Author: Grovechronicles

Chapter One

London

May 1816

“Miss Turner.”

Bridget’s shoulders tensed at the sound of her name being called, and her fingers tightened on the stem of her champagne glass. Willing herself to appear unperturbed, she made a slow turn to face Magnus Jackson, Viscount Lore, the man who had murdered her reputation.

“Lovely to see you this evening, Miss Turner,” he said, his gaze slowly drifting from her crown to the hem of her dress. “I thought you would be dancing rather than keeping to the walls.”

She was tempted to ignore him, which was the rational thing to do for a woman who found several pairs of eyes turning in her direction, but Bridget was too willful to remain silent. “And I thought you would be in the gaming room betting away your fortune,” she returned, a stiff smile painted on her lips. 

Magnus’ brown eyes narrowed very slightly, then he tilted his head, a lock of black hair falling over his brow, as he guided his eyes to her hand. “Is your dance card full? Perhaps I should take pity on you and ask you to dance.” 

“I do not want your pity,” she said through clenched teeth as her eyes sought refuge in all directions. 

“Oh, but I believe I should dance with you, Miss Turner, for no other gentleman in this room is inclined to do so.” He leaned forward and whispered, “No gentleman wants a fallen woman.”

A giggle came from someone beside him, and Bridget’s attention was drawn for the first time to the woman on his arm; she was very fair, slender, and her blonde hair appeared gold in the candlelight. Bridget was about to address her when Magnus spoke again. 

“I do not suppose you are acquainted with my fair betrothed, Miss Turner.” Every time he said her name, he did so with his voice raised, as though to bring to the attention of every guest in the ballroom with whom he was conversing. “Meet Lady Annabelle Langston, daughter of the Duke of Westonshire.”

Bridget curtsied, as propriety demanded it, and she could hear a cold chuckle from him as she rose. Meeting his eyes, she said, “Please, excuse me.” Then turned to take her leave. 

“Leaving before our dance?” Magnus raised his brows. “If I do not dance with you, no one will. I am trying to help you.”

Help her? Bridget’s ire was growing. He had ruined her life and was now ridiculing her in public under the pretext of helping her. Her eyes stung, and she blinked, swallowing the bile rising in her throat. It was important that she removed herself from the ballroom before further ignominy befell her. 

Several guests had gathered around them with those at the fore whispering amongst themselves, while those behind craned their necks to witness her humiliation. It was all gravely reminiscent of the night he had broken off their engagement. And without a moment’s thought, she pushed past them and fled.

It took her a while to wade through the guests to reach the exit, and she rather thought they were determined to prevent her escape. At last, she emerged in a hallway, her chest tight, and spirit crushed.

“Bridget!” 

She gathered her skirts and prepared to run, but then she recognized the voice and paused, turning. 

“Goodness, Bridget!” Her brother, Andrew, stopped before her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you well? I saw what Lore did, I’m sorry I could not reach you in time.”

“I am not well, Andrew.” Her voice broke. “I should not have come here. I-I thought…”

He wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “I will take you home. Everything shall be well again.”

Bridget shook her head, unable to say more. After what had happened in that ballroom, she was sure that she would never find a husband. They stepped out of the house and onto the busy streets that were lined with carriages. Some guests seemed to be arriving at that hour. It did not take long for them to find their carriage.

“I should never have insisted you come out tonight,” Andrew lamented once they were in the carriage and on their way home. 

“I do not blame you, Brother,” she whispered as she stared out the window.

“I was told that Lore would not be in attendance,” Andrew continued. “I must demand from him atonement for the dishonor he—”

“Please, Andrew,” she interrupted him with a hand on his, “do not duel him. Violence will not restore my reputation.”

Andrew regarded her with incredulity. “You would spare a man that harmed you?”

She looked down at her hands that now lay on her lap. “I do not care for Magnus. You are my brother, and I wish for you to live a long and full life. Think of the consequences if you duel him and he strikes you.”

“…I suppose you are right. You have always been smarter than I am,” he said and Bridget smiled.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, and when they arrived, Andrew led her to the drawing room.

“Would you like to drink something?” he asked as she lowered herself onto a sofa near the fireplace.

“Yes, some sherry, please.”

“Would you not want something better? Stronger, perhaps?” He raised a brow as he asked.

“I suppose I would rather have some whiskey then,” she replied, realizing she would need it after what she had faced tonight. As he moved to a table that held a tray with several decanters and glasses, Bridget gazed into the fire, wondering how her life had turned out this way.

Three weeks ago, she had been preparing to marry Magnus. Now, she was doomed to live the rest of her life as a spinster after the same man, who had once written her sonnets, spread word of how he had ruined her. Introducing her to the woman he had replaced her with had caused her more pain than she wished to admit.

“Bridget?” Her brother’s voice tore into her unpleasant thoughts, and she started. With a commiserating countenance, he handed her a glass of whiskey. “I should apprise Father of what occurred tonight.”

“Must you tell him this instant?”

“Yes, I must. We cannot allow Lore to continue to dishonor us.”

The only response Bridget could give was a nod as she raised her whiskey glass to her lips for a sip. The liquor was warm and burned a trail down her throat, but it did little to make her feel better.

After Andrew had left the drawing room to find their father, she stood and walked to a window, staring out and endeavoring not to think of her unfortunate circumstances. There was no knowing how long she stood there, but her attention was drawn back sometime later when someone walked into the room. She turned to find her lady’s maid and dearest friend, Sarah Mills.

“Did something happen?” she asked, coming to stand beside Bridget, her blue eyes full of concern. “I saw Mr. Turner in a foul disposition.”

Bridget swallowed. “I met Magnus at the ball, and he was most unkind.” She proceeded to recall the events to Sarah. “I am certain that no one will marry me after this.”

“Oh, do not say that, Miss!” Sarah’s cap slid back a little as she shook her head, revealing her brown hair. “I am sure the ton will find another scandal with which to divert themselves.”    

Bridget shook her head. “What Magnus did…” She did not know why she still thought of him by his Christian name, and it annoyed her.

Sarah placed a hand on her shoulder. “Everything will be all right, Miss.”

“It is very hopeful and kind of you to say that, Sarah, but I know the truth of my situation and the hidden cruelty of our society. No one will marry me.”

“No one?” came her father’s deep voice. Mortimer Turner, the Viscount of Malmore’s brows were drawn together, but his eyes were kind and gentle. “Are you certain, my dear?”

Sarah immediately curtsied and excused herself, while her father came to stand where she had been.

“Did Andrew tell you what happened?” she asked, setting her now empty glass down on a nearby end table.

“Yes, he did.” He took both of her hands. “Do not despair, Bridget, for you shall marry. Very soon.”

“How can you be certain, Papa?”

“Because you have an offer.” Mortimer smiled. “And should you accept, you shall become the Duchess of Alderham.”

Bridget’s eyes widened. “The offer is from the Duke of Alderham? The Beast of Grayfield?” She took a step back, her stomach knotting. The back of her legs touched the edge of a chair, and she sank into it, despairing more than before.

Everyone who had heard of him knew he was not a man that any sensible woman would wish to marry.

“Now, Bridget, we must not refer to him as such. He is a good man, and not at all what people have made of him,” her father said.

She had never met the duke but had heard many tales about him. And she did not know if marrying an old, ill-tempered recluse was better than becoming a spinster.

“She is right to be afraid,” Andrew said, stepping into the drawing room. “I cannot understand why you asked him to marry Bridget.”

