Author: Grovechronicles

Chapter One

1816

London, England

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How lonely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, neither do I…

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

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

That is what I long for these days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Evelyn whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

Kitty sighed dramatically and flung herself back on the bed.

“Imagine being betrothed to a man like him.”

“Katherine!” Hester hissed again.

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

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

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

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

It is to fit me, not you.

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

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

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

The sound of silk ripping was unmistakable.

All three sisters recoiled in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was a foolish dream. That is all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Argh,” Rafe complained, shielding his eyes.

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

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

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

Rafe winced as Simon opened the last set of curtains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And where are we off to today?”

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

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

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

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

Rafe glanced back, grinning at his friend.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know that.”

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

“Nor would I,” Simon said simply.

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

“Rafe, are you hinting at something here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though I may have taken the wrong message from that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In the flesh.”

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

“Well? Who is it from?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look out for the full release on 13th of October

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bring her inside,” Marcus commanded.

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

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

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

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

Marcus gave him an earnest nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“Where am I?” she croaked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am here,” he whispered.

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

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

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

“From what?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prologue

1812

Lovell Estate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not remember her.

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

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

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

Your Grace? The young boy is now a Duke?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps,” Jeremy replied solemnly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My uncle would never instruct such a thing!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

One year later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How is everything?”

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then her breath caught.

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

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

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

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

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

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!