Prologue

1812

Lovell Estate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not remember her.

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

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

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

Your Grace? The young boy is now a Duke?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps,” Jeremy replied solemnly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My uncle would never instruct such a thing!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

One year later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How is everything?”

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then her breath caught.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

1817

London, England

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

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

At last! A smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ve had this conversation before–”

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

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

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

Dear Papa.

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

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

“I realize that.”

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

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

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

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

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

Far from it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catherine’s head tilted down a little.

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

The night I discovered the truth.

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

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

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

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

Catherine smiled fully for the first time that evening.

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

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

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

Perhaps he is unwell.

She hesitated by his back.

“Is all well, cousin?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

“You have to be reasonable.”

That was Percy’s voice!

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

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

His Grace, Antony Sinclair, the Duke of Ravensworth.

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

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

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

“Your Grace?”

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

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

No wonder he is such a notorious rake.

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

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

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

“Percy–”

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

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

In the dim candlelight, their eyes met.

God’s wounds.

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

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

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

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

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

“This is not your business, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s insufferably handsome. How annoying!

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

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

“Money?” Julia’s stomach knotted.

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

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

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

What is wrong with me?

She backed up.

“Barely bearable,” she said between gritted teeth.

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

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

What on earth has Percy done now?

Chapter Two

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

Where are you?

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

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

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

“We have to talk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did he say?” he asked tartly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, no, no!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What secret?” She pretended innocence.

Surely, he has no way of knowing about Catherine…

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

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

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

“Percy, you would not tell Uncle Albert –”

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

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

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

…What am I to do now?

Chapter Three

1817

Sinclair Manor, London

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

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

“You do look quite pale, Your Grace.”

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

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

“I feared as much.”

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

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

I cannot read her letter. I can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything had changed that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I always do,” Antony said with confidence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was haughty. She disliked me on sight!

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

No. It was something more.

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

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

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

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

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

Lord Rutledge looked equally disconcerted and shifted in his seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prologue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walter laughed. “Who told you that?”

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

1812

London, England

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As controlling?”

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

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

Come what may, Harriet must always come first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I pray he shows restraint!

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

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

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

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

Belle stiffened, wondering who they spoke of.

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

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

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

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

He has a habit of grabbing women.

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

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

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

“Perhaps you are right.”

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

Now, he has gone too far.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What an insufferable smirk that is!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The deal was for Harriet’s hand.”

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are a Duke, Your Grace.”

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

“Lord Edmund Brooks.”

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

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

If only things could have been different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alistair!” a voice called from the doorway.

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

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

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

“It suits me well.”

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

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

“Where are your invitations?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps a little.”

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

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

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

 

Chapter Three

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

“Never.” Belle’s eyes widened in awe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then obey me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are mothering me again.”

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

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

Belle swallowed uncomfortably, fidgeting with her glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is the smile I have been waiting to see.

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

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

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

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

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

Disgusted, Belle pulled her arm sharply from his.

***

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

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

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

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

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

What is he doing to that lady?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be on the lookout for its release soon!

 

Chapter One

 

“It is simply imperative for a young woman who has passed the age of eighteen years to make it her goal to become a wife,” Diana Sutton proclaimed.

The room was immediately filled with the murmured agreement from a half dozen other ladies present. Regardless of personal opinion, they all spoke. None would dare do otherwise. Two ladies did not voice agreement. One spoke.

“Is eighteen not a little young to be considering signing one’s life away?” Sarah Sutton asked.

She sat immediately to the left of her aunt, the Dowager Countess Foster. Sarah’s hair was light brown and with natural curls the bounced and bobbed about her apple-cheeked, blue-eyed face. By contrast, the Dowager Countess lived up to her name, her hair was dyed black as night and a black beauty spot occupied the left corner of her mouth, today, but migrated according to her whims. Dark eyes and a statuesque face completed the image of a gypsy queen. Though none would dare make such a comparison in her hearing. There was much that could not be said directly to Diana Sutton’s face.

Except, of course, by her niece.

“Sarah, dear. You are young and lacking the experience of the world that I have. You are also far beyond that optimum age of which I have spoken. It was to you, that I was primarily addressing my remark,” Diana replied, lifting a teacup with a raised little finger and sipping delicately as if to punctuate her words.

The sitting room of Moncrieff Manor was light and airy. Tall windows let in rays of sunshine as well as the sight of the Manor’s fashionably well-kept gardens. The decor was in perfect taste, elegant but not overbearing. The ladies who occupied it were of similar taste. The only exception was Sarah. She wore a dark dress, plain but well-tailored, suitable for her plans for the day. Her shoes were not the delicate slippers of the other ladies, but stout and practical. Despite this, her beauty outshone every bejeweled and perfumed lady in the room, though she would have disagreed.

Diana cast her eyes momentarily to her niece with an expression of disapproval. Then she looked at one of the other ladies.

“Victoria, your daughter has recently become engaged,” Diana said.

“Indeed she has, Your Ladyship. Just before her nineteenth birthday and she could not be happier,” said Lady Victoria Cherwell, sounding grateful to have been asked.

“Madeleine, you have three daughters,” Diana said, turning her attention to a lady sitting next to Lady Victoria.

“Indeed so, Your Ladyship. All three married before they were twenty.”

“You see, Sarah. All happy and contented wives and mothers. That is our purpose, after all,” Diana said.

“Ah, I’m glad you used that word, Aunt Diana,” Sarah said. “Purpose. Our purpose. That is what I am trying to discover for myself, in fact.”

“It does not need to be discovered, my dear. It is self-evident,” Diana said in a tone that brooked no argument.

And for anyone else, there would have been none.

“It is not to me,” Sarah said, not unkindly.

She smiled as she spoke, softening the edges of her words to ensure they did not sound impertinent. There was a limit to how far she could push the boundaries of behavior with such a woman as the Dowager Countess. The line was far more blurred for her than for anyone else in the world. But it did exist.

“Does anyone else have anything to say to our wayward young lady of…” Diana raised her eyes heavenward for a moment as though recalling. “…two-and-twenty years.”

The emphasis was placed on the word ‘twenty’, just slightly. Diana Sutton would never do anything as crass as making a point bluntly. Sarah spotted the barb and smiled widely, hiding it behind a raised tea cup. Though she did not think it of herself, Diana was as subtle as a bull at times.

“It is the men who run the country, the great houses, the world in fact,” said Lady Emily Butterworth, wife to an Earl. “But behind each great man stands an accomplished wife. She knows how to raise his heirs, how to entertain those who would be his allies. How to increase his prestige with her own female achievements.”

“Well put, Emily,” Diana congratulated.

“But, what if a woman were never standing behind a man but beside him? What if the purpose of my life was to…I don’t know…become a celebrated academic and add to the knowledge of our civilization. Or a physician or…” Sarah unconsciously copied her Aunt’s earlier mannerism of looking heavenward in thought. “…Heaven forbid, a politician?”

The reaction was a heartbeat late in coming as the room waited to see what the Dowager Countess thought. She sniffed. They gave their reactions with gasps and murmurs of disapprobation. Sarah sighed. The event had been organized in order to present her with a group of women with married daughters. To persuade her that she should be making the finding of a husband her primary goal. But as determined as Diana was to convince her niece to marry, Sarah was equally as determined not to be rushed. Two immovable forces.

“May one ask, if Lady Sarah’s objective is not to find a husband, what it actually is?” asked Veronica Neilsland, wife to a Baronet.

Diana turned to look directly at her niece, one eyebrow raised.

“An excellent question. Well done, Lady Veronica,” she said, without looking at the woman.

Sarah politely directed her answer at the woman who had asked the question. She noticed the slight blush on her cheeks, raised by the approval of the Dowager Countess. Inwardly, she laughed to herself that her Aunt could produce such an effect.

But perhaps I should study how she achieves it. Is it not my ambition to wield a similar influence one day?

“I simply do not know, Lady Veronica,” Sarah said honestly. “I have something of a passion for the written word and have dabbled in poetry. I also enjoy painting.” She paused for a moment, thinking, again casting her eyes skyward, “I should like to travel, I think. To see something of the world.”

“Marvelous, magnificent,” Diana said enthusiastically. “All hobbies that can be indulged as wife to a respectable gentleman. I myself completed the Grand Tour no fewer than five times with my late husband. I also added many honest and honorable pastimes to my accomplishments.”

The chorus dutifully chimed in with their agreement. The only one who did not, but simply quietly listened, sipping tea, eyes missing nothing, was the woman who sat to the right of the Dowager Countess. Julia Sutton did not resemble her mother. She had her father’s height, though her golden hair would have matched Diana’s, had Diana not developed a penchant for black, as though to match her name. Sarah had noticed her cousin’s reticence and had not looked in her direction.

The comments will come, dropped into conversation here and there with a friendly smile and under the guise of a dutiful sister, though she is neither dutiful nor my sister. But the words will be sharp in their intent. Julia will not pass an opportunity to criticize. Especially on the subject of my living off her brother’s charity.

Sarah’s eyes went to the window and the gardens, with woods beyond. The shattered remnants of a tower were visible in those trees – part of the ruined castle that had been the first structure built on the site by the medieval Moncrieff family, of whom the Suttons were a descendant. The place had always been one of mystery and allure to Sarah, but also peace and tranquility. It was to that place that she went with easel and paints, or notebook and pencil. There, surrounded by nature busily reclaiming the work of man, she found solace from the sharp knives of Moncrieff Manor.

All except for Aunt Diana. Dear Aunt Diana. She may be imperious and somewhat close-minded but she has my best intentions at heart. I cannot say the same for Julia or Alexander.

The rest of the afternoon passed in somewhat dull conversation with Diana prompting her Ladies-in-waiting for opinions or stories, all of which Sarah could see were aimed at her and the subject of marriage. She smiled and listened attentively, and continued rebuffing the arguments her Aunt was making.

“One day, Aunt Diana. I shall meet a man with whom I shall fall madly in love and I shall marry and raise a family. But, I wish to find my own fulfillment first. However, if my true love were to walk through that door tomorrow, perhaps that will change,” Sarah said, an hour later.

Diana gave her niece a long, hard look. Then smiled and clasped her hand. Julia shifted in her seat, looking away.

“That will have to do then, my dear,” Diana said. “For now. Though I cannot promise I will not make it my mission to introduce as many acceptable gentlemen through that very door as I can. I will see you married, mark my words.”

 

Chapter Two

Daylight assaulted Leonardo Eversea. He groaned and closed his eyes from the narrow slit that had been his previous attempt at opening them. The sound of Seething Lane was rising to the garret that was his ramshackle terraced house. Hawkers, children crying, horses trampling. The sounds of ordinary Londoners going about their day. It was all too much. His head pounded like a drum. The ray of sunlight falling across him through the curtainless windows was unbearably hot and his mouth was dry as sand.

He tried again, this time managing a blink and a bleary-eyed glance around the room. The bed he lay atop was empty but for him. He was fully dressed, one boot on and the other…somewhere else. The fireplace was cold and dark.

“Up and at ‘em!” Thomas yelled as he kicked in the door and entered the room.

Leonardo winced, shielding his light-gray eyes, and peering towards the intruder.

“Lord, Tom. How can you be so loud?”

“Because I am a master drinker and you, my friend, are an amateur,” Thomas said.

He deposited an assortment of items onto a table that had one leg shorter than the others. Picking one out, he tossed it towards Leonardo, who caught it. It was a bread roll, still warm from the oven. Leonardo tore into it and then reached out for the stoppered clay bottle that he saw on the table.

“Cider, beer, or wine?” he asked.

“Neither. Milk,” Thomas said, handing it over.

Leonardo unstoppered the bottle and greedily took several long swallows.

“By God, when did London become so damn hot!” he complained.

“When it entered June, traditionally a summer month. But His Grace, the Duke of Ravenhurst, would not notice the heat so much if he chose a civilized residence, set amid its own part, light and airy and breezy. Instead of a tenement slum in a mire of humanity.”

“I have such a residence. I would rather my household not see me like this,” Leonardo said.

He swung his legs to the floor, regretting the move as his head swam. He chased a mouthful of bread with another mouthful of milk. Leonardo had hair the color of coal, contrasting to his steel-gray eyes. Wincing, he flexed broad shoulders, working stiffness out of them. Thomas also had dark hair, though shot through with lighter sparks of auburn. His eyes were blue and his face round. It was a face predisposed to smiling. Leonardo was a study in frowns and brooding glares, his cheeks angular and eyes perpetually narrowed. The only softness to his face was full, almost sensuous lips.

“This is the last time,” Leonardo said.

“Oh, I have heard that before!” Thomas crowed.

He hopped onto the table at the opposite side to the wobbly leg, balancing it. Picking up an apple, he took a bite.

“I mean it. This is not just the buyer’s remorse after a heavy night. I made a promise.”

“The old man is gone, Leo. He will not know…” Thomas began.

The look Leonardo gave him stopped the words in his throat. Thomas swallowed a mouthful of apple and looked abashed.

“Sorry, old chap. But…”

“An apology from you is always followed by a but, Tom. Let it go. Father made me swear that I would find a wife and settle down. The continuation of the Eversea name was all that mattered to him in the end.”

“The Everseas were here before there was an England,” Thomas said, somberly. “I heard him say it many times.”

“Yes. About time I began to take it seriously,” Leonardo snapped, made irritable by the state of his head.

Damn and bloody blast it! How many times must I do this to myself! I swear it Father, I will make you proud.

“Well, I will support my oldest friend as much as I am able. Even if it means seeing you shackled for life. Or…”

Leonardo pointed a warning at his friend, gray eyes hard. “Do not say it, Tom. I want no word of comparison between my father and me on that subject. I shall choose a wife that will neither shackle nor betray me. I will not end up like my father.”

Thomas shrugged, resuming munching on his apple.

“Then it will take a rare woman. One that you will not fall in love with and leave yourself so exposed. One that will allow you to enjoy yourself without complaint.”

“Love is not a requirement. A respectable woman who can produce an heir should be enough to fulfill my promise. There will be Everseas after me.”

“As you say,” Thomas replied, with a look of skepticism on his face that spoke volumes.

“Where is my purse?” Leonardo said, looking around him.

“Gone the same way as mine, old chap. We lost heavily last night. The perils of drinking first, gambling second. We were taken advantage of in the Hellfire Club, cleaned out playing Loo.”

Leonardo cursed, getting to his feet. “I shall have to speak to my bankers then and draw a fresh draught of money. What was I thinking, playing Loo atop a bellyful of brandy? Who do we owe?”

Thomas grimaced. “Monty,” he replied.

“Lord! Of all people! Moncrief is insufferable at the best of times. We shall have to win it back. I will not be in debt to that jackanapes,” Leonardo said.

Thomas grinned, leaping to his feet. “Well said, Ravenhurst! Shall I arrange a game for tonight?”

“Yes. No. What am I doing? A few seconds and I’m already breaking my own resolution. You are a bad influence,” Leonardo said, getting to his feet and picking up his coat from where it lay over the back of a chair.

“Moi?” Thomas said in protest.

“My business today is to return to the Mews and make myself presentable. Then draw some money and begin the task of presenting myself as an eligible bachelor to the Ton. Alexander will have to wait.”

“And we’ll have to endure his smugness whenever we see him next. You know he will take pains to ensure he is present at any social event we are,” Thomas complained.

“So be it. He can have his little victory until I have time to win the war. He’ll not find me such easy meat next time we play Loo. And I’ll make him pay for taking advantage,” Leonardo said with decisiveness.

He took up an apple from a pile on the table, sifting through the other refreshments Thomas had collected. His choice of the decrepit garret as a base for his visits to gambling halls and taverns was based on its anonymity. No household staff and a district where it was not safe to pay too much close attention to what one’s neighbors got up to. Had he been in the habit of returning, dead drunk, to his official London residence at the Royal Mews, Charing Cross, it would prove much harder to find a wife. A Duke known to be a worthless rake was as unappealing as a beggar. To the right kind of woman, anyway.

Leonardo moved aside the dirty lace curtains that screened the garret’s small window. Below, he saw a flower seller standing in the shadow of the Tower. A man hawked meat pies a few yards further down. Sheep were appearing at the top of the muddy street, being driven south towards the river. For a moment he felt an unbearable longing for the freedom those people had.

Probably an illusion. They are not forced to marry a complete stranger or have the direction of their lives set for them from the moment of their birth. But, they are also free to starve. Not as free as it seems. I should be grateful for what I have. But it feels like chains.

The pair finished their improvised breakfast and, concealing their faces beneath broad-brimmed hats, left the garret to find a carriage. Thomas hopped from the conveyance midway along the Strand to walk the remaining distance to his house on Cecil Street. Leonardo pulled down the blinds after his friend’s departure and closed his eyes in the stifling darkness of the carriage. Presently, it stopped at Charing Cross and Leonardo disembarked, crossing the street, and entering the Royal Mews. His house dominated the quiet cul-de-sac, a mansion of several floors, with two front-facing entrances. It was made of dark brick and white plaster, its roof a forest of chimneys.

When the front door closed behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief. Another nocturnal adventure over and now safe at home, away from prying eyes. Once upon a time, his father would have summoned him, notified of his return by a servant. Leonardo would have been forced to stand in his study and endure a scathing assessment of his reckless and feckless behavior. Now that the old man was gone, Leonardo missed those tongue lashings.

A pile of envelopes sat on a table next to the door, upon a silver tray. He picked them up and crossed the long, marble-floored entrance hall towards the house’s imperious staircase. One caught his eye in particular.

An invitation from the famed Dowager Countess Foster? How it must have pained her to invite me. Rank does have its uses. Were I not a Duke of ancient and revered name, she would not allow me to pass the threshold. Not with my reputation. It will be a good place to start in my search for a wife.

 

Chapter Three

 

Sarah inspected herself in the full-length dress mirror. The dress was her usual taste, understated but elegant. Earrings of silver with small, cut rubies glittered among her bouncing curls that looked sometimes chocolate brown and sometimes bronze, depending on how the light caught them. The rubies were the perfect accompaniment to her hair and she enjoyed the contrast of the red against her bright, blue eyes.

I will certainly do. Not the brightest jewel in Aunt Diana’s crown but far from fading into the background. The center of attention will always be Cousin Julia anyway. And she is welcome to it.

