Category: Previews

Chapter One

June 1815

Cartwright Hall

Life as a spinster was generally not as bad as the rest of the ton made it out to be.

Certainly, an enlightened male relative was necessary to provide a roof over one’s head, but compared to a married Lady of Quality, Phoebe Townsend decided that spinsterhood certainly afforded her far more privileges than if she had a husband who lorded himself over her by virtue of his being born male.

Besides, she could hardly feel any difference in her life from before she had been declared off the marriage market, for better or for worse. It was simply a matter of finding similar like-minded individuals with whom she could comfortably associate with, and the so-called Spinsters’ Club afforded her that rather nicely.

“It is rather pitiful how he has not chosen to marry,” Miss Cartwright shook her head with a rueful smile. “With a face like that, he could send the whole of London abuzz!”

“Not to mention that he is currently a Marquess and heir to one of the finest estates in all of England!” Miss Bradbury added. “The Duke of Cheshire has been ill for so long that it is only a matter of time before…”

It was rude to speculate on the imminent demise of a person, of course, so she did not finish her sentence. However, it was understood by everyone in the Club that the Duke of Cheshire had been on his deathbed for quite some time and his son, the Marquess of Wentworth, Lord Charles Montgomery, still had no intention of fulfilling his obligations to his line and finding a wife to sire him an heir.

“But he is so dreadfully handsome!” Miss Cartwright sighed dreamily. “It is such a waste of his heavenly looks, to be sure!”

Phoebe barely looked up from her diary as the other ladies around her continued to gossip about their favorite gentleman—the infamous Lord Charles Montgomery, the Marquess of Wentworth. Every Wednesday, without fail, their conversations would turn towards the Marquess, and they would sigh over his dashing good looks.

I daresay Lord Wentworth would not be so pleased to find himself the object of the fantasies of a gaggle of spinsters, she thought to herself, as she made another note in her diary.

It was one thing to have swathes of eligible young ladies falling over themselves for a gentleman, and an entirely different thing for him to be secretly fawned over by a bunch of women who Society has collectively deemed wholly unsuitable for marriage.

“It is always the handsome ones who hide the darkest secrets,” she heard Miss Adeline Thomas scoff. “He hardly ever leaves his estate, and he never accepts callers. That should be enough to tell you all that there is more to Lord Wentworth than just his looks.”

“But that hardly means he is engaged in something nefarious,” Miss Bradbury shuddered. “Perhaps he just prefers to keep to himself most of the time…”

All the other members of the Club would generally agree that a gentleman had the privilege to be selective of the company he indulged in. After all, a good number of them did prefer to stay away from social affairs too. 

But Miss Thomas had the most unfortunate character trait of one who never wanted to be told she was wrong. Before she had been declared a spinster by her beleaguered papa and hapless mama, she had been called a veritable termagant behind her back for her querulous nature.

“Of course, they would never say that out loud,” she told them all with a tone of derision. “After all, what villain would trumpet his misdeeds for all the world to hear? Mark my words—Lord Wentworth has probably murdered countless people and buried them in Wentworth Park!”

The idea of literal corpses becoming fertilizer for the vast and tangled gardens of Wentworth Park was so laughable that Phoebe had to pause from her scribbling to look up at her companions with a sigh.

“I certainly doubt the veracity of that particular claim,” she told them.

As one, their gazes all swiveled back to her, most of them confused and hopeful.

Miss Thomas regarded her with an icy glare. “And how would you know? Have you been to Wentworth Park?”

“Of course not,” she replied with an amiable smile at the quarrelsome lady. “But Townsend House is just near to Wentworth Park and one can clearly see the Marquess from my window if he ever deigned to go out and bury somebody in his own gardens. Besides,” she told the rest of the group, “if he is going about and murdering as much as Miss Thomas claims, then he certainly is not very punctual about it.”

She saw the twin spots of pink that colored Miss Thomas’s cheeks, but she felt that she must speak out of turn to defend the honor and reputation of a gentleman who was not himself present to stand up for himself in the face of such lies.

“What do you mean he is not at all punctual about it?” Miss Cartwright dared to ask, her eyes lit up with curiosity.

“Well, contrary to popular opinion, he does come out of his house,” Phoebe explained. “But it is always at around six in the evening and then, he proceeds to go about the rest of the estate…”

Miss Bradbury frowned. “Go about the rest of the estate doing what exactly?”

“Why, he inspects it, of course. Every inch of it, from what I could see.”

“But Wentworth Park is quite large! It would take him hours to accomplish such a task.”

Phoebe smiled at them. “Precisely. Now, if someone were to go about doing all that day after day, that would leave only the daytime hours for him to go about murdering people and that is hardly ideal unless one were to become a prolific killer in broad daylight.”

The other ladies let out horrified giggles, for although as dark and horrific the idea of murder was, it was also quite ridiculous to engage in such an act in broad daylight, with most of the world being wide awake to witness the act.

A murmur of agreement rose from amongst the other ladies as Miss Thomas bristled in annoyance from her seat. Phoebe even saw her throw a glare her way, but she just shrugged it all off. She was pretty much accustomed to Miss Thomas and her attitude by then and a glare was not really the worst she had received from the other spinster, all things considered.

“My, you certainly have Lord Wentworth all figured out,” Miss Thomas remarked in a saccharine tone. “A pity that he has not noticed you, then. In fact, the only attentions you have ever received was from—who was that again? Oh, Lord Edwin Oakley.”

At the mention of that name, Phoebe immediately stiffened, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her pen.

Of course, Miss Thomas would bring out the Baron of Scunthorpe, which was a sore topic for Phoebe. He was the one thing that could reduce her to silence—and not in a good way.

Instead of flinging back a scathing retort, she looked down at the scrawled notes in her diary, her lowered eyes making out the name Charles written frequently amongst its pages.

Miss Thomas might hurl her vitriol at her, but Phoebe knew the truth—that Lord Wentworth was not the monster she made him out to be and she would not allow her to malign such a misunderstood man.

Before anyone could say anything else, Miss Cartwright let out a nervous laugh.

“Well, this was a rather, ah, lively discussion,” she smiled at her guests. “But it is getting rather late now so we might have to adjourn this meeting and meet again, say, the same time next week?’

There was a murmur of agreement amongst the group and Phoebe inwardly let out a sigh of relief. Fortunately, things between her and Miss Thomas did not have to escalate unnecessarily.

She quickly packed up her things into her little satchel, when she recalled that she had promised her younger sister, Daphne, that she had to be back home earlier. She quickly said her goodbyes to the rest of the group, pointedly ignoring the smirk that Miss Thomas casually threw her way.

“Will you be here the same time next week, dear?” Miss Cartwright asked her with hopeful eyes. 

“Of course, Miss Cartwright,” Phoebe replied with a quick smile.

“Do take care on your way back,” her host told her with a gentle hand on her arm. 

Phoebe gave her a slight nod as she hurried out the door, her satchel swinging from her arm, its contents jostling from within. She put a hand on her bonnet to keep it from flying away as she quickly made her way into the carriage waiting for her.

“Back to Townsend Manor, please,” she told the coach. “And please hurry.”

“Right away, Miss Phoebe!” the coachman replied, and with a snap of the reins, they were off.

Oh, I do hope that I am not too late or Daphne will never forgive me!

If she had not been caught in a small argument with Miss Thomas, she might have been better able to keep track of the time and excused herself from the meeting earlier.

Well, at least I have made it clear that I do not live next door to a brutal murderer, she thought with a relieved sigh.

She did, however, feel more than a little incensed when Lord Edwin was brought up in the conversation. Miss Thomas certainly had no qualms about being rude and offensive for as long as she could have the upper hand in an argument!

As she looked out the window apprehensively, Phoebe could not help but let out a sigh once more.

Chapter Two

June 1815 

Townsend Manor

Phoebe knew herself to be a rather tolerant person in that she found herself to be more accepting of a person’s idiosyncrasies than most of the ton were willing to be. She also was not one to nurse a grudge. However, she found that she was still rather piqued when she arrived at Townsend Manor.

Perhaps piqued was not even the right word, for she was still in a dark mood, when a flurry of pale pink muslin nearly crashed into her from the door.

“You have arrived! Oh! I was so worried that you had forgotten about me!”

She found herself being wrapped in a frenzied hug and for a brief moment, she wondered if this was how she was going to die—smothered by muslin and still stewing with a significant amount of resentment towards Miss Thomas.

But Phoebe still wanted to enjoy a great deal of what life had to offer, so she managed a small smile as she gingerly extricated herself from her youngest sister’s exuberance.

“Daphne, you are already a young lady,” she gently reminded her sister. “Perhaps you should refrain from barreling at those who have just crossed the front door.”

She saw a faint, pretty blush adorn the younger girl—no, woman’s—cheeks as her sister appeared properly chastised for her behavior. That was soon followed by a more childish pout and Phoebe smiled a little more ruefully at the sight.

Perhaps she is not as grown up as she likes to think herself, she thought as she took off her bonnet and gloves.

“I had thought you had forgotten about me,” Daphne repeated, the complaint clear in her voice. “You promised you would be home by four.”

The eldest daughter of the Townsend household nodded slightly. “Of course, I did, but the meeting dragged on for far longer than I would have liked.”

It could have ended much sooner, if Miss Thomas kept her tongue in check, she added in her mind.

“Well, no matter!” Daphne declared as she dragged her older sister upstairs to her rooms. “You must help me—I am in a right state wondering what to wear for dinner tomorrow.”

“I hardly think the approval of a spinster should accomplish your goals.”

“Spinster or not, you have attended three Seasons. Your experience is, at this point, most invaluable, Fi.”

Phoebe smiled to herself as Daphne continued to drag her upstairs. Indeed, she had made her bow and attended all of three Seasons, but she did not have much to show for it. As far as the ton were concerned, it had all ended with dismal results for she had no husband to show for herself.

There was one suitor, but the mere thought of him had her glowering once more—something that Daphne managed to catch.

“You do seem like you are in a less than stellar mood today,” she remarked softly as they stood just outside the door to her bedchamber. “Perhaps I should not have dragged you so needlessly—”

“Oh, dearest, that is hardly your fault!” Phoebe cried as she hugged her sister. “It is just that…well…” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Miss Thomas brought up the subject of the Baron of Scunthorpe earlier at the meeting…”

Phoebe knew she needed not expound further on the matter when she saw the realization dawning on her younger sister’s face.

“Well, that was rather rude of her!” Daphne huffed as she pushed the door open. “And I have heard of this Miss Thomas—she sounds like a dreadful character, really.”

“Who is a dreadful character, Daphne dear?” a voice queried.

Phoebe peered inside the room to find the third Townsend sister seated on the couch with a book on her lap. Minerva looked back at her like a curious little owl, her head tilted slightly as she regarded her two sisters from the doorway.

“Miss Thomas!” Daphne bit out. “She just mentioned that…that…unwelcome presence during their meeting!”

Phoebe let out a small smile as her youngest sister expressed an extreme indignation for what she had experienced at the meeting with Miss Thomas.

Sisters are truly a loyal and ferocious bunch.

Well, her sisters, at least, for she knew a great many amongst the ton who turned against their own.

“No!” Minerva breathed out. “She did not!”

Phoebe could tell that her second sister truly had strong feelings on her behalf also, for she had set aside her book as she stood up suddenly.

“The sheer audacity!” Minerva remarked.

“I know, right? It is no wonder that most people I know have shunned her.” Daphne let out a delicate shudder. “Even her poor mama has had to contend with her misdeeds for it appears she had made a great number of foes before.”

Phoebe looked at her two younger sisters, who appeared to have worked themselves up into a fit of righteous indignation on her behalf. The earlier resentment that she felt towards Miss Thomas and her reminder of the Baron started to dissipate and she smiled a little bit more as she laid a hand on Daphne’s shoulder.

“Come now. Let us shelf that matter,” she coaxed her. “You have a dinner to attend tomorrow, I believe? Why, we must make sure that you are simply the most radiant creature that Lord Brunswick has ever laid his eyes on!”

Daphne blushed a vivid rosy hue as she cast down her gaze shyly. “You know that nothing is settled yet between us. I just wanted to make a good impression…”

“And you shall, of course!” Minerva declared loyally. “After all, where else can he find such a beautiful and talented young lady in all of London?”

“Stop it, Minerva! You know that is not true!”

Phoebe reached out into the wardrobe and pulled out a dress of pale blue silk shot through with delicate golden embroidery. “This one should bring out the color of your eyes wonderfully, dearest. And it looks so elegant, does it not?”

“Yes, but I think you also look pretty in that pale rose dress from Madame Chagnon,” Minerva pointed out with a shrug. “But what do I know about dresses, really?”

Daphne pulled out the dress that her second sister was referring to and held it up in front of her with an appreciative look.

“Actually, it does look charming, Minerva,” she agreed. She hurried over to the mirror and smiled. “Your suggestion has merit.”

Phoebe watched as her sister shyly ducked her head and mumbled under her breath that she was glad she could help.

“Actually, I think that the blue would be better for another event,” she agreed. “It is rather elegant, but it might come off as a little… well, unapproachable.”

Minerva nodded. “Perhaps for a ball where you need to shock them all!”

The sisters burst into giggles as they all piled onto the plush sofa, the dresses they had chosen carefully put aside.

“You know, this almost feels like that time when we were children and we went through Mama’s wardrobe,” Daphne remarked wistfully.

Minerva snorted. “As I recall, Mama was not so pleased with us at that time. We had to go without pudding for a week!”

“No pudding for a week is the absolute worst!”

They happily chatted amongst themselves, indulging in the occasional fit of giggles and lighthearted banter that was the hallmark of their sisterly affection, when Phoebe’s eyes landed upon the clock on her sister’s mantelpiece. She nearly shot out of her seat when she saw that it was already six in the evening.

“I should go now!” she said, hastily collecting her things.

Daphne sat up with a frown. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Nothing much. I—I just recalled that I have something else to do.” She shot her youngest sister an apologetic smile and added, “You will look absolutely beautiful tomorrow, Daph, and Lord Brunswick should feel honored to have you as his guest.”

She noted the shy blush that bloomed on her sister’s face, but she said nothing of it as she hurried back to her own rooms. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, she casually tossed her satchel onto the sofa and hurried over to the windows that faced Wentworth Park.

At six, he always goes out to make a round around Wentworth Park, she thought to herself. Always. Without fail.

This, Phoebe knew, for she had been observing the Marquess of Wentworth for some time already. At first, she would make notes of it in her journal, but over time, she had come to know his routines by heart.

Around this time, the curtains all over Wentworth Park would be shuttered close nearly in unison. She had earlier noticed that they were so thick that hardly any light passed through them, so much so that it would seem as if the whole house was plunged into darkness simultaneously. It was almost as if its mysterious owner wished to give off the impression that there was no one in the entire residence.

Or maybe, he just does not appreciate the rest of the public minding his business…

Perhaps if he believed he had a neighbor like Miss Thomas, who only thought of him as a rampant murderer, Phoebe could certainly understand why he would not be so inclined to share his activities with the rest of the public.

However, a few minutes had passed and there was still no sign of the Marquess. In addition to that, she noted that several curtains had also remained open, when they should have been shuttered close already.

Now, that is strange, she mused to herself. Where could His Lordship be at this time? He is always punctual.

For many months already, she could count on him to come out for his evening jaunt to the point that she had come to think of it as some sort of tacit secret between them both. For him to deviate from his usual routine felt almost as if he had let her down in some way.

Where could he be? Phoebe thought to herself with a frown. Surely, he is not involved in something nefarious as Miss Thomas claims!

A lot of people deviate from their rituals frequently. Phoebe herself was not a creature of habit, so why should she expect the Marquess of Wentworth to stick to such a rigid routine?

Still, she felt it was rather unsettling to not see his familiar figure garbed all in black heading out to check the perimeters of his estate with a lantern in hand. It was not just disappointment—she truly felt a certain degree of concern for the mysterious Lord and his rather predictable habits.

I wonder what could have held him up, she thought to herself, sighing as she sat at the window seat. She propped her face up with her hand and stared out at Wentworth Park and the windows with their curtains still hanging open.

Chapter Three

Phoebe twirled the wand disinterestedly as a sleek, black cat jumped up at the feather attached to its end with its claws outstretched. It let out an indignant yowl as the wand flicked just out of reach.

“It feels rather unsettling, does it not, Whiteson?” she mused distractedly. “Just when I thought I had him all figured out, he does something truly unexpected and now, I do not know what to make of it. Or if I should make anything of it at all.”

She let out a soft sigh as she flicked the wand again, much to the cat’s consternation. Eventually, her lack of focus caused her to allow the wand to droop, and Whiteson, who had been waiting for the perfect opportunity like the skilled predator that he was, immediately pounced upon that feathered stick with a triumphant cry.

“You know what they say about cats and spinsters,” a soft voice intruded her thoughts.

She looked up to find Minerva walking towards her with a small smile. “Daph is already in her bedchamber.”

“That is quite unusual. One would think that she would be unable to sit still from the excitement of having dinner with Lord Brunswick tomorrow.”

“Oh.” The smile on Minerva’s face looked slightly devious. “Mama told her that she needed to get a lot of sleep in order to look her absolute best tomorrow.”

Phoebe let out a short laugh and shook her head at her sister. “Mama certainly has her ways. What about you? Why are you still up at this hour?”

“I saw you out in the gardens and I wondered if you might like some company… well, after what was said to you earlier.”

“I… have almost forgotten about it entirely.”

It was the truth, strangely. As incensed as she had been at Miss Thomas and her sharp tongue, she had almost forgotten her earlier resentment when she first noted their neighbor deviating from his usual routine. She still found it so unsettling that she barely touched her dinner and there was still half of her pudding left, which Minerva had then happily claimed for herself.

“That is good, I suppose,” her sister remarked. “From all accounts, Miss Thomas does seem to enjoy offending a lot of people, so you are in good company.”

“Not all company is good, you know.”

“Oh, I know all too well. You forget how I prefer books to people, Fi.”

Phoebe nodded listlessly as she stared out in the direction of Wentworth Park—and those few windows that still remained open. If the Marquess was up to something vile, then he most certainly was not going to leave the windows open for all the world to see, was he?

“Well, in that case, I should return to my book,” Minerva smiled at her. “I had Mary make me a cup of warm milk earlier and I would not want it to be cold by the time I got back.”

“Yes,” Phoebe muttered in reply. “Meanwhile, I think I’ll stay out here a while longer to keep Whiteson company.”

She heard Minerva murmur an acknowledgement and Phoebe was vaguely aware of the gentle pat on her shoulder before her sister walked back into the house and back to her book. 

As the second oldest of the three sisters, Minerva was of age to make her bow, but she had begged their parents to delay her coming out by another year, which was a great contrast to Daphne, who seemed to have prepared for her own entrance to Society ever since she was born.

All three sisters were different in their own way, but Lord and Lady Townsend regarded them all with equal affection and a bit more tolerance than most parents in the ton afforded their children. It was how Minerva managed to hold off on making her bow and why Phoebe had never been forced into marriage herself.

At five-and-twenty, she had at least another year before she could safely declare herself off the marriage mart, but her parents still said nothing when she announced that she was effectively putting herself on the shelf, as it were. Even then, she was not scorned for choosing the life of a spinster and her father even guaranteed that she would always have a roof over her head.

Other parents would not have been as tolerant.

Now, she mostly spent her days either helping her sisters or attending the weekly meetings in Cartwright Hall. However, what she was most fond of was watching the Marquess of Wentworth go about his daily activities like clockwork.

She could not fathom how a man could impose such a rigid schedule upon himself, and while she started observing him due to a great deal of fascination for the existence he chose to lead, she had truly come to admire the man in a way.

Of course, it certainly helped matters that he was sinfully handsome with a physique that would have rivaled that of Michelangelo’s David.

She flushed as she thought of his broad-shouldered frame and those long, muscular legs of his as he stoically made his rounds about Wentworth Park.

Until tonight, of course, when he failed to show up.

Her thoughts were disrupted by an indignant meow, followed by the sound of a slight scuffle as the feathered wand that Whiteson had been playing with tumbled to the ground. The feline let out a huffy purr before dashing off through the hedges and into the darkness—straight into Wentworth Park!

“Whiteson, no!” Phoebe cried out in alarm.

Although the cat certainly looked better than it did before it wandered up to the gardens of Townsend House, she doubted Whiteson would be considered a welcome guest in Wentworth Park. With her heart pounding loudly in her chest, she dashed through the hedges after the stubborn feline and climbed over the wall that divided the two properties.

Her feet landed on the grassy yard of Wentworth Park with a soft thud, but still, Whiteson was nowhere to be found. She gritted her teeth as she began to call for the cat softly. Under the cover of darkness, it would be much more difficult to find the black cat, except by its glowing green eyes.

You better be grateful after all the trouble you have put me through, she groused internally as she continued her search for him.

A soft breeze blew through the yard, rattling a few bare branches and sending a handful of fallen leaves flying her way. Phoebe squinted and covered her face to protect it when she noticed a small trapdoor lying open several yards away from her.

Whiteson must have gone in there, that silly cat!

She let out a frustrated sigh as she headed over to the trapdoor. A wooden staircase disappeared down into the depths and Phoebe could not resist the shudder that ran through her.

What is this place? 

She called again for the cat, but an answer never came, so she gritted her teeth and began to descend the staircase. Her first step was met with a loud creak and she froze immediately, looking around to see if somebody had heard her. She was now officially trespassing on the property of the Marquess of Wentworth, and if he found her… well, she doubted he would be impressed at all, to put it mildly. 

“Whiteson!” she called out again in a soft hiss. “Where are you, you silly little feline?”

Upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, she felt her feet step into something wet. She immediately recoiled, her eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the darkness and the paltry light from a handful of lamps that seemed to be on the last dregs of their viability.

Seconds later, the scene before her broke through the hazy gloom of the cellar. Two rows of barred cells flanked her on both sides. From the closest one to her left, she saw a handcuff attached to the wall and a straw pallet that appeared to be infested with mold. From beneath the straw pallet, a mouse emerged, scurrying close to her feet, and she bit her fist to silence her shriek. 

She had heard the rumors about the mysterious Marquess, but she had never thought he would have an actual torture chamber on his own property—or what seemed like one, anyway. It was certainly not something one would show to the guests when giving them a tour of the estate and she even doubted most of his staff knew of its existence, considering it appeared like it had not been cleaned in ages.

“I should leave,” Phoebe whispered to herself, her voice barely rising above the dampness in the still air of the cellar. 

Her heart began pounding fiercely, a rapid drumbeat that echoed the tremors racing through her limbs. She shook her head, trying to dispel the eerie sense of being watched in the darkness, and made to turn back towards the safety of Townsend House. But just as she spun toward the stairs and made to flee, she collided into something hard. Fists of steel hooked around her elbow, and Phoebe very nearly screamed.  

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?” a deep and angry voice rumbled from the shadows.  

Phoebe gasped and looked up, only to find the livid features of the Marquess of Wentworth. His dark brows were snapped together, his eyes a piercing, icy blue. His lips were pressed into a cold line as he awaited her reply.

“I-I am Phoebe Townsend, my Lord,” she stammered. “From Townsend House next door. I-I w-was looking for my cat—he ran over here, you see. He probably discovered th-that and there were a l-lot of m-mice in there and he thought—”

Phoebe clamped her mouth in horror when she realized that she had just tried to justify breaking and entering into the man’s property by implying that he had a rodent problem!

She hung her head in remorse. “I apologize—that was completely out of turn for me to say—” 

Although from all the scurrying and squeaking I have been hearing, this must be a veritable feast for a stray cat like Whiteson!

She watched as his dark brows relaxed into a more neutral position, although his eyes still looked like chips of ice. His fists fell away from her arms and Phoebe shuddered as she ran her hands over her skin there, hoping they would not leave bruises in the morning.

“You… are a woman,” he muttered matter-of-factly. 

“Yes, yes,” she nodded emphatically. “That I am… my Lord.”

She heard him snort under his breath and wondered if he doubted the veracity of that claim too. After all, she was rather tall for a member of the feminine population. So tall, in fact, that she towered over almost all the other young ladies in every ballroom she had ever attended. 

Yet, she still barely reached his chin and she still had to tilt her head back to watch him glower at her.

“Well then, you may leave,” he finally bit out. “And do not come poking your nose where it does not belong, young girl. Understood?”

Young girl?

“Truly?” she breathed out in relief instead. “Oh, thank you so much, my Lord! And you can rest assured that I will not tell a single soul what I have seen!”

As I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them that the Marquess of Wentworth had a literal torture chamber on his property! I would sound just like Miss Thomas! 

Lord Wentworth looked at her as if he doubted these words, too, but he silently stepped aside and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs.

“I trust you can find your way back home,” he told her in a curt tone.

Phoebe nodded again. She seemed to be nodding an awful lot tonight.

“Of course, my Lord. I am not a total simpleton, you know,” she blurted. 

Once again, she caught him muttering something under his breath and she wondered what he could have been saying.

She made her way up the rickety stairs and then paused at the very top to turn back and look at him, fidgeting uneasily when he continued to glare at her.

“I, ah, just wanted to ask that if you see Whiteson, please do not hurt him,” she began. “He is a black cat, you see, but he has the sweetest temper, although he is rather mischievous. Do not worry, though,” she added, shaking her hands before her. “I assure you that he can help you get rid of the, er…pests on  your lands. He is quite useful in other ways, you know.”

Now, what did I just say? Did I just imply he had a rodent problem once more?

She felt the heat creep up her cheeks when he did not even deign to reply, so Phoebe did what she thought was best—she whirled around, and clutching at her skirts, began to run back towards Townsend House. She did not turn back or slow down until she had managed to climb over the wall and was safe in her own garden once more.

***

Charles had never before had a more awkward interaction with a female of his species, and he certainly had many of them before Miss Phoebe Townsend crashed into him moments ago.

He had initially thought her to be an intruder—and she certainly was that, though not the kind that he had been expecting, to be truthful. 

For one, she was rather clumsy. He must have seen her stumble over the stairs at least three times going up and it was not a very lengthy staircase. On the contrary, it was rather short, one that could be breached with but a few steps.

Spies and assassins moved with far more grace than Miss Phoebe Townsend did.

And another thing, she simply talked too much. One could even say that she rambled on and on about her damned cat and how he must have found the mice on his property rather tempting, for about nineteen words too long. 

A woman who tried to kill him once had also tried to distract him, but she had been much more seductive than… awkward.

Of course, there was the off chance that she could have been lying about everything. It could all have just been an act that she had put on so that he would lower his guard and she could find the perfect opportunity to strike…

Just then, he heard a soft purr and felt something rub sinuously against his leg, rumbling in contentment as it did so. Surprised, Charles looked down to find a black cat happily rubbing its body against his ankle.

“Apparently, she was telling the truth,” he muttered. “And you must be Whiteson.”

The cat let out a meow in the affirmative.

“Your mistress was not the most creative at naming you.”

This time, it let out an indignant scoff and Charles sighed.

“Very well, you may help yourself to some mice,” he relented. “But do not finish them all off. You have to leave some to maintain the ambiance of the room.”

He gingerly shook the cat off his leg and walked back up and out of the trapdoor. He waited for the cat—Whiteson—to make its way out, before closing it behind him. This time, however, he made sure to lock it.

He would not risk the likes of Miss Phoebe Townsend inadvertently stumbling upon his secrets once again.

In fact, it would be more prudent to keep an eye on the young miss for a while. Heaven only knew what sort of troubles she might get into…

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 19th of August!

Chapter One

1815

Thornhill Castle

“Now you can open your eyes.”

Upon opening her eyes, Cecilia felt as though she had stepped back through time.

The hall through which she walked, arm in arm with Arthur, was of brooding dark stone. A vaulted ceiling was supported by massive timbers. Windows set to either side of the hall were tall and arched—they looked as though they belonged in a cathedral! The floor was of naked stone, though highly polished, and despite the finish, it bore the scars and scratches of its centuries of use.

“This is… remarkable. I cannot imagine living in such a place…” Cecilia gasped.

Her long auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders in bouncing curls. She shared the same brown eyes and small, straight nose as her brother, and both possessed dimples in their cheeks when smiling—so deep, it wasn’t difficult to tell they were siblings.

Arthur nodded. “Neither can I. In all the times I have visited Lionel here, I cannot picture Thornhill Castle as anything other than cold, brooding, and possibly haunted.”

He grinned and Cecilia returned the smile. “How exciting. I would love to share a house with a phantom.”

“But not the bloodless seventh Duke who walks the passageways of the east wing,” Arthur noted, grimacing in the manner of a gargoyle. “They say his throat was cut and when he was found, he was as white as snow. Now, he remains there, prepared to push unwary visitors down the tower stairs.”

Cecilia shuddered, though she knew her brother was exaggerating.

“I don’t see how an insubstantial wraith could push anyone down anything,” she said.

“By the force of sheer fright,” Arthur pointed out.

Cecilia playfully slapped his shoulder.

“Stop trying to frighten me, Artie. I am sure that this house is not nearly as frightening as its age makes it appear. It is… atmospheric, however.”

“Very,” Arthur agreed.

The babble of voices reached them from the far end of the hallway. A carved wooden screen divided the room at that point. It was painted to depict a grandiose scene from Teutonic mythology. A door was set into the screen, and as it opened, the sound of the other gathered guests grew in volume. A man stepped through the door and Cecilia immediately felt her heartbeat hasten.

“Ah, there you are, Penrose! Come and join us. Have you shown your sister around this moldering pile of stone I call home?” he uttered.

He was tall and broad-shouldered with short-cropped black hair. The darkness of his hair made his skin seem pale and emphasized his emerald, green eyes. His handsome features were completed by a Roman nose and full lips above a strong jaw. The man exuded strength and power. When those green eyes met her own, Cecilia found her breath quickening. She did not want to look away and found herself reminded of dark fairytales concerning seductive vampires. There was a physicality to him that made her acutely aware of her own body. By comparison to the muscle that seemed to make his clothing tight, her own curving hips and bosom felt soft. Under those broad hands, she would be helpless, to be manipulated as he saw fit. She wetted her lips and forced a breathless smile as he approached them.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of being introduced. I am the Duke of Thornhill, Lionel Grisham.”

He did not smile. Nothing disturbed the marble stillness of his pale face. It was the visage from the mind of a Renaissance master artisan. There was the capacity for cruelty there and the potential for an implacable enemy. But, she fancied, there was also a vulnerability in the softness of his full lips.

“Thornhill,” Arthur suddenly hastened to say, “may I introduce my younger sister, Cecilia.”

Cecilia remembered to curtsy and put out her gloved hand. She felt Lionel’s lips brush her fingertips and experienced a moment of wild fantasy in which she imagined that kiss without the material of the gloves in between,

“My pleasure, Cecilia. Please call me Lionel, as your brother is wont to do,” Lionel added, releasing her hand.

She regretted the end of that touch but at the same time was glad. She knew that Lionel was engaged to be married, and would have been disappointed had he shown any sign of being one of those men who did not respect the sanctity of marriage. Or respect the woman to whom they were betrothed. She considered her parents to have been the perfect examples of marriage, devoted to each other and their children. Her father’s brother, Rupert, was the opposite. A rogue who chose his wife for her money and his mistresses for their youth and beauty. Cecilia had little experience with men, having only just reached her debut this year. No suitors had yet come forward. Or at least none that had passed Arthur’s ferocious protectiveness. He took seriously his responsibilities for his younger sister in the absence of their father and mother.

“That is most gracious of you, Lionel. I should be glad to,” Cecilia replied with a happy smile.

Arthur grinned but Lionel remained stony-faced.

“He never cracks a smile if he can help it,” Arthur stage-whispered to Cecilia.

Lionel’s eyebrows raised a fraction and he inclined his head.

“You only think so, Penrose, because you’ve never said anything humorous in my hearing.”

“Touche,” Arthur replied.

“I was just saying to Arthur how remarkable this house is, Lionel,” Cecilia said, her voice soft and inviting, “would it be imposing to ask for a tour and perhaps something of its history?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “My sister has an inordinate interest in such dreary subjects as history and literature, I’m afraid. Give me sport and a mug of ale over a book any day.

Lionel’s mouth twitched at the corner and his eyes narrowed. “I remember from our days at Westlands. Your love of sport saw you whipped far more often than I.”

“Worth every stroke,” Arthur grinned, “books are for librarians.”

 Cecilia giggled softly. “I have never heard those stories! I suppose that is why you insisted I learn fencing, brother. To be entirely truthful, Lionel, my brother’s insistence on these lessons meant I had heard quite a bit about you even before our acquaintance.”

Lionel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a spark of intrigue lighting in his eyes. “You? Fencing?”

“Oh, indeed,” Cecilia replied, her gaze holding his a moment longer than necessary. “Arthur mentioned more than once that his skills were sharpened under your tutelage, if I’m correct?”

Lionel chuckled, stepping slightly closer to her, the space between them becoming tantalizingly small. “I had no idea. Perhaps one day we might spar together. I would love to see if your brother’s teachings did my lessons justice.”

Arthur groaned good-naturedly, breaking the moment. “Enough of that. When are we to start the hunt, Lionel? My patience wanes.”

“Soon enough, old boy. We await one more guest, a friend of Arabella’s. And as for the tour, Miss Sinclair, I will ask my man, Blackwood, to show you around the castle and give you an account of its history. He has served my family since birth and knows more about Thornhill than any man living.”

Cecilia found herself smiling brightly, touched at the consideration Lionel was taking. She knew that while the men who had been invited to Thornhill were hunting, the women would be gathered in a drawing room and would talk over tea. She had little aptitude for the kind of gossip that was the primary discourse in those gatherings, remembering hours of tedium as a young girl, sitting beside her mother and listening to the conversations going back and forth. Afterward, her mother would translate the seemingly innocuous comments, stripping away the surface meaning to expose petty squabbles and sniping. The prospect of exploring such a dramatic residence as Thornhill Castle was much more appealing to her.

“I should be delighted, Lionel. Thank you very much.”

Lionel actually smiled, and it transformed his face. The austere expression was gone and a joyous life seemed to appear like a blossoming sunrise. His green eyes, previously the hardest emerald, became the light shade of grass, soft and comfortable. Cecilia, always quick to smile by nature, found herself mirroring his expression while lost in the verdant depths of his eyes. A moment stretched into eternity and then Arthur cleared his throat. Cecilia jumped and Lionel blinked, turning away hurriedly.

“Yes, well, I shall lay that on for you. Come through and meet the company, both of you. No one you haven’t met before, Penrose. Several people for your brother to introduce you to, Cecilia… I mean, Miss Sinclair. Yes, come through, come through.”

He was talking in a breathless rush and hurrying away. Cecilia found herself blushing with such fury, she could feel the heat of her cheeks. Arthur looked from one to the other with a raised eyebrow and a quizzical expression. He offered his arm to Cecilia, who gave him a wide-eyed stare above lips compressed to a white line. It told him she would tolerate no teasing. Duke Lionel Grisham of Thornhill was a man engaged to be married. There would be no flirtation and the moment that had just passed between them was a mere trifle. Hardly worth commenting on. So she wouldn’t. And neither would her maddeningly mischievous brother. Or there would be consequences.

“Shall I give you a moment to dispel those scarlet cheeks, dear sister?” he smirked.

“You will not,” Cecilia said with as much dignity as she could muster.

Lionel was a man happily promised to another. Doubtless Arabella Wycliff was a famed beauty and a woman of accomplishment and rank. Cecilia Sinclair, orphan and ward of her brother, the Earl of Penrose, would be no competition. Even that thought increased the heat in her cheeks. The very thought that there could be any question of competition with herself as the victor in particular. Nonsense. But she could not forget the frisson she had felt when looking into Lionel’s eyes. The quake that had begun somewhere deep within her at the proximity of such masculinity. His height and the breadth of both chest and shoulders made her breathless to think of.

She smoothed the cream skirt of her new dress, bought for her by Arthur from London for her birthday the month before. Its bodice was a pale green that complimented her brown eyes and bronze hair. Wearing it made Cecilia feel beautiful. It was the finest gown she had ever worn and it gave her a thrill to know that Lionel had seen her in it, that he had seen her at her best. Once again, Cecilia berated herself for a foolish fantasy that could never come to be. Best to forget Arthur’s handsome and enigmatic friend.

Lionel stood at the door in the screen that led to the part of the Great Hall in which his other guests were mingling and talking. As Cecilia and Arthur reached him, there came a raised voice from the far end of the hall. Cecilia happened to be looking at Lionel as the voice rang out and saw his expression change. Green eyes narrowed and his chin lifted. There was tension in the muscles of his neck and jaw and a hand at his side clenched into a fist. Arthur turned and Cecilia saw the tightness in his features. Arthur was a happy, smiling man but now there was almost an expression of open hostility on his face. She looked for the cause of this sudden tension.

Approaching across the hall was a man with black hair, curling close to his scalp and short. His skin was pale and his body slender. As he approached, she saw that he had pale blue eyes and something of a resemblance to Lionel. But while the Duke was powerful and strong, this man was lean and whip-like. On his arm was a beautiful woman. She had golden hair and was tall, moving with grace and deliberation. Her lips possessed a pout that made them seem full and luscious but her blue eyes were cold. Cecilia was left with the impression that her beauty was the product of a great deal of work rather than something bestowed by nature.

“Your Grace!” the slender man said, looking at Lionel, “I do so apologize for my tardiness. But look who I bumped into as I arrived!”

“Lord Thorpe. Welcome,” Lionel replied stiffly.

The blonde woman left Thorpe’s side and crossed to Lionel, kissing his cheek and taking his arm.

“Cecilia, may I introduce my fiancée, Arabella Wycliff. Arabella, this is Cecilia Sinclair, sister to Lord Penrose, whom you already know.”

Icy blue eyes swept over Cecilia and rosebud lips smiled. Cecilia was left feeling that she had been weighed and measured by those eyes.

“Miss Sinclair. How nice to meet you,” she spoke.

“My Lady,” Cecilia replied politely.

“And may I introduce Lord Gordon Locke, Viscount of Thorpe,” Lionel continued.

