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Chapter One

It was a night like any other when the Duke of Hertfordshire’s world turned upside down.

At nine o’clock in the evening, Graham Barnet set off from his home in Mayfair to enjoy his usual residency at his gentleman’s club in the West End. The carriage ride was uneventful, if a tad foggy for midsummer. Graham watched the city streets with keen eyes as he took in his surroundings: huddled masses at the edges of London’s boulevards and alleyways, occupants of the liminal space between his home and the club.

Graham hated seeing people like this, the wretched masses of London, begging for a single coin to survive as he rode in luxury. He couldn’t resist the urge to stop and provide a pound or two to the city’s unfortunates, wishing he could do more to assist them in their hour of need.

He was in a sour mood when he arrived at the club, unable to cease the stream of never-ending thoughts of sickly people at the fringes of High Society. Indeed, he had a difficult time seeing them without picturing his mother among them; she had been in ill health as of late, and he never seemed to tire of worrying about her. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to return to the country and visit his home, preferring to stay in London, where he could carefully guard his independence.

Visiting his mother meant more questions about taking a wife, and those were not questions Graham was willing to answer.

So, he did what he had to in order to keep his mind occupied      during the Season. He went to the club and avoided every social event for which he received an invitation. At the club, the stubborn bachelors of the ton conversed and gambled, attempting to escape the inevitability of marriage to some Society girl. In the gambling hells of the West End, Graham and men like him could pretend they would forever be free to do as they pleased—free of responsibility, of family, and most of all, free of love.

By the stroke of midnight, Graham had played several hands of cards and was feeling warm and tired, with a belly full of brandy. His head spun with just a touch of intoxication, the laughter of his friends and patrons brightening his otherwise dour mood.

“Barnet, are you listening?”

At the sound of the unusually informal address—for only his closest friends dared to break convention and refer to him by his first or last name—his  eyes darted to his old friend, Jack Fairfield, sitting at the table across from him with a deck of cards. Graham nodded, though he hadn’t heard a word the man had said.

“Of course,” he said. “My apologies—I seem to be somewhat absent-minded tonight.”

“Must be something in the air,” Fairfield chuckled. “I was just discussing potentially taking a trip to the country with Everett here. Would you fancy joining us?”

“For what?”

“To hunt, of course,” Fairfield laughed. “Fox season is nearly at an end, my friend, or have you forgotten, trapped in London as you are?”

“I believe he’s merely trying to avoid his dear mother and sister,” Everett laughed. “Unless I’m mistaken, Barnet?”

Graham barked out an answering laugh, raising his hands. “Guilty as charged. Every time I leave the city, I fear my mother will soon catch me unawares with a marriage proposal from some rural lady.”

“Can you even imagine?” Everett said, looking between the two of them. “His Grace, the Duke of Hertfordshire, trapped with a little country mouse so far from London. Whatever would he do without his gambling hell and his little Mayfair estate?”

“Isn’t Hertfordshire just a day’s ride away . . . ?”

Graham cut off Fairfield with a scowl. “Come off it, the both of you,” he said. “The irony of hearing that from two second sons who can remain bachelors as long as they’d like is baffling. You know nothing of what it’s like to be the first son, with all your family’s expectations laid upon your shoulders.”

“Would taking a wife really be all that bad?” Fairfield said. “Wasn’t there someone in Hertfordshire all those years ago? I thought I remembered you talking about her when we were at Eton.”

Graham knew exactly who Fairfield was talking about, the beautiful, wild girl with whom he’d spent a summer flirting in what felt like a lifetime ago. Hertfordshire was close geographically, but far from his heart now, too painful to return to after his father’s death. He wondered if that wild girl still carried a torch for him after he’d left her behind so long ago—and never written.

“Your poor mother,” Everett teased. “To have her son be forever a bachelor and no heir to carry on the dukedom”

“I never said I would not have an heir, but if I do not, my late father’s brother will be more than willing to take on the burden of the title and the lands,” he said defensively. It was not as though he was leaving his family members in the poorhouse if he didn’t have an heir. “Besides, Mary will wed a lord and will be settled into whatever home he owns. Thus, I shall do as I please,” ” Graham muttered. “And besides—the issue isn’t marriage so much as it is my reticence to trust any young lady who courts me. Every Season it’s the same song and dance, anxious mothers sending their daughters in to try to land a duke.”

“More excuses from a man who does not even know how good he has it,” Fairfield chuckled. “Poor Graham Barnet, with every beautiful heiress seeking his fortune. Well, if you won’t join us for a hunt, then how about breakfast tomorrow? Maybe we can convince you to return to the country after all.”

Graham smiled. “Perhaps. For now, though, gentlemen, you must excuse me—my carriage is waiting.”

Graham rose and made his way down the stairs, through clouds of aromatic tobacco smoke and the drifting scent of fine liquor. His friends were still making quite the ruckus upstairs, serious betting and cards only now getting underway. Yet, Graham was tired in a manner that he hadn’t been in some time, as if the exhaustion was seeping into his very bones.

Perhaps there was, as Fairfield had suggested, something in the air.

By the time Graham finally made his way out of the club, there was no carriage to be found. While it struck him as odd, Graham never minded walking the streets at night; he was a tall and muscular man, and not even the most dangerous vagrants posed any real threat to him. So, rather than wait for      his valet, Graham chose to stroll from the West End back to his home in Mayfair.

The cool night air was crisp and chill, the fog having dispersed while he was inside the club. The moon was out now, draped in grey clouds and casting strange shadows across the streets. Graham did not baulk at the shadows. Instead, he peered into them, considering why exactly it was that he did not wish to return home. It had been far too long since he’d visited his mother and sister, and his mother had only recently written to him that his sister, Mary, was being courted by a local lord. As the man of the family, it was Graham’s solemn duty to maintain his sister’s honor by vetting any possible suitors. Yet he couldn’t seem to force himself to return, haunted by memories of his father’s death. Besides, Mary was probably still wild as she’d ever been, riding her horse across the rolling green hills.

He hoped that at least Mary loved the man courting her, as silly as all that was. Contrary to his late father’s wishes, Graham had always been somewhat of a romantic—and it was for that very reason that he refused to play the ton’s marriage games each year. A youth spent reading Lord Byron and John Keats meant Graham had an inclination toward a love match, and those were hard to come by for a duke.

The only young ladies interested in him were those interested in his money. They had no idea who he was—what he dreamed of, how he longed for someone to ravish at night and care for by day.

The moon had once again disappeared behind the wispy threads of cloud by the time Graham reached his home, a light drizzle beginning to fall on the grey streets of Mayfair. He pulled his key from his pocket as he considered his friends’ requests at the club; perhaps he should visit the country for a hunt, or at the very least agree to Everett’s invitation to breakfast. He never knew what young debutantes might be waiting for him at such breakfasts, but he thought, perhaps, it was time to start looking for someone to make a life with.

His mother would be devastated if he didn’t marry before she passed.

He had a family to take care of.

Even if he believed, deep in his heart, that unrequited love would be better than no love at all.

“Your Grace, is that you? The Duke of Hertfordshire?”

Graham turned, his fists clenched in case there was someone encroaching on his property. Yet all he found was a simple serving boy. The boy held his cap in his hands, twisting it in anxious knots. “I am he,” Graham murmured with a frown. “Who wants to know?”

The boy gulped, unable to meet Graham’s gaze. “My name is Arthur Miller, Your Grace,” he said, his northern brogue strong. “I work for your mother, Her Grace,  the Dowager Duchess of Hertfordshire.”

“I don’t recognize you.”

“I was just recently hired on,” the boy said, then gestured over his shoulder at two      horses      with a simple carriage hitched behind them     . “Spent the whole night      on the road, Your Grace.”

Graham’s heart dropped into his gut; he had feared the news would come for months, but he still wasn’t ready for it. Certain he was about to hear of his dear mother’s death, he steadied himself against the railings by the steps to his home.

“And what is this regarding?” Graham asked.

“There’s . . . there’s been a terrible accident, Your Grace,  the boy murmured.

“My mother?”

“No,” the boy gulped. “Your sister, Lady Mary. She’s . . . she’s dead.”

Mary?

Dead?

Graham tried to stop his knees from buckling, but it was no use; he was forced to brace himself against the stairs as dark spots flitted across his vision. The boy reached forward to grasp his elbow, but Graham waved him away to stand once again at his full height.

“How?” Graham asked, his voice a whisper. “She was so young.”

