Author: Grovechronicles

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!

Chapter One

1817

London, England

“Goodness, she’ll shatter all the glasses singing that note,” Julia whispered to her sister, leaning back as far as she could in the opera chair. She felt assaulted by the opera singer’s loud note, the tone buffeting her like a strong wind.

“I know what you mean,” Catherine murmured, managing the smallest of smiles.

At last! A smile.

For the last few days, it had been Julia’s mission to see her younger sister smile again. So much had changed this last month and they had big plans, a way to escape their current predicament, but Catherine’s fears had made her morose indeed. Smiles were few and far between.

Reaching for Catherine’s hand, Julia took it in her own and held it tightly. Her sister’s smile faded a little. Catherine’s face was not dissimilar to Julia’s own. They both had the same high cheekbones, but their eyes were incredibly different. Where Julia’s were bold and green, Catherine’s were the brightest of blues, like drops from a blue sky.

“Worry not,” Julia whispered even more quietly in her sister’s ear. “A few weeks more, and we’ll be free. I promise.”

“I know.” Catherine’s grasp tightened. She shifted in her seat, stretching out her stomach a little, then sitting still once again.

Julia’s eyes flicked down to Catherine’s stomach, knowing now the life that she had to protect as well as Catherine’s own. Catherine was with child. No other but Julia and the father knew of it in this world, and with the father cleanly washing his hands of the situation, it was down to Julia to save her sister.

I will not have her put out on the street by our uncle and aunt, to have her child alone. No. I will do anything to avoid that!

Julia turned her focus to her aunt and uncle beside them on the balcony. Aunt Nancy, sister to their late mother, was watching the crowds in the stalls through opera glasses, her pearlescent white gloves shining around the glasses she clung so tightly to.

“The opera is that way, Aunt,” Julia whispered to her, pointing to the stage. On Nancy’s other side was their uncle, Albert, who in contrast was absorbed in watching the opera, even humming the aria beneath his breath for he knew it so well.

“Do not be witty, dear. It does not suit you,” Nancy said sharply, not even bothering to lower the opera glasses. “I am looking at who is here tonight. We must find a husband for you sometime soon, Julia, despite your evident reticence to hurry down the aisle.”

“We’ve had this conversation before–”

“Shh!” Albert hushed them sharply, cutting Julia off.

She forced an innocent smile and looked at the stage again, her hand still tightly locked in her sister’s. Despite her aunt’s wish to marry her off, seemingly to someone of high stature and wealth, that was not part of Julia’s present plans.

In a few weeks’ time, she would be one-and-twenty and would come of age to inherit the money that had been left to her after their father died.

Dear Papa.

An image flitted across her mind of their father. He had been a good man, tall and strong, and always put the happiness of his daughters before his own. He died before his time, falling sick with the white plague. That was the saddest day of Julia’s life, matched only by the day she had to come and live with her uncle and aunt.

“Be practical, dear,” Nancy murmured, leaning toward her. Nancy’s dark auburn hair tickled Julia’s cheek and she leaned away, moving closer to her sister who bit her lip in an effort not to laugh at Julia’s grimace. “You must marry soon. You are to be one-and-twenty soon.”

“I realize that.”

Yet Julia had other plans for her inheritance, and it was certainly not for it to be a dowry. She planned to take that wealth and escape with Catherine. They would flee London, set up somewhere in the countryside, maybe even in Dorset near their father’s old country seat. At least there, Catherine could have her child in peace, far away from the disapproving eyes of the ton.

If we remain in London, her name will be written in the scandal sheets daily. I will not let that happen.

“Ah, there is Lord William Rutledge. Look, look,” Nancy said, lowering the opera glasses enough to use them to wave at someone in the stalls. “Even you, Julia, could not object to such a handsome face.”

“Handsomeness is not enough to induce one to marry, Aunt.”

“You’re cold of heart, Julia,” Nancy said snidely.

Far from it.

Julia kept her thoughts to herself and leaned forward, looking at the gentleman that her aunt was so eagerly pointing out. Lord Rutledge was indeed sitting in the stalls. He was tall, handsome with a narrow face and a strong jawline. His hair was golden, just visible in the candlelight from the stage.

“Oh.” Catherine’s gasp at her side earned Julia’s attention. When Catherine saw she was being watched, she sat back in her chair, pretending she hadn’t been gawking at Lord Rutledge too. A deep blush colored Catherine’s cheek, though Julia decided not to comment on it.

She knew that Catherine was hardly loose of morals. The situation she now found herself in was because of the gentleman she had been courting. He’d persuaded her he was in love with her, promised to ask permission from their uncle to marry her, then flitted off into the night like an owl, darting between the trees.

“Worry not,” Julia whispered to her sister again. “Any woman would have to be made of stone not to find Lord Rutledge handsome.”

“We should see you betrothed by our upcoming ball, Julia,” Nancy said, lifting her opera glasses again. When Albert looked at her, clearly demanding quietness, Nancy lowered her voice further, leaning toward Julia. “We have saved up so much money for this ball, it is imperative that everything goes according to plan. Everything is set for the end of the season. Imagine if we could announce your betrothal that same night.”

“No thank you, Aunt,” Julia said sharply, forcing another polite smile. Nancy huffed and looked away.

“Are they ever able to be quiet?” another voice asked on the balcony.

Julia leaned forward to see that her cousin had crept in on their uncle’s other side. Julia caught sight of her sister’s expression and the widened eyes, as if to silently ask, when did he get here? Julia merely shrugged in answer.

“Apparently never,” Albert grumbled and gestured to the stage. “Please, everyone. Let us hear the final aria before the interval.”

Julia could see, despite her cousin’s words, he had little love for the opera. Percy Finch preferred the gaming hells or the gentlemen’s clubs to anything like the opera, and he was more likely to be seen at music halls if he was in the mood for a song, but he was also good at putting on a front for his father.

He tipped his head back and admired the aria at the right moments, his dark hair slicked back like wax on his head, but there was little meaning in his words. When the curtain came down for the interval, as expected, he was the first on his feet.

“I need a drink. I’ll be back soon,” Percy promised his mother and father.

“Come, Catherine. Let’s find a drink too,” Julia said to her sister, and took her hand, leading her out.

“Julia.” Nancy stood, ready to intercept her. “There are certain suitors I was hoping to introduce you to.”

“Not tonight, Aunt. Everyone is here to see the opera after all. Seeing me instead would be quite a disappointment, I am sure.” She forced yet another smile and pulled Catherine away before her aunt could object again.

They squeezed past the crowds in the theater that had all stood to stretch their legs and hurried into the rabbit-warren-like corridors behind the stalls.

“This is hopeless,” Catherine whispered once they were secured at a bar with glasses of wine clutched in their hands.

“What is?” Julia asked, leading Catherine into the shadows of the barroom, so they could talk freely.

“I know our plan, Julia, but you have seen the way our aunt looks at you. She expects you to marry. I do not imagine she would let you escape London very easily.”

“What Aunt Nancy intends is far from my mind,” Julia shook her head. “Catherine, remember the promise I made you?”

Catherine’s head tilted down a little.

“I remember,” she murmured. “You were so good to me that night, the night you…” She trailed off.

The night I discovered the truth.

Catherine had been ill all that day and a physician had been sent for, yet she had turned him away, refusing to be seen. That was Julia’s first suspicion that her sister knew exactly what was wrong with her. When Catherine explained that she hadn’t yet had her monthly bleeding, all fell into place.

That scoundrel made my sister with child and fled as quickly as he could. That snake!

Julia had already decided that if she ever saw Catherine’s suitor again, she would not be held responsible for her actions.

“I promised you that no one would hurt you again and nothing would stop our plan,” Julia assured her sister. “Even with our aunt’s interfering and insistent ways, it does not matter. Nothing will stop us from taking that inheritance and running as far as we can with it. There is nothing to fear. I promise you that.”

Catherine smiled fully for the first time that evening.

“I should visit the privy before we have to return to our seats,” Catherine said as she put down her glass on a nearby ledge.

“Here, I’ll come with you.” Julia led Catherine from the barroom, though her eyes shot to her cousin at the bar.

Percy seemed to be leaning over his drink rather fervently, his attention fixed on the whisky glass in his clutches. There was sweat on his brow too.

Perhaps he is unwell.

She hesitated by his back.

“Is all well, cousin?” she asked.

“Fine.” He answered sharply, shocking her. Percy may not have been the most virtuous of sorts, but he had always been kinder to Julia than his parents had been. “Leave me be, Julia.” He flicked at the barman to serve him another whisky.

Julia continued through the room, pulling Catherine with her, though she glanced back at Percy more than once as he knocked back the whisky. Something was plainly wrong.

After she had visited the privy, she waited outside in a quiet corridor for Catherine to return, though her sister evidently needed a little longer. The bell to signal the next act began and Julia was quickly left alone and isolated in the corridor. All was silent, until a murmuring began down the other end of the hall.

The words were indistinct at first, a mere discussion, then they grew in sharpness and venom, with two parties clearly falling into a fast argument.

“You have to be reasonable.”

That was Percy’s voice!

Julia hastened down the corridor, pulling at the pastel blue gown she wore to aid her movements. She rounded a corner and appeared in a darker corridor still, where two gentlemen were standing together.

The first was Percy. He was wild, his arms flailing, his cheeks bright red. The other gentleman was a man Julia had only ever seen at a distance at grand balls and assemblies.

His Grace, Antony Sinclair, the Duke of Ravensworth.

“Be reasonable?” the Duke spluttered, his eyebrows shooting up. “I am not the one who made a wager they had no intention of seeing through. A wager is a gentleman’s word. If you do not intend to keep to it, then do not come to the clubs you so frequently visit.”

“Come off it, Your Grace.” Percy turned in a sharp circle, digging his hands in his waxed dark hair and pulling at the tendrils until it was as messy as a bird’s nest. “You know my situation. I explained it all to you.”

“Then you should be wise enough to know by now not to wager when you cannot afford to do so.” The Duke waved a hand, dismissing Percy as if he was a dog at his heels.

“Your Grace?”

“Enough.” The Duke’s deep voice turned sharper still.

Julia fidgeted, her gloved hands shifting together as she stared at the Duke. That deep tone, the huskiness of his voice was something that was certainly attractive.

No wonder he is such a notorious rake.

She’d heard it often enough whispered between ladies of the ton and read his name in the scandal sheets too. The Duke of Ravensworth was no pillar of society or angel fallen from the clouds above. He was as likely to cause trouble for ladies as the streets of London were to see rain this winter.

Julia’s eyes narrowed on the Duke, watching as he waved Percy away once again. After what had happened to Catherine, Julia had no empathy at all for a man like the Duke.