The dark-haired man took Cecilia’s hand without invitation and pressed his lips to it. His blue eyes met hers and he smiled. She returned the smile politely, not liking the presumption he had shown.

“I had not expected to meet such a beautiful stranger. I thought I knew all of His Grace’s society,” Thorpe grinned, “where have you been hiding yourself?”

Arthur cleared his throat and removed Cecilia’s hand from Thorpe’s grip, placing it upon his arm.

“Shall we go through, Sister?”

Cecilia caught the brief flash of a mocking smile on the face of Lord Thorpe at Arthur’s intervention. Then those blue eyes were on hers again. His stare was direct but did not have the effect upon her that Lionel’s had. Cheeks cold and not remotely blushing, Cecilia smiled politely, looking from Lord Thorpe to Arabella.

“It was a pleasure to meet you both.”

As Arthur led her away, Lord Thorpe called out, “I am so looking forward to this hunt, Penrose. Perhaps I will show His Grace and yourself the marksmanship I learned in service of King and country.”

Cecilia looked questioningly at Arthur as they stepped through the screen. Lionel closed the door behind them and she heard him speak to Lord Thorpe, though she could not hear what was said. The room beyond was softened by the addition of plush furniture, rugs, and wall hangings to disguise the bare stone of the hall. A fire roared in an impressive stone fireplace and men and women stood about or sat, talking, eating, and drinking.

“What was that all about?” Cecilia asked in a quiet voice.

“Thorpe is a scoundrel with a terrible reputation when it comes to women. It is rumored that he came by his wealth through looting the bodies of the dead in Spain. And a viscountcy followed soon after. A reprehensible man. I had hoped he would not be in attendance and do not like the fact that Arabella arrived in company with him.”

“Whyever not?” Cecilia asked.

Arthur glanced at her and he tapped the side of his nose.

“Best not speak of it. Let us enjoy ourselves and hope that the blackguard does not cause trouble.”

Chapter Two

5 Years Later

Lionel entered the mist-shrouded woods. His footsteps were slow and careful, making no noise among the moist undergrowth, rich with decaying leaves. Mist rendered the trees to dark silhouettes, skeletal figures in the gloom. The sun was not yet to its noon peak and was not yet strong enough to dispel the covering of fog that clung to the shadows of the woods. To his right, Arthur stalked, rifle held ready, eyes keen. To the left, invisible among the shadows were the others of the hunting party. The white stag that had been seen on the Thornhill estate these last few weeks and whose presence had precipitated the calling of the hunt, was somewhere ahead. The ground fell away beneath his feet, a slope that would carry him into an ever-deepening dell. Lionel raised a hand, a signal to Arthur to halt. Closing his eyes, he tried to pinpoint the minute sound that had caught his attention. It came again, the soft sound of movement from ahead and below. Opening his eyes, he looked to Arthur who was watching him. Lionel pointed and Arthur nodded, he had heard it too.

They descended a slope made slippery by soil churned to mud. Tree roots made a precarious staircase for the two hunters. Above them and to the left, a human shape moved among the mist, another hunter but one who had not heard the sound that Lionel and Arthur pursued. He ignored them, if they were not as skilled as he, then their hunt would be in vain. These hunts were as much a competition against his guests as they were against nature. Lionel liked to win at the hunts he organized. He would not begrudge his guests if one of them emerged the victor but would not give up victory out of deference. The only one present whom he would defer to was Arthur, his old comrade from the battlefields of school. A shape appeared from the mist ahead, large, and dark. Too tall to be man or beast. It was a standing stone, and soon, others appeared. They were arranged in a circle at the foot of the dell, moss-covered and dark with damp. A brooding relic of a bygone age. Something moved quickly between the stones. Something taller than a man but moving on four legs. It dashed from left to right and both hunters brought their rifles to their shoulders. But the stag was gone before they could fix it in their sights, hidden by the all-consuming mist.

Nature was contriving to frustrate the human hunters today, conjuring an unseasonable mist to hide their quarry. Lionel relished the challenge. He glanced at Arthur and, from the gleam in his old friend’s eyes, he saw that his own feelings were mirrored. Then Arthur’s eyes widened as they became fixed on something beyond Lionel, over his left shoulder. Thinking that the deer had circled around them, Lionel swung around, raising his rifle to his shoulder. But it was no deer. A man had stepped from behind a standing stone, already with rifle raised. Lionel was close enough to see the face of Lord Thorpe, see the victorious smile as his finger tightened on the trigger. Arthur roared as he shoved Lionel from the back, knocking him to the side. Lionel hit the ground as the rifle held by Thorpe fired. The sound was an explosion in his ears, accompanied by a flash of light and the acrid stench of gunpowder. There was a gurgling groan from behind him and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Looking back, he saw Arthur on his back, unmoving. Lionel screamed, reaching for the rifle he had dropped when Arthur had pushed him aside, saving his life and becoming the victim of the shot that would have killed Lionel—that had been intended for Lionel.

Thorpe had stepped clear of the stone and was drawing a pistol from his belt. Lionel’s hand closed around the rifle, fingers finding the trigger as he jerked it to point towards his attacker. The rifle discharged at the same instant as the pistol Thorpe held. He jerked at the last moment and the shot intended to kill seared along Lionel’s back. Pain enveloped him, followed by the deepest, icy cold blackness.

 

***

 

Lionel lashed out against the foe of his dream but found only empty air. He jerked upright in his bed, panting as though he had run a mile. With one hand, he reached to the scar that ran for three inches to the base of his spine. For a moment he felt the fire of the lead shot that had made the scar. Fired by a man who had killed Lionel’s best friend that night.

A man who was still free.

His left leg ached. The pain was a dull throb that never completely faded and which, from time to time, had to be dulled by poppy juice supplied by an apothecary in London. Still, the pain was better than the terrifying numbness that had engulfed both legs years ago when he had awoken in the dell, at the foot of the standing stones. A white stag had been chewing the bark of an elm when Lionel had jerked into wakefulness. It had looked at him once and then leaped away into the woods. And Lionel had been unable to walk, or even stand. Now, he silently thanked God that he had been spared the life of a cripple, reliant on others for his most basic needs.

False dawn was lighting the windows of his bedchamber and, despite the early hour, Lionel knew that sleep was done for him. The dream did not come every night but when it did, there was no rest for him. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for the complicated structure of flexible willow and leather that stood beside his bed. With practiced ease, he strapped it to his left leg. It attached to his thigh and shin, reaching as far as his ankle. Under his breeches and boots, it was invisible but provided support to that leg that had never fully recovered its strength or full mobility. Lionel’s dancing days were done. He had not attempted to dance since his recovery and would not risk the humiliation of falling. His hair fell about his face, long and wild and he rubbed at the beard that now covered his jaw. Beyond the window, he could see the shadow-shrouded countryside around Thornhill castle. The dark woods which concealed the dell of the standing stones. The dell in which Thorpe had laid his trap, attempting to kill Lionel for reasons he had never admitted.

But, justice had not been served. Arthur was dead, unable to bear witness to events. And Thorpe’s presence at the far end of the hunting line, some five hundred yards from Lionel’s position, had been attested to by the Sir Reginald Cox, Baronet of Laleham. Lionel found himself grinding his teeth, jaw clenched in anger at the injustice that had been done against him. They had escaped justice thus far but he would find a way to take revenge. Except, that had been five years ago and he was no closer to that end. A tap came at the door of his bedchamber and Lionel smiled to himself grimly. Blackwood was almost psychically attuned to his master’s needs.

“Come in, Blackwood,” Lionel said.

The door opened and the butler came in. He was as broad as his master, though shorter. He walked with bowed legs and the slight, listing stride of a man more accustomed to the rolling deck of a ship. The only hair on his head was two thick, black eyebrows above a broken nose and a permanently squinting expression. Immaculately clad in Thornhill livery, he nevertheless resembled a highway brigand.

“Does Your Grace require assistance in dressing this morning?” he asked in a thick west country accent.

“No, Blackwood. I will accomplish that task myself.”

“As I thought, Your Grace. I have therefore brought implements for the shaving of beards and cutting of hair,” he noted.

Lionel rubbed at the beard, several weeks’ worth of growth. “I have not requested grooming.”

“As tonight is the night of the ball, the first Your Grace has hosted in a long time, I decided it was needed,” Blackwood added, putting a basin and towels down on Lionel’s bedside table.

Lionel chuckled, knowing that only a direct order would deter the man from what he saw as his duty. Five years of helping Lionel learn to walk again had reduced the social gulf between them. Lionel stood stiffly and limped to a chair before the window.

“If it must be done, then do it here. I would have a view while you work.”

Blackwood muttered to himself under his breath as he moved his gear to rest on the windowsill. Lionel suppressed a mischievous smile, knowing the move would provoke his manservant, who was by nature morose and fond of complaining.

“Whom have we had responses from to our invitations?” he asked.

Blackwood began reciting a list from memory of those who had accepted the invitations as he began to apply lathered soap to Lionel’s beard. One name, in particular, made Lionel put a hand to his arm to stop him.

“Did you say Sinclair? Cecilia Sinclair?”

“I did at that, Your Grace,” Blackwood replied, removing his arm from Lionel’s grip and recommencing the job of lathering.

“Whom is she to be accompanied by? A husband?”

“No, Your Grace. An uncle and an aunt. The Earl of Hamilton and his wife,” Blackwood corrected, unfolding a straight razor and tilting Lionel’s face to better catch the light.

“I have not seen her for… well, not since that day,” Lionel muttered. 

He did not need to say which day he referred to. All who worked at Thornhill knew that references to that day meant only one thing. The last time any kind of social occasion had been hosted at Thornhill Castle. Until now.

“She is presumably betrothed by now if she is not married.”

“Living with her aunt and uncle says to me it is neither,” Blackwood commented, “unless she married a pauper, that is to say.”

“Well reasoned. It is of no matter regardless. A woman like that could not have remained available for long. God, but she was beautiful. My eyes were full of Arabella at the time but she still struck me.”

Blackwood’s only comment on Lionel’s former betrothed was a snort that almost became a spit until he remembered himself. Instead, Blackwood muttered imprecations about Arabella Wycliff that Lionel was glad he only half heard. Another betrayal. Another injustice unpunished. Lionel put Arabella from his mind. Instead, he thought back to the first time he had met Cecilia Sinclair. He gazed out of the window, no longer aware of Blackwood or the room about him. Even the pain in his leg was lost in the backwoods of his consciousness. He remembered Cecilia’s cascading bronze hair. Her pale, delicate skin and the shimmering dress that seemed to have been made to accentuate her coloring perfectly. That first meeting had momentarily put Arabella from his mind. It had made him extremely uncomfortable when he realized.

The racing heart. The dry mouth and shivering stomach. Those were what the poets said a man and a woman experienced when they felt the kiss of true love. But he had never felt that for the beautiful, perfect Arabella. She had been like a work of art, appreciated but with detachment. Cecilia had been different and Lionel had been wracked with guilt when he understood the nature of his reaction. Those brown eyes. Had they been hazel? With lighter flecks that were almost gold? Was that his imagination, conjuring perfection that no woman could ever live up to?

“A handsome woman, I thought,” Blackwood added, turning Lionel’s head to shave the other side.

Lionel felt his heart thump in his chest. It was ludicrous to experience such excitement for a woman he had met only once, and that, several years ago. But it was true. Cecilia had been beautiful in a way that struck at his core. He remembered well her slender but curving figure. The very epitome of femininity. While he had known that Arthur’s aunt and uncle, the Sinclairs of Hamilton Hall, were invited to the ball, it had simply not occurred to him that they would bring their niece. Or that following the death of her brother, Cecilia would not be resident at Penrose any longer. Suddenly, he found himself looking forward to the event.

Chapter Three

Cecilia watched the approach of Thornhill castle with trepidation. She sat in the carriage belonging to her uncle, the Earl of Hamilton, opposite him and next to her aunt Margaret. She wore diamonds in her mousy brown hair and pearls about her thin, over-long neck. Her dress matched the color of the pearls and the glinting diamonds. Uncle Rupert was resplendent in a waistcoat of red and an overcoat of purple with a ruby in the pin of his scarlet cravat. The carriage was new and from a coachbuilder with royal patronage. By contrast, Cecilia wore no jewels openly. A simple chain around her neck held a heavy signet ring intended for a man. It had belonged to her father and then to her brother. Her aunt and uncle did not know that Arthur’s solicitor had quietly passed it to her when the Penrose estate had passed in its entirety to the Sinclairs of Hamilton. As well as Cecilia. She wore the same dress that had been new the last time she had attended a social event at Thornhill.

Now, however, its luster had faded as a result of repeated laundering. Repairs had been made, not visible but of which Cecilia was very conscious. By contrast with her aunt and uncle, she felt as though she were clothed in rags. The walls approached, ancient and stained by the years. The gates in those walls were of massive, fissured wood bound in black iron. Beyond was an open courtyard and two huge, oaken doors leading to the great hall that she remembered so well. She remembered the last time she had watched the castle approach. Arthur had been her companion then, seeming to enjoy her marveling at the grandeur of his friend’s home. Cecilia felt her dear brother’s loss as a physical wrench. It was as fresh now as it had been when his body had been brought back into the castle, along with the paralyzed form of Lionel Grisham.

“Whatever is the matter, girl!” Margaret snapped, “You are being treated to a ball held at the home of a Duke. You could at least look as if you are grateful.”

“She is not, Margaret. My brother’s family never were,” Rupert muttered lazily, sounding bored, “they were not like us.”

Cecilia felt a flash of anger at the thinly veiled insult to her mother and father. But she knew well enough to keep her lips tightly sealed. Instead of replying to her uncle as she ought, she smiled tightly.

“I was thinking of Arthur,” she finally said.

“Yes. Irresponsible of him to go and get himself killed like that, leaving a burden for us to carry,” Margaret sighed.

“Well, it would seem odd if you were not here given the friendship between your brother and the Duke,” Rupert added, “just you remember your place. Speak when you are spoken to and do not make any social gaffes that might embarrass us.”

“I won’t, uncle,” Cecilia reassured, putting on a show of timidity that didn’t pass her aunt’s cynical eye.

Rupert, though, had already turned away, looking with interest at a couple alighting from a carriage ahead of them.

“I do believe that is the Chertsey Littletons. Do you see what she is wearing, Margaret? And he?” Rupert scoffed, looking the couple up and down.

Margaret smirked, nodding her agreement. Cecilia resolved not to look, not wanting to join in with her aunt and uncle’s shallow sniping. Dwelling on Arthur inevitably made her think of the man whose house this was. The Duke. Lionel Grisham. She wondered what her aunt and uncle would say if they knew he had once given her leave to use his first name. She licked her lips and smoothed her skirts. The man had been a revelation. She had not known that such giants existed. And with such handsome features. He was not a brute, but rather, a god. That idea brought on a blush and Aunt Margaret raised an eyebrow when she saw.

“Do you judge us, child?” she whispered, dangerously.

“Merely stuffy,” Cecilia said quietly, fanning herself with her hand.

“Well, this place will air you out. Never have I set foot in such a drafty pile. Ridiculous that a man should wish to live in such a place. It might have been well for the Middle Ages but we are considerably more civilized now. Quite why the Duke would not adapt the place to the style of the Renaissance, I cannot think.”

“It shows a deplorable lack of taste,” Margaret nodded.

The carriage was coming to a halt and Rupert rapped on the roof with his cane.

“Further forward man!” he roared, “I will not alight behind the Littletons. Take us to the door!”

“We must get rid of the foolish man,” Margaret tutted, “he has no concept of etiquette.”

“He is extremely knowledgeable about horses and an expert driver of a number of conveyances. You could not ask for a finer coachman,” Cecilia put in, unable to hold her tongue.

George, the driver, had a family of four to support and a sweet and gentle nature. Cecilia felt lucky to consider the man and his wife as friends and had spent many happy hours with his family in their little cottage on the Hamilton estate. But the look that her aunt directed at her would have frozen water to ice.

“And what, precisely, would you know about it?” she asked lowly.

Cecilia swallowed her first response and tried to look meek. She lived on the charity of her aunt and uncle, trying to avoid their ire because she depended on them. She had been left with nothing in Arthur’s will, a fact that had shocked her at the time. If Rupert and Margaret decided so, she would be without a home.

“Nothing, Aunt Margaret,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.

“Exactly. We shall fire the man after all and you will know that you are the reason. Dwell on that, young lady.”

Rupert harrumphed his approval as the carriage moved to a position opposite the entrance to the castle. A footman opened the door and Margaret alighted, followed by Rupert. Cecilia followed, smiling her thanks at the young servant. She looked up at George Preston, the driver, who winked at her when her aunt and uncle weren’t looking. He didn’t know that his livelihood was about to be snatched away. Cecilia resolved to help him, somehow. She followed her aunt and uncle through the grand entrance of the castle and into the daunting hall. It was as majestic and awe-inspiring as she remembered. This time the guests were not confined to the partitioned section beyond the painted screen. There looked to be far too many of them. They milled about the hall and a wave of noise flowed from them. Cecilia felt even more under-dressed as she looked around. Rupert and Margaret were greeting another couple, equally as resplendent as themselves. Cecilia quietly moved away, knowing that they would not wish to introduce her or even be associated with her. She allowed the crowd to hide her from them.

That brought a measure of relief but she still felt self-conscious about her dress. There was no one here that she knew. Indeed, most of her friends were not the kind of people who would be invited to soirees such as this. At Hamilton Hall, she lived among the servants and counted them among her most trusted friends. The tenants of the Hamilton estate were also good friends to her and most of them were either farmers or weavers. She tried to avoid attention but felt that eyes were upon her unceasingly.

Finally, she reached the edge of the milling throng of guests. A cool, shadowed alcove appeared and she stepped back into it. It was then that she saw him.

Lionel Grisham…

He was moving through the crowd which parted before him like the waves of the Red Sea. Head and shoulders above most other men at the gathering, he had the same coal-black hair that she remembered. It wasn’t as short as it had been but flowed back to the nape of his neck. It gave him an exotic look, like an Eastern prince or an Indian rajah.

Emerald green eyes stabbed into the throng around him as he greeted his guests. He did not look like a host who was enjoying his ball, but rather that he would prefer to be anywhere else but here. She felt a pang of empathy at that moment. She too would rather be almost anywhere else. Unable to look away from him, she watched him move through the crowd, bending his head to speak to people, greeting them. She became hypnotized by him. His movements were careful and controlled with an underlying sense of power but with grace. As though he had learned through painful practice an awareness of his body that went beyond most people. It was as though he had total control over his musculature. It increased the sense of physical power that had been so attractive to her on their first meeting. As she watched, a man approached him from behind, greeting him and forcing him to turn suddenly.

Cecilia saw a sudden stiffness in the movement and a quickly controlled flinch of pain on his carefully controlled features. Then he was smiling politely, greeting the man, and inclining his head towards him in courteous acknowledgment. Cecilia wondered if she were the only one to have seen the pain that had clearly gripped Lionel at that moment. She wondered at its source. Was he ailing? Or suffering the ill effects of an injury? Did it have something to do with that fateful afternoon when the spring mist had brought about such a terrible accident? Brought about the death of her brother at the hands of the man she now watched. For the longest time, she had tried to forget it, to tell herself that a hunt was a dangerous place and accidents of this sort did happen. It was in God’s hands. But she could not rid herself of the belief that her brother had been killed and this man walked free. Accident or not, if there had been no hunt, then Arthur would still be alive and she would not have spent the last five years living as a servant in the house of her aunt and uncle.

She wanted to be angry with him. Wanted to hate him. But something about him drew her. He was magnetic in his charisma. Looking at him made her heart quicken and her breath release in short gasps. She knew that she was blushing and willed herself to stop. But the sight of him brought only illicit thoughts of what he must look like beneath his clothes. It was a scandalous thought, but it would not be dislodged. His body would be ridged and hard as steel. Muscles like smooth-sided boulders bulging beneath skin, itself covered in a fine layer of dark hair. The body of a barbarian prince, a descendant of the warrior nomads who had terrorized the Romans and scourged the continent of Europe.

Savage and prideful. Fierce and passionate.

Cecilia almost gasped aloud when Lionel’s head turned and their eyes met. For a moment, there was no one else in the room. The echoing babble of conversation faded to silence. The crowd melted into the stone, leaving only Cecilia and Lionel. The space between them became charged. Cecilia felt she could reach out and touch the air, that it must be tangible with the energy that thrummed between them.

Her blush deepened and her eyes widened as he took a step towards her. But another guest stepped in front of him, escorting a matronly lady with silver hair piled atop her head. The contact was broken as Lionel directed his attention to them and began again the charade of greeting and mingling. Cecilia was left with a hot but empty sensation in her stomach. A feeling of loss and of need. She wanted those eyes on her again. Wanted his hands on her. His lips.

“My dear lady, are you quite well?” inquired a voice.

Cecilia looked to see a young man with brown hair combed forward in the popular Roman style. He held a wine glass and a smile of concern and… something else. His gray eyes were direct, never leaving her face.

“I am… feeling somewhat… hot… I mean, it is crowded in here. I feel the need for a breath of fresh air,” Cecilia stammered her reply.

“Then allow me to escort you to a quieter room. There must be a veritable maze of them in this place,” the man replied.

“I am sure I can find my way. I thank you for your concern,” Cecilia replied hurriedly, not wanting to be escorted, simply wanting to be alone.

“Very well. I am Sir Gerald Knightley, by the way, of Brockwill. And you are?”

“Cecilia Sinclair of Penrose,” Cecilia replied, giving the name of her parent’s seat rather than the place where she lived with her aunt and uncle. Hamilton Hall had never truly felt like home.

“Penrose? Indeed. A tragic tale. We really must talk during the course of the evening, about Penrose.”

Cecilia frowned, wondering what this could mean. But the need to escape that room had become overwhelming. She wanted a cooling drink and a breath of fresh air. She wanted to escape the magnetism of Lionel Grisham, to escape the confusion he wrought upon her. The man she reviled for the killing of her brother. The man who made her heart hammer in her chest and her body tingle. She stammered what she hoped was an acceptable goodbye and walked rapidly away, looking for a door that would take her from the great hall and the Duke of Thornhill.

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 25th of July!

CHAPTER ONE

May 1816

The Salisbury Ball

“…And then there is Lord Wetherby,” Lady Prudence Sommers explained, holding up a third finger as she compiled her list thusly. “He may be somewhat lacking in height, but his shoulders are admirably broad, and from the looks of things, his stomach—and this is coming from my cousin’s mouth mind you, one could scrub their washing on it! Can you imagine?”

“Is that so…?”

“And let us not forget Lord Tarrow,” Prudence continued, holding up a fourth finger. “Only a baron, yes. And word is that he is close with his mother… too close that it borders on obsession in fact, so marrying him would undoubtedly be marrying her as well. And no one wishes for a mother-in-law who is perpetually present, prying into one’s affairs and dispensing unsolicited advice on how to please one’s husband—look no further than Lady Susan.” She cast a glance across the busy hall and licked her lips. “He is quite handsome though… so perhaps it would not be entirely intolerable.”

“Yes, very handsome…” Lady Virtue Hartleigh said absently, her mind wandering as her friend chattered on. Prudence, enjoying the sound of her own voice as ever, scarcely noticed.

“Of course, we mustn’t overlook Lord Hightower either. Father says he is one of the wealthiest men in London, and already a marquess at only one and twenty. But…” she bit into her lip and sighed. “Men that age are hardly willing to settle down for things as marriage, are they? Typical.” She clicked her tongue. “We are expected to be wed as soon as we turn eighteen, yet they are allowed to gallop all about town like stallions on heat! Perhaps it is best if we leave him off the list for now. Why waste our time?”

“A wise idea…”

“Oh!” Prudence clapped her hands with sudden excitement. “I almost forgot. Lord Wexley!” She glanced around eagerly, searching for a familiar face. “Annabelle was speaking of him earlier. Down from the north, she says, here this Season specifically to find a bride. An earl, terribly wealthy, and the way Annabelle described him, you would think that you died and went to heaven—he is that easy on the eyes. But I have not seen him…” She continued to scan the ballroom cautiously. “I do hope he has decided to attend tonight. He has no reason not to.”

“Oh yes, he sounds delightful…”

“Virtue!” Prudence snapped her head around, looking at her friend for the first real time since the two had started speaking well over ten minutes ago. “Are you listening to me?”

“He sounds wonderful…” Virtue muttered, very evidently not paying attention.

Prudence pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “They also say he is extremely well endowed.”

“That’s nice.”

“And that is not to mention the goiter on his neck. But apparently, one can scarcely notice it.”

“I am sure one cannot.”

“Virtue!” Prudence slapped her on the arm. “Will you pay attention!”

“Pardon?” For the first time, Virtue returned to the present moment—the conversation, that is. She focused on her friend, took note of the scowl that she wore, and offered an apologetic smile. “I apologize. My mind was elsewhere for a moment.”

“You don’t suppose.”

“It is not personal,” Virtue tried. “I’m just not… I am nervous, Pru. This is my first public outing since…” She trailed off, not wishing to voice it, knowing there was no need, for certainly everyone already knew. “And I feel as though everyone is looking at me.”

“Don’t be so vain, my dear.”

“I assure you, I am not!”

“Indeed you are.” Prudence took Virtue by the arm, and with a decisive tug, pulled her shoulder to shoulder, aligning them both to overlook the crowded hall. “But shall I tell you a hard truth?”

“Pray, do.”

“Not one soul here has concerns for anyone else but themselves, Virtue. You may fancy yourself the subject of every whisper, but truly, you are not the cynosure you imagine. And I should know, for I have been trying to speak with you for the last ten minutes, and where it might shock you to hear, I have found more amusement in discourse with the stone walls of Sommerton.”

“Oh, what a delight to hear,” Virtue said flatly.

“You are most welcome, my dear. Now, stop with this nonsense, and let us enjoy ourselves.”

Lady Virtue Hartleigh, only daughter to Lord Holmfield, wanted to believe her friend. Oh, how she wished that her words held a semblance of truth. It might have been nice to have gone unnoticed. Even Prudence’s comparisons to a brick wall weren’t nearly as cutting as she meant them to be. To be able to pass on by without knowing that she was the subject of whispers and titters from her contemporaries was a dream that Virtue doted like a bee might a freshly bloomed flower. And yet, reality painted a far different picture.

She had nearly forgone the invitation to tonight’s affair entirely—the inaugural ball of the Season, a spectacle she had not missed since blossoming into society at the tender age of eighteen. It was the most anticipated event of the year, a pivotal night for all young debutantes seeking the admiration of potential suitors, with hopes of romantic courtships and perhaps even fortuitous marriages. Where fates intermingled like the gentle swirls of mist over a moonlit mere.

Yet, as things stood, Lady Virtue Hartleigh was as unspoken for as they came.

But that was also the point.

The evening was designed specifically for young women of Virtue’s ilk.  And indeed, as she stood, her arm gracefully linked with Prudence’s, her eyes swept across the hall, noting the scores of young women dressed in their very best as they filtered from group to group, suitor to suitor; some on their own, some led by their fathers, and a fortunate few lucky enough to have found a gentleman to occupy themselves with tonight. A rainbow of reds and yellows and greens and oranges and purples and every color imaginable washed over Virtue, an intense feast for the senses that was as overwhelming as it was breathtaking.

To be among them, Virtue would have loved nothing more. She was, after all, dressed in a similar fashion. Her gown was emerald green, wreathed with a darker green floral pattern, hemmed with golden stitching, flowing from the waist like a cascading waterfall while cinching about her hips and hooping low across her neckline. She was petite in stature but curvy in frame, hair as red as a roaring hearth in a cold winter, skin as white as freshly poured milk. A true beauty – according to many. Yet, none of these attributes were the crux of her plight.

Again, she wanted desperately to spread her wings and walk through the crowds that gathered in the hall. Sip some wine, maybe share a dance, or partake in a few lively conversations. Perhaps even ask her father if he had identified any suitable suitors. Yet, such aspirations seemed just beyond her reach—or so she believed.

“Come on then.” Prudence straightened up her posture and fixed a smile on her face. “Let’s go.”

“Wait!” Virtue’s hand shot out, grasping her friend’s arm as her face grew paler still. “What in heavens do you mean by let’s go? Where? Who are we—”

Prudence rolled her eyes, her patience waning thin. “If only you would listen, V. I just listed six – six eligible gentlemen for us, Virtue. All of whom are likely present tonight. All of whom we should be introducing ourselves to, instead of skulking in the corner like petty thieves.”

“And we just… approach them?” She could feel her face begin to flush red with embarrassment.

“Why ever not?” Prudence countered with a nonchalant shrug. “Times are not what they used to be. Men appreciate a woman who asserts herself. Takes initiative…” She pumped her eyebrows.

That wasn’t true at all, but Prudence seemed set on this little task of hers, willing to say whatever she needed to, to force some action in Virtue.

“Wait… perhaps I should consult my father first.” Virtue feigned a scan of the room, seeking her father among the clusters of gentlemen. She knew all too well that he would disapprove of her making such bold overtures unbidden.

“And squander precious time? I’d wager his list contains Lord Ambrose, and our neighbor, old baron Grimsby.” She took a firmer grip of Virtue’s arm. “No. We ought to take fate into our own hands, lest we end up like Lady Phillipa. Now, come.”

“But Lady Phillipa is wealthy and rather happy, don’t you think?” Virtue tried for a final time.

“Pah! She detests that Rochester Lordling. He ought to have been her half-brother with how he followed around her father like a lost puppy before the marriage. The Rochesters…” she shuddered, “an odd family.” With that, she pulled Virtue forward and, with little real choice, Virtue followed.

Beside her, Prudence beamed as she swept through the crowd. Oh, she was confident, as she had every right to be. Dark hair. Darker features. Undeniably pretty. And the daughter of a marquess! Men’s heads turned as they passed, and a few smirked in her direction, no doubt already planning their approach.

There had been a time—not so long ago, at the dawn of the previous Season—when Virtue herself had embodied that same boldness. She had been the one to lead, eyes keenly searching for a promising suitor. That was, after all, how she had first encountered Lord Prescott…

“There!” Prudence’s sudden halt drew Virtue’s attention. “Do you see?”

“See what?” Virtue swallowed and dared to follow her friend’s gaze.

“Lord Tarrow!” she whispered excitedly. “Leaving Annabelle’s side right now. See!” Her eyes flashed. “Oh, isn’t he just handsome! And I don’t see his mother about either.”

Virtue saw immediately who Prudence was speaking of. A dashingly handsome lord with golden blonde hair and a cleft chin which he held high as he stalked. A smirk on his lips, which spoke to his confidence. A way of walking that had his chest puffed out, an air to his gait that told the world he knew what tonight entailed to the t. Virtue eyed him with a sense of desire she didn’t know she was capable of feeling anymore, wanting desperately to cross the room to him, but not able to force herself to make the move.

And then, as she stared, Lord Tarrow looked up suddenly and met her eyes. Time seemed to stand still as they gazed at one another, that feeling as if they were the only two in the room and nothing else mattered. Virtue licked her lips, daring to dream for the first time in months…

“Somebody is interested,” Prudence giggled. “Now, you better do something about it.”

“Wh – what?” Virtue felt her stomach lurch. “I am not so sure I can.”

“Of course you can. Go to him.” She stepped back and pushed Virtue forward.

Virtue stumbled. “And say what?”

“I don’t know,” Prudence groaned. “Anything! Honestly, Virtue, how you were engaged before is beyond me. Have you ever spoken with a man before?”

“Of course!”

“Then prove it!”

She thought to argue, the only thing stopping her being a keen awareness that Lord Tarrow was still watching. He, and several others who were in the vicinity and seemed to understand what Virtue was doing, deciding to stop and watch. Oh, maybe she was imagining the last part, but she didn’t think so. She had been the talk of the ton for months now, so why should tonight be any different?

A deep breath had Virtue steadying. Then she forced a smile, focused on Lord Tarrow – who was observing her with a sense of want she found wholly appealing – and started toward him. She was doing it. She was taking action. She was leaving the past where it belonged and carving herself a new path. Soon, what had happened to her would be forgotten. Soon, she would be a new woman with a new name.

And that was about the moment everything went wrong.

Just behind Lord Tarrow, with a drink in his hand, a curious smile on his face as he watched her approach the eager young lord, was a man whom Virtue had been hoping to avoid tonight, one whom she presumed wasn’t attending, one whom she knew that if she saw—well, it had the potential to ruin her entire evening and then some.

His name was Lord Prescott, and until three months ago, he had been Virtue’s betrothed.

Indeed, no sooner did Virtue see Lord Prescott, their eyes connecting across the room, did she forget all about Lord Tarrow and what she was doing as that sudden desire to escape and remain hidden took hold. Her chest tightened. Her body grew red hot. The room spun about her. Eyes widening as if from fear, she turned on the spot suddenly, meaning to run, only to find herself face to face with Prudence.

“What are you – oh!” Prudence cried as Virtue ran headlong into her.

Their bodies collided with a tremendous crash. Prudence stumbled backward, arms flailing. She caught the edge of a footman’s wine tray, sending the glasses of wine flying into the air as their reddish-purple contents emptied all over her dress.

Virtue tried to help, but as the glasses of wine smashed around her feet, she slipped and stumbled, again falling into Prudence, grabbing a hold of the woman around the shoulders, losing her balance entirely, and falling to the floor in a heap. Oh, and of course, with another loud crash—enough to alert the entirety of London.

The music that played throughout the hall silenced in an instant. The gossip and chatter and banter that filled the cheeks of the guests stopped dead as if it had never been. All eyes, what had to be hundreds of them, turned as one and looked upon Prudence and Virtue lying on the floor, covered in wine, dresses torn, embarrassment piqued. A beat, the silence, and shock so heavy that Virtue could feel it, broken when someone began to snicker.

Laughter erupted from the mouths of a few of the immature young Lords. Raucous and bawdy.  Fingers pointed. Bodies doubled over as sides were held to keep them from splitting.

“You…. how could you!” Prudence cried. “What have you done!”

“I… I didn’t… I did not mean…” Virtue stammered, unable to form a cohesive thought as the laughter and jesting and mockery crashed upon her like relentless waves.

Just three months ago, Virtue had been subjected to a kind of embarrassment that she was certain would be the worst of her entire life. Yet tonight, this very moment might well have surpassed that.

Drenched in wine. Bottom bruised. The center of attention in the worst possible way. Forget seeking a new suitor, Virtue thought as she covered her face and tried to stand – only to slip and fall once more. After tonight, she might never go out again. And who could blame her?

 

CHAPTER TWO

2 days later

Hartleigh House

“Pray, tell me you intend to at least promenade today,” Lucy Reid sighed as she swept into the library. “At the very least, might you step onto the patio or wander through the garden, so that your skin might see some sunlight?”

“To utter falsehoods is a sin,” Virtue responded without diverting her gaze from the volume in her lap. “And I shall not partake in such deceit.”

“Is this the grand design then?” Lucy came to a stop right by where Virtue was sitting; curled up on a plush settee, the drapes pulled shut to cast the room in a shadow, and using the light from a small candle to illuminate the pages. “To sequester yourself within these walls for eternity? Truly?”

“I don’t see whyever not.” Virtue turned the page, purposefully ignoring the young maid. If it had been anyone other than Lucy making such remarks, Virtue might have taken offense, but she and Lucy were as close as sisters since her father had taken Lucy under his wing upon the death of old Jonathan Reid, Lucy’s father and the Hartleigh family butler for nearly thirty years. When they were alone, Virtue would not have Lucy speaking to her in any other way.

“And what of the future? When age has stolen your vitality and left you old and withered—do you then plan to grace the rest of London with your presence again? Hope that by then, everyone might have forgotten what happened and you shall be free to spend your final years an old crone whose memory is so soured that she scarcely remembers the reason she locked herself up in the first place?”

“It could be worse.” She turned a page.

“Oh, you’re being ridiculous, V! Utterly and totally absurd, is what you are.”

“I must remind you…” she replied, nonchalantly flipping another page of her book, her eyes steadfastly avoiding Lucy’s gaze, “with whom you are speaking with, Miss Reid. And if you keep at it, perhaps a harsher reminder will be necessary,” she added with a smirk.

Lucy snorted and folded her arms. “What will you do, then? Whip me, my Lady?”

“If I must,” Virtue giggled, the sound light and teasing.

Another snort. “It will change nothing. You will remain ensconced here, and I shall still be at your side, tirelessly working to coax you outdoors. Moreover, I suspect your father might agree with me this time.”

Virtue scrunched her nose as she tried her best to ignore Lucy’s provocations. If it was anyone else, it might have been a simple task. Despite the unconventional nature of their relationship, Lucy was her closest confidante—now more than ever, given her dwindling circle of friends following the recent scandal. Prudence, for one, would likely not be responding to her letters any time soon.

But she couldn’t ignore the maid’s heartfelt pleas either. Even the book she was reading, one of her favorite romance novels that she always turned to when she was feeling blue, couldn’t hold her interest. If anything, the romantic epic that once upon a time had her heart soaring whenever she read its pages, now only had it souring at what could no longer be hers.  

She tried to stare at the page. She tried to forget why it was that her mood was this morose. But there would be no forgetting. And not because of Lucy, but because it seemed that fate had decided as such.

“You were not there,” Virtue broke, dropping the book in her lap and looking pleadingly at Lucy. “You did not see the whole… debacle!”

“Oh, surely it wasn’t all that dreadful.” Lucy fell in beside Virtue and wrapped an arm around her in comfort. She was a touch taller than Virtue and made a perfect shoulder to weep on.

“It was far worse.” Virtue curled up in her best friend’s arm. “Everyone saw it. And those who might have been unlucky to miss it, certainly heard it. I have never been so embarrassed.”

“They will forget. If I have learned anything living here this past decade, it is that London’s collective memory is as fleeting as a spring shower,” Lucy reassured her.

“I am not convinced of that anymore,” she murmured.  

“A stroll would do you the world of good,” Lucy suggested gently.

“I cannot even bear to show my face.”

“Just through the garden then. A bit of fresh air might lift your spirits.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Perhaps just some natural light, at least?” Lucy moved as if to draw back the drapes.