There was a sharp rap on the door to her dressing room. Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, finding a calm center. A knock at the door of her dressing room meant that the knocker had already let themselves into her chamber, passing through the sitting room and study without waiting. And from the peremptory sound of the knock, it could only be one person.

“Come in, Julia,” Sarah called out in a pleasant, light tone.

Since you are already halfway in already.

The door opened and Julia Sutton stepped into the room. She cast a critical eye over her cousin’s choice of dress.

“Is that how you intend to present yourself this evening? Or are you yet to change?”

“I am changed and ready to receive our guests,” Sarah said patiently.

“Really? I would not have thought so. I mean to say, Sarah. You do realize that Mama is putting this whole soiree on for the purpose of introducing you to a husband?”

Sarah turned away from Julia and walked briskly through the study into the sitting room. A jug of punch sat on a table along with a cut glass goblet. Sarah poured herself some and sipped at it, using it to screen her irritation.

“Because, you really cannot be a burden to poor Alexander forever you know,” Julia persisted, following her.

Julia was festooned with jewels, gold, and silver which sparkled with precious stones. The finery was intended to distract from her plain features and too-long neck, which she had attempted to hide with artfully worked hair. Sarah offered her cousin a glass of punch but she waved it away irritably.

“I know that last week at the tea party Mama arranged, you were very forthright about not marrying. Even though you are now two-and-twenty – practically an old woman. But in reality, marriage means you are no longer Alexander’s responsibility.”

“I do not wish to be anyone’s responsibility. I should like to earn my own living,” Sarah said.

Even as she said it, she knew it had been a mistake. One did not express such views in front of either Aunt Diana or her daughter. Julia looked incredulous.

“Earn? Earn? Oh, it is worse than I thought. Not content with living off my brother, you would bring ridicule on the Sutton name. How do you intend to earn your living, pray tell? Mining? Farming? Perhaps you will become a pig farmer?”

Sarah felt the beginnings of anger at her cousin’s relentless hostility. It had always been so, born out of a competitive nature in the other woman. Sarah suspected that Julia was jealous of the closeness Sarah had with Diana, Julia’s mother. They had always found more in common than Diana had with either of her children. Alexander seemed blithely unaware of the distance between him and his mother. Julia was affronted.

An angry answer welled up in Sarah but she was spared the argument that would have ensued by another knock at the door.

“Come in!” Sarah called out, with no little relief.

The door opened to admit Alexander Sutton, Earl of Moncrieff. He had his sister’s coloring and height, though he was prone to portliness, while she remained willow slender.

“Ah, you’re both here. Good. All set for this evening’s ball?” he said with eagerness, rubbing his hands together.

“We are, Xander,” Sarah said. “Would you care for some punch? Mrs. Galloway made up a fresh batch this afternoon and it is excellent.”

“Do not mind me then,” Alexander said, coming into the room.

Sarah poured him a glass while Julia sniffed disdainfully. He sipped it, then took a gulp, smacking his lips.

“Excellent as always!”

“Xander, really. You should not make that noise when you drink. You sound like a stableman,” Julia complained, taking a seat in the room’s most comfortable armchair.

“In private I shall be nothing but myself. I have a long enough evening of pretense ahead of me as it is,” Alexander replied with a smile.

He held up his glass to Sarah. “Cheers,” Sarah said, refilling hers.

“Do I detect the usual friction in the air?” Alexander asked, tossing back the rest of his glass, and helping himself to more.

“I am sure you detect no such thing,” Julia replied, loftily.

When her cousin looked away, Sarah winked at Alexander. He suppressed a smile.

“I should think not too. This evening is about presenting our family in the best possible light. There are some guests that I particularly wish to impress.”

“Oh, who is that, Xander?” Sarah asked, seating herself on a chaise and patting the seat next to her.

Alexander accepted the invitation. Sarah arranged herself in a position of attentiveness.

I will show Julia how much of a burden I am. Cousin Xander is a lovely man and a true gentleman. Whatever support he wishes with any of the guests invited this evening, he will have it from me.

“A number of people actually. All very influential among polite society and beneficial for our family to be counted alongside. I should like your help in particular, Sarah. Your interest in the arts and nature give you a much wider scope of conversation…”

Julia was on her feet in a moment. “Oh, really, Xander. The implication being that I am limited! That is the last straw, perhaps I will not deign to attend at all given how superfluous I clearly am!”

Without allowing a single word in between her own, she flounced from the room, slamming the door behind her. Sarah looked at Alexander in open-mouthed astonishment.

“What was all that about?” she asked.

Alexander spread his hands hopelessly. “She is so infernally sensitive. I think perhaps she is a little jealous of you.”

“Of me! How ridiculous. Julia has such beauty and grace and is far more knowledgeable about society than I. She is much more at home at a function like this. I would rather do my dancing at the village fair. Although, I suppose I should not say so. Do you think that I should be focusing on finding a husband, as your mother does?”

“Good Lord no!” Alexander said quickly. “Have no fear, cousin. I would not join in with Mama’s determination to arrange your life for you. I think your desire to experience the world is admirable.”

Sarah smiled, patting his hand. Alexander could always be relied upon to lend his support and provide a shoulder to lean on. As a child, he had been distant, but as an adult, it seemed he was trying to make up for that aloofness. He squeezed her fingers in his own.

“I could not help but overhear what my sister was saying. About you being a burden on me? I want you to know that it could not be further from the truth. There will always be a place here for you. After all, it was your father that was the Earl, not mine.”

“I know, and I am grateful, Xander. Sometimes Julia’s disdain is somewhat relentless. It is good to know that you do not share it.”

Alexander smiled and looked as though he would say something else, but stopped himself.

“Well, I should return to the preparations. There is still much to be done.”

He lifted her hand and blew a kiss to it without touching it, then he stood and left the room. Sarah decided to lend her support and find out how she could be of help. Below the family rooms on the third floor, the house was a bustling, kicked anthill of activity. As she left her sitting room, she saw her Aunt coming along the passageway. Alexander turned a corner at the far end, deep in the giving of instructions to the butler, Greaves.

“Was Alexander just in your rooms?” Diana asked.

“Morning, Aunt Diana. Yes, he was,” Sarah replied.

Diana frowned, looking after her son.

“Is there something wrong, Aunt Diana?” Sarah asked.

Diana beckoned her close, still watching the end of the hallway. Then she looked at Sarah with penetrating dark eyes.

“Have a care with him,” she said.

Sarah frowned, wondering if it was a warning for her to keep her distance.

Surely, she does not think I have designs on my own cousin?

“He has always been a cold one, quite unlike me or his father. I would say he takes after my brother, Roderick. A black sheep if ever there was one,” Diana said. “Do not take what he says at face value, and always remember that Alexander never acts without a motive.”

Look out for its full release on the 9th of May!

Chapter One

Today had to be the very worst day of Annabelle’s entire life.  

At the very least, it had been the worst day of her life to date and if tomorrow was not significantly better, she did not think that she would be able to endure it. It was only fitting that her night ended in an equally terrible fashion. It was all that Annabelle could do to keep one foot moving slowly in front of the other. Her right leg ached terribly, causing her gait to be uneven and drastically slowing her progress. The bitter night air bit at her through the loose knit of her shawl.

Do not cry… do not cry. Keep moving.

The mantra repeated over and over in her head. She would not allow herself to stop to think of another single word. Not with how frightened she was presently, being in unfamiliar woods, alone, with the nighttime darkness rapidly descending upon her. It was wholly and abjectly terrifying. She would not think about how much damage she did to her ankle by further abusing it nor would she think about the gnawing ache in her stomach from having skipped dinner.

It felt like she had run away from home a year ago rather than a handful of hours.

A tree bough caught the edge of her shawl and attempted to rip it from her nearly frozen fingers as she walked past its branch. Annabelle yelped in surprise and had to pull the thing free with so much force that she feared she might faint in her efforts.

But the interruption broke her mantra.

Suddenly, the world felt overwhelmingly large and frightening. Her path felt impossible — her destination too far to be considered attainable. Everything around her was too much and instantly overwhelming.

For the span of a breath, she almost let it swallow her. For only that moment in time, she allowed herself to feel it before she pushed it down deep inside of her like she had learned to do with every other unpleasant emotion.

Then, she trudged onward.

Her boots were soaked through, and her hem was caked in six inches of mud and muck as she finally left the forest’s edge, approaching the castle she had set her sights on. Hoping to find refuge there was a long shot, but it was also the only option that she had. If only for a single night of warmth and hospitality before she was forced to head out into the world once more.

Though she was proficient at thinking on her feet, the cold hindered her creative process. She knew not what she would do if they were to turn her away.

There were no attendants or footmen to greet her on the way up the small trail, but oddly, it only gave her more hope. It was obvious that the castle was still well cared for, with the gardens well-maintained despite the beginnings of a frost. There was no light projecting from any of the windows. The castle, with its imposing stone walls and grand turrets, loomed before her, its air of authority unmistakable…but she was desperate. Now was not the time for her to be concerned with social decorum.

Annabelle’s frozen knuckles rapped on the castle’s door — unable to bring herself to knock on the ornately designed lion’s head knocker. It looked too cold and heavy for her to bother with. Without any signs of life coming from inside of the castle, her heart started to sink in her chest. She had placed all of her hope on seeking sanctuary here…if she did not find it, she was not entirely certain what she would do.

She knocked again. The longer that she stood in one place, the more the cold started to get to her. It could not end this way. No day could be that horrible.

Footsteps shuffled on the other end of the door and finally, the heavy oak started to pull open. She could have sung, she was so happy. The stern expression on an otherwise pretty, round-faced housekeeper greeted her.

“Might I help you?” She took in the way that Annabelle trembled with the cold and the state of her dress before giving the visitor a chance to answer. “Oh, you poor dear…come inside, quickly now.”

“Thank you ma’am, thank you so kindly,” Annabelle’s teeth chattered against her very best efforts as she quickly ducked inside of the castle walls. She felt leaps and bounds better the moment she was no longer being bitten at by the wind.

The housekeeper pulled her own shawl from her shoulders and draped it around Annabelle’s. She rubbed at her upper arms in hopes of restoring some of the lost body heat. “I had thought that we had received the very last of the applicants on account of the oncoming bad weather…I never would have imagined that a young lady such as yourself would have braved it!” The housekeeper paused, something seeming to dawn on her. “Is there a carriage out there? Good heavens, you did not walk here did you?”

Annabelle smiled sheepishly to hide her confusion at the housekeeper’s implication. “…I’m afraid I did, ma’am.”

She wasn’t foolish enough to inquire about the nature of the applicants. If they felt that she was supposed to be here for some reason or another — she was not going to correct them.

“Come, right in here — there is a lovely fire going.” The housekeeper draped an arm around Annabelle’s slender shoulders and pulled her into a large drawing room. To the far end of the room was a solitary fireplace that served as the only light in the room. Despite the number of large windows and candle sconces affixed to the walls, only the fireplace was lit. A lone tea cart and a modest selection of finger foods were placed on a table near the kettle and a book lay open but upside down on the arm of one of the two high-backed armchairs. “You will have to forgive me, I would have kept the kitchens open should I have known that you were coming. Alas, with the girls having such very strict bedtimes I am afraid that the castle has been rather shut down for a few hours now.”

Annabelle nodded along as if she understood and took the seat across from the housekeeper as she poured some tea. Annabelle accepted the tea happily and cupped the warmth in her hands.

“I’m Mrs. Cecilia Reed, the housekeeper. I’m certain that you surmised as much as the posting implied you would be meeting with me. Mr. Knowles is otherwise occupied, but should you be given the position, you will meet our Steward in the morning. So, what is your name, dear?”

Annabelle’s heart hammered in a moment of panic. She had not bothered to think that far ahead. It seemed very unwise to give her true name, given that she was very much on the run from her family. Furthermore, she had no idea what the woman was speaking about….so a false name might be the best route to take. “E-Emily. Ma’am. Emily Burnett.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Burnett — tell me, do you–”

Whatever the kind housekeeper was about to ask was cut short by the sharp chime of a bell from across the hall. The welcoming smile on Cecilia’s face faltered for only a moment.

“Ah, well — that would be the master of the house then.” She shuffled forward and quickly ran her hands over Annabelle– Emily’s — hair and pushed it into the best semblance of order that she could muster and adjusted the way that her borrowed shawl sat on her shoulders. “Chin up dearie, and do try to maintain eye contact. His Grace prefers to be spoken to in a clear and concise manner. I do not mean to intimidate you, but you seem like a very tough young woman to have walked all of this way by yourself…you will certainly be capable of handling the energy of our two young wards. Go on then, off you go.”

Annabelle perked up, trying to puzzle together what precisely she was throwing herself into, but she did not question the housekeeper further. Reluctant to leave her tea just yet, she drank it entirely too quickly and burned her tongue and throat painfully. At least the warmth was nice. It troubled her to think that whatever position this household was hiring for…the true applicant might show at any moment. She would simply have to play along for tonight and once she had gotten a good night’s rest…she could clarify everything in the morning. It was not as if any decent gentleman would kick out a young woman into the cold, whether she got this mystery position or not.

It felt as if she had somehow walked into a dream and she was merely playing a role.

Anything for a warm bed.

She followed the housekeeper across the hall, then through a cracked doorway, leading to a room unlike the ones before it. Rather than being sparsely decorated and overly formal feeling… this small study was warm and every surface in the room aside from the chairs held books upon books. Small trinkets from far-off lands were placed on top of them and a warm, lingering scent of tobacco and brandy hung in the air. She could have explored every inch of this room for days and been unlikely to discover all of its secrets. The desk was piled high in disorganized heaps of paper and behind it — the Duke of Somerton.

She had heard stories of his stern and bitter features…he was a man rumored to never smile. From her first impressions, she could certainly see why. Despite having summoned the pair of women into the room, he seemed irritated that they were interrupting him with their presence.

“That will be all Mrs. Reed, thank you.” His voice was deep and rich. Soothing, like warm hotcakes covered in butter and syrup on a brisk morning. He did not look up from his work as his quill scratched across the surface of his parchment. “Sit.”

It was not a question, but a command, as he gestured with the end of his quill to one of the armchairs across from him. Unsure of what else to do, Annabelle complied immediately. She chose the seat closest to the fire on the left side of the room. He did not speak, so neither did she. It gave her the unique opportunity to study his features, to really absorb his long aquiline nose and strong jawline. He was broad and well-muscled. That much was apparent even through his formal clothing. His rolled-up sleeves revealed arms, strong and veiny, as thick as her thighs, hinting at the power he possessed. Raven hair hung in soft waves around his face in a length that was certainly longer than was considered fashionable by the other men of the ton. He had small specks of ink on the edges of his sleeves and circles of apparent exhaustion under his eyes. A very serious-seeming gentleman but something about him intrigued her.

“Your Grace, I must thank you for –” she started, and he scratched a line across the parchment that startled her. It was a wonder that the tip of his quill had not scratched clear through to the desk beneath. He lifted his deep brown eyes from under his brow up to her for the first time and she was transfixed. He was an intimidating sort of handsome…but she could hardly blink for her reluctance to tear her eyes from him for a single moment.

He studied her thoroughly. From the crown of her head to where her hands gripped her borrowed shawl and back again…but clearly did not find her wanting. It felt as if he were testing her, silently. Did he do that to every woman that he met?

No wonder some find him unpleasant.

As if he read her mind, he began, “There is no need for pleasantries, my lady, for the hour is late and I would prefer to conclude my business here. As I am certain you have been informed, my household is in dire need of a governess. I have very strict rules that I shall expect to be followed and conditions that I would expect you to adhere to without question should you be hired. The two young ladies in question will require a very firm, steady hand.”

“Your Grace, I—”

“I am not finished,” he clipped. Something flickered behind his eyes. “One of those conditions would be to not interrupt me while I am speaking to you. Is that acceptable to you?”

“…Yes, Your Grace.” She held her breath, waiting for his response.

He nodded once and his focus dropped back to his paper as he spoke. “I have a schedule that will be given to you of the girl’s day-to-day routine and I will not tolerate it being deviated from. Of course you will need to be responsible for both of them which can be troubling for some. They have run through a great many, highly recommended governesses in the past.”

He kept talking, but her attention drifted to the trinkets and tchotchkes that he had around the space as he prattled off his rules and expectations. She had no desire to actually be a governess… so it did not apply to her. Small elephant statues that seemed to be from India, books with titles in languages she could not hope to decipher, elegantly crafted candles, and most intriguingly of all…a pearl necklace on a small stand by the window.

Annabelle’s eyes lit up as a wave of familiarity passed through them at the object in question.

Could it truly be?

Her hand began to drift its way toward it to examine it further on instinct so much so, she had to consciously make an effort to keep it fixed on her lap. The spacing and the ornate clasp alone would have been memorable, but that particular necklace had once belonged to her mother… her real mother… before her tyrannical uncle had ripped apart Annabelle’s entire estate and inheritance for any sum of money that he could get his greedy hands on.

What was her mother’s Necklace doing here? Of all of the places that it could have wound up… how was it here? Annabelle squinted and leaned forward in her seat to see it more clearly, but stopped the moment that the Duke broke off from his words. He turned slowly in his chair to see what it was that she was looking at so very intently.

He glanced back at her, his gaze intense, waiting for her to ask about whatever it was that had so diverted her attention… but she was transfixed. The Duke’s brow rose in curiosity, but he did not call her on it. She could not leave without that necklace. One way or another fate had brought a family heirloom, her only connection to her past back into her life, and if she had to pretend to be a governess in order to get it back, then that was exactly what she was going to do. She would stay a day longer.  

Chapter Two

It was hard to look at the young lady directly. Francis Fitzroy considered himself a man not easily distracted, by nothing and never. A man of unwavering dedication and focus, he prided himself on his ability to excel in any endeavor he undertook. He ran his household with efficiency and a no-nonsense approach.

He was not the sort of man to fill his social calendar with anything that did not need to be there. Outside of networking and communicating with his business contacts, he did not enjoy spending time at balls or entertaining women looking to seduce him into marriage through insipid conversation. He found most people to be painfully tedious. Routine. He was arrogant enough to believe that he could read people and their intentions — he felt that once he spent ten minutes with someone, he could get a decent read on not only their character but what they wanted from him. Everybody always wanted something.