Percy huffed, pleaded another time, then relented and backed up down the corridor, coming increasingly close to Julia. When he saw her, he flinched, but then walked on.

“Percy–”

“Do not say anything,” he warned, waving a sharp hand in the air. “This is not the time.” He walked past her, brushing by her shoulder and hastening down the corridor in the direction of the balcony.

Julia turned back to face the Duke. He wandered halfway down the corridor, rubbing his hands together until he saw Julia and stalled.

In the dim candlelight, their eyes met.

God’s wounds.

This close, Julia could see clearly what she had ignored before when seeing him at a distance. Tall with broad shoulders, he was a dominating and formidable figure. His face was unusually sharp and angular, but it suited him well, the chiseled jaw as if it had been carved like one of those Grecian stone statues she had seen in museums. His brown hair was slightly longer than many other gentlemen’s of the ton, hanging loose around his ears. The clothes were a deep rich black, so dark, that it made her realize she didn’t think she’d ever seen him in anything other than black.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He bowed his head, intending to walk around her, though she noted his eyes struggled to leave hers so quickly. He stared at her, for a beat too long.

When he reached her shoulder, her anger piqued, though whether it was because of Catherine’s predicament or the Duke of Ravensworth’s argument with her cousin, she wasn’t sure.

“You seek to upset gentlemen in back corridors of opera houses then?” she asked, her tone sharp.

He halted at once, turning to look at her. A slow smirk appeared on his lips.

“This is not your business, ma’am.”

“He is my cousin,” Julia explained, nodding her head down the corridor in the direction of where Percy had retreated.

“Truly?” His eyebrows shot up. “Then I feel God should apologize to you for what he has done. Any lady related to him is unfortunate indeed.”

“You do not know him, Your Grace.” She stood taller, irked at the way his eyes were now wandering down her. It was a voracious gaze, one that suggested he liked what he saw.

I am no wilting flower. I will not be subdued or ensnared by such a look as that.

“Ah, ‘Your Grace?’. Clearly, you know me then, but I do not know you. What is your name?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“I do not intend to tell you that.” Julia heard a door closing down the corridor. Fearing being seen alone with such a rake as the Duke, she stepped away, eager to retreat.

“Without your name, how am I to remember this… interesting meeting?” he said. She stopped a few steps later and turned back to face him.

“Remember it as a meeting with one of the few ladies in the ton who has no intention of falling for your charms, Your Grace.” Her defiant words made that smirk grow a little more on his lips.

He’s insufferably handsome. How annoying!

“Pray, do not go near my cousin again.” She turned on her heel, ready to escape.

“You think I am the one who approached him tonight?” The Duke’s words made her halt again. He chuckled deeply and walked slowly forward, reaching her side. “Our argument was not of my making, but his own. He should be better with money if he does not wish to end up beholden to men like me.”

“Money?” Julia’s stomach knotted.

Just the other day she had overheard an argument between Percy and Albert. Her uncle had a habit of making his opinions known and many shook in their boots when he grew angry. Percy was no different. Albert’s shouting voice had echoed through the house, saying he did not intend to give Percy any more money to gamble away.

“He’s lost money to you? How much?” Julia asked with sudden panic, stepping toward the Duke.

“Ah, suddenly my company is bearable to you, ma’am.” He folded his arms and looked down at her, making her realize how close she had moved toward him.

What is wrong with me?

She backed up.

“Barely bearable,” she said between gritted teeth.

“Then if you want an explanation as to what your cousin has done with his money, ask him.” The Duke loosened his arms and stepped back. His gaze shot down her again, it was almost… hungry. Then he looked up and Julia rather thought she had imagined it entirely. “I will not be blamed for your cousin’s errors. I have my own faults.”

He walked away down the corridor, leaving Julia staring after him. She exhaled sharply, realizing just how bated her breath had been in the Duke’s company. After he’d gone, she laid a hand on the nearest wall, using it to help herself stand straight.

What on earth has Percy done now?

Chapter Two

“Percy? Percy!” Julia hissed his name as she traipsed through the corridors, hunting him down. She’d poked her head beyond the curtain that bordered the balcony, far enough to see he hadn’t returned to watch the performance after all but had skulked off somewhere else.

Where are you?

At last, she caught sight of him. His figure was half cast in shadow at the end of a corridor, bordered with a sign that read, Opera Cast Only. Percy casually leaned against the nearest door frame, with one of his charming smiles in place. Standing beside him was one of the younger opera singers, plastered in heavy makeup with her long blonde hair curling down her back.

“Percy?” Julia approached him hurriedly, holding up the corner of her skirt to avoid tripping at her fast pace.

“Not now, Julia.” He cast her a weary glance, his green eyes a similar shade to her own.

“We have to talk.”

When he showed no sign of leaving the opera singer behind, who was smiling at him in an overly sweet manner and running her hand up and down her arm, Julia lost her patience. She turned a sardonic smile to the young lady.

“Did he mention he has no money? Despite his fine clothes,” Julia’s whispered words captured the young woman’s attention. Her hand immediately left Percy’s arm.

“Excuse me, I must return to the performance,” she said with a thick Italian accent and slipped through the door.

“Julia!” Percy flung himself around to face her, anger flashing in his eyes.

“Well, you didn’t actually think she was interested in courting you, Percy, did you?” she said in a hasty whisper. “Many women here offer themselves as mistresses so they can be kept in nice houses–”

“I know, I know.” Percy held up his hands in surrender, cutting her off. “Didn’t mean a few minutes in her company wouldn’t have been nice. Looks like I’ll have to satisfy myself with the club tonight instead.” He tried to walk past her, but Julia caught his arm.

“I just spoke to the Duke of Ravensworth,” she muttered in a whisper. The light from the nearest candle fell on Percy’s features, tinging his skin in a burnt orange hue. In that light, she could see his features contorted.

“What did he say?” he asked tartly.

“He insinuated you had lost more money to him. Percy, tell me it is not true. The whole house heard Uncle Albert reprimanding you and cutting you off the other day.” Her words made him shrug her off. Flustered, he stepped away, pushing a hand into his hair. “Please, Percy, tell me you have not been so foolish as to put yourself in debt to a man who is a Duke.”

“I had the money. I paid him.” Percy shrugged as if it was no great matter.

“You did?” She shifted her weight between her feet, unable to contain her shock. “What money is that?”

“What money do you think?” He must have been in his cups, for he swayed a little on his feet, a small smile curling his lips.

“Your father’s? He keeps a tight hold on his money. Trust me, I know. So do not lie about that. Where did you get the money, Percy?” She caught his arm when he tried to walk past her again. “I am trying to help you here. Tell me just how much trouble you are in.”

“Not much you can do now,” he huffed, shaking his head. He laughed just once, though the sound dulled fast. “I already took what help you could have ever given me,” he muttered, the words barely audible at all.

So stunned, Julia released him, baffled by the words.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice stuttering in the middle. He looked at her, raising a single eyebrow.

“Well, you had money, did you not, Julia?”

“I have no money. Not yet, not for another few weeks…” She trailed off, feeling as if she had been kicked in the gut. She rubbed her stomach, her glare fixing on her cousin. “Tell me you did not break the trust and take my inheritance. Tell me!”

“Fine. Then I shall stay silent.” He spun on his heel and turned away. He staggered to the side, revealing he was indeed in his cups.

“Percy!” She raced after him, cutting him off partway down the corridor and standing in front of him. “You did not take that money. No, you couldn’t have. Why would you do that?”

“I thought I was onto a winner. A winning streak, at last. It was all I needed to keep me going for another few months,” he said hurriedly, boasting with a smile. It showed how drunk he was, to be boasting and telling her such things so openly when he scarcely revealed his personal life to his father, let alone her. “I wagered it to the Duke of Ravensworth, because I was certain I was going to win.”

“How much—when did it happen—is there anything…” The words escaped her lips rushedly, jumbling together in their haste. “You lost it? All of it?”

He hurried to put a hand in his pocket, then pulled out a single coin. He dropped it in the air, and she hastened to catch it. A gleaming silver shilling rested in the palm of her hand.

“This is all that is left?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“I asked for it back. That’s what you saw just now.” He waved a hand down the corridor. “The Duke did not agree with me. Well, it is what it is. The money’s gone.” He shrugged and walked around her once more.

No, no, no!

Julia could barely organize her thoughts. All at once, her plans were crumbling around her. There was no money to rescue Catherine and take her far away from here, nothing to help care for the unborn child beyond a single shilling.

“How could you do this? You… monster,” she muttered, turning around to face the retreating back of her cousin. At once, she saw him in a new light.

He was no longer a misguided overgrown child, immature, but ultimately goodhearted. Far from it. He’d revealed himself to be cruel and uncaring.

“Your father will hear of this,” she said with sudden fervor. “Do not mistake me, Percy. I will tell Uncle Albert as soon as I return to that balcony.”

Percy froze. As still as a statue, he did not move for a full ten seconds before he turned back to face her. Standing between the candles, his expression was no longer lit with candlelight, but cast fully into shadow. It made the sneer of his lip seem all the dark still, more angular than before.

Slowly, he walked toward her, stalking her, like a hunter after its prey. She held her ground and jerked her chin high.

There must be a way out of this. There must be! For Catherine’s sake. Maybe Uncle Albert will make up the money?

Even as the thought struck her, she knew it was mad. Albert was a proud man and demanded certain standards. He did not throw away money lightly.

“You tell my secret, and I’ll tell yours,” Percy whispered, that sneer now fully visible in the candlelight.

“What secret?” She pretended innocence.

Surely, he has no way of knowing about Catherine…

“That maid who has been hiding Catherine’s sheets, do you think she has not been keeping my bed warm for a while now?” Percy asked, that smirk growing across his lips.

Julia dropped the shilling to the floorboards, hearing it ring as it rolled away.

“Yes, I know,” he said, his voice hardening further. “Catherine’s with child, is she not?”

“Percy, you would not tell Uncle Albert –”

“I would not.” He shook his head. “As long as you keep my secret too. Seems we are in cahoots now, Julia. My lips stay shut, as long as yours do. Now, shall we return to the opera? Knowing my father, he will be most upset that we missed it.” He stepped to the side and gestured for her to walk down the corridor before him.

Julia took the first shaky step, then hurried away. By the time they reached the balcony and took their seats, her whole body was trembling, though she wasn’t sure if it was out of fear or anger.

If Albert discovered Catherine was with child, she would surely be thrown out of the family home. Julia could not let that happen, but neither could she allow Percy to get away with what he had done. Either way, Catherine’s life was doomed. There was no future, no money for her and the child.

…What am I to do now?

Chapter Three

1817

Sinclair Manor, London

“Perhaps a tea, Your Grace? Maybe some water?” The butler stepped forward and offered a hand to steady Antony.