“She was out riding with Lord Bragg and Lady Sedgwick, and she fell from her horse,” the servant said. “There was nothing to be done. When they got her back to the house, she was already gone from a blow to the head.”

Graham closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself—but images of Mary instantly flooded his mind, drowning him in painful memories. She had been so youthful, so vibrant the last time he’d seen her six months ago at Christmas. With her chestnut curls and good nature, he’d been certain she would make a splash on this Season’s marriage market.

And now she was gone. Gone, just like his late father.

His mother must be devastated, now that it was only the two of them left.

“Ready the horses,” Graham said. “We ride tonight.”

“Where to?” the boy asked. “It’s past midnight.”

“They can rest when we return home,” Graham murmured. “We’re going back to Hertfordshire.”

Chapter Two

Lady Bridget Sedgwick woke with a scream.

Her heart raced as she scrambled in the bedsheets, clutching her white lace nightgown around her and staring out at the pouring rain on the moors. Lightning flashed, and Bridget was certain she saw the specter of her dead friend, riding her horse over the hills.

She didn’t know what to do—not since Mary had died.

Ever since that fateful afternoon in the hills of Hertfordshire, Bridget had been plagued by nightmares. Three horrible days had passed in the aftermath, news quickly spreading around the town of Hertford and the surrounding manor houses that Mary was dead. Bridget had been at the center of speculation over the manner of her death and was subjected to endless inquiries about how exactly an experienced horsewoman like Mary had come to take such a fatal fall.

It was a freak accident, Bridget told them. Tragic and horrible. Mary was gone too soon, her best friend in all the world, dead in an instant.

The door creaked open and Bridget’s maid, Tilda, stepped into the room with wide eyes. She was carrying a cup of tea , her grey hair pulled into a bun on top of her head, and she surveyed Bridget with a certain level of shock.

Bridget blushed as she realized how disheveled she was, her hair in dark tangles all over her head, her green eyes ringed red with tears. Even her nightgown was askew, hanging from one shoulder as she tried to right herself and the sheets.

“Lady Bridget,” Tilda murmured. “You were screaming—whatever is the matter?”

“It’s nothing, Tilda,” Bridget sighed, her chin still trembling from the sobs that had wracked her nightmares. “Just another nightmare.”

“About Lady Mary?”

Bridget nodded, and Tilda eyed her with sympathy as she took a few steps closer. “I brought you some chamomile tea,” Tilda said. “And I can get the laudanum if you need it to sleep.”

Bridget shook her head. She’d spent every night since her friend’s death drunk on the dream-like draught, lost in a medically-induced stupor     . “No, thank you,” Bridget said. “It’s time to face all this—I can’t keep throwing myself into dreams when my dreams are almost as bad as reality.”

“Poor thing,” Tilda cooed. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you will feel better one day. With time, the pain will fade.”

Bridget tried not to begin crying again, swiping at her eyes with a crooked finger. “What if I don’t want it to?”

Tilda didn’t have time to respond; the door opened once again, and Bridget’s mother, Sarah, appeared at the threshold. Lady Sarah Sedgwick was a tall, imperious woman with the same dark hair and green eyes as Bridget, though a certain gauntness shaded her face. She didn’t appear to have slept much either, her fingers preemptively gripped around a bottle of laudanum.

“I’ll care for her from here, Tilda,” Sarah muttered, glancing at Bridget.

“My lady,” Tilda said, tilting her head and hurrying out of the room, the door thudding shut behind her as she left them alone. Sarah took the maid’s place quickly, smoothing out her dressing gown as she sat.

“What is this I hear about not wanting to feel better?” Sarah asked, tucking a strand of hair back behind Bridget’s ear.

Bridget took a shuddering breath, her brow furrowing. “It’s just that I don’t want to forget about her,” she said. “Mary was my dearest friend, and she’s gone. If I forget about her, then who will remember?”

“It isn’t your duty to hold vigil for Mary,” Sarah said. She rested her hand over her daughter’s, her fingers curling in a comforting show of solidarity. “What Mary would want is for you to live on and to love, my darling. She would be devastated to watch you grieve forever.”

“But it’s only been a few days.”

“And every day you spend weeping for her is a day you’ll miss out on the joy in life, which Mary would have wanted you to experience,” Sarah said. “Grieve now, and after the funeral tomorrow, think about the good in your life—all that’s yet to come.”

“Like what?”

“Love and marriage, of course,” Sarah said. “Children, a family. You’re so young, Bridget. At nineteen, you should be looking forward to the life ahead of you, not behind at the friends you’ve lost along the way.”

“It feels so senseless,” Bridget said. “Mary had a life ahead of her too.”

“I know, dear girl,” Sarah said. “Now, do you think you can sleep, or . . . ?”

Bridget shook her head, knowing that if she went without the draught she would be in for another sleepless night. “No,” she said. “I think I would like it—if only for this one night.”

“All right,” Sarah said, then handed her the little bottle. “You have tea?”

“Yes, Tilda brought me some.”

Bridget reached toward her bedside table for the glass, and Sarah handed her the vial. Bridget braced herself for the bitterness as she took a swig of it, then quickly washed it down with the tea, which did nothing to dilute the horrid flavor of the laudanum.

“I’ll have Tilda set out your mourning clothes tomorrow,” Sarah said. “You can expect us to be some of the chief mourners there, as Mary’s mother is still in ill health. Although . . .”

She paused, her voice lingering on the precipice of something she seemed certain would upset her daughter.

“What?” Bridget asked. The laudanum was already clouding her senses, a dreamy haze settling over her. “What aren’t you telling me, Mother?”

“Well, I thought you would want to know,” Sarah continued. “The duke has returned to Hertfordshire for his sister’s funeral.”

Silence hung between them. Sarah well knew that Bridget had once harbored a deep, childish love for the young Lord Graham Barnet. When he’d left, she’d wept for days, requiring laudanum to sleep then, too.

“And why should I want to know about the duke?” Bridget asked, stiffening.

“You don’t have to pretend he didn’t break your heart, darling,” Sarah said. “I know you’re older now, but some heartbreaks never quite heal.”

“My best friend is dead,” Bridget murmured. “That’s all the heartbreak I have capacity for at present.”

And with that, Sarah left Bridget alone in the room.

Bridget lay on her side to stare back out of the picture window, watching as rain streamed down the glass panes. The laudanum came over her like a shroud, fogging her mind as she pictured Mary riding like a lightning strike over the hills on her white mare.

Laudanum could numb the pain, yes . . . but it could also bring back horribly painful memories and make them real.

As soon as she drifted off to sleep, Bridget flashed back to the moment when Graham Barnet—for that was how she’d always thought of the Duke of Hertfordshire—had left Hertfordshire six years ago. His father had just passed, and Bridget had been a mere sixteen      years old, but with the dazed eyes of a lovestruck girl, she had idolized the strapping young lord. She could picture him climbing into his carriage, sweeping back his dark-blond hair and staring at her with dark eyes. She’d thought he’d felt something for her, too—but it had all been a dream. Bridget had realized that when he’d embraced her and bid her the same fond farewell as Mary, just as if she was his sister too.

Since then, she’d thought of him often, though they had never spoken. Even at Christmas he’d avoided her, staying on his family’s property and returning to London with haste. When she’d written to him, he hadn’t responded.

Loving Graham Barnet was painful indeed, especially when her lineage was not such that she could hope to marry a duke.

But it wasn’t as painful as the loss of his sister.

Bridget dissolved into tears once again as the rain poured down the windows, holding herself in a cloud of laudanum. She clutched at her own shoulders, wondering if she should call for Tilda or if her mother would allow her maid to sleep in her room, though she was no longer a child.

Then a voice whispered to her through the darkness, the voice of a man she hadn’t seen or heard from in half a decade.

“It will be all right.”

Bridget knew Graham wasn’t truly there—that it was all a dream, a result of the laudanum clouding her mind. But she let the comfort of his imagined presence lull her to sleep regardless, wishing he would join her in bed.

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Prologue

A thrilling chase brought excitement to the otherwise quiet meadow as the young gentleman maneuvered through the rolling hills and valleys in pursuit of his siren before anyone noticed either of them had vanished. Her eager giggles carried across the wind, tempting him even further.

Summer had truly arrived in Kent, bringing its usual sticky heat, accompanied by the wind’s warm caress. Night had fallen, and one could hear the constant buzzing and whirring of crickets hidden in the long grass, as well as the melodic soughing of the wind in the trees surrounding the property. It was a typical summer night: long, humid, and lazy despite the usual flurry of balls and gatherings.

