Author: Grovechronicles

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!

Chapter One

1816

London, England

“He is the most notorious rake there is, Bridget. Pray, do not set your cap at him!”

Laughter filled the chamber, as it so often did, but it was laughter that Evelyn was not encouraged to be a part of. She sat up straighter in the window seat, pausing with her embroidery of the fine gown in her lap.

Today was the first day in many years that she had dared to pull the gown out of its hiding place in her closet. Her mother’s dress was a beautiful thing, if perhaps a little old-fashioned, with capped sleeves and a heavy amount of embroidery on the brocade of the bodice. Still, it was beautiful, and far finer than anything else Evelyn owned.

It is right that I wear it tonight. If Mr. Windham is to propose to me, what other gown should I wear?

She was taking down the hem, determined that everything should be just right for the proposal. As she attempted to return her concentration to the hem of the dress to accommodate for her tall height, her cousin’s laughter disturbed her once more.

Evelyn’s chin jerked up a little, the loose red curls of her hair falling past her cheeks as she looked at her cousins.

Hester, the eldest, and by far the most beautiful and fashionable of her cousins, was waving a scandal sheet in the air. Despite her propensity for gossip, Evelyn was fond of Hester. She was the kindest of her cousins.

Bridget, the middle of the three sisters, was the most proper. Upon learning the man Hester had been speaking of, and the one she herself had been daydreaming over was a rake, she held a hand over her lips and gasped.

“Ha! I am surprised you did not know,” Katherine, the third and youngest sister declared as she sauntered into the room. With bright blonde hair, she was petite and pretty, and she shared this bedchamber with Evelyn, something Evelyn was secretly glad for, though she would tell no one why. “He is indeed a notorious rake, though it is hardly surprising Hester knows so much about him.”

“I beg your pardon.” Hester tossed down the scandal sheet and stood with her hands on her hips, her outrage imminent.

Evelyn held back her smile of amusement, raising the sewing closer to her face to mask her expression. She often felt left out from her three cousins when they took part in such scandalous conversations. After all, she was not one of the sisters, and it was emphasized in the difference of her looks, with her rich red hair when they were all blonde.

“I merely meant that you are interested in the Duke of Ravensworth’s friend, are you not? How often have we seen Lord Linfield by your side recently?” Kitty asked with mischief, dancing around her sister teasingly.

“Kitty, one should not talk about another’s suitor,” Bridget reprimanded. Despite her concern for propriety, as she sat down on the edge of Evelyn’s bed, she snatched up the scandal sheet and continued to read. “What do you know about the Duke of Ravensworth then, Hester?”

“Oh, you’re still interested, are you?” Hester looped her arm around the bedpost and moved closer to her sister. “I know that his name has been in the scandal sheets for the last eight years at least. Lord Linfield is dear friends with him, and they have been ever since they were children. From what I understand, the Duke has no other close acquaintances.”

How lonely.

Evelyn felt a twinge of sympathy for this mysterious Duke, for she knew loneliness in a crowded room all too well. Ever since she had been brought to this house after her parents’ deaths, she’d felt it. She could be surrounded by her cousins, but so different to them, the quiet one in the corner, she was unable to take part in their exciting lives.

No, the Duke must be very different. After all, if he is a rake, he certainly knows how to charm and seek out the company he wishes for, does he not?

Evelyn felt a little envy fill her up now as she wondered what it would be like to have such power of flirtation and charm.

“Enough of the Duke of Ravensworth.” Kitty waved a hand in the air. “He is unlikely ever to have much to do with us. Now, who we should be speaking about, is Lord Linfield.” She took Hester’s shoulders and steered her to sit down on the edge of Evelyn’s bed too.

Evelyn looked at her bed, recognizing the usual problem. Soon enough, her bed would be scruffy from them sitting on it like a common chair. Hester was the only one who ever really noticed they made a mess of Evelyn’s things. She jumped up at once, trying to straighten the covers, but to little avail as Kitty just plopped herself back down on the sheets.

“Do you think he will ever ask for your hand?” Kitty asked excitedly, leaning toward her sister. “Lady Hester Linfield, a countess! Imagine that.”

The three sisters giggled together before Bridget seemed to catch herself and shake her head, realizing she should not be giggling in such a fashion. She stood and hurried out of the room, mumbling something about being immature and returning soon.

“Oh, I don’t know, Kitty…” Hester sighed, waving away her question. “Lord Linfield is kind indeed. And there is something incredibly endearing about him.” The way her voice had softened captured Evelyn’s attention.

She looked up from her needlework, staring at her cousin. Hester spoke of Lord Linfield in a way that Evelyn never spoke of her own suitor. Hester had turned almost wistful, running a handkerchief back and forth through her hands as she wandered the room, a dreamy smile on her thin lips. She was classically beautiful, with stunning dark eyes and a sharp nose.

“Yet I cannot speak of his heart. I do not yet know how he feels about me,” Hester shrugged, noncommittally. She turned and when her eyes fell on Evelyn, she smiled warmly. “Who we should be asking about proposals is, of course, Evelyn.”

“Me? Ow.” Evelyn accidentally pricked herself with the needle. She muttered under her breath as she shook out the pain in her finger, praying she would not get blood on the gown.

“Evelyn?” The humored smile slipped from Kitty’s lips. “Surely her suitor does not mean to propose.”

“You think not?” Hester laughed at her sister. “Then, in my humble opinion, Kitty, you still have some growing up to do. You need more experience of the ton and courtship.” Hester crossed the room and sat down beside Evelyn, nudging her with her elbow. “Has your suitor not done everything a suitor should do?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Evelyn muttered, her eyes only fixed on her needlework. “He has sent flowers and gifts. We dance twice at every event.” Yet she noticed there was something missing in her tone. She had not talked in that wistful way that Hester had done, nor did her cheeks blush as Hester’s had.

Marrying for love, eh? It had once seemed like the perfect idea.

Evelyn had a stash of books under her bed that told romantic tales of women marrying for love. She knew her parents had been one such love match, though the older she got, the more she saw that it was not always possible.

“Mr. Windham is so boring though.” Kitty knelt on Evelyn’s bed and puffed out her cheeks in emphasis. “Trust you, Evelyn, to find the dullest man in the ton.”

“Kitty!” Hester said sharply in reprimand, but Kitty gave no sign of having heard her.

“He is dull. Dull, dull, dull! A breeze has more to it than Mr. Windham does.”

“But he has been very attentive to our Evelyn.” Hester smiled as she sat forward on the edge of the window seat, nudging Evelyn once again, though in a softer manner this time. “Ignore Kitty. She is simply envious that you have attention and she does not.”

“I am not!” Kitty complained, the youth in her coming through in her voice. “I just do not understand why Evelyn would wish to marry a man like him.”

Well, neither do I…

Evelyn kept the thought to herself as she returned her focus to the hem of the gown. Mr. Windham was indeed attentive and kind. Over recent months, she had decided that would be enough. She could not have her head in the clouds all the time and expect love when it was not always possible. No, Mr. Windham would suit her well enough.

At the very least, if he did propose, it would be a way out of this life, far from being the one left in the corners of every room alone. Rather than being the wallflower in her own home, as a wife, she would have more independence.

That is what I long for these days.

“Will you say yes if he asks you to marry him tonight?” Hester said excitedly, leaning toward her.

“We are leaping to conclusions, are we not?” Evelyn glanced up briefly from the needle and thread.

“Oh come on, Evelyn. He has as good as asked for our father’s blessing.”

Shame he could not ask my own father for his blessing.

Evelyn pushed away the simmering feelings of grief. It had been so long ago now that she lost her parents, it was a feeling easier to contend with, even if sometimes it snuck up on her and crashed into her like a great wave.

“We shall see,” Evelyn said, brushing off the matter. Finishing with the hem, she cut the thread and held it up in front of her, examining it in the light from the midday sun.

“Quite beautiful.” Hester ran a finger down the material. “Your mother’s, was it not?”

“Yes,” Evelyn whispered.

“It is not very fashionable,” Kitty grimaced from her place on the bed.

“Perhaps not, but it has sentimental value, Kitty. You would do well to remember that,” Hester said sharply.

Evelyn smiled at her eldest cousin, comforted at least that even when she felt so alone, Hester would not turn her back completely.

“It suits me,” Evelyn said softly. “I wish to wear something special this evening.”

“Of course, you do.” Hester clasped her hands together. “For after this evening at the ball… you might come home betrothed!”

Kitty sighed dramatically and flung herself back on the bed.

“Imagine being betrothed to a man like him.”

“Katherine!” Hester hissed again.

Evelyn glared at Kitty but said nothing. She was used to the jibes, and over the years had come to ignore them. In the past, she used to have her own sharp retorts prepared, but that had only ever earned her harsher reprimands from her uncle. It was easier these days to just stay quiet.

“Let me see that gown.” Kitty was suddenly on her feet, crossing the room toward Evelyn.

“It’s delicate.” Evelyn held tightly onto the shoulders, not wishing to give up the material. Yet Kitty took it from her all too easily and held it up.

“Well, it’s certainly too tall for me.” She had to hold it above her shoulders for the hem to brush the floor.

It is to fit me, not you.

Evelyn kept the words to herself, holding out her arms expectantly to have the dress back.

