Author: Grovechronicles

Chapter One

1812

Holmwood House, England

“What are you doing? Charity! Stop this madness.”

Charity pulled the glass back out of her sister’s reach and toward her own lips. She couldn’t see the glass, couldn’t see the shimmer of the claret, but she could feel the cut glass distinctly, and she knew well enough by now how to find her own lips after being blind for so long.

“Charity!” Her sister’s voice was outraged, the voice piquing higher and higher. “At this rate, you will not be able to see straight when you go downstairs. Oh…”

Charity laughed so hard at her sister’s mistake that the wine shot into the back of her throat and up behind her nose. She spluttered, realizing just how mad the whole situation was.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… Oh, I should think through my words more.”

Charity made no effort to comfort her sister. There was a time when she and Edith had been incredibly close, living in and out of one another’s pockets, but that seemed like a great distance away now. They were different people, no longer the same souls they had been as children.

Edith was a successful wife, a known party planner amongst the ton, famed for her balls and inner parties. She was the woman often talked about in scandal sheets as being the celebrated hostess, the lady whom every other woman in London was envious of.

In contrast, Charity was the blind sister. She was the one who stayed at home at her father’s insistence, no matter how much she tried to plead against it. She was the imposed prisoner in her own household.

“I am enjoying my drink,” Charity said as she leaned forward out of her seat, reaching for the carafe on the table nearby. She heard her sister slide it away, the glass scraping against the wood. Charity flattened her hand to the wood. “Return it to me, Edith. I do not take your things away from you.”

“It is for your own good.”

“My own good!?” Charity spluttered, standing up and raising her glass to her lips, downing what was left inside of it. The thick burn of the wine in the back of her throat was pleasant, giving her a tingle of freedom in a moment that felt truly dark and isolated. “You said the same thing about tomorrow.”

“That is because I believe it to be the case,” Edith said emphatically.

Charity waved a hand at her sister in disapproval and walked around the settee. She put down just one hand, so she could feel her way around the settee toward the window. She knew the layout of this chamber, just as she knew any other. She was in an upstairs parlor, one much more private and kept for the family. If Charity had her way, she’d happily spend the whole night here, away from the ball downstairs that her father was hosting with Edith’s assistance.

“This is good for you,” Edith said, her voice following Charity enough to show she was shadowing her across the room.

Charity stopped by the window and flattened her hand against the glass. It was an old habit of hers, one that kept cropping up. It didn’t matter that she could not see what was out beyond that cool glass, she still liked touching the window, for it was the one thing that separated her from the wider world. These windows might as well be the bars on her prison walls.

“Are you not always saying how you wish to no longer be trapped in this house?” Edith hissed behind her. “This way, you are out of here at last.”

“I would be exchanging one prison for another.”

“Do not let our father hear you talk so. You know he does not like your sharp tongue.”

“I am well aware, for I have felt his wrath enough times.” Charity had been quiet over the years. She had been the ‘wallflower’ others had labeled her as, for what other way was there to be? She had been quiet, dutiful, and done as she was told, with her temper only occasionally rising enough for her to be punished by their father.

Yet she could not stay quiet any longer. She would not be that wallflower and stay in a corner if her future was now laid out before her in such a fixed way.

“You would see me married to a man twice my age,” Charity said with a hooded voice. “A man known for his crudeness, his arrogance, not to mention the fact he has lost one wife already.”

“Oh, do be reasonable, sister.” Edith walked around her. Charity noted the waiver of the footsteps and her sister’s hesitant voice. “Baron Tynefield is a powerful man. With his connections, imagine what could happen to this family’s reputation. For my husband’s balls and parties, for our brother’s club, everything could fall into place.”

“I beg your pardon?” Charity jerked her head toward her sister, who sharply inhaled in return. “Do not imagine I am now losing my hearing as well as my sight. I am merely amazed that when I point out to you that I am to be a prisoner, you plead with me to go to that prison for the family’s sake.”

“Charity–”

“I thought families were about love, care, and happiness. Not reputations and connections.”

“You just do not see things the way they are. Let us be practical.”

Determined to put distance between herself and her sister, Charity stepped away, returning around the settee once more. She reached for the table, and this time, managed to find where her sister had put the carafe. She topped up her glass, eagerly. She’d already had so many glasses, she had lost count, and she was unsteady on her feet, having to plant her heeled shoes slightly apart.

Earlier that evening, her maid had helped her dress in what she was told was a pale blue gown that matched her eyes. The kind maid had said she was beautiful, dressed perfectly for the ball, but Charity had no wish to be seen in it. She even debated spilling wine all over the gown in the hope it would give her an excuse to stay upstairs for longer.

“Charity, please, listen to me.” Edith took the carafe out of her grasp, but she was a little too late, for Charity was already well on her way to downing her fifth glass of the night. “Nothing can be done now to stop the wedding tomorrow. You will marry the baron.”

“How kind of you, sister.”

“This is not my doing. It is our father’s doing. I am simply pointing out the practicalities of the situation,” Edith said in a rush. “How this family appears to others is very important. You must hold your head high tomorrow and be respected. Only if you are the respected wife of Baron Tynefield can we hope to gain from his connections.”

Charity nearly dropped the glass in amazement.

“What happened to the sister who used to sneak me hot chocolate when father denied it to me, believing wrongly that it made my blindness worse?” she asked in a quiet tone. “What happened to her, Edith?”

She is not here anymore.

And there was nothing to be done about it. Edith had her own life now, and the more time Charity spent apart from her, the more she realized what she was to Edith. Precisely what she had been all those years to Papa. She was a complication in the family, being blind, and living the sheltered life they insisted she must. They didn’t trust her to go out alone, and because of it, she was the shame of the family.

“This is not the time for such a discussion.” Edith’s voice faded, showing she was putting distance between them again. “Even Kenneth agrees with the rest of us that this is the best course of action.”

“Brother? The man who couldn’t even bring himself to come to your party and has gone off to his club instead?”

“He is doing good business.”

“Is he?” Charity was scarcely convinced of it. As she was blind, her brother Kenneth thought her dumb too. He must have thought she never noticed the rustling of papers and his curses as he checked the accounts of the club, nor the demanding messengers who occasionally turned up at the door, talking about calling in various debts.

I do not have such confidence in Kenneth.

“Charity, please,” Edith’s voice softened once more. “We do not all have a choice in life who we marry. We must simply make the most of it.”

“I could appreciate such a practical sentiment.” Charity paused long enough to take a gulp of her wine. “Had you not yourself married for love.”

The heavy thud on the other side of the room suggested Edith had sat sharply down in her chair.

“We are not all so fortunate.”

She supposed Edith meant the words to be kind, but they weren’t. They suggested that Charity was just an unlucky soul, not good enough to be one of the fortunate ones.

Before Charity could think what to say next, the door opened, the sound unmistakable.

“What’s going on up here?” At her father’s voice, Charity continued to sip her wine, having no inclination to answer him.

“Charity is in her cups,” Edith said with a heavy sigh. “What’s more, she is refusing to come downstairs.”

“What?” the voice shook with anger.

Charity stood tall, lifting her chin that inch higher. In the past, she might have quelled at the voice, but she wouldn’t anymore. If she showed the slightest hint of hesitation or weakness now, she knew tomorrow she’d find herself at the altar, beside a man she detested, facing a life of imprisonment.

I will find a better life. I have to.

“This is ridiculous,” Duncan Harris, the Earl of Holmwood’s voice boomed across the room. “Charity, you will come downstairs at once.”

“Do not raise your voice so loud, Father. It will compete with the pleasant violin music Edith has arranged downstairs. What would your guests think if they heard you?”

“Enough!” He marched toward her, his boots striking the heavy floorboards. “No more drinking.” He snatched the glass from her hand. She felt the cool liquid drip onto her fingers but made no effort to wipe it away. She simply allowed the wine to trickle down her palm. “You will do as I say, Charity. Is that understood?”

“You have told me the same thing my whole life,” she muttered, wishing to argue more and more.

Why was it that Edith and Kenneth hadn’t had to follow his orders nearly as much as she had to? The envy had been there, deep within her gut, ever since she had gone blind at the age of eight. What started as mollycoddling became an act to keep her imprisoned out of shame. Edith and Kenneth were free, as she longed to be.

“Then it is about time you started listening. You will stop being childish and come downstairs with me this instant. Move toward that door, for I know you know where it is. Take a step. Now. Or brace yourself for the consequences,” Duncan’s voice growled in fury.

Slowly, Charity folded her arms, conveniently brushing some of the claret from her hand onto her gown. She showed no intention of taking a step anywhere.

The first hint she had of what was to come was the rush of air, but she couldn’t move out of the way in time. The slap struck her cheek hard.

Edith yelped across the room, but she made no plea or beg for him to stop.

Charity stumbled back, colliding with the table so hard that she knocked it over. Her hand covered her stinging cheek as she felt the pain ricochet up, stinging around her eye.

It is always the same. It is so easy for him to hit.

“Impudent chit,” Duncan spat derisively.

Charity longed to talk back, to retort just as fiercely, but her fear of being struck again stopped her. What was more, her throat was closing up with a lump, the tears stinging in her eyes.

She said nothing, but she ran.

“Charity!” Duncan snapped at her.

She ran past him with her hands outstretched and found the door, flinging it open and sprinting fast down the corridor. If there was anyone in her path, she just hoped they stepped out of the way, for she could not remember running so fast before.

I have to escape. Somehow, I have to escape this place.

Chapter Two

“How strange this feels,” Seth muttered to himself as he looked out of the window of the carriage. It was ten years since he had last left his home village of Axfordshire. To be in a city now, with so much activity—it niggled in his gut.

He watched carriages competing for space in the road, people wandering back and forth between the timber houses and the buildings built with yellow stone. Strangers yelling at one another in the darkness, poor and wealthy alike all scurrying to their destinations as though they were pursued by the relentless hands of fate, their padded steps echoing through the misty evening.

Seth held a hand beyond the window, feeling the cool air whip by him. He knew the rush of air from riding across his estate, but in a carriage, in the middle of a city, it felt… different.

The carriage turned onto a grander road. They passed two trees and one of the branches nicked his hand.

“Blasted thing,” he cursed, jerking his hand back into the carriage. The branch had cut his palm clean open, the blood beginning to seep out of his skin. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and bound the wound.

As the carriage slowed, he lurched forward sharply.

We are here.

All the anger, all the tension he’d been holding onto for so many years, started to bubble to the surface. His breathing grew fast and labored as he adjusted his cravat gently with his spare hand, pulling it up sharply around his neck and the base of his chin, trying to mask the burn mark that so obviously scolded his skin there.

So, it begins.

As the carriage door heaved open, Seth stepped down, tucking his injured hand into the pocket of his heavy frock coat. His eyes darted up and down the town street of Winchester, before his gaze settled on the house he had come to visit.

The Earl of Holmwood’s townhouse stood out as the grandest building in the street by far. Made of red brick with a porch propped up by white pillars in a Romanesque style, it was almost laughable in its ostentatiousness.

Such a man would be so arrogant, wouldn’t he?

Seth nodded his cold appreciation to the footman, then moved toward the house. He noticed a figure waiting for him on the doorstep, arms folded, face barely lit by the single lantern that swung like a crooked pendulum in the wind. As Seth walked up the last steps, a chorus of noises met his approach.

The ball was certainly underway. People chatted and laughed, and the melody of violin music drifted out of the windows.

“Well?” Seth asked the man in expectation.

“You cannot get in this way.” The man shook his head. “The corridor is full of people, and I have just seen Lord Holmwood himself marching back down the stairs, dragging his eldest daughter behind him, insisting loudly that everyone have a good time. You will be seen there.”

“I asked you to come to give me a solution, Marcus.”

“I know.” Marcus offered an easy sort of smile, just visible beneath that orange glow. “Which is why I suggest you use the back door.” He gave quick instructions to Seth.

An old friend, Marcus, a footman, had an uncanny habit of blending in anywhere he went. He described to Seth the most discreet entrance to the house’s rear and what corridors to take.

“You can get upstairs that way without being seen. You should find yourself far enough away from the ball itself and none of the staff should be in that part of the house at this time. I was assured they’ll all be far too busy in the great hall.”

“Impeccable. Thank you.” Seth nodded once more to Marcus and hurried down the front porch steps, examining the garden and his best route to the rear entrance. 

“The study is on the second floor,” Marcus called to him, shadowing his steps. “You’ll find it tucked away in the west wing of the building. I’m told the door is recognizable by its ornate gold handle.”

Seth thanked him again and walked through the garden. He brushed aside outstretched branches from a yew tree, angered by them. He ended up tearing the handkerchief off his already injured hand, making the bleeding worse.

“Bloody thing,” he cursed under his breath, halting when light fell on a patch of garden.

Seth looked sharply toward the side of the house and the open windows. He could glimpse part of the ballroom. Many ladies danced, dressed grandly in great dresses with hair adorned in birds’ feathers or turbans, a foolish fashion, in Seth’s opinion. The gentlemen laughed raucously, tipping claret glasses to their lips.

What it must have been like to laugh in such a fashion! Seth could not remember doing so, not for many years now.

Out of fear of being seen, Seth retreated deeper into the garden, darting between the yew bushes. At least in nature, he felt more at home. His home in Axfordshire was surrounded by parkland and rich signs of wildlife. He preferred being there. At least the whistle of the wind and the tweets of the birds provided a chance to escape the loneliness and emptiness of his house.

As Seth reached the back door, he followed Marcus’ instructions to the letter, taking the door which led into the servants’ quarters. He could hear catcalls coming from the kitchens, where the cooks must have been preparing some last-minute delicacies for the party.

Seth carefully walked past the door to the kitchen, heading toward a spiral staircase that was hidden between two great old sketches of the house that had been framed and attached to the wall. Slowly, he moved up the stairs, listening at all times for any sign of someone coming the other way.

When he reached the main floor, he halted, peering through an open door into the corridor.

A footman appeared before him, suddenly, carrying a tray of empty glasses.

“Oh.” The man stumbled back, alarmed. “Forgive me, sir.” He bowed, clearly not knowing who Seth was, but recognized the formal dress and must have supposed him to be one of the guests for the ball. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“You find a man who is quite lost.” Seth affected an easy countenance. “You have come along at the right time, my good man. Tell me, where will I find the privy?”

The footman smiled humorously and pointed toward the main stairwell.

“In that door there.”

“Much obliged.” Seth walked toward the door set on the side of the staircase and waited for the footman to disappear. As the footman darted down the spiral staircase, Seth looked to the main stairwell above him.

It was the second of two sets of stairs described to him by Marcus. This one avoided the front of the house and where the rest of the guests were. Seth checked over his shoulder, unconsciously adjusting his cravat that hid his burn mark one more time, before he hurried up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

He hastened into the corridor, trying to head toward the west wing of the building. He examined every door handle, looking for a gold one, but to his dismay, he found every handle was gold.

“What?” he muttered under his breath, flicking his head back and forth as he looked at each of the doors in turn. What sort of arrogant man ensured every door in his house was gilded with gold?

Footsteps sounded down the corridor and Seth froze.

He’d come to this house with a reason in mind. He was hardly the sort of man that would break into a house, not by any means. Yet he was desperate, and knowing the crime that the Earl of Holmwood had committed all those years ago, Seth was prepared to go to any measures in order to prove the man’s guilt.

Those footsteps grew closer.

Out of fear of being caught, Seth reached for the nearest door and flung it open, hurrying inside. He closed it as quietly as he could.

There was no light in the room, no hint of a candle, so he strained in the darkness to see there was a key in the lock and slowly flicked it shut. He pressed his ear to the wood, trying to hear where the footsteps went next.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” a voice suddenly declared from behind him.

Seth whipped his head around.

By Jove, what is my luck.

An adjoining door opened, and a woman entered from a garderobe. She seemed unsteady on her feet and shook her head as she rubbed her hands together on a cloth.

“I will not do it. I will not,” she muttered repeatedly.

Seth fleetingly thought to disappear into the shadows of the room, so that the unsuspecting woman before him would never discover he was there, but there was nowhere he could hide. Any second now she would turn and see him. She would scream, he would be found, thrown out of the house, or worse, sent to prison.

I am not the criminal that belongs in a prison. That is the Earl of Holmwood.

“Nothing they can say will make me do it,” she continued to mumble to herself before turning around.

She should have seen him then. Her eyes were looking straight at him.

At once, Seth realized what was happening. The moonlight which shone through a gap in the curtains fell on her face, revealing the paleness of those rather beautiful blue eyes, and how they stared forward impassively, not focusing on any one thing.

She reached down, feeling for the table’s edge before releasing her cloth, unconcerned about its precise landing, with her face deep in thought. She kicked off her shoes next, bending to place them by touch under a chair, once more, not needing to see what she was doing.

She is blind. She cannot see a thing.

Seth did not know whether to be thankful for this – for it avoided his discovery – or show pity. He couldn’t imagine being without his sight. How many mornings did he sit outside of his house admiring nature, watching the birds dart across the lawn and the clouds as they carved shapes across the sky? This poor woman could not see any of it.

“Mad. That’s what it is, mad,” she murmured beneath her breath. 

Seth slowly folded his arms, watching her in curiosity as he tried not to make a sound. Believing herself to be alone, apparently, she was quite content to talk to herself.

“I will not go downstairs. They can have their foolish celebration without me.” She walked past him, so close that he had to skulk back a touch away from her.

The closer she drifted, the more she was revealed by the moonlight.

She had blonde hair, curled delicately at the back of her head, with tear-drop earrings hanging down and teasing her neck. The hair shone in that silver glow, but it was the eyes that captivated him the most. The pristine blue kept gazing forward, absently at times, as though a distinct soul existed beneath them.

She reached toward a cupboard and opened it wide, pulling out a loose shift that she tossed over her shoulder. She glided by him and suddenly jerked to a halt.

Seth held his breath, fearing he had made some noise.

She turned toward him, cocked her head to the side as if listening intently, and waited.

Seth could not help admiring her. He took in the curve of her neck in this new position, and he had an errant idea of placing a kiss right below the hollow of her ear.

What is wrong with me? I do not steal into ladies’ chambers at night!

She shook her head, apparently deciding that she had invented the sound, and walked away, back toward her bed. She dropped the shift on the bed and reached for the laces at the back of her gown.

Christ… she is about to disrobe…

Seth whirled, panicking, wracking his brains for what to do next. He needed to avoid discovery, but if he stayed here now, he would be watching the poor woman undress. As intrigued as he was by the idea, his gaze almost involuntarily lingering over her petite… yet blessed-with-curves figure that the fabric of her gown tastefully embraced, he could not let it happen. It would be scandalous!

She deftly unlaced the top of her gown and the satin fabric slipped with a whisper down her soft shoulders, revealing skin as the finest porcelain. To his shame, Seth’s eyes darted to the delicate curve of those shoulders and the hint of corset that was revealed.

“Charity?” a voice called from the door behind Seth as someone rapped on the wood.

Seth felt his heart thundering against his ribcage. He stood at a loss for what to do next.

“I am not coming downstairs, Edith,” the blonde lady declared. “You can give up trying.”

“Please, just talk to me,” Edith pleaded again from the other side of the door. “For a few minutes, let us talk… like we once did when we were girls?”

Charity huffed. After a slight pause, she pulled her gown back up over her shoulders. She marched toward Seth and the door. If she came any closer, if she opened that door, Seth would be discovered.

He panicked and as she reached him, he did the only thing he could think of doing, as wild an idea as it seemed.

He reached forward and clamped a hand over Charity’s mouth, closing it tight. Her blue eyes widened, and she tried to stumble out of his grasp, but he walked forward still, keeping her lips closed.

“I mean you no harm,” he hissed in her ear. The lady was trembling before him now, her whole body shaking violently. “Please, believe that. Just tell the lady to go.”

She gave no sign of responding.

