Chapter One

 London

April 1813

Imogen let out a quiet sigh when she realized her lady’s maid, Warner, had turned away. She looked at herself in the mirror, wishing she could put off the task at hand for a little longer. She had exhausted all of her excuses for not reentering society. There was no doubt in her mind that her parents would not believe anything she said now.

“This looks very beautiful on you, Your Grace,” Warner said as she came to stand behind her; holding a pair of pearl drop earrings against her ears.

They did look lovely on her, and they added to the elegance of her lavender gown. Imogen had found much relief in discarding her black mourning attire. The dreary colors had only reminded her of his control. Even after her husband’s death, she had been obliged to respect him by wearing colors she disliked. He had done nothing to deserve it.

“Your Grace?” came Warner’s voice. Imogene blinked and raised her eyes. “Are you well?” she asked; her voice dressed in concern.

“Yes, I am.”  Imogen adjusted her satin gloves to conceal her nervousness, despite knowing it was a futile endeavor. Warner knew her too well.

“I suppose you are not ready to be in society again.”

She was not. All she wanted was to live out the rest of her life in peace. Alas, she was only four and twenty and needed to rejoin polite society if she was to find any peace in her life. Harris had been dead for a year and one week, having died of influenza, and this –  according to her parents – was the best time to begin the search for new prospects.

“I cannot hide for eternity, Warner,” she said with a weary sigh. “I must do it now, for the longer I leave it, the more difficult it will become. You know my parents won’t allow it.”

The woman gently smiled as she attached the pearls to Imogen’s ears. “I am sure the ton is curious about you.”

Imogen snickered at that. “What could they be curious about? My grief?”

“Exactly that, Your Grace,” Warner replied.

“Well, I shan’t keep them waiting beyond tonight.” Even as she spoke, she dreaded the pity she would undoubtedly see on their faces.

Warner nodded. “You deserve to live as you please after everything you went through. I truly want that for you.” She lay a gentle hand on her shoulder.

No one understood the torment she had faced in her marriage as Warner did. In fact, only she knew the truth of what Imogen had scrupulously hidden. They had known each other for eight years, and she considered her a dear friend.

“Thank you, Warner,” Imogen said; meaning every word.

She hadn’t cried a single tear for Harris since his death. There was nothing for her to be mournful about, no sadness in her heart. Despite this, she felt empty and alone at a time when she should have felt liberated. She wished she could figure out why she was feeling this way. It could be the burden she was carrying.

Warner inserted the final pin into her hair before smiling at her through the mirror. “What a splendid image you make.”

Imogen returned the smile and stood; picking up her reticule and slipping it over her wrist.

“Oh, I forgot to give you this, Your Grace.” Warner stopped her when she had almost reached the door. Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved a missive and handed it to her.

Imogen immediately recognized the seal. It was from her sister, Emily, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she opened it.

My dear Imogen,

I would usually prate about how delightful spring is in Kent

but I shan’t bore you with that. Rather, I would implore you

to join Michael and me at Lanburn Hall. The lake is beautiful and

serene at this time, and the village is positively entertaining.

I know how you long to breathe the fresh country air, my dearest.

We had the honor of hosting Lord and Lady Herington for

several days, and they had an unforgettable time. I have been

hankering for more company since their departure and was

even tempted to come to London but I daresay the thought of

the sooty air was quite discouraging.

Please, say you will come and stay with us awhile.

I eagerly await your answer.

Your loving sister,

Emily

Imogen smiled as she shook her head. Her sister had done exactly what she had said she would not do at the beginning of the letter: extol Kent’s spring virtues. Her brows knitted together in a frown for she despised disappointing her;  Lanburn Hall was a beautiful estate but she had no desire to visit – not right now.

“Your expression suggests that she requested you visit her,” Warner observed.

She nodded. “Yes.”She couldn’t possibly face her sister for the time being.

Two years ago, Emily met and married the Earl of Evensdale after a very brief courtship. It was a love match and Imogen was happy for her. The problem was that her sister, like everyone else, believed her marriage to Harris was a love match, too.

Her family would still have been in dire straits and her sister would never have become a countess, had Imogen not married Harris. Her father had fallen ill six years ago, rendering him unable to run his businesses properly. This had compelled her to marry well, and when Harris entered her life, he embodied the most charming suitor. She would never have agreed to marry him if she had known what was in store for her. But a  knock at the door drew her out of her memories’ cage and as Warner went to answer it, she sighed and straightened her shoulders.

“We will be late for the soirée,” said her mother – Barbara Thorne, Viscountess Thornewood. “Is she ready?”

“Yes, my lady, she is,” Warner replied with a curtsy.

Imogen folded the letter and placed it on a side table before going to meet her mother and devising an excuse as to why she had taken longer than usual to dress. “I had trouble deciding what jewelry would best complement my dress.”

Barbara’s expression softened when she saw her. “Oh, you look divine, my darling.” She touched her cheek.

“Thank you, Mama. Shall we?”

They met her father, Aldrich, in the front hall. It was comfoting and reassuring to have them with her tonight, knowing she wouldn’t have to face the ton alone. He smiled at her in the same way that her mother had.

“You look like an angel, Imogen. You remind me of the day you attended your first ball after your coming out.”

Her smile faltered. That had been the night she caught Harris’s attention; the night the course of her existence would change irrevocably. Taking a deep and slow breath, she composed herself and thanked her father for his compliment before following them out to the waiting carriage.

*****

The trip to Burenstone House did not take long, and the moment they arrived, small knots formed in Imogen’s stomach. Her father descended first and helped her mother down. When it was her turn, she hesitated.

Could she truly do this? She asked herself. No, she would need much more courage than she thought.

Taking her father’s proffered hand, Imogen stepped down from the carriage, looking about her. Some faces were familiar, some were not. She considered she might be seeing people she’d never met after so long out of society.

The butler escorted them to the ballroom, where they met their hostess Margaret, Dowager Viscountess of Burenstone. She was Barbara’s best friend, and their very friendship was one of the reasons Imogen chose this soirée as her first outing.

“Oh, welcome!” Margaret clapped her hands in delight when she saw them. “I am glad you could attend,” she said to Imogen after they had exchanged greetings. “Please, allow me to introduce my son Arthur, Viscount Burenstone.”

He bowed politely at Imogen, and she inclined her head in return. Arthur had not been in England when she made her debut. At that time, Margaret had dearly wanted to make a match of them so it is highly possible she still harbored such thoughts about them.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. My mother has told me much about you,” he said cordially.

“It is wonderful to see you amongst us again,” Margaret said before Imogen could respond. She was already feeling overwhelmed, but she kept a smile on her face. “You have a lot of courage. After Arthur’s father died, I was unable to leave the house for two years. “I truly admire your bravery, my dear.”

“Oh, yes,” Barbara chimed in. “I am proud of her indeed. During the first few months, she was utterly miserable. It was why we insisted she stay with us.”

Margaret took Imogen’s hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “We are all here if you require anything. Is that not right, Arthur?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said awkwardly.

“Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate your sympathy,” Imogen responded as gracefully as possible. Lying was becoming more difficult by the day, but she couldn’t tell anyone how unhappy she had been in her marriage or how much she despised her late husband. The news would be devastating to her parents, particularly her father, whose health was deteriorating.

She remained close to her parents for the first half of the evening – watching couples twirl around the dance floor. The sight evoked an unwanted memory. At her first ball, she had stood at the fringes of the ballroom without a dance partner. She had been shy and inexperienced, and when her gaze met that of a handsome gentleman from across the room, she blushed effortlessly. Harris then approached her and asked her to dance. She felt fortunate that night, wide-eyed as he charmed her with wit and good humor. The next day, they were in the gossip sheets declaring them the ideal match, the envy of every debutante and spinster.

Imogen averted her gaze, silently chastising herself for allowing such memories to surface. She was supposed to forget about Harris and start her life anew now that she was out of his clutches. She slipped away, angry with herself, to find a refreshment table. She moved slowly and carefully, avoiding the gaze of the guests. Knowing them, they would want to talk to her about him.

There was nothing strong enough for her at the table when she arrived, but thankfully, a footman approached with champagne. She helped herself to a glass; appreciating its effervescence. She then caught sight of her mother and Arthur weaving through the crowd toward her.

“I have been looking everywhere for you,” Barbara said, then turned to Arthur expectantly.

He bowed and held out his hand. “Will you do me the honor of sharing a dance with me?”

Imogen set her champagne down and took his proffered hand, tempted to cast a disapproving glance at her mother. But, as a woman who always considered her actions, she refrained. Everything her mother did was motivated by love and concern, as confirmed by Barbara’s encouraging smile.

Besides, how bad could a dance with Arthur be?

She was disappointed to learn the dance was a waltz because she would have to be in his arms, and as soon as it started, Arthur stepped on her foot.

“Oh, forgive me,” he apologized. “That has never happened before.” His face colored.

Seeing him flustered made her feel sorry for him and her irritation abated. “Think nothing of it, my lord,” she assured him.

That seemed to make him feel better but Imogen felt uncomfortable in his arms – making her wish the dance would be over soon.

“I recently acquired a phaeton,” he said with some pride in his voice. “It is a grand conveyance, very fashionable.”

“Indeed, I’m sure it is,” she agreed for the lack of anything better to say.

“Would you like to ride through Hyde Park with me tomorrow afternoon?”

No, she’d rather spend her afternoon in her bedchamber reading a book. Even better, she preferred to spend it relocating to the townhouse Harris had generously left her. She yearned for the independence that widowhood would provide her, and it was the path she needed to take to heal.

She met her mother’s gaze from across the room as Arthur twirled her. She was enthralled by them, and Imogen didn’t want to let her down.

“I doubt I will have the chance tomorrow afternoon but I would be delighted to join you the day after,” she said stiffly.

“Excellent.” He grinned. “I shall eagerly await the day.” Suddenly, his face contorted and before she had the chance to ask him if he was well, he sneezed. Instinctively, she jumped out of his arms. “I am truly sorry, Your Grace. I did not mean for that to happen.”

“Such things are hardly in our control,” she murmured. “Perhaps we should—” She abruptly ceased speaking when he beckoned for her to resume the dance. It would not be proper to refuse him over a sneeze.

“There is something in the air that disagrees with my health,” he said as they resumed their dance.

“There is always something in London’s air that disagrees with one’s health.” She looked heavenward; praying for the dance to reach its end. The orchestra seemed determined to prolong the moment, however.

“Yes, yes. I find the soot and smell intolerable, but the pollen is worse.”

Imogen had been referring to the various faces society wore but his comments were valid indeed and she decided to seize an opportunity to discourage him from taking her on that drive. “Perhaps you should remain indoors if the weather disagrees with you.”

His eyes widened, supposedly with incredulity. “How would I fully partake in the Season as an unmarried gentleman if I stay indoors?”

That is no concern of mine, she almost said. Instead, she gave him a stiff smile. “There are several activities you could enjoy whilst attempting to avoid pollen, Lord Burenstone.”

He sneezed once more. He had the decency to turn his face away this time. But when she thought she’d seen the worst of this dance, he painfully stepped on her toe once more.

“It would be wise to take my advice,” she said; hoping her smile concealed her displeasure. The dance ended at that instant, giving her the opportunity she needed to get away from him.

“I suppose you are right, Your Grace. My deepest apologies.” He bowed.

She still had enough generosity in her to take his arm and allow him to lead her away from the dance floor a  she excused herself. Imogen walked toward the first set of open doors she saw, leading onto the terrace overlooking the garden.

The cool air felt refreshing on her skin. Imogen leaned against the stone balustrade, wishing her tumultuous emotions would subside. Her first night was a letdown. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but she hadn’t expected it to be so difficult. She felt herself calming down after a few moments, and if  she stayed in this state, she’d be ready to return to the ballroom in no time. Or she stay here as long as she wanted to enjoy the peace and solitude. So far, no one had noticed her absence.

