“Which reprobates would you rather be seen with?” Reuben quirked a brow, supping deeply of his glass of ruby red wine.

“None. The Winchesters are Puritanical when it comes to gambling and drinking. Their only liberalism comes in their appreciation for music and theater. I must be as lily white as they if they are to sell to me.”

“Yes, well, you should probably be down there with them instead of up here with us then, old chap,” Nash smirked, “and it is your hand.”

Why am I not down there with the rest of Essex society? I risk everything by indulging in a game of cards. And by meeting with a certain Mademoiselle.

He knew that there was a self-destructive streak in him. An urge to resist anything he saw as compulsion. That included the social rules that a duke was expected to abide by. Rules that he knew he must abide by if he was to achieve his goals.

And match my ancestors. Every one of them has accomplished something, left their mark.

Jeremy returned to the balcony, putting his black wolf mask in place to conceal his identity. His eyes skimmed across the sea of preening peacocks and women striving to achieve beauty through baubles and glittering precious metals. His mouth curled in disdain. He could not see the Winchesters yet. His eyes fell upon a woman who had just entered the room below. His roving gaze froze upon her.

A black dress? Surely not. Who would be so bold? Ah, not black. I see the way the light catches it. Purple and navy blue with a raven mask, unless I miss my guess. And hair the color of rich loam…

She moved into the room with hesitant grace, her eyes flitting constantly. A smile played across her lips. A smile of pleased wonder. A debutante, perhaps? Or at least a young lady unaccustomed to such occasions.

Her shoulders were pale as milk, as was the expanse of bosom which her dress revealed. Jeremy found himself breathless as he watched her. The dress was expertly crafted, clinging so that it revealed and hinted at the body beneath without overtly revealing more than was decent. The way she wore it was even more sensual. She had grace and femininity but also a naivete that he found alluring.

Jeremy realized that his mouth was dry. He licked his lips, picking up a full wine glass that he had not touched since he had arrived. He took a swallow.

Something made her look up.

Perhaps the movement of his arm reaching for the glass.

Her eyes met his.

It was like an arrow passing through him. It was too far to detect the color of her eyes, but close enough that he could see they were not dark. Jeremy stared back at her, seeing her freeze just as he had.

Then someone passed between them, breaking their connection.

“Who is that?” he asked his two companions.

“Anything to distract from a losing hand,” Nash tutted, pushing his chair back. Reuben drained his glass and joined Jeremy at the balcony too.

“Who?” he asked.

Jeremy turned back to the ballroom, but the raven had been swallowed up by the crowd. He looked around, searching for any hint of black amid the brightly colored ladies and gentlemen. He could not see her.

“She has disappeared, but I will wager my purse that it was my French beauty. So, you two can keep your cards and this vinegar,” he pushed his wine into Reuben’s hand, “and I will go to my adventure. Enjoy your dancing.”

He grinned insolently, tossing a coin onto the table to cover Nash’s wager and flipping his cards over. Nash ground his teeth as he looked back at his own and saw that he had been beaten. Jeremy didn’t care. He laughed. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that the raven temptress was indeed Mademoiselle de Rouvroy.

Who else would be so bold as to wear dark colors to a July ball? Only a French woman with all the sense of style and daring that went with that nationality. And were the French not typically dark of hair?

In his coat pocket, something clinked metallically. He tossed the small set of keys on his palm and thought of the use he intended to put the small, metal objects to. There would be time later to show his respectability.

Now was the time for adventure and pleasure.

​CHAPTER THREE

Harriet exchanged glances with Jane as they walked towards the open doors of the ballroom. So far, Chelmsford Manor had proved a palace to Harriet’s eyes. She was conscious of the many well-dressed and sophisticated-seeming men and women around her, none of whom seemed to be paying any attention to the house.

I do not want to seem like a gawping debutante. But there is so much to see! And so beautiful. Everyone is beautiful. Bright and colorful! I feel quite drab by comparison…

Jane’s costume was a yellow rose with the flower forming her mask. Her golden hair was an extra layer of petals. Harriet could not see many ladies wearing the dark colors that she had chosen. Jane squeezed her hand.

“Your costume is stunning. Very striking. You should not be self-conscious,” she whispered.

“That is easy to say,” Harriet whispered back.

“Pretend we are the only people here. There is no-one looking at you. Behave as we do when we are alone. I promise that when the young men see the Harriet I know, they will all come toppling over each other.”

“Again, easily said,” Harriet murmured, swallowing as they stepped into the ballroom.

She felt as though she were stepping into the middle of a hollowed-out precious stone. A room made of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Chandeliers glittered and threw off bright sparks of light that reflected from the jewelry of the gathered ladies. Mirrors gave the large room a sense of being even larger, giving it the dimensions of a cathedral. Lamps and candles cast a warm light that softened edges and picked out flattering highlights in hair and on skin.

Harriet forgot herself as she tried to take in everything, looking around with a smile of wonder on her face. A movement above drew her eye, and she stopped dead. A man was looking down from a balcony above. He had the mask of a black wolf and was the only person Harriet had seen wearing dark colors.