However, it was late enough for most of the ton to be tucked away in their beds, reminiscing over the night’s affairs or plotting, and strategizing arrangements. The Season was never short on scheming and hidden agendas. Surely, some mischief was planned for the nearing end of the critical marriage market?

The hustle and bustle of the Season were virtually non-existent to Henry Gray, as if he was able to shove it aside and forget about the whole event. Truthfully, he had done his part to entertain those who had sought him out by participating in the occasional dance to keep his family happy, and with just enough luck on his side to be able to slip away when he tired of it.

This night, Henry found himself arm in arm with a pretty girl from the village, her lack of status guaranteed to keep him out of trouble. All the same, she had a body designed to keep his attention and stir the insatiable longings within him. She was a few years his senior, and something about that intrigued him, spurring his desires.

Nestled beneath an old tree that offered them suitable coverage, the woman was pressed against the bark, while Henry explored her body with his hands, his lips on hers, desperately seeking satisfaction. The sensation of her soft skin against his was tantalizing, as was the scandalous nature of it all.

But Henry would face no consequences for giving in to his desires because he had done so many times before. He allowed himself the entertainment as long as he was wise in his choice of woman. They meant nothing to him other than a thrilling connection for the evening. He’d be satisfied enough at the end to consider it worthwhile, and she’d leave satisfied.

The woman pulled Henry impossibly close to her, devouring his lips as if she would never get the chance again. In likelihood, she would probably be proven correct. Even so, he ran his fingers through her dark hair and reveled in the short-lived passion that would soon ebb away until she ceased to seem special, and be like any other woman. He could only imagine how much of her lip pomade would be smeared on his mouth by then.

Henry broke away from the kiss to press his lips against the skin of her neck. The woman keened, throwing her head back against the rough bark, not caring what it was doing to her hair.

“Oh, my lord! Please…” she cried.

Not needing to hear her words, Henry’s hands were already on her hips, squeezing the soft flesh of her curves. While her plumpness appeared to be suitable for fondling at first, Henry was disappointed by what he discovered. She lacked the forgiving nature of a fuller frame, and the rigidity of her body put him off. Where he had hoped for lusciousness, he found only sharp edges.

Henry was more than aware of her yearning from how sloppily she was kissing him, yet something within him had hoped her age would spell greater experience and finesse. While his interest began to dwindle, he knew he could keep it short and walk away with his mission accomplished for them both. He had gone so far, he might as well finish what he had started.

The woman clutched her dress and slid it up her thighs, allowing his hands to replace her own. They landed on her stocking tops. She leaned into the tree, a wanton grin on her painted lips, anticipating Henry’s intention to give her exactly what she desired.

He severed the link between his senses and his compulsions, allowing the latter to take control. Tightening his grip on the woman’s body, he grew impatient for his release—for an excuse to bid her farewell and return home.

But his senses rose to the surface the moment the wind carried a faint, yet familiar scent to his nostrils. He pulled back from the woman and inhaled deeply. He could practically feel the warmth and hear the crackling of fire despite the distance.

Then, the woman’s eyes widened before Henry could even get the question out. The skirt of her dress fell once again, and her finger pointed over his shoulder, her brows pinched in concern.

“I see smoke!”

Without wasting a second, Henry turned around to see for himself. Soon enough, he too noticed the dark, billowing column of smoke rising in the distance. A connection began forming in his mind, cloaking him in panic.

Henry’s eyes blown open in fear, and he faced the woman again. “It’s coming from my brother-in-law’s estate!”

Helen, his only sister, and her husband, the heir to the Earl of Ingleby,  their young daughter Agnes, as well as Henry and Helen’s parents, were all in bed at the house. Fear of what might happen to them if the building caught fire galvanized him. He jumped up, fumbling with trembling fingers to fasten his clothes. I have to get there!

The woman swallowed hard and went to speak, but Henry was already running across the meadow. She picked up her skirts and hurried after him, clearly just as anxious to see the outcome. Kicking off her shoes, she snatched them up and pushed on.

Henry was no longer bothered by the sticky summer humidity, and paid no attention to the long grass that nabbed at his feet, attempting to pull him down. Rather, he was only aware of the sheer terror swimming within his belly. The sickening worry only fueled his running.

He had almost forgotten the woman was behind him until they both reached the stone driveway of his brother-in-law’s estate. It was then when Henry truly saw the devastation with his own eyes—something he would never forget.

The pair was startled by what they saw before them. Henry’s legs felt like they were filled with lead, and the furor within him was impeding his ability to act quickly.

While flames ate at the inside of the house, darker, more saturated smoke rolled out of the windows and curled above the roof. Even from a distance, the fire was scorching.

Henry’s ears rang and he lost all sense, almost as if he had fainted. Despite this, he stood there dumbfounded, a terrible ache spreading throughout his limbs. He had never imagined anything more cruel than that moment.

A rampant static filled his senses until, at last, the woman’s voice broke through his trance. “My lord!”

Henry blinked hard and found her standing directly in front of him, clutching her dress in preparation to run once more. Finally, he appeared to snap out of it.

“I will hurry back to the village and fetch help!” she cried, her face frantic.

That was the moment everything clicked inside Henry’s mind. In contrast to his previous inaction, raw energy suddenly ripped through his body, urging him to move. He looked at her for a brief second, his face expressing the heavy burden of what he needed to do.

“Go!” Henry shouted, watching as she ran off before he turned and raced into the house.

His family was in there. He couldn’t just wait and hope that by some incredible stroke of luck, they’d find their way out.

The intense heat of the fire licked Henry’s face as he kicked open the front doors. He paused long enough to notice that most of the first floor had already been consumed, with the exception of the nearest stairwell. Despite the fire’s rapid advance, it remained unharmed.

He was able to block the majority of the smoke and barely see the ground beneath him by raising his arm to cover his eyes. Henry ascended the stairs and breathed through his sleeve, not wanting to risk inhaling too much smoke before freeing even one person.

Everything moved past him in a blurred haze, yet he did his best to navigate the house through the heavy smoke and blinding flames.

“Agnes!” Henry yelled until his voice went hoarse. He kept an eye on the raging flames on the far side of the hall, which were already blocking some of the doors, and hurried to the nearest one.

“Mother, Father!”

Henry heard muffled responses from some of the rooms, but the raging fire and its rolling smoke disoriented him. He banged on a door and heard nothing, so he pushed on to the next one.

With some of the rooms already blocked by the flames, Henry knew he couldn’t reach them all. He could only grab the nearest family members and hope the others found their way out.

His distress was louder than any other thought, but his unwavering determination led him to the next door. He recognized it right away and shoved his shoulder as hard as he could against it. The wood splintered and cracked until it separated from the frame.

Henry held his breath and ran inside the dark room, to find his dear niece splayed across her bed, unmoving.

“Agnes!” he screamed, running to her and placing a finger against her neck. The fickle, gentle beat of her pulse pounded against his skin.

She was alive.

Henry slipped his arms under the small girl and felt the delicate weight of her in his grasp. Her innocent, seemingly lifeless form shocked his entire system into fleeing the room and hurrying back down the stairs.

The smoke pinched at Henry’s eyes and tried to seep into his lungs, but he wouldn’t let it stop him. He couldn’t let his niece die in such a horrific way, and he would be damned if he gave up.

Henry heaved in a big breath of fresh air the moment he made it back outside, and his legs nearly collapsed from under him. A raging cough rattled through his chest, accompanied by a faint yet persistent ringing in his ears. Even so, he hurried across the driveway until he reached the lawn, where he found the footmen frantically watching as the house burned.

He gently placed Agnes’ unconscious body onto the grass and glanced between the footmen, eyes bewildered and wild with fear. He was already standing and backing towards the house when he barked at the men, “Help her… dear God, help my niece!”

The footmen nodded frantically and crowded around the girl to tend to her. A flash of relief trickled into Henry’s heart at the vague cough that sprouted from Agnes’ chest. She was alive and free from the burning house. Surely, she would be all right. But it was far from over.

Before reason convinced him not to enter, Henry flung himself back inside the hellish scene. One half of the house was almost entirely engulfed in flame, with more threatening smog filling it by the second.

The fire roared, leaving ruin in its wake, not caring about who or what it claimed. It smashed out windows, burned the old wood frames, and destroyed each valued treasure inside. The fumes were likely so strong that, by now, everyone in Kent was aware of the fire. Henry hoped that the additional help would be sufficient.