“Hester! Kitty! Good news!” Bridget suddenly called from the doorway.

Hester stood and walked to her sister. Kitty tossed the gown back into Evelyn’s hold, but in the fumble, she stood on the hem and twisted it at an unnatural angle.

The sound of silk ripping was unmistakable.

All three sisters recoiled in unison.

Evelyn sat numb, her lips parting as she stared down at the gown. The hem she had worked so hard on was now torn, so badly that it would be difficult to correct, especially in the time that she had left.

“Oops.” Kitty froze, her hands loose at her sides. “Oh dear, I’m truly sorry, Evelyn. I did not mean to do it.”

For one awful second, Evelyn wasn’t sure what to think. Was it possible that Kitty had indeed torn it on purpose?

“It doesn’t matter.” Evelyn tried for a smile, pushing down her true feelings, refusing to give way to them. Slowly, she lowered the gown on her lap, then lifted the tear closer to her face to better examine its condition. 

This will be no easy fix. Can I even do it in time for the ball?

“…Those necklaces Mother promised us have arrived,” Bridget declared slowly to her sisters, but with a hint of subdued excitement. It didn’t take long before the rest of the words toppled from her lips with more enthusiasm. “The golden chokers with the pearls. They are here, oh and they are so gorgeous! Come, come see, quickly!”

Hester was out of the room first, with Kitty chasing behind her. Slowly, Evelyn put down the gown on the window seat, deciding she’d return to it in a few minutes. As she approached the doorway, she found Bridget waiting for her. She was wringing her hands together, the rather plump fingers never once sitting still.

“Oh, Evelyn! There… there are only three necklaces.” She offered a sympathetic smile.

Evelyn tried to keep her face as impassive as possible. This shouldn’t have surprised her. Over the years, her aunt, Mrs. Mavis Gulliver, had made no secret of who her favorites were. After all, it must have been burdensome to have to raise her niece as well as her own three daughters. There had been comments, infrequent jibes, no hatred, but a little resentment that occasionally was made plain.

She spoke of the necklaces when I was in the room…

Evelyn swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat. The week before, Mavis had offered to buy them all new necklaces for the ball. Evelyn had secretly been excited at the idea, touched that at last Mavis was including her in things she’d prepared for her daughters.

That was a foolish dream. That is all.

“You do not mind, do you?” Bridget asked, her grimace falling away very quickly. “I mean, you hardly have love for such jewelry after all, right?”

I do. It’s just that I have so little of it.

“Yes, you’re quite right.” Evelyn forced a smile. “Go find your necklace, Bridget. I need to return to my work on the gown.”

The moment Bridget was gone, Evelyn’s smile dropped. She reached for the door and slowly closed it, feeling a heavy sigh escape her lips.

“Not for much longer. Soon enough, I can be free of here,” she whispered as she returned to the window seat. Lifting the gown once more, she set about trying to repair it as much as she could. “Once I am married, I will never have to feel like an outcast in this house again.”

There was a part of her that wondered if she’d be more confident away from this house, perhaps recover a little more of who she was. As a child, before she had come here, she had been witty and not afraid to say her thoughts. That was a long time ago though, and these days she was shy and kept to herself.

“Come on, Mr. Windham,” she whispered as she picked up the needle. “Get me out of here.”

Chapter Two

The air was like ice, wrapping around Rafe’s body. He couldn’t escape it as he backed out of the castle. It consumed him, drowning the air from his lungs.

“No, no, no.” He kept muttering the word repeatedly, but it didn’t change anything. He couldn’t escape what had happened before him.

He had to get away from the castle. Even dashing into the waist-high snow was preferable to being in that place. He turned on his heel, struggling as his boots were consumed by the thick snow. The icy depths reached just below his waist, making it impossible to run anywhere at all. He stumbled to his knees, with his hands outstretched in the snow. The ice dug in beneath his fingernails and scraped his palms. He gasped at the sheer extent of the cold that seemed to reach inside of him to his core, making him tremble.

“This… this cannot be happening. No.” He kept repeating the words as he managed to get to his feet again.

He hurried away, this time somehow managing a lumbering lope through the snow. He looked back at the castle over his shoulder every few seconds, as if it were a great beast that would follow him. The silhouette against the stars of the night was all too plain, the crenellations and the towers reaching high into the sky. It was foreboding with its motte and bailey structure, the great curtain wall domineering and surrounding him.

He ran for that wall, determined to find an escape. Perhaps if he kept running, he could escape this ice, and flee what he had just seen inside the west wing. Maybe if he ran far enough it would not be real. It would be some sort of mad dream.

He pushed through the giant gate at the side of the wall, pushing out onto a bridge that stretched out over the moat. The water was frozen solid, the ice like glass. He glanced at it with fear before he ran on, his boots slipping and sliding on the bridge.

“She can’t be gone. No. Please. Not again.”

When he reached the other side of the bridge, his boots skidded to a stop.

He hadn’t escaped her at all. The memory of her in that room had followed him, as if she were a ghost, now sent to torment him.

Stretched out in the snow in front of him was her figure. Her body clad in the thin gown didn’t move. The only thing that twitched at all was the white skirt as it was picked up by the wind. Her dark hair lay eerily flat on the ice, her eyes staring up at the sky above them. Her skin was as pale as the snow around her, unnaturally so.

She should have been full of life, laughter, joy, but as Rafe dared to near her, dared to get a better look, he saw, with horror, the tormented expression plastered across her face…

“Leave me alone!” The words roared from Rafe’s lips as he jerked up from his bed. He scrambled to be free of the sheets, falling to his knees beside the bed with a heavy thud.

“Rafe! Rafe?” a voice called from a distant doorway. There was heavy pounding on that door. “You are shouting in your sleep again.”

“…Simon?” Rafe Fitzroy blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Slowly, he caught his bearings.

It was the same dream, the same one as always. He left the castle as he had done the night that his betrothed had died. He ran through the snow, but the dreams always tormented him further by recreating her deadly image in the snow somewhere on the outer lands of the castle. No matter where he ran or what path he took through the grounds, she continued to appear to torment him.

“I command the audience of the Duke of Ravensworth!” Simon shouted from a distance, banging on a door once again.

“I’m coming, man, hold your horse,” Rafe said weakly as he rubbed his sore head. The pounding had begun as he got up from the floor in the small apartments he rented and crossed into the nearest corridor.

There were but a few rooms in these apartments in Covent Garden. Expensive to rent for a space so small, but it suited him well enough, and the derelict exterior kept people and their prying eyes away.

Well, for the most part. Simon will always come.

“—well, it is hardly early morning, sir.” Rafe caught the last bit of Simon trying to assuage another tenant he’d awakened with his loud knocking.

He picked up a dressing gown from a nearby faulty pianoforte, and pulled it over his shirt and loose trousers on his way to the door, before opening it wide. He regretted it a moment later, for standing at the top of the staircase was Simon, backlit by the bright sun that filtered through the windows behind him.

“Argh,” Rafe complained, shielding his eyes.

“And a merry morning to you too,” Simon Linfield charmed with his usual buoyant tone as he stepped inside. “Let me take a guess. You have not become a vampire overnight and this is in fact another headache, brought on to you by liquor, yes?”

“You do not need me to answer that.” Rafe backed up into the main sitting room of his accommodations as Simon followed him inside. Simon opened two vast sets of curtains, letting in the draught, as Rafe dropped down into the nearest chair, kicking away an empty bottle he’d discarded the night before.

“You’ve got to find a new way to live, old boy. You carry on at this rate and you’ll drink yourself into an early grave. And I—”

Rafe winced as Simon opened the last set of curtains.

“—have no wish to stand being a mourner at your graveside just yet. That should be saved for when we’re old and gray,” Simon added simply, turning his back to the sun. “Just how many spirits did you consume last night?” He nudged the empty bottle with his boot and set it rolling back to Rafe’s feet.

Rafe slowly picked it up along with a few others and returned them to a table nearby. In his obsessively neat way, he lined them up perfectly, so not a single one was out of place or at a jaunty angle.

“Too many. Strangely enough though,” he wheezed, “today, I find myself in agreement with you.”

“On what? That we’re not yet old and gray? You’ll get there before I.”

“Ha! I suppose I will.” Rafe laughed at his friend’s good humor. “No, I have been thinking something else. First, allow me a moment to get dressed, then let’s go for a walk.” He stood and hurried out of the room, heading back to his bedchamber.

“I am not sure you’re in a fit state to walk anywhere, old boy. You should take a look in the mirror. If you can still see your reflection, that is.” Simon’s words echoed down the corridor.

Rafe pushed back the curtains in his bedchamber, revealing a room that was decked in dark mahogany wood, with a single shoddy mattress at its corner. He squinted at the bright sun and did as his friend asked, moving to the nearest looking glass to see his reflection.

The dark blond hair that reached his shoulders was heavily mussed and tangled. The oval face with the long and strong jawline was something he’d been greeted with every day of his adult life. But something that was becoming more and more noticeable was the tiredness in his expression, with bloodshot eyes and shadows too.

“God, I look like death warmed up.” Rafe shuddered at his own appearance and turned away, hurrying to change.

“What was that?” Simon called from the other room.

