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Prologue

Christmastide, 1812

Ashwell, Hertfordshire, England

Eight-year-old Caroline White, the daughter of Baron Oakham, was lying wide awake in her tiny bed, tucked in with the blanket up to her chin, just like every other night. Her governess had put her to bed right after dinner, and her parents were in the drawing room entertaining their guests. But it was still Christmas Eve, and Caroline was too excited to sleep. She thought about her father’s stern words.

‘You are not to leave your room under any circumstances, or there are no Christmas gifts for you.’

The warning was dire and clear, and Caroline did not want to risk losing her presents. Sighing in surrender, she tried closing her eyes, trying not to get distracted by the voices and laughter coming from the drawing room. Thinking it unfair that she had to sleep when her parents and their guests were still having fun downstairs, her mind drifted as she stared at the intricate swirls of her bedroom’s ceiling. Making shapes out of the patterns adorning the surface, Caroline imagined her ceiling was a snowy field, beautiful and vast. Unable to keep still any longer, she jumped up out of her bed, landed on her bare feet, and went straight to her window. Caroline gasped.

She could see that the snow had blanketed the back garden and her favorite pond, which was covered with ice, from where she was standing.  The snow was still falling in small, swirling flakes. Feeling the awe and excitement welling up inside her, Caroline grabbed her wool mittens and coat from the armoire and snuck out of her room. She took one small step after the other, and she swiftly made her way down the stairs, wincing every time the old steps creaked under her weight.

Caroline was thankful that no one had seen her and that the unlocked back door through the kitchen opened with ease. Before long, Caroline could feel the cold night air on her flustered face. Hesitating only for a few seconds, Caroline took the first step outside, her little foot crunching into the thick layer of snow. She nearly squealed with joy as she started running, stumbling, and falling into the soft snow while throwing handfuls of snow into the air. The snow fell on her blonde curls in sprinkles, disappearing in seconds.

Twirling with her arms outstretched, Caroline suddenly fell and hit something hard and realized that she had landed at the base of a tree. Looking at her surroundings, Caroline saw that she had drifted far from the back lawn of her house and into the clearing of the small forest behind it. That forest had always seemed scary to Caroline, and her father never allowed her to go in it without him or their trusted hound dog, Dottie. But tonight, the forest looked different. The snow had made everything seem peaceful and beautiful.

Enticed by how the moonlight shone in the clearing, illuminating the dancing snowflakes, Caroline walked deeper into the forest. She giggled, thinking of herself as an enchanted princess from one of her favorite bedtime tales.

It was only then that she noticed she was not alone. Half-concealed by the shadows cast from the tall trees at the edge of the clearing, a lone figure crouched in the snow. Frozen into place and thinking she might have encountered a real creature of the forest, Caroline felt curiosity coursing through her and could not help but take a few steps closer. As she approached the mysterious figure, the moonlight illuminated the scene, and Caroline no longer felt scared.

It was not a forest creature but a young boy a few years older than her. He just sat there, in the snow, looking sad and unbearably lonely. When he raised his eyes to look at her, Caroline could see that he had been crying, breaking her heart. Wiping his tears on his sleeve defiantly, he sniffled his nose.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” apologized Caroline.

The boy did not respond, still eyeing her under his long black lashes and the long dark curls that crowned his forehead. Caroline decided that he looked, unlike any boy she had ever seen before.

“Here,” she reached into the pocket of her coat and handed him her handkerchief. My name is Caroline White, the daughter of George White, Baron Oakham.” She reminded herself to add a little curtsy at the end of her introduction. Caroline had already started practicing her manners and knew that a proper lady–no matter how young–never forgot her manners.

“I’m Adam. Adam Seton, the Marquess of Derby,” he said, taking took the offered handkerchief from her hand. “Thank you.” Upon hearing the boy’s title, Caroline was glad she had remembered her manners.

“What are you doing here, Ad–my lord?” she corrected herself at the last minute.

“Please, call me Adam,” he said, and Caroline could see from the condition of his elegantly tailored clothes that he must have been sitting there for hours.

“And I could ask you the same thing,” he added, without sounding hostile. His eyes looked shy and kind, and Caroline felt that she could trust him.

“I’m not supposed to be outside. My father said I’d get no Christmas gifts.” Inexplicably, Caroline noticed how Adam’s expression fell again at her words. He bit his trembling lower lip.

“Are you alright, Adam?”

“I’m fine, but it’s just that…” Adam’s voice trailed off, and he did not finish the sentence as a sob broke through his lips.

Caroline knelt near him instinctively, not sure what she could do.

“My mother got awfully sick last Christmas. Father said she would be alright by New Year’s Eve and that we should pray. I prayed, and I prayed, and I begged. But my mother passed away a few days later.” Adam’s voice cracked at the end, and Caroline put her little hand on his shoulder.

“I hate Christmas time. It reminds me my mother is never coming back.”

“I am so sorry,” Caroline said. They stood for a few moments in silence.

“What if it’s not true?” she mused. Adam only looked at her curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“What if it’s not true that your mother is never coming back? What if she’s returning every Christmas as a snowflake? She is free and happy, swirling and dancing in the sky over you.” Caroline prompted him to look around at the beautiful snow, which had slowed but was still falling in a steady rhythm.

Adam’s eyes lightened up in hope at the sound of her words. He looked around in awe as the last tears dried on his cheeks. “I think I like your idea, Caroline.”

She gave him her brightest smile and saw him smiling in return. Seeing that she had made him happy, Caroline felt a wave of warmth deep inside of her, despite the cold.

“Would you like to hear another one?” she asked with a mischievous expression on her face. She had thought of the perfect way to cheer him up.

“Alright,” he said reluctantly.

Instead of giving him an answer, Caroline formed a small snowball with both her hands and threw it gently in his direction. It crashed with a thud on his chest and dissolved in pieces on the ground. Adam looked at her in astonishment and broke into laughter.

“I hope you’re ready for war,” he let out and started forming snowballs with his hands.

Caroline gave a small shriek and started running, looking for the best hiding spot while preparing her next shot. Adam’s snowball got her on the back, and she pretended to fall face-first into the snow.

“Caroline!” he cried out in worry.

Standing over her to see if she was hurt, Adam never saw the snowball she held in her right hand coming right at him. It nearly hit him in the face, and he fell back laughing in shock, Caroline joining by giggling victoriously.

“ADAM!” a piercing cry echoed through the trees, cutting their laughter short as they froze in place.

“Adam Seton, explain yourself right this instant!” A tall man, almost as old as her father, threaded through the snow, approaching them. Seeing the furious expression on his face, Caroline inched closer to Adam.

“Father, I’m sorry, I didn’t–” Adam started to say.

“CAROLINE?!”

This time, it was unmistakably Caroline’s father who shouted angrily in the distance. Caroline winced as she saw him making his way to them, their dog, Dottie, and a few of the servants following close behind.

“Caroline, what is the meaning of this? We’ve been looking all over for you, and all this time you’ve been with the Seton boy?! What were you thinking?” he shouted at her.

“I’m so sorry, Papa,” Caroline.

“You can bid goodbye to your Christmas gifts, young lady,” her father added as he helped her get up. “And step away from him,” he spat out.

“Surely it is your daughter who dragged my boy into this mess!” Adam’s father chimed in angrily.

“I will thank you for leaving my daughter out of this, Seton. You are trespassing on our property,” her father responded coldly. Caroline was shocked; she had never seen her father so furious.

“Oh, I can assure you this won’t happen again!” Adam’s father was fuming as he yanked his son away. “Come on, son. We’ve got no business with the likes of them.”

Locking eyes with Adam one last time and without even a chance to say goodbye, Caroline followed her father on the way back to the house in silence. A few moments later, having received a scolding from her father and disappointed looks from her mother, Caroline was clean and dry and back in her bed. Before leaving her bedroom, her father stood at the door.

“You did something very foolish tonight, Caroline,” he said in an icy tone.

“I’m sorry, Papa. I just wanted to see the snow.”

“That’s not what I mean. Although that was just as foolish, and you could have hurt yourself out there.”

Caroline’s eyelids were growing heavy with the exhaustion and the excitement of the evening, but the words her father spoke next surprised her.

“You must never, ever, again go near the Setons, do you understand? They are bad people.”

“But Papa–”

“No. You will do as I say,” the baron said before leaving, shutting the door behind him.

With a heavy sigh, Caroline closed her eyes. This time, when she pictured herself dancing in the snow while trying to catch the snowflakes, she wasn’t dancing alone.

Chapter 1

Christmastide, 1823

Ashwell, Hertfordshire, England

“It is absolutely out of the question.”

George White’s voice reverberated through the dining room, causing Caroline to drop the fork she was holding, and it hit her plate with a loud clink. Her mother, Katharine White, Baroness Oakham, sat next to her as silent and lifeless as always, as if she had not even heard her husband’s rude response to their daughter’s simple request.

“Father, you don’t understand. I haven’t seen Emily in ages,” Caroline protested. Emily Trew, her best friend and daughter of Viscount Thunderhill, lived only a few miles away from Linford Manor, and Caroline liked to visit her often. Now, only a week before Christmas, Caroline longed for an opportunity to escape for a few hours and see her friend, knowing well that she was hardly going to have a moment to herself in the coming days with all the house preparations.

