Prologue

It was so cold, and the rain was an added misery, each drop hitting her soaked skin and thin, drenched garments like a stinging needle of ice. Her chest, on the other hand, felt like it was on fire, every ragged, sobbing breath like coals dragging over her throat and into her ribs instead of the needed air.

It didn’t matter, just like the bruising pain of cold hard cobblestones under her chilled bare feet or the squelching, grasping cold of mud when she stumbled into a puddle. The ache in her legs, worse than the stitch in her side, didn’t matter either.

None of it mattered. All that mattered was that she keep running, running, and running to get as far away as she could from him.

She wanted to go home — wanted it so fiercely she would have cried, if she’d had breath or tears left. But the streets all looked alike to her, and she was hopelessly lost with no one in sight to help her, to guide her or give her shelter.

It was as if there was no one in the world but her… and him.

Without warning, she hit a slick patch in the road and went down with a shrill cry, her child’s voice cracking with both pain and fear as she tumbled to the paving stones, skinning her hands and knees with a force that would leave bruises. Still sobbing, she levered herself up, fighting to get to her feet.

But her legs wouldn’t work. She couldn’t stand, and she couldn’t run. She couldn’t even seem to find strength to crawl.

And then she heard it — the distinctive tap-tap-tap of his cane on the stones and the chilling sound of his deep, cold laughter, harder than the stones and cold as ice.

Fear froze her as effectively as her unresponsive legs did, but desperate fear gave her a voice through her sobbing breaths. “Help me! Someone, help me please! Help me!”

She let out a wretched sob as she looked for anyone to come to her aid. “Someone… please… he’s going to take me away! Please, take me home! Please, someone… anyone… help me.”

The rain seemed to swallow her cries before they could truly form, even as the cold, cruel laughter echoed louder and louder around her.

Then a hand came out of nowhere, seizing on the back of her neck with more force than a collar and with all the harshness of an iron chain at her throat. A cold, smooth voice echoed in her ear, “There is no escape. You’re mine, now and forever, little bird.”

She screamed in terror and pain, in desperate anguish and hopelessness, as she was dragged back into the darkness. The rain swallowed her shrieks of despair as it had swallowed her cries for help. She flailed helplessly, mindlessly, in one final effort to escape…

She thumped her hand on the headboard of her bed, catching hold just before she rolled off the thin mattress.

Diana Milwood blinked in the darkness of her small room, breathing hard as she realized where she was.

She wasn’t a child, trapped in a cage. She wasn’t a child running through the streets to escape a pursuer. She was safe in the little room she’d occupied for several years now, in the small flat Mr. Gilbert helped her maintain.

The scream had been real enough, and her throat was still aching from it. She was a bit cold, but that was the cold sweat from her nightmare, not the cold she remembered from her dream.

The rain was real enough—only, it was drumming down in sheets outside her window shutter. It wasn’t falling on her head or soaking her to the skin. It was only a sound to trouble her dreams, not something she could take chill or hurt from.

With a sigh, she rose and got a cup of water from the chipped pitcher on her small, secondhand nightstand. She drank to sooth her throat, her free hand straying to the brooch she wore close to her heart.

That brooch was the one thing that remained to her from her life before the man who haunted her dreams had taken her away and locked her in the dark. Why he’d never taken it, she didn’t know, but she clung to it for all of that.

It was the one thing she had of her family. Her memories of those “before” days were hazy, but she remembered—or thought she did—that she’d always had this one piece of jewelry. It was gold, simply decorated with an abstract knotwork design and with a single stone in the center—her birthstone.

It was a wealthy family’s brooch, the type that might be given to the beloved daughter of a well-off merchant or even, perhaps, a child of the noble class. It would not be from the highest families in the land—for she had no doubts she’d have been found by her family long before if that had been the case—but some form of nobility nonetheless.

Diana sighed, finished her water, and slipped into bed, hand still firmly clasped around the brooch as she slid back under the thin sheets and the warm coverlet. Her eyes went to the window and the sound of the drumming rain.

The faintest light of the windblown and beleaguered street lamp outside flickered through the slats, but it was enough.

There had been no light and little enough of sound when the man—the monster, rather, for that was how she thought of him still—had taken her. There was very little light or sound save when he opened the door to feed her in the dark, windowless room she’d been kept in.

Here, there was the flicker of a streetlamp and the hissing tumble of the rain. They were reminders that she had escaped, that she was no longer a frightened child, trapped by a shadowy man and held captive.

She’d escaped, and she was free. And, thanks to Mr. Gilbert, she was warm and safe enough, with food in her belly and clothes on her back and hope still in her heart.

And that was enough to be going on with, no matter what nightmares might come.

With a deep breath and a final sigh, Diana watched the windows and let the falling rain lull her back into slumber once more.

Chapter One

The rain was frigid and uncomfortable but not half so much as the impact with the cobblestones that followed a mere second or so later.

Edmund Hampton grimaced as he dragged his head from the pavement he’d crashed into. His waistcoat, shirt, and trousers were already soaking through, and this close to street level, the smell of mud and offal was impossible to escape. He wrinkled his nose blearily and tried to shove his way to his feet.

It was harder than it seemed, not just because the street seemed inclined to sway under his hands. There was also the heavy greatcoat that thumped into his back a moment later, followed by the bellowed words from the club owner, “Be off, you wastrel, and don’t be showing your face around my establishment again!”