“Nothing! Let’s get out of here.” Rafe didn’t bother keeping a valet in these apartments, for what was the point? He could dress himself well enough on his own, and he did not require an audience for all the ladies he brought here. He changed into a dark green suit, hurrying to flatten his hair. So eager he was to escape the apartments that he hadn’t even finished tying his cravat when he beckoned Simon to join him in leaving.

“And where are we off to today?”

“Hyde Park,” Rafe called from below, practically leaping down the stairs.

“You’re like a skittish horse when you have a hangover.”

“Only one way to be rid of this headache, chap.” Rafe burst out of the door at the bottom of the stairs and stretched his arms and back until they clicked. Sighing with relief to have the fresh air on his face, even if the weather was turning chillier now that they were in the depths of autumn, he pushed ahead and walked toward the park. “A walk is the panacea to feel like myself again.”

“To feel human at all, I’d imagine,” Simon muttered in humor.

Rafe glanced back, grinning at his friend.

They had known each other for as long as they could remember, and Simon was the only one Rafe trusted with his secrets. The bonds that tied them together lasted many years and he could never see them being torn asunder.

Where Rafe was tall and strong in build, with sharp features and dark blond hair, Simon was the opposite. He was slightly shorter, lither in build, though just as athletic. His dark brown hair curled wildly around his ears and his bright green eyes were always full of spark or some sort of humor.

They were a contrast, and Rafe had overheard more than one set of gossipers over the years wondering why the two of them got along so well.

Perhaps it is because Simon has always managed to make me laugh, even when all seems quite lost.

***

“And lo’ and behold.” Rafe reached the park and strode through the gate, eager to be in and amongst Mother Nature. “Ah.” His jaw slowly shut when he saw how busy it was. “What is it with people promenading so much these days? It’s autumn, hardly the height of the summer season.”

“People need to marry no matter the weather, old boy,” Simon whispered in his ear, tapping his arm and urging him down a different path, away from the main throng of ladies clad in spencer jackets and fur pelisses, with bold bonnets on their head and feathers that shivered in the bitter wind. “Soon enough, the winter balls will begin, and the marriage market will be open again. Be warned, my friend. Ladies will set their caps at you.”

“They’ll steer clear, they always do,” Rafe hissed under his breath.

“Yet their parents do not, do they?” Simon said with a knowing smile. “It seems parents want a duke for a son-in-law, even if he does have your… shall we say, chinked reputation.”

“Ha! Chinked!?” Rafe roared a laugh at his friend. They both knew that Rafe had as good as destroyed it over the last eight years. It was a wonder the parents of fine young ladies looked at him at all. “It’s in tatters around my feet, my reputation. And that is what I wished to talk to you about.”

“Oh? Go on,” Simon urged as they turned to walk alongside the river. A group of three ladies came the other way. They offered charming smiles to Simon, and the elder of the three smiled shyly at Rafe, clearly well aware of his reputation.

As they walked past, they tittered behind their fans, not realizing that Rafe could hear every single word they uttered.

“Yes, that’s him. The Duke of Ravensworth,” one of them said hurriedly. “A wonder he was ever betrothed at all with his reputation. Poor woman, she must have been mad to marry a rake!”

Rafe turned on his heel. He didn’t care if people disparaged his own name, but he could not have anyone talking ill of Juliet.

“Halt.” Simon caught him under the arm, stopping him from going anywhere.

“What are you doing? Release me,” Rafe hissed as he watched the three ladies scuttle down a path between the trees.

“You expect me to release you and watch you go hound some three women who are merely gossiping?” Simon quirked a brow. “I may not be the smartest man in the world, but even I’m not as great a fool as that. What good would it serve, Rafe?”

Rafe was forced to stand still, glaring at the retreating ladies as he acknowledged Simon’s words with a single nod. At last, Simon released him, and he spun back to face their path again.

“They insulted Juliet,” Rafe murmured under his breath.

“Everyone insults everyone.” Simon brushed it off. “You’ve heard of the ton, right? All women and men are like cats in a street fight. They’ll lash out at anything if they think it makes them look like the top cat in town.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose, it’s just…” Rafe cursed and walked on down the river, forcing Simon to hurry to chase after him. “The same thing happened the other night with my father.”

“What? Your father?” Simon muttered in shock.

“I was at a gambling hall when I overheard three gentlemen saying that I must have gotten my wild ways from my father, Marcus Fitzroy. My father was a good man.”

“I know that.”

“No. You don’t, Simon. He was the greatest of men and had always been respected as such, up until then. No matter what I’ve done with my life, I do not want him disparaged. His reputation should stay intact. The Fitzroy family name should stay intact.” Rafe sighed heavily, realizing what the last eight years had done when it came to gossip. “My intention to drive myself into oblivion these last few years is now damaging all of those around me. I expect you have been dragged into the gossip too, though you have never openly complained about it.”

“Nor would I,” Simon said simply.

They reached a bridge over the river, and both stopped there, halting to look out at the red and yellow leaves that were falling from the trees.

“Rafe, are you hinting at something here?”

“Perhaps.” Rafe leaned on the side of the bridge. “Maybe it’s time I changed, a little. If I cleaned up my reputation, then people would not disparage my father, or Juliet, or you, so much.”

“Do not change on my account, old boy.” Simon put his back to the railing and folded his arms.

“The fact you would never ask me to do so is even more testament as to why I should.” Rafe shrugged a hand at his friend. “I do not want you damaged by association to me.”

Simon smiled rather ruefully, turning and looking out to the river once more.

“I find it rather hard to believe it is possible for a man to turn over a new leaf just like that.” He caught one of the leaves that had fallen from a nearby tree and had been taken by the wind. He turned it over, resting it on the railing across the bridge. “No man is that simple. Besides, you were three sheets to the wind just last night!” With that, he crunched the leaf flat beneath his palm.

“I know, I know,” Rafe sighed, “it was a sort of farewell to my past life this time though. Besides, I did not say it would be easy, but it’s time, Simon. As you said, I can’t drink myself into an early grave. What would my father say if he greeted me on the other side so soon?”

“Knowing your father, he’d clip you around the ear,” Simon said with a chuckle.

“And send me hurling back to earth,” Rafe replied with his own little laugh. He’d had the best of fathers in the former Duke of Ravensworth. A good, stern man, who was not afraid to point out the foolishness of Rafe’s actions when everyone else flattered him for his title.

And he was one of the few people who supported my courtship with Juliet at the time. I owe the old man this much.

“It’s time, Simon,” Rafe said in a more somber tone, firmer this time. “I need to change.”

“Well, we shall see what happens.” Simon gave a small smile. Then, a thought seemed to light up his features and he pushed himself off the bridge’s railing. “Actually, there is a masked ball tonight if you are truly serious. Come, and dress up in a mask so great no one will see your face. You can attempt to improve your life for a short while, what do you say?”

“Tonight? Hmm. Yes, I suppose that could work.” Rafe nodded and leaned on the railing beside Simon, his mind working quickly. It could be a good chance to act the perfect gentleman all evening, then surprise the company he had been in by taking his mask off at the end of the night. Yes, something like Vindice from The Revenger’s Tragedy.

Though I may have taken the wrong message from that.

“Don’t look now, but someone wants you.” Simon pointed down the riverbank which they had just walked up.

A young errand boy was running toward the pair of them, waving a letter in the air.

“How do you know he’s for me?” Rafe asked, keeping his eyes fixed on Simon.

“Because my correspondences wait at home for me on a card tray. Only you are so difficult to find that message boys have to chase after you.”

“Thanks, Simon,” Rafe said wryly, turning as the message boy reached him.

“The Duke of Ravensworth?” the boy asked, bowing once.

“In the flesh.”

“Message for you, Your Grace.” The boy thrust the message into Rafe’s hands and bowed once more. Rafe tossed him a few coins that he caught easily in the air before he ran off again.

“Well? Who is it from?”

Rafe leaned on the railing once more, recognizing the handwriting at once. It was from his steward, Mr. Jarvis Garfield. He tore open the seal to confirm his suspicions.

“It is from my steward.” His eyes darted over the note, taking in the information as quickly as possible. “Well, he pleads my presence. It seems, and I quote, ‘the castle in Sussex has fallen into disrepair this last year’ and I am needed.”

Suddenly, the tone of his voice softened. “The…west wing in particular… it is deteriorating.” Rafe tried to keep his voice level. The west wing was where Juliet had stayed before she died.

“Then you must see to it,” Simon said with ease. “After all, if you’re turning over a new leaf and trying to be the responsible duke again, where better to start?”

“Yes…quite,” Rafe mused as he folded up the letter and put it in his pocket, though he now fidgeted constantly. He adjusted his cravat and straightened his jacket, trying to make everything sit perfectly.

“You’re fine. There are no creases on you.”

“Thanks, old man.” Rafe smiled at his friend. Simon was just about the only person who understood his need for perfection and gave him no judgment for it. More than one valet in his time had been frightened away by his need for such high expectations to be met.

“Now, let us talk of tonight,” Simon said, taking his shoulder and urging him to walk on through the park once more. “Perhaps you will meet a genteel lady, so disguised tonight?”

“Simon, you know that is not why I am doing this.”

I need to stay away from women from now on if I’m to no longer haul around the reputation of a rake.

Look out for the full release on 13th of October

Chapter One

I cannot continue. I am exhausted and so is my horse. If I do not find shelter, we will both die of exposure.

