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Prologue

Genevieve

“If I have told you once, Genevieve, I have told you a thousand times.”

Genevieve’s grip on the book in her hand tightened in anticipation. Her mother had the habit of snatching her daughter’s book as a means to emphasize the importance of her lecture. It usually ended with the book being snapped shut and her mother rapping her on the knuckles with it for daring to read in the first place.

Sure enough, the woman seated across from her in their small carriage did indeed attempt to snatch the book.

“Put…” she tugged angrily, “the book . . . oh, for heaven’s sake!”

When she could not pull the book from her daughter’s hands, she smacked them anyway.

“Put that down and sit up straight unless you wish to grow a hunch in your back! Imagine that. What sort of husband would wish to wed a shriveled old crone?!”

Genevieve relented. She sighed softly and placed her marker in her book before dutifully complying with her mother’s wishes. She watched as the older woman pressed the back of her gloved hand on her mouth as if she was barely keeping tears at bay. It was hard not to roll her eyes over such theatrics.

“Sorry, Mama, please do not cry.”

“It is just . . . you act as if you do not even care about your debut!” the older woman fanned her face with her other hand, pretending to struggle for composure. “One would think you would be excited! Such an important, momentous day like today! Every girl dreams of their first debut! I know I did.”

Not every girl.

Genevieve wished she could speak her mind. She wished to say she was actually so nervous she feared she’d faint. As a result, her stomach would not settle, and reading her book was absolutely the only thing keeping her from losing her mind at that very moment.

“I would spend hours dreaming of the perfect dress or the way I might style my hair. I begged my Mama for the pearls to decorate my hair for weeks before the day! As I am certain you remember, I was quite sought after in my youth . . . are you listening to me? Genevieve?”

It was hard to listen when one was so nervous that the world outside seemed to be spinning in place. She wished she could tell her Mama that she was only making things worse.

Genevieve closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the book, attempting to steady her breathing. If only she could get it under control, then things would be better. In through the nose and out through the mouth. While that particular technique was not the one listed in the medical journal she had read over a dozen times, it was the one she felt worked best for her. She focused on the sound of the leather binding creaking under her gloved grip and the wheels of the carriage starting to slow down.

Her mother had never understood Genevieve’s fascination with the human body, but she could not help herself—she adored it. Her mother found it gruesome and unladylike. Perhaps she was correct, but at a moment like this, it soothed Genevieve. She knew her interests would have pleased her mother if she had been born a man. If she had only been male, she would have been allowed to study. She could have dedicated her life to science and never have to worry about something so silly as pearls and dresses.

The only reason her mother had not attempted to ruin the old, yellowing book in her daughter’s hands was because doing so would incur the wrath of Genevieve. Damaging the things he bought for her would cause more arguments between them. Whether it was ladylike or not, her father understood her desire to learn. When she cried and explained that she wished to become a physician, he was the one to listen and encourage her. While her mother had been the one to stomp on the dream so firmly, it had died at the tender age of seven.

Her mother could not stop her from reading, however. No matter what she did.

The human body fascinated Genevieve endlessly. If only she could remove herself clinically from her present emotions, then she could diagnose and access them, perhaps even come up with a better plan of action.

But then they arrived at their destination. The carriage pulled to a stop behind the already long line of carriages unloading their effortlessly graceful young cargo. A buzz of excited conversation floated in through the open carriage windows, and it seemed everyone was speaking about one thing—impressing the Queen.

Distracted, her grip on the book slackened, and her mother capitalized on the opportunity to yank it from her daughter’s hand with a victorious smirk.

“Now, no more of that nonsense! Sit upright.” The older woman gloated as she leaned forward in her seat, pushing and primping at her daughter’s hair until she was satisfied it was exactly the way she wished it to be. Mother always strove for her version of perfection—no matter how unattainable it might be in Genevieve’s case.

“I do not see why you bother, Mama. They all think me strange anyway.”

“If you would keep your nose out of a book a little more often, they might think otherwise. You have nobody but yourself to blame,” her mother began, and Genevieve sensed a full-blown lecture in the offing. But the older woman suddenly huffed and dropped her hands. “I suppose that is as good as it is going to get. Please try your best not to embarrass me once we are inside. No speaking of herbs or rooting around in the garden dirt. Mind your manners, or you will never find a husband.” She huffed again and looked on the verge of tears once more. “Honestly, child, you have no care for your mother’s poor nerves!”

Genevieve hated to see her cry. “No, Mama, of course, I do,” she said, feeling contrite, glad to see it was their turn to disembark. The carriage moved forward, and the footmen placed the wooden blocks used as steps on the ground, to ease their exit before pulling open the door.

When she glanced back at her mother, she saw her eyes were dry, as if nothing had happened. Instead, she had pasted a bright, cheery smile on her pretty features and stepped out into the warm afternoon sunlight, beaming.

Why can I not ever do that?

Genevieve cursed herself silently and followed her mother out of the carriage, feeling as if every pair of eyes was on her the moment her foot slipped, and she nearly fell sideways from the stepping block. She awkwardly grabbed the footman’s arm to steady herself, smiling nervously.

“Watch yourself, child!” her mother hissed angrily under her breath, her lips hardly moving as she linked her arm through her daughter’s. Mother had always been so effortlessly subtle. The woman had an easy way of expressing herself that Genevieve coveted.

“Sorry, Mama.”

“Do not forget yourself. I do not wish to see you indulging in eating cakes, either. Your hips are full enough as it is. No more than a glass of wine to sip on throughout the evening.”

“I know, Mama.”

“Good. Then I should not have to repeat myself.”

“Of course, Mama.” Genevieve tried to make herself smaller as they moved into the grand entrance hall, struggling to suppress every one of her instincts.

Just for one day . . . just one day when I can be the perfect daughter. Today will be the day when I finally make her proud.

She hated even knowing it was something she wanted. She ought not to care what her mother thought because she knew her own mind. Genevieve knew very well what did and did not interest her, yet still, she craved her mother’s approval. Genevieve was the only child of her parents’ union, and though her father had never seemed to mind, her mother had always made it clear she thought her daughter a disappointment simply for not having been born a male.

“We are not here to indulge ourselves, Genevieve. We are here to make a good impression and please the Queen. You are to attract the eye of every man in the room. Stop fidgeting.”

Genevieve unclenched her fist. The gloves stopped her from biting her fingernails—a horrible habit she nearly always gave into when she was studying or absorbed in a task. Sadly, it had become a comforting action for her. But she could not do it there, so her fingers rubbed together in endless circles inside her gloves as an attempt to soothe herself

I do not want to be a prize. Why can I not just be myself? What is so wrong with that?

But why was she even asking that question of herself? She knew her mother would be only too happy to tell her.

Inside, the lights were too bright. The music, while beautiful, was overwhelming when paired with the loud hum of conversation floating just above it. There were so many things to concentrate on, what not to do, and too many people, their eyes watching her . . . judging her. And it was so very hot!

One foot in front of the other . . .

All of the other young debutants waiting for their names to be called were surely prettier than her. She knew it. She could feel her mother knew it too, from the way she kept looking from one to another of the beautifully decorated dolls waiting near the door, then back to her daughter. Her soft hum of disapproval reminded Genevieve to stand up straighter and not slouch.

“Presenting Lady Genevieve Huntley.”

A hush came over the room. Genevieve was hardly aware of moving. Her hands dropped to her sides and it took everything she possessed to keep from fidgeting or walking too quickly. She knew she was perspiring too much and willed herself to stop.

Almost there. I can do this. I can.

She could not meet the Queen’s eyes. Her feet wobbled as she curtseyed deeply, the way her mother had made her practice endlessly, and it felt as if time froze.

Oh, no. What do I do now? Surely, her Majesty will dismiss me . . . she must . . . she will signal for me to rise.

A moment passed, then another, and nothing changed. She rose slowly, trying to look demure, and peeped at the impassive expression on the Queen’s face. One could not meet her eyes directly out of respect for the Crown.

Genevieve thought she might be sick. She was going to be sick. Or faint. Everybody would know she had failed. She prayed for it to be over. Had the other girls taken so long? Certainly not. They had curtseyed and gone on their way. She knew she ought to do the same. Oh, why had she not been paying better attention?

When still nothing changed, she slowly and carefully turned on her heel and started down the long aisle—to a collective horrified gasp from the crowd around her. She froze. Her eyes flicked to her mother, who practically vibrated with rage from the end of the aisle.

Genevieve swiftly turned around once more—but the Queen had her nose lifted, her face turned to the side. She examined her nails as if that were the only thing of interest to her in the world.

Never turn your back on the Queen, you fool!

Tears swam in Genevieve’s eyes as she curtseyed once more, then shuffled awkwardly backwards and away from the Queen. Her feet moved so quickly, she feared she might trip over her own lowered skirts and further humiliate herself in front of all of these people. Her face felt hot. The moment she was within reach, her mother snatched her by the arm and pedaled her away from the disapproving eyes of the ton.

Genevieve had ruined absolutely everything. Her father was never going to forgive her. The empty dance card that hung, ignored, from her wrist was a constant reminder. She did not wish to dance, she hadn’t been asked to anyway.

Mother had not said a word.

This is worse than any of her lectures. She had expected yelling or ominous warnings about what would happen to her once she arrived home. Instead, the silence made the knot of dread in her belly grow tighter and larger as the ball passed her by.

“I need a moment, just to get some air,” Genevieve managed at last.

“Be quick about it,” her mother said, her voice clipped.

Not needing to be told twice, Genevieve slipped out of the ballroom, conscious of the whispers of those watching her, their hands cupped over their faces or hidden behind their fans. She refused to let them see her cry. She refused to lower her chin or look even half as mortified as she presently felt.

Her feet carried her without direction. She was unfamiliar with the palace and did not know the way around. Each turn she took seemed to lead her in circles. Why did any house, however grand the owner, need so many rooms and hallways? Everything was starting to look the same to her—all decorated to suit one specific taste. Suddenly, just as she felt the walls were starting to close in on her, she heard voices.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she flattened herself against the closest wall. Her ears pricked to find the direction the sound was coming from, searching for any indication that she ought to turn and run. They were male voices. She knew she could certainly not be caught without a chaperone. For would that not just be the icing on the cake, a scandal to round off what might be the very worst evening of her entire life?

She inched closer to the voices and peeped unseen through the half-open door. Inside, she saw the warm, yellow glow of a room illuminated primarily by a happily crackling fire. A group of six men stood around it, glasses of some liquor in hand. Several puffed away on cigars or thin cheroots.

Normally, the smell of cigar smoke and warmed liquor fumes would be enough of a deterrent to send her into a rapid retreat. However, the scene had her curiosity piqued. A ballroom full of the Season’s most eligible ladies was waiting for them, yet these men had secreted themselves. For what purpose, she wondered, filled with curiosity Certainly, judging by their lively conversation and laughter, they were not having half as bad an evening as herself. That alone had her shamelessly eavesdropping.

“—see, my dear Warwick, that is where you are wholly incorrect,” one man was saying.

“I will not hear another word of your blasphemy, man! If you cannot see that my judgment is far superior to your own in this matter, then I suggest you finish another glass of this excellent brandy before we revisit this topic,” said his companion with a hearty laugh.

Warwick. Genevieve frowned. How did she know that name? Ah! Her mother had mentioned it quite recently. Was he not to inherit a dukedom at some point or something like that?

“Deductions for size, additions for poise and grace, but that mouth on her. . .” another put in, shaking his head as if in wonder before downing the contents of his glass.

“Hear, hear! The fellow makes an excellent, sensible point!” one of the older men said.

It was hard to tell which voice belonged to which man from where she stood. Carefully, silently, she moved a little to better see their faces.

“Then I suppose an equal argument could be made if the lady has two left feet but a pleasing smile.”

“If her countenance is pleasant enough, perhaps. Though if her size is too large, then there is no hope for her at all!’

“Honestly, some of these mamas would have been better off keeping their daughters in the stables with the rest of the livestock,” said a thin fellow with a pinched face and leering laugh.

“Hayweather, you are too cruel!” another cried, joining in his laughter. In truth, he certainly did not seem too offended by the man’s comment. The words of this Hayweather struck her as vicious, and Genevieve pitied the poor woman they were so vulgarly talking about, whoever she was.

“Very well, then. If your standards are so high, whom would you consider?” the other man asked Hayweather.

“Not many, my lord, not many.” He shook his head in mock sadness.

“Come now, there must be at least one lady you find tolerable.”

“Lady Wharton is pleasing to the eye. She speaks so little, I think I could tolerate her presence on my arm,” Hayweather replied.

“But she is so slight! I cannot imagine the young lady being with child! How could she bear sons?”

“That would be her problem, would it not?”

Genevieve frowned again. Their commentary was slowly shifting from rude to inappropriate.

“I would rate her a six out of ten. Lady Umbridge is a solid nine. I would happily duel any one of you for her hand, at least once I am sober.”

“You are only interested in her because there are rumors she is light of skirts!”

“And if I am?”

The only man who did not seem to join in the conversation was Lord Warwick himself. The men kept directing comments to him, but he simply sat in his lounge chair and sipped at his drink slowly. However, she noticed he smiled at their comments and did not condemn them, and for a brief moment, she thought he was the only decent one among them.

“Lady Aston?”

“Seven”

“Lady Burstock?”

“Hmmm . . . a five.”

“Lady Huntley?”

Genevieve’s blood ran cold. That was her. She was Lady Huntley. She should not listen to this. By their disgusting calculations, she would likely be a two. She knew she would be foolish to subject herself to the cruelty of their mockery. It certainly did not matter what they thought of her anyway! Oh, if only she could rate them and make them feel as sick to their stomachs as she presently did!

“Six. While she is not ugly, she is certainly not what I would consider conventionally beautiful,” Hayweather said after some thought.

It hurt. It should not have hurt . . . but it did. Her hand pressed into her stomach, and she fought tears once more. What did it even mean to be “conventionally beautiful”? Should it not have offended her, even more, to find such horrible, deplorable men found her interesting? Clearly, they had no manner of standards at all! She pitied the poor women they didfancy!

“I think she is very beautiful,” a new voice said firmly. Genevieve’s eyes snapped to the young Lord Warwick, and despite herself, time seemed to slow. He tapped his long fingers against his glass in contemplation, not caring at all that he had stunned the rest of the group into silence. “It is her attitude that ruins it for me,” he added.