Firm footsteps coming from behind startled her; urging her to turn abruptly. Before her stood Horace, Lord Bagshire. The corner of his mouth turned up impishly as he regarded her. Imogen tried to take a step back but was stopped by the railing. He had been Harris’s friend, and she had known him for years. Yet, she never liked him and could not understand why Harris had befriended a man with such an odious character – but then her husband had not had the best of characters either.

Something twisted in her stomach when she saw the dark look in his eyes. He was staring at her as though she were; making her want to run.

Chapter Two

“It is a pleasure to see you, Imogen,” he said; stepping close to her.

She inched sideways. “Likewise, Lord Bagshire.”

He quirked a brow. “Lord Bagshire? You have never addressed me in such a formal manner before.”

It was safer to address him as such — Harris had demanded it. And with him dead, she no longer had a reason to be friendly with the pompous lord. “Much has changed since we last saw each other,” she said; feeling her body tense when he moved closer.

“I wanted to visit you, my dear Imogen,” he murmured. “But we were both in great pain, and I could not look upon you without the ache of our loss tearing at my heart.” He added with no trace of sincerity in this eyes.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream that she was not in pain – not over her husband, at least. “How considerate of you.” Her tone was laced with sarcasm which he did not appear to notice.

His eyes roved her body. “You look delectable. It is easy to see why Harris could never leave your side. A lady as beautiful as you should not be here alone.” He smiled. “But then widows are allowed liberties that unmarried women aren’t. I am sure no one would bother.” He stepped even closer; every inch of her body contracting.

“Lord Bagshire, I would greatly appreciate it if you kept your distance.”

His dark eyes glinted in the light from the sconces on the wall. “Oh, come now, my dear. You are a free woman now.”

When she tried to step away, she found herself in a corner with his body blocking her only path to escape.

“That is inconsequential because I respect myself and ask you to respect my wishes,” she said through clenched teeth.

“You can have any man you want.” His breath held the smell of strong liquor. It was nauseating and she held her breath all the while thinking of ways to escape. “I am offering myself to you, Imogen.”

“I would never have you.” She pushed against his chest. “Not even if you were the only man in the world.”

He swiftly caught her hands and pulled her against him, forcing her to take extreme measures to free herself. With as much force as she could find under the circumstances, she kicked his shin. He hopped back in pain and only then was she able to push him away and remove herself from the corner.

“Oh, heavens!” someone gasped.

Imogen’s head shot up to see a woman standing in the ballroom doorway. Her eyes glowed at the prospect of a scandal. Many faces appeared soon after, and loud whispers began.

“What happened?” someone asked.

“A tryst, evidently,” another replied.

Imogen wished the ground would swallow her whole so she wouldn’t have to face the shame that was about to befall her. Her mother pushed her way through the crowd to reach her and took one look at Horace, who was wincing and trying to straighten up, before realizing what she needed to do.

“There is nothing to see here,” she said to the crowd then took Imogen’s hand and led her through the second door at the far end of the terrace.

Her father was summoned from the cards room and they left the house immediately.

*****

“You may enter!” Imogen called after the knock at her door. It was mid-morning and she was by her window staring absentmindedly at the busy street.

Warner appeared – holding what appeared to be a gossip sheet and expressed a nervousness in her countenance. “Your Grace—” she began.

Imogen proffered her hand. “Let me see.” She had suspected they would report something that might harm her reputation after being seen with Horace last night. Her suspicion still did not prevent her stomach from twisting when she read:

After a year of mourning for her beloved husband, the Dowager Duchess of Murrendale graced our dear society with her presence. Said widow did not hesitate to express her desire to find a gentleman to entertain her and one could only guess Lord B’s willingness to play that role, as they were seen in quite a tangle on Lady Burenstone’s terrace.

Her fingers curled around the sheet, crumpling it. They had all but declared her a merry widow, on the prowl for a gentleman to keep her bed warm, which left her in a vulnerable position. Now every man without scruples would turn his eyes on her.

“May I offer a suggestion, Your Grace?” Warner asked; shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“You may.” Imogen looked up; stiff with regret and indignation. She should never have attended that soiree.

“Perhaps you should consider accepting your sister’s offer to spend the spring with her in Kent.”

She sighed and pressed her hand to her aching temples, the result of a lack of sleep the night before. Warner was right. Staying away from London until the scandal died down was a clever idea. As much as she disliked seeing her sister, it had become necessary.

“I shall consider it. Thank you for the advice, Warner.”

Warner smiled and curtsied. “You are most welcome, Your Grace.”

Several hours later, she gathered enough courage to face her parents and headed towards the drawing room downstairs. As she approached, she heard her name mentioned, which gave her pause.

“Arthur is keen to make an offer for her,” Barbara said. Another knot formed in Imogen’s stomach – she could never marry Arthur. They were utterly unfit for each other.

“She does not need to marry because of a scandal,” Aldrich responded, “and I do not consider what happened last night to be a scandal. Lord Bagshire is a cad.”

“Yes, but this will distress her. I know it. Oh, my poor daughter.” She could imagine her mother’s expression as she spoke.

“If Arthur offers to marry her, I shall allow her to decide what she wants. I doubt she would be inclined to marry a man such as him. Unlike her and Harris, they are not a match.”

Imogen decided to reveal her presence at that moment and to prevent further talk of her dead husband. She entered the dining room and sat beside her mother.  “Yes, Father Lord Bagshire is a despicable cad indeed, however, that fact shall definitely not put a stop to the gossips. Emily wrote to me, inviting me to spend the spring with her in Kent. I reckon her invitation has arrived at the right time.”

Barbara’s face immediately brightened. “Oh, what an excellent notion. Will you accept?”

Imogen sat beside her. “I should. I did not intend for what happened last—”

“Oh, hush, my dear!” her mother interrupted; squeezing her hand. “We know very well what passed and none of it was your fault. We merely happen to be surrounded by vultures.”

“Kent is an excellent place to be, Imogen,” her father encouraged.

Imogen made her decision then. “I should like to leave today.”

Barbara and Aldrich nodded their agreement. “Would you like me to accompany you?” her mother asked.

“You do not have to, Mama. I shall fare well by myself.” She dearly hoped that she would find the respite she needed in Kent; despite the circumstances that led her there.

*****

The ship anchored at the harbor, and Colin examined his watch again; it was exactly one o’clock. He tended to check the time frequently whenever he was anxious; a peculiarity about which his friends often teased him.

It had been three years since he last stepped on English soil. He ought to be happy to be returning home after such a long time, yet he was shrouded in trepidation. Venturing into unknown territory had never ceased to fuel his adventurous spirit – until now. He felt like an interloper assuming his brother’s place as Marquess of Wingham.

Thomas had been killed in a carriage accident six months ago and his father had summoned him back from the Far East to assume his new responsibilities.  There was a time when Colin wished he was the heir. Now that fate had unexpectedly bestowed that boon upon him, he was miserable.

“We are here, my lord.” His valet, Hunter, grinned then went to retrieve their baggage.

Colin wished he could share the man’s excitement.

As they disembarked the ship, he noticed a fine black carriage bearing his family’s crest. For a brief moment, he thought he saw one or both of his parents approaching, but neither of them appeared. If Thomas had been gone for as long as he had, at least one of their parents would have been there to greet him – he  had always been the favorite, with only a passing thought for Colin.

“Welcome back to England, my lord,” John the coachman said; removing his hat and bowing.

“Thank you, John. It is good to see you.” Colin meant that. John had worked for his family since he was at Eton, and his smile was broad as he moved to collect the bags from Hunter.

Colin climbed into the carriage, and Hunter joined him shortly after.

“You have been very quiet, my lord,” he observed. “Is there anything I can do?” the man understood Colin’s reservation about returning to England.

He shook his head. “I am quite well, Hunter.” He remembered something then. “Although, there is something I would like. Prepare a sleeping draught for me, please.”

“I shall do that once I see you settled, my lord.”

When the carriage began to move, Colin turned to look out the window. In London, not much had changed. Urchins continued to chase each other with stick horses, and the air made one long for the countryside. Or, in his case, the sea breeze. He smiled as a wave of nostalgia washed over him. He would undoubtedly miss China, particularly the food and vibrant culture, and he grew very fond of his life there. Managing his uncle’s textile business had given his life meaning. It also helped to alleviate the agony of being the second-born son, who would inherit the title and bloodline only if his brother was unable.

Thomas had received all of their love and attention as children, while he was relegated to the role of observer. He assumed he was the observer because he was easily overlooked and had few friends.

Hunter interrupted his thoughts. “We have arrived, my lord.”

Colin, being utterly lost in his reverie as he was, hadn’t noticed they’d arrived. He climbed down the carriage and looked up at the house – it, much like the city, hadn’t changed and he didn’t expect it to with his parents so rooted in tradition.

The butler greeted him warmly, and as he entered the front hall, his mother, Susannah, approached him. He could see a difference now; she was much smaller and older than he remembered, with pronounced lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. His brother’s death must have had a profound effect on her.

“Colin, my dear child.” She opened her arms.

He embraced her, uncertain of the meaning behind his current emotions. He had always been able to understand how he felt but, at the moment, he was at a loss; his parents had never shown him any affection, only indifference; thus, this embrace was as odd as it was surprising.

“I am so happy to have you home safely.” Susannah pulled away and cupped his cheek with one hand.

He smiled down at her. “How have you been, Mother?”

She sighed, her large grey eyes quickly misting. “It has been difficult.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I am sure everything will change now that you are home.”

Everything has already changed, he thought and it all had changed the moment his brother lost his life.

“Your father is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

Colin nodded. “I should not keep him waiting then.” His father had never been the most patient of men. “Are you coming, Mother?”

“No, I have to see Cook about the dinner menu.”

Suddenly, he felt like a child summoned to his father’s study after he had misbehaved.

When Colin entered the room, the Duke of Dellington, Robert Smith, was sitting in a wingback chair in front of the fireplace, smoking a pipe. He turned to face him, his expression as unreadable as ever.

“Father,” Colin said; bowing in greeting.

“Wingham,” Robert said and Colin tensed. “Welcome home, Son.” He motioned for him to sit on the other chair by the fire.

Colin struggled to get his feet to carry him across the room. He’d always been Colin to his father, but now he seemed to be just Wingham. Thomas had been born as the heir, but he was known by his Christian name.

“I trust your journey was uneventful.” Robert reached for the decanter on the table between the two chairs and poured some brandy into a glass that he handed to him.

Colin was tempted to down everything in one gulp but decided to be patient and satisfied himself with a sip. “It was peaceful,” he said; wondering why his father bothered to ask that question.

Why? Because you are Wingham now. Your wellbeing is essential, his inner voice reminded him.

“There is an important matter I wish to discuss with you,” his father began after exhaling a puff of smoke.

Colin had no doubt it was about his rise in station. He was the marquess now and was about to be reminded of the responsibility that comes with the title.

“I do not need to remind you of the family responsibilities and obligations you now must carry. I want you to start thinking about the next generation.”

He knew his father would mention marriage even before he boarded the ship back to England and would not be surprised if the man had already chosen his bride.

“I have been considering it, Father,” he said.

“Then I advise you to acquaint yourself with the prospect of making Lady Harriet your wife.”

Colin had just taken a sip of his brandy when his father made that announcement. He began to cough; his throat burning. Lady Harriet was Thomas’s betrothed.

Robert regarded him with one brow raised as though he were offending him by choking. Colin composed himself. “Did you say Lady Harriet, Father?”

“Yes. Do you wish to dissent?”