He is staring at me! No, I must be mistaken. He is probably looking at someone just behind me, or at… no, he is looking at me!

She could not look away. Her breathing came in quick pants, and her mouth went dry. A thrill ran through her body, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. That gaze was like a physical caress. Harriet could almost feel it. A hand that stroked through her hair, down her neck and spine. Her heart was attempting to break out of her chest, hammering.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Raven.”

The contact was broken. Harriet looked away to the man who had spoken to her. A crowd of ladies and gentlemen swept by, and when she looked back, she could not see the balcony.

“A pleasure to meet you, Master… Lion,” Harriet stammered.

The man was a little taller than her with a lion mask and a mane of brown hair to match.

“A bold choice, but fitting,” he remarked.

“Pardon?” Harriet replied without thinking before getting some measure of control, “I mean, what is a bold choice?”

“Black on such an occasion. It does rather draw the eye. But fitting for a raven.”

“It is purple, though I can forgive you for thinking it black in this light. The raven is a bird connected to my family,” Harriet managed to reply, “no boldness intended.”

She continued somehow through a few minutes of small talk, promising the Lion a dance when the time came. He moved on before she realized that he had not given her his name, nor had she.

Perhaps that is the way of a masked ball. It certainly adds a little spice. Why, I have just had a conversation, alone and unchaperoned with a gentleman. It would not have happened had Ralph been here. I would have been steered to the edge of the room and seated with the old spinsters.

A sense of liberation coursed through her, making her pulse race almost as much as the eyes of the Black Wolf had. Now that she looked, she could see other men who had chosen the wolf mask. All looked quite ordinary, the men fat or thin, short or tall. None gave her the frisson of excitement that the gentleman atop the balcony had managed.

And with nothing but his eyes. Imagine what he could do with his lips. Oh my, what am I thinking?

She felt suddenly dizzy. Her senses were overwhelmed by light and dazzling color. She could not believe the brazen nature of her thoughts based on nothing but a pair of eyes.

I was not even close enough to detect their color. I must take care not to have any wine if this is how giddy I become after nothing more than a shared glance…

But it had been more than that. Something had passed between them, holding their eyes together. Something had made her heart pound as it had never before. Made wanton, reckless thoughts come into her head. She looked around for Jane but could not see her. The shock of realizing she was alone made her suddenly nervous.

It seemed as though the room were spinning around her, the masked faces crowding towards her. All staring. All judging. Suddenly panicked, Harriet started blindly across the room. She tried not to bump anyone while she moved as quickly as the crowd allowed her to. Some gentlemen tried to speak to her, and she did not remember what she said to disengage from them, only that she managed it.

Then a door opened, elegantly paneled to resemble the rest of the wall. A servant slipped in carrying a tray of drinks. Harriet stepped through and closed the door behind her.

The sense of relief was immediate. The hallway beyond the door was quiet and shadowed, lit by lamps arranged along its length in alcoves.

“Oh my, I did not expect a reaction like that. Perhaps Ralph was right in not allowing me to come here without him. Perhaps I am not ready…”

The very notion angered her. It smacked of cowardice, and she berated herself for squandering this rare opportunity for freedom. Realizing that she was standing with her back to the door, she forced herself to stand upright and walk.

“I will take the chance of some peace and quiet to explore this house…” she spoke out into the silence with conviction. “I will not shy away, and in a moment or two, I will return to the ballroom and… and mingle.”

The thought frightened her, but she embraced the fear, knowing that it came from stepping into the unknown. Stepping beyond her brother’s protective shadow. She quickened her step, taking in the paintings on the wall and evaluating them based on her father’s work and what he had taught her of art.

The hallway led to a larger passage, decorated with statues and busts under a high, ornately decorated ceiling. The figure of a lone gentleman standing before the statue of a woman caught her eye because of his dark costume. But on closer inspection, it was not the Black Wolf but a dark shade of green. As he began to turn in her direction, she slipped through a nearby door, suddenly unwilling to be engaged in conversation.

Now that was an odd decision. I came here to experience something of life, and that must include talking to people. Just because he was not the Wolf does not mean that I should avoid him. He might be a very nice gentleman.

She had decided to go back and speak to him when she fully registered the room in which she stood. It was a library. Immediately, she felt at home.

Mama would have loved this. So many books. How many happy hours we spent in the library at home, I looking for stories of adventure and she for poetry.

The shelves were two or three times her height, with the highest rows accessed by wheeled ladders. It was a veritable forest of books, lit by the flickering light of lamps suspended by wrought iron from the ceiling, which was painted in a scene worthy of Florence. Harriet found herself smiling in delight.

“Your Grace, how nice to see you again. I trust you are well?”

The male voice made her jump, coming as it did from just beyond the door that she had just stepped through.

“Waverton, nice to see you again, too. Quite well. Are you enjoying Chelmsford’s obvious largess?”

The replying voice sounded familiar to her. She could not quite place it, partially disguised as it was by the door. Harriet found herself stepping closer to it, listening.

“It is certainly very grand. A statement of wealth.”

