Author: Grovechronicles

Prologue

“You arrived like a ghost in the night, and now, you leave as one. Are you truly going back to London?” Anthony said.

Michael Skeffington was, indeed, returning to London. He was known as the lost heir of the Breton Duchy for far too long, and now, he was coming home. It was no coincidence, of course. He never had the intention of going back, not as long as his father—if he even deserved such a title—was alive.

After all those years, he thought he had finally put his past behind him. But the news of his father’s death caused an uproar in London and had already reached the countryside. Heart attack was what the rumors spoke of. An unfit end for a man who ruined another’s. Who treated his only heir with such cruelty so far as to force him into self-exile. So yes, he was going back. But only because he had to and only because his father was gone.

“You would think with all the letters, luggage, and farewells, one would assume so,” Michael said to his friend.

It was at this moment that a crash of thunder echoed throughout the estate, trembling the building. The clouds outside were thick and heavy, and the ever-so-familiar passage of light from the moon had faded. So the only light that found them in Anthony’s study, were the candles that seemed to flicker with the unforgiving wind.

If Michael was superstitious—as were most of the ton—he would assume the skies were mourning his departure. As he, too, was in mourning. It was as if a big part of his childhood was abandoning him, or rather, he was the one abandoning it. But he understood what his obligations were, and he knew he had to fulfill them, despite the wealth of apathy he now possessed toward his so-called home.

He was as young as fourteen when he left, yes, that young. A young, naïve child, left alone to fend for himself. If it hadn’t been for Anthony, he would have become one of those lost, never to be found, lords of London people seemed to be so fascinated by. He sought refuge and found a new home among the benevolent one chilly night, and he had been living in the countryside ever since.

His father never bothered to look for him. Nor did Michael hear from him until, well, now. It was insulting, humiliating and as much as it hurt Michael to admit, it was painful.

What he was most conflicted of though, were his sisters. They had tried to reach him some time ago, but he simply never responded. They were never at fault, really, but they were no more than faceless strangers throughout his childhood. He was rarely ever afforded the same comfort or permitted to play with the other children, so it was not surprising. His father would always say ‘In this world, if you get too comfortable, everything will be snatched from beneath you’. It was never more fitting than today.

“I have a favor to ask,” Anthony said, taking a sip of gin. “Now that you’re returning to London and all.”

“You have never asked me for a favor. Of course, anything.” Michael fell back into the leather chair, inches behind him. It was only then that he noticed the dark bags looming under Anthony’s eyes and the dryness of his lips. But a hangover could do that much to a man, and knowing Anthony, there was likely no cause for alarm.

“I…,” he paused, “I don’t know how to say this.” He took another sip of gin, clearing his throat. “I have a sister, Michael.”

“A sister?”

“Yes. A younger one.”

Michael waited on him to elaborate. He knew Anthony for almost a decade now, and unless he had a sister hidden in his cellar, he couldn’t see how that was possible.

“She’s a missing sister,” Anthony continued. “Her name is Sophia and I last saw her when we were children.”

Right, a missing sister. Somehow a sister hidden in the cellar still seemed more plausible than a missing sister. Because if the sister of a wealthy man or the child of a wealthy Lord was to disappear, not a creek in London would be able to hide their whereabouts for too long.

“I need you to find her now that you’re going back to London,” he said. He intertwined his fingers together, and Michael could see the trembling of his hands. He was nervous.

“How can I find her?”

“Her name is Sophia,” Anthony said. “She has… had red hair, blue eyes, and freckles. And if you still have doubts, then she also has a birthmark on her arm. It resembles a butterfly, so you can’t miss it. And perhaps most importantly, she had a limp.”

“All right,” Michael said, “I’ll look around, see what I can find.”

“I wanted to say…” The nervousness again. “If she’s living a good life, please don’t tell her about me. Burdening her with the truth may be a far greater sin. Promise me this much.”

Michael held his friend’s hand in comfort, nodding.

“I promise.”

And thus, Michael left for London as the returning Duke of Breton.

Chapter One

“Sophia, when are you getting married?” a squeaky voice asked.

Sophia cleared her throat, lounging back in her worn-down chair. What an odd question. Sophia and marriage were two words that would never fit in the same sentence. At the age of two-and-four, her hopes of marriage had—unfortunately—well disappeared.

But alas, that was the least of her worries. Marriage, love, children were not some things she could even contemplate. Her mind was focused on the smell of gravy emitting from one of the houses –as if her aching, growling stomach wasn’t torturous enough!

“Not everyone gets married, stupid,” the little girl, Harriet, said. “Sophia is a scholar, everyone knows scholars don’t get married.”

“They do! My uncle is a scholar and he’s married!”

“Well, Sophia isn’t.”

“What? A scholar, or married?”

Sophia rubbed her temples with her fingers. She had been teaching them—well, trying to teach them for well over an hour now and the conversation always ended up drifting elsewhere. ‘How old are you?’, ‘what’s your favorite food’, ‘why are you always late in the mornings?’. It was midday and she was already worn out.

“I promise I’ll answer everything later. Let’s start over for now, all right?” Sophia said. The five children were seated on the stone ground outside the orphanage. They didn’t exactly care about ruining their clothes, which were already far too muddy and in tatters.

A droplet of rain fell on Sophia’s forehead and as she looked up to the sky, she noticed how cloudy it had suddenly become. And then a second droplet, followed by a third and fourth, began trickling down.

“Run!”

One of the kids yelled out as Sophia followed in their panic. They each scurried inside a weathered building, under a half-broken roof for shelter, as their giggles echoed throughout the deserted street, bringing some life to this otherwise dull place.

Sophia winced. Her aching leg throbbed with pain as she had accidentally put far too much pressure on it. A foolish move on her part, indeed.

“Sophia! Does it hurt?”

“No, no, it’s good,” she reassured. “Why don’t you all go off to your duties before anyone finds you missing? I need to get going.”

The disappointment that followed was far louder than the bellowing thunder that trailed soon after.

“Awww,” all five of the children moaned in unison.

“Don’t ‘aww’ me. You know I’ll be back tomorrow. Same time as usual.”

They each moved in, embracing her one by one. For some odd reason, they always behaved as if it’d be the last time they would ever see each other again. And for some stranger reason, she began to feel the same way.