His lungs began to ache as he navigated the newly sprouted fires and made his way back upstairs. His eyes burned like the rest of the place, but he wouldn’t give up.

A haunting creak from the collapsing structure made Henry’s heart clench, and he knew the end was nearing. He was horribly aware of the few minutes he had left to save whoever else he could before the whole house fell in on itself and was completely consumed.

Panicked screams and blood-curdling wails echoed off the walls and crashed against his skull. He had no idea where they were, but he needed to find them. Henry ran down the burning hall, despite the small flames lapping at his feet.

***

More smoke rolled out of the estate to form a toxic cloud above the charred building. The thick plumes hung heavily in the air and served as a signal of the devastation it caused, unrelenting while the fire raged on.

Several figures emerged from the murky doorway, reuniting with clean, breathable air. A butler carried a small-framed maid out of the burning house and continued on until they arrived at the others who were waiting on the lawn. More house staff emerged, leaning on one another as they fled to safety, coughing and collapsing on the cool, refreshing grass.

The relieved individuals cried for one another and offered what comfort they could while they tried to regain their composure. Tears stained their faces, and smoke tainted their lungs. Yet, they were glad to be alive.

Henry stumbled across the threshold with a maid’s arm around his shoulders, while she covered her eyes. They both choked on the sudden influx of clean air. The maid couldn’t contain herself, whimpering and crying out for her fellow staff.

He gently helped her to the ground while the others saw to her, and did his best to catch his breath. The dense smoke weighed on his lungs like stones. His entire body ached for rest and to be outside, where it was safe and less contaminated.

Upon glancing around at the few survivors, Henry noticed a group of villagers who had come to help. While their intentions were good, he knew they had arrived too late. None of them would be willing to enter the house, not after so much was already ravaged by the fire and in danger of collapse.

But Henry wasn’t like them.

With a groan of resistance from his body, he faced the ravenous fire and began to return to the house. His skin felt half-charred from the flames that reached for him and sweat slicked his forehead. Every cell in his body urged him to stop—to give in and admit defeat.

Yet he chose to ignore the warning, and continued forward.

Suddenly, a hand fell on his shoulder, and he bristled at the sudden contact. He glanced behind to see one of the footmen staring back at him, face long and desolate. The man’s dark eyes seared into him and said everything Henry needed to know. It simultaneously relieved him and made him want to scream.

“Don’t, sir. It is gone. You have done enough.”

Panic blew Henry’s glassy eyes wide open, and he gripped the footman’s arms. “Tell me, is anyone else alive inside?!”

Henry watched the dejected man for a split second longer, until a very loud and sudden commotion tore his eyes away.

The house folded into itself and came crashing down in a blazing heap. Sparks and ash shot into the sky, and the rest of the structure was completely engulfed in flame.

The remaining members of his family had been trapped in there, and now there truly was no hope left for them. They were gone, and Henry could do nothing about it.

The world seemed to stop then, as he collapsed to his knees, all the while screaming in agony for all that was lost. His throat was scratched raw, and tears rolled down his cheeks. Nothing else mattered at that moment.

Henry was beaten down to submission, but the life-shattering fire continued to smolder throughout the dark hours of the night and into the next day.

Chapter One

The usually quiet, comfortable house nestling on a quaint street in Hertfordshire was disturbed by a flurry of commotion. A red-haired woman paced around the drawing room, hand pressed against her forehead in obvious annoyance.

Florence, normally good-natured, couldn’t grasp the beginnings of what would surely become a long-winded argument with her father. He sat in his usual chair, brandy in hand, stroking his mustache thoughtfully.

“Florence, dear, it would be wise for you to heed my advice.”

Florence threw a skeptical look in her father’s direction and halted her relentless pacing. Her brows came together, pinched tightly with an accusatory air.

“Advice? I’m sure you meant demands, Father!”

Lord Murray sighed and looked at his daughter, hoping to keep the conversation from devolving into a full-fledged row. Florence was prickly and hot-headed when the subject was broached, so the chances seemed slim.

“You are getting older with each passing Season, Florence. With you soon reaching six-and-twenty, your chances of finding a suitable husband on your own are practically abysmal,” her father declared.

Florence turned to face the window overlooking their small garden, anger bubbling up inside her. She had always despised the way a woman’s worth was measured by her age along with the dowry that accompanied her into marriage. She deemed the notion barbaric.

“Up until this moment, I have given you space to choose your husband, and look how far that has gotten you.”

“I won’t let you speak for me, Father! I would rather be thirty and unmarried than forced into a partnership with someone you consider suitable,” she retorted, recognizing the frustration that often pooled within her belly whenever her father aired his thoughts on her marital status.

“You will marry a man of my choosing, even if you despise me. Do you not trust me with your best interests?” Lord Murray questioned, exercised by the thought of her remaining unwed and under his care for years to come.

Florence shook her head and tried to keep her anger from building any higher. It was not her intention to entrap her father in a heated argument, but the resistance within her was formidable. She couldn’t take the thought of marrying a man she had no interest in, and certainly not one chosen merely to further her father’s interests.

“I will not do it. You cannot force me.”

Lord Murray slammed his fist down against his armrest, no longer willing to entertain her defiance. “My word is final!”

“As a father and a lord, do you have no honor?” she demanded, forcing her eyes back to him, even if it pained her. She hated how politics often came between them, since it seemed they were from two completely different worlds at times.

Her father’s face filled with color at such an allegation, and his voice hardened. “Honor? It is most honorable for a father to choose the right man to care for his daughter, to ensure she is given the highest station possible. It is you, dear, who disrespects my judgment!”

The door to the drawing-room creaked open slowly, and the butler poked his head inside, looking sheepish. He hesitated before saying, “My lord, I—”

“Not now!” both Florence and the Lord snapped at once. The cowed butler apologized swiftly and backed out of the room. The door clicked shut once more and sealed their bickering away from the rest of the house.

Florence adjusted her dress and tucked away a stray piece of red hair that had come loose from her braid. Her eyes fell on her father once more. The brief interruption had not quenched the frustration within her.

“How can you see honor in luring a man into marrying me under false pretenses?”

Lord Murray bit down on the words waiting on his tongue, and each feature of his face showed his confusion. He placed the glass of brandy on a nearby table and stood from his chair, albeit slowly. “What are you talking about, Florence?”

Pain flashed across her face then, and she folded her arms over her chest. She couldn’t believe his ignorance, especially not toward something that caused her so much grief—a piece of their family history he was more than aware of.

“You know exactly what I mean!” Florence returned, her eyes sharper than before.

The topic was another sensitive one for her, as the blight in her family tree had existed for many generations before her. Surely, she was destined to share the same fate, and prove to be a disappointment to her future husband? Florence didn’t want to risk that humiliation, especially not with a man of her father’s choosing.

Lord Murray eyed his daughter before waving her off. He went and stood in front of the window next to her. His arms went behind his back neatly.

“That’s no matter, dear. Besides, you are too old to expect a better match. The selection pool is much smaller than it once was, and your choices are limited.”

Florence shook her head, not willing to believe it was her only choice. There had to be more to life than that. “It can’t be!”

“Yet, it most certainly can. Make yourself as blind as you wish to the matter, but there is no changing reality.”

“Then I shall never marry!” She blurted, caught on the current of her resentment of the topic of discussion, and for her father’s stubbornness. Fear and apprehension coursed through her at the mere thought of such a sham of a marriage, tainted by lies before it even began. Even if she cared naught for the supposed man, Florence didn’t want to subject him to her inabilities.

Her father’s gaze was piercing as he took in Florence’s abrupt words. Evidently, his daughter had strayed further than he thought. Truthfully, she had never meant to admit such a thing had ever crossed her mind; she had her father under the impression that she had been searching for a husband all along, yet none had suited her taste.

“And what do you plan to do when I am no longer alive to provide for you? Surely, you aren’t cut out for the life of a spinster!”

Florence guarded herself against her father’s judgment, and she pushed forward, unwilling to relent. “I will find a much more fulfilling life as something other than a wife. It may not be what you or society want of me, but I will make my own way!”

Lord Murray pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing a harsh breath. He focused hard on finding his arguments, while Florence tried her best to anticipate each one and counter it. He waved a hand, seemingly bewildered.

“What is the point of your fine education if you won’t become a proper lady and find a good match?”

Florence found herself with nothing left to say. Her father had, indeed, bested her in that regard. She silently stewed over the question, guilt rising inside her chest.