Lord White finally dropped the newspaper he was reading to look at her.

“Caroline, only a fool would go outside at the moment. Can’t you see there’s a storm brewing?” her father demanded.

Caroline looked outside the window and had to resist the urge to grimace at her father’s statement. The gloomy countryside scenery spreading outside was as cloudy as ever, given that they did not get much sunlight during the winter months in Hertfordshire. Still, Caroline knew her father would use anything as an excuse to keep her in the house.

At nineteen years of age, she had experienced very few chances to be carefree and enjoy her life away from the vigilant eye of her father. But Caroline felt even more disappointed in her mother. Caroline could not deny that she loved both her parents dearly. She was grateful for everything they had done for her; they had provided her with the best education and everything she asked for growing up. But Caroline hated how cruel her father could be at times and how tolerant her mother seemed of his ways. Meek and silent, and always complying with other peoples’ wishes, Lady Oakham never voiced her views or defended Caroline in times like these. For this, Caroline could not help but resent her.

“It will only be for a few hours, Father, I promise,” Caroline pushed on.

Her father locked his piercing gaze on her face, and Caroline felt her confidence wavering. “I suggest you spend your time doing something useful instead of gossiping and tattling away with that prattler Trew. Women your age need to focus on becoming better, proper ladies.”

Caroline did not fail to notice how he had spat out the word ‘proper.’

“Father, I believe this is hardly fair. I have been mastering my skills, and Mama can attest to how my embroidery has improved–” she paused and looked at her mother expectantly, hoping she would support her claim. But Lady Oakham’s glassy eyes only rose to face her for a second before dropping back to her plate.

“Not another word, Caroline. I will be in my study, not to be disturbed.” With that, the baron stood and left Caroline and her mother sitting in silence.

“Mother–” Caroline started but did not know how to proceed.

“You should listen to your father, my dear.” Her mother wiped her mouth on her napkin and stood, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder before leaving the dining room herself. Caroline’s hope sunk further. She had learned to expect her mother’s cold responses, but this one made her feel as if she was trying to breach an impenetrable wall and constantly failing. It left a hollow space in her heart where respect and trust should have been growing.

Caroline sat there at the empty breakfast table as tears started welling up in her eyes. She always hated how her eyes teared up every time she was frustrated, and now with her father dismissing her like that and her mother ignoring her pleas for help as she always did, Caroline felt desolate. The familiar walls of the dining room, adorned with beautiful festive wraiths of laurel and rosemary, right next to her family’s portraits, now suffocated her. The weight of responsibility and judgment fell heavily on her shoulders once again, and Caroline felt her anger turn into defiance.

Her father wanted her to be the perfect daughter, and her mother would most likely thank her if she could be as silent and obedient as she was to avoid him. But Caroline was not one to give up so easily. I will not let them control me like this, she thought.

Suddenly, the doors to the dining room opened, and their footman, Thomas, walked in, startling her.

“I’m so sorry, Miss White, I thought you had already finished,” he said as his face flushed in embarrassment.

“It’s alright, Thomas. I was just leaving,” she said and stood up, leaving the servants to clean up and prepare the room for luncheon.

On the way to her room, Caroline was devising a plan.

***

“Miss, I beg you to reconsider. Please.”

Standing close behind her, Miss Barbara Grant, Caroline’s lady’s maid, was clenching her satin arm gloves in her hands with a pleading look in her eyes. Caroline was sitting in front of her vanity mirror, adding a few finishing touches to her hair. Miss Grant had already done a beautiful job gathering it all up in an elegant chignon, leaving only two well-formed curls to frame each side of her face. She had inherited her mother’s slim nose and chin, and something in the way her eyebrows arched over her eyelids reminded her of the way her father looked from certain angles. It was the only strict feature in her otherwise gentle oval-shaped face. Her pale complexion made the skin on her cheeks and neck, revealing the slightest hint of freckles to the careful eye, now appeared almost transparent in the morning light, and her green eyes were clear of the threat of tears. Caroline sighed, pinched her cheeks to add some color, and looked at her trusted friend.

“I’m not a child anymore, Grant. I will not allow him to forbid me from seeing my friend.”

“But, miss, what if we get caught?”

Miss Grant, who was only two years older than Caroline, was a highly responsible, hard-working member of the staff, and everyone loved and respected her. Caroline knew she was asking too much of her by proposing they leave the house without notifying anyone and, even worse, without her father’s permission. Yet, she would never have implicated her if she thought there was any real danger of her getting into trouble.

“It will only be for a few hours, and we’ll be cautious. You’ll get to see your friends in Emily’s house, too, and we’ll be back before anyone will miss us.”

Her maid remained unconvinced, so Caroline approached her, gently took the gloves from her hands, put them on, and gave her the most reassuring look.

“Please Grant. For me,” she pleaded.

It took Miss Grant a few moments, but finally, she gave in with an exasperated sigh.

“God knows there’s no reasoning with you, miss.”

“No, there isn’t,” Caroline flashed her a smile. “Now, what do you say, the dusty pink dress or the green one?”

Three gown changes and about three-quarters of an hour later, Caroline was sitting in front of the fireplace in Emily’s parlor with a steaming cup of tea in hand. Miss Grant had joined the other maids in the kitchens, where the coachman they had trusted to drive them there in secret was also keeping himself warm.

Emily, lively and chatty as always, had spent the best part of the past hour filling her in her brother’s latest adventures.

“Nellie says she heard him stumbling his way to his room in the first hours of the morning yesterday. I bet he was out all night with one of his notorious friends,” she said, her hazel eyes shining with amusement.

“I take it that all your maids make a habit out of staying up so late to spy on their masters then?” Caroline commented.

Emily slapped her friend’s arm teasingly.

“Only you of all people would care more about that instead of the actual news,” she said. Leaning closer to Caroline, she lowered her voice into a whisper.

“It’s that devilish man, Lord Derby, who’s stolen my brother’s wits. It’s all that we could expect knowing the lord’s reputation,” Emily added.

The sound of that name sent Caroline into deep thought, as it always did. She had never seen Adam again since that Christmas night years ago. Even though they were neighbors living on adjacent estates, her father harbored a hatred for the Setons Caroline had never been able to understand. After countless insults towards their name through all these years, she had given up trying to figure out the feud between their families.

Adam had never tried to reach out to her in return. Instead, he had made a reputation for himself as a bachelor notorious for his particular tastes in whiskey and women. Caroline did not know what to believe, but it was clear from Emily’s tone that she disapproved of the influence Lord Derby seemed to have over her brother.

“I never understood why men like to behave that way,” Caroline told Emily. “Of course, they don’t have to spend all their lives locked inside their homes, memorizing poetry and volumes on good manners as we women do,” she added bitterly.

Emily let out a chuckle, shaking her head. Her rich brown curls bounced with the movement.

“Say what you will, dearest, but as long as they bear a title, all that should hardly matter. Besides, rakes make the best husbands,” she replied with a wink. Caroline could not help but smile, but deep inside, she wished her friend behaved wiser than she spoke.

Although she would not admit it to Emily, who dreamt of nothing but making her father proud by marrying into fortune, Caroline would happily live a spinster’s life as long as it meant she would not have to face a husband she did not love. Or, for that matter, one who would make her as miserable as she guessed her mother was with her father. Besides, having suffered her father’s draconian will all these years, she would never subject herself and whatever freedom she had to the control of a husband.

But she would not share any of this with Emily in fear of sounding bitter once again, so she kept her smile on her face as she continued speaking. “Thank you again for receiving me without notice. My father has been difficult.”

Emily looked at her with sympathetic eyes. “Caroline, my dear friend, there is no need to thank me! You know how I always welcome your company. He cannot keep you locked inside the house, you know.”

Caroline opened her mouth to respond, but her breath hitched in her throat when she heard the grandfather clock suddenly striking one. She inwardly cursed as she shot up in a panic.

“Emily, I must go; please ask Nellie to fetch Grant and the coachman. We must leave at once!”

Chapter 2

Adam Seton was well into his fifth glass of whiskey. Sitting opposite to him in their favorite pub –which had aptly gained the name of Tiddly Botanist– the Honorable Henry Trew did not seem to be able to handle his liquor with the same dignity. He was present in the middle of one of his famous speeches on a topic he appeared to be most passionately opinionated.

“Look upon the fallen state of man, my good chap, lo and behold!” He broke into a snorty laugh as he pointed to the rest of the pub’s male patrons and nearly fell from his seat. The patrons in question, well-dressed men who were there to drown the sorrows of married life in the countryside with a few drinks –a lost cause, according to Henry– shot annoyed glances in the direction of the two rakish bachelors; yet, no one dared to protest.

At two and twenty, Adam had seen quite a few things so far in his life, but no one as fervently opposed to matrimony as Henry.

“They seduce us, entrap us, and then, well, the next thing you know, you have half a dozen children running around, and your life is over,” Henry added in a quieter tone, seeming a bit more pensive this time as he took a sip from his drink.

“My good man, how can the very idea of marriage make you so morose?” Adam was thoroughly amused. “Aren’t you the one who always says, ‘there is nothing greater in life than the joys a woman can offer?”

“You admit it then. You would get married.” His friend’s eyes spoke of betrayal.

Adam laughed. “Oh no, absolutely not. I believe you have misunderstood me. I do pity those who have married. Besides, I don’t believe there is a woman that could ever tame me,” he added with a crooked smirk.