Ah, that was right. He’d been thrown out of the club he’d been attending…again.

Two sets of feet came to stop on either side of him, and he rolled over to gaze through alcohol-blurred eyes at the bemused expressions of his two friends, Peter and James.

James was first to move, offering him a hand before bending to get his other hand under his elbow and haul him, swaying, from the muddy pavement. Once he was on his feet, more or less, Peter slung his damp coat around his shoulders.

James grinned sloppily at him. “Well, good show that, Edmund.”

Peter snorted in what was probably meant to be a disapproving tone but was too filled with mirth to come across that way as he attempted to support Edmund’s other side. “Good show? That’s the third club this month we’ve been barred from. If you keep on like that, dear chap, we’ll have no club at all to attend.”

Edmund blinked. “I was…I was defending my…my honor. There’s no–nothing wrong with that.” It was harder than it ought to be to form words, but he hardly cared. The warm glow of alcohol in his blood was far more important. “I’mma lord. I am…a duke even.”

“You’re not a duke yet, Edmund, as you well know. And in any case, that’s hardly a reason to be trying to thrash a fellow for losing a single hand of cards. The stakes weren’t even all that high.”

James laughed. “Well, drink and a temper, and you’ll have both I suppose, Edmund. And you and me, Peter, we knew it well enough.”

“That’s as may be. But where shall we go now?” Peter grimaced. “The weather is truly foul, and there’s no point in wasting the warmth of good liquor on this chill rain. I’d rather a trip to somewhere more congenial, if you don’t mind.”

Peter, as the least encumbered and inebriated, went to find their carriage. Edmund stood, leaning on James’ shoulder and trying not to look as drunk as he felt. His head felt foggy, but under the fog, there was a thread of mingled remorse and resentment.

Peter wasn’t wrong. And nor was James. The Viscount Harcort hadn’t won all that much off of him. But his pride had been pricked by the sly comments the other was making, and in the haze of his fifth (or was it sixth?) shot of scotch, it had seemed unreasonable that the man could have beaten his full house with the cards he had and intolerable that he should make such mocking statements about how quickly he’d be draining Edmund’s purse.

And why shouldn’t he have challenged the man?

He wasn’t quite sure how it had gone from that to the attempted fisticuffs that had resulted in his being thrown bodily from the establishment. Even with the cold rain clearing his head somewhat, he only had vague memories of shouting before a lunge around the table had brought the club owner’s wrath down on his head.

The carriage clattered around, and James and Peter helped him stumble his way into it. He blinked rain out of his eyes as he slumped into the seat. “Where shall we go now?”

“After being subjected to that weather, I think I’m for home and a hot brick and a hot meal, to say nothing of a hot toddy in front of my own fireplace.” Peter grimaced and huddled into his own greatcoat. “In any case, it’s late enough, and I’ve business to be attending to in the morning.”

“That’s a fair point.” James nodded. “The weather’s not fit for man or beast, and the evening is getting on. It might be best to call it an evening.”

A part of him wanted to protest. The rest of him was tired and wanted nothing more than his own rooms and his own bed. He sighed, then heaved himself up and thumped on the roof of the carriage. “To my flat, then deliver these fine gentlemen to their own homes before you turn in for the evening.”

“As you will sir.” There was a muted snap of the wet leather of the reins, and the carriage lurched into motion.

Soon enough, they clattered to a stop, and he looked out through the spitting rain to see his own front door. He heaved himself out of the seat and lurched toward the carriage door, steadied by James, and he shoved it open and stumbled forward with uneven steps.

The door opened before he reached it, revealing the stiff-backed and disapproving form of his valet, Collins.

Behind him, the carriage clattered away into the rain, leaving him to shoulder the full force of Collins’ displeased expression. Edmund grumbled under his breath, then made his way forward, passing Collins to the warm dryness of his own moderately lit hall.

Collins’ disapproval was nothing new. The valet might be his in name, but the truth was that Collins was his mother’s man through and through, hired by her when he announced his intentions to reside in London. He was above all loyal to her, though Edmund was supposedly responsible for his salary and his living conditions.

He knew Collins reported to his mother on a regular basis. But what use was there in trying to find a new valet or trying to stop him? It would only upset his mother further.

Collins took his greatcoat, hat, and gloves. “Your evening, sir?”

“Well, I shan’t be attending that particular club again.” He grimaced. “Is there a fire laid in my rooms?”

“There is.”

“Then have bottle of brandy brought up. It’s bitter weather out.”

“Is that wise, sir? You seem to have had a fair amount at the club.” Collins, drat the man, managed to sound disapproving while also sounding utterly correct and well within his role as a valet.

Edmund exhaled sharply in annoyance. “None of that. And don’t give me that disapproving look either. You put me in mind of my mother when you look all stiff like that.”

Mood soured, he turned his steps to the cellar, intending to get his own bottle if Collins was going to be tiresome. But the stairs seemed to waver out from under him, and he found himself stumbling off-balance against the wall instead, grunting as his shoulder impacted the brickwork.

He heard Collins sigh, and then firm hands took his arm and levered him back to his feet. “Come, sir. I’ll see you to your rooms—with a dram, if you must insist on continuing this behavior. At least you’ll be in private, I suppose.”

Edmund scowled. “And what reason is there that I shouldn’t do what I like, in my own home or out of it?”