“You offered me to him?” she heard her shocked voice. “I thought he…”

“Well…” Mortimer threw her brother a disapproving look before continuing, “He is a duke, and in need of a wife. I thought an alliance with a duke could strengthen our family’s influence after…”

The scandal, she thought, feeling her chin begin to quiver, and catching her lower lip between her teeth. An alliance with a duke might be good for her family, but not Alderham. There was a reason he was reclusive and unmarried, and she was reluctant to discover it.

“Must I marry him, Papa?” She looked up at her father, hoping he could see the plea in her eyes.

“No, my dear.” He sighed. “I could never make you do anything against your wish. You do not have to marry the Duke of Alderham, but I hoped that you would give the matter some thought.”

“I shall try.” There was a slight tremor in her voice, and she winced when she heard it. “May I be excused?”

“Of course, my dear,” Mortimer replied, concern clouding his gaze.

Bridget left the room and hurried up to her bedchamber, where she leaned against the door after closing it, her eyes stinging with tears. A soft knock sounded just then.

“Who is it?” she called.

“It is Sarah, Miss,” came a reply.

She opened the door and, as soon as Sarah was inside, said, “Father asked the Duke of Alderham to marry me.”

“Oh, dear!” Sarah took her hand and guided her to sit on a sofa, settling beside her. “Did he accept?”

“He must have because my consent is needed.”

“Do you wish to marry him?”

“I do not believe the hearsay, but…” Her throat tightened. “I cannot decide to marry a man that I do not know.”

Sarah squeezed her hand comfortingly. “You have a choice, Bridget. But you need not make your decision now.” She addressed her by her Christian name in private. Bridget’s family had been through a difficult time after her mother’s death six years ago, and Sarah had given her both friendship and support throughout.

“I suppose,” was all Bridget could muster.

“Come, let me help you dress for bed.” Sarah stood and walked to the dressing room.

Her friend distracted her with the latest gossip she had heard from the servants, and for a moment, Bridget forgot her woes. But once she was alone and under her covers, her thoughts began to swirl wildly, and guilt slowly engulfed her.

Her scandal had cost her father his influence in the House of Lords, and Andrew was regarded with disapprobation amongst his fellow gentlemen. So far, all she had managed to do was drag the ones she loved to the lowest of lows. Well, she loved and trusted her father, and believed he would never approach Alderham for marriage if the man were truly a beast. At least that was what she tried to convince herself.

But in her heart of hearts, Bridget knew, this was not a time to be bargaining; beggars cannot be choosers.

She got out of bed and found a deep green velvet robe that Sarah had left out for her, then exited her bedchamber to find her father. It was near midnight, and the household had retired, but she knew Mortimer would be awake and in his study, toiling away. Thus, it was her first destination.

He called for her to enter after a brief knock, and when he saw her, he set down the quill in his hand and stood from his chair behind a large mahogany desk, motioning for her to sit near the hearth.

“What is the duke like?” she asked after sitting.

“He is a good man,” Mortimer began, taking the chair opposite hers. “He was wounded in the Battle of Salamanca four years ago, leading to his reclusiveness.”

Bridget frowned. She had heard that the man was deformed, but never knew that he had suffered a battle wound. She was, once more, reminded of how unfair society was.

“I consent to the marriage, Papa,” she said.

Surprise passed over Mortimer’s features. “Are you certain?”

“I trust your opinion of him, so yes, I am certain.”

“Very well. I shall write and inform him.” He stood and returned to his desk, where he drew a parchment and began to write.

Bridget’s life was changing, but this time, it was a change that she was in control of.

Chapter Two

Sussex

May 1816

“It appears I am to be wed in a sennight.” Harry Westwood, the fourth Duke of Alderham, folded the missive he had just read and regarded his friend, Mr. Gerard Belmont, whose gray eyes were wide with surprise.

“I beg your pardon?” Gerard blinked, and his pale brows that matched his blonde hair creased.

“This is from Viscount Malmore.” Harry shook the letter in his hand. “He visited a fortnight ago while you were in Gloucestershire, offering his daughter’s hand.”

His friend wore a deep frown now. “Miss Turner?”

“Correct.”

“Harry, I know you do not make decisions on a whim, but this is rather sudden. Do you know anything about her?”

“Are you referring to what the gossip sheets wrote?” One of Harry’s brows rose with his question.

“Yes, precisely that. Scandal follows her.”

“I have courted scandal since Salamanca.” His shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I am merely doing the honorable by marrying her now.”

“What brought on this change? You did not wish to marry before.”

“Look around you, Gerard.” Harry made an expansive gesture. “My home is crumbling, and my tenants detest me. This alliance will bring me fifteen thousand pounds, and four thousand a year.” He watched Gerard’s brows rise at this announcement and smiled. “Only the veriest of fools would decline such an offer.”

“I see,” was all Gerard responded with, and Harry knew he was not pleased.

“You wish to save me from this woman, dear friend?”

“Indeed, I do. Your good name should not be tarnished with scandal.” Gerard’s response was emphatic, which drew a chuckle from Harry.

“I am the Beast of Grayfield, Gerard. I have no good name.” He sounded unconcerned as he said that, but Harry was less than happy about the tales that had been spread about him. Miss Turner must truly be desperate to agree to marry him, a man that only had half of his face to show. Without intending to, his fingers moved up to the right side of his face to lightly touch the scar that ran from his forehead to his jaw.

Gerard pulled out a watch from his waistcoat pocket and examined it before declaring, “I must leave now if I am to reach Cambridgeshire by nightfall.”

“Perhaps I will be married by the time you return,” Harry quipped.

“Never!” Gerard grinned as he stood. “You need me there, and I promise to save you if she is anything less than pleasing on the eye.”

Harry shrugged, unconcerned about Miss Turner’s appearance. He was not marrying her for her beauty. Still, a part of him wondered what she was like, and whether she would be a chore to bed. His battle wounds had swiftly put an end to his rakish ways, and it had been very long since he last touched a woman.

“Farewell, my friend,” Gerard said, gaining his feet.

“Have a good trip,” Harry replied with a slight smile.

An hour after Gerard’s departure, Harry left his study to meet his steward, Mr. Meyer. As he walked past one of the drawing rooms, he caught sight of his aunt, Belinda Thornfield, and poked his head into the room.

“I am getting married, Aunty.”

“I beg your pardon?” Belinda’s eyes were like saucers.

Harry rolled his eyes. Why was everyone surprised he was taking a wife? “I am getting married to Miss Bridget Turner, daughter of the Viscount of Malmore.”

A crash followed his announcement, and his aunt stood abruptly. She had dropped her teacup onto the floor. “Miss Turner?”

“You disapprove,” he observed, stepping into the room and pulling the bell near the door to summon a servant to clean the spilled tea and broken cup.

“N-no!” Belinda was quick to say. “It is simply that we do not know if what was said about her is true.”

“I will judge her for myself.”

His aunt stood. “Why her?”

“She has a good fortune,” he said, feeling the corner of his mouth slant with displeasure. He sounded like a fortune hunter and wished he did not have to marry to provide for those that depended upon him and save his ancestral home from falling.

“Surely, there are other heiresses you could consider. I do not judge her, but enough has been said about our family. I want peace, Harry.”

Something turned within him. He wanted peace, too, and marrying appeared to be a good path to follow to obtain it, despite Miss Turner’s reputation. “None who will marry me,” he responded, a bitter note in his voice. “They will arrive in a week. Please, see that the castle is prepared for them.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. He had already made his mind up, and there would be no changing it.