“Please?” he whispered again.

“Charity?” Edith grew impatient, knocking on the door another time.

Slowly, Charity nodded her head.

Seth went to release her mouth, carefully, watching as her body still shook beneath his grasp. One of her hands clutched to the loose shoulder of her gown. The moment he released her lips, she screamed.

The yelp pierced the air and Seth acted fast. Fearing he had become a criminal after all, the very thing he detested the idea of, Seth latched a hand over her mouth again, silencing her.

“Hmm!” She tried to wail against his grasp, but the sound was muffled.

“I am not here to harm you or anyone in this house!” he whispered in her ear, firmly this time. “I am a reputable Lord, for heaven’s sake, lady. My patience would not endure were my intentions nefarious. The moment your guest departs, I will take my leave too. You can still save this, tell her you were startled by the sight of a mouse. Again, I had good reason for being here tonight, and though this must seem mad, it is all just a–”

He paused when she nodded wildly against his grasp.

Then, his words dawned on him. The sight of a mouse? He felt a fool, realizing his mistake at once.

“Perhaps do not use those words, precisely. Please, I shall explain everything later. Just ask your guest to leave.”

Charity’s blue eyes narrowed a little. Seth could not stop looking at those eyes, admiring them. He was rather glad she couldn’t see him. What would she think if she could see his disfigurement? Would she be disgusted?

Slowly, he released her once more, terrified to see if she would scream again.

Chapter Three

Charity thought fast, trying to make sense of this stranger in her room. True to his word, he had released her again. If he had meant her harm, surely, he would have just kept holding onto her?

She supposed it was her drunken state that made her think it was a good idea to do as he said. Whatever the reason for it, she heard the words escaping her lips, calling back to Edith.

“I thought I heard a mouse, that was all,” she called to her sister.

She heard the sigh of the man before her, the sound escaping him deeply. It was as deep as that gravelly tone of his. She could not remember hearing anyone before with such a rich or raspy voice. It was utterly hypnotizing to listen to.

“And you can tell sounds like that, can you?” Edith asked.

Charity rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips in indignation at her sister’s belief she was completely incapable. She could have sworn she heard the man trying to stifle a chuckle at her reaction, but she couldn’t be certain.

“Yes, I can,” she told her sister. “Leave me be, Edith. I am not joining you downstairs.”

“I suppose I will not be changing your mind tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, when you have finally come to your senses!” Edith retreated from the door, her footsteps shuffling away.

“Thank you,” the man whispered, that tone as deep as before. Judging by the creak of wood, he leaned against the door.

“I think now is the perfect time to explain yourself, good sir,” she said sharply. “Considering I was about to…” She trailed off, thinking about the loose shoulders of her gown. She hurried to right the gown and tied it at her back.

“I suppose it counts for nothing if I say I was frantically trying to think of a way out of this chamber before you disrobed?”

“And you expect me to trust the word of a man who has managed to slip into the one room in this home exclusively occupied by a blind lady?”

“I… fair point,” his baritone voice tapered off into silence. 

She suddenly felt something on her cheek. She reached up and touched it. It was a warm liquid, and when she held it near her nose, she recognized the coppery scent at once.

“You are bleeding,” she said, turning around to angle her head in his direction.

“Ah… apologies once more,” he murmured, seeming to lower his head in a show of guilt. “I slashed my palm on a branch outside. I did not expect the wound to open up so soon.”

She nodded distractedly. In her dazed state from all the claret, all she cared to really think about was stopping the blood. With one hand outstretched carefully at her side, she found her vanity table and reached in, pulling out a handkerchief. She wiped her cheek, then drew out another and traced her steps back toward the stranger.

By the sound of his footsteps, he backed up from her, colliding with the door once more.

“W—what are you doing?” he said in surprise.

“I am hardly about to produce an aria, am I?” she asked with a small smile as she held out her hand for his. “Come on. Would your pride require you to keep bleeding?”

He did not answer for a few seconds, but his hand eventually hovered near hers, the brush of his fingertips shocking her own. It was such a soft touch that Charity inhaled abruptly. She blushed but caught herself. She would have thought an intruder would be sharp, even aggressive or violent, yet this man was rather gentle as she turned his hand over and found the wound in his palm, mopping up the blood.

“Who are you?” Charity whispered as she went to bind the hand with the handkerchief in a makeshift bandage.

“My name is… Seth Colborne.”

“Colborne?” Charity’s mind stirred with a flicker of recognition at that name. Somewhere she had heard it, but she couldn’t quite place it presently. “I take it you are no footman?”

“No, I am not,” he said softly. “For all intents and purposes, I am a guest tonight at the ball that had meandered off and gotten lost.”

“For all intents and purposes? You have already shared enough with me that I could have you arrested if I so desired, sir. I think I have earned some sincerity by making it clear that I would rather avoid such an outcome… so is that the truth, or not?”

“Perhaps I was a guest that did not wish to be seen. I came to… collect something from the Lord of the house. When I heard the sound of footsteps, I slipped in through this door. It truly was a coincidence that I stumbled upon you here, my Lady.” His rather formal address of her startled her.

He took his hand from hers and must have finished bandaging the wound himself.

“Thank you for your dressing… and, err, binding skills, and thank you for not screaming the house down and alerting everyone to my presence. I shall keep to my word and leave you now.” She heard the crumpling of clothes, hinting at a deep bow.

Colborne… Seth Colborne…

Charity was certain she knew that name now. He was a man of some position. Even a title perhaps. Or had she seen his name on a scandal sheet somewhere?

“Wait!” she quickly spoke up. “Did you happen to arrive in a carriage perchance?”

“…Naturally,” he answered, rather tightly, as if taken off guard by her question. “I apologize once more for my intrusion. I wish you a fine evening.” He turned the lock in the door and twisted the handle, she heard the sounds of it distinctly. For she had done so herself countless times before.

A wild idea entered Charity’s head just then, perhaps the most outrageous notion she had conjured up in her entire life. Here was a man who didn’t truly belong in this house, and he had arrived in a carriage. If she was looking for an escape, a way out of this house, could it be him?

“Wait!” she pleaded again. No sound followed of the door opening, so she presumed he was doing as she asked. “…Take me with you.”

“I beg your pardon?” he spluttered in that deep tone.

“I need to escape this house. At once,” she spoke in a rush. “I am asking for you to take me away from here, just for a day. Consider it a return favor for the one I have just done for you.”

“You are asking me to help you run away.”

She shook her head hastily. “I am asking you to assist me in leaving for a day. That is all.” If she could just be absent for the wedding day, then there was no way she could be married to Baron Tynefield tomorrow. In his anger, he might even call off the betrothal altogether. “Please,” she whispered once more.

“I cannot do that.” The voice grew deeper, sharper still. “I have broken enough rules coming here at all tonight and being in your chamber. I shall not top all of that off by stealing away the Earl of Holmwood’s daughter.”

“Not even if she is asking you?”

“Of course not.”

“Please.” She stepped forward with doe eyes. From the sound that followed, he must have plastered himself to the door to pull back from her again.

Did he recoil? Did she repulse him?

Perhaps she did. She had no idea what she truly looked like and could only remember the youthful features of the eight-year-old she used to see in the mirror.

“Fine. I wish to escape,” she answered briskly. “I am supposed to marry a man tomorrow I detest. If I can hide somewhere, just for a day, I can avoid it. From then on, I have somewhere else I can go, someone I can write to, someone who can help me. The only favor I ask is for your help for this one day.”

For a moment, she considered threatening to scream, anything to coax him into taking her, but then decided it was too far. She could not bring herself to manipulate the man in that way.

There was a hesitation, as if Seth Colborne considered the idea. Then, he sighed loudly.

“I cannot. I am sorry to hear of your predicament, but I could not do it. I suspect you are in your cups. By the time you are sober, it is a request you might regret. I wish you luck, Lady Charity.” A light touch brushed her shoulder. She supposed it was his way of trying to show a mark of respect, rather than bowing this time.

The door handle turned and whipped open, then he was gone. As he left, Charity noticed the scent of the air shifted too. The rich scent of musk and sandalwood faded away.

I knew the air was different in here. I thought it was my senses playing tricks on me.

She backed up, tottering a bit on her feet. The red wine had had an effect on her, but she was still strangely calm as she sat down on the edge of the bed.

I am trapped. I shall have to marry Baron Tynefield after all. And there is nothing left to do.

A frown touched her face. But before it could truly mar her features, a light tap sounded at the door.

“He is back,” she whispered, thinking only of the stranger in her chamber. She hastened to the door and flung it open. “I–”

“Your father has asked me to fetch you.” The sibilant voice had her insides squirming in fear.

It was not Seth Colborne. It was Baron Tynefield.

“I cannot come down tonight. My apologies, but I am unwell.” She tried to shut the door, but she felt it thud against something heavy and then thrust back toward her.

Forced backward, Charity scrambled away as Baron Tynefield barged his way into her chamber. His steps were sharp on the ground as he marched toward her.

“I will not have a disobedient wife, Charity,” he growled.

She reached for her vanity table, hurrying around it to put it between them. The last time she had been alone with Baron Tynefield was in the garden some weeks ago. When they had lost their chaperone, he had grasped so tightly at her waist, it had left her in no doubt about what his intentions were. 

“I heard you were in your cups.” Baron Tynefield leered at her over the table. She could smell the stench of scotch on his breath. It seemed she was not the only one. “Perhaps now is a good time to show you what is expected of you when you will be my wife.”

“Leave,” she hissed. “Leave at once.”

A hand reached for her across the table.

Charity veered back, trying to escape its grasp, but it was too quick. The Baron rounded the vanity, taking hold of her wrist and jerking her toward him.

“Release me!” she shouted the words, not afraid to scream now if it would get her out of here. He slapped a hand forcefully over her mouth – quite unlike the stranger had done a few moments before. This grasp was stony and unyielding, his nails digging so tightly into her cheeks that she feared it might scar her. 

“You will lay down and take what you have to, as a dutiful wife.” He moved her across the room.

“Hmm!” She scrambled to be free, trying to kick against him. She lashed out with her hands in any way that she could, trying to force him off her, but he was too strong. His great girth of stomach veered over her as she neared the bed. She bit down on his hand, determined to be free, and tasted blood.

“Ah! Hardly obedient,” he scoffed, pulling back his hand. “You’ll learn. You will.” He pushed her onto the bed. “They eventually do,” he snarled.

She reached for the headboard, desperate to pull herself away, but he grabbed her ankle and jerked her down again, so she was flat on the bed.

“No!” she screamed loudly.

There was a sudden thwack, a sound of skin hitting skin. Charity sat up on the bed, scrambling back as quickly as she could until her back hit the headboard. A heavy thud followed, and it sounded as if a large body hit the floor.

“What… what’s going on?” Charity whispered into the darkness, praying that someone would answer her.

The scent returned, the comforting one, of sandalwood and musk.

“He won’t be getting up anytime soon.” It was Seth Colborne’s voice.  

“You?” she breathed in astonishment to the air.

“Give me your hand.” The sound of a rustling coat extended toward her. He must have sensed her hesitation, for he did not move an inch. Eventually, she reached out into the darkness and took hold of his hand. His hand was much larger than her own, firm, and warm. “I struck him, he is out cold. Won’t be recovering from that for a long time,” he finally exhaled, as if out of breath. 

“Thank you,” Charity said in a rush, clambering off the bed to gain her feet as he helped her. “But… why?”

“I heard you scream on the stairs. It was a different scream from the one I heard from you earlier. One of true fear. Found myself running back here before I knew what I was doing. Wait a minute.” Seth Colborne released her. She heard his footsteps retreating from her.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure he pays the punishment.”

She had no idea what he did, but she heard the sound of another smack. Had he punched Baron Tynefield again? She couldn’t be certain.

“I do not like men who take advantage of women,” Colborne spoke in a deep tone as he stepped back toward her. “Take my hand and follow me closely. If we are to get you out of this house, we will need to leave from the rear entrance.”

Charity nodded and followed him. She did not bother arguing about the details or trying to grab a bag or anything to take with her—she just needed to escape this suffocating place. Immediately.

As she tiptoed through the house, tracing her steps behind Colborne, her hands began to quiver. She realized with horror just how close she had come to being assaulted by Baron Tynefield. Had it not been for a stranger in her bedchamber, this night could have been very different indeed.

As they stepped out of the house through the servants’ door and into the garden, she was hit by the cool air of early December. It made her shiver all the more. She could have sworn Colborne held her hand tighter as he led her through the garden.

“Step up here,” he said at one point, directing her over a set of steps in the garden with ease. “Low-lying branch to your left.” She ducked around it. He advised her as few others ever had done. She was glad of it in this moment of fleeing.

When they reached the carriage, she heard horses snorting, as if greeting their master.

“Oh.” Another voice sounded.

Was that a footman? She could hear someone distinctly opening the door of the carriage. “Is this wise, Your Grace?” the voice murmured at Colborne.

Wait… His Grace?

A wave of realization washed over her. It suddenly hit Charity where she had heard the name Seth Colborne before.

She had heard of it in one of the many scandal sheets narrated by Edith, along with his title, where someone had written how he was never to be seen in Winchester, Bath, London, or any city, for he had spent the last decade in his own company in Axfordshire, far away from the ton.

“Your Grace?” Charity whispered aloud as he steered her into the carriage.

“Perhaps not, but I had no choice,” he answered his footman. “Let us go. Now.” He followed her into the carriage, but must have sat opposite her, for she did not feel the cushion sink down beside her.

“Your Grace,” she muttered again as the carriage lurched away and that scent of sandalwood wafted toward her once more. “You are the infamous Duke of Axfordshire, are you not?”

“Changed your mind, Lady Charity? Would you prefer it if I let you out of the carriage at once?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. “Ride on, Your Grace.”

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 29th of February!

Prologue

1814

A shock of dark hair lashed across his face as the rain pounded at him, but he hardly noticed it as he raced down the muddied road in his family’s carriage. He had taken it stealthily, without anyone in his household knowing, needing an escape from the pitying and somber looks of his servants. He knew they pitied him, and he detested the feeling. But he couldn’t entirely fault them for it.

Joshua Kingman, the Duke of Elmcroft, was a broken man.

For half a year, he had been a ghost of himself, haunting the halls of his manor, drowning his sorrows in drink. The very thought of confronting daylight without the veil of inebriation was agonizing. It was too painful. On his worst days, he prayed he would not wake up the next morning, yet fortune hadn’t granted him the escape.

Lifting the bottle of bourbon he had brought along with him on his impromptu ride through the wooded path, he pressed it to his lips and took a deep swig. The landscape before him twisted and rippled like a stream, and the cliffside to his right seemed to swerve menacingly close. Yet, he was indifferent to it all. He wanted to feel wholly and utterly numb—and that required more of that liquid fire. He snapped the reins of his horses, tearing through another speed barrier. Maybe if they ran fast enough, he could escape the feeling of betrayal that ripped at his heart.

Memories flashed through his foggy mind. Memories of her… Francesca. His beautiful, treacherous Francesca. He had been prepared to give her everything. His name, his protection, his fortune, his heart—yet, to her, nothing was enough.

And the night he had caught her entwined in the arms of Lord Townsend, kissing him furiously, had plunged him into a living nightmare. A nightmare from which he couldn’t awaken, no matter how hard he tried. A relentless torment, day after day, with no end in sight.

Constantly… constantly gnawing at his soul.

Joshua was so lost in his somber reveries and the haunting image that clung to him, that he failed to notice the sharp bend in the road ahead until he was nearly upon it. With a startled cry, he yanked on the reins, desperately trying to maneuver the horses around the turn. But the road, slick with rain and mud, betrayed him.

The carriage’s wheels skidded and faltered, and the steeds let out twin shrieks of terror as the shaft connecting them to the carriage snapped, unable to withstand the violent lurch of the vehicle. Suddenly, the horses were tearing down the path, dragging away a remnant of the carriage shaft with their reins trailing heavily behind them, while Joshua found himself careening in the opposite direction toward the cliff’s edge.

In a frantic effort to escape, Joshua tried to push himself off the carriage box but lost his footing and fell back, his head violently striking the metal backing of the seat. Pain exploded in his temple, and stars burst in his vision. He slumped over, struggling to cling to consciousness as the carriage continued to slide through the mud. Joshua did not realize he was slowing until the carriage almost miraculously came to a halt. Had he been saved? Had some divine entity reached its hand down and spared him a painful demise?

Joshua blinked into the dark and tried to clear the fog from his mind, but he was overwhelmed with the pain in his skull and could not pull himself entirely from its stupor. He was well aware he needed to climb out of the carriage, but he struggled to pull his limbs into motion. Perhaps he could just rest here a little longer and recover before trying to move again…

Right at that very moment, the carriage shifted ominously. Joshua, with great effort, squinted to his left. It was then he realized with a sinking heart he was perched on the very edge of the cliff… and the carriage’s wheels were beginning to slide, agonizingly slowly succumbing to the fragile, muddy cliff edge.

He needed to move. Needed to get to safety, yet his body felt impossibly heavy, his limbs feeling leaden. The seductive call to just close his eyes and succumb, to end the relentless pain and grief, felt nearly irresistible. And so he did, leaning his head back and letting his body slump in his seat. Perhaps this was for the best. It would bring his pain to an end, at least. Perhaps he should simply accept the fate he had been praying over for months. It would be so easy just to let himself fall…

The cliffside gave way completely, and the carriage began to topple over the edge. Joshua resigned himself to his fate, but just as he was tipping with the carriage to tumble over, he felt a force grasp the front of his body. The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on slick but solid ground. His head continued to swim, and his vision blurred as he fought to keep his eyes open. Had he fallen? Was he dead?

He had assumed death would be a lot more painful than it was… yet the only pain he felt stemmed from where he had struck his head.

Just then, a vague figure appeared over him with blonde hair cascading in wet strands around its face. A sparkle flashed in his eye. An angel. It had to be an angel.

Joshua could not make out the features of his saving angel. Her face was blurred by the rain, shadows, and his wavering vision.

He fought to remain conscious. Yet, as she tenderly caressed his face and hair, her soothing voice began to drift him into a deep slumber.

“You are all right,” she murmured in the sweetest voice he had ever listened to. “A wilting flower can still reach the sun. There is still time to right whatever wrongs you are running from.”

How could she know that? She really must be an angel.

Joshua could not keep his eyes open any longer, though. He wanted to stay there in that moment with her and find out who she was, but he was quickly slipping out of consciousness, and there was nothing he could do to battle the exhaustion. Her gentle strokes on his cheek were the last sensation he felt as he drifted off into a sweet… black oblivion.

***

He woke with a start, letting out a shout as he sat up in a rush. A mistake he instantly regretted when his head began to throb. With a groan, he dropped his head into his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.

After several moments, the pain in his temple dulled enough that he could raise his head and open his eyes. Glancing around, Joshua was surprised to find himself in his bedchamber at Elmcroft. The curtains over the windows were pulled, and a fire was crackling in the hearth of the large stone fireplace across the room from him. It was warm and a touch stuffy, and yet he still felt a chill that made the hair on his arms stand on end.

He could not remember anything that had happened after the carriage had gone over the cliff. No… that was not true. He remembered her. He remembered the angel who had saved him. Now that he was nearly sober and in a tolerable amount of pain, he could think more rationally. She had obviously not been an angel but a flesh and blood woman. He could not recall precisely what she looked like… only that she had blonde hair that remained golden, even under the downpour of rain and the darkness of night.

He also remembered the words she had whispered in his ear.

“…a wilting flower can still reach the sun.”

What had she meant by that? Was he the wilting flower? Her cryptic words were nearly as intriguing to him as the woman herself. If he could figure out their meaning, perhaps he could figure out who she was.

As Joshua’s mind was racing with the possibilities of who his savior could have been, the door of his bedchamber creaked harshly, and his palms shot to his ears to dampen the pain. The butler, Mr. Warren, entered the room somberly. 