Collins sighed again as he guided him into his rooms and into a seat by the fire. “If I may be so bold, sir, a man’s reputation is everything, and yours is not…favorable. But that aside, your mother would surely be distressed to see you in such a state.”

“And what of it?”

Collins said nothing for a moment, but his lips pressed together in evident disapproval. Edmund groaned, holding his slightly aching head. “Out with it, man. You may as well speak your mind, rather than skulking around with that scowl on your face for days.”

Collins studied him for a long moment then moved to stand in front of him, back straight and hands behind his back. “Then, if I have permission to speak plainly, sir, I will say this. Your mother permitted and facilitated your move to London so that you might find some purpose to your life and learn those things a proper gentleman needs to know about conducting oneself in the circles to which your birthright entitles you entrance. Instead, you seem content to sink deeper and deeper into this dissipated lifestyle of indulgence in alcohol and loose women.”

Edmund scowled at the fire, feeling like a chastened schoolboy. “And?”

Collins voice softened, “Your mother worries for you and for the future of the Hampton title. She sent you another letter today, and it would well behoove you to answer her and at least assure her that you are in no dire straits, even if you can assure her of nothing else.”

Edmund sighed. He would have preferred to be angry at Collins and his accusations, but at the same time, he had given his manservant permission to speak freely. And in any case, it was not as though Collins had said anything untrue.

The alcohol glow seemed to be fading, leaving him weary and with a sore head. And yet, he had no more desire for the brandy he had previously requested. With a grimace, he rolled his head to look at Collins. “Perhaps there is something wrong with me, do you think?”

Collins studied him for a moment then shook his head. “Not at all, young master. You’ve perhaps lost your way somewhat, but I would not say that you are a hopeless case nor that there is anything wrong with you that some discipline and a proper purpose to your life would not mend.”

It was comforting to hear, even if he wasn’t entirely sure that Collins was being truthful. “Thank you, Collins.”

His valet nodded. “I’ll return with your nightcap and a tonic for your head, sir.” He bowed once then turned and disappeared through the open door of the bedroom.

Alone, Edmund cast his gaze over his room. The large bed dominated the room, piled high with pillows and blankets, including a heavy duvet that would be a welcome addition on a night like this. Beyond that, there was a pitcher of water and a wash basin on the chest of drawers.

Then there was a nightstand over between the bed and the windows, with a lamp standing ready to be lit with the taper over the fireplace. Between the lamp and the bed sat a shallow dish with several missives stacked neatly.

He didn’t need to see the handwriting to know that they were all from his mother—all unopened and unread.

Collins was right. Ignoring his mother would make things no better between them nor was it kind to her. With a grunt, he heaved himself to his feet and made his way with careful steps to bedside table to look at the gathered letters. He stared at them for a moment then scooped them up and returned to his seat.

He opened the one dated from several weeks prior first and read it through, then the next and the next. Finally, he opened the one that had arrived while he was out.

It was exactly like the dozen or so before it.

My Dear Son,

I have not heard from you in nearly two months, and yet, I have heard much reported of your activities, and I am full of sorrow and consternation as to the way you have comported yourself, if the rumors I have heard are to be believed. And how can I not give them countenance when I have heard no word otherwise from you?

What am I to think when I hear of your continuous attendance at the most disreputable clubs and dance halls in London or when I hear of you engaged in dalliance after dalliance, and all of them with girls of lower class or poor repute?

What I am to think when I receive such high bills from the liquor sellers of barrels and bottles delivered in such high quantities to your dwelling?

What am I to think when I have heard that the few proper gentleman’s clubs you have managed to gain entrance to, you have summarily been banned from for fighting and other conduct unacceptable in any gentleman, much less one of your status?

I fear you have gained a reputation of a rogue and a gentleman of dissolute and untrustworthy character, my son, and I beg of you to cease such disgraceful behaviors before your reputation becomes tarnished beyond any hope of repair.

A young man, an heir to his father’s title, might be expected to err somewhat, to act in a somewhat wild manner for a short space of time. Young men run hot-blooded and hot-tempered after all. But, as for my son…

My son, you will soon no longer be simply the heir to your father’s title of Duke Hampton. Soon, very soon, the title will pass to you from your uncle, as is proper. And a duke cannot have such stains to his reputation and his character, not if he wishes to retain the honor and the financial success of his title. If you wish to maintain the wealth and status of your birthright, you must take steps to secure yourself a reputation and character that will befit such a position.

I beg you, my dear son. Cease this drinking and dissipation and consorting with uncouth women of low or dubious character. Find yourself some appropriate occupation and some company of the sort that befits a noble of such status as yours.

And, if you must have female companionship, then find a young lady of proper breeding and temperament to be your partner. I do not require a formal understanding of you, but I would ask that you find a lady who is of a more acceptable reputation and bearing.

My dear son, I know no young man likes to receive such words from his mother, but please understand, I wish only every happiness and success in life for you. I admonish you only with your welfare and your future in mind.

Believe this, my son, and know I love you deeply and wish only to hear that you are well.

Your Loving Mother,

Christine Hampton, Dowager

Edmund groaned and leaned against the wing of the chair, staring at the letter in his hands, head aching and gut churning.

He knew, if he forced himself to think properly about the matter, that his mother was correct. He needed to find something productive to do with himself. He had fallen to bad habits in his schoolboy days and continued them afterward.

But how was that his fault, when his father was a laggard who’d renounced his title and run off with his mistress when he was only a boy of tender years? He’d been raised to adulthood by an uncle barely old out of boyhood himself when he’d taken temporary custody of the title, the estate, and his child nephew’s rearing.