***

Today, Sophia noticed she had broken a record. It had taken her an hour – a long and dreadful hour – to reach the tavern, whereas most days, it would take less than half. The intense pain in her leg had not yet abated from the prior evening, only making the walk all the more grueling.

By the time she had reached the infamous Olde Mule tavern, her dress and shawl were soaking wet, and putting pressure on her left leg felt nigh on impossible. But still, there beamed a smile on her tired face as it was payday—she would finally be able to buy the meal she had been saving for all week: that delicious gravy.

The moment she tugged open the loosely-hinged door, the smell of sweat and cheap alcohol reached her nostrils, accompanied by spoiled meat and what she could only assume to be unwashed clothes. But then again, it wasn’t as if she had the privilege of washing her clothes or smelling of lilies either.

“Oww,” she uttered. An older, drunkard man had brushed against her shoulder on his way out, sending her back a few steps. She held the wooden pole which saved her from the fall. “Watch where you’re going.”

“Whateve’ ya say.” The man spoke a few more incoherent words before stumbling away into the abyss that was the neighborhood. A drunk man like him was in danger of being robbed but too stubborn to change his routine.

The district prided itself in its monotonous habits, a far cry from the ruthless nobles up north, who only saw shame in conforming to the same routines. ‘If you get too comfortable, everything will be snatched from beneath you’ she’d heard them say – or something like that.

She entered inside, limping toward Walter, the tavern keeper. There was still work to be done for the day, but he had promised he would give her the three shillings he owed first thing this afternoon. And she really, desperately needed them.

“The staggering Sophia!” Walter exclaimed, acting as if he was glad to see her. ‘Staggering Sophia’ was the nickname she had earned at the tavern. Walter was the inventor of it once he noticed the limp she had spent half her time here hiding, and soon it caught on with the rest of the customers.

“Sophia, you missed a spot,” one of the customers, Paul, said, pointing out the soup he thought no one had noticed he just spilled moments ago. She scoffed, ignoring him.

“He’s right, you know,” Walter said.

“You know I’m not here for that. I’m here for my three shillings.”

“Your—” Walter chuckled, “Your three shillings? In case you have forgotten, you have a limp.”

“I don’t see how—”

“It means you’re less helpful than a non-cripple.” Walter walked toward and sat down at a table among three regulars, taking his eyes off Sophia momentarily. “And it also means you’re only getting paid one shilling.”

Sophia was at a loss for words. She clenched her fists by her side, biting her tongue. Her stomach twisted and turned with each syllable Walter spoke. Or perhaps it was just hunger. But one shilling? One damned shilling. That wasn’t enough to get her anything she wanted, let alone a warm meal.

“But I—”

“Oh, look, you made’r angry, you’d better watch out,” Paul snorted, slapping the wooden table and pointing at Sophia’s clenched fists, as she slowly loosened them in embarrassment.

“She won’t do nothin’,” Walter said in a stern voice. He was not even looking at her anymore. No, he found more interest in the three men beside him, who were too drunk to even comprehend what was going on.

“But I did the work you asked me to, better than any of these men in here ever do,” she said. “I want what you promised me.”

“Take the shilling and get back to work. It’s gon’ get busy soon, can’t have ya’ waltzing around in here making demands, now can we?”

“Hey cripple, stir me up the usual before ya’ leave won’t ya’,” a man shorter than Sophia called out, wobbling his way toward the others. She covered her nose in disgust from his rotten breath. “Or share one with me, back at the inn.”

Sophia rolled her eyes, the despair she was feeling temporarily replaced with annoyance and repulsion. She pushed the short man away, limping to the door. As much as she hoped her presence would be sorely missed, the tavern keeper was right, she was replaceable. It felt the same for much of her life thus far. You know who wouldn’t consider her replaceable though? Her family.

But it was far too soon to drown out the rest of her day in reveries of what could be. Instead, she made a mental note of the date. It had been sixteen days since her last warm meal—and today would make it seventeen. Great. Another record.

Chapter Two

Michael did not expect London to be this…bland. He certainly didn’t remember it this way, no matter how many years had passed. He recalled colorful parks, lush fields, glorious buildings. But this painted a vastly different picture. Everything was grey and dull, nothing compared to the countryside he grew up in. Even the local’s faces seemed somewhat indifferent to the goings-on around here. Perhaps it wasn’t this place that had changed, but rather, him.

The carriage floundered every few seconds as it cruised over endless holes in the ground, but he paid little mind to it. He expected that once they reached the castle, things would improve.

He shuddered at the thought. The castle was an intimidating presence lurking in the back of his skull and now, it was only a few minutes away. He had explicitly arranged to arrive late at night for this exact reason –he knew his nervousness, his nostalgia, everything would hit him at once. And goodness, it really had.

The carriage halted at once, and Michael raised his head.

There it stood. Frozen in time.

The castle he last laid eyes on as a child, over a decade ago. And the appendage of his father, that now belonged to him. As he stepped out of the carriage, the cool breeze arrived to comfort him, almost in commemoration of the time he left it all behind.

The overcast sky barely concealed the north tower, but he was still able to witness the castle in its glory. Two footmen stood on either side of the grand door as they bowed to him—something he hadn’t experienced in years.

As he opened the door, he froze. He did not expect the aroma to be this strong. No, he didn’t expect it to remind him of his mother and sisters, and certainly not his father. The interior had not changed in the slightest –the walls still that pale teal color embellished with white stripes, and the pillars the same smooth marble he would run in circles around as a child. And finally, the floorboarding seemed…new? Or perhaps it just appeared different in the dark.

“Your…Grace,” a familiar voice spoke out. It was Roger, his butler.

The man had aged twice as much, with twice as many wrinkles on his brooding face. His gray hair—or lack thereof—still on display so proudly. He looked exhausted—as if he had been waiting up for Michael’s arrival.

“Roger?” was all he could muster. “Are you—Is everything—Why—”

“I’ve been good, Your Grace,” Roger said.

Michael smiled. A true, genuine—yet hesitant—smile. Roger was still here.

“I missed you,” Michael confessed. “More than I would like to admit, at least.”