When Warren spotted Joshua sitting up in his bed, the butler’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Your Grace!” he exclaimed, hurrying across the room. “You are alive!”

Though well into his fifties, Mr. Warren maintained a degree of youth and vigor that would be enviable to men half his age. He had been working for the Kingman family for as long as Joshua could recall, a good, loyal man who took the care of the household and Elmcroft Duchy very seriously. His black-trim livery coat and white high-collared shirt were perfectly pressed, complementing his white tucked-back hair, and a representation of a man who took great pride in his appearance. But his exaggerations and matter-of-fact statements were a touch intolerable at times.

“Of course I’m alive,” Joshua grumbled, finally lowering his hands. The sharp tinge of alcohol on his nightstand reached his nostrils, and it was then he realized how desperately his body was craving a drink. “How long have I been unconscious, Warren?”

“Approximately… seven hours by my speculations, Your Grace,” Warren answered, bending over to inspect the bandage wrapped around Joshua’s head. “You gave us quite a fright, I must confess.”

“How did I get back here?”

“Lord Townsend was passing by in his carriage and found you lying on the side of the road,” Warren explained. “He and his driver picked you up and brought you home.”

Townsend.  Blast my pride.

But it was not the time to be scoffing at his blessings.

“And the woman?” Joshua asked.

Warren stopped inspecting Joshua’s bandage and gazed down at him with a frown.

“Woman? What woman, Your Grace?”

Joshua frowned. “The woman who pulled me from the carriage before it fell over the cliff. She’s the reason I’m still alive.”

Furrowing his brow, Warren shook his head. “I apologize, Your Grace. A woman was not mentioned. When Lord Townsend came upon you, you were entirely alone.”

Joshua did not understand. He was convinced the woman had been real.

“You are certain?” he pressed. “There was no one else with me?”

“Absolutely not. Though, if I may speak out of turn, you did suffer a serious injury to your head, Your Grace. Perhaps you imagined someone who was not there. Nonetheless, if it eases your concerns, I can send a note to Lord Townsend to confirm—”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he interrupted with a wave of the hand.

Joshua was positive there had been a woman, but despite his certainty, he was well aware that his head wound and intoxication might make his claim a little dubious to anyone who was not present.

And as a Duke, he did not want to give anyone a reason to think him addle-minded, nor fuel any speculations about his mental state. Convinced yet cautious, he decided not to pursue the matter with Warren any further.

His rescuer had disappeared before anyone could discover her with him for some reason. He could only imagine why that was. Had Lord Townsend’s carriage startled her? Surely she would not have left Joshua alone for long if she had gone through so much trouble to rescue him in the first place.

Curious. It was all so curious.

“Ah, lay back, Your Grace,” Warren coaxed, pulling Joshua from his musings. “You must rest. Sir Barrows should be returning on the hour to check on you, and forgive my frankness but he will have my head if I am the reason your recovery is delayed.”

Releasing a long breath, Joshua obeyed and sank back into his pillows. Staring up at the canvas above his bed, he let his mind wander back to his mysterious blonde angel. Who in the world could she possibly be?

In that moment, Joshua resolved to find her. He owed her his life, and it was a debt that Joshua would make sure to pay… no matter how many years it may take.

 

Chapter One

5 Years Later

If Jane Austen penned my life, Mr. Darcy would undoubtedly be galloping around the corner to sweep me off my feet at any moment. Alas, I must be content with merely reading about the romances of others while I pursue a more practical path. For the sake of Papa.

 

A gentle breeze brushed her cheeks, bearing the slight fresh dew of the morning, but she hardly noticed. Lady Francesca Nightingale, daughter of the Baron of Oakvale, was entirely engrossed in her book as she made her way along the walking path she ventured down every morning.

Oh, how she doted on her morning walks. The countryside was so still and quiet as the day had not quite started, yet lively and vibrant with the day’s expectations, and she could imagine she was the only person in the whole world. It was during these tranquil moments that she indulged in her reading. Truthfully, any spare moment found her absorbed in her books. She would grow lost in her stories, her imagination running wild as she fantasized about the faraway lands and exciting adventures described. There was very little chance she could ever see the exotic lands she read about for herself, so she devoured every tome she could find to learn more about the wider world.

Yet, beneath it all, Francesca found solace in her station in life. In many ways, she was very blessed. Her father adored her and gave her everything he could despite his low status among the peerage and lack of wealth. When she was a girl, her father had more means by which to provide a comfortable life for the both of them, but greed and treachery had stolen that blessing. Thankfully, they were able to remain in their quaint little manor nestled in the countryside, though the means to keep it as it once was had faded. Francesca chose not to dwell on the past losses but instead focused her energy on supporting her father, striving together to lift themselves from the brink of poverty they now faced.

And all her determination had finally paid off, for she was close to achieving that dream now that she would shortly be engaged.

There was much for her to look forward to… she just needed to keep her head held high and continue down the path she had diligently carved out for herself.

At the murmur of voices approaching, Francesca froze. Her morning strolls were ordinarily solitary affairs and she liked to keep them that way, but owing to the lovely sun-kissed skies, the route she had taken today was slightly longer than her usual, flanked by a simple gate opening to expansive fields on one side and a low stone wall on the other, leaving little room to make an escape. She cast a quick, desperate glance around the bare expanse. As she weighed her limited options, a couple crested over a nearby knoll.

Francesca’s body tensed as her eyes fell upon the unmistakably resplendent attire of the Duke of Elmcroft, and her body stiffened with immediate tension. A young lady was accompanying him, her chaperone not far behind. It took Francesca a moment, but then she recalled the lady’s name was Susan Moore, daughter of the Earl of Gladstone. Francesca had encountered her a time or two at different social gatherings, but the two had never been officially introduced.

The Duke, however, was another matter entirely. She had known him since her childhood, and it was not an acquaintance she relished. He was haughty and arrogant and looked down on her because of her significantly lower station. When she had been a naïve child, she had thought herself in love with him, mistaking his indifference for mystery. But he had never treated her kindly, nor spared a kind word for her, and she had never understood why it was. What had she possibly done to earn his cold disdain?

As fate would have it, the Duke’s eyes caught hers as she stood frozen on the path, prompting him to halt abruptly too. His scowl was one of annoyance, which she met with a defiant glare of her own.

Lady Susan appeared oblivious to the animosity thickening the air between Francesca and the Duke. She seemed surprised to see Francesca, but then pasted on a sugary sweet smile that did not seem quite as pleasant as she might have thought.

“Ah, Lady Francesca,” Lady Susan declared. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Francesca was momentarily taken aback, not expecting Lady Susan to recognize her.

“Good morning, Lady Susan.” Her attention flicked back to the Duke for a brief moment as she offered a brisk, polite curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Francesca,” the Duke murmured. “Rather early to be wandering about, is it not? Alone at that?”

Francesca clenched her jaw. “I find the early morning most conducive to exercise. It is usually quiet and peaceful. And there is hardly any need for an escort when I am merely walking along my father’s property line.”

“It is indeed quite refreshing out,” Lady Susan quickly intervened. She gazed up tenderly at the Duke from beneath her long lashes. “Lord Elmcroft was generously showing me his lovely meadows here. I have long wished to see them.”

Francesca felt a wave of resentment. “Ah, yes… the Oakvale Meadows are indeed beautiful.”

Beautiful, lucrative, and once a source of her family’s pride. That was until, through some cunning maneuver, the Duke had found means to take it from them. Now, the meadows that bore her father’s title were no longer his property. It was an injustice that Francesca had grown bitter over.

It was one of the many reasons her feelings for the Duke had so drastically changed.

Still, why did such a vile man have to be so handsome? He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a muscular frame, tapering down to long, powerful legs. His dark hair reminded her of rich, warm chocolate, framing equally delicious eyes, and the sharp, stubbled contour of his jaw lent him a roguish charm. He seemed to always be clad in black or gray lavish attires, adorned by expensive fineries, which she thought was fitting, as it made him appear more of a villain… albeit a beautiful one.

Francesca forced such thoughts from her mind. She could not let herself forget that, despite his pleasing exterior, he was rotten to his very soul and not a man to be trusted, nor admired.

“Yes, a point of pride for the Duchy,” he declared, giving Francesca a pointed look. “An ancient holding briefly lost to us but recently transferred back.”

Francesca clutched her book so tightly that her knuckles whitened with the strain.

“One would think such a transfer would be unnecessary after so many centuries,” she countered, her civility thinly veiling the bitterness. “Yet, it appears it is difficult for some to overlook their ambitions at the expense of others.”

The Duke’s gaze sharpened. “And others might find it difficult to acknowledge when a wrong has been made right, by no fault of anyone involved. Though I suppose it is a complex matter, likely too intricate for a young lady to grasp. Such concerns are typically resolved amongst gentlemen after all.”

Oh, how she wished she could slap that smug look right off his face. She controlled her temper, however, reminding herself that she was a lady and would not conduct herself in an unseemly manner. No matter how much the Duke might deserve it.

No one else in the world riled her like he did. Every interaction between them seemed like a battle of wills and wits, and she tried to come out the victor as often as she could. He looked down on her as it was and she did not wish to give him any more fodder for his disdain.

Turning her attention to Lady Susan, Francesca beamed, “My lady, your charm is especially radiant today. The yellow of the gown is utterly becoming on you. I must have my father purchase one in kind for myself.”

Lady Susan responded with a girlish giggle and flutter of her lashes, waving a gloved hand gracefully.

“Oh, how kind of you to say, my dear,” she answered, her voice dripping with a condescension that didn’t quite hide behind her younger age. “Mama has been quite insistent on refreshing my wardrobe this season. She is quite set on seeing me settled soon.” Her eyes flickered back to the Duke, who seemed to make a point of ignoring her, before returning to Francesca. “Papa had hoped I would be wed last year, but I was adamant about waiting another season. I wouldn’t want to settle for just anyone, after all..” She slipped her arm around the Duke’s, making her claim of him clear.

A flicker of old emotions stirred in Francesca at the sight, the remnants of what she once felt for the Duke, but she dismissed them with ease. “I wish you the best of luck,” Francesca told her with an icy smile. “I am sure any gentleman would be fortunate to have you for his own.”

“Indeed,” Lady Susan agreed. “What of you, though, Lady Francesca? Have you not been courting Lord Liam Terrell?”

Once more, Francesca was stunned that Lady Susan knew such details about her life. The lady had apparently been paying much more attention to her than Francesca had ever paid in return.

“…Yes, it is true,” she answered with a nod. She did not offer any further information as she felt somewhat uneasy to be discussing the topic with the pair.

But then, Lady Susan gave her a look that could only be described as a mockery of sympathy. “You poor thing,” she sighed. “I do not know that my heart could handle a gentleman with such an… indulgent reputation.”

Francesca frowned, her nails almost puncturing the leather cover of her book now.

“I am afraid I do not quite understand what you mean,” she murmured.

Lady Susan shook her head. “You shouldn’t fret, my dear. I imagine your choices for a suitor are rather limited, so of course you turn a blind eye to Lord Terrell’s indiscretions. I’m certain anyone in your predicament would do the same.”

Francesca gaped at the younger woman’s words. Whatever unpleasantness she might encounter with the Duke paled in comparison to the vile venom Lady Susan was spitting at her now. What was worse was that she delivered it with a saccharine smile. At least when the Duke insulted Francesca, he did not try to hide his animosity behind a seemingly friendly mask.

“Lady Susan,” the Duke interjected sharply, gazing down at her with wide eyes. “Such remarks are unbecoming of a lady.”

Lady Susan gazed up at him with an expression of pure, innocent confusion.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she pouted. “Did I say something out of turn? I believed I was merely offering a compliment.”

Unable to endure another moment of the veiled insults, Francesca turned sharply, her exit as dignified as it was swift, and began her retreat down the path from where she came.

“Lady Francesca, wait!”

Francesca hesitated briefly, glancing over her shoulder to see the Duke hastening after her. She bit back tears and rolled her eyes in a feeble attempt at defiance. “Your Grace, I believe it is best I return home,” her voice cracked, betraying her effort to suppress a sob. “I have never sought your concern, nor do I desire your pity.”

“Lady Susan was out of line,” he began after finally reaching her. Lady Susan, still being within earshot, looked appalled by his words. “I apologize on her behalf for any offense she may have caused.”

Francesca stared up at Elmcroft, baffled that he was apologizing to her. Did he truly care that she was upset? No. Of course he did not. She would have thought he would enjoy seeing her humiliated, especially given his usual enjoyment of her discomfiture.

“Good day, Your Grace,” she murmured dismissively, unwilling to extend any gesture of forgiveness to the man who had made it his pastime to cause her offense. With that, she turned away, steadfastly ignoring his call after her.

Francesca did not look back once as she hurried home. When she was certain she was out of sight of the Duke and Lady Susan, she broke into a sprint, only slowing as she approached her family’s manor. It was a modest and well-kept house, standing in stark contrast to the grand estates that neighbored them. Despite their lack of staff, Francesca made certain that the home was clean and cared for. Still, there were some hedges that needed tending to, and vines were taking over the western wall. The roof also leaked, and on windy days, one could hear the air whistling past the aged window frames.  Each was a reminder of the grandeur they once held—that was stolen from them by that vile man.

Still, Francesca thought the house was beautiful and took pride in caring for it.

When she reached the front door, she paused and took a moment to catch her breath before going inside. The house was quiet, but she had expected that. What little help her father could afford consisted of a cook, a single maid, and an elderly gardener. They all lived in the nearby village and only came to the house a few days a week. Today was not one of their work days, and so Francesca was alone, as her father was also away conducting business in Town.

So, it was quite a startling surprise when she heard noises coming from her father’s study as she passed by the door. Francesca stopped, her heart in her throat. Cautiously, she approached the door, nudging it open just enough to peer inside. A figure was standing behind her father’s large wooden desk, rifling through the papers resting on its top. It took her a moment to place the man.

“Oh! Mr. Campbell!” she burst out, throwing the door open and entering the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Father is away, but I am certain you know that.”

Mr. Robert Campbell, the family’s solicitor and her father’s confidant, met her gaze with a red face and a damp brow. His expression was grave and his eyes filled with a sorrow that sent Francesca’s stomach twisting as a shiver traveled up her spine.

“Mr. Campbell…?”

“Forgive me, my lady,” he blurted, his voice laden with distress. “I have been awaiting your arrival. I am terribly sorry, but I must inform you that there has been a tragedy. Your father, the Baron, has passed away.”

Chapter Two

“What?” Francesca’s voice was barely audible. “W-what are you saying? My father is dead? How? When? But he was just—”

Mr. Campbell gave her a sympathetic look and hurried forward to grab hold of her shoulders.

“A carriage accident on his return from Town,” he told her in a gentle tone, guiding her to her father’s favorite armchair in front of the desk. “He was on his way across the Smalling Hills when the driver lost control upon a ridge road. The carriage was overturned and your father was tossed… Forgive me, my lady. I should not be telling you the details.”

Francesca’s head began shaking in disbelief as tears streamed down her cheeks. She clutched Mr. Campbell’s hand as she released a heart-wrenching sob. The solicitor did not object, nor try to pull from her grip. He merely stood in silence, patting her gently on the back as she wept, feeling her heart shrivel and die.

“No, no, this can’t be happening,” she whimpered. “He cannot be dead! Please tell me this is just another of my terrible dreams. Please!”

“My lady, I wish I could tell you otherwise,” Mr. Campbell murmured. “Oh, I am truly sorry, my dear.”

His mere presence was a small comfort, as Mr. Campbell had always been like family to her. Yet, Francesca did not believe there was anything that could mend the deep sorrow tearing through her soul presently.

After allowing her a few more precious moments to mourn, Mr. Campbell gently spoke again, “My lady, I understand it may be difficult to focus on anything but your loss at present, but there is an urgent matter that must be addressed. It concerns your father’s final requests, and there is… a limited time to fulfill them.”

Francesca was tempted to ignore him, to continue drowning in her pity and tears, but she knew her father would expect her to rise to the challenges that lay before her. He would not have wanted her to succumb to despair, but to uphold his final wishes for the sake of the Nightingale name and her own.

Shaking her head, she took a few more moments to compose herself, just enough so that she could hold her head up and face the solicitor as the new woman of the family.

With a sniffle, she asked, “What… what were my father’s last wishes?”

Mr. Campbell inhaled deeply before revealing, “In his final moments, he had apparently instructed his driver that he wanted his death kept under wraps. Only I am aware of this, and the driver has vowed silence in return for not being reported for his part in the accident.”

Francesca furrowed her brow, confused. “I—I don’t understand. Why would he want his death kept secret?”

“Regrettably, your father was so focused on rescuing you both from financial difficulties, that he neglected to revise his will. As it stands, the estate is set to pass to your cousin, Lord Gerard, and you would not be able to access your inheritance until you were married. And because you’d be expected to enter mourning, Lord Terrell may not be willing to wait and could pursue another match. And with Lord Gerard’s unpredictability and his… forgive me for being blunt but predilection for gambling, there is no telling where it could leave the last of the Oakvale fortune before you can even access it. Your father was a wise man, even in his final breaths.”

Francesca stared at the solicitor in shock. “You mean to say… I could be left with nothing?”

He nodded. “Yes, but do not fear. I shall manage the situation where it concerns the Baron Oakvale. However, it is crucial for you to secure your marriage before the news of his death is made public.”

“I… I can try,” she murmured, her mind racing with the countless scenarios that could unravel and leave her worse off. How precisely was she supposed to accomplish such a task without her father’s presence, let alone guidance?

“There happens to be… one more caveat I have neglected to mention, unfortunately,” Mr. Campbell added in a low tone, interrupting her thoughts. “You can no longer remain here.”

“Excuse me?” Francesca exclaimed, rising quickly. “Why in heaven must I be forced to abandon my own home?”

The solicitor gave a somber shake of the head. “My lady, the remaining staff will be dismissed, and managing the manor alone isn’t feasible,” he replied stoically. “Furthermore, if news were to spread that the Baron has abandoned you to your devices at Oakvale Manor while dismissing the staff, it might lead to… unsavory suspicions.”

Though she didn’t particularly care for the inference, Francesca recognized the truth in his words. There were already countless rumors circulating around the Nightingale family, with her father’s continuous absences which many saw as neglect toward a daughter of a marriageable age. Worse, some had even attempted to take advantage of her father’s absence and the lack of staff by breaking into her home to steal whatever valuables they had left. Thankfully, the presence of the lone gardener had warded off future attempts, and so she had refrained from mentioning it to her father, who was already burdened with other responsibilities. She would no longer have the luxury with the staff being dismissed.

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Very well, I shall stay with my Aunt Priscilla—”

“Pardon me, but I must advise against that also,” Mr. Campbell hastily objected. “If you stay with your aunt, Lord Gerard may grow suspicious and discover the truth of your father. No, no, it is imperative you stay away from the Townsends and uphold normalcy in their presence. In the meantime, you must find somewhere else to stay, somewhere that you may court Lord Terrell as usual without overburdening the either of you or raising suspicions. If I may give my opinion, preferably somewhere between the Hawthorne Downs and Elmcroft.”

Francesca’s brows drew together in a frown, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Where then?” she demanded, frustration and hopelessness blurring her vision. “Where am I supposed to go?”

Mr. Campbell appeared apologetic but shook his head nonetheless. “I am afraid I do not have an answer to that.”

Of course… she had learned at a very young age to never expect any measure of leniency under such dire circumstances after what her father had to go through. She turned away from Mr. Campbell and tucked her hands in between her thighs as she pondered carefully over her options. She needed a solution. But who could she rely on? She had no other family besides her aunt and cousin. She had no real acquaintances she could call upon at this time—her fair-weather friends had deserted her after her father’s fortunes dwindled.