“The tutors and lessons were not cheap, Florence. It was yet another generous thing I provided for you—which you plan to waste, and remain ungrateful for!” Lord Murray barked at her. Florence bristled.

“I never asked to be educated into a woman meant to be auctioned off to the highest bidder! I didn’t ask to be the second-born daughter in our family, destined for failure. Yet you force me into remembering that each time I look at the face of any man you’d choose for me!”

“That’s enough!” her father yelled. His face suffused with red, and his neck seemed to swell and press against the tight confines of his cravat. His sharp tone shook Florence as he added, “I have already agreed to your union with Lord Blymouth on your behalf!”

Florence suddenly became very aware of the trembling in her body, and of how deafening the silence was. It was as though an icy hand had gripped her neck and sent a chill down her spine. It was as if the room vibrated ever so slightly, just enough for her to know something wasn’t right.

She stared at her father in disbelief, distraught at the thought he had agreed to such a life-altering decision without her consent, without ever stopping to consider her feelings. It can never be! 

Florence seized what was left of her dignity and composed herself at last. She pressed her lips in a flat line and spoke in a terse, level tone.

“There will be no wedding.”

Despite her father’s look of utter shock, she padded across the polished floor and left the room, not daring to look behind her even once.

***

Darkness surrounded the house and brought along its eerie silence. On one hand, it worked in Florence’s favor, but on the other, while the nighttime concealed her—ensuring Lord Murray was none the wiser as he slept soundly in his room—any unwarranted noise could change that at any second.

Florence opened her large, leather valise and scurried around her chambers, gathering all the clothing and belongings she could take with her. She folded everything as neatly as possible and tucked it inside before securing the valise.

She worked hastily by candlelight, reminded of what she was doing each time she noticed the moonlight splaying across the chamber floor. Nervous butterflies fluttered inside her belly, but Florence pushed them down. She couldn’t hesitate any longer, not while her future rested in her father’s palm.

A quill scratched softly against paper while she wrote, and she had to force herself not to weep with each word she penned. While the anger was still very much alive inside her, sadness accompanied it, and the combination only made her more upset.

Once Florence had said everything she needed to and the ink was dry, she folded the paper in half and placed it on her dresser, where her father would surely find it. She pulled one of the drawers open and retrieved a letter with directions hidden inside. Tucking it in her reticule, she pulled the drawstrings closed with a deep breath.

Something in Florence didn’t want to leave her father, not when she knew he would be left alone without any of his girls left to keep him company. She certainly didn’t want to leave him after their explosive argument, but the subject matter was exactly what gave her cause to flee. She couldn’t marry someone against her will, not while she was still able to change the trajectory of her life—to do what she pleased.

If Florence wanted to find true happiness and fulfillment, she knew she needed to take a leap of faith. Like a precipice before her, an unknown future beckoned. Now all she had to do was jump.

The moment Florence decided to go once and for all, she slipped a cloak over her shoulders and raised the hood to conceal her identity. She stepped into her shoes and reached for her valise. Taking one last look at her chamber, she silently said goodbye to the familiar space.

She opened the door, crept into the hall, and closed it behind her as slowly and quietly as she could.  She stood still, holding her breath for a few moments. Hearing no noise, she set off silently through the house.

Florence used her determination to remain in control of her fate as a driving force to propel her forward. Oftentimes, she wondered if she was making a mistake and should turn around. She paused when she came to an old painting of her mother and father, the swarm of nervous butterflies once more raising their clamor in her belly.

Upon gazing into the face of the woman she had lost so long ago, Florence couldn’t ignore the guilt that trickled into her heart. She wondered what her mother would think of her running away from the seemingly inevitable marriage.

But her father’s pronouncement rang in her ears, drowning out her doubt. It is merely sentiment for him trying to prevent me from leaving, she told herself.

As though a fire had been set beneath her feet, Florence hurried through the house, doing her best to remain undetected. She watched for any servants who might be awake and crept around corners as stealthily but quickly as she could. When she paused in the downstairs hallway and didn’t hear a single stir inside the home, she made her way to the front door and glided out; closing it behind her with only a whisper.

It was not the first time she had tempted fate by sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night. When her father pushed her to her wits’ end, she would frequently sneak out for several hours before returning to her bed before morning. But this night was different for she didn’t plan on coming back.

Her heart raced while she crossed the driveway and found herself on the street. She kept her head down, only looking up to make sure of where she was going. Florence didn’t want a soul to know what she was up to, or to report her whereabouts to her father.

The streets of Hertford town were desolate during the late hours of the night, with only a cool breeze walking alongside her. Florence pulled her cloak closer for comfort and reminded herself that she would be just fine. It was unheard of for a lady such as herself to travel alone, especially so late at night. It was a risk, but a risk worth taking if she wanted to discover the life waiting for her.

Florence walked, silently encouraging herself. The scandal had her nerves jangling like piano wires; she had never imagined herself in such a position.

When Florence reached the late coach waiting outside the inn, she was questioned by the driver, who gave her a sideways glance. Fortunately, he had no idea who she or her father were. To entice him, she handed him the necessary coins and watched as his chilly demeanor shifted to a warmer one.

Still, he pressed. “Are you certain, miss? It is rather late for traveling. Could be dangerous where you’re headed.”

Florence added another coin to the small pile in his palm and nodded firmly. “I am. I hope this will convince you.”

The driver glanced between her and the compensation, and sighed. He finally motioned for her to climb in.

The moment Florence was in the coach, her heart raced a mile a minute. She felt both terrified and excited for what lay ahead. She made herself comfortable for the ride and looked out of the window once they started to move.

A contented smile carved its way on her lips while holding the written directions tightly in her gloved hand. She had made it this far without a hitch, and she recognized the small success as a good sign for what was to come.

Florence was beginning a new chapter of her life, and it was all of her choosing.

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Prologue

Rome, 1807

The late-afternoon Roman sun strikes fiercely through the glass skylight in the ceiling of Maestro Montegno’s sculpture studio. Three beautiful girls, two brunettes, one blonde, stand poised beneath it on a small dais, clad in flowing drapery in the classical style. They are real-life statues, life-size, silent, unmoving.

Louisa struggles to maintain the pose the maestro insists upon for the preliminary sketches of his next masterpiece in marble—The Three Graces. Unlike Olympia and Rosa next to her, Louisa is not a professional model—she’s Il Maestro’s student. She volunteered for the job because she wants to know what it’s like to be a model. She’s very dedicated to her studies and wants to know everything about the process of making a sculpture.

“Maestro, a break, please. My throat is turning to dust!” Olympia moans.

“Isn’t that what you’re paid for?” snaps Il Maestro irritably. “Look,” he says, gesturing at Louisa.  “Louisa stays in pose, and she’s not even a model. And she’s not even Italian! Are you going to let the English miss beat you? Italian girls, pah!” he grumbles.

The Italian girls laugh. “She’s used to the bad air of London,” Maestro,” Rosa says, nudging Louisa playfully.

“I’m afraid I need to break too, Maestro, before I collapse,” Louisa says in perfect Italian, her voice shaking.

“All right, rest, then,” Il Maestro grunts. Three girls drop their poses, and all three sit down on the edge of the dais.

Just then, the door to the studio is kicked open, and a handsome, well-built man barges in, carrying two bags. Grinning at the maestro, he strides to the table and unpacks the bags, tossing bread, cheeses, and grapes, onto the table, then produces three flasks of wine. Louisa admires his physique from afar with a sculptor’s eye. An Apollo for sure.  

“Valentino, you’ve been gone so long, I thought you had left me,” jokes Il Maestro as the two men embrace.

“Sorry, but the markets are packed,” says Valentino.

He glances across at the women, his deep-brown eyes skimming their bodies coldly before turning back to Il Maestro.

The sculptor regards Valentino with glowing eyes and then claps his hands.

“All right, girls, we’re done for today,” he announces. “You can go. Not you, Louisa. You eat and rest. I’ll need you later, to help me with these drawings. You two can leave. But be back here first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, Maestro,” chorus the Italian girls.

“Thank you, Maestro,” Louisa mutters, deciding she hates modeling. Oh, to be wielding her chisel on some block of marble!

Olympia and Rosa quickly dress. They embrace Louisa, kissing her soundly on both cheeks, muttering, “Ciao, amiga,” before flying from the studio.

Neither man glances at Louisa as she leaves the room, noiseless on bare feet. They are in love and only have eyes for each other.