“Don’t!” Virtue shot up, blocking the maid’s path to the windows. “Please, Lucy. Can you not just let me wallow? If anyone has earned that right, surely it is I?”

Lucy could not have looked more worried. The way her round face scrunched together. The way her lips pouted. Like a mother besotted with the ailing sickness of her daughter, it was clear that all she wanted was to help. “You deserve the world, V,” she whispered as she wrapped her thick arms back around Virtue. “Not this. Never this.”

“It is funny,” Virtue chuckled bitterly. She picked up the book she was reading, only to regard its cover with disdain before tossing it across the room. “I once fancied my life to be akin to the tales I cherish—imagined meeting my Prince Charming, falling in love, and our story being celebrated through the ages. Now, I see these tales for what they truly are—mere tales. At best, I am the wicked witch, doomed to watch others fall in love around her while she spends her days alone and miserable. Perhaps the wicked witch was never the villain, after all, only misunderstood.”

To that, Lucy did not say a word, simply because there was not much she could say. For three months now, it had been much the same as this, and where finally it looked as if Virtue was on the mend and turning a leaf toward a new tomorrow, the ball two nights ago had dashed those plans thoroughly and irrevocably.

And it hadn’t always been so.

Just three months prior, Virtue’s life had seemed poised for a fairy tale culmination, the kind she had whimsically envisioned as a child but scarcely dared to believe might actually unfold for herself. She was in love with a viscount. He was in love with her. They were engaged to be married. Children would follow. A life spent in one another’s arms because their love was such that she couldn’t fathom any other outcome but that. A touch idealistic, perhaps. But that just spoke to how perfect everything was…

But then, without warning, her idyllic world shattered around her. Lord Prescott, her betrothed, a man whom she had surrendered her heart to fully after a year of courting, tore it from her chest, crushed it in the palm of his hand, and callously announced an end to their betrothal. With a mere letter, he terminated their engagement, offering no explanation, denying her any appeal, and leaving her without a semblance of closure.

To say it caught Virtue by surprise would be an understatement. Yet her astonishment paled in comparison to the collective gasp of the ton. And with no reason given for why he had acted so rashly, it was only natural that rumor and conjecture would follow. Those whom Virtue had once considered friends now gossiped in shadowed corners, theorizing why the viscount had ended things so suddenly. What grievous misstep could Virtue have possibly committed to warrant such a harsh rejection?

She didn’t do anything. She was the perfect lady. But to ask anyone’s opinion of the matter today, it was agreed that she had slighted him in some way, likely by seducing another or being caught in a heinous act of amorous desire. She was a destined spinster, it was claimed. She was a woman of loose morals! The rumors swirled and gathered like a raging storm, and although her family vehemently denied them, Virtue soon learned there was little more she could do to placate the torrents but hide and wait for them to go away.

Which was precisely what she had done until the fateful ball two nights prior. Finally, sensing her moment, convinced that the ton might have moved past the scandal, she braved the outside world in a way that seemed unimaginably impossible mere months earlier.

As to the result? The less said, the better—though Prudence could furnish the most lurid of details.

“Here is what we are going to do,” Lucy murmured, her soft voice breaking the silence.

“What?” Virtue sniffed, feeling herself come undone.  

“We shall do precisely… nothing.”

“Pardon?” Virtue pulled back. “Pray, what sort of counsel is that?”

“The wisest,” Lucy declared with quiet confidence. “You are correct, last evening was a travesty.”

“Most kind of you to note,” she replied drily.

“Yet, it was not the end of all things,” Lucy spoke over Virtue. “Do you remember where you were three months ago? For I remember it well. Very well. We were here, having this precise conversation.”

“And I am still here!”

“Yes, indeed you are,” Lucy agreed. “But two days ago, you were not. Two days ago, I seemed to remember how aglow with anticipation you were at the prospect of attending a ball once more—despite your efforts to hide it. And the way you looked in that dress…” She sighed wistfully. “Stunning and elegant, as I’ve ever seen.”

“And look to what end it brought me,” Virtue fell back on her settee with a thump and a sigh.

“One misstep,” Lucy said. “That’s all it was. You were convinced before that you’d never leave the house again. That you wouldn’t want to. But time heals all wounds, makes people forget. You are still young, Virtue. You still have so much time.”

“They won’t forget,” Virtue mumbled bitterly.

Lucy tittered. “We will see about that. Why, I bet that before you tripped and fell, there was more than one lordling whose eye you caught. Your Prince Charming is out there, you just need to be patient.”

As was her mood lately, Virtue opened her mouth to argue, only she caught her tongue when she remembered what had happened just before she had embarrassed herself. Lord Tarrow… the handsome marquess whose attention she had captured from across the room. He had stared at her in a way she hadn’t expected possible, a manner which suggested he either didn’t know what had happened to her, or he didn’t care. Was it possible that the ton might forget about her constant shortcomings? Was it possible that come time, she might find someone?

Since she had been a little girl, all Virtue had wanted was to fall in love. The idea that it might never happen was enough to break her, but the thought that there was still a chance… it gave her a sense of hope that she so desperately needed to cling to, lest she truly become the crude old witch from her novels, bickering at all the young couples passing her way.

“Maybe you are right, Lucy,” she conceded softly.

“I almost always am.”

“Careful now, Lucy,” Virtue snickered. “Someone is becoming a little too pleased with themself.”

Lucy moved to respond, but then shifted and sat up suddenly. It took Virtue a moment to realize why, until she looked back from the room and caught the housekeeper lingering by the door.

“Yes?” Virtue asked of her. “What is it?”

The housekeeper’s name was Miss White, an elderly woman whose honeycakes held a special place in her father’s heart, as did her inclination to gossip about anything and everything that occurred within the walls of Holmfield. So much so that she scarcely left his side, lest it be for emergencies. That had Virtue panicking a little.

“It is Lord Holmfield,” Miss White said carefully. “Your father, he wishes to speak with you… Now.”

Virtue felt her stomach churn. As well as avoiding the outside world, she had also been avoiding her father and done a great job of it. No doubt he was furious with her for the way she behaved at the ball, and no doubt he wanted to reprimand her for it. His aspirations for her marriage were even greater than her own after all. Given the disastrous events of late, his displeasure was all but guaranteed.

“Alright…” Virtue sighed deeply before pulling herself from Lucy’s arms. “Let him know I am on my way.”

“I shall make some tea,” Lucy offered hastily. “In case you need it.”

“If you intend on mixing in some laudanum,” Virtue murmured as she skulked across the room, preparing herself for the tongue-lashing of a lifetime. The last two days had been a travesty, and she sensed it was only going to get worse.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Virtue approached her father’s study with her heart thudding. As a little girl, the room had terrified her, as she had often associated its musty interiors with her father’s stern demeanor and brisk temper. The few times she’d dared to enter it, she would always leave with her tail between her legs and tears welling in her eyes. He was a stern man, her father. He was a serious man, also. Not overtly cruel or ‘evil’ as the characters in her storybooks, just not the sort of man who was used to not getting his way. And he hated being interrupted when he was at work.

On this day, however, she had been summoned, which at least mitigated the risk of aggravating him by an untimely interruption. Nevertheless, she anticipated that his reasons for calling her were likely to be no less severe.

She tapped gently at the heavy, oak door of the study and waited. And waited. Several minutes must have passed before he finally called back. 

“Come in!” His voice, a harsh bark from within, shattered the tense silence.

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Virtue opened the door and stepped inside. Even as a grown woman, the study was an intimidating room. Not overtly large by any sense, yet it somehow always made her feel small inside it; dark and devoid of any natural light, a high ceiling, stacked bookshelves that seemed to tower over her, a work desk that only came up to her waist but felt as if it reached her shoulders. And then there was the man seated behind it.

Like Virtue, Lord Holmfield—as he commanded to be referred to, even by his daughter—was short, especially for a man. Stocky also, what was once a robust frame had since turned soft with age. His hair, a faded strawberry blonde, had receded significantly, and his skin bore the ruddy hue of blotches, his cheeks ample and his jowls wobbly. But it was his eyes that Virtue always watched, for they told of the mood he was in. Was he angry with her? Was he venomous? Or was he… she met his eyes, tried to read them, but found it impossible to do in the moment.

This, of course, only added to her nerves.

“You asked to see me, my lord?” she spoke softly as she lingered in the doorway.

“Yes.” He gestured to the chair opposite his desk, lifting his gaze for a moment. “Sit.”

She nodded and crossed the room, taking the seat, trying to get as comfortable as she could, all the while feeling her father study her with a sense of contempt. When her mother had been alive, her father had been far kinder and more compassionate. When she had died, over ten years ago now, he had turned cold and withdrawn. He had come to view Virtue less as a daughter and more as a chess piece, to be strategically positioned for familial advantage. His overarching ambition was to see her well-married.

And indeed, when he had successfully orchestrated her betrothal, she had noticed a change in her father that she could never have predicted. For a time there, he had treated her with something akin to pride and satisfaction, elated that she was finally living up to her purpose. Elated for what it meant for him, also.

Since the wedding had been canceled, however, Virtue could count on her hands the number of times she and her father had spoken.

“The… events, that transpired the previous evening,” her father began with austere firmness, “shall never be spoken on inside the walls of Holmfield. Understand?”

Virtue’s brow furrowed slightly as she lifted her eyes to meet his. Could that be compassion flickering in his eyes? Surely not. “What do you…. what do you mean?”

“I do not believe I was speaking in riddles,” he muttered with a tone of vexation. “It was foolish of you, girl. I can scarcely believe you would even…” He bit his tongue and shook his head. “No matter. It is done now, and for that reason, we shall work to erase it from the grand history of the Hartleighs. You are well aware of how swiftly gossip travels in this town. The sole method to arrest its spread is to disregard it utterly. Now, is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord.” She nodded once but could not suppress the faint smile that played on her lips. “And thank you.”

“For what?” he grumbled.

Her smile widened a touch. “Nothing.”

He studied her for a moment, as if deciding something. “Very well. And on that note, it is important to remember who you are. My daughter. You are no fool. No embarrassment. You are certainly not the subject of idle chatter. The disgrace lies not with you but with those whose tongues are too freely wagged. This, I will no longer tolerate.”

Virtue eyed her father intently, unable to fathom what he was saying or why he was saying it. She had thought he’d brought her here to shout and scream, but it was the opposite of that. He had a point he was trying to make, that was clear, but she could not begin to reason what it might be.

“What Lord Prescott did to you was a disgrace,” he growled, anger now lacing his tone. “But not for you. For him! He made a fool of his own name, not yours, certainly not mine, and it is time that we reminded the people of that. Don’t you think?”

 “Y-yes, my lord,” she stammered, sensing that was all he wished to hear.

“He thinks to tarnish you.” He chuckled bitterly. “He thinks to ruin me? Pah! Well, we shall see what he thinks next. I dare say, he will rue the day he ever dared to cross me and mine.”

Still, Virtue regarded her father. She knew now that his hostilities were not for her, so that was a good thing to be sure. Rather, he seemed awfully proud of something, excited even. He was building toward a point, and where she might have guessed what it was… no, she would not dare.

“It is for that reason,” he began, his voice tinged with an uncharacteristic buoyancy as he stood from his chair, “that I bring you tidings which I believe will also be a source of excitement for you.” He raised an eyebrow, a sly smirk playing across his features.

“You do?” Her heart began to flutter. Surely not? Surely, this wasn’t going where she thought…

“I have been tirelessly occupied these past two weeks. However, diligent efforts often yield fruitful outcomes, and it pleases me immensely to inform you that in one week’s time, Virtue, you are to be married to—”

“What?!” The word escaped her lips before she could temper her reaction, and she saw her father’s jaw clench in response. “Sorry…” she murmured hastily, mind whirling as she looked at him to continue.

“As I was saying, I have arranged for you to be wed.” He paused and cocked an eyebrow at her, making sure she did not interrupt this time. “Securing a suitor willing to marry so precipitously was no trifling matter. Yet, considering recent events, I deemed it prudent to forego a traditional betrothal. This way, we circumvent any… unforeseen complications,” he added sharply, his intent unmistakable. “And, as fortune would have it, I have found an exemplary gentleman.” He halted, allowing the gravity of his announcement to settle as he fixed his gaze upon her.

“Who would—” she whispered, holding her tongue at that for she had so many questions but knew better than to ask them.

He nodded solemnly. “You should be aware, this was no trifling task. Given the… aftermath of recent events,” he said, his tone sharpening with frustration as he clicked his tongue. “Our options were regrettably limited. Threadbare, one might say. The fact that I managed to secure a suitor at all, and one of considerable standing, is nothing short of miraculous. Perhaps, in a roundabout way, you are owed some adulations yourself,” he chuckled lightly. “You did look quite graceful the other evening, my dear, so perhaps word of your charm reached him.”

 “Thank you, my lord—”

“Now, now! We will have none of that! I am your father and will be referred to as such. As to the facts, he has agreed to the dowry, he is as eager to wed as I could hope, and come next week, we shall throw a wedding at my local parish. A small ceremony, he insisted, but considering the circumstances, I think it is best. Weddings of this… nature, tend to invite gossip — something we will do well to avoid. So, a quick, private ceremony, free from whispers and other nuisances, and the two of you will then be free to remind the ton who you are and where you come from.”

She could barely stand it any further. Was this some kind of jest? Or was he really more concerned with discussing the details surrounding the marriage than the marriage itself and her supposed betrothed? As he spoke, her mind wandered, her heart raced, and her excitement rose to levels previously thought unattainable. Her father had found her a husband. She was going to be married. Could it be perhaps… Lord Tarrow? The details aligned, and she did feel there had been some connection between them when they had locked gazes at the ball. Or perhaps, it was another of the lords on Prudence’s list? Yes, there was the fact that she had never met this mysterious man, and had no idea who he was, but she knew her father well enough to know that he must have been someone of renown. He would rather her die alone than marry beneath her station.

But who was it? Who might he have found? Excitement mixed with fear mixed with nerves, and all the while her father watched her squirm, finally waiting for her to ask the obvious question.

“Who is he, father?”

He smiled at that, a hint of triumph in his expression. “His Grace, the Duke of Greystone.”

“His Grace?!” Virtue’s eyes widened, a mix of shock and awe coloring her voice. A Duke! The idea seemed almost fantastical. Given her recent social blunders, how could a Duke possibly deem her a suitable bride? Especially under such hastily arranged circumstances—it defied understanding. It made no sense! That was until her father continued to speak.

“He is a good man, Virtue.” He nodded firmly as if to affirm it. “A war hero. Fabulously wealthy. Young too, considering. And given that his estate lies several hundred miles away, I believe you’ll find the change of scenery quite to your liking. Yes…” His smile took on a proud curve. “And whatever rumors you might hear about him, well, you of all people know the weight—or lack thereof—of gossip. I would just ignore them.”

“Rumors…?” Virtue leaned back in her chair, her initial excitement morphing into worry. “What… what do they say?”

“His Grace, Duke Greystone, Virtue.” Her father repeated the title, eyeing her with a puzzled look as if the name alone should trigger recognition. “Surely, you have heard of his, ah… of what happened?”

Virtue felt a stir of unease. The way her father mentioned the Duke’s history implied there was more to this man than his titles and accolades. What had happened with the Duke of Greystone that made him consider her a suitable bride, of all people, despite all her recent shortcomings? Worse, what might it mean for her future? “I have not. What happened?”

As her father divulged the details, Virtue’s initial spark of excitement rapidly extinguished, replaced by a creeping dread. She did indeed recognize the name—the Duke of Greystone. And with recognition came the flood of chilling rumors that accompanied it, each more unsettling than the last.

Fear was what replaced her excitement. Fear and bitter remorse.

Ever since she was a little girl, Virtue had wished for nothing more than to marry. Well, to fall in love and marry, but at this point, she was willing to settle with the latter. Now that her fate had been set before her, however, she wondered if the prize she sought was worth the cost. Love and happiness were things she associated with marriage, but if the rumors about His Grace were true — and she had no reason to believe otherwise — love and happiness were likely the last things she would ever feel again.

A murderer? A madman? A monster ripped straight from her storybooks? These rumors swirled menacingly through her mind, her anxiety mounting with each passing moment. As her father prattled on, his enthusiasm starkly contrasting her growing unease, Virtue couldn’t help but wonder: What in good heavens was he thinking?

It appeared he wasn’t, at least not with any regard to her well-being.

Look out for the full release on the 2nd of June!

Chapter One

1814

Outskirts of Buckinghamshire

How a simple thing like a piece of paper, a letter, could bring such happiness.

Rain lashed the small window of Hester Haddington’s room. Outside, the sky was leaden with the promise of unending downpours. But as she read on, the sun shone in her heart.

She sat in the window seat, its upholstery faded and split. The window did not fit its casement properly and admitted a chill breeze. But Hester liked to sit there, regardless of the draught. She liked to look out at the world beyond Goddington Hall. The distant woods beyond the park and the town of Buckinghamshire visible on the horizon, its peaceful spires of chimney smoke mimicking the slender grace of the church steeple at the heart of the town.

That world was largely unknown to her.

Since the death of her parents ten years before, she had seen little of it. Goddington, the home of her aunt and uncle, had become her home and her prison.

She flicked her long, golden hair back and absently rubbed at the small white scar that marred the porcelain skin of her right shoulder. Sometimes she fancied she could still feel the stab of pain made by the willow switch that had caused it, wielded by Aunt Phoebe. She began to re-read the letter that had been smuggled to her by Cousin Selina, her only ally at Goddington. The words set a warm glow within her.

 

               My dearest Hester, 

I hope this letter finds you well. Words on paper are such a poor substitute for the sight of you, for holding your hand in mine, for holding your body close to me. I still think of that night at your debut when we danced. Then when we walked the halls of Goddington together and I had my first taste of what it must be like for you to be mine, to be shared with no-one else. The letters we have exchanged since that night have sustained me for a time, have made me feel close to you. But they are a poor substitute. Under normal circumstances, I should call on you at Goddington, we would take walks in the park, perhaps chaperoned by your cousin. I yearn for it but know that it is impossible. I should like to call out your uncle for holding you a prisoner, making you into a slave. I want to take you away from them. I cannot marry you without the permission of your uncle, as your legal guardian, as you are not yet one and twenty years old. But, we can run away together. I know that what I am suggesting is scandalous but it will enable us to be together and married in Gretna. I hope that I have not misjudged your heart. Based on your letters to me, I do not believe so.

If you are agreeable, then meet me at noon five days from the date of this letter. I shall meet you with my carriage. The location shall be the crossroads to the west of the Tingewick Woods outside the village of Barton Hartshorn. It is but six miles from Goddington. I trust this will not be too far for you to walk. I would suggest a closer location but fear that you may be seen by your uncle or one of his men. If another location is preferable, then write to me at once. If I do not hear from you, then I will be waiting at the crossroads at noon.

               Your ever loving

              Arthur

 

There was a gentle tap at her door. Hester knew that she didn’t need to conceal the letter because only Selina would knock so diffidently.

“Come in, Selina!” she called.

The door opened and a slender girl of sixteen entered the room. Her hair was fiery red, the color of which she inherited from her father. She smiled hesitantly, then broader when she saw Hester’s face. Hurriedly, she closed the door and ran to her cousin. Hester hugged her and made room for her on the window seat.

“I trust your lover has good things to say?” Selina whispered excitedly.

“He does. As always. In fact…”

Hester hesitated, unsure if she should disclose all to Selina. It was not that she did not trust the girl, but that it might put her into a difficult position when Selina’s father, Baron Goddington, eventually found out.

“In fact?” Selina coaxed, seizing Hester’s hand.

Her blue eyes were bright with excitement and Hester knew that she could not keep this a secret.

She did not want to.

Speaking the words aloud would make them somehow more real than being written on a page.

“He wishes to marry me!” Hester exclaimed.

Suddenly, tears filled her eyes. They were tears of happiness. Selina hugged her again, her own eyes wet.

“Oh, cousin! That is so wonderful. I am so happy for you! Will Papa give his blessing, do you think? Do you wish me to speak to him?”

Hester shook her head hastily. “He would not. I am sure of it.”

That darkened Selina’s expression. She knew the cruelty that her father and mother were capable of, though it was rarely directed at her. But she didn’t like to be reminded of it, or how helpless she was to prevent it.

“Then how will you marry him? Unless…”

Hester was mildly shocked that her innocent cousin had realized what Arthur and Hester were planning. If permission to marry was withheld, then there was only one option remaining.

“We will elope,” Hester whispered.

A thrill ran through her at the very idea. Selina’s eyes went almost comically wide, as did her mouth. Hester laughed.

“It is the only way I fear. We will be married over the blacksmith’s anvil at Gretna Green and once that is done, Uncle Timothy will be able to do nothing about it. Other than accept me as Mrs. Arthur Binkley.”

“Oh my, Hester! What a scandal you will cause!” Selina exclaimed.

But there was a smile on her face as she did so. The idea of a scandal to her was one of excitement and drama. It was something that did not often reach into the parochial Buckinghamshire world of Goddington. She associated scandal with cities such as London, where all manner of sin was perpetrated.

“How may I help? We could pretend to Papa to be taking the trap into town and instead meet your beau! Where are you to meet him?”

Hester shook her head emphatically. “We shall do nothing of the sort. That would implicate you and I will not have that.”

Selina opened her mouth to protest but Hester put a hand to her cousin’s lips. “No, Selina. Absolutely not. Remember what I said to you all those years ago when first I arrived here? I was ten years of age and you were but seven?”

“You said that we must keep our friendship a secret. That Mama and Papa dislike you and would take pains to keep us apart if they suspected that I did not share their opinion,” Selina said sullenly, “it is simply so unjust! I must smuggle your letters in and out of this house because of my beastly mother and father. I wish to tell them to their faces that treating their niece like a servant is wrong!”

“But your father is master of this house and neither of us has the power to challenge him. But, when I am wife to Sir Arthur Binkley of Marsh Gibbon, there will be no more mistreatment. Then we can be friends openly. I merely need you to be patient for just a few days longer. Maintain the facade that we are enemies since childhood.”

Selina put her head on her older cousin’s shoulder and Hester put her arms around her.

“It is so beastly,” Selina complained.

“But almost over,” Hester soothed.

So many times, growing up at Goddington Hall, Hester had soothed the younger girl after suffering the cruelty of Timothy and his wife Phoebe. She didn’t understand its source. She had not asked to be their ward. That had been forced on them after the death of her parents from influenza. Timothy and Phoebe Haskett had resented her from the start, placing her in the smallest room of their Buckinghamshire home and making her carry out chores in place of a servant. The only concession she had been given was a debut at the age of eighteen. But that was for appearance’s sake only. They had no intention of letting her take her place in county society or the London ton, both of which they were active members of. It did not help that her father had been practically bankrupt when he died. What little inheritance was left had to be given over in death duties, leaving Hester beholden to her wealthy aunt and uncle.

Until now.

“All will be well,” she murmured, “the sun is breaking through the clouds at last, and life will be warm and sunny from today forth. You’ll see.”

***

Hester huddled within the shelter of a beech tree, an outlier of Tingewick Wood. It stood near the crossroads which signposted Preston Bassett to the south-east, Barton Hartshorn to the south-west, Tingewick to the north-east and Finmere to the north-west. It was the furthest she had ever been from Goddington Hall. It had been a wet and blustery walk which had taken her the better part of three hours. Fortunately, Goddington Hall was situated on hills above the village of Barton-Hartshorn, so it had been a downhill walk all the way, following the Padbury stream as it meandered along the valley. The Buckingham road was relatively straight and well maintained or her journey might have taken all day, had she been forced to fight through mud and waterlogged lanes. As it was, her dress was spattered and her cloak sodden. Her face was wet and cold, and she suspected bearing one or two drops of mud from the road also.

But none of it mattered. Arthur was on his way and soon she would be safe and warm in his arms. The branches above her swayed, the leaves making a hushed roar in the wind. She moved closer to the fissured trunk as rain was gusted under the protective canopy in a frigid spray. It must be nearly noon, she had timed her walk most carefully. The sun was obscured by a blanket of clouds but she could not be too far from the allotted time.

She waited.

And waited.

The rain ceased and the wind began to tear the cloud cover to tatters. It was with a small shock that she noted how far the sun had fallen from its noon zenith.

It must be between two and three o’clock by now! Where could Arthur be? Has he had an accident?

At that moment, as worry was knotting her insides, she saw a carriage pulled by a team of four horses, making its way out of the Tingewick Woods. Hope flared within her and she stepped away from the tree to the roadside. It was a fine coach, colored black and silver and driven by a man in the uniform of a footman. He slowed his team and brought the coach to a halt beside her. Hester looked up at the driver hopefully.

“Would you be driving Sir Arthur Binkley by any chance?” she asked.

The driver touched the brim of his hat to her. “I’m afraid not, Miss Haddington. His Grace, the Duke of Middleton, is within, and requests your audience.”

 

Chapter Two

Hester drew back a step as the driver leaned down from his seat to open the door. Within the coach, she saw an elderly man lean forward and recognized him immediately.

Percival Fairchild, Duke of Middleton was a distinctive figure.

In his late middle years, his long face was that of a kindly grandfather. His smile caused wrinkles to appear around his eyes and seemed kind. She remembered being introduced to him at her debut ball.

Reassured that it was, in fact, him, she stepped forward and accepted the hand of the driver to ascend to the interior of the coach. She saw that his left leg rested on the seat opposite him and was swathed in bandages. He saw the direction of her gaze and smiled sadly.

“Alas, a touch of gout. The bane of my family. My doctor says I must forgo port, rich sauce, and cigars. I say that life without such things is scarcely worth living,” then he fixed her with a direct stare, “and what brings you to this desolate spot, my dear?”

At first, Hester was unsure how much she should reveal. Would the Duke feel inclined to report back to her uncle if he heard something he did not like? Yet, at the same time, he may be able to help her find Arthur, and that was a risk she needed to take. Waiting any longer would undoubtedly alert her relatives of her absence. “I… I had arranged to meet a gentleman here,” Hester replied with a waver.

“Yes, I know. Sir Arthur Binkley of Marsh Gibbon, was it not?” Middleton replied gently.

“Why, yes! But how could you know that?” Hester asked, narrowing her gaze.

“Because I am acquainted with Sir Arthur. I consider myself fortunate to count him as a friend. Now, my dear, this is not going to be easy for you to hear but hear it you must.”

Hester swallowed, suddenly feeling as though the rug were being pulled from beneath her feet and she was falling. Despite that, she lifted her chin and firmed her mouth, resolved to face whatever fate was about to deal for her.

“Sir Arthur came to me about four days ago in a terrible state of remorse. He told me that he had indulged his emotions for a young lady of great beauty, intelligence, and sophistication, and entered into correspondence with her after a meeting at Goddington. That young lady was, of course, yourself.”

Hester found herself smiling at the description. Middleton raised a finger as though to forestall her initial feelings.

“But, he is already engaged to be married.”

The words fell from his lips like lead weights to thud against the floor. Hester felt her heart join those heavy words. She clutched her hands to her stomach. When she realized that she was sitting with her mouth open, she closed it hurriedly. She would not appear in such distress in front of a man who was almost a perfect stranger.

“Arthur is already engaged to be married,” she repeated.

“An arranged marriage and not one of the heart, I must add,” Middleton continued agonizingly slowly, “but an engagement that he cannot break. Because he does not wish to marry the lady he is engaged to, he committed the sin of indulging his daydreams with you. Of allowing himself to believe that he could have true love and a happy ever after. But, alas, when the time came, he knew that he could not do it. And he asked me how he should proceed, not wishing to hurt you further and not able to renege on the commitment he has already entered into, personally.”

Hester blinked away the first treacherous tears, turning her head so that Middleton would not see. But, it seems, he missed nothing.

“Now, now. Here, take my handkerchief,” he offered her a square of white linen embroidered with his coat of arms in the corners, “all is not lost. The reason I am here to deliver this upsetting news is that I have a proposition for you. It is highly unusual but one which would mean that you do not have to suffer the indignity of returning to the home of your aunt and uncle. A home in which I believe you are not at all happy.”

Hester looked back at him. “How, pray tell, do you know of my life at Goddington?”

“From Sir Arthur,” Middleton said kindly, “he was most insistent that I help you if I can. And, I believe that I can.”

“How?” Hester’s voice almost broke.

“Before I begin, please may I ask that you hear my entire story to the end. Listen to my proposal and give it serious thought. You will wish to dismiss it out of hand but I ask that you promise to listen first, then decide.”

This was most perplexing.

Hester frowned, wiped her eyes and nodded, seeing no harm in listening to the mysterious proposal.

“I have a son. My only son, Dorian. He is Marquis of Langley which lies to the west of here near Cottington in Oxfordshire. He was married to a beautiful young woman named Sophia Bennett. The Kent Bennetts, are you familiar with the family?”

Hester shook her head.

“Well, my dear. You bear a striking resemblance to Sophia, who, sadly, is no longer with us. She passed away from the influenza after being married for less than a year. I understand that your parents were taken by the same illness?”

Hester nodded. It made her feel an affinity for Middleton and her son, knowing that they had lost a loved one in the same way that she had lost her parents.

“Dorian suffered greatly from her loss. It led him to purchase a commission in the Buckinghamshire Rifle Regiment and go to war in Spain, fighting the French. There, he suffered a terrible injury, and he spent many months recuperating at a monastery near Ciudad Rodrigo, in the west of Spain. I believed, as did the army, that he had been killed in battle. For a year, I believed that I had lost my only son.”

At this, the kindly old man seemed to struggle with his own equilibrium. He put the knuckles of one hand to his mouth and turned to look out of the coach’s window for a long moment.

Presently, he spoke again.

“Oh dear, where was I? Ah, yes, I remember. Dorian was found by a British Catholic priest visiting the monastery and the church arranged for his return to me. We are and always have been one of England’s most prominent Catholic families and, I am proud to say, openly Catholic. However, I digress. I thanked God for Dorian’s return, but he… came back to me a very changed man. He had lost his memory of everything that had happened from the point of Sophia’s death. He did not remember joining the army or fighting. Crucially, he did not remember losing Sophia. I have for many months now pondered how to break the news to him. You see, he believes her to be still alive. I fear that his fragile mind will be utterly destroyed if he ever learns of the truth. Do you perhaps begin to see why I am so keen to meet you?”

Hester remembered his comment about her resemblance to Sophia and had jumped to a conclusion, but it seemed too ridiculous, too far-fetched to be real.

“You are surely not saying…” she began.

“That I wish you to impersonate Sophia. Yes, that is precisely what I ask of you,” Middleton intoned solemnly.

“But, Your Grace, that is… why it’s…”

“Ridiculous? Farcical? Mad? I agree. It is all of those things, but a father once bereaved will resort to the ridiculous, farcical, and mad, to save the life of his child once again.”

“I cannot spend the rest of my life pretending to be Sophia Bennett!” Hester exclaimed, “Not least because the Bennett family themselves would surely get wind of it. They too have lost a child. It would seem a ghastly, macabre joke to them that the Fairchilds are pretending that she is still alive. I am sorry, Your Grace, to be so blunt, but I cannot see how it could work.”

“Do not mistake me, Miss Haddington. I do not propose this as a long-term role. Merely until his mind has healed enough that his true memories return. His doctor says that this will happen over time but only if he is given a peaceful, calm, and safe place in which to recover. I can think of no place more peaceful and safe than his home with his wife. Now, as the healing takes place, you and I will need to be in close contact to discuss how we gradually remove you from your role, how we re-introduce Dorian to the truth. But, that is a conversation for a few weeks’ time. In the immediate, my concern is for my son’s recovery. I cannot break his heart by telling him the truth. I beg you, Miss Haddington. Do this for me. For us.”

He squeezed her hand and water was eked out of the fabric to drip onto her skirts. Hester didn’t notice. She looked into his imploring eyes, seeing all the pain of a desperate father. But one who has had his prayers answered once, had his son delivered to him from the dead.

“In return, I am prepared to offer you a new life.”

“That is very generous, Your Grace. But my life is dependent on my aunt and uncle. There was nothing left of my father’s estates and when I am once more Hester Haddington instead of Sophia Bennett, I will have nothing to my name once more. Except, I will have earned the eternal enmity of the Hasketts for running away. I will have nothing.”

“Why, you will have your father’s fortune, of course, Miss Haddington. I do not know why you believe there was nothing left. I must assume this is yet another aspect of the Haskett’s villainy. The fortune of the Earl of Audley was renowned and cannot have been consumed by death duties. Nor can such a fortune have been consumed by the avarice of your father’s sister and her husband. It surely exists, and I will use my considerable influence, wealth, and standing in court to ensure that you receive it. Then you will be free.”

Hester found herself gaping once again, but this time could not stop herself. Her world had shifted, turned on its head. First, Arthur, and now her entire concept of her circumstances. Her aunt and uncle had lied to her for all these years. Keeping her inheritance from her while they enjoyed the fruits of it. Astonishment turned to anger and resolve.

“Very well, Your Grace. I accept.”

 

Chapter Three

Oxfordshire

The countryside of Oxfordshire was much like that of Buckinghamshire. Hester knew it must be so, but as she had never, in her memory, been much beyond Goddington or her family home at Audley, she could not be certain.

The coach rode smoothly along a road that wound between fields and meadows with the rising sun behind them. Villages appeared and disappeared, the road they followed running by them but not through them. Off to the left, she could see a large line of hills, dark against the pale morning sky.

“Langley Grange is there, right at the foot of Langley Peak, that’s the hill you can see,” Middleton pointed out.

He was sitting next to her and they had spent the journey thus far with one last rehearsal of Hester’s story. It was the story that Dorian had been told and that she would reinforce. Her grandmother, Lady Cynthia Purcell from York, had fallen ill and Hester, or rather Sophia, had been obliged to take care of her. The old lady had sadly passed away. This would explain any odd behavior from Hester, the vagaries of grief. Hester had spent the last three days learning about Sophia Bennett and her marriage to Dorian Fairchild. Her interests and passions, her accomplishments, and foibles. She could recount the occasion of Sophia’s first meeting with Dorian and the key moments of their story, at least those that Middleton was aware of.

Presently, Hester was a tumult of emotions.

Excitement was chief among them at the moment, but trepidation was not far behind. Anger ran through it all like the streaks of color in marble. Anger at the Haskett’s who had treated her like a servant and lied to her. Anger towards Arthur, but only to a degree. He had allowed himself to speak of love and elopement while knowing that he could not carry through his promises. She could not paint him a liar though, merely a man whose head and heart were at war. It did cut her deeply that his feelings for her had not been strong enough to win through against what his head told him to do. She thought herself a fool for believing him and a fool for agreeing to this escapade. It was so patently ludicrous that it could not possibly work. Nor could she promise herself that she would be able to continue with it. The idea of deliberately lying to an innocent person, and such a monstrous lie at that, for weeks on end was unthinkable to her.

“Remember, this is all for Dorian’s own good. And, selfishly, for me. So that I do not risk losing my only son a second time,” Middleton had told her on more than one occasion.

Hester clung to that and told herself that the only alternative was to return to Goddington and face punishment. In all likelihood, a lifetime of punishment. There was no alternative.

A dark speck against the looming Langley Peak began to grow larger. They had turned from the west and were heading more towards the south, but angling towards the great peak. Hester could see that it rose from a chain of hills that ran more or less north to south. Another series of rolling downs reached towards that line of high ground from the east, meeting it at right angles. In the gap between these ranges was the dark speck that soon became a mass and then a crenelated shape of stone and mortar.

Langley Grange.

The house was of dark stone, giving the appearance of an antique structure and bearing none of the hallmarks of modern, fashionable design. It was square and rose to three stories in height. Its front door was housed in a huge, stone arch, appearing distinctly medieval. A forest of chimneys rose from a multitude of rooftops that rose at all angles from the simple structure.

The road passed between an ornamental gate, entwined with ivy, and standing open with the air of not having been closed for years. Gateposts were almost swamped by ivy too. Aspen and alder stood dotted around the long grass of the park, pioneers of the woodland that loomed behind the house and reached out as though to embrace it.

“It has been somewhat neglected of late,” Middleton observed with a distinctive blush, “there has been a high turnover of staff due to my son’s condition. Initially, it made him somewhat unpredictable. But, that has improved greatly, have no fear.”

His words degenerated into a cough, then a series of coughs until he sat back in his seat, gasping.

“Your Grace, are you quite well? You are very pale,” Hester exclaimed, her hands hovering in the air just before the elderly Duke.

Middleton nodded and forced a smile. “Age, my dear. Just age. And this damnably inclement weather. Damp air plays merry hell with the lungs. If you’ll pardon my French. At least the gout has subsided for the time being.”

The coach came to a halt before the imposing, medieval doorway. It opened, and a man strode out.

Hester found herself staring. He wore black, but so elegantly that it did not seem plain at all. A silk brocade waistcoat was accentuated by a silver watch chain, while silver thread had been worked into the collar of his coat and its sleeves. A cravat of dark purple was held in place by an onyx-headed pin. His hair was long and dark, hanging from his temples to his shoulders. An aquiline nose and a sharp jawline gave him an angular and exotic face. Like that of an Italian prince. His shoulders were broad and he was tall, surpassing the height of his father. There was an air of strength about him that Hester had not encountered before, from any man. Her heart beat faster as his dark eyes fell on her. His brows were drawn down, intensifying his stare.

Time slowed as Hester’s blue eyes met his impenetrably dark stare. She felt stripped by that stare, as though he saw through her clothes to her naked skin. As though he stripped away her pretenses to see the real her beneath. The feeling was intensely exciting. She had thought, while kissing Arthur, that she knew of the excitement that a man could cause in a woman. That she had experience of it from Arthur’s embraces. But they were cold compared to the heat that she felt rise within her at her first sight of her ‘husband.’ For that is what she would now be pretending that he was to her. This enigmatic, darkly handsome giant was to be her husband. In name, if not face. But what if he wanted to make her his wife? What if he wanted to take her? The idea had her gasping, clamping a hand over her mouth.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Middleton inquired anxiously.

“Quite well,” Hester replied in a whisper.