As she considered her limited choices, only one name constantly sprang to mind, and she wanted to groan with fury and frustration.

There was one person who might be able to help her. One person who would not try to take advantage of her vulnerable position… simply because he thought himself far too superior.

In her direst moment of desperation, it appeared the only person she could turn to, was the very man she detested most… the Duke of Elmcroft

“Heaven help me,” she muttered under her breath. “To save my home, I must relinquish my pride.”

“Pardon, my lady?” Mr. Campbell asked.

Facing him once more, Francesca let out a resigned sigh. “Nothing, Mr. Campbell. I assure you, I shall do my best to uphold my end of the bargain. Pray, just grant me a fortnight’s reprieve.”

***

Perhaps she will be in attendance at the Pemberton’s ball. She has to be out there, somewhere, and Lord knows she will not show up at my door.

Joshua sat before the escritoire in his study, sifting through a pile of invitations for various social events – balls, soirees, and gatherings of all kinds. He was not particularly fond of such events, but they were part of his ongoing effort to find the woman who had saved him from the perilous carriage accident five years prior. Since Warren’s confused words on the day he had regained consciousness, Joshua had scarcely mentioned her to anyone, expecting to be met with a similarly pitiful look and inferences that he had temporarily lost his mind. But deep down, he had not given up his hope of seeing her again.

As of yet, however, his search had been fruitless. It was not surprising, given he hadn’t an inkling of an idea where to even begin looking for her. All he remembered was her blonde hair and the gentleness of her touch. Still, he reasoned she had to live somewhere in the area. Otherwise, there would have been no reason for her to be walking the cliffside under such perilous weather conditions to save him in the first place.

Joshua recognized that his search for his mysterious angel had become his secret obsession, but he did not care. His focus on finding his rescuer had at least helped him to overcome his heartbreak over Francesca. Now he could think of her without feeling anything in particular. She was neither a source of pain, grief, nor desire. She was nothing to him, and he was still rather stunned that he had allowed himself to fall into such an abominable state of being for as long as he had. After his brush with death, he had pulled himself together. He had put aside the drink and resumed his responsibilities to his title and estate, albeit with a lot less conviction. Regardless, it had been an enlightening experience, being on the brink of leaving behind everything. 

Ever since, he vowed no woman would ever cause him to sink so low again. Joshua had no intentions of marrying or trusting another lady… with the only, albeit imprudent, exception being his guardian angel. Were he to ever find her, he might propose to her on the spot. She was the only lady he would ever even consider giving his heart to. And the chances of that happening were slim anyhow.

As he continued to sort through his pile of summonses, a knock on the heavy-oak door interrupted his reveries.

“Yes?” he called out.

The door opened a crack and Warren lumbered inside. He appeared troubled and hesitant, which made Joshua frown.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Your Grace, you have a… guest at the door.”

Confused, Joshua pushed to his feet and moved around his desk. “A guest? At this hour?”

It was late into the night, and pouring rain. The only person he could think of that might call on him so late was his friend Benedict, but even he would have sent a note ahead informing… or rather warning Joshua of his imminent arrival. Moreover, if it had been Benedict, Warren would have had difficulties preventing him from reaching Joshua’s study to begin with.

Then, he grasped the emphasis the butler had put on the word ‘door’. “Door? You mean to say they are not waiting in the drawing room?”

Warren shook his head, his brows furrowed tremendously. “No, Your Grace. The young lady refuses to enter the house until you have personally invited her.”

A lady? At this time of night?

Joshua’s mind began to race as he tried to puzzle out who it might be. A part bedmate? There were quite a number, but would any of them dare show up at his home unannounced?

“Will you not just tell me who it is?” he demanded of Warren.

The butler slowly shook his head. “I believe it would be best to go and see for yourself, Your Grace.”

Now, Joshua’s curiosity could not be contained.

“Very well,” he exhaled, rising from his warm damask armchair and striding with conviction past rows of aged books once belonging to his father, before reaching his butler. “This mysterious act of yours had better be worth it, Warren.”

Joshua strode on, navigating the bare corridors of his ancestral home, barren from his neglect and unwillingness to play the part of the perfect Duke when he was alone. He could only scoff at the past portraits of stern ancestors that seemed to scrutinize his every move, as he went to receive the damsel he had likely just bedded and forgotten.

And why should I care? The games of the aristocracy were about to condemn me to a fate with the one-who-shall-not-be-named, sentencing me to a life of a miserable husband. All for the mere elevation of my family’s standing. Pah!

Approaching the front door, his hand grasped the heavy brass doorknob worn smooth from generations of use and yanked it open. The sight that greeted him halted him in his tracks.

There, on his doorstep, stood Francesca Nightingale, utterly drenched from the waterfall. Raindrops glistened on her skin, trailing down her neck and disappearing into the soaked neckline of her dress. A dress that was sopping and translucent, accentuating the curves of her breasts and hips and leaving little to the imagination. Her blonde hair, ordinarily coiffed untidily—a clear testament to having attempted it herself, now lay in damp tendrils around her face, framing it with an unintentional seductiveness.

Joshua bit back his imaginings fiercely to prevent them from wandering off to more wanton thoughts, and it was then he noticed she was clutching a heavy suitcase in both hands.

“Lady—Lady Francesca? What in God’s name are you doing here?”

She raised her blue eyes to meet his, her face set firmly, her jaw clenched with the same resolve he had witnessed no less than twelve hours ago during his morning stroll with Lady Susan Moore. Was she returning to make a final point? That thought did seem quite silly, but he would not expect much less from the young lady.

“Your Grace, I must ask something of you that is not… easy for me,” she began. There was a waver in her tone and Joshua’s face suddenly grew solemn. It was only now that he noted her eyes were a touch red and slightly swollen. Had she been weeping?

“…What is it?” he inquired.

“Could I possibly stay here?” she asked in a soft voice. “Only for a fortnight. No more.”

Joshua was confused. No, he was stunned and utterly bewildered. He stared at her, speechless, for a long moment. He had no idea what to make of it all. She gazed up at him coyly from beneath long lashes, her usually cold eyes brimming with vulnerability and distress that might have struck a chord in his heart if it hadn’t already been ripped to shreds.

He was not certain what possessed him to do so, but without demanding any further explanation, he stepped aside, allowing Francesca to enter his home, her gown soaked and boots caked in mud.

Look out for the full release on the 2nd of Februrary!

Chapter One

1817 

Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t attend the ball at all.

Amelia silenced her glum thoughts as best she could, but they kept resurfacing with a vengeance with every passing second. She bit her bottom lip so hard that she was afraid she would draw blood, yet the pain served to distract her from the waves of trepidation assaulting her at the present moment. She didn’t know where to bury herself – under the covers of her bed or leave the house altogether.

“Oh, goodness, will you stop breathing so loudly?” The sharp tone snapped Amelia from her dour thoughts. She jolted at the force of it, twisting slightly on the tiny stool she sat on to look at her aunt.

The older woman’s glare could have sliced right through steel. Barbara Egerton, the Viscountess of Hendale, curled her upper lip in utter disgust and Amelia felt her heart twist at the sight. The viscountess could have been a beautiful lady despite her age, but Amelia surmised that years of scornful looks and a horrid personality had twisted her features. Somehow, though she’d only just turned forty, Barbara looked like she already had one foot in the grave.

Still, she sat upright with a healthy posture, though that also had much to do with the plush mahogany chair she was sitting in.

“Pardon?” Amelia murmured, loud enough for her aunt to hear.

“I can hear your breathing,” Barbara complained, her tone dripping with malice. “I thought I told you to simply sit in that corner and pretend as if you don’t exist. I should not even know that you’re there.”

For a moment, Amelia could only gape back in astonishment. Even though the bedchamber they occupied was shared between Amelia and her cousin, it was still considered rather sizable. Barbara was sitting near the only vanity table in the room, next to her daughter, while Amelia had been forced to claim the furthest corner away from them. And, as her aunt had requested, she’d gone about getting ready in complete silence. She couldn’t fathom how she could have done anything less.

“Oh, leave her be, Mother.” Lady Nadine’s voice was innocent and sweet—a perfect mask for the bitterness that lay within her. “She has no one but herself to talk to. I’m sure it must get lonely.”

Barbara huffed, very unlike the fashionable lady she so strived to be, but she heeded her daughter’s words nevertheless, turning back to face the mirror. Nadine glanced over her shoulder at Amelia, giving her a pitiful look and a shake of the head, before she faced ahead again.

With the viscountess and her daughter distracted, their lady’s maids returned to styling their hair.

Amelia turned back to her corner and blinked back the tears stinging her eyes. This sort of treatment had been going on for three years, so she ought to have been used to it by now. But she hated facing this level of humiliation in front of the servants.

The maids often paid her little mind. Amelia didn’t know if it was an order from their mistress or if they simply decided she was not worth their time, just like her aunt and cousin. Either way, she was forced to prepare for the ball by herself. Slipping into her delicate underpinnings, adjusting the layers of her petticoat, and finally, pulling on her jade green dress—which was already out of fashion. Amelia didn’t even consider the thought of adorning herself with rouge or jewels.

“Mother, do you believe he will ask me to dance tonight?” Nadine’s voice came floating back to her as she struggled with the lacing of her dress. If she wasn’t ready by the time they were, they would certainly leave without her.

“Of course, dear!” Barbara gushed. Her voice grew shrill when she was excited and Amelia winced, fumbling with the final lace and unraveling the rest. “In fact, I will make sure to get you an introduction. All you need is a dance, my dear, and the duke will certainly be besotted with you.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure,” Nadine sounded uncertain. “He is hailed as the most eligible bachelor in the ton for a reason. Every lady there will be throwing herself at him. What will make him look twice at me?” she pouted.

Barbara gasped as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Amelia wasn’t so surprised. Nadine had mastered the art of getting others to compliment her under the guise of humility. “You forget yourself, my dear,” Barbara said, her voice impassioned. “You are the most beautiful lady in all of London! He would be a fool not to pay you any mind.”

“Do you truly think so?”

“Of course! Ask anyone else and they will tell you the same.”

Amelia didn’t have to look to know that Nadine was smiling from ear to ear. She couldn’t agree with her aunt though. Nadine was by no means hard to look at, but calling her the most beautiful lady in all of London was an outright lie. She had brown hair that lay flat and dead at her shoulders, always breaking off before it could grow out—which was why she never wore her hair down. Her face was bordering on plain, but when she sneered like her mother, Amelia thought her to be the most frightening being she’d ever seen.

But Nadine had the confidence of a queen, which Amelia envied and many-a-gentleman were charmed by.

“The Duchess of Stanhope,” Nadine purred. “It is the end of the Season, Mother. Perhaps I should discard my suitors when the duke asks me to court him. I will be the envy of all the ladies in London.”

“Even more than usual,” Barbara added, only contributing to Nadine’s hubris. “To think your father managed to secure us invites to His Grace’s ball this year. It’s always been the pinnacle event of the season. Such a splendid way to conclude it!”

Nadine nodded. “I’ve even heard that only a chosen handful from high society receive invites. And very few are invited twice.” Suddenly, Nadine gasped. “Do you think he will be there?”

Barbara frowned in bemusement.

Nadine leaned closer to her mother to whisper, though she didn’t do a very good job of it. “The Masked Rogue.”

The name sent a jolt through Amelia. Memories flashed in her mind and much of her annoyance melted into anger.

“The Masked Rogue?” Barbara jerked back. “Nonsense! Not that hogwash again. This is the Duke of Stanhope’s Grand Ball! Do you truly believe he would risk tarnishing his esteemed name by inviting such a notorious figure? Nadine, you would do best to stay away from such characters,” she chided lightly.

Nadine winced at Barbara’s sharp tone and quickly tried to placate her. “You’re right, Mother. I am simply quite curious to see just who the man behind the mask is.”

Amelia couldn’t say the same. She wouldn’t mind if she spent her entire life never finding out the Masked Rogue’s identity. Or better yet, if she did, she wouldn’t mind spending her entire life bringing him to ruin.

After a moment of silence, Nadine began again, “Though, if he truly is an Earl as rumors suggest, I wouldn’t object to the title of a countess…”

Amelia suddenly felt a desperate urge to leave the room. Her hair was already arranged in a modest chignon, with a few loose strands framing her face, leaving only her shoes to be put on. She wanted to escape as soon as she was finished. Having to listen to the praises of that man made her feel sick to her core.

Though, she supposed it would be unfair of her to pretend as if she did not wish for marriage too. At one-and-twenty, her prospects were diminishing. Beyond this Season, many would consider her past the prime age for marriage, practically a spinster. She couldn’t allow that label to befall her. Securing a suitor at this ball was paramount—it might be her final opportunity.

If she didn’t find a suitor, she would never be married. She’d never receive her inheritance and would be forced to remain as her uncle’s ward in this unpleasant place where she was treated so horribly.

But most importantly, she wouldn’t be able to save her sister.

After slipping into her shoes, Amelia got to her feet and promptly made her way to the door. She was ignored, to her relief. Sometimes she preferred being invisible to enduring her aunt’s malice and her cousin’s bitterness.

The moment she was out the door, Amelia released a long, quiet breath. She couldn’t let her aunt and cousin’s words get her down. Throughout the entire Season, they had done nothing but step on her toes and push her aside. Amelia understood her aunt wanting to put her daughter first, but they’d made this Season nothing but a failure for her—to be used as a pedestal for Nadine’s future.

Well, she couldn’t allow it to end on a failure.

“My lady?”

Amelia jolted at the soft voice, startled by the sudden appearance of the maid by her side. She stepped away from the door so that those inside could not hear when she asked, “What is it?”

“This came for you a short while ago.” The maid held out a folded piece of paper.

Amelia’s heart began to pound against her chest. “From whom?”

“The Countess of Talley, my lady.”

Amelia snatched the paper from the maid’s hands, muttering a thank-you under her breath as she hurriedly unfolded it. The words written within were simple and to the point but they sent Amelia’s heart sprawling.

She hadn’t heard from her sister in months and from the state of her writing, it seemed her sister had hastily penned the letter. It stated that Amelia could come to visit her in Brighton next month since the Earl of Talley would be out of Brighton for a week. The thought of seeing her again had Amelia’s heart weak with relief. Not receiving any word from her had slowly sent Amelia down a spiral of worry, wondering with each passing day if something bad had happened.

“Where is my uncle?” Amelia quickly asked the maid, her voice breathy with urgency.

“He is in his study, my—”

She didn’t wait for the maid to finish. She picked up her skirts and swiveled on her heels, racing down the narrow hallway. Amelia nearly twisted her ankle twice as she rushed down the staircase and she mentally chided her clumsiness but didn’t stop. Her heart raced with excitement, a controlled smile barely gracing her features.

Because of it, she didn’t think twice about bursting into her uncle’s study without knocking.

Thankfully, he was without company, but the look he gave her upon her entrance made her realize the mistake she’d made.

“Forgive me, Uncle,” she panted. “I hope I am not interrupting.”

Harold Egerton, the Viscount of Hendale, plopped his quill pen back into the inkpot and leaned back in his chair with a grunt. Amelia was once more struck by how much he resembled her late father—his brother. They had been close in age but her father had been the one to inherit the Earldom. And as the younger son, Harold had opted to marry the daughter of the late Viscount of Hendale.

Ever since she began to live here, Amelia wondered if their difference in status was what caused such animosity toward her. After all, she was the daughter of the late Earl of Marlowe and her sister had become the Countess of Talley. Even though she was unmarried and without a title, her father had left her a sizable inheritance and she already had access to her dowry.

But if that was what caused her aunt and cousin’s disdain of her, Amelia couldn’t say if the same applied to Harold. The truth was, she didn’t know what he thought of her. She’d met him only once before her father passed and when she came to live with them, he’d been neither cold nor warm. He took care of her in all the ways that mattered, but nothing more. He allowed her to attend events during the Season, as it was her duty to marry, but Amelia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in his presence for more than a few minutes.

“What do you want, Amelia?” he asked, ignoring her earlier words.

Despite his lacking tone, Amelia’s excitement did not waver. She approached his desk and laid the letter open for him to see. He read it quickly, then looked back up at her. “State your point, girl.”

She hated when he called her that but she’d never voice it. “Dorothy has extended an invitation for me to visit her,” she explained in between breaths, even though it was made rather clear in the letter. “I’ve come to ask that arrangements be made—”

“That will not be happening. Now leave me be.” And just like that, he resumed his task, returning to his quill and paper.

Amelia stared at him, unwilling to understand his words right away. “I have not seen my sister in three years, Uncle,” she tried again. “You know her husband makes it difficult for her to receive my letters, and even more difficult for her to send them. And Brighton is not that far. If I could have someone take me there and back—”

“I said that it will not be happening. What do you not understand?”

The finality in his tone had already wiped any signs of hopefulness from Amelia’s face. “But why?” she asked, hating how her voice cracked.

He didn’t bother to look back up at her. “Dorothy is a married woman now. She has her own life, and you, your own. You should focus on yourself. I will not waste my time traveling all the way to Brighton. If she wishes to see you so urgently, she should come to London herself.”

But Talley will not let her! Amelia wanted to shout the words from the top of her lungs. She would have, had she not known how indifferently her uncle would react. And the last thing she wanted was for Barbara or Nadine to catch wind of what was happening with her sister. Their tongues would be wagging relentlessly by the end of the day and Amelia would not risk her sister’s reputation by revealing that the Earl of Talley was an abusive man. It was knowledge that burned within Amelia alone.

And it was the only thing driving her this Season. Not to start her own family, nor to complete her duties as a lady and produce an heir for her husband. The only reason she wanted to be married was to gain access to her inheritance. That way, she could afford to liberate her sister from her abusive husband. And they could live alone, just the two of them, away from the world in some countryside cottage, as they would spend hours speaking of when they were younger.

Harold glanced up at her, then back to his paper. “You may leave,” he dismissed with a cavalier wave of a hand.

Amelia didn’t move. Her body grew hot with anger and frustration and, to her annoyance, the tears began to spill. No one would understand how often she lay awake at nights thinking about her sister, about the beautiful smile she’d last seen on Dorothy’s wedding day. After that, there had been no communication. Dorothy had left for Brighton with the husband she loved and Amelia had instantly lost all contact.

Amelia had tried to visit her herself, back when her uncle hadn’t cared if she came or went. But the Earl constantly denied her, sending her away. And her letters often remained unanswered.

Until one day, a year and a half ago, Amelia received a letter from her sister, scribbled hastily and dotted with dried tears. She spoke about the treatment from her husband, how the man she had loved for so long had seemingly changed overnight. Since then, Amelia had feared for her sister’s life.

And now, to hear that she could not even go to visit her….

Amelia felt as if every part of her chest was being ripped to shreds. Rage mounted in her at the helplessness of her situation. How could she have an uncle who didn’t seem to care about his nieces? Who only cared for one out of necessity and turned a blind eye to the other’s suffering? Amelia couldn’t help but think about what Dorothy might be going through right now and that frustration tipped over into sorrow.

If she had her inheritance, Amelia could save her. But she could only do that if she married.

If only her family had never encountered the Masked Rogue.

Over the years, Amelia tried not to think about it too much. She didn’t like the anger and hatred that swarmed her at the thought of that horrid person. But right now, she welcomed it, a black void opening in her chest and eager for any dark thought.

The Masked Rogue was the reason for all her troubles and why she was in this position in the first place. Had he let her father be, hadn’t taken advantage of him, and hadn’t so coldly ripped everything from her family, perhaps they would all still be together. Perhaps her father would still be alive…

Wiping her tears, Amelia turned and left the room without a word. She made her way to the foyer where she sat in the small chair by the door. She would have liked to wait in the parlor, alone, away from prying eyes, but she didn’t want to risk her aunt and cousin leaving her behind.