The employment posting that he had placed for a governess some months ago had yielded little fruit. He paid well enough to make it enticing but unfortunately, the subjects were unwilling to be governed. Always underfoot. Always in his way… getting into things… mucking about in places that children ought not to be. Each interview before this one had been the same. The women of various ages and backgrounds had all promised that there was no child too unruly. There was no challenge that they could not face, they welcomed difficult personalities for whatever reason they spouted. They all started conversations by listing their accolades and yet when they were put in front of the children, every single one of them left running.

This young woman, however, appeared absolutely terrified from the get-go.

No, terrified was not the correct word. It was not nerves either. She seemed… flighty. Normally that would not appeal to him but her eyes were affixed so widely that she was very much the deer in the meadow. She could not focus on any one thing for longer than a moment. She shifted in her seat, her gloved fingers nervously toying with the delicate lace of her shawl. While her demeanor and posture implied that she was a lady of good breeding in some fashion or another, he could not get a good read on her.

Which was wholly unacceptable.

Even more unacceptable was the fact that he found her unequivocally handsome. When he found a woman physically pleasing in his opinion, it was ordinarily easily displaced. Yet, he found himself unable to tear his eyes from her. An unfamiliar desire stirred within him, the urge to gather her into his arms and protect her from any harm.

Something about her made him feel the need to comfort her… to offer her a seat closer to the fire and a bedchamber for the night. The hour was late and she had arrived alone, she did not have so much as a bag with her.

A fact that suddenly piqued his curiosity.

If she were arriving to apply for a position, surely she would have been accompanied by a carriage, or at the very least, arrived with belongings, a traveling cloak? Rather, she looked as though she had simply left her house that afternoon and decided to run through the woods for amusement.

As such, he kept rambling with the hopes of getting a reaction out of her. He did not normally enjoy speaking quite so much.

“Do you have much experience with children?”

Her eyes had traveled to somewhere behind him. Curious as to what could have captured her so when nothing else he had said seemed to register, he glanced back. Knick-knacks and various books… nothing overly attention-grabbing, he did not think.

“Hm?” She hummed distractedly as she dragged her focus back to him.

“If you are not willing to take this seriously, then I would rather not waste either of our times,” Francis said sharply.

“Apologies, it has been a very long day, Your Grace. I assure you, I am very serious. I am unmarried and do not have any children, but it has always been a lifelong goal of mine to govern. I am convinced that it is my true calling.”

She held his gaze. Her almond-shaped green eyes locked clearly on his without fear or intimidation, and he was the one who looked away first. She was lying. He could not see why, or for what purpose – but she was lying. Something she had seen in his study had changed her entire demeanor. She sat straighter in her seat, her hands dropped to her lap neatly and stopped their fidgeting. Something had caused her to change her mind and he was desperate to know what it was. A puzzle sat before him, begging to be solved. Never before had he encountered a woman who so thoroughly captivated his interest.

“I see. Did you have experience with younger siblings then, perhaps?”

“No, Your Grace. I was an only child,” she answered plainly.

“The two young girls in question, Lilly and Penny—erm, Lillian and Penelope, have very… strong temperaments. What makes you believe that a woman with no prior experience should be considered for the position?” Francis asked.

Emily smiled. “I hardly think that my experience is what matters most here, Your Grace. Forgive my candor as I do not mean to offend, but it would appear that if you are entertaining interviews at such a late hour, you are rather desperate. I am willing and capable. I assure you, Your Grace, that my determination and commitment will become evident in due course.”

His lip twitched into a smirk in spite of himself. He had said that pleasantries would not be necessary.

“How old are you, Miss Emily?”

“…Old enough,” she stuttered.

“Please do not feel the need to be coy. I understand it is rude to inquire as to a lady’s age but you seem very young, and I fear that the girls might not respect a woman so close to their own age. I cannot tolerate disrespect from them.”

“I am six-and-twenty, Your Grace,” she lied easily. Too easily. He could feel it. Something about the way she hesitated only a second before answering. “But I am flattered that you find me so youthful.”

She was almost too confident. If he was being perfectly honest. She had only been here a handful of moments and yet her entire demeanor shifted a number of times. She wanted something from him and it was not a job. What could it possibly be? What could she have decided that was so important to her since wandering into the room?

Francis set his quill down and pushed aside his work, pointedly clearing the space in front of him. Then, he laced his fingers together on the desk and watched her with open curiosity. She was a very pretty thing, now that he allowed himself the permission to truly look at her. Freckles covered the bridge of her nose and muttered sparsely over her cheeks. A small beauty mark under her right eye and one just to the left of her chin drew focus to her full pink lips. She possessed a slender nose and a dimple in the center of her chin, lending her otherwise heart-shaped face a more angular appearance. Her gown, though modest and of simple cut was undeniably becoming, but he could have provided her with far nicer than that.

It surprised him that he even wanted to — that a thought such as that could even cross his mind.

“Do you have any of your papers with you, perhaps? I suspect that since you arrived in such a… state, you are unlikely to have them.”

“You are correct, Your Grace, I am afraid that I do not.”

“Did you lose them perhaps? I do hope that nothing untoward happened to you on your way here. I could not stomach the notion that something happened to you on my grounds or its surrounding lands,” Francis ventured.

“Oh! No! Nothing like that, Your Grace…”

“So you simply misplaced them before setting out on your journey?” Francis did not pause to wait for an answer that he was fairly certain he could guess at. “Shall I send out a search party for your missing carriage or perhaps, you were simply too excited about the prospect of gainful employment that you frolicked out of your home.”

He watched intently as she shifted in her chair and struggled to come up with some story that might make even the smallest amount of sense, all things considered. He knew that she did not have one, but he had not yet decided on whether or not that bothered him. It was a risk bringing a stranger into this house, he knew that much. However, he did not believe on any level that this woman across from him was a threat.

“Your Grace, I think that you seem to have formed a rather… unsavory impression of me perhaps but…”

There it was, a flicker of honesty. His thumb brushed his bottom lip in contemplation before he held up his hand to stop her from speaking. “It is of no consequence what I think of you, the only opinion that shall matter will be that of my wards.”

She pressed her lips together as if debating what she ought to say next, and settled on nothing at all.

“I suppose that we shall have you meet the girls over breakfast and get to know one another. I will have to make my final assessment then.”

Her eyes widened in delight. “Truly?”

He dipped his chin into a nod. “You stated your name is Emily?”

She fidgeted for a moment and nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“What is your real name?” he asked directly. Discovering her tells would be an intriguing endeavor for the forthcoming future.   

“W-what?”

“Do not be nervous, I do not blame you for lying. Your reasons or past do not concern me. I simply require your true name for legal purposes.”

“My name is Emily Burnett… .as I said.”

“No, it is not.”

Her jaw set firmly and her eyes narrowed. Was that irritation at being caught in her lie or something else entirely? He needed to know.

Francis rose from his seat and slowly walked around the desk until he could lean against the front of it. His knee brushed hers in the process and caused her to flinch in a nervous charm that allured him even more. “You speak the name as if it is foreign to you. As if you need to pause for a moment to recall the name that you have given yourself. I know not why you feel the need to pretend in this fashion, nor do I care. If your uneasiness is due to my proximity or the fact that you are aware that I am on to your ruse, that also does not concern me. What concerns me is that you will do this job the way that I demand it, and uphold my standards. Is that clear?”

She shifted once more, clearly uncomfortable, but did not move to put any additional space between them. Her chin lifted in his direction with an almost defiant air to her. She would not be intimidated by him. That much was obvious.

          Despite his best efforts to behave himself, his gaze involuntarily dropped to her shawl which had slipped from her shoulder, revealing the curves of her pale collarbone and bosom. It sent his pulse frantic and his eyes raised to meet hers. Everything seemed to disappear around them. What he would give to know what she was thinking at this very moment too. It would be no hardship on him whatsoever to see her around the castle for the upcoming days. At least until he could solve the riddle of her true nature and figure out what about her intrigued him so.

          She looked as though a rebuttal lingered on the tip of her tongue but remained silent.  

She was so close that he felt a strong temptation to pull her shawl back into place if only to brush against her body for a fleeting moment. However, the opportunity was denied to them both when his study door burst open with a heavy thud.

Chapter Three

It appeared to Annabelle that even the simplest of conversations could be enthralling to the right eavesdropper. A youthful creature, looking no older than the age of nine, bounded into the room unapologetically and loudly. If she took any notice of the tension in the room between its occupants or the way that the Duke’s shoulders seemed to seize when she ran toward him — she was not deterred.

The long-suffering sigh that Francis heaved was so soft that had Annabelle not been sitting so close to him, she might have missed it entirely. It was evident that this was one of the young girls whom she was to become a governess for, but discerning which one was an impossibility. The young girl did not even pause to acknowledge her. She wrapped her spindly arms around the Duke in a half-hearted hug which was not reciprocated before continuing to skip through the room, not caring in the slightest for the hour or that she was likely in a great amount of trouble.

A few moments later, Mrs. Reed appeared in the doorway, clutching her side as she struggled to catch her breath.

“Apologies, Your Grace… she was faster than I… snuck down the stairs and slid down the banister. It is fortunate that she did not snap her thin little neck! She gave me quite a fright!” Mrs. Reed wheezed.

The muscle in Francis’ jaw twitched with barely concealed irritation.

“I could not sleep, Your Grace!” The girl chimed as she started to skip around the desk. She touched everything within reach. Books and papers pushed out of place, knick-knacks nearly toppled from her careless prodding as she looked for anything that might serve as an excuse to remain in the room longer. “My mind simply would not allow it!”

“Your mind ought to be more occupied with sleeping,” Francis spoke through clenched teeth.

“But it is so full of ideas! Penny and I were reading the most lovely story! It told of a princess who was cursed! Naturally, Penny and I could not decide which one of us ought to be the princess… and which the witch.”

“Heresy,” Francis muttered under his breath. “If such stories prevent you from sleeping, then I shall have them removed.”

“No, you cannot!” The young girl, Lilly, as Annabelle surmised, was positively aghast at the very suggestion that one of her beloved stories might be taken away. “When I grow up, I will be a princess like the one in my stories and then I shall cast a kindness curse on you so that you will buy me every story that I should ever like!”

Lilly stuck her tongue out at the Duke in the most unladylike fashion. Her nostrils flared and the beginnings of a temper tantrum were evident in the way her features pinched together.

Francis took her firmly by the arm and led her toward the chair. He pulled her down into it a touch more roughly than he had meant to and the young girl’s bottom lip jutted out in a pout. Her arms crossed belligerently over her chest and she refused to look at him as he spoke. “You will be lucky that all you lose is that book, young girl, for you have broken yet another one of my rules.”

“Your rules are stupid! Why can I not play!”

Annabelle was honestly a little surprised that she didn’t stomp her foot in irritation too.

Francis seemed at his wit’s end. She could not claim to know him well enough to understand his temper or how badly he might behave if he were incensed, but it was obvious to her that he was exerting a lot of control to maintain his composure. She could not help but wonder just what their relationship was. Lilly looked nothing like him, she clearly was not his daughter — legitimate or otherwise.

“What will your royal name be?” Annabelle interjected. It was a question seemingly out of nowhere but it served the exact purpose that she wished for it to — both parties turned their focus to her curiously. “If you are to be a Princess, you shall need a royal name, as well as a Kingdom.”

“…Well I do not know…”

Annabelle nodded. “I thought not. For if you were serious about being a Princess, then you would know that a Princess could never speak to one of her subjects like that… let alone her King.”

Lilly seemed dumbstruck. Her jaw dropped as she floundered for a response.

“Can you imagine what it would look like to your subjects to see a princess speak to a king in such a way? She ought to apologize. A princess knows that her duty is to her kingdom, first and foremost. Above all things. A good princess is not allowed to simply follow her every impulse.” Annabelle shrugged, then gracefully clasped her hands in her lap. “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting young Penny, but as she is the one in bed and you are not, I suppose that she would be a better choice to be princess.”

Lilly scooted forward, her expression suddenly serious. “No… no, I can be a good princess. I do not wish to be the witch!”

Annabelle nodded sagely. “But your actions have to reflect that, do they not?”

Slowly, Lilly turned her attention to Francis still leaning against the desk. Her smile turned bashful as she looked up at him. Her blinks were slow and her smile was repentant. “I petition the king for a pardon…”

Annabelle tried not to smile. She did not wish to shatter the ruse they had constructed. It all hinged on whether or not a man as strict and by the rulebook as Francis was willing to play along, even for a moment. All he had to do was pretend to pardon her and then Annabelle was fairly confident that she could coax the young girl back up to her bedroom. In the doorway, Mrs. Reed waited silently. She did not appear to be breathing at all.

Francis’ grip on the desk tightened until his knuckles started to turn white. He did not wish to. No doubt he would rather have Lilly pulled from his study and shut back up in her room until she listened to reason. Annabelle wondered if these were the first young children that he had ever come into contact with. How could he have become the guardian of two young girls in the first place? When the moment was right, she very much was looking forward to asking him the story there.

“You are pardoned,” Francis said finally. It seemed like the words physically pained him, but the effect they had on Lilly was instant.

She giggled with excitement and flung her arms around Francis’ middle as her cheek pressed into his sternum. “Oh thank you, king! Thank you! I shall be a good princess! I promise!”

“…Yes, see that you are. You are dismissed,” Francis finished awkwardly as he waited for Lilly to release him. Watching the interaction, she could not help but wonder if there was ever a circumstance in which he allowed himself to relax. Not simply to stop working, but to truly relax. There had to be a different side of him and she desperately wished to see it.

With a graceful flourish, Annabelle rose from her seat and extended her hand to the young girl, the delicate lace shawl slipping from her shoulders to rest upon the velvet chair. Lilly placed her hand in Annabelle’s happily and allowed herself to be pulled toward the door. She seemed a sweet child, but desperate for attention. Clearly, the Duke was reluctant to give it to her. He was likely one of those who felt that children ought to be seen and not heard. But he had played along, so perhaps there was still some hope for him yet.

“Will you be here when I wake up, ma’am?” Lilly asked sweetly as she tucked herself into Annabelle’s side.

Annabelle glanced back over her shoulder for confirmation. She smiled softly. “Yes, dear child, I do believe that I shall be here when you awaken. You shall have to introduce me to your sister. We can spend the day getting to know one another. Perhaps if we are very successful in our tasks, we shall have the time to start planning your princess names.”

“Oh! Yes please!” Lilly grinned happily. “What is your name?”

“You may address me as Miss Emily if it pleases you.”

“Very much so!”

Annabelle passed Lilly off to the housekeeper who held onto Lilly’s hand a touch more firmly than perhaps she needed to. It seemed she was afraid that the young girl would pull free out of her grasp and run back off once more.

Their footsteps receded down the hall, and the soft murmur of their conversation eventually faded from Annabelle’s hearing. The housekeeper was likely putting the young girl back to bed and hopefully accomplishing the task without also waking her sister. If Penny was anything like Lilly, then she was certainly going to have her work cut out for her.

“You seem like a natural.”

Annabelle spun on her heel, taking great care to not allow her gaze to shift back in the direction of the pearl necklace in the window. If she stared at it too much, he was going to catch onto her. “It is simple enough; she seems to be a sweet child.”

“Then you are already doomed to fail if you have been bewitched by her so easily.”

“Charmed is more like it. I am not so easily manipulated, as you will come to learn, Your Grace.”

“It would appear that there are a great many things that I will need to learn about you.”

His tone was suggestive and more than a little ominous. She would not pretend to know what it was that he could mean by that. He was not pressing the issue of her name any longer, but there would only be so long that he allowed her to be here under his employ without any papers or identification. His willingness to suspend disbelief would only carry her so far. She would have to act quickly to regain access to her precious family heirloom as well as learn how it was that he came to have it in the first place – that is if it truly was her mother’s. She would also have to spend some time crafting a more convincing backstory that would be easy enough to remember for the next time he asked her personal questions. She would be prepared then.

“I could say much the same, Your Grace, but as you are intent on hiring me, effective immediately, we will have plenty of time to get to know one another,” Annabelle said playfully. It was a gamble as to whether or not he would find her confidence irritating to him, or charming. She was hoping for the latter.

Francis smiled, more a subtle upturn of the corner of his lip than a full smile, but it still softened his face in the most compelling way. “I suppose that is very true.”

With a bold, yet playful air, she extended her right hand towards him, as if they needed to shake on it in order for their deal to be struck properly. Francis glanced down at her hand and his smile widened fractionally. Instead of shaking her hand, he lifted it between them until he could kiss the back of her gloved knuckles softly. His thumb caressed the delicate ridges of her hand, and he offered her a single, firm nod, his eyes locked on hers the whole time. “I will have you shown to your rooms. I look forward to seeing how long it takes them to shatter your confidence, Miss Burnett.”

“And I look forward to proving you wrong.” She could not stop the smile that spread over her features prettily. She could feel her face warming as he had not let go of her hand, nor had she pulled away from him. The subtle challenge in his eyes made her heart race.

No, it was more than that. It was more than just the way he made her fluster — something felt off. Her brow pinched and she tightened her grip on his hand to keep herself steady. “Apologies, Your Grace, I think that the day is finally catching up with me.”

“Of course, you have endured quite a lot. You are more than entitled to a good rest.” He reached behind him to the desk and lifted the bell that he had used to summon the pair of them earlier. A servant approached the open doorway. “Goodnight, Miss Emily.”

Look out for the Official Release on the 1st of May!

Prologue

“Faster, John!” Christopher Lockhart, the seventh Duke of Blackmoore, called, his head poking through the carriage window.

The driver whipped the horses, and the wheels rolled faster while Christopher removed his gold watch from his waistcoat and opened it to look at the time. He was late to the House of Lords, and he detested tardiness.

The carriage suddenly keeled, and the watch slipped from his hand. Christopher was not afforded the chance to understand what was happening before he lurched from his seat, the force causing the door to whip open as he was thrown out.

He was uncertain which part of him hit the ground first, but the pain was enough to momentarily rob him of consciousness.

Pained moans woke him, and as he tried to open his eyes, agony slashed through his skull, causing him to grind his teeth. He waited for a moment before he made another attempt at opening his eyes, registering the moan.

“H-help,” a voice cried, and for an instant, Christopher thought it was his. He was in need of help, too, but he forced his eyes to open, and he took in his surroundings.

The skies were dark with gray clouds obscuring the setting sun, while tiny droplets of rain fell. He could not recall when it started raining. The cry came again, and he discovered that it sounded near and from his left.