It wasn’t his fault. And yet, reading his mother’s admonishments, he could taste the bitterness of disappointment and an awareness of his own faults of character.

He hated disappointing his mother. He didn’t want to continue to do so. And yet, he’d no idea how to start meeting the demands she’d made of him.

With a scowl, he threw the letters into the fire, watching them curl and burn with little sparks of randomly-colored fire where the heat ignited the inks in the paper.

He needed to find a proper gentleman’s club and build a proper reputation.

He needed to drink less as well, though even the thought of foregoing his regular evening drinks was uncomfortable.

He needed to find a lady with whom he could establish a relationship his mother would approve of. He was far from looking for a wife, a marriage, or even a fiancée, but perhaps he could foster the illusion of such a relationship. They’d have a cordial courting, and then he could say they didn’t suit after all.

Or…

Edmund straightened as a thought came to him. Why should he go through a farce of meeting a lady, courting her attention, and all that tiresome behavior? It wasn’t actually necessary to do so. It was only really necessary to let his mother believe he had done so.

That could be accomplished with a simple letter.

Edmund lurched from his seat to the side table and reached for the clean paper stock, pen, and inkwell that rested there.

He lit the lamp for better illumination then uncapped his inkwell, pulled free a sheet of paper, and after a few moments of consideration, began to write.

My Dear Mother,

I do apologize for the absence of correspondence, dear mother. And I will confess, I am not so unaware of my faults of character as you seem to fear I am. But there is one matter in which I fear you have been misinformed, and that is the matter of what sort of female companionship I keep.

To wit, my dear mother, in recent days, I have been seeing a young woman, one whom I imagine you would heartily approve of if you could but meet her.

You will not have heard of her, either her name in conjunction with mine nor in any society pages or other such correspondence, for she is quite dreadfully shy. Likewise, she is perhaps of poorer prospects financially than many of our circle usually associate much with and somewhat discomforted by this fact.

Nonetheless, Mother, she is a girl of good and modest character, with a graceful nature and becoming behavior and appearance. It is but early days yet between us, and I cannot say yet if matters will progress in the manner you and I might both hope. However, to date, I find her a most charming lady, and I have some hopes to properly court her. Should my suit be accepted, I may even be proposing marriage in the coming months.

I apologize that I have not communicated such to you sooner, but I have been rather cautious in my advances, a necessity with the reputation which, as you pointed out, I have so unfortunately gathered. I did not wish to reveal my efforts, should they meet with failure. Nonetheless, that is how matters stand.

Perhaps I will have better news yet for you in coming days, but for now, I beg you be satisfied with this news.

Your Devoted Son,

Edmund

He finished the letter with drying power then folded it up and worked it into an envelope just as Collins entered with a discreet knock and a tray holding a tumbler of brandy and a larger glass of tonic.

Doubtless the man had delayed to give him time to sober up and languish in the headache overindulgence brought in its wake. In any case, Edmund thought he saw a glimmer of surprise in the man’s eyes to find him at the little-used side table that served as his bedroom desk rather than in his bed or still in the fireside chair.

“Collins.” He gestured for the valet to place the small tray on the side table. “I…well, you’ve made your point, about my mother. I read her correspondence while you were fetching my medicine.” A raised eyebrow but no comment greeted those words as he continued, “I’ve written her a reply.” He handed over the letter. “See that gets in the morning post to Bath, will you?”

“Of course, sir.” Collins took the letter and tucked it into his pocket. He laid out Edmund’s nightclothes and helped him change then stoked the fire and took his leave, shutting the door behind him.

Alone at last, Edmund knocked back the tonic then sipped at the brandy to wash away the taste. Once the last drops were drained, he blew out his lamp and settled into his bed with a sigh.

Perhaps he might need a change, but tomorrow was soon enough to be thinking of it.

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Prologue

Yorkshire, England

September 1802

Autumn was the most beautiful time of year in the Yorkshire Moors. Each hill, each tree, and each rock; seemed to be on fire, with the colors of the leaves changing, dancing to the delicate autumnal wind. It was a wild landscape, fitting for the Wilde family, enjoying a remarkably warm day in their garden.

“Come here, you little demon!” Lord Wilde said, the moniker a good-natured term of endearment rather than a mean one.

“You have to catch me, Papa!” little Aileen cried gleefully, with all the strength a ten-year-old could muster. She ran and laughed until she couldn’t hear or see her father’s hearty laughter or see his shadow any longer. But after a while, she grew worried for she was still in the garden, hence not beyond the property. So where was he?

“Papa?” she repeated, her eyes becoming glassy with tears when, all of a sudden, strong arms lifted her up from behind and raised her into the air. She squealed with delight.

“I caught you, my lady!” Lord Wilde cried.

“That’s unfair, Papa! You hid!”

Despite her words, Aileen kept laughing and squirming in her father’s grip. Unfortunately, such playfulness was short-lived, as Giles, the head footman, cleared his throat in the doorway of the garden.

Lord Wilde finally set Aileen down on her two feet.

“My lord, you have visitors. They await you in the foyer.”