“Hear! Hear!” Henry grew lively again.

“But there is still a matter I find more offensive than the idea of love and marriage, and that is man’s stupidity to believe in it,” Adam continued.

“Surely a man appreciating female grace and beauty as much and as often as you have has experienced coup de foudre at least once,” Henry remarked.

“Nonsense. I would know better than to fall in love at first sight,” Adam rolled his eyes.

‘To be wise and love exceeds man’s might.’ Henry’s expression was that of a man who had just shared a piece of his infinite wisdom.

“I can always count on you to recite the Bard even when you’re drunk, my friend,” Adam looked at him in admiration before breaking into a smile.

After a brief pause, Henry spoke up again. “Adam, I have a proposition for you.” He moved closer to him, leaning in.

“Well may God have mercy on us all,” replied Adam, loosening his cravat. His thick dark hair reached his shoulders these days, and he was getting hot with the zest of their conversation.

“Mock all you wish, but this is brilliant.” Henry gave a dramatic pause before looking at him with half-closed eyes. “You are going to marry my sister.”

Adam could not help but notice how Henry had announced this nonchalantly as if this was another casual topic of conversation. He let out a hearty laugh that shook him to his core, almost spilling his drink and staining his burgundy vest.

“I hate to disappoint you, but I will do no such thing.” He was utterly surprised by his friend’s proposition.

Granted, Emily Trew was easy on the eyes, skilled, and tolerable for a daughter of a viscount. She was also the last woman Adam would ever find himself interested in, and she lacked the spark and the energy that he always sought and had been unable to find in a companion.

Not that he was interested in a lifelong companion. Adam lived and longed for the intensity of experiencing his life as a free man, harvesting the pleasures and the thrills of his youth, the attraction between two bodies, the flame of passion hidden in anticipation of a new adventure.

“Just think of it! She does not believe in all that love nonsense either, and it is my duty as her older brother to ensure she finds a good match.” Henry leaned closer and tried to pull Adam in a drunken embrace. “Who could be better for my little sister than my best friend?” His slurred speech made his suggestion even more ridiculous to Adam.

Of course, being the heir to his father’s fortune, Henry carried a burden of responsibility with which Adam was more than familiar. Even so, Henry’s situation did not compare to Adam’s. Although Adam enjoyed the privileges of his station and intended to do right by his father’s wishes eventually by fulfilling his marital responsibilities, being pinned down and producing an heir seemed distant notions for the time being. He wished they would remain so for as long as possible.

Yet Henry’s nonsense has managed to sober me up, Adam thought as he pulled away.

“Alright, my good man, I think it’s time we took our leave. I’m sure the patrons will be glad to see the last of us for today, and you are saying things you are surely going to regret,” Adam said, laughing nervously.

“Just think of it–” Henry repeated, but Adam cut him out.

“Wait here. I’ll call for the horses,” Adam was already standing and straightening his coat. All this talk of marriage and love had made him nearly sick in his stomach, and he felt in desperate need to get some air.

***

Caroline’s body was wobbling left and right with every jolt of the carriage on the way back from Emily’s home. She had asked their coachman, Mr. Adderton, to take them back as fast as he could.  Presently, she could hear him in the front seat, urging the horses to go more quickly, which made the old carriage creak and screech at every rough patch and small crevice they crossed on the damp road. Caroline looked outside the carriage window to distract her from the burning worry that plagued her thoughts, fearing that her father would find out everything and punish her for disobeying him so blatantly.

So far, it was not working. As the afternoon light slowly died out, the dark clouds gathering in the distance seemed to Caroline like they carried the fury that was about to rain down on her. Lost in thought, Caroline hardly noticed how fast the carriage was brought into a sharp halt. With its motion stopping so abruptly, Caroline plunged forward and fell on her knees, hitting the hardwood of the carriage floor.

“Heavens! Are you alright, miss?” Grant rushed next to her from across the seat, looking disheveled.

Before Caroline could even process what had happened to give her an answer, Mr. Adderton’s coarse voice sounded from outside the carriage door.

“Miss White! Are ye alright? I am so sorry. We must ‘ave ‘it a hole quite hard.”

Caroline opened the door, took Mr. Adderton’s hand, and leaped outside, Miss Grant following her behind. The horses were still restless from the staggering break, and as Caroline started assessing their current situation, she could feel her knees growing weak from the shock.

“How soon can you get us back on the road, Mr. Adderton?” she asked.

“I’m afraid the front wheel is broken, miss. I can fix it, but I’m going to need a few hours. Yer going to have to wait ‘ere.”

In the distance, thunder broke. Caroline felt her heart sinking deeper and deeper in despair.

“No, absolutely not. We cannot stay here. I need to be back, and I’m already late. Father will be furious when he hears I took the carriage and I, oh no, I–”

“Miss, calm down, please, you’ll give yourself apoplexy,” said Miss Grant.

“Oh, why didn’t I listen to you? Of course, how could I know this would happen to us?” Caroline’s voice was slightly shaking, realizing the trouble her maid would also be in because of her.

“These things do happen, miss. I’m sure your father will be worried, but eventually, he’ll understand,” Miss Grant tried to console her.

“Do you think we should start walking to the house? It’s not that far–”

“I wouldn’t recommend that, Miss White,” Mr. Adderton’s voice came from the back of the carriage, where he was looking through an old dusty bag of tools he kept for emergencies like this. “There’s an ugly storm coming,” he added.

“But if we stay here, we’ll freeze to death!” Caroline, unsure if she was trembling from the cold or her panic, heard her voice growing louder and tried to calm herself down. She knew that they were in the middle of nowhere and that there would be no one coming to their rescue. She tried to think while she tightened her grey woolen pelisse around her.

The only family living out here so far north of the village is us and…

Caroline never finished her thought as it was suddenly interrupted by the sound of horse hooves. A second carriage was approaching them at high speed. Caroline could not believe her luck and remembered to thank her lucky stars for sending help when she needed it the most.

The coachman of the black carriage slowed the horses a few feet away from them and stopped on the other side of the road. Caroline watched with bated breath as the coachman walked to the side to help his master step outside. On the polished black wood surface of the carriage door lay the unmistakable family crest of the Setons.

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Chapter One

There is no better place or time than the London Season for any marriage-minded woman in want of a good match.

Elise tapped her foot impatiently beneath the soft tangle of skirts as she stared out of the drawing room window. This was her second year out, and yet it was set to pass without incident, on account of her not being allowed to go to London, where the genuine spirit of the Season could be felt.

Even as she stared longingly out the window, a raven flew down to rest on her windowsill. That was a terrible omen. As if she needed any more evidence to crush any surviving hope of being taken to London by her father. She wanted nothing more than to dress for an outrageous soiree on the Ton where she could indulge her innermost whims and desires, having the time of her life. She was tired of being trapped at home while other young women of her age had the pleasure of theatre parties, balls, and grand masquerades. She wanted more. She wanted more, so much that it hurt.

A knock sounded at her door.

“Who is it?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

A soft, charitable voice replied. “It’s me my Lady. Henrietta.”

Elise smiled and swivelled to face the door. “Do come in, Henrietta.”

Henrietta, her lady’s maid, appeared in the open doorway with a smile and a tray of letters. “A letter has come in for you, my Lady.”

Elise gave a start, almost jumping at the sudden jolt of excitement. “A letter?”

Henrietta smiled, nodding vigorously.

Elise darted forward and ran a hand over the tray. “From whom Henrietta?”

“Lady Amy Andrews.”

Elise picked the letter up from the tray, examining the seal. Upon prying it open, she found it was written in the unmistakable cursive of a woman tutored to the highest standards of calligraphy.

Elise smiled as she read:

My dearest Elise, I have missed you dearly in the time since we last spoke. How have you been? I do hope you are well. I have come to believe that you belong to a very peculiar category of person. The sort who has all the beauty, elegance and grace one could ever imagine but manages to never show it to the world. For that reason, I write with the sincerest hope that you respond to this invitation favourably. I wish for you to visit me in our home in London and attend all the events of the Season. This year promises to be a particular delight, and I would love nothing more than to have you, my best friend, by my side. Do think about it.

Your dear friend, Amy,

Elise folded the letter away and drew in a long, protracted breath. Henrietta stood at her side with a look of inquiry on her face. Though Henrietta served as Elise’s lady’s maid, she also took on the role of the adviser and confidant to Elise. She possessed a strength of understanding and calmness in judgment, which made her not just an attendant but a close and trusted friend. Henrietta gave a rough, indiscriminate cough which was as clear a call for details as asking the outright question.

“My dear friend Amy wants me to come to London, to spend the Season with her.”

Henrietta clapped her hands at her cheeks. “Lady Elise, that is delightful. The weather is fair, and all the talk from down in London is that this promises to be a Season to remember.”

“Papa will never allow it. He hates London and all the Season’s events. They remind him of-” she trailed off, leaving the sentiment incomplete.

Henrietta knew the words that had gone unsaid. “Surely we mustn’t presume, my Lady. The Lord is a reasonable man, and I do say you are certainly of age for the Season. Why don’t you try speaking to him? He might surprise you.”