There came a beat of silence until another one of the men laughed heartily. “He speaks at last! There it is, gentlemen!”

Then they were all speaking over one another, and she felt the world tilt on its axis once more. The words of a rude man should never be heeded nor taken to heart. He did not know her, so how could he judge her? Still, she was appalled, her breath catching in her throat.

She pressed herself firmly into the wall and tried to steady her breathing. The man was nothing more than a rake and a slanderer. She had never even been introduced to him, let alone spoken to him in conversation! He knew nothing of her so-called “attitude”.

“Is she the one who offended the Queen earlier?” asked one of the men.

“Yes, the poor dear has not caught the eye of a single man all evening. Except for Lord Warwick, it would appear,” put in Hayweather.

“Hardly,” Warwick answered. “She is far too . . . peculiar. She is too smart for her own good. And after tonight’s fiasco, it will take a great deal more appeal than she possesses to land herself a husband, much less tempt a man such as myself into marriage. I am not interested in charity.”

One of the other men lifted his glass. “Hear, hear!”

To her added misery, they then proceeded to toast her misfortune as if it were a joke.

Genevieve felt a tear roll down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. A mixture of rage and indignation roiled inside her, blotting out any humiliation.

She pushed away from the wall and stomped away down the hallway. Who were they anyway? She would rather die a spinster if those were the sorts of men her mother wished her to marry! She could not fathom a more torturous fate than having to be shackled to one of those imbeciles for the rest of her days!

She was so distracted, she did not watch where she was going.

Her hip knocked into one of the tables lining the many hallways she had woven through in her effort to find the ballroom once more. She had planned to beg and plead with her mother to be on their way; she desperately wanted to go home.

Instead, she was snapped out of her temper by a vase falling and smashing to pieces at her feet.

She yelped and jumped backward, thankful that none of the shards had cut her legs in the fall. Closing her eyes, she tried not to scream in frustration. It was impossible to hope that nobody would have heard the crash. Indeed, she spotted a small group of people further down the hallway, all turning and looking at her curiously while she awkwardly pushed the broken bits underneath the table with her foot. She could only hope they had not actually seen her break one of the Queen’s vases.

This night could not have possibly gone more badly for her.

Surely, it would go down as the worst debut in the history of debuts.

Chapter One

Edward – Two Years Later

“Get up!”

Edward woke to the sound of his bedroom door slamming open. The intruder clearly had no care for the sanctity of sleep nor the throbbing in his head. He was of half of a mind to protest, but his exhausted mind would not formulate the words.

“You were due to rise with the sun, lazy heir of mine, and yet you slumber!”

His father crossed the darkened bedroom, nearly tripping over discarded clothing on his path to the large windows before wrenching open the drapes, not allowing his son another moment to adjust.

“Get up!”

“No, have you no heart?!” Edward groaned in protest and threw a pillow over his head to hide the light. “I feel as if bees have been set free inside my skull, Father, it is too early for this!”

The man scoffed and shook his head. Kenneth Warwick, the Duke of Rutherford, did not care what sort of night his son had had the night before. His only concern was that the young man get up at a reasonable hour. He was not the type of man who could tolerate laziness, let alone idle hands. To his son’s chagrin, he was a man who loved schedules and sticking to them.

“There now!” Kenneth spun to face his son’s bed and instantly regretted it. “For the love of God, put something on! Cover yourself!”

Edward grinned. “If you did not wish to see it, Father, you could have simply knocked,” he muttered, making no effort to remove the pillow from his face.

“What if your mother had been the one to come and wake you? Even worse, what if one of the poor maids had come in here to witness you in such a state!” the older man blustered.

Edward was not ashamed of his nudity, and he refused to be made to feel embarrassed. “Well, if I were a maid, I would not mind walking in on me in such a state.”

When no laughter met his joke, Edward peeked out from underneath his pillow just in time to see the unimpressed look on his father’s face, punctuated by an uncharacteristic roll of his eyes.

Kenneth crossed to his son’s wardrobe and rummaged about just long enough to find a pair of trousers, which he forcefully threw at him. “Get dressed at once. Your valet will come any minute, and he certainly does not deserve to find you in such a state so soon after breakfast.”

“I do not wish for breakfast.”

“Good, because you have missed it. And before you attempt to explain why, I shall remind you that I have no interest in hearing about whatever exploits you got up to last night.”

“You ought to know very well what I got into last night, Father; you were not always a married man,” Edward teased. It was one subject his father never spoke about. He did not share any personal stories about his earlier life. All Edward knew of the man was what he had personally experienced and the rare stories his mother had told him.

The one exception to that rule was that his father liked to tell every story he could about him and his wife. While his parents never shared much about their individual lives before meeting, they loved telling the story of how they fell in love and married. While Edward sometimes teased his father about his own supposed rakish days, it seemed the old man was as enamored with his wife today as the day they were married.

Consequently, the way Edward saw it, there was no point in marrying a person unless one was wholly and totally head over heels for them.

But why not enjoy oneself in the meantime?

Every woman of the ton Edward had ever met was, in his experience, only interested in what they could get from him. They coveted his money or title, or both. They wanted the best life they could get and would pretend to be anything and everything he wanted them to be, so long as they felt it gave them the upper hand. Out of all of the women he had spent time with over the years, he did not think he had met a single one who was genuine in presenting herself.

He had been raised to understand that such a state of affairs was par for the course, given that everybody knew he would one day be the Duke of Rutherford. People often had a hard time distinguishing him from his title, that was the long and short of it. If a love match to rival that of his parents was not in the cards for him any time soon, he saw no reason not to enjoy himself in the meantime. And as so many of the beautiful, eligible ladies of the ton seemed so interested in having a taste of him, he considered he was simply being courteous in indulging them.

“I am only doing my civic duty, Father,” he said, waiting for the glare that would inevitably come.

He did not have to wait long. “I do not appreciate your humor, Son.”

“You never do.”

“You ought to take yourself more seriously. Have a bit of pride. You might fool those around you into thinking you have no care in the world, but I know well that you understand the weight of your responsibilities. You have managed to put things off for long enough, and today, all that ends. You will be the head of this family before long, Boy, and you will start acting like it. If not for your mother and I, then at least for your little sister’s sake.”

All hint of humor slipped from Edward’s features. He had been teasing, but that was no teasing matter. His younger sister was the most important woman in the world to him. He would never take his duty to her lightly.

“How can I trust you will ensure her future and put her best interests above yours when you show no initiative, no signs of wanting to take over more responsibility? You stay out all night, burn through your allowance at the club! What else am I supposed to think?”

“I would never put her in harm’s way,” Edward countered soberly, pulling his trousers from where they had landed on the bed after being thrown.

“I know my words seem cruel to you, but I will indulge you no longer,” his father continued. “I asked you a fortnight ago to ensure the Liverpool contracts. Have you accomplished my request?’

Edward dropped his gaze. “No, Father.”

Kenneth sighed. “The Abernathy estate? Have you finished negotiations there, then?”

Edward did not answer as he slowly got out of bed and started to dress himself. Kenneth crossed over and placed his warm hands on his son’s shoulders. “You are more than capable of handling all of those things and more. I know you are, but you must learn to follow through. I have such high hopes for you, my dear Boy. Why do you seem so hell-bent on disappointing me?”

Edward could not meet his eyes. He knew the man was right, and he could not speak the words. An apology did not seem nearly sufficient.

It was not as if Edward was intentionally disobeying or disappointing his father. He was certainly willing to take on the duties assigned to him by his position as heir. He simply did not wish to shackle himself to a loveless marriage of convenience. In truth, he found a deep pleasure in the female form. He knew just how marvelous intimacy, and the resulting release, felt. But he also felt sure that if such strong connections could be made out of lust and convenience, then they must be multiplied tenfold with a woman one loved.

He just had to find her.

“You are to inherit my dukedom, Edward.” His father sighed and sat on the edge of Edward’s bed heavily. He cast his eyes down and pinched at the bridge of his nose as if struggling to keep himself composed. “It is past time for you to cease gallivanting around and sowing your wild oats, Son.”

As much as Edward wished to contest the words, he knew with a sinking heart that his father was right.

“Prove to me that you care. I need to be secure in the knowledge that should anything happen to me before my time, or when that time does come, your mother and sister will be well provided for.”

Edward finished pulling his shirt over his head and sat beside his father. “I will, Father.”

“Starting today.”

Something about the finality in his tone alarmed him.

“The Woodvilles will be joining us for dinner today, along with their lovely twin daughters, Victoria and Frederica. I believe it is the perfect opportunity for you to state your intentions regarding Victoria, to move forward with your courtship, while her father and I discuss what all that will entail.”

A lump of lead settled hot and uncomfortable in Edward’s gut. He had no desire to officially court anyone at all, let alone Victoria Woodville. She was the last person he could see himself standing beside at the altar.

“I expect that you will be on time, presentable, and pleasant during the entirety of the evening. I suggest you plan something to entertain Victoria after our meal, perhaps a stroll through the gardens? I am certain your mother or one of the maids would be only too happy to chaperone the pair of you.”

“Yes, Father.”

There was no use in arguing with him—the outcome would be the same. This was to be his fate.

“I expect you to appear a good deal more enthusiastic when you greet her,” the Duke said. He reached over and patted Edward’s thigh, in a gesture meant to offer comfort, but he took none from it. He forced a smile passable enough to have his father nod and dismiss himself from the room.

“Damn,” Edward muttered to himself before rising from the bed. He crossed over to the wash basin to splash water on his face, looking at his face in the small mirror on the wall. Normally, he was quite pleased with the structure of his face. He knew women tended to look on his symmetrical features favorably. It was just about the first time that he wished it was otherwise. He knew Victoria had only agreed to be courted by him because of what she, and her family, could gain from the situation. Even if they were to eventually end things, she would retain the elevated status of a woman whom an eligible duke had previously courted.

The bigger issue was that he could not stand her.

He liked to believe there was good to be found in every woman. There was always something to like, something to be attracted to. Victoria was the exception. He shuddered to think what their children might be like. There would be no escaping such duties were he to wed her, and the very idea of being intimate with her made him dizzy.

Edward patted his face dry with a cloth and gave himself a good, lingering look in the mirror. He could see the toll the years had started to take on him. Small signs, such as the bags under his eyes, which did not disappear so quickly after a long night of indulgence as they had used to. He could feel the exhaustion and fatigue lingering and weighing him down. Perhaps Father was right. Perhaps it was time to put aside his silly dreams of love and start thinking about a more practical future. He needed to think of his sister.

He inhaled slowly through his nose and allowed his eyes to close. All of the thoughts in his mind quieted. There was no reason to fear change, he knew that. He could still find something to be happy in his life. His sister’s happiness was paramount to his own anyway. He would handle it as he handled all situations— confidently.

When he opened his eyes once more, the man in the mirror was somebody different. He was no longer the tired man from before but somebody brimming with confidence and easy charm. He winked at his reflection and turned to face the day.

---

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Prologue

London, May 15th, 1802

“This is one of our best,” Lydia Haddington said as she hurried across her father’s little teashop on Bond Street. She walked past the desk where her father or Nicholas Steward usually sat and poured over the shop’s ledgers. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined her beloved Nicholas sitting there, eyes narrowed in concentration but always smiling cheerfully when she passed by.

“It looks lovely,” her customer, a grandly clad lady, said from her station by the counter. Lydia nodded, chiding herself for letting her thoughts wander so easily when she should have been paying attention to the shop.

Lydia was on her tiptoes, her right arm stretched out until her fingertips brushed up against the porcelain teapot on the shelf. It was her favorite, and the most expensive, in her father’s teashop, delicately painted in sky-blue with white clouds around the top and yellow primroses along the bottom.

If not for Lydia’s long limbs, it would have been impossible to retrieve it without a stool. She removed it with great care, a plume of dust blowing into her face. She wrinkled her nose before setting the teapot down, desperate to avoid a sneeze. She didn’t want the customer to think they kept a dirty shop; the woman was a lady of high birth. It was evident from the fine muslin dress she wore, and the silk bonnet adorned with a gemstone that reflected the afternoon light streaming in through the windows.

Lydia brushed a strand of curly ginger hair behind her ear, cursing the pins that refused to hold her wild tresses at bay. She did not want to look unkempt when such an important transaction was about to take place.

“What a lovely piece,” the woman said in a high voice that bordered on shrill. She turned the teapot around in her hand and clicked her tongue. “Did your dear mother make this?” At the mention of her late mother, Lydia’s shoulders stiffened as the smile faded from her lips. She gulped down the lump in her throat and nodded.

“One of the last she made. We have matching cups, saucers, and a little milk pot as well. My father also sells sugar tongs.” Lydia stopped talking, not wanting to sound like a gabster.

The woman flashed a smile. “I’ll have the lot of it.” She beamed and bent at the waist so much that her fresh lemon scent enveloped Lydia. “I have a gentleman to impress on behalf of my daughter. An earl is courting her. I hope an afternoon spent sipping expensive tea and indulging in sweetmeats while listening to my daughter play the harp will inspire him to make an offer. You’ll understand when you’re older. Pray, how old are you now, Lydia?” Lydia smiled while her heart filled with a pleasant warmth that soon spread to her entire body.

“I am six-and-ten, my lady,” she said quietly. The woman pursed her lips.

“Older than I thought. You had better set your cap on a gentleman before you turn twenty; the longer you wait, the harder it gets. Mark my words.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head while Lydia carefully wrapped her purchases. “I ought to have married a duke rather than a mere viscount, but I waited too long. Do not make the same mistake, my dear.”

She let out a sigh, and then, as quickly as she’d appeared, she vanished again with her purchases, the chime above the glass door ringing with her departure. Lydia exhaled and was about to rush to her father to inform him of the profitable sale when the door flew open again. She spun around, hoping the lady hadn’t changed her mind, but a much more pleasant sight greeted her instead of the regal older woman. Her heart skipped a beat, and her lips curled into a bright smile as the young man she loved best in all the world burst through the door.

“I’m rich!” Nicholas Steward hollered as he flew into the little teashop. His hazel eyes were wide with delight, and his thick dark hair bounced up and down as he rushed toward her.

“Nicholas? What in the world…” Lydia’s words were cut off when Nicholas wrapped his arms around her and spun her around the room with such vigor, strands of red hair came loose and whipped into her pale face; her stomach fluttering with the delight of his nearness.