In her cot, she imagines Mama and Papa’s faces if they knew what sort of an education their daughter is receiving in Italy. Will they come to Rome to see The Three Graces when it’s finished? Will they recognize their little Louisa in her drapery as one of the models? What will the ton say? She giggles softly, turns on her side, and slips into the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Chapter One

London, 1810

Louisa Hamilton took firm hold of the red cord and pulled. She watched the rapt faces in the crowd as the fabric covering fell away, revealing the imposing figure of Atlas beneath. Carved with her own hands from the finest Italian Carrara marble, the looming statue stood complete with the world balancing on his muscular shoulders. Applause, calls of congratulations, and gasps of awe ran through the audience.

“Magnificent my dear, simply magnificent!” her client, the Duke of Ventnor, called up to her, clapping and smiling, his grinning wife at his side. Louisa saw her parents standing nearby, applauding and beaming with pride. “Well done, darling,” her mother mouthed to her. Louisa smiled her thanks for their everlasting support.

“Oh, it’s so . . . imposing!” someone exclaimed.

“Bravo!” cried others in unison.

“Simply stunning!” called someone at the back of the crowd.

Louisa breathed deeply, satisfied she had scored her biggest artistic triumph yet among the Ton. Her heart sang as she realized she had finally achieved her long-held dream; the years of study and grind had brought her here, to the pinnacle of her popularity—as the British Isles’ only successful female sculptor.

How long that will last, I do not know, for the Ton is terribly fickle and easily distracted.

Since her return from Italy almost two years ago, she had often doubted herself. In those early months, she’d wearied of fending off criticism from the old dowagers, who deemed her chosen career unsuitable for one of her sex and unmarried state.

She’d chosen to ignore the critics, instead devoting all her energies to her work. Several months later, an exhibition of her sculptures at a private gallery had changed everything, drawing even the Prince Regent’s admiration. Suddenly, she’d become the hottest artistic property in London, woman or not. Everybody who was anybody wanted one of her sculptures for their homes or estates—to impress their peers.

Flooded by demand for commissions, Louisa learned fast to select her clients carefully and to exceed their expectations. The project had to have artistic appeal—and the client must be able to afford her high rates. Nevertheless, today, surveying her admirers, Louisa still felt a sense of astonishment at how easily the haute monde had accepted her. She didn’t know if it was because she was one of their own—the only daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Brandon—or in spite of it, considering how her very existence as a female sculptor challenged all of Society’s expectations of women. She wanted to believe it was simply because of her skills. Whatever the reason, she knew she had achieved her long-held dream of success.

If only they knew the hours of hard labor, sleepless nights, tears, perspiration, and passion that went into creating my Atlas—that goes into creating all my works.

Her serene smile faded a little as she realized with weary certainty that she would likely spend the rest of the party fending off requests for sculpting commissions. And she was right, for as soon as she stepped down from the dais, accepting a glass of champagne from the bluff Duke of Ventnor himself, she was swept up by her admirers. They peppered her with more congratulations, questions . . . and demands to reproduce some relative’s likeness in stone.

But those last were to be disappointed. “I’m afraid I shall be taking a little sabbatical,” she explained repeatedly to them. “I shan’t be taking on any new commissions for at least a year.” Their faces fell; some pleaded with her to change her mind. “I’m tired, and I wish to work on a project of my own,” she added. More than that, she refused to say.

Over the heads of the throng, she spied her friend Lady Fenella Ball approaching, with her elderly mother in tow. Fenella, determinedly elbowing a path toward Louisa, waved at her, grinning. Fenella was the only person, apart from her parents, Louisa had kept in touch with while in Italy. She was happy to see her old confidante and supporter and waved back, eager to talk with her.

“But she’s just a slip of a girl,” old Lady Ball commented loudly from beneath her voluminous hat as they drew level, surveying Louisa through gimlet eyes. “How on earth can she have produced something so . . . large and masculine? It’s indecent. It’s unnatural in a lady. How can she know so much of a man’s—” She broke off, her withered cheeks reddening.

Louisa curtsied respectfully to the old dowager. “Indeed, I have studied the human physique closely, but one does not need simply brute strength to create such sculptures, Lady Ball,” Louisa explained patiently, while she and Fenella struggled to hold back their giggles. The old dowager was a frequent source of amusement to them. Fenella was her best friend and often had Louisa in fits of laughter with her uncanny ability to imitate her mother’s voice. “Man or woman, it is the artist’s vision of what lies within the stone and the techniques used to apply one’s tools, the chisels, the hammers, the files, which decide the beauty and authenticity of the finished article.”

“Chisels? Hammers? Why, I have never even seen these implements, let alone used them,” declared the old lady with a sniff. “Wouldn’t a lady of the ton be better served by sticking to embroidery? Surely, even for a duke’s daughter, one’s chances for a good match would be much reduced by such . . . masculine activities.”

“Ah, well, fortunately, I am not seeking a match of any sort. A husband would be quite superfluous, and, unless I fall in love, which is highly unlikely, I am quite content to devote myself to my art for the foreseeable future.” At that, Lady Ball looked as if she had been hit on the head with a croquet mallet, and Louisa once again had to stifle a laugh.

“Quite right, Lulu,” Fenella chipped in, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be such an old-fashioned goose, Mama,” she chided. “Louisa doesn’t need a silly old husband! She makes her own money, and she’s the best sculptor in the country. Everyone wants her.”

Lady Ball frowned. “Well, it wouldn’t have been allowed in my day,” she said querulously.

“Since that was around the time of the ark, Mama, I doubt it would. Now, come, let us get a cup of tea,” riposted Fenella sharply, taking Lady Ball’s arm and beginning to steer her away toward the refreshment tables. “If I do not see you before we leave, I shall see you at the park, usual time. Well done, by the way. Another blow for womanhood, eh?” she whispered to Louisa over her shoulder before giving her a parting wink. Louisa chuckled, smiling warmly at her friend’s back as the pair moved away, sorry to see her go.

A fresh-faced young couple next appeared before her. The lady, pink-cheeked beneath a pretty, pale-blue bonnet, introduced herself as Lady Dorothy Owen, Lord Owen’s second-eldest daughter, and her escort as Jonathan Cecil, the youngest son of the Duke of Somerset. Louisa curtseyed politely to them. Lady Dorothy, who was rather short, gazed up at her, eyes shining.

“The Atlas is astonishing, Lady Louisa. Why, I thought I would swoon at the reveal! How talented you are. I believe you studied for four years in Italy, didn’t you, under Signor Montegno. How marvelous! They say he’s the best in all Europe,” she blurted out without pause.

“Indeed, I believe he is,” Louisa replied, smiling and nodding. “Yes, he was my teacher and mentor while I was in Italy. I owe him everything.”

“That’s as maybe, but how can a woman do such work? It’s unseemly!” Cecil the younger suddenly muttered, two hectic spots glowing on his cheekbones, his eyes flicking between Atlas’ rippling naked muscles and Louisa’s calm face.

Louisa put a hand to her face as if to brush away a stray golden lock. The practiced motion gave her the split second she needed to suppress the grin threatening to appear on her lips at any moment. Oh, callow youth!

Softly, she cleared her throat, then made a show of briefly running her eyes over his muscular form, as if in professional appraisal, enjoying watching him shift from foot to foot in clear discomfort. He looked about twenty, a tall, good-looking fellow, chin slightly weak, with dark brown eyes and matching well-groomed hair. Elegantly dressed too. Too young for an Apollo. Not yet in his prime. More of a Mercury or Hermes, she concluded. Perhaps he has an elder brother at home who would fit the bill.

“What a shame you feel that way, sir,” she breathed, tilting her head to one side and looking at him through half-closed eyes. “Would you yourself not consider sitting for me? You would make a marvelous model for the full-length figure of Adonis I have planned.”

Young Cecil’s mouth fell open, his eyes popped, and he blushed like a lady. Louisa fought hard against the laughter threatening to break from her lips.

“Ha ha! That’s put you in your place, Johnny,” Lady Dorothy taunted her discombobulated beau gleefully.

“But I mean to say—” young Cecil managed to mumble before he was cut off by Lady Dorothy.

“I’m sorry, Lady Louisa,” Lady Dorothy piped up, “I suppose you have to put up with a lot of that. Please, do forgive him, he’s an ignoramus, but he has a good heart.”

“Good Lord, Dolly, that’s a bit much,” exclaimed young Cecil, grimacing as he gazed at the young woman on his arm, with whom Louisa could see he was clearly besotted.