Selina Voss rode astride her bay mare, Wind, unusual enough for a woman. She achieved this by the simple expedient of wearing breeches like a man. Those breeches had been stolen from a young footman the night before. Selina regretted the crime, but her need had been great. Riding side-saddle would have forced her to a pace that would have been easily overtaken had her father decided to pursue her.

I do not know that he hasn’t. Our last exchange was…fractious.

Her cheek still smarted from their last exchange. It had been that blow that had sent Selina running from the house in which she had grown up. Struck by a man twice her age, whom her father had introduced her to as the man she would marry. Selina had resisted that notion, laughed in the face of the gray-haired old man who thought he could buy himself a young wife. His face had turned purple, and he had slapped her hard enough to knock her to her knees.

Maximilien Voss, the Earl of Sawthorne and father to Selina had been in the room. He had stood by and done precisely…nothing. Struck because she refused a marriage to a man twice her age. A politically and financially convenient marriage for the Voss family, but one devoid of her say, just like her mother before her. Struck and not defended by the one man that ought to have protected her. Her father.

Tears stung her eyes and she angrily scrubbed at them with her gloved hand, pulling Wind to a halt as her vision deteriorated. There was no moon or stars to speak of. The storm obscured both and lashed her with rain besides. Her fingers were becoming numb, as were her toes. The landscape around her was a mass of impenetrable darkness. She was riding into the pit of a void.

Somewhere out there is Valebridge. Somewhere out there is my only hope. Arthur. My once beloved Arthur. If anyone can help me now, it is him. But where are you?

Her stomach was an empty hollow. She turned her head to the sky and opened her mouth allowing rain to spatter across her tongue to quench her thirst. In a saddle bag, there were dried apples and oats for Wind, but she had been in too much of a hurry to pack much food for herself. And had not thought of water. After all, this was Kent, not Arabia. But she had not drunk anything since a cup of tea at midday when her father had announced his plans for her.

She did not know what the time was now, but it felt as though it must have been at least midnight. Reaching into the saddlebag, she took out a handful of oats and reached to Wind’s muzzle to let her eat. Selina’s head was swimming with fatigue, her cheeks stinging from the impact of the freezing rain against the sore spot where she was struck.

What choice did I have but to run? I am not property to be bought and sold. Mother warned me of this, but I did not believe I would ever face the same fate.

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, mingling with the rain, as she shivered relentlessly. Her predicament seemed utterly hopeless. She was lost, not even aware of what direction she had been riding since the storm had descended. For all she knew, she was heading back toward Sawthorne Manor instead of the South Downs where Valebridge could be found. Somewhere.

As she wept, a small golden light appeared in front of her. It seemed to be bobbing in the air, like a will-o-the-wisp. She frowned, screwing up her eyes against the bitter rain. A sudden flash of lightning cast a brief illumination over the scene. It was followed by an appalling crack of thunder that set Wind to rearing. Selina lost her grip on the reins, flailing for them but grasping only empty air.

She slid from the saddle and over the horse’s rump. The ground rushed towards her, knocking the wind from her, and she felt a flash of pain at the back of her head. Wind’s hooves thudded back to the ground, until the mare was still. Trembling and with ears twitching, but still. The light bobbed closer, and Selina saw that it was a lantern held on a wooden pole by a man. Her head throbbed and the light began to dim.

A grizzled face looked down at her, mouth open in a round, amazed shape, mirrored by his eyes. Then he was swallowed by darkness and so was Selina.

***

Marcus Roy strode through the vaulted halls of Valebridge Castle. The sound of the persistent hammering on the tall, wooden entrance doors reverberated through the house. He was barefoot, wearing only shirt and breeches. His coal-black hair fell in tousled curls about his angular face. The flagstones of the corridor were icy cold beneath his feet, but he preferred the cold, clean touch of stone to dusty carpets.

With only a skeleton staff at Valebridge, carpets would have taken too much time to maintain, so he had got rid of them. In one hand he held a slim, leather-bound volume, one finger marking his place.

What the devil is someone doing abroad on a night like this? Let alone hammering on my door!

The hallways of the castle were a maze, added to and remodeled many times over the centuries and rarely with any continuity. The haphazard nature of the building’s rambling wings meant that sound rode strange currents. A knock at the door reverberated far into the shambolic pile of stone. Whereas, sitting in the gloomy drawing room barely fifty yards from the front door, one could hear not a whisper.

Fortunately for whoever was demanding his attention, Marcus had been reading in his private study some three stories directly above the door. The clang of the wrought iron knocker against wood that had been seasoned into a new form of steel, had reached him, jerking him from his study. He descended a flight of stairs and strode across the cavernous Great Hall, discarding the book onto a side table set into an alcove in the wall.

Shadowed portraits glowered down at him. His ancestors were an unpleasant bunch, judging by looks. Cruel men with a frightening morality when it came to concepts such as ways and means. Marcus hated them. He especially despised the blank space among a group of paintings depicting the Dukes of Valebridge. A blank space that had been occupied with the image of Jeffrey Roy, Duke of Valebridge and father to Marcus and Arthur.

Now, deceased father to Marcus alone. Though most who knew anything at all of the Roy family story believed something different. He reached the door and turned the huge, black key in the lock. Then he turned the iron ring set into the door’s center and heard an ominous scraping click. The door swung open under the force of his broad shoulder, creaking on its ancient hinges.

“Dai?” he said, raising a hand against the sudden glare of lamplight.

The old man standing on his threshold held a horse by its bridle and there was a young woman slung over its saddle like a sack of potatoes. Dai lowered the lantern, drawing a metal shutter across it and flooding his face with shadow.

“Aye, it’s me. And I’ve got something for you, so I have. Found her on the Downs riding alone and without provisions or the proper clothes for this weather. Thought I should bring her here before she dies of exposure, like.”

His Welsh burr was strong. He was Marcus’ height, though with a stoop to his back. His shoulders were broad but bowed. His face was lined and grizzled, with a shock of white hair masking some of his features. The old man had suffered more than his fair share of turns on the wheel of life. It had not been kind to him. Marcus squinted past him to the woman. Dai was already lifting her down and, staggering slightly, carrying her to the threshold.

“Bring her inside,” Marcus commanded.

“No, won’t be doing that. Not this house. You take her.”

Since stumbling across the man on the Downs, Marcus had never known him to use an honorific. It had been one of the qualities that endeared the peculiar old man to him.

“This confounded curse again, eh?” Marcus said, as he carefully lifted the woman from Dai’s arms.

“Aye, that’s it. Curse. Don’t want anything to do with it, see.” After those words, his face suddenly grew solemn. “You just look after her, mind.”

Marcus gave him an earnest nod.

Then the old man was hurrying away into the storm-tossed night, drawing the horse away after him.

“I’ll put the horse in the stables for you. Shouldn’t be out on a night like this,” he called over his shoulder.

A peal of thunder followed hot on the heels of a stuttering surge of lightning. Marcus ducked, despite himself, and retreated from the main doors. As they slammed closed behind him, the woman stirred. She was beautiful, with a pale heart-shaped face and a pretty snub nose. Her skin was soft, and her hair dark with water. Her lips were pouted and seemed lush and inviting.

For a moment, Marcus just stood, his back to the doors, and stared at her. She was light in his arms, her body deliciously feminine. As he looked, her eyelids fluttered open for a moment.

“Arthur… Thank God. I found you,” she murmured.

Then exhaustion overcame her once more and her head lolled back, eyes closing.

Chapter Two

For a long moment, Marcus had just stood with the woman held in his arms. He barely noticed the burden. Looking at her peaceful heart-shaped face, he found himself captivated.

What has brought you to my door, I wonder? And on a night like this.

It was only when she murmured in the depths of her unconsciousness that he was recalled to himself. He jerked his head up, looking around, though there were no servants abroad at this time of the night. That was a standing order. Marcus found sleep difficult and had a tendency to wander the castle late into the evening. He abhorred the thought of servants seeing him and speculating on his behavior. If it were possible to own a great house such as Valebridge and have no servants, he would do so.

Marcus strode down the long, high-ceilinged Great Hall, past portraits of Valebridge Dukes dating back to the reign of the first King Edward. He climbed the broad stairs at the end of the Great Hall, to the first landing and the long defunct guest wing. There, he kicked open the first door and walked through a sitting room and small dressing room, before finally entering a bedchamber. As gently as he could, he placed the young woman on the plump but bare mattress.

The bed had not been made – he did not receive visitors often, not at all in fact. Standing straighter, he looked around, feeling that he could not leave the young woman lying uncovered in her damp clothes. Seeing no bedclothes and not knowing where the servants kept such things, he instead went to the window and seized one of the thick, velvet curtains. A single, strong pull tore it from its rings and the heavy material thumped to the floor.

Marcus gathered it and carried it to the bed, carefully draping it over the young woman.

She called me Arthur. She thought I was my brother.

But after all, that is what he wanted everyone to believe when he had returned from Cumbria at the behest of his father, only to find him deceased that very day. Left behind were two letters. One, incomplete and clutched in his father’s cold dead hand had told him of Arthur’s fall into degradation but ended there. The other, in an unfamiliar hand and signed only ‘A’, told him that none in the house knew the face of Arthur Roy, that none would know if Marcus took on the name and the title. Told him that Jeffrey Roy had allowed the world to believe that he had only one son, Arthur.