Aileen abruptly stopped giggling. She didn’t know why, but a chill ran down her spine, and it was not one of happy anticipation. There was a certain set of visitors the Wilde Manor expected, and Aileen wasn’t sure she was ready for them. Her Papa had been anxious about their arrival, having the staff clean the entire house from top to bottom. He’d even had a new gown made for Aileen, of a buttery yellow with a white sash. There were even bees embroidered on the sleeves and hem. She felt very fine in it, so that was at least one positive she could gain from this entire experience.

“Of course, Giles. Aileen, are you ready to meet your new Mama and sisters?”

She was not, but ever the dutiful daughter, even at her young age, she nodded.

“Yes, Papa.”

She wondered if he knew that she was not.

***

Aileen could hear her new family before she even saw them. Wilde Manor hadn’t had so much commotion in a long time. Quite honestly, it was a little jarring.

“Careful with that box, old man; I have my most prized possessions in them!” came the very authoritative, if a little icy, female voice. Then Giles and the other footman appeared, moving the large chests like set pieces at an opera.

Aileen had never seen such massive chests in her life. Her heart was pitter-pattering from the chaotic scene. Her father must have felt the same way because he gripped her hand even tighter.

“Oh, there he is, my darling Frederick!” And, thus, the frigid voice was matched to a face. A beautiful woman dressed in the finest green silk gown emerged from the madness that was the dance of the chests. This lady was stunning, a column of rose and alabaster wrapped in emerald. She moved with the grace of a swan. Aileen found herself struck dumb at the sight.

Her father dropped her hand suddenly and moved forward to kiss the stunning woman. It was just a short peck, more like a gesture of formality rather than a passionate gesture.

The noise started up again at the front of the hall. Aileen could see outside the wide open front door: a carriage and two girls stumbling out of it unhappily.

“Mother, the weather is positively scorching! I thought it was supposed to be cooler up north!” one of them whined.

“I can’t seem to find my fan anywhere,” the other said miserably.

“Girls! It is hardly the time!” snapped the beautiful woman, looking over her shoulder at them. The girls stomped into the foyer, red-faced and huffing.

“These must be my new daughters,” Lord Frederick said, smiling while looking past Aileen, who pressed her lips together nervously.

“You are correct as always, Frederick. These are my girls, Beatrice–” she gestured a graceful hand to the one who had complained of the northern weather, a ginger girl with a round face, “and Honora,” she pointed to the other, a blonde with an overly freckled nose.

Lord Wilde bowed as if he were at court.

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, ladies,” he said. The two girls giggled and curtsied as was proper.

“And this is my lovely daughter, Aileen,” he continued, stepping aside to reveal a frozen in place Aileen.

She felt so very awkward upon meeting new people, especially ones who were so intimidating.

“It is erm… l-lovely to m-meet you.” She inwardly berated herself for stuttering. She had a bad habit of doing that when she was nervous. When writing a letter or around people with whom she was comfortable, there were no issues. She then remembered to curtsy quickly, which was a little wobbly under pressure.

Beatrice and Honora snickered behind their mother, who seemed not to notice.

“I am Lady Clarissa Bolton, no, Lady Wilde now, since I’ve married your father.”

“Please do come in; there is no sense in standing around in the foyer,” Lord Wilde said, beaming.

As they walked through the hall to the private family sitting room, Lady Clarissa’s daughters looked up and down and around in amazement. Whereas the lady herself seemed to look upon it with distaste. Aileen made all these little observations in her head as if she were taking notes.

“I must say, Frederick, I thought it would be grander. I’ve heard so much about the Wilde Manor, but it’s so much… darker than I expected.”

Little Aileen was irritated by the insult, but she couldn’t blame her for noticing the darkness. It hadn’t been updated since her real mother died, and all of the furniture, as well as many of the paintings, were indeed dark and heavy.

“To your credit, the furnishings look expensive,” Lady Clarissa said, patting the upholstery of the arm of the sofa when she sat down.

One of the maids set down a tray of tea. Aileen watched as Lady Clarissa eyed the porcelain. It was impossible to tell what she thought until she drank the tea. She wrinkled her nose and set the cup down quickly.

“Goodness, that is strong tea.”

Her father laughed good-naturedly, and Aileen felt a pang of disappointment flash through her. That was the laugh he reserved for when they played together in the garden. It was not meant for other people.

“It is fortifying. Usually, it is much colder this time of year, and you shall be glad of such strong tea when it snows.”

“Ah, but a good wine is much better for–”

Aileen interrupted at that moment. Her father was attempting to make a good impression on the newcomers, so she tried to match that.

“I w-would like to show y-y-you my greenhouse,” she offered, looking up at the beautiful lady.

Lady Clarissa’s bright green eyes affixed upon her in such an abrupt way that Aileen was taken aback.

“Oh, your greenhouse! Whatever that place is, it sounds very interesting,” she said, scrunching her face and tapping Aileen on the nose. “But I am so fatigued from the journey. Perhaps you should like to help my daughters unpack,” Lady Clarissa suggested with a smile that befitted a snake rather than a woman.

“Mother, shall we have our own greenhouse too?” Honora asked.

“I want mine purple!” Beatrice said with a bright smile.

Aileen’s father laughed again, and she bristled, her irritation growing by the minute.

“You shall have anything you like now that you are my daughters.”

Beatrice and Honora squealed until Lady Clarissa shushed them.

“Run along now girls. Go explore. Get to know each other. We’ll all dine together later as a family.”

The cool way Lady Clarissa said it made Aileen very much doubt that, but as an obedient and unobtrusive child, she did as she was told.