“Well, it’s true,” Dolly declared, pouting charmingly. “The normal rules of Society don’t apply to lady artists and bluestockings, do they, Lady Louisa?”

“Well, that is true to an extent, but such women plough a lonely and difficult furrow, being compelled to follow their vocation in our very masculine world,” Louisa replied, smiling warmly at the amusingly opinionated young woman before her.

Just then, the florid face of their host, the Duke of Ventnor, appeared at young Cecil’s shoulder, briefly pounded it with a meaty hand, making the young fellow grow quite pale as he shuffled aside.

“She’s a marvel, isn’t she?” the Duke boomed at the young couple, gesturing to Louisa and sending out wafts of brandy and tobacco from his august person as he did so. Louisa and Lady Dorothy both turned their noses slightly aside as he went on. “As my wife tells me, in our great and enlightened age, even a mere woman can become a celebrated artist, a famous sculptress, garnering accolades from her peers. I am delighted with my Atlas!”

A mere woman!

“How kind, Your Grace,” Louisa said through gritted teeth, somehow managing to assume her serene professional smile once more as she bobbed a curtsey to the old Duke.

“Yes, indeed, Your Grace,” agreed Lady Dorothy, following Louisa’s example, while young Cecil bowed. “Lady Louisa is a true original, and her success gives hope to many of us young, ambitious ladies of the Ton.”

“Well, I hope you don’t intend to start chiseling away at any rocks, Dolly,” young Cecil interjected, his smooth brow furrowing. “Much as I admire Lady Louisa’s, err, efforts.” He paused, glancing up at Atlas again with a visible shiver. “It wouldn’t do for you at all. I mean, what about your dresses? They’d be ruined.”

“Oh, Johnny, what am I to do with you?” Lady Dorothy huffed, batting his arm with her fan. “Come, we mustn’t hog Lady Louisa any longer. There are many more people who want to speak to her. Do excuse us, Your Grace, Lady Louisa.” With that, she hauled her unsatisfactory beau away toward the refreshment tables.

The old Duke’s face split into a grin, and he chuckled, shaking his head at Louisa. “She’ll have him knocked into shape in no time, I fancy. A lady after your own heart, eh, Lady Louisa? Knows how to put us fellows in our place.”

“We try our best, my lord, but it is hard work and full of disappointments, I’m afraid,” she said, her dry wit making the old lord guffaw and slap his thigh.

“My wife would agree with you, I don’t doubt,” he wheezed, while Louisa gazed after the retreating couple with curiosity.

I think I should like to have Lady Dolly as a friend, for she seems a bright young thing. I’m not sure how much of that young fool I can tolerate, though. I shall make a point of bumping into her at the next event and talk with her further—alone.

“Will you excuse me, Your Grace? I think I see my parents over there,” she said.

“Of course, my dear. They must be very proud of you today,” the old duke replied with a gracious nod.

With a curtsey, Louisa thanked him and set out in the same direction as the young couple, toward the refreshment tables. Her mouth was dry from all the chatter, and she craved a glass of chilled white wine. Champagne was simply too dry to slake her thirst. Then, I shall go and find Mama and Papa and see when they will be ready to leave. Her parents were staying the night with her at her rented house in Richmond before returning to the country the following day, so they were sharing a carriage for the return journey.

But as she made her way across to the refreshment tables, she was once again buttonholed by more of her peers, all anxious to tempt her to work for them.

“Lady Louisa, pray, do consider undertaking a commission for me—I wish for a marble bust of my eldest son . . .”

“Lady Louisa, I desire a statue of Aphrodite for my sculpture gallery . . .”

“Oh, my dear Lady Louisa, a statue of Persephone would just complete my collection perfectly . . .”

By the time she finally reached the refreshment tables, the white wine had run dry. Too parched to wait for more to be brought up from the cellars, with a sigh, she accepted a cold glass of punch. Sipping it gratefully, she scanned the crowd for her parents, trying hard not to catch anyone’s eye.

At last, she saw them, deep in conversation with their host, the duke. Seeking to avoid further interruptions, she skirted the lawns unnoticed until she reached the trio, taking refuge from further onslaughts in her mother’s kisses and embraces.

Chapter Two

Cecil Hall, Greenwich, London

Nathaniel Cecil’s already saturnine features darkened further. His mouth was a thin line as he glowered at his bailiff. The man turned his hat compulsively in his fingers as he stood before his employer, eyes downcast.

“I thought so,” Nathaniel growled. “Derick Smith and John Casey, damn their eyes. I give the blackguards honest work, and this is how they repay me. Why didn’t you tell me this before, Stevens?”

Stevens’ chin wobbled as he stuttered, “W-well, my lord, you see . . . I hoped to settle it quietly, them both being family men and all—”

Nathaniel smacked his large hand on the desk, making Stevens visibly jump.

“Settle it quietly? They’ve stolen four of my deer, Stevens!” Nathaniel roared. “I’ve given that pair of scoundrels enough chances already. This time . . .” he growled menacingly, dark brows knitting in fury.

“But what about the children, my lord? Both men have been ill from the fever and unable to work for weeks,” Stevens explained. “The other workers have been helping, but they have their own work to do. Smith and Casey were only poaching to put food in the children’s bellies. I mean, can you blame them?”

A vein began to pulse in Nathaniel’s forehead, but even though Stevens clearly saw it, he continued. “If their fathers are convicted and you put the families out on the street, they’ll have nowhere to go. They’ll starve.”

Nathaniel breathed deeply several times through his nose, then flung himself out of his chair to lean over the desk, his tall, bulky shadow eclipsing Stevens where he stood as a rain cloud blocks out the sun.

“This bleeding-heart nonsense of yours has got to stop, Stevens. May I remind you that I’m the Justice of the Peace around here? What will it look like to the other landowners if I allow poaching on my own land without punishment? Weak, that’s what they’ll say.”

“I suppose they might, my lord, but—” Stevens put in with the air of a condemned man.

“But nothing,” Nathaniel barked, still looming over the little bailiff. “If their children starve it’ll be the fault of their fathers, not me. You will have the miscreants brought in and the constables called to take them to jail at once. And hurry up about it, or it’ll be your head on the block next, damn you. Now, get out.”

“Yes, my lord, at once,” replied Stevens in a dejected tone, bowing and exiting the study as fast as his short legs would carry him.

Nathaniel threw himself back into his chair, reached across to a decanter on the corner of the desk, and poured himself a stiff measure of brandy. Tossing it down in one swallow, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Gradually, the angry lines on his face smoothed away lessen, and he sighed deeply. “Bloody fools, the lot of them,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

The specter of emaciated children in rags suddenly rose up in his mind’s eye, and a fleeting pang of remorse for his harsh judgment on the poachers pierced his heart. He was a father himself . . . what if Stevens was right and the children starved?

He stood up suddenly and opened his mouth as if about to call Stevens back. Then he closed it again and slumped back down in his chair. And you’re the biggest bloody fool of them all! His face reddened once more, as though he was freshly incensed by his own weakness. Snatching up the decanter again, he poured another drink, taking deep gulps. “Let those two hang, it’s what they deserve,” he muttered to himself, his eyes narrowing. “And if those children end up homeless and starving, that’s their look out. No one crosses Nathaniel Cecil, Marquis of Hertford, without paying a heavy price!”

“Well, that was a nice little scene, I must say,” came a voice from the doorway. Nathaniel looked up.

“Jonathan. You’re back,” he said, his lips curling as he looked his fashionably attired younger brother up and down.

“Remarkable powers of observation you have, brother dear. By the way, I’ll have one of those, if you don’t mind,” Jonathan drawled, gesturing at the decanter as he strolled into the room and lowered his long form into one of the armchairs by the empty fireplace. After a few seconds of silence, Nathaniel snorted. Then, he got up and fetched a clean glass from the nearby drinks cabinet and took it, along with the decanter and his own half-drunk brandy, over to where his brother was sitting.

“Help yourself,” he said, plonking them down on the occasional table before taking the armchair opposite his brother. Jonathan poured himself a drink and topped up Nathaniel’s glass, handing it to him.

“So, how was London?” he asked, stretching out his legs.

“Hot and stinking, as it always is in summer. But Dolly and I had a jolly time, eating ices at Gunter’s, walking in the parks, that sort of thing.”

Nathaniel nodded. “How very romantic,” he said with barely disguised sarcasm before sipping his brandy. Jonathan chuckled.

“You can scoff, but everyone knows you’re simply jealous. We’re not all cold-hearted old widowers like you.”