***

Bridget looked out the carriage window to behold the imposing castle they were approaching, and her stomach churned. Their journey from London to Suffolk had been long and exhausting, but that was not the reason she was nervous. She would be wedding a man she had never met to save her family’s good name.

This was not the way she had imagined she would marry, and although she was still disappointed, she knew she had to be brave and find comfort in the thought that her groom will be kind to her.

“Do you want us to turn back?” Andrew asked, and Mortimer groaned.

“For heaven’s sake, Andrew, stop asking her such questions.”

“Look at the castle, Father.” Her brother was looking out the same window. “The place belongs in the gothic novels that genteel women should never read, and you are sending your daughter to dwell in one.”

“I made the decision to come here, Andrew,” Bridget said firmly. “Please respect it.”

He sighed but nodded. The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the structure, and Mortimer was the first to alight before helping her down. She looked up when she stepped down, her stomach knotting more than it had before.

Her brother was right; the castle was dark with cracks and vines covering the walls. Four towers stood sentinel at every corner, tall and imposing. The windows were fogged as though to conceal a secret, and some of them had cracks while some were broken. The overgrown lawn was a reflection of the dire straits that had fallen upon the castle owner, and a cold shiver slithered through her. If she was not mistaken, she would say a groundskeeper had never been there.

The great front entrance opened, and a slight woman with graying chestnut hair stepped out, a soft smile on her features, which Bridget thought greatly contrasted the castle’s atmosphere. Her eyes were carefully drawn to the cracked marble on the steps she was descending, and the stone balusters looked no better.

“Welcome to Grayfield Castle,” the woman said. “I am Lady Belinda Thornfield, the duke’s aunt.”

Andrew and Mortimer bowed, while Bridget curtsied, thinking that the duke must be younger than she thought if this woman was his aunt. She was very curious to see him.

“You must be Miss Turner,” Lady Belinda continued pleasantly, coming to take her hand. “We are pleased to have you here.”

“My apologies for our late arrival,” her father said. Their journey had not been without event, for they had first broken a wheel, which had delayed them for a day, then a storm arrived.

“Oh, you mustn’t apologize for it, Lord Mortimer. The weather is seldom cooperative. Please, come in.”

Bridget smiled, feeling less intimidated. They were led to a drawing room with its brocade curtains drawn shut. The red and cream hues must have once been vibrant, and the gilded frames that hung on the walls were all but dull and tarnished. Age had hardened the carpet, and the parquet floor sorely missed its polish.

It was late afternoon, but one would think it nightfall if they had not been outside, and Bridget endeavored to resist the urge to ask why the room was so. Her brother and father appeared to be as curious as she was when she glanced at them.

“Please do be seated. I shall find the duke now,” Lady Belinda said.

“Thank you, my lady,” Mortimer said. “I am eager for my daughter to make his acquaintance.”

Bridget’s heart began to race at her father’s utterance. She sat and folded her hands on her lap, fighting the urge to flee out of the castle and cry off. Now that she was truly here, fear began to seep into her bones.

Chapter Three

“The duke is out handling some estate matters, I am afraid,” Lady Belinda announced on her return. “Perhaps you will meet him at dinner, which is in an hour.”

Mortimer smiled. “I am sure the duke is a very busy man. Thank you, my lady.”

Bridget felt her shoulders relax. She ought to be surprised at his absence or even a touch displeased, but the relief that coursed through her prevented her from feeling anything as such.

“Would you like me to show you to your…chambers to prepare for dinner, Miss Turner?” Lady Belinda asked.

“Yes, please,” she replied, rising. She glanced at her father, and he gave her an encouraging nod. With a slow breath, she followed Lady Belinda out of the room.

She was led to a large bedchamber where her lady’s maid was already unpacking her baggage. Bridget proceeded to formally introduce herself to Lady Belinda, her eyes assessing the room. A four-poster bed occupied the center with deep purple drapes that matched the ones that covered the windows, drawn, as well. The lavender wallpaper was starting to peel, and the carpet, although not as hard as the one in the drawing room, was a little frayed on the edges.

“I am glad you brought your lady’s maid. I could not find anyone suitable for such a task,” Lady Belinda commented. “I hope you do not mind the state of the castle,” she added with an apologetic smile.

The castle hid its elegance beneath worn furnishings, and Bridget wished she had seen it in its prime. Nevertheless, she intended to improve it once she was married. After all, this was her home now.

“I do not, my lady. Do you live here?”

“Yes. I have lived with Har…the duke for almost four years.”

“Then I will be honored if you will help me bring it back to life,” Bridget said, appreciating the woman’s efforts to make her feel welcome and comfortable.

Lady Belinda’s blue eyes lit up. “That would be splendid!” She clapped her hands together. “You may call me Belinda. We are, after all, going to be family tomorrow.”

The reminder that she was getting married the following day gave Bridget a nervous flutter. She forced herself to smile, however. “Then you must call me Bridget.”

“I am sure we will be good friends, Bridget. I should go and prepare for dinner.” With that, she left the room.

Bridget flopped onto the mattress and stared at the cherubs on the ceiling of her four-poster bed, anxious about meeting the duke at dinner.

***

She was saved again when the duke sent word that he had been delayed and would not be joining them for dinner. Andrew was displeased, while her father seemed unperturbed. Belinda was a good hostess and ensured they had as pleasant an evening as possible.

“Did you meet him?” Sarah asked when she entered her bedchamber to help her undress.

Bridget shook her head. “He was unable to attend. I am quite relieved we did not meet,” she admitted.

“Why? Do you think he looks as horrible as they say?”

“His appearance matters not to me.” She sat before a vanity table and Sarah began to remove the pins holding up her coiffure. “But I do feel very nervous about meeting the owner of such a large and dark place.”

“Yes, I noticed every curtain is drawn.” Sarah supplied with a slight frown.

A few hours later, Bridget found herself twisting and turning, unable to slumber. Thunder clapped, and rain pelted her windows, but that was not the reason she was unable to sleep. There was a shadow in this castle that disquieted her. She might have been relieved at not meeting the duke, but the mystery about him was the very reason for her discomposure.

She rose from her bed and donned her robe, then lit a candle. Belinda had told her about the library, and she thought her time would be better spent reading than trying to sleep tonight. Slowly, she wandered through the castle, committing every turn she took to memory lest she got lost.

At the bottom of the stairs that led to the front hall, she thought she saw a hooded figure. Lightning flashed at that instant, confirming what she had seen, the dark and foreboding frame of a man that froze her blood. When thunder roared, she turned and ran back to her room, the wind of her movement blowing out her candle.

***

Breathe, Bridget, she repeated to herself for, at least, the twentieth time that morning.

“Shall we?” came Mortimer’s gentle question as he offered his arm to her in the front hall. The duke and the others were waiting in the drawing room for her.

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and allowed him to walk her into the room to the sight of a powerfully built man. He stood before a shorter stature man that appeared to be the vicar, and his back was to the door. Bridget was certain he was the same man she had seen the night before.

He must think me very foolish for running away as I did, the thought, wincing inwardly.

The duke did not turn when her father handed her to the vicar, nor give a smile to appease her, and yet, his mere presence made her tremble more. At the vicar’s request, he finally turned to face her, and she could not prevent a gasp from escaping her lips.

One of his eyes was covered with a black eyepatch, while the other was so blue it would make one stare in wonder. His lips were perfectly formed, and she thought a lady might swoon if he smiled at her. The corners of the mouth that had her entranced immediately turned down, and she realized that she had been staring. Looking away, she curtsied.