Beatrice and Honora ran out into the foyer and up on the grand staircase, but Aileen bit her fingernails and hung back near the doorway of the library, anxious to be apart from her father. But this was her life now, and these girls would be her sisters. Her father and late mother would expect politeness. She shyly approached the two girls, intending to introduce herself properly. They were huddled on the stairs, whispering and giggling.

“Why are you wearing that? It’s so old-fashioned,” Beatrice commented.

“You look like a bumblebee,” Honora said. The two of them made buzzing noises in unison for a second, then broke into hysterical laughter.

Aileen could feel tears gathering in her eyes as her hands bunched the buttery yellow fabric. She had promised her mother to stay strong no matter what, and she wasn’t about to break that promise over a pretty yellow dress and some mean-spirited girls. She had to persevere.

Chapter One

Wilde Manor, Yorkshire, October 1812

 “Have you seen my shawl, Aileen?” came a shrill voice from the other side of the room.

“Which of them, Honora?” Aileen asked, masking a sigh.

“The one with the beadwork! Can’t you see it’s the only one that suits this gown?”

Honora did a twirl in her blue silk gown as if inviting effusive praise.

“Honora, surely you do not expect Aileen to know about fashion like you do. Why, she can barely dress herself!” Beatrice jabbed.

They burst into terrible rounds of laughter while Aileen rolled her eyes. After ten years, she was used to the taunts of her stepsisters, so she continued to search for the shawl amongst the heap of gowns on the bed.

“I, for one, do not think there’s anyone in all of England capable of making a dress your size; even the most famous modiste would run out of fabric if she tried,” Honora said.

“Little wonder Father scarcely ever comes back with a gown for her!” They both screeched with laughter.

“I am not fat!” Aileen maintained. “You have such a way with your exaggerations.”

“Yes, you are! Mother says you are, and everyone else knows it.” Beatrice seemed to enjoy watching Aileen’s face turn red as she stole glances at her stepsister through the mirror on the vanity.

“Papa says I’m petite and pear-shaped,” Aileen said.

“You mean bean-shaped?” Honora said with a snort, causing the stepsisters to crow in laughter.

Aileen rolled her eyes. These girls would never change. They hadn’t in ten years and probably wouldn’t in another ten. After she located the beaded shawl, she raised her gaze to the elegant backs of her stepsisters. Honora generously dabbed perfume on while Beatrice fussed over flowers and ribbons on her bonnet. A peculiar sense of longing arose in Aileen. She liked fine things, and part of her wished she, too, could dress up and attend events. But she was too clumsy and shy, which doubled in the presence of her stepmother and stepsisters. At the beginning of the season, she tripped over her feet and crashed into her dance partner. It wasn’t that bad–he’d laughed–but Lady Clarissa was so embarrassed and infuriated by Aileen’s fumble that she’d ordered her to be sequestered at Wilde Manor until she could comport herself properly in public. How being away from all polite society would help her practice, Aileen did not understand, but Lady Clarissa was fearsome indeed.

As the stepsisters rose to meet the carriage downstairs, Aileen suggested, “You might want a Spencer or a coat for the cold.”

“No, Aileen, that would ruin the look. See, you know so little about fashion!” Beatrice snapped.

“Yes, you ought to stay and tidy the room instead,” Honora added.

They laughed as they exited the room in a cloud of perfume. After closing the door behind them, Aileen coughed and sat on the edge of the bed, surveying the mess in the room. The other ladies of Wilde Manor were on their way to the Earl of Warwickshire’s northern country home for tea. It had been a month since the incident at the first ball of the season, and she was still being held away. There were plenty of months left, but Aileen would sit out the entire season if her stepmother had her way. And then she’d chastise me for being a spinster, she reflected bitterly. At the very least, her father would be at home today. He’d taken a long journey around the continent. Although they frequently wrote, quill and ink could never replace his warm smile and genuine eyes.

She picked up the dresses on the floor and put them on the bed, then began to fold everything delicately to put it back in the wardrobe. Out of the corner of her eye, a gown caught her attention. It was as delicate as a sugar confection, intricately laced with gold shimmering and teardrop pearls over a lush rosy under gown. The sleeves were so insubstantial as to be mere whispers of silk, and the neck came down low. She loved everything about the dress. As much as her stepsisters disdained her, she really did like fashion and pretty things. She picked it up and held it against herself in the long mirror. It was the perfect color to bring out her complexion.  Her light brown hair and amber eyes seemed darker, but it was rather perfect. Perhaps, next time her father went on a trip, she’d request fabric like this instead of flowers and wear such a gown to a ball. Whenever her father traveled, he brought back all sorts of gifts for his wife and daughters. And, of course, Beatrice and Honora always had the latest and greatest fabrics. And they looked quite stunning in them–after all, they’d grown into quite beautiful young women. When Aileen had first met them, they were still red-faced, freckled children. She, however, did not feel as though she’d changed much. Instead of fabric, she always asked for exotic plants and flowers that she could not procure in Yorkshire. Lord Wilde brought those back every time, and she tended them faithfully in her greenhouse.

“Aiileeeen!”

Her stepmother called her name shrilly. Aileen said a quick, silent prayer for strength, then tossed the gown on the bed, her steps quickening as her stepmother called her again. When she reached the top of the stairs in the grand foyer, Lady Clarissa was waiting at the bottom, stroking a feathered fan impatiently.

“Did you not hear me calling for you?” Even from this distance and the high ground, Aileen could see those green eyes spark.