“Yes!” That came out with more force than Colin had intended. How could he marry the woman that had been intended for his brother?

There was a great measure of disapproval in his father’s countenance. “Lady Harriet is the daughter of the Earl of Avensborough and her lineage dates back hundreds of years. She is ideal as the Marchioness of Wingham and a future duchess.”

In his father’s eyes, Wingham was more than just a title. It was a way of life that Colin despised and was completely contrary to how he wished to live his life. He shook his head emphatically. “I have never met Lady Harriet. And I wish to marry a woman of my choosing.”

“Avensborough and I arranged the marriage for Thomas, and he readily agreed—”

“I am not Thomas and I do not agree.” Colin shot to his feet.

“Sit down before you give yourself apoplexy.” Robert waved his pipe.

He found himself sitting down despite his disinclination to do so.

“Now, it was initially a business arrangement,” continued the duke. “The land bordering Penningbrick belongs to Avensborough and he offered it as Lady Harriet’s dowry.”

Penningbrick Hall was the estate in Devon where Colin was born and raised. He was baffled by his father’s desire to acquire more land at his expense. He’d only been in England for no more than an hour, and he was already itching to board the next ship out of the country.

“But I have considered the benefit her bloodline would bring to this family,” Robert continued. “That is more important to me than any land.”

“You wish to have a golden lineage,” Colin intoned with irony. “Why did you not tell me this? I would have ridden straight to Lady Harriet’s house upon my arrival to introduce myself.”

Robert’s glare could freeze a lake on a hot summer day. “I will not tolerate such sarcasm from you, young man!”

Colin tossed back the rest of his brandy. “When do you wish for me to call upon her?” There was still some sarcasm in his tone but he could not help it.

“They are in Bath now. After you hand in your resignation to Miles, we shall travel there to make it official.”

His father had mentioned that Colin would have to forfeit his position at his uncle’s company – yet another thing he didn’t want to do.

“Very well, Father. When do we depart?”

“You have a fortnight to make the necessary arrangements with Miles. I expect you to be ready by then.”

Colin’s jaw tightened. Miles had saved him from a dark path when he took him away from England when he was one and twenty, and parting with him had been most difficult. Robert had no idea how his selfishness was affecting him, and he was unlikely to find out. Colin did not tell his father he had already concluded his business with his uncle, giving him more time to himself before meeting Lady Harriet.

“Is that all, Father?” he asked; bracing his hands on the arms of the chair to stand.

“Yes, you may take your leave.”

Colin did leave, feeling as if he had just lost something greatly treasured to him, but couldn’t quite place what it was.

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Chapter 1

London, March 1820, Walington Ball

 “You will keep my words in mind, won’t you, my dear? You must remember not to do anything foolish or clumsy, Annabelle, as is your wont,” Annabelle’s mother, Eliza, the Dowager Duchess of Tidendale, pointed at her daughter from across their dim carriage. Her brother Jeremy sat next to her sullen and silent.

Everything in Annabelle’s body tightened whenever she heard a scolding from her mother. She could prepare adequately beforehand, but no matter what, her mother would remind her not to be the awkward wallflower that she unfortunately was.

“Yes, Mother,” she said, looking out of the carriage window at the dark streets of London.

The heater was lighting the carriage, warming it slightly; however, she pulled her wrap more tightly around her, wishing she could jump out of the carriage and onto the cold cobblestone; that would at least save her from further reminders of how bad of an impression she made at social events.

“It is your third Season,” her mother said, nodding along to her own words as if they were fresh and new.

If her mother couldn’t see her, Annabelle could have mouthed the speech word for word.

In a high voice filled with indignation, her mother continued, “And it is high time, it is beyond high time, that you get yourself a respectable husband. The Season is beginning again, and you must do your utmost to make a fine impression.”

“There is enough time, dear Mother, for Annabelle to find a husband,” Jeremy said in a calm, slightly bored voice. He was seated at his mother’s side. “There is no need to push her.”

Annabelle unclenched slightly, grateful for her brother’s aid but a little confused by it. He was usually so intent upon following rules, always holding her to an exacting standard.

“I do see the need!” her mother said sharply, turning to face Jeremy. “And you should be just as worried as I. You are the Duke of Tidendale now, and Annabelle is your responsibility.” Her mother pointed to her. “This is Annabelle’s third Season, and she has still not received a proposal!”

Annabelle closed her eyes and sighed. Her mother often forgot that she was in the room when she spoke of her and her failings. It was not as if Annabelle did not want a husband or a future of her own. For one thing, it would take her out of her mother’s house, and she would be able to live freely, without constant scolds.

What a dream life that would be.

But finding a husband was a far more difficult task than she’d initially thought. Her friends had been married off one by one as the Seasons passed, and now Annabelle, daughter of a duke, was the only unmarried one left among her acquaintances. Each Season, each ball grew ever more embarrassing.

Clutching at a new thought, trying to change the subject, Annabelle said prettily, “Jeremy, how is your wrist after fencing?”

Jeremy’s eyes narrowed in frustration, and he rubbed at his left wrist. “Unfortunately, it is taking longer to heal, damn it all. I would much rather be sparring than going to a ball,” he grumbled, and Annabelle smirked at her mother’s slight gasp.

“It’s only been a week,” Annabelle replied, smirking at her brother’s serious tone and expression. Ever since he had taken over the dukedom six years ago, tension had grown between them, and she knew that her lack of a husband had brought about some of it. However, it was not as if he had married, bringing a new duchess into the family.

His tousled blond hair and light eyes drew many a young woman, and Annabelle hoped that one day, one of them would be able to soften his expression once more and turn him into the cheerful brother he had been.

Annabelle shared the same features as her brother, instead with long, blonde ringlets, but unfortunately, her looks had done her no favors in the ballroom.

Her mother hmphed and crossed her arms. “I am sympathetic to my dear son’s ailment, for he will not be able to dance as heartily as he would normally this evening.”

Turning to her daughter, she continued, “Do not think that you can escape my words, Annabelle. You are in a privileged position, and it only makes sense that you should marry someone respectable and titled.” Her mother chuckled mirthlessly and, with a shudder, said, “At this rate, you’ll have to marry a clergyman or a barrister. Oh, the horror.”

Annabelle bit her lip to keep from saying something unkind. Since she was old enough to marry, her mother had spoken to her in such a way. She had changed since her husband died, and at times, Annabelle felt like she was living with strangers. Strangers who didn’t seem to care much for her and treated her like an object or an obligation to be foisted off upon another.

“At least you look well enough, Annabelle. You can be quite pretty at times, but you must be rid of that wide-eyed look of fear.”

Still gritting her teeth, Annabelle’s heart leapt in happiness when she saw the façade of the impressive Walington Manor come into her view.

“Thank you for your advice, Mother,” Annabelle said, grinning widely.

Her mother looked taken aback at Annabelle’s sudden change in mood but dismissed it quickly.

The carriage slowed, and a liveried footman opened the carriage door. A gust of cool March wind rushed inside, and Annabelle shivered. At least the inside of the Walington’s ballroom would be warm and comfortable.

She grabbed the footman’s gloved hand, and he helped her down the steps out of the carriage. Looking up at the brightly lit house, she took a breath. “It’s only a few hours. You can do this,” she whispered to herself encouragingly.

Silently, Jeremy offered her his arm as he emerged, and the three of them joined the greeting line for the ball. The closer she got, the more her stomach twisted with nerves. It was the first ball she was attending this Season, and she knew that her future depended on it. She had to find a husband, no matter how impossible that seemed.

She couldn’t finish another Season without receiving a proposal. And deep down, she also wanted her mother to be proud of her, something she craved more than she cared to admit.

Once inside, having survived the greeting of the hosts, she slipped out of her mother’s clutches before she could give out another warning. She made her way to the far wall, where potted plants stood on pillars, a refreshment table nearby. It was the perfect place to hide away—the perfect place to keep a wallflower from embarrassing herself.

Annabelle stood on her toes, trying to see around the large potted plants to look at the dance floor. It was filled with beautiful, swirling couples. The muslins and silks ranged from pastel pinks and blues to dark, rich reds. The gentlemen’s coats were dark as well, and each one seemed to be more handsome than the next.

Give me torture. Give me a battlefield at war—anything but a ballroom during the Season.

Annabelle’s gloved fingertips patted against her thigh in time to the music. Even if she was a little clumsy on the dance floor, she did love music.

She enjoyed playing the pianoforte if she was comfortable around those who listened. Annabelle looked down at her dress. It was the palest of pinks, and while it went with her blue eyes, she still felt uncomfortable in it. Like she was pretending to be someone she was not. Even if she was a duke’s daughter and now a duke’s sister, she never felt like her status gave her much of anything. Who was she?

Sometimes she dreamed about balls. She would close her eyes at night and think about what they would be like if she were graceful and elegant – if everything went right. She always pictured herself dancing with the same gentleman: Calum Spencer, her brother’s best friend, her friend too. She’d known him for years and years, and ever since she was young, she’d given him her heart fully and completely. Unfortunately, Calum was far too handsome and charming to notice her as anything more than his friend’s younger sister, who humiliated herself at every turn.

Sometimes he would come to balls, and sometimes not. It seemed to depend on how much time he had, but he was always dancing with various beautiful partners whenever he did come. When she lifted her head to look at the dancers again, she sucked in a breath when she saw him. Calum Spencer asking the beautiful Dowager Countess of Fernglen to dance. Now that she’d found him at the ball, she knew she wouldn’t be able to look away.

“Oh dear,” she said forlornly and clenched her hands together, annoyed at the way her heart reacted to her brother’s friend. Having Calum Spencer at this ball looking just as handsome as ever would not help her keep her head that evening. She swallowed and sent up a silent prayer for help.

***

Calum clutched his glass of wine as he stared out across the ballroom. A man recently introduced to him droned on about something relating to business.

“I say that it’s far closer to get American cotton for the mills, but it is not as high quality as Indian cotton. What say you, Mr. Spencer? I was told that you are one of the foremost textile business owners in all of London. I thought you might be able to provide an intelligent and sufficient answer.”

“Certainly, Mr…”

“Burton,” the man supplied with a quick smile.

When Calum turned to face him fully, he saw that the man had eager eyes with little intelligence behind them. People often conversed with him about business, pretending they knew anything at all.

“We take whichever materials are most cost-effective, and the different kinds of cotton can be used for different purposes. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, spying the widowed Countess of Fernglen out of the corner of his eye. She was looking just as beautiful as she always did, and it had been days since their last rendezvous. He was eager for another. He gave Mr Burton a wide smile. “As I’m sure you can understand, I wish to dance this evening with some lovely young ladies. Business can always wait for another time.”

“Of course, Mr. Spencer. I quite agree with you,” Burton said with a chuckle and left.

Calum downed the last of his wine, putting the glass down before he approached Delilah.

“Good evening, my lady,” he said with a bow. Delilah beamed at him.

Her dark hair was curled low at the base of her neck, and her lovely red lips were turned up into a seductive smile. Calum had never seen such alluring beauty, and it was no wonder that he and the widow had been together many times over the past months. He was not the sort of man for intimate relationships, but she had kept his bed pleasantly warm. And they got along well enough. It was the most he ever wanted from this sort of relationship, and it suited him fine.

“Mr. Spencer, what a pleasant surprise to see you here. I forgot that the marchioness is a friend of yours,” she lifted one dark brow in a teasing gesture that never ceased to entice him.

“An old friend, Lady Fernglen,” he said, grasping her hand and laying a kiss upon it, not taking his light blue eyes from her dark blue ones.

“Well, that is some comfort,” she said with a little laugh. The sort of practiced laugh meant to reel a man in, and she did it expertly. His eyes were drawn to her mouth, making him think of the delights he could find there. Leaning in, she whispered behind her fan, “I don’t like to share.”