“Likewise. I still remember you as that tiny, little daredevil who—”

Roger interrupted his blabber the moment he realized what he was saying and to whom. But Michael took no offense, which seemed to reassure him.

“You always were a bit too courteous,” Michael moved further inside, toward the stairs, “But I’m glad to see you’re still as bold.”

“Should I guide you to your room? We had it arranged specifically for your arrival. Redecorated, repainted and refurnished. No one had stepped there in years…”

Michael shook his head unconsciously. That was not a place he wished to appease his nostalgia in. The locking of the door echoed inside his head as reminiscences of his childhood returned—father would seal him inside that place for hours at a time, to study or as punishment. There was a time where little Michael had grown so desperate of this, he tried to escape through one of the windows, injuring his leg in the process.

“There will be no need for that,” he turned to Roger, “I prefer the guest room. It seems more…fitting.”

Roger hesitated at first but then nodded. His butler must have sensed all too well the dispiriting feeling that place must have stirred inside him.

The sound of footsteps from the top of the stairs reached Michael’s ears. He assumed it to be one of the staff at first, until… a feminine voice? A young and obnoxiously loud voice he didn’t recognize, and one who he could only assume belonged to either of his sisters.

“I was under the assumption my sisters would be asleep at this time,” he whispered quite sternly. Michael shifted behind the stairs, afraid she would run down to greet him any moment now. He wasn’t ready to meet with them just yet.

“They should be, Your Grace.”

But the steps continued and grew louder and louder. Until a dark silhouette emerged from the bottom of the staircase. A tiny, short one with bouncy curls and a skinny frame.

“Roger, is that you?” the soft voice called out. She rubbed her eyes as she stepped closer. “Why are you walking about at this time?”

Michael gestured at Roger to step away from his side, but it was all too late. Because the tiny silhouette held up a golden candle and was staring directly at Michael now. It was Bridget, his youngest sister. It could only be her. She was but a baby when he last saw her, yet her sweet caramel eyes and rosy red cheeks had never left.

“Am I dreaming?” she asked. He didn’t expect her to pinch her arm. “Is this papa?”

Michael knew he resembled his father, but not as much as to be confused for him.

“No I’m—I’m your brother.”

The ten years old girl blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. In fact, she wouldn’t stop blinking. She tilted her head to the side like a puppy, struggling to register what she had just heard.

“Are you certain you’re not a thief?” she asked. “Roger, is he a thief?”

“He’s not a—”

“I’m not a thief.”

Michael stepped away from the darkness and moved closer to Bridget. Her silky dark hair now came into full view.

“But my brother is lost. They said he would never return. And why are you here so late at night?” She pointed at the grandfather clock. “It is two in the morning. If you were my brother—who is supposed to be a duke, by the way—you would at least be more punctual. How did you get inside? Roger, how did he get inside?”

Being lectured by an ten years old girl was the last thing Michael could have predicted on his return.

“I’m Michael. Your brother.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Roger was standing by the side, a wide and silent smile beaming across his face, not wanting to interrupt this moment—if you could even call it that.

“I’ll go call Penelope and Meredith, they need to know you’re back.” She turned around, but Michael held her by the arm before she could walk away.

“…no,” he said in a slightly panicked voice. “I…want to meet them tomorrow. So let’s pretend this never happened. It can be a surprise.”

Bridget didn’t agree right away as she folded her arms across her chest, squinting her eyes in skepticism. She seemed to be in deep thought before she finally spoke up.

“Okay. I’ll pretend it never happened.”

And she pranced away, leaving Michael alone. He sighed. It could have gone a lot worse, indeed, but he wasn’t prepared to meet any of them yet.

“Should we get goi-”

Michael jolted into motion, straightening up again. He had momentarily forgotten Roger was still present.

“You’ve still got a knack for hiding in plain sight, haven’t you?” Michael chuckled. “Let’s get going, I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

Chapter Three

“Sophia, Sophia!”

The orphans jumped up and down under the broken roof as the rain pattered against the road. She was already soaked through and through; the last thing she needed were the orphans—especially the younger ones—growing ill. That would be a nightmare.

“No, no, no, don’t run out little one!” Sophia limped a little faster to stop Harriet from running into the yard.

“Look!” Harriet pointed into the distance, gasping. “It’s a prince!”

The children all turned to stare and Sophia soon did the same. It certainly wasn’t the first time they had confused a random passerby for a prince. They were very vocal about their wishes to meet one, after all.

But as Sophia turned around, she doubted even herself for a moment. The man did look like a prince. He looked something out of a fairytale or the books the royals were so enthusiastic about. He was tall –far taller than any man she had ever seen—strong –his biceps alone were enough to make her drool– and he was unbelievably handsome. A black hat covered his dark ruffled hair, but she could just about make out his tempting chestnut eyes.

What are you—are you serious, Sophia? You are lusting over a stranger, a possible scoundrel. A man you’ve never met before.

After Sophia –and the orphans—recovered from the shock, all the right questions started kicking in. Why was a man dressed in the most formal attire here, in the slums, in the poorest area ever? And why on earth was he headed toward…her?

The strange man halted his steps in front of the entrance. The droplets of rain hitting his black umbrella—the color now beginning to feel like a theme to Sophia—was the only sound present. Other than her pounding heart of course.

“Are you a prince?”

“It’s Prince Regent, quick, bow!”

“Take me with you!”

Until the orphans spoke. They ran into the rain surrounding his figure, but all he did was raise his eyebrows. He looked at the children as if they were foreign creatures he had never set eyes on before.

“I’m not Prince Regent, there’s no need to bow,” the man said.

“A duke then? Are you rich?” Harriet asked.

“Erm, sure. Here.” He handed them a pound as if it were a cheap candy—but their faces lit up as if it were a priceless treasure. “Are you Sophia?” he asked, immediately turning his attention to her.

Oh no, did he find out I’ve been sneaking into the royal district?

“It is awfully rude to walk up to a Lady unaccompanied. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know who you’re talking to? And who is this Sophia you speak of?” she said.

Okay. Of course, she was making stuff up. It was the first thing that came into her mind. Maybe, just maybe, if she were convincing enough, he wouldn’t pry any deeper and let her go without further questioning.

“Didn’t you tell us lying is bad?” Harriet asked.