He bowed, his demeanor unwelcoming. “I am Harry Westwood, the Duke of Alderham,” he introduced, and she noticed that his hair was long and a lustrous shade of chestnut, which was tied at his nape.

“And I am Bridget Turner.” She did not have a title with which to introduce herself but she was proud of her simple names.

The duke did not say anything after that. He simply turned to the vicar and said, “You may begin.”

His deep voice sent a shiver through her, despite her unease about his disinclination to talk, and she caught her lip between her teeth. As the vicar recited a sermon, Bridget found her eyes stealing glances at her groom, wondering why people thought him a deformed beast? Surely, he bore a great scar from his wound and only used one of his eyes, but he was…handsome.

“Bridget Annabelle Turner, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…” the vicar interrupted her thoughts, and she raised her eyes to the duke’s, once more losing herself until she heard, “so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” she responded.

The ceremony continued with her attention completely taken by the duke, and when he took her hand to place a ring upon it, she swallowed.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he said, “with my body I thee worship,” she blushed, “and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” He slid the ring onto her finger slowly.

They knelt, and the rest of the ceremony passed in a blur as she imagined what her new life would be. When Bridget scrawled her signature on the register, she released a breath that she had been holding. She was his before God and country. She had once dreamed of possessing the heart of the man she married, but such a dream was far beyond her reach now.

Their family gathered around to congratulate them, and Belinda had tears in her eyes. “I have not been this happy in a very long time,” she said, squeezing Bridget’s hand.

A young man came forward and bowed. The duke introduced him, “Mr. Gerard Belmont, a good friend of the family.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace, and my felicitations.”

“Thank you, Mr. Belmont,” Bridget replied before looking up at her husband. His expression was inscrutable.

His eye met hers for a moment but quickly turned away, and he said, “My aunt will show you to the dining room for the wedding breakfast. I will not be joining you. Please excuse me.” Without explaining his reason for leaving, he turned on his heel and walked out of the drawing room.

Chapter One

Lyndon Estate, London, December 1814

“It has come to our attention that His Grace Simon, The Cursed Rake, was seen with a new companion once more. His risqué appearance was not missed by the ton, nor our Paper. Of course, it has been eight years since—”

“Please, stop reading that,” Eloise started. She buried her head down to her stitching once more, sighing.

Kate, her cousin, stared at her through the mirror and raised an eyebrow. Her maid continued to brush that blonde halo of hers, struggling to decorate it into a French hairdo. Eloise knew how much Kate loved gossip, how much she loved Rakes (with a capital ‘r’), and how much she loved to share every bit of the gossip columns with everyone around her. And frankly, Eloise just wasn’t interested today.

Gossip had surrounded her since the death of her parents when she was just the age of three. She had always been labeled ‘the estranged child’ and ‘the failed debutante’, so it wouldn’t be an overstatement to admit she despised anything printed on that rag.

The papers had predicted she wouldn’t find a suitor at her debut, and their predictions proved to be accurate. It didn’t matter that she was related to her aunt, the Viscountess, either.

“Oh, come on, dear cousin, I know you’re just as interested as the rest of the ton,” Kate said as she fixed the golden necklace. She straightened her gigantic, pink lace gown once more. She was far too overdressed for the ball, but that was typical of her—Kate loved to make an impression. “One cannot resist the attraction toward dangerous rakes and their enigmatic nature.”

“You must be speaking for Felicity—or yourself, really,” Eloise said. “I prefer intellectuals, kind men, anything but rakes.”

Kate winced as her lady’s maid pulled her hair upward. “I happen to know that many rakes are secretly intellectuals. They are certainly more exciting than James. You must admit; that man is a bore.”

Eloise’s cheeks flushed pink. She had met James a month ago, after a stroll through the Hyde Park, alongside her Aunt and cousins. He had garnered the courage to walk up to her and introduce himself, allowing their brief meeting to turn into something more… Certainly not a betrothal or marriage, though she hoped for it soon. Eloise had found, at the age of five-and-twenty, James was struggling with marriage himself, something she could never put her finger on. The times they had spoken, he proved to be an intelligent, kind-hearted gentleman, but perhaps most importantly, he gave her his utmost attention, the kind of attention she had sorely missed for many years here. 

She couldn’t help but compare him to the many rakes out there. They were the exact opposite of James, really. Rude, intolerable, dangerous. Perhaps James wasn’t the perfect Baron, but he was a charming man. Though, she was unsure if he harbored the same feelings for her.

“I don’t think I particularly care, nor do I think it matters. I’d rather be with a bore—not that James is one.”

“Oh, Eloise,” Kate said as she stood up from the dresser, her hair half-up, half-down. Her maid followed closely behind, unsure of what to do when Kate sat down beside Eloise. “Every woman in her right mind cares about who they are. Are you telling me you have never desired to kiss one?”

Eloise looked up from her stitching, pushing a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. She…well, no. To be frank, she had never even imagined kissing James, let alone someone else. She frequently heard how good it felt—particularly from Felicity—but she could never imagine it. She knew with time, she would fall deeply in love with James, and perhaps then, kissing wouldn’t seem so terrifying and unknown to her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever desired to kiss anyone,” Eloise confessed. “I mean, I think I want to kiss James…”

“Oh, cousin, you’re far too innocent. You deserve someone…well, someone enchanting, alluring, someone who will make you swoon,” Kate continued. “Do you know if James even likes you? Why hasn’t he asked for your hand in marriage yet anyway?”

“I—” Eloise interrupted herself, ignoring Kate’s last point. “Let’s talk about anything but this. Rakes make my blood boil with—”

“Desire?”

“Anger, Kate. If Aunt or Felicity heard you say this kind of stuff, you’d be in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, all right.” Kate rolled her eyes as she went back to the mirror, her maid awkwardly following behind. “You should get ready too, mama will grow agitated if we delay again this year.”

Eloise sighed. “You’re right, I suppose. My gown is in my bedchamber, so wait here, please.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on going anywhere looking like this, now, was I?”

Eloise silently chuckled, standing up from the four-poster, mahogany bed and walking to the door. She exited the room, walking down the long hallway.

Kate was the closest thing to a friend Eloise had. They could never spend too much time together, of course, since Kate was far too busy with her friends, preparations for balls and meeting suitors. And Eloise…well, she was far too busy with cleaning most of the time.

She opened the door to her room, revealing its small and modest size. It didn’t come close to Kate’s or Felicity’s. She had a small closet with a few clothes, a spare bed right out of the staff quarters and no windows. That was perhaps her biggest complaint—the lack of windows made it difficult to stay inside the room for too long. But it remained her safe place nonetheless.

Her maid, a young woman of eighteen years, waited patiently by the dresser. She had placed the gown on the bed, a blue, A-line dress with golden embroidery Eloise had added herself. Eloise had spent hours choosing the fabric, the color and the design despite her aunt’s vocal disagreement. Blue was James’ favorite color, as she had quickly found out, and the golden touches only made it appear all the more remarkable.

“My Lady,” her maid curtseyed. “Lady Lyndon has requested you to wear the corset with the padding. I apologize, I know you don’t like it, but I—”

“It’s all right, Letitia.” Eloise smiled. “I understand.”

The young maid nodded, smiling. She inched closer to Eloise, helping her undress and slowly started adding the layers of clothing. It first started with the chemise. This time, it was muslin instead of the silk Eloise preferred, but it mattered not; she was far too excited for the dress itself.

When it was time for the corset, Eloise held her breath. Her aunt had an odd rule for her—she claimed that her corset should be laced tighter than other Ladies to make her appear more desirable. It didn’t make much sense to her, but it did succeed in tightening her waist.