“I’m rich, Lydia. At last,” he repeated, out of breath from the exercise. When he set her down, Lydia tumbled backward into the shelf showcasing their assortment of teas. A tin can with earl grey wobbled precariously and then fell with a bang. Nicholas beamed at her, oblivious to the chaos he’d unleashed.

Aromatic spices filled the air between them. Lydia blinked, befogged by Nicholas’ behavior and even more so by his declaration. Rich? How? Her father’s secretary had been working for the family for two years, and while he was a hard worker and earned his keep, he was far from wealthy, as evidenced by his threadbare pantaloons and worn felt hat atop a shock of dark-brown hair.

“What do you mean? Is this why you wanted to come see me?” She smoothed her muslin gown down, not wanting to wrinkle it as she didn’t have another to change into. Nicholas stepped forward; a whiff of peppermint comfit wafting into her face as he cupped her cheeks with his rough hands.

“Yes, I had to share this wonderful news with you before I told anyone else. Lydia Haddington, your future husband is rich. Which means you are rich. You and I shall be the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry; it’s finally happened!”

Lydia’s jaw grew slack. “Your grandfather?”

“The old codger finally stuck his spoon to the wall. Kicked the bucket. Departed this realm for good. Yes!” He curled his hand into a fist and gestured with as much delight as one might do upon winning a lucrative wager. Lydia knew Nicholas never cared for his cruel grandfather, and how could he? The old man had despised his daughter-in-law, Nicholas’s mother, and tolerated her only as long as his son lived. The moment Nicholas’ unfortunate father passed away from Scarlet Fever when the former was but a toddler, the Duke had thrown them out of his palatial Hertfordshire estate.

She’d heard the tale of the heartless old Duke many times. Each time Nicholas told her the story, he’d ended it by swearing that the moment he claimed his inheritance, he’d reclaim his familial home and restore it to its former glory with Lydia at his side.

Now, days before his seven-and-tenth birthday, it had happened. The Duke was dead and Nicholas was his successor.

“It will be glorious, Lydia. We shall live the way we deserve at last. No more scraping together every penny we can find to eat a decent meal. No more haggling with rude customers. It is all over. We shall be members of the bon ton and live like royalty.” His happiness lit up his already handsome face, and Lydia couldn’t help but feel the same intense burning love for him she’d felt from the moment he walked through her father’s door two years ago. She’d been too young to understand what this warm, tingling feeling meant, but now she did.

She loved and adored him. Nicholas was the one for her, just as her father had been the one for her mother. She’d envisioned their life together many times. The odd thing was, despite the picture he always painted of the future, filled with magnificent homes, expensive clothes, and all manner of luxury, hers was a different vision altogether.

She saw them living in a modest house, in charge of her father’s teashop, with enough money to be comfortable but without any extraordinary wealth. Lydia had never been rich nor longed for it. She’d been given an education and a loving home, which had been enough. The truth was that Nicholas’ sudden change in circumstance scared her. Lydia chewed her bottom lip and looked down at herself.

Her attire was that of a working-class girl, her hands showed the signs of years of scrubbing floors and cleaning shelves, and even though she was a young girl, she always felt far removed from the younger ladies of the ton who sometimes shopped here. She didn’t have that lightness, the silliness they exuded. Having to care for a grief-stricken father and a younger sister had robbed her of that levity. The only joy she had these days was when she and Nicholas snuck away together to enjoy secretive walks in the park or evenings spent looking at the stars.

A duchess? Me? No…

“Lydia,” Nicholas called and grabbed her wrist. “Do not look so sullen, please. This is a joyous day. The old dragon is dead, and I am a duke! Me!” He let go of her hand and pulled his worn burgundy waistcoat down. Lydia noted it was missing two buttons, but Nicholas looked like he was dressed fit for the King. “Can’t you just see it? Me as a duke? I shall be seated in the House of Lords.”

“I can see you as a duke. But me?” She shook her head, but Nicholas dashed to the door, turned the plain chalkboard around, and then the lock before she could say anything.

“Come with me,” he said and proffered his hand. Lydia hesitated but stepped toward him. When his warm skin touched hers, her heart gave a jolt as it always did when they held hands – an activity that might have resulted in her ruination if anyone ever saw it. Today, Bond Street was almost empty; no wonder as it was Sunday, and many noble families congregated at St. Martin’s in the Field or St. George’s.

Nicholas pulled her toward the back door, past the narrow staircase that led to their cramped living quarters, and then out into the alley.

“I ought to tell my father…” she started but shook her head. “No, he’s asleep. I can leave for a little while.”

He drew his eyebrows together. “How is he?”

Lydia sighed deeply as they walked down the dark, narrow street tinged with the biting smell from the sewers below.

“The same. He hasn’t left his bed today. Sometimes I’m unsure if it’s the grief over losing Mother or gout.”

Nicholas took a shallow breath as they cut across the alley and into a small garden that lay hidden between the tall houses occupied by those above them in station. There, they sat on a bench, surrounded by flowers that chased away the memory of the street’s unpleasant odors.

“I’ll have a lot of money now. We’ll be able to afford a wonderful physician. Your father will want for nothing. Neither will you. I’ll buy you all the finest gowns and take you to a milliner to have a hat made for you, and you’ll have half-boots, dancing slippers, and…. Every kind of pelisse and reticule you want.” The enthusiasm seeped off him with childlike passion, and Lydia smiled. Nicholas had always been a dreamer. It was one odd thing she’d liked about him from the start.

When he first arrived at their shop and took the position of secretary and general assistant to her father, he’d been serious, stoic. His mother had passed away shortly before that, which explained his disposition. But soon, she’d learned he had another side, one filled with hope and dreams. Dreams of rising in station, of outgrowing the confines of a merchant’s life.

The thing was that she was comfortable in that life, and no matter how often he proclaimed it, he too had to know that Lydia didn’t fit into the world of the rich and powerful.

“Won’t you want someone that’s more ladylike?” she asked quietly, and he raised his eyebrows.

“Ladylike? What do you mean? Someone who fiddles about with a white feathered fan and giggles into her hands instead of laughing out loud? No. Never. I want you. I’ve always wanted you, Lydia. You and me. We’ll be together, we’ll be whoever we want to be – after all, who would dare contradict a proper duke?”

“I suppose nobody,” she conceded.

“There you go. That’s what I mean. Once I come back from Hertfordshire….”

“Come back? You’re to leave?” she asked, alarmed.

He nodded. “I shall have to take charge of the estate, see about the books, and so on. It’s fortunate I’ve been working for your father for a while now and know how to do the books, so I won’t be taken for a fool. But do not fret. I shall be back soon, and our life together will begin.”

He sounded so confident, so genuine, and yet Lydia could not fight the feeling of impending doom that spread inside her like spilled wine on a white tablecloth. She knew Nicholas well enough to know he meant what he said, but he often made promises only to abandon them later. He dreamed big and could draw anyone in with his vivid imagination and enthusiasm, but often none of the things he wished to speak into existence came to pass. Was this the case now?

His warm hand appeared on her cheek then and gently turned her face to him.

“Lydia, please do not fret. I love you; I’ll always love you,” he murmured, and then, he tilted her head upward, and she felt his soft lips on hers. Warmth and passion flooded her as she drew closer, aware that they were shielded from prying eyes only by a few bushes and trees, yet she did not care. At this moment, all she cared about was being near him and soaking in his presence.

When they parted, he ran his thumb over her cheek.

“I love you, Nicholas,” she whispered. “Please, promise me you will not forget about me and will always love me.”

“Oh, darling Lydia. I would never. I promise you; we’ll be together forever, and our life will be spectacular indeed.”

He kissed her again, gentler this time, and for the briefest of instances, Lydia believed that perhaps this time, he would keep his promise, and their future would be bright indeed.

Chapter One

Queensberry Manor

Twelve years later

Nicholas leaned back in the old leather chair and felt his back mold into the cushion. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. His eyes hurt from staring at the estate books all morning. He rubbed them furiously before getting up. The floorboards creaked under his weight but faded as he stepped onto the thick carpet by the window.

Spring was upon them, and the flowerbeds below his study bloomed with daffodils and pansies. A bird hopped on the windowsill, banging its beak against the glass. Nicholas smiled and tapped his index finger against the glass in reply when the sound of racing footsteps boomed outside his window.

He glanced over his shoulder in time for the knock.

“Come,” he called and turned.

Mrs. Patmore, the governess, a heavy-set woman with a severe bun that gave her the appearance of a disciplinarian, entered. Her usually red face was white, and her eyes were wide. The woman’s ample chest heaved up and down as though she’d run from London to Hatfield. Nicholas pressed his back into the windowsill, eager to escape what was sure to be yet another unpleasant exchange.

“Your Grace, I resign immediately,” she declared as she stepped inside.

Nicholas groaned and rubbed his temple, showing no sign of surprise. Mrs. Patmore was the third governess this year alone, and he’d long since lost count of how many had come before her.

“What in the world happened now, Mrs. Patmore?”

The woman stepped toward the heavy oak desk in the center of the room and placed her flat hands on the shiny surface. Nicholas noted how red her hands were compared to her face and how they shook. The vibration spread up her arms and into her shoulders, all of which pulsated as though she were caught in an earthquake only she could feel.

“Your daughter, Your Grace. She… She…” the woman’s words trailed off, and she rose to her full height, staggering backward as her legs shook beneath her.

Alarmed, Nicholas rushed forth. The last thing he needed was for the governess to faint in his study. He had no smelling salts to revive her, and he’d rather not deal with a physician on top of whatever disaster it was that presently unfolded.

“She… my shoes… they came out of my…”

“Mrs. Patmore, get a hold of yourself,” he called as he grabbed her elbow and directed her to the wing chair in front of the crackling fireplace. The woman slumped into the seat just as the click-clack of shoes on the hardwood floor in the hall sounded, and Mrs. Funny, his trusted housekeeper, entered.

Contrary to what her name implies, she was not a social creature but rather stern in her approach. Today, however, her countenance was one of concern. In her hand, she balanced a cup that clattered against the saucer.

“Your Grace,” she said and curtsied without spilling a drop. “I’ve brought a cup of tea for Mrs. Patmore. May I?”

He waved her in and squatted in front of the governess before remembering his station. He rose to his full height and looked down at his employee.

“Mrs. Patmore, I demand to know what has happened.”

The older woman took the cup from Mrs. Funny, slurped in a most unladylike fashion, and then struggled for her words.

“Lady Charlotte placed several…” the housekeeper snapped her mouth shut, glanced at Mrs. Patmore, and bent forward with her voice just above a whisper. “Spiders, Your Grace.”

“Oh, nasty creatures. That demon child knows I’m terrified of them.”

Nicholas was about to scold her for talking about his only child, his nine-year-old daughter, in such a way but stopped himself. Other governesses had called Charlotte far worse, and to be quite frank, it was clear the woman was shaken to the core.

“I will speak to her. Again. I apologize for my daughter’s behavior. But, please, do not let her chase you away,” he said, working hard to keep the desperation from his tone. The older woman looked up, color had returned to her face, and when she stood, it was with such certainty and determination that Nicholas knew what she’d say before she opened her mouth.

“Your Grace, I have never in all my life seen a child as difficult as Lady Charlotte or as unyielding.”

“I understand,” he pleaded. “I am more than happy to compensate you for your troubles. How about a raise? Double your salary? And an additional day to yourself?”

The woman’s upper lip twitched, and her green eyes narrowed.

“Your Grace, there is not enough money in all the realm to make me stay here a moment longer,” she gathered her skirts, curtsied, and then walked out of his study without another word.

Nicholas sunk into himself while Mrs. Funny picked up the teacup abandoned on the little table by the chair and flashed him a sympathetic smile.

“I had better see her,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a man headed for the gallows. He knew one should not be so reluctant to see one’s daughter. And yet, as he left his study and walked down the grand staircase to the second floor, his stomach filled with tension, and he had to force himself to press on.

Nicholas sucked in a lungful of the cool mid-morning air, tasting hints of freshly baked bread that had come out of the oven in the kitchen below the stairs, and then knocked on Charlotte’s door. He entered without waiting to be admitted and found his precocious child seated on her bed, cross-legged with a ragged stuffed doll in her hands. She would have looked angelic with her dark-blonde ringlets that framed a heart-shaped face. Her innocent appearance was enhanced by her bright blue eyes, inherited from her late mother. Alas, the devious smirk on her lips revealed her true nature. While calling her demonic was going a tad far, she was a difficult child and always had been.

“Is she gone then?” she asked in a voice as sweet as honey dripping from a comb.

“Mrs. Patmore has chosen to leave our employ, yes,” he said and stepped closer, one hand on the post of her large, canopied bed. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself. That is the third governess this year.”

“Good. She was a bore and uptight as though she’d swallowed one of Mrs. Funny’s broomsticks.” Charlotte pursed her lips and blinked at him as if to challenge him. “She did last three months; that is better than the last lot.”

“Charlotte, these women are not here for your amusement. This is their livelihood. By Jove, these are people, not toys, and you treat them as if they’re nothing. Poor Mrs. Patmore nearly suffered apoplexy after what you did to her.”

“It was only a little joke,” Charlotte replied, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She tucked her bottom lip out in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of his late wife. Clad in a lemon-yellow dress with her hair arranged neatly, Charlotte looked just like her mother, Louisa.

Nicholas rolled his shoulders and wetted his lips. “Charlotte, it was difficult enough to find this governess; finding someone else will be nearly impossible. All the reputable governesses in Hertfordshire have heard about you and your antics and won’t set foot in this manor.”

“Good, they’re clever then,” Charlotte replied. For a child of not yet ten, she carried an immense amount of venom in her voice, which scared him at times and filled him with guilt as he knew this was as much his fault as hers.

He forced himself to remain calm, though his fingernails now dug into the wooden bedpost, scraping along the grooves.

“I shall find another governess for you, even if I must get one from another county. But Charlotte, hear me when I tell you this; it is your last chance. If you chase this governess away, I will have no choice but to send you to Mrs. Pocock’s seminary in Hungerford. Perhaps her piety and discipline are just what you need to drive this…” He waved his hand. “Whatever it is that makes you do such things out of you.”

Charlotte’s blue eyes grew wide, and she leaped off the bed, her small hands curled into fists.

“Go on then, Father. Send me. Why wait? We both know you’d rather not see me anymore.”

Her words pierced his heart, but he refused to show it.