“Lying is bad indeed,” he added.

Great. Just amazing, fantastically great. Not only was trouble standing in front of her, but she couldn’t even lie properly to that trouble.

“Take me, I have accepted my fate,” Sophia said, limping closer. “How many years in gaol? Is sneaking into the wealthy areas such a bad crime?”

The strange man moved his umbrella slightly closer to her, protecting half of her body from the squall.

“No, don’t take her!”

“Gaol? Why would I even—it doesn’t matter,” he paused. “I’m here because you need to come with me.”

“To gaol?”

“No, woman, not to gaol.”

“Then where? And why?” she asked.

“Because,” he inched closer, “Your brother has been looking for you.”

***

Michael thought he had already seen the worst of London, but the slums painted a vastly different picture. A worse picture. At first, he was certain there would be absolutely no way Anthony’s sister was in this place.

But alas, she was standing in front of him. It had to be her. She had the same red hair Anthony spoke of –except curlier and fuller than Michael expected–, the same blue eyes–he didn’t expect to find them that piercing– and a distinct limp. Her clothes were ragged, revealing parts of her pale skin, and her thin frame showed him she was struggling to survive.

“My…brother?” she asked. Her eyes were wide open, her sass no longer present. “I don’t have a brother, right children?”

The tiny kids nodded, although some of them were still too busy admiring the one pound he gave them earlier.

“Well, you do. And I was sent here on the account of him.” He walked further inside. He had grown far too tired of holding that heavy umbrella. “So, you need to come with me to the castle and I’ll arrange for you to meet.”

He paused for a second, stepping closer to her. She moved her head back in response, perplexed.

“But before that, give me your arm.”

“My…arm?”

“Yes, your arm. Give me it,” he persisted.

“Why would I—”

Before she could complete her sentence, Michael grabbed her left arm firmly, studying it. And there it was, the scar Anthony spoke of. It was her, after all.

***

“Who are you?” she stumbled back. “Surely not a duke? If you were one, you’d have introduced yourself like they all seem to do.”

“Fine. I am Michael Skeffington, the Duke of Breton.”

Harriet tilted her head to the side, quickly catching on.

“Sophia, are you leaving us?”

“I’m not—” she took a deep breath. “I’m not leaving you, no. Absolutely not. But this might be really important for me, I need to know if this man is telling the truth,” she turned to face the rest of the orphans, “I’ll come back here as soon as I can. I promise. Especially to teach. So, don’t forget your lessons either.”

“So you are coming with me after all?” he asked.

She turned around, facing him directly. “If and only if you are telling the truth, as it means I can finally locate my family. So yes, I suppose I am.”

“And let’s suppose I’m not telling the truth?”

A contradictory…but intriguing question. What if he was not telling the truth?

“Well, why would you want me to come with you then?”

“Erm—” he placed a hand on his chin, “I don’t have all day, are you coming or not?”

She rolled her eyes, sighing in disbelief.

“It is decided then,” he said.

Harriet ran up to the duke and hit him on the leg. Hard. So hard that it echoed in Sophia’s ears and even she winced from the pain. Harriet could hit hard if she wanted and the duke wasn’t the first to find out.

“Ooooh.” He held his leg tightly, raising it to his hips.

And the rest of the orphans giggled at his reaction. Only Sophia stared at him with half-worry, half-wonder. A duke that acted like a goof. “Are you—”

“I’m all right.” He turned his gaze toward Harriet. “And what was that for?”

Harriet shook her head. “You’re taking Sophia away.”

“She will—”

“I’ll come back to see you,” Sophia crouched down to Harriet’s level. “I’ll come tomorrow, the week after, the month after. I’ll never stop. He’s not at fault here. I need to meet someone and then I’ll be back again. All right?”

Harriet stepped closer to Sophia and firmly wrapped her hands around her form. The rest of the orphans followed soon after. Sophia was tearing up already –she expected it would happen, really, just not that soon.

“We’ll miss you,” the orphans said.

“I will too. Very much so. Say goodbye to Betsy for me. And expect my visit.”

The children nodded, taking a few steps back and giving her some space. That goof of a duke stared at her with such an alien expression—as if he had never experienced such a thing before. She doubted he was even normal for a moment.

He placed his umbrella over his head, waiting for her to join. And they stepped into the rain, disappearing into a new world.

Chapter One

“Smile, Lydia, it is not suitable for a Lady of your status to be all moody. What will the ton think?” Baroness Joana Bennet, Lydia’s mother, sat on the opposite side of the carriage. It had been the fourth complaint since the start of the travel and Lydia was confident it wouldn’t be the last.

“We are escaping scandal, Mama,” Lydia started, sarcasm filling her voice.

Mother kept her large hat on, even inside the carriage. She claimed ‘leaving the home you’ve always known’ was a grand occasion, so she needed to look her best and mourn in her own way. It didn’t make much sense to Lydia, who was the one to insist they don’t leave. As much as her family claimed it didn’t bother them, she could tell how much it really did. Her mother was the worst affected, evident from the dark bags under her green eyes and the wrinkles that had made their way onto her skin.

Daphne, her sister, was sleeping next to her. She never confessed how much she would miss her friends back home, but Lydia could only imagine.

“Think of the upside, both of you,” the Baroness declared, looking at Lydia’s sister, Daphne, who hadn’t said a word since the start of the trip. “The gossipers and the trouble doers won’t follow us anymore, right? There’ll be nothing to worry about. Unless Lydia messes up again, that is.”

The Baroness pushed her head upwards, peering out of the window.

“I’ve already told you so many times, it wasn’t my fault! Why won’t you believe me?” Lydia couldn’t stop herself from raising her voice, which seemed to wake Daphne from her slumber.

“We are leaving because we decided to. Everything else is secondary.” Daphne laid back down in her seat, staring out of the window herself.

Hopefully, this will be the last of it.

The cart shook in rhythmic movements, rocking Lydia left and right in soothing motions. The sound was enough to push away her mother’s words and replace them with dreams of a normal, quiet life. As she always desired.

After a few more minutes, the carriage reached London. They were still far from their new home, but Lydia couldn’t help herself from wanting to walk out there and explore every single valley and shop. It was all so different from her old city back in Wales.