“I’m sorry, your grace, I was tending to the dressing room.”

Lady Clarissa sniffed in derision.

“I will be out to run errands, so make sure the house is spotless for your father’s return. I have sent Bonnie to chaperone my girls. You’ll have plenty of time alone to clean the house. I expect that shouldn’t be a troublesome task for you.”

Not long after arriving at Wilde Manor, Lady Clarissa had dismissed most of the staff, claiming they were incompetent or rude to her. The other servants she’d hired in their stead handed in their notice not too long after starting, unable to work under the lady’s demands. So, Aileen did much of the cleaning in the large, empty home.

“Well, I was hoping I could spend some time at the greenhouse with Bianca today,” Aileen said, fidgeting with her fingers behind her back. Her stutter had gone, but it was replaced by fiddling with various things instead.

“Ugh, not that greenhouse again. It is little wonder you have no prospects or friends when you hide away in there all the time,” she said mockingly.

“Bianca is my friend,” she protested. Bianca Dowling was the daughter of a neighboring lord, and the two had often played as children. Now that they were older, there was less and less time for play, especially since her duties at the manor kept her so preoccupied.

Lady Clarissa scoffed.

“I’m sure your one friend can wait.”

Aileen fought the tears that welled up in her eyes with anger. It is your fault that I am not allowed out, she wanted to say. You do this to me. But she didn’t. She needed to keep calm and not give her stepmother any more cause for teasing.

“I am at a loss for what to do with you, Aileen. I told your father he ought to be sterner with you. But, the man doesn’t seem to have a single harsh bone in his body. If I had my way–”

Don’t you always? Aileen thought but did not say it aloud.

“–I would toss you out of the house this instant so you could learn the cold realities of life. You cannot always be living in a fairytale. As a lady, you must–”

Giles interrupted at that moment, looking a little too pleased with himself.

“Your Grace, your carriage is ready.” He was not shy with his dislike of Lady Clarissa.

She rounded on him immediately, forgetting Aileen.

“Such impudent servants. I wonder where Frederick procured you. Lucky he insists on having you around.”

Giles only nodded and smiled, utterly immune to Lady Clarissa’s venomous words.

“Thank you, Giles,” Aileen said, finally feeling safe enough to descend the stairs.

“It seemed like you needed saving, my lady. That old bat seems to prefer the sound of her own voice to any other tune.”

“Oh, don’t let her catch you saying that!” Aileen said with a laugh. “Though I should hop to it, I suppose.” Her tone was decidedly somber at that.

It was evident Giles could not help but feel such pity for her. The way Lady Clarissa treated her when Lord Wilde was not around was unacceptable. Still, because of the power balance, he could not say anything. And she looked a little worse for wear too. Her amber eyes were dull, and there were dark circles under them. And to top it all, she wasn’t allowed to bathe as often as her stepsisters as her hair was a little dirtier and her skin not quite as fresh looking.

“It isn’t your place to clean after them,” Giles reminded her gently.

“Oh, I don’t mind. Papa wants us all to be family, and I just want to make him happy. He seems to love Lady Clarissa, and I love seeing him happy.”

“What about you, my lady? Are you happy?”

Aileen paused, a brief flash of truth in her eyes.

“I am content and grateful for all we have, Giles. I should hasten. Surely Papa will be home soon.”

Giles knew better than to press on, so he bowed and began to make his way down the corridor by the front door as Aileen made her way upstairs. Through the open window that looked out onto the front garden, the clip-clop of hooves and the creak of a carriage wheel sounded. Could it be His Grace, arriving early? Or perhaps Her Grace had forgotten something… Aileen made her way down the staircase again when a knock sounded. She could not see very far through the cracked door.

“Good day, sir. How can I help you?” Giles asked.

Well, it certainly wasn’t her father, from the sound of that voice.

“My name is Edmund Barnes. I request to speak to the lady of the house,” the man responded, his tone imperious.

“The lady of the house is out at the moment, but you can speak with her,” Giles said while motioning to Aileen, whose footsteps alerted him of her presence. He opened the door a little further so she and the visitor could properly see each other. “This is Lady Aileen Wilde, daughter of Lord Frederick Wilde. She can receive your call.”

Aileen curtsied politely, quietly commending herself for not falling. The young man raised his hat to his chest as he greeted her. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. His curly hair, light freckles on his face, and easy way of speaking were endearing. Perhaps she was too easily impressed… after all, she had grown up with very little masculine company. The young man’s face fell as he looked at Aileen, who clearly resembled a servant. She realized then that her gloves were stained, she was wearing a ratty apron, and she did not look like a lord’s daughter. However, he did not seem to notice as he appeared to be quite disheartened.

“My lady, my deepest apologies. I’m afraid I bear horrid news.”

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Chapter One

Rose stood with her clenched fists hidden within the silken folds of her skirts. Her whole body was ramrod stiff; so much so she was almost shaking.

“I cannot believe you consider this appropriate, Your Grace.” She almost spat the title at her brother-in-law. “My husband not dead even a year.”

“Oh, don’t give me that grief-stricken bride act.”  Ernest Barrington stubbed out the cigar he had arrived smoking on her china tea saucer, sitting atop her antique writing desk. ‘We know there was nothing between you, and certainly not a baby!”

He did not hide his pleasure at that. It was the first thing the pair had agreed on all afternoon, but she would not admit it to him. She was beginning to realize that without the patter of tiny feet, her position in this stunning castle was extremely tenuous.