“I’m fine. Thank you.” Antony shrugged on his frock coat and tugged at the sleeves.

“You do look quite pale, Your Grace.”

Antony smiled as he looked at the face of his butler. The old man had a round face, heavy and drooping eyes like a basset hound, and dark eyebrows. A kindly man indeed, he’d shown more affection to Antony than many others in his life.

“You’re always good to me, Grayson,” he said softly. “Thank you, I’m fine. I just have a headache after the drinking last night.”

“I feared as much.”

Antony strode into his study, checking he had everything he needed. He took out some bank notes from the top drawer of his desk and caught sight of the very thing he tried to avoid looking at most days.

It was a letter, curled now with age, and the paper had started to yellow. Across the front was Antony’s name and address. It remained unopened, even after all this time.

I cannot read her letter. I can’t.

“I won’t,” he murmured under his breath.

“Your Grace?” Grayson called from the doorway where he had remained behind. “All’s well?”

“Yes, that headache is bothering me. That is all.” Antony closed the drawer hurriedly and thrust the banknotes into the pocket of his frock coat. “I shall be better when I am at the club.”

“I remember a time when you didn’t bother with the club or the gambling,” Grayson said with a soft chuckle. “It seems like some time ago now.”

“That’s because it was. We all grow up, Grayson.” Antony smiled and left the room, taking the top hat his butler offered him.

“Or we all just change.” Grayson’s smile turned rather melancholic. “Though I wish you smiled as much as you used to, Your Grace.”

Antony paused, startled by the sympathetic words. He fidgeted with the top hat in his grasp, then shook his head.

“Smiles aren’t what they used to be. Now, I must get to the club.”

“Yes, of course. The carriage awaits you outside.” Dutifully, Grayson opened the door and waved Antony out of the house. They shared a last smile as Antony pulled on his top hat, then Antony reached for the carriage and stepped inside, the darkness enshrouding him.

Don’t think about it. Do not think about it!

Despite his endeavors, Antony couldn’t help dwelling on Grayson’s words as the carriage jolted from side to side and took him all the way into Soho, right into the depths of London. Here, a gentleman could lose himself in the gambling dens and clubhouses, some darker and more secret than others, with coded knocks on doors which could gain his entry.

Grayson was right. Many years ago, Antony had smiled more. He’d not been one for gambling or the clubs, but that was before he’d made the vow to ruin his father’s name and reputation. He wasn’t going to let the Dukedom of Ravensworth be lauded as it had been for generations, not after his father’s actions.

Everything had changed that day.

Since then, Antony ensured his name was in the scandal sheets most days. If he was not being called notorious for his rakish ways with women, then they wrote of his gambling and his frequent appearances at such dens of inequity.

“It is for the best,” Antony muttered as he stepped out of the carriage, deciding to leave his top hat behind on the carriage bench. Where he was going, he did not need to look like any fine gentleman.

Stepping down a narrow flight of steps, he hurried to the door of a club and knocked four times in a row, the fourth knock extremely slow compared to the first three. At once, the door opened and he was admitted by a familiar face who took his frock coat.

“We have your usual table set up, Your Grace. Gentlemen are lining up now to play you.”

“Thank you, Jeremiah.” Antony nodded his head in thanks and crossed the club.

Great swathes of red curtains hung from the walls and ceilings, separating the space into different rooms. Behind some, men played blackjack, and behind another, the melodic tones of courtesans drifted. Antony ignored such curtains and made his way toward the one behind which his poker table sat.

He hurried to take his seat as around him, three other gentlemen sat down, two of them very familiar indeed. The first was Lord Rutledge.

Antony stiffened in his seat as his eyes turned on the man he had once called a friend. Lord William Rutledge was a man of decorum and principles.

“Not often do I find you in a place like this, Willia—Lord Rutledge,” Antony said with a deep chuckle as Jeremiah appeared and placed a large glass of brandy down in front of him. To Antony’s surprise, he served up the same for Lord Rutledge

“We all need our outlets,” he said under his breath, his dark blue eyes hardening as he looked at Antony. “From what I hear, you clean up at these tables.

“I always do,” Antony said with confidence.

“Time that changed then, is it not?” He took the pack of cards Antony had been shuffling with and cut them. “Just making sure you’re not going to pull a trick on us.”

“No tricks. There would be no fun in winning then,” Antony laughed, though Lord Rutledge didn’t join in.

Where Antony mostly got respect in places like this, Lord Rutledge’s disrespect was hardly a surprise to him. They hadn’t seen eye to eye for many years, not since Antony had made it his mission in life to ruin his own name. Lord Rutledge had become proud and proper, whereas Antony had become a villain to the people.

“Deal already,” the second man at the table grumbled.

Antony turned his eyes on Mr. Percy Finch, doing a double take when he realized Mr. Finch was stacking the table high with more banknotes.

“You’ve already lost a fortune to me this week. Is this wise?” Antony gave him the chance to escape, nodding at the cash.

“My luck will change. He has to.” He hung his head forward, his expression darkening as he reached for a bottle of beer beside him. “Deal the cards, Lord Rutledge. We’re not here to dally.”

Antony sighed, as did Lord Rutledge, and the cards were dealt out.

Abruptly, as Antony looked at Mr. Finch, he was transported back to the night before and the opera where they’d had their argument. Mr. Finch’s cousin wandered into his mind, and Antony felt that same sense of anger he’d experienced.

She was haughty. She disliked me on sight!

He shouldn’t have been bothered. He had not known the lady, yet there was something in her manner that had intrigued him. Perhaps it was the fact that she resisted him, and not many ladies bothered to do that.

No. It was something more.

His eyes had wandered over her, with heat, and with little restraint. He’d put it down to the brandy in his system at the time, but he now knew it was something beyond that – attraction, pure and simple.

Perfect height, with curves in all the right places, she had to be many a man’s dream. The long brown hair had been styled unusually in a high braid, quite different to the usual fashions. It was the face that had struck him the most, the sweetheart shape, the high cheekbones, and of course, those eyes. As green as the ocean on a stormy day.

Stop thinking about her. Little good comes from fantasizing about a woman that despised me so.

“Your cousin didn’t seem thrilled about the idea of you gambling the other day.” Despite his thoughts, Antony couldn’t resist bringing her up as he collected his cards. He nodded at the cash beside Percy. “I do not imagine she would be thrilled with you now.”

“She doesn’t control me.” Abruptly, he smiled. “And I have a way to stop her from interfering in my business.” The sneer of his lip left Antony rather cold. Plainly, he was not the only one made uncomfortable at the table.

Lord Rutledge looked equally disconcerted and shifted in his seat.

For once, I am inclined to agree with Lord Rutledge. Mr. Finch seems a foul sort of man.

“Well, this is the money you gave me earlier this week.” Antony delved a hand into his pocket and pulled out the cash he’d brought with him, dropping it onto the table. Mr. Finch’s eyes darted toward it. “Seems right you should have a chance to win it back, does it not?”

“I’ll win it back. I will,” Mr. Finch said with determination.

“Do we get to play or must we wait on the bickering couple.” Lord Rutledge waved at the two of them to get going, but Antony’s mind could not settle.

With Mr. Finch beside him, he kept thinking of the woman he had met, this cousin. Her anger at him, the tart words, had left him disgruntled.

There must be some way to irk the lady, as much as she has irked me and left me with a sour taste in my mouth. 

Look out for the upcoming release of the full novel on Amazon on the 10th of August!

Prologue

A thunderous crash. Nathan started from a fitful sleep. All sleep in Hutton Castle was fitful, at least for those who wanted to survive the cruelty of its master. Nathan pushed ash-blond hair from his eyes, blinking away the last remnants of sleep. His tiny room was silent. His breath clouded the air in front of him, there was no fireplace in his room. Curtainless windows cast no light into the room, the stars and moon were obscured by clouds. From below the castle’s main courtyard, a howling arose. First from one throat, then from others. The pack of hunting hounds kept by his father in the kennels below. Savage, feral beasts who frightened Nathan with their ferocity. Many times his father had used their slavering aggression as a means to terrify his son into obedience.

Another crash and, Nathan was sure, a voice. It sounded almost like a croak of pain. A tortured sound from a hoarse throat. Perhaps whoever it was had been screaming for so long they could no longer push the sound from their ravaged throat. It came again, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of footfalls. All the sounds came from above, carried by the ancient timbers of Hutton castle. Nathan knew those creaks, he could translate their message as if they were speech. The footsteps belonged to his father and they came from his study. Heavy and thumping with every other step punctuated by a slight drag, an injury sustained falling from a horse years before.

Nathan knew that he should pull the covers up around himself and close his eyes.

Let the old devil rage himself into oblivion. Nothing good comes of getting in his way. Mother learned that the hard way.

It was the thought of his mother that moved him. Swinging his legs out of bed, he stood barefoot, but otherwise fully dressed against the cold. For a boy in his early teen years, he was tall and broad-shouldered. Awkwardly long limbs gave him a gangly appearance. The characteristic of the Ramsay men was already prominent, a long, thin nose that hooked slightly at its end. Combined with the high, slanted cheeks he had inherited from his mother, it gave Nathan a distinctive appearance. He stole across the room to the door and paused before opening it.

That was a shout. Cut off quickly but a shout. This isn’t just the usual drunken fury. Something is wrong up there.

Nathan opened the door, peering out along the dark narrow stone passageway beyond. It led to a stone staircase that spiraled up and down. Up was the floor on which his father’s luxuriant chambers were located as well as the opulent library for which Hutton was famous. Down led to the public rooms and, ultimately, the doors that would allow Nathan to lose himself in the extensive woods that surrounded the grounds on all sides. He stole along the hallway and then hesitated again. A flicker of lamplight shone around the corner of the stair below. Above was darkness.

Down to safety and light, or up to darkness and danger. Obvious really, but if the old devil is in distress…

Nathan grinned wolfishly, thinking of his mother and how she had fought to protect him from his father’s cruelty. Then he began to climb the stairs. The sounds got louder. He reached the next floor and walked silently along the plushly carpeted corridor. He stopped before the tall, double doors that led to his father’s private study. To enter that room without permission was to invite a thrashing. But he could hear a hoarse, agonized whisper on the other side and occasional soft thumps, as if a hand was repeatedly being beaten against the carpet. Heart racing in his chest, he crouched and put his eyes to the keyhole.

Inside, he could see his father’s desk, papers spilling from its top to scatter across the floor. A decanter lay on its side, dark liquid forming a pool under it which had overflowed over the side of the desk to soak into the burgundy carpet below. The Duke of Hamilton, Lord of Hutton Castle, Benedict Ramsay, lay face down on the floor. He was reaching for the door, hand clawed. His face was almost purple, mouth open and eyes bulging. With spasming movements, he seemed to be trying to push himself along the floor toward the door. With each push, his clawing, clutching hand stretched and then fell short, thumping against the carpet. Nathan had opened the door before being consciously aware of what he was doing.