The buildings stood taller and steadier, the people dressed fancier, and even the trees seemed more vibrant than back home. Despite it all, the ambiance felt faintly aloof, and it wasn’t just the rainy weather.

“Let’s make a stop,” the Baroness said, knocking on the carriage window to attract the driver’s attention. After a short while, the carriage halted.

Daphne was the first to open the door, the cool breeze brushing against Lydia’s face and providing her some comfort. She hadn’t realized just how humid it was inside, although she wasn’t entirely convinced the conversation from before didn’t contribute to that.

“Stop it, get off me!” Lydia screamed at the figure in the dark.

She quickly shook her head, strolling outside. Her long dress touched the dirtied pavement, but it was all right for once. Mama would be furious if she witnessed this on any other occasion, but the circumstances called for it.

“Janette spoke of a French modiste residing by main street. The best one in London, in fact. And Daphne, your debut ball is coming soon. Scandal or no scandal, you must look your best.” The Baroness walked further ahead, signaling the two sisters to follow behind.

“Let’s get out of here while we have time,” said Daphne.

“Without saying anything?” Lydia glanced left and right, unsure of what her sister was implying.

“She hasn’t let you breathe ever since the incident. Let us go, and we can deal with the consequences later. You deserve some fresh air. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

The two sisters giggled as their mother walked further on, unaware of them falling behind. Without any warning, they ran to the side, finding themselves in a valley that led them to another street further on.

It wasn’t as clean as Wales, Lydia could tell this much; the valleys smelled of sewage and rotten food, while the skies, now a near-black tint, threatened to break open and flood the place.

What shocked Lydia the most, however, was the sight of two women in pants. A knee-length skirt laid on top of their ankle-length pantaloons; it was scandalous! She had heard of a famous newspaper encourage it before, but she never thought she would see it in person. Most people paid no mind to the two women, while many men stared as if they had seen the rarest diamonds in the world.

Relief washed over her when she realized she was just another strange face. There was no disdain in people’s curiosity, and they certainly didn’t care for who she was. Despite that, her heart beat faster, and her hands still trembled. Scandal had followed her for far too long.

Cheerful screams could be heard in the distance, attracting both the sister’s attention.

“Look at the crowd, can you see it? Who is it?” Daphne asked. Lydia shrugged, unsure of what to reply as she hadn’t the slightest idea herself.

Daphne grabbed Lydia’s hand, guiding her toward the large crowd of at least one hundred people, who all surrounded a royal carriage. The authorities stood by the side, watching the scene unfold diligently in case they were required to step in. Journalists and reporters pushed ahead, struggling to get a better view.

“Your Grace, are you planning on staying in London? Have you any plans for another departure?” one of the reporters yelled out.

“It’s the Duke of Whitehaven! He’s really here!”

Lydia bit her bottom lip, her curiosity getting the better of her. She was never interested in royal affairs; still, she couldn’t help but wonder who exactly he was.

“There’s an opening, let’s go.” Daphne pulled Lydia forward through a small break in the crowd, guiding them to the first row of people. That was when she was able to see the man the people swooned over.

His raven black hair, freshly cut, stood out the most and decorated his well-structured face. Unlike most royals, his beard was grown out but trimmed carefully, giving him a rugged look and making him appear older than he was. He must have been five and twenty at most. His physique was out of this world. Never in her life had Lydia seen a man so tall and muscular as him. Her eyes traveled from his biceps to his face, trying to take everything in.

You can’t think of a man that way, Lydia.

His brown eyes met hers, and it felt as if the world stopped. But she quickly looked away, too ashamed to face him.

“I need to know who he is, now,” said Daphne.

“Asher Graydent, the Duke of Whitehaven,” a woman said from next to them.

Lydia stared back in his direction, her eyes open wide in wonder, trying to study him. She wasn’t going to see him again, but it felt nice to engage in things of this manner, no matter how childish.

He looked at her once more, but this time she refused to look away. She could feel his gaze penetrating her being. She could never imagine herself staring at a man like that back home, but the lack of freedom she left behind granted her some courage.

The carriage door from behind him opened, revealing another mysterious figure. His leather boots brushed against the ground, and all it took was one look for Lydia to lose her balance.

She knew him. He was Jackson Powell, the man who ruined her life. The unknown man that her family had gone to extreme lengths to get away from. And the man who was now standing in front of her.

Her feet carried her away from the crowd.

“Lydia, come back!” Daphne’s voice disappeared into the distance. Lydia’s tear-stained eyes blocked her view, but she didn’t care.

She needed to get away, somewhere he would never find her again.

Chapter Two

“What happened out there?” Lydia’s mother asked Daphne.

They were inside the manor now and Lydia refused to come out of her room, her loud sobs filling the whole house. After Daphne had found her crawled in the corner of the street, she helped her back to the carriage, and without much reprimanding needed from mother –who was more than furious–, they rode home.

Lydia couldn’t utter a word since she saw him. All she could focus on were the scenes replaying in her mind, one after the other. She thought she had escaped her old life; she thought she would finally get a new beginning!

You idiot girl.

“She saw someone, but I didn’t have time to see who because I ran after her. She looked rather scared, though. Please, let us leave her alone to calm down,” said Daphne.

“All right, you can take your time. But in two hours, a visitor will be coming, so you better look your best. Your Lady’s maid will be here soon. There’s no time for nonsense,” mother said to Lydia.

Mother’s gracious steps could be heard moving further away, relieving Lydia for a second. She couldn’t bring herself to tell them. They didn’t know the truth about Jackson, and they could never find out.

“Pay no mind to her, she doesn’t know any better. Are you all right?” Daphne asked from outside the room.

Lydia nodded before remembering her sister couldn’t see her. “Y-yes… I need to stay alone for a while. Can you go away, please?”

Daphne lingered for a few seconds before she moved away, leaving Lydia to her solitude.

She stood up, walking in front of the mirror and staring at her face. Her once lively green eyes now appeared dull and lifeless, the color a tad darker than they used to be. Her luscious lips were dry as she licked them to bring some moisture back to them. She let her hair loose, watching as her brown locks fell down her waist. There was a reason she was nicknamed ‘the spoiled wallflower’. She had learned to accept it, but her family was highly offended by it. They were always the most protective.