Dorian had reached the coach and pulled open the door. With one booted foot, he released the catch that unlocked the steps. They folded to the ground and he held out a hand for Hester. She wore no gloves and felt a thrill as her skin touched his. His hands were smooth, though she could feel the lines of scars upon them. His grip was firm, making her feel that if she swooned without warning, she need not fear. He would catch her and his strength would support her without effort.

With her feet on the ground, Hester looked up at Dorian. It was as though their eyes had held each other since the first moment, without a break. This close, she could see that his eyes were the color of chocolate with hints of hazel. For a moment, he stared at her with blank incomprehension on his face.

“Dorian. I have missed you,” Hester choked out.

Hardly believing her own daring, she stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his cheek. Her head spun. He wore cologne that was spicy and musky at the same time. Its sheer maleness was overwhelming, making her think of his body, his muscle. He was an immensely physical man. She could well imagine him on the battlefield, atop a charger, holding a sword and leading men into battle.

Dorian suddenly smiled and it was like sunshine breaking through clouds. His brooding demeanor vanished as though it had not existed. The smile lit up his face. It was boyish and roguish by equal measures. Both exciting and endearing. She could not help but return it.

“My dearest wife. My Sophia! How I have missed you so!” Dorian exclaimed.

Without warning, he wrapped his arms about her waist and lifted her into the air to spin her around. Hester screamed in delight, smiling, and laughing, clutching at the bonnet she wore. It was pale blue to match her dress. She had not tied it and Dorian seized it, pulling it from her head and tossing it aside.

“My golden-haired princess!” he declared.

Putting her back on her feet, he ran the fingers of both hands through her hair, making her skin tingle in delight. Then, he kissed her on the lips. Compared to Arthur’s, Dorian’s kisses were suns compared to a candle. Hester rose on her tiptoes to press her lips tighter against his. His hands were strong, holding her against him, slipping from her hair to hold her body in a tight embrace. All the while, his lips set her entire body afire.

“Now, now, children. Remember, your old father is waiting to get indoors in front of a fire, and with a warm drop of brandy. Save such behavior for when you have retired to your bedchambers,” Middleton exclaimed.

The kiss ended, though Hester remained poised on tiptoes, eyes closed. Finally, she opened them and found herself staring into Dorian’s eyes.

“Welcome home,” he whispered. Then he raised his eyes to the carriage where the footman was helping Middleton down, “Thank you for bringing her back to me, Father. And it is good to see you back on your feet.”

“Just in time to partake of your excellent wine cellar,” Middleton chortled.

“Now, now, Your Grace,” Hester spoke, adopting his own colloquialism and tone, but remembering that she had been told that Sophia was also most solicitous of Middleton’s health, “that is what brought on the attack of gout in the first place. Dorian, you must make sure that your father is moderate in his habits while he is here.”

Dorian grinned. “You know him as well as I. Could anyone ever make him do something he did not wish to?”

“You will, I command it.” 

It was another aspect of Sophia’s playful and confident nature. But it was also not far from her own. She had grown fond of Middleton in the last few days and the concern she expressed for his health was genuine.

Dorian nodded gravely. “Your wish, as ever, is my command,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 19th of May!

Chapter One

1809

Seth stared down at the burning staircase. He knew that he didn’t have long. Flames licked the wood and wreathed the banisters. It seemed impossible, but the longer he waited, the worse it would become. The girl was wrapped in his coat, held against his chest with her legs wrapped around his waist. He held her with both arms and whispered to her as she cried for her father. Coughing from the acrid smoke, he took his first step. The riser creaked but held. Second step. Held. Third step. The wood cracked beneath his heel and only lightning reactions saved him from falling backwards. Had he done so, he had no doubt the entire staircase would have collapsed under his weight and both he and the child he was trying to save would have been lost. Seth charged, flinging aside caution, courage flaring brighter than the flames that reached over him and across the ceiling. His charge was accompanied by a deafening crash as the tortured, scorched wood reached the limits of its strength. He kept his eyes on the dark opening in the flames at the foot of the stairs.

Down there was a flagstone floor and the door that led out into the blessedly cool night air. He almost reached it. At the third step from the bottom, the wood gave way beneath his foot, snaring it. He toppled forward, and seizing the child about the waist, he hurled her away from him as he fell. If he became trapped in the burning staircase, at least she would have a chance. His hands broke his fall, smacking against solid stone. The girl tumbled ahead of him, looking back with wide, terrified eyes. She froze and he realized she was too terrified to save herself, even with salvation just a few feet away.

“Go! Run!” he tried to shout, but all that came out was a croak, followed by a choking, wracking cough as smoke invaded his lungs.

She did not move. Seth pushed himself up, feeling the flames at work on his legs where they lay against the burning stairs. He swatted at them as he tried to get to his feet.

“Isadora!” came a man’s voice from outside.

“Papa!” the girl screamed, turning towards the door.

Seth looked up to see a stocky man with a shock of fair hair that matched the girl’s, hurtling in through the open door of the house. He caught a glimpse of someone outside hurling a bucket of water towards the house. The villagers of Twyford had rallied to put out the fire that was consuming the Lodge. The fair-haired man scooped up his daughter and ran from the place. At that moment, something unbearably heavy landed on Seth’s back. The breath rushed from his body and he was flattened to the ground. The stone floor had been heated by the fire and it seared the palms of his hands. Seth lifted them away but could not lift his head enough to remove his right temple and cheek from the searing touch of the stone. The smell of burning flesh filled his nose, terrified in the knowledge that it was his own. Looking up, he saw the doorway ringed in flames and the man outside, holding his daughter. He was looking back, meeting Seth’s eyes but not venturing into the house a second time.

“Help me!” Seth screamed until the smoke choked him.

The doorway disappeared as, with a crash of timber, a section of roof fell in. Even if he were able to lift the beam that pinned him, there was no way out of the burning house.

 

***

 

Seth screamed. He clawed his way awake, kicking at the bedclothes. Then the freezing air of the room hit him, his breath fogging in front of his face. Not the searing heat of a burning house. He stared blindly into the dark, the dream still alive inside his head. Ten years on and it felt as real as though it had only just happened. Moonlight spilled into his bedchamber through the open curtains. Frost was gathering at the corners of the window panes. He took deep lungfuls of air, feeling the sweat cooling on his naked body. He always slept naked, liking the feel of cool sheets against the scarring that banded his back. Now the chill air of the unheated room served to dampen the flames of the nightmare. Seth ran a shaking hand through his auburn hair, now dark with sweat. The nightmare was not a fabrication. Not a concoction of his mind distilled from childhood fears. It was a memory. The memory of an act of bravery by a fifteen-year-old who was heir to a Dukedom. An act that had gone unrecognized when he had been left to die by the father of the girl he saved.

Seth swung his legs from the bed, casting aside the bedclothes. He stood and walked to the wardrobe, taking out a shirt and a pair of breeches. The cold did not bother him. He welcomed it. No fire was ever lit in the castle, not in any room that he occupied. There were no carpets, only cold, hard stone. No wall hangings to soften the stark lines of the walls either. Centuries-old tapestries had been stripped when he inherited Bellmore Castle. Anything that would provide fuel to a fire. The clock on the mantle chimed two. No more sleep would come to him that night. Not after a visitation of his recurring nightmare.

Before leaving his bedchamber, he picked up the leather mask that covered the right side of his face, securing it in place with ties that went around his head. It was plain, black leather, covering his face from forehead to jawline. Then he walked through the interconnected rooms that made up his personal quarters in the castle, occupying the entirety of the top floor of the north wing. No lamps were needed to find his way through the maze of rooms and passages to the library. There, and only there, would he light an encased lamp, in order to provide the light to read by. The remainder of the evening would be spent in this way, his mind occupied by the words of his favorite authors, distracted and soothed.

As he neared the library, he heard a noise. It was furtive and small. The kind of noise made by someone or something that did not wish to be observed. A mouse or rat, he thought. Or one of the many ghosts that haunted Bellmore Castle, according to folklore. It wouldn’t have been the first time that he had witnessed unexplained occurrences in the castle. Then he saw the light from under the library door. It shone briefly, as though someone had approached the door carrying a lantern. Then it faded. Seth felt anger rise within him. The servants were permitted the use of lanterns to perform their duties at night but none should have been abroad at this hour. He strode to the doors of the library and flung them wide. The Black Library of Bellmore was notorious for its collection of volumes on the subject of the occult and supernatural. His grandfather had been an avid collector. It had fed into the legends of the Bellmore Curse, leading local people to believe that the Ashbourne’s of Bellmore were devil worshippers.

It formed a dome at the center of the castle, a piece of classical architecture reminiscent of Rome or Greece in the middle of a sprawling medieval castle. A window at the apex of that dome allowed cold moonlight to spill to the stone floor. A figure was crossing that circle of white light as Seth entered the room. It was cloaked and hooded. In one hand, it held a lantern high. In the other, it held something in a bundle. It whirled as Seth entered, face shadowed by the hood. Seth grinned, baring teeth, as he marched towards it. He was unarmed but blessed with height and breadth of shoulder. He had compensated for the years spent convalescing from his burns by ensuring his body was as strong as it could be.

“I commend you on your courage. Few will risk the curse of Bellmore to venture anywhere near the castle, let alone enter it. To do so for the purpose of stealing is quite the feat of courage,” Seth muttered.

The figure tensed as though to take flight.

“Do not bother running. I am not alone, you see,” Seth added.

He whistled, long and high. For a moment, only silence answered him. Then came the sound of paws against stone and two large hounds appeared in the doorway behind Seth. Their shoulders were level with his waist and, at the sight of the stranger, their hackles rose. Heads lowered and ears flattened. Twin growls rumbled from the animals as they took up positions on either side of their master.

“Would you match your speed against theirs?” Seth asked.

“I would not.”

It was a man’s voice coming from the hood. His shoulders slumped and he reached up to push back the hood. Seth frowned, looking upon a ruddy, square face with unruly fair hair, almost pure white in the moonlight. There was something familiar about that face. A moment later, it came to him. He pointed at the man.

“Take him!” he snarled.

The two hounds leaped to obey. They were at a dead run in two strides, teeth bared.

“Mercy! For my daughter’s sake! You saved her once!” the man yelled, holding up his hands, dropping the bundle he carried.

“Hold!” Seth barked.

As if his voice were a leash about their necks, the two dogs skidded to a halt. They were mere feet away from the burglar and regarded him with unblinking eyes and lips peeled back from teeth. As far as they were concerned, the hunt had merely been postponed.

“I recognize you. You left me to die once upon a time. After I risked my life to save your child,” Seth snarled.

“I… I am sorry. I was a coward. Her mother died in childbirth. I am all she has in the world. I couldn’t bring myself to risk my life to save you.”

“And by your cowardice, you set the course of my life for me. The life of a hermit, excluded by society, feared. Regarded as a monster.” Seth spat.

He reached up to untie the leather cords securing the mask in place. He stepped forward into the moonlight as he took the mask away. The man recoiled at the sight of his face.

“Not a reaction I relish every time I enter a room,” Seth murmured, “and you have the audacity to claim the title of gentleman. A Baron, no less.”

“I do, and I bear the shame of my actions, but I do not regret them. My courage would have been a far greater sin than cowardice had it resulted in my death. My Isadora would have been orphaned.”

Seth felt his anger within him, as ferocious as the flames that had tried to consume him. He found himself clenching his fists, wanting to strike the man who had left him to die and now returned to steal. He crouched and picked up the cloth-wrapped bundle. It was a book, ancient and priceless. A bible with illuminated parchment pages that had been handed down through generations of the Ashbourne family.

“Rescued from the fall of Jerusalem by Geoffrey Ashbourne, an ancestor of mine and a Captain of the Knights Templar,” Seth said, “said to have been blessed by the first pope. Priceless.”

“They say you are a heathen. A barbarian. Something so precious should be protected by the church!”

Seth threw back his head and laughed. “Heathen? Aye, I am no lover of the Church and no friend of God. He has been no friend to me. But do not pretend that this is a crusade for you, George Fairfax. You are a burglar, not a Templar.”

Fairfax looked away and Seth grinned wolfishly.

“I was desperate. Everyone knows of the Templar Bible and its worth. I was offered a king’s ransom by… by someone for it.”

“Desperate? Do the estates of Henlade not provide for you and your daughter, Baron?” Seth asked.

“We are reduced to a cottage in the village, rented from a local farmer. We do not even have the means of rebuilding the last of my family’s estate, the Twyford Lodge that burned down…”

Seth held up a hand. “Yes, I remember that night well, though it was a decade ago.”

Fairfax drew himself up proudly. “I do what I do for my daughter. I will face my punishment as a man. As a Fairfax. We have fallen upon challenging times, but my family has as proud a heritage as yours.”

“Punishment? For stealing from a Duke? You would be transported and your daughter with you. Or else she would end up a ward of the shire, in a workhouse.”

He saw the tremor in Fairfax’s lips. The glimmer of a tear in his eye. Seth knew that this had been a last, desperate roll of the dice. He knew about desperation. It had been the desperation of a dying man that had given him the strength to lift the beam and crawl from the burning house. No matter his fearsome appearance and reputation, Seth found that he could not bring himself to raise the hue and cry. To see Fairfax clapped in irons and his daughter effectively orphaned. She would be the same age now as he had been when he had saved her life.

“I will decide your punishment. Not the magistrate. You are on my land and I claim the right to justice,” Seth said, “ten years ago, I paid dearly for the life of your daughter. I claim it now. When she has reached her majority and been introduced to society, I will claim her as my wife.”

Chapter Two

4 years later

Isadora wanted to skip to her aunt’s carriage. Her feet felt lighter than air, despite an evening in which she had partaken of every dance. She walked towards the carriage, arm in arm with Cousin Charlotte. They laughed and giggled as they left the residence of Sir Obadiah Keats, their host for the evening. Agnes Strickland walked ahead of them, mother to Charlotte and aunt to Isadora. She walked with dignity on the arm of Elliot Keats, son, and heir to Sir Obadiah, the textile magnate whose wealth from industry had purchased for him a place among the elite of Hampshire society.

“Such fun, Lottie! I do declare. And Stonymeadow Hall is a delightful residence.”

“Keats Hall, Izzie,” Charlotte corrected.

“Ah, yes, I was forgetting. I hope that Master Elliot did not overhear,” she whispered.

Isadora looked at her cousin who was blushing too. They were a contrasting pair, though as close as sisters. Isadora was tall and willowy, with golden hair and blue eyes. Charlotte was shorter and with dark hair and brown eyes. Isadora had the button nose and smattering of freckles that she had inherited from her mother, while Charlotte’s nose was pointed as were the noses of her father and brother. Ahead of them, Elliot Keats was in deep conversation with Lady Agnes. Charlotte was watching him as he walked, her blush deepening.

“He is very handsome, isn’t he?” Charlotte asked.

“Very. A trifle too lean for my taste,” Isadora said.

“You are awful, Izzie. Fancy saying something like that. As though we were cattle farmers at market,” Charlotte protested.

But she laughed. Isadora had always been able to make her cousin laugh and delighted in doing it. Her introduction to Charlotte had not been in the most ideal of circumstances. The sudden death of her father had taken away the core of her very being. In a life of change and turmoil, he had been her one constant. To then discover that the remainder of his estate was eaten up by death taxes, leaving her destitute, was another blow. But Aunt Agnes had insisted. There was plenty of room in the house of her son, the Earl of Swingfield, with herself and her daughter, Charlotte.

“That is what women and men become when the subject of choosing a mate arises,” Isadora continued, “Father and I used to attend the village dances when we lived in Twyford, near Winchester. I can remember seeing the village men and village women of marriageable age eyeing each other up from across the room. If you want to get to the heart of what makes us tick as human beings, go to a village dance.”

Charlotte laughed, her own upbringing as the daughter of an earl being considerably more sheltered than Isadora’s, as the daughter of a bankrupt baron.

“I noticed that you danced with Master Elliot more than you danced with any other man,” Isadora ventured.

“He is a magnificent dancer and an intelligent, humorous conversationalist,” Charlotte replied, “I am almost jealous that it is Mama who is being escorted to the carriage by him.”

“Aunt Agnes will be singing your praises, have no fear,” Isadora said, “and if she is not, then I certainly will.”

Charlotte hugged her cousin’s arm. “You are far braver than I, Izzie. You would just march up to him and ask him what he thinks of me, wouldn’t you?”

“I would,” Isadora replied, and meant it, “growing up among the children of farmers, I learned to speak up or be ignored. I was never very good at being ignored.”

They walked through the ornamental gardens at the south side of Keats Manor, following a gravel path that led to a towering fountain. Torches had been placed along the path with flames that burned with assorted colors. Charlotte was amazed by the effect and Isadora explained how it was achieved by burning powders made of varied materials.

“How clever you are Izzie,” Charlotte enthused, “it must be all that time you spend in my brother’s library.”

“Papa could not afford a governess for me when I was a child. I learned my letters with the village children of Twyford, at Sunday school. I think it has left me with something of a passion for learning and reading,” Isadora replied.

“You would have been welcome to my governess,” Charlotte complained, “she was responsible for giving me a lifelong distaste for learning and reading.”

“But you do enjoy the plays and poetry I read to you.”

“Oh yes, but that is because you are a fine narrator. You make the words come alive. Were I to read those books for myself, I would promptly fall asleep,” Charlotte giggled.

She looked at her cousin for a moment, then asked. “You danced with a fair few handsome young gentlemen yourself, Izzie. Was there anyone in particular?”

Isadora glanced around. Other couples walked behind them, filing casually from the palatial house towards the fountain and the circular driveway where carriages and drivers awaited their masters. None were close enough to overhear and were engrossed in their own conversations besides. The question touched on a delicate matter, one that Isadora would rather have kept secret, as indeed she had for the past year since the death of her father. But she could keep no secrets from Charlotte, her cousin in fact and sister in spirit. The fact that she had not discussed this with Charlotte before now was a source of guilt for her. But, she would not lie or evade a direct question.

“There were one or two who were handsome and charming,” she began.

Charlotte’s eyes lit up and she clutched at Isadora’s arm. “Oh, wonderful. Do tell me who!”

“I will not because nothing can come of it,” Isadora said firmly.

“Is it because you do not have a dowry? Because you must know that Henry regards you as a sister, and Mama, as a daughter. They will provide you with a dowry. You will not have to ask, they will not take no for an answer, and for that matter…”

Isadora smiled fondly and pressed a finger to her cousin’s lips. She was a dear girl and positively bubbling with enthusiasm, especially on the subject of love and marriage. But, she was getting ahead of herself.

“There can be no possibility of marriage, for that matter has already been decided.”

Charlotte’s look of surprise was almost comical. Her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open until she remembered herself and snapped it shut.

“I have not seen you being courted by anyone and there have been no gentlemen callers,” she whispered.

“This was arranged by my father before he died. I was not consulted,” Isadora said.

She could not keep the chagrin from her voice. She had always thought to marry for love. There had been many evenings between herself and Charlotte, spent in idle fantasy, wondering who they would marry and what he would be like. To discover that a binding agreement had been entered into without her knowledge, the matter decided for her, had been a shock.

“Father left me a letter to read after his death in which he explained that he had promised my hand to a man in marriage. That the match would bring me title and wealth, a comfortable life.”

“Who? Who? Who?” Charlotte said, sounding like an owl.

“That is the problem,” Isadora replied, “I do not know who. Papa did not specify. Only that I would be sent for when my future husband decides the time is right. As though I were a chattel, no more than property, like a piece of furniture.”

Isadora’s temper rose as she spoke, her voice rising with it. Aunt Agnes glanced back over her shoulder, eyes dancing over the two younger women as though to check all was well. Isadora swallowed the flare of anger and smiled reassuringly. It hurt to keep this from Agnes and Charlotte, Henry too, but she did not want them to think badly of her father. He had made mistakes in his life and had confessed them all to her. She knew that he had resorted to stealing in order to feed and clothe her and she forgave him. He had taken work that should have been beneath a member of the titled aristocracy, burning with shame, but he had done it. Isadora did not need to forgive that. There was no sin in working to provide for one’s child. She herself had secretly taken on work, assisting at the Twyford Sunday school in exchange for a few pennies. But, she would not shame his memory.

“So, you have no idea who you are to marry?” Charlotte sounded horrified.

“None,” Isadora said stoically, “but I trust papa’s judgment. He would not promise me to a man who was not worthy.”

In truth, she felt a good deal less stoic than she sounded. Her father would regard a good match as being a man with the means to provide for her and the appropriate social station. But he could be a cruel man or a foolish man. Isadora felt a good deal of trepidation, her heart racing every time a letter was delivered to her or there was a knock at the door. She did not know how long she could go on living in a state of nervous anticipation.

“Uncle George would certainly not do that,” Charlotte agreed, “but his idea of suitability and yours might be very different. I mean, the Beast of Bellmore is a Duke and presumably wealthy. But, he would not be in any way a suitable husband.”

Isadora shuddered at the thought. “Father would not promise me to a man like him. Besides, he is a recluse, up there in his cursed castle. When would my father have ever had the opportunity to discuss it with him.”

“Never,” Charlotte said firmly, “but it could be someone equally as cruel and…and…well, beastly.”

They had reached the fountain and joined Lady Agnes and Master Elliot Keats waiting for the carriage from Swingfield Manor to be drawn up. A warning look from Isadora told her cousin to change the subject. She would broach it with Aunt Agnes in due course. This was not the time. As they embarked onto the carriage and it was driven away, Isadora allowed herself to be swept along by the conversation between Aunt Agnes and Charlotte, singing the praises of Keats Hall and the ball that had been arranged by Sir Obadiah. Keats Hall lay south-west of Winchester, an hours ride from the village of Twyford where Isadora had grown up. Their road home to Swingfield Manor took them south towards the town of Romsey, climbing hills before descending into the valley of the River Test. As they rode, Aunt Agnes seemed to notice that Isadora was not contributing actively to the conversation.

“Is there something wrong, Isadora?” she asked in a kind tone.

Isadora found herself woken from a reverie in which she had been contemplating the arranged marriage her father had made for her. She saw the concern on her aunt’s face, the creases at her eyes and the tightening of her lips. Agnes Strickland, Dowager Countess of Swingfield, had always treated Isadora as her second daughter. She was a woman of genuine kindness and infinite compassion. Isadora would not worry her for the world. She smiled brightly.

“Nothing at all, Aunt Agnes. I think the evening is catching up with me, that’s all. I think I could fall asleep here in the carriage.”

“You girls did too much dancing and not enough eating. There was a suitable amount of food and drink provided by Sir Obadiah, copious amounts in fact. I’m sure most of it will go to waste but that is the kind of man he is. He likes to show off his wealth.”

There was a note of disapproval in Agnes’ voice. Isadora nodded and allowed the conversation to move on again, sitting back in a corner of the carriage and letting her thoughts wander. When would she meet the man to whom she had been promised? And who was he?

Chapter Three

Isadora tried to forget the issue the next day. It dawned bright and warm. She breakfasted with her family and she, Charlotte, and Henry, shared anecdotes about the Keat’s ball.

“It was acceptable,” said Henry, Earl of Swingfield, munching on a piece of toast, “the musicians were above average but the food left a lot to be desired.”

“I thought the food was wonderful,” said Charlotte, spreading jam with gusto, “and so much of it!”

“A sure sign of a man of low birth. Sir Obadiah flaunts his wealth,” Agnes commented, sipping tea delicately.

Henry grunted and Charlotte looked heavenward as though pondering her mother’s opinion. At that moment, there came a knock at the door of the breakfast room. Swingfield Manor’s butler, Mr. Wainwright, came in at his master’s call, bearing a silver tray. Atop it were a number of envelopes and a card. Mr. Wainwright was slope-shouldered and tall, appearing to walk with a stoop even though he always had his back straight. His hair was dark and held in rigid waves back from his temple. His eyebrows were thunderous and his demeanor endlessly serious.

“A gentleman awaits your lordship’s pleasure in the drawing room,” he intoned gravely.

Henry picked up the card which lay atop the pile of envelopes.

“Mr. Cornelius Shadrack, Solicitor-at-Law, Gray’s Inn, London,” he read, “I don’t know the gentleman. Do you, mama?”

Agnes shook her head, reaching for the card which Henry gave to her.

“It means nothing to me, I’m afraid. My personal affairs are managed by Mr. Shelby who looks after the estate. Have you recently engaged another solicitor, Henry?”

“I have not. Perhaps this fellow is touting for business. If he is, he will get short shrift,” Henry said with a grunt. “Imagine turning up at this hour. Most unprofessional. Well, he can wait.”

Charlotte and Isadora exchanged glances, the mystery mildly exciting. Isadora’s own affairs were taken care of by Mr. Brendan Shelby, the solicitor for the Strickland family and the Swingfield estate. Neither she nor Charlotte had much cause to be involved with legal matters, that was left to cousin Henry and Aunt Agnes. Charlotte soon broached the subject of Mr. Elliot Keats, a favorite topic for her. She and Charlotte spent the remainder of breakfast discussing his virtues, with contributions from Aunt Agnes. Henry was reading his correspondence while Mr. Wainwright poured him tea. He occasionally leavened the praise with characteristically pessimistic comments on the vices of the Keats family. He did this without looking up from his letters or stopping to notice if his comments were received.

An hour passed before he sighed loudly, putting aside his correspondence and rising. He threw down his napkin.

“I suppose this fellow from London must be seen as he has taken the trouble to come all this way,” he finally declared.

With that, Henry left the room. The women also rose, breakfast over.

“Will we take advantage of this glorious day to take the trap out?” she said.

“Oh yes!” Isadora replied, “the wind in our air and the sun on our faces will be simply wonderful on a day like this. I think I will take us up the valley towards Timsbury. We can stop for elevenses at that lovely little tea shop there.”

“And I can pop into Mrs. Gulliver’s dress shop. Last time we were there, she mentioned that she was getting a new consignment of material in that lovely shade of blue that I like from the Keats Mills. It should have arrived by now and I would dearly love to see what wonders she has performed with it.”

Worries about arranged marriages could not have been further from Isadora’s mind at that moment. The day was glorious and she loved nothing more than driving the trap around the countryside with Charlotte. She took it out most days except when the weather forbade it. Even then, she would drive it in the rain if not the fact that Charlotte and Aunt Agnes would worry for her. She did not mind taking excursions on her own. All she needed was the countryside and a good road. Swingfield’s stables were excellent and she knew all of Henry’s horses, even helped the stable hands to care for them in order to build a bond with the animals. They left the breakfast room arm in arm and planning their morning’s adventure, when Henry appeared from the drawing room.

“Isadora, might I have a word,” he said in a more than usually somber tone.

Isadora frowned and stopped. He looked to Charlotte and then to Aunt Agnes who had followed the two young women out of the breakfast room.

“I’m afraid I must disrupt your plans, cousin. Mr. Shadrack has brought most disturbing news. Would you come with me, please?”

“What on earth is going on, Henry?” Agnes asked.

Isadora felt a chill run down her spine and her mind leaped to the arranged marriage. Was she finally to be deprived of her freedom? But then, why should she obey an arrangement that was made without her consent and whose chief architect was now deceased?

“Mr. Shadrack has come here to talk to Cousin Isadora, mother. It is a private matter,” Henry said.

“Nonsense. If this man has official business with Isadora, then it is entirely proper that she should be represented by her family. You and I will be present, of course.”

“And I,” Charlotte said stoutly.

“No, dear. I must insist that you retire to your room for the time being,” Agnes said, “come Henry, Isadora, let us see what this man wants.”

Isadora followed her aunt, glad for her seizing control of the situation. It gave her some comfort to know that Agnes would always protect her, Henry too in his own gruff way. She had always been able to rely on her father for that protection, until his ill health had deprived her of him. While she considered herself to be independent and capable, sometimes it was nice to be able to lean on her family.

Agnes strode along the hallway towards the drawing room. Before she reached it though, it opened. A tall man with long, straight white hair stepped out. He wore black and carried a cane that he stabbed at the ground in front of him. He wore spectacles, but they seemed to be completely black, hiding his eyes. As he strode towards them, Isadora realized that the man was blind. With unerring accuracy, the blind man strode forward and came to a halt directly in front of them, head turning from left to right as though surveying the three people before him.

“My Lady Swingfield and Miss Fairfax. I am Cornelius Shadrack.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shadrack,” Agnes replied with a hint of frost in her voice, “may I ask what business you have with my niece?”

“That is a private matter, your ladyship. Miss Fairfax would not wish it discussed too openly.” Shadrack spoke in a clipped tone and his head whipped towards Agnes as he spoke.

“I find that a quite bizarre statement to make as you are standing in my home and making demands on my niece’s time. You will state your business, sir, or leave,” Agnes said, the frost now coating every word.

“My business is to give notice to Miss Fairfax that the man to whom she has been promised in marriage wishes for the commitment to now be fulfilled. The ceremony is to take place next week.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Isadora felt an icy fist gripping her insides. Agnes openly gaped and Henry grunted.

“Perhaps we should all go into the drawing room…” he began.

“Why on earth should she? When was this commitment entered into and with whose consent?” Agnes demanded, ignoring her son.

“Arranged by the late Lord Henlade, her father.” Shadrack replied abruptly, “and in answer to your first question, she is entirely free to break the covenant entered into by her father. But if she does, there will be consequences.”

“I do not believe I am hearing this!” Agnes said.

“Aunt Agnes, it is quite alright. I think I should speak to Mr. Shadrack about this,” Isadora finally spoke.

Agnes looked at her, opening her mouth to speak. But Isadora remembered the letter, and her father’s confession to her on his deathbed. She remembered the act he had confessed to, the act which had led to him being forced to give away his only daughter. It was a secret that her father had been so desperate in his need to provide for her that he had resorted to an attempt to steal in order to do just that. George Fairfax was regarded as a man of honor and integrity by all who knew him. Isadora would protect that memory with everything she had.

“You do not need to, Isadora,” Henry said, glowering at Shadrack.

“I know, Henry. And thank you both, but I must address this matter myself,” Isadora said, swallowing against the fear that gripped her.

Shadrack had already turned smartly on his heel and stalked back towards the drawing room, cane stabbing at the carpeted floor as he went. Isadora took a breath and followed him. To her relief, Agnes and Henry did not follow, though she could hear them whispering furiously to each other. Entering the drawing room, she closed the doors behind herself. Mr. Shadrack had found his way to a chair by the fire and sat, hands atop his cane, waiting.

“I know of the arrangement my father made and the reasons for it. I must tell you that I am loath to honor an agreement I was not consulted about.”

“Then my employer will be forced to renege on his own side of the agreement entered into,” Shadrack replied, head turning unerringly to face her.

“And what does that mean?” Isadora asked.

“That he will let it be known that Lord George Fairfax of Henlade was caught, red-handed, attempting to steal a priceless artefact from my employer’s own library. Also, that in a craven display of cowardice, he left my employer to die. And this after my employer had saved the life of Lord Henlade’s only child. Namely, yourself,” Shadrack intoned, still looking in her direction.

Unsettled by his ability to locate her so precisely, Isadora stepped to one side, sitting in an armchair. With only the small sounds of her dress brushing against the chair to go on, Shadrack’s dark spectacles found her once again. She felt pinned in place, like a butterfly under glass.

“Why would he want to expose my father? Lord Henlade is dead and is well thought of. Why would anyone want to sully his memory with such accusations?” Isadora implored, horrified at the very idea.

“Because my employer was wronged and has a strong belief in natural justice. Such justice must be served whether or not the perpetrator has left this mortal world. The sins of the father and so on.”

“Who is your employer?” Isadora asked in a small voice.

“His Grace, the Duke of Bellmore,” Shadrack replied, again in a clipped tone.

Isadora gasped. The Beast of Bellmore! The recluse who lived in a castle rumored to be haunted and even cursed. Tales were told of Bellmore in hushed whispers. A pack of savage hounds were reputed to be allowed to roam the grounds of Bellmore Castle, to savage any intruder. Tales were also told of the Duke himself. Tales of a cruel man, last in a line of cruel men, cursed by God and rejected by society.

“I do not wish to marry him,” Isadora muttered resolutely.

“Do you wish it to be known that your father was a thief? Or a coward?” Shadrack said brutally.

“No!” she replied sharply, “you will not sully his name. Nor will Bellmore. Do you understand, Mr. Shadrack!”

When faced with a threat to her dear father’s memory, Isadora found that she could be fierce. She still felt afraid but the need to protect him ruled her, gave her strength.

“I am instructed to tell you that His Grace considers this a marriage in name only. He does not wish for an heir and does not care for the Bellmore name beyond his own death. He will not require consummation of the marriage. All he asks is that you become his wife and reside at Bellmore with him.”

Isadora nodded, tears filling her eyes. Tears of grief for the happy life at Swingfield that was now coming to an end. She had thought that after the years of privation and struggle that she and her father had endured, that happier times had now been reached. But, it seemed that fate had other plans.

The sunlit days of summer were over for her. Winter was beckoning.

Look out for the full release on the 26th of April!

Chapter One

1812

Holmwood House, England

“What are you doing? Charity! Stop this madness.”

Charity pulled the glass back out of her sister’s reach and toward her own lips. She couldn’t see the glass, couldn’t see the shimmer of the claret, but she could feel the cut glass distinctly, and she knew well enough by now how to find her own lips after being blind for so long.

“Charity!” Her sister’s voice was outraged, the voice piquing higher and higher. “At this rate, you will not be able to see straight when you go downstairs. Oh…”

Charity laughed so hard at her sister’s mistake that the wine shot into the back of her throat and up behind her nose. She spluttered, realizing just how mad the whole situation was.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… Oh, I should think through my words more.”

Charity made no effort to comfort her sister. There was a time when she and Edith had been incredibly close, living in and out of one another’s pockets, but that seemed like a great distance away now. They were different people, no longer the same souls they had been as children.

Edith was a successful wife, a known party planner amongst the ton, famed for her balls and inner parties. She was the woman often talked about in scandal sheets as being the celebrated hostess, the lady whom every other woman in London was envious of.

In contrast, Charity was the blind sister. She was the one who stayed at home at her father’s insistence, no matter how much she tried to plead against it. She was the imposed prisoner in her own household.

“I am enjoying my drink,” Charity said as she leaned forward out of her seat, reaching for the carafe on the table nearby. She heard her sister slide it away, the glass scraping against the wood. Charity flattened her hand to the wood. “Return it to me, Edith. I do not take your things away from you.”

“It is for your own good.”

“My own good!?” Charity spluttered, standing up and raising her glass to her lips, downing what was left inside of it. The thick burn of the wine in the back of her throat was pleasant, giving her a tingle of freedom in a moment that felt truly dark and isolated. “You said the same thing about tomorrow.”

“That is because I believe it to be the case,” Edith said emphatically.

Charity waved a hand at her sister in disapproval and walked around the settee. She put down just one hand, so she could feel her way around the settee toward the window. She knew the layout of this chamber, just as she knew any other. She was in an upstairs parlor, one much more private and kept for the family. If Charity had her way, she’d happily spend the whole night here, away from the ball downstairs that her father was hosting with Edith’s assistance.

“This is good for you,” Edith said, her voice following Charity enough to show she was shadowing her across the room.

Charity stopped by the window and flattened her hand against the glass. It was an old habit of hers, one that kept cropping up. It didn’t matter that she could not see what was out beyond that cool glass, she still liked touching the window, for it was the one thing that separated her from the wider world. These windows might as well be the bars on her prison walls.

“Are you not always saying how you wish to no longer be trapped in this house?” Edith hissed behind her. “This way, you are out of here at last.”

“I would be exchanging one prison for another.”

“Do not let our father hear you talk so. You know he does not like your sharp tongue.”

“I am well aware, for I have felt his wrath enough times.” Charity had been quiet over the years. She had been the ‘wallflower’ others had labeled her as, for what other way was there to be? She had been quiet, dutiful, and done as she was told, with her temper only occasionally rising enough for her to be punished by their father.

Yet she could not stay quiet any longer. She would not be that wallflower and stay in a corner if her future was now laid out before her in such a fixed way.

“You would see me married to a man twice my age,” Charity said with a hooded voice. “A man known for his crudeness, his arrogance, not to mention the fact he has lost one wife already.”

“Oh, do be reasonable, sister.” Edith walked around her. Charity noted the waiver of the footsteps and her sister’s hesitant voice. “Baron Tynefield is a powerful man. With his connections, imagine what could happen to this family’s reputation. For my husband’s balls and parties, for our brother’s club, everything could fall into place.”

“I beg your pardon?” Charity jerked her head toward her sister, who sharply inhaled in return. “Do not imagine I am now losing my hearing as well as my sight. I am merely amazed that when I point out to you that I am to be a prisoner, you plead with me to go to that prison for the family’s sake.”

“Charity–”

“I thought families were about love, care, and happiness. Not reputations and connections.”

“You just do not see things the way they are. Let us be practical.”

Determined to put distance between herself and her sister, Charity stepped away, returning around the settee once more. She reached for the table, and this time, managed to find where her sister had put the carafe. She topped up her glass, eagerly. She’d already had so many glasses, she had lost count, and she was unsteady on her feet, having to plant her heeled shoes slightly apart.

Earlier that evening, her maid had helped her dress in what she was told was a pale blue gown that matched her eyes. The kind maid had said she was beautiful, dressed perfectly for the ball, but Charity had no wish to be seen in it. She even debated spilling wine all over the gown in the hope it would give her an excuse to stay upstairs for longer.

“Charity, please, listen to me.” Edith took the carafe out of her grasp, but she was a little too late, for Charity was already well on her way to downing her fifth glass of the night. “Nothing can be done now to stop the wedding tomorrow. You will marry the baron.”

“How kind of you, sister.”

“This is not my doing. It is our father’s doing. I am simply pointing out the practicalities of the situation,” Edith said in a rush. “How this family appears to others is very important. You must hold your head high tomorrow and be respected. Only if you are the respected wife of Baron Tynefield can we hope to gain from his connections.”

Charity nearly dropped the glass in amazement.

“What happened to the sister who used to sneak me hot chocolate when father denied it to me, believing wrongly that it made my blindness worse?” she asked in a quiet tone. “What happened to her, Edith?”