“Well then, I won’t ask it of you. Now would you share this dance with me, my lady? I would be remiss if I did not take the opportunity to ask you. Seeing as normally the gentlemen are flocking.” She could tease, but so could he.

He held out a gloved hand, and with another pretty smile, she slid her delicate hand into his. “Yes, certainly.”

With a swish, he pulled her onto the dance floor, taking her up into his arms when he heard the first few chords of a waltz. This was the only reason he had any interest in attending balls. Dancing with a pretty woman was a relaxing respite from the cold, challenging world of business. Not only that, but he enjoyed showing the stuffy ton that he had grace and elegance, even if he was only a bastard son of an earl.

“Every young woman’s eye is upon you this evening, Mr. Spencer,” Delilah said, her lovely head turning left and right, watching the crowd as they swirled together. He smiled as he breathed in her floral scent.

“I do believe they are all looking at you, my lady,” Calum replied in a low voice, thinking about when they could get away, and he could forget all about balls, dancing, and business.

“You are always full of compliments, Mr. Spencer,” Delilah tittered. “Ah, I think that young woman over there has you most in her sights. It is difficult to resist a rogue. I understand her completely.” She nodded her head to the woman, and Calum turned to look.

He lifted a brow as he saw who was peeking out from behind the plants. He would know those bright blonde ringlets anywhere.

He quickly saw her disappear behind the plant once more, placing her firmly in the section usually reserved for wallflowers.

Poor Annabelle.

“Ah, yes. She is an old friend. Lady Annabelle Tidemore.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’ve seen her,” Delilah said. “Her brother, the duke, is quite handsome, but it seems his sister is more like a wallflower. Poor thing. Rather like a frightened mouse.”

Calum felt the urge to reply, to protect Annabelle from Delilah’s words. There was no chance Annabelle Tidemore could compete with Delilah as a socialite, but she was not homely by any means. And when one could get her in conversation, she was very entertaining.

“Well, not every woman can have your confidence, Delilah,” he whispered in her ear, and she shivered just as he hoped. However, he couldn’t help but glance back up at where Annabelle was hiding, wishing that she would step out just as confidently as Delilah. She deserved to, and he’d never understood why she didn’t believe it herself.

Chapter 2

Annabelle closed her eyes and felt her cheeks burn as she pulled back behind the plant. Both Lady Fernglen and Calum knew that she was looking at them, and she knew she couldn’t possibly leave her place if there was a chance of facing them again.

However, despite it all, Annabelle railed against her fear. She leaned back against the safety of the ballroom wall. She knew that her mother would scold her for the rest of her days if she didn’t come out at all that evening.

A pair of tittering female voices drew Annabelle out. Gathering her courage, she stepped out toward the refreshment table, where the women were standing near the crystal bowl filled with punch. Annabelle swallowed hard. Part of the difficulty of being in a busy ballroom was the fact that she was surrounded by beautiful, elegant women like Lady Fernglen.

Annabelle wished that she could be like Delilah, oozing confidence, beauty, and seduction with ease. Now that Delilah was widowed, it was increasingly evident in each of her movements. Her lips pouted at just the right time. Her eyelashes fluttered prettily whenever she was speaking to a man, and her dancing was smooth and graceful as if she had left the woman in the middle of a waltz. Delilah had nearly all the men in the ballroom watching her.

Sighing with envy, Annabelle stared at the two young beauties who had caught her attention with their whispers. Both of them had found husbands in their first Season: Lady Fiona Pembrooke and Lady Constance Stanley. Their blonde heads were bobbing as they whispered and laughed to one another, watching the dancers. While beautiful, their personalities left much to be desired.

“And he thinks that he can act as though he belongs here?” Lady Fiona said, arching a delicate blonde brow.

Annabelle took a proffered glass of punch from a footman and moved closer to hear them better.

“I know, Calum Spencer seems to have a very high opinion of himself,” Lady Constance retorted, waving her fan with a practiced flair. “Just watch him there with the dowager countess, dancing with her as if he is a duke or an earl!” She laughed.

“The Marchioness of Walington has a soft heart. If it was my ball, I should not even think to invite him.” Fiona lowered her voice, but Annabelle could still hear her, her heart thudding nervously. She found herself growing angry at the words she overheard. “He is simply an illegitimate child, you know – a shameless rogue, born because his mother was light-skirted. Why, he is a menace now to every gullible young woman! Quite the rake, so they say, tempting them with his good looks but unable to provide anything but scandal!”

Annabelle couldn’t stand it any longer. Calum had always been good and kind to her, no matter his reputation. He had saved her from so many situations; she couldn’t just stand there and let someone speak of him that way. In a bold burst of courage, she stepped forward.

Without a proper greeting, she said, “You know that you shouldn’t say such things. It is rude and uncalled for. Cal—I mean, Mr. Spencer has been invited by the marchioness. He has just as much right to be here as you.”

Even though her words sounded strong, Annabelle could feel her muscles trembling as both beautiful young women turned to face her.

“Dearest Lady Annabelle, how sweet of you to come to the young man’s aid,” Lady Fiona said. “Isn’t it, Constance?”

“It certainly is. Why, it seems that you are showing quite a regard for him, nearly calling him by his Christian name as well. Imagine it, Fiona, the wallflower having a tenderness for the devilish rogue!”

The two of them burst into merry laughter, and Annabelle blushed furiously, fearful that someone had heard, that people would know of her secret affection for Calum. It was something she’d never told anyone.

Her mouth went dry. The two women waited for her to come up with something clever in reply, but there was nothing. As always, when under pressure, Annabelle’s mind went blank, and her tongue sat heavy in her mouth. There was nothing she could think to say, and as a result, her palms began to sweat, and a prickle ran down her neck. She had to leave, even though she was both angry at the women and angry at herself because she could never stand up to people properly.

In order to affect her escape, she turned abruptly to leave, but something caught her foot – and she tripped, gasping before she saw the crystal bowl of punch growing larger as she fell towards it.

Time slowed, but there was no stopping it now. Annabelle tumbled into the refreshment table. It all crashed to the floor in a loud noise that could rival a warring battlefield.

Annabelle, sprawled on the floor, heard the screech of the orchestra’s strings stop in mid-song. A collective gasp went up from the crowd before it all went silent.

She stayed still, her heartbeat slow, thudding out each painful moment as it passed. Annabelle had embarrassed herself before, but this was by far the worst.

There was glass everywhere, the punch had fallen all over her hair and gown, and champagne glasses had fallen to the ground as well, shattering into thousands upon thousands of tiny bits of glass. She was also certain she had cut herself a little. In the silence, she could hear footsteps rushing towards her. Finally, she dared to open her eyes.

When she looked up, she saw Calum’s handsome face, his dark hair hanging loose over his forehead, his light blue eyes staring into hers. “Lady Annabelle, are you all right?” he asked kindly.

It felt as if people were craning and crowding to see just how the clumsy Lady Annabelle had embarrassed herself this time.

Tears burned behind her eyes when she heard the sounds of soft snickers, but she nodded her head at Calum. She was grateful to him, despite her embarrassment, for Calum Spencer was like a strong rock in a raging river. Her life was full of mistakes and faux pas, but Calum had always been there to rescue her whenever she needed him.

Suddenly, her mind flashed back to when she was twelve years old, and she’d wanted to ride a pony her father had just bought. Even though everyone had told her she wasn’t yet ready, she climbed atop it anyway.

Naturally, the pony had thrown her off, and she’d landed in the mud. Unharmed, but feeling foolish. Her brother Jeremy had just stood there, shaking his head at her, but it had been Calum who’d reached out to help her up, just as he was doing now.

Will there ever be a time that I do not need rescuing?

Calum looked away for a moment, and she heard her brother ask him if he might carry Annabelle from the room.

When she felt Calum’s strong arms reach underneath her, Annabelle could think of nothing else but to pretend to faint. At least that would save her from some embarrassment, and she wouldn’t have to speak to anyone, including her mother.

***

As he heard a loud crash, he jumped in surprise and could feel Delilah spinning around to see what had caused such a noise.

“Excuse me. I will go and see what’s happened,” he said to Delilah, freeing himself from her clutches.

The crowd had parted slightly, and he felt his stomach twist in knots when he saw Annabelle sprawled out on the floor amidst the broken glass and spilt punch. The music had screeched to a halt, and he could not think of a worse situation for Annabelle to have gotten herself into. He felt terribly sorry for her, and he wished that he could pick her up and rush out of there. Ever since they were young, Annabelle had been the clumsiest person he had ever met. He wasn’t sure what it was, but she always got herself into scrapes. He’d been witness to many of her clumsy mishaps, and this time was no exception.

The ton’s eyes were on Annabelle, and he could hear laughter from a few of the young women on the side.

Annabelle Tidemore is worth three of you, he wanted to say, but refrained.

Delilah was still there, after all, watching all the goings-on. He pushed through the crowd until he knelt at Annabelle’s side. “Are you all right, Lady Annabelle?” he asked, conscious of the watching eyes. She nodded. He was angry and ashamed that Annabelle’s mother had not rushed to her aid. Even her brother stood back.

He turned to Jeremy as he remembered his friend’s fencing injury. Jeremy walked up to him.

“Will you carry her out?” Jeremy asked, rubbing at his wrist.

“Yes, of course,” Calum replied.

When he reached out to pick her up, Annabelle felt weak in his arms. He lifted her and realized she had fainted. He took Annabelle out of the room, Jeremy leading him, glad to leave the judgmental ton behind.

He looked down into Annabelle’s face. Her lovely blonde hair was matted against her face, the punch clinging to the light strands.

Jeremy led him to a couch in the drawing-room, and the sounds of the ballroom increased again as the music commenced once more. Jeremy walked back out of the door to quickly apologize to the hostess as Calum laid Annabelle softly down on the sofa. Her eyes were still closed.

He remained on his knees in front of her as he brushed a finger across her forehead to move her hair out of the way.

“Annabelle,” he said, with some regret, feeling sorry for her. It was a difficult thing for a young woman to have to go out into a Season, especially one whose status was as high as Annabelle’s. She would never be snubbed entirely, but he could see the teasing looks in many of the women’s eyes that evening as Annabelle lay sprawled out on the floor.

“We are like peas in a pod, you and I,” he said with a smirk, realizing that they both didn’t quite fit, even though they’d done everything they could.

Annabelle had her title, and he had his wealth and consequence. And yet, he knew that she felt as much of an outsider as he did. As he watched her, his heart did a strange little flip. He had known Annabelle for so long, and he had grown protective of her. She was the kindest, sweetest creature in the world and had turned into a beautiful woman.

“I think that will keep the ton’s tongues wagging for years to come,” Jeremy said, having returned to the room.

Calum stood and said, “Soon enough, they will have found something else to chatter about.”

“Everyone has started dancing again,” Jeremy said helpfully.

“I think the marchioness will not care in the slightest. Her ball was a success. The incident was a brief moment that we will laugh about later. I’m sure.”

“Hmm,” Jeremy said, looking down at his sister. He knelt before her. “I think that we should call for the physician.”

“He is here!” Calum turned to see the dowager duchess racing in with a young physician. “We are lucky that he was attending the ball. I found him and asked him if he might assist us.”

“I’m afraid all I brought with me are my smelling salts, but they shall do well enough.” He crouched next to Jeremy and lifted the salts to Annabelle’s nose.

With a jolt, she awoke and looked about her wearily. Her eyes caught his for a moment, and he tried to smile, to send her encouragement. Her cheeks flushed as they usually did in his presence, and she gave him a thin smile back.

“I suppose that was rather foolish of me,” she said in a small voice, not looking at either of them.

“Are you injured?” Jeremy asked with a frown. Calum wished he would be a little softer with her.