A knock at the door caught her attention.

“My Lady, may I please enter?” Lydia didn’t recognize the voice, but she assumed it was her new maid.

“Yes, you may.”

The older woman walked inside, her figure frail yet somehow holding a strong aura at the same time. She had a few patches of greying hair and she was far shorter than the average person. Her eyes were an icy blue color and they held stories inside of them, ones Lydia was already curious to learn more of. Her nose was flat, with a bump at the top, far different than the average English woman. Lydia couldn’t tell much more from her appearance, but the woman’s bright smile brought her some ease.

“Madam requested me to come. I’m sorry to distu—”

“No, it’s okay. You can come in, please, don’t worry.” Lydia pointed at her bed, smiling past her tears.

“I’ll help you undress, My Lady,” said the woman.

“Thank you. What is your name?”

“Minerva.”

Minerva walked up to Lydia, being as gentle as possible as she slowly removed the upper layer of the clothing that restricted Lydia’s form. She continued by unlacing Lydia’s corset. Lydia stopped her mid-way, holding a hand over her stomach. Although the woman was here to do the job, Lydia didn’t feel comfortable revealing her bare form in such a way, even to an older woman, not with the scar tainting her stomach’s clear skin.

She had earned that one back home, although it wasn’t as bad as the scars in her heart and mind. Lydia was glad when Minerva didn’t push it any further. Instead, she turned around, giving Lydia some privacy as she removed her undergarments herself.

“Your bath is ready, I made sure of it from before. You can go in now.”

Lydia nodded, making her way to the bath and sinking her body in. She closed her eyes as the hot water soothed her figure, and all she wanted to do at that moment was sleep. The memories had disappeared, reminding her of life before the incident.

A time where she and Daphne would go out together to tea parties, to the dance hall, and all sorts of events, meeting with different gentlemen of higher status. These had all disappeared and were replaced with a persistent, negative feeling.

After a while, Lydia walked out of the bath and dried herself. Minerva helped her dress up. The Baroness had brought in a gown, far too yellow and cheerful for Lydia’s liking; it was the color of the sun, with oversized, puffy sleeves and a train similar to a wedding dress. She had little choice but to wear it.

They now sat in front of the dresser as Minerva brushed her hair in gentle motions.

“Are you okay, My Lady?” asked Minerva. “Your eyes keep tearing up…”

Lydia quickly wiped her tears away once more, shaking her head. She didn’t know Minerva at all, but she didn’t want to be perceived as a weak royal woman who hated her life.

“Are you from here? Do you know who the Duke of Whitehaven is?” Lydia couldn’t help but ask. For a moment, she felt like a young girl again; when she would daydream about an imaginary Prince who would come and save her. Except the Duke was real and possibly someone she wouldn’t want to be close to.

“Not from London. I am from an orphanage up North, but I’ve been here half my life,” Minerva continued. “As for the Duke you speak of, yes, I’ve heard of him. All of London has. They say he returned from the Far East after a year, so the papers are all inquiring and writing about him.”

Lydia intertwined her fingers, moving her thumbs in circular motions. That didn’t tell her much about who he was, but at least it gave her something. Perhaps the more she knew about him, the less she would spend her time being intrigued by him.

She hated thinking of men. She hated being around men. The last time it happened in Wales, she found herself crying to sleep for endless nights with Daphne helping her. And now, for the second time, Jack was involved.

“Did you grow up in an orphanage?” Lydia asked.

“Yes, My Lady. My parents died in a fire when I was a babe, so I had to go. I met most of my friends there.” Minerva smiled and looked at Lydia through the mirror.

“Please, tell me more.”

“Well, I have a sister I never met,” Minerva paused. “I found out she’s in London, so now I’m searching for her. I don’t know if it’s for sure so I’m taking a risk. Family is worth that much, after all.”

Lydia’s sympathy grew and she was about to respond to her, but a loud knock on the door interrupted them.

“Our visitor is here,” the Baroness said from outside the door. She entered the room. “You look splendid! I’m sure that’ll do it.”

Lydia wanted to ask what she meant, but she knew how dismissive her mother could be. Instead, she put on a smile, unsurprised at how the Baroness ignored the tears that threatened to spill once more.

“Wipe your tears, we don’t want him to think you’re one of those Ladies, do we? They need to think you’re well-mannered, a ray of sunshine and anything positive.” Lydia hadn’t the slightest idea what mother was implying, but it wasn’t impossible to guess what she wanted. She had already received warnings possible suitors would soon arrive; she only hoped it wouldn’t be this soon.

Lydia was always stubborn and refused to tackle her duties as a woman, but her mind was made up after what occurred. She would never marry. Lydia was even willing to let the ton believe she liked the companionship of women more than men, even if it would ruin her life.

She hummed a familiar melody as they made their way to the guest room, hoping the time would pass slower.

Although Father, the Baron of Netrehame, had purchased this place, Mother was responsible for the décor and everything secondary, which was evident from how everything appeared. Paintings, many of them far too expensive for Lydia’s tastes, decorated the walls, giving the otherwise dull interior some life. A few counters, all with statues and vases on top, lined up to the end of the hall, where the stairs began. It didn’t remind Lydia of home but of the elaborate museums and art exhibits they would occasionally visit.

After what felt like hours, they reached the bottom of the seemingly endless staircase and walked into the guest room. It was painted a bland white. Only a few flowerpots livened up the room, but the feeling of emptiness and unfamiliarity was still present.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Your Grace.” The Baroness curtseyed, her voice softer than before. “You know how a woman can be when she desires to look her best.”

Lydia was able to take a look at the visitors standing in front of them. An older man, his hair grey and his face wrinkly, grinned as she stared at him, searching for answers. Next to him, another woman, far younger than he was, sat straight up with a bright smile and a kind, compassionate face. Her gown was bright red, bringing out the light, hazel color of her eyes. She was beautiful.

“I understand, perfectly, do not let it fester,” the younger woman said. “And is this the beautiful lady, Lydia?”

“Nice to meet you, Your Grace,” Lydia said, not wanting to seem ill-mannered. Her voice came out softer than she wanted.