She is not here anymore.

And there was nothing to be done about it. Edith had her own life now, and the more time Charity spent apart from her, the more she realized what she was to Edith. Precisely what she had been all those years to Papa. She was a complication in the family, being blind, and living the sheltered life they insisted she must. They didn’t trust her to go out alone, and because of it, she was the shame of the family.

“This is not the time for such a discussion.” Edith’s voice faded, showing she was putting distance between them again. “Even Kenneth agrees with the rest of us that this is the best course of action.”

“Brother? The man who couldn’t even bring himself to come to your party and has gone off to his club instead?”

“He is doing good business.”

“Is he?” Charity was scarcely convinced of it. As she was blind, her brother Kenneth thought her dumb too. He must have thought she never noticed the rustling of papers and his curses as he checked the accounts of the club, nor the demanding messengers who occasionally turned up at the door, talking about calling in various debts.

I do not have such confidence in Kenneth.

“Charity, please,” Edith’s voice softened once more. “We do not all have a choice in life who we marry. We must simply make the most of it.”

“I could appreciate such a practical sentiment.” Charity paused long enough to take a gulp of her wine. “Had you not yourself married for love.”

The heavy thud on the other side of the room suggested Edith had sat sharply down in her chair.

“We are not all so fortunate.”

She supposed Edith meant the words to be kind, but they weren’t. They suggested that Charity was just an unlucky soul, not good enough to be one of the fortunate ones.

Before Charity could think what to say next, the door opened, the sound unmistakable.

“What’s going on up here?” At her father’s voice, Charity continued to sip her wine, having no inclination to answer him.

“Charity is in her cups,” Edith said with a heavy sigh. “What’s more, she is refusing to come downstairs.”

“What?” the voice shook with anger.

Charity stood tall, lifting her chin that inch higher. In the past, she might have quelled at the voice, but she wouldn’t anymore. If she showed the slightest hint of hesitation or weakness now, she knew tomorrow she’d find herself at the altar, beside a man she detested, facing a life of imprisonment.

I will find a better life. I have to.

“This is ridiculous,” Duncan Harris, the Earl of Holmwood’s voice boomed across the room. “Charity, you will come downstairs at once.”

“Do not raise your voice so loud, Father. It will compete with the pleasant violin music Edith has arranged downstairs. What would your guests think if they heard you?”

“Enough!” He marched toward her, his boots striking the heavy floorboards. “No more drinking.” He snatched the glass from her hand. She felt the cool liquid drip onto her fingers but made no effort to wipe it away. She simply allowed the wine to trickle down her palm. “You will do as I say, Charity. Is that understood?”

“You have told me the same thing my whole life,” she muttered, wishing to argue more and more.

Why was it that Edith and Kenneth hadn’t had to follow his orders nearly as much as she had to? The envy had been there, deep within her gut, ever since she had gone blind at the age of eight. What started as mollycoddling became an act to keep her imprisoned out of shame. Edith and Kenneth were free, as she longed to be.

“Then it is about time you started listening. You will stop being childish and come downstairs with me this instant. Move toward that door, for I know you know where it is. Take a step. Now. Or brace yourself for the consequences,” Duncan’s voice growled in fury.

Slowly, Charity folded her arms, conveniently brushing some of the claret from her hand onto her gown. She showed no intention of taking a step anywhere.

The first hint she had of what was to come was the rush of air, but she couldn’t move out of the way in time. The slap struck her cheek hard.

Edith yelped across the room, but she made no plea or beg for him to stop.

Charity stumbled back, colliding with the table so hard that she knocked it over. Her hand covered her stinging cheek as she felt the pain ricochet up, stinging around her eye.

It is always the same. It is so easy for him to hit.

“Impudent chit,” Duncan spat derisively.

Charity longed to talk back, to retort just as fiercely, but her fear of being struck again stopped her. What was more, her throat was closing up with a lump, the tears stinging in her eyes.

She said nothing, but she ran.

“Charity!” Duncan snapped at her.

She ran past him with her hands outstretched and found the door, flinging it open and sprinting fast down the corridor. If there was anyone in her path, she just hoped they stepped out of the way, for she could not remember running so fast before.

I have to escape. Somehow, I have to escape this place.

Chapter Two

“How strange this feels,” Seth muttered to himself as he looked out of the window of the carriage. It was ten years since he had last left his home village of Axfordshire. To be in a city now, with so much activity—it niggled in his gut.

He watched carriages competing for space in the road, people wandering back and forth between the timber houses and the buildings built with yellow stone. Strangers yelling at one another in the darkness, poor and wealthy alike all scurrying to their destinations as though they were pursued by the relentless hands of fate, their padded steps echoing through the misty evening.

Seth held a hand beyond the window, feeling the cool air whip by him. He knew the rush of air from riding across his estate, but in a carriage, in the middle of a city, it felt… different.

The carriage turned onto a grander road. They passed two trees and one of the branches nicked his hand.

“Blasted thing,” he cursed, jerking his hand back into the carriage. The branch had cut his palm clean open, the blood beginning to seep out of his skin. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and bound the wound.

As the carriage slowed, he lurched forward sharply.

We are here.

All the anger, all the tension he’d been holding onto for so many years, started to bubble to the surface. His breathing grew fast and labored as he adjusted his cravat gently with his spare hand, pulling it up sharply around his neck and the base of his chin, trying to mask the burn mark that so obviously scolded his skin there.

So, it begins.

As the carriage door heaved open, Seth stepped down, tucking his injured hand into the pocket of his heavy frock coat. His eyes darted up and down the town street of Winchester, before his gaze settled on the house he had come to visit.

The Earl of Holmwood’s townhouse stood out as the grandest building in the street by far. Made of red brick with a porch propped up by white pillars in a Romanesque style, it was almost laughable in its ostentatiousness.

Such a man would be so arrogant, wouldn’t he?

Seth nodded his cold appreciation to the footman, then moved toward the house. He noticed a figure waiting for him on the doorstep, arms folded, face barely lit by the single lantern that swung like a crooked pendulum in the wind. As Seth walked up the last steps, a chorus of noises met his approach.

The ball was certainly underway. People chatted and laughed, and the melody of violin music drifted out of the windows.

“Well?” Seth asked the man in expectation.

“You cannot get in this way.” The man shook his head. “The corridor is full of people, and I have just seen Lord Holmwood himself marching back down the stairs, dragging his eldest daughter behind him, insisting loudly that everyone have a good time. You will be seen there.”

“I asked you to come to give me a solution, Marcus.”

“I know.” Marcus offered an easy sort of smile, just visible beneath that orange glow. “Which is why I suggest you use the back door.” He gave quick instructions to Seth.

An old friend, Marcus, a footman, had an uncanny habit of blending in anywhere he went. He described to Seth the most discreet entrance to the house’s rear and what corridors to take.

“You can get upstairs that way without being seen. You should find yourself far enough away from the ball itself and none of the staff should be in that part of the house at this time. I was assured they’ll all be far too busy in the great hall.”

“Impeccable. Thank you.” Seth nodded once more to Marcus and hurried down the front porch steps, examining the garden and his best route to the rear entrance. 

“The study is on the second floor,” Marcus called to him, shadowing his steps. “You’ll find it tucked away in the west wing of the building. I’m told the door is recognizable by its ornate gold handle.”

Seth thanked him again and walked through the garden. He brushed aside outstretched branches from a yew tree, angered by them. He ended up tearing the handkerchief off his already injured hand, making the bleeding worse.

“Bloody thing,” he cursed under his breath, halting when light fell on a patch of garden.

Seth looked sharply toward the side of the house and the open windows. He could glimpse part of the ballroom. Many ladies danced, dressed grandly in great dresses with hair adorned in birds’ feathers or turbans, a foolish fashion, in Seth’s opinion. The gentlemen laughed raucously, tipping claret glasses to their lips.

What it must have been like to laugh in such a fashion! Seth could not remember doing so, not for many years now.

Out of fear of being seen, Seth retreated deeper into the garden, darting between the yew bushes. At least in nature, he felt more at home. His home in Axfordshire was surrounded by parkland and rich signs of wildlife. He preferred being there. At least the whistle of the wind and the tweets of the birds provided a chance to escape the loneliness and emptiness of his house.

As Seth reached the back door, he followed Marcus’ instructions to the letter, taking the door which led into the servants’ quarters. He could hear catcalls coming from the kitchens, where the cooks must have been preparing some last-minute delicacies for the party.

Seth carefully walked past the door to the kitchen, heading toward a spiral staircase that was hidden between two great old sketches of the house that had been framed and attached to the wall. Slowly, he moved up the stairs, listening at all times for any sign of someone coming the other way.

When he reached the main floor, he halted, peering through an open door into the corridor.

A footman appeared before him, suddenly, carrying a tray of empty glasses.

“Oh.” The man stumbled back, alarmed. “Forgive me, sir.” He bowed, clearly not knowing who Seth was, but recognized the formal dress and must have supposed him to be one of the guests for the ball. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“You find a man who is quite lost.” Seth affected an easy countenance. “You have come along at the right time, my good man. Tell me, where will I find the privy?”

The footman smiled humorously and pointed toward the main stairwell.

“In that door there.”

“Much obliged.” Seth walked toward the door set on the side of the staircase and waited for the footman to disappear. As the footman darted down the spiral staircase, Seth looked to the main stairwell above him.

It was the second of two sets of stairs described to him by Marcus. This one avoided the front of the house and where the rest of the guests were. Seth checked over his shoulder, unconsciously adjusting his cravat that hid his burn mark one more time, before he hurried up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

He hastened into the corridor, trying to head toward the west wing of the building. He examined every door handle, looking for a gold one, but to his dismay, he found every handle was gold.

“What?” he muttered under his breath, flicking his head back and forth as he looked at each of the doors in turn. What sort of arrogant man ensured every door in his house was gilded with gold?

Footsteps sounded down the corridor and Seth froze.

He’d come to this house with a reason in mind. He was hardly the sort of man that would break into a house, not by any means. Yet he was desperate, and knowing the crime that the Earl of Holmwood had committed all those years ago, Seth was prepared to go to any measures in order to prove the man’s guilt.

Those footsteps grew closer.

Out of fear of being caught, Seth reached for the nearest door and flung it open, hurrying inside. He closed it as quietly as he could.

There was no light in the room, no hint of a candle, so he strained in the darkness to see there was a key in the lock and slowly flicked it shut. He pressed his ear to the wood, trying to hear where the footsteps went next.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” a voice suddenly declared from behind him.

Seth whipped his head around.

By Jove, what is my luck.

An adjoining door opened, and a woman entered from a garderobe. She seemed unsteady on her feet and shook her head as she rubbed her hands together on a cloth.

“I will not do it. I will not,” she muttered repeatedly.

Seth fleetingly thought to disappear into the shadows of the room, so that the unsuspecting woman before him would never discover he was there, but there was nowhere he could hide. Any second now she would turn and see him. She would scream, he would be found, thrown out of the house, or worse, sent to prison.

I am not the criminal that belongs in a prison. That is the Earl of Holmwood.

“Nothing they can say will make me do it,” she continued to mumble to herself before turning around.

She should have seen him then. Her eyes were looking straight at him.

At once, Seth realized what was happening. The moonlight which shone through a gap in the curtains fell on her face, revealing the paleness of those rather beautiful blue eyes, and how they stared forward impassively, not focusing on any one thing.

She reached down, feeling for the table’s edge before releasing her cloth, unconcerned about its precise landing, with her face deep in thought. She kicked off her shoes next, bending to place them by touch under a chair, once more, not needing to see what she was doing.

She is blind. She cannot see a thing.

Seth did not know whether to be thankful for this – for it avoided his discovery – or show pity. He couldn’t imagine being without his sight. How many mornings did he sit outside of his house admiring nature, watching the birds dart across the lawn and the clouds as they carved shapes across the sky? This poor woman could not see any of it.

“Mad. That’s what it is, mad,” she murmured beneath her breath. 

Seth slowly folded his arms, watching her in curiosity as he tried not to make a sound. Believing herself to be alone, apparently, she was quite content to talk to herself.

“I will not go downstairs. They can have their foolish celebration without me.” She walked past him, so close that he had to skulk back a touch away from her.

The closer she drifted, the more she was revealed by the moonlight.

She had blonde hair, curled delicately at the back of her head, with tear-drop earrings hanging down and teasing her neck. The hair shone in that silver glow, but it was the eyes that captivated him the most. The pristine blue kept gazing forward, absently at times, as though a distinct soul existed beneath them.

She reached toward a cupboard and opened it wide, pulling out a loose shift that she tossed over her shoulder. She glided by him and suddenly jerked to a halt.

Seth held his breath, fearing he had made some noise.

She turned toward him, cocked her head to the side as if listening intently, and waited.

Seth could not help admiring her. He took in the curve of her neck in this new position, and he had an errant idea of placing a kiss right below the hollow of her ear.

What is wrong with me? I do not steal into ladies’ chambers at night!

She shook her head, apparently deciding that she had invented the sound, and walked away, back toward her bed. She dropped the shift on the bed and reached for the laces at the back of her gown.

Christ… she is about to disrobe…

Seth whirled, panicking, wracking his brains for what to do next. He needed to avoid discovery, but if he stayed here now, he would be watching the poor woman undress. As intrigued as he was by the idea, his gaze almost involuntarily lingering over her petite… yet blessed-with-curves figure that the fabric of her gown tastefully embraced, he could not let it happen. It would be scandalous!

She deftly unlaced the top of her gown and the satin fabric slipped with a whisper down her soft shoulders, revealing skin as the finest porcelain. To his shame, Seth’s eyes darted to the delicate curve of those shoulders and the hint of corset that was revealed.

“Charity?” a voice called from the door behind Seth as someone rapped on the wood.

Seth felt his heart thundering against his ribcage. He stood at a loss for what to do next.

“I am not coming downstairs, Edith,” the blonde lady declared. “You can give up trying.”

“Please, just talk to me,” Edith pleaded again from the other side of the door. “For a few minutes, let us talk… like we once did when we were girls?”

Charity huffed. After a slight pause, she pulled her gown back up over her shoulders. She marched toward Seth and the door. If she came any closer, if she opened that door, Seth would be discovered.

He panicked and as she reached him, he did the only thing he could think of doing, as wild an idea as it seemed.

He reached forward and clamped a hand over Charity’s mouth, closing it tight. Her blue eyes widened, and she tried to stumble out of his grasp, but he walked forward still, keeping her lips closed.

“I mean you no harm,” he hissed in her ear. The lady was trembling before him now, her whole body shaking violently. “Please, believe that. Just tell the lady to go.”

She gave no sign of responding.

“Please?” he whispered again.

“Charity?” Edith grew impatient, knocking on the door another time.

Slowly, Charity nodded her head.

Seth went to release her mouth, carefully, watching as her body still shook beneath his grasp. One of her hands clutched to the loose shoulder of her gown. The moment he released her lips, she screamed.

The yelp pierced the air and Seth acted fast. Fearing he had become a criminal after all, the very thing he detested the idea of, Seth latched a hand over her mouth again, silencing her.

“Hmm!” She tried to wail against his grasp, but the sound was muffled.

“I am not here to harm you or anyone in this house!” he whispered in her ear, firmly this time. “I am a reputable Lord, for heaven’s sake, lady. My patience would not endure were my intentions nefarious. The moment your guest departs, I will take my leave too. You can still save this, tell her you were startled by the sight of a mouse. Again, I had good reason for being here tonight, and though this must seem mad, it is all just a–”

He paused when she nodded wildly against his grasp.

Then, his words dawned on him. The sight of a mouse? He felt a fool, realizing his mistake at once.

“Perhaps do not use those words, precisely. Please, I shall explain everything later. Just ask your guest to leave.”

Charity’s blue eyes narrowed a little. Seth could not stop looking at those eyes, admiring them. He was rather glad she couldn’t see him. What would she think if she could see his disfigurement? Would she be disgusted?

Slowly, he released her once more, terrified to see if she would scream again.

Chapter Three

Charity thought fast, trying to make sense of this stranger in her room. True to his word, he had released her again. If he had meant her harm, surely, he would have just kept holding onto her?

She supposed it was her drunken state that made her think it was a good idea to do as he said. Whatever the reason for it, she heard the words escaping her lips, calling back to Edith.

“I thought I heard a mouse, that was all,” she called to her sister.

She heard the sigh of the man before her, the sound escaping him deeply. It was as deep as that gravelly tone of his. She could not remember hearing anyone before with such a rich or raspy voice. It was utterly hypnotizing to listen to.

“And you can tell sounds like that, can you?” Edith asked.

Charity rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips in indignation at her sister’s belief she was completely incapable. She could have sworn she heard the man trying to stifle a chuckle at her reaction, but she couldn’t be certain.

“Yes, I can,” she told her sister. “Leave me be, Edith. I am not joining you downstairs.”

“I suppose I will not be changing your mind tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, when you have finally come to your senses!” Edith retreated from the door, her footsteps shuffling away.

“Thank you,” the man whispered, that tone as deep as before. Judging by the creak of wood, he leaned against the door.

“I think now is the perfect time to explain yourself, good sir,” she said sharply. “Considering I was about to…” She trailed off, thinking about the loose shoulders of her gown. She hurried to right the gown and tied it at her back.

“I suppose it counts for nothing if I say I was frantically trying to think of a way out of this chamber before you disrobed?”

“And you expect me to trust the word of a man who has managed to slip into the one room in this home exclusively occupied by a blind lady?”

“I… fair point,” his baritone voice tapered off into silence. 

She suddenly felt something on her cheek. She reached up and touched it. It was a warm liquid, and when she held it near her nose, she recognized the coppery scent at once.

“You are bleeding,” she said, turning around to angle her head in his direction.

“Ah… apologies once more,” he murmured, seeming to lower his head in a show of guilt. “I slashed my palm on a branch outside. I did not expect the wound to open up so soon.”

She nodded distractedly. In her dazed state from all the claret, all she cared to really think about was stopping the blood. With one hand outstretched carefully at her side, she found her vanity table and reached in, pulling out a handkerchief. She wiped her cheek, then drew out another and traced her steps back toward the stranger.

By the sound of his footsteps, he backed up from her, colliding with the door once more.

“W—what are you doing?” he said in surprise.

“I am hardly about to produce an aria, am I?” she asked with a small smile as she held out her hand for his. “Come on. Would your pride require you to keep bleeding?”

He did not answer for a few seconds, but his hand eventually hovered near hers, the brush of his fingertips shocking her own. It was such a soft touch that Charity inhaled abruptly. She blushed but caught herself. She would have thought an intruder would be sharp, even aggressive or violent, yet this man was rather gentle as she turned his hand over and found the wound in his palm, mopping up the blood.

“Who are you?” Charity whispered as she went to bind the hand with the handkerchief in a makeshift bandage.

“My name is… Seth Colborne.”

“Colborne?” Charity’s mind stirred with a flicker of recognition at that name. Somewhere she had heard it, but she couldn’t quite place it presently. “I take it you are no footman?”

“No, I am not,” he said softly. “For all intents and purposes, I am a guest tonight at the ball that had meandered off and gotten lost.”

“For all intents and purposes? You have already shared enough with me that I could have you arrested if I so desired, sir. I think I have earned some sincerity by making it clear that I would rather avoid such an outcome… so is that the truth, or not?”

“Perhaps I was a guest that did not wish to be seen. I came to… collect something from the Lord of the house. When I heard the sound of footsteps, I slipped in through this door. It truly was a coincidence that I stumbled upon you here, my Lady.” His rather formal address of her startled her.

He took his hand from hers and must have finished bandaging the wound himself.

“Thank you for your dressing… and, err, binding skills, and thank you for not screaming the house down and alerting everyone to my presence. I shall keep to my word and leave you now.” She heard the crumpling of clothes, hinting at a deep bow.

Colborne… Seth Colborne…

Charity was certain she knew that name now. He was a man of some position. Even a title perhaps. Or had she seen his name on a scandal sheet somewhere?

“Wait!” she quickly spoke up. “Did you happen to arrive in a carriage perchance?”

“…Naturally,” he answered, rather tightly, as if taken off guard by her question. “I apologize once more for my intrusion. I wish you a fine evening.” He turned the lock in the door and twisted the handle, she heard the sounds of it distinctly. For she had done so herself countless times before.

A wild idea entered Charity’s head just then, perhaps the most outrageous notion she had conjured up in her entire life. Here was a man who didn’t truly belong in this house, and he had arrived in a carriage. If she was looking for an escape, a way out of this house, could it be him?

“Wait!” she pleaded again. No sound followed of the door opening, so she presumed he was doing as she asked. “…Take me with you.”

“I beg your pardon?” he spluttered in that deep tone.

“I need to escape this house. At once,” she spoke in a rush. “I am asking for you to take me away from here, just for a day. Consider it a return favor for the one I have just done for you.”

“You are asking me to help you run away.”

She shook her head hastily. “I am asking you to assist me in leaving for a day. That is all.” If she could just be absent for the wedding day, then there was no way she could be married to Baron Tynefield tomorrow. In his anger, he might even call off the betrothal altogether. “Please,” she whispered once more.

“I cannot do that.” The voice grew deeper, sharper still. “I have broken enough rules coming here at all tonight and being in your chamber. I shall not top all of that off by stealing away the Earl of Holmwood’s daughter.”

“Not even if she is asking you?”

“Of course not.”

“Please.” She stepped forward with doe eyes. From the sound that followed, he must have plastered himself to the door to pull back from her again.

Did he recoil? Did she repulse him?

Perhaps she did. She had no idea what she truly looked like and could only remember the youthful features of the eight-year-old she used to see in the mirror.

“Fine. I wish to escape,” she answered briskly. “I am supposed to marry a man tomorrow I detest. If I can hide somewhere, just for a day, I can avoid it. From then on, I have somewhere else I can go, someone I can write to, someone who can help me. The only favor I ask is for your help for this one day.”

For a moment, she considered threatening to scream, anything to coax him into taking her, but then decided it was too far. She could not bring herself to manipulate the man in that way.

There was a hesitation, as if Seth Colborne considered the idea. Then, he sighed loudly.

“I cannot. I am sorry to hear of your predicament, but I could not do it. I suspect you are in your cups. By the time you are sober, it is a request you might regret. I wish you luck, Lady Charity.” A light touch brushed her shoulder. She supposed it was his way of trying to show a mark of respect, rather than bowing this time.

The door handle turned and whipped open, then he was gone. As he left, Charity noticed the scent of the air shifted too. The rich scent of musk and sandalwood faded away.

I knew the air was different in here. I thought it was my senses playing tricks on me.

She backed up, tottering a bit on her feet. The red wine had had an effect on her, but she was still strangely calm as she sat down on the edge of the bed.

I am trapped. I shall have to marry Baron Tynefield after all. And there is nothing left to do.

A frown touched her face. But before it could truly mar her features, a light tap sounded at the door.

“He is back,” she whispered, thinking only of the stranger in her chamber. She hastened to the door and flung it open. “I–”

“Your father has asked me to fetch you.” The sibilant voice had her insides squirming in fear.

It was not Seth Colborne. It was Baron Tynefield.

“I cannot come down tonight. My apologies, but I am unwell.” She tried to shut the door, but she felt it thud against something heavy and then thrust back toward her.

Forced backward, Charity scrambled away as Baron Tynefield barged his way into her chamber. His steps were sharp on the ground as he marched toward her.

“I will not have a disobedient wife, Charity,” he growled.

She reached for her vanity table, hurrying around it to put it between them. The last time she had been alone with Baron Tynefield was in the garden some weeks ago. When they had lost their chaperone, he had grasped so tightly at her waist, it had left her in no doubt about what his intentions were. 

“I heard you were in your cups.” Baron Tynefield leered at her over the table. She could smell the stench of scotch on his breath. It seemed she was not the only one. “Perhaps now is a good time to show you what is expected of you when you will be my wife.”

“Leave,” she hissed. “Leave at once.”

A hand reached for her across the table.

Charity veered back, trying to escape its grasp, but it was too quick. The Baron rounded the vanity, taking hold of her wrist and jerking her toward him.

“Release me!” she shouted the words, not afraid to scream now if it would get her out of here. He slapped a hand forcefully over her mouth – quite unlike the stranger had done a few moments before. This grasp was stony and unyielding, his nails digging so tightly into her cheeks that she feared it might scar her. 

“You will lay down and take what you have to, as a dutiful wife.” He moved her across the room.

“Hmm!” She scrambled to be free, trying to kick against him. She lashed out with her hands in any way that she could, trying to force him off her, but he was too strong. His great girth of stomach veered over her as she neared the bed. She bit down on his hand, determined to be free, and tasted blood.

“Ah! Hardly obedient,” he scoffed, pulling back his hand. “You’ll learn. You will.” He pushed her onto the bed. “They eventually do,” he snarled.

She reached for the headboard, desperate to pull herself away, but he grabbed her ankle and jerked her down again, so she was flat on the bed.

“No!” she screamed loudly.

There was a sudden thwack, a sound of skin hitting skin. Charity sat up on the bed, scrambling back as quickly as she could until her back hit the headboard. A heavy thud followed, and it sounded as if a large body hit the floor.

“What… what’s going on?” Charity whispered into the darkness, praying that someone would answer her.

The scent returned, the comforting one, of sandalwood and musk.

“He won’t be getting up anytime soon.” It was Seth Colborne’s voice.  

“You?” she breathed in astonishment to the air.

“Give me your hand.” The sound of a rustling coat extended toward her. He must have sensed her hesitation, for he did not move an inch. Eventually, she reached out into the darkness and took hold of his hand. His hand was much larger than her own, firm, and warm. “I struck him, he is out cold. Won’t be recovering from that for a long time,” he finally exhaled, as if out of breath. 

“Thank you,” Charity said in a rush, clambering off the bed to gain her feet as he helped her. “But… why?”

“I heard you scream on the stairs. It was a different scream from the one I heard from you earlier. One of true fear. Found myself running back here before I knew what I was doing. Wait a minute.” Seth Colborne released her. She heard his footsteps retreating from her.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure he pays the punishment.”

She had no idea what he did, but she heard the sound of another smack. Had he punched Baron Tynefield again? She couldn’t be certain.

“I do not like men who take advantage of women,” Colborne spoke in a deep tone as he stepped back toward her. “Take my hand and follow me closely. If we are to get you out of this house, we will need to leave from the rear entrance.”

Charity nodded and followed him. She did not bother arguing about the details or trying to grab a bag or anything to take with her—she just needed to escape this suffocating place. Immediately.

As she tiptoed through the house, tracing her steps behind Colborne, her hands began to quiver. She realized with horror just how close she had come to being assaulted by Baron Tynefield. Had it not been for a stranger in her bedchamber, this night could have been very different indeed.

As they stepped out of the house through the servants’ door and into the garden, she was hit by the cool air of early December. It made her shiver all the more. She could have sworn Colborne held her hand tighter as he led her through the garden.

“Step up here,” he said at one point, directing her over a set of steps in the garden with ease. “Low-lying branch to your left.” She ducked around it. He advised her as few others ever had done. She was glad of it in this moment of fleeing.

When they reached the carriage, she heard horses snorting, as if greeting their master.

“Oh.” Another voice sounded.

Was that a footman? She could hear someone distinctly opening the door of the carriage. “Is this wise, Your Grace?” the voice murmured at Colborne.

Wait… His Grace?

A wave of realization washed over her. It suddenly hit Charity where she had heard the name Seth Colborne before.

She had heard of it in one of the many scandal sheets narrated by Edith, along with his title, where someone had written how he was never to be seen in Winchester, Bath, London, or any city, for he had spent the last decade in his own company in Axfordshire, far away from the ton.

“Your Grace?” Charity whispered aloud as he steered her into the carriage.

“Perhaps not, but I had no choice,” he answered his footman. “Let us go. Now.” He followed her into the carriage, but must have sat opposite her, for she did not feel the cushion sink down beside her.

“Your Grace,” she muttered again as the carriage lurched away and that scent of sandalwood wafted toward her once more. “You are the infamous Duke of Axfordshire, are you not?”

“Changed your mind, Lady Charity? Would you prefer it if I let you out of the carriage at once?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. “Ride on, Your Grace.”

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 29th of February!

Prologue

1814

A shock of dark hair lashed across his face as the rain pounded at him, but he hardly noticed it as he raced down the muddied road in his family’s carriage. He had taken it stealthily, without anyone in his household knowing, needing an escape from the pitying and somber looks of his servants. He knew they pitied him, and he detested the feeling. But he couldn’t entirely fault them for it.

Joshua Kingman, the Duke of Elmcroft, was a broken man.

For half a year, he had been a ghost of himself, haunting the halls of his manor, drowning his sorrows in drink. The very thought of confronting daylight without the veil of inebriation was agonizing. It was too painful. On his worst days, he prayed he would not wake up the next morning, yet fortune hadn’t granted him the escape.

Lifting the bottle of bourbon he had brought along with him on his impromptu ride through the wooded path, he pressed it to his lips and took a deep swig. The landscape before him twisted and rippled like a stream, and the cliffside to his right seemed to swerve menacingly close. Yet, he was indifferent to it all. He wanted to feel wholly and utterly numb—and that required more of that liquid fire. He snapped the reins of his horses, tearing through another speed barrier. Maybe if they ran fast enough, he could escape the feeling of betrayal that ripped at his heart.

Memories flashed through his foggy mind. Memories of her… Francesca. His beautiful, treacherous Francesca. He had been prepared to give her everything. His name, his protection, his fortune, his heart—yet, to her, nothing was enough.

And the night he had caught her entwined in the arms of Lord Townsend, kissing him furiously, had plunged him into a living nightmare. A nightmare from which he couldn’t awaken, no matter how hard he tried. A relentless torment, day after day, with no end in sight.

Constantly… constantly gnawing at his soul.

Joshua was so lost in his somber reveries and the haunting image that clung to him, that he failed to notice the sharp bend in the road ahead until he was nearly upon it. With a startled cry, he yanked on the reins, desperately trying to maneuver the horses around the turn. But the road, slick with rain and mud, betrayed him.

The carriage’s wheels skidded and faltered, and the steeds let out twin shrieks of terror as the shaft connecting them to the carriage snapped, unable to withstand the violent lurch of the vehicle. Suddenly, the horses were tearing down the path, dragging away a remnant of the carriage shaft with their reins trailing heavily behind them, while Joshua found himself careening in the opposite direction toward the cliff’s edge.

In a frantic effort to escape, Joshua tried to push himself off the carriage box but lost his footing and fell back, his head violently striking the metal backing of the seat. Pain exploded in his temple, and stars burst in his vision. He slumped over, struggling to cling to consciousness as the carriage continued to slide through the mud. Joshua did not realize he was slowing until the carriage almost miraculously came to a halt. Had he been saved? Had some divine entity reached its hand down and spared him a painful demise?

Joshua blinked into the dark and tried to clear the fog from his mind, but he was overwhelmed with the pain in his skull and could not pull himself entirely from its stupor. He was well aware he needed to climb out of the carriage, but he struggled to pull his limbs into motion. Perhaps he could just rest here a little longer and recover before trying to move again…

Right at that very moment, the carriage shifted ominously. Joshua, with great effort, squinted to his left. It was then he realized with a sinking heart he was perched on the very edge of the cliff… and the carriage’s wheels were beginning to slide, agonizingly slowly succumbing to the fragile, muddy cliff edge.

He needed to move. Needed to get to safety, yet his body felt impossibly heavy, his limbs feeling leaden. The seductive call to just close his eyes and succumb, to end the relentless pain and grief, felt nearly irresistible. And so he did, leaning his head back and letting his body slump in his seat. Perhaps this was for the best. It would bring his pain to an end, at least. Perhaps he should simply accept the fate he had been praying over for months. It would be so easy just to let himself fall…

The cliffside gave way completely, and the carriage began to topple over the edge. Joshua resigned himself to his fate, but just as he was tipping with the carriage to tumble over, he felt a force grasp the front of his body. The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on slick but solid ground. His head continued to swim, and his vision blurred as he fought to keep his eyes open. Had he fallen? Was he dead?

He had assumed death would be a lot more painful than it was… yet the only pain he felt stemmed from where he had struck his head.

Just then, a vague figure appeared over him with blonde hair cascading in wet strands around its face. A sparkle flashed in his eye. An angel. It had to be an angel.

Joshua could not make out the features of his saving angel. Her face was blurred by the rain, shadows, and his wavering vision.

He fought to remain conscious. Yet, as she tenderly caressed his face and hair, her soothing voice began to drift him into a deep slumber.

“You are all right,” she murmured in the sweetest voice he had ever listened to. “A wilting flower can still reach the sun. There is still time to right whatever wrongs you are running from.”

How could she know that? She really must be an angel.

Joshua could not keep his eyes open any longer, though. He wanted to stay there in that moment with her and find out who she was, but he was quickly slipping out of consciousness, and there was nothing he could do to battle the exhaustion. Her gentle strokes on his cheek were the last sensation he felt as he drifted off into a sweet… black oblivion.

***

He woke with a start, letting out a shout as he sat up in a rush. A mistake he instantly regretted when his head began to throb. With a groan, he dropped his head into his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.

After several moments, the pain in his temple dulled enough that he could raise his head and open his eyes. Glancing around, Joshua was surprised to find himself in his bedchamber at Elmcroft. The curtains over the windows were pulled, and a fire was crackling in the hearth of the large stone fireplace across the room from him. It was warm and a touch stuffy, and yet he still felt a chill that made the hair on his arms stand on end.

He could not remember anything that had happened after the carriage had gone over the cliff. No… that was not true. He remembered her. He remembered the angel who had saved him. Now that he was nearly sober and in a tolerable amount of pain, he could think more rationally. She had obviously not been an angel but a flesh and blood woman. He could not recall precisely what she looked like… only that she had blonde hair that remained golden, even under the downpour of rain and the darkness of night.

He also remembered the words she had whispered in his ear.

“…a wilting flower can still reach the sun.”

What had she meant by that? Was he the wilting flower? Her cryptic words were nearly as intriguing to him as the woman herself. If he could figure out their meaning, perhaps he could figure out who she was.

As Joshua’s mind was racing with the possibilities of who his savior could have been, the door of his bedchamber creaked harshly, and his palms shot to his ears to dampen the pain. The butler, Mr. Warren, entered the room somberly. 

When Warren spotted Joshua sitting up in his bed, the butler’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Your Grace!” he exclaimed, hurrying across the room. “You are alive!”

Though well into his fifties, Mr. Warren maintained a degree of youth and vigor that would be enviable to men half his age. He had been working for the Kingman family for as long as Joshua could recall, a good, loyal man who took the care of the household and Elmcroft Duchy very seriously. His black-trim livery coat and white high-collared shirt were perfectly pressed, complementing his white tucked-back hair, and a representation of a man who took great pride in his appearance. But his exaggerations and matter-of-fact statements were a touch intolerable at times.

“Of course I’m alive,” Joshua grumbled, finally lowering his hands. The sharp tinge of alcohol on his nightstand reached his nostrils, and it was then he realized how desperately his body was craving a drink. “How long have I been unconscious, Warren?”

“Approximately… seven hours by my speculations, Your Grace,” Warren answered, bending over to inspect the bandage wrapped around Joshua’s head. “You gave us quite a fright, I must confess.”

“How did I get back here?”

“Lord Townsend was passing by in his carriage and found you lying on the side of the road,” Warren explained. “He and his driver picked you up and brought you home.”

Townsend.  Blast my pride.

But it was not the time to be scoffing at his blessings.

“And the woman?” Joshua asked.

Warren stopped inspecting Joshua’s bandage and gazed down at him with a frown.

“Woman? What woman, Your Grace?”

Joshua frowned. “The woman who pulled me from the carriage before it fell over the cliff. She’s the reason I’m still alive.”

Furrowing his brow, Warren shook his head. “I apologize, Your Grace. A woman was not mentioned. When Lord Townsend came upon you, you were entirely alone.”

Joshua did not understand. He was convinced the woman had been real.

“You are certain?” he pressed. “There was no one else with me?”

“Absolutely not. Though, if I may speak out of turn, you did suffer a serious injury to your head, Your Grace. Perhaps you imagined someone who was not there. Nonetheless, if it eases your concerns, I can send a note to Lord Townsend to confirm—”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he interrupted with a wave of the hand.

Joshua was positive there had been a woman, but despite his certainty, he was well aware that his head wound and intoxication might make his claim a little dubious to anyone who was not present.

And as a Duke, he did not want to give anyone a reason to think him addle-minded, nor fuel any speculations about his mental state. Convinced yet cautious, he decided not to pursue the matter with Warren any further.

His rescuer had disappeared before anyone could discover her with him for some reason. He could only imagine why that was. Had Lord Townsend’s carriage startled her? Surely she would not have left Joshua alone for long if she had gone through so much trouble to rescue him in the first place.

Curious. It was all so curious.

“Ah, lay back, Your Grace,” Warren coaxed, pulling Joshua from his musings. “You must rest. Sir Barrows should be returning on the hour to check on you, and forgive my frankness but he will have my head if I am the reason your recovery is delayed.”

Releasing a long breath, Joshua obeyed and sank back into his pillows. Staring up at the canvas above his bed, he let his mind wander back to his mysterious blonde angel. Who in the world could she possibly be?

In that moment, Joshua resolved to find her. He owed her his life, and it was a debt that Joshua would make sure to pay… no matter how many years it may take.

 

Chapter One

5 Years Later

If Jane Austen penned my life, Mr. Darcy would undoubtedly be galloping around the corner to sweep me off my feet at any moment. Alas, I must be content with merely reading about the romances of others while I pursue a more practical path. For the sake of Papa.

 

A gentle breeze brushed her cheeks, bearing the slight fresh dew of the morning, but she hardly noticed. Lady Francesca Nightingale, daughter of the Baron of Oakvale, was entirely engrossed in her book as she made her way along the walking path she ventured down every morning.