She shook her head.

“I think you should take your dear sister home, Your Grace,” the physician said, standing up. “She looks well enough, and there are just a few scrapes and bruises, but rest will do her well.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Jeremy said, and when he turned back to Calum, no doubt to ask for his help again, Annabelle put out a hand to stop him.

“I can do it, Jeremy,” she said and got to her feet. She was brushing at her skirt and pushing her hair back. At that moment, Calum admired her for her attempt at regaining a modicum of pride.

Calum followed the family out of a side door and assisted them in calling for their carriage whilst he called for his own.

“You do not have to go, Calum,” Annabelle said, shivering under her wrap, her clothing damp. “You do not have to leave on my account.” Her brother and mother were standing behind her.

“I do not need to stay, Annabelle,” Calum said. “I have had enough of the ton for the evening.”

As their carriage arrived, he helped her and her mother inside, waving the family off. He glanced up at the marchioness’ house for a few more seconds, thinking of Delilah and the pleasures that could await him, but he didn’t have the stomach for entering the ballroom again.

It was better that he ended the night there. Delilah would understand. However, he was slightly worried that Annabelle might never recover.

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Chapter 1

Marlborough, England

1817

“Quietly now,” Emilia whispered to herself as she hovered outside her victim’s bedchamber. With one slow breath, she blew out the candle in her hand, watching as the flame disappeared into a thin trail of smoke. It curled around the tip of the wax stick for a moment before dancing in the air, past her face.

Emilia placed the candle in the brass holder down on the hall table and looked at the corridor. The manor house was old these days and often creaked, even when nobody was walking upon the floor. One of these creaks echoed now, making her dart her head to the side, fearful of being caught. Yet no one was there, only the portraits that hung in their gilt frames, staring down at her through the moonlight with disapproval.

Her gaze rested on one particular painting. It was of one of her ancestors, clad in a pristine gown from the eighteenth century. Her stare was harsh, as if she really was looking at Emilia, rather than being just a frozen image.

“Well, I do not want to be another painting on these walls,” she whispered to the painting. “What is the harm in wanting something different?” She smiled at herself, rather amused at the idea of the painting answering her. She could imagine the figure in that portrait tutting at her, the way her own mother was always tutting in her direction.

Emilia turned her attention away and reached for the handle on her brother’s bedchamber door, then she hesitated, breathing deeply and building up the courage to take the next step. She had to do it; how else was she going to elude her fate?

With renewed vigor, she slowly turned the handle and opened the door. The moment the door creaked in her grasp, she froze and peered her head through the gap, waiting for the rousing of her brother- something that was bound to be inevitable. Strangely, he didn’t stir at all. Could this be a sign this would really work?

He was barely visible. Had it not been for the gap between the curtains and the thin trail of moonlight that seeped through, he would have been in complete darkness. Fortunately, that strip of white light showed her brother was flat out on the bed, half under the covers, with his face pushed so much into the pillow that it was half-hidden. He was certainly asleep, a fact made evident by the snoring that echoed around the room, so deep and sonorous it practically shook the floorboards beneath her feet.

Emilia covered her mouth with one hand, stopping her temptation to laugh as she stepped in through the door, careful to leave it ajar behind her so she didn’t make it creak again. Once safely in the room, she looked around, hunting for the very reason she had made this secret journey in the middle of the night.

Across the room and thrown across a chair in front of a tall mirror were her brother’s clothes. It rather appeared as if he hadn’t bothered with his valet that night, just left them there carelessly to be tidied away in the morning.

Emilia crept toward these clothes, reaching for them with a shaking hand. She took hold of the jacket first, lifting it off the chair in such a way that the sound of silk brushing against cotton whispered in the air.

The snoring halted.

Emilia froze with the jacket in her grasp as she looked toward the bed, certain that her brother was waking up. He snuffled and rolled over, his body quite agitated, yet his eyes never opened.

Laurence is only dreaming. The thought cut through Emilia with relief, making her release a breath she had barely realized she was holding. When he fell still again, she turned around and held the jacket to her body, looking in the mirror to check the fit.

She was almost as tall as her brother, unusually so, and though it had earned her plenty of comments in the past, she knew it could serve her well for the guise she was about to employ. The jacket would mostly fit, even if it was a little loose in places. That could work well to hide the curves that would betray her as a woman.

Her smile took over, realizing her plan might just work, drawing her eyes to her face. The dark hair was swept back from her face, revealing light brown eyes that could have been amber-colored in the moonlight. The features were bold, unusually so, and perhaps a little too feminine in places. The thought made her smile vanish as she turned her attention back to the pile of clothes.

I have to take this chance. I will always regret it if I do not. Imbued by the thought, she took the rest of the clothes before spying the top hat left in the very center of the chair. She snatched this up last, hoping it could be a way to hide her features when she received too inquisitive looks.

Checking constantly over her shoulder that Laurence never woke up, she crept back across the room toward the door and slipped through the gap. When she closed it behind her, she winced at the creaking sound it made, but this time, she didn’t wait to find out if it woke her brother or not.

She took off across the corridor, running on her toes with the clothes bundled against the stomach of her dress. As soundlessly as she could, she hastened toward her chamber at the far end. There, she stole inside, being careful to lean against the door once it was closed and press her ear to the wood, listening out for any sounds or footsteps beyond. There were none.

“It is done,” she said quietly before a giggle of delight escaped her. She turned around and hurried across the room, drawing a portmanteau out from under her bed in so much haste that she dropped the clothes in her hands and nearly fell over a rug in her way. Once the portmanteau was open, she hurried to place the new stolen garments inside.

“Borrowed. Not stolen.” She bit her lip, wishing she could believe it. She was very much a thief now with all the things she had taken from her brother over the last couple of weeks.

“It must be done,” she said with conviction as she looked at everything in the case. She had stolen quite a bit, including a man’s toilette set and scent bottles, to complete the guise.

She was ready. She had everything she needed; there was just one last thing to do.

“Now, I must put my plan into action. It must be done if I am going to avoid marriage for good.” With the words, she closed the lid of the portmanteau.

***

London, England

“I feel like I am being called into my tutor’s office at university,” Robert muttered to the man at his side. His steward coughed, clearly trying to hide his laugh as they passed the rather haughty butler in the corridors. “It is true!”

“He is your father, my Lord,” his steward said with a smile and raised eyebrows. “Can he really be so intimidating?”

“You do not know the man well enough yet. Wait until you see what I see, Kendrick. You will see why I like to stay away then,” Robert said with humor, prompting the steward to laugh another time.

The steward was quite a new addition to Robert’s household, but the two had become instant friends, leading Robert to take Kendrick with him almost wherever he went, even now when he was summoned to his father’s house.

“Best wait here,” Robert nodded his head at the corridor.

“Good luck,” Kendrick said wryly, earning another smile from Robert before he placed a hand on the dark wood of his father’s study door and knocked.

“Enter!” the harsh voice was so sudden that Kendrick winced.

“See? Maybe you do not even have to see him get the measure of the man,” Robert said with a dramatic voice, making Kendrick nod in agreement.

Turning away from the steward, Robert opened the study door and stepped in.

“Well, well, father, for what have I been summoned?” he asked, moving into the room and letting the study door close behind him. Any temptation he had to laugh was quickly fading away, for, before him, the study seemed quite a dark place.

Clad in mahogany-paneled walls and lined with shelves of books, it felt oppressive at times, especially as it lacked any windows. Behind a desk on the far side of the room, lit by so many candles that they formed a crescent moon in front of him, his father’s face appeared gaunt with age.

I could be looking at a ghost in this light rather than a man at all.

“I am in no mood to laugh, Robert,” Montgomery said, piercing Robert with dark eyes.

“Oh, it is serious then?” Robert asked, walking toward the desk. “Should I have left my smile at home?” His jest didn’t help matters, for his father stood from his seat and slapped some folded papers down on the desk. It was meant to be a dramatic thing, yet Robert had seen his father do this so often over the years that he didn’t even flinch.

“No jests,” Montgomery warned and pointed down at the papers. “Do you know who you are, Robert?”

“Have I changed so much that I am unrecognizable? Where is a mirror? I must check I haven’t grown horns since breakfast,” Robert said, taking delight in defying his father as he sat down in a nearby chair.

“Good lord!” Montgomery cried loudly, snatching up the papers again as he rounded the desk, coming near Robert. “You are my son, you fool. My heir. Not only are you a Marquess now, but you stand to be the next Duke of Sussex someday. Not that you behave like such a man would.”

“Not that you act as a Duke should either,” Robert muttered bitterly.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Please go on, don’t mind me.” Robert feigned politeness.

Montgomery walked forward again, his expression dark indeed as he thrust the papers in his grasp into Robert’s chest, urging him to take them.

“Read it.”

“Father, I have read the paper already today –”

“Read it.” His tone became a deeper baritone. “It is not a normal paper.”

Robert took the papers and unfurled them quickly, seeing the title of one of the most popular scandal sheets before him. He smiled a little when he found his name. It had even been highlighted by his father, scored in black ink with a big circle.

“I wonder which section I am supposed to read,” he murmured.

“Do not attempt to be snide now, Robert. Not when you are so willfully destroying my reputation every day.”

You did not need my help for that. Yet Robert kept the thought to himself as he turned his eyes down to the paper, scanning to the section that had clearly offended his father so much and reading it aloud.

“The ball last night at Lady Whittaker’s will undoubtedly be talked of for many months. Not only did we see courting couples take to the dancefloor, some being seen to even entertain three dances with one another, starting gossip that marriage is on the horizon, but we also saw gentlemen known to favor more than one lady making their way around the guests. Has this upset you so?”

“Read on.” His father warned, sitting back and perching on the edge of the desk behind him.

“The handsome Marquess of Wellington was one such man, talked of so much that the name Wellington is whispered with gasps and flutters of fans. It was said last night he could not take his eyes off Miss Juliana Thorpe, a blonde beauty, known for her debut in the theatre just the night before. Perhaps the young actress is to be the latest lady we see on the Marquess’ arm.” Before Robert could say anymore, the scandal sheet was snatched from his grasp.

“You were seen staring at her, Robert, unashamedly! Do you even have any shame?”

“Looking at her…is hardly a great crime, is it, father? I would have liked to have done a lot more than that.” He couldn’t keep the mischief out of his tone, nor could he stop the smile when his father turned back to look at him darkly, his expression so grave that the jowls around his cheeks shook.

Robert loved these moments. He knew it was hardly kind to treat his father so, but in his opinion, his father had earned something much worse. I am even kinder to him than he deserves. He surely must know that.

“The disrespect! The boldness! The outrage!” Montgomery was in his element now, waving so madly with his arm that he nearly knocked over the candles behind him on the desk. “You think you can gallivant with every woman in town? Even this actress, and yet you believe it cannot affect your life?”

“What is that saying, father?” Robert pretended to think on it for a moment, scratching his chin rather nonchalantly. “Oh yes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” He lowered his voice as he pinned his father with his gaze, somewhat irked to hear that his voice sounded much like his father’s.

He was becoming more like him as time passed.

“How dare you talk to me in such a way?” Yet Montgomery’s voice had lost much of its vigor. “It is disrespectful.”

“You and I have never had much respect for each other. I’d say we are past beginning now, wouldn’t you?”

“Forget respect for me. How about respect for the dukedom?” Montgomery asked with outrage, standing to his feet another time and throwing the scandal sheet down on his desk. “I will not have you mar my life like this, with your scandalous ways, nor will I have you destroy the dukedom because of it. Continue like this, and we will both be ruined. For good.”

“We were both ruined a long time ago.” Robert challenged the older man, looking him in the eye.

“I do not know what you mean by that, but this ends here.” Montgomery turned away, practically talking to himself more than Robert at all. “Yes, it ends now. I must stop this. Stop this before it can become any worse.”