Turning his head with great effort, he saw someone in the distance, his driver, John, and he seemed to be underneath Christopher’s carriage. Rolling onto his chest, Christopher began crawling in the mud toward him whilst ignoring the pain in his skull and eye.

He could barely breathe by the time he reached the turned-over carriage, and his vision was darkening. Blinking, Christopher focused and found the man beneath the carriage was not John but someone else, and he did not appear to be breathing.

Suddenly, he gasped and took hold of Christopher’s arm, his eyes opening wide. “F-find…” He was too wounded to speak, and Christopher raised his head against the whooshing wind to seek help, but the stranger attempted to speak again. “Find… Leah… please…”

The man’s grip on his arm slackened, his hand fell, and his eyes closed. Christopher tugged his shoulder, receiving no response. At that same moment, his head throbbed with more ferocity, and his surroundings undulated. Unable to remain on his knees, he slumped to the ground as he lost his vision, and subsequently, his consciousness.

***

The first thing Christopher saw when he opened his eyes was the familiar oak roof of his four-poster bed. His head still ached, although not as severely as before, and his body felt as though he had run for miles.

“Thank goodness!” came a voice, followed by a warm hand touching his. Christopher glanced to his left to see his uncle, Lord Wyatt Lockhart, looking at him with concerned eyes. “Blackmoore, can you hear me?” he asked, coming to sit beside him on the bed.

“Y-yes,” he responded, his voice strange and hoarse. He recalled the carriage crashing and being thrown out, then the injured man who needed help. “Where is he?”

Wyatt frowned. “Where is who, Blackmoore?”

Christopher tried to sit up but his uncle placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not yet. You have struggled to regain consciousness for five days.” He raised his head and gave someone in the room instructions to summon the physician before returning his attention to Christopher. “How do you feel?”

“I thought I had died,” he replied, drawing a smile from Wyatt.

“I am very happy you are awake, Blackmoore. We…” He released a shaky breath. “You gave us quite the fright.”

Christopher felt tightness around his face and curious, he touched it. The entire right side of his face was covered with a bandage, and he realized at that instant that his vision was coming from the left. He cleared his rasped throat and spoke again. “There was a man in the accident. Where is he?”

His uncle frowned again. “I do not recall Duncan mentioning anyone else involved in the accident.” He placed a gentle hand on Christopher’s shoulder, his eyes filled with concern. “I am sorry you are going through this pain, my dear nephew. Please, rest.”

“No!” The man had been beneath a carriage. Christopher had to know where he was, if he was alive. “What about John?”

Wyatt’s face tightened. “A boy saw what happened, and ran to the manor to inform Duncan. You were brought back and the only other person at the scene was John.”

“Are you saying that there was no man under the turned carriage?” Christopher asked, perplexed. He was certain he had seen the man who told him to find someone. There was a name. Leah. Or had he imagined it? Pain tended to bend the mind such that one could see and hear what was not there.

“Not according to Duncan,” Wyatt replied.

If Christopher had truly seen the man, then perhaps he had managed to free himself or someone had rescued him. Duncan was his butler, and he had served Blackmoore for fifteen years; he had never given anyone cause to doubt him in all that time. Christopher had to believe. Nodding, he closed his eye and leaned back, the pain in his head burgeoning.

An hour later, the physician arrived and when he untied the bandage around his head, Christopher demanded to see the extent of his injury. “I would advise against it, Your Grace,” the physician cautioned.

“I have to see it,” he insisted gruffly. The physician and Wyatt exchanged a look before his uncle nodded in encouragement.

A mirror was brought and Christopher’s heart pounded as it was raised to reveal his reflection. The skin on his right cheek had been completely abraded, and his eye was swollen shut. An angry cut that had been stitched ran from his brow bone down to his ear. The whole sight was not only alarming but difficult to look at.

“Your Grace…” the physician began but hesitated.

“What is it?”

“The injury to your eye was severe, and…there is a chance that…you may not regain your vision.”

I am blind? He looked in the mirror again, seeing for the first time that the eye he thought was swollen shut had actually been operated on. God!

If his wounds were this gruesome, he could not imagine what John was enduring. “What of John?” he asked, his gut tightening painfully.

His uncle’s expression fell. “John has passed on,” he said quietly.

Christopher recalled telling the coachman to drive faster. Dear God! This was all his fault. He had killed a man and disfigured himself! Rage and despair burned in his chest. What had he done. His existence had been altered beyond anything he ever imagined.

How was he to live on with this manner of guilt…

Chapter One

Eight years later

“Please, Amelia, I need you there,” Lucy begged for the sixth time that evening.

Lady Amelia Harrison, daughter of the late Earl of Folkstone, sighed as she watched her cousin, Lucy Harrison, dress for the Blackmoore ball. It was the grandest social event in Society which naturally made its invitations the most coveted.

Lucy had just come out, and attending such an event fluttered her nerves. “You have Aunt Susanna with you, Lucy,” Amelia said softly. “You shan’t miss me. You do not need me.”

“Mama will make me dance with gentlemen I am barely acquainted with,” her cousin grumbled. “Only you can make tonight bearable. We do not want me to cast up my accounts over someone’s feet, do we?”

Amelia chuckled at that. “No, we do not, Lucy.” She was not allowed to attend any society events. Since the death of her parents, her brother’s silence, and her aunt, uncle, and cousin leaving their home in Gloucestershire to live with her in Folkstone Manor nineteen miles from Westminster, she had little to no interaction with the beau monde.

Every day was the same. She stayed in Folkstone Manor and occupied herself with chores, ones given to her by her aunt and uncle. In fact, they had dismissed most of the servants, for they felt there was no need to waste money on them when they had her to earn her keep. In their defense, they fed her, clothed her, and never harmed her physically. She ought to be grateful; bow her head anytime she saw them and speak of what she endured to no one.

Now she raised the dress she was mending to show Lucy. It was Susanna’s and she had demanded to have it finished before morning. “I have much to do.”

“You can mend the dress at a later time. Please dress and come to the ball with us,” Lucy implored, her large blue eyes earnest. Lucy was a good girl but she tended to be oblivious to many things. She assumed Amelia was fond of sewing and helping around the manor because her parents did not have much money. She was entirely unaware of the cruelty Amelia endured.

Despite all of this, Amelia hoped and waited for a letter from her brother, Ralph, who was now the Earl of Folkstone. As a military colonel, he had obligations abroad, but he had promised to return for her, and he had never broken a promise. While she waited, she did all she could to keep her aunt and uncle happy so they would not toss her out on her ear.

The last time she received a missive from him was two years ago, and it had looked like Ralph had written in haste. She worried about him every day, but she pushed all negative thoughts from her mind to be strong for him and herself. She knew how much he loved and cared for her, and it was certainly enough to one day reunite their family.

“I cannot, Lucy,” Amelia sighed. “I do not want to. You know how nervous I am around people,” she added. This was what she had made her cousin believe. Lucy, bless her heart, was eighteen and not very bright, thus, it was easy for Amelia to make her believe anything. The girl was good to her, and she loved her parents more than anything in the world. There was no reason for her to know and have the perfect image she had of Charles and Susanna Harrison ruined.

“Very well. I shall have mother convince you then,” Lucy stood from the seat at her vanity and walked out of the bedchamber. Amelia played the role of a lady’s maid, but her cousin had insisted on dressing herself tonight. This gave Amelia the chance to continue mending her aunt’s dress, which was large and heavy.

Lucy returned after a moment with Susanna. She looked at Amelia and frowned. “What are you still doing here?” she asked. “Go to your bedchamber and dress quickly. We have a ball to attend, and we are already late!”

Amelia blinked at her. Just that morning, the woman had told her that she was not to attend this ball, and now it seemed she had changed her mind. “But your dress—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, child!” Susanna rolled her eyes, planting her hand on her plump hips. “My dress is not important. Henry will be in attendance! Go, dress well!”

Amelia put the dress down and walked toward the door. Henry Terrell was a cousin whom Susanna wanted Amelia to marry. He was supposedly wealthy, but she knew he wanted her for her dowry, and he was neither kind nor charming or handsome. She was miserable living with her aunt and uncle, but she would rather remain in such a situation than to marry a man she did not want. 

“We will be waiting in the foyer, Amelia,” Lucy called after her, and Amelia turned to respond with a slight smile.

Lucy was a darling to her parents and got everything she wanted, but Amelia had to admit that she was quite surprised she was permitted to go to the ball tonight upon her request. It had never been granted before. Henry always attended Society events but it, too, had never been a reason for her to be allowed.

“I shan’t have you interfering with my dear Lucy’s prospects,” her aunt had said to her at the start of the season. “You will stay in the manor and pretend you are not fond of people and ton events.

This is a new turning point, Amelia thought with a small smile as she hurried to ready herself. She wore the pale purple velvet dress she had hidden for an occasion such as this; when she got the chance to seek a husband herself. She twisted her curly brown hair into a rough coiffure and picked up her worn beaded leather reticule.

When she reached the foyer, Lucy had a wide grin on her face. “You look splendid, Cousin!”

Amelia smiled at her, ignoring the glares she received from her aunt and uncle. Lucy looped her arm through hers, predictably oblivious to the animosity around her. They climbed the carriage and made their way to Harleston Hall, which was only nine miles away.

“Do you think the Duke will make an appearance tonight?” Lucy threw the question into the silence of the carriage.

The Duke of Blackmoore’s ball was an annual event, but each year, Society made merry without a host. It had been that way for as long as Amelia could remember. People spoke of the Duke with great interest, yet no one had seen him in more than seven years. She first heard about him two years ago when she debuted.

“Blackmoore has not shown his face in Society in years. I doubt that will change tonight, my dear,” Charles answered. “But I am certain he will wish he had when he lays his eyes on my handsome daughter,” he added with a satiating grin.

“A beast in the shadows will never set foot into the light, Lucy,” Susanna supported with a haughty flick of her pale blue satin fan.

The rumor carried about by the ton was that the Duke was a deformed beast. A fire had nearly consumed him in his home in Cumberland, which resulted in his becoming reclusive. Many believed that he was still in Cumberland but hosted the ball every season to maintain his relevance in Society. It was plausible.

“But you should not worry about the Duke. This night is for you,” Charles said to his daughter. “I want you to have a grand time and capture the attention of good gentlemen.”

Amelia sucked in her lips and turned to look out the window, suddenly afraid she would betray her thoughts if she looked at her aunt or uncle. She was going to do what Charles was advising Lucy to do, and she hoped to find a good man willing to marry her. Heavens knew what they would do to her if they discovered her plan.

“You!” Susanna tugged at Amelia’s skirt while Lucy and her father conversed, her voice low enough for only Amelia to hear. “You best stay away from her. Mind your business and manners and do good to not make yourself known. Or it will be the last time I make such a concession.”

“Yes, Auntie,” she replied respectfully.

They arrived an hour later, and Amelia’s breath was stolen from her lungs the instant she alighted the carriage and beheld the grand manor before her. It was a splendid edifice that stood proudly and welcomed people of all manner of consequence. The walls were lined with sconces that shone brightly. The well-tended lawn stretched around them and beyond with torches illuminating pathways that led down several courses.

She held her breath when they entered the foyer, immediately finding that what she had seen outside was nothing when compared to what lay within. The hexagonal foyer had four Roman-style arches, each a way to a different part of the manor, and a fountain stood at the center with a marble Cupid taking flight. It was one of the most beautiful sculptures she had ever seen.

“Do come on!” Susanna pulled her arm, and Amelia was forced to follow her through the leftmost archway. They walked down a short hallway to a resplendent ballroom. Folkstone Manor had fallen into disrepair after her parent’s death nine years ago, and even if it had not, it could never stand beside Harleston Hall.

Amelia grew more curious about the Duke as they waded through the crowd. The ballroom was full with barely any room to move freely, and still the guests continued to arrive; they spilled into gardens and balconies through open glass doors. Susanna immediately found gentlemen for Lucy to dance with, and her card was filled. With her family’s attention away from her, she slipped away and found a refreshment table near one of the garden doors. She could breathe better there and also quench her thirst.

As she picked up a glass of punch and raised it to her lips, she heard a group of ladies talking two feet away from her. When she heard the name Blackmoore, she turned her head very slightly and listened.

“We do not even know what our host looks like,” a matron complained, moving her fan quickly to cool herself. It was early spring but the ballroom felt like a hot summer day. “If that is not grave disrespect, I do not know what is. He has left us alone like some animals,” she continued.

“Even animals are checked upon once in a while,” someone agreed.

“Do you think Blackmoore would ever marry?” another smaller voice asked, her voice shrilly with anticipation. “I should like to give him my dear Pamela. How she would love to marry a duke!”

“If your daughter would not mind being married to a shadow, do not let us dissuade you,” the first matron snickered to giggles from the other ladies gathered about them.

“Do you know what they say?” The ladies all leaned closer to the speaker, and Amelia discovered herself doing the same from where she stood. She was more curious about the Duke than before. “They say that there is no Duke at all. That the Blackmoore ball is all a sick spectacle to play on Society’s fancy; make us all believe that the Duke exists.”

Amelia frowned, perplexed about what she had just heard. She had read in Debrett’s Peerage that the Duke’s uncle, Lord Wyatt Lockhart was next in line for the duchy should the present duke pass on without an heir. Should Lord Wyatt not be the duke now if the other did not exist?

“A phantom Duke? That is ridiculous!” someone challenged. “The Blackmoore title is still with the Lockharts, and Lord Wyatt maintains his rank as the second son of a duke.”

“I heard the accident left him so deformed, he is wasting away in bed,” another lady put in forebodingly.

“What accident? I heard it was a fire in Cumberland.”

“I heard he has no face. A devil. His eyes were burned away, and he is crippled.” Gasps sounded at that, and Amelia’s frown deepened.

Surely, not all of what they were saying was true. Whatever it was, this was the most entertainment she’d had in a while.

Her eyes drifted across the room and up, past the resplendent chandelier to what looked like an opera theater box. Black curtains concealed what was within, and her heart beat in wonder. What a splendid view of the entire ballroom it could hold. Yet it seemed unoccupied and she wondered as to what its true purpose was. She saw three more such boxes, two on each of the largest ballroom walls, all with dark curtains, and she wondered if there was a way for her to reach them. She remembered exploring caves with Ralph by the sea in Dorset…

The excitement that was growing in Amelia’s chest vanished the instant she lowered her gaze and met Henry’s. He half smiled and half sneered, coming toward her, his dark eyes gleaming with lechery and ill intentions.

Her stomach clenched with disgust and she turned, moving along the wall, aware of his eyes on her. She found a way out of the ballroom and as soon as she was in the hallway, she began hastening without knowing or caring where she was going.

Chapter Two

Amelia heard Henry running behind her, and every part of her body screamed for her to move faster, flee from him. Being found alone with him could mean ruin that would certainly trap her in marriage.

She knew this because he had once found her in the drawing room of Folkstone Manor and attempted to kiss her. That was not what had been harmful, however, it was the manner in which he held her. His hands had gripped her wrists tightly, and he would have done more had Lucy not walked into the room and asked what was happening.

Of course, Henry had lied that Amelia was injured and he was inspecting the wound. Unfortunately, Lucy believed him as she was wont to trust and believe those who lied to her.

She turned a corner and ran down a dimly lit hallway, hoping there would be a place for her to find some respite and possibly escape her pursuer. Amelia’s alarm grew when she saw him quickly closing the distance between them, and realized it would have been safer had she just stayed and conversed with him in the ballroom in front of people. She opened the first door she found, running inside and pushing it.

He pushed on the other side, and feeling he would overpower her soon, she released the door and he stumbled in, falling. Not waiting to see him regain his feet, she moved further into the room, her eyes searching the dark. A fear of the darkness she had bred over the last few years reignited but she pressed it down with the fear of what would happen if Henry got a hold of her.

“Now, now, is that a way to treat your soon-to-be betrothed, darling Amelia?” a voice breached the darkness.

An archway across from her caught her attention, and feeling a burst of energy, she ran forward. Still, Henry followed, calling behind her, “Why prolong the inevitable? Your aunt and uncle have already agreed to the terms!”

The archway led into a very narrow hall, then stairs that spiraled up. Amelia paused at the foot and briefly contemplated climbing the stairs. She could be trapped, but she could also find a door to close. Bunching her skirts in her hands, she ascended, glancing once behind her to see Henry pause to catch his breath. He was very slender, and she suspected that he rarely engaged in activities that strained his body.

She reached the top of the stairs and heard music from the ballroom, and to her dismay, there was no door to keep Henry away from her. Then Amelia understood where she was. This room led to one of the boxes she had seen earlier, and the dark curtains and furnishings confirmed it. Fire burned in a small hearth, and the smell of cheroot and liquor filled the room.

“Did you truly think you could run away from me?” Henry groaned, sending chills through her. There was no other place to run to, except through the curtains, which would expose her to the guests. “I believe my betrothed owes me a dance,” he panted, taking a careful step in her direction. She backed into the wall on her left, wishing it could magically open and reveal a door to her.

“We are not betrothed, Mr. Terrell,” she ground out through the fear coiling its dark tentacles around her.

“Why must you fight it, Amelia? You will be mine either way.” He took another slow step, which she further retreated from, her gaze seeking something with which to deter his advance.

“Never!” she countered, but she did not feel very confident.

“How about this, Amelia. Why don’t we simply abandon the ball and have our own merry moment right here?” he laughed. “There are no prying eyes, and I promise to treat you well.” His dark eyes glinted on the last sentence.

He was not going to treat her well, for he was determined to ruin her. When her back touched the wall, she darted sideways, but he jumped in front of her, blocking her path with his body. “Perhaps you continue to reject me because I ask you politely.” He grasped her wrists, sending her into a familiar horror she had escaped before but with little hope of recurrence now. “You will be mine, Amelia. Even if I must resort to scandal to make that happen,” he swore, hitting her across the face. Her head whipped to the side and her cheeks stung.

Rage fueled her will to fight, and she kicked and screamed with every cell in her body. Yelling would expose her to scandal, but something far worse could happen if she remained quiet.

“Let go of me, Henry!” she said in a shaky voice. He struck her again before pinning her to the wall. He was surprisingly strong for someone this slender. Panic wrung the air from her lungs, and her eyes burned with tears.