“I resent the use of ‘old’ in that sentence,” Nathaniel said, straight-faced, and Jonathan sniggered.

“You know it’s true, and you revel in it. And don’t think the whole family doesn’t know why you never come up to Town these days. We’re not complete fools, you know. Once again, you’ve sneakily managed to miss the whole Season,” he said, suddenly leaning forward in his chair. “I should warn you that you and your non-existent social life and persistently unmarried state are the top topics of conversation between Ma and Pa.”

“Well, well, what a surprise,” Nathaniel said with a weary sigh before taking a big gulp of whiskey.

“Oh, yes, it’s all, ‘When is that boy going to do his duty and remarry? It’s been two years . . . he should be here, in Town, now, with us, getting out and about and meeting new ladies. People are starting to talk,’” Jonathan said, perfectly mimicking the Duchess of Somerset’s fretting tones. Nathaniel laughed out loud.

“Very amusing, brother. You have her down pat,” he said once he’d done laughing. “What about the old man? I suppose it’s much of the same with him, is it?” His face turned serious again as he looked at his brother searchingly.

Jonathan nodded, sipping his drink before answering, “Mmm, let’s just say you’re hardy the blue-eyed boy at the moment. The heat is on, old chap, mark my words. I even heard them talking about finding a bride for you.” He looked at Nathaniel, eyebrows raised warningly. “I reckon your days as a crusty old widower are numbered.”

“Damn. Why can’t they just leave me alone? It’s not as if I’m lazing about doing nothing. I mean, I’m running everything for the old man, just as he’s always wanted. I’ve made him more money over the last two years than he made in the last five!” Nathaniel exclaimed, his voice rising.

“Yes, but stuffing their mouths with gold was never going to work in the long term, you know, Nat.”

“It’s all right for you, Jonathan,” Nathaniel said irritably. “You can’t understand what it’s like, being the eldest. You can go your own way. I envy your freedom. But me, I’ve done everything they told me I had to do as the heir. I married Edwina because they wanted me to, even though I didn’t want to marry at all. And I certainly didn’t love Edwina, and she didn’t love me either. So, that was two lives practically ruined from the start. And despite that, I still managed to give them the heir they so desperately wanted. In all that time, there was not a single thought about what I might want. Or her.” He paused, out of breath.

“And now, just two years after Edwina’s death, it’s starting all over again—just to satisfy their wishes, to obey the Ton’s bloody stupid rules about what’s proper and what isn’t. I can tell you I’m sick of it, and I won’t put up with it anymore. And you can tell them when you see them that I shall never remarry, never, no matter what they do,” he finished, huffing, his cheeks flushed.

Jonathan put out a placating hand. “Steady on, Brother, no need to burst a blood vessel. Look, at the risk of making you even angrier, it’s not all about appearances and doing what the Ton thinks is proper. The old folks love you, they do care about your happiness—” He was cut short by Nathaniel’s bitter laughter and waited until it had finished. “Can’t you see? We all worry about you, the way you’ve locked yourself away here since Edwina . . . well, you’ve changed. You used to be fun, but now . . . well, it’s as though your heart has turned to stone. I mean, look at that little scene with Stevens earlier. You’d have never acted like that before. Besides, you deserve some happiness, and maybe, just maybe, finding a new wife will do the trick. And there’s the children to think of. Don’t you think they need a mother’s love, as we both had? They’re still young, they’ll adjust. Find the right woman and . . .”

He stopped as Nathaniel got up and began pacing, clearly agitated.

“Stop, Jon! Again, you don’t see it at all. If I remarry, Linton and Charlotte will get a new mother, yes, but what about the old one? The dead one? They’ll forget all about Edwina in no time. And I can’t allow that. I respected her too much, and she was a wonderful friend and companion. It wouldn’t be fair to her. She was a good wife, a wonderful, loving mother. I may not have loved her, but I refuse to let her be replaced by another woman, to allow her memory to be wiped out of her children’s minds just to satisfy someone else’s selfish whims.”

Jon rose quickly and crossed to his brother, putting a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “All right, Nat, this is me, Jon, you’re talking to. I’m on your side, remember?” Nathaniel shook himself.

“Yes, sorry,” he muttered.

“Come, let us sit down again,” Jonathan said, steering his brother back to their seats. “Well, you clearly feel strongly about this, but if you want a permanent reminder of Edwina for the children, why don’t you do something more . . . concrete about it?”

Nathaniel looked at his brother, calm once more. “I already have. I’ve written to Sir Oliver Bryant about commissioning a marble bust of her. He’s already said he’ll do it.”

“I’m sure I should know this—and thank God Dolly’s not here to hear me say it—but who the hell is Sir Oliver Bryant?”

Nathaniel sighed. “He’s the best sculptor in the country, apparently, according to The Gentleman’s Quarterly, that is,” he explained. “And I want the best. So, I wrote to him. Wait a minute . . .” He got up and went to the desk, pulled a sheet of paper from a pile of correspondence, then returned to his seat and handed Jonathan a letter. “Read it.”

Jonathan scanned the letter rapidly, then looked up, eyes wide and lip curled. “Good lord, what a pompous windbag! What a crawler. Clearly, he’s one of those sucking-up types. The man will be all over you, and rob you blind too, no doubt. No, he won’t do at all.” He flung the letter aside.

“Well, what do you suggest?”

At that, Jonathan smiled and rubbed his hands together. “It just so happens, Brother, that I have the perfect solution to your problem.” Nathaniel shook his head. “No, no, I mean it. Look. Hear me out. When Dolly and I were in London gadding about, we attended a party at the Ventnor’s mansion in Mayfair—an unveiling party, in fact.” He grinned and nodded at his brother, but Nathaniel only frowned back.

“To paraphrase you, Jon, what the hell is an unveiling party?”

“Unveiling of a statue, you dolt! What else would you unveil?” He paused for a moment. “No, best not answer that. At any rate, Dolly’s always raving about this sculptor, and so is the whole Ton, apparently. That’s how come we were at the party.”

“Go on,” Nathaniel said, nodding.

“Well, I have to say, the statue, sculpture, whatever you call it, was quite magnificent. Ventnor was as pleased as punch. As you know, what I know about art you could write on the head of a pin, but even I was impressed . . . if rather . . . shocked.”

“What do you mean? Shocked?”

“Well, standing next to a twelve-foot-high statue of Atlas in all his manly glory, rippling muscles, leaving nothing to the imagination, with Dolly on my arm, you can imagine . . . it left me feeling rather like a scandalized old dowager. Honestly, Nat, it made me blush. Made a bit of a fool of myself blurting it out and earned myself a telling-off from Dolly. But the thing is, the statue, well . . . it was very impressive.”

“Well, nudity in classical art is the norm, so that’s no surprise. I can’t see why you were so scandalized.”

“It was just so . . . realistic. Anyway, I think you should write to the sculptor about commissioning Edwina’s bust. You said you want the best, and this is the best. Damn that old windbag, sir, whatever his name is. There’s just one thing you should know first though . . .”

“And what’s that?”

“The sculptor . . . it’s a woman!”

“A woman!? You jest, Brother, surely.”

“No, it’s true. I know, I didn’t believe it at first either. I met her too, and she’s a sharp one. And to top it all, she’s only the daughter of old Hamilton, the Earl of Brandon. She’s one of us!”

“Good Lord,” Nathaniel breathed, throwing down the rest of his whisky in one gulp and loosening his cravat.

“And I have her address. Got Dolly to write it all down.” He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a small notebook, flicking through the pages.

Nathaniel sat up straight in his chair. “Hang on, have you had this planned all along?”

“Of course. Just doing what you always taught me, brother—being prepared.”

“And what are you getting out of all this? Because I know you have an ulterior motive.”

Jonathan smiled innocently. “Oh, well, it might have something to do with my plan to propose to Dolly at Lord Mackie’s daughter’s coming out ball in three weeks’ time. When I tell her you’ve hired Louisa Hamilton, she won’t be able to refuse me.”

“I knew it,” Nathaniel grumbled. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in writing to the woman.”

“Exactly, and no time like the present, brother. I need a reply as quickly as possible. So, you get the pen and paper, and I’ll give you the details, yes? Then, I can arrange with Briggs to have it sent by messenger tomorrow, first thing.” He looked up at Nathaniel, who was staring at him, open-mouthed, and added, “Well, don’t just sit there, Nat, this can’t wait.”

Shaking his head, wondering if he was drunk or just losing his mind, Nathaniel went to carry out his brother’s orders.

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