“What do you intend to do? Come to every ball and assembly, and stand between me and every lady I meet?” Robert asked sarcastically.

“No.” Montgomery smiled as he looked back to Robert. That smile made Robert waver, seeing the triumphant nature of it. “I will give you an ultimatum, Robert. You will find a respectable bride by the end of the Season and be married, or rest assured, I will find a way to disinherit you. The money, the lands, the title, all of it. You will no longer be the next Duke of Sussex unless you marry.”

Chapter 2

“Where are my portmanteau and my valise?” Emilia asked as she was bustled out of the door with Laurence at her side. With them walking side by side, she could see how like him she was. She even adapted her gait a little, trying out a more manly walk with her legs wider apart before returning to her usual walk when he looked her way.

“Have no fear. They have been put in the carriage already. Louise has seen to that.” Laurence nodded his head toward where Emilia’s maid was climbing into the carriage, offering a squeeze of her hand to the coach driver, her husband, before she sat down on the carriage bench, waiting for Emilia. “You seem awfully concerned about them.”

“It is natural,” Emilia said hurriedly, trying to cover up her concern. “I have never been away from home for so long before. I am merely nervous.”

“You? Nervous?” Laurence laughed. “It is hard to imagine you being nervous of anything. Dear sister, I will miss you.” He opened his arms, and Emilia went quickly into them, holding tightly to that warm embrace for a minute more than usual.

“I’m sure you won’t miss having me at your side at assemblies,” Emilia attempted to jest to cover up the truth of just how sad she was to be parting from her brother. “You have spent far too long chaperoning me.”

“You did a good job of that yourself,” he pointed out as they released each other, both laughing.

“She was not supposed to turn herself into a spinster, though, was she?” The cold voice that spoke up made both of their voices die.

Emilia’s hands buried themselves in the sleeves of her spencer jacket as she turned back to look at the front door of the house. In the doorway, her father stood, the bearer of that cold voice, as he stared at her with an equally resistant glare. Her mother at his side was looking up at him with a shake of her head, clearly despairing of him.

“Ignore him, dearest.” Marianne hurried forward and kissed Emilia on both cheeks, clearly trying to have a heartfelt goodbye. “Write to me often, won’t you? What will I do without your constant chatter every day? Who will tell me of the latest art in London now?”

“I –”

“I think it means we’ll have peace, Marianne.” Lord Grady Chapman moved forward, coming to stand at Marianne’s side. “Have a safe journey, Emilia.”

Emilia couldn’t even summon a smile. She was so confused by her father’s behavior these days that she began to question whether he really loved her at all. Especially when he made such callous comments.

“Yes, do ignore him,” Laurence took up the conversation and reached for Emilia’s hand, pulling her away and escorting her down the last of the front porch steps toward the carriage that awaited her. “You know he will miss you, as we will.”

“I think that is wishful thinking, brother,” she whispered so only he could hear her. Just as she feared, Laurence didn’t naysay her again. They both knew the truth. Her father was tired of the situation. He was tired of her. “I wish I did not have to go.”

“You must,” Grady spoke up as he followed her down the steps. “It is all arranged. I will not tell you again why a spinster must be married.”

Hearing the words urged Emilia to turn away, fixing her gaze on her brother and disregarding her father completely. She had heard the lecture often enough these days, how it was a shocking embarrassment on the family to have a daughter a spinster, who had already rejected every available gentleman in her three seasons. Shocking indeed!

What was even more awful to her father’s ears was the claim Emilia had made just a month ago. “I do not wish to marry.” She knew this was why her father was sending her away. With the pure intention of seeing her married and no longer a burden or a shame to him.

“There will be many gentlemen in London,” Grady said, moving to the carriage and gesturing inside. “Your aunt will take care of you; she is very excited to have you with her. She can introduce you to the most eligible of gentlemen, and with a little luck, you will be married before the Season is out.”

“What if I…” Emilia trailed off, stopping herself before the words could be completed. She felt Laurence squeeze her hand in silent reassurance. He knew what she wanted – to live an independent life, one where she was not reliant on marriage but perhaps her own income. They think it merely a dream. Well, we’ll see.

“It is time to go, dearest,” Marianne said and stepped forward again. She kissed Emilia another time, holding onto her for a long while before Laurence pleaded for his sister to be allowed to breathe.

Eventually, Emilia moved toward the carriage, where her father offered his hand to help her up into the seat. To her surprise, he didn’t release her hand right away; he held it tightly, forcing her to lean toward him, to hear his whispered words.

“Remember our deal, Emilia,” he said, his voice quiet yet in a kind of fearful earnestness. She was used to this desperation now, but it never failed to cut deeply. I will always be a disappointment to him.

“I have agreed to go, father.”

“Not only that, but I do not want to hear another word about your… ideas,” he said the word as if it was something scandalous. “I have asked your aunt to report to me regularly. Should you utter another word of this nonsensical idea of going to work, to earn an income, from something as frivolous as painting, I cannot bear the stain on our family. You understand that, don’t you?”

“You would disown me,” she said the words quietly, numb. As quickly as she could, she retracted her hand from her father. “You have made it plain, father.”

“I am merely protecting our family, Emilia.”

“And yourself,” she pointed out wryly as she sat back in the carriage beside Louise. Grady closed the door before leaning his head through the window.

“Marry, Emilia. Then this argument will be a thing of the past.” He paused, breathing deeply. It was an odd moment, one where all his harshness faded, and he almost sounded vulnerable. It urged Emilia to look toward him. “Please.”

“We have our deal, father,” she said softly, “as you say. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” He offered her a smile, but it was one she could not return.

As he stepped back and the carriage was given the signal to move on, Emilia leaned out of the window, waving to her mother and her brother, fully aware of the way her father was already retreating into the house, not looking back to wave.

“Good lord! Have you ever known such a man?” Emilia said with a sigh as she sat back in the carriage and slumped against the bench, glad to not have to keep up the fine poise whilst she was travelling. Louise copied the slumped position, clearly relieved to be sat so comfortably at last.

“He is a rather odd man, his Lordship, is he not?” Louise asked, chewing her lip. She had been Emilia’s maid for years now. In some ways, the two of them had grown up together and were great friends. For most of those years, Emilia hadn’t kept a secret from her. Until now.

“Odd? I can think of many other words for him! Insistent, concerned with reputation and marriage. Good lord, to think how horrified he is to have an unmarried daughter my age? You’d think he’d stood in horse manure the way he talks about it.” Her words made the maid laugh. “At least, in London, things might be different.”

“Different?” Louise queried, with her fair eyebrows quirking together in curiosity. “I thought your aunt was set to arrange suitors for you to meet? Balls and parties every night!”

“Let us hope not every night. I have scared off all my previous suitors; it should hardly be difficult to do so again.” Emilia felt the smile grow on her cheeks as she now realized how near she was to set her plan to action. All she had to do was hold out on marriage a little longer, perhaps the Season or two. If all went well with her disguise, some day soon, the idea of marriage could be academic entirely.

“Why do you smile so?” Louise said quietly to her. “I would have thought you dreaded this moment. You cried for a full night when his Lordship first told you of it.”

“I believe in making the best of a bad situation, my friend,” Emilia said with triumph as she sat forward again. “Trust me, perhaps London will not be as bad as I first feared.”

***

Robert barely looked up from the coffee in his hands as he heard his father enter the breakfast room and sit down at the far side of the table. They hadn’t spoken since their ill-fated meeting the night before.

Hearing that his father was threatening to strip him of his title, Robert had left at once and spent most of the night in the nearest gentleman’s club. Obviously, something his father disagreed with, for he could hear him muttering words under his breath now.

“You stink of liquor,” Montgomery said snidely. “It comes off you as if you carry an open carafe of brandy in your pocket.”

“Well, I had some bad news last night, father. Liquor is supposed to be good for shock, is it not?” His mischievous answer was clearly unwelcome, for Montgomery shot him a sharp look and hurriedly looked up to the butler who had poured his morning tea.

“Thank you. That will be all,” he nodded his head at the butler, urging him to depart.

Robert stared at his father over the rim of the coffee cup, waiting for the butler to leave. Once the door closed, Montgomery looked back at him.

“I was not in jest last night, Robert. I will do it. I will make another my heir if you do not follow my wishes.”

Robert busied himself with downing what was left in the coffee cup before he could speak.

“I’m fairly certain such things are impossible. Isn’t there a legal act somewhere that says eldest sons must always inherit? I’m sure I read something of it at university,” Robert said. He tried to sound uncertain of the matter, but he was sure. He did read such things in the law at university.

“Usually, but the Prince Regent has powers over parliament that Dukes do not,” Montgomery spoke slowly and steepled his hands together as he rested his elbows on the table. “He can give my title to my actual eldest son.”

Robert half dropped the cup as he had attempted to put it back in the saucer, making it clatter loudly in the air. The word was such a shock to him; he had never even suspected it was a possibility.

“My half-brother. Christian?” Robert spoke the words with disgust. He had nothing against Christian, nothing at all. It was the gentleman’s mother Robert objected to so, and the relationship she had with Montgomery still to this day. “You cannot do that. He was born outside of wedlock.”

“Perhaps the Prince Regent will make an exception in this case,” Montgomery spoke easily, as if the matter had already been discussed and decided upon.

Robert opened his mouth to argue, yet he found himself speechless, his lips opening and closing with not a sound uttered at all.

“Good. Maybe the shock will serve you well.” Montgomery sipped from his tea and set about serving his meal, as if the conversation were at an end.

“You wish me to marry,” Robert spoke at last, trying to form some sort of plan for his future. “Yes?”

“Yes, but if you are going to marry any sort of decent woman with a good reputation and connections, you must seek to repair your own reputation first.” Montgomery lifted the fork from his plate and pointed it in Robert’s direction. “Change your activities, show interest in something other than the gentleman’s club, drinking, and ladies.”

“You say that like they are bad things.”

“Robert.” Montgomery’s harsh voice made Robert look up to him again. “If you are to be a Duke, then you need to be respected. You need to share the interests of the most respected gentlemen in the ton if you are to marry one of their daughters. You must appear clever, cultured, and have a fine mind. Your want for jesting could be seen as good wit if you restrain yourself a little in public.”

“I actually thought for a second you were going for a compliment,” Robert said with a bitter laugh. “Have no fear, father. I do not expect compliments from you. Ever.”

“Every earl, marquess, and lord I know loves art these days. There is scarcely a weekend they are not viewing art or are attending an exhibition at the Somerset Gallery.” Montgomery went on as if Robert hadn’t spoken. “Visit the Royal Academy of Art. Maybe invest in it. It would certainly be nice to see the scandal sheets saying something nice of you for once. It is already arranged with the director of the Academy.”

Robert released his cutlery and sat back in his chair, staring at his father.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“You have trapped me, father.”

“It’s how one hunts. You give them nowhere else to go.”

“Yet you have given a poor reason for your hunt,” Robert said as he slowly stood to his feet, making the chair scrape across the floor. “You are punishing me for turning into you. Have you not noticed that?”

Montgomery paused with the food in his mouth, mid-chew, unable to meet Robert’s gaze.

“As you wish, I will go,” Robert said, adopting a more formal tone as he turned from the table and walked out of the room. He could tell there was nothing he could do. He was indeed trapped and would have to do as his father asked.

By the end of the week, he would visit the Academy and leave quickly enough. After all, what could possibly be interesting at the Academy of Arts?

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Chapter One

“Faith, Lady Alice, would you look at this spread?” Alice Adamson – or Lady Alice, to her maid Sarah – stood by the refreshment table and took in the feast before them. A delicious Wassail punch, marzipan, cakes, pies, chocolates, and even candied orange and lemon peels were among the offerings.