It swung open, leaving his hand to bang against the wall. Nathan stood in the doorway, looking down at the man who had terrorized and brutalized himself and his mother for so many years. The fear that he had thought to be burned into his very bones, was gone. This helpless creature was not to be feared. One of his father’s feet kicked out as he tried to propel himself. A shoe hung from his heel, not fully dislodged from his stockinged foot. It hit something and sent it spinning across the floor. The movement drew Nathan’s eyes. It was a dark, glass decanter, no more than a few inches tall. It was unstoppered and dark liquid dripped from it. He knew exactly what it was. The medicine that his father had been given to quell his rebellious heart.

Benedict must have felt the bottle against his foot, he looked over his shoulder, moving with agonizing slowness. Nathan held his breath, beginning to see what had happened.

He waited too long to take the medicine. Or perhaps drank himself into a stupor and forgot. Then the pain woke him and he dropped the bottle in his panic. If I give it to him, he will recover.

But Nathan did not move. His father’s agonized face turned back to him and Nathan fancied he saw a plea in his tortured, pale eyes.

How can he expect help and mercy when he has shown me none. Showed my mother none. If I help him, perhaps he will treat me well as a reward.

The grasping hand reached towards him, fingers opening and closing in quivering movements. Nathan still did not move, thinking of his mother.

She was so kind and gentle. She should never have married him. Better they never met and I was never born than for her to suffer so at his hands. Better by far that he be dead!

That last thought shocked Nathan into movement. It struck him as blasphemous and wicked for a boy to think that of his father. Surely, only God had the right to decide who lived and who died. It was not for Nathan, a boy of eight years, to decide. And it was his duty to honor his father. That was what the stone-faced priest told him every Sunday. That was what the thin-lipped governess had told him whenever he had raged against his father. He took a step, but backward. Away from the door and away from the small bottle that would give his father life. He realized that he was shaking his head, his eyes locked on his father’s. The old man’s hand fell one last time, clawed at the carpet, and was then still. Utterly still. Nathan’s mouth fell open. He thought that he should feel triumphant. The bane of his childhood was no more. But he didn’t. He felt empty. Desolate.

The sound of running footsteps reached him and the figure of Walter Carlisle came bounding down the stairs.

“Master Nathan? I heard noises. Where is His Grace?”

Walter had a shock of red hair, blue eyes, and a square face with a pugnacious jaw. He looked wildly from Nathan to the door from which he was retreating. Nathan could not summon words but raised a hand to silently point at the open door. Walter’s already pale complexion seemed to turn gray and he leaped forward, running down the hallway and pulling himself to a halt with a hand to the closed half of the study’s double doors. He looked in and gasped.

“Oh God, no!” He cried and dropped to his knees beside the still form of the Duke.

He saw the bottle and scrambled for it. Then, the bottle poised above the dead man’s lips, he stopped. Shaking his head slowly, he stood, putting the bottle into a pocket in his waistcoat. He turned around and closed the doors to the study, before walking toward Nathan.

“Go downstairs, Master Nathan, and wake the house. Tell them your father is dead and that a physician needs to be sent for to confirm the fact.”

“What will happen?” Nathan asked, his voice small.

“We will talk of that. You are the Duke now, and as such, my employer. You are the master of this house now.”

“I…I don’t know what to do,” Nathan said plaintively.

“I will guide you,” Walter said, forcing a wavering smile. “All will be well, Your Grace.”

Chapter One

The Castle spoke to him and the Duke came to an abrupt halt. The ancient boards beneath his feet had creaked in a specific way. There was no other place in the entire castle that sounded just so. Not when combined with the sound of the thrushes that nested under the eaves of this particular wing. Or the feel of the sun at this specific time of day, through the tall windows to his right. All of that information combined told Nathan Ramsay, Duke of Hamilton, that he stood before the doors of his late father’s study. It was, in fact, the Duke’s Study, and therefore his, like every other chamber in the castle.

But to him, it would always be his father’s study. And would always be sealed. He turned to his left smartly, as though on parade, and took two measured steps forward before reaching out with his left hand. In his right hand was a silver-topped cane which he carried always, using it as a guide when walking in unfamiliar places. Places that he had not yet had the opportunity to memorize. His blue eyes were paler than they had been before the fateful day that his sight had been taken from him. There was nothing in them to indicate he was blind and his movements were so sure and confident that an observer would be forgiven for not realizing his disability.

His hand brushed the silky, soft material of the banner. He had taken it from the hands of a dead Frenchman following a skirmish on the road some miles south of Quatre Bras in Belgium. Behind the banner of Imperial France were heavy, rough planks that had been nailed across the doors.

The banner of one enemy to seal up the lair of another. And every day I come here and touch it. Every day I debate telling the servants to wrench down the barriers and open the room. Every day, I walk away and the room remains sealed.

He listened as the Castle whispered to him of a man approaching. A man with fiery red hair, now likely beginning to be tempered by wisps of gray. Nathan let his hand fall and turned to face the stone spiral staircase, knowing that Walter Carlisle would appear there in moments.

“Will I ever be able to sneak up on you, do you think?” Walter said, his native Edinburgh accent still strong, twenty years after he had left his homeland.

“Not in this Castle, Walter,” Nathan replied.

He rested both of his hands on the head of his cane and listened as Walter approached. He heard the tell-tale sound of cloth moving, knowing it indicated a bow being swept towards him in greeting. He inclined his head in reply.

“I cannot remain long. I have urgent business this evening in York, and I will be leaving for France soon after. But I could not pass by and not show my face, eh?”

“And it is good to see you, Walter. As always,” Nathan replied, not ignorant of the irony of his words.

Long ago, he and Walter had decided that they would not change their language to allow for Nathan’s blindness. Nor would they behave as though the subject were taboo or that Nathan’s feelings on the subject were delicate.

“I imagine you also wished to ensure that all preparations have been made for the arrival of your daughter, Emily,” Nathan said. Nathan had vague memories of Emily, Walter Carlisle’s daughter, while he resided in Scarborough with them for eight years. She was meek, and he was so often a recluse around that time, so they hardly ever talked. But he had not spoken to her ever since he left for His Majesty’s Army at the age of sixteen. He sometimes wondered about the kind of woman she had grown into.

“I did. I do. Redundant, I know, given your nature. But, as she is my daughter…”

Nathan smiled. “Old friend. I would expect nothing less. Everything is in hand. She is expected tomorrow and I will greet her. She will be assigned a maid that I have recently appointed to the position and is, at this moment, receiving training from Marshall as to the layout of the Castle and the particulars of her role.”

He began to walk, knowing that Walter would fall into step alongside him. There would be no false deference, with Walter walking a step behind. This man had been more of a father to Nathan than his own true father. As far as he was concerned, the flame-haired Scotsman was his equal. The cane clacked loudly on stone, announcing the threshold of the narrow stone staircase. Without hesitation, Nathan reached for the first upward step and found it immediately. The slight intake of breath from Walter was so soft that only a blind man could have heard.

“How many times, old friend, must you see me navigate the halls of this Castle without a trip or fall before you have some confidence?” Nathan chided with a smile.

“One never gets used to seeing a blind man step with such confidence. I have trained myself out of taking your arm, have I not?”

Nathan counted off the steps in a partitioned part of his mind, splitting his concentration to continue the conversation while maintaining the count.

“I am very grateful for that. I would not strike a man who opened his house to me after my father died, but it came close a few times.”

Walter chortled. “For me too. You were not an easy youth. For understandable reasons but sometimes it seemed like the Lord sent you to test my patience to breaking point.”

They reached the next floor and Nathan walked along the next hallway with confidence. They turned a corner and descended two steps, turning another corner. As they walked, Nathan felt the sun on the left side of his face, sensing the presence of windows there and knowing what those windows looked out over.

“See what I have done with the gardens this year? A third has been given over to fruit and vegetables. Some go to my kitchens and the surplus to the priest in Thormanby for distribution to the poor. A worthwhile project, is it not?”

He heard Walter move to the window and then hurry to catch up, indicating that he had taken a long look.

“You had not mentioned it before. It sounds worthwhile indeed, though it has done nothing for the look of the gardens.” Walter said.

Nathan waved a hand dismissively. “Good looks are wasted on me, after all. My gardeners grumbled when I told them but I have consulted a remarkably far-sighted horticulturalist named Greene, if you can believe that. He was the one that put me onto it.”

Another sign from the castle, a creaking crack of antique wood, told Nathan he had reached a particular door. Turning forty-five degrees to his left, he reached for the doorknob and opened the door, walking into his library.

“My word!” Walter exclaimed. “You didn’t tell me this work had been finished either!”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Nathan said modestly.

He had strode into the room and stopped near its center, turning, and opening his arms as though to show it off. The room had once been four rooms, bedchambers intended for guests. None had been inhabited for at least twenty years before Nathan had decided to move back into the Castle from Walter’s house outside of Scarborough. The library of his father was open and contained many rare volumes that Nathan could not bring himself to destroy or give away. But the room practically reeked of the previous Duke.

“As a man who loves books, I could not be without a library. But the room in this castle that has long been a library is not somewhere I can ever feel at home. So, I have made a room untainted by Benedict Ramsey. Designed for me with the most modern of architectural ideas. Is it not light and airy?”

Walter laughed. “Who told you that?”

Nathan barked a laugh of his own. “I can smell the space. I can feel the bright outside light on my face.”

He walked to a winged armchair, propped his cane next to it, and tugged on a rope hanging beside it. Somewhere, in the servant’s quarters, a bell would be ringing and a servant hurrying to the New Library to wait on their Duke.

“Sit. Before you dry your mouth with the dust of the road, take tea with me and re-acquaint me with the folk of Scarborough and Whitby. How is the fishing fleet? Is old Dodds still braving the North Sea to escape the nagging of his wife?”

Walter laughed, taking a chair opposite Nathan. The Duke sat back, his face calm and relaxed, his smile warm and genuine. Walter’s visit had not been entirely unexpected, given his only daughter would be coming to Hutton soon, entrusted into Nathan’s guardianship until a husband could be found for her. While Nathan disliked surprises as a rule, any surprise involving his old friend was welcome. Walter began to tell him the news of his adopted home, Scarborough, the house he had purchased for himself after serving the old Duke as manager of his estates. Nathan laughed at the tales of the locals he had come to know and love during his time staying at the Carlisle house, perched on the cliffs above the town.