“This is His Grace, Benjamin, the Duke of Leosted, and Her Grace, Rosaline, the Duchess. We highly appreciate your visit here today,” Lady Joana declared, nudging Lydia in an effort to communicate the prominence of the two people before them. Lydia forced a smile over her face to hide the lack of energy present in herself. The Baroness sat down on the blue couch near the couple.

“And will Lord Henry be joining us this fine evening? It is all right if he is unable, I know how busy he can be after all, particularly after moving,” Duke Benjamin said.

“I’m afraid not, Your Grace, as he had to meet up with a possible merchant, and it ruined the schedule. He promised he will make up for it next time,” said the Baroness.

“Oh, no, it’s all right! If this lovely lady can be here, then it’s enough for us,” Rosaline exclaimed.

“Lydia.” Duke Benjamin turned his body toward her, now facing her.

She nodded.

“I’d like to know something about you, enlighten us. It’s always interesting hearing about people’s interests.”

Lydia hesitated the urge to roll her eyes at the attempt of small talk. But she pushed her negative thoughts aside.

“I, uh, like to read a lot. I have a collection of astrology books I read as often as I can when I’m not indulging in my duties as a Lady.”

“Hmm, interesting.” His face had quickly transformed into a frown, but impressing him was the last thing Lydia cared about right now. “My nephew is not exactly fond of that, but it is no problem. That’s not why we’re here, after all.”

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” Lydia started, “but what is the meaning of this visit? I’m not enlightened on the reason.”

“He’s the—”

“It’s all right, I can explain,” the Duke said. “I’m here for my nephew, your husband to be.”

“You are to marry our nephew, the Duke of Whitehaven,” the Duchess said with a smile.

Lydia stood frozen in her seat, clenching the arms of the chair tighter as she felt her breath turning hazier and hazier by the second.

The voices rang in her ears.

I am to marry the Duke of Whitehaven…

Chapter Three

One Week Later

Asher dreaded but loved crowds all the same. And now, he was stuck at a ball, instructed to meet a woman he had to marry, but knew he would never love. After he inherited his father’s debt, alongside his fame, his only solution was to marry rich. And thanks to his uncle’s arrangements, marrying a young, rich virgin happened to be the most convenient solution.

His problem was that he hated women like that with a passion. Most of them put on a charade in front of him, acting flirty with an eye to seducing him for his status, and he was sure she would be the same. He didn’t want her, but there wasn’t much of a choice. There were rumors circulating about her, but he paid no mind to them this time around. He would rather be the judge of her himself.

The room was bland, matching his lack of intrigue toward the Lady he was to meet. The light-colored gowns the women dressed in almost matched the white color of the wall, while the black coats of the men in attendance contrasted with the rest of the hall. The color combination fitted the dull and gray atmosphere perfectly. A table of food and punch had remained untouched by the attendees, perhaps as many of them were too afraid of blemishing the lavish image they were trying to uphold. There must have been at most fifty people present, far fewer than the typical balls he was forced to attend.

“Why’re you standing in the middle of the room for? Come on, let’s go to the back, the others are waiting,” Jack called out to Asher as he gestured for him to move faster. Lydia and her family hadn’t arrived yet, so he was stuck waiting.

“Playing billiards again?” Asher smirked.

Jack nodded as Asher made his way to the back where the rest of the unmarried men would usually situate themselves. The room smelled of cigars and alcohol, combined with the fresh scent of rain from the open window. It wasn’t nearly as crowded as usual.

“Asher!” One of his friends, William, called out. Unlike most people, societal norms didn’t apply to them. Addressing each other on a first-name basis when no one was around was nothing out of the ordinary.

“I was wondering when you’d show your face. You look like a mess though, what’s with the beard? Did traveling to a savage land change your sense of style as well?” William teased as he took a seat. Asher didn’t usually take kindly to words of this manner. He was the inquisitive kind, with a great sense of curiosity toward other cultures. However, he chose not to address that comment this time; it seemed everyone was sick of hearing it.

“Where are the decorations? And where’s Philip? This isn’t exactly the welcoming party I was promised,” Asher said with a sly smile as he stood leaning against the door frame, tapping his foot.

“The guy for that is out there trying to find a suitor, as per usual,” said William, as he finally came in for a long-lasting embrace.

“Any luck with your plans?” Asher asked. William had written him a few times, narrating stories of his desire to travel to other lands, which his family forbade him from. Asher couldn’t imagine.

“Nothing,” William paused. “Earl or no Earl, it’s always been a great aspiration for me to travel, yet there’s never any time. At least that’s what my wife and the family claim; that a man’s heart is where his blood is and not in foreign lands.”

“He’s been pestering all of us since you’ve been gone. ‘I want to go to the Far East, to the Americas, to Greece’. Only alcohol seems to ease him,” said Jack as he walked by Asher to join in the revelries with the rest. He poured a glass of gin for William, smiling.

“Did you manage to find what you were looking for? A year is a long time…” William needn’t say more, as Asher was already prepared to respond.

“It was a false lead; he wasn’t the man. As unethical as it was, I followed him around, questioned him, but… It wasn’t him; it couldn’t be. The events don’t add up, nothing does. Whoever it is, either they never left London, or they managed to get away with it for good.” A frown found its way to his face.

“London is big, my friend,” Jack said. “You’re young, you’re going to be married soon, and you have a life ahead of you. Mourn them, cry over them, but don’t let this eat at you.”

“Marriage? Since when?” William stared up from his drink, but Asher didn’t miss the dread in his eyes.

“Oh, didn’t you hear? Asher is to marry a daughter of a Baron from Wales. Rich one, isn’t she?” Jack’s voice had grown lower as he spoke.

The opening of the door interrupted the friends’ conversation as a footman walked further inside and toward the three friends.

“Your Grace. My Lords,” the man said. He turned to face Asher. “They are requesting your presence at the ballroom.”

Asher nodded, gesturing for him to go away. He already knew who it was, so he sighed, letting some air out his lungs.

“Is it your betrothed?” asked Jack.

“Yes,” Asher replied. “I better get going then. I’ll try to make it quick this time.”

After a few more words with his friends, Asher walked out the room and into the ballroom, where the guests awaited him. His uncle was there alongside his wife. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen him dressed in such formal attire. Asher already wanted to escape the situation. But he was the one who requested the marriage; he was the one who needed it, so he ought to try.