“You’re my daughter, Charlotte. Of course, I wish to see you.”

“You lie. You lie!” she yelled and stomped her foot. “You never cared for me. Why didn’t you send me away long ago? We both know it’s what you want.”

Her eyes swam with tears which soon spilled over and rolled down her round cheeks, clung to her pert chin, and then dropped onto the ground, wetting the tip of her shoes.

“Charlotte,” he said quietly, but he had no words of comfort, for he could not deny that what she’d said was right. He hadn’t spent much time with her, and the more difficult she became, the less he wanted to change this. Nicholas had made many mistakes since claiming his horrid grandfather’s title. He’d hurt the people he’d loved the most and broken promises he ought to have kept. He’d gone against his heart’s desires and had done what was expected, and what had it gotten him? He was wealthy, respected and desperately unhappy. He sometimes wondered what his life might have been like had he returned to London. To her…

He shook his head, chasing the thoughts away. What was done was done. As he looked at the little girl now, he chewed his bottom lip and wondered just what was he to do with her? Or could it be that there was no hope left for either of them?

***

London

Lydia stomped down the narrow pavement, her footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. Her entire body felt stiff and tired from the four-hour journey in a crowded hackney. The other passengers had robbed her of her sleep with their chatter and disorderly behavior, so much so that she’d wanted to holler at them. Of course, she’d known deep down that such a desire was due to her anger at her unfair circumstances rather than anything else.

Now that she was home and the unpleasant scents of the city that had accompanied her walk home faded, the feeling of rage also evaporated. Instead, shame took its place, for hers was not a triumphant return home but a disgraceful one.

She stopped outside her father’s teashop; the closed sign had been spun around, and she tried to knob. Finding it locked, she knocked once, then a second time. The glass vibrated under her motion, and she peered inside only to see a woman’s figure coming her way.

“Lydia?” Caroline exclaimed as she swung the door open and embraced her so tight Lydia had to gasp for air. “I was not expecting you.” Caroline stepped back, and Lydia took in her younger sister. She was in her prime at three-and-twenty and should have been courting young gentlemen. Instead, her pale face showed the signs of the heavy burdens resting on her narrow shoulders. Since Lydia departed to work as a governess years ago, it had fallen to Caroline to look after their father and the shop.

His gout – an illness often associated with the wealthy who overindulged in wine and fatty foods – had become debilitating. Combined with the lingering melancholy that never removed its claws from him, even thirteen years after the death of his beloved wife, his illness had made him almost entirely bedridden. Lydia often suffered from a heavy conscious whenever she thought of Caroline’s life wasting away with the care of their father and her duties in the shop. Soon she would be an old maid, a spinster just like Lydia. Though unlike the latter, who’d never wanted to give away her heart again after her first love, the dastardly Duke of Queensberry, had so unceremoniously stomped on it, Caroline longed for love. She’d deny it if asked, but Lydia saw how her sister always looked longingly at couples passing by and how she read the marriage announcements in the scandal sheets with a keen eye.

“Lydia?” Caroline called, pulling her from her thoughts. “I asked how come you’re here.”

Lydia gulped down a lump that sat at the center of her throat.

“I was let go,” she mumbled as she stepped inside the old teashop. The familiar scents of lavender, chamomile, and assorted herbs lingered in the air. She closed her eyes and greedily inhaled as if the sweet aroma could chase away her latest failure.

“Let go?” Caroline exclaimed as she closed the door. The little bell chimed as Lydia turned and placed her leather portmanteau on the floor. “Why? I thought Sir Walter was happy with you. Did you not write that he said you were worth your salt, unlike his last governess?”

Lydia cringed, for the gentleman had praised her just a fortnight ago.

“That was before he discovered I was teaching his daughter things other than French, embroidery, and water coloring.”

Caroline’s chest inflated as she took a breath, bracing herself. The material of her white muslin gown stretched and settled once more as she exhaled. “Pray, what did you teach her that warranted your dismissal?” she asked with, fortunately, no judgment in her voice.

“Math and geography. And a bit of science. Sir Walter overhead me teaching her about the cosmos and swiftly let me go.” Her lower lip wobbled suddenly as the indignity of her termination resurfaced in her mind. “You ought to have seen them march me out of the house. All the servants stared at me. It was dreadful.” Her eyes welled with tears, and Caroline quickly embraced her. In her sister’s arms, Lydia finally let go of the restraints that had accompanied her on her journey, and she held it together no longer.

Tears streamed down her face, accompanied by sobs that eventually became whimpers. Finally, when she had no more tears, Caroline let her go and pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket.

“Dry your eyes, sister. Do not waste another thought on these foolish people. One day, others will understand the value of a good education the way Mother and Father did,” she said gently. At the mention of their father, Lydia looked up.

“How is he?” She dreaded the answer as she saw how Caroline glanced up the rickety stairs.

“The same. I bought his medicine with the money you sent last month, but the shop has not made much profit, and we are almost out.”

Lydia nodded and climbed the stairs. The floorboards creaked with each step. “I will find another placement, do not fret.”

Money had always been a source of strain for them. It wasn’t as though they were paupers. There was always bread on the table, and a good hearty stew warmed their bellies on cold winter nights. Yet, business was slow between their father’s illness and the ongoing war with France. It was this, the downturn in their profitability, which had inspired her to take employment as a governess in the first place. Now more than ever, they needed her income.

At the top of the steps, she turned to where her father’s bedchamber was. She paused and looked at the pitiful shape buried underneath a pile of blankets. Lydia stepped into the room and gasped at his gaunt face. He was asleep, but even at his rest, he did not look peaceful. The strain and worry had carved deep lines into his face, and she could tell by the way his fingers twisted that arthritis too had taken its toll on his body.

“Father,” she whispered, uncertain if she ought to wake him. He blinked, and his eyes sprang open as if he’d not been asleep.

“Lydia, you’re home,” he cooed, touching her cheek. His fingers felt cold and dry against her skin, and when she wrapped his hand in hers, she kissed it, feeling the thin skin that stretched over his bones without so much as an ounce of fat.

“I am. I… I lost my employment, Father. Forgive me.” Her voice hitched, and she looked away.

“There is nothing to forgive. You… Oh, my darling Lydia.”

“I told her that,” Caroline chimed in from the hall. “We’ll make do.”

“We always do,” her father reassured her and strained to sit up. Lydia placed her hand behind his back to help him up. He let out a groan before patting her hand. “I am the one who should apologize. I’m the one who’s meant to take care of both of you. I should have seen that you were married, with your own families. Instead, you are here, looking after me.” He shook his head in dismay, but Lydia quickly reassured him.

“It is no burden, Father. It has never been. Besides, if one of us were to marry, it should be Caroline. She is still young. I am hopelessly on the shelf.” She spoke without self-pity, nor was she looking for reassurances. She knew at eight-and-twenty. She was all but an ape leader. Not that she wanted to marry anyhow.

“You could find a man,” Caroline quickly said. “If you wanted to.”

“But I do not,” Lydia replied though suddenly a deep melancholy settled in her heart. She meant those words. She did not want to marry. She never again wanted to feel the pain she’d experienced when she’d realized Nicholas was not coming back for her, despite his promises. She saw his hazel eyes before her for a second, vowing his everlasting love. Back then, she’d let his words reassure her heart though her mind had known better.

Ultimately, her mind was right, and her heart was crushed to dust when she understood he would never return. Then as now, Lydia had to be strong. Her father and sister were the only reasons she’d managed to get through the pain, the aching longing, and the raging anger that had torn through her for months. Eventually, the glowing embers of her fury had grown smaller and gone out. In their wake, she’d been left with a profound sense of numbness; a numbness that had now become her friend.

It had reigned in her heart ever since. No matter how many young swains expressed an interest, she’d steadfastly refused ever to be courted again. No, she would never give her heart away again, and she would never allow a certain duke to invade her thoughts again.

---

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Prologue

At a mere eight years old, Lucy Beaumont did not know much about life, but she knew one thing was certain: her dislike for graveyards. The dreary weather suits the somber mood of the cemetery, Lucy thought as she followed her father to the place where the crowd had started to gather.

She could still vividly remember the last time she had in such a place. It had been a little over a year ago, to say goodbye to mama.

Tears formed in Lucy’s eyes at the thought of her mother, but she quickly wiped them away for fear of her father noticing. Papa did not like it when she cried. Especially when she cried about her. He was not aware of the fact that Lucy had heard his cruel words after her death. She had snuck down to the kitchen for a glass of water but her papa was there with one of the servants so Lucy remained hidden.

He had called her mother selfish and stupid and had also demanded that Lucy never cry about her. He had vowed never to waste a single tear on her and had said that his household should do the same.

It was a lot for a seven-year-old to take in, but her mama had taught Lucy from a very young age to always listen to her papa. So Lucy walked back upstairs and dried her tears. If papa did not want her to cry, she would refrain from crying. That night, Lucy had whispered to whoever was listening, her mother perhaps, that she was sorry for not crying but she was afraid that her father would get angry if she did not comply.

The people at this funeral, Lucy thought now, had clearly made no such promises. People stood with handkerchiefs pressed against their noses, and here and there someone sniffed. Lucy was relieved when papa let go of her hand. She knew that he would not notice her wandering off – he’d only look for her once it was time to leave. As such, Lucy quietly moved to the back of the crowd where she had a good view of the whole group.

She did not know who William Lockhart was but judging by the number of people at his funeral he must have been quite popular. There were nowhere near this many people at her mother’s funeral. It had only been her, her father and a few of their servants. Not even her mother’s parents were there. Lucy was too afraid to ask why they had decided to not attend, but she heard the servants whispering about it afterward. According to them, her father had strictly forbidden them to stay away – both from the funeral and Lucy herself. He had vowed to protect his daughter against anything and everything because he wanted her to grow up to be a proper lady.

Lucy was angry about his choice, even though she was far too young to understand the raging emotions in her heart. That day, she was not only angry at him for preventing her grandparents from seeing her but jealous about the number of people at this stranger’s funeral.

Who was this William Lockhart that deserved so many goodbyes while mama had no one? Stubborn tears formed in Lucy’s eyes again at the thought and she quickly wiped them away.

A soft sound behind her made her jump. Though Lucy’s first instinct was to run away, her curiosity won over, and she ambled in the direction of the sound.

“Hello?” Her voice was soft and nervous. Her question was followed by more sniffles, and by something that sounded a little like a sob. “Who’s there?”

She took another step forward and peeked around the bushes. And then finally, she saw him. A little boy, who was likely her own age, was sitting with his back against the trunk of a tree. Sobs racked his thin body, and he had his fists pressed to his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Lucy asked.

Perhaps it was the concern in her voice or the fact that she was roughly the same age as him, but something made the boy remove his hands from his face and look at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, and fresh tears pooled in their green depths.

“No… Please go away now!”

Lucy shook her head and took a step towards the boy, who still glared at her with teary eyes. “Who are you?” she said, taking another stubborn step forward and sitting down next to him. “I’m Lucy Beaumont, and you?”

He lifted his chin and put on a brave face. Lucy recognized the expression, as it was one she was used to wearing herself.

“I am Edward Lockhart,” the boy replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

He held a trembling hand out to her, and she shook it, pity building in her heart at once. “Lockhart… That means…”

Edward glanced in the direction of the mourners, and he nodded sadly.

“It’s my father’s funeral, yes.”

Anyone else might have thought him strong and tough for his delivery of the statement, but Lucy recognized his hidden feelings all too well. He was heartbroken.

“I am sorry, Edward. For… for your loss.”

They were the words she could say, words she herself had received after her mother had died, but she did not think they would help. After all, they had not helped her either.

The boy nodded quietly, and the tears that had been pooling in his eyes started to overflow. “I apologize,” he said. He was still trying to be brave, though the tremble in his voice gave him away. “You must think me very weak.”

“No!” Lucy answered quickly, and her hand found his. “Don’t be silly! Crying doesn’t make you weak. My mama… she used to say only the strongest of people allow themselves to cry. It’s good for you, she always said.”

“I just… miss them so much.” His words were a broken whisper, and Lucy held his hand a little tighter.

“I know. I miss my mama too… but she’s up in heaven, watching over me. I’m sure your parents are doing the same.”

Another smile formed on his face, this time a genuine one, and he squeezed her hand lightly. “It helps a little, but I still wish they were here… that I could see them.”

She knew exactly what he meant – she knew it far too well.

“I wish I could see my mama too, Edward… but I know that she would not want me to be sad. She’d want me to remember her, to think of the good memories, the time we spent together. She… she used to tell me stories, and they always had a happy ending. And whenever I get too sad, I think of those stories.”

A smile had formed on her own lips now as she thought about her mother. “I think of those stories when I miss her,” she continued, “and it almost feels like she is right here with me.”

“I…” Edward spoke quietly, his voice hoarse from the tears he had shed. “I used to go riding with my father. And sometimes, Mother danced with me and we’d sing songs together.”

Lucy nodded eagerly. Something inside her truly wanted this boy to feel better. “Exactly, those things… when you think of them, it’ll be like a part of them never left. But…” She smiled gently and rested her head against his shoulder. “But you can cry if you want to. Sometimes that helps too.”

Edward swallowed at this, and Lucy could feel his chest heaving with a soft sob. “Will you stay with me?” he asked. “Please? I don’t want to be alone.” Their fingers tangled together on her lap, and Edward settled his own head against hers. “You don’t have to stay. I mean… if you don’t want to… but I’d like it if you did.”

Lucy looked down at the entangled hands on her lap. Next to her, Edward’s breath had slowed. He was no longer sobbing, even though there were still tears in his voice.

“I won’t leave you alone. I promise.”

It was a promise spoken with the sincerity only a child could have – one filled with honesty and kindness, bereft of any expectation.

For an hour, the two sat with their backs against the tree, grateful to have someone with whom they could share and be with in their unhappiness.

Chapter 1

The lightning was close – far too close – and Lucy could feel an icy terror scraping at her bones. She knew this feeling all too well and there was only one person who could put her racing mind at ease when the stormy weather scared her.

“Mama?”

Lucy climbed out of her bed nervously. The floor was cold underneath her bare feet, but she hardly noticed it. She needed to see her mother, and it was this thought that kept her moving forward, scared though she was.

“Mama, where are you?”

The long, dark hallway loomed threateningly in front of her, and she froze. The dark had always terrified her, and with the raging storm outside, her fear was even worse.