She steeled her resolve. If she couldn’t go to see her sister, she would bring her to London instead. And tonight was her final chance of making that happen…

 

Chapter Two

“Has the list of attendees been finalized yet?”

The sound of heavy papers rustled behind Gideon before a gravelly voice spoke up. “Yes, Your Grace. All invitations sent have been responded to. Everyone will be in attendance as per usual. They are all very eager.”

Those words made Gideon smile a little. He didn’t bother to turn around, enjoying the evening breeze wafting through his study window. His fingers traced idly along the edges of a white mask, giving him an odd sense of comfort.

“And I take it all the preparations are finished?”

“Yes…” The gravelly voice trailed off and Gideon stilled, turning his head slightly in waiting. “Almost everything.”

Gideon didn’t respond right away. He let heavy silence seep into the study, so thick that he could almost smell the sweaty apprehension emanating from his butler. Slowly, he turned to face him, taking in the thin elderly man with cold hazel eyes.

To his credit, Thomas held his composure. Gideon remembered a time when this wiry old man had been the closest thing to a father figure—but that was during a time when Gideon did not know the power he possessed. Now that he stood in the position of duke, he was all too aware of the disparity between the two of them. And clearly, Thomas knew it as well. The butler who would once smile and sneak him treats as a child, now tried his best to bravely meet Gideon’s eyes.

It was not a sight Gideon enjoyed. So he sighed and softened his features, hoping that it would put the man at ease. Though he would make no such effort with the other servants, Thomas was different and he could at least show him some grace.

“What is causing the delay?” he asked as calmly as he could.

“Not all the refreshments have yet been brewed, Your Grace,” Thomas answered, maintaining his composure. “As the guest list was added to this year, it has been difficult to keep up with—” he replied before interrupting himself, “I will speak with the cook to ensure that they are ready before the commencement of the ball.”

Gideon nodded. He did not appreciate excuses, and his butler understood that. “We still have the hour, will it be enough time?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas answered instantly.

“Then there is no cause for worry.” Gideon’s features relaxed again as he grinned. He had no patience for uncertainties too.

Satisfied with that response, Gideon faced the window again, continuing to stroke the white mask. “You are too tense, Thomas,” he drawled. “Relax. It is a wonderful evening, the end of yet another perfect Season.”

“Once more, you have outdone yourself, Your Grace.”

“You flatter me,” Gideon chuckled. “But it is yet another duty of mine to ensure that the Terrell name is always spoken with the utmost honor and respect.”

“As it will be for generations to come, Your Grace.”

“Of course, of course.” Gideon could not allow anything but. He’d had enough of his family name being dragged through the mud. After all the time and energy he had put into bringing the Terrell name and the dukedom back to a place of honor, he would be damned if a slight mishap at the most anticipated ball of the Season were to ruin everything.

Which is why everything must go perfectly.

“Ah, that reminds me.” He picked up the mask, idly wandering over to the front of his desk where he perched on the edge. Wherever he went, the mask did too. It was an extension of himself, a piece of him that he could not be without. “Mademoiselle Dubois has sent her acceptance to my letter, has she not?”

Thomas nodded. He’d hardly moved from his spot by the door, gripping sheets behind his back. “She has, Your Grace.”

“Marvelous.” Unable to help himself, a devilish smile stretched across Gideon’s face. “Then I take it you have already put our other plan in place.”

Thomas hesitated for such a brief moment that it almost went unnoticed by Gideon—almost. “Upon her arrival, a footman will escort her through the parlor to the ballroom. When the time is right, she will be informed of your request to meet with her, where she will then be taken back to the parlor and led up the back staircase to the balcony.”

“And the balcony doors?”

“—will be locked from the inside so that no one will be able to go through. A footman will stay nearby to ensure that no one makes the attempt.”

Though he was satisfied by how thoroughly Thomas had broken down the plan, Gideon raised a brow at him. “You do not sound pleased, Thomas.”

“It is not for me to be pleased… or not, Your Grace.”

“Oh, enough of that. You have known me since I was a child. You know I value your opinion. Now, out with it. What bothers you?”

Thomas opened his mouth again and Gideon prepared himself to hear his standard response. But instead, he said, “I do not think it is the best idea to meet with the Comtesse, Your Grace. She is the widow of the Count of Palouse. It would do nothing but destroy the reputation you’ve worked so hard to build if the two of you are caught. Worse, if it is revealed that you are the Masked—”

“Which is why we won’t be caught,” Gideon interrupted confidently. “I know I have never personally invited a lady to spend time with me during a ball, but I have corresponded with the Comtesse in the past. And I have planned everything to perfection. You said it yourself, Thomas. She is a widow. We break no laws by seeing each other.”

“What of the Countess of Blair? She will also be attending the ball.”

“Lady Blair and I have respectfully broken off our courtship,” Gideon said dismissively. “And she will not know what—or rather who—I have taken interest in.”

“But perhaps it would be best not to engage in such activities during the ball, Your Grace, when it is so crowded. You have always ensured to never allow your public life as the Duke of Stanhope to clash with your private life…”

Gideon smirked a little at that. He looked down at the mask in his hand, wondering if Thomas was referring to his secret life as the Masked Rogue. It certainly would not do if someone were to find out that he was the one who bore the name. However…

“We won’t be caught, Thomas, don’t worry. I am confident. And Mademoiselle Dubois is smart enough not to speak about the time we share together. It is in both of our best interests.”

Thomas released a low breath. “Very well, Your Grace. I suppose I cannot convince you.”

“And there is no need to.” Gideon grinned. “I have been hiding my endeavors from the ton ever since I inherited the dukedom. They will be none the wiser. I’ve learned over the years that they are oftentimes quite content to see exactly what you put before them and nothing else.”

“Understood, Your Grace.”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Gideon called for the person to enter and a footman slipped in, hardly glancing at Gideon before he bowed deeply. “Please forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. You have a visitor.”

Before Gideon had a chance to process those words, a hand pressed against the door, pushing it further open. Panic and frustration seized Gideon so firmly that he nearly cursed aloud. He tried to hide the mask but the person was already stalking in as if he was lord of the manor, bearing a broad grin.

Gideon finally exhaled when he saw who it was, not bothering to hide the mask any longer. It would have been too late anyhow. Lewis’ eyes fell on it and he raised a brow at Gideon.

“Leave us,” Gideon commanded. Thomas and the footman promptly slipped out of the chamber.

Lord Lewis Rowley, the Earl of Janesbury stopped in the center of the room, his brown eyes darting from the mask to Gideon and back.

“You’ve gotten far too careless with that thing,” he commented at last with a vague gesture, as he swept back his blond hair behind his ear.

Gideon lifted the white mask, studying its diamond-embedded linings for what felt like the millionth time. He knew every groove, every dent, every hole carved into it. The mask was mostly white, save for the black stripes around the eyes, and with it on, Gideon became another person.

The Masked Rogue.

Ironically enough, it was Lewis who had come up with the name. Gideon put the mask aside and faced his friend. “There’s no need for me to hide in my own home,” Gideon commented. “I don’t expect anyone I’m not close to, to make it all the way to my study without my knowledge.”

“Is that so,” Lewis said drily, sounding skeptical. “So says the man who had nothing but panic in his eyes when he saw me walk in. Don’t think I missed your attempts to hide it.”

Gideon didn’t bother to deny it. Lewis knew him too well. This was the only person in the world who understood Gideon’s struggles, who knew why he did the things he did. Only with Lewis could he truly reveal the dark void that had been eating him alive for years. And only Lewis could help him get rid of it.

Their friendship began at a time that neither of them could remember, when their days had been nothing but easy and playful. Lewis was the second son of the fourth Earl of Janesbury, and had spent nearly all his life doing whatever he pleased. Unlike Gideon, he didn’t have to think about inheriting a title or any other pressures that came along with it. But as fate would have it, both his father and his brother died in a carriage accident. Leaving him with an unwanted title.

Rather than acknowledge Lewis’ apt observation, Gideon put the mask aside and asked, “Have you found the name of the last person on the list?”

The mirth that had glowed in Lewis’ eyes disappeared. “Straight to business, is it?”

“I assume that is why you’ve come,” Gideon said. “If it is my company you seek, you would have simply waited until the ball.”

If Lewis had an argument for that, he didn’t voice it. “I will have the name to you on the morrow, old boy.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Gideon stated. He would just leave it at that. He had the utmost faith in Lewis’ ability to find anyone in England. Before he had been faced with the duties of becoming Earl, Lewis had been a private investigator. The very best in London, Gideon believed.

“Since we are already on the topic,” Lewis went on, claiming one of the armchairs near the desk. “Don’t you think you went a little too harsh on the last one? The Duke of Crowley?”

Gideon frowned. “And how, pray tell, was I too harsh? I only did what anyone else would have done in my situation. In fact, I would rather say I showed him some mercy.”

“You could have left him with a few dimes in his pocket,” Lewis pressed. “Now, not only is he suffering disgrace but also poverty at having lost everything. I have even heard that he has had to let go of half his servants.”

“Half his servants? He still has the breath in his lungs!” Gideon suddenly snapped, before calming himself. “Besides, a man who frequents the Serpent’s Den as often as he does knows exactly what is likely to happen if he is not careful.” Gideon picked back up his mask, studying it as those familiar dark emotions threatened to overtake him. He thought of the look of despair on the Duke of Crowley’s face when he realized he’d just lost everything. But Gideon could feel no pity.

All he had to do was think of what the Duke of Crowley had done sixteen years ago. All Gideon had to remember was how his father and brother had suffered at the hands of the duke—and the others—and how they ruined Gideon’s life.

For sixteen years, he had harbored anger and hatred in his heart, thinking of nothing else but revenge.

For sixteen years, the duke, and many others, had continued to live a lavish life without any consequences, uncaring of the lives they’d damaged.

And for sixteen years, Gideon had plotted how he would bring about their downfall.

Now that his plan was almost reaching its completion, he wouldn’t allow anyone to talk him out of it. Not even Lewis.

“The duke got what he deserved,” Gideon stated coldly. “And now that he is out of the way, it is time for me to move on to the last one. Once you find him.”

Lewis frowned at him long enough for Gideon to wonder if he truly intended to protest against this. He of all people should know why Gideon had to do this. He stared at his closest acquaintance, hoping that Lewis would not say what he thought he would say.

“Very well,” Lewis sighed at last. “As I said, I shall have a name for you by tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Suddenly eager to be rid of the tense air between them, Gideon asked, “Do not be late tonight. Or else every lady and her mother will be badgering me for an introduction.”

Lewis chuckled, and the tension dissipated like smoke in the wind. “I doubt they will even remember to ask about me once they lay their eyes on the handsome, eligible Duke of Stanhope.”

“Oh? Do I sense a hint of jealousy?”

“I’m just stating facts, that’s all. Even if they were to find out that you leave nothing but broken hearts in your wake, I’m certain they will still be jumping at any chance to become your wives.”

“Then that is too bad for them. I have no intention of marrying until I have fulfilled what I have set out to do. And besides, I am still young. I only intend to enjoy my youth and virility while I can.”

“You’re thirty years old,” Lewis countered. “I’d say you’re at the perfect age to get married.”

“And what of you? Am I the only one who should be shackled by marriage? Won’t you find your countess so that you may have your heir?”

Gideon’s amusement deepened when a blush stained Lewis’ cheeks. His friend had never been very good at hiding things. For a while now, Gideon had begun to wonder if Lewis was courting someone—and it seemed he might be right on the mark, seeing that Lewis was having a hard time meeting Gideon’s eyes.

“You’re right,” Lewis gave in, leaping out of his chair. Gideon wasn’t surprised to see him desperately trying to make an escape now. “Marriage is nothing we men need to think about so soon. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, yes?”

“Oh, I intend to,” Gideon said, thinking forward to his evening with the Comtesse.

Lewis was already pulling the door open. “Then I shall be seeing you later this evening.”

Gideon grinned at Lewis’ quickly retreating frame, letting out a small chuckle. One day, he would press his friend a little more to tell him about the belle he was hiding. But for now, there were other more important things he had to focus on.

Tonight, it was the ball… and an invigorating night with Mademoiselle Dubois.

Tomorrow, it would be exacting his final plan of revenge. 

 

Chapter Three

Nothing would discourage Amelia tonight. She chanted those words over and over again, reassuring herself as best she could as the carriage pulled into the driveway of Castle Stanhope. But for some reason, when she laid eyes on the towering manor, she lost some of her nerve.

Barbara and Nadine squealed and chatted to each other as if she did not exist, practically thrumming with excitement – while Amelia battled with the fierce determination and the intense uncertainty warring within her. It wasn’t lost on her that her last ditch attempt at finding a husband was being made at the grandest ball of the year.

That too at the end of the Season.

She did not want to come off as desperate to any gentleman she might meet tonight, but she also had no idea how best to express her interest in them—enough to not only come away with a courtship, but a chance at marriage.

The moment they were out of the carriage, Nadine and Barbara linked arms and walked away, leaving Amelia to follow behind. Her arms were stiff by her side, heart pounding loudly in her chest as she followed the other arriving guests and the escorting footmen into the manor. She couldn’t help admiring the other ladies in attendance—and feeling drab and out of place with her out-of-fashion dark green dress.

I shouldn’t let that bother me, she reminded herself, steeling her resolve. This is all for Dorothy.

Her small encouragement served to push aside some of her nervousness, but it came rushing back like a tidal wave the moment they arrived at the entrance of the grand hall.

All too soon, the magnificent double doors swung open. To their credit, Nadine and Barbara maintained their composure as the footman announced them to the sea of guests already filling the massive, glistening ballroom. Amelia hardly heard her own introduction as she stepped inside, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people.

The ballroom they stepped into was the epitome of opulence, an elaborate spectacle designed to take anyone’s breath away. Ornate crystal chandeliers hung like stars from a sky-painted ceiling, casting their shimmering light onto the polished, ebony parquet floor. Stately Corinthian columns, carved from pure Italian marble, lined the room, supporting a delicate balcony, from which clusters of nobles surveyed the scene below.

All of London must be here, she thought in awe.

Even as she did, she dismissed it. She knew very well that the Duke of Stanhope did not invite just anyone to his balls. Which made her all the more excited that she’d gotten to attend. Apparently, her uncle and the late Duke of Stanhope had been business partners, which was enough to secure them as guests at this evening’s ball.

Without a backward glance, Barbara whisked Nadine away to speak with a few of the other ladies. Amelia stared after them, knowing better than to follow. They didn’t want to be near her. Which she supposed was fine because she didn’t want to be near them either.

But it left her alone to navigate this spacious and crowded ballroom all by herself.

Thankfully, the dancing was yet to start. If she could get a few names on her dance card, she might be able to get off on the right foot.

For Dorothy, she reminded herself, dispelling the trepidation that clung to her like sweat. It worked, a little.

For now, she needed something in her hand, to make her seem a little less out-of-place and a little more comfortable. She made a beeline for the refreshments table and then reached for the ladle to pour herself a glass of orgeat lemonade, but another hand got there first.

“Oh, forgive me,” she said quickly. “Go ahead.”

“No, please, allow me to pour one for you first, my lady,” came a deep voice. Amelia’s heart skipped a beat when she realized that a tall gentleman stood next to her. She could hardly dare herself to glance at his face, but he had dark brown hair done Brutus-style and wore dark clothes that fit his strapping physique quite well.

“Thank you,” she murmured shyly. Now was her chance, she thought. But what should she say next? Amelia had very little experience with gentlemen and hadn’t the faintest clue on how to entertain a conversation with one.

“Shall I take a guess at who you are, my lady?” the gentleman asked, to her utter relief.

“Rather bold of you to assume that you know everyone in attendance, my lord,” she responded.

He chuckled. “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I am the duke himself. Then it would make sense for me to know who is here, wouldn’t it?”

“Are you the duke?” she asked curiously. Amelia had never seen the Duke of Stanhope, nor had many members of the ton. Apparently, he was a nigh-on impossible man to get a hold of, making the balls he hosted all the more grander affairs. 

The gentleman only sipped his lemonade before saying, “We shall find out soon enough, won’t we?”

There was something about the way he said those words that made her think she was not speaking to the Duke of Stanhope. And why any gentleman would pretend to be the duke was beyond her. Still, she had no intention of pointing out the oddity.

For now, for the sake of her plan, she would play along. “Then, Your Grace, how are you enjoying the ball so far?”

“It has only just begun. There are more people to see, dances to be danced. But I do believe it will be quite the spectacle.”

“I must agree. I, myself, am hoping to share my first dance with a handsome and kind gentleman.”

“Ah, is that so?”

Amelia flushed. She’d been a little bold just now but there was a sudden boredom to his tone that made her feel embarrassed. A small silence settled over them and she racked her brain for some way to be rid of it.

“So, Your Grace, are you here with your fam—”

“Forgive me, my lady, but you must excuse me,” the gentleman cut in, suddenly distracted. “It was lovely to meet you.”

Without waiting for a response, he walked away. Amelia watched as he approached a blond-haired lady, who gave him a broad smile and a deep curtsy. Mortified at how quickly she had been dismissed, Amelia put aside her untouched lemonade and walked away. For the first time since the night began, she was happy that hardly anyone paid any heed to her. As if they did, being ignored like this with such little afterthought would’ve only been all the more humiliating.

Amelia sighed, finding a corner she could linger in. She skimmed her gaze through the guests but no one seemed as out of place as she did. As a matter of fact, everyone seemed to know someone, bodies drifting back and forth as they greeted their peers. Amelia shifted awkwardly, not knowing what to do with herself. Now and again, she thought a gentleman was approaching her but was met with bitter disappointment when he headed elsewhere. It was as if she was not even present.

She didn’t know how much time had passed, though she supposed it was probably an hour or so. She had a long night ahead of her and it was already off to a bad start. Perhaps if she cleared her head, it would help a little.

Grazing past the sides of the ballroom, she searched for a door that would take her away from this place and offer her that needed speck of respite. A few moments alone to get herself together before throwing herself back into the fray.

With that as her new temporary goal, she continued her stroll, letting her mind wander. Even though she usually preferred going for walks outdoors, it calmed her a bit now. Without even realizing it, she drifted out of the ballroom through an adjoining door, landing her in a parlor that was already filling up with gentlemen. As the men began to claim seats for their card game, she hastily retreated.

Exiting through a separate door, she found herself in an empty hallway. She headed down it, taking slow, deep breaths to calm her nerves and steel her resolve. When she returned to the ballroom, she would try to be a little more outgoing, she promised herself. She couldn’t let another ball pass with her remaining unnoticed the entire time.

If she found her way back, she thought, when she realized that she might be a little lost. Still determined, she kept pushing forward, and soon enough, she found a set of double doors that she hoped would lead her to the gardens. When she stepped through, however, she found herself on an outdoor balcony instead.

This will do, she thought, closing the door behind her. The muffled sounds of the ballroom could be forgotten now that she was alone.

The balcony was quite vast, she noticed, though she supposed it wasn’t all too surprising if any other chamber of this castle was anything to go by. An ornately carved balustrade stood before her and another set of doors stood to her left.

Amelia made her way over to the balcony’s railing and leaned against it, letting out a sigh. She would have leaned further over it for better reprieve and the nice view below, but she didn’t want to risk the breeze ruining her hair.

“Welcome to Castle Stanhope, my lady.”

Amelia gasped, whirling at the voice. Directly behind her stood a gentleman in all black except for his gold-buttoned tailcoat, with the shadows from the moon cloaking his features. He seemed to have come through the door to the left and as he approached, swaths of moonlight illuminated his black, curly hair. It was the first thing Amelia noticed about him—other than his height.

The gentleman wore an easy smile as he came closer still. Each step sent Amelia’s heart skittering through her chest, her words failing on her tongue. Deep hazel eyes stared through to her soul, which sat atop a high, pointed nose. He had a faint stubble stretching across his jaws. Even though most of his features were shadowed by the moonlight still, Amelia had no doubt that this gentleman was unbelievably handsome.