The door crashed open suddenly, and she kicked Henry’s shin harder to show everyone that she was not at fault, that he was the villain here. Instead of finding the ball guests, Amelia heard a man’s angry growl and a curse before Henry was forcibly pulled away from her. She dashed away and hid behind a chair, trembling. 

Then she saw a dark-haired man wearing a black mask with a firm hand fixed on the neck of Henry. She gasped. The Phantom Duke?

Releasing Soon on the 29th of March!

Chapter One

 

“I wish you would stay for a drink, if not for dinner,” Elliot protested.

Wilson shook his head, swiftly downing the last of his brandy and standing, picking up his hat from the table beside his chair. Elliot stood, a look of consternation on his round, blue-eyed face. Around them, the room bore a discreet hushed hubbub of quiet conversation. The fire crackled and the air hung heavy with cigar smoke. A number of gray-haired and be-whiskered gentlemen enjoyed one of the quieter rooms of the Shilling Club, one of London’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs.

“I have business to attend to,” Wilson replied with typical brusqueness.

“I just don’t think that, at this time of year, it’s wise for a man to be alone. Why not enjoy the company of friends in the Shilling Club until the light at the end of the tunnel is reached?” Elliot said with typical loquaciousness.

Wilson pushed a mane of jet-black hair back from his eyes. It fell to his shoulders in an unruly mass. A trimmed beard of the same color gave Wilson Fitzroy a distinctive appearance. Strangers often mistook him for an Eastern prince, possibly of Russian or Bulgarian descent. High, slanted cheekbones completed the appearance of an exotic foreigner. Cold, blue eyes meanwhile, hinted at the Danish blood present deep in his ancestry. He put the top hat on his head and buttoned his overcoat.

“There is no light at the end of this tunnel, Elliot. The past cannot be changed. And my business cannot wait on my…mood,” Wilson replied.

Elliot threw up his hands. “Will no-one aid me in persuading our erstwhile colleague not to stray from the warm bosom of the Shilling, particularly on such a night?”

The beginnings of a huzzah went up around the room, Elliot was a past master as a rabble-rouser of the gentlemen of the Shilling. As Wilson glared about the room, the abortive revelry died away. Wilson Fitzroy’s temper was feared more than the desire to be roused into rounds of drinks. The assembled gentlemen returned to their conversations about stocks or their perusal of the Times. Elliot’s shoulders slumped.

“You have them too cowed to raise a cheer, it seems.”

“They respect a man’s desire to keep his troubles to himself,” Wilson replied.

“Well, I tried. In my sister’s memory.”

Only those who knew Wilson Fitzroy well would have known that the slight twitch in his face at that point was a reflection of a storm of emotion held in check beneath the surface. And there had never been many of them in the world. Five years ago that number had reduced by one. Elliot was not among that number, trusted friend though he was. He put out his hand, slinging back the last of his brandy with the other as he did.

“Well, if I cannot persuade you to join me in broaching a rather splendid cask of port I had donated from my own cellars, I will say good night to you. I will be here should you change your mind.”

Wilson took the offered hand and shook it firmly.

You will be here in body but your spirit will be addled past the point of comprehension. For the best, today is not a day to be reminded of Amelia and, I’m afraid, you are just that, old friend—a reminder. Best that I am alone. I am fit for no company tonight.

He took his leave, striding through the rooms of the Shilling Club and out onto the street. A cab was waiting, the Shilling staff ensuring a cab was hailed in time for his stepping out of the door. Rain pelted him but he was barely aware of it. He stepped into the cab and gave his destination in a clipped tone. There was another reason for his aversion to company this evening. While it was true that he had business to conclude, that could be done at any time. He had arranged the meeting for this time and date to ensure his mind was fully occupied.

But, there was another appointment to be concluded. One that had to be completed alone. The city passed by unseen. The rain was washing the streets clean of people, only the most desperate remained out, lacking anywhere else to go. Warm, golden light spilled through the curtain of water from windows. Then, as they left the old city walls behind and headed north, the lighted windows became further apart. The country began to peek out between buildings until the city finally relinquished its hold and they were passing along a road lined with trees. The fields beyond were black absences.

A modest church loomed out of the night. Wilson knew that he was in the vicinity of Finsbury Fields, the city a dark presence in the night to the south, the naked countryside an even darker presence to the north. A priest stood on the porch of the church, shivering, and holding a lantern. Wilson swallowed, licking his lips as the carriage drew to a halt by the gate leading to the path through the church yard.

Four times I have been here. Four anniversaries and never have I gotten beyond the church to the graveside.

He opened the door and stepped down, gritting his teeth as he strode along the path toward the church. The priest, accustomed after four years to his duty, turned and began to lead the way around the building and into the churchyard. Wilson followed and memories rose, unbidden. A heart-shaped face with laughing eyes. A voice made for song and joy. A spirit beloved by all who met her. Amelia.

Wilson saw the bobbing lantern carried by the priest disappear as the path ran beneath the bows of two ash trees. Gravel crunched beneath Wilson’s feet as he neared the trees, beyond which lay Amelia, in a resting place he had never set eyes on. His heart raced and his jaw tightened against the outpouring of despairing grief that squeezed his soul. His step faltered and then stopped before he came within the reach of the ash boughs. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat. His cheeks were wet, but not from the rain.

I can’t do it. I can’t look upon her grave. I can’t face it. I’m sorry, my love. It is my fault you are here and I do not have the courage to face you.

The priest had reappeared, realizing that the man who paid handsomely every year for the churchyard to be opened for him late at night, was not following. The man stood beneath the trees, holding the lantern aloft. Wilson turned and all but ran back to the carriage.

“Queen Square,” he barked at the driver, then slammed the blind shut on the window of the door.

The carriage clattered away, returning to the city. Wilson bared his teeth in a silent snarl against the pain that tore at him. By the time his second destination was reached, he had regained control. The rain had worsened as Wilson stepped out onto Guildford Street. He looked across a terrace of tall buildings which faced south into the square and cursed. The rain rendered visibility poor and he could not clearly see the numbers on each building’s front door. His objective was number eleven, but it was unclear which way along the street that particular house lay, east or west.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to wander up and down this benighted street like a lost soul peering at front doors. I will knock at the nearest and obtain precise directions.

Feeling aggrieved by his own earlier weakness, he took the steps of the nearest house two at a time. There was no number on the front door, which was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. Growling with impatience, he lifted the tarnished brass door knocker and rapped sharply.

Chapter Two

 

Vanessa’s hand shook as she drained the brandy from her glass. She coughed as the searing liquid coursed down her throat. Strong liquor was not something she was used to, but tonight she sought courage.

What am I doing? This is sheer madness. This is not how decent people behave!

She put the glass down but, her senses momentarily dizzied by the drink, she missed the edge and the glass hit the floor. It missed the room’s single rug and shattered on the hard wooden boards beyond it. Vanessa cried out and jumped back, then stopped and laughed aloud. Perhaps the previous swallow of brandy that she had imbibed was starting to work on her but her predicament suddenly seemed ridiculous.

I am a grown woman and here I am behaving like a nervous debutante. Five years a Londoner, fending for myself and paying my own way. And rendered as nervous as a kitten by something as simple as a man. And not just any man but one whose sole talent is for…

She flushed at the thought. Madame Harriet had promised that the young man would be strong, handsome, experienced, and skillful.

It is a perfectly natural act and having my company arranged for me is not so different from the arranged marriages that still take place between royals.

But rational thoughts such as those couldn’t take the flush from her cheeks, nor from her chest, exposed down to the slopes of her breasts by the low-cut dress. It clung to her hips and thighs, as sheer as a negligee. It excited her in its blatant sensuality as much as it frightened her. Whenever she caught sight of herself in the mirror, it was a reminder of what she had tonight decided to do.

Vanessa Gale was about to turn thirty. She was unmarried, never having ever come close to achieving that state. And, to use the parlance of the romantic novels of Walter Scott that she so loved, was still a maiden. Turning away from the broken glass, she left the room, closing the door behind her and crossing the hallway to the smaller sitting room. It was dark and cold, the drawing room having been made cozy for her night of pleasure. The night when she would lose her maidenhead. But, with broken glass across the floor, she could not bring her gentleman caller into that room.

I will answer the door and we will simply retire to…my…bedchamber.

She brushed wayward locks of brown hair away from her temple with straightened fingers, accompanied by a brief shake of the head. It was an unconscious gesture that emerged when she was nervous. Sitting on the edge of an armchair, her fingers nervously beat a tattoo on her knee. In the drawing room, the ticking of the clock on the mantel was muffled by the door but still audible. So too would the chimes be.

It is perhaps well that he enters the house in the dark and we go upstairs directly. The drawing room is modestly appointed but my furniture is past its best and it would surely be obvious to a gentleman employed by Madame Harriet.

Harriet had rooms overlooking Hyde Park, gloriously appointed. She herself had the most extraordinary gold hair which she wore high above her head, revealing a swan-like neck. The dress she wore was expensive and covered her to the chin, but Vanessa had detected the lascivious glint in the woman’s eye as she had boldly asked questions that had made Vanessa’s cheeks turn scarlet. All done in order to provide Vanessa with a young man who was perfectly suited to her wants and needs.

Leaving Madame Harriet’s rooms, Vanessa had felt excited and ashamed in equal parts. She had been assured that this was common for gentlefolk and should occasion no embarrassment. To know that there were many women of rank making use of the services provided by Madame Harriet did nothing to reassure Vanessa. She felt she was entering a world that was far from her safe existence of libraries and museums.

I may have no choice but to face my thirtieth year as a lonely old spinster. But I will know the touch of a man at least. I will experience the joy of being made love to. I will be content with that.

She shot to her feet at the sharp rap at the door. So lost in thought had she been that no sound of footsteps upon the stone steps leading to the front door had reached her. For a moment she stood there in the darkness, heart hammering and breath coming quick and shallow. The rap came again, forceful and impatient. Hands trembling, Vanessa moved into the hallway, facing the front door. Reaching for the bolt at the top of the door, she slid it aside, then undid the chain and finally turned the key and grasped the door handle.

The door opened onto a raging night. An errant gust of wind plastered her dress against her, revealing shapely legs and tugging the neck an inch lower to the tops of her ample breasts. A man stood there as expected. Protected from the rain by the stone porch that jutted above the front door, he had removed his hat. A flowing mane of dark hair framed a hard, angular face with pale, penetrating eyes.

He looks like a foreign prince. Exotic, dangerous, and proud. Oh, Madame Harriet, you really have found the man of my most scandalous dreams!

The man’s eyes widened and tracked down Vanessa’s body. She resisted the urge to cover her exposed chest with her hands. One hand remained on the door. The other reached for her man, taking his hand. She stepped back, her semi-nakedness covered by the shadows within the house. The man stepped towards her. Vanessa pushed the door closed and didn’t wait to hear it click shut. She closed her eyes and moved forward, head raised and lips poised for a kiss.

First she felt his lips against hers. Hard and unyielding, pressing her lips back harshly. She gasped as strong arms went about her, pulling her against a body as rigid as a statue. She held her hands away from him, unsure what to do. Then, driven by a deep instinct, she let them fall to his shoulders, then down his arms. Vanessa let out a moan as she felt the corded muscles beneath the fabric of his clothes. They felt strong enough to rip through, the cloth too thin a barrier to contain such power.

A questing hand found her buttocks and squeezed, making her gasp. A darting tongue tasted her mouth and she boldly followed its example. Lust gave her confidence. She wound her fingers into that magnificent fall of dark hair, pulling his head against hers as she relished the taste of him. His teeth pulled at her bottom lip, biting down and making her squirm. But she fought back, breaking away from the kiss to bite at his neck.

The dress that Madame Harriet had helped her to pick out was inspired by the image of the seductive, female vampire. A creature of insatiable hunger who enslaved male victims with her sensuous powers. Now, she embraced the fantasized role that Harriet’s probing questioning had revealed to her.

I am a seductress. Men are powerless to resist me. But, I can be conquered. Must be dominated and forced to yield even as I enslave my lover with the delights of my flesh. Oh my!

Vanessa felt the terrifying pressure against her loins. It frightened her with its size and hardness even as it sent shockwaves of pleasure around her body. Reason was fleeing her. All that remained was passion and desire and pleasure. The wall thudded into her. Both the man’s hands were about her buttocks now, lifting her off her feet. Vanessa was deposited on a table and her skirts pulled upward to her knees. She felt a moment of blinding clarity, breaking through the desire the stranger had engendered in her.

“What am I doing?” she whispered.

She pushed hard against him and he stepped away from her, hands raised in front of him. There was a look of shock on his face. Vanessa gasped, breathing hard. She wore neither stockings nor petticoat beneath the outrageous dress. The skirt had been lifted to reveal her milky skin and the first hint of her inner thigh. Now she pulled it down hastily.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered.

“No. I am. I think I have made a mistake. Forgive me,” Vanessa said.

The man frowned, looking confused.

“I do not know what came over me. This is not something I would normally do.”

Vanessa wanted to pull him back up against her. But, she was having second thoughts. A war was being fought between her desire and her common sense. And while she hesitated, the man who had been paid to make love to her looked more confused and backed towards the door.

“Wait!” Vanessa said.

But he was shaking his head and opening the door. Vanessa had a brief moment to cover herself before the door was opened to the street. Then he was gone.

What a fool I have been. To give money that I cannot afford for a man to take my virginity and then to hesitate and drive him away.

She raced for the stairs, stumbled, and fell heavily to her hands and knees before recovering her balance and scrambling to her bedroom. Throwing herself onto her bed, she dissolved into a fit of sobbing. Outside, the rain hammered down. Vanessa heard the second knock at her door but did not move. It was repeated twice and then no more.

 

Chapter Three

 

Once again, the brandy burned its way down Vanessa’s throat. She sat on the edge of her bed. The room was warm, the fire stoked in preparation for her visitor and the time she had expected to spend with him. She laughed, the drink soothing some of the hurt and shame she had felt earlier.

Oh, what a mess. A man comes to my door and puts his hands on my body. I have paid for him to do it. And I have felt the body of a man and he has felt me. I have tasted him!

Her feet were cold against the bare boards of the floor. In front of the fire, she had dragged the large tin bathtub from the adjoining room and filled it with water heated on the kitchen stove. Now, she put the glass aside and walked towards it. The dress was easily discarded, slipping from her to the floor with a whisper. Looking to the side, she saw herself in the full-length dressing mirror.

I think my body is not unattractive. I am not plump but neither am I thin. The curves that a woman should have are present. Ample breasts and a well-proportioned rump. Men value such things, do they not?

She laughed again. The truth was that her knowledge of what a man would consider attractive came from the romantic fiction that she read to warm herself when her supply of firewood ran out. The steaming bath was a luxury she could ill afford but she felt the need to comfort herself. The evening had been a disaster.

But I have now experienced the touch of a man.

That thought made her breath catch. She ran her hands over her stomach and then out over the curve of her hips. He had touched her there. There were tender spots where his fingers had gripped her like iron.

Will I bruise? Oh my, will I look into a mirror and see the marks that he has left upon my body? Like a mark of ownership.

She stepped into the bath and slid slowly beneath the water. It occurred to her to wonder who this man had actually been. His looks had been so distinctive, she knew he was no-one she had ever met. There had been nobility in his features and money in his fine clothes. A rough strength had been evidenced by a steely look in his eyes.

He seemed unprepared for my rejection of him. Understandable really. A man like that cannot be accustomed to being pushed away.

Her eyes closed as the hot water undid the knots of tension in her muscles. Knots that had tied themselves tightly after the drama earlier in the evening. The steam dampened her face and the warmth of the fire enveloped the parts of her not covered by the water. Sleep gently swept over her.

 

***

 

She awoke with a start to the knock at the door. Sitting up in her bed, blankets falling away from her naked body, she wondered if the sound had come to her in a dream. The knock came again, harsh and insistent. Then the sound of splintering wood. Of a door crashing back against the wall and heavy, booted footsteps. Vanessa clutched the bedclothes about herself as she heard those footsteps climbing the stairs. Her breath came in rapid gasps and her heart beat a mark against her chest.

The door to her room opened, pushed inwards to bang against the wall. A man strode in. He had a mane of dark hair, framing an angular face with a dark beard. His eyes were bright blue, pale, and icy.

“I should not have left. I will take now what was offered earlier,” he said.

His voice was thick with the accent of a distant, foreign land. Vanessa did not recognize it but even without words, his intent was clear. He discarded a heavy overcoat. Beneath he wore a shirt, already unlaced to reveal dark hair across a broad chest.

“Remove the bedclothes,” he commanded.

Vanessa smiled as her eyes moved down his body, seeing the sign of his desire in the bulge pressing against the fabric of his breeches. She wondered if he would remove them along with his boots, or whether his lust would demand she be taken before he had even finished undressing. The idea made her body tingle and her cheeks flame. She let the bedclothes fall away from her breasts but held them around her waist.

“Does this please you?” she whispered.

His pale eyes had widened and he stepped closer, tugging his shirt out of his breeches, and pulling it over his head. The shirt was tossed aside, pulling his long hair over his face as he removed it. It was flung back with a toss of his head, majestic as a lion.

“I would see all of you,” he said, slowly undoing the buttons of his breeches.

Vanessa slipped her legs from beneath the bedclothes, placing her feet on the floor. Now the blankets showed the full length of her shapely legs while still covering her loins. She tentatively reached out and placed one hand against the mound of hard pressure that was now level with her eyes. She whimpered as it twitched beneath her touch and smiled, licking her lips, and rubbing her hand up and down. The reward was a barely suppressed moan of pleasure from her prince. For surely, he was a prince. Heir to the throne of a distant kingdom, far from England and the conventions of polite English society. A barbarian accustomed to taking what he wanted at the point of a sword.

With one swift movement, he grabbed the blanket and pulled it away, revealing the last concealed part of Vanessa’s body. She gasped but kept her free hand on the bed, refusing to cover herself. Increasing the pressure with her other hand, she looked up at her lover, excited by the growing desire on his face. And the evidence of that desire she could feel under her hand. He lowered his head to hers and kissed her fiercely. Moments later, his full weight was upon her, pushing her down onto the bed.

His lips were a ferocious pressure against her mouth, demanding and intense. His tongue darted into her mouth, tasting her. His hands squeezed and caressed, gentle and hard at the same time. Everywhere they touched became the absolute center of her being until that touch moved on. Vanessa gasped for air as his lips broke away from hers and his head dipped. She felt his mouth move over her chin, then her throat, before engulfing one of her breasts.