So, Marcus Roy became Arthur Roy. The title passed to him, the family solicitor not questioning his identity, seeing only the characteristic black hair, dimpled chin, and sharp cheekbones of the Roy line. Now, someone had come who seemed to know Arthur, and the deception had worked. Marcus wondered if it would continue once the woman awoke. Perhaps she had been an old friend of Arthur’s.

Or a lover? That would put my illusion to the test. Perhaps I should absent myself, allow the servants to take care of her.

But Marcus was intrigued by this golden-haired angel. For that is how she seemed to him as she lay in peaceful repose. Pale-skinned and with hair the color of sunlight. He had briefly glimpsed pale eyes in the dim lamp light by the front door. Blue or gray perhaps. Her features were delicate, fine-boned but with sensuous lips and a firm chin that seemed to speak of strength. She was slim, he could tell because her sodden dress clung to her bosom and hips. Her femininity was decently covered now but he had been very aware of it as he had carried her up the room.

He ran a hand through his tight, black curls and stroked his chin.

A doctor should be summoned, and I cannot leave her to wake alone in a strange room. It could cause her more distress and I do not know her state of mind to begin with. If she was riding alone on a night like this, I cannot imagine it was well-balanced and, in any way, typical. She must have been running from something. Or, running to something. Or someone.

Observing the woman’s steady, deep breaths of sleep, he decided to break his cardinal rule and summon Thomas Beveridge, Valebridge’s butler. He could have one of the grooms awakened and sent out to fetch Doctor Fuller from the nearby village of Folkington. In the meantime, one of the chambermaids could be awakened to watch over the young woman. Marcus felt an urge to take on that task himself, wanting to remain by her side.

It might frighten her to awaken and see a strange man in the room. Except she does not see me as a stranger, but as Arthur.

He left the chamber and briskly strode to the servant’s quarters to wake Tom, resolving to return to her as soon as he could.

***

Selina awoke from turbulent dreams, half-remembered but more as vague impressions than specific recollections. Her mouth was dry, and she felt hot. A thick and immensely heavy blanket lay across her and she pushed at it. Opening her eyes, she saw by the dim glow of candlelight, a large room with a high ceiling. A window to her left had one half of a set of curtains and a young woman in the black and white of a maid sat dozing in a chair next to the bed.

Selina pushed at the remarkably heavy blanket before realizing that it was, in fact, the other half of the curtains. For a moment she had no memory of where she was or how she had come to be here. In fact, she wondered if this were simply another dream brought on by the fear and exhaustion of her flight.

That’s right! I fled from my father’s house on Wind, and I came to…I came to…

“Where am I?” she croaked.

The maid started from her slumber, head lifting from where it had been resting on her chest. Selina swallowed, licked her lips, and spoke again, sounding more human this time.

“Excuse me? Where am I?” Selina asked, trying to lift herself into a sitting position. But she was too weak. Her head felt like lead and her limbs like water.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but you are in Valebridge Castle. If you will excuse me, His Grace asked to be informed the moment you awoke.”

She promptly left the room. Selina let her head fall back, the room had begun to spin about her, and she lacked the strength to hold it up. Minutes later, the door opened again, and a man walked in. Selina turned her head and smiled. He looked just like she remembered, if older. The same dimple in the chin. The same tight dark curls. The same high cheekbones and infinitely dark eyes. He stopped just beyond the threshold, staring at her.

Once more, Selina tried to push herself upright, but her arms were not up to the task. After raising her body a few inches, she fell back. The man moved quickly to her side.

“Arthur,” Selina gasped, “I was almost afraid that I had been dreaming. But it really is you…”

She reached up with a trembling hand to stroke his face. There was a fine white line along the left side of his jaw. She ran her fingers along it. The touch sent a thrill through her and brought back memories of intimate moments together in the dark, lonely woods that filled the myriad of dells and valleys of the Downs, when they were merely children. He smiled, such a familiar sight, and yet…

He has aged. There is an aspect to his face that I do not recognize. It is the effect of passing years. Doubtless, he feels the same.

“I am here,” he whispered.

His voice was accented strangely. She could not place it, but it was not the sound of Sussex that she had expected. But it hardly mattered. He tentatively put his hand to hers and smiled. His touch was strong, yet tender. She immediately felt safe and protected.

“What on earth were you doing, riding alone in this weather?” he asked softly.

“I had to get away,” Selina replied, still gazing into those familiar and yet strange, dark eyes.

“From what?” he asked.

But Selina’s head was swimming, her eyelids felt heavy, though she did not want to close them. She wanted to gaze upon the long-missed face of her childhood sweetheart. The boy whom she had befriended on many summer visits to her grandmother in Wilmington. The tall, gangly boy who had become a lean youth with coal-black hair and eyes that smoldered when they rested on her. They still did.

She pulled her hand from his and ran her fingers across his lips. He pursed them, kissing her fingertips and Selina smiled, closing her eyes.

“Will you help me, Arthur?” she whispered.

“Of—of course. Just tell me how,” he replied earnestly.

But fatigue and fever had swept consciousness away from Selina. Her last memory before blackness rolled over her was the feel of Arthur’s lips against her fingertips, as he held her hand to his mouth.

Chapter Three

Marcus held the mysterious young woman’s hand to his lips. It was wildly inappropriate, but he could not help himself. When she had touched his lips, it had taken all he could do not to kiss her. Instead, he held her soft fingers to his mouth, breathing her in, tasting her.

She must have been a sweetheart of Arthur’s. She could probably tell me a lot about him that I do not know, but that would involve revealing that I am not who she thinks I am.

That thought was anathema to him. He did not want to lose the feeling of a racing heart and shortness of breath that he found himself experiencing in her company. Did not want to lose her company. No woman that he could recall had been able to affect him so, particularly after such little time. He frowned, trying to puzzle out what it was about her that enthralled him so. A tap at the door disturbed his reverie.

He placed her hand by her side and returned the curtain to its position over her body, standing and hurrying from the room. Opening the door of the chamber’s sitting room, he saw, not the aged physician that he had expected, but Luke Livingston.

“Luke? What the devil are you doing here?” Marcus said in hushed tones.

“I am responding to a distress call, old man. I am assisting Doctor Fuller with a view to taking over his practice in a year or two. When your boy arrived, I persuaded him to let me attend instead of him. Will I do?”

Luke was a little shorter than Marcus but of an age with him, both in their mid twenties. Luke had a shock of unruly, fiery red hair and a broad face, spattered with freckles with bright green eyes. The accent of Cumbria was thick on his voice.

“You didn’t tell me you were going into practice in this neck of the woods,” Marcus said.

“Wanted to surprise you, Arthur, old boy,” Luke replied, “…and looks like I arrived just in the nick of time. What seems to be the trouble.”

Marcus ushered him into the room, checked the hallway outside, and then closed the door.

“Yes, well. It’s perhaps fortunate that it was you. Because the patient I have for you seems to have known Arthur…” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “…the real Arthur, that is.”

Luke’s eyes widened, face turning solemn. He was wearing a tweed suit and stout brogues, and his grip tightened on his leather bag.

“Valebridge. You know me. And your secret has been safe with me for five years since you inherited. And it will remain so, safe as houses. But do you think you can keep it from your…patient? I mean, the servants here didn’t know Arthur, or your father for that matter. That’s why we got you a new household staff. But someone who truly knew him?”

His face was creased in concern and Marcus slapped him on the shoulder, giving him a grin.

“Let’s see, shall we? It is a young woman who arrived at my door in a state of exhaustion last night, right in the middle of the storm. She might be suffering from exposure for all I know. She is hot to the touch and unconscious now.”

Luke nodded briskly and went through into the bedchamber. Marcus closed the door behind him and waited until Luke had made his examination and returned.

“You’re right. A fever as a result of exposure to the elements. Throw in exhaustion as well, I would say. She needs rest to break the fever. Warmth when she shivers and cold when she is hot. I can give her some quinine, which should help.”

Marcus summoned Tom and explained the patient’s requirements, then led Luke to the billiards room.

“You have time for a game, don’t you? Heaven forbid I interrupt your study,” Marcus said wryly, still irked with the secret Luke had been keeping from him of his employment.

“I don’t really, but I am damn well intrigued by this whole saga. You really have no idea who this girl is?”

Marcus set about setting up the table and choosing a cue. In truth, he had no appetite for sport but wanted his old friend there to talk over a few things. Besides, it would distract him from thinking about his unexpected guest.

“No clue, old chap. How could I? I haven’t seen Arthur since we were the six-year-old twins. And father had made sure we hated each other. All those damn competitions he insisted on, each trying to prove ourselves worthy of inheriting the dukedom.”

He took his first shot, and the balls flew across the table in all directions. None found the pocket. Luke shrugged as he took his place.

“I can’t imagine what that was like. He couldn’t have been all bad though, to attract a beauty like that.”

“She is, isn’t she,” Marcus agreed, staring into space.

“I should say so. And should be well enough to attend the ball on Thursday. Unless there is more wrong with her than I could see. The fever isn’t as severe as all that. How do preparations go?”