Elise did not want to let her hopes rise. It would simply hurt too much if they were dashed again. But she couldn’t help herself; here was a clear, uncomplicated invitation to attend the Season. An opportunity, if nothing else, to leave Hertfordshire. Henrietta was right, she had to try.

Elise touched her lip, considering her options. “Is Papa back from his ride?”

“Yes, my Lady,” said Henrietta, “In fact, he has already settled into his study.”

Elise swallowed. Going to see her father in his study was almost always a daunting affair. It was in his study that her father was at his most intimidating. The desk seemed so small and her father so large that when he stood behind it, he seemed a very frightening man indeed.

She made her way to the study and stared at the door. Her heart started to beat faster, and she balled her hands up into fists, breathing through her nose. Her effort to summon courage achieved only partial success. The terror was there in great measure. Her father, Lord Hammington, was far from a wicked man, but he was stern as an old oak tree and had no patience for fools. When he attended to business, it was with ruthless efficiency, and he cared little for giving the appearance of geniality to anyone but his horses. On the best of days, talking to her father was a challenge, but when it came to the subject of London and her desire to taste of the pomp and pageantry of the Ton, he was particularly obstinate. Worse still, the Barony had fallen on hard times because of some bad investments, followed by a bad harvest and the succeeding effect on yields and repayment obligations. They had tried to disguise their increasingly desperate straits by quietly reducing their number of servants and selling off some valuable assets, but as it was, their family was not far from the brink of ruin. That had put her father in particularly bad spirits of late. Steeling herself, she leaned forward and gently knocked on the door.

Her father’s voice came as though from the heavens. Deep and foreboding. “Come in.”

She sucked in a breath and pushed the door open. Her father stood at his full, towering height with arms folded across his chest. His scowl was etched deep, and he narrowed his eyes as he studied her. He had always been a physically imposing man, but there was also a terrible concentration in his stare that made it hard to hold his gaze for anything longer than a moment. A thick grey-white beard hung from his chin like a swathe of seafoam, and his brows had a most singular arch that almost touched the temples.

Elise forced herself to meet his eyes, smiled, then gave a gentle curtsy. “Welcome back, father.”

Lord Hammington tilted his neck until it clicked and let out a small breath. “How may I help you, Elise?”

Elise opened her mouth and then closed it again, fumbling at the words. She came to the brink of abandoning the idea altogether. Such was the intensity of his penetrating stare when he regarded her. He didn’t press her on the question to her relief and gave her the time to get the words out.

“I received a letter from my dear friend Lady Amy Andrews today.”

Lord Hammington raised an eyebrow and gave the semblance of an ingratiating smile. “How is she?”

“She is well, Papa.”

He nodded. “Good.”

This was it. Her moment of truth.

“Amy has invited me to spend a few weeks at her family’s home. To attend the Season with her.”

Lord Hammington’s grip seemed to tighten about his arms as she spoke, but his calculating expression did not change.

“Which home is Amy referring to in her letter?” Lord Hammington asked absentmindedly.

Elise coloured violently, fearing the outcome of her words. “Their home in London, of course, father.”

Lord Hammington was silent for a long moment, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“London,” he said finally, shaking his head. “No, not London.”

Elise lowered her voice to a volume she only supplied in times of supplication. “Father, every year I grow older, and yet you have not allowed me the opportunity to make a good match, to meet a good husband. We could certainly use the benefit of a good marriage for me.”

He snorted. “There are many good husbands to be found about the country. There is no particular need to go to London. I am already making arrangements and negotiating for a good match for you. You need not worry yourself on this account.”

Elise narrowed her eyes. This had always been an area of a great struggle between her and her father. Elise had never been explicitly marriage-minded, but she always believed that when she did get married, it should be for love with someone who cared about her. To her, the idea of marriage to a man with whom she had no connection or attachment was entirely abhorrent. Her parents had set a shining example, which she felt morally inclined to follow.

The love her parents had shared was impressed strongly in her mind. They stood by each other’s side on good days and stood closer on bad days. Both joy and sadness were things that they shared, and they enjoyed nothing more than being in one another’s company. Having seen that in her childhood, how could she not consider love an essential ingredient in marriage? She was committed to marrying a man with wit and colour about him. A man who read and understood much beyond the affairs of business. Who found value in art, poetry, and music. Her father knew this and for him to allude to already making arrangements for her marriage was close to an act of intimidation which she would not countenance easily. All the same, she needed his permission to go to London, and she was desperate to have it. So she picked her words very carefully.

“Father, would you be so cruel to me as not to allow me any say on my own marriage?”

Her father blinked and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you are particular about your marriage Elise, and I fear you will not make it easy on me. Should I choose a husband without your word on the matter-”

Elise gave a small smile. “You may be correct on that count, father.”

Her father snorted. “I am more than willing to allow you a say in who your husband should be, provided the gentleman be of good breeding and manners, but the gentleman in question does not need to be in London. You don’t know what it’s like in London. I do. There are pickpockets on every corner, and rats fed fat on the muck about the street. I have known nothing good to ever come of that place.”

Perhaps in her father’s mind, his words would have put her off on the idea of seeing London. In truth, they had only strengthened her resolve to go. She wanted to see this place, which promised all the excitement she had craved in her life. To know for sure if what he was saying was true. Her father hated London and never spoke a single pleasant word about it.

Elise knew that it was because her mother had once loved London, and to recollect that connection had often proved too hard for her father to bear. Elise understood his pain intimately. The pain of losing a mother was like a shadow, trailing her everywhere she went. A part of her that would never leave for good. Every time she saw a woman of like age to her mother, she was reminded of all her mother’s dreams that had been cut short, and the pain came again. She knew London was not her father’s true enemy. His true enemy was pain.

She gave her father a questioning eyebrow. “Surely, Father, London is not quite so terrible.”

“Oh, it is,” Lord Hammington replied.

“Wasn’t that where you met my mother?” Elise urged. “If it is such a terrible place, what were you both doing there? And finding love no less.”

A deathly silence fell upon the room. Elise knew she had stepped close to the mark of her father’s incandescence, but that was always the way with the man. You had to sometimes go to extremes to get him to agree with you.

Lord Hammington’s scowl somehow deepened. His face hard enough to withstand hammer and anvil.

“Do not use your mother’s memory as a weapon against me,” he said, his voice almost in a whisper.

Elise gave a start. “I am not using her father. I only ask that I be allowed the same privileges that she was once allowed. To go into London and attend the Season.”

Lord Hammington scratched his chin, seeming to consider it. “How long would you be gone?”

Elise was taken aback. It seemed as though he was really considering her request. “Four weeks at the very most, my Lord,” Elisa said.

“Three weeks,” he supplied.

Elise nearly jumped but remastered herself to contain her unbridled glee. She would have accepted two weeks, two days even. Three weeks was a wonderful opportunity.

“Agreed, three weeks would be adequate, father,” she said, scarcely able to contain the smile at the corners of her mouth.

Her father’s countenance changed, and for a moment, Elise feared he was going to reject the proposal outright once again and that all would be lost.

Desperate to go, she hurried to make a promise.

“I make this promise to you, Father, if you let me go, then I will marry whomever you decide without a word of complaint.”

Her father raised an eyebrow and combed through his beard. Those moments seemed to last an eternity as Elise waited with bated breath for his answer.

“Alright, Elise,” he said at last. “You may go for three weeks and not a day more, and when you return, I will have found a fitting suitor. I will hold you to your word and expect no complaints from whomever I choose.”

Elise pursed her lips and nodded firmly. It was a steep price to pay, but once she had said it, she was sure that she would make the forfeit. This was her one chance to enjoy all the promises of the Season at least once in her life. She tried to console herself about her decision by considering whether love in marriage was even possible at all. She knew it was, for she had seen it, but even so, perhaps it was not available for her. Men were – even at the best of times – vexing creatures, and it was to Elise’s credit that she was possessed of such long-suffering and unbothered disposition that she felt she could learn to tolerate any man she married so long as he was not cruel to her and treated her with respect. She could learn to live with whatever man her father picked, but she could never learn to abandon her desire for some form of adventure in life. Her mind was made up.

“I agree, father.”

She stepped out of the study and found Henrietta waiting patiently in the corridor. A glance was the only invitation Henrietta needed to fall into step as they started towards her bedchamber. Elise, barely able to stop herself from sprinting up the stairs, laughed as she opened the door and entered the bedchamber.

With a knowing smile, Henrietta shut the door firmly behind them. “Was my Lord disposed to granting permission, my Lady?”

Elise blinked. “Indeed he was. You were right!”

Henrietta beamed. “I’ll prepare your best dresses, my Lady.”

Elise reached out and clasped Henrietta by the hand. “How fun this will be! In two weeks, we will be on our way to London for the Season, and we will have the very best time.”

She wondered for a moment whether she had paid too steep a price for a prize. London would be a dream, but what if her father fixed a marriage that would become a nightmare?

Chapter Two

Her kiss on his neck was soft and subtle as the fall of hourglass sand. His neck was dry, and her lips were wet, and his whole body came to attention when they met. He ran a finger up her spine and straightened as he allowed himself to get a good look at her, his eyes narrowed to drunken slits. Her dress was tight to her form; black silk without a hint of frippery. Her smile was a promise of a good time. Her eyes were a most peculiar blue, almost grey.

“What is your name?” Stephan asked, studying her.