The pleasure to that point had been intense. It now became almost unbearable and she squirmed beneath him. His hands roamed over her, possessing her entire body. She clutched at him but he was continually moving down, removing his body from her reach but maintaining the contact of his mouth. She could not imagine what he intended as he kissed down her stomach, past her navel. Thought dissolved in a torrent of ecstasy as his questing lips reached their prize and Vanessa understood what he had planned. Such a thing was beyond her wildest imaginings. She had not known a man could do that to a woman.

But she was glad that it was possible. That this barbarian prince knew of the act. Because the ecstasy that gripped her was beyond description.

 

***

 

Vanessa sat up in the now tepid water. The fire had burned down and the air was growing cold. Deep down within her was a heat, a remnant of the dream. She gripped the sides of the bath, anchoring herself to reality.

How did I even conceive of such an act. It is surely not mentioned in any romantic fiction I have read. Is it even done? Or am I the most wicked, most wanton woman in Christendom! Oh my, what fevered imaginings!

She sat back, feeling as though she was sweaty, as though the dream had been real. She slid back until her head was submerged, washing the dream from her mind. When she emerged, it was fading to the back of her mind, the immediacy of it gone. Vanessa climbed from the bath and began to dry herself, shivering as she did so. The evening had brought her the touch of a man and the kind of dream normally reserved for a high fever. But it was over now. Life would return to its normal routine. The vivid colors would fade back to gray.

 

Prologue

“Please Lord, don’t let him die! This is your faithful servant Alexander, please do not let Mr. Knox die. I will forever do your bidding and go to church every Sunday if you do this for me.”

Alexander Fitzgrant sat on the hard wooden bench in the cobbled yard behind the house in which he had lived for the last year. A tall brick wall surrounded it and beyond that rose the stonework of Glasgow’s Merchant City. The sounds of the city had faded with nightfall from the cacophony of the second city of the Empire during the day. The wind carried the smell of the river and the factories that rose from the buildings of the city like trees in a stone forest.

“The Lord will provide. Do not worry, boy. John Knox is a good man. An upstanding member of the Kirk,” said the tall, thin deacon emerging from the back door of the Knox house.

Alexander looked up from his prayer, tears staining his eyes. He was looking for comfort and reassurance but found none in the white-faced, gaunt man. He regarded the six-year-old Alexander for a moment, eyes cold and mouth a thin line. Then he sniffed and walked across the yard to the gate in the far wall. The deacon was known to Alexander, he had been a frequent visitor of Master Knox, who was a God-fearing member of the Kirk. But, Alexander had never liked him, he had always seemed cruel. Now though, as Alexander’s world seemed to be falling apart, he would desperately reach for any hope. Even the cold, cruel deacon.

“Please, sir!” Alexander called to him. “But is there any news about Master Knox?”

The man paused in the act of unlatching the gate but did not look back.

“Have faith in God, boy,” was all he said.

Rain began to fall as Alexander sat and waited for news of the man who had taken him. Once, Alexander remembered living in a big house, a mansion. Then he had been sent away for reasons he did not fully understand. John Knox had greeted him when he had stepped off the carriage that had carried him north from England to Scotland. A rotund man with thick black whiskers and an accent so broad it was as though he were speaking a different language. He had stopped in front of the trembling young boy, looking him in the eye.

“Aye, you look a strong lad, right enough. Got some meat on them bones, so you do. Well, there’s work for you here. Naebody lives for free in Glesga. A man works for his living and works hard. But, put your back into it and you’ll have a roof o’er your heid and food in yer belly. Are ye ready to dae some work, lad?”

Alexander had nodded mutely, not entirely knowing what he was nodding to. And the work had been hard, but Master Knox was fair. Alexander lived with the servants in the Knox House and was taught his letters. He had begun to learn the loud, brash, and smoky city in which he found himself in, too. Learning the speech, the accent, and the slang, until he felt the place was home. Then Master Knox had become sick. Consumption they said. Alexander didn’t know what that was but he knew the blood that came up when Master Knox had one of his coughing fits was not a good sign.

“You still ‘ere?” said a woman, coming through the same door as the deacon.

It was Mary, the Knox’s scullery maid.

“Is Master Knox feeling better?” Alexander asked, grasping for a friendly face.

Mary looked back at the open doorway, then down at Alexander.

“Look, son,” she said in a tone that was not unkind. “He’s not long for this world. Why didn’t you go with the Deacon?”

Alexander frowned, wanting to run through the open door, up the stairs to Master Knox’s room. “Was I supposed to?”

“That was the talk I heard, yes. The Deacon was asked to take you on, let you stay at the manse in Anderston for a while. Where is he?”

“He left,” Alexander said, pointing in the direction the Deacon had gone.

Mary swore, planting her hands on her hips. Alexander thought he heard a curse on Calvinists. Then, she knelt before him, putting a hand into the pocket of her apron, and taking out a coin.

“Look. Master William is here and he’s said he doesn’t want…can’t take on a boy just now.”

“What he said was he doesn’t want some English pup from the wrong side of the sheets,” came a hard, male voice.

A tall, dark-haired young man stepped out of the house, pausing to light a small clay pipe.

“Now that’s just cruel, Tommy Piper!” Mary snapped.

Tommy shrugged. “Boy’s gotta face the truth. He’s not wanted and he’s gonna have tae fend for hisself.”

Alexander scowled at Tommy, Master Knox’s carriage driver. He had brought Alexander to Glasgow from England and had a mean streak through him a mile wide. Blue eyes watched Alexander, then he turned away dismissively.

“Take this, Alexander. Go tae the orphanage on the sou’side,” Mary said urgently. “The one across from the Green by road tae Rutherglen.”

“The big building with the railings round it?” Alexander asked in a small voice.

“Yeah, you can see it fae the Nelson monument. Go there and tell them you’re an orphan and you’ve got naewhere to stay.”

“Better tell ‘em you’re Catholic too,” Tommy cut in.

Mary shot him a look of pure venom. “Aye, tell them you’re Catholic. That’ll help. Here, this will help. I can get another one.”

Mary reached to her neck and took down a small, wooden crucifix on a leather string. She tied it around Alexander’s neck.

“They can’t blame me for converting you when the Deacon didnae want you.”

She looked into Alexander’s frightened eyes for a long moment. He knew the building she spoke of, had seen it from the Green where he had played with his pals. Black-frocked priests and nuns had frequently gone in and out. The priests looked like crows to Alexander, dark and foreboding. He took hold of the cross, a symbol Master Knox had taught him to regard as idolatrous. Now, Alexander was wearing a cross just like the people Master Knox had scorned as Papists. He wondered if the priests wouldn’t take him in unless he was Catholic. It didn’t seem fair somehow.

“That’s the doctor now. Looks like we’re out of a job, Mary,” Tommy said from his position across the yard, leaning against the wall, puffing on his pipe.

The physician who had been brought in to see to Master Knox came out of the door. He carried a leather bag and wore a top hat and overcoat. He looked from Mary to Tommy.

“It’s not good news I’m afraid. Your Master has passed away,” he said in a smoother accent than either Tommy or Mary possessed. “You should say a prayer for his soul. I’m returning home and will notify the Lord Provost and make out the death certificate. The son is already away to fetch some legal papers from his father’s offices. Bloody vulture.”

He glanced down at Alexander who looked back hopefully. The Doctor was a man of rank in the city, respected and wealthy. Surely, he would take care of Alexander. But the Doctor just looked away and followed the path the Deacon had taken through the gate.

“Go now, Alexander,” Mary said. “I’d take you in myself but my old man would throw you out. I’ve got enough wains to be looking after. Go to the priests, it’s their job to look after you.”

“But, what will I do?” Alexander said, tears blurring his vision.

Mary caught him up in a fierce embrace, hugging him tight. It brought brief solace, a small hope that he would be looked after. Then she was pushing him away, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Go, before it gets much later.”

Even Tommy looked uncomfortable, callow youth that he was. As Alexander reached the gate, he growled.

“Hold up, boy. I’ll come with ye. Ye hardly ken the first thing about Glesga after dark. You would-nae get to the end of the road. But don’t think this means I’m takin’ you in. My heid doesn’t button up the back, mind.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” Mary called as Tommy pushed Alexander through the gate ahead of him.

Alexander knew the expression Tommy had used meant he wasn’t to be taken for a fool. It was one of many that he had picked up in Glasgow, proud of the vocabulary he had absorbed in his year in the city. Tommy took him through the maze of back alleys between towering, grand buildings until they reached Ingram Street. It was wide and long, flanked by tall, imposing buildings. At the far end was the Royal Exchange, the grandest of buildings, staring down the street at him. He had been there many times with Master Knox, listening to the men talk about prices, goods, and trade. It was to have been part of his apprenticeship, to learn about the business that was transacted in one of the largest cities of the Empire.

Tommy steered him away from it, walking east towards the High Street, cutting down Candleriggs to head for the river. When they reached the dark, sluggish expanse of the Clyde, he stopped, pointing to the old wooden bridge that crossed it and the looming building beyond.

“That’s it. This is as far as I go. You run across and don’t stop ‘til you’re at the door. Mary’s right, the priests will look after ye. God makes them dae it, or something. Go!”

He gave Alexander a shove and the boy took a faltering step into the dark. There were lights burning in some of the windows of the orphanage, beacons guiding him to safety. His feet moved faster and clattered on the wooden surface of the bridge. At the orphanage, he would be safe. Safe from the father who had beaten him and ultimately rejected him. Safe from the dark, odorous, and violent city into which he had been plunged.

Alexander Fitzgrant ran towards safety for all he was worth. Towards what he thought was safety. He could not have been more wrong.

Chapter One

24 years later

Violet moved gracefully as a swan through the assembled guests. Her pale, blue eyes picked out those she knew or was at least acquainted with and she smiled a greeting at them. She wore a dress of pale blue and gray, with pale gray gloves that reached to her elbows and pearls about her neck. The gold-spun curls of her hair were artfully pinned up, revealing the smooth, pale skin of her neck. Delicate silver earrings complimented her eyes and complexion.

The surroundings were grand indeed. The mansion in South Audley Street, a stone’s throw from Hyde Park, sparkled as though it had been built of precious gems instead of brick. The tall ceiling hall in which the guests of the Earl of Munster were assembled was a piece of art in itself. Mirrors gave a gleam to the room as well as giving the illusion of much great space. Candles were magnified by chandeliers that hung from a ceiling painted in a scene of angels and the celestial heavens. The gathered guests added their own finery to that of their surroundings.

Around her, Violet looked admiringly at necklaces that sparkled and shone, and rings with large precious stones, all showed off ostentatiously by the wearer. Tiaras adorned fashionably styled hair. She felt at home here, though it was not her house. The people around her moved and behaved according to a set of unspoken rules and conventions that she had come to understand very well. Violet swam in a sea of London high society, navigating its shifting currents with ease.

“Quite spectacular, is it not, Lady Violet?” said Mary Wyndham, emerging from a shift in the assemblage to address Violet.

She had brown hair, worn up and festooned with precious stones and jewelry. Violet acknowledged the other woman’s rank with an inclination of her head. She was, after all, wife of George Fitzclarence, Earl of Munster, and eldest son of the new King.

“Simply perfect, Your Ladyship,” Violet said. “My compliments to you and His Lordship. I have rarely seen a finer display.”

“We must outdo ourselves on such occasions, must we not? A new King does not ascend to the throne every day,” Lady Mary said.

“Indeed. I think everyone here is of the same mind and quite in awe of the occasion.”

Lady Mary smiled, turning to allow the light to catch the sapphires of her tiara. Violet took the cue, knowing that the item was new.

“My, what a tiara, Your Ladyship. A magnificent piece,” Violet duly responded.

“Oh, do you think so, Lady Violet? George had it made for me from sapphires from his father’s collection. A gift from the new King to his eldest child.”

Eldest but illegitimate, though we will not speak of that aloud, of course. Which is why your husband is Earl of Munster instead of Prince of Wales.

“It is the glorious centerpiece of this occasion,” Violet said, putting just the right amount of enthusiasm into her voice.

Enough to appease Mary Wyndham’s monstrous ego but not enough to sound simpering. A fine line must be walked when navigating the mazes of the Ton. Stray from the path and you are labeled a sycophant and your influence diminishes.

“I trust your dance card is already filling up, Lady Violet? I do so enjoy seeing people of genuine grace take the floor,” Lady Mary said.

“I have accepted a number of invitations, though I am no expert,” Violet said modestly.

“Nonsense my dear. I have seen you dance on a number of occasions and you are as graceful as a swan. Save a space for later in the evening, I believe George will request the pleasure of your company in a waltz.”

“I will certainly look forward to that, Lady Mary,” Violet said, bowing with her head at the honor done to her.

Lady Mary moved on, a path opening for her and hopeful lords and ladies seeking to catch her eye. Violet was aware of a number turning to her, seeking the same, and knew she would need to choose carefully who she acknowledged and in what order.

A fine line indeed. A tightrope walk even.

The first pair of eyes she caught belonged to a pretty young woman with dark hair and a bold nose above full lips. She was dressed in dark blue velvet and her straight hair hung to her shoulders, framing her face.

“Lillian, are you enjoying yourself?” Violet said, crossing the space between them.

She made eye contact with those she ought to, and acknowledged with short greetings a select few before she reached the side of her sister.

“It is certainly…shiny,” Lillian said with a wry smile. “I think I should have worn a hat to shade my eyes.”

Violet’s smile did not slip and she wove her arm through her sister’s, turning her and guiding her across the room.

“You shouldn’t say such things, Lilly,” she said when they reached a quiet spot with no-one quite within earshot. “You will get a reputation for having a sharp tongue.”

“Perhaps, I would prefer that to simpering before people like her,” Lillian said.

“She, is our host. And with the power to make or break our family in this city. With your interest in commerce and business, I would think that you would appreciate that,” Violet told her.

Does she not see that as members of society, we must play this game or see ourselves shoved into the outer darkness of anonymity? That would do Uncle George’s businesses no good at all.

Lillian scowled and Violet turned her to look towards one of the large portraits on the wall, placed between mirrors. None who saw the pair would have thought anything of the movement, certainly not that Violet had turned her sister around to hide her expression.

“I suppose you are right. You’re always right, Vi,” Lillian grumbled.

Violet laughed softly, hugging Lillian’s arm.

“I wish that were so. But I could not make head nor tail of a ledger or statement of account the way you can. Father…” She stopped, clearing her throat. “…Uncle George is so proud of that.”

Lillian hugged back, smiling, and patting Violet’s hand. “You do not need to play with words around me. You are my sister and always will be. And Papa is your Papa too. Titles are meaningless.”

“What a thing to say in the house of an Earl!” George Ravendel exclaimed as he approached the two.

He walked with hands clasped behind him, wearing the red, yellow, and white uniform of his regiment. His white belt held back a spreading paunch but his broad shoulders and square-jawed face gave the impression of substance rather than fat. His bold nose was a feature both of his daughters, Lillian and Clara, had inherited. By contrast, Violet had a delicate button nose. Along with her fiery gold hair, amid the black and brown of the Ravendels, it was a feature that had always marked her out as different. Not that anyone in the family acknowledged that difference.

I am a Ravendel. In their eyes at least. My true origins are not important to them. Nor is whether I address George and Charlotte as Papa and Mama as I did when I was a child. Or Uncle and Aunt as I do since I discovered the truth.

“I meant the title Violet uses for you and Mama,” Lillian murmured.

George looked uncomfortable, huffing, and looking up at the portrait.

“Yes, well. Least said and all that.”

“That, as you well know, is Papa’s way of saying that you are one of three daughters of his and that is that,” Lillian said with a smile.

“Now, Lillian. I do hope you have been accepting offers to dance. You really must make an effort, you know,” George said, changing the subject with all the subtlety of an infantry regiment marching across a battlefield.

“I have been mingling, as I am supposed to,” Lillian said, defensively.

“Because a marriage does not just land in your lap. You must play the game, little one,” George continued, “or you will end up on the shelf and an embittered old spinster.”

“I know all of this, Papa. It is just…something I am not very good at,” Lillian said, frustration plain on her face.

“Then let your older sister help you. Violet excels at this sort of thing,” George said, pride evident in his voice. “If it were permitted, I would say she should go into politics.”

“Or marry a politician,” Violet added. “That is how women exercise influence in our society. Through the men they marry. And you have ambitions, Lillian.”

Lillian nodded. “Yes, yes yes. I know all of this. I just find it all so intimidating.”

“Then I will help you. I know just the group of ladies that you simply must become acquainted with. Don’t worry, I will lead the conversation and you will soon find yourself feeling more at ease.”

Violet turned, ready to guide Lillian back into the shifting currents of the Ton. She looked back at George for a moment.

“And perhaps later we can continue discussing that particular matter which we began to talk about earlier? Uncle?” she said, catching and holding his eye.

George nodded briskly, then looked away.

The matter which you promised to talk to me about. The matter of who my real father is.

 

Chapter Two

Alexander Fitzgrant would rather have been cornered in an alleyway by a Glasgow razor gang than stand up before the room full of English peers in which he now found himself. He dressed like them, a waistcoat of royal blue, a matching cravat, and a snowy shirt. His coat was dark and his breeches cream, with patent leather shoes. In his hand he held a copy of the motion which the House was debating. It was slightly crumpled where, in his nerves, his grip had become too tight. In the seat beside him, Sebastian Cadzow, a fellow Scot by birth, sat with crossed legs and an arm lying indolently across the back of the cushioned chair.

He looks completely at ease among these glaikit Sassanachs. Because while I was choking in the chimneys of Kelvinside mansions, he was being educated at Glasgow University. And spending summers at the family estates here in England.

Cadzow caught his eye; gave him a wink and a nod. Alexander took a breath as the Speaker called out.

“His Grace, the Duke of Lorchester!”

The Tory peers that filled the rows of seats opposite shouted and jeered. Partly because Alexander had allied himself with the Whig government on this particular bill. Partly because they heard his title but saw a long-haired, bearded Scot. A highlander. A Jacobite, despite the fact that he hadn’t set foot in the highlands during his entire childhood and adolescence. It had been a common discrimination experienced ever since he had first arrived in London. The Dukedom had come to him five years ago and he had first stepped into the murky waters of London society two years ago.