“Good evening,” Asher greeted the family. Two young sisters stood alongside the parents. One looked uncomfortable, with her head held low while the other stared at him intently, making him grow uncomfortable too. The shy woman was unusually charming, and her silver gown brought out the shimmer of her skin. He stared away, not intending to look improper or even remotely interested.

“Your Grace! We’re so glad to finally meet you in person,” the Baron said. Asher bowed in return, smiling.

“This might seem a bit sudden and untraditional, but I say we let the two of them dance before we engage in our talk. Let them get to know each other,” Uncle Benjamin suggested.

“I agree, wonderful idea! Lydia, my dear, go to him.”

The woman named Lydia nodded, reluctantly walking up to the Duke. As he assumed, the shy one was his betrothed. He couldn’t see her face properly, but he could easily recall the curves of her body through her silver dress. She was thin, taller than average, and unbelievably beautiful. Her pale skin was unblemished, only a few beauty spots tainting it but adding to her charm.

He requested for her hand, and she took it as they walked up to the center of the ballroom while soft music played behind them. One hand held her waist, while Lydia’s hand held his shoulder. People stared with awe at the couple, envious of their deceptive intimacy. Asher couldn’t remember the last time he had danced with a woman, and now that he was back from the Far East, Lydia was the first to have the honor.

“I’m not doing this with the intention of love,” Asher muttered. Lydia finally raised her head, staring at him, revealing her wide innocent eyes which glimmered in the bright light, just as he feared.

“I’m not doing this out of will,” she sassed back, surprising him. Her voice was loud and clear, something he didn’t expect.

He didn’t know what he was expecting for an answer, but certainly not that.

“Why are you here then? You have to consent as much as the man, so declining the betrothal wouldn’t be much of a feat,” he noted. He pulled her slightly closer to him as the music picked up its pace.

“The same reason you are. There’s no other choice. You’re desperate, my parents are desperate, so this is the reason we are stuck in this predicament.” He expected her to be quiet and shy, so every word that escaped out of her mouth was more unexpected than the last.

“I wouldn’t call it a predicament so soon, at least not before we get to know each other. You know more about me than I know about you. So go on, intrigue me.”

“It’s not my job to intrigue you,” Lydia sassed once more. “But if you must, then I will. I was nicknamed the ‘spoiled wallflower’ back home.”

“That is intriguing. May I ask why?” he asked.

“No, you may not.” Her full lips spread into a smile, and he fought every urge to stare at them intently. He already disliked her, but every word that escaped her lips made him more and more inquisitive. Somehow. “But I can tell you one more thing. I hate men. Including you.”

“Harsh, don’t you think? As you said, it is desperation that brought us here, so there’s no need for such strong feelings so soon,” Asher said. He thought she was exaggerating at first, but the fire in her eyes suggested otherwise.

“It might be so, but that is life after all. Tell me something about you, then. Maybe this dance will pass by quicker,” Lydia said, pretending to yawn.

“I’m in the papers. You might have seen me, ‘the return of the Duke of Whitehaven.” She nodded but seemed bored. “I was in India for a year, so my return seems to have caused an uproar.”

“Why did you go there?” They waltzed to the soothing music as they held each other. He noticed she was staring at her feet every few seconds as if she was unsure what she was doing.

“Interested now, are we?” Asher couldn’t help but tease her, something pushing him to. She acted differently than what she looked and what she should have been like. “I was looking for the man who killed my parents.”

“Oh…” The arrogant smile left her face, replaced by what he only assumed was shock.

“It was a false lead, so now I’m back. I inherited debt from the death of my parents, so my uncle is pressuring me to marry a Lady of status, which just so happens to be you,” Asher said as he laid all of his cards on the table. His hopes were to discourage her from seeking love further on into their marriage. The more he spoke, the more discouraged he hoped she would get.

“I’m not wealthy; my family is. And there are others of higher status, wealthier, and who don’t hate men. Choose them instead and turn me down.”

“That’s not you,” Asher said. “You’re acting.”

***

Lydia tilted her head, staring at him with curiosity. Her insides were burning hot, the shakiness in her arms returning. She couldn’t believe she had lasted this long, so close to him.

What is he talking about?

“Are you acting right now, Lydia?” He whispered her name, sending shivers up and down her spine. Her breath hitched in her throat, freezing her for a moment.

Yes, as a matter of fact, she was. It was the only way she would manage to endure through this dance and the time she spent together with him. He was handsome, intriguing, mysterious, and everything good at once, but she hated him with an untold passion. She hated him because he was friends with a monster; she hated him because he was probably a monster himself.

“I, uh…” She tried clearing her throat but to no avail. She stood frozen, uncomfortable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I didn’t come here to calm a spitfire, uncle made sure of that. He noted your modesty, he noted your scandalous past, he noted everything. So, are you acting right now?” he asked.

Lydia shook her head, feeling her face redden. The tightness in her throat restricted her breathing, and images of back home returned to her. She didn’t know how she would explain this to anyone; a woman like her, so terrified of touching men, was enchanted by the Duke of Whitehaven yet resented him all the same. She put on a façade, desiring to fool herself and him, desiring to survive, but it was now tearing apart piece by piece.

“I… told you, I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Lydia.

“It’s all right, I do.” Asher’s eyes met hers, his gaze piercing through her being, studying her. She clenched her fist, feeling violated and confused at the hot feeling in her stomach.

The music ceased, and they walked back to their family who was waiting. Lydia’s legs felt wobbly and unstable, but she put on a smile for her parents, desiring to keep them happy. Daphne understood something wasn’t quite right.

“That was splendid,” Asher’s uncle exclaimed. “Excuse my unorthodox ways, but I always judge a couple by the way they dance to see if they are ideal for marriage.”

“Agreed, My Lord. They are a perfect match,” Father said.

“They were perfectly frozen in place for half the dance,” Daphne muttered beneath the commotion of the crowd as she received a customary nudge from mother.

Lydia gritted her teeth, pressing her nails into her palms.

“It is decided then?”

“Yes, it certainly is.”

“I guess we are stuck together now, like it or not,” Asher whispered in her ear.