And when finally, she slipped on her handcrafted blue gown, she felt beautiful. For once, she felt like she could compare to Kate and the beauty of other Ladies. She smiled to herself, feeling the soft, silk garment against her fingers.

“Thank you, Letitia,” Eloise said.

Eloise continued staring at herself in the mirror. For once, her hazel eyes brightened up as her cinnamon hair helped reveal more of her creamy, clear skin. She tucked some strands of it behind her ears as her smile beamed. It all fit together just as she had hoped. James would be smitten when he laid his eyes on her.

Suddenly, the door burst open, revealing the sight of Felicity—her older cousin.  

“Eloise!” Felicity spoke out. “You’re just the person I wanted to see.”

Felicity stormed inside the room in a teal feathered high-waist gown, taking a seat on the bed and scrambling the carefully ordered sheets. She was holding a glass of milk in her hand, taking a sip from it every few words.

“Yes?” Eloise asked nervously.  

“My room needs cleaning, you know,” Felicity said. “I realize you cleaned it this morning, but you might have left the window open. Anyway, everything is a mess.”

Eloise nodded. She began brushing her hair, trying to ignore Felicity’s baseless words; even Felicity couldn’t ruin her mood today. The window was definitely shut when she had left, and even if it was left open, there was no possible way that the room could be in ruins again. Winter was nearing, indeed, but the weather had been comparatively tame these past days.

“I’ll be sure to take care of it once I’m ready,” Eloise replied. With the help of her maid, she put her hair into a half-up, half-down style. Perfect.

Felicity was definitely not satisfied with the answer she received. If she had been, she wouldn’t be in the room anymore, nor would she have been in deep thought like she was now. Her thin lips were pressed in a tight line, and her hazel eyes twinkled with trouble.

And then, in just one movement, she jumped to her feet, spilling a faint droplet of milk on her teal gown. The shrieks that followed could only be described as demonic; Felicity sounded like someone was strangling her.

Aunt Alexandra rushed into the room at once, her brown eyes wide, trying to understand what was happening. Felicity stood by the side with her arms in the air and her dress now ruined, while Eloise and her maid remained frozen with their mouths open wide. Felicity was known for her clumsiness, but this was unexpected.  

“What happened? Felicity, dear, are you all right?” Aunt Alexandra said as she stepped closer to her.

“My dress… is stained.” Felicity began to sob. “I need a new gown for the ball—I can’t wear the same one, mama!”

“Of course you can’t, dear. Don’t cry,” Aunt Alexandra said, as she too fell into panic. “I’m sure there’s something we can do, we must have a spare somewhere. Letitia, go find the seamstress!”

Felicity eyed Eloise for a moment, who still hadn’t moved an inch. “I want Eloise’s dress. I think blue looks much more high-class on me,” Felicity continued. “She can wear an old dress, right mama? She’s a failed debutante, so it shouldn’t matter for her, right?”

Aunt Alexandra appeared in thought. “I—yes, perhaps you’re right.” She turned to Eloise, stepping closer to her. “Oh darling, do the kind thing and let Felicity wear your dress. You’re both the same size, so it won’t  be much of an issue.”

Eloise was lost for words. She had spent hours and hours finalizing her gown, making sure it looked the best it could for this year’s Winter Season ball. She had everything planned to a tee, the dress, the accessories, the hair. And now…

“But Aunt, I—”

“Please, call me mama,” Aunt said.

“Mama…”

Eloise’s words were interrupted by Felicity burying her head in her hands and crying even louder. And just like that, Eloise knew she had lost. She took a deep breath, turning to face the mirror, and giving one final look at her own handcrafted piece.

“All right,” Eloise mumbled.

“Oh, and you can wear my yellow dress instead!” Felicity said suddenly.

“But that one is hideo—”

Eloise stopped herself from saying what everyone knew. The dress was truly hideous. Felicity had an odd obsession with feathers, and that dress had feathers stitched all around its hems. It looked unflattering even on Kate, the recognized diamond of the first water, so there was no doubt it would look atrocious on Eloise.

“You’re so kind, Eloise, thank you.” Felicity’s thin lips stretched into a sly smirk.

“Thank goodness,” Aunt Alexandra exhaled. “I’ll go bring the gown while you undress. It won’t be long.”

They stepped out into the hall, leaving Eloise alone, silence filling the room. She had no other option but to listen to them. She would try her best not to let this taint her experience at this year’s ball, but deep down, it was all hopeless.  

Chapter Two

Richmond Castle, Sussex, December 1814

Simon’s horse stood on its hind legs as another thunder hit the shaky path. The hail poured like a cloudy river, obstructing everything ahead of him and making the carriage disappear in seconds.

“Go, Alex!” Simon’s deep voice bellowed, though he doubted his horse could even hear him over the howling of the wind.

He pushed his horse to leap over a frozen puddle as the carriage came into view once more. It was shaking left and right, and Simon’s breath caught in his throat. It was too close to the cliff—far too close. One wrong turn, and everyone would be sent to their death.

He hurried his speed, hoping to get in front of the carriage before the inevitable happened. Another bolt of lightning struck closer to him, forcing him to shut his eyes. But when he opened them again, the carriage was no longer there—it had vanished from right in front of him.

“Madeleine!” he yelled. He jumped off his horse mid-stride, running to the edge of the cliff. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move; he could only watch as the carriage tumbled down the cliffside, smashing rocks and breaking into a thousand pieces.

Simon raised from his bed in an instant, cold sweat dripping from his forehead. Wiping it with his bare hands, he stood up from the grand bed and looked out of the window across to a distant lake. It was seven o’clock. He could tell from the way the sun threatened to spill over the horizon. Nightmares of his haunted…past had unfortunately become a regular occurrence. So much so, it was needless to say he wouldn’t let them sour his mood any longer, as the ghost of a smile found its way to his face soon enough.

He covered his bare torso with a loose hanging, white shirt, brushing his tousled hair away from his eyes with a wavy hand, deep in thought. Today was…important, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember why. A glide over to his diary left open atop the dresser reminded him again.

Ah, the Prussian actress.

With that, he opened the door, revealing the familiar sight of his old and loyal servant on the other side, that customary grin present on her face. Simon would notice day by day how old she was getting. She refused to admit it, of course, and he dared not bring it up himself.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she chirped. “We’ll have your bath prepared soon. Meanwhile,” she tossed him an apple as she continued, “do enjoy your workout.”

“Looking as young as ever, Antonia,” he replied, biting out a large chunk of the fruit. Those words never failed to light up Antonia’s face, which Simon found endearing all the same.

He stepped away from his bedchambers, humming his way toward the makeshift gymnasium he’d use for daily exercise. He continued his stroll through the hallway, pausing the moment he noticed one of the portraits slightly slanted—an oily painting of his Great Grandfather in a dark costume, a haze of apathy coating his expressionless face. On its left stood vague portraits of a nameless ancestry stretching back centuries, but on its right, the distant face of his Father, Philip Crawford, sat scowling at him.   

Simon Crawford, son of the late Philip and Susan Crawford, and the sitting Duke of Richmond was born a dagger to his lineage, with his mother passing soon after giving birth, and his father, descending into a crazed state, spending his final years fading in the pursuit of material wealth. But, most importantly, rarely attending to his son. Simon had never seen his mother. And in his father’s lack of appearances, Simon had learned to grow independent from his lineage. It was for that reason no portrait of Simon stood beside that of his father’s, nor would it ever.  He made a mental note to remind his staff to double-check all of them once more, however, just to assure that everything looked perfect.