What he had not been prepared for were men who smiled and spoke politely but whispered daggers behind one’s back. Alexander was used to his enemies confronting him face to face, coming at him with bared teeth and unambiguous intentions. In the savage world of politics, where words were weapons, he felt defenseless. And all the more when his Scottish accent and dialect were highlighted. The English seemed to think there was one type of Scot, wearing a kilt, wielding a claymore, and playing the pipes. And of course, roaming the glens of the highlands.

The only greenery I saw before taking the Dukedom and the estates in Hampshire was Glasgow Green. But they just hear the accent and the unfamiliar words. I may as well be French. I’m a foreigner to them.

He took a breath.

“My Lords, this bill we have before us is an important piece of legislation that will take the economy of this country into this nineteenth century. We have all heard the calls for the abolition of slavery coming from Mr. Wilberforce in the Other Place. Freedom is coming for those adults who suffer in bondage. But that Bill proposes to free adults taken from their homes and forced to work for others. This Bill is even mair important…” a smattering of laughter among the Tories at the Scottish word that had crept in despite Alexander’s best endeavors.

Flustered, he looked down at his speech held in the same hand as the bill paper. But, in that glance, he could not see exactly where in the cramped lines of scrawled script he was. Looking up, his eyes met the bright blue gaze of Ambrose Deveraux, Earl of Godstone. Deveraux was handsome, with the cold perfection of a sculpture. He was elegant and dignified, with piercing blue eyes and a confident personality giving him a charisma that few could resist. There was talk of making him leader of the Tories to challenge the government of the Earl Gray at the next election.

Deveraux’s smile was mocking. He didn’t jeer, allowing others to do that for him. As always, he behaved entirely properly for a member of the House of Lords. But that mocking smile stabbed at Alexander. He could feel the anger rising as he fought to maintain the momentum of his speech.

This is bloody important if these dunderheids could see it!

“…even more important. It would free our own children. British children from the bonds of slavery…”

“Point of order!” The Speaker called out.

Alexander saw that Ambrose had stood.

“I’m not finished!” Alexander shot back at the Speaker.

That earned him a stern look from the man who sat at the far end of the chamber.

“You may give way to a point of order, or refuse it. But, you will do so within the rules of the debate, Your Grace.”

“My Lord Speaker, it is quite understandable if our Scotch friend does not understand the procedures of this house. It is very different to the environment he is used to,” Deveraux said.

“I refuse the point of order,” Alexander said through clenched teeth.

“As I was saying. Children are employed, without their consent, in a variety of dangerous industries to the detriment of their health. These are, after all, the future workforce of our economy…”

“Point of order!” Devereaux called out, almost gleefully.

Alexander was aware of Sebastian stirring next to him but did not risk a glance in his direction while Deveraux was watching him. He remembered the advice his friend had given to him before the debate, however. It was not wise to flatly refuse to concede the floor too many times. It would serve to make the other peers think he was unwilling to allow a debate and increase the chances the bill would be voted down.

“I concede the floor,” Alexander said, sitting and unconsciously running a hand through his thick, unruly beard.

Always in the past, growing up in Glasgow, his size had been his ally. As a young boy, there had been nothing to stop the priests of the orphanage administering discipline with the belt, or the employers that he was sent out to, to be dispatched up a chimney, if he did not work as hard as they believed he should. As a youth, weak-chested from the years of chimney work though he was, he’d developed broad shoulders and a thick chest. Scars, now hidden by his expensive clothes, bore witness to the many battles he had fought in the alleys and rookeries of the South-side. Until Master Gellert had come looking for him, telling him of an inheritance in England. The death of a father long forgotten.

But here, in the House of Lords, the place where laws were debated and shaped, his size was to no avail. Deveraux need not fear the Duke of Lorchester physically. He could not be touched. And Alexander had none of the political instincts of his opponent.

I am no opponent to him. He has his backers and I stand alone. The only reason the Whigs support me is this bill happens to align with their social policies. I am not one of them. I am not one of anyone in this damned city.

“I thank His Grace for allowing a humble point of order,” Devereaux said, standing. “He will forgive me, I’m sure, if I clarify a point. The accent he carries makes the King’s English somewhat difficult to…”

“For shame!” Sebastian cried out, rising. “Let us keep our debate to matters of policy and legislation, not personal insults.”

“A purely practical matter, I can assure my Lord of Holmesley,” Deveraux replied smoothly. “There are certain standards we adhere to in this place and we risk confusion if some of us do not speak in…precise English.”

The speech and bill crumpled into a ball in Alexander’s clenched fist. He gritted his teeth behind tight lips. Cadzow sat, clamping a hand to Alexander’s arm as he did so. They were in the middle of the assembled Whig peers on the left-hand side of the room as one looked down it towards the Lord Speaker’s chair. Opposite, in rows five or six deep were the Tories. The room was lined with paintings, earning it the nickname of the Painted Chamber. It was the only room that could be salvaged from the fire that had gutted the Palace of Westminster the previous year, allowing the Lords to continue to sit in the same building at least, as they were accustomed to.

“Your point is about His Grace’s colloquialisms?” the Lord Speaker queried.

“A passing remark only. My point concerns why we are debating a matter which is surely not the province of the state. This is a country of merchants, shopkeepers, mill owners, and farmers. To deny them a plentiful source of labor would be to drive them out of business. I stand for the freedom of Englishmen to manage their affairs. And, yes, the freedom of English youths to seek gainful employment. What, otherwise, would they do? Does His Grace envision thousands of idle young people thronging our streets? I think his views have been colored by his own experiences. I believe he once worked as a chimney sweep?”

That brought a ripple of laughter and Deveraux basked in the reaction, smiling broadly. Alexander’s patience snapped. He leaped to his feet, hurling the ball of paper that had been the Bill as well as his own speech.

“Aye, I was! I was sent tae work as a young wain. No chance to educate myself or better myself. Exploited! Is that English enough for ye, ye ignorant Sassenach!”

Cadzow lowered his face into his hands as Alexander pushed through the ranks of peers seated in front of him. The Lord Speaker was on his feet calling for order and the rest of the chamber erupted in sounds of disapprobation towards the angry Duke of Lorchester. Alexander had the satisfaction of seeing a brief look of fear sweep across Deveraux’s face as he watched the angry Scotsman advance towards him. Then Cadzow caught his friend’s arm, half turning him.

“Are you quite mad?” he hissed, face inches from Alexander.

“His Grace is removed from the chamber forthwith. He will leave the chamber and not return until a full apology has been given for this un-Parliamentary conduct!” The Lord Speaker’s voice rose over the din.

Alexander snarled in disgust and tore his arm free of Cadzow’s grip. He stalked towards the exit from the Painted Room, delivering a furious insult in pure Glaswegian dialect as he went.

Prologue

Antony

          It always happens that whenever one is searching for something, that something will inevitably make itself impossible to find.

          “Antony, if we do not give up this search soon — I fear that I shall have a layer of dust as a permanent second skin!” Lewis huffed impatiently. The man heaved a dramatic sigh and fell heavily on a chair covered in a thick white cloth — to which an even thicker plume of dust wafted into the air and spurred the man into a fit of sneezes.

          There was no telling exactly how long it had been since anyone had been into the attic like this. It was a place filled with bad memories for Antony. His dearest friend, Lewis, had agreed to come up here with him but Antony had a fairly good idea it had been under the guise that he would have found some sort of secret, hidden treasure searching among the discarded items. However, if Lewis were looking for a pot of gold, then this was the very last place that he ought to look.

          Everything around here was covered in dust.

          If he had his choice, Antony would have just had the lot of it burned the moment that he had inherited the castle from his father.

          They had been up here for the better part of the day and Antony was not certain how to explain to Lewis that they could be searching for something that did not exist. They could have been sent on a wild goose chase and the only for sure way to know…was to search everything to see if this mystery painting even existed.

Either way, he was grateful for the man’s assistance.

          Antony watched Lewis over his shoulder from the corner of his eye. Unlike his friend, he had a wealth of patience when the situation required it, and this was a very worthy cause indeed.

          “You have no obligation to continue on this search with me, friend, and I thank you for your service,” Antony muttered as he headed further into the wide expanse of the castle’s attic. The rain fell heavily on the roof and the wind whipped angrily outside of the few paned windows, making their already gloomy task even more uncomfortable.

          “Just where is it that I am supposed to go in this storm? Hm? I clearly have no choice but to assist you in your search,” Lewis said. “Perhaps you are banishing me from your sight simply because I am not producing swift results, is that it? You damn me to suffer poor weather and a resulting cold. Most unkind of you,” he teased.

          They both knew that he was not leaving, just as they knew he would continue to verbally begrudge the task that he had volunteered to assist with.

          “Of course not — then you would be even more miserable company than you are at present,” Antony smirked to himself, imagining the look of mock horror and affront on his friend’s face. He likely had his hand clutched to his chest as he struggled to think of anything witty enough to retort.

          “When was the last time that anyone was up here, do you think?” Lewis asked as he gazed around the space. Discarded pieces of furniture, a strange amount of bird cages of various materials, and other odds and ends lined the walls and rafter of the attic. There was no telling which generation of occupants had placed the items here or what value might lay hidden away in some of the trunks. 

          “Not since I was a little boy, to be sure,” Antony mused as he pushed aside a small dresser, no doubt meant for a child, and started to search in the darker alcove behind it. “My father caught me playing hide and seek in here with one of the servant’s children once. I had thought the young boy my friend, but my father had him whipped for daring to speak to those above his station and fired the entire family. Coming up here after that seemed sinister…everything is frightening to a small young boy, and this space and all of its possible treasures lost all appeal to me.”

          Lewis swallowed tightly against the knot in his throat. “I shall never understand how you speak so plainly about all of the horrors that your father committed as if they held no more weight than a discussion about the weather.”

          Antony paused only for a moment to offer Lewis a half-smirk. “I suppose that it would be strange to a man such as yourself who grew up surrounded by love and softness, but I armored myself against that man at a young age. I do not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

          Lewis’ gaze dropped to the space between his knees where his hands dangled as he rubbed at the skin on his thumbs. “You do not make me uncomfortable, it just reminds me of all of the things never to do when the day comes that I shall have children of my own.”

          Antony’s smirk widened as he resumed his search. “Yes, that is a fair point well made.”

          “Do you think that it is true? What the letter said? Were it any other man…any other father, I might have doubted the mere thought of someone–”

          “Sending away a child because it did not suit their wishes?” Antony finished. When he had received the letter, he had thought the very same thing. He had wondered if it were, in fact, possible that he could have a sibling out there in the world…one that shared his face and general likeness, and somehow he could have a family, unlike anything he had ever been exposed to before. How could a parent separate siblings? To discard one of their children like stale biscuits to fend for themselves?

          Antony’s hand lifted to brush against the gilded emerald and gold mask that he wore over half of his face. A mask that he had been told never to remove. He had been warned time and time again that the good and decent people of the public should never be forced to look upon a face as hideous as his own.

          A father such as that?

          Yes, he could imagine that it was possible.

          His hand dropped and he tried his best to banish that lingering voice of his father’s in the back of his mind that followed him like a plague.

          “Here, I have found another grouping,” Antony called and waved his friend over. They had been searching the attic for the better part of the day as it was, and Antony had no intention of stopping until he had burned every candle and oil lamp in the entire castle to the bottom of their wick. He would persist until he found that which he searched for.

          Lewis dragged his feet against the wooden floor as he moved to stand at Antony’s side.

          “I am terrified that I have already found what we are searching for, but did not know it because we are grasping at straws as it is,” Lewis said softly.

          Antony paid him no mind. He pulled the bundle of canvases out into the center of the room and undid the twine holding the pieces together. He discarded the covering and started to slide the paintings away from one another so that he could better study them.

          “I shall know it when I find it,” Antony said with more confidence and surety than he actually felt. He pushed aside a portrait of the castle and a detailed landscape of the castle’s gardens. Three paintings of flowers in various arrangements and styles, but nothing that seemed to fit what the letter had described.

          Lewis moved to search for another bunch of paintings. “You have no idea who it was that could have sent the letter?”

          That was even more baffling. Antony bit down on the inside of his cheek as he chose not to answer.

          “I mean, why now? Why wait so many years? I could understand one wanting to wait until the man had passed so that there was no fear of potentially revealing something that could bring the letter writer to harm…but why come forward at all, and so long after your father’s death? I have to presume that this…anonymous sender has something to gain by telling you this? The sender wished to send you on a hunt in your attics…and for what? There is an ulterior motive here, my dear friend, and I just think we need to have a discussion about what the ramifications of this potential discovery might lead to,” Lewis continued.

          He had a fair and valid point…but one that Antony could not afford to worry about.

          “If we find a painting that gives any credibility to the anonymous source, I shall ponder those questions then. There is still a fair chance that this alleged painting was one of the very, very many paintings that father had burned when he…redecorated,” Antony added with a shudder that he could not repress.

          Images of that day flooded his mind as if he were five years old again, clutched tightly in the arms of his governess as she bit down on her finger to keep from weeping. At the time he had not understood what it was that he was watching. Paintings of all shapes and sizes pitched out of the window and into the courtyard. Busts and statues that had been imported from countries all over the world carried out by servants to be smashed into bits before being added to the pyre. He had asked his governess why she was so sad, or he had wanted to. He could remember the reflection of the fire in her eyes as she fought back tears. At the time he had been so afraid that he would be pitched into the fire with all of the rest of the objects that his father had suddenly decided to no longer desire.

          Sometimes, he wondered if that had been why his governess had held him so tightly and why she had whisked him away well before his father had come back indoors. Antony had been able to smell the stench of burned oil and varnish for weeks. Father had left the pile of debris as a black soot and ash stain on the grounds for months after…and banned all of the servants from going near it.

          In the days of his young adulthood, before father had passed — he had longed to learn why he had destroyed so many valuable and beautiful things. Antony had tried to coax the answer out of his father in roundabout ways, even going so far as to provoke his wrath or needle at the man’s temper, but to no avail. Secretly, Antony believed that it was because they reminded him of the mother whom he had never gotten the chance to meet.

          Seeing so many paintings here hidden away in the attic had been a shock to Antony. He had to presume that his father did not know. More likely considering so many of the portraits were of father himself.

          “Perhaps I should have burned some paintings of my own,” Antony muttered mostly to himself.

          Lewis glanced in his direction sympathetically but did not comment. He tended to avoid remarking on things that highlighted the stark differences between their upbringings. Antony was his oldest and dearest friend, and he loathed to see him uncomfortable for any reason. Lewis was of the opinion that Antony had endured more than his share of misfortunes in his life, and so had chosen many years past to endeavor to bring happiness to the surly Duke as often as possible.

          “A twin sister…” Lewis mused, bringing the subject back to the letter that had arrived that morning. “You certain that there were no distinguishing marks on the wax seal or the paper in any way?”

          Antony shook his head and moved to the other side of the room. “No, that is what I have already told you. There was no mark, the letter was not signed and the pageboy had no information about the sender even when offered money. I believe the handwriting to be masculine in style, but apart from that…I have to jump to the same conclusions as you have.”

          There held more than a small amount of irritation and frustration in his voice as he undid the knot of the next painting bundle. When he pulled the protective cloth off of them, he was rendered speechless. There, as a focal part of the painting was his father, seated in all of his glory with his trademark stern, disapproving expression. He was featured in his old military uniform and all of his insignia, badges, and metals were painted onto his chest. Yet, most shocking was not simply the two children in his arms, but that they appeared to be at least a year old.

          He could recognize himself for the mask that was painted onto his young face. His deformity was abhorrent and had been hidden away nearly since birth for how repulsive it made his visage to all that looked upon him…but seated on father’s other knee was an identical appearing child of the same age. She wore a white gown and had a delicate bow of pink lace tied around her head like a band.

          Her eyes were painted the same shade of bright cerulean as his own.

          The heavy rain hitting the roof of the castle seemed to mimic the racing of his own heart as he tried to fully comprehend what he was seeing. Even Lewis was mute as he came to stand by Antony’s side and absorb the information in front of him.

          He had a twin sister.

          The letter had told the truth about that, at the very least. There was no denying it when the proof was right in front of him. Never mind all of the implications that were tied to there being proof in exactly the location that the letter claimed there to be….

          He had a sister.

          He had a family…a true family that was out there somewhere, waiting for him…who might not even know that he existed or the truth of her identity.

          Antony’s chest felt tight as he lifted the painting up into the limited light.

          “I am going to find her, Lewis, I am going to bring my sister home….no matter what it takes.”

Chapter One

Isabel – Six Months Later

“I said I was sorry,” Isabel’s voice was soft, her throat rubbed raw with tears. She could not bring herself to look her Aunt in the eyes. She knew what she would see if she did. She could feel the animosity radiating off of her.

“So you have said,” the woman snipped.

“I did not…” Isabel attempted, but her words died off into nothingness.

“I am aware of what you said — but I simply cannot see how you could have allowed yourself to be put into such a compromising position in the first place! Your poor father is wracked with nerves…the threat of scandal would ruin your family!”

Isabel blinked back tears. It was all that she could do to nod along, knowing that she had no choice but to take the blame for a situation that was not and never would be her fault.

Every time that she closed her eyes, she could feel his unwelcome hands upon her. She could still feel the ghost of his too-hot breath and the way it reeked of soured wine as he loomed ever closer to her…forcing his lips upon her face as she tried everything in her power to push him away from herself.

Repeating that story would not help her now…the truth was not what mattered to the woman in the carriage across from her. All that mattered to her Aunt was the fact that now she would have to be inconvenienced by taking Isabel to ward until they could smooth things over.

Never before had a carriage ride been quite so uncomfortable. For once it had very little to do with the overly close proximity to the older woman sharing the carriage with her, and instead, it had more to do with the tension that continued to brew between the passengers since Isabel had been picked up.

Her Aunt, Gertrude, had a remarkable ability to never once break eye contact or allow her focus to waver while she was in the middle of disapproving of something. Least of all when the object of her firm disapproval was the person she was nearest to.

“I do hope that you have had the decency to have written letters expressing your deepest appreciation to your family for allowing you to come and stay with me,” Gertrude interjected suddenly. She battered her way through the silence without grace or eloquence, for she was of the opinion that with only her niece and son in the carriage to hear her, tact was not strictly required.