Marcus grimaced. Luke had potted three balls in a row and had only just had his first miss. It wasn’t the game state that Marcus was disgruntled about, however.

“Preparations proceed apace. We are on track to host the ball on the twenty-sixth, two days’ time. Worse luck.”

Luke chortled. “I stand by my opinion. If you want to rebuild the legacy of the Roy family, you need to get the ton on your side. Your father and grandfather burned the family name to the ground with their behavior. They were a pair of blackguards.”

Marcus missed a shot and stood back, glowering. “Preaching to the choir, old boy. I know how important it is, but that doesn’t make it any more palatable. I abhorred the county set in Cumbria, and I abhor the Sussex set even more. Let alone the London ton. I should just like to be left alone to rebuild this house and the estate.”

“But need their approval if Roy isn’t to remain the name of a reclusive and scandalous house,” Luke said bluntly. He chortled as he downed another of his balls, looking around the table for his next shot.

Marcus watched but stared straight through the table. His mind kept worrying about the identity of the woman and her relationship with Arthur.

“How unfortunate that you arrived barely a day after your father’s death. Had the old rogue been alive, he might have been able to answer a lot of questions,” Luke said.

“Aye, like why the old man chose to dispossess me and make Arthur his heir. And why Arthur helped me to take on his identity, when all those years he stood by doing nothing.”

“If the letter truly was from him – out of remorse, I would say. He knew it should have been you and wanted to make sure you got your birthright,” Luke said in a tone that suggested this conversation had been had many times before.

“Who else could ‘A’ be?” Marcus mused, before reverting to a more serious tone. “Knowing him, it was part of some scheme. Something to trip me up. I just cannot think how.”

“Perhaps your visitor is part of that?” Luke said, moving around the table and rapidly clearing up.

“A trap orchestrated five years ago by my now-dead brother? Seems far fetched.”

Luke shrugged. “Stranger things have been known. And you are a testament to that, good sir.”

Look out for the upcoming release of the full novel on Amazon on the 19th of August!

Prologue

1812

Lovell Estate

     “I must tell Uncle Albert how splendid peonies would look at my wedding, Edna,” Charlotte Lovell said as she alighted from the carriage in front of Lovell House, the setting sun casting long shadows over the walls.

“And white roses, Miss,” Edna, her lady’s maid, said from behind her.

“Yes!” Grinning, Charlotte hurried up the steps to the front door.

     In three months’ time, at the start of spring, she would be marrying her third cousin, Timothy Lovell. Prior to the engagement, Charlotte had found the notion absurd—for she always wanted to marry someone of her own choosing, someone she truly loved. But things changed quickly after a conversation with her Uncle, the man she had the utmost respect for.

Her Uncle, Albert Lovell, had graced her with an abundance of kindness that surpassed all others since she became orphaned; and so, she could not bring herself to deny his wish. Timothy was a good man, too.

The door swung open before she could knock, and the butler, Hodges, appeared, his expression grim.

The joy that had been blossoming within her withered in an instant, because Charlotte had never seen him without a smile. “Hodges, is something wrong?” she whispered.

His face was ashen, and he would not look at her as he stepped away from the door. When Charlotte walked into the hall, an intense feeling of dread washed over her, and her stomach turned.

“Hodges?” she asked again, her voice wavering slightly.

Hodges’ lips parted, his mouth shaping and reshaping words that refused to form. He blinked rapidly, his eyes misting.

Charlotte’s eyes moved around the hall, her heart racing. The usually lively house now seemed to be filled with a deafening silence, and the tick of the grandfather clock echoed louder with each second.

“Where are my uncle and cousin?” Charlotte asked, taking a step toward the stairs. They had been out of the house when she left to have tea with Diana, but she expected them to return before her as it was almost dinner time.

“Miss, I…” the butler started, but snapped his mouth shut as if it pained him to continue. 

Her chest tightening, she abandoned propriety and picked up her skirts, running up the stairs. She had to know where her uncle was, and what had happened.

The stairs seemed to stretch infinitely, each step she took increasing the pounding of her heart as her fear grew. The hallway on the second floor was quiet, and the heavy blue velvet curtains had been drawn. Her steps quickened, and she made, first, for her uncle’s bedchamber.

She stumbled to a halt when the door of the bedchamber opened suddenly, and a man walked out. Charlotte saw his gray embroidered waistcoat first, but as her eyes ascended, her mouth fell open.

He was the one. The one she wished to marry and dreamed of, the one that gave her the courage to move on to her new life after the passing of her parents. It had been several years since that incident, but his face had remained etched in her memory, for she always wished to see him one more time to thank him for the kindness he showed that day. Although they were only children, alone in those dark woods that night she ran away from home, she could never forget him.

And now, never had Charlotte imagined she would see him in her home, at least not in the way that one typically would. His blue eyes were as sharp as she remembered. However, he stared at her as though he was seeing her for the first time.

He did not remember her.

Charlotte would have been disappointed if the dominant emotion within her was not fear, as she noticed how solemn his demeanor was with the corners of his mouth turned downward.

“Sir,” she managed to stammer, because he was blocking her path, and her heart pounded with a terrible premonition. “Where is my uncle?”

“The correct title would be ‘Your Grace’ or ‘Duke Jeremy’.”

Your Grace? The young boy is now a Duke?

“Miss Lovell, perhaps you should sit.” He gestured at a seat against the wall, and time seemed to slow right then.

What? No! No no! This cannot be happening! Not again!

Before her thoughts could fully converge into coherence, Charlotte surged past him, propelled by a frantic energy. He reached out, his fingers barely brushing her arm in an attempt to halt her, but she was unyielding.

As she burst into the chamber, the sight that met her eyes made her heart freeze. Her beloved uncle, who had always been a beacon of warmth and security, lay still and quiet on the bed.

His face, usually so animated and full of life, was now hidden beneath a stark white cloth.

For a fleeting moment, Charlotte thought him merely asleep. But the silence was wrong, the stillness too profound. Jeremy, who had followed her into the room, moved to stand before her, creating a barricade between Charlotte and the harsh reality.

“Do not venture further, Miss, I implore you,” he said.

“I have to see him,” she whispered, her voice brittle and distant. She raised her eyes to Jeremy’s. “Is he…?” She choked on the rest of the words.

Jeremy looked away and nodded, barely. A strangled cry escaped her lips, and her legs gave way under her. He reached out in time to steady her, his hands surprisingly gentle as they held her shoulders.

Charlotte blinked, her eyes burning with unshed tears, her mind struggling to comprehend. Moments ago, she had been laughing and smiling, anticipating her impending nuptials to her cousin, Timothy, but her entire life was now a forgotten dream, replaced with a nightmare she had yet to comprehend.

She moved mechanically toward her uncle, wishing to say her farewells. However, her path was blocked again, this time by the housekeeper.

“Do not look at him, Miss,” she begged.

The Duke, seemingly understanding Charlotte’s need, guided her out of the room, his touch an odd comfort amid the despair. As she allowed herself to be led away, a thought struck her—a horrifying possibility she had overlooked in her shock.

“Where is Timothy?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Where is he?”

The deepening shadows in Jeremy’s eyes confirmed her fears. The edges of her vision darkened, and the finality of the situation sunk in. Charlotte had not only lost her uncle, her only guardian, but her betrothed, as well. She felt as though the world was crumbling around her. The sound of her heart pounding filled her ears, and she could no longer stand upright.

Strong arms held her, and then she was carried. Burying her face in Jeremy’s shoulder, she shut her eyes tightly, hoping that when she opened them, she would discover this to be a nightmare.

Jeremy set her down in a chair, and when she opened her eyes, she saw they were in a sitting room. He walked up to a table and poured some liquor into a tumbler before returning to her.

“I cannot see my cousin, too?” she asked as he placed the tumbler in her hand.

Jeremy shook his head. “I promised Lord Lovell that your memories of him and your cousin will remain uncorrupted.”

He squatted in front of her. “I must tell you of your uncle’s last wish, but you should drink first.”

Charlotte swallowed and shook her head. “I have no wish to drink.”

“You should, Miss,” he encouraged, gently taking her wrist and raising the tumbler to her lips. “I fear you will need it.”

Her fingers instinctively tightened around the glass. “Is Uncle’s final wish worse than what I am facing now?”

“Perhaps,” Jeremy replied solemnly.

Charlotte took two large gulps of the liquor, wincing as she did, and several seconds of silence passed between them. When Jeremy did not speak, she sat straighter and said, “Tell me. Surely, nothing can be worse than losing the only family I have.”

“He asked me to marry you,” Jeremy declared impassively, and she blinked at him.

“Are you mocking me, Your Grace?” She shook her head, but Jeremy looked very serious. For the first time, she noticed how disheveled his black hair was and the dark lines under his eyes.

“Your uncle made me promise to marry you,” he repeated clearly.

The words hung in the air, heavy and surreal. Charlotte stared at him, struggling to make sense of his words. “But…why? I have another cousin…Nicholas…Surely Uncle Albert would have asked me to marry him?”

Jeremy nodded, and his voice sounded strained when he spoke. “Mr. Nicholas Lovell is not in England, and he is not likely to return soon. You have to be protected and taken care of, and I swore I would do just that.”