“My cousin spared no expense,” Alice replied while picking up another slice of candied orange peel. She sighed and glanced around the grand ballroom. Pierce Adamson, her first cousin, had inherited her father’s title four years ago, after Alice’s father’s tragic death, and since then, he’d made it a point of hosting an elaborate ball at the start of each Season.

To mark the occasion this year, he’d hired the most sought-after orchestra, served the best food, and employed London’s most talented painters to draw elaborate chalk paintings upon the shiny, but slippery hardwood floors of the ballroom.

Under normal circumstances, Alice would have done all she could to get out of having to attend a ball. Unfortunately, they were little more than marriage marts, no matter under what guise. And she was decidedly not in the market for a husband. Not that her mother, the Dowager Duchess of Avonwood would agree with her on the matter. If it were up to her mother, she’d be married off to the next available gentleman already.

Alice sighed and bit into the sweet. The sour taste of the orange made her grimace, but then, the sweetness of the sugar-coating hit her tastebuds, and she closed her eyes, momentarily overwhelmed by the lovely flavor.

“You ought to try a bite, Sarah. It’ll make you pucker your lips,” she giggled without covering her mouth, much to her lady’s maid’s mortification.

“A lady doesn’t laugh without covering her mouth, Lady Alice,” Sarah chided.

“And a lady’s maid doesn’t ordinarily go by her first name, or attend balls. Or shall I start calling you Mrs. Clarkson?”

Sarah tilted her head to the side. She’d been Alice’s lady’s maid ever since her debut, two years prior, and even before that, she’d served in their household. But, as only a few years separated the two in age, they’d never been as formal as a lady and her maid ought to be. Especially now that Alice had no desire to conform to what was expected of her.

“Lady Alice,” Sarah said slightly exasperatedly, but Alice waved a hand.

“Let us not quarrel. Let us instead enjoy my cousin’s offerings and then slip away before anyone notices us. There is much we must discuss. I’ve found a lovely estate near Portsmouth, with water views. I think you will adore it,” she beamed, but Sarah squinted at her.

“Lady Alice, are you quite sure it is a good idea to attempt to make such a purchase? Do not you think it better to marry? You’re a beautiful young lady. Any of these ladies here wishes she had lovely hair like yours, skin so pale and eyes so blue…” Sarah waved her hand at Alice, indicating her blonde, shoulder-length curls, currently confined in an elaborate pinned-up hairstyle that allowed for exactly one curl to fall into her face.

Alice rolled her eyes. She knew well that she was considered attractive among the high society ladies, but she cared little for such matters. What she cared for was finding a way out of this ball.

“I have no interest in marriage right now; you know this. But do not fear, just because your lady doesn’t wish to marry doesn’t mean you won’t. I shall help you. We will find you a fine naval officer in Portsmouth who will wish to court you, you shall see. It is just a few more days before I turn one-and-twenty and come into my inheritance. Then, we shall both be free of London and this folly,” she said and was about to launch into a speech about the frivolity of the ton when Sarah shook her head and pointed with her chin to something – or someone – behind them.

Alice’s stomach clenched as she turned, and her eyes settled on her mother, Octavia Adamson, Dowager Duchess of Avonwood. Or rather, her stomach clenched at the sight of the man beside her.

“Alice,” her mother cooed and waved her white feathered fan in her direction. “There you are, at the refreshment table, as always. Would you see whom I found wandering about the ballroom.” She turned and indicated toward the gentleman.

Alice forced a smile onto her lips and curtsied while the man bowed.

“Lord Morendale, a pleasure as always,” she said politely while the man smiled broadly at her.

The Earl of Morendale, Maxwell Blackmore, was an obnoxious fellow with tiny, beady, brown eyes. If the eyes were indeed the window to one’s soul, his had to be quite dark and unpleasant; for there was something cold and unsettling in them. Fine lines stretched like spider webs from his temple, around the eyebrows and the bridge of his nose. At eight-and-thirty, he would have been considered on the shelf – if he had the misfortune of being born a lady. As it was, most ladies considered him a catch due to his large estate and highly respected family.

Alice wasn’t one of them. Alas, judging by the way her mother smiled at him, she thought him a perfectly suitable match for Alice. She should have expected that her mother would encourage conversation between them at this ball. She’d spoken of Lord Morendale in more than a complimentary manner for some weeks now.

“Lady Alice,” he said and raised her hand toward his lips. Before she could protest, he placed his thin lips on the back of her hand and Alice said a small prayer of thanks to the person that invented gloves. For it was that beautiful garment that saved her skin from feeling Lord Morendale’s wet mouth on her hand at the moment.

“How lovely to see a friendly face in the crowd. Are you dancing tonight?”

Alice shook her head and was about to declare she didn’t dance. She didn’t like dancing, as she didn’t enjoy the civil whiskers required. Usually, she simply declared she wasn’t dancing at all at the start of a ball. It was the only way a lady could avoid having to dance and this had been her plan today. Alas, her mother had other ideas.

“Of course, she is,” her mother declared.

Alice was about to protest when her mother continued. “She danced with Lord Longbourn earlier this evening.” She winked at Alice, whose nostrils flared. She had danced with the elder Lord Longbourn at the behest of her cousin. She’d hoped since it was early in the evening and not a great many guests were in attendance, she might get away with it, but her eagle-eyed mother would not let that happen.

“Well, that is delightful,” Lord Morendale exclaimed. “The quadrille is about to begin.” He extended his hand to Alice, and she reluctantly took it and allowed him to lead her to the dancefloor, where they stood in line with the other dancers. Alice glanced over her shoulder at her mother, who placed a piece of marzipan in her mouth while watching them. Beside her, Sarah shook her head, aware of just how much Alice despised the idea of dancing with Lord Morendale – or any lord for that matter.

While her mother believed a lady’s only goal in life ought to be to find a husband, have a son, and indulge in the good life, Alice had never thought so. What she wanted wasn’t a husband. It was independence. She wanted to forge her own path in life. And thanks to an inheritance left to her by her father, she would. On her birthday, one week from today, she’d inherit a substantial sum. With it, she’d make her dream of buying a piece of land come true. She’d have a small house in which she, Sarah, and some of her most trusted servants would live while she would indulge in the things she liked to do most.

Ride, walk, play her music, and above all read. She’d read and re-read her favorite poetry while engaging in charity work. It would be an unconventional life, one that would highly offend her prim and proper mother, but it would be a life of her making – just like her father had always encouraged her to do.

She wondered, what would her father have said if he’d known this was what she planned to do with her inheritance. Would he be proud? Yes, Alice thought he would be. He’d raised her to think for herself, to listen to the voice within her own heart and mind, to do what she thought was right. He’d support her, she was convinced of it. If he’d lived, perhaps he might have even helped her choose an estate. One thing she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was that he would not have wanted her to marry for the sake of fulfilling society’s demands the way her mother wanted her to.

As Lord Morendale chattered beside her about inconsequential things, she canvassed the line of dancers around them, waiting for the quadrille. From the outside, one saw nothing but a line of young lords and ladies in their finest attire, bright smiles upon their faces. However, Alice knew that most of the smiles were fake, the beautiful gowns and fine waistcoats donned only for one purpose – to attract a suitable mate.

Just as her parents had done, and just like her parents, most of those around her would wind up in loveless marriages, a life of misery ahead of them. Not Alice. Alice, thanks to her father, would escape it all.

“Lady Alice?” Lord Morendale called out beside her, a curious tone in his voice. She realized that the cotillion had ended and couples were flooding the dance floor when she looked up. She’d been lost in her thoughts, never realizing the line was moving, and it was their turn.

“I apologize, I was lost in thought,” she apologized and marched forth with him just as the music started.

“It is understandable. You must have a lot on your mind,” he replied with a grin and spun her around when his heavy foot landed on her dancing slipper.

“Oh!” she exclaimed and took a step back, bumping into another dancer behind her.

“I apologize,” he declared, mortification rife with every word. “I’m afraid I’m not an accomplished dancer. I shall take more care. But, please,” he held out his hand, and she quickly took it, not wishing to create a commotion.

She’d known Lord Morendale was a bit of a foozler, but that he was quite so terrible a dancer was news even to her. Determined to get this dance over with, she forced herself to smile.

“That is quite alright. The quadrille can be challenging. Now, you said my mind must be occupied. I’m afraid I do not know what you mean.”

The relief at the change of subject was evident when his shoulders relaxed. “I mean as it is your birthday coming up. One-and-twenty, you must be quite excited.”

This was an understatement. Alice was more than delighted at the prospect of her upcoming birthday, although not for the reasons her dance partner might believe. She cared little for the gifts, the dinner party her mother would undoubtedly plan, or anything else. She only cared about her inheritance and the freedom it would give her to live the life she always dreamed of.

“I am,” she admitted but said nothing further on the matter, not wanting to give away too much.

Naturally, her mother – and the rest of the ton – knew she’d inherited a portion of her father’s estate. What they didn’t know were the details of the inheritance. Those only she, her cousin, her mother, Sarah, and the solicitor were privy to – as far as she was aware. And nobody but Sarah knew just what she had in mind for her inheritance.

“My niece turned one-and-twenty just last year. We had the most fabulous celebration. We spared no expenses.” He grinned and leaned forward, and when he spoke again, a whiff of cinnamon comfit mixed with his terrible breath wafted into her face. Her stomach recoiled, and she wanted to press a hand in front of her mouth but refrained. “I had chocolates from France imported,” he whispered.

“Is that so? Isn’t there a ban on French products?” she asked, aware that he’d just confessed to a crime. A minor crime committed by a great many lords, but a crime, nonetheless.

He pulled his shoulders back, taken aback by her response. “Well, yes. But I have my ways. One of the many perks when one is of a station as well-positioned as mine.”

She opened her mouth, about to give a snappy reply, when he stepped on her foot again. But, this time, she said nothing and simply grimaced while his face grew as bright red as his waistcoat.

“I apologize,” he said sheepishly. “You must regret agreeing to dance with me.”

“Do not fret, Lord Morendale. We shall find out rhythm yet.” She doubted this. Indeed, she was of a mind to suggest that he use his well-positioned station to hire a dance teacher but knew better than to offend.

“You are very kind, Lady Alice. And if I may say so, you are truly a diamond of the first water.”
This time, it was her turn to color up. She didn’t take compliments well and often found them shallow, but how he delivered his made it clear he truly meant what he said.

And somehow, that made her even more uncomfortable. Lord Morendale had shown an interest in her even when she’d made her debut. However, she’d noticed that of late, he’d appeared in her circle more and more often. No matter where she went, the theater, the opera, even the royal menagerie – he was always there.

Always ready to pay a compliment or seek her company. Not that he was the only one. There were a great many young gentlemen interested in her. She was, after all, the daughter of a duke and the only cousin of the current titleholder. Naturally, anyone seeking to elevate their family would want to marry a duke’s daughter.

Although she couldn’t deny that Morendale appeared a little more motivated than the other gentlemen who’d sought her company.

“I thank you, Lord M….”

She winced as he stepped on her foot for the third time. At this rate, she’d find herself flat-footed by the end of the dance.

As he uttered another apology, she sucked in a gulp of the rose-scented air and carried on dancing, ignoring the pain in her toes.

Just a few more days. In a few days, she’d be a rich, single lady with a home of her own – and she’d no longer have to worry about Lord Morendale or anyone else. She’d be free. Finally, truly free. All she had to do was bide her time…

***

Alice’s head leaned against the side of the carriage as a yawn overcame her. Her mother turned and raised an eyebrow.

“Tired, dear? You must be, after all the dances.” Her mother patted her arm, and Alice forced a smile.