As much as the first eight years of his life were a time he sought to drive from his memory forever, the years since Walter had become his guardian were dear to him. The image of the old Scot came to Nathan as he listened, the expressions he knew so well that accompanied his words. He did not need to see those expressions to know they were there. He was glad Walter had chosen to stop at Hutton and glad that he could render the old man some assistance in the placement of his only daughter into a good marriage. It was the least he could do.

Chapter Two

This is insane! Where can I go? I have nothing but the clothes I am wearing and a small purse. I have not even eaten or drunk anything since this afternoon. I cannot hope to escape them!

Gemma tripped over something unseen in the darkness. A tree root or a stone. It was impossible to tell. All around her, dark shadows loomed against the greater darkness of night. A stiff breeze was coming from the east, bringing with it the taste of the North Sea. She clutched the light travel cloak tighter about herself, but it did nothing to stave off the bitter cold. It was only really designed to keep one warm while seated in a carriage, not running through woodland. Beneath it, the neckline of her dress was low and wide, as was the fashion. The pale, bare skin of her dress was protected by a muslin scarf, while her bare arms were not covered at all. It felt as though she were running through the wilderness in her night attire.

And all because I reacted without thinking. I must learn to slow down my mind, to think through my actions before leaping. But how else should one react to a threat to one’s life?

Something low down scampered across her path drawing a scream of fright from her. Gemma was accustomed to being outside, and had sought the solace of the woodlands many times to escape the cruelty of her cousins. But, with her heart racing and panic threatening to overwhelm, her nerves were ragged. She stopped, leaning against a tree, and fighting to recover her breath. It had probably been a fox or a badger, startled by the noise she was making. Her stomach growled and her mouth was dry. She had left Kirkby Manor at a run, cutting through the grounds and the woods beyond until she reached a road. A farmer had taken pity on her, offering her a lift in his cart. He had been journeying to his farm outside Dunkeswick, having just attended his sister’s wedding in Kereby.

Gemma had frantically tried to picture the geography of this part of Yorkshire, a place she had lived in for a number of years but was not her home. She knew that Dunkeswick was to the south, beyond the hills that rose behind the manor belonging to her cousins, Elliot, and Eugene Stamford. She also knew that she sought a larger town in which to lose herself. York and Leeds both lay to the south. She had accepted the lift from the genial old man, who was nursing a sore head after the wedding and glad of the company to keep him awake on the road. As they had neared Dunkeswick though, two riders, pushing their horses hard, had overtaken them. Gemma had recognized them instantly and the recognition had sent ice to her heart. Elliot and Eugene.

They had not looked back, intent on reaching the town. Gemma had reacted without thinking, knowing only that if just one of them looked back over his shoulder, she would be caught. She had leaped from the cart and dashed for a small bridge they had just passed. Once over the River Wharfe, which wove lazily through the field and meadow-spotted landscape from east to west, she had made for the welcoming darkness of the woods beyond. The trees had engulfed her as the farmer had called after her. Trying to keep an eye on the sun, she had sought to continue to make her way south, but the landscape had conspired against her, presenting her with deep gullies and impenetrable undergrowth. Clouds had obscured the sun and the woods had turned her around, steering her back toward the river.

That had been when she had seen the two riders, slowly walking their mounts along the south bank of the river. They held lamps, as twilight cast a shadow over the land. With them were rough-dressed men, presumably recruited from the town. And dogs. In blind panic, she had run away from them, not stopping to work out in which direction she went, simply seeking to put distance between herself and them. Now, darkness had the woods in its grip and she was nearing exhaustion. It seemed to stretch on forever, though it had probably only been three miles or so. She rested her head against the bole of the tree, closing her eyes and listening to the swaying whisper of the canopy. Voices came to her on that wind. And the barking of dogs.

Pushing herself away from the tree she tried to locate the direction from which the sounds were coming and had taken a handful of steps before realizing that they must be to the east, for that was the upwind direction. Had they been west of her, she would not have heard them, the wind would have carried their sound away. Pivoting, she began to stumble in the opposite direction. At first, the sounds of pursuit were drowned out by the noise she made as she crashed through the trees. Then it got louder and she knew that meant they were closing in on her. Panicked sobs began to creep past clenched teeth. Panting whimpers of fear as she heard the dogs that had been set on her trail. If she looked over her shoulder, she wondered if she would see the glimmer of light from the lamps they carried. But looking behind her would be fatal in this place. Taking her attention from what lay in front of her could lead to crashing into a solid tree trunk, or tripping and turning an ankle.

Ahead, through the trees, she caught the first golden glimmer of light and stopped. She almost turned again, thinking that it was the lamps of her pursuers. But then she realized that the lights were steady, unmoving. They came from windows, not from hand-carried lamps. A house. She moved forward once more until she had broken free of the trees and stood for a moment looking at the shape that loomed above her. It did not look inviting. Moonlight picked out tall stone walls with crenelations at their top. Round towers rose above those walls. Some of the windows were narrow and dark, few were larger and spilling an inviting warm light. It was a castle. The sound of pursuit spurred her on and she picked up her skirts to move faster.

Presently, she found herself on a gravel path that wove between flower beds. It led her around the walls to a larger open area before an imposing entrance. Another path led down a steep slope and seemed to disappear under that entrance. Gemma realized that it was a dry moat, converted into a pathway that passed beneath the castle’s main courtyard. She followed it, fearing that she might be turned away if she knocked at the main door.

I must look as though I have been through a hedge backward. Lord knows what my dash through the woods has done to my face and hair, let alone my dress. Whoever lives here will probably mistake me for a tramp.

She was swallowed by darkness as she followed the path through a brick-lined tunnel, feeling her way. The path came to an abrupt halt at a door. It was unlocked. She opened it and slipped inside, closing it quietly behind her. Beyond the door was a small room, muddy boots were lined against one wall and a pile of wooden crates and hessian sacks stood against another. A tiled passageway led around a corner beyond a further door. This led her to a kitchen. A large, white-painted wooden table stood in the middle of the high-ceilinged room. A black, wrought iron stove dominated one wall, and windows were set high in a wall above a deep, ceramic sink and a row of cupboards. Cooking implements hung above the cupboards along the wall. A young woman with dark hair tied up atop her head was working at a chopping board, standing with her back to Gemma.

Looking over her shoulder, she jumped when she saw Gemma standing there.

“Begging your pardon, madam. I mean, Your Ladyship. I mean…forgive me. I’m new here,” she stammered.

“As am I,” Gemma said, forcing a smile and trying to appear confident.

“I was just. I know I’m not supposed to once Mrs. Granger has closed the kitchen for the night. Only, I was traveling most of the day and was ever so hungry.”

Gemma realized that the young woman had been cutting a slice of bread. A number of pink slices of ham sat next to the bread and a wedge of cheese. The sight made her mouth water.

“That is quite alright…what is your name?” Gemma asked.

“Charlotte, My Lady. I mean…I’m sorry. I’ve been told your name but not your rank.”

Gemma frowned, puzzled for a moment. Then it dawned on her that this young woman had assumed that Gemma was someone that she had expected but not yet met.

She does not even know if the woman she expects is a lady or a miss or a Mrs. So, how am I to answer?

Deciding to be as truthful as possible to avoid being caught out in a spontaneous lie, Gemma said. “Miss, will be fine, Charlotte.”

“Miss Emily, thank you very much. They are sticklers for propriety in this house. It would not do for me to address you improperly.”

So, my name is to be Emily, is it? I must find out more about the real Emily or I will be found out very quickly. Still, if it buys me a night of respite, I must take that chance. 

Be on the lookout for the book’s full release on the 1st of July!

Chapter One

1812

London, England

“Harriet, what are you doing?” Belle hissed, clutching to the skirt of her narrow gown as she hurried toward her sister. “If father sees you, then God’s wounds, I shudder to think of what he will say. A man with his temper will not be happy to see you pressing your ear to his door.”

Harriet stepped back from the door as quickly as she could, waving her hands at Belle to be quiet. Belle held back her laugh and folded her arms, humored by her sister’s reaction. Belle had already whispered the words, without need of any encouragement. There was little chance she was going to risk her father’s wrath by prompting their discovery.

“Oh, it is just a little fun, that is all,” Harriet said with innocence, seeming almost childlike in her playfulness for one who had already had their debut in the season. She rounded her shoulders as she laughed, making the pale blonde locks that hung around her ears dance. “Wait until you hear the good news, Belle.”

“Good news?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I wonder what good news can be heard between our father and stepmother.” Her wit prompted her sister to laugh again, then they both placed their hands to their own lips, encouraging the other to be quiet.

They waited, silently, ready to hear if anyone opened the door beside them, but no such thing happened. Belle waved at her sister, encouraging her to follow as she receded to the staircase nearby beyond an alcove in the corridor. The grand white staircase inlaid with a painted gold banister, stretched high above them. Belle took refuge on the stairs and begged her sister to follow.

“If we are to gossip, then let us at least do it away from their ears,” she pleaded.

“They are speaking of a ball,” Harriet declared and clasped her hands together eagerly.

“Another?” Belle said wryly. “You make it seem as if we have been dry of invitations. With father’s ambitions, it is a wonder we even stay home some nights.” Despite her smile, Belle kept back her true thoughts.

It was a habit she had learned at a young age. After their mother had passed, and Charles had remarried their stepmother, Margaret, neither had shown much interest in seeing Belle or Harriet. Needless to say, they showed even less interest in what either of the sisters had to say. Belle had soon adapted a habit of keeping her thoughts to herself.

Harriet was the only one she ever dared share much with since their governess had parted from the house. Her greatest secrets and most intimate thoughts she kept for another place entirely, a diary.

“This ball is different,” her sister hissed. “Surely you have read the scandal sheets concerning the mysterious gentleman, you know, the one who keeps hosting all those masked balls, leaving all to guess at his identity,” Harriet continued in a rush with an excited wave of her hands.

“The Ebony-Dressed Host?” Belle repeated the name she had read in the scandal sheets that very morning. The term had been coined early on after a few of these balls had sprung up, for apparently, he attended each event wearing a rich black suit, so dark, that no other could compete with his striking presence. Belle had felt a curiosity curling in her gut that morning when she had read the writer’s suppositions and wild guesses as to whom the host could be.

They’d suggested dukes, earls, viscounts, and one suggestion had even been so mad as to offer a hint to the Prince Regent himself. It was an absurdity, even for the ton to suppose such a thing.

“We are invited to one of his balls?” Belle muttered, moving her hands to the banister of the staircase in surprise.

“Yes!” Harriet exclaimed with glee, then covered her mouth again as she looked down the corridor in the direction of the parlor where their father and stepmother were talking. “I cannot hide my excitement. Do you think it possible this is the first night where you and I could dance with a gentleman? Surely at a masked ball, our father could not be as… as…” She chewed her lip, struggling for the right word.