And they were alone. On a balcony. Her father must be rolling in his grave.

“Thank you,” she murmured, finally finding her words.

His lips twitched into a wider smile. He stopped just a few feet away from her. “I take it, it was not too much trouble finding this spot?”

“No more trouble than it would be for anyone else,” Amelia answered, a little confused. “…Unless you are lost?”

That made him chuckle, the deep sound reverberating against her body. “I think I am quite fine, but I appreciate your misplaced concern.”

He came closer still, until he was directly beside her. His scent was one of sandalwood with a hint of citrus, so intoxicating that Amelia was hit with a foolish urge—to lean into him.

“How was your trip, my lady?” the gentleman asked.

Amelia thought on the question for a moment. Perhaps he thought she was one of the guests who had come from outside of London to attend this evening’s ball. “It was not very difficult. I am not very far from here, you see.”

“Ah, then that will make it quite easy for us, don’t you think? Forgive me, my lady. I had not stopped to ask where you were residing before you came to London.” He took her hand. Amelia nearly jumped out of her skin. How bold! “But we have many days ahead of us, so there is so much more to be shared between us.”

“You are kind, my lord,” she answered stiffly, uncertain of what to do in this situation. As gently as she could, she pulled her hand from him and was alarmed by how cold she suddenly felt. Afraid that she might have just chased away the one gentleman willing to talk to her tonight, she quickly asked, “Are you enjoying the ball, my lord?”

He said nothing at first and Amelia gripped the railing tightly, afraid to look at him. Afraid to see that she had once again bored someone else.

But then he chuckled. “It wouldn’t do if I wasn’t, now would it?”

Her confusion deepened at that, but it was slightly overshadowed by her relief that he was still talking to her.

“And you, mademoiselle? Are you enjoying yourself?”

Mademoiselle? Did he think her French? Was he French?

Before she could ask the question, he put his hand atop hers once more. Amelia looked sharply at him but felt her resolve melt away under his gentle gaze. Her throat suddenly felt dry, all her lessons in modesty vanishing. “I…I am,” she managed and he smiled.

“That’s good. Then I consider this evening a job well done.”

Amelia could not fathom what he was talking about. She didn’t even care. All she could focus on was the hand on top of hers, the thumb stroking her knuckles.

“I must say, my lady,” he went on, “that your dialect is quite outstanding. One would believe that you were English.”

“That is because I am?” Amelia managed, confused. She knew she should pull away from him. She should not even be alone with him right now. But his touch was making all her sensible thoughts flee her mind.

Again, he chuckled. And again, it made her toes curl, heat tinging her cheeks. “Yes, let us go with that then. Tonight, we can be anyone we wish to be, can’t we?”

“…You may be right about that.”

“What is the matter, my lady?” Suddenly, he gripped her hand, pulling her around to face him fully. They were too close, her bosom almost brushing his chest. “Are you nervous?”

“Would it be bad?” Amelia breathed. She gave her words no prior thought. They simply flew from her tongue, acting on impulse since every fiber of her being was currently on fire.

A devilish grin stretched across his face. “It intrigues me, my lady. You were quite bold in your correspondences and yet you flush when I touch you like this.”

He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. All the warning bells in her mind went silent. Nothing but pure need took its place, her legs suddenly weak now that she was being held.

“Your fragrance is glorious,” he murmured, dipping his head closer to her.

“…And yours…is one of sin,” she murmured without thought, closing her eyes as she felt his breath on her neck.

“You make me want to sin,” he confessed in a low tone. One arm remained wrapped around her while his other hand kept control of her free wrist, his thumb making slow circles on her pulse. His lips brushed the side of her neck as if he was continuing to savor her scent and Amelia, to her complete surprise, tilted her head away to give him better access.

She was utterly mad. This was completely insane!

But she could not stop herself. This man was intoxicating, instilling within her something she’d never felt before.

The hand on the small of her back began to drift downward, brushing her rump. Amelia knew she should push him away, but she leaned in instead, thinking herself to be utterly insane. No matter how handsome this man was, it made no sense for a stranger to have this effect on her. Yet, when he gently grasped her rear and allowed his other hand to teasingly brush past her breasts over her gown, Amelia lost her mind.

She was panting, her body on fire. Her knees buckled a little and he chuckled as he caught her, twisting to press her firmly against the balustrade. He didn’t kiss her outright, simply skimming his fingers over her collarbone in light motions that threatened to drive her insane. Amelia didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she gripped the railing behind her again, trying to remember what the best thing was to do in this moment.

Ah, yes, she had to stop this.

But then his lips brushed her jaw and Amelia instinctively turned towards him, realizing she had not yet even taken a good look at this stranger. “Who are you? Let me see you,” she murmured against his forehead. She hadn’t a clue where these bold words came from but her mind was far too muddled to think twice about them.

He smiled. Without a word, he took a step back. “As you so desire, my lady. I have another face if that fancies you more,” he purred.

Amelia was too taken by his handsomeness to even formulate a response. It was just as she’d suspected—the shadows had done very little to hide how striking he was. His sharp features, hazel eyes, pointed chin. But she was wholly unprepared for just how devilishly good-looking he would truly be.

She was so absorbed by her study of him that she didn’t realize he had pulled out a mask—possibly hidden away within his coat—until he held it up to her.

Shock sliced through the heady passion that had been consuming her senses. She would recognize that mask anywhere and it sent a sliver of panic coursing through her.

The…“Masked Rogue?” she muttered.

“At your service.” He swept an exaggerated bow.

Amelia hardly had any time to process what she was seeing, hardly got a chance to come to terms with just who she had allowed to embrace her.

Too many emotions swirled through her at once. Her horror grappled to overthrow her lingering need, her anger and frustration making her head grow hot. She gaped at him, finding herself utterly speechless. But what could she say? How dare you seduce me when you killed my father and ruined my life?

The door to the balcony began to open, Amelia realized. People had started arriving. And the Masked Rogue didn’t notice that as of yet.

Her mind whirred as an insane plan occurred to her. All her problems—all of Dorothy’s problems—were because of the man before her. She recalled her earlier thoughts, on how if she managed to find this man, she would spend her entire life bringing him to ruin. 

Amelia had no hope tonight. If she was found here, any chance she had at finding a husband would be reduced to zero, while the Masked Rogue walked off free and unscathed yet again. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She couldn’t allow him to steal her last chance at saving Dorothy. She couldn’t allow him to get away unscathed. And what better way to gain control over him, bring him to ruin, than becoming…

Her dull mind snapped back into action and the moment the door opened, the moment the first few lords and ladies stepped through, Amelia wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

He didn’t know what was happening at first. He gave in to the kiss, pressing her against the balustrade, moaning softly into her mouth. For a brief moment, Amelia forgot how insanely she’d just acted and thought only of how perfect his lips felt against hers. It was her first kiss and it was utterly, sickeningly amazing.

But then, she heard the first gasp. Then the gentleman stiffened, realizing what was happening. They had an audience.

He pulled away, staring at her in disbelief. Amelia met his eyes, not bothering to hide the fact that she’d done it on purpose. She’d wanted the guests to see them kissing, had known the damage it would do to her reputation.

But she was a desperate lady, and in that desperation, she’d taken her best chance at securing a marriage. 

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 15th of December!

Chapter One

1818

London

The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and the stench of death. The earth beneath his boots was stained with the blood of both his comrades and enemies. All around him, he could hear the screams and the groans of the wounded and the dying.

Death never discriminated on the battlefield. It came for everyone and everything in its path.

“Monsieur…s’il vous plait…please!” The string of words came out in a sob, a desperate plea in a heavy French accent.

Isaac closed his eyes. He could feel his fingers wrap around the cold metal of his pistol, could feel the resistance as he pushed it into the graying temple of the man before him.

“I am… a doctor!” the man pleaded. “A doctor!”

“A… doctor?”

Even in the thick haze of bloodlust and the fight for survival, Isaac knew he could never take the life of a man sworn to save others. The bastard might be French, but he was not his enemy—at least not on this battlefield.

Gingerly, he lowered his gun to the ground…only for his finger to catch on the trigger as he did so. A loud bang erupted as his eyes flew open in sheer terror. He saw the flurry of emerald green silk flying in the air, saw the bright red blood blooming on the delicate fabric like a flower amidst a verdant carpet. Eyes—vivid and green—stared at him in shock. Horror.

The French doctor was gone and in his place was none other than the one person who brought him a semblance of peace.

And he had killed her.

“No!” The word came out in a harsh breath…and then a scream.

And still, all around him, the battle raged on, the cannons roaring in his ears…

 

Isaac blinked as the roar of cannons and the stench of gunpowder faded from his consciousness. His vision adjusted itself to the harsh morning sunlight filtering through threadbare curtains and not the thick haze that normally shrouded the battlefield on the Iberian Peninsula. The screams dissipated, replaced by the lively bustle of the street just beneath his window.

He was not in the Peninsula anymore. He was in London.

And along with that realization, the remnants of last night’s revelries began to manifest themselves in the form of a pounding headache that threatened to burst out of his skull with the same intensity as a bullet.

Nothing I am not used to, anyway.

With a groan, he heaved himself up from the worn mattress that he called a bed, cursing as the world around him tilted and swayed precariously before it righted itself once more. He stumbled towards a plain wooden table, oddly grateful for the cramped space that allowed for things to be conveniently within his reach. He poured himself a glass of tepid water and drank eagerly. His throat was always so parched after a whole night of indulging in liquor.

He moved to pour himself another glass when a loud banging on his door began to set the tempo for his damned headache, causing him to wince.

Who the hell could that be?

“Langley, open up or I swear I am going to beat this bloody door down!” a familiar voice called out from the other side of the door, clearly incensed.

 I cannot deal with this right now, he thought to himself, his lips pressed into a grim line as he poured himself another glass. Perhaps if I ignore him, he will go away.

He had scarcely taken his first gulp when the door burst open to reveal his longtime friend, Daniel Bennet, the Earl of Lancashire. Unlike Isaac, who was still in last night’s pantaloons and a wrinkled linen shirt he had just snatched off from the back of a chair, his friend looked every bit the polished nobleman in his immaculately starched muslin shirt, impeccably tied cravat, complete with a waistcoat and midnight jacket. His brown eyes surveyed the cramped quarters around him with obvious disapproval before they settled on Isaac himself.

“Good God, Isaac! You look like something my sister’s cat dragged in!” he sputtered.

“Well, you were the one who barged in without warning,” Isaac retorted with a careless shrug of his broad shoulders. He drank the rest of his water. “How did you get through the door, anyway?”

Daniel grinned and held up a key. “You always keep a spare under the rug, old chap. Much easier to recall when one is not thoroughly indisposed, I believe?”

“Quite,” Isaac replied tersely. He was not in the mood to jovially chat with his friend when he had a raging headache threatening to break out of his skull.

“So…” he glanced around him and noted the glaring lack of decent furniture. Aside from the rickety wooden table and a bed that looked like it had seen much better days a decade ago.

Isaac grinned and raised his glass in the direction of his friend. “I would offer you a seat, but as you can see, I do not have any to spare.”

Daniel sniffed in disgust. “I would not take it, even if you had been so disposed to be hospitable.”

“Suit yourself,” Isaac shrugged his broad shoulders. “What brings you here to this side of town? I do not reckon that the esteemed Earl of Lancashire would have any business around these parts.”

“I was just in town and decided to see how my old friend was doing,” Daniel shrugged. He ran his hand through his thick, wavy hair and looked pointedly at him. “Tell me—how long do you intend on carrying on in this manner?”

“In what manner?”

“Like you are merely dragging your sorry behind day after day.”

Isaac barely held in the wince at his friend’s astute observation.

For as long as it takes to get the roar of cannons and the stench of death out of my miserable consciousness, he wanted to say.

“Why?” he said instead with a sardonic grin, arms spread wide. “Am I not living the life that every bachelor in London aspires to? Drinking, gambling—one would say that these are the standard in the repertoire of gentlemanly vices.”

“Not,” Daniel replied, “in the manner you are going about it. You need to get out more.”

“I do get out—a lot, in fact,” Isaac pointed out to him. “At night, when the gambling hall a few doors down begins to draw in its patrons.”

The gambling hall he visited was not something his friend would likely frequent, even if he were in dire need of a diversion. The crowd was nothing like what Daniel and their other friends were accustomed to, but that suited Isaac well enough.

“And you are not content with fleecing every poor working man of his hard-earned salary?” Daniel pressed his lips into a grim line. “Or have you been charitably contributing to their vices out of your own pocket?”

Those working men Daniel referred to might not be dressed as finely as the patrons at White’s, nor did they bet exorbitantly large sums of money, but at least they did not look at Isaac the way the gentlemen of the ton did.

“I find that I vastly prefer the company of this crowd, my friend,” he replied simply.

“Be that as it may, you need to pull yourself together,” Daniel quietly admonished him. “You have estates to manage. People are depending on you for their livelihood.”

The Earl of Lancashire had always taken his responsibilities much more seriously than all their other friends. Isaac often wondered if his friend would marry merely for the sake of duty as well.

A few years back, he thought that was how he himself was going to do it as well. Marry a suitable enough girl that he could tolerate for the rest of his life and carry on his family’s bloodline.

And then, he had met her—Lady Vivian Pierce. The one woman who he thought would finally bring peace to the chaos in his soul. Her gentleness and soft voice had felt like a soothing balm to a pain that raged within him day after day.

But even kind, compassionate Vivian gave up on him. Everyone eventually did. He was actually surprised that Daniel was still trying.

“The Season is upon us.”

Isaac snorted. “Fancy that… I thought that the sheer number of dandies cropping up all over London was a mere coincidence.”

“I also saw Lady Pierce arrive at their townhouse in Mayfair yesterday—with her two unmarried daughters in tow,” Daniel pointed out with an irreverent grin.

He sucked in a harsh breath. Unmarried—Vivian was yet to marry another.

He saw his friend smile subtly in triumph. “Tell you what, Langley—why don’t you get yourself cleaned up in time for the Townsend ball tomorrow night. You know how Lady Townsend likes to open the Season with one of those ridiculous balls of hers.”

Ridiculous, indeed, but the Townsend ball was something that nobody in the ton ever dared to miss. Every unmarried young miss and her ambitious mama would be in attendance—as would every young buck looking for a wife.

Vivian and her mother would most certainly be there.

“I shall give it some thought,” Isaac mumbled.

“Give it a lot of thought,” Daniel said cheerfully. “And do it in your townhouse—not in this hellhole. I reckon your valet would be pleased to see you emerge into civilization once more.”

He reckoned that his valet would have a lot to say the moment he stepped into his townhouse, but they would not be words of elation. If his valet could see him now, the poor man would be crying in despair.

But Daniel was right—if he wished to attend the Townsend ball, he would have to make himself more presentable. Besides, the invitation for the said ball would be sent to his townhouse, not in this nondescript loft where none of Society would dare tread.

“Very well,” the Earl grinned, putting his hat back on. “I shall see you tomorrow night. Miles will also be there—his mama has been persuading him to find a wife this Season, the poor man.”

“Rather unfortunate, indeed,” Isaac muttered. “Has the Dowager Countess of Westmore set her eye upon a candidate?”

“You can be sure she has her heart on several young misses already. Right now, Miles should be at his wits’ end thinking up schemes to evade them.” Daniel laughed as he stepped out the door and winked at him. “We have to be there to show our support. Naturally.”

“Naturally,” he echoed on a hoarse croak, his throat still abominably parched. “And what about you? Should you not be in search of a wife yourself?”

Daniel merely chuckled. “Get some rest and get yourself cleaned up, Langley, or Lady Townsend will never allow you to sully her ballroom.”

It was only after his friend had closed the door behind him that Isaac realized that he had just been cleverly yoked into attending the Townsend ball—one he had not initially harbored any intention of attending, even if it meant disappointing the formidable Countess who insisted on holding them year after year.

But if I attend the ball, then I would get to see Vivian again, he thought. Perhaps, I could even talk to her…

He was not a fool—he knew it would take more than a few, well-placed sweet words to win her heart again, after all that he had put her through last Season.

He let out a hoarse laugh and shook his head. He had to show some appreciation for his friend—Daniel truly was a wily fox.

Very well. It seems that I will be attending the Townsend ball, after all.

Chapter Two

“The first ball of the Season! Oh, are you not excited, Olivia?”

Olivia paused, her fork hovering midair in between her plate and her mouth at her cousin’s query. It was an innocent enough question—after all, she and Fiona had gone to London for the past two Seasons together, and really, Fiona had no reason to believe that this year would be any different. She smiled and set her fork down, quietly avoiding the pointed look her aunt shot in her direction.

“Well, I suppose I am looking forward to it,” she demurred, trying her best to not look like she was aimlessly pushing her peas around her plate. “It is the first ball of the Season,” she simply repeated languidly.

Her Aunt Joana nodded. “Quite right and you know how Lady Townsend is—she will certainly take offense if one does not attend her balls. Which brings me to the question,” she huffed. “Where is the Earl? He should have been here half an hour ago!”

“I am here, Aunt Joana,” a carefree voice called out from the doorway. “Please, do feel free to take me to task in my own residence.”

Lady Joana Bennet narrowed her eyes at the sight of her nephew casually striding to his seat at the head of the table. “My Lord, if you had been any other weak-spined dandy with his shirt points holding up his chin, I would argue that a severe dressing down might be just what you needed. Unfortunately,” she gave out a long-suffering sigh, “I believe we are way past that.”

“Indeed,” Olivia chortled as another pea slid away from her fork. Her brother shot her a look and she ducked her head, choosing to focus on cutting a piece of roast beef instead.

“But, really, Daniel, you will have to exert a little more effort. The Season is already upon us, and we have two young ladies to marry off. Two!”

Olivia sneaked a glance at her brother, who looked thoroughly unperturbed by the concerns of their aunt. Daniel merely proceeded to eat his dinner calmly, pausing once in a while to put on a thoughtful face as he chewed.

“There are frocks to be made, matching gloves and hats…” their aunt prattled on. “Why, as the Earl and the brother of an unmarried lady, you have to show a little more support for dear Olivia with your presence. You know how all sorts of rumors will get out if you do but the bare minimum!”

“Quite,” Fiona nodded like a chicken pecking on grains. “Not to mention that this Season, there are two unmarried Dukes. Two!”

She looked and sounded so much like her mother did, that Olivia had to duck her head once more to hide her giggles.

“Why should we fret about two unmarried Dukes when we have an unmarried Earl ourselves?” Olivia demurred instead with a teasing grin in the direction of her brother, who turned a little pale at the insinuation.

“I shall consider your concern, Olivia, but you had best start looking for a suitable match yourself,” Daniel shot back at her. “And I believe the number is incorrect—there are three Dukes in search of a wife.”

“Oh.”

“Well, aside from the three Dukes, Lady Kaitlyn Willow has also just announced that she will be holding a dance competition at the end of the Season!” Fiona clapped her hands in excitement. “I heard that she only holds it once every three years and that all the winners eventually find their match before the Season ends!” She turned to her cousin. “Livvy, you simply must attend!”

“Lady Willow’s dance competition?” Olivia breathed. “Has it already been three years?”

“Yes!” her cousin grinned. “And you know how Miss Mary Wilton would not stop crowing about how her sister managed to win the heart of Lord Willoughby when she won the competition three Seasons ago!”

“Lord Willoughby!” Daniel scoffed, finally setting down his silverware. “I shall not accompany you ladies to this ball, merely so you can blather on about the likes of one such as Willoughby!”

“But Lord Willoughby is exceedingly handsome…”

“And,” Aunt Joana added with an approving smile, “he is possessed of one of the finest estates in all of England. Really, Daniel. The girls would do very well to marry someone like Lord Willoughby.”