To her side, Francis smirked knowingly. His eyes roved over Isabel’s person in a way that made her skin feel as if it were to crawl right off of her. She could feel his gaze like ice hovering just over her skin until a roiling started an uproar in her stomach.

“Yes, Aunt, I have done as you requested,” Isabel said demurely as she returned her focus to the window of the carriage and the beautiful scenes of the countryside that they rode past. The carriage jostled along with no mind to the discomfort of its current occupants, though this was not the reason that Isabel kept fighting the urge to cry. It was not as if her opinion had been asked over where she might reside or the home in which she was to spend the summer months. It was not even her fault what had happened — so it was hardly fair that she be forced away from her home, her parents, and the only friend that she had ever known…all because of the actions of a man.

She knew better than to say as much. She knew that it would do her no good.

Gertrude had wormed her way into her father’s ears, speaking of solutions and placations for society until such a time that the possible scandal blew over. She claimed that once the next shocking thing happened to the ton, Isabel would no longer be under such direct scrutiny. Furthermore, it would be the only way for her to have any sort of marriage prospects in the future. As she had no desire to be forced to marry a man who obviously thought so little of her that ruining her reputation and assaulting her did not bother him in the slightest.

The urge to cry welled up in her chest once more, and she bit down on her bottom lip. Isabel lifted her gloved hand to rest on the side of the carriage so that she might cover the lower half of her face and disguise her dimpling chin so that her aunt would not comment on that as well. She already thought that Isabel blubbered too much.

“What are you doing?!” Gertrude gasped, her eyes widened as her face paled. “Put your arm down at once!”

Isabel complied without looking at her. She dropped her arm from the side of the carriage and turned her gaze down to her lap where she balled up fistfuls of her gown tightly. “Yes, Aunt.”

“Good heavens, what are you thinking? Sometimes I wonder if there is a thought that goes through your pretty head at all!” Gertrude pulled her fan and wafted air toward her face. “What if another passing carriage were to see you sitting in such an undignified position? What would they think of your horrible posture?”

Isabel did not know, nor did she much care. They had not seen so much as a person on horseback since they had left London hours ago.

“Honestly, girl, you have got to remember your manners! This is the time to be on your very best behavior! Not all young ladies would be given this golden second chance! Act accordingly!” Gertrude’s fan wafted more quickly, filling the carriage with the scent of her overly pungent rose oil perfume.

Francis patted his mother’s arm in a comforting gesture. “There, there, mother. You must also remind yourself that not all young ladies would allow themselves to be placed into a situation in which they need saving like this.”

His beady eyes cut to Isabel with a smarmy grin.

“You should not worry yourself over her, mother, certainly not if she is going to be ungrateful,” Francis said, knowing full well that she would be forced to answer.

Isabel’s eyes shot up and she shook her head. She spoke too quickly when she answered. Everything had happened so quickly that she had not recovered from the ball, let alone been able to process the fact that she had been ripped from her family and was heading to live with her Aunt and cousin in the country…for however long it took.

“No! Of course I am grateful! I will…I shall do everything in my power to prove to you just how grateful I am! I swear it.”

Francis leaned back into his seat and shared a knowing glance with his mother, seemingly satisfied. “We shall see.”

Gertrude’s fan snapped shut loudly enough to startle Isabel.

“Well, I suppose that I cannot wholly blame you. It is hardly your fault that your parents did not educate you on the ways to properly conduct oneself at a ball. One should know better than to take any action that might allow a man to be tempted in such a way. A young woman such as yourself should have been coached better. Your mother should have educated you better.” Gertrude waited to see if Isabel would contradict her before continuing. “Honestly, there might not even be any hope of saving your already ruined reputation.”

“The gentleman in question might come looking for her after all, thinking that he has laid a sort of claim to her,” Francis agreed.

Isabel’s blood ran cold at the notion. She could not think of anything worse than having to endure another second of that man’s horrible company nor his roaming hands if she had any say in the matter. She wished so dearly to be out of the carriage, she wanted to be away from all prying eyes so that she might cry in peace.

She had always been a good girl. She always listened to her parents and did as she was told. She was not the brightest or the most gifted student, she supposed, but she had always been enthusiastic in her pursuit of the few accomplishments that were offered to her. She had only ever wished to make them happy.

Yet, she had never seen her father shout at anything even half as loudly as he had shouted at her that evening. He had been so disappointed…and as much as Isabel wished to believe that was the only reason for his ire, she hoped that there was some part of him that cared for her enough to want her happiness…

The road that the carriage carried them down shifted from the tightly packed dirt path to something softer. The trees became sparse and finally parted to reveal the image of Aunt Gertrude’s country home in the distance. The property was massive and its beauty was proportionate to its size.

Yet, the only thought that Isabel had come to mind was how easy it was going to be to find many cozy places to hide away in a property that large. With any luck, she could remain hidden away and out of their sight until such a time as her father permitted her to return home….at least, that was what she wished for.

“I suppose I shall have to be on my guard then as well, hm, cousin?” Francis added after a long silence, His tone lifted the words as if he were joking, but it felt more like a threat.

“I beg your pardon?” Isabel whispered in shock.

Francis leaned forward as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the back steps where the servants of the house were all awaiting them in a line, ready for orders. But he did not answer until his Aunt had been escorted from the carriage.

“Well, with such a temptress residing inside of my family’s home — I certainly do not wish to be tempted into an action that I cannot control.” He winked and exited the carriage, not bothering to so much as offer her his hand on the way out.

The unspoken threat lingered in the air and for a moment, Isabel wondered what might happen should she simply just refuse to ever leave the carriage again. What if she imagined herself affixed to the seat so that she could hide here and wither away.

Somehow that future was even more bleak.

She inhaled deeply through her nose and reached for the footman’s hand to guide her out of the carriage. She watched in resigned silence as her paltry trunk was unloaded and carried into the house. She trailed behind the rest of the house’s residents but before she could cross the threshold, Aunt Gertrude spun suddenly. The fan clutched in her hands shot forward to block Isabel from entering the property. She narrowed her dark eyes at Isabel in warning.

“I suppose that it goes without saying that this is not some act of charity that we are performing here. This is, of course, an act of familial kindness. You will be expected to earn your keep and to repay said kindness with hard, diligent work. I do not want to hear a single word of complaint or a single gristle out of you, do I make myself clear?”

Isabel could hardly imagine it. From one horror to another — but there was nothing that she could do.

“I will do my best to ensure that I am not a burden to your household, aunt,” Isabel said softly.

Gertrude’s lips pursed in clear disapproval. “We shall see about that. You could make something of yourself if you use this opportunity to grow to your advantage. Hard work builds character and ensures that you have a clean and healthy mind. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings after all, and you clearly do not need to be idle, given what you have caused…the shame that you have brought to your family.”

Gertrude’s tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth.

Isabel wondered if the woman had ever done an honest day’s labor in her life. She very much doubted it.

“I promise I will do better, aunt, I just wish to put all of this unpleasantness behind me…”

It was like she said nothing at all. Gertrude huffed and walked into the house, snapping her fingers behind her for Isabel to follow. She moved in silence until they came to a stop in front of the housekeeper who looked none too thrilled to have a young debutante thrust into her care without much warning. Isabel wished for nothing more than to head up to her rooms and sleep off the carriage ride, but it seemed an impossible goal now.

“Pleasure to meet you, my lady, I am Mrs. Celine – the housekeeper here of course. Mind you keep close to me when we are walking, the hallways have a tendency to confuse those that are not yet familiar with them. I have confidence that a bright young thing such as yourself will learn her way in no time.” The housekeeper flashed her only a split second’s worth of pity before heading down into the heart of the house.

The split second of kindness, even just the social politeness of Mrs. Celine was enough to make Isabel want to weep. She bit down on her bottom lip and nodded.

When faced with an impossible circumstance, the heroines in the books that Isabel so dearly loved would always adapt, improvise, and then overcome whatever hardship that was placed in front of them. This was the first time that Isabel’s fantasy of living the fairy tale book of her dreams was threatened.

Before she could stop herself — she reached forward and grabbed the back of Mrs. Celine’s skirt. The words tumbled forth before she could stop them. Her eyes screwed shut as she insisted because she needed somebody to know — somebody —  that this was not her fault…she had not done anything to spur this into action!

“I didn’t do it. It was not my fault…”

Mrs. Celine turned slowly and took Isabel’s hand within both of her own. She patted the back of her hand softly and shook her head.

“It never is our fault dear child….not ever.”

 Something in her deep brown eyes was impossibly tender. Some of the tension eased from Isabel’s shoulders as the elder woman shook her head. She could see that Mrs. Celine believed her. Really believed her. The dam holding her emotions locked firmly inside of her chest started to crack. Perhaps she might have at least one friendly face in this house at the very least. For the first time since the horrible ordeal, she felt seen.

Chapter Two

          “Mistress, you must come quickly! Quickly!” Mrs. Celine muttered hastily as she waved her hand at Isabel. It was clear that whatever she had to say, it absolutely could not wait even a single moment longer. Isabel glanced down at the soapy water that she was up to her elbows in. She certainly was not in any position to stop, but she did anyway. Aunt Gertrude would have her guts for garters if she knew that she was shirking her chores for any reason…let alone what terrible sorts of consequences she might inflict on her servant for being the one who distracted her.

          Earn her keep indeed.

          Aunt Gertrude had made it apparent the very next morning that Isabel was to work in her home. She would have to earn her meals if she wished to eat and serve them if she wished to be provided for. She was treated no better than any of the servants, with the exception that she was not being compensated in any way.

          She tried not to complain.

          She tried not to show how heartbroken she felt to be treated in such a fashion by her own family…but it did hurt. It burned something low and icy within her that she could not name. The shame of it all was only made greater each time that Gertrude insisted on being waited on by Isabel personally to do even the most menial, degrading of tasks.

          Isabel moved quickly as she hastily dried her hands on the apron that she wore.

          “What is it?”

          “Shh!” Celine insisted and reached for Isabel’s arm. She held onto her tightly and pulled her through the narrow servant’s passageway in the direction of the dining room. It had only been a couple of weeks but already she was starting to feel more at home in these small passages than she did in any space of this massive house where her aunt might lay eyes on her.

          Curiosity turned in her gut as she followed silently. She had not yet mastered Celine’s artful way of walking to ensure that she did not make a single sound. Even her dress did not swish or crinkle in the same way that Celine’s did.

          “The suspense is going to consume me!” Isabel giggled, only to cut herself short by the stern look of warning Celine threw over her shoulder.

          Whatever it was, it was serious.

          Celine stopped them just short of entering the dining room and placed a finger to her lips. Isabel nodded and leaned toward the dining room where her aunt and her cousin Francis were enjoying their morning tea.

          “–and what am I to do with her once I am wed, hm? Have you considered that this shall not add to my happiness in any way, but rather will detract from it?” Francis drawled. Boredom clung to every syllable that he breathed. Isabel had come to wonder if perhaps he had ever enjoyed a moment of joy in his entire existence. She could not fathom how any person could be such a miserable pig all of the time.

          “Once the paperwork has been signed and officiated in the eyes of the lord, child, I shall not care what you do with her. I shall leave that to your imagination.” Gertrude carefully swiped her teaspoon over the brim of her glass before taking the smallest sip of her tea possible.

          Isabel’s brow furrowed in confusion. Who could they be speaking about?

          “I suppose I could keep her on in the same capacity that she serves now…only with the added benefit of having her beauty at my disposal….it is such a fortunate thing that she is beautiful, I suppose. It is a wonder that the old sap who nearly scandalized her has not come looking for her…over two weeks and not so much as a letter.” Francis turned his spoon over in his hand, fiddling with it idly as he spoke.

          “Yes, well…there has not been a single letter from her father either. I fear that if we do not have word from him soon, we might be burdened with the whelp indefinitely,” Gertrude said bitterly.

          Isabel’s stomach dropped as she realized that they meant her.

          “Would that not work out in our favor, perhaps?” Francis asked.

          “What do you mean?” his mother answered.

          “Well, if there is no word from her father, then we hardly need his permission for her hand in marriage, would we? You could claim to have taken her to ward via a verbal agreement, and that one of the conditions was that she marry me. She could not object, it would be a legally binding contract and I shall lie and say that I was witness to the whole thing in its conception!”

          Silence fell as Gertrude considered her son’s offer. She considered it for too long. Isabel’s stomach clenched and she had to clamp her hand over the lower half of her face as she waited.

          “That does not give you access to her riches unless her father agrees to a dowry.”

          Francis slumped back in his chair, defeated for a moment.

          The air in the hallway seemed to get thinner.

          “Perhaps one small little fib will beget another?” Francis offered conspiratorially.

          Gertrude waved her hand for her son to finish speaking.

          “Perhaps we can tell him that the rumors were true and she propositioned me. We can claim that she seduced me and begged for me to take her to wife. We can shift the near scandal to our advantage and further supplant the notion that it was, in fact, my dear cousin’s idea in the first place…then Uncle will have no choice but to surrender and pay as large of a dowry as we shall ask.”

          Gertrude nodded and made a small hum of approval. “Now you are thinking like a son of mine. We will have you wed to her before the fortnight is finished…you shall have her produce an heir and then do what you will with her.”

          Isabel staggered backward as she felt that she might faint. She could not believe what she was hearing. The back of her shoulders collided heavily with the wall in an audible thunk.

          Francis was on his feet in a moment. “Who goes there? Come out at once!”

          His footsteps thundered quickly toward the hall where they stood. Celine grabbed hold of Isabel’s dress and nearly dragged her down the hallway at a full run.

          “Who dares spy on me?!” Francis bellowed after them but would not dare step foot into the hallway for it was not grand enough to house him in his opinion. His hand collided with the wall and echoed through the narrow space to the small alcove where Celine had Isabel blocked with her body.

          “They…they…” Isabel started. It was hard to gather enough air into her lungs to speak properly. Her hands pressed into her ribs to try to comfort herself as her mind struggled to catch up to the depravity that she had just witnessed her aunt and cousin plan.

          “I am so sorry mistress, but you needed to know…I could not allow them to say such things about you. I feared that you might not believe me if I simply told you about them…oh, I am so sorry,” Celine said in a whisper before she pulled Isabel into her arms and hugged her fiercely.

          It was strange how close you could become to another person when you had similar spirits. Unlike the family that employed her, Celine was a warm and kind woman who had taken to Isabel like the daughter that she had lost so long ago. Perhaps that was what had started their bond, but it had quickly grown into something stronger in the short span of a few weeks.

          A woman with a daughter who passed well before her time and a young woman who had never known the love of a true mother.

          “How am I supposed to stay here when they…I cannot…there is simply no way that I could ever marry somebody like him!” Isabel countered. Each moment that she was forced to endure Francis’ company was worse than the last. “I cannot be forced to bear his children and live my life locked away in some tower….or worse….but my father, if I return back to London, he might not believe me either…”

          Her knees threatened to buckle. She needed to move or else she might allow the darkness of the hallway to swallow her whole. She pushed from Celine’s arms and staggered as if she were drunk all of the way down the hall until she could reach the kitchens. She braced herself with an arm against the wall as she struggled to regain normalcy in her breathing.

          Her bright blue eyes lifted to the warm, sympathetic eyes of her friend. “What am I to do?”

          Celine bit down on her bottom lip.

          “What is it? Please, please help me…I shall do anything!” Isabel pleaded.

          “Well…there is one way…but I am not sure that it would work. You might try to run from here but there is no guarantee that you shall make it there alive…it could only be rumor.”

          “Anything is better than that fate…please…I go to sleep every night in terror of finding him near me…I am constantly looking over my shoulder, fearing what might happen…they are plotting my demise…please,” Isabel insisted. Anything had to be better than constantly swimming in boiling water. She felt as if she were teetering on the brink of drowning or roasting alive and she could tolerate neither.

          “I have heard rumors of a castle…deep in the woods to the west side of the property. A castle that has long since been abandoned…I am not a woman who puts much stock into the superstitious ramblings of the common folk, but if the legends are true it is still very much intact, guarded by protective spirits…it could give you safe shelter until such a time as we can come up with another plan. Of course I will help you.”

          “I do not know anything about surviving on my own.”

          “I shall leave food for you at the edge of the forest after curfew every evening. If you find the castle, all you should need to do is come and fetch it. In three weeks time, I will meet you there under the cover of darkness and we will start your life over in a new town.”

          “I cannot ask you to do that…” Isabel said as tears started to well in her eyes.

          “You are not asking me for a thing, child, I am offering. I only wish that I had been given the opportunity to do the same for my late daughter…had there been more people to help her, then perhaps she might still be with me today.”

          “Mrs. Celine!” Francis’ voice bellowed near the door of the kitchen, demanding her presence. “I should not have to come all of the way down here to speak with you!” he called, his presence looming ever closer.

          “You must go, now, before they realize it was you who overheard the conversation.” Celine quickly gathered bread and cheese into a cloth and knotted it together. “I shall sneak your things to you slowly, go, now!”

          “What will happen to you?!” Isabel protested. Her legs felt like lead. She did not wish to abandon her.

          “Nevermind that, child! Go now or I shall never forgive you!”

          She let herself linger for only a moment longer before she turned on her heels and ran as quickly as her slippered feet could carry her. She raced down the servant’s entrance and out onto the grounds. The morning dew still clung to the grass and dampened her stockings as she hiked up her skirts. She focused so singularly on the treeline that she tried to pretend that she could not hear the pained shout of terror that carried from the castle all the way to where she ran. She pretended that she was not aware of the pain in her legs or the burning in her chest as she blindly hurled herself through the trees. Branches and bramble tore at her arms and shredded her stockings. Thorny leaves cut at her face and tangled in her hair, pulling and nipping at her but she could not stop — she could not allow herself to stop. Not even for a single moment…not until the ground slipped out from underneath her.

          One moment, she felt too heavy on her feet, but the next moment she was weightless.

          She slipped into freefall for what felt like an eternity, before landing so abruptly on the ground that it knocked the breath clear out of her, and down she tumbled. Heels over feet until she fell again. She felt as if her brain had been knocked loose. Her eyes swam and her head spun and then she was pitched forward into the large, icy expanse of a lake.

          The weight of her dress carried her under. Her arms flung about as she tried to push herself back to the surface. She struggled and kicked but only managed to get more knotted up into her skirts.

          Well, she thought to herself as her body relaxed and started to surrender to its fate. Better this than to be trapped into a marriage with Francis…or worse.