Oh, how she doted on her morning walks. The countryside was so still and quiet as the day had not quite started, yet lively and vibrant with the day’s expectations, and she could imagine she was the only person in the whole world. It was during these tranquil moments that she indulged in her reading. Truthfully, any spare moment found her absorbed in her books. She would grow lost in her stories, her imagination running wild as she fantasized about the faraway lands and exciting adventures described. There was very little chance she could ever see the exotic lands she read about for herself, so she devoured every tome she could find to learn more about the wider world.

Yet, beneath it all, Francesca found solace in her station in life. In many ways, she was very blessed. Her father adored her and gave her everything he could despite his low status among the peerage and lack of wealth. When she was a girl, her father had more means by which to provide a comfortable life for the both of them, but greed and treachery had stolen that blessing. Thankfully, they were able to remain in their quaint little manor nestled in the countryside, though the means to keep it as it once was had faded. Francesca chose not to dwell on the past losses but instead focused her energy on supporting her father, striving together to lift themselves from the brink of poverty they now faced.

And all her determination had finally paid off, for she was close to achieving that dream now that she would shortly be engaged.

There was much for her to look forward to… she just needed to keep her head held high and continue down the path she had diligently carved out for herself.

At the murmur of voices approaching, Francesca froze. Her morning strolls were ordinarily solitary affairs and she liked to keep them that way, but owing to the lovely sun-kissed skies, the route she had taken today was slightly longer than her usual, flanked by a simple gate opening to expansive fields on one side and a low stone wall on the other, leaving little room to make an escape. She cast a quick, desperate glance around the bare expanse. As she weighed her limited options, a couple crested over a nearby knoll.

Francesca’s body tensed as her eyes fell upon the unmistakably resplendent attire of the Duke of Elmcroft, and her body stiffened with immediate tension. A young lady was accompanying him, her chaperone not far behind. It took Francesca a moment, but then she recalled the lady’s name was Susan Moore, daughter of the Earl of Gladstone. Francesca had encountered her a time or two at different social gatherings, but the two had never been officially introduced.

The Duke, however, was another matter entirely. She had known him since her childhood, and it was not an acquaintance she relished. He was haughty and arrogant and looked down on her because of her significantly lower station. When she had been a naïve child, she had thought herself in love with him, mistaking his indifference for mystery. But he had never treated her kindly, nor spared a kind word for her, and she had never understood why it was. What had she possibly done to earn his cold disdain?

As fate would have it, the Duke’s eyes caught hers as she stood frozen on the path, prompting him to halt abruptly too. His scowl was one of annoyance, which she met with a defiant glare of her own.

Lady Susan appeared oblivious to the animosity thickening the air between Francesca and the Duke. She seemed surprised to see Francesca, but then pasted on a sugary sweet smile that did not seem quite as pleasant as she might have thought.

“Ah, Lady Francesca,” Lady Susan declared. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Francesca was momentarily taken aback, not expecting Lady Susan to recognize her.

“Good morning, Lady Susan.” Her attention flicked back to the Duke for a brief moment as she offered a brisk, polite curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Francesca,” the Duke murmured. “Rather early to be wandering about, is it not? Alone at that?”

Francesca clenched her jaw. “I find the early morning most conducive to exercise. It is usually quiet and peaceful. And there is hardly any need for an escort when I am merely walking along my father’s property line.”

“It is indeed quite refreshing out,” Lady Susan quickly intervened. She gazed up tenderly at the Duke from beneath her long lashes. “Lord Elmcroft was generously showing me his lovely meadows here. I have long wished to see them.”

Francesca felt a wave of resentment. “Ah, yes… the Oakvale Meadows are indeed beautiful.”

Beautiful, lucrative, and once a source of her family’s pride. That was until, through some cunning maneuver, the Duke had found means to take it from them. Now, the meadows that bore her father’s title were no longer his property. It was an injustice that Francesca had grown bitter over.

It was one of the many reasons her feelings for the Duke had so drastically changed.

Still, why did such a vile man have to be so handsome? He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a muscular frame, tapering down to long, powerful legs. His dark hair reminded her of rich, warm chocolate, framing equally delicious eyes, and the sharp, stubbled contour of his jaw lent him a roguish charm. He seemed to always be clad in black or gray lavish attires, adorned by expensive fineries, which she thought was fitting, as it made him appear more of a villain… albeit a beautiful one.

Francesca forced such thoughts from her mind. She could not let herself forget that, despite his pleasing exterior, he was rotten to his very soul and not a man to be trusted, nor admired.

“Yes, a point of pride for the Duchy,” he declared, giving Francesca a pointed look. “An ancient holding briefly lost to us but recently transferred back.”

Francesca clutched her book so tightly that her knuckles whitened with the strain.

“One would think such a transfer would be unnecessary after so many centuries,” she countered, her civility thinly veiling the bitterness. “Yet, it appears it is difficult for some to overlook their ambitions at the expense of others.”

The Duke’s gaze sharpened. “And others might find it difficult to acknowledge when a wrong has been made right, by no fault of anyone involved. Though I suppose it is a complex matter, likely too intricate for a young lady to grasp. Such concerns are typically resolved amongst gentlemen after all.”

Oh, how she wished she could slap that smug look right off his face. She controlled her temper, however, reminding herself that she was a lady and would not conduct herself in an unseemly manner. No matter how much the Duke might deserve it.

No one else in the world riled her like he did. Every interaction between them seemed like a battle of wills and wits, and she tried to come out the victor as often as she could. He looked down on her as it was and she did not wish to give him any more fodder for his disdain.

Turning her attention to Lady Susan, Francesca beamed, “My lady, your charm is especially radiant today. The yellow of the gown is utterly becoming on you. I must have my father purchase one in kind for myself.”

Lady Susan responded with a girlish giggle and flutter of her lashes, waving a gloved hand gracefully.

“Oh, how kind of you to say, my dear,” she answered, her voice dripping with a condescension that didn’t quite hide behind her younger age. “Mama has been quite insistent on refreshing my wardrobe this season. She is quite set on seeing me settled soon.” Her eyes flickered back to the Duke, who seemed to make a point of ignoring her, before returning to Francesca. “Papa had hoped I would be wed last year, but I was adamant about waiting another season. I wouldn’t want to settle for just anyone, after all..” She slipped her arm around the Duke’s, making her claim of him clear.

A flicker of old emotions stirred in Francesca at the sight, the remnants of what she once felt for the Duke, but she dismissed them with ease. “I wish you the best of luck,” Francesca told her with an icy smile. “I am sure any gentleman would be fortunate to have you for his own.”

“Indeed,” Lady Susan agreed. “What of you, though, Lady Francesca? Have you not been courting Lord Liam Terrell?”

Once more, Francesca was stunned that Lady Susan knew such details about her life. The lady had apparently been paying much more attention to her than Francesca had ever paid in return.

“…Yes, it is true,” she answered with a nod. She did not offer any further information as she felt somewhat uneasy to be discussing the topic with the pair.

But then, Lady Susan gave her a look that could only be described as a mockery of sympathy. “You poor thing,” she sighed. “I do not know that my heart could handle a gentleman with such an… indulgent reputation.”

Francesca frowned, her nails almost puncturing the leather cover of her book now.

“I am afraid I do not quite understand what you mean,” she murmured.

Lady Susan shook her head. “You shouldn’t fret, my dear. I imagine your choices for a suitor are rather limited, so of course you turn a blind eye to Lord Terrell’s indiscretions. I’m certain anyone in your predicament would do the same.”

Francesca gaped at the younger woman’s words. Whatever unpleasantness she might encounter with the Duke paled in comparison to the vile venom Lady Susan was spitting at her now. What was worse was that she delivered it with a saccharine smile. At least when the Duke insulted Francesca, he did not try to hide his animosity behind a seemingly friendly mask.

“Lady Susan,” the Duke interjected sharply, gazing down at her with wide eyes. “Such remarks are unbecoming of a lady.”

Lady Susan gazed up at him with an expression of pure, innocent confusion.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she pouted. “Did I say something out of turn? I believed I was merely offering a compliment.”

Unable to endure another moment of the veiled insults, Francesca turned sharply, her exit as dignified as it was swift, and began her retreat down the path from where she came.

“Lady Francesca, wait!”

Francesca hesitated briefly, glancing over her shoulder to see the Duke hastening after her. She bit back tears and rolled her eyes in a feeble attempt at defiance. “Your Grace, I believe it is best I return home,” her voice cracked, betraying her effort to suppress a sob. “I have never sought your concern, nor do I desire your pity.”

“Lady Susan was out of line,” he began after finally reaching her. Lady Susan, still being within earshot, looked appalled by his words. “I apologize on her behalf for any offense she may have caused.”

Francesca stared up at Elmcroft, baffled that he was apologizing to her. Did he truly care that she was upset? No. Of course he did not. She would have thought he would enjoy seeing her humiliated, especially given his usual enjoyment of her discomfiture.

“Good day, Your Grace,” she murmured dismissively, unwilling to extend any gesture of forgiveness to the man who had made it his pastime to cause her offense. With that, she turned away, steadfastly ignoring his call after her.

Francesca did not look back once as she hurried home. When she was certain she was out of sight of the Duke and Lady Susan, she broke into a sprint, only slowing as she approached her family’s manor. It was a modest and well-kept house, standing in stark contrast to the grand estates that neighbored them. Despite their lack of staff, Francesca made certain that the home was clean and cared for. Still, there were some hedges that needed tending to, and vines were taking over the western wall. The roof also leaked, and on windy days, one could hear the air whistling past the aged window frames.  Each was a reminder of the grandeur they once held—that was stolen from them by that vile man.

Still, Francesca thought the house was beautiful and took pride in caring for it.

When she reached the front door, she paused and took a moment to catch her breath before going inside. The house was quiet, but she had expected that. What little help her father could afford consisted of a cook, a single maid, and an elderly gardener. They all lived in the nearby village and only came to the house a few days a week. Today was not one of their work days, and so Francesca was alone, as her father was also away conducting business in Town.

So, it was quite a startling surprise when she heard noises coming from her father’s study as she passed by the door. Francesca stopped, her heart in her throat. Cautiously, she approached the door, nudging it open just enough to peer inside. A figure was standing behind her father’s large wooden desk, rifling through the papers resting on its top. It took her a moment to place the man.

“Oh! Mr. Campbell!” she burst out, throwing the door open and entering the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Father is away, but I am certain you know that.”

Mr. Robert Campbell, the family’s solicitor and her father’s confidant, met her gaze with a red face and a damp brow. His expression was grave and his eyes filled with a sorrow that sent Francesca’s stomach twisting as a shiver traveled up her spine.

“Mr. Campbell…?”

“Forgive me, my lady,” he blurted, his voice laden with distress. “I have been awaiting your arrival. I am terribly sorry, but I must inform you that there has been a tragedy. Your father, the Baron, has passed away.”

Chapter Two

“What?” Francesca’s voice was barely audible. “W-what are you saying? My father is dead? How? When? But he was just—”

Mr. Campbell gave her a sympathetic look and hurried forward to grab hold of her shoulders.

“A carriage accident on his return from Town,” he told her in a gentle tone, guiding her to her father’s favorite armchair in front of the desk. “He was on his way across the Smalling Hills when the driver lost control upon a ridge road. The carriage was overturned and your father was tossed… Forgive me, my lady. I should not be telling you the details.”

Francesca’s head began shaking in disbelief as tears streamed down her cheeks. She clutched Mr. Campbell’s hand as she released a heart-wrenching sob. The solicitor did not object, nor try to pull from her grip. He merely stood in silence, patting her gently on the back as she wept, feeling her heart shrivel and die.

“No, no, this can’t be happening,” she whimpered. “He cannot be dead! Please tell me this is just another of my terrible dreams. Please!”

“My lady, I wish I could tell you otherwise,” Mr. Campbell murmured. “Oh, I am truly sorry, my dear.”

His mere presence was a small comfort, as Mr. Campbell had always been like family to her. Yet, Francesca did not believe there was anything that could mend the deep sorrow tearing through her soul presently.

After allowing her a few more precious moments to mourn, Mr. Campbell gently spoke again, “My lady, I understand it may be difficult to focus on anything but your loss at present, but there is an urgent matter that must be addressed. It concerns your father’s final requests, and there is… a limited time to fulfill them.”

Francesca was tempted to ignore him, to continue drowning in her pity and tears, but she knew her father would expect her to rise to the challenges that lay before her. He would not have wanted her to succumb to despair, but to uphold his final wishes for the sake of the Nightingale name and her own.

Shaking her head, she took a few more moments to compose herself, just enough so that she could hold her head up and face the solicitor as the new woman of the family.

With a sniffle, she asked, “What… what were my father’s last wishes?”

Mr. Campbell inhaled deeply before revealing, “In his final moments, he had apparently instructed his driver that he wanted his death kept under wraps. Only I am aware of this, and the driver has vowed silence in return for not being reported for his part in the accident.”

Francesca furrowed her brow, confused. “I—I don’t understand. Why would he want his death kept secret?”

“Regrettably, your father was so focused on rescuing you both from financial difficulties, that he neglected to revise his will. As it stands, the estate is set to pass to your cousin, Lord Gerard, and you would not be able to access your inheritance until you were married. And because you’d be expected to enter mourning, Lord Terrell may not be willing to wait and could pursue another match. And with Lord Gerard’s unpredictability and his… forgive me for being blunt but predilection for gambling, there is no telling where it could leave the last of the Oakvale fortune before you can even access it. Your father was a wise man, even in his final breaths.”

Francesca stared at the solicitor in shock. “You mean to say… I could be left with nothing?”

He nodded. “Yes, but do not fear. I shall manage the situation where it concerns the Baron Oakvale. However, it is crucial for you to secure your marriage before the news of his death is made public.”

“I… I can try,” she murmured, her mind racing with the countless scenarios that could unravel and leave her worse off. How precisely was she supposed to accomplish such a task without her father’s presence, let alone guidance?

“There happens to be… one more caveat I have neglected to mention, unfortunately,” Mr. Campbell added in a low tone, interrupting her thoughts. “You can no longer remain here.”

“Excuse me?” Francesca exclaimed, rising quickly. “Why in heaven must I be forced to abandon my own home?”

The solicitor gave a somber shake of the head. “My lady, the remaining staff will be dismissed, and managing the manor alone isn’t feasible,” he replied stoically. “Furthermore, if news were to spread that the Baron has abandoned you to your devices at Oakvale Manor while dismissing the staff, it might lead to… unsavory suspicions.”

Though she didn’t particularly care for the inference, Francesca recognized the truth in his words. There were already countless rumors circulating around the Nightingale family, with her father’s continuous absences which many saw as neglect toward a daughter of a marriageable age. Worse, some had even attempted to take advantage of her father’s absence and the lack of staff by breaking into her home to steal whatever valuables they had left. Thankfully, the presence of the lone gardener had warded off future attempts, and so she had refrained from mentioning it to her father, who was already burdened with other responsibilities. She would no longer have the luxury with the staff being dismissed.

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Very well, I shall stay with my Aunt Priscilla—”

“Pardon me, but I must advise against that also,” Mr. Campbell hastily objected. “If you stay with your aunt, Lord Gerard may grow suspicious and discover the truth of your father. No, no, it is imperative you stay away from the Townsends and uphold normalcy in their presence. In the meantime, you must find somewhere else to stay, somewhere that you may court Lord Terrell as usual without overburdening the either of you or raising suspicions. If I may give my opinion, preferably somewhere between the Hawthorne Downs and Elmcroft.”

Francesca’s brows drew together in a frown, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Where then?” she demanded, frustration and hopelessness blurring her vision. “Where am I supposed to go?”

Mr. Campbell appeared apologetic but shook his head nonetheless. “I am afraid I do not have an answer to that.”

Of course… she had learned at a very young age to never expect any measure of leniency under such dire circumstances after what her father had to go through. She turned away from Mr. Campbell and tucked her hands in between her thighs as she pondered carefully over her options. She needed a solution. But who could she rely on? She had no other family besides her aunt and cousin. She had no real acquaintances she could call upon at this time—her fair-weather friends had deserted her after her father’s fortunes dwindled.

As she considered her limited choices, only one name constantly sprang to mind, and she wanted to groan with fury and frustration.

There was one person who might be able to help her. One person who would not try to take advantage of her vulnerable position… simply because he thought himself far too superior.

In her direst moment of desperation, it appeared the only person she could turn to, was the very man she detested most… the Duke of Elmcroft

“Heaven help me,” she muttered under her breath. “To save my home, I must relinquish my pride.”

“Pardon, my lady?” Mr. Campbell asked.

Facing him once more, Francesca let out a resigned sigh. “Nothing, Mr. Campbell. I assure you, I shall do my best to uphold my end of the bargain. Pray, just grant me a fortnight’s reprieve.”

***

Perhaps she will be in attendance at the Pemberton’s ball. She has to be out there, somewhere, and Lord knows she will not show up at my door.

Joshua sat before the escritoire in his study, sifting through a pile of invitations for various social events – balls, soirees, and gatherings of all kinds. He was not particularly fond of such events, but they were part of his ongoing effort to find the woman who had saved him from the perilous carriage accident five years prior. Since Warren’s confused words on the day he had regained consciousness, Joshua had scarcely mentioned her to anyone, expecting to be met with a similarly pitiful look and inferences that he had temporarily lost his mind. But deep down, he had not given up his hope of seeing her again.

As of yet, however, his search had been fruitless. It was not surprising, given he hadn’t an inkling of an idea where to even begin looking for her. All he remembered was her blonde hair and the gentleness of her touch. Still, he reasoned she had to live somewhere in the area. Otherwise, there would have been no reason for her to be walking the cliffside under such perilous weather conditions to save him in the first place.

Joshua recognized that his search for his mysterious angel had become his secret obsession, but he did not care. His focus on finding his rescuer had at least helped him to overcome his heartbreak over Francesca. Now he could think of her without feeling anything in particular. She was neither a source of pain, grief, nor desire. She was nothing to him, and he was still rather stunned that he had allowed himself to fall into such an abominable state of being for as long as he had. After his brush with death, he had pulled himself together. He had put aside the drink and resumed his responsibilities to his title and estate, albeit with a lot less conviction. Regardless, it had been an enlightening experience, being on the brink of leaving behind everything. 

Ever since, he vowed no woman would ever cause him to sink so low again. Joshua had no intentions of marrying or trusting another lady… with the only, albeit imprudent, exception being his guardian angel. Were he to ever find her, he might propose to her on the spot. She was the only lady he would ever even consider giving his heart to. And the chances of that happening were slim anyhow.

As he continued to sort through his pile of summonses, a knock on the heavy-oak door interrupted his reveries.

“Yes?” he called out.

The door opened a crack and Warren lumbered inside. He appeared troubled and hesitant, which made Joshua frown.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Your Grace, you have a… guest at the door.”

Confused, Joshua pushed to his feet and moved around his desk. “A guest? At this hour?”

It was late into the night, and pouring rain. The only person he could think of that might call on him so late was his friend Benedict, but even he would have sent a note ahead informing… or rather warning Joshua of his imminent arrival. Moreover, if it had been Benedict, Warren would have had difficulties preventing him from reaching Joshua’s study to begin with.

Then, he grasped the emphasis the butler had put on the word ‘door’. “Door? You mean to say they are not waiting in the drawing room?”

Warren shook his head, his brows furrowed tremendously. “No, Your Grace. The young lady refuses to enter the house until you have personally invited her.”

A lady? At this time of night?

Joshua’s mind began to race as he tried to puzzle out who it might be. A part bedmate? There were quite a number, but would any of them dare show up at his home unannounced?

“Will you not just tell me who it is?” he demanded of Warren.

The butler slowly shook his head. “I believe it would be best to go and see for yourself, Your Grace.”

Now, Joshua’s curiosity could not be contained.

“Very well,” he exhaled, rising from his warm damask armchair and striding with conviction past rows of aged books once belonging to his father, before reaching his butler. “This mysterious act of yours had better be worth it, Warren.”

Joshua strode on, navigating the bare corridors of his ancestral home, barren from his neglect and unwillingness to play the part of the perfect Duke when he was alone. He could only scoff at the past portraits of stern ancestors that seemed to scrutinize his every move, as he went to receive the damsel he had likely just bedded and forgotten.

And why should I care? The games of the aristocracy were about to condemn me to a fate with the one-who-shall-not-be-named, sentencing me to a life of a miserable husband. All for the mere elevation of my family’s standing. Pah!

Approaching the front door, his hand grasped the heavy brass doorknob worn smooth from generations of use and yanked it open. The sight that greeted him halted him in his tracks.

There, on his doorstep, stood Francesca Nightingale, utterly drenched from the waterfall. Raindrops glistened on her skin, trailing down her neck and disappearing into the soaked neckline of her dress. A dress that was sopping and translucent, accentuating the curves of her breasts and hips and leaving little to the imagination. Her blonde hair, ordinarily coiffed untidily—a clear testament to having attempted it herself, now lay in damp tendrils around her face, framing it with an unintentional seductiveness.

Joshua bit back his imaginings fiercely to prevent them from wandering off to more wanton thoughts, and it was then he noticed she was clutching a heavy suitcase in both hands.

“Lady—Lady Francesca? What in God’s name are you doing here?”

She raised her blue eyes to meet his, her face set firmly, her jaw clenched with the same resolve he had witnessed no less than twelve hours ago during his morning stroll with Lady Susan Moore. Was she returning to make a final point? That thought did seem quite silly, but he would not expect much less from the young lady.

“Your Grace, I must ask something of you that is not… easy for me,” she began. There was a waver in her tone and Joshua’s face suddenly grew solemn. It was only now that he noted her eyes were a touch red and slightly swollen. Had she been weeping?

“…What is it?” he inquired.

“Could I possibly stay here?” she asked in a soft voice. “Only for a fortnight. No more.”

Joshua was confused. No, he was stunned and utterly bewildered. He stared at her, speechless, for a long moment. He had no idea what to make of it all. She gazed up at him coyly from beneath long lashes, her usually cold eyes brimming with vulnerability and distress that might have struck a chord in his heart if it hadn’t already been ripped to shreds.

He was not certain what possessed him to do so, but without demanding any further explanation, he stepped aside, allowing Francesca to enter his home, her gown soaked and boots caked in mud.

Look out for the full release on the 2nd of Februrary!

Chapter One

1817 

Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t attend the ball at all.

Amelia silenced her glum thoughts as best she could, but they kept resurfacing with a vengeance with every passing second. She bit her bottom lip so hard that she was afraid she would draw blood, yet the pain served to distract her from the waves of trepidation assaulting her at the present moment. She didn’t know where to bury herself – under the covers of her bed or leave the house altogether.

“Oh, goodness, will you stop breathing so loudly?” The sharp tone snapped Amelia from her dour thoughts. She jolted at the force of it, twisting slightly on the tiny stool she sat on to look at her aunt.

The older woman’s glare could have sliced right through steel. Barbara Egerton, the Viscountess of Hendale, curled her upper lip in utter disgust and Amelia felt her heart twist at the sight. The viscountess could have been a beautiful lady despite her age, but Amelia surmised that years of scornful looks and a horrid personality had twisted her features. Somehow, though she’d only just turned forty, Barbara looked like she already had one foot in the grave.

Still, she sat upright with a healthy posture, though that also had much to do with the plush mahogany chair she was sitting in.

“Pardon?” Amelia murmured, loud enough for her aunt to hear.

“I can hear your breathing,” Barbara complained, her tone dripping with malice. “I thought I told you to simply sit in that corner and pretend as if you don’t exist. I should not even know that you’re there.”

For a moment, Amelia could only gape back in astonishment. Even though the bedchamber they occupied was shared between Amelia and her cousin, it was still considered rather sizable. Barbara was sitting near the only vanity table in the room, next to her daughter, while Amelia had been forced to claim the furthest corner away from them. And, as her aunt had requested, she’d gone about getting ready in complete silence. She couldn’t fathom how she could have done anything less.

“Oh, leave her be, Mother.” Lady Nadine’s voice was innocent and sweet—a perfect mask for the bitterness that lay within her. “She has no one but herself to talk to. I’m sure it must get lonely.”

Barbara huffed, very unlike the fashionable lady she so strived to be, but she heeded her daughter’s words nevertheless, turning back to face the mirror. Nadine glanced over her shoulder at Amelia, giving her a pitiful look and a shake of the head, before she faced ahead again.

With the viscountess and her daughter distracted, their lady’s maids returned to styling their hair.

Amelia turned back to her corner and blinked back the tears stinging her eyes. This sort of treatment had been going on for three years, so she ought to have been used to it by now. But she hated facing this level of humiliation in front of the servants.

The maids often paid her little mind. Amelia didn’t know if it was an order from their mistress or if they simply decided she was not worth their time, just like her aunt and cousin. Either way, she was forced to prepare for the ball by herself. Slipping into her delicate underpinnings, adjusting the layers of her petticoat, and finally, pulling on her jade green dress—which was already out of fashion. Amelia didn’t even consider the thought of adorning herself with rouge or jewels.

“Mother, do you believe he will ask me to dance tonight?” Nadine’s voice came floating back to her as she struggled with the lacing of her dress. If she wasn’t ready by the time they were, they would certainly leave without her.

“Of course, dear!” Barbara gushed. Her voice grew shrill when she was excited and Amelia winced, fumbling with the final lace and unraveling the rest. “In fact, I will make sure to get you an introduction. All you need is a dance, my dear, and the duke will certainly be besotted with you.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure,” Nadine sounded uncertain. “He is hailed as the most eligible bachelor in the ton for a reason. Every lady there will be throwing herself at him. What will make him look twice at me?” she pouted.

Barbara gasped as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Amelia wasn’t so surprised. Nadine had mastered the art of getting others to compliment her under the guise of humility. “You forget yourself, my dear,” Barbara said, her voice impassioned. “You are the most beautiful lady in all of London! He would be a fool not to pay you any mind.”

“Do you truly think so?”

“Of course! Ask anyone else and they will tell you the same.”

Amelia didn’t have to look to know that Nadine was smiling from ear to ear. She couldn’t agree with her aunt though. Nadine was by no means hard to look at, but calling her the most beautiful lady in all of London was an outright lie. She had brown hair that lay flat and dead at her shoulders, always breaking off before it could grow out—which was why she never wore her hair down. Her face was bordering on plain, but when she sneered like her mother, Amelia thought her to be the most frightening being she’d ever seen.

But Nadine had the confidence of a queen, which Amelia envied and many-a-gentleman were charmed by.

“The Duchess of Stanhope,” Nadine purred. “It is the end of the Season, Mother. Perhaps I should discard my suitors when the duke asks me to court him. I will be the envy of all the ladies in London.”

“Even more than usual,” Barbara added, only contributing to Nadine’s hubris. “To think your father managed to secure us invites to His Grace’s ball this year. It’s always been the pinnacle event of the season. Such a splendid way to conclude it!”

Nadine nodded. “I’ve even heard that only a chosen handful from high society receive invites. And very few are invited twice.” Suddenly, Nadine gasped. “Do you think he will be there?”

Barbara frowned in bemusement.

Nadine leaned closer to her mother to whisper, though she didn’t do a very good job of it. “The Masked Rogue.”

The name sent a jolt through Amelia. Memories flashed in her mind and much of her annoyance melted into anger.

“The Masked Rogue?” Barbara jerked back. “Nonsense! Not that hogwash again. This is the Duke of Stanhope’s Grand Ball! Do you truly believe he would risk tarnishing his esteemed name by inviting such a notorious figure? Nadine, you would do best to stay away from such characters,” she chided lightly.

Nadine winced at Barbara’s sharp tone and quickly tried to placate her. “You’re right, Mother. I am simply quite curious to see just who the man behind the mask is.”

Amelia couldn’t say the same. She wouldn’t mind if she spent her entire life never finding out the Masked Rogue’s identity. Or better yet, if she did, she wouldn’t mind spending her entire life bringing him to ruin.

After a moment of silence, Nadine began again, “Though, if he truly is an Earl as rumors suggest, I wouldn’t object to the title of a countess…”

Amelia suddenly felt a desperate urge to leave the room. Her hair was already arranged in a modest chignon, with a few loose strands framing her face, leaving only her shoes to be put on. She wanted to escape as soon as she was finished. Having to listen to the praises of that man made her feel sick to her core.

Though, she supposed it would be unfair of her to pretend as if she did not wish for marriage too. At one-and-twenty, her prospects were diminishing. Beyond this Season, many would consider her past the prime age for marriage, practically a spinster. She couldn’t allow that label to befall her. Securing a suitor at this ball was paramount—it might be her final opportunity.

If she didn’t find a suitor, she would never be married. She’d never receive her inheritance and would be forced to remain as her uncle’s ward in this unpleasant place where she was treated so horribly.

But most importantly, she wouldn’t be able to save her sister.

After slipping into her shoes, Amelia got to her feet and promptly made her way to the door. She was ignored, to her relief. Sometimes she preferred being invisible to enduring her aunt’s malice and her cousin’s bitterness.

The moment she was out the door, Amelia released a long, quiet breath. She couldn’t let her aunt and cousin’s words get her down. Throughout the entire Season, they had done nothing but step on her toes and push her aside. Amelia understood her aunt wanting to put her daughter first, but they’d made this Season nothing but a failure for her—to be used as a pedestal for Nadine’s future.

Well, she couldn’t allow it to end on a failure.

“My lady?”

Amelia jolted at the soft voice, startled by the sudden appearance of the maid by her side. She stepped away from the door so that those inside could not hear when she asked, “What is it?”

“This came for you a short while ago.” The maid held out a folded piece of paper.

Amelia’s heart began to pound against her chest. “From whom?”

“The Countess of Talley, my lady.”

Amelia snatched the paper from the maid’s hands, muttering a thank-you under her breath as she hurriedly unfolded it. The words written within were simple and to the point but they sent Amelia’s heart sprawling.

She hadn’t heard from her sister in months and from the state of her writing, it seemed her sister had hastily penned the letter. It stated that Amelia could come to visit her in Brighton next month since the Earl of Talley would be out of Brighton for a week. The thought of seeing her again had Amelia’s heart weak with relief. Not receiving any word from her had slowly sent Amelia down a spiral of worry, wondering with each passing day if something bad had happened.

“Where is my uncle?” Amelia quickly asked the maid, her voice breathy with urgency.

“He is in his study, my—”

She didn’t wait for the maid to finish. She picked up her skirts and swiveled on her heels, racing down the narrow hallway. Amelia nearly twisted her ankle twice as she rushed down the staircase and she mentally chided her clumsiness but didn’t stop. Her heart raced with excitement, a controlled smile barely gracing her features.

Because of it, she didn’t think twice about bursting into her uncle’s study without knocking.

Thankfully, he was without company, but the look he gave her upon her entrance made her realize the mistake she’d made.

“Forgive me, Uncle,” she panted. “I hope I am not interrupting.”

Harold Egerton, the Viscount of Hendale, plopped his quill pen back into the inkpot and leaned back in his chair with a grunt. Amelia was once more struck by how much he resembled her late father—his brother. They had been close in age but her father had been the one to inherit the Earldom. And as the younger son, Harold had opted to marry the daughter of the late Viscount of Hendale.

Ever since she began to live here, Amelia wondered if their difference in status was what caused such animosity toward her. After all, she was the daughter of the late Earl of Marlowe and her sister had become the Countess of Talley. Even though she was unmarried and without a title, her father had left her a sizable inheritance and she already had access to her dowry.

But if that was what caused her aunt and cousin’s disdain of her, Amelia couldn’t say if the same applied to Harold. The truth was, she didn’t know what he thought of her. She’d met him only once before her father passed and when she came to live with them, he’d been neither cold nor warm. He took care of her in all the ways that mattered, but nothing more. He allowed her to attend events during the Season, as it was her duty to marry, but Amelia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in his presence for more than a few minutes.

“What do you want, Amelia?” he asked, ignoring her earlier words.

Despite his lacking tone, Amelia’s excitement did not waver. She approached his desk and laid the letter open for him to see. He read it quickly, then looked back up at her. “State your point, girl.”

She hated when he called her that but she’d never voice it. “Dorothy has extended an invitation for me to visit her,” she explained in between breaths, even though it was made rather clear in the letter. “I’ve come to ask that arrangements be made—”

“That will not be happening. Now leave me be.” And just like that, he resumed his task, returning to his quill and paper.

Amelia stared at him, unwilling to understand his words right away. “I have not seen my sister in three years, Uncle,” she tried again. “You know her husband makes it difficult for her to receive my letters, and even more difficult for her to send them. And Brighton is not that far. If I could have someone take me there and back—”

“I said that it will not be happening. What do you not understand?”

The finality in his tone had already wiped any signs of hopefulness from Amelia’s face. “But why?” she asked, hating how her voice cracked.

He didn’t bother to look back up at her. “Dorothy is a married woman now. She has her own life, and you, your own. You should focus on yourself. I will not waste my time traveling all the way to Brighton. If she wishes to see you so urgently, she should come to London herself.”

But Talley will not let her! Amelia wanted to shout the words from the top of her lungs. She would have, had she not known how indifferently her uncle would react. And the last thing she wanted was for Barbara or Nadine to catch wind of what was happening with her sister. Their tongues would be wagging relentlessly by the end of the day and Amelia would not risk her sister’s reputation by revealing that the Earl of Talley was an abusive man. It was knowledge that burned within Amelia alone.

And it was the only thing driving her this Season. Not to start her own family, nor to complete her duties as a lady and produce an heir for her husband. The only reason she wanted to be married was to gain access to her inheritance. That way, she could afford to liberate her sister from her abusive husband. And they could live alone, just the two of them, away from the world in some countryside cottage, as they would spend hours speaking of when they were younger.

Harold glanced up at her, then back to his paper. “You may leave,” he dismissed with a cavalier wave of a hand.

Amelia didn’t move. Her body grew hot with anger and frustration and, to her annoyance, the tears began to spill. No one would understand how often she lay awake at nights thinking about her sister, about the beautiful smile she’d last seen on Dorothy’s wedding day. After that, there had been no communication. Dorothy had left for Brighton with the husband she loved and Amelia had instantly lost all contact.

Amelia had tried to visit her herself, back when her uncle hadn’t cared if she came or went. But the Earl constantly denied her, sending her away. And her letters often remained unanswered.

Until one day, a year and a half ago, Amelia received a letter from her sister, scribbled hastily and dotted with dried tears. She spoke about the treatment from her husband, how the man she had loved for so long had seemingly changed overnight. Since then, Amelia had feared for her sister’s life.

And now, to hear that she could not even go to visit her….

Amelia felt as if every part of her chest was being ripped to shreds. Rage mounted in her at the helplessness of her situation. How could she have an uncle who didn’t seem to care about his nieces? Who only cared for one out of necessity and turned a blind eye to the other’s suffering? Amelia couldn’t help but think about what Dorothy might be going through right now and that frustration tipped over into sorrow.

If she had her inheritance, Amelia could save her. But she could only do that if she married.

If only her family had never encountered the Masked Rogue.

Over the years, Amelia tried not to think about it too much. She didn’t like the anger and hatred that swarmed her at the thought of that horrid person. But right now, she welcomed it, a black void opening in her chest and eager for any dark thought.

The Masked Rogue was the reason for all her troubles and why she was in this position in the first place. Had he let her father be, hadn’t taken advantage of him, and hadn’t so coldly ripped everything from her family, perhaps they would all still be together. Perhaps her father would still be alive…

Wiping her tears, Amelia turned and left the room without a word. She made her way to the foyer where she sat in the small chair by the door. She would have liked to wait in the parlor, alone, away from prying eyes, but she didn’t want to risk her aunt and cousin leaving her behind.

She steeled her resolve. If she couldn’t go to see her sister, she would bring her to London instead. And tonight was her final chance of making that happen…

 

Chapter Two

“Has the list of attendees been finalized yet?”

The sound of heavy papers rustled behind Gideon before a gravelly voice spoke up. “Yes, Your Grace. All invitations sent have been responded to. Everyone will be in attendance as per usual. They are all very eager.”

Those words made Gideon smile a little. He didn’t bother to turn around, enjoying the evening breeze wafting through his study window. His fingers traced idly along the edges of a white mask, giving him an odd sense of comfort.

“And I take it all the preparations are finished?”

“Yes…” The gravelly voice trailed off and Gideon stilled, turning his head slightly in waiting. “Almost everything.”

Gideon didn’t respond right away. He let heavy silence seep into the study, so thick that he could almost smell the sweaty apprehension emanating from his butler. Slowly, he turned to face him, taking in the thin elderly man with cold hazel eyes.

To his credit, Thomas held his composure. Gideon remembered a time when this wiry old man had been the closest thing to a father figure—but that was during a time when Gideon did not know the power he possessed. Now that he stood in the position of duke, he was all too aware of the disparity between the two of them. And clearly, Thomas knew it as well. The butler who would once smile and sneak him treats as a child, now tried his best to bravely meet Gideon’s eyes.

It was not a sight Gideon enjoyed. So he sighed and softened his features, hoping that it would put the man at ease. Though he would make no such effort with the other servants, Thomas was different and he could at least show him some grace.

“What is causing the delay?” he asked as calmly as he could.

“Not all the refreshments have yet been brewed, Your Grace,” Thomas answered, maintaining his composure. “As the guest list was added to this year, it has been difficult to keep up with—” he replied before interrupting himself, “I will speak with the cook to ensure that they are ready before the commencement of the ball.”

Gideon nodded. He did not appreciate excuses, and his butler understood that. “We still have the hour, will it be enough time?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas answered instantly.

“Then there is no cause for worry.” Gideon’s features relaxed again as he grinned. He had no patience for uncertainties too.

Satisfied with that response, Gideon faced the window again, continuing to stroke the white mask. “You are too tense, Thomas,” he drawled. “Relax. It is a wonderful evening, the end of yet another perfect Season.”

“Once more, you have outdone yourself, Your Grace.”

“You flatter me,” Gideon chuckled. “But it is yet another duty of mine to ensure that the Terrell name is always spoken with the utmost honor and respect.”

“As it will be for generations to come, Your Grace.”

“Of course, of course.” Gideon could not allow anything but. He’d had enough of his family name being dragged through the mud. After all the time and energy he had put into bringing the Terrell name and the dukedom back to a place of honor, he would be damned if a slight mishap at the most anticipated ball of the Season were to ruin everything.