“He is also a notorious gambler who is going through his family fortune at an unprecedented rate,” Daniel revealed. He looked up to find three faces looking at him in shock. “Mark my words—in a few years, you shall not find any cause to envy Miss Mary Wilton’s sister at all.”

Aunt Joana visibly paled at that revelation. There was nothing worse than a gambler, except perhaps a gambler who kept losing money. No mama in her right mind would consider such a man as a suitable match for her daughter—even if he had two of the finest estates in all of England.

“Well,” she finally managed to choke out. “A gentleman is privy to things us ladies most often are not. It is a good thing then that we have Daniel looking out for your best interests.”

At Olivia’s side, Fiona dipped her head and whispered, “Well, I do say that he is exceedingly handsome, but who would have thought that he would have such a side to him?”

“Everyone has their secrets,” Olivia murmured. She sawed at a piece of beef with her knife and hoped no one noticed the slight tremor in her movements.

“Everyone?” her cousin wondered. “Including you?”

Olivia smiled wanly at her. “I never did tell you that I found Sir Connelly a dreadful bore, did I?”

“But everyone thought he had such dazzling wit!”

“Not I.” She shook her head and whispered to her cousin. “I thought that he had the most unfortunate tendency to talk about himself for hours on end.”

Fiona nearly choked on her laughter, drawing the attention of both Daniel and her mother, who managed to admonish her with a simple glance. She sent a scathing glance at Olivia, who appeared to be oblivious to her predicament and blithely carried on with her dinner.

“Ah… we were just talking about Lady Willow’s dance competition, that is all,” Fiona explained. “I thought it would be nice if Olivia and I could participate in it.”

Olivia stilled at her cousin’s words. A sweet memory surfaced in her mind—that of a gentle voice telling her about that one, glittering night when her mother won that same competition in her youth and her father’s heart on that same night.

“Mama,” she had asked as a young girl. That night, her mother had yet to become severely ill and she had crawled onto her lap, eager to hold off her bedtime for another hour or two. “What was it like for you when you met Papa?”

Her beautiful Mama had smiled at her so gently as she pushed the wayward golden locks from her round face.

“Oh, darling,” she had told Olivia. “It was simply the most beautiful night of my life. I had just won a dance competition when your Papa walked into the ballroom, looking as handsome as he always does.” She smiled wistfully at her daughter and pressed a kiss to her small nose.

“When we danced,” she told her daughter, “I knew then that I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with him…”

But Olivia did not care much for romance—only the promise of making that one, beautiful memory that she could happily hold on to for the rest of her life.

“What dance competition?” she heard her brother snort dismissively, snapping her out of her reverie. “Young ladies such as yourselves need not bother with such a vulgar bid for attention. There will be opportunities enough to find a suitable match for the both of you. Besides, the competition will be held towards the end of the Season, and most gentlemen will have found their matches by then.”

“Oh.” Fiona looked a little glum. “But then again, as you said, there will be balls and soirees aplenty.”

Olivia reached out to squeeze her cousin’s hand in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. “Perhaps by that time, you will have found your match as well.”

“That is correct. So, it would be best to focus your efforts on those instead.”

“The Earl is right,” Aunt Joanna interceded with a stern smile. “You may still join the competition if that is your wish, but there are many other events to consider—ones that may even be more important. And not everyone will be joining the competition, anyway. It should be the least of your concerns.”

“Did you not join it yourself, Mama?” Fiona murmured.

Olivia thought she saw a hint of pink creep up her aunt’s cheeks.

“Well, I did once, but it was not so memorable for me as everybody claimed it would be…” Lady Bennet stammered.

Fiona gave her mother a sympathetic look. “Perhaps because you did not dance as well as you thought you should?”

Olivia nearly choked on her potatoes at her cousin’s blunt but innocent remark. Color flared up Aunt Joana’s cheeks and she feared her aunt would throttle her cousin from over the dining table.

“That is enough from you, Fiona!” she reprimanded her daughter. “I swear, if you do not learn to curb that tongue of yours, we will end up with more trouble than we bargained for this Season!”

“I apologize, Mama,” Fiona muttered in misery. “I shall do my best to speak as nicely as I can.”

“I am sure you will do well, Fi,” Olivia told her gently, reaching out to give her cousin’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I have met a great deal who have sharper tongues, and they all found their matches.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, dearest. Truly.”

As her aunt and brother resumed discussion of the events lined up for that week, Olivia took a sip of water when she started to feel a dull, throbbing ache in her temples.

Oh no…not right now…

It was not the first time it had occurred in the past few weeks either. One time, she had been in so much pain that she feared she would throw up and disgrace herself over afternoon tea with Lady Trowbridge and her daughter, Lady Eleanor Covington.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled, pushing her plate away. “I would like to retire early tonight.”

Fiona looked at her in concern and she saw Daniel’s brow furrow.

“Are you alright?” her brother asked her. “Should I call for a physician?”

Olivia shook her head. “No, no—that is not necessary. I am just tired from all the day’s excitement.”

Aunt Joana nodded. “We had been rather busy today going about Regent Street. It would be best for you to get some rest.”

Olivia tried to ignore her brother’s pointed gaze as she mustered as cheerful a smile as she possibly could, before heading straight to her bedchamber. Once inside, she locked the door behind her and flung herself onto the bed, reeling from the pain and the feeling that she might be violently ill.

A memory from when she was a child resurfaced in her mind—one of her beautiful Mama quietly excusing herself from their dinner as she just did. Later, when she walked by her mother’s rooms, she had seen her Mama being violently ill, heaving over a chamberpot being held by her maid.

She had thought that it was nothing—a mere illness that would pass in the next few days.

However, her Mama had only gotten worse, until she barely even left her bed. She began to sleep on most days. On the days when she did wake up, the laudanum kept her mostly in a daze so that Olivia could not even talk to her.

Their father summoned the best physicians their money could buy but to no avail. By winter, her Mama was dead.

She knew the symptoms, had feared as much when the first headaches came. She did not need a physician to tell her the awful truth—that she was ill in very much the same way her Mama was and there was no cure on this earth for it.

Olivia smiled bitterly to herself. How cruel it was for one to die so young! But at least she would not leave many who would mourn her death greatly.

She only wished that she might be able to accomplish something grand, something so inexplicably wonderful before she left this world. Her Mama had lived long enough to participate in the ton’s grandest dance competition and meet the love of her life. She had given birth to two children for him before she passed away.

Olivia felt that she would not have as much time as her mother did. But perhaps, it would be enough to join Lady Willow’s dance competition…to grab that one brief moment and hold on to it even in the hopelessness of her condition.

Clutching at her head, she curled into her bed, her fingers digging into her scalp. She would have asked for some laudanum, but she had seen what it had done to her mother, and she did not want to be subjected to its effects.

Perhaps I should call for some rosemary tea… but that would be the second time this day.

The first had been just before she set out with her aunt and cousin for Regent Street to buy the things they needed for the Season. If she called her maid for another cup, they would become suspicious, and she did not want to alert them to her condition.

Not yet, at least.

Chapter Three

“Oh, my word! I thought Sir Percival Lawrence was the handsomest man that I had ever met, but that was until I saw Lord Huntington!”

Olivia smiled as her cousin gushed over the last gentleman she had danced with. “In your estimation, every gentleman is the handsomest man you have ever laid your eyes on,” she teased her. “I fear that you might have to make up your mind eventually before they fight for your favor.”

“Oh, you do not think they would be so silly, Livvy?” Fiona’s eyes were wide with shock. Realizing that her cousin was merely jesting, she swatted at her lightly with her fan. “Surely they would not be so ill-tempered about it.”

Olivia giggled and fluttered her fan over her face. “Well, if they were to be as ardent in their affections as they proclaim, then they certainly would find it a great blow if the lady they are courting did not find them as handsome as the next man.”

“So, you think I should keep my opinions to myself?”

“That would be the best course of action, I believe.”

Fiona sighed. “I suppose you are right. But I would rather that the gentleman I marry not be so quick to anger for the slightest offense.”

“Do not worry, dear cousin.” Olivia patted her hand affectionately. “It is just the beginning of the Season. I am sure that you will find a most suitable match for yourself—one that Aunt Joana and Daniel would approve of, I am sure.”

“Mama thinks that I should marry a Viscount at the very least,” she murmured. “Why, two days ago, she introduced me to Lord Farley…”

Olivia frowned at that. “Lord Farley is rather advanced in his years…”

“That is a rather kind way of putting it,” Fiona groaned in sheer misery. “He is nearly thrice my age and he slept midway through afternoon tea. I was even quite afraid that he had,” she dropped her voice, “passed away over his cup, but then he let out a rather loud snore that rattled the teacups on the table!”

At that point, Olivia could barely keep her giggles in check. Poor Fiona had the greatest misfortune of having a rather strong-willed and ambitious mama on her side—one who was determined to see her married exceedingly well, even if the groom was old enough to be her grandfather.

“You might find it funny,” Fiona muttered, wrinkling her nose. “But it was so loud that he even woke himself up!”

“Fortunately, I may have heard Aunt Joana declare yesterday that he was ill-suited for you,” she consoled her cousin. “And you did say that there are two Dukes looking for a bride this Season. One of them should please Aunt Joana well.”

“At this point, I am really quite afraid that they might all be like Lord Farley!”

“Well, what if they are more like Lord Huntington?” she teased. “Would that change your mind?”

“Oh, Livvy! If a Duke as divine as Lord Huntington were to express particular interest in me, that would be the best outcome for this Season!”

“Fret not. We shall find him—one way or another.”

The two shared a conspiratorial look and smiled at each other. As the two young ladies milled about the ballroom, the butler continued to announce the arrival of the guests.

“The Viscount and Viscountess of Wilmington!”

“Sir Andrew Belmont!”

“The Earl of Westmore!”

“The Earl of Lancashire!”

“Oh,” Olivia quipped, waving her fan casually. “It seems that Daniel has just arrived.”

“And it seems he is a little tardy. Mama will not be pleased.”

“His Grace, the Duke of Langley!”

“Did I hear that right?” Fiona whispered. “A Duke has arrived? At this ball?”

A slight hush descended over the crush in the ballroom. Olivia looked up to the top of the stairs to where a tall man with broad shoulders and wavy dark hair had begun to descend right behind her brother. His piercing gray eyes surveyed the ballroom briefly, as if they could see through every single guest in attendance. For a moment, they settled on her and Olivia felt mildly discomfited by the intensity of his stare, but then he turned away and she nearly breathed a sigh of relief.

“Is he the same Duke of Langley that Daniel talks about?” Fiona breathed. “His friend, the Duke of Langley?”

“The one and the same,” Olivia murmured, still rather unsettled from the moment their eyes met.

“He is breathtaking!” Fiona gushed. “Why did you not say that he was this handsome? How could you have failed to tell me this?”

Olivia frowned at her cousin. “Yes, he might be pleasing to the eye, but Fiona—you would not want to be with him. He came back from the Peninsula two years ago and he was never quite the same.”

“So, he is a brave soldier as well!”

“He is also a gambler and a rakehell—even Daniel said so himself!”

Fiona, however, was not to be deterred. “Rakes make the best husbands, Livvy,” she reminded her cousin.

“And he courted a young lady last Season, but that did not go over very well either! One can only wonder why,” Olivia insisted. “Rumor has it that he still has not gotten over her. In fact, everyone is of the opinion that he intends to win her hand this Season!”

“Olivia,” Fiona told her gently. “I am just going to dance with him. I am not going to marry him. Yet,” she added with a mischievous grin.

Olivia felt another headache coming on from hearing what her cousin had in mind.

Perhaps I should have taken another cup of rosemary tea before we left, she thought to herself.

“Alright, I shall introduce you both,” she conceded glumly.

“Thank you so much!” Fiona hugged her, but Olivia was not too sure if she was actually doing her beloved cousin a favor or leading her to the edge of a dreadful precipice.

She craned her neck and saw the Duke with her brother and another of their friends, Miles Westerly, the Earl of Westmore.

“Come with me,” she said softly, tugging on Fiona’s hand. She caught Miles’ eye and subtly nodded at him as she and Fiona made their way towards them. Fortunately, he seemed to understand what she meant because he started to steer Daniel away from Isaac and she heaved a sigh of relief. Things would have been much more difficult if her brother had been around.

“Your Grace,” she greeted him, hating the way her voice sounded a little breathless. “It has been quite a while since I saw you last.”

She peered up at him and found that Isaac seemed taken aback by her approach. She was surprised to find herself rather relieved when she saw that his eyes were clear. He even looked like he recognized her tonight, which was a far cry from the last time she had seen him a few months back.

“Indeed,” he smiled at them. “I have not visited Lancashire Park in ages. I reckoned your brother would not be so pleased to have me in his residence after I ruined his painting of a bowl of fruit.”

Olivia managed a smile. “You know how Daniel is.”

“Unfortunately.”

He smiled easily at her and much to her surprise, he appeared to be nothing like the man she had heard rumors about. For a brief moment, he seemed just as he always was—the same charming young man who used to come over to their townhouse with her brother.

“I would like to introduce my cousin, Fiona.” Olivia continued to smile pleasantly as she pulled Fiona gently before Isaac. “You may remember her when she visited Lancashire Park a few summers back.”

“Good evening, Miss Fiona,” the Duke inclined his head towards her, that charming smile never leaving his lips. “How are you finding the Season thus far?”

“Overwhelming, Your Grace,” Fiona replied demurely, blushing a pretty shade of pink. “And this is just the first ball.”

“You will get used to it in time,” he said with a rather roguish grin. “I felt very much the same way when I first returned to London.”

Olivia thought she saw a haunted look flicker in his dark eyes for a moment, and then it was gone by the time the musicians played the first few strains of music. He bowed gallantly before Fiona and held out his hand. “Shall we dance, Miss Fiona? I believe that there is no greater diversion from overwhelm than a bit of physical exertion.”

“Y-yes,” Fiona replied, sliding her gloved hand into his, allowing him to lead her out onto the dance floor. She cast a glance back at Olivia, a giddy smile on her face, before she was drawn to the dance.

“Upon my word, is Fiona dancing with the Duke of Langley?”

Olivia smiled at her aunt, who had come up beside her with a look of wonderment on her face. “Yes, Aunt Joana. I introduced them just a little while earlier and he asked her—”

“But it is a quadrille!” her aunt fretted, looking over at the couple on the dance floor in concern. “The quadrille is Fiona’s greatest weakness. How could she dance it with the Duke? What is she thinking?”

Olivia patted her aunt’s hand. “I am sure that she will do wonderfully. You taught her well.”

She looked over to the dance floor and true enough, her cousin looked like she could have chosen another dance if she wished to impress a Duke into becoming a potential suitor. However, none of it seemed to matter as Isaac expertly led Fiona through a series of intricate steps that she would normally stumble over.

Lady Joana sighed in relief beside her. She heard the older woman mutter under her breath, “At least she did not stumble over that one.”

Olivia and her aunt were not the only ones who had taken notice that the Duke of Langley was dancing with a young lady on the dance floor. Most of the other guests in the ballroom had also ceased talking the moment they became aware of it. Hushed whispers raced across the ballroom and Olivia became aware of a great number of eyes now fixed on her cousin and Isaac.

The music continued and Olivia found that she herself could not take her eyes off of the pair, of Isaac in particular. He moved with the sort of masculine grace that she had never before seen in all her other dance partners. At that moment, it was as if he and Fiona owned the dance floor and all the other dancers were mere accessories to their performance.

“Goodness,” her aunt remarked. “He makes me think that Fiona had a talent for the quadrille all along! Perhaps,” she turned and confided to Olivia in a whisper. “Perhaps I was mistaken after all—it was not that my daughter had no talent for dance, but that she did not have good enough dance partners!”

Olivia nearly laughed aloud at that. Dancing was a source of contention between both mother and daughter, for her Aunt Joana was of the mind that a lady must learn to dance well if she wished to secure a good match for herself. Fiona, however, was convinced that she was hopeless at the quadrille.

Her aunt, however, did have a point—the Duke of Langley danced in such a way that he could make anyone look good.

If someone like him were to be my partner for the competition, I might stand a good chance of winning…

Look out for the full release on the 1st of December!

Chapter One

Was there no place for Joana to escape the whispers?

No matter how far she traveled, they were always present.

It was unusual to see a woman in the vicinity of the House of Lords – and considering how synonymous her name had become with scandal, it was even less expected. Her father, Benedict Wynn, Viscount of Thornaby, did not seem to mind, however. As they passed the entrance of the building, his sharp chin remained raised in the air with pride in his face and he seemed thrilled greeting all of his acquaintances as if he wasn’t walking alongside a disgraced daughter. He was trying to make a point. And it was unsettling.

Only months prior, Joana’s limbs would have tingled with excitement at the mere thought of being present here. Joining her father on such an important outing? She had always been intrigued by the mysteriousness of her father’s life, the nuances of how society functioned, and his part to play in it all.

But presently, it was impossible to remain excited. She was far too focused on keeping her eyes glued to the marble floor to enjoy this. Truthfully, it was unlikely anyone recognized her here, but the suffocating feeling that gripped her throat upon every glance her way was just too much to bear – all she wanted was to escape. Though she would usually feel the opposite, today, if she could somehow make her petite frame even smaller, she would have done so.

“Father, is it truly necessary that I accompany you?” Joana asked her father sweetly. She spoke under her breath, keeping her gaze diverted to the ground so as to not attract attention to herself. Anything to discourage the unsolicited eyes from lingering on her for longer than necessary. She had even taken great care to dress in drab, muted colors and kept her hairstyle modest for that exact reason.

Despite her family’s encouragement, Joana had long abandoned her pursuit of a husband. It did not matter how many eligible young men that she might encounter here in the House of Lords — she wanted nothing to do with it.

A few months ago, her life had changed for the worse. Father was trying to make her feel better, and she appreciated that…but she wished to stay indoors. Safe. In her home.

“I should have thought that this was the sort of event that would pique your interest, considering your keenness toward my personal affairs?”

Joana glanced up at her father, only long enough to see the concern knitting his bushy brows.

“I do not mean to sound ungrateful, father, I do thank you for the opportunity…” Joana trailed off, guilt nibbling at her with every word that she uttered.

Her father tried to cast aside his own worry with a smile. “Since when do you watch your words so carefully around me? I wish that you would speak to me…confide in me so that we might overcome this…all, together as a family.”

Joana forcibly composed herself. She could never confide in him. Would he even believe her if she were to tell him exactly what happened that night? And who it happened with? It hardly mattered anymore. She was ruined. Joana had stained her family’s name and reputation indelibly. How could she ever look her father in the eye knowing that he would have to struggle because of something that had happened to her?

Just that quickly, tears threatened to spill and she instantly swallowed them back. She forced a smile that did not quite meet her eyes. “Apologies, forgive my ramblings — I am very grateful for the opportunity to spend the day with you.”

For a moment, it looked as though her father was going to press the issue, but then he thought better of it. “Well…yes, the proceedings today should be rather enthralling. I think that they will be worth the listen.”

Joana offered a polite dip of her head. “It will be a rare privilege indeed,” she replied passively.

Even if she were permitted inside that room rather than being forced to linger in its vicinity — she would not attend. Even if somehow she could have disguised herself as a man to attend the debate — she would never willingly place herself that close to that many men ever again. She had learned her lesson the hard way.

As they continued on, her father rambled about something related to the forthcoming proceedings, but Joana’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“Joana?” he asked, looking at her. His lips pressed into a tight line, the concern evident. “I thought that you were interested in politics?” the Viscount pressed again after a moment. “You always have your nose stuck in books about everything under the sun. While it is certainly not befitting of a lady, I have allowed it today, and this is how you show gratitude?”