“Rather. And my feet hurt,” she added as she blinked at her mother. It was true. The accidental assault upon her toes by Lord Morendale continued to cause throbbing pain. Alas, her mother didn’t seem troubled by this and chuckled.

“He is a little flat-footed, is he not? Well, if he asks you to dance tomorrow, perhaps you can select a different dance. One with less complex steps?” Her mother shrugged while Alice gasped.

“Tomorrow? We are to go to another dance tomorrow?”

How in the world was she to get through another dance, she wondered. She hadn’t been able to decline this one as her cousin hosted it, but she had no intention of going to yet another ball.

“At Lady Solenshire’s. I told you. I have a gown ready for you, the lovely lavender colored one with the lace from Edinburgh. Surely you haven’t forgotten,” her mother gushed.
Alice groaned under her breath, for she had indeed quite forgotten. Lady Solenshire was one of her mother’s dearest friends, and as such, she would have to attend the ball.

“Very well, I shall go. But I shall not dance. My toes cannot take it, Mother,” she complained, but her mother instantly clicked her tongue.

“You will dance. How else will you make a good match, child? You are almost one-and-twenty; if you do not make a match this Season, you might find yourself a spinster, and we can’t have that.”

Alice pressed her lips together. She knew it would be improper to talk back to her mother. Furthermore, she had to remind herself that her mother did not yet know her plans. Octavia Adamson wasn’t the kind of lady who’d understand her daughter’s desire to remain unwed and would certainly suffer from a bout of apoplexy if she was to find out.

As such, Alice had planned to keep the entire scheme to herself. She’d come into her money, buy an estate, and arrange for her belongings to be moved before ever telling her mother. Surely, once she saw how well laid out Alice’s plan was, she’d come around. Besides, it wasn’t that Alice would never marry on principal. No. She would if she met the right sort of gentleman. However, if she didn’t, then she’d be perfectly contented on her own. Now wasn’t the right time to tell her mother this. She let out a small sigh as the carriage slowed.

“Perhaps Lord Morendale will not be at the ball tomorrow, and thus my feet can find some respite,” she said hopefully. Her mother let out a small puff of air and shook her head.

“He will. I already made sure to ask him. He looks forward to dancing with you again, dear,” she replied as the carriage came to a halt. She could not wait to get to her chamber and to bed; for tomorrow, she’d just learned, yet another ball awaited her.

Chapter Two

Savonsbury Manor
London

Silas stepped out of the carriage and glanced around. A lamplighter stopped at the end of Rose Street and lit the sole streetlight. The dim light from the lamp gave the street an eerie atmosphere, and a chill ran down Silas’s spine. He turned the collar of his greatcoat up and turned back to the carriage.

“Christine?”

His sister looked up, her blue eyes still heavy with sleep. She got up and smoothed down her white round dress before taking his left hand as he handed her out. She gulped down the air and smiled.

“London, how I have missed you,” she said with a beaming smile, and guilt instantly filled Silas’s heart. They hadn’t been in the city since their father’s death eighteen months ago. Primarily because Silas couldn’t stand the thought of being in the same town where his father had lost his life – and where he’d received the horrific injuries that would scar him for the rest of his. He peered at his right hand, the burn scars hidden under a black glove. While he could hide this scar from the world, the ones on his face and neck were not so easily hidden.

While he had nothing but bad memories of London, for his sister the city meant dances, balls, dinners – and the opportunity to find a husband once she made her debut. Which she would, soon. The sole reason for their return to the capital was so that Christine could finally make her social debut and join the ranks of eligible young ladies in want of a husband.

Silas had pushed off his sister’s debut until a letter from their paternal aunt, Lady Savonsbury, requested their return to London so she could take charge of the affair. He couldn’t ignore her request, for she was quite right, Christine’s debut was overdue. Most ladies had theirs at six-and-ten, after all.

“Shall we?” He extended an arm to her, and she took it, her eyes wide as she looked around. The houses on Rose Street were magnificent, even in the fading light. Narrow but tall with crimson brick, these were stately homes, occupied by the richest and highest-ranking members of the ton – like their aunt, Blythe Slater, the dowager viscountess of Savonsbury. Christine craned her neck and looked up at the five-story tall building but then frowned.

“Why is it so many homes in London have windows bricked up?” she asked as they passed through the small iron gate and ascended the three stone steps to the front door.

“To avoid the window tax. Parliament passed a tax on windows some years ago. I hear there are efforts underway in the House of Lords to reverse it. Our fellow aristocrats like their natural light more than paying taxes, it seems,” he chuckled, and his sister nodded.

“Will you take your seat in the House of Lords this Season?” she asked as he raised his gloved right hand and knocked.

Silas rubbed his dry lips together. Would he? He knew it was his duty. As Baron Evenswood, he was a low-ranking member of the peerage, but he was a member and had duties to the realm all the same. One such duty was to take the seat vacated by his father upon his death. However, the thought of doing so caused his stomach to clench with dread. Ever since the accident, he’d avoided people as much as possible. Too intense were the stares, too unkind the remarks.

However, he knew he couldn’t keep himself – and his sister – hidden from society forever. Beside him, Christine drew her shoulders back and rose to her full height, her eyes cast at the door. Through the stained glass, they saw movement, and then, the heavy oak door swung open.

Instantly, the butler, an older fellow named Mr. Farnsworth, smiled.

“Lord Evenswood, Miss Christine, a pleasure to see you again,” he stepped aside. He indicated for them to enter while motioning for the coachman to take the carriage around the back to unload their copious amounts of luggage. “Lady Savonsbury will be down in a moment. Please, take a seat in the drawing-room.”

As they relieved themselves of their coats and entered the warm drawing-room, Silas’s eyes fell on a portrait above the fireplace in which orange and yellow flames danced around the embers with abandon. It showed his father and aunt together when they were young, and his grandparents, the late baron, and baroness. Silas hadn’t met his grandfather for he’d passed long before Silas’s birth. However, he’d been told he looked just like his grandfather many times over the years.

That they shared the same wiry frame, hazel-colored hair, and green eyes, and their flawless skin with its delicate freckles under the eyes — he scoffed as he thought of this, and his still gloved hand traveled to his face. He no longer shared that part with his late grandfather; that he knew. His skin, at least the right side of it, was now covered in scars that made him into a spectacle no matter where he went. Sometimes, when he was alone and peered at his ruined face, he could still feel the heat of the flames on his him, smell the terrible stench of the burning skin, and hear the gasps of his father as he died in Silas’s arms.

“Silas, Christine!” his aunt’s voice called out behind him and drew him from his thoughts. He spun around just as Christine flew into her aunt’s arms.

He marched across to his aunt, bowed, and smiled at her. However, when their eyes met, he saw her squirm at the sight of his face.

It was strange, he thought. He’d almost forgotten how much it hurt when people reacted that way. After suffering through the pitying looks, the curious glares, and the horrified gasps for weeks, he’d left for his country seat. And there, nobody looked at him that way, for everyone already knew the fate he’d suffered. At his estate, Stanmore Hall, the servants had gotten used to the thick, red scars that covered much of the right side of his face, neck, and upper body. He didn’t have to contend with the surprised reactions.

However, he hadn’t seen his Aunt Blythe in months, and it seemed she’d forgotten the extent of his disfigurement. To her credit, she pushed away from the shock and smiled at him.

“Silas.” She stepped forth and kissed the unscared side of his face, her blue eyes – the same sapphire shade as Christine’s – lit up with genuine affection. “It is good to see you both. Please, sit. Would you like some tea?”

When Christine nodded, their aunt rang the bell before sitting beside Silas. He noted that she chose to sit so that she faced his still pristine left side, but he couldn’t say he blamed her for the choice.

“Aunt Blythe, I am ever so glad you invited us to London,” Christine cooed, her hands folded in her lap. His sister was already eight-and-ten, but to Silas, she still looked like the child he’d known all his life, the same young girl he’d soothed through the grief of losing their mother to consumption ten years ago.

“Of course. I am so pleased you accepted. You know I always hoped to one day help you with your debut. I promised I would, and I am a lady who keeps her promises. I told your father four years ago that we ought to start planning, but I think if he’d had his way, you would stay a girl forever,” Aunt Blythe chuckled just as a maid carried in a tray of tea.

Silas sat back and crossed one leg over the other. He had to confess if to nobody but himself that he shared his father’s thoughts. He wished Christine could stay a girl forever and remain at home with him. For, once she was out in society she’d soon find a match and marry.

While she was only the daughter of a baron, their estate was large and their funds plentiful. After his father’s death, Silas had sold the shipping company – the location of the accident – and made a hefty sum from the sale. The place had brought a calamity down upon him, but at least it would make for a handsome dowry for Christine.

Silas’s eyes surveyed his sister. In addition to the dowry, she possessed a striking beauty that would surely attract a great many suitors. Her lovely eyes, dark hair, and red lips stood in contrast to her pale skin, just like their mother’s had. And their mother had once been called the most beautiful lady in the Kingdom by one of the scandal sheets. No, there was no doubt in his mind that his sister would be engaged by the end of the Season.

And he’d be alone. All alone.

His aunt’s voice once again drew his attention.

“I think there is no time like the present,” she said to Christine, who beamed. “I’ve made an appointment with Mrs. Ravensbury, the best modiste in all of London, for tomorrow morning. So we will have a great many gowns made for you. And for me, since I will be your chaperone.” His aunt smiled softly and as she did, Silas noticed the resemblance to their late father. She had the same dimples in her cheeks when she laughed as he had.

“Faith, Aunt Blythe, we shall have such fun together. I can hardly wait.” Christine shimmied her shoulders. The happiness on his sister’s face soothed Silas’s gloomy thoughts. At least one of them had a chance at happiness. Still, he thought.

“You won’t have to wait too long. Soon, you will be invited to all of these balls. But first, we must establish your brother in society before we can have your coming out ball. And to that end, I’ve secured an invitation to a ball at the home of Lady Solenshire tomorrow. Silas and I shall go and let society know Baron Evenswood is back in London. That will be the first them, and soon, your ball will follow,” his aunt declared while Silas’s heart sank.

“The two of us? I thought you would take charge of Christine’s coming out,” Silas exclaimed with more force than intended.

His aunt blinked and set down her tea with a clang.

“And I am. I understand you are reluctant to attend these types of soirees, but it is important for you, Silas. Or rather, for your sister. You are Baron Evenswood now, and we must establish you in society before Christine can come out. It will be easier for Christine if the gentlemen of society are familiar with the head of the family. I do not expect you to dance, but perhaps you can join in a game of cards or visit the smoking room.”

Silas swallowed and pushed himself into the soft back of the chaise lounge in which he sat. The idea of conversing with others, being seen in public, mortified him. And yet, as he raised his eyes and looked at his sister, he saw the longing for a happy future within them.

He knew he couldn’t stand in the way of her happiness. He had to be the kind of brother his father would expect him to be. The kind who’d stand up for her, support her, do all he had to, to ensure her future. He gulped down the lump that had formed in his throat and gave a nod.

“I suppose I can play a round of whist or smoke a cigar if it helps Christine,” he grumbled.

“Yes, thank you, Silas,” Christine enthused and clapped her hands together in childlike excitement.

His aunt placed a hand on his forearm. “You will see, Silas, it will not be half as bad as you imagine. I had a few suits made for you. They’re in your chamber. You’ll look quite smashing. Who knows, you might come away with a bride as well, and then we may have two weddings before the Season is out,” his aunt said with a smile.

Silas huffed, for he knew that no lady would look at him as a potential match, and certainly no lady would accept to marry him or have his children. As much as it pained him to admit, the line would die out with him, the title would revert to the crown, and their family legacy would be over.

He, Silas Everett, would be the last Baron Evenswood, for he knew one thing for certain: He would never, ever marry.

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