Which is why everything must go perfectly.

“Ah, that reminds me.” He picked up the mask, idly wandering over to the front of his desk where he perched on the edge. Wherever he went, the mask did too. It was an extension of himself, a piece of him that he could not be without. “Mademoiselle Dubois has sent her acceptance to my letter, has she not?”

Thomas nodded. He’d hardly moved from his spot by the door, gripping sheets behind his back. “She has, Your Grace.”

“Marvelous.” Unable to help himself, a devilish smile stretched across Gideon’s face. “Then I take it you have already put our other plan in place.”

Thomas hesitated for such a brief moment that it almost went unnoticed by Gideon—almost. “Upon her arrival, a footman will escort her through the parlor to the ballroom. When the time is right, she will be informed of your request to meet with her, where she will then be taken back to the parlor and led up the back staircase to the balcony.”

“And the balcony doors?”

“—will be locked from the inside so that no one will be able to go through. A footman will stay nearby to ensure that no one makes the attempt.”

Though he was satisfied by how thoroughly Thomas had broken down the plan, Gideon raised a brow at him. “You do not sound pleased, Thomas.”

“It is not for me to be pleased… or not, Your Grace.”

“Oh, enough of that. You have known me since I was a child. You know I value your opinion. Now, out with it. What bothers you?”

Thomas opened his mouth again and Gideon prepared himself to hear his standard response. But instead, he said, “I do not think it is the best idea to meet with the Comtesse, Your Grace. She is the widow of the Count of Palouse. It would do nothing but destroy the reputation you’ve worked so hard to build if the two of you are caught. Worse, if it is revealed that you are the Masked—”

“Which is why we won’t be caught,” Gideon interrupted confidently. “I know I have never personally invited a lady to spend time with me during a ball, but I have corresponded with the Comtesse in the past. And I have planned everything to perfection. You said it yourself, Thomas. She is a widow. We break no laws by seeing each other.”

“What of the Countess of Blair? She will also be attending the ball.”

“Lady Blair and I have respectfully broken off our courtship,” Gideon said dismissively. “And she will not know what—or rather who—I have taken interest in.”

“But perhaps it would be best not to engage in such activities during the ball, Your Grace, when it is so crowded. You have always ensured to never allow your public life as the Duke of Stanhope to clash with your private life…”

Gideon smirked a little at that. He looked down at the mask in his hand, wondering if Thomas was referring to his secret life as the Masked Rogue. It certainly would not do if someone were to find out that he was the one who bore the name. However…

“We won’t be caught, Thomas, don’t worry. I am confident. And Mademoiselle Dubois is smart enough not to speak about the time we share together. It is in both of our best interests.”

Thomas released a low breath. “Very well, Your Grace. I suppose I cannot convince you.”

“And there is no need to.” Gideon grinned. “I have been hiding my endeavors from the ton ever since I inherited the dukedom. They will be none the wiser. I’ve learned over the years that they are oftentimes quite content to see exactly what you put before them and nothing else.”

“Understood, Your Grace.”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Gideon called for the person to enter and a footman slipped in, hardly glancing at Gideon before he bowed deeply. “Please forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. You have a visitor.”

Before Gideon had a chance to process those words, a hand pressed against the door, pushing it further open. Panic and frustration seized Gideon so firmly that he nearly cursed aloud. He tried to hide the mask but the person was already stalking in as if he was lord of the manor, bearing a broad grin.

Gideon finally exhaled when he saw who it was, not bothering to hide the mask any longer. It would have been too late anyhow. Lewis’ eyes fell on it and he raised a brow at Gideon.

“Leave us,” Gideon commanded. Thomas and the footman promptly slipped out of the chamber.

Lord Lewis Rowley, the Earl of Janesbury stopped in the center of the room, his brown eyes darting from the mask to Gideon and back.

“You’ve gotten far too careless with that thing,” he commented at last with a vague gesture, as he swept back his blond hair behind his ear.

Gideon lifted the white mask, studying its diamond-embedded linings for what felt like the millionth time. He knew every groove, every dent, every hole carved into it. The mask was mostly white, save for the black stripes around the eyes, and with it on, Gideon became another person.

The Masked Rogue.

Ironically enough, it was Lewis who had come up with the name. Gideon put the mask aside and faced his friend. “There’s no need for me to hide in my own home,” Gideon commented. “I don’t expect anyone I’m not close to, to make it all the way to my study without my knowledge.”

“Is that so,” Lewis said drily, sounding skeptical. “So says the man who had nothing but panic in his eyes when he saw me walk in. Don’t think I missed your attempts to hide it.”

Gideon didn’t bother to deny it. Lewis knew him too well. This was the only person in the world who understood Gideon’s struggles, who knew why he did the things he did. Only with Lewis could he truly reveal the dark void that had been eating him alive for years. And only Lewis could help him get rid of it.

Their friendship began at a time that neither of them could remember, when their days had been nothing but easy and playful. Lewis was the second son of the fourth Earl of Janesbury, and had spent nearly all his life doing whatever he pleased. Unlike Gideon, he didn’t have to think about inheriting a title or any other pressures that came along with it. But as fate would have it, both his father and his brother died in a carriage accident. Leaving him with an unwanted title.

Rather than acknowledge Lewis’ apt observation, Gideon put the mask aside and asked, “Have you found the name of the last person on the list?”

The mirth that had glowed in Lewis’ eyes disappeared. “Straight to business, is it?”

“I assume that is why you’ve come,” Gideon said. “If it is my company you seek, you would have simply waited until the ball.”

If Lewis had an argument for that, he didn’t voice it. “I will have the name to you on the morrow, old boy.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Gideon stated. He would just leave it at that. He had the utmost faith in Lewis’ ability to find anyone in England. Before he had been faced with the duties of becoming Earl, Lewis had been a private investigator. The very best in London, Gideon believed.

“Since we are already on the topic,” Lewis went on, claiming one of the armchairs near the desk. “Don’t you think you went a little too harsh on the last one? The Duke of Crowley?”

Gideon frowned. “And how, pray tell, was I too harsh? I only did what anyone else would have done in my situation. In fact, I would rather say I showed him some mercy.”

“You could have left him with a few dimes in his pocket,” Lewis pressed. “Now, not only is he suffering disgrace but also poverty at having lost everything. I have even heard that he has had to let go of half his servants.”

“Half his servants? He still has the breath in his lungs!” Gideon suddenly snapped, before calming himself. “Besides, a man who frequents the Serpent’s Den as often as he does knows exactly what is likely to happen if he is not careful.” Gideon picked back up his mask, studying it as those familiar dark emotions threatened to overtake him. He thought of the look of despair on the Duke of Crowley’s face when he realized he’d just lost everything. But Gideon could feel no pity.

All he had to do was think of what the Duke of Crowley had done sixteen years ago. All Gideon had to remember was how his father and brother had suffered at the hands of the duke—and the others—and how they ruined Gideon’s life.

For sixteen years, he had harbored anger and hatred in his heart, thinking of nothing else but revenge.

For sixteen years, the duke, and many others, had continued to live a lavish life without any consequences, uncaring of the lives they’d damaged.

And for sixteen years, Gideon had plotted how he would bring about their downfall.

Now that his plan was almost reaching its completion, he wouldn’t allow anyone to talk him out of it. Not even Lewis.

“The duke got what he deserved,” Gideon stated coldly. “And now that he is out of the way, it is time for me to move on to the last one. Once you find him.”

Lewis frowned at him long enough for Gideon to wonder if he truly intended to protest against this. He of all people should know why Gideon had to do this. He stared at his closest acquaintance, hoping that Lewis would not say what he thought he would say.

“Very well,” Lewis sighed at last. “As I said, I shall have a name for you by tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Suddenly eager to be rid of the tense air between them, Gideon asked, “Do not be late tonight. Or else every lady and her mother will be badgering me for an introduction.”

Lewis chuckled, and the tension dissipated like smoke in the wind. “I doubt they will even remember to ask about me once they lay their eyes on the handsome, eligible Duke of Stanhope.”

“Oh? Do I sense a hint of jealousy?”

“I’m just stating facts, that’s all. Even if they were to find out that you leave nothing but broken hearts in your wake, I’m certain they will still be jumping at any chance to become your wives.”

“Then that is too bad for them. I have no intention of marrying until I have fulfilled what I have set out to do. And besides, I am still young. I only intend to enjoy my youth and virility while I can.”

“You’re thirty years old,” Lewis countered. “I’d say you’re at the perfect age to get married.”

“And what of you? Am I the only one who should be shackled by marriage? Won’t you find your countess so that you may have your heir?”

Gideon’s amusement deepened when a blush stained Lewis’ cheeks. His friend had never been very good at hiding things. For a while now, Gideon had begun to wonder if Lewis was courting someone—and it seemed he might be right on the mark, seeing that Lewis was having a hard time meeting Gideon’s eyes.

“You’re right,” Lewis gave in, leaping out of his chair. Gideon wasn’t surprised to see him desperately trying to make an escape now. “Marriage is nothing we men need to think about so soon. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, yes?”

“Oh, I intend to,” Gideon said, thinking forward to his evening with the Comtesse.

Lewis was already pulling the door open. “Then I shall be seeing you later this evening.”

Gideon grinned at Lewis’ quickly retreating frame, letting out a small chuckle. One day, he would press his friend a little more to tell him about the belle he was hiding. But for now, there were other more important things he had to focus on.

Tonight, it was the ball… and an invigorating night with Mademoiselle Dubois.

Tomorrow, it would be exacting his final plan of revenge. 

 

Chapter Three

Nothing would discourage Amelia tonight. She chanted those words over and over again, reassuring herself as best she could as the carriage pulled into the driveway of Castle Stanhope. But for some reason, when she laid eyes on the towering manor, she lost some of her nerve.

Barbara and Nadine squealed and chatted to each other as if she did not exist, practically thrumming with excitement – while Amelia battled with the fierce determination and the intense uncertainty warring within her. It wasn’t lost on her that her last ditch attempt at finding a husband was being made at the grandest ball of the year.

That too at the end of the Season.

She did not want to come off as desperate to any gentleman she might meet tonight, but she also had no idea how best to express her interest in them—enough to not only come away with a courtship, but a chance at marriage.

The moment they were out of the carriage, Nadine and Barbara linked arms and walked away, leaving Amelia to follow behind. Her arms were stiff by her side, heart pounding loudly in her chest as she followed the other arriving guests and the escorting footmen into the manor. She couldn’t help admiring the other ladies in attendance—and feeling drab and out of place with her out-of-fashion dark green dress.

I shouldn’t let that bother me, she reminded herself, steeling her resolve. This is all for Dorothy.

Her small encouragement served to push aside some of her nervousness, but it came rushing back like a tidal wave the moment they arrived at the entrance of the grand hall.

All too soon, the magnificent double doors swung open. To their credit, Nadine and Barbara maintained their composure as the footman announced them to the sea of guests already filling the massive, glistening ballroom. Amelia hardly heard her own introduction as she stepped inside, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people.

The ballroom they stepped into was the epitome of opulence, an elaborate spectacle designed to take anyone’s breath away. Ornate crystal chandeliers hung like stars from a sky-painted ceiling, casting their shimmering light onto the polished, ebony parquet floor. Stately Corinthian columns, carved from pure Italian marble, lined the room, supporting a delicate balcony, from which clusters of nobles surveyed the scene below.

All of London must be here, she thought in awe.

Even as she did, she dismissed it. She knew very well that the Duke of Stanhope did not invite just anyone to his balls. Which made her all the more excited that she’d gotten to attend. Apparently, her uncle and the late Duke of Stanhope had been business partners, which was enough to secure them as guests at this evening’s ball.

Without a backward glance, Barbara whisked Nadine away to speak with a few of the other ladies. Amelia stared after them, knowing better than to follow. They didn’t want to be near her. Which she supposed was fine because she didn’t want to be near them either.

But it left her alone to navigate this spacious and crowded ballroom all by herself.

Thankfully, the dancing was yet to start. If she could get a few names on her dance card, she might be able to get off on the right foot.

For Dorothy, she reminded herself, dispelling the trepidation that clung to her like sweat. It worked, a little.

For now, she needed something in her hand, to make her seem a little less out-of-place and a little more comfortable. She made a beeline for the refreshments table and then reached for the ladle to pour herself a glass of orgeat lemonade, but another hand got there first.

“Oh, forgive me,” she said quickly. “Go ahead.”

“No, please, allow me to pour one for you first, my lady,” came a deep voice. Amelia’s heart skipped a beat when she realized that a tall gentleman stood next to her. She could hardly dare herself to glance at his face, but he had dark brown hair done Brutus-style and wore dark clothes that fit his strapping physique quite well.

“Thank you,” she murmured shyly. Now was her chance, she thought. But what should she say next? Amelia had very little experience with gentlemen and hadn’t the faintest clue on how to entertain a conversation with one.

“Shall I take a guess at who you are, my lady?” the gentleman asked, to her utter relief.

“Rather bold of you to assume that you know everyone in attendance, my lord,” she responded.

He chuckled. “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I am the duke himself. Then it would make sense for me to know who is here, wouldn’t it?”

“Are you the duke?” she asked curiously. Amelia had never seen the Duke of Stanhope, nor had many members of the ton. Apparently, he was a nigh-on impossible man to get a hold of, making the balls he hosted all the more grander affairs. 

The gentleman only sipped his lemonade before saying, “We shall find out soon enough, won’t we?”

There was something about the way he said those words that made her think she was not speaking to the Duke of Stanhope. And why any gentleman would pretend to be the duke was beyond her. Still, she had no intention of pointing out the oddity.

For now, for the sake of her plan, she would play along. “Then, Your Grace, how are you enjoying the ball so far?”

“It has only just begun. There are more people to see, dances to be danced. But I do believe it will be quite the spectacle.”

“I must agree. I, myself, am hoping to share my first dance with a handsome and kind gentleman.”

“Ah, is that so?”

Amelia flushed. She’d been a little bold just now but there was a sudden boredom to his tone that made her feel embarrassed. A small silence settled over them and she racked her brain for some way to be rid of it.

“So, Your Grace, are you here with your fam—”

“Forgive me, my lady, but you must excuse me,” the gentleman cut in, suddenly distracted. “It was lovely to meet you.”

Without waiting for a response, he walked away. Amelia watched as he approached a blond-haired lady, who gave him a broad smile and a deep curtsy. Mortified at how quickly she had been dismissed, Amelia put aside her untouched lemonade and walked away. For the first time since the night began, she was happy that hardly anyone paid any heed to her. As if they did, being ignored like this with such little afterthought would’ve only been all the more humiliating.

Amelia sighed, finding a corner she could linger in. She skimmed her gaze through the guests but no one seemed as out of place as she did. As a matter of fact, everyone seemed to know someone, bodies drifting back and forth as they greeted their peers. Amelia shifted awkwardly, not knowing what to do with herself. Now and again, she thought a gentleman was approaching her but was met with bitter disappointment when he headed elsewhere. It was as if she was not even present.

She didn’t know how much time had passed, though she supposed it was probably an hour or so. She had a long night ahead of her and it was already off to a bad start. Perhaps if she cleared her head, it would help a little.

Grazing past the sides of the ballroom, she searched for a door that would take her away from this place and offer her that needed speck of respite. A few moments alone to get herself together before throwing herself back into the fray.

With that as her new temporary goal, she continued her stroll, letting her mind wander. Even though she usually preferred going for walks outdoors, it calmed her a bit now. Without even realizing it, she drifted out of the ballroom through an adjoining door, landing her in a parlor that was already filling up with gentlemen. As the men began to claim seats for their card game, she hastily retreated.

Exiting through a separate door, she found herself in an empty hallway. She headed down it, taking slow, deep breaths to calm her nerves and steel her resolve. When she returned to the ballroom, she would try to be a little more outgoing, she promised herself. She couldn’t let another ball pass with her remaining unnoticed the entire time.

If she found her way back, she thought, when she realized that she might be a little lost. Still determined, she kept pushing forward, and soon enough, she found a set of double doors that she hoped would lead her to the gardens. When she stepped through, however, she found herself on an outdoor balcony instead.

This will do, she thought, closing the door behind her. The muffled sounds of the ballroom could be forgotten now that she was alone.

The balcony was quite vast, she noticed, though she supposed it wasn’t all too surprising if any other chamber of this castle was anything to go by. An ornately carved balustrade stood before her and another set of doors stood to her left.

Amelia made her way over to the balcony’s railing and leaned against it, letting out a sigh. She would have leaned further over it for better reprieve and the nice view below, but she didn’t want to risk the breeze ruining her hair.

“Welcome to Castle Stanhope, my lady.”

Amelia gasped, whirling at the voice. Directly behind her stood a gentleman in all black except for his gold-buttoned tailcoat, with the shadows from the moon cloaking his features. He seemed to have come through the door to the left and as he approached, swaths of moonlight illuminated his black, curly hair. It was the first thing Amelia noticed about him—other than his height.

The gentleman wore an easy smile as he came closer still. Each step sent Amelia’s heart skittering through her chest, her words failing on her tongue. Deep hazel eyes stared through to her soul, which sat atop a high, pointed nose. He had a faint stubble stretching across his jaws. Even though most of his features were shadowed by the moonlight still, Amelia had no doubt that this gentleman was unbelievably handsome.

And they were alone. On a balcony. Her father must be rolling in his grave.

“Thank you,” she murmured, finally finding her words.

His lips twitched into a wider smile. He stopped just a few feet away from her. “I take it, it was not too much trouble finding this spot?”

“No more trouble than it would be for anyone else,” Amelia answered, a little confused. “…Unless you are lost?”

That made him chuckle, the deep sound reverberating against her body. “I think I am quite fine, but I appreciate your misplaced concern.”

He came closer still, until he was directly beside her. His scent was one of sandalwood with a hint of citrus, so intoxicating that Amelia was hit with a foolish urge—to lean into him.

“How was your trip, my lady?” the gentleman asked.

Amelia thought on the question for a moment. Perhaps he thought she was one of the guests who had come from outside of London to attend this evening’s ball. “It was not very difficult. I am not very far from here, you see.”

“Ah, then that will make it quite easy for us, don’t you think? Forgive me, my lady. I had not stopped to ask where you were residing before you came to London.” He took her hand. Amelia nearly jumped out of her skin. How bold! “But we have many days ahead of us, so there is so much more to be shared between us.”

“You are kind, my lord,” she answered stiffly, uncertain of what to do in this situation. As gently as she could, she pulled her hand from him and was alarmed by how cold she suddenly felt. Afraid that she might have just chased away the one gentleman willing to talk to her tonight, she quickly asked, “Are you enjoying the ball, my lord?”

He said nothing at first and Amelia gripped the railing tightly, afraid to look at him. Afraid to see that she had once again bored someone else.

But then he chuckled. “It wouldn’t do if I wasn’t, now would it?”

Her confusion deepened at that, but it was slightly overshadowed by her relief that he was still talking to her.

“And you, mademoiselle? Are you enjoying yourself?”

Mademoiselle? Did he think her French? Was he French?

Before she could ask the question, he put his hand atop hers once more. Amelia looked sharply at him but felt her resolve melt away under his gentle gaze. Her throat suddenly felt dry, all her lessons in modesty vanishing. “I…I am,” she managed and he smiled.

“That’s good. Then I consider this evening a job well done.”

Amelia could not fathom what he was talking about. She didn’t even care. All she could focus on was the hand on top of hers, the thumb stroking her knuckles.

“I must say, my lady,” he went on, “that your dialect is quite outstanding. One would believe that you were English.”

“That is because I am?” Amelia managed, confused. She knew she should pull away from him. She should not even be alone with him right now. But his touch was making all her sensible thoughts flee her mind.

Again, he chuckled. And again, it made her toes curl, heat tinging her cheeks. “Yes, let us go with that then. Tonight, we can be anyone we wish to be, can’t we?”

“…You may be right about that.”

“What is the matter, my lady?” Suddenly, he gripped her hand, pulling her around to face him fully. They were too close, her bosom almost brushing his chest. “Are you nervous?”

“Would it be bad?” Amelia breathed. She gave her words no prior thought. They simply flew from her tongue, acting on impulse since every fiber of her being was currently on fire.

A devilish grin stretched across his face. “It intrigues me, my lady. You were quite bold in your correspondences and yet you flush when I touch you like this.”

He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. All the warning bells in her mind went silent. Nothing but pure need took its place, her legs suddenly weak now that she was being held.

“Your fragrance is glorious,” he murmured, dipping his head closer to her.

“…And yours…is one of sin,” she murmured without thought, closing her eyes as she felt his breath on her neck.

“You make me want to sin,” he confessed in a low tone. One arm remained wrapped around her while his other hand kept control of her free wrist, his thumb making slow circles on her pulse. His lips brushed the side of her neck as if he was continuing to savor her scent and Amelia, to her complete surprise, tilted her head away to give him better access.

She was utterly mad. This was completely insane!

But she could not stop herself. This man was intoxicating, instilling within her something she’d never felt before.

The hand on the small of her back began to drift downward, brushing her rump. Amelia knew she should push him away, but she leaned in instead, thinking herself to be utterly insane. No matter how handsome this man was, it made no sense for a stranger to have this effect on her. Yet, when he gently grasped her rear and allowed his other hand to teasingly brush past her breasts over her gown, Amelia lost her mind.

She was panting, her body on fire. Her knees buckled a little and he chuckled as he caught her, twisting to press her firmly against the balustrade. He didn’t kiss her outright, simply skimming his fingers over her collarbone in light motions that threatened to drive her insane. Amelia didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she gripped the railing behind her again, trying to remember what the best thing was to do in this moment.

Ah, yes, she had to stop this.

But then his lips brushed her jaw and Amelia instinctively turned towards him, realizing she had not yet even taken a good look at this stranger. “Who are you? Let me see you,” she murmured against his forehead. She hadn’t a clue where these bold words came from but her mind was far too muddled to think twice about them.

He smiled. Without a word, he took a step back. “As you so desire, my lady. I have another face if that fancies you more,” he purred.

Amelia was too taken by his handsomeness to even formulate a response. It was just as she’d suspected—the shadows had done very little to hide how striking he was. His sharp features, hazel eyes, pointed chin. But she was wholly unprepared for just how devilishly good-looking he would truly be.

She was so absorbed by her study of him that she didn’t realize he had pulled out a mask—possibly hidden away within his coat—until he held it up to her.

Shock sliced through the heady passion that had been consuming her senses. She would recognize that mask anywhere and it sent a sliver of panic coursing through her.

The…“Masked Rogue?” she muttered.

“At your service.” He swept an exaggerated bow.

Amelia hardly had any time to process what she was seeing, hardly got a chance to come to terms with just who she had allowed to embrace her.

Too many emotions swirled through her at once. Her horror grappled to overthrow her lingering need, her anger and frustration making her head grow hot. She gaped at him, finding herself utterly speechless. But what could she say? How dare you seduce me when you killed my father and ruined my life?

The door to the balcony began to open, Amelia realized. People had started arriving. And the Masked Rogue didn’t notice that as of yet.

Her mind whirred as an insane plan occurred to her. All her problems—all of Dorothy’s problems—were because of the man before her. She recalled her earlier thoughts, on how if she managed to find this man, she would spend her entire life bringing him to ruin. 

Amelia had no hope tonight. If she was found here, any chance she had at finding a husband would be reduced to zero, while the Masked Rogue walked off free and unscathed yet again. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She couldn’t allow him to steal her last chance at saving Dorothy. She couldn’t allow him to get away unscathed. And what better way to gain control over him, bring him to ruin, than becoming…

Her dull mind snapped back into action and the moment the door opened, the moment the first few lords and ladies stepped through, Amelia wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

He didn’t know what was happening at first. He gave in to the kiss, pressing her against the balustrade, moaning softly into her mouth. For a brief moment, Amelia forgot how insanely she’d just acted and thought only of how perfect his lips felt against hers. It was her first kiss and it was utterly, sickeningly amazing.

But then, she heard the first gasp. Then the gentleman stiffened, realizing what was happening. They had an audience.

He pulled away, staring at her in disbelief. Amelia met his eyes, not bothering to hide the fact that she’d done it on purpose. She’d wanted the guests to see them kissing, had known the damage it would do to her reputation.

But she was a desperate lady, and in that desperation, she’d taken her best chance at securing a marriage. 

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 15th of December!

Chapter One

1818

London

The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and the stench of death. The earth beneath his boots was stained with the blood of both his comrades and enemies. All around him, he could hear the screams and the groans of the wounded and the dying.

Death never discriminated on the battlefield. It came for everyone and everything in its path.

“Monsieur…s’il vous plait…please!” The string of words came out in a sob, a desperate plea in a heavy French accent.

Isaac closed his eyes. He could feel his fingers wrap around the cold metal of his pistol, could feel the resistance as he pushed it into the graying temple of the man before him.

“I am… a doctor!” the man pleaded. “A doctor!”

“A… doctor?”

Even in the thick haze of bloodlust and the fight for survival, Isaac knew he could never take the life of a man sworn to save others. The bastard might be French, but he was not his enemy—at least not on this battlefield.

Gingerly, he lowered his gun to the ground…only for his finger to catch on the trigger as he did so. A loud bang erupted as his eyes flew open in sheer terror. He saw the flurry of emerald green silk flying in the air, saw the bright red blood blooming on the delicate fabric like a flower amidst a verdant carpet. Eyes—vivid and green—stared at him in shock. Horror.

The French doctor was gone and in his place was none other than the one person who brought him a semblance of peace.

And he had killed her.

“No!” The word came out in a harsh breath…and then a scream.

And still, all around him, the battle raged on, the cannons roaring in his ears…

 

Isaac blinked as the roar of cannons and the stench of gunpowder faded from his consciousness. His vision adjusted itself to the harsh morning sunlight filtering through threadbare curtains and not the thick haze that normally shrouded the battlefield on the Iberian Peninsula. The screams dissipated, replaced by the lively bustle of the street just beneath his window.

He was not in the Peninsula anymore. He was in London.

And along with that realization, the remnants of last night’s revelries began to manifest themselves in the form of a pounding headache that threatened to burst out of his skull with the same intensity as a bullet.

Nothing I am not used to, anyway.

With a groan, he heaved himself up from the worn mattress that he called a bed, cursing as the world around him tilted and swayed precariously before it righted itself once more. He stumbled towards a plain wooden table, oddly grateful for the cramped space that allowed for things to be conveniently within his reach. He poured himself a glass of tepid water and drank eagerly. His throat was always so parched after a whole night of indulging in liquor.

He moved to pour himself another glass when a loud banging on his door began to set the tempo for his damned headache, causing him to wince.

Who the hell could that be?

“Langley, open up or I swear I am going to beat this bloody door down!” a familiar voice called out from the other side of the door, clearly incensed.

 I cannot deal with this right now, he thought to himself, his lips pressed into a grim line as he poured himself another glass. Perhaps if I ignore him, he will go away.

He had scarcely taken his first gulp when the door burst open to reveal his longtime friend, Daniel Bennet, the Earl of Lancashire. Unlike Isaac, who was still in last night’s pantaloons and a wrinkled linen shirt he had just snatched off from the back of a chair, his friend looked every bit the polished nobleman in his immaculately starched muslin shirt, impeccably tied cravat, complete with a waistcoat and midnight jacket. His brown eyes surveyed the cramped quarters around him with obvious disapproval before they settled on Isaac himself.

“Good God, Isaac! You look like something my sister’s cat dragged in!” he sputtered.

“Well, you were the one who barged in without warning,” Isaac retorted with a careless shrug of his broad shoulders. He drank the rest of his water. “How did you get through the door, anyway?”

Daniel grinned and held up a key. “You always keep a spare under the rug, old chap. Much easier to recall when one is not thoroughly indisposed, I believe?”

“Quite,” Isaac replied tersely. He was not in the mood to jovially chat with his friend when he had a raging headache threatening to break out of his skull.

“So…” he glanced around him and noted the glaring lack of decent furniture. Aside from the rickety wooden table and a bed that looked like it had seen much better days a decade ago.

Isaac grinned and raised his glass in the direction of his friend. “I would offer you a seat, but as you can see, I do not have any to spare.”

Daniel sniffed in disgust. “I would not take it, even if you had been so disposed to be hospitable.”

“Suit yourself,” Isaac shrugged his broad shoulders. “What brings you here to this side of town? I do not reckon that the esteemed Earl of Lancashire would have any business around these parts.”

“I was just in town and decided to see how my old friend was doing,” Daniel shrugged. He ran his hand through his thick, wavy hair and looked pointedly at him. “Tell me—how long do you intend on carrying on in this manner?”

“In what manner?”

“Like you are merely dragging your sorry behind day after day.”

Isaac barely held in the wince at his friend’s astute observation.

For as long as it takes to get the roar of cannons and the stench of death out of my miserable consciousness, he wanted to say.

“Why?” he said instead with a sardonic grin, arms spread wide. “Am I not living the life that every bachelor in London aspires to? Drinking, gambling—one would say that these are the standard in the repertoire of gentlemanly vices.”

“Not,” Daniel replied, “in the manner you are going about it. You need to get out more.”

“I do get out—a lot, in fact,” Isaac pointed out to him. “At night, when the gambling hall a few doors down begins to draw in its patrons.”

The gambling hall he visited was not something his friend would likely frequent, even if he were in dire need of a diversion. The crowd was nothing like what Daniel and their other friends were accustomed to, but that suited Isaac well enough.

“And you are not content with fleecing every poor working man of his hard-earned salary?” Daniel pressed his lips into a grim line. “Or have you been charitably contributing to their vices out of your own pocket?”

Those working men Daniel referred to might not be dressed as finely as the patrons at White’s, nor did they bet exorbitantly large sums of money, but at least they did not look at Isaac the way the gentlemen of the ton did.

“I find that I vastly prefer the company of this crowd, my friend,” he replied simply.

“Be that as it may, you need to pull yourself together,” Daniel quietly admonished him. “You have estates to manage. People are depending on you for their livelihood.”

The Earl of Lancashire had always taken his responsibilities much more seriously than all their other friends. Isaac often wondered if his friend would marry merely for the sake of duty as well.

A few years back, he thought that was how he himself was going to do it as well. Marry a suitable enough girl that he could tolerate for the rest of his life and carry on his family’s bloodline.

And then, he had met her—Lady Vivian Pierce. The one woman who he thought would finally bring peace to the chaos in his soul. Her gentleness and soft voice had felt like a soothing balm to a pain that raged within him day after day.

But even kind, compassionate Vivian gave up on him. Everyone eventually did. He was actually surprised that Daniel was still trying.

“The Season is upon us.”

Isaac snorted. “Fancy that… I thought that the sheer number of dandies cropping up all over London was a mere coincidence.”

“I also saw Lady Pierce arrive at their townhouse in Mayfair yesterday—with her two unmarried daughters in tow,” Daniel pointed out with an irreverent grin.

He sucked in a harsh breath. Unmarried—Vivian was yet to marry another.

He saw his friend smile subtly in triumph. “Tell you what, Langley—why don’t you get yourself cleaned up in time for the Townsend ball tomorrow night. You know how Lady Townsend likes to open the Season with one of those ridiculous balls of hers.”

Ridiculous, indeed, but the Townsend ball was something that nobody in the ton ever dared to miss. Every unmarried young miss and her ambitious mama would be in attendance—as would every young buck looking for a wife.

Vivian and her mother would most certainly be there.

“I shall give it some thought,” Isaac mumbled.

“Give it a lot of thought,” Daniel said cheerfully. “And do it in your townhouse—not in this hellhole. I reckon your valet would be pleased to see you emerge into civilization once more.”

He reckoned that his valet would have a lot to say the moment he stepped into his townhouse, but they would not be words of elation. If his valet could see him now, the poor man would be crying in despair.

But Daniel was right—if he wished to attend the Townsend ball, he would have to make himself more presentable. Besides, the invitation for the said ball would be sent to his townhouse, not in this nondescript loft where none of Society would dare tread.

“Very well,” the Earl grinned, putting his hat back on. “I shall see you tomorrow night. Miles will also be there—his mama has been persuading him to find a wife this Season, the poor man.”

“Rather unfortunate, indeed,” Isaac muttered. “Has the Dowager Countess of Westmore set her eye upon a candidate?”

“You can be sure she has her heart on several young misses already. Right now, Miles should be at his wits’ end thinking up schemes to evade them.” Daniel laughed as he stepped out the door and winked at him. “We have to be there to show our support. Naturally.”

“Naturally,” he echoed on a hoarse croak, his throat still abominably parched. “And what about you? Should you not be in search of a wife yourself?”

Daniel merely chuckled. “Get some rest and get yourself cleaned up, Langley, or Lady Townsend will never allow you to sully her ballroom.”

It was only after his friend had closed the door behind him that Isaac realized that he had just been cleverly yoked into attending the Townsend ball—one he had not initially harbored any intention of attending, even if it meant disappointing the formidable Countess who insisted on holding them year after year.

But if I attend the ball, then I would get to see Vivian again, he thought. Perhaps, I could even talk to her…

He was not a fool—he knew it would take more than a few, well-placed sweet words to win her heart again, after all that he had put her through last Season.

He let out a hoarse laugh and shook his head. He had to show some appreciation for his friend—Daniel truly was a wily fox.

Very well. It seems that I will be attending the Townsend ball, after all.

Chapter Two

“The first ball of the Season! Oh, are you not excited, Olivia?”

Olivia paused, her fork hovering midair in between her plate and her mouth at her cousin’s query. It was an innocent enough question—after all, she and Fiona had gone to London for the past two Seasons together, and really, Fiona had no reason to believe that this year would be any different. She smiled and set her fork down, quietly avoiding the pointed look her aunt shot in her direction.

“Well, I suppose I am looking forward to it,” she demurred, trying her best to not look like she was aimlessly pushing her peas around her plate. “It is the first ball of the Season,” she simply repeated languidly.

Her Aunt Joana nodded. “Quite right and you know how Lady Townsend is—she will certainly take offense if one does not attend her balls. Which brings me to the question,” she huffed. “Where is the Earl? He should have been here half an hour ago!”

“I am here, Aunt Joana,” a carefree voice called out from the doorway. “Please, do feel free to take me to task in my own residence.”

Lady Joana Bennet narrowed her eyes at the sight of her nephew casually striding to his seat at the head of the table. “My Lord, if you had been any other weak-spined dandy with his shirt points holding up his chin, I would argue that a severe dressing down might be just what you needed. Unfortunately,” she gave out a long-suffering sigh, “I believe we are way past that.”

“Indeed,” Olivia chortled as another pea slid away from her fork. Her brother shot her a look and she ducked her head, choosing to focus on cutting a piece of roast beef instead.

“But, really, Daniel, you will have to exert a little more effort. The Season is already upon us, and we have two young ladies to marry off. Two!”

Olivia sneaked a glance at her brother, who looked thoroughly unperturbed by the concerns of their aunt. Daniel merely proceeded to eat his dinner calmly, pausing once in a while to put on a thoughtful face as he chewed.

“There are frocks to be made, matching gloves and hats…” their aunt prattled on. “Why, as the Earl and the brother of an unmarried lady, you have to show a little more support for dear Olivia with your presence. You know how all sorts of rumors will get out if you do but the bare minimum!”

“Quite,” Fiona nodded like a chicken pecking on grains. “Not to mention that this Season, there are two unmarried Dukes. Two!”

She looked and sounded so much like her mother did, that Olivia had to duck her head once more to hide her giggles.

“Why should we fret about two unmarried Dukes when we have an unmarried Earl ourselves?” Olivia demurred instead with a teasing grin in the direction of her brother, who turned a little pale at the insinuation.

“I shall consider your concern, Olivia, but you had best start looking for a suitable match yourself,” Daniel shot back at her. “And I believe the number is incorrect—there are three Dukes in search of a wife.”

“Oh.”

“Well, aside from the three Dukes, Lady Kaitlyn Willow has also just announced that she will be holding a dance competition at the end of the Season!” Fiona clapped her hands in excitement. “I heard that she only holds it once every three years and that all the winners eventually find their match before the Season ends!” She turned to her cousin. “Livvy, you simply must attend!”

“Lady Willow’s dance competition?” Olivia breathed. “Has it already been three years?”

“Yes!” her cousin grinned. “And you know how Miss Mary Wilton would not stop crowing about how her sister managed to win the heart of Lord Willoughby when she won the competition three Seasons ago!”

“Lord Willoughby!” Daniel scoffed, finally setting down his silverware. “I shall not accompany you ladies to this ball, merely so you can blather on about the likes of one such as Willoughby!”

“But Lord Willoughby is exceedingly handsome…”

“And,” Aunt Joana added with an approving smile, “he is possessed of one of the finest estates in all of England. Really, Daniel. The girls would do very well to marry someone like Lord Willoughby.”

“He is also a notorious gambler who is going through his family fortune at an unprecedented rate,” Daniel revealed. He looked up to find three faces looking at him in shock. “Mark my words—in a few years, you shall not find any cause to envy Miss Mary Wilton’s sister at all.”

Aunt Joana visibly paled at that revelation. There was nothing worse than a gambler, except perhaps a gambler who kept losing money. No mama in her right mind would consider such a man as a suitable match for her daughter—even if he had two of the finest estates in all of England.

“Well,” she finally managed to choke out. “A gentleman is privy to things us ladies most often are not. It is a good thing then that we have Daniel looking out for your best interests.”

At Olivia’s side, Fiona dipped her head and whispered, “Well, I do say that he is exceedingly handsome, but who would have thought that he would have such a side to him?”

“Everyone has their secrets,” Olivia murmured. She sawed at a piece of beef with her knife and hoped no one noticed the slight tremor in her movements.

“Everyone?” her cousin wondered. “Including you?”

Olivia smiled wanly at her. “I never did tell you that I found Sir Connelly a dreadful bore, did I?”

“But everyone thought he had such dazzling wit!”

“Not I.” She shook her head and whispered to her cousin. “I thought that he had the most unfortunate tendency to talk about himself for hours on end.”

Fiona nearly choked on her laughter, drawing the attention of both Daniel and her mother, who managed to admonish her with a simple glance. She sent a scathing glance at Olivia, who appeared to be oblivious to her predicament and blithely carried on with her dinner.