“Sabrina, my Lord,” she said, dropping into a deep curtsy. “Do my kisses please you?”

Her accent had a slightly French affectation. He wondered if it was put on or genuine. To her question, he smiled and then nodded once.

She smiled in return and took his affirmation as an invitation to take up the vacant velvet chaise next to him. He breathed in the powdery musk of her perfume as she pressed her palm gently against his knee and sat with the perfect courtesan poise.

The hall before them was filled with groups of men playing games of chance, skill, and utter ruination. Here and there, courtesans prowled the room with feline grace, crooning and fluttering fans between them. This was the debauchery of the highest class, and Lord Stephan Andrews was completely at home.

The Denning’s gentleman’s club had built its reputation on two impregnable pillars: discretion and delight. On the first count, its reputation was well founded; secrecy amongst members was sacrosanct, and even word of who one had seen in Denning’s was not to be spoken of outside its walls. On the second count, Denning’s had no equal. It was a place where a gentleman’s every desire could be met with matching fervour. All that was required for admittance to its hallowed halls were there was the white token of membership stamped by Sir James Denning himself. Stephan had been in possession of one such token for many years now and had regularly used it in his misspent youth.

Coloured light gleamed on his empty glass as he raised it towards a passing waiter. Before he lowered it, it was full once more, and he allowed himself a generous sip to test the quality. As always with Denning’s, it was exquisite. He had been drinking all night but had a great deal of experience managing insobriety.

He watched as a group of men engaged in a raucous game of Whist, laughing uproariously, slapping the table, and calling out names. It was good to watch people be free. Denning’s was a place where anyone could be free.

He glanced over at Sabrina and considered that perhaps not everyone in Denning’s was free. He wondered if that was truly her real name.

“Sabrina?” he asked.

She inclined her head towards him with an inviting smile. “My Lord?”

“If money was no object at all if you had all the money you could ever require, what would you do with your life?”

“Excuse me?” she asked, leaning back.

Stephan drew in a breath. “If you didn’t need money, what would you do with your life?”

For a moment, she stared at him like he was mad. Then she wet her lips thoughtfully. “I suppose I would travel.”

Stephan smiled. “Where to?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, somewhere near the water. I’d quite like to go to Brighton.”

She seemed excited by the thought of it. As though she was on her way to Brighton there and then. It was the first moment in which she had lost her perfect womanly poise. Evidently, this was not the sort of conversation with which she was typically engaged with the patrons of Denning’s gentleman’s club.

Stephan threw back the last of his drink and raised his glass for another; a waiter quickly obliged.

“I hear Brighton is splendid,” Stephan said, taking a sip from his newly filled glass, “though I am not quite so fond of the sun.”

She laughed as though he had cracked a hilarious joke. It was perhaps the worst imitation of laughter he had ever heard, and when it came to false laughter, Stephan had bottomless experience. When you are a young Earl, all your jokes get all the laughs, and half the laughs are always wrong. Flattery, unfortunately, did very little to raise his spirits for the occasion.

He looked into Sabrina’s remarkable eyes. They had a gleam of hungry expectation. An expectation of how tonight was supposed to go. He knew it, too; in a way, they were both doing what they needed to get by for the day.

“Can I get you anything, my Lord? Anything at all?” her eyes now had a sinister gleam, and Stephan’s blood was finally beginning to rise.

He climbed to his feet, swaying slightly from the drink as he did so. “Shall we retire to one of the private rooms?” he asked.

She drew herself up to stand in front of him. At full height, she came only to his ribs.

“I think we shall, my Lord.”

Stephan offered her his arm as they turned in the direction of the private rooms.

The entrance door behind them was suddenly thrown open so hard it bounced against the wall. The sound caused Stephan to glance over his shoulder.

His eyes alighted on a handsome man, strong-boned with a thick obstinate chin. Pale with dark hair that took to curling about his head. Stephan cursed under his breath. If there was one man in the entire country who Stephan did not want to see, it was Thomas Dane, the Marquess of Plymouth.

The Marquess strode in with all the pride of a prince on his day of succession. The room seemed to hush in silence as he walked in. Many of them knew the history between Stephan and the Marquess, and he could sense them start to brace for drama. Hungry eyes fell on them, waiting to see how they would act around one another.

The vein at Stephan’s temple throbbed as the Marquess immediately set his sights on one of the courtesans. A woman dressed in emerald green, holding a fan about her face, lowered it to swoon at the Marquess. He moved towards the courtesan, the entire room watching the display with interest.

As he finally approached the courtesan, he glanced directly at Stephan and grinned at him.

Stephan scowled. The Marquess was goading him. He had seen enough. He turned back to Sabrina and began to walk towards the private room.

The Marquess’ voice cut through the room. “What a wonderful feeling it is to have any woman I want.”

Stephan wanted to keep walking, but he found his body was tense all over. His teeth were gritted, and his free hand was curled into a tight fist.

“Are you well, my Lord?” Sabrina asked.

Stephan ignored her as he glanced over his shoulder. The Marquess stood with a woman on each arm and a wide, serpentine smile on his lips. He looked directly at Stephan, and he silently mouthed the words: ‘any woman I want.’

The anger was there. It was all over, hot and hungry. He pictured himself walking up to the Marquess and striking him, but his mind was filled with memories of her. Of the woman, he had once loved with every inch of his being. Maria.

He winced as the memories came flooding back. Everything about that night was still so shockingly clear in his mind. Maria’s silk shawl fluttered in the evening breeze. The tremor of shock he had felt when he found her ensconced in the Marquess’ arms. That unforgettable grin on the Marquess’ face as he fondled her. The way she arched her body against his, her head thrown back in a state of liquid bliss.

“Are you well, my Lord?” Sabrina repeated, calling him back to full consciousness.

The true answer was no. He was absolutely not alright. He wanted to set the Marquess right once and for all. It didn’t matter how many people were there or how many eyes were watching his every move. All the scandal in the world would have been worth the risk if only he could wipe that smug smile from the Marquess’ face. But deep down, he knew that was impossible. Even if he came to blows with the Marquess, even if he beat day and night out of the man. He knew that smile would never leave his face. The Marquess was the undisputed victor of the ultimate prize, and Stephan could never hope to level terms.

Resigned to his fate and still pulsing with anger, he turned to Sabrina. “Perhaps we should reconvene another time, I feel suddenly quite unwell tonight.”

She favoured him with a perfect curtsy and a knowing smile. “Another time, my Lord.”

He inclined his head and stepped out from the door.

He heard the Marquess call out after him. “Leaving so soon?”

A chorus of laughter from the other men in the gentlemen’s club followed that last remark, and it was almost enough to break what was left of Stephan’s restraint. By some effort of inhuman will and discipline, he kept walking and made it into his carriage.

Once inside, he leaned back and let out a sigh of relief. “Let’s go home,” he said to his coachman.

As they rode back towards the Andrews Estate, Stephan glanced out of his carriage window. He could still hear the echo of laughter at the Marquess’ last remark.

Rain began to fall, completing the city’s cruel jibe, and Stephan wished he had not decided to leave his home that night, that he had never set foot in Denning’s. Now the only thing on his mind was Maria.

She had been his first love. His only love. Remembering her face was torture, but it was a torment that he could not stop inflicting on himself for some reason. An unearthly beautiful woman with golden brown hair that shone in every place the light touched it. Her scent made every cord of muscle in his body pulse, and her laugh filled his ears with sweetness. She had neither rival nor superior in elegance and deportment and had a subtle way of making one feel at home. To her, he would have given everything. Anything. His heart had been set on marrying her, and he had told everyone who he cared to know what his intention was.

His mind threw him back to their story, and he recalled how everything had come to a painful end.

Stephan entered the masquerade ball with every expectation of seeing Maria. They had been courting for three months, and each month had been better than the last. In every way, she proved the embodiment of all he wished for in a woman. Their conformity of judgment on every matter of importance was proof to him that there was some truth in the often expressed belief that true love could be felt with one person if you looked hard enough.

He caught sight of her in the ballroom and immediately burst into a smile. She hadn’t seen him, and before he could reach her, she was lost in the throng of people. It took him a long while before he decided to go in search of her, for she did not resurface after his initial sighting of her. He entered the corridor and was entreated by the womanly waft of her perfume. He tracked the scent to the gallery where it was strongest and stepped inside. The room, for all intents and purposes, had appeared empty. He was on the verge of leaving when a single note of laughter stopped him in his tracks. He turned towards the terrace and saw Maria’s silk shawl fluttering in the night breeze. His heart lurched immediately. What if she was in some sort of trouble. He stepped out onto the terrace and froze. Only a few metres in front of him was a scene he instantly knew he would never forget. His love Maria stood in the arms of none other than the Marquess of Plymouth. Her dishevelled petticoat left no mystery as to the object of their entanglement on the terrace, and the smile on the Marquess’ was as good as a confirmation that Maria had not been faithful to him. He knew he ought to alert them to his presence or put an end to it, but for reasons he didn’t completely understand, he found that he couldn’t look away. He just stood there in suspended awe, watching them enjoy one another. The Marquess noticed him and Stephan immediately knew that he had to walk away. He gathered himself and turn to leave. Maria had not seen him, but the Marquess certainly had.

As though to buttress that fact, the Marquess’ smiled a knowing, punishing smile while he buried Maria in his arms.