“Forgive me, it is just… the crowds…” Joana started to explain and stopped herself. It would be of no use. Her sister was the only one who had true sympathy for her plight. Her father was of the mind that they simply needed to continue showing face, keeping their heads held high, and that somehow everything would work itself out. As if they could somehow overcome the strict social conventions of the ton with relentless optimism and a mere change of scenery. A change in residence had done little to quell the whispers about her she sometimes overheard.

“Of course. I forgot that females were ill-equipped to handle so much excitement. Forgive my oversight, daughter. Would you prefer to withdraw to the Ladies’ gallery and regain yourself?” Benedict beamed, thinking that he was being most benevolent.

He was ignorant of the truth, but he meant well enough.

Joana latched onto the opportunity for privacy. “Yes! Please!”

She curtsied to her father before spinning on her heels.  

“And you will be all right? I could accompany you,” he offered, knowing that it was the proper way to handle the situation, but Joana was more than ready to be on her own. She could hardly breathe with as many people around her as it was.

“I shall be fine father, I promise! I should hate for you to miss a moment of your proceedings. I will be here waiting for you when it is finished,” Joana offered with a warm smile, knowing that he would be remiss to miss any of the debate himself. The older man seemed to hesitate for a moment, his fingers pressed together anxiously as if torn over what he ought to do, before ultimately nodding and hedging toward the entrance into the great chamber of the House of Lords. Joana caught but a fleeting glimpse of the splendid red-decorated interior before the doors shut once more, isolating her from the only familiar face for miles.

Her father had never once indulged her desires to explore politics or any of her other academic interests. It could not be pity alone that spurred his impromptu invitation, it must also have been something else. But whatever the dual nature was, she had little desire to find out his ulterior motives just yet.

She could feel the unwanted stares that glossed over her far more acutely now that she was unaccompanied. Perhaps going off alone was not the brightest idea. She walked quickly away from the hall, now seeking any room that would provide sanctuary to her. She wove silently through the crowds of gentlemen, careful to not even brush by their looming frames, as her heart began pounding in her ears. Eventually, the throngs of people around her started to thin and the pressure inside her chest started to lessen.

Then, she rounded a corner.

A familiar voice hit her first, freezing her on the spot. It was like the oxygen in the hallway seemed to thin all at once. Her eyes widened, focusing solely on the one thing that she had hoped never to see again in her life.

Old wounds clawed their way to the forefront of her mind. The agonizing sensation of hands grabbing at her – pawing at her while a brandy-laced voice laughed menacingly in the dark.

The realization that she was not physically strong enough to dislodge the man from her person had been terrifying. It had chilled her to the very bone that no matter how hard she pushed and scratched at that very man…he had been stronger. He had been intent on taking what he wanted from her…and there had been nothing that she could have done about it were it not for a stranger who happened to pass by at just the right time. It may have saved her dignity, but not in the eyes of the ton.  

Her vision blurred, and she reached out, her gloved hand catching on the closest wall to steady herself. It was a wonder that she did not faint on the spot.

Chapter Two

The very last thing she wanted was for that brute to discover her presence. If he saw her again, there was no telling what he might scheme.

Joana’s knees weakened as the voice of her nightmares took human form in Lord Julian, ten paces away and actively engaged in a lively discussion. He stood there wholly and utterly unbothered while her heart beat in her throat from the memory of the scandal.

Her life had been ripped asunder by his unwelcome advances and his stubbornness to accept the simple denial of her consent.

His life, however, had not changed.

Julian was able to go on as if nothing had happened. He had not been forced to uproot his entire life and everything that he had known. Rage, fear, and something that she could not quite name all roiled inside of her as she hastily retreated to the nearest alcove – it did not matter where it was or where the first door that she found led her.

Her vision narrowed as the very walls surrounding her began to suddenly close in. Her stays were too tight. The layers of her dress were suddenly too heavy. Her gloves were uncomfortably snug, numbing her hands to the touch – she struggled to even breathe.  

The door practically slammed behind her as her body fell heavily back against it with a gasp of relief, her eyes scrunched shut tightly. She pursed her lips, attempting to calm herself to little avail. She clasped her trembling hands, willing them to be still and steady, with the force of holding herself together so that she might—

“Occupied.” A man’s voice cut through her thoughts with an abundance of irritation to have been intruded upon. Joana suddenly regained herself, catching sight of the stranger. Had she been in better control of her faculties, she would have likely squealed and fled from the room with as much haste as she entered it.

But, that would likely mean crashing into the brute known as Lord Julian…

Joana swallowed painfully and fought to steady herself. She tried to speak but her voice left her.

The man’s brow arched in curiosity. He exhaled, and then after a brief moment, spoke again. “Pray, are you well, Miss?”

It was clear he was merely speaking out of politeness; his tone lacked sympathy, but his hazel eyes bore deep into her gaze, making her skin shiver.

With a casual sweep of his hand, he pushed his chestnut locks away from his face, affording her a more intimate view of his features. And her gaze fell to his each minute detail—the warm, sun-kissed hue of his skin, the tantalizing softness of his pursed lips, the way his head tilted to the side as if to study her, and the manner in which the sleeves of his shirt were inappropriately rolled up, revealing heart-quickening hints of his muscular arms. The panic inside her did not subside, but something about his presence reminded her more of a novel hero rather than any…real person. He was incredibly handsome and held an enticing charm about him that left no room for doubt.  

“…My Lady, perhaps?”

His velvety voice stirred her from her thoughts and her eyes snapped to him. Despite his nonchalant and rather scandalous appearance, she didn’t quiver, nor did she feel the urge to run away. The strange man didn’t take another step closer, but his eyes traveled up and down her form as if admiring her, and she gulped audibly in hopes of controlling her nerves.

With great effort, she composed herself. She pushed down her true feelings and took the chance to adopt the mask of a prim and proper Lady of society. A Lady she once was.

“Y-yes,” Joana stammered foolishly before catching herself. She smoothed her hands down the skirts of her gown, eager to escape the conversation amicably. She had made a mistake. That was all. She would not slip up like that again. “I am quite well. I did not mean to intrude upon you, well, whatever it is that you are doing. I should take my leave…”

As she focused properly, it appeared that he was standing alone in this room, presumably content in keeping his own company, but she couldn’t be sure.

“You claim so, yet you appear to be on the verge of swooning,” he paused, an intimate concern etched in his sharp features. Joana, at the sound of passing footsteps from outside, stiffened and looked back at once, afraid Julian would enter the room. The man didn’t seem to miss her reaction. “Hmm. Curious. Am I correct in my assumption that you are hiding from something, or rather, someone?”

Joana remained silent. But realizing he wouldn’t be satisfied without a response, she nodded ever so slightly.  

“Then you have certainly presented me with a mystery to solve.”

 “…You give me far too much credit, My Lord,” she replied, her voice low. She was not sure what he meant. The cold, detached way that he spoke provided her without any further understanding.

“Indeed?” he asked dryly, reaching closer. Joana held her breath, her back touching against the door. “Dare I ask who you are so intent on hiding from? And why?”

Joana couldn’t remain blind to the fact that he was a possible Rake. The way he studied her body, the way his warm voice gradually took on a flirtatious note, the way he was dressed… Everything about it pointed at the fact. And his effect on her did not help things, only encouraging his seduction.

A pang of guilt seized her. She shouldn’t be feeling this way. She was supposed to want to quiver away at the sight of a strange man, she was supposed to tell him to stop his advances. But when he finally stood before her, his towering frame looming gracefully over hers, she felt anything but fear.

“Please, just allow me a moment here to catch my breath and then I shall be on my way,” Joana almost pleaded, her voice a breathless whisper.  

“Of course. Perhaps you can offer me your name in the meanwhile? Or the name of whoever you are hiding from?” The man gracefully folded his hands behind his back. The move only served as a comforting one, reassuring her that the gentleman before her shared no likeness to Lord Julian. And meant no harm. It was a dangerous feeling. “What if I promise that I can help you in the matter?” he whispered mischievously.

“That is a very dangerous thing to promise, My Lord, as it could be any number of nefarious things that I require assistance with,” Joana whispered back matter-of-factly. She could feel the panic lessening from her chest with every word spoken between them.

“Ah, that is precisely what I was hoping for.” His hand came to rest on the carved oak door behind her, effectively imprisoning her within his embrace. She was unable to tear her eyes away from his chest, captivated by the sight of one undone button on his linen shirt, which unveiled a tantalizing glimpse of his chest hair and the graceful contractions of his muscles in his every breath. “Since I have returned to town, I find my days quite humdrum…nefarious sounds exciting. Don’t you agree?”

Joana was unable to speak with him standing so close to her. She could not string words together, the taste of his hazelwood fragrance overwhelming her tongue.

“In the event our paths cross once more, perhaps you can promise me that you will give me a clue to your mystery?”

The eye contact that the man effortlessly maintained was both thrilling and intimidating all the same. He was standing so close to her, it was clear he knew what he was doing.

Or, perhaps he was merely aware of how his proximity to her made heat flush under her skin in a way that she could not explain. Before she could further relish his closeness, he abruptly withdrew. A coldness spread through her, but she recovered rather quickly.

“I shall take your silence for agreement to my terms, mysterious lady,” he grinned. “But will you let me leave, or do your nefarious schemes involve me too? The proceedings are about to begin and I can hardly be late again, but I think I could make an exception,” he whispered mischieviously.

Joana realized then that she was still blocking the door and awkwardly shuffled away from it.  

“Shame,” the man smirked. His hand reached for the door and he brushed past her, as his gaze, warm and intoxicating, lingered on Joana for a breath too long, before he sauntered from the room entirely. Only to poke his head back in a moment later. “Might I at least inquire as to your name?”

Joana shook her head demurely. If he desired her to be a mystery – so be it. At least then, her ruined reputation would not be able to precede her. He was the first man in months to speak to her without looking at her as if she was a pariah. Perhaps that was why she felt a little more comfortable in his presence.  

She ought to have asked him his name in return, but she was mute. As the door shut gently behind his retreating figure, a strange emotion kindled within her, spreading a pleasant warmth throughout her being. Perhaps today would not be a waste after all.

“Ah! Denver! Pleasure to see your face!”

Joana’s breath suddenly hitched. Chills ran down her spine as she heard the mysterious man address her greatest enemy so cordially. For, Lord Julian was Earl of Denver. Curiosity compelled her to steal a glimpse from around the corner of the door, and she found the mysterious man with his arm around Lord Julian’s shoulder, chuckling about something…

She should have known it was all too good to be true.

Chapter Three

“You mean to tell me that you hid out in the Ladies’ gallery all afternoon?”

Joana had no desire to dignify her sister’s incessant questions with an answer, but she also knew that the woman wouldn’t be so easily deterred in her quest for information. As her younger sister had been stuck home all afternoon instead of being permitted to accompany them on their venture into town, she was more than a little nosy.

“You did not miss out on anything at all. I assure you of that, Katherine,” Joana sighed. Though she should have known that it wouldn’t be nearly sufficient to satisfy her sister’s curiosity.

“Nonsense. I know there is something that you are not telling me, dear sister. Do not forget that I know you best of all. You can’t hide anything from me!” Kate flopped down onto her sister’s bed while their maid, Bessie, busied herself with Joana’s hair.

“I am not hiding anything from you,” Joana pointedly focused on the seams of her skirts rather than her sister’s expectant gaze. “Do you think there’s a particular reason we must be so dolled up for supper this evening?”

“Ah, ah, ah! Don’t change the subject.” Kate brandished a finger in Joana’s direction. “Now, I know for certain you are hiding something. Tell me what happened today!”

Joana sighed. “I almost ran into…him.”

The smile slipped right off of Kate’s face. Suddenly, her sister’s teasing nature disappeared and was replaced with a fiercely protective demeanor. She slid off the bed and came to kneel in front of her sister so that they could speak more softly. “What happened?” Joana was grateful for the comforting presence of her sister’s hands in her own as she spoke.

“I’m…I’m quite certain he didn’t see me. I found the nearest room and hid there until the proceedings were over. Father had to come look for me.”

“Well, that does explain his mood when you arrived home. Did you tell him the reason?” Kate asked.  

Joana shook her head. “No. I was far too embarrassed. Father wanted so badly for today to go well and I did not wish to ruin yet another day with my dramatics.”

“Dramatics? He assaulted you, Joana, there is nothing at all about that which was your fault. It’s a crime he’s walking around breathing dry air. Oh, how I wish I could…I would…break his nose…or spit on him or something equally terrible!” Kate fumed.

A soft smile graced Joana’s lips. “You wouldn’t have the faintest idea on how to break someone’s nose, Katy.”

“I could learn with the proper encouragement,” Kate insisted with a feigned pout.

“Oh, that would be the day. First, Father will remind us of how he was cursed to have a house full of women and then he will pass out of a stroke from your mentioning that you wish to take up pugilism!”

Kate giggled. “Perhaps the vein in his neck will stick out again as it always does when he tries to control his temper.”

“But all he ever does is manage to turn his whole face purple instead,” Joana laughed as they teased their father. The lady’s maid’s hand tightened on her hair and forced her head back center for the finishing touches.

“Might I suggest the pearls for this evening’s attire, My Lady?” Bessie asked.

“Pearls? For supper?” Joana asked, swiveling in her seat.

“Your mother has asked that you look your best this evening,” Bessie replied in her soft voice.

“Is mother having company over? She did not mention anything to me…” Kate asked. “I think I would have noticed if she was suddenly puttering about the house for supper guests.”

“You heard nothing?” Joana asked her sister. If there had been a secret to ferret out, Kate would have done so. “You don’t think that this has something to do with Father insisting on bringing me with him to the House of Lords this afternoon, do you?”

“Did you meet with anyone in particular?” Kate inquired. “Was he parading you around like a show pony?”

“No. Well. Nothing like that. I only met one gentleman, but he—” Joana clamped her hand down over her mouth – she had not meant to say that part out loud.

“You sly fox!” Kate beamed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I knew something must’ve happened. You are sitting on an even bigger secret and I demand to know what it is!”

“Oh, do you hear that? Why, I believe that is the supper bell. We should make our way to the dining room.” Joana rose from her chair hastily. “No pearls tonight, thank you, Bessie.”

“Do not turn your back on me! Who was he? Was he handsome? What did you talk of?”

“I do not know! And yes… yes he was, I suppose,” Joana grinned over her shoulder. She hurried gracefully down the corridor and stairs to the dining room, but Kate was not to be ignored now that she knew there was gossip at hand.

“Oh, how I wish I could have romantic tales to share with you. You know that I must live my life vicariously through you, sister. Scandal or no scandal – have pity on your poor, neglected, spinster-bound sister,” Kate whined.  

“Oh, stop that.” Joana entwined her arm with her sister’s as they walked. “You are still so young. You’re creating a tempest in a teapot.”

“I shall be the judge of that.”

“Ahem. Ladies.” Their mother, Abigail Wynn’s stern voice cut through their lively conversation as the sisters came upon the dining room. But more shockingly, they were no longer alone.

Breath trapped in Joana’s lungs and she almost spun around to leave again when she noticed a familiar face among her parents. She bit her lips as she pondered every possible reason this could be happening. She could hardly determine who was more surprised this evening – herself, or the intriguing stranger from earlier who now sat across the table, his intense gaze fixed upon her. Worse, he had been purposefully seated beside her usual seat.

Could he possibly have discovered my identity already?

She had given him nothing at all. Though it was fun to suspend disbelief with her sister, she had already decided that she was not going to like him whatsoever for he could not be that great of a person if he considered Lord Julian Bansfield to be among his acquaintances.

“Ah, Your Grace, these are my lovely daughters I was just speaking of, Katherine and Joana,” their father introduced them politely as they curtsied in greeting.  

“A Duke!” Kate whispered out of the side of her mouth.

A Duke?

Joana simply shrugged, her eyes still wide in disbelief. If she told her sister that this was the man from before, she would never let it go. She would cling to it until she had discovered every single breath that passed between them.  

“Why is he here?” Joana muttered back. It was not as if she could possibly have any more marriage prospects – no, the unfortunate incident – as father called it, with Lord Bansfield put an end to that for good.  

“My darling daughters. His Grace, Ewan Rayfield, The Duke of Richmond has graciously accepted our dinner invitation. Isn’t that delightful, Joana?”

Eyes turned expectantly to Joana and an uneasiness churned in her stomach.  She would feign ignorance and pretend nothing was amiss. Yes, that would be the best course of action. Treat him like a stranger so that nobody would suspect a thing. “Of course. It is lovely to meet you, Your Grace.”

“Meet me?” Ewan’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Yes, I suppose one could say that.”

“Have you met my daughter before, Your Grace?” Benedict’s voice pitched up a notch.

“Indeed, although at the time, I was unaware that she was your daughter. We met earlier this afternoon…outside of the proceedings. It seems fate has brought us together again,” he said with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes that no one except Joana seemed to catch.

Father’s face was already beginning to turn purple. He would be very displeased that she had, naturally, not mentioned a thing about it.

Silently, with her eyes firmly set on the tabletop and nothing else, Joana lowered gracefully into the seat beside Ewan, her heart hammering against her chest.

“And for what purpose is His Grace honoring us with his presence at dinner this evening?” Joana murmured, but her words seemed to fall on flat ears as her father was already engaging the table in another lively conversation. It was as if she had not spoken a word at all to everyone, except the Duke, who brushed his arm against her and smirked as he reached for his fork.

And it was like that for most of supper. Anytime she tried to get a word in edgewise, Father spoke over both herself and Kate.

Mother wasn’t much help. She was always of the opinion that women ought to be seen and not heard.

Oddly, every time that Ewan attempted to speak to herself, Father would interrupt him as well. Nothing about the goings-on presently helped her understand the Duke’s reasons for being here in the least. How did Father even know him and why was the man being so very cryptic about the whole thing?

Thoroughly irritated and feeling slighted, Joana was greatly relieved when the men adjourned to Father’s private office for port and pipe. The moment that the men were no longer in the room, mother rose to excuse herself quietly. She had hardly touched her meal but neither daughter commented on it.

“Why do you think Father invited him?” Kate asked quickly before either of them rose from the table.

“There can only be one reason for Father to have invited a gentleman over, and it is certainly not for talk of politics over port,” Joana murmured reluctantly.

“Perhaps they became acquainted during the proceedings? That would be plausible…” Kate said. She sat up straighter in her chair as if that would somehow allow her to see through the walls into her father’s private office.

“Perhaps, but it is unlikely. You are far too intelligent to squander your time on speculation, dear sister. No. Father is likely arranging yet another… marriage match.” The words felt foreign on her tongue just as she said them and her eyes grew wide in fear.

“With a Duke?! Is that not reaching a little?”

“Were it not for my recent scandal, then no. I would say it would be perfectly reasonable. The question is, which one of us is he attempting to sell off?”

Unlike all the other countless teas and soirees she’d been subjected to during her brief debut season…there was a traitorous feeling of intrigue inside of her. But there was also the matter of his friendship circle that gnawed at the back of her mind and gave her enough reason to steer away from him for the coming weeks if his visits became more frequent.

Kate fidgeted in her seat. “I think he was rather taken with you. He was attempting to engage you in conversation for the entirety of the evening, and as he is no stranger—”

“I understand your implication, dear sister…but you may be attaching undue significance to it.”

“He is quite handsome, would it truly be so terrible? A marriage to a Duke would do wonders for your reputation…for all of our reputations…” Kate trailed off, lost in thought.

She did not need to say what they both understood to be true. It would be far simpler for Kate to find a husband if her sister was married. If the shadow of scandal no longer hovered over their heads, Kate would not have to struggle so much as she had done in her past season.

Joana loved her sister more than anything in this world. She was the only person who had faithfully stood by her side and never once put any accusation for the assault on Joana’s shoulders. And it was Joana’s duty, as the eldest sister, to marry first.

Thankfully, she was spared from responding when the butler entered the dining room.

“Lady Joana, your father has requested your presence in his office.”

Look out for the full release on the 26th of October!