“Ah… we were just talking about Lady Willow’s dance competition, that is all,” Fiona explained. “I thought it would be nice if Olivia and I could participate in it.”

Olivia stilled at her cousin’s words. A sweet memory surfaced in her mind—that of a gentle voice telling her about that one, glittering night when her mother won that same competition in her youth and her father’s heart on that same night.

“Mama,” she had asked as a young girl. That night, her mother had yet to become severely ill and she had crawled onto her lap, eager to hold off her bedtime for another hour or two. “What was it like for you when you met Papa?”

Her beautiful Mama had smiled at her so gently as she pushed the wayward golden locks from her round face.

“Oh, darling,” she had told Olivia. “It was simply the most beautiful night of my life. I had just won a dance competition when your Papa walked into the ballroom, looking as handsome as he always does.” She smiled wistfully at her daughter and pressed a kiss to her small nose.

“When we danced,” she told her daughter, “I knew then that I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with him…”

But Olivia did not care much for romance—only the promise of making that one, beautiful memory that she could happily hold on to for the rest of her life.

“What dance competition?” she heard her brother snort dismissively, snapping her out of her reverie. “Young ladies such as yourselves need not bother with such a vulgar bid for attention. There will be opportunities enough to find a suitable match for the both of you. Besides, the competition will be held towards the end of the Season, and most gentlemen will have found their matches by then.”

“Oh.” Fiona looked a little glum. “But then again, as you said, there will be balls and soirees aplenty.”

Olivia reached out to squeeze her cousin’s hand in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. “Perhaps by that time, you will have found your match as well.”

“That is correct. So, it would be best to focus your efforts on those instead.”

“The Earl is right,” Aunt Joanna interceded with a stern smile. “You may still join the competition if that is your wish, but there are many other events to consider—ones that may even be more important. And not everyone will be joining the competition, anyway. It should be the least of your concerns.”

“Did you not join it yourself, Mama?” Fiona murmured.

Olivia thought she saw a hint of pink creep up her aunt’s cheeks.

“Well, I did once, but it was not so memorable for me as everybody claimed it would be…” Lady Bennet stammered.

Fiona gave her mother a sympathetic look. “Perhaps because you did not dance as well as you thought you should?”

Olivia nearly choked on her potatoes at her cousin’s blunt but innocent remark. Color flared up Aunt Joana’s cheeks and she feared her aunt would throttle her cousin from over the dining table.

“That is enough from you, Fiona!” she reprimanded her daughter. “I swear, if you do not learn to curb that tongue of yours, we will end up with more trouble than we bargained for this Season!”

“I apologize, Mama,” Fiona muttered in misery. “I shall do my best to speak as nicely as I can.”

“I am sure you will do well, Fi,” Olivia told her gently, reaching out to give her cousin’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I have met a great deal who have sharper tongues, and they all found their matches.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, dearest. Truly.”

As her aunt and brother resumed discussion of the events lined up for that week, Olivia took a sip of water when she started to feel a dull, throbbing ache in her temples.

Oh no…not right now…

It was not the first time it had occurred in the past few weeks either. One time, she had been in so much pain that she feared she would throw up and disgrace herself over afternoon tea with Lady Trowbridge and her daughter, Lady Eleanor Covington.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled, pushing her plate away. “I would like to retire early tonight.”

Fiona looked at her in concern and she saw Daniel’s brow furrow.

“Are you alright?” her brother asked her. “Should I call for a physician?”

Olivia shook her head. “No, no—that is not necessary. I am just tired from all the day’s excitement.”

Aunt Joana nodded. “We had been rather busy today going about Regent Street. It would be best for you to get some rest.”

Olivia tried to ignore her brother’s pointed gaze as she mustered as cheerful a smile as she possibly could, before heading straight to her bedchamber. Once inside, she locked the door behind her and flung herself onto the bed, reeling from the pain and the feeling that she might be violently ill.

A memory from when she was a child resurfaced in her mind—one of her beautiful Mama quietly excusing herself from their dinner as she just did. Later, when she walked by her mother’s rooms, she had seen her Mama being violently ill, heaving over a chamberpot being held by her maid.

She had thought that it was nothing—a mere illness that would pass in the next few days.

However, her Mama had only gotten worse, until she barely even left her bed. She began to sleep on most days. On the days when she did wake up, the laudanum kept her mostly in a daze so that Olivia could not even talk to her.

Their father summoned the best physicians their money could buy but to no avail. By winter, her Mama was dead.

She knew the symptoms, had feared as much when the first headaches came. She did not need a physician to tell her the awful truth—that she was ill in very much the same way her Mama was and there was no cure on this earth for it.

Olivia smiled bitterly to herself. How cruel it was for one to die so young! But at least she would not leave many who would mourn her death greatly.

She only wished that she might be able to accomplish something grand, something so inexplicably wonderful before she left this world. Her Mama had lived long enough to participate in the ton’s grandest dance competition and meet the love of her life. She had given birth to two children for him before she passed away.

Olivia felt that she would not have as much time as her mother did. But perhaps, it would be enough to join Lady Willow’s dance competition…to grab that one brief moment and hold on to it even in the hopelessness of her condition.

Clutching at her head, she curled into her bed, her fingers digging into her scalp. She would have asked for some laudanum, but she had seen what it had done to her mother, and she did not want to be subjected to its effects.

Perhaps I should call for some rosemary tea… but that would be the second time this day.

The first had been just before she set out with her aunt and cousin for Regent Street to buy the things they needed for the Season. If she called her maid for another cup, they would become suspicious, and she did not want to alert them to her condition.

Not yet, at least.

Chapter Three

“Oh, my word! I thought Sir Percival Lawrence was the handsomest man that I had ever met, but that was until I saw Lord Huntington!”

Olivia smiled as her cousin gushed over the last gentleman she had danced with. “In your estimation, every gentleman is the handsomest man you have ever laid your eyes on,” she teased her. “I fear that you might have to make up your mind eventually before they fight for your favor.”

“Oh, you do not think they would be so silly, Livvy?” Fiona’s eyes were wide with shock. Realizing that her cousin was merely jesting, she swatted at her lightly with her fan. “Surely they would not be so ill-tempered about it.”

Olivia giggled and fluttered her fan over her face. “Well, if they were to be as ardent in their affections as they proclaim, then they certainly would find it a great blow if the lady they are courting did not find them as handsome as the next man.”

“So, you think I should keep my opinions to myself?”

“That would be the best course of action, I believe.”

Fiona sighed. “I suppose you are right. But I would rather that the gentleman I marry not be so quick to anger for the slightest offense.”

“Do not worry, dear cousin.” Olivia patted her hand affectionately. “It is just the beginning of the Season. I am sure that you will find a most suitable match for yourself—one that Aunt Joana and Daniel would approve of, I am sure.”

“Mama thinks that I should marry a Viscount at the very least,” she murmured. “Why, two days ago, she introduced me to Lord Farley…”

Olivia frowned at that. “Lord Farley is rather advanced in his years…”

“That is a rather kind way of putting it,” Fiona groaned in sheer misery. “He is nearly thrice my age and he slept midway through afternoon tea. I was even quite afraid that he had,” she dropped her voice, “passed away over his cup, but then he let out a rather loud snore that rattled the teacups on the table!”

At that point, Olivia could barely keep her giggles in check. Poor Fiona had the greatest misfortune of having a rather strong-willed and ambitious mama on her side—one who was determined to see her married exceedingly well, even if the groom was old enough to be her grandfather.

“You might find it funny,” Fiona muttered, wrinkling her nose. “But it was so loud that he even woke himself up!”

“Fortunately, I may have heard Aunt Joana declare yesterday that he was ill-suited for you,” she consoled her cousin. “And you did say that there are two Dukes looking for a bride this Season. One of them should please Aunt Joana well.”

“At this point, I am really quite afraid that they might all be like Lord Farley!”

“Well, what if they are more like Lord Huntington?” she teased. “Would that change your mind?”

“Oh, Livvy! If a Duke as divine as Lord Huntington were to express particular interest in me, that would be the best outcome for this Season!”

“Fret not. We shall find him—one way or another.”

The two shared a conspiratorial look and smiled at each other. As the two young ladies milled about the ballroom, the butler continued to announce the arrival of the guests.

“The Viscount and Viscountess of Wilmington!”

“Sir Andrew Belmont!”

“The Earl of Westmore!”

“The Earl of Lancashire!”

“Oh,” Olivia quipped, waving her fan casually. “It seems that Daniel has just arrived.”

“And it seems he is a little tardy. Mama will not be pleased.”

“His Grace, the Duke of Langley!”

“Did I hear that right?” Fiona whispered. “A Duke has arrived? At this ball?”

A slight hush descended over the crush in the ballroom. Olivia looked up to the top of the stairs to where a tall man with broad shoulders and wavy dark hair had begun to descend right behind her brother. His piercing gray eyes surveyed the ballroom briefly, as if they could see through every single guest in attendance. For a moment, they settled on her and Olivia felt mildly discomfited by the intensity of his stare, but then he turned away and she nearly breathed a sigh of relief.

“Is he the same Duke of Langley that Daniel talks about?” Fiona breathed. “His friend, the Duke of Langley?”

“The one and the same,” Olivia murmured, still rather unsettled from the moment their eyes met.

“He is breathtaking!” Fiona gushed. “Why did you not say that he was this handsome? How could you have failed to tell me this?”

Olivia frowned at her cousin. “Yes, he might be pleasing to the eye, but Fiona—you would not want to be with him. He came back from the Peninsula two years ago and he was never quite the same.”

“So, he is a brave soldier as well!”

“He is also a gambler and a rakehell—even Daniel said so himself!”

Fiona, however, was not to be deterred. “Rakes make the best husbands, Livvy,” she reminded her cousin.

“And he courted a young lady last Season, but that did not go over very well either! One can only wonder why,” Olivia insisted. “Rumor has it that he still has not gotten over her. In fact, everyone is of the opinion that he intends to win her hand this Season!”

“Olivia,” Fiona told her gently. “I am just going to dance with him. I am not going to marry him. Yet,” she added with a mischievous grin.

Olivia felt another headache coming on from hearing what her cousin had in mind.

Perhaps I should have taken another cup of rosemary tea before we left, she thought to herself.

“Alright, I shall introduce you both,” she conceded glumly.

“Thank you so much!” Fiona hugged her, but Olivia was not too sure if she was actually doing her beloved cousin a favor or leading her to the edge of a dreadful precipice.

She craned her neck and saw the Duke with her brother and another of their friends, Miles Westerly, the Earl of Westmore.

“Come with me,” she said softly, tugging on Fiona’s hand. She caught Miles’ eye and subtly nodded at him as she and Fiona made their way towards them. Fortunately, he seemed to understand what she meant because he started to steer Daniel away from Isaac and she heaved a sigh of relief. Things would have been much more difficult if her brother had been around.

“Your Grace,” she greeted him, hating the way her voice sounded a little breathless. “It has been quite a while since I saw you last.”

She peered up at him and found that Isaac seemed taken aback by her approach. She was surprised to find herself rather relieved when she saw that his eyes were clear. He even looked like he recognized her tonight, which was a far cry from the last time she had seen him a few months back.

“Indeed,” he smiled at them. “I have not visited Lancashire Park in ages. I reckoned your brother would not be so pleased to have me in his residence after I ruined his painting of a bowl of fruit.”

Olivia managed a smile. “You know how Daniel is.”

“Unfortunately.”

He smiled easily at her and much to her surprise, he appeared to be nothing like the man she had heard rumors about. For a brief moment, he seemed just as he always was—the same charming young man who used to come over to their townhouse with her brother.

“I would like to introduce my cousin, Fiona.” Olivia continued to smile pleasantly as she pulled Fiona gently before Isaac. “You may remember her when she visited Lancashire Park a few summers back.”

“Good evening, Miss Fiona,” the Duke inclined his head towards her, that charming smile never leaving his lips. “How are you finding the Season thus far?”

“Overwhelming, Your Grace,” Fiona replied demurely, blushing a pretty shade of pink. “And this is just the first ball.”

“You will get used to it in time,” he said with a rather roguish grin. “I felt very much the same way when I first returned to London.”

Olivia thought she saw a haunted look flicker in his dark eyes for a moment, and then it was gone by the time the musicians played the first few strains of music. He bowed gallantly before Fiona and held out his hand. “Shall we dance, Miss Fiona? I believe that there is no greater diversion from overwhelm than a bit of physical exertion.”

“Y-yes,” Fiona replied, sliding her gloved hand into his, allowing him to lead her out onto the dance floor. She cast a glance back at Olivia, a giddy smile on her face, before she was drawn to the dance.

“Upon my word, is Fiona dancing with the Duke of Langley?”

Olivia smiled at her aunt, who had come up beside her with a look of wonderment on her face. “Yes, Aunt Joana. I introduced them just a little while earlier and he asked her—”

“But it is a quadrille!” her aunt fretted, looking over at the couple on the dance floor in concern. “The quadrille is Fiona’s greatest weakness. How could she dance it with the Duke? What is she thinking?”

Olivia patted her aunt’s hand. “I am sure that she will do wonderfully. You taught her well.”

She looked over to the dance floor and true enough, her cousin looked like she could have chosen another dance if she wished to impress a Duke into becoming a potential suitor. However, none of it seemed to matter as Isaac expertly led Fiona through a series of intricate steps that she would normally stumble over.

Lady Joana sighed in relief beside her. She heard the older woman mutter under her breath, “At least she did not stumble over that one.”

Olivia and her aunt were not the only ones who had taken notice that the Duke of Langley was dancing with a young lady on the dance floor. Most of the other guests in the ballroom had also ceased talking the moment they became aware of it. Hushed whispers raced across the ballroom and Olivia became aware of a great number of eyes now fixed on her cousin and Isaac.

The music continued and Olivia found that she herself could not take her eyes off of the pair, of Isaac in particular. He moved with the sort of masculine grace that she had never before seen in all her other dance partners. At that moment, it was as if he and Fiona owned the dance floor and all the other dancers were mere accessories to their performance.

“Goodness,” her aunt remarked. “He makes me think that Fiona had a talent for the quadrille all along! Perhaps,” she turned and confided to Olivia in a whisper. “Perhaps I was mistaken after all—it was not that my daughter had no talent for dance, but that she did not have good enough dance partners!”

Olivia nearly laughed aloud at that. Dancing was a source of contention between both mother and daughter, for her Aunt Joana was of the mind that a lady must learn to dance well if she wished to secure a good match for herself. Fiona, however, was convinced that she was hopeless at the quadrille.

Her aunt, however, did have a point—the Duke of Langley danced in such a way that he could make anyone look good.

If someone like him were to be my partner for the competition, I might stand a good chance of winning…

Look out for the full release on the 1st of December!

Chapter One

Was there no place for Joana to escape the whispers?

No matter how far she traveled, they were always present.

It was unusual to see a woman in the vicinity of the House of Lords – and considering how synonymous her name had become with scandal, it was even less expected. Her father, Benedict Wynn, Viscount of Thornaby, did not seem to mind, however. As they passed the entrance of the building, his sharp chin remained raised in the air with pride in his face and he seemed thrilled greeting all of his acquaintances as if he wasn’t walking alongside a disgraced daughter. He was trying to make a point. And it was unsettling.

Only months prior, Joana’s limbs would have tingled with excitement at the mere thought of being present here. Joining her father on such an important outing? She had always been intrigued by the mysteriousness of her father’s life, the nuances of how society functioned, and his part to play in it all.

But presently, it was impossible to remain excited. She was far too focused on keeping her eyes glued to the marble floor to enjoy this. Truthfully, it was unlikely anyone recognized her here, but the suffocating feeling that gripped her throat upon every glance her way was just too much to bear – all she wanted was to escape. Though she would usually feel the opposite, today, if she could somehow make her petite frame even smaller, she would have done so.

“Father, is it truly necessary that I accompany you?” Joana asked her father sweetly. She spoke under her breath, keeping her gaze diverted to the ground so as to not attract attention to herself. Anything to discourage the unsolicited eyes from lingering on her for longer than necessary. She had even taken great care to dress in drab, muted colors and kept her hairstyle modest for that exact reason.

Despite her family’s encouragement, Joana had long abandoned her pursuit of a husband. It did not matter how many eligible young men that she might encounter here in the House of Lords — she wanted nothing to do with it.

A few months ago, her life had changed for the worse. Father was trying to make her feel better, and she appreciated that…but she wished to stay indoors. Safe. In her home.

“I should have thought that this was the sort of event that would pique your interest, considering your keenness toward my personal affairs?”

Joana glanced up at her father, only long enough to see the concern knitting his bushy brows.

“I do not mean to sound ungrateful, father, I do thank you for the opportunity…” Joana trailed off, guilt nibbling at her with every word that she uttered.

Her father tried to cast aside his own worry with a smile. “Since when do you watch your words so carefully around me? I wish that you would speak to me…confide in me so that we might overcome this…all, together as a family.”

Joana forcibly composed herself. She could never confide in him. Would he even believe her if she were to tell him exactly what happened that night? And who it happened with? It hardly mattered anymore. She was ruined. Joana had stained her family’s name and reputation indelibly. How could she ever look her father in the eye knowing that he would have to struggle because of something that had happened to her?

Just that quickly, tears threatened to spill and she instantly swallowed them back. She forced a smile that did not quite meet her eyes. “Apologies, forgive my ramblings — I am very grateful for the opportunity to spend the day with you.”

For a moment, it looked as though her father was going to press the issue, but then he thought better of it. “Well…yes, the proceedings today should be rather enthralling. I think that they will be worth the listen.”

Joana offered a polite dip of her head. “It will be a rare privilege indeed,” she replied passively.

Even if she were permitted inside that room rather than being forced to linger in its vicinity — she would not attend. Even if somehow she could have disguised herself as a man to attend the debate — she would never willingly place herself that close to that many men ever again. She had learned her lesson the hard way.

As they continued on, her father rambled about something related to the forthcoming proceedings, but Joana’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“Joana?” he asked, looking at her. His lips pressed into a tight line, the concern evident. “I thought that you were interested in politics?” the Viscount pressed again after a moment. “You always have your nose stuck in books about everything under the sun. While it is certainly not befitting of a lady, I have allowed it today, and this is how you show gratitude?”

“Forgive me, it is just… the crowds…” Joana started to explain and stopped herself. It would be of no use. Her sister was the only one who had true sympathy for her plight. Her father was of the mind that they simply needed to continue showing face, keeping their heads held high, and that somehow everything would work itself out. As if they could somehow overcome the strict social conventions of the ton with relentless optimism and a mere change of scenery. A change in residence had done little to quell the whispers about her she sometimes overheard.

“Of course. I forgot that females were ill-equipped to handle so much excitement. Forgive my oversight, daughter. Would you prefer to withdraw to the Ladies’ gallery and regain yourself?” Benedict beamed, thinking that he was being most benevolent.

He was ignorant of the truth, but he meant well enough.

Joana latched onto the opportunity for privacy. “Yes! Please!”

She curtsied to her father before spinning on her heels.  

“And you will be all right? I could accompany you,” he offered, knowing that it was the proper way to handle the situation, but Joana was more than ready to be on her own. She could hardly breathe with as many people around her as it was.

“I shall be fine father, I promise! I should hate for you to miss a moment of your proceedings. I will be here waiting for you when it is finished,” Joana offered with a warm smile, knowing that he would be remiss to miss any of the debate himself. The older man seemed to hesitate for a moment, his fingers pressed together anxiously as if torn over what he ought to do, before ultimately nodding and hedging toward the entrance into the great chamber of the House of Lords. Joana caught but a fleeting glimpse of the splendid red-decorated interior before the doors shut once more, isolating her from the only familiar face for miles.

Her father had never once indulged her desires to explore politics or any of her other academic interests. It could not be pity alone that spurred his impromptu invitation, it must also have been something else. But whatever the dual nature was, she had little desire to find out his ulterior motives just yet.

She could feel the unwanted stares that glossed over her far more acutely now that she was unaccompanied. Perhaps going off alone was not the brightest idea. She walked quickly away from the hall, now seeking any room that would provide sanctuary to her. She wove silently through the crowds of gentlemen, careful to not even brush by their looming frames, as her heart began pounding in her ears. Eventually, the throngs of people around her started to thin and the pressure inside her chest started to lessen.

Then, she rounded a corner.

A familiar voice hit her first, freezing her on the spot. It was like the oxygen in the hallway seemed to thin all at once. Her eyes widened, focusing solely on the one thing that she had hoped never to see again in her life.

Old wounds clawed their way to the forefront of her mind. The agonizing sensation of hands grabbing at her – pawing at her while a brandy-laced voice laughed menacingly in the dark.

The realization that she was not physically strong enough to dislodge the man from her person had been terrifying. It had chilled her to the very bone that no matter how hard she pushed and scratched at that very man…he had been stronger. He had been intent on taking what he wanted from her…and there had been nothing that she could have done about it were it not for a stranger who happened to pass by at just the right time. It may have saved her dignity, but not in the eyes of the ton.  

Her vision blurred, and she reached out, her gloved hand catching on the closest wall to steady herself. It was a wonder that she did not faint on the spot.

Chapter Two

The very last thing she wanted was for that brute to discover her presence. If he saw her again, there was no telling what he might scheme.

Joana’s knees weakened as the voice of her nightmares took human form in Lord Julian, ten paces away and actively engaged in a lively discussion. He stood there wholly and utterly unbothered while her heart beat in her throat from the memory of the scandal.

Her life had been ripped asunder by his unwelcome advances and his stubbornness to accept the simple denial of her consent.

His life, however, had not changed.

Julian was able to go on as if nothing had happened. He had not been forced to uproot his entire life and everything that he had known. Rage, fear, and something that she could not quite name all roiled inside of her as she hastily retreated to the nearest alcove – it did not matter where it was or where the first door that she found led her.

Her vision narrowed as the very walls surrounding her began to suddenly close in. Her stays were too tight. The layers of her dress were suddenly too heavy. Her gloves were uncomfortably snug, numbing her hands to the touch – she struggled to even breathe.  

The door practically slammed behind her as her body fell heavily back against it with a gasp of relief, her eyes scrunched shut tightly. She pursed her lips, attempting to calm herself to little avail. She clasped her trembling hands, willing them to be still and steady, with the force of holding herself together so that she might—

“Occupied.” A man’s voice cut through her thoughts with an abundance of irritation to have been intruded upon. Joana suddenly regained herself, catching sight of the stranger. Had she been in better control of her faculties, she would have likely squealed and fled from the room with as much haste as she entered it.

But, that would likely mean crashing into the brute known as Lord Julian…

Joana swallowed painfully and fought to steady herself. She tried to speak but her voice left her.

The man’s brow arched in curiosity. He exhaled, and then after a brief moment, spoke again. “Pray, are you well, Miss?”

It was clear he was merely speaking out of politeness; his tone lacked sympathy, but his hazel eyes bore deep into her gaze, making her skin shiver.

With a casual sweep of his hand, he pushed his chestnut locks away from his face, affording her a more intimate view of his features. And her gaze fell to his each minute detail—the warm, sun-kissed hue of his skin, the tantalizing softness of his pursed lips, the way his head tilted to the side as if to study her, and the manner in which the sleeves of his shirt were inappropriately rolled up, revealing heart-quickening hints of his muscular arms. The panic inside her did not subside, but something about his presence reminded her more of a novel hero rather than any…real person. He was incredibly handsome and held an enticing charm about him that left no room for doubt.  

“…My Lady, perhaps?”

His velvety voice stirred her from her thoughts and her eyes snapped to him. Despite his nonchalant and rather scandalous appearance, she didn’t quiver, nor did she feel the urge to run away. The strange man didn’t take another step closer, but his eyes traveled up and down her form as if admiring her, and she gulped audibly in hopes of controlling her nerves.

With great effort, she composed herself. She pushed down her true feelings and took the chance to adopt the mask of a prim and proper Lady of society. A Lady she once was.

“Y-yes,” Joana stammered foolishly before catching herself. She smoothed her hands down the skirts of her gown, eager to escape the conversation amicably. She had made a mistake. That was all. She would not slip up like that again. “I am quite well. I did not mean to intrude upon you, well, whatever it is that you are doing. I should take my leave…”

As she focused properly, it appeared that he was standing alone in this room, presumably content in keeping his own company, but she couldn’t be sure.

“You claim so, yet you appear to be on the verge of swooning,” he paused, an intimate concern etched in his sharp features. Joana, at the sound of passing footsteps from outside, stiffened and looked back at once, afraid Julian would enter the room. The man didn’t seem to miss her reaction. “Hmm. Curious. Am I correct in my assumption that you are hiding from something, or rather, someone?”

Joana remained silent. But realizing he wouldn’t be satisfied without a response, she nodded ever so slightly.  

“Then you have certainly presented me with a mystery to solve.”

 “…You give me far too much credit, My Lord,” she replied, her voice low. She was not sure what he meant. The cold, detached way that he spoke provided her without any further understanding.

“Indeed?” he asked dryly, reaching closer. Joana held her breath, her back touching against the door. “Dare I ask who you are so intent on hiding from? And why?”

Joana couldn’t remain blind to the fact that he was a possible Rake. The way he studied her body, the way his warm voice gradually took on a flirtatious note, the way he was dressed… Everything about it pointed at the fact. And his effect on her did not help things, only encouraging his seduction.

A pang of guilt seized her. She shouldn’t be feeling this way. She was supposed to want to quiver away at the sight of a strange man, she was supposed to tell him to stop his advances. But when he finally stood before her, his towering frame looming gracefully over hers, she felt anything but fear.

“Please, just allow me a moment here to catch my breath and then I shall be on my way,” Joana almost pleaded, her voice a breathless whisper.  

“Of course. Perhaps you can offer me your name in the meanwhile? Or the name of whoever you are hiding from?” The man gracefully folded his hands behind his back. The move only served as a comforting one, reassuring her that the gentleman before her shared no likeness to Lord Julian. And meant no harm. It was a dangerous feeling. “What if I promise that I can help you in the matter?” he whispered mischievously.

“That is a very dangerous thing to promise, My Lord, as it could be any number of nefarious things that I require assistance with,” Joana whispered back matter-of-factly. She could feel the panic lessening from her chest with every word spoken between them.

“Ah, that is precisely what I was hoping for.” His hand came to rest on the carved oak door behind her, effectively imprisoning her within his embrace. She was unable to tear her eyes away from his chest, captivated by the sight of one undone button on his linen shirt, which unveiled a tantalizing glimpse of his chest hair and the graceful contractions of his muscles in his every breath. “Since I have returned to town, I find my days quite humdrum…nefarious sounds exciting. Don’t you agree?”

Joana was unable to speak with him standing so close to her. She could not string words together, the taste of his hazelwood fragrance overwhelming her tongue.

“In the event our paths cross once more, perhaps you can promise me that you will give me a clue to your mystery?”

The eye contact that the man effortlessly maintained was both thrilling and intimidating all the same. He was standing so close to her, it was clear he knew what he was doing.

Or, perhaps he was merely aware of how his proximity to her made heat flush under her skin in a way that she could not explain. Before she could further relish his closeness, he abruptly withdrew. A coldness spread through her, but she recovered rather quickly.

“I shall take your silence for agreement to my terms, mysterious lady,” he grinned. “But will you let me leave, or do your nefarious schemes involve me too? The proceedings are about to begin and I can hardly be late again, but I think I could make an exception,” he whispered mischieviously.

Joana realized then that she was still blocking the door and awkwardly shuffled away from it.  

“Shame,” the man smirked. His hand reached for the door and he brushed past her, as his gaze, warm and intoxicating, lingered on Joana for a breath too long, before he sauntered from the room entirely. Only to poke his head back in a moment later. “Might I at least inquire as to your name?”

Joana shook her head demurely. If he desired her to be a mystery – so be it. At least then, her ruined reputation would not be able to precede her. He was the first man in months to speak to her without looking at her as if she was a pariah. Perhaps that was why she felt a little more comfortable in his presence.  

She ought to have asked him his name in return, but she was mute. As the door shut gently behind his retreating figure, a strange emotion kindled within her, spreading a pleasant warmth throughout her being. Perhaps today would not be a waste after all.

“Ah! Denver! Pleasure to see your face!”

Joana’s breath suddenly hitched. Chills ran down her spine as she heard the mysterious man address her greatest enemy so cordially. For, Lord Julian was Earl of Denver. Curiosity compelled her to steal a glimpse from around the corner of the door, and she found the mysterious man with his arm around Lord Julian’s shoulder, chuckling about something…

She should have known it was all too good to be true.

Chapter Three

“You mean to tell me that you hid out in the Ladies’ gallery all afternoon?”

Joana had no desire to dignify her sister’s incessant questions with an answer, but she also knew that the woman wouldn’t be so easily deterred in her quest for information. As her younger sister had been stuck home all afternoon instead of being permitted to accompany them on their venture into town, she was more than a little nosy.

“You did not miss out on anything at all. I assure you of that, Katherine,” Joana sighed. Though she should have known that it wouldn’t be nearly sufficient to satisfy her sister’s curiosity.

“Nonsense. I know there is something that you are not telling me, dear sister. Do not forget that I know you best of all. You can’t hide anything from me!” Kate flopped down onto her sister’s bed while their maid, Bessie, busied herself with Joana’s hair.

“I am not hiding anything from you,” Joana pointedly focused on the seams of her skirts rather than her sister’s expectant gaze. “Do you think there’s a particular reason we must be so dolled up for supper this evening?”

“Ah, ah, ah! Don’t change the subject.” Kate brandished a finger in Joana’s direction. “Now, I know for certain you are hiding something. Tell me what happened today!”

Joana sighed. “I almost ran into…him.”

The smile slipped right off of Kate’s face. Suddenly, her sister’s teasing nature disappeared and was replaced with a fiercely protective demeanor. She slid off the bed and came to kneel in front of her sister so that they could speak more softly. “What happened?” Joana was grateful for the comforting presence of her sister’s hands in her own as she spoke.

“I’m…I’m quite certain he didn’t see me. I found the nearest room and hid there until the proceedings were over. Father had to come look for me.”

“Well, that does explain his mood when you arrived home. Did you tell him the reason?” Kate asked.  

Joana shook her head. “No. I was far too embarrassed. Father wanted so badly for today to go well and I did not wish to ruin yet another day with my dramatics.”

“Dramatics? He assaulted you, Joana, there is nothing at all about that which was your fault. It’s a crime he’s walking around breathing dry air. Oh, how I wish I could…I would…break his nose…or spit on him or something equally terrible!” Kate fumed.

A soft smile graced Joana’s lips. “You wouldn’t have the faintest idea on how to break someone’s nose, Katy.”

“I could learn with the proper encouragement,” Kate insisted with a feigned pout.

“Oh, that would be the day. First, Father will remind us of how he was cursed to have a house full of women and then he will pass out of a stroke from your mentioning that you wish to take up pugilism!”

Kate giggled. “Perhaps the vein in his neck will stick out again as it always does when he tries to control his temper.”

“But all he ever does is manage to turn his whole face purple instead,” Joana laughed as they teased their father. The lady’s maid’s hand tightened on her hair and forced her head back center for the finishing touches.

“Might I suggest the pearls for this evening’s attire, My Lady?” Bessie asked.

“Pearls? For supper?” Joana asked, swiveling in her seat.

“Your mother has asked that you look your best this evening,” Bessie replied in her soft voice.

“Is mother having company over? She did not mention anything to me…” Kate asked. “I think I would have noticed if she was suddenly puttering about the house for supper guests.”

“You heard nothing?” Joana asked her sister. If there had been a secret to ferret out, Kate would have done so. “You don’t think that this has something to do with Father insisting on bringing me with him to the House of Lords this afternoon, do you?”

“Did you meet with anyone in particular?” Kate inquired. “Was he parading you around like a show pony?”

“No. Well. Nothing like that. I only met one gentleman, but he—” Joana clamped her hand down over her mouth – she had not meant to say that part out loud.

“You sly fox!” Kate beamed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I knew something must’ve happened. You are sitting on an even bigger secret and I demand to know what it is!”

“Oh, do you hear that? Why, I believe that is the supper bell. We should make our way to the dining room.” Joana rose from her chair hastily. “No pearls tonight, thank you, Bessie.”

“Do not turn your back on me! Who was he? Was he handsome? What did you talk of?”

“I do not know! And yes… yes he was, I suppose,” Joana grinned over her shoulder. She hurried gracefully down the corridor and stairs to the dining room, but Kate was not to be ignored now that she knew there was gossip at hand.

“Oh, how I wish I could have romantic tales to share with you. You know that I must live my life vicariously through you, sister. Scandal or no scandal – have pity on your poor, neglected, spinster-bound sister,” Kate whined.  

“Oh, stop that.” Joana entwined her arm with her sister’s as they walked. “You are still so young. You’re creating a tempest in a teapot.”

“I shall be the judge of that.”

“Ahem. Ladies.” Their mother, Abigail Wynn’s stern voice cut through their lively conversation as the sisters came upon the dining room. But more shockingly, they were no longer alone.

Breath trapped in Joana’s lungs and she almost spun around to leave again when she noticed a familiar face among her parents. She bit her lips as she pondered every possible reason this could be happening. She could hardly determine who was more surprised this evening – herself, or the intriguing stranger from earlier who now sat across the table, his intense gaze fixed upon her. Worse, he had been purposefully seated beside her usual seat.

Could he possibly have discovered my identity already?

She had given him nothing at all. Though it was fun to suspend disbelief with her sister, she had already decided that she was not going to like him whatsoever for he could not be that great of a person if he considered Lord Julian Bansfield to be among his acquaintances.

“Ah, Your Grace, these are my lovely daughters I was just speaking of, Katherine and Joana,” their father introduced them politely as they curtsied in greeting.  

“A Duke!” Kate whispered out of the side of her mouth.

A Duke?

Joana simply shrugged, her eyes still wide in disbelief. If she told her sister that this was the man from before, she would never let it go. She would cling to it until she had discovered every single breath that passed between them.  

“Why is he here?” Joana muttered back. It was not as if she could possibly have any more marriage prospects – no, the unfortunate incident – as father called it, with Lord Bansfield put an end to that for good.  

“My darling daughters. His Grace, Ewan Rayfield, The Duke of Richmond has graciously accepted our dinner invitation. Isn’t that delightful, Joana?”

Eyes turned expectantly to Joana and an uneasiness churned in her stomach.  She would feign ignorance and pretend nothing was amiss. Yes, that would be the best course of action. Treat him like a stranger so that nobody would suspect a thing. “Of course. It is lovely to meet you, Your Grace.”

“Meet me?” Ewan’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Yes, I suppose one could say that.”

“Have you met my daughter before, Your Grace?” Benedict’s voice pitched up a notch.

“Indeed, although at the time, I was unaware that she was your daughter. We met earlier this afternoon…outside of the proceedings. It seems fate has brought us together again,” he said with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes that no one except Joana seemed to catch.

Father’s face was already beginning to turn purple. He would be very displeased that she had, naturally, not mentioned a thing about it.

Silently, with her eyes firmly set on the tabletop and nothing else, Joana lowered gracefully into the seat beside Ewan, her heart hammering against her chest.

“And for what purpose is His Grace honoring us with his presence at dinner this evening?” Joana murmured, but her words seemed to fall on flat ears as her father was already engaging the table in another lively conversation. It was as if she had not spoken a word at all to everyone, except the Duke, who brushed his arm against her and smirked as he reached for his fork.

And it was like that for most of supper. Anytime she tried to get a word in edgewise, Father spoke over both herself and Kate.

Mother wasn’t much help. She was always of the opinion that women ought to be seen and not heard.

Oddly, every time that Ewan attempted to speak to herself, Father would interrupt him as well. Nothing about the goings-on presently helped her understand the Duke’s reasons for being here in the least. How did Father even know him and why was the man being so very cryptic about the whole thing?

Thoroughly irritated and feeling slighted, Joana was greatly relieved when the men adjourned to Father’s private office for port and pipe. The moment that the men were no longer in the room, mother rose to excuse herself quietly. She had hardly touched her meal but neither daughter commented on it.

“Why do you think Father invited him?” Kate asked quickly before either of them rose from the table.

“There can only be one reason for Father to have invited a gentleman over, and it is certainly not for talk of politics over port,” Joana murmured reluctantly.

“Perhaps they became acquainted during the proceedings? That would be plausible…” Kate said. She sat up straighter in her chair as if that would somehow allow her to see through the walls into her father’s private office.

“Perhaps, but it is unlikely. You are far too intelligent to squander your time on speculation, dear sister. No. Father is likely arranging yet another… marriage match.” The words felt foreign on her tongue just as she said them and her eyes grew wide in fear.

“With a Duke?! Is that not reaching a little?”

“Were it not for my recent scandal, then no. I would say it would be perfectly reasonable. The question is, which one of us is he attempting to sell off?”

Unlike all the other countless teas and soirees she’d been subjected to during her brief debut season…there was a traitorous feeling of intrigue inside of her. But there was also the matter of his friendship circle that gnawed at the back of her mind and gave her enough reason to steer away from him for the coming weeks if his visits became more frequent.

Kate fidgeted in her seat. “I think he was rather taken with you. He was attempting to engage you in conversation for the entirety of the evening, and as he is no stranger—”

“I understand your implication, dear sister…but you may be attaching undue significance to it.”

“He is quite handsome, would it truly be so terrible? A marriage to a Duke would do wonders for your reputation…for all of our reputations…” Kate trailed off, lost in thought.

She did not need to say what they both understood to be true. It would be far simpler for Kate to find a husband if her sister was married. If the shadow of scandal no longer hovered over their heads, Kate would not have to struggle so much as she had done in her past season.

Joana loved her sister more than anything in this world. She was the only person who had faithfully stood by her side and never once put any accusation for the assault on Joana’s shoulders. And it was Joana’s duty, as the eldest sister, to marry first.

Thankfully, she was spared from responding when the butler entered the dining room.

“Lady Joana, your father has requested your presence in his office.”

Look out for the full release on the 26th of October!