“As controlling?”

“I was going to say protective,” Harriet said, though her lip lifted with a small smile. “Yes, controlling suits the moment very well.”

“I fear we should not get our hopes up.” Belle placed a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder. Ever since they were little, she had seen it as her place to protect her sister. There was not enough difference in age for her to be a second mother to Harriet, for there was just one year between them, yet she considered it her duty to protect her sister.

Come what may, Harriet must always come first.

Belle turned a glare down the corridor, wishing she could see through that door of the parlor to her father.

I must protect Harriet, for I know the truth. It is not a responsibility my father has ever taken seriously.

“I long to dance at a ball,” Harriet whispered, descending the few steps and dancing about the hallway with an imaginary partner. “It is so frustrating that our father insists on vetting our suitors. Not one has met his high standards.”

“Hmm, you say high standards, I wish to call it something else,” Belle murmured as she watched her sister dance around the room.

He waits for a gentleman of not only good fortune to approach us, but obscene fortune.

A barony was clearly not enough for Charles’ ambition in life. He was always seeking greater connections and better fortune. The pride he sometimes showed was inconceivable to Belle but was matched well by his wife.

“Oh.” Harriet abruptly stopped dancing and turned back to face Belle, her pale green eyes fixing on Belle. “Do you think Lord Warrington will be there?”

“Perhaps. You have been waiting to dance with him ever since your debut.”

“He will keep asking me too,” Harriet said, swishing her skirt from side to side. “Yet father always intervenes. Maybe at this ball, we will have a chance to share that dance after all?”

“May luck be with you,” Belle whispered. When her sister turned away, she added a few words under her breath, just for her own ears to hear. “And may a miracle be with you too.” She glared down the corridor once again, fearing what her father was up to.

For Charles to have secured an invitation to an event such as this, one so talked of by the ton, then something more had to be afoot. Did he hope to increase their connections? To force Belle and Harriet into the paths of rich and unsuspecting suitors?

I pray he shows restraint!

“Harriet, you should return to the pianoforte for your lesson. If our father hears you have not been practicing –”

“Oh, I know.” Harriet sighed and stopped dancing. “I do not think I could put up with another of his tirades tonight. Regrettably, I shall return to my practice. At least I will now have a smile on my face as I do so.”

Belle matched her sister’s smile, but for Harriet’s sake only. The moment Harriet had disappeared down the corridor, Belle took her place at the parlor door, creeping across the floor on her tiptoes to reach it. She pressed her ear to the wood, pushing away the darker blonde tendrils of her hair as she strained to listen to the conversation inside.

“Then it must happen quickly,” Margaret said to Charles, in her usual husky and impatient tone. “If he realizes what a silly girl she is, then he will surely not wish to marry her.”

Belle stiffened, wondering who they spoke of.

“Yes, yes, you are right.” Charles must have marched across the room, for his heavy footsteps thudded from inside the parlor. “Yet look at what advantages such a connection is already bringing us. By Harriet marrying Lord Rudderham, we shall be invited to many more events such as this. I’m certain of it.”

Belle lifted her head off the wood, her spine rigid and her hands clammy.

Harriet is to marry… and marry a man like Lord Rudderham?

Belle cast her mind back to the last event where she had seen Percival Notley, the Earl of Rudderham. He was a man in his fourth decade, nearing his fifth, balding, with gray wisps around his ears, and large jowls that had a habit of shaking like set custard when he laughed. With small eyes, he glared at many around him, but his hands upset Belle the most.

He has a habit of grabbing women.

“They must marry quickly,” Margaret said again. “Perhaps we could even consider applying for a special license for them?”

“Then it would be talked of in all the scandal sheets, dear. We do not want such a thing.”

“A valuable marriage is still an advantageous match, no matter how hurriedly it is done. Think of the Earl’s friends that will attend the wedding. My goodness,” Margaret gasped with the words, sounding overly dramatic. “What good fortune that will bring us then.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

Belle reached for the door handle without hesitation. In the past, when she had heard her father and stepmother scheming, it had been all too easy to retreat like a mouse from the door, hang her head, and hide in her room. She would vent in her diary about everything that was wrong with her father, but she would never confront him face to face.

Now, he has gone too far.

Her fears for Harriet urged her to push open the door. It swung on its hinges and banged against the wall on the other side.

“Belle!” Charles fumed as he turned back to face her. The once dark blonde hair that was so like her own, was growing white these days, and curled madly at his temple. “Where have your manners gone? Do you intend to burst into every room in this house in such a fashion? You will not make a good match in life if you do.”

“How can you do this?” Belle murmured, with her voice quiet at first.

“Do what?” Charles asked, looking at his wife beside him.

Margaret sat in an armchair, her large and broad form taking up most of the space. She laid a hand daintily to the string of pearls around her neck and toyed with them, with her chin turned upward. The effort at elegance was rather counteracted by the large figure that often stomped around this house like a petulant child.

“I heard you,” Belle said, hurrying to close the door out of fear Harriet would hear this conversation. She crossed the room toward her father. “You cannot do this. You cannot marry Harriet to a man like the Earl of Rudderham.”

Charles lifted a hand and pinched the brow of his nose with a heavy sigh, plainly dismayed she had heard. Margaret seemed not to care, and her full lips smirked.

“What of it?” Margaret asked. “Even you must understand, Belle, what an advantageous match this would be.”

“He is old enough to be her father. He is but one or two years younger than you, is he not?” Belle addressed her father, choosing to ignore the stepmother that had never shown her much kindness.

“Age can bring protection.” Charles waved away the idea and sat down beside his wife, in a second armchair, crossing one leg over another with haste.

“What of his habits? What of his cruelty?” Belle asked, coming to stand in front of her father with her hands on her hips. Now she had spoken up, nothing could stop her, like a corked champagne bottle, everything was coming out. “He grabs ladies when he dances with them, whispers such awful things. Would you truly marry Harriet to a man like that? She is an innocent of this world, kindness itself, and you would make her his… his…”

“Wife,” Margaret said clearly, with that smirk still in place.

What an insufferable smirk that is!

Belle turned away from the sight of it, fixing her gaze on her father.

“He would treat her abominably,” Belle muttered to him. “If you do this to her, Father, she will not forgive you for it. Neither will I.” She balked when her father showed no hint of this news affecting him. He didn’t adjust in his seat, nor did the skin around his eyes twitch.

“Life with the ton is a game, Belle,” he said with ease. “One must learn to play it right. Marriage between two parties is the best way to make connections in this world.”

“And the worst?” Belle stepped away, pulling at the loose tendrils of her hair that hung down out of the updo. Her father and stepmother spoke freely together, talking of their plans for the earl.

“The marriage must be announced soon,” Margaret insisted, patting her husband’s hand on the arm of the chair.

“Yes, it must. Then we’ll be thrown into the path of the Earl’s good connections. He is known to the Prince Regent. Now, that is something special. Yes… the marriage will be good for us indeed.”

Beside him, Margaret practically smacked her lips together, like a hungry pup eating a good steak. Belle was disgusted by the sight, with her stomach twisting at the thought of poor Harriet marrying such a man.

She pictured Harriet at the altar, with the Earl of Rudderham’s hands reaching for her, not waiting until the vicar had even pronounced them husband and wife. She turned her mind to thinking of Harriet in his home, pale, quiet, so unlike her, with no energy at all, and no passion. Not even enough enthusiasm to play the pianoforte that she loved so much.

I have to protect her. I have to, but how?

This thought ran through Belle’s mind repeatedly as she paced back and forth.

“Then Belle will be thrown into the path of other rich Lords too,” Margaret said with intrigue. “Think what other connections we could make. You might find your place in the House of Lords yet, my dear.”

“Now, wouldn’t that be something?” Charles asked, and they laughed together.

Abruptly, Belle turned back to face the two of them. Margaret’s words had given her an idea. It was an awful thought and would set her life in a direction that she would dread, but it would at least keep Harriet safe.

Exchange my chance of happiness for hers. It is the best I can do for Harriet now.

“You must not do this, Father,” Belle pleaded.

“It is not your concern. It is my own.” He shook his head and stood, showing the conversation was at an end.

“Then let me make a proposal to you.” She breathed deeply, summoning the courage to go on. “Offer my hand instead of Harriet’s.”

Margaret’s brows flicked up in surprise, and Charles shook his head.

“The deal was for Harriet’s hand.”

“I am sure the Earl of Rudderham would be happy with any young woman,” she said snidely. “He has not seemed choosy with those he has groped at balls. Do this for me, Father, please?” She held her breath as Charles folded his arms, staring at her through narrowed eyes.

A minute of silence stretched out between them, one that seemed infernally long, then he spoke again, both answering her prayers and condemning her future.

“Well, at least you have accepted the match. It would be far simpler than persuading your sister to accept. Very well, only if the Earl of Rudderham would be content with the match, you shall marry him in Harriet’s place.”

Chapter Two

“And Baron Hampton has replied to say he will be bringing his wife and two daughters to the ball tomorrow night as well, Your Grace,” the butler said, offering a sheet of paper for Alistair to peruse the names.

“Thank you.” Alistair took the paper distractedly, scarcely looking at the names at all. “Who are they again?”

“I believe they are contacts of the Earl of Rudderham, Your Grace.”

“Very well.” Alistair sat up from where he had been leaning back in his chaise longue in his study. He’d often found himself sitting here over the last few years, lost in his thoughts. Tonight was no different to any other, and he was just as distracted as he usually was.

On a dumbwaiter table in front of him, to one side, the papers concerning his latest masquerade ball were placed. On the other side were the letters and communications regarding his intention to enroll as a soldier and join the Spanish war in just three weeks’ time.

Despite the distraction the masquerade balls had offered over previous months, hosted as his mystery alter ego, it was not enough to lure him to stay.

I have to leave England. I have to end this interminable listlessness of staring into space.

He put down the list of names and looked at the letters concerning his service with the army instead. In just three weeks, he would take a ship from Southampton, and be on his way to Spain.

“Ahem, there is a name that is not yet on this list, Your Grace.”

Alistair shifted his focus to his butler, brushing past the reddish-brown hair from his forehead as he often did in times of heavy thought. The butler was a straight-backed fellow, with a kindly face. He’d been very useful to Alistair, not just these last few months regarding the balls, but for years. Often, Alistair considered him more of a friend than a butler at all.

“Gower, you do not need to call me ‘Your Grace’ every time you address me. You know that, do you not? I am sure I have asked you not to bother before,” Alistair said, trying for a reassuring smile.

Gower’s frown momentarily twitched before returning to its usual place on his face, and he picked up the paper again.

“You are a Duke, Your Grace.”