It was an incredible wound. A wound from which he would likely never recover. That she had betrayed him was pain enough, that all the Ton soon knew about it was a double helping, but the true twist of the knife was that she had chosen the Marquess of Plymouth for that great indignity. Even before that night, the Marquess of Plymouth had been Stephan’s rival during their years at University, they had never been fond of one another.

They darted past the triumphal arch which led towards the Andrews Estate, and a few moments later, the coachman drew rein, pulling the carriage to a stop.

His butler, Mr. Clarkson, arrived to pull open the carriage door.

“Welcome home, my Lord,” Mr. Clarkson said with a subtle bow.

Stephan began his dismount and was suddenly reminded of how much he had been drinking. He placed a hand on Mr. Clarkson’s shoulder, steadying himself.

“Thank you, Clarkson,” he said.

Mr. Clarkson, ever the professional, went ahead of Stephan, making sure that every obstacle and obstruction was cleared from his drunken path as he strode into the house.

“Should I draw up a hot bath, my Lord?”

Stephan shook his head. “No.”

“A pot of tea then, my Lord?”

“Brandy,” Stephan said, swaying with effort. “Bring brandy up to my bedchamber.”

Mr. Clarkson looked at him as though he had announced he was the devil.

“B-Brandy, my Lord?”

Stephan nodded. “Yes, Clarkson, brandy.”

In Clarkson’s eyes, he saw that the man wanted to protest but was caught by his commitment to duty as a butler. Whatever Stephan said, Clarkson would obey no matter how much he personally objected. No doubt the brandy would be watered down, but Clarkson would do the needful.

Clarkson couldn’t understand his pain after all. Seeing the Marquess had brought all the worst memories rushing back, and the only remedy he knew for chasing pain away was to be found at the bottom of a good bottle of liquor.

He stumbled up to his bedchamber and collapsed onto his bed face first with arms outstretched.

A knock sounded at his door.

Assuming it to be Clarkson, he muttered, “Come in.”

It wasn’t Clarkson at all. Standing in the doorway with hands on her hips was his younger sister Amy. His vision was blurry from the drink, but he could still see that she was not impressed with him at all.

“I can smell the liquor from over here,” she said, stepping inside, “and you wanted Mr. Clarkson to bring you more drink.”

Stephan sat up with a smile. He cared for very few people in this cruel world, but there were none he cared more for than his sister Amy.

“I can’t believe Clarkson betrayed me,” Stephan said, trying to focus.

Amy gave him an exasperated look. “He didn’t betray you, he conveniently made a noise as he walked past my bedchamber and when I asked him who the brandy was for, he told me what I needed to know.”

“Sounds like a betrayal to me,” Stephan said.

“All for your own good, dear brother.”

A knock sounded at the door, and the siblings simultaneously said, “Come in.”

Mr. Clarkson appeared with a tray containing a pot of coffee and a single porcelain cup. He smiled sheepishly as he shuffled into the room.

“I’m sorry, my Lord, I was about bringing the brandy when Lady Amy-”

“Spare me, Clarkson,” Stephan said, raising a hand. “I know how you both conspire against me.”

“It is our duty to take care of you as Lord of the Manor, and that means making sure you don’t drink yourself to an early grave,” Amy said, pouring out a measure of coffee. “Drink this.”

Stephan obliged. To be truthful, the first sip of coffee seemed to shift him towards sobriety. The trouble was that he wanted to be as far from sobriety at that moment as possible.

“You sound just like Mother when you talk like that,” Stephan said.

She gestured to Mr. Clarkson. The butler, knowing his part, shuffled out of the room.

Amy turned her eyes on him. “Please talk to me, dear brother, whatever is the matter to have you drinking so recklessly. I know you are fond of a good cup, but this is unseemly.”

Stephan let out a heavy breath and stared up at the ceiling. Amy was his sister, the one person who understood a semblance of his pain. The one person he could always talk to.

“I saw the Marquess. At Denning’s,” he said.

Amy’s face fell. “Oh, dear.”

Stephan nodded. “My mind has been full of Maria. I just wanted to… I wanted to forget.”

Amy drew in a deep, contemplative breath, and she put a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Sometimes a heart is broken so that it can become stronger in the broken places. To love more completely when the real thing comes along.”

Stephan laughed. “I’ll never love again.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh yes, you will, and next time, you’ll be loved in return.”

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Prologue

Brook’s, London

April 1816

“Now, Francis,” Matthew Denning raised his whiskey to his lips, a sly grin playing on his features, “do you agree that the benefits of being a younger son of a gentleman are better than that of an heir?”

“I did not share my woes with you so you can make a point.” His dearest friend, Francis Langley, Viscount Lyndhurst, rolled his eyes and tossed back the contents of his own glass.

The other man in their trio, Richard Winchester, laughed before saying. “Come now, the season has barely begun. If you are this sullen at its start, I shudder to think of what you would become at the end of it.”

“Likely married and miserable,” Francis grumbled, shaking his blonde head.

“Have you already found a wife?” Matthew cocked a brow.

Society might value heirs more than the other sons in a family, but Matthew found freedom in such a convention. Unlike his brother and Francis, he was not pressured to marry to continue the family line, and he had the liberty to follow whichever path suited him.

“If only it were that simple. Every lady I have met thus far has not a clever head on her shoulders. I cannot harm the children I am yet to sire in my choice of a wife.” Francis raised his chin to call the waiter to refill their glasses.

“I agree with you,” Matthew said, “and you have my sympathies.”

Francis inclined his head and smiled. “I seem to recall you and Richard laughing at me.”

“To cheer you up,” Richard inserted. “Now, tell us what you seek in a wife. Perhaps we might be able to help.”

Francis picked up his refilled glass and took a sip before setting it back down. “Intelligence is important. She also needs to be from an excellent family and decent-looking.”

That drew another sly grin from Matthew. “I see we don’t want bedding her to become a chore.”

“Precisely!” Francis returned his grin.

Matthew had never imagined himself married. He quite loved his life as it was, and if at all he was going to marry, then it would likely be much later in his life.

“Such a woman is not impossible to find.” He clapped Francis on the shoulder. “You only have to attend more balls and ride in Hyde Park more often.”

“You rascal!” Richard laughed.

Matthew remembered the news he had to share with his friends and smiled.

It caught Francis’ attention, and he asked, “What are you so jolly about, Matthew?”

“I am glad you asked.” He sat straighter in his chair. “I shall conclude my pupillage in four months and after that…” He paused, watching their anticipation with satisfaction before finishing with, “I shall be a barrister in the Head Office.”

“Surely, you jest!” Francis clapped his hands together. “You got the position?”

“Yes, I did. My new position at the Head Office was confirmed this morning.” Joy swelled in his chest even more as he spoke. He had worked tirelessly for years to become a barrister, and he was very close now. He could almost taste the victory.

His friends raised their glasses in unison, and Francis spoke first. “You deserve this, Matthew, and I am thrilled for you. To getting justice for the disadvantaged and to a lifetime of friendship.”

Richard echoed the toast, and they clinked their glasses. They’d been with him on his journey to become a barrister, thus, if anyone could understand and appreciate the effort that led to this victory, it was them.

They cheered and teased each other for a while before parting ways for the night. Matthew hailed a hackney in front of the club and was conveyed to his bachelor lodgings in Bloomsbury.

The smile on his face and the spring in his step never once wavered that night, for he felt almost complete. His life was going as expected, and while he sympathized with his brother, Arthur, who was burdened with being the heir to the Earldom of Dorchester, he relished his freedom.

“This arrived while you were out, my lord.” Tanner, his valet of several years, gave him a missive, and Matthew immediately recognized the seal.

Only his father used the Dorchester crest on the seals of his missives, and the man seldom wrote to him. Something turned in his stomach, and he swallowed, his finger poised to break the sealing wax.

His heartbeat quickened as he opened the letter, and his world began to fall apart with the first words he read:

Dear Matthew,

It is with a broken heart that I write you this letter. Arthur died yesterday from wounds caused by a carriage accident. He will be interred in the family tomb today.

His responsibilities are now upon your shoulders, and I wish for you to return to Dorset at the earliest opportunity.

I pray that you are well.

Sincerely,

J. Denning

“My lord?” Tanner called, and Matthew blinked.

His entire body was numb, and his mind could not process what he’d just read. No! This couldn’t be happening! He was only five-and-twenty, too young to suffer such a fate.

“My lord?” Tanner called again. “Did something happen?”

“Arthur is dead,” he said, his voice coming as if through a tunnel. His life as he knew it would now be changed forever, his dreams shattered.

Chapter One

“Bloody hell!” Matthew cursed and quickly lifted the toppled inkpot before all of the ink could run out and ruin his work. Then he lifted the papers from the path of the ink with his other hand. “Tanner!”

“Yes, my lord?” Tanner appeared in the doorway almost immediately, and once he registered Matthew’s needs, he came to help him, taking the papers from his hand and placing them on a side table near a bookshelf.

Matthew pushed his chair back and rose, striding out of the sitting room to his bedchamber to allow Tanner to clean the table while he washed the ink off his hands.

The last months had been surreal, and he had moved through each day as though he were in a trance. He looked up at himself in the mirror, barely recognizing the man looking back at him with shadowed eyes.