The house was quiet – too quiet. She could hear the howling of the wind and the falling of the rain; she could hear nothing but the sounds of the storm. Why was the hallway so excruciatingly long? It worsened her terror, and Lucy swallowed dryly.

“Mama, please…” Though she had hoped for a loud call to leave her lips, her words had come out in a trembling whisper that disappeared into the storm. “Where are you?”

She moved forward hesitantly, step by step, until she finally reached her destination: mama and papa’s bedchambers. Her hand hesitated on the doorknob and when she finally turned it, it creaked in the silence.

Cold.

It was the first thing she registered when the door finally opened.

Icy cold.

Only once her frail body had adapted to the iciness of the room did Lucy take her time to look around.

The normally neat room was in chaos, and she looked at it with wide eyes. Then, her gaze was quickly drawn to a portrait that lay in tatters on the floor.

Lucy knew the portrait all too well. It was of her mother. Papa had commissioned it for her birthday, and the artist had done an exceptional job. Now the bright smile and azure eyes were ripped to shreds. Clothes were strewn over the floor too, and the bed’s coverings were bundled at its foot, as though someone was hurriedly looking for something.

A shiver ran through Lucy’s body, and only then did she turn towards the source of the cold: the balcony. The doors were open, and frosty rain trickled into the room.

Lucy rushed forward, eager to close the doors and stop the cold from entering the house. It was only when her hands touched the handles that she noticed it: a pair of shoes right there on the terrace.

Mama’s shoes.

Not just any shoes… her favorite shoes. She had worn them all day, and she would be very upset if the rain ruined them.

Look over the edge of the balcony.

She was not certain whether the words were whispered by the wind or whether her own mind was telling her what to do, but she moved forward without thinking.

The storm clouded her vision, so she strained her eyes to see. There was something far below. Yes, there it was. Far below the balcony in the garden, Lucy could make out a figure.

She squinted, trying to make sense of it. For a few minutes, her mind was befuddled. But when she realized, it shot through her body like a flash of lightning.

The figure wore mama’s favorite white dress, and its head bent at an impossible angle.

“Mama?” She could only whisper the word as she leaned over the balcony to see better. The figure was still, and all her doubts dissipated instantly. “Mama!” she whimpered.

***

Lucy awoke with a start, screaming, her entire body covered in sweat. She pressed a hand against her racing heart as she sat up in her bed.

The dream was always the same. She took a few deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm down, tears already pooling in her eyes. Recently, the dream had become even more frequent.

The blood in her veins turned to ice. The scream that had left her lips may have awakened her father; he despised it whenever someone disturbed his sleep. She stifled a yawn and reached for the robe that hung haphazardly over the chaise in her room.

Only one thing would help now; a cup of tea.

Anguished thoughts warred in her mind as she made her way to the kitchen. It had been ten long years since her mother’s death, but she could still picture her lying in the garden like a broken doll.

An accident, they had called it. How could her mother have been so careless as to slip and fall over the railing of the balcony? Even if that were a possibility, what would her mother have been doing out on the balcony in that awful weather?

It simply did not make sense.

Another thing that did not make sense was the torn-up portrait. No one had mentioned it, and Lucy herself was far too scared to ask her father about it. No… she had learned long ago that he did not welcome questions, so she had remained quiet about what she had seen.

Still, the portrait troubled her. Who would have gone through the trouble of shredding it into pieces, and more importantly… why? Could it have been her mother, who had grown tired of the false smile she wore in the painting?

And why had the room been in such disarray?

The silence in Lucy’s room was a far cry from the bustling activity in the kitchen when she arrived. Her maid Maria was leaning against a counter with a cup of tea in her hands.

“I made you a spot of tea already, my lady.”

Lucy took the cup with relief and shook her head at the older woman.

“Sometimes I wonder if you are a witch, Maria. How on earth did you know that I would be having a dream again?”

Maria smiled sympathetically and reached over to put a gentle hand on Lucy’s wrist. “I’m no witch, my dear lady. I just know that you have your dreams whenever a storm brews outside, so I was expecting you.”

She looked at Maria earnestly, thinking how far more at ease she felt with the staff than with her own family.

Maria kept her voice light, though the concern was still evident in her eyes. “You will never believe what I heard today. Your chambermaid is in love!”

Lucy took a delicate sip of the warm tea, her eyes wide.

“What? Katherine? With whom on earth could she be in love?”

Maria made a big show of looking at the cook conspiratorially. “With the new stable boy. Ben, I think his name is. The two cannot stop stealing furtive glances at one another.”

Lucy pressed her hand against her heart and smiled. “Oh, that is too precious! I have not met Ben yet, but I will have to make a plan to meet him now. He better not hurt Katherine, or I will have his head.”

The cook laughed jovially at this. They all knew that Lucy was far too kind to even consider having anyone’s head. She could hardly give anyone a stern talking-to.

“That is not the only gossip, my lady.” It was the cook’s gruff voice that sounded now, and Lucy looked at him curiously. “Apparently, young Abigail is expecting. Yes… they believe that the baby will be here by summer!”

Lucy clapped her hands together in excitement. “That is wonderful news! Oh, we will have to make some clothes for the baby, and perhaps a little blanket!”

The cook grinned brightly at her excitement. “Your mother would have had the very same reaction, you know. She would have thought of clothes and blankets too, without a doubt.”

Lucy’s smile faltered. Though the staff in the kitchen had managed to lighten her mood after her awful dream, she missed her mother even more on days like this. When mama was alive, the house used to bustle with activity and warmth. She was the one who introduced Lucy to the kitchen staff and other servants and made sure that she knew they ought to be treated with kindness and respect.

Mama used to laugh with them, and Lucy could still remember the joy that permeated the walls of the house for her presence. Now she hardly remembered what laughter sounded like.

“Oh, Lucy…” Maria looked at her with a tender smile. Maria had become a substitute mother for her, and she appreciated – and loved – the woman more than she could begin to explain.

“Are you excited for the start of the season?”

Lucy scoffed at the question and shook her head firmly. “No, thank you. I am not interested in any of those ridiculous events whatsoever. I have no need to look for a husband to control me.”

Maria lifted a brow at Lucy’s scathing answer, and she sighed. “I apologize, Maria,” Lucy continued. “The dream upset me. And this time of the year, father gets even more ill-tempered than usual.”

“Of course…” Maria sounded sympathetic. “Your mother’s death anniversary is coming up.”

Lucy suspected it was one of the reasons why her dreams had become more frequent. “Did he ever…” Lucy hesitated and shook her head. Surely she could not ask the question that had been weighing on her mind ever since she had been old enough to understand. Yet something in Maria’s sincere eyes made her feel safe.

“Did he what, my dear?”

Lucy sighed. “Did my father ever love mama? Because… I just remember them shouting at each other. I remember mama crying a lot and I…”

Once again, Lucy hesitated. Could she open up about the harsh realities of what she remembered, or was it better to remain quiet about it?

“I remember bruises, Maria,” Lucy said finally. “So many. And I don’t think I understood it when I was young, but somewhere along the way it started making sense and I just knew—” She exhaled sharply, avoiding Maria’s sympathetic eyes. “I just knew where they had come from, and I hated him! And a part of me still hates him because…”

“Is this why you do not favor the season?” Maria’s voice was soft and gentle, and Lucy nodded quickly.

“I decided years ago that I would never marry. I will never give away my independence and power like mother did.”

Despite sounding convincing even to her own ears, Lucy knew how awfully empty her words were. Her father had paraded her mother like a show pony, and now that she was of age it was Lucy’s turn.

He did not care that she despised the events he forced her to attend, nor did he care that she had never expressed a wish to marry. He did not care that every minute of being paraded sickened her, that she hated every second of it, that she hated him.

To her father, she was a mere object, and hatred was far too complex an emotion for her to have. She had no choice but to bear it.

Maria did not respond. She merely looked at her sympathetically. The cook, for his part, placed a plate filled with delicacies in front of her. It was his way of showing care, and Lucy appreciated it more than she could express.

She forced herself to smile as she took a cream puff and brought it to her lips.

She knew that she was beautiful and that people envied her wherever she went. She knew that many a lady in the vicinity had expressed a wish to be Lucy Beaumont.

Sadly, she also knew that all she had said about being independent was a farce. She shared her mother’s fate for she, too, was a prisoner.

Yes, she had a beautiful home and everything that money could buy, but a gilded cage was still only a cage… And if there was one thing Lucy was most certain of, it was that she did not want to be in a cage.

---

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Prologue

Ezra Spencer, Third Earl of Marlborough, preferred to ride in the mornings, even when staying in London. While most of his peers were sleeping off the excesses of the previous night, with most failing to surface before one or two in the afternoon, Ezra found the relative peace of the morns to be preferable to the unrelenting pressure of performing for the Beau Monde.

So far, his day had been almost enjoyable. Sir John Sloane had invited him to view his collection, no doubt thinking that the unreasonably early hour of ten in the morning would encourage the young Duke to decline the visit. Ezra smiled at the memory.

“It seems I misread your nature, my boy,” the crotchety old man had eventually conceded. “I took you to be as foolish as the rake in Hogarth’s paintings. Well,” he paused, “I do like to be wrong from time to time. It keeps one sharp.”

“Perhaps in my youth, Sir John,” he’d replied, his eyes feasting on an exquisite watercolor by Richard Westall. “These days I prefer the company of art to that of people.”

Sir John had made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a grunt, then drawn his attention to a series of portraits sketched by Sir John Mortimor.

Yes, it had been a good morning, and Ezra was almost content with the world. Even here in Hyde Park, which was never truly empty, there was enough space to feel he was back on his estates and far from the pressures of High Society. His favorite spot was close to the Serpentine, near to where the dilapidated remains of the old Cheesecake House still stood, and where there was a rich planting of old trees that felt like a mystical forest. Even now, with the sun climbing to its highest point for the day, there was no sign of another living soul around him.

As he neared the shoreline, he became aware of someone singing. A young woman’s voice, he guessed, with her beautiful tones rising and falling in a folk song that sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite remember.

“Woah, boy,” he murmured to his horse, pulling lightly on the reins to guide Atticus to a standstill. The distant sounds of the city seemed to fade away, and all he could focus on was that beautiful singing.

“The water is wide, I cannot get over

And neither have I wings to fly.

O go and get me some little boat,

To carry o’er my true love and I.

A-down in the meadows the other day,

A-gathering flowers both red and blue,

A-gathering flowers so fine and gay,

I little thought what love could do.”

He patted his horse lightly on the neck. “Can you hear that, too, boy? Or have I finally lost my mind?”

Atticus snorted in response, and Ezra chuckled.

“Well, maybe I am imagining things, my friend, but you have to admit that singing is beautiful. I’d not forgive myself if I left without discovering to whom that voice belongs.”

He swung out his leg and dismounted, and whatever opinion Atticus held on the matter, he chose to keep it to himself, offering no objection as Ezra threw his reins over a nearby branch.

Making his way into the woods, he pushed through the low branches as he moved with as much stealth as he could.

“I put my hand into one soft bush,

Thinking of the sweet flower to find.

I pricked my finger to the bone,

And left the sweet flower to mind.

I leaned my back up against a great oak,

Thinking him a fine trusty tree.

But first he did bend and then he broke,

So did my love prove false to me.”

When he finally beheld the singer, his breath caught. She sat among a patch of bluebells and wildflowers, while leaning against an oak tree, just as in her song, and was staring out over the waters of the Serpentine. She was a slight thing, practically ethereal in appearance, and wearing a thin cotton dress that was little more than a slip. Her hair was unbound, but he could not quite make out the color—dark blonde, light brown perhaps?—for she wore a Spanish-style mantua comb on her head, and a thin white veil cascaded down from it, obscuring the details of her appearance, yet leaving the strong impression of a very beautiful woman.

“Where love is planted, O there it grows,

It buds and blossoms like some rose;

It has a sweet and pleasant smell,

No flow’r on earth can it excel.

Must I be bound, O and he go free!

Must I love one thing that does not love me!

Why should I act such a childish part,

And love a boy that will break my heart.”

He stepped forward with the stealth of an expert hunter, but the divine creature whirled her head around to stare at him as though he’d hailed her. The veil draped over the top half of her face, but a fine pair of pale-pink lips were uncovered, and currently shaped around a delightful gasp of surprise. She was younger than he had imagined, and despite her state of déshabilé, there was nothing of the courtesan about her. She glanced over her shoulder, revealing a flash of red in that tantalizing hair of hers, and in so doing left Ezra with the strong impression of a fawn about to bolt into the woodlands.

For reasons he did not have the time or inclination to study, he did not want her to go.

“Please, don’t let me disturb you, my lady,” said he, inclining his head in a respectful nod. “I mean you no harm; I simply wanted to listen to the end of your song.”

Her head cocked to one side, and he found himself wishing she would remove the veil just so he could see the color of her eyes. He walked toward her slowly, approaching in the same way he would a skittish foal, but she made no move to leave her patch of bluebells.

“Who are you?” he asked. The woman laughed, and it was an ethereal sound, gentle and teasing, that nonetheless struck him like an arrow through the chest.

“I’m the nymph,” she replied, that perfect mouth curving into an innocent smile.

Ezra couldn’t help but smile back.

“The nymph?” he repeated. “Not just a nymph?”

Her chin lifted slightly. “Do you know a great many nymphs, my lord?”

He chuckled at that. “A point to you, my dear Nymph. Is there a reason you have chosen to sing in Hyde Park, of all places?”

The smile turned seductive.

“I was waiting for you.”

He stopped walking toward her, too used to women’s tricks to entice him into marriage to trust the Nymph, no matter how other-worldly she appeared. “For me?”

She laughed again. “Why, who else is here to appreciate my song?”

He looked her up and down, trying to gauge what type of creature he was dealing with. The Nymph, however, grew bored of his appraisal and turned her attention to the bluebells at her bare feet, and began to sing again.

“Whatever magic or trickery this is, it’s working,” Ezra murmured to himself before moving to sit beside her. She didn’t so much as acknowledge him, not even as their shoulders brushed against each other.

“There is a ship sailing on the sea,

She’s loaded deep as deep can be,

But not so deep as in love I am;

I care not if I sink or swim.

The water is wide, I cannot get over,

And I have not the wings to fly,

My love was untrue, but I can’t complain,

Some day I hope new love I’ll find.”

The song came to an end, and the Nymph let out a melancholy sigh.