“And your friend,” Alistair reminded him before Gower tapped the paper again. “My apologies, what name did you say was missing from the list?”

“Lord Edmund Brooks.”

Alistair stilled in his seat, with a coldness washing over his chest. He’d managed to avoid hearing that name for some time now, but sooner or later, it was bound to come up. Rather than picturing Lord Brooks’ face when he heard that name, Alistair thought of another entirely.

He saw a woman’s face. With pale hazel eyes and a small smile that rarely ever seemed to lift her countenance completely, she had an elegance and a prettiness that he often thought of.

If only things could have been different.

“What do you think? Should I send an invitation to Lord Brooks?” Gower asked, looking over the paper again.

“Well…” Alistair stood and walked away, trying to buy time before he answered. He moved to the window of his study, looking across the castle walls that had changed much over the years.

Richmond Castle had been passed down through generations of the Dukes of Richmond, right back to William the Conqueror’s invasion in the eleventh century. The stone-gray castle was a gem on the horizon, often glittering silver in the sunlight.

Alistair could remember what a happy place it was from his childhood.

His mother and father were always smiling, bringing light to every room they were in. There were balls, parties, and many events on the calendar, each one at the castle seemingly more beautiful than the last. Even with such a busy life amongst the ton, Alistair’s parents had found time for him. He had blissful memories of this castle with his parents, but those memories seemed a long time ago now.

The castle is quiet, lonely, and with little life left in it at all.

“Your Grace?” Gower tried to prompt an answer from him.

“Yes, invite Lord Brooks,” Alistair said eventually. He was a good man and deserved a chance to enjoy such an event, even if Alistair had little wish to see him there.

“Your Grace, may I speak out of turn?” Gower asked, stepping forward.

“There seems something odd about asking such a thing, and yet still addressing me with such a formal title in the same sentence.” Alistair turned his back on the view from the lead-lined window and faced his butler. Gower fidgeted, shifting the paper in his hands and moving his weight between his feet. “You must never be nervous about being outspoken with me. Please, Gower, speak your mind.”

“Very well.” Gower inhaled sharply, building courage despite their conversation. “It is about Lord Edmund Brooks I wish to speak.” Alistair’s stomach knotted. He folded his arms across his broad chest, suddenly unwilling to have this conversation at all. “Perhaps it is time you spoke to him –”

Before any more could be said, a bell rang in the distant regions of the house, cutting Gower off. Alistair looked back through the window and craned his neck, trying to see who his caller could be when darkness was already falling.

A chestnut horse had pulled up by the door, in the middle of the cobbled courtyard, and a familiar figure was knocking at the grand double doors.

“I’m afraid we shall have to postpone this conversation for another time,” Alistair said with a sigh, trying to cover up his relief that they did not have to have it now. “Lord Warrington is here.”

“Very well, Your Grace. I shall show him in.” Gower smiled and dropped the paper to the table, then left the room.

The moment the door was shut, Alistair leaped forward. He grasped the guest list along with all of the other papers that related to the ball and hastened to his desk, hiding them away at the back of the bottom drawer.

No one must know I am the host of these balls. Not even Luke can discover that.

It was an indulgence, one that Alistair was still unsure why he indulged himself in. These mysterious balls offered an escape, he supposed. An evening’s worth of distraction from the past that plagued him. It was certainly entertaining reading the scandal sheets and their supposition of who the Ebony-Dressed Host was. Yet, in order for it to stay secret, few people could know about Alistair’s identity as the mysterious host.

“Alistair!” a voice called from the doorway.

Alistair closed the drawer sharply and looked up to find his friend hurrying into the room. Luke Rayment, the Earl of Warrington, as he was known to most, bounded into the room. Almost as tall as Alistair, his towering figure swayed with the movements. His light brown hair curled at his temple and hung down around his ears, and bright blue eyes darted across the space.

“Goodness, is this where you spend your days at the moment?” Luke came to a sharp stop in the middle of the study and turned back and forth. “It’s so… dark and dreary.”

Alistair’s eyes followed his friend’s gaze around the room. He supposed he had let his décor slip. There was something to be said about the dark though. It taxed one less and let him hide in the shadows.

“It suits me well.”

“Suits you?” Luke looked at him with raised eyebrows. “I remember an Alistair that used to wake up every day with a joke.” He hurried around to the desk. “What happened to him, I wonder?”

“He grew up.” Alistair stepped forward, alarmed at what his friend was doing. Luke reached for the first drawer and searched through the papers. “What are you doing?” Alistair drove his foot against the bottom drawer, ensuring his friend would not open that and discover his secret.

“Where are your invitations?”

“You mean the things I try to ignore as much as possible?” Alistair said with a smirk as Luke snapped up a bundle of letters from the first drawer and dropped them onto the desk. “Isn’t it miraculous how at ease you are in my own house?”

“You mean your castle,” Luke reminded him with a smile of his own. “I’ve run around here since I was no taller than this desk, and you know you’ve done the same to my house. Last month I caught you reading through my books as if they were your own.”

“You overslept. I had to do something with my time as I waited for you.”

“Well, it was a rather merry night beforehand.” Luke paused in his perusing of the letters. “An assembly that you missed.”

“Willingly.” Alistair nodded his head at the letters. “Most of these events do not interest me.”

These days, Alistair preferred to ignore the ton when he wasn’t meeting them on his own terms. At least at his own balls, he could watch people from afar, and he rarely drew attention to himself. It was a chance to observe them as if they were characters on a theater stage, about to make some awful error for his entertainment.

At other people’s events, he was talked to for what he was, and not who he was. A Duke. They saw him as a potential suitor for their daughters and granddaughters, an ‘in’ to the upper echelons of society, not a man who was worthy of conversation or to be genuinely interesting company.

“You haven’t been given an invitation to another of those mysterious balls then.” Luke tossed down the invitations with some irritation.

“What?” Alistair feigned ignorance and walked away from the desk, hiding his mischievous smile.

“You know the ones I mean. The odd host, the one they have dubbed so grandly as the ‘Ebony-Dressed Host.’ Ha! You should hear the way people talk of him. They’re fascinated by him.” Luke laughed and sat back in Alistair’s chair, completely at ease. Alistair hardly minded. They often spent their days together, ever since they were children. “I cannot believe you are not invited. The last was an entertaining occasion, and I would certainly enjoy it more if you were present.”

“Hmm.” Alistair folded his arms and leaned on the back of the chaise longue. “Something tells me that you will enjoy it fine without me. Perhaps it’s your smile that gives away your true thoughts.” He pointed with eagerness at Luke’s face who adopted a serious and stern expression. “Ha! You cannot keep that expression up, and you know it.”

“Perhaps not. Let us just say that at the assembly you missed last month, I met a certain young lady. A lady whom…”

“Whom, what?” Alistair encouraged him on. “Interested you? You are interested by many ladies, Luke.”

“No, she is… different. Something more than that. Ah, it does not matter.” Luke shook his head. “Her father didn’t allow me within three feet of her anyway. I suppose it is my reputation that had him on guard.” He sighed heavily for a second, then shifted his focus back to Alistair’s face. “You have not been invited then, which seems a strange thing indeed.”

“Why is that?” Alistair shrugged and reached for a candle nearby. “Come on. If you are here so late, then I can only presume you have come with one thing in mind. You are after a decent drink.”

“Could it not be simply the company of an old friend?” Luke chuckled as he stood and followed Alistair out of the room.

“I notice you eagerly follow me anyway.” He led Luke all the way to his feasting room.

The room was once an armory, and the walls still bore many of the weapons and shining pieces of armor from generations ago. On one wall, pikes and longswords filled the space, and on the other, bascinets and great helms dotted the stone work, each one gleaming in the candlelight.

Alistair put down his candle on the long mahogany table and reached for the drinks cabinet set in the corner, pulling out a carafe of brandy with tall short glasses.

“Here, this is what you came for, I know it,” Alistair taunted his friend and held the glass in the air in front of him. Luke all too gladly took the glass and tipped it back to his lips.

“Is there no way we can wrangle you an invitation to this event?” he asked and took a seat at the table, leaving the chair at the head for Alistair. “You are just about the most eligible man in London, so it seems strange you would not be invited.”

“Eligible? Me?” Alistair chuckled and nearly choked on his brandy. “I think you’re losing your senses.”

“Certainly not.” Luke gestured to the room they sat in. “You’re a duke and you have a castle. You know as well as I how fathers’ eyes light up when they see you arrive at an event.”

“Perhaps that is why this mysterious host does not want me present then,” Alistair offered, tipping the glass to his lips and enjoying the burn of the brandy in the back of his throat. He enjoyed the secrecy of the event, and it was rather humorous to him to realize that though Luke had been to the last three balls Alistair had hosted, not once had Luke realized who he was. “If he hopes to make a match of his own, then another eligible man present wouldn’t help things.”

“Perhaps not. Well,” Luke sat forward, “I shall just have to tell you everything that happens there that night instead.”

“Spare me,” Alistair pleaded with a roll of his eyes. “You know I have little liking for such things.”

“Come on. It must entertain you to some degree. I know you, Alistair.” Luke put down his glass and thrust a finger toward him. “Something you find irresistible in this world is the folly of others. It’s an entertainment to you, and why shouldn’t it be? These events offer you humor. You find people fascinating.”

“Perhaps a little.”

“So, I shall tell you all that happens.” Luke lifted his glass again. “And I shall tell you everything that happens with the young lady that has caught my eye as well.”

“Ha! I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, spare me the details.”

Alistair had no wish to hear of a fine young lady catching Luke’s eye. He didn’t like to hear of courtships or ladies’ charms in general at the moment. For one lady haunted him so much. As he topped up their glasses, he saw her again in his mind’s eye. The brown hair whipped past her face, and she smiled. Then that smile vanished for good.

Chapter Three

“Heavens, Belle, have you ever seen anything quite like it?” Harriet asked in a breathy voice.

“Never.” Belle’s eyes widened in awe.

The ball was being hosted in a grand hall, outside of London in the middle of open countryside. The old house must have been empty for years but hired especially for the event.

As they approached, Belle quickly saw that the host must have concerned himself with spectacle and the opportunity to make his guests gaze in wonder. Great colored cloths swathed the front doors, flanked by burning torches. On either side, instead of staff greeting them there were acrobats, performing various seemingly impossible positions whilst taking their invitation cards, to ensure each guest was indeed welcome.

Belle and Harriet followed their father and stepmother through the open door, arm in arm. At the sight of the great hall that had been decorated for the event in shining strips of gold and white, Belle felt underdressed.

Quick glances around the room showed many guests had come in ostentatious costumes. Some outfits were more last century in style, with heavily corseted waists for the ladies, and long stockings for the gentlemen, reaching above their knees. There wasn’t a single face that was instantly recognizable, for all wore masks. Some had gone as far as wearing fine turbans on their heads and elaborate headdresses of peacock and swan feathers.