“We should tend to that shirt, my lord,” Tanner said quietly from the doorway. Matthew straightened, looking down at himself and noticing the ink stain on his shirtsleeve for the first time.

There was no telling how long he had been standing in front of his washbasin, staring at himself in the mirror. “Right,” he murmured, his hands going up to undo the buttons of his waistcoat.

After changing into a clean shirt, he returned to the living room, and something caught his eye on his way to his desk: a small stack of letters—all from his father—on the side table that he had been avoiding. One part of him knew that it was time to face them, while the other continued to deny his loss and his new responsibilities.

Giving into reason, he walked over and picked them up before sitting down behind his desk. Some had been opened and read, and some had not.

He opened the most recent one and read it. The earl wanted him to return to their ancestral seat in Dorset. He set it aside and read the next one. It had the same content with only different wording. He passed a hand over his brow as grief washed over him anew.

Six months should have eased the pain, but it appeared as though time was not inclined to heal him… if it would heal him at all. His father had called him home in the first letter that announced Arthur’s death, and many more had followed. But Matthew had been unable to bring himself to go back. It would make his loss real. Besides, he would not have been able to see him because he was buried the day after he died.

He and Arthur had been more than brothers. They had been friends and done everything together when they were children. Their lives had taken different paths, but their bond had remained strong.

Setting the letters down and leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, a thousand thoughts fighting for dominance in his mind. His plans were no longer plans because he was expected to fill Arthur’s shoes. He was Viscount Shaftesbury now.

“Dinner is served.” Tanner’s voice broke into his thoughts some time later.

“I shall be right over,” he said, rubbing his eyes. Tanner turned to leave but stopped when Matthew called him. “Send word to Dunstowe Manor. We journey to Dorset in two days.”

The only indication of his surprise was a slight rise of his brows. “Of course, my lord. I shall begin the preparations.” He bowed.

It was time to bid Arthur a proper farewell.

*****

Matthew gave his gelding a pat on its crest before dismounting and handing the reins to a waiting groom. The servants were gathered in front of the manor to greet him while his father stood at the top of the marble steps, his shoulders straight and his jaw firm like the proud lord that he was.

He gazed up at the imposing Dunstowe Manor. It did not feel like home anymore. Not without Arthur.

Matthew acknowledged the servants’ bows and curtsies with a nod, then stepped up to meet his father.

“Father,” he said, bowing slightly and not allowing his gaze to linger on his face. There would be immeasurable grief in them, and he was not ready to see it just yet.

Jasper Denning laid a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome home, son.”

His voice caught in his throat, and he could only nod.

“Come,” Jasper said, leading him into the manor, “we have much to discuss.”

They entered his father’s private salon, and Matthew sat down in the chair closest to the fireplace. The air was cold, and he had ridden for the most part of the three-day journey; thus, some warmth was most welcome.

“Port will warm you faster than that fire,” Jasper said as he went to a liquor service on a table on one side of the room. On Matthew’s nod, he began to pour him a glass. “I trust your journey was fair.”

“It was.” Matthew accepted the glass with a murmur of thanks. One sip, and warmth swirled in his stomach. This part of the country was much colder than the one in the town, and the proximity to the sea only made it much more so.

“See? It works better than the fire, does it not?” Jasper settled in the chair opposite him.

“Yes…” A question hung between and with a deep breath, Matthew began to answer it. “I grew up in this manor with Arthur. I couldn’t come… it was too much.”

“Every man is allowed the liberty to mourn, and everyone mourns differently,” his father said sagely. The last time Matthew had seen him had been at Christmas time, and he had aged considerably since then. He was much thinner, too.

That response surprised him. He thought he would be reproached for not leaving London since Arthur’s death. He appreciated his father’s understanding.

“Thank you, Father.” He took another warming sip of his port, and it fortified him for the question he was going to ask. “Where was Arthur going when he had the accident?”

Jasper sighed, and his shoulders slightly slumped. His blue eyes, which were very much like Arthur’s, met Matthew’s, and the grief he had been avoiding was shown to him.

When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “He was on his way to visit Lady Anne Farbridge. Coachman John survived, but with severe injuries that nearly cost him his life. According to him, the horses were spooked by a deer and bolted, overturning the carriage. Arthur died within minutes of the accident.”

Lady Anne Farbridge had been Arthur’s betrothed, and there had been talks of a wedding happening toward the end of the year.

Matthew’s heart twisted with that revelation. None of them had been given the chance to bid each other farewell. How cruel of fate to bring upon them such pain, he thought.

“Arthur injured his head,” his father continued. “I cannot tell you of my shock when he was brought to me.” He took a long draught of his drink and followed it with a heavy sigh. “You must understand why we had to bury him quickly.”

Matthew closed his eyes and wondered how he would survive his stay here. He was yet to give up his bachelor lodgings in London, but he would have to do that eventually, for he had come back to Dunstowe Manor to stay.

“I hear you work at the Head Office now.” Jasper’s voice broke into his thoughts.

When Matthew had received the news of his position at the Head Office, Arthur was the first person he had written to, but he never got the chance to read it. He was already gone when the letter arrived.

“You read the letter I sent Arthur?”

“Yes. I had to read all of his missives after the incident.” He leaned forward in his chair, and his expression grew very serious. “I hope you understand that you have to give up your career. You are the heir to Dorchester now.”

Matthew winced at his father’s words. Was that all he was to him? An heir?

“I gave my notice to the office,” he said, drinking the last of his wine in one gulp.

“You should not have begun work with them,” Jasper said, his tone criticizing. “Concluding your pupillage was a waste of time.”

“It was not a waste of my time, Father,” he defended. “I worked too hard to quit in the final stages.” And he needed to keep himself occupied while he mourned.

Jasper shrugged. “That is no longer any concern of yours. My strength wanes by the day, and the earldom will be yours when I die. You are the last remaining heir in our family, and you must continue the bloodline. You must marry as soon as possible.”

Matthew’s eyes widened with disbelief. “My brother is not dead a year and you wish for me to wed?”

“You have a responsibility to Dorchester, and it comes above your sensibilities. I loved Arthur, and would give anything to have him back, but I must ensure the continuity of our line.”

“Why don’t you marry, then?” Matthew snapped, bolting to his feet and walking to the window that overlooked the gardens.

Jasper’s face grew red, and he stood slowly from his chair. “You would disrespect your mother’s memory?”

“You want me to marry before I am reconciled to my loss.”

“I lost Arthur, too.”

“Then why can’t you allow me more time?” Matthew ran his hand through his hair, releasing a strained breath.

His father had not married since his mother’s death twenty-three years ago. He loved her that much.

“I am an old man, and there is no certainty in my ability to sire another heir,” Jasper said in a calmer tone. “Arthur lived up to his responsibilities. You are in his shoes now, and the same is expected of you.”

He had been compared to Arthur his entire life, but it had never wounded him as it did now. Cursing under his breath, he stormed out of the room. He needed to be anywhere but in the same room with his father.

Perhaps the cold air outside would show him more mercy than the man that sired him. He had a horse saddled, and he rode out without any destination in mind, losing himself in his thoughts.

*****

“Letter for you, Miss Henley!”

Bridget smiled when she heard the voice of the boy that delivered messages to her, and she rose from her chair to open the door for him.

“Good morning, Miss Henley!” He beamed up at her, holding out a letter.

“Good morning, Simon.” She returned his smile as she accepted the letter from him, then fished in her pocket for a sweetmeat that she gave to him as a reward.

She would have given him money if she had enough to give, but some sugar would suffice. Besides, the boy loved them.

“Oh, thank you, Miss Henley! And do have a lovely day!” He waved as he ran.

“You, too, Simon,” she called after him.

Bridget looked down to find the letter was from her dearest friend, Eloise Gardner. She was rather surprised to receive her letter because they had seen each other only yesterday, and she wondered what it contained. She closed the door and went to sit in the chair beside the bed her mother was lying on.

“Who is it from?” Emma Henley asked, then raised a handkerchief to her mouth, coughing.

Bridget shoved the letter into her pocket and went to help her mother, lifting her back so she could be more comfortable. It seemed to ease her coughs, too.

“Better now?” she asked, tucking a small pillow behind her.

“Yes, my dear,” she replied weakly. “Thank you.”

Bridget sat down and pressed a hand to her mother’s forehead. She had had a fever last night.

“You worry too much, Bridget.” Emma smiled.

“It is my responsibility to worry and take care of you, Mama.” A small sigh punctuated her statement. She was failing at caring for her ailing mother now that she had no employment and almost no savings left.

If she did not find work soon, she might lose the only parent she had.

“But you worry too much. You have not been yourself since you were relieved of your work.”

No matter how much Bridget tried to hide her emotions from her mother, the woman always found a way to perceive them. She knew her very well. And it was only a matter of time before she discovered how little they had left. They had been well when she worked as a maid at the home of Baron Hamilton, but after his wife’s death, she had been dismissed because her services were no longer required.

Emma’s health was worsening by the day, and she could not lose her. She had helplessly watched her father lose his life to a long illness. To have history repeat would destroy her. She had not been able to afford a physician for him, and at that time, her mother’s health was already failing. Being the only healthy person in the family, she blamed herself for her inability to afford their treatment.

She recalled the pain of her father’s death and winced. She had loved him so much, and she could have cared for him. If only she had accepted that gentleman’s offer…

“Finding work is more difficult than I anticipated, Mama,” she said, gently brushing her mother’s hair away from her face.