“Love can be a terrible thing, don’t you think?” she said.

Ezra forced down the painful memories that threatened, just for a moment, to overwhelm him. Memories of beautiful lips turned blue, and a four-poster bed replaced with a silk-lined coffin.

“Yes, it can be terrible,” he replied, “but what is life without a little risk now and again?”

The Nymph turned to look at him, and Ezra met her gaze, their faces only an inch or two apart. He thought—hoped—he heard her breath hitch.

“So, I am not wrong to hope I will find love?” she asked, her tone indicating the genuine nature of her question.

“Never,” he murmured, lifting his hand to lay against the cool skin of her cheek. “It is never wrong to hope for love, not even when it hurts.”

Her lips parted, but whatever words the Nymph was about to say remained unspoken, for desire got the better of Ezra’s good sense, and he kissed her.

For just a moment he felt her tense with shock, but then she melted toward him, her lips parting willingly as his hand buried itself in her hair. She gasped when his tongue entered her mouth, then gave the most delicate moan of pleasure he’d ever heard as she tentatively began to return the kiss.

She’s never done this before! The thought surprised him. He could feel her passion growing with her confidence, and he knew with absolute certainty that if he allowed this to continue, he would be unable to resist her explorations. In another time or place, he would have welcomed such a distraction, but he was damned if he was going to take advantage of a girl—nymph or otherwise—in Hyde Park, of all places, under the midday sun.

With effort, he pulled away from the kiss, running his hand back across the Nymph’s cheek as he did so. She was staring at him from behind the veil, her lips still parted as she took several rapid breaths.

Then, she shook her head as though she needed to dislodge an unwelcome thought, and practically jumped to her feet.

“Someone is coming,” she said, staring out beyond the woods. “I must go.”

Ezra frowned; he could not hear any indication of people approaching, whether by foot, horse, or carriage. He was about to say as much when the Nymph leaned down over him, bringing her mouth close to his ear.

“Will you find me again?” she asked.

“Find you? You mean here?”

She laughed and danced away from him.

“Not here. You will find me in the picture,” she replied.

Ezra clambered up to his feet, but the Nymph was already several feet away from him. “What picture?” he asked, starting after her. His foot connected with a root of the oak tree, and he fell back to his knees. He heard the Nymph’s laughter again, echoing about him, but when he looked up, she was nowhere to be seen.

“Find me in the painting!” she called out and, thus, she was gone.

“Nymph?” Ezra called out, with only the woodland birds responding to him. He got to his feet slowly, listening for the snap of a twig or the crunch of dead leaves to give away her location, but there was nothing. It was as if she had never existed, as though the entire experience had been nothing but a dream.

Ezra rubbed at his jaw as he tried to work out whether he was amused or annoyed by the whole experience. Then he remembered the way her tongue had shyly danced with his own, and he shivered.

Atticus had not moved from his spot at the edge of the woodland, and his expression was one of an animal that had seen everything and was bored by it all. Ezra patted the horse affectionately on the neck.

“Well, that was an enjoyable albeit strange interlude, old boy,” he told the horse. “What did you make of the Nymph?”

Atticus made no response. Ezra nodded.

“Very wise, my friend. Very wise, indeed. Well, we’d better get back home before my sister emerges from her bedroom. For some unknown reason I promised to take her for ices today, and if I am late, she will ring a peal over my head, no doubt about it.”

The horse snorted. Ezra laughed. “No, I think it best we keep this encounter a secret, don’t you? There’s enough speculation about my sanity as it is. No need to add to it.”

He mounted Atticus and settled into the saddle, allowing himself a glance back at the woodland, and to the old Cheesecake House in the distance.

Yes, all in all, it had been a good morning, he decided. Now all he had to do was work out what the girl had meant about finding her in a painting.

***

Cecilia Wallace, her veil discarded as she slipped on an old walking gown and buttoned up the front, peered around the Cheesecake House’s wall and watched him leave. She quickly pinned up her hair and tucked any stray wisps under the edges of her straw bonnet, confident she had erased all trace of the alluring nymph and replaced her with a nameless young woman of the middling classes.

“He’ll find the painting, I am sure of it,” she said to no one in particular. “Perhaps he’ll even fall in love with her.”

She touched her fingers to her lips, where the memory of his kiss still lingered, and the desire to have his mouth explore hers more thoroughly throbbed with unfulfilled longing.

She pulled her hand away abruptly, giving her head a small shake as she did so.

“Don’t be so foolish,” she admonished herself before crouching down to pull on her well-worn, practical boots. “All that matters is the painting. That’s all you want from him.”

She could taste her own lies as she emerged from the woodland, stepping out onto one of the walking paths when there were no witnesses to see where she had come from. It would not do to have anyone connect the mysterious nymph with a plainly dressed girl, especially not if they recognized who she really was.

“All that matters is the painting,” she repeated, and set off in the direction of home at a brisk pace, resisting all urges to turn around and see if she could catch just one final glimpse of the man whose kiss still weighed heavily on her mouth.

 

Chapter One

Lady Matilda Spencer threw open the door to her brother’s study without warning, bringing a small whirlwind of fashionable clothing and excited chatter along with her.

“Don’t be silly, Anderson, you don’t have to announce me to my own sibling! Ezra, tell Anderson he’s being a stuffy old bore, and that I don’t need to be announced when I want to come into your study.”

Ezra looked up over his newspaper at his long-suffering butler hovering in the doorway.

“Anderson, I have it on good authority that you are a stuffy old bore, and that Tilly may do as she pleases, whenever she pleases,” he said. “Since I have no hope of restraining her impulses, I beg that you not upset yourself in the futile attempt of making her behave with propriety.”

The butler, who had long ago perfected the art of hiding all emotion, visibly struggled to keep from smiling.

“See, Anderson?” declared Matilda as she undid the ribbon of her bonnet. “Ezra likes it when I come to spend some time with him.”

“I don’t think I would go quite that far,” said Ezra thoughtfully. “Perhaps, Anderson, we should look into getting Tilly a bell to wear about her neck. That way, you would not need to waste your time trying to announce her presence, and I will have ample opportunity to hide.”

“Are bells fashionable, Ezra?” asked his sister as she discarded her bonnet on the floor and began to pull at her gloves. “I don’t believe I have seen anyone wearing them, but fashions begin so quickly, I swear it exhausts me trying to keep up.”

“They most certainly are,” he replied solemnly. “Anderson, instruct Tilly’s maid to find a bell for her to wear. Something delicate in gold, I think, but loud enough to announce her presence through two walls and a sturdy door.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” replied the butler, bowing himself out of the room before he could betray his position in the household with something so uncouth as a snort of laughter. Ezra grinned; baiting Anderson had been a hobby of his since his salad days, but he’d never come close to succeeding until his sister’s return from living with their aunt and her permanent establishment in his household.

Matilda had narrowed her eyes and was staring at him. “You were teasing me again, weren’t you?”

He folded up his newspaper and placed it on the table beside him. “You wound me, Tilly! When have I ever been so tyrannical a big brother as to indulge in teasing you?”

“You tease me constantly, and you know it,” she replied without any rancor. “Why, you even instructed all the servants to keep calling me Tilly, as though I were still in the nursery, and not one of them addresses me as Lady Matilda unless we have company. Even the scullery maids call me Tilly!”

“Do you want us all to start calling you Lady Matilda?”

His sister tried to look stern, but her face quickly collapsed into a rueful grin. She settled for flinging one of her gloves in his general direction, although it fell far short of its mark.

“No, I would not, as well you know! I hate being introduced that way, for it just reminds me of Aunt Ursula’s constant criticism.” She raised her chin and pinched her lips tight in her favorite impression of their proud relative. “Lady Matilda, one must always have perfect deportment, not slouch like a common milkmaid. Lady Matilda, one must remain suitably aloof from the servants, not embroil them in faradiddles. Lady Matilda, one must perfect an air of fashionable ennui, not laugh like a horse.”

“Do I want to know about the faradiddles?” Ezra asked.

Matilda winced. “I think it’s best that you don’t.”

“Agreed,” sighed Ezra, “although you must enlighten me, Dear Heart; how exactly does a horse laugh, anyway? Atticus, for example, has the finest sense of humor I have ever known in man or beast, and yet I cannot ever recall him laughing.”

“According to Aunt Ursula, horses laugh like me,” said Matilda, a scowl once again settling over her features as she threw herself into the wingback chair opposite him. “Why our parents thought she was a suitable guardian for me, I will never know. I would have been much happier living with you.”

“I doubt it,” said Ezra. His sister looked at him in confusion for a moment, but realization quickly dawned.

“Oh, you mean because you were in mourning for Lizzie? Well, I suppose it’s understandable that you wouldn’t have wanted to add my care to your burdens, but I would have much preferred to have been there to take care of you. Still, it’s all in the past and I’m here now, so that’s what matters the most.”

He couldn’t help but smile at the sentiment, even as the memory of his dead wife knifed at his heart.

“I wouldn’t have done that to you, Tilly, although I am forever moved by your continued love and devotion to me.”

“Well, Aunt Ursula was never going to bring me to London despite my being practically on the shelf, so I really had no choice but to be nice to you,” she said cheerfully. “Oh, that reminds me, I have the most wonderful lead on a new painting for you!”

Ezra groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to interfere with my collection again, Dear Heart? I love you, but not to the exclusion of reason!”

“No, dear Brother of mine, this is not like last time at all! I swear it! And I didn’t even hand over as much as a trinket to pay for the information on this occasion!”

He leaned back in his chair, eyeing her warily.

“Just information?”

“I promise.”

“And you have not paid for it, promised anything for it, or made the acquaintance of any men of dubious character to obtain it?”

“Only if you consider the Duke of Clarence to be so!”

Ezra widened his eyes. “Tilly, I mean this with the greatest of respect to the Crown, but yes, I absolutely consider him to be a man of exceedingly dubious character and hold the same opinion for all his brothers, Prinny included. Please, tell me that Clarence has not been pawing at you, Dear Heart. I would be compelled to shoot him, and I’m fairly certain that murdering a royal duke is treason.”

His sister rubbed at her nose. “He did take a liking to me, but I promise I am not some wide-eyed debutante unable to throw off his advances.”

“What did you do?”

Matilda began examining her fingernails, her face the picture of innocence. “I laughed.”

Ezra blinked. “You laughed?”

She glanced at him, her roguish smile showing she was very well pleased with herself. “Indeed, I did, just the way Aunt Ursula always told me not to.”

Ezra felt a grin creeping across his face. “You laughed like a horse, did you?”

She leaned forward in her chair, and he found himself mimicking her action, as though a great secret were about to be revealed.

“Oh, no, Ezra,” she whispered, “it was far, far worse than that. I snorted.”

They stared at each over for a moment, then both began to laugh at the same time.

“You little minx! You did not!”

“I swear to you, I did! And it was a loud, toothy kind of snort as well! I think everyone in the parlor must have heard me, and it would have been mortifying were it anyone else!”

Ezra wiped a hand across his eye. “Good lord, how did Clarence react?”

“I don’t think I could have repulsed him more if I had dribbled,” replied his sister cheerfully. “And believe me, I was prepared to dribble if necessary.”

“I do not doubt it,” he replied, chuckling at the mental image her words had conjured.

“But all of that aside, he did confirm the rumor going about the ton, which no doubt you would have heard already if you attended more than the absolute minimum number of parties you can get away with.”

“If I ever learn how to snort toothily to extract myself from awkward encounters, then perhaps I will attend more of them,” he replied. “Now, tell me this piece of information of yours before you get distracted again.”

His sister leaned forward again. “A new, unknown work by Jacob Wallace has been found, and what’s more, it is magical!”

There was a moment of silence between them. Matilda was practically bouncing with excitement in her chair, waiting for his reaction.

“A new Wallace painting?”

“Exactly!”

“And it’s magical?”

“I know! How thrilling!”

Ezra shook his head as he leaned back in the chair. “I’m sorry, Tilly, but that’s impossible.”

His sister’s expression turned mulish. “No, it’s not, people have seen her!”

He blinked. “Seen who?”

“The Nymph, of course! She’s appeared in several parks and gardens around London, asking people to find her in the painting.”

The memory of the girl he’d met by the Serpentine filled his senses for a moment, and it felt as if the world suddenly went off balance.

“There’s a nymph running around London kissing strangers?” he asked, more sharply than he’d intended.

His sister threw up her hands in disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ezra, she’s a nymph! A fairy! I said people had seen her, not that they had been taking liberties. I wish you would not tease me when I am trying to be of service.”

So, she has not kissed anyone but me! Ezra was uncomfortable with how satisfied the realization made him feel.

“Are you even listening to me?” demanded Matilda. Ezra looked up to see she was pouting, and his heart went out to her. From long experience, he knew Tilly could be flighty, distracted, and prone to exaggeration, but she was also his dearest friend and greatest defender.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I was just distracted by the idea that there could be a lost Wallace. He died, what, two years ago now? I reviewed the inventory of his work, and it was comprehensive. I am merely intrigued by the idea that there might be more works of his out there that remain unaccounted for.”

Matilda rolled her eyes, but a smile was tugging at the edges of her mouth. “Trust you to focus on the least interesting part of the tale. Of course, there are more works. Wallace was an artist, after all. No doubt it was a private commission or some such thing that the buyer did not want to be made public. If the rumors are true, then it would explain a lot.”

“Because it’s magical?” he asked, unable to keep the teasing note from his voice.

“Mock me all you like, dear Brother, but at least five men and a few women of the ton claim to have seen her, always at midday and always in some kind of wooded place. She is dressed all in white, with a long veil that obscures her face, and her song is like a siren calling to them. She runs away if they get too close, calling out that they must find her in her painting before disappearing before their very eyes.”

“Magical indeed,” replied Ezra. The girl had not disappeared for him, he thought, it was more that he’d lost sight of her when he tripped on that blasted tree root. “But it’s impossible to follow your train of thought, my dear, even at the best of times. Explain if you will, what has the nymph got to do with Wallace’s painting?”

His sister’s expression turned triumphant. “That is the information I have for you! Clarence was full of the story of this beautiful nymph—with some extremely improper details, I should add—when Sir Thomas Hope commented that he wondered whether the nymph was the same one who appears in a recently discovered Wallace painting he’d viewed.”

The name of a fellow art collector caught Ezra’s attention despite himself. “Sir Thomas Hope has seen the painting?”