“When one has wealth, there should be no need to make a statement of it, do you not think?”

The reply carried a barb, and again Harriet felt the tug of familiarity. Not only the sound of the voice, but the attitude displayed by the tone. It had been mocking, sarcastic even. The voices were muffled by the sound of footsteps passing by, servants or other guests. Then the door handle was turning.

Harriet jumped and picked up her skirts, running to the nearest bookshelf and taking refuge behind it.

Why am I running and hiding? This is nonsense. I have done nothing wrong. I am reacting from pure panic, and I do not know why!

She heard the door open and stood for a moment, screened from sight by the bookshelf, breathing hard and fighting to control her racing heart.

“Ah, my woman in black at last,” came the second voice she had heard.

Harriet realized that the skirts of her dress were still visible, just beyond the edge of the bookcase. She snatched them close, out of sight. Now that it was undisguised by the closed door, she fully recognized the voice.

It belonged to a friend of her brother’s, Jeremy Cavendish, the Duke of Penhaligon. She pressed her hands to her chest as though to quell the racing of her pulse.

The Duke was beyond handsome. She remembered his tall, broad-shouldered frame with a muscular chest that his shirt and waistcoat could not disguise. The flowing blonde hair and those piercing blue eyes. She and Jane had both swooned over him once.

Not a man I should be alone with, though. He has never struck me as a gentleman. No man with such hunger in his eyes can possibly be someone with whom a respectable woman is safe. He always reminded me of the old stories of Viking ravishers…

Her cheeks flamed at the thought. His footsteps were coming closer, slow and measured. It made her think of a predator stalking its prey. She picked up her skirts again and ran on light feet to the end of the row and around the next standing shelf.

There came a low chuckle. “I see the bird has flown. You were not so demure in your letters to me, Mademoiselle.”

That voice was silky smooth. It was refined and educated, deep and mellifluous. But the words he spoke conjured images in Harriet’s mind that she felt ashamed of.

No respectable woman should think such things! What did this Mademoiselle say in her letters? It is none of my business. I should speak up and tell him he has the wrong person…

But then there was the small matter of her brother. If she was recognized, there was little uncertainty in the fact that her midnight adventure would be relayed to Ralph, who would never let her take a step outside of Oaksgrove Manor, let alone the lands!

He was walking the length of the bookcase, following in her footsteps. In moments, he would round the corner and be standing before her. Harriet ran again, racing to the far end and into the next row. As she rounded the end of the next bookcase, her hand caught a book that was projecting out from the rest. It tumbled to the floor with a loud slap.

“I do enjoy a chase… That, at least, is consistent with your last letter. Chasing and being caught, wasn’t it? I think the word you used was… restrained.”

He chuckled again, and Harriet felt a tingling somewhere deep down in response. Her stomach fluttered, and her heart skipped a beat. The sound of something metallic reached her, like the jangling of keys. Lamps stood in alcoves at the far end of each bookcase. Harriet saw his shadow preceding him. He was not following her this time but walking along the end of the bookcases, cutting across and about to step out in front of her.

She whirled, but her foot landed on the fallen book. It slid across the polished stone floor, and her foot went with it. She stumbled and fell to hands and knees. There was a twinge of pain in her left ankle, and she cried out in surprise. A shadow fell across her, and she looked back over her shoulder.

He was as large as she remembered… His blonde hair showed in glorious disarray around the black wolf mask.

“I fear the chase is ended prematurely. And this book is the cause,” he picked up the offending volume and then laughed, “an ecclesiastical treatise on the proper behavior of men and women prior to and after marriage. Why, I had no idea you were so concerned with moral behavior. Let me help you.”

Before she could speak, the Duke had stooped and picked her up in his arms. Harriet found that her voice was frozen in her throat. She wanted to tell him who she was, that he was mistaken, but part of her didn’t want the game to come to an end, nor the consequences that might come after.

The recklessness of her behavior took her breath away. Her heart hammered like that of a galloping horse. Her scalp tingled. She had never felt such an overwhelming, wanton thrill. The Duke’s eyes bored into hers through the eye-holes of his mask. They were cold and hard but also brimming with barely controlled passion and desire.

“Your choice of costume is… inspired. It stands out so from the humdrum of the rest. I saw you the moment you entered the room.” His eyes roamed down her body, and Harriet found herself breathing deeper, her bosom heaving as she realized he was staring at her breasts. His hands, where they held her, became the center of her senses. One hand was around her back and mere inches from her left breast. The other was beneath her legs.

It is the first time a man has touched me, except for hugs from my father and brother. Oh my, if I feel this way for a mere touch on my leg, how will it be if he touches me elsewhere?

“Try not to blush, your skin is wonderfully pale and feminine. If you blush, I might think you less innocent than you appear,” the Duke murmured, his voice a seductive rumble that sent shivers of anticipation through Harriet’s entire being.

She bit her lower lip and saw his eyes widen slightly, his own lips part, and realized that he found the gesture alluring.

He finds me desirable. Heavens, I must speak or… or I do not know what will happen!

 

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 25th of August