Belle fumbled with the turquoise gown she had opted for and the feathered mask upon her face that barely covered the area around her eyes. She didn’t doubt why her father had insisted on her not concealing her identity so much.

He wishes to make it easy for Lord Rudderham to recognize me.

“I do not think I shall forget tonight any time soon,” Harriet whispered to Belle, as Charles and Margaret greeted other nearby guests. “Do you think we shall see the mysterious host they all talk of?”

“Perhaps, but do not concern yourself with that.” Belle shifted her grasp on her sister, taking her hand instead, and drawing her away across the room. With some eagerness, she put some distance between them and their father.

I do not trust father not to renege on his deal.

They had talked of it openly again that morning, with Belle insisting she’d rather marry Lord Rudderham than see her sister end up with such a cruel fate. Seemingly, Charles was happy with the arrangement, and to his relief, Lord Rudderham had written back to his first communication on the issue with some eagerness, professing his delight in marrying the elder sister rather than the younger.

The sight of Lord Rudderham’s handwriting talking of his gladness to be marrying her sickened her to the gut.

She drew her sister toward the refreshments table and hid the two of them between standing candelabras and one of the low-hanging sheaths of gold cloth from the ceiling.

“Why are we standing here?” Harriet asked. “Are you trying to hide us from the world?”

“No,” Belle lied and put herself further into the shadows.

Her attempt was short-lived as Charles crossed toward them. His cheeks were pink, and his jaw was tense, showing he had evidently recognized what she was doing.

“Belle, remember what we discussed this morning,” he urged, crossing toward her and hissing under his breath. “You must make yourself available for when he arrives. Is that understood? You cannot hide in shadows.”

She glared at her father, feeling his penetrating gaze boring into her own.

“You made that plain,” she murmured in a low tone.

“Then obey me.”

Her stomach curled in disgust, and her hand involuntarily drew toward a secret pocket of her skirt. She had sewn such a pocket into most of her skirts, though no one knew of it but the laundry maids. Inside the pocket, she kept her one chance to escape from the world she knew, her diary.

She clutched at it through the silken folds, thinking of everything she would say in those pages once she had the chance to write something. She would speak of her father, and his need to be ‘obeyed,’ as if she was a soldier at his command and not his daughter. 

Charles glared between Belle and Harriet one last time, then retreated, crossing the ballroom back toward his wife, and adjusting the slim mask he wore as he moved.

“What was that about?” Harriet pulled on her arm, drawing her attention. Belle shifted her focus to her sister, looking at the ivory-white mask adorning her features. It did just as little to hide her identity as Belle’s own mask did. Anyone that wished to recognize Harriet tonight would do so with ease. “Belle? What is going on?”

“Nothing, it does not matter. Come, let us find something to drink.” Belle turned to the refreshments table to find a servant dressed boldly handing her a glass of champagne before she could even ask for it. He performed an elaborate bow, then offered Harriet another glass and hurried away with a dramatic wave of his arm. “Even the staff has been trained to be ostentatious.”

“You are right.” Harriet moved to stand in front of Belle. “Yet you are changing the subject. Belle, what was our father just speaking to you about?”

Hurriedly, Belle took a sip of her champagne, delaying having to answer. Deep in her gut, something twisted tightly, making her feel a little nauseous, but she fought against the feeling. She knew if she told Harriet the truth, her sister would be enraged at Belle’s sacrifice for her. Harriet would insist on marrying Lord Rudderham regardless, and she would then be condemned to a life of misery.

For Harriet’s own sake, for now, I must keep this a secret from her.

“It does not matter. It’s certainly not something so worrisome for you to be concerned with tonight.” Harriet pointed across the room. “How about we search for that gentleman you have scarcely stopped talking of since the last assembly.”

“You are mothering me again.”

“I beg your pardon?” Belle flicked her head around to face Harriet in surprise.

“You are mothering me.” Harriet’s expression darkened. “You think I cannot tell you are keeping secrets, Belle? Or that you seem to be under some misguided notion that it is wise for me not to know what these secrets are? I am not as young as I once was, and I certainly don’t need to be mothered.”

Belle swallowed uncomfortably, fidgeting with her glass.

I still cannot tell you, Harriet. I’m sorry. I’m trying to protect you, please understand.

“Excuse me.” A smooth deep voice approached them.

Belle stepped back, alarmed they had been approached by a gentleman when she had worked hard to hide in the shadows. He bowed deeply to the two of them and raised his head, his own small mask doing a feeble attempt to hide his identity.

The light brown hair was instantly recognizable, as was the easy smile on his lips as he looked at Harriet.

“Miss Darlington, Miss Harriet,” he greeted them each in turn, though his eyes lingered on Harriet for much longer. “Forgive me for taking this opportunity while your father is distracted, but may I have the honor of the next dance, Miss Harriet?”

Harriet balked with her fingers fidgeting on her glass. Belle swiftly took that glass from her sister’s hand.

“Lord Warrington, I…” Harriet paused, glancing across the room. Belle followed that gaze to see Charles was lost in a crowd of other equally ambitious men who were trying to point out the richest men in the room.

“You are right to take advantage of his distraction, my Lord,” Belle said and nudged her sister in the back. “Go on, sister.”

Harriet smiled instantly and took Lord Warrington’s hand. As she walked away, following him toward where the other dancers had gathered, ready for the first dance, Belle watched her sister intently. Harriet was in awe as she gazed at Lord Warrington and hurried with a skip in her step. It was her excitable innocence that gave her such a charm.

May you treat her well, Lord Warrington. She has talked about little else other than you since the last assembly.

Belle sipped from her drink and smiled, as the music began. Rather than a string quartet, or even a harp to accompany the dancers, as she had so often seen, the mysterious host had gathered an entire orchestra that sat above them on a balcony. The opening notes were so loud that Belle and many others in the room jumped in surprise.

She laid a hand to her heart, feeling it quiver, then smiled at the eager manner in which her sister began her dance with Lord Warrington.

That is the smile I have been waiting to see.

Belle retreated deeper into the shadows, trying to hide, but she was ineffective. At once, she saw someone approaching her across the room, his balding head noticeably shining in the candlelight.

She hurried around the refreshments table, but was blocked in, for there were more servants here pouring out champagne in glasses, and she couldn’t possibly push through without causing a scene. Lord Rudderham followed her, his shadow passing over her.

“Miss Darlington.” He bowed to her and stepped far closer toward her than was appropriate. She hurried back, bumping into a standing candelabra. In danger of knocking it over, she reached back and grabbed it, holding it still. “I must confess how delighted I was to receive your offer in your father’s letter.”

“It was not an offer exactly, my Lord, but a necessity.”

“It was a thrill to me,” he continued on as if she hadn’t spoken at all. When his eyes darted down her figure, she walked away, trying to reach the refreshments table again for some sort of distraction. He followed her, and hovered at her shoulder, dropping his voice to a whisper in her ear. “We shall have to make the arrangements of course, but I cannot hide my excitement for the wedding night.” His hand took her arm. “In truth, I am not sure I can wait that long.”

Disgusted, Belle pulled her arm sharply from his.

***

“They make a spectacle,” Alistair chuckled to himself, watching the ball from the balcony above, with his full orchestra beside him. He’d dressed in black, as he always did, and the heavy mask on his face covered most of his features. His dark reddish-brown hair he’d slicked back with wax, so it looked so unlike his normal cropped short wild curls. With a heavy jacket on his shoulder, unlike the tailcoats he’d usually wear, it masked him completely.

In the ballroom, many groups had peeled off. He observed the gossipers, those that had come merely to talk of others, and he saw those who guffawed with laughter openly, already drunk and discussing smoking out on the terrace as soon as possible. Alistair watched couples attempt to dance together, who were unsuited for the task, and he saw more than one gentleman hurrying after a lady that was rather too fine for him.

It was entertainment indeed. When his eyes flicked toward the refreshment table, however, he saw something that made his smile falter.

A lady stood in the shadows, as if trying her best to hide. She was striking in a turquoise blue gown and with a slim mask. Her dark blonde hair cascaded down the back of her head in an enticing way. Any imagining Alistair might have had of running his fingers through those gold locks vanished when he saw the way she tore her arm out of the man’s grasp beside her.

The gentleman in question was Lord Rudderham. His heavy jowls shuddered with her rejection, then he moved even closer toward her. She retreated away, bumping into the table so that the glasses danced on the white cloth.

What is he doing to that lady?

Alistair’s hand tightened around the banister before him as he watched the two of them together. The lady jerked her head away, trying to look anywhere else than at the Earl. Alistair was reminded of another lady.

Someone else who had pressed her lips together with such nerves and made an effort to escape a gentleman that pursued her so relentlessly. It was a long time ago, but the mannerisms were just the same.

As the lady lifted a champagne glass to her lips, taking hurried sips to ignore whatever horrid things Lord Rudderham was saying in her ear, her hand around the glass shook.

I cannot stand this. I will not see the past repeating itself.

Without thinking much of his actions, Alistair left the balcony and hurried down the nearest staircase. As he approached, many of the guests turned to look at him, tittering like birds in a morning dawn chorus. They pointed at him and gossiped about how he was the mysterious, unknown host. He ignored them all and walked hurriedly to the lady and gentleman at the side of the room.

The lady’s hand shook so much around her wine glass, she was in danger of dropping it. The Earl’s hand curled around her arm a second time, and she pushed him off.

“You will not do that. Do you understand, Miss Darlington?” Lord Rudderham hissed, loud enough for Alistair to hear.

He rounded the refreshments table and stepped in front of the pair, watching as their eyes darted toward him. Miss Darlington was in danger of dropping her drink for a second time, and Lord Rudderham stood taller, his spine twitching straight.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Alistair said with ease, adopting a deeper tone than he would usually use. He could have sworn Miss Darlington reacted to that huskiness, her lips parting a little. “I cannot simply stand by and watch this.” His eyes flicked away from her and toward Lord Rudderham. “You are making this lady nervous, Lord Rudderham.”

Miss Darlington tried to move away from the Earl, taking a subtle step to the side. When the Earl followed her, Alistair’s hands tightened into fists. He moved closer, protectively, his superior height dwarfing Lord Rudderham.

“Release her,” Alistair ordered, his tone deep in warning.

“What is this?” The Earl frowned. “I will not have a stranger come up to me and order me away from my betrothed.”

Alistair’s eyes darted to the lady, who made no effort to deny the claim, though she grimaced in the most painful way, with those full lips pressing flat.

This young woman is to marry this foul old man? Impossible. 

Be on the lookout for its release soon!