Matilda nodded eagerly. “Yes, he said the original owner had died, and so the executor of the estate brought it to him for a valuation. He immediately recognized it as a Wallace and instantly snatched the opportunity to display it for a select group of art lovers. He is in negotiations right now with the owner to do just that, so naturally, I secured us an invitation to the viewing. You are welcome.”

“Why would anyone take a Wallace to Sir Thomas Hope for authentication?” mused Ezra. “He might collect art, but he’s far from an expert in any medium. This whole thing smells strongly of a hum to me.”

“You are insufferable!” cried his sister as she got to her feet. “I have half a mind to attend the viewing without you as punishment!”

Ezra grinned at her outrage, which only provoked her to use some language that would definitely incur the wrath of Aunt Ursula if she heard it before she began to stalk out of the room without so much as a glance at the bonnet and gloves she’d casually discarded upon her arrival.

“Now, now, Tilly! Don’t be like that! I’m touched that you know the name of my favorite artist and that you put up with the attention of both Clarence and Hope to secure me an invitation. You’re a treasure of a sister, Dear Heart. An absolute treasure.”

Matilda paused at the door to the study and turned her head to face him.

“Of course, I am a treasure, no one could ask for a better sister than me,” she declared, her eyes just daring him to contradict her. When he did not rise to the bait, she relaxed her stance just a little. “Very well, you may accompany me to the viewing, if only so I can have the satisfaction of hearing you admit you are wrong.”

“A rare treat indeed,” he replied solemnly, and Matilda burst out laughing.

“You are a beast of a brother, and I should throttle you in your sleep. Instead, I will console myself with the knowledge that the owner of the painting did not consider you to be an expert on Wallace despite your collection, and that the nymph has not appeared to you, begging you to find her. Perhaps you are not the connoisseur of art you fancy yourself to be, Ezra! Think about that!”

She exited the room with a dramatic flounce but did not stoop so low as to actually slam the door. Ezra rose and went to his desk where a pile of ignored invitations had steadily grown since the beginning of the Season. On the top was a gilt-edged card from Sir John Hope, cordially inviting him to the Unveiling of An Unknown Masterpiece. He ran his fingers across the edge, thinking back to the kiss from the unknown woman at the edge of the Serpentine.

“Who are you really, my beautiful nymph?” he asked the silent room. “And what kind of game are you playing?”

 

---

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Dearest Love Lady,

I can hardly believe that I am writing you a letter. I suppose I could have spoken to a trusted friend instead, but friends tend to be awfully biased. Thus, I am writing to you in the hopes that you have some advice for the dilemma I am currently facing.

I am what you would call a free spirit. I believe that life is meant to be enjoyed and lived, not suffered through in an unimaginative existence.

Fortune favors the bold, but I fear that, in my case, fortune has played a cruel trick. The gentleman who may have a chance to steal my heart is everything but bold. He is impossibly proper, reserved, and shy.

It does not seem as though we would be a good match at all, and yet I find myself inexplicably drawn to him. Are we doomed from the start?

Sincerely,

Wildflower

Dear Wildflower,

I often find that the differences in our personalities make for the most exciting relationships. It is, however, of vital importance that you do not allow these differences to cause sacrifice.

The best advice I can give is this: make sure that you always meet each other halfway—in doing so, you shall ensure that the love you have for each other will endure. When love is true, it works out in the end, but remember that there is an enormous difference between sacrifice and compromise. Do not lose your spark because of a man.

All my best,

Love Lady

Chapter One

Stephen Huntington hated the change of season, especially the start of spring. The constant sneezing and sniffing as blossoms opened around him was incredibly bothersome. Then again, perhaps it was more than the change of season he hated. If he were honest with himself—and he counted himself an honest man, indeed—he hated all change.

A sudden whistle from above yanked him out of his mundane thoughts, and he stared in awe at a lady—no, a woman who was certainly not fit to be called a lady—with messy red hair, leaning out of a window.

“What on earth?”

Stephen barely had time to formulate a proper thought before the girl dangled a bag out of the window.

“Catch this!”

The bag landed in Stephen’s hands. And before he had time to recover, the girl jumped from the window too, and he took a large stride forward to catch her in his arms.

“What in the heavens?”

Her face was close to his—quite improper. Yet, he could not help but admire the tiny freckles on her nose or the mischievous glint in her eyes. She was indeed quite beautiful.

“Wait a second…”

He’d seen those piercing green eyes before, of that he was certain, yet a name evaded him. “You’re Emma’s friend, aren’t you? Cassidy?” He shook his head quickly, searching his mind for the name. “Chastity?”

The green eyes twinkled with mischief, and the girl pressed her hands on his shoulders, letting herself out of his grip easily.

“Charity. Thank you for catching me, and…” She reached quickly to grab the bag out of his hands. “I’ll just take this.”

“Wait a second!” Stephen grabbed onto the dainty wrist quickly, his eyes narrowing. A lot could be said about the Huntington family, but he would in no way be accessory to theft.

“Did you steal this?”

“Well…” Charity gave a rather uncomfortable laugh and shrugged. “‘Steal’ is such a technical term, you know.”

Stephen looked at her, aghast. How could this woman possibly be Emma’s best friend? His brother’s wife was demure and classy, a proper lady. How could she be friends with a common thief? Albeit she was a stunningly beautiful one with fair skin and emerald eyes.

Charity’s upbeat voice interrupted his wandering thoughts. “It’s my father’s house, so technically I wasn’t stealing… not really.”

Stephen leered, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever was inside the bag. Charity, on the other hand, was swift, and she promptly hid it behind her back. Whatever was inside the bag clanked together—silver, he assumed.

“So, if it’s your father’s house, why don’t you just ask for what it is you want? And why jump through the window, rather than use the front door?”

Charity sighed and slowed her voice as though she had to explain a difficult concept to a child.

“My dear stepbrother was supposed to open the door for me and tell my father I was here, but he is probably out with one of his various companions. As for asking…”

She hesitated, and Stephen lifted a brow, curious as to her explanation. What explanation could she possibly have that made any sense at all?

“Well, if I must be honest… I enjoy the thrill. Have you never wanted to do something a little improper, something… out of the ordinary?”

Stephen could only look at her blankly. Doing something out of the ordinary was unheard of in the circles he moved in. She was looking at him defiantly, and his heart skipped a beat.

“So… what are you going to do with your treasure?”

As improper as it was, Stephen could not help but play along. The girl fascinated him. She was like a breath of fresh air, everything but proper and conventionally ladylike. Stephen wondered how Charity’s father managed to raise her to be so fiercely wild.

“Well…” Charity gestured around daintily. “I’d hand it out to the poor, of course…”

“Ah…” Stephen grinned. “Charity indeed, an apt name.”

Charity grinned at this, and Stephen took a step back, suddenly uncomfortable. She was rather radiant when she smiled, and he could feel his heart starting to gallop.

“So… what else do you do for a thrill?”

She took a step forward at this, her lips almost brushing against his ear.

“Nothing the future Marquess of Hertford would concern himself with. Perhaps I am a tad too wild for you, sir.”

Stephen swallowed. She had always been impossible not to notice, of course, but now even more so. Perhaps it was the close proximity they suddenly shared, but all he could think of was her floral scent oozing off her—deliciously intoxicating.

“I implore you, tell me what else it is you have planned.”

“Well…” Charity thought for a minute, then a wide grin crossed her face. “Perhaps, one day you will know. However, I’m afraid today will not be said day.”

She skipped off rather merrily, leaving Stephen confused and alone.

“Wait!” He could hardly believe that he was calling out after her. It was very unbecoming of a man in his position to raise his voice at all, and yet… something about the fiery redhead made it seem impossible to let her go.

“When will I see you again?”

Charity paused at this, her subtly provocative eyes rendering him uncomfortable.

“If you’re meant to see me again… you will.”

***

The promise of seeing Stephen again remained in Charity’s mind for days, leaving her restless and far more irritable than usual. Of course, she remembered him from Martin and Emma’s wedding and even the house party where they all met for the first time. He’d made an impressive figure back then: tall, dark, and stoic.

Yet, when he caught her so easily as she jumped from a window a few days earlier, she saw another side of him. There was something almost playful in his eyes, something she would love to explore. Had her list not already been quite extensive, she might have added him to it.

The sun was setting, and she gasped—she did not have much time to get ready for her evening plans. A thick fur coat covered the far too revealing dress she was wearing, and a black wig concealed her signature red locks. She was not foolish; she knew this was a rather dangerous game. But she couldn’t stop herself. She had to…

Charity stopped herself before the thoughts could get too intrusive. Tonight was about fun, about living, not… reality.

Thankfully, the house was empty. She’d successfully lied about a stomach bug to avoid a family gathering with Lord and Lady Blandford. If only life could be as simple as fooling her family. It was not, however, and dark thoughts plagued her as she made her way to the seedier part of London, the part women like her ought to avoid. There, she quickly hid the fur coat to reveal a shockingly tight scarlet dress. It took but a second for the men in the club to notice her, and before long, she was surrounded by them.

Though this was her first time pretending to be a worldly seductress, Charity could not help but be flattered by the attention bestowed upon her. Only when a rather old, bawdy man grabbed ahold of her wrist did she become concerned. His grip was tight and she could smell the liquor on his breath, proving how difficult it would be for her to escape such a predicament. She was about to call out when—

“Excuse me!” The voice came out of nowhere, and Charity spun round, her eyes wide when she recognized him. “I believe the lady is meant to be my escort for the evening.”

The older gentleman let go of her with a grunt, and Charity slowly lifted her eyes to look at her savior. Lo and behold, Stephen Huntington wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

“That’s twice I have saved you in two weeks, my lady. Would you mind accompanying me to a more… secluded place?”

There was nothing Charity could do but nod. Whether she liked it or not, the devilishly handsome man suddenly had a strange effect on her.

She followed him into the private room hesitantly and paused. It was not the sort of place a duke’s daughter such as her would ever think to visit. Stephen seemed awfully uncomfortable there as well, and Charity made the instant decision to use his discomfort to her advantage.

“So, sir…” She batted her lashes flirtatiously. “I didn’t expect you to be the type to visit a place like this.”

Stephen didn’t respond; he merely patted on the couch next to him, gesturing for her to join him.

“I’m afraid your only choices are wine or ale… and I doubt you’d enjoy the ale.”

Charity locked eyes with him before moving to sit on the couch next to him. “I’ll have the ale.”

It tasted bitter, unlike the sweet, honeyed wine she was used to, but she refused to show it and give him the upper hand. So there was really only one viable option—moving quickly, she straddled Stephen and pressed her lips against his ear.

“So… what is it you meant to do with me in a private room, sir?”

His hands automatically moved to her hips, clenching slightly before releasing. His voice had a hoarse quality to it, and Charity basked in the realization that she was responsible for it.

“I… you seem to be the expert here, my lady. What is it you suggest?”

He had redirected the focus on her and she was unsure how to proceed. She was attracted to him, that much was certain. To be honest, she hadn’t thought of anything or anyone else in the previous few days. She lowered her voice, almost purring into his ear.

“What is it that gentlemen want?”

“Nothing a lady like you should have any knowledge of.”

Stephen licked his lips nervously, and she could hardly blame him. Her bosom was practically in his face; there was no way he could miss the milky white skin of her pert breasts.

But Charity was not done with him. She pressed against him closer, allowing him to inhale her scent—a new, flowery eau de cologne she had just received from Paris.

“Oh, live a little. Have some fun. And tell me what it is you desire.”

“I suppose…” Stephen tore his eyes away from her curves to search her eyes. “Redheads with a certain zest for life is a start.”

***

She leaned closer, her lips almost touching his. Stephen only needed to lean in half an inch, and their lips would meet. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her. No, he really wanted nothing more than to yank off the too-revealing dress that no duke’s daughter should own and make her his right there on the couch.

“So, my wig did nothing to conceal my identity, did it?” Charity pretended to be disappointed as she took it off. Her red locks cascaded down her back, and Stephen suddenly decided red was his new favorite color.

“I’m afraid not, my lady.” He tried to focus, but his eyes slipped to her lips once more. “I knew it was you the moment I stepped into the club.”

They were still merely an inch apart, her weight pressing softly against his body, making him awfully aware of their proximity. If he just leaned in a little closer…

“So, tell me…” He eventually made the safe, albeit boring choice, of talking instead of kissing, his hands still resting casually on her hips. He had meant to ask why she was so intent on attracting danger. To be fair, she could attract anything and anyone she wanted, not that he would admit that part—not in words, at least.

Charity did not allow him to take the lead though. Pressing her hands on his chest, she sat up a little and cornered him with a question of her own first, his heart racing at her slightest movement. “Do you visit clubs like this often, good sir?”

Stephen smirked. It seemed to be her first visit here. The poor girl had no idea that most men frequented the club for a drink and a game of checkers. The few women that visited the establishment were well-known for their services indeed, but few gentlemen made use of said services. At least, he didn’t. Stephen caught a loose curl and placed it behind her ear, looking at the wig she had thrown on the floor. His hand remained behind her neck, drawing small circles there.

“The better question, my lady,” Stephen whispered in her ear as he pulled her closer, “is what would you, a duke’s daughter, be doing in a place like this?”

Blood rushed to her cheeks, and she leapt up. There was nothing they could say to alleviate the gravity of his question—she was a duke’s daughter, and her father would go mad if he found out she was here.

“I suggest you be more careful, my lady.” Stephen continued, staring at her blushing, his mind racing with words or images that would bring this pink upon her cheeks again. “After all, you can’t be sure I will always come to your rescue.”

At that, she shot him a challenging look. “I do not believe anyone asked you to, good sir.”

Ah, the boldness has returned.

Charity collected her wig off the floor with a knowing smirk and ran off without another word, leaving a confused and intrigued Stephen behind. He called after her, but she never turned back. Only minutes after she had disappeared did he notice the piece of parchment on the floor lying next to the couch. Picking it up, he could smell the flowers of her perfume. He unfolded it and started reading. It seemed to be a list of some sort. Stephen looked at it with a small frown.

“Twenty-four things to do before you turn twenty-four.” Only two items on the list were crossed off: item one, do something that feels illegal, and item two, find out what gentlemen really want.