Charlotte felt a lump forming in her throat, her mind spinning. Jeremy continued speaking, “We will marry as soon as possible, but we will live separately for a year, and then the marriage shall be annulled.”

Her eyes widened, and her shock changed, carrying anger with it. “What did you just say?”

“We will have the marriage annulled after a year, Miss Lovell.”

“My uncle would never instruct such a thing!”

“No, the notion of annulment is mine.” The Duke—for she could no longer see him as Jeremy—rose.

“You accepted my uncle’s final request to humiliate me?” Charlotte could not understand how her uncle could skip Nicholas, who was more than eligible, and hand her to this man. She might have once dreamed of marrying Jeremy but he could not even remember her, and he no longer was the cheerful youth who had stolen her thirteen-year-old heart.

“No, Miss Lovell, please do not misinterpret my intentions. Lord Lovell was kind to me, and it is only fair if I repaid him by carrying out his last request.”

“Why an annulment?” Charlotte asked, hating the way her voice sounded small.

The Duke did not respond, and he simply clasped his hands behind him and said, “You will be looked after, and when you are free, you will be a woman of independent means.”

But that is not what I want! Charlotte wanted to yell, but she could not speak. It was too much, too fast. She could hardly breathe. The room felt too small, the walls closing in on her.

Feeling as if she was tumbling down a hill, unable to stop or slow, she shut her eyes.

The trajectory of her life had changed in a very short moment, a promise made was now dictating her future, and she could do nothing but watch, horrified, as her life spiraled out of her control for the second time in her twenty-two years of existence. 

Chapter One

One year later

Jeremy Remming, the seventh Duke of Eldenham, crossed the threshold of Willowbrook Castle in York for the first time after a long year. Despite the months of absence, an uncanny sense of familiarity took hold of him, evidence of the stately castle’s undying charm.

A childhood spent in the stone halls whispered in his ear, memories of laughter, tantrums, and whispered secrets clinging to the high stone walls and vaulted ceilings. The sorrow he had endured here flooded back, as well.

His heart immediately clenched, and images of long dark hair and soft blue eyes flashed through his mind. A peal of laughter rang in his ears. Jeremy shook his head and returned his focus to the foyer.

Upon entering, he was greeted by the sight of the castle’s loyal keepers, the butler, Mr. Mayton, and his wife and housekeeper Mrs. Mayton. Their presence, just as much a part of Willowbrook as its stone and timber, added to the sensation of time standing still.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” Mr. Mayton said with a warmth that belied his age. “It is good to finally have you back.”

Jeremy managed a smile, wishing he was happy to be here. He looked at Mrs. Mayton, and unlike her husband, there was frost in her tone when she spoke. She curtsied, her face tight. “Welcome to Willowbrook, Your Grace.”

Her choice of words did not escape Jeremy’s notice, and he supposed he deserved such treatment from her after his long absence.

“It is a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Mayton,” he murmured.

“We thought we’d never live to see the day you would return, Your Grace,” she confessed, her words hanging in the air like the faint scent of peony in the front hall. She had never been adept at hiding her emotions, and Jeremy could see the discontent in her taut smile.

“Mrs. Mayton,” came the butler’s soft reprimand, their familiarity with one another evident in the understated exchange, and the housekeeper smiled brightly at Jeremy.

He wondered if his wife was the reason for Mrs. Mayton’s reception, for her affection had always been a consistent presence in his life following his mother’s untimely death when he was a mere child of three.

Jeremy looked up at the grand staircase to the landing that parted, leading up to the separate wings of the castle. Every inch of marble held tales of a past innocence, a time when he had been nothing more than a carefree boy darting about the vast hallways. He then looked around the foyer, the echoes of his laughter seeming to rebound off the high ceiling. A pang of sorrow clenched his heart. The boy he once had been was replaced by a man touched by the harsh realities of life and time.

“Shall I prepare some tea for you, Your Grace?” Mrs. Mayton offered.

“Yes, please,” he murmured as his eyes narrowed on the painting hanging above the stairs landing. It was a little too dark for him to see anything, but he remembered that a different portrait of his mother used to hang there. It had been changed.

Jeremy, though greeted with warm nostalgia, found his return to the castle more of a bittersweet affair than a joyful homecoming. His residence here, however temporary it might be, felt like dredging up ghosts from a past he would rather leave untouched.

“Who changed the portrait?” he asked, glancing at Mr. Mayton.

“There was a storm one evening, and the old portrait fell. Her Grace ordered for a different one from the gallery to replace it,” the butler explained.

“Her Grace is quite fond of this portrait,” Mrs. Mayton said. “We all think the late Duchess looks better in this than the former.”

Jeremy’s mind circled back to the pressing matter at hand, the reason for his return. “Where is she?” he asked, his gaze intently on the Maytons. His wife was conspicuously absent, a fact that puzzled him considering he had given ample notice of his arrival.

Mr. and Mrs. Mayton shared a glance, and it was the latter who replied, a hint of caution in her tone. “Oh, I am sure she is in the castle somewhere, Your Grace.”

“Direct her to my study,” he commanded, making his way past the stairs and toward the familiar retreat.

Yet, as he pushed open the heavy wooden door, his brows furrowed at the sight that met him. The room which once radiated an air of scholarly gravity now looked more like a middle-aged matron’s parlor than a Duke’s study. It was as though a whimsical breeze had blown through the room, replacing his somber possessions with an array of needlework wonders.

Handkerchiefs, embroidered with delicate precision, littered one sofa. Shelves overflowed with stuffed dolls, small cushions, and an assortment of porcelain curiosities. The wallpaper, once a dignified brown, had been replaced with a delicate shade of pink, tiny flowers blooming across it. The transformation was so stark, Jeremy wondered if he had walked into the wrong room.

Bewildered, he turned to Mrs. Mayton—who had followed him instead of getting that tea she offered—his eyes wide with shock. “What the devil happened here?”

The housekeeper cleared her throat. “I was going to mention that Her Grace—”

“My wife did this?” Jeremy interrupted, a note of disbelief weaving through his words. The sight of his study—or rather, what used to be his study—filled him with a sense of disbelief so profound he felt rooted to the spot.

“Would it not have been more fitting for the Duchess to have her own study?” he questioned.

“Indeed, Your Grace, but she desired a workroom as well, and—”

“She chose my study to…redecorate.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to compose himself amidst the unexpected transformation. Clearly, his absence had left too wide a gap.

A small voice inside him, a whisper of pain, retorted with, ‘Never long enough to erase your sorrow.’

“Mrs. Mayton,” he began, forcing his tone to remain even, “I require the presence of my wife. Immediately.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She offered a quick curtsy before bustling off, replaced swiftly by the butler.

However, Mayton was not bearing news of his wife, and with him was Jeremy’s old friend, Samuel Godwin, the Earl of Redmont. Jeremy had not seen him in over a year, not since he brought his wife to live in Willowbrook.

“Eldenham!” Samuel Godwin exclaimed the instant he saw Jeremy, not waiting for the butler to announce him. He walked into the flowery room and clapped him on the shoulder.

“It is great to see you, Redmont,” Jeremy smiled.

He had sent word about his arrival to Samuel because he wanted to know how the businesses he had left in his care were doing. They had been friends all their lives, and Samuel took care of their joint ventures in York while Jeremy lived in London—where he belonged.

“My word, have you turned to the teashop trade?” Samuel quipped as he sat, scanning the room with a look of bemused confusion. “I was under the impression that this was your study.”

“It is,” Jeremy responded tersely, sitting in the chair opposite Samuel’s and picking up the handkerchief that rested on the arm, tossing it to the pile on the sofa. “Or rather, it was.”

“A feeling of mutual bafflement engulfs us, my friend,” Samuel chuckled, his eyes still roving over the riot of needlework.

“Perhaps my wife found herself with time to spare,” Jeremy mused aloud. If the Duchess had indeed crafted all these items, her time had certainly been well-occupied.

“Your absence spanned an entire year, Eldenham,” Samuel reminded him, a smirk playing on his lips. “Plenty of time for things to change.”

“Quite homely, I daresay,” Samuel offered, with a nonchalant shrug.

“Homely?” Jeremy echoed, an eyebrow raised. “All I can see is…peony?” He sniffed at the sweet aroma pervading the air.

“I am not a botanist, nor do I see a peony,” Samuel retorted with a laugh.

“No, that is in the air,” Jeremy said, realizing that the scent had filled his nose since he first stepped into the castle.

“York has been very quiet without you, Eldenham,” Samuel said, his tone and demeanor serious.

“The sentiment is not mutual, I fear,” Jeremy replied wryly.

“Piercing words,” Samuel chuckled before Jeremy switched the conversation to matters more pressing.

“How is everything?”

His friend ran a hand down his jaw and sighed, shaking his head. “I have wronged you. Forgive me, dear friend.”

“What happened?”

“The last harvest was a loss, the livestock perished from an illness, and the tenants are quite restless.”

Jeremy tensed upon hearing that. “I beg your pardon?” His friend was about to repeat himself, but Jeremy held up a hand. “Why am I only hearing of this now?” he demanded, his annoyance hardly concealed. He had entrusted his friend to keep a watchful eye on their ventures.

“I had hoped to contain the issues when they arose,” Samuel admitted, the corners of his mouth turned down in regret. “But matters slipped out of my control. I had meant to discuss it with you in person, a matter too grave for mere letters. Your return saved me the trip.”