Finally, he reached his gymnasium after taking a long way around to avoid the west wing of the Castle. A glass of water was placed atop the table beside his workout space; its consistent placement molding a slight indent on the table’s surface. The gray room was small and modest, with only a two-meter circle in use by Simon, typically for fencing practice and body conditioning, while the windows and drapes were always left open to help him keep track of time. Sprawled across the rest of the room was an unattended boxing ring, some free weights and a couple benches.

He unfastened his shirt, inhaling deeply, then pushing onwards with one arm, battling a non-existent opponent with a steel epee. The burden of fatigue was rather a blessing—with each thrust of the arm and cross of a foot, the mental exhaustion wouldn’t allow Simon’s mind to wander. And upon indulging himself so regularly in swordsmanship, ‘accomplished fencer’ was added to the extensive list of titles bestowed upon him by the ton.

A knock on the door distracted him from his vigorous activities.

“Your Grace,” his valet said, “your bath is ready, and breakfast will be served in precisely forty-five minutes.”

“That’s all right. And Richard, did Lord Skeffington say if he’ll be arriving at nine o’clock this time? My memory is failing me today, you see,” Simon said as he stretched his muscles, beads of sweat dripping down his neck.

“Correct, Your Grace. Today’s schedule includes his visit.”

“Perfect. Resume normality. And I’ll be right up for my bath.” His valet was about to walk away, but Simon abruptly stopped him. “Oh, and one more thing,” he muttered, “do rid the drawing-room of all the love letters. I’d rather not keep unsolicited confessions.”

“I shall make sure of it at once, Your Grace.”

Richard stepped away, leaving Simon to his solitude once more. He would throw away the letters himself, really, but he felt his curiosity would drive him to open some. A greater act of betrayal he feared. They were letters from his mistresses, women who had the chance to spend the night with him, and who, for some peculiar reason, wished to see him once more.

Eventually, he made his way back to his room, removing his clothes. Simon wasn’t one to brag, but he was proud of his physique; it had taken him a long and arduous eight years to get into shape and maintain it. Now he himself could spend hours swooning over his reflection, not that such self-indulgence was necessary, what with half the ton providing it for him.

After his bath and grooming, and after his valet helped him into his dark blue coat—something he’d wear each morning—he made his way to the dining room just in time for the gong.

The smell of coffee lingered. Frankly, he hated tea, as unorthodox as that was for an English man. He preferred coffee with a side of expensive brandy, served with the butter and toast he’d have for breakfast every Wednesday. Simon found six long days between any meal was just enough to whet his appetite but not dull its savor. Thus, each day of the week accounted for a specific meal, consistent and predictable, just the way he liked it.

“Richard,” Simon said as he took a sip of his coffee. “The newspaper dated for today?”

“Is right beside your meal, Your Grace.”

“Ah, of course, it is.”

Simon crossed one leg over the other, opening the contents as he took yet another sip of his coffee. “The Cursed Rake,” he continued, “the same title for two days on the trot? I’m deeply unflattered.”

“It seems they are growing to appreciate your penchant for consistency.”

The boldness of Richard always brought a slight smirk to Simon’s face. “It seems they’re speculating on who will be on my arm for my next public outing. Some speculate the Italian opera singer, others think it a Lady of the ton.”

“If they knew you, Your Grace, they would know you’re never seen with the same woman twice,” Richard said as he offered him a linen cloth.

“And that I have a strict rule about ladies of status.” Simon shrugged. “So, anything else I need pay mind to before I leave this hellhole until for the day?”

“Well, the West Wing—Madeleine’s old chambers, shall be cleaned this following week.”

“And I’ll make myself scarce when the time comes,” Simon responded.

Richard shook his head quietly. “Forgive me for saying, Your Grace, but is it not good to—”

“Richard. This has never been up for debate, you know this,” Simon scolded, visibly frustrated with having to spend more time than necessary on that matter.

“Of course, Your Grace. There is also the matter of the stables falling to rot, and the slight issue of the Kensington horse breeding business.”

Simon shook a hand dismissively. “I’ll attend to the stables when I have the time, but an issue with one of my business ventures? I say, how is it getting along?”

“Disastero—eh, I mean marvelously,” Richard corrected.

Simon chuckled. “Now you’ve got it, old chap. Splendid.”

In truth, Simon did not care for the affairs of the ton, the prosperity of his business ventures, or even the truth for that matter. All he cared for was the stable routine of daily life, untouched and unchanged. Leaving every morning, arriving late at night; a ghost to Richmond Castle. Taking a final sip of coffee and leaning his head back in his chair, Simon breathed in the ordinary air of just another Wednesday. He found a profound appreciation for the same places, same furniture, same routine, and same faces. Speaking of which…

“Three…two…one…” As if Simon had just evoked the sound himself, the entrance door banged three times. “And that would be Lord Skeffington.”

“Simon!” his friend, Colin, called out as he barged inside the entry hall. The hint of slur in his voice, along with his brusque footfalls, told Simon all he needed to know. It was evident he had been drinking once more. Colin had an issue with alcohol, or how he called it, a ‘predilection’. He tended to drink with liberty, refusing to heed any advice.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Simon said as he briskly wiped his hands and stood up from the chair. “Richard, be so kind as to offer him some cold milk. He needs to sober up before we leave.”

***

The chilly wind was a shock, as the sheen of ice sheets coated the woodlands; December had just arrived, and the threat of snowfall loomed. The sky was tinted a dark hue of orange, the clouds drowning out the early morning sun. All in all, a terrible day for Fox hunting. But every Wednesday, at precisely nine o’clock, Simon and Colin would partake in such senseless activity as their fathers did before them. And well, truthfully, it served as a form of meditation away from business affairs and mistresses, so it was something Simon absolutely cherished.

He clutched the rein’s tighter, encouraging his horse to stride faster along the boscage. Colin was following closely behind him. Their hounds could be heard racing just up ahead, following behind a fleet-footed fox that managed to hurdle any obstacle that came its way, when suddenly, Colin’s steed came to a sudden halt, and Simon turned his head, slowing down his pace too.

“Good God, you must have drowned in a pool of port last night,” Simon commented upon seeing his friend panting against the mane of his steed.

“A pool of port, eh? Don’t give me any ideas now, Simon.”

“On a Tuesday too? It isn’t like you, Colin, what’s going on?”

It wasn’t an ideal time for a deep conversation, but Simon cared for his friend. He had always been heavy on the bottle, that wasn’t anything new, but he had never been so melancholic.

“I just—I think I’d rather not say,” Colin admitted. After a long pause, he spoke again. “Will you be attending the Winter Season ball?”

Simon shook his head. “I say, good friend, I no longer feel thrilled for such shindigs. Besides, I have a meeting with this new actress. They say she’s Prussian—now that’s intriguing.”

 “You’ll only meet with her the one time, why does it matter?” Colin asked. He dismounted his horse, taking a sip from his water pouch.

“The thrill is lost on the second meeting. My rule is simple, never—”

“…sleep with a woman more than once. I know. I’d wager every somebody South of Scotland knows. But I’m serious. It’s the annual masquerade ball, it’s sure to be a fiasco as always. Last year, the Earl of—” Colin’s words trailed off with the wind, reflecting Simon’s distaste for gossip.

Simon was no recluse. He was the opposite, in fact. He made sure to spend as little time in his castle as possible. But balls were no longer an intriguing prospect, not least by the wiles of ladies who would follow him around waving about dance cards.

“A masquerade ball, you say?”

Colin nodded.