“I know, but I have faith that you will succeed. You have a good reference from him, and you are a great girl.”

Bridget chuckled. “You flatter me, Mama.”

“No, my dear. You have taken care of me since I fell ill, and you never once complained.”

To complain was to be ungrateful, she thought. And what manner of person would she be if she did?

“Who is the letter from?” Emma asked, curiosity shining through the dullness in her eyes.

She retrieved the letter from her pocket. “Oh, it’s from Eloise. I wonder why she wrote.”

“Well, read it and find out.” Emma smiled.

Bridget opened the letter and read it aloud. When she reached the part where Eloise apprised her of a vacant position in the home of the Earl of Dorchester, she gasped.

“Mama, they are looking for a maid!” she exclaimed, hope beginning to swell in her chest. “Eloise has always spoken well about the earl. Perhaps I should go and inquire.”

Emma beamed and encouraged her. “You should, Bridget.”

When she was certain her mother was comfortable in the early afternoon, she set out to Dunstowe Manor with her reference letter in hand. She was hopeful.

Her jaw nearly dropped when she beheld the grand manor. It was at least thrice the size of Lord Hamilton’s, and she had never seen such well-tended grounds in her life. The hope she had felt earlier began to falter. An estate this large and grand would have very high expectations, and she was not certain she was qualified.

Still, she pushed on, locating the servants’ entrance on the side of the building and knocking. A maid about her age, around twenty years old, opened the door with a kind smile on her face.

“I am here to inquire about the position of a maid,” Bridget said.

“Are you Bridget, Eloise’s friend?” the maid asked.

“Er… yes, I am.”

“Oh, she has been full of praises for you and recommended you to the housekeeper, Mrs. Foster. Please come in.” She stepped aside to allow Bridget to enter.

It appeared as though she was expected. This was a good sign, she supposed. She was led to a small room to wait for the housekeeper, and her foot tapped against the wooden floor, growing more anxious as the minutes ticked by.

At last, a tall, slender woman walked in. Bridget began to rise, but the woman stayed her with a small gesture.

“There is no need to stand,” she said, her eyes sharp and assessing. “I am Mrs. Foster. Eloise speaks highly of you.”

“I hope I can live up to your expectations,” Bridget said with reservation.

Mrs. Foster sat down in a chair opposite hers. “Do you have any references?”

“Yes, from Lord Hamilton’s estate.” She proffered the letter she was putting a lot of faith in to vouch for her.

Mrs. Foster took it and perused it with a critical eye before handing it back to her, seeming satisfied with what she saw. “This is a large household, and sometimes we work well into the late hours of the night. Things have been quiet recently, but I have it on good authority that we are going to be very busy again.” She waited for Bridget to speak.

“I don’t mind work no matter how much it is.”

“Good.” She asked her a few more questions, and when she was satisfied, she said, “You will be taking the place of the girl that left us recently. You may begin work tomorrow, and Eloise will show you around.” She rose. “I shall better acquaint myself with you at another time. I must return to work.”

Bridget trembled slightly as she rose to her feet. She could not believe how fortunate she had been. She had employment now, and she would begin work as early as tomorrow. Her mother would be pleased.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Foster.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You will need to prove yourself despite the very good reference you have. Mary will show you out.”

Mary was the maid who had admitted her into the manor, and she showed her to one of the manor’s exits. Bridget thought she would see Eloise, but she supposed she was occupied. She was certain Eloise would be informed of her employment at the earliest opportunity.

Once outside, a broad smile split across her face, and she looked up at the overcast sky, sending up a silent prayer of appreciation. Her fortune was turning around. She almost skipped as she walked. Such was the extent of her joy.

She was walking down the dirt road back to her village of Belwick when the sound of hooves beating the ground startled her. She turned around to see the rider heading toward her without slowing.

Every fiber in her body screamed for her to move out of the way, but she was paralyzed by fear. Bridget was about to be trampled.

Chapter Two

“Easy, there!” the rider called, reining his horse.

Bridget blinked, recovering from her momentary paralysis, and she quickly stumbled out of the way. Her heart pounded frantically in her chest.

The rider dismounted and approached her. Cautiously, she pulled the lapels of her cloak together and took a retreating step.

“Please forgive me,” he said, his voice strong yet calm and kind. “I did not see you there, I swear it.”

“You should be paying more attention when you ride,” she reprimanded him, taking another step back. “You could have killed me.”

“Wait.” He took off his hat, and her breath caught. The man that was revealed to her had the most startling green eyes she had ever seen; yet, they were only one part that made up his handsome face. Bridget quickly dismissed the admiration she was having for his appearance. He had nearly knocked her over.

She shook her head. “I must remove myself from harm’s way. If you are not clever enough to pay attention to where you are going, then it falls upon me to think for the two of us.”

His brows rose at her curt reply, but then his features smoothened. “Are you injured?” he asked, approaching her again. There was sincere concern in his eyes, and she stopped.

“No, I am not, but you gave me quite the fright.”

“And I profoundly apologize.”

Bridget’s shoulders relaxed a little, and she felt as though she could believe he was truly remorseful. “I accept your apology.” Then she turned to leave.

“Will you allow me to escort you to where you are going?” he called after her.

She looked at him over her shoulder. “Certainly not.”

“You sound as though you have not forgiven me.”

“I have.” She quickened her pace to get away from him.

“Viscount Shaftesbury!” someone called.

This made no difference to Bridget until she heard the rider answer, “What is it? Why are you following me?”

Her body grew rigid at the realization of whom she had spoken to without regard for his rank. This man was her employer, and if he knew who she was, she was likely to lose her job. She had to leave.

Pulling her cloak tighter about her shoulders, she began to run.

“Miss!” the viscount called after her.

She did not stop until she was near the village and her lungs were threatening to fail her. She breathed in loud gasps and bent over to catch her breath.

Lord! What have I done?

Some moments later, she walked to the tiny house she shared with her mother. She was awake when she entered.

“Did you have any luck, dear?” Emma asked.

She did, and she did not. “I did,” she announced, her voice uneven. “I am going to begin work at the manor tomorrow.”

“Oh, that is wonderful, Bridget!” She held her hand out to her. “There is something else though, isn’t there?”

“I…” Bridget paused, contemplating whether or not to tell her about her encounter with the viscount. She took Emma’s outstretched hand and sat down beside her. “I met the earl’s son on my way back. His horse nearly knocked me over, and I spoke harshly to him before I knew who he was.”

“Was he offended?”

“No.”

Emma gave her a gentle smile. “Then I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You have employment now, and this is a fortunate thing, indeed.”

Bridged smiled, deciding to put aside her worry for now. “Indeed, Mama.”

Her wages were meager, and she still could not afford a physician, but she could buy medicine for her.

“I shall be living at the manor, but I will see you every Sunday,” she told her mother. “Lizzy will stay with you while I am gone.”

Lizzy was their neighbor’s teenage daughter, and she was happy to take care of Emma for a pay. She cared for her when Bridget worked at Lord Hamilton’s manor.

“I shall miss you, and I hate that you have to do this.”

Bridget wrapped her arms around Emma’s frail shoulder. “Please don’t say that, Mama. I shall miss you, too, but you will be well again in no time.” She gave her a gentle squeeze.

“All shall be well again,” Bridget murmured, more to convince herself than anything.

*****

Matthew ate his breakfast alone the following day in his bedchamber instead of in the breakfast room, disinclined to be in his father’s company. They had not spoken again since he stormed out, and he was certain the man would have a word or two to say about it.

Scooping a generous amount of jam, he slathered it on his toast and took a big bite. As he chewed, an image began to shimmer in his mind. The image of a lovely woman with vivid blue eyes and a stubborn set to her chin. He smiled.

He still had not been able to comprehend why she had run away from him or what she was doing close to the estate. He certainly had never seen her before, and her modest attire marked her as a commoner. Still, she was lovely, like a woodland sprite. And she had been unafraid as she spoke her mind.

“My lord,” Tanner spoke, and Matthew’s thoughts were interrupted.

“Yes?” He looked up from his breakfast.

“His Lordship has requested that you join him in the stables.”

Matthew groaned. “Am I, at least, allowed to finish my breakfast?”

“I believe so, my lord,” Tanner replied, straightening his crisp cravat.

Matthew felt some regret about storming off the way he had. He was not naturally predisposed to strong displays of emotion, but he had been pushed to it. The turn of events in his life had shattered his plans and his dreams. The whole reason he had worked diligently to become a barrister was to fight for justice for the disadvantaged.

The law was unfair sometimes, and he wanted to ensure innocent people did not suffer. It gave his life meaning.

He finished his meal and strode through the house. It bustled with activity as the servants milled about to carry out their tasks. He wished to walk about and reacquaint himself with his childhood home, but that would have to be at another time. Still, he poked his head into his favorite drawing room and found two maids working there. Without paying them any mind, he looked about the room with a smile on his face before continuing on.

He found his father in the stables, mounting a bay stallion. Another one was saddled alongside it.

“Good morning, Father,” he greeted.

“Yes, good morning. It is good to see your spirits have improved.” He motioned to the horse beside him. “Now, get on the horse, and let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“Come along, and you shall find out,” his father replied, a smile dancing at the corners of his mouth.

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