“Such information should not have been delayed,” Jeremy returned irritably, rising and striding toward what had once been his large mahogany desk, now draped with a frilly white cloth. Lifting the cloth, he pulled open a drawer, expecting the reassuring sight of familiar ledgers and account books. Instead, a medley of bright thread spools and thimbles in various sizes met his eyes, a blatant mockery of his once orderly study.

An irked sigh whistled past his clenched teeth, frustration making his chest tighten.

“Eldenham, I am well aware of the profound aversion you harbor toward this place,” Samuel replied, his voice dolorous. “My intention was to manage matters and spare you the journey and a reminder of the past. An apology might seem hollow now, but I offer it sincerely.”

His friend’s words brought Jeremy’s fumbling hands to an abrupt halt. Samuel’s loyalty had been unswerving, a beacon in the darkest storms of his life. He was thankful for his friend’s protective instincts, but his properties and business ventures held priority. This estate might only be a fragment of his wealth, but Jeremy was not one to relinquish it, unchecked. Personal demons had their place, but business demanded a separate attention.

Pulling himself upright, he gathered his thoughts, “I had intended to journey back to London tomorrow, but I find it necessary to extend my stay for a further two days,” he declared, straightening his shoulders. “We shall assess the extent of the damage and find solutions accordingly,” he added, his mind already whirling with plans. Two days were enough for him to address the troubles, he convinced himself.

Yet, a quiet promise resonated within him. No more than that. Any longer would be too great a concession to his tormenting past.

Chapter Two

Charlotte handed Edna the last chrysanthemum bloom and sighed, looking around the dull greenhouse, her throat tight. She loved this place, and she had grown her favorite flowers here since she made Willowbrook her home.

Her Lady’s maid gently touched her shoulder. “Do not worry, Your Grace, spring shall be here soon with new blooms.”

Charlotte gave her a wintry smile. Her poor companion thought she was sad because she had just cut the last blooms in the greenhouse, but Charlotte knew what she did not. This was her second winter in Willowbrook, but it would also be her last.

“Yes, Edna,” she murmured. “We should return to the castle.” She rubbed her gloved hands together and pulled her cloak tighter as Edna placed the flower in the basket. “I would love some tea.”

Stepping out of the greenhouse, Charlotte’s boots sank into the freshly fallen snow, causing a slight chill to rush up her leg. She lifted the hem of her dress just high enough to shield the delicate fabric from the dampness below, and Edna gave her an appreciative smile.

After all, she would be the one to rescue the dress from ruin should it be sullied.

As they moved along the path that led back to the castle, Charlotte’s gaze wandered across the vast field, past the leafless trees, resting on the austere, yet compelling structure in the distance. A sense of longing tugged at her heart, pulling the corners of her mouth into a wistful smile.

The dark stone of Willowbrook contrasted against the soft blanket of white that stretched out before it, captivating. The vines covering the walls presented an enchanting tableau that was almost otherworldly.

It was in moments such as this that Charlotte was reminded of the ever-changing face of the castle, beautiful in every season. She allowed her gaze to linger a little longer, finding comfort in the familiarity of the scene before running the rest of the way to get out of the cold. They let themselves into the castle through the front.

As soon as she stepped in, she noticed that Mr. Mayton was wearing a rather peculiar expression. Her lips parted to question him, but an unusually flustered Mrs. Mayton appeared before Charlotte could say a word.

“Your Grace, I had not been informed of your gardening exploits today,” the housekeeper chastised gently, glancing behind her.

“Oh, I found myself at the mercy of spontaneity, Mrs. Mayton,” Charlotte chuckled. Mrs. Mayton’s hands found their way to her ample hips, adopting a posture that indicated maternal exasperation.

Since her ill-fated union to the Duke of Eldenham and his subsequent relocation of her to an isolated castle, Charlotte had developed a fond familiarity with Mr. and Mrs. Mayton.

Following the untimely deaths of her parents, Charlotte had been taken under the protective wing of her uncle, Baron Albert Lovell. He had acted as her guardian until he was lost in a tragic accident. This, compounded by the death of her betrothed, Timothy, in the same carriage crash, had left Charlotte bereft and numb. With the familial bonds of her childhood cruelly severed, she had found herself adrift in a sea of grief.

Her transition to Willowbrook after her wedding had been a daunting phase in her life, but Edna, her dearest friend Diana, and the Maytons had given her solace and companionship, especially in her lonely days.

“This morning seemed too splendid to be squandered indoors,” Charlotte said, pointing at the basket filled with colorful blossoms.

“These would bring much life and color to your chambers,” Mrs. Mayton observed as she appreciated the white and peach chrysanthemums.

“I intend them for the workroom, actually,” Charlotte said, removing her cloak and handing it to Edna before starting up the stairs.

The housekeeper’s features shifted then, a subtle tightening of her mouth and a creasing of her blonde eyebrows. “His Grace has arrived.”

Confusion drew Charlotte’s brows together, “Who?”

“The Duke,” Mrs. Mayton clarified, her voice dipping slightly.

“Today?” Charlotte halted in her tracks, her body tensing. The Duke’s impending visit had slipped from her mind entirely even though she had been counting the days she had left in Willowbrook.

A year’s worth of bitterness that resided in the recesses of Charlotte’s heart rose, stinging like a fresh wound. She had endeavored not to think of the Duke, especially after he had made it unmistakably clear to her that she was nothing more than a wife in name, a contractual obligation he intended to fulfill and then promptly discard.

He had left her, lost in the depths of her grief, with the promise to return in a year’s time and liberate her from the unwanted shackles of their matrimony with an annulment. Charlotte’s hands clutched her dark blue skirt, and her teeth clenched.

Why was his arrival bringing up so many memories and unsavory emotions?

“You will live here until next winter,” Eldenham had said upon their arrival at Willowbrook. They had married a week after her uncle and cousin’s deaths in London, then traveled to York.

“Where will you be?” Charlotte asked, clutching the string of her reticule and standing rigidly in the drawing room.

“In London,” he replied impassively, leading Charlotte to conclude that she was an unwelcome encumbrance and a lingering responsibility left to him by her uncle.

She shook her head to dismiss the memory, taking a deep breath. She had adapted despite everything, and what weighed heavily upon her heart was not the annulment of their marriage—for it meant nothing to her—but the thought of leaving a familiar place; one she had slowly turned into her own.

“Yes, His Grace is within the castle walls,” Mrs. Mayton confirmed, pulling Charlotte from her musings. Then the housekeeper’s mouth opened and closed as though she had something more to say.

Whatever words she had intended to share seemed to retreat, leaving her lips pressed into a firm line. Her usual joviality was replaced with a mask of grim concern, the wrinkles on her face seeming more pronounced than ever.

“Is something wrong, Mrs. Mayton?” Charlotte asked.

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

Charlotte decided not to pursue the subject, and as she glanced at the basket in Edna’s grip, she found herself agreeing with Mrs. Mayton’s initial suggestion about the disposition of the flowers. “You are right, Mrs. Mayton. These flowers would indeed look far more captivating in my chambers.”

Avoiding the Duke was an enticing notion, and she would grasp at any reasonable excuse to delay their inevitable meeting.

“Should I arrange for some vases to be sent to your room, Your Grace?” Mrs. Mayton asked.

“Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated, Mrs. Mayton. I would be grateful for the vases,” Charlotte responded, an uneasy smile curving her lips as she spun on her heel, hurrying up the stairs.

Her heart beat faster as she walked down the hallway to her chambers, and she stopped in front of her door, pressing a hand against her belly where an uncontrollable flutter resided.

“No,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head. “I cannot see him now.”

Opening her door, she stepped into the sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. She walked to a chair and lowered herself onto it, but she rose quickly, her restlessness growing. Charlotte paced the room, her eyes on the intricate patterns of the Persian rug that decorated the floor. Her mind was a torrent, swirling with an onslaught of questions that demanded her attention.

One, however, was bold enough to force its presence, looming over the rest.

What was to become of her once the annulment was complete?

Eldenham had assured her that her well-being would not be compromised. She would want for naught, he had promised with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Yet these soothing words had done little to placate the growing apprehension that gnawed at her composure.

The sudden knock at her door punctuated her contemplation, and she stopped pacing. Relief washed over her as she hastened toward the door, eager to divert her thoughts.

It must be the vases that Mrs. Mayton had promised, she thought as she opened the door.

Then her breath caught.

Instead of the anticipated vases and the housekeeper, Charlotte found herself looking into eyes as blue as glaciers on a face so handsome it was unfair. She took a tiny step back, swallowing.

He was as she remembered him, intense and towering over her, his jaw set with authority. Her insides fluttered, and she remembered the first time she beheld him; his eyes had gleamed with joy, his voice had been soft, and his words sincere.

There was no trace of that man now, only the brooding shadow that had taken over his form. Eldenham raised one dark eyebrow and tilted his head. He was about to speak when panic gripped Charlotte, and she swung the door shut, eager to erase the unanticipated image before her.

A grunt followed a hand jutting out to halt the closing door, and the realization of what had occurred hit her like a wave. In her haste, she had slammed the door against the Duke’s hand. 

Lookout for the new release on Amazon on the 26th of August!