He scratched his clean-shaven face, giving it some thought. It had been a few weeks since he had last been to a social, so perhaps it wasn’t that horrible of an idea. No one would know who he was, so he wasn’t at risk of being hounded around the ballroom—again.

“It’s tonight?”

“Aye…so is that a yes?”

“Ah, blast it. I do feel adventurous today.”

Chapter Three

Annual Winter Season Ball, London, December 1814

Eloise clasped her bright yellow feathery dress tighter, gazing around the ballroom. She felt overdressed. A peacock to the flock, and not in the good sense, if ever there was one. 

Her nerves never seemed to ease either, no matter how much time passed by and how many balls she had attended. Every single time, it was the same. As though her heart would explode, if not from the excitement, then from the fear she would make a fool of herself once more.

“Now, please, be mindful. Eloise, I hope to see your dance card filled this time and, Kate, you should stay close to me. We don’t want young Lords thinking they can get too comfortable around the most precious Lady of the season,” Aunt Alexandra said.

Aunt Alexandra was very adamant about how a Lady should act during a ball.

Rule number one: never look a man in the eyes.

Rule number two: never, ever, make a fool of yourself. This rule included slipping, awkward and unpleasant conversations, and dancing with clumsy Lords.

Rule number three: never approach a Lord first.

Eloise had burned them to memory and followed them closely, as the alternative was being lectured back at home for hours on end. Which Kate always seemed to get the worst, but that was nothing out of the ordinary considering the pedestal Aunt Alexandra placed her on.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, mama,” Felicity, Kate, and Eloise mumbled in unison.

“Marvelous. Then let the night begin, my girls.”

Eloise audibly gulped the moment the three of them walked away, leaving her alone in the large ballroom, as usual. The event was much grander than anticipated; it was the annual Winter Season ball, after all, one that people had been looking forward to all year—including Eloise herself.

She had never seen so many people gathered together in one place. And someone had the grand idea of making it a masquerade ball this year around, making it near impossible to recognize a familiar face among the sea of strangers. All she could make out were the elaborate masks and gowns, some of them extravagant and colorful, while others simple and mudded. Often, they were very telling of a person’s station in life. Eloise herself had chosen a modest mask, pale pink, with not much in the way of decoration.

A familiar color of royal blue caught her eye as she noticed Felicity up ahead, already chatting with a courtly gentleman and flaunting her dress. Eloise couldn’t help but feel her stomach turn and her frustration rise, all inevitably culminating into a lonely feeling of hopelessness. It looked as beautiful as she had hoped it would. After all, she had done a mighty fine job of putting it all together, and she would do the same for next year’s ball if she had to.

Walking over to a nearby refreshments table, Eloise poured herself a glass of sweet ratafia wine to help take her mind off it all. But worry only swept her further as she thought back to James. She had promised him she would wear blue, his favorite color, and now it felt as though she was already shattering what affinity the two of them had built over the weeks.

In her pitiful state, she gazed from the crystal chandelier down to the chalk-painted dance floor, where couples danced together in unique costumes, and she pined at the sight. If there were one social quality Eloise knew she had over the gentry, it was her dancing, her ability to float in smooth and swan-like motions. It was the way she wooed James in the first place, and a faint smile found its way back to her lips at the thought.  

Now, where is James? He must surely be here by now.

Rather than standing on ceremony, Eloise decided to snoop around in search of him—a task she found enticing. After wandering around the ballroom for a short while, and having little success, she carried herself through an arched door at the back of the ballroom, and into a dimly-lit corridor that was surprisingly empty and silent. In contrast to the garlanded ballroom, it appeared largely unfurnished, aside from a lengthy red rug stretching across the hallway. The end of the hallway split into two directions, which Eloise could only assume led to the upper quarters or the gardens. James wouldn’t be here, but her curiosity got the better of her anyway, and she made her way across the passage, the muffling of her feet the only sound present.

As she closed in on the end of the hall, a crack of light flickered from one of the side rooms, indicating movement. Soon, a soft giggle reached her ears as a door slightly ahead of her carefully shut. Unwanting to interrupt a couple from their secretive meetings or embarrass anyone, she continued on tiptoes, grinning beneath her hand. Continuing on, she turned to take a left, feeling a slight breeze cross her skin from that direction. 

But another giggle, this time louder, rooted her feet to the rug. It sounded like James.

She raised an eyebrow this time, backtracking toward the door. Placing her hands softly on the handle, she paused once more for a brief moment. An overwhelming sense of dread spiraled in her stomach as she inhaled a calming breath.  

It isn’t him. No, it can’t be him. Or maybe he’s probably just…just…

Before thought, her figure accidentally leaned against the handle, swinging the door open and exposing a couple in the room.

She covered her mouth with her hands, suppressing the gasps from escaping. It was James—he wasn’t wearing his mask. His lips trailed a masked woman’s neck, and Eloise felt her body crumble. She hadn’t made her presence known, her voice still breathless, as she slowly proceeded backward until her foot hit the wall on the other side.

The couple immediately turned to face her. “Show yourself,” James said sternly. Suddenly, he looked furious, far from the man he had pretended to be. “Who are you. Why are you here?”

“I—” she paused upon realizing her mask and unorthodox gown had all but hidden her identity.

“James, please do something! I’ll be ruined!” the woman yelled out.

Eloise felt her legs limp in distress, but just before they could collapse, she steeled herself, holding onto her skirts and making way for the end of the corridor. Hurried steps bustled behind her, but with a quick turn, she was temporarily out of sight.

“Come now, woman. You’re only making this harder on yourself!” a gravelly voice spoke out.

But Eloise didn’t slow down for a breath, instead ducking into the closest room she could find and praying James would not think to do the same. Then, dragging herself across to an entryway on the other side of the room, she soon found herself lost in its maze. Now, she cursed under her breath for not seeking refuge in the great hall among the rest of the guests instead.

A waft of fresh breeze reached her skin, and Eloise made haste in its direction. She ran faster, tears now trailing her cheeks in silence. She was unsure if it was the anger or the sadness of the betrayal, but her emotions were aching to spill out as soon as she could be alone.

A ray of cool light shimmered between a large set of curtains, covering a window of sorts, and the creaking of floorboards nearby forced her hand. She dashed towards and then slipped behind the curtains, pushing her back against the window until it fell open. It was only then Eloise realized she had accidentally stumbled upon the door to the verandah. And so, without thought, she hurried outside, only looking back once she was sure she’d lost him.  

In her sudden rush, her foot made contact with a sturdy stone on the ground, sending her to her fall. She remained there, on a patch of wet grass, a terrible pain pulsating through her leg. And emotions now consuming her.   

“I’m such a fool,” she cried to herself, struggling to stand up again.

And truthfully, she was. James had lied to her, made empty promises, and she had believed him—just like a foolish person would. How could she have ever expected to lead a normal, happy life like Kate or Felicity, as an unbelonging orphan? And James, he was the same as most—if not all—the Lords. A rake. A shameless, dangerous rake…

“Now that is an unexpected sight,” a strange voice spoke out, “I’m not used to Ladies literally falling to my feet. Usually, it’s more…metaphorical, I suppose.”

Eloise looked up to find a distinctly dressed man donning a black mask garnished with dark gems. And then to the hand he was offering her. She didn’t recognize him, but there was something strangely comforting about his presence. He was over a head taller than her in height, and the shadowy silhouette of his attire gave a mystical air about him—almost as if he would fade into the shadows at any moment. Beneath his mask, his jaw was sharp and pointed, as if it had been sculpted by the Gods themselves.