Stephen sighed and poured the rest of Charity’s untouched ale down his throat as he sat down. According to his father, all gentlemen wanted a good wife and a happy family. As for him… well, despite the stoicism of his appearance, he wanted adventure. He desired a life worth remembering, and he sought to do something meaningful rather than live a mundane life of duty and passionless endeavors. Not that it was in the cards, at least not for him.

He glanced at the list again. It was rather bizarre for a lady of her stature to even be creating lists like this—she, much like him, was expected to lead a life of marriage and children, nothing more, nothing less. A mundane life, pre-planned, totally expected and calculated.

But perhaps, as it turns out, some ladies and gentlemen were different than the majority of them. Perhaps for some, adventure took precedence over duty. And perhaps he wanted to explore this option along with a fiery redhead.

***

It was one of those days. The corset strings would not sit right, breakfast was a bowl of bitter fruit, and, most importantly, she had lost her list. She had lost her list. No!This is a catastrophe, a total, utter disaster of epic proportions! Where is it? She opened drawers, she searched the pockets of her dress, under her bed, she even retraced her steps from the night before. What am I to do? If this list falls into the wrong hands, I am finished! Exasperated, she run her hand through her hair when the loud gong from the clock in the sitting room reminded her of a long-overdue appointment with Emma.

Oh blast it, there is no time to look for it now. Now she’d have a cup of tea with Emma and perhaps make some indirect, nonchalant inquiries about her mysterious brother-in-law. Stephen. The mere thought of him flooded her cheeks with heat, the sheer remembrance of how it felt to be held by him was intoxicating. What was it about him that set her entire body aflame?

“Oh, Charity, darling…” The perfectly sweet voice could only belong to one person: Priscilla. “Would you like a spot of tea, love?”

Of course, even the way Priscilla presented the tea was perfectly proper, from the silver carrying tray to the snowy tea set—even the small yellow flower floating in the mug.

Charity barely glanced at her stepmother—she did not have the time or patience for tea. “I’d love to, but unfortunately I am late for an appointment with Emma.”

The tray landed on her vanity chest with a soft clang.

“I’m sure you could spare five minutes to enjoy the tea and biscuits I brought you out of the goodness of my heart.”

Charity hesitated. In truth, Priscilla was a good stepmother, and the two had always been able to share secrets. Today, however, her need to delve into the mystery that is Stephen Huntington was far more pressing than tea and biscuits.

Charity pressed a quick kiss against Priscilla’s greying hair. “I will make it up to you, I promise. But I can’t be late for this appointment.”

Priscilla seemed to understand, though her nod was a little sad and forlorn. Charity did not waste too much time reading it; she was far too curious. However, now that Priscilla had left, her concern for her list had returned.

She was certain she’d forgotten it in her stockings. How could it have vanished? If Priscilla saw the items on the list, let alone Father, she would be absolutely hysterical. The only thing she could hope for was that the list would turn up without anyone discovering it, or at the very least without anyone linking it to her.

Chapter Two

The list plagued Stephen all the way home. It was not what you’d expect from any nobleman, much less a noblewoman.

Swim in a lake in the nude. Let a beau touch me in public.

Thoughts of swimming with her in the nude or touching her in public coursed through his mind: what it would feel like to see her naked under the moon, what she would sound like if he reached his hand to touch her. All such images were violently interrupted the second he entered his estate. He could hear voices from his father’s study which meant they had a guest. Sighing, he opened the door and joined them. Next to his father stood a tall gentleman with a thin mustache. Marquess Huntington looked at his eldest son with pride.

“Stephen! I’d like you to meet the Duke of—”

The stranger interrupted Stephen’s father with a small smile. “Please, call me William. Titles are so formal, and we are about to be family, aren’t we?”

Stephen ignored the offered hand quite rudely and looked at his father, his eyes narrowed. “Family?”

“Now, Stephen…” Marquess Huntington sounded placating. He knew his son’s stubborn nature far too well, despite him successfully hiding it from the rest of the world. “The Duke here has agreed to allow you to marry his only daughter. As you know, your brother married the daughter of a duke, and I cannot have my eldest marry anyone of a lower rank.”

“Do I have a choice?” Stephen’s voice was clipped, almost angry. Perhaps he would have been more open to this arrangement if he hadn’t run into a certain redhead earlier in the day. As it was, he was suddenly most dissatisfied with his duties.

“You will meet your bride tomorrow. That is all.”

The Marquess waved Stephen away without saying anything else. Stephen remained silent. He greeted the Duke with a firm handshake and walked quietly to his chamber.

In a desperate attempt to distract himself, he took the now crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and looked at it. He shook his head.

As if she had left his mind even for a minute.

Charity.

Gods, she was pure perfection. He could still feel the press of her soft bosom against his chest, see the milky white skin and those blazing emerald eyes.

He wondered what would have happened had he decided to kiss her. What would her lips taste like? He imagined they’d be sweet like honeysuckle or sugar.

Stephen closed his eyes as he lay back on his bed, thoughts of Charity taking over his mind. Her lips would open under his, hesitantly at first, but then she’d kiss him with fervor. She’d wrap her dainty hands around his neck and he would explore her petite form with his own hands, from the curve of her hips, up to her soft breasts.

He’d be a gentleman, of course, and only lightly let his hands explore the material of her corset, perhaps accidentally graze the soft skin.

Charity, on the other hand, would behave like no lady. He’s seen the wildness in her, and he would see it again. She’d press that deliciously seductive body against him, make him grow hard for her. She’d kiss his neck, nibble at his earlobe. He’d take it an inch further, taste the soft skin of her neck, and…

No. He was a gentleman, and no gentleman could allow his thoughts to travel in this direction. It did not matter how easy the lady made it to fantasize about her. He would not go there, especially now that he was apparently betrothed.

Stephen would never admit this to anyone, but he despised the idea of an arranged marriage. Stoic and humorless as people saw him, he was a romantic—in the privacy of his own heart, of course. He believed in love. He believed in passion and desire, not in a cold transaction. He admired his younger brother for going after his wife, and he even felt a bit jealous that Martin had been brave enough to follow his heart. However, as the firstborn, he had a duty. And his duty certainly did not include feisty redheads. He had to make a proper marriage and have an heir. Oh, how he often wished that Martin had been firstborn. Then, he would be able to enjoy that bloody kiss with Charity—or more.

Goodness, if he did not end his intrusive thoughts about her instantaneously, he would be unable to keep it together the next time he saw her. And he’d definitely see her because they moved in the same circles. If he allowed his thoughts to wander any further, his blush would reveal himself the next time he looked Charity in the eyes.

He glanced at his pocket watch. He had almost forgotten about a dinner invitation his brother had extended to him—he’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it on time.

***

The flaming red hair was the first thing he saw when he entered his brother’s estate, and his heart dropped to his stomach where a thousand butterflies exploded. It was an odd feeling, an annoying one at that—one that he disliked immensely.

All the blood drained from Charity’s face when she too saw him, making the butterflies subside and giving him the upper hand. She was shocked.

“Ah, Lady Charity.” Stephen hoped above all hope that the tremor in his voice was not audible. “I had no idea that you’d be here too.”

Charity stood, and Stephen noticed that her hands were shaking. She held one out to him, and he allowed his lips to brush over the silken skin—the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach returning with a fire of a thousand suns.

Charity looked at him with a dainty smile. She knew the touch had affected him, and he had to turn the tables to get the upper hand back.

“I must say, my lady, I believe I have something that belongs to you, something you… misplaced… at our last meeting.”

It worked. She was ghostly pale again.

***

The list. He had the list; it could not be anything else. Charity stared at him, searching her mind desperately for the right words. “You have my list.”

The words escaped her mouth without permission, and Stephen smirked before standing up and walking away. Charity sat frozen for a minute before following him outside.

He stood on the terrace, proud and proper.

“Do you have it?” Charity would not allow herself to notice how handsome he looked against the green landscape.

“Perhaps.” Stephen seemed quite proud of himself while Charity’s eyes narrowed.

“You must give it back, my lord. It’s terribly improper to keep a lady’s property.”

“Indeed…” Stephen was having far more fun than her, that much was evident. However, it was not much of a surprise. He was not the one whose life could be ruined by the list.

“Give it back… please.” She said the last word through gritted teeth. It pained her to plead, and Stephen could no doubt notice it. He removed the crumpled paper from his pocket and glanced at her.

“‘Try something that feels illegal. Find out what gentlemen really want.’ Is that what you are looking for, my lady?” He gave her a look that set her body on fire.

Charity let out a harsh sigh to cover her reaction. “Yes. And having written the list, I assure you that I am quite familiar with the contents thereof. Would you please, my lord, return it to me? Now?”

Stephen shook his head, and the piece of paper disappeared into his pocket once more.

“I would, had some fiery redhead not dared me to live a little and have more fun.”

Charity glared at him. “I did, yes. I just did not expect you to listen to a woman, of all things.”

“So…” Stephen ignored the snippy comment and looked her up and down slowly, almost leering at her body underneath the voluminous gown. “Where would the fun be in just handing it back? What’s in it for me?”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, but Charity barely heard it. She could only focus on one thing: the challenge that stood in front of her at this moment. She had to get the list back; there was no alternative.

“So, what would you have in turn for the list, my lord?”

Charity’s eyes spoke volumes, and Stephen blinked in surprise, a fact she noticed with a small smirk. She expected that he had never met a lady quite so bold. It had to be equal parts refreshing and terrifying.

“What… what do you mean?”

Charity lifted a brow knowingly and shrugged her shoulders. “Well… I was thinking I’d offer you some help.”

“Help?”

Charity nodded.

“Yes. As I’ve mentioned, you need to let loose a little, have some fun. I could assist you in crafting a list of your own—in return for mine, of course.”

The roaring thunder had rolled closer to them, but neither party noticed. They were too zeroed in on one another to notice anything else. Within seconds, rain started falling.

Stephen acted quickly, scooping Charity into his arms and sprinting to the veranda. He removed his soaked jacket once they were under a roof, making sure she wasn’t too wet either. His shirt was clinging to him. Charity could see the tight muscles on his stomach and had to clutch her dress to keep herself from reaching out to him—he was truly a magnificent being.

She was sure he was asking her something, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from his strong body. When she returned her gaze to his and asked, “hm?” she could see in his smirk that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“What are you two doing outside? Trying to catch a cold?”

Martin’s voice broke the spell between them, and Charity finally managed to tear her eyes away from Stephen.

“The horses won’t be able to travel in the downpour, even if it clears up. Charity, Emma should have a night-robe for you. You’re welcome to go and have a look.”

“I…” Charity looked from Martin to Stephen, confused. “I can’t stay the night.”

“Neither can I.” Stephen was quick to voice his objection.

“I’m sure my horses can make the trip.”

Charity glanced at Stephen. She knew, in her case, she didn’t want to stay because she might just lose all her virtue. Could he be thinking the same thing? Could he be worried of what would happen between them if they stayed under the same roof?

Surely the attraction was mutual, wasn’t it?

***

Martin looked at both of them as though they had lost all their senses.

“Are you both mad? A trip in this downpour would kill either yourselves or the horses. There’s not a chance that I’m allowing it. Charity, please do get a robe from Emma.”

Charity skulked away quietly, and Stephen smirked at this. “You must teach me your ways, brother.”

Martin looked at him, mildly confused. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

Stephen gestured to the door through which Charity had disappeared. “To handle women, I guess! That young Charity is like a wild mare when I speak to her, but she turns into a foal when you do.”

Martin laughed at this and shook his head. “Perhaps, dear brother, the first trick would be to not compare women to livestock. Let’s get you a coat.”

“I never thought you’d turn out to be wiser than me,” Stephen teased his brother, and Martin laughed.

Stephen was quiet on their way to the chamber where he’d spent the night. He could almost swear that he caught a flash of red in the room next to his.

“So, I hear you are to be married.”

Stephen sighed. “Yes, father managed to sell me off to some duke’s daughter. Apparently, I’m meeting her tomorrow. Hopefully she’s somewhat like Emma. I tell you, brother, you were lucky to catch her.”

Martin grinned at this and leaned a little closer to his brother.

“Don’t tell anyone this, but… we believe that Emma is expecting. And I know our story does not have the most conventional start, but whenever I look at her, I am immensely relieved that I am not married to Theodosia but to the love of my life.”

Stephen grimaced at this. “Oh, the advantages of being the second brother.”

“Oh, come on, Stephen!” Martin shook his head quickly. “You know that Father would love to see you marry for love. You are just far too picky. No woman has ever been good enough for Stephen Huntington.”

At this, Stephen’s thoughts immediately drifted to the redhead in the room next door. His mind was obsessed with her, and he hated the feeling of it.

“Come on,” Martin interrupted his thoughts once more. “Emma and I usually have some fortified wine by the fireplace this time of night. Both you and Charity are welcome to join us, of course.”

At this, Stephen’s heart skipped a beat. Seeing her again, sipping at fortified wine when she was within touching distance, would be a reminder that they’d be spending the night under the same roof.

Yet, he followed Martin to the sitting room wordlessly. Charity and Emma were already draped over the lounge chairs as though they were posing for a portrait. Charity’s hair was beginning to dry, and it framed her pale face perfectly.

One thing was sure: this night would be terribly long.

***

She’d be spending the night within reach of this man who had an unfathomable effect on her. Charity had to force herself to concentrate on the wine in her glass rather than Stephen. Looking at him would only serve as a reminder that they’d be under the same roof which would inevitably lead to fantasies of spending the night with him… in his arms.

She could not help but look up. Stephen was looking at her with an intense expression, and her heart jumped.

Could it be that the proper lord was sharing her improper thoughts?

Charity wondered what it would be like to be loved by him. She had been drawn to his gentle demeanor since the first time she met him. She enjoyed teasing him. She’d also felt proof of his manhood in the gentleman’s club, with his fingers clutching at her hips. She was certain he’d be an incredible kisser… and more.

No. She couldn’t think that way. She had a list that she needed to get back and complete. She couldn’t keep dreaming about the same man for more than two nights in a row, even one as attractive as Stephen Huntington. Besides, it was pointless. Did she not know that better than anyone?

When she looked up again, Stephen was staring at her intently, and blood rushed to her cheeks.

She had to admonish herself for she was not like other ladies. Dreams of husbands and children, true love, and passion were not meant for her. She knew that.

She turned her attention back to the fortified wine in her glass.

Maybe she just needed to get Stephen Huntington out of her system, but she knew it would be a terrible mistake. A man like that would not leave one’s system without a trace.