After forcing herself to silence her snivels, she hesitantly took his hand, ignoring the words he uttered.

***

Upon offering her his hand, Simon’s gaze traveled to this mysterious woman’s figure. Her feathery dress was damp after her fall on the wet grass, but as it soaked to her pale skin, it only enhanced every curve she possessed. Holding onto her hand for a second too long, he continued to ogle at her figure and momentarily lost his manners—not at all how he usually treated a lady.

“My eyes are up here, Sir,” she snapped, pulling her hand back and raising her chin high, despite her now disheveled appearance.  

He chuckled at her boldness. “I can see that My Lady, forgive me. It isn’t often I’m taken by someone’s beauty.”

If she heard his comment, she pretended not to. But Simon did make out a faint blush that appeared to rosy her cheeks. As he examined her more carefully, he noticed tear stains and a redness shading her emerald eyes.

“Why are you out here?” she asked.

“Aha, to enjoy some of this fine wine in peace, of course,” he held up a wineglass before continuing, “Balls can be tedious—I desired for the silence of the night. Though, I now believe I’ve found something more pleasant.”

She shook her head, once again passing over his flirtatious remarks. “I see. You’re like most men—here to drink your problems away. It’s no surprise, really, the only good thing about Lady Nelson’s balls are her wine collections, after all.” The woman suddenly pressed a hand in front of her full lips, realizing what she had just said.  

He chuckled at her boldness. Why he was driven by her words, he wasn’t entirely sure, but something pushed him to engage further. Every word that had escaped her mouth thus far was a fascinating surprise, and he wanted to be surprised.

“Well, I think I have the right to ask the same question. What is an enchantress like yourself doing out here? Curiosity or…simply neglect?”

“I was getting away from something,” she answered quickly, and he nodded as her words reinforced his guess. After a pause, she continued, “I know what you are.”

He raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his red wine. The pink mask that traced a line over her delicate button nose and up to her flowing brown hair did well to conceal her identity. If she did know him, he certainly couldn’t say the same.

“You do? Pray tell, what am I?”

“A rake,” she snapped, folding her arms in sass. She seemed repulsed by even uttering the word.

“You don’t sound too pleased at the notion.”

“I’m not. Rakes are despicable and a…danger to most of us.”

“I’ll have to agree with your second point,” he uttered. He inched closer to her upon noticing the quivering of her left leg. “But what makes you think I’m despicable? And perhaps more importantly, what makes you think I’m a rake?”

“I—I…” She hobbled back, soon dropping her shoulders in defeat. “I don’t know. I didn’t mean to insult you in particular. I’m just…angry.”

He raised an eyebrow once more. The last thing he expected from her quick-witted self was to confess her emotions to him.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she continued. “I suppose it wouldn’t matter to a stranger anyway.”

Then, she took a deep breath, preparing herself for something. “First, I had a failed debut, and the gossip columns ridiculed me for weeks, and then my uncle got sick, and then I lost my dress that I spent all summer fixing up, and then I…I saw the man I was courting with another—” Her face ducked to the ground as she realized she’d said too much. “…I didn’t want much, but I never wanted to be a mistress.”

He still didn’t reply, now utterly unsure of what to say to all of this.  

“I’ve said too much, haven’t I. I should head back inside.” She sighed, turning around, but before she could proceed, her leg abruptly gave out on her.

Simon quickly wrapped his hand around her arm and over her shoulder, holding her steady so she didn’t fall. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Are you still trying to seduce me?” she asked bluntly.

He stopped himself from chuckling, now attending to her pitiful state. “I’m sure there’ll be time for that, but I’m occupied with worrying about your leg. Can you step on it?”

“I…it hurts when I do.”

***

Eloise looked down at her leg, biting her lips, trying to ignore the way the man’s touch burned in her skin. After finally speaking her mind for once, she couldn’t even make a quick escape, and now she was forced to prolong this awkward encounter with him. Regardless, the concern this stranger displayed was a little comforting.  

The masked man crouched down, holding her ankle softly. He threw his wineglass to the side, allowing it to fall to the damp grass while studying her heel.

She widened her eyes, momentarily losing her words. “W-what are you doing?” she asked.

“Inspecting your injury. Do you mind moving your leg upward? I want to see if you have complete motion.”

He carried his hands further up her skirt, and she shuddered as a fiery desire gave rise. Suddenly realizing how it must have all looked, she gave an embarrassed smile. “I—I’m all right, really,” she said.

But the moment he applied pressure to her calf, she winced.

“That doesn’t look all right to me…Do you mind if I—”

He pointed at her skirt, implying he wanted to raise it slightly higher. A blush found its way to her cheeks, and she tried her best to hide it. But knowing there was no other option, she hesitantly nodded, permitting him to continue.

His hand gently trailed further up her skirt, pressing against her thigh. She gasped at the feeling, catching him smirk for a short second. Was he enjoying this?

He supported one hand on her thigh and the other on her ankle, nodding for a moment as if he had arrived at a conclusion. “It’s nothing serious,” he said. “It seems like a nasty cramp—it should fix itself soon with a bit of rest.”

“Oh,” was all she could utter. She audibly gulped, trying to recover from the shock. His touch still lingered on her bare skin, inviting her to inappropriate thoughts. 

“Perhaps you should sit down for a moment. Here, let me help you,” he said as he wrapped a hand around her waist.

He took far too much liberty with touching her, she thought, but soon berated herself for accusing the man when all he had tried to do so far was help.

Guiding her toward a nearby wooden bench in the shade of a white willow tree, he helped her sit down. The garden was dimly lit, and the flora was grown in such a way, it would be difficult to see beyond the white willow unless from up close. Eloise took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves.

“…Thank you, I must say,” she said. “For helping me, I mean…”

“I wouldn’t be a dangerous rake if I didn’t heed the call of a damsel in distress,” he joked.

She raised her chin once more, refusing to show that she was bothered by his words but more so to hide the smile that came to her lips.  

“I enjoy playing and listening to the pianoforte,” he suddenly spoke out. Eloise tilted her head, wondering why he chose to share such information with her. “It’s perhaps the only thing that helps me forget about…the miseries of life, you know?” he paused once more, noticing her eyeing him curiously. “What? You shared something personal with me, I thought it would only be fair if I reciprocated the gesture.”

“Well. That sounds…beautifully melancholic.” She grinned widely at his attempt at honesty.  “Hmm, perhaps I could play it for you someday.” She didn’t know what possessed her to say that—there was no way of her ever knowing who he was, nor did she even know how to play the pianoforte in the first place.  

“Well, I must confess that women who play the piano are quite enchanting.” He inched closer to her, brushing a strand of her loose brown hair behind her ear. “So, I’m not sure I’d still be able to resist you if you did…”

She froze, unable to say anything more. She inched closer to his lips, feeling his hot breath against hers. The masked man placed his hand around the nape of her neck, carefully caressing her sensitive skin.

Their lips were inches apart, driven by pure passion, and she did the inevitable: she kissed him. It started sweet, soft and careful. But it quickly escalated into a lustful and desire-filled battle of tongues. Eloise’s hands wrapped tighter around his neck, driving him closer to her, never pausing for a breath. It was all heavenly. Until she felt a finger brush over her mask, causing her eyes to jolt open and her to abruptly pull away.  

Grasping what she had just done, she immediately jumped to her feet in panic, wincing a little from the pain. “I—I need to go.”

She spun to face the entryway of the veranda, making haste for the door, ignoring anything and everything the man was saying.

Everything was being drowned out by her loud thoughts.