“The Duke and I understood each other very well,” Rose insisted, jutting out her chin to cling to a modicum of self-confidence.

“Sadly, not as well as the dozen or so other women on whom he bestowed his favors, who have at least had the sense to realize their good fortunes are over. You got what you wanted out of Ambrose; your father’s debt paid off with money that should rightfully be mine now, and your sister’s place in society guaranteed. Now it is payback time.”

Rose did not grace him with a reply. She just stared him down.

“You must know that the church does not approve of such practices,” she said.

“Oh, so you have suddenly become pious now?” He cocked his head to one side and gave her a sneering smile.

“I was raised to be God-fearing, Your Grace.’

“Well, in my opinion, the church has very little to do with religion. It is simply a system of control, and I don’t need controlling. What I am asking of you is not against the law, and it makes perfect sense for both of us. And who, except us, is going to object?”

But I do object, thought Rose.  Every single cell in my body is objecting. She could not fail to observe how the rolls of fat around his middle were straining against his vest buttons and breeches.  He was so overweight his legs looked like sticks trying to hold up a disproportionate torso. But that was not the worst thing about him.

“Look,” he was trying again. “It must be quite plain this is sensible, even to you.” Ernest took stepped across the red silk rug in the drawing room to come uncomfortably close to her. She moved to step back, but the loveseat behind her was blocking her retreat. The smell of tobacco, alcohol, and pungent cologne emanating from him was overpowering. At close quarters, he was even more repugnant; his skin blotched and pot-marked. His fine clothing—which had led to Ambrose calling him ‘The Dandy’, and not in an affectionate way—did not make up for his unsightly countenance. She gulped down her revulsion at his nearness and attempted a smile. She was going to have to try a different tack.

“Your Grace, I am sure you could find a far younger and more lovely life companion, especially with your new-found status.”

“What do I want with a ton twit?” Ernest spat, his spittle landing on her cheek. It was all she could do not to dash it away, but she was not going to do anything which would widen his Machiavellian leer.

“I want you and I always have, long before Ambrose chose to thwart me. But you are still young enough to serve me well.”

He reached out and touched one gnarled finger to the back of her hand before she whipped hers away. He smiled with the smugness of an animal circling its prey, knowing all routes were blocked.

“You really only have two choices, my dear. Marry me and be the Duchess of Norfolk, or endure a life of poverty.”

“I am already the Duchess of Norfolk,” she retorted.

“The Dowager Duchess now,” he sneered.  “You can keep that title. It means nothing. It can’t buy you a house, pay your servants, pay or your bills. Only marriage to me will guarantee that.”

“Or marriage to someone else!” She aimed her chin at him again.

“But my dear, who would want you? You’re barren.”

Rose reeled at his cruelty. She hadn’t expected such a low comment, even from him. She didn’t know she was barren. The problem could have lain with Ambrose. But she was aware of the gossip in the ton, which would certainly restrict any marriage proposals. However, the one thing his comment had cemented in her was her resolve to have nothing to do with her late husband’s brother.

Rose steeled herself to bring her face closer to his as she ground out angrily, “I wouldn’t marry you if my life depended on it.”

Ernest was unfazed. He shrugged. “I would say, my dear, that it does.”

He watched her, hawk-like, as she moved away from him, over to one of the long windows looking out across the castle gardens. In the distance, she could see the rooftops of the town, rolling down to the River Arun beyond. A fully-laden barge was moving slowly towards Arundel port. It was a dull, rainy English summer’s day, but the lushness of the lawns, and the greenery of the forest, usually pleased her even when wet. Not today, however.

“The Duke and I were married for nine years without one child, as you have so charitably pointed out.” She suppressed the quiver in her voice. “Why would you wish to marry me?”

“I am not interested in children!” Ernest Barrington laughed. “You will be too busy to look after them if I have anything to do with it.” He leered then lasciviously, letting his gaze sink toward the top of her cleavage. She moved her hands to cover herself there. He smiled, and she could see the tobacco stains on his teeth. “The title can die with me as far as I am concerned,” he said.

“But this is my house, my home,” Rose said softly, almost beseechingly.

“No, Duchess, it is mine, but if you marry me, you may lodge in it.”

The Duke reached into the breast pocket of his navy dress coat and withdrew a small silver snuff box. Flipping it open, he put some snuff on the back of his thumb, brought it close to his nose, and inhaled deeply and loudly before putting it back in its place.  Then he began to pace back and forth along the silk rug, his exasperation obvious with every step. “Look, I have waited long enough. I stayed away until now, remaining in the London house. I have entertained decorum. I am a considerate man.” He stared at her then as if to defy any comment from her to the contrary. “You cast off your black robes soon enough. You have had eleven months, and in a few weeks you will be free to marry again. I am giving you seven days to make your decision. I must admit, I expected someone in your position to be more grateful. I am being more than generous. You will not want for anything. You married one Duke of Norfolk to get what you wanted. What’s the difference?”

Rose did not grace him with an answer. She decided she had entertained his lewd looks quite enough for one day.  “I want you to leave now,” she told him.

He laughed. “Oh, but it isn’t about what you want any longer, is it, Rose?” His use of her given name rather than her title raised her ire even further.

“Well, if you won’t leave, then I will. Good day to you, Your Grace.” With that, she walked out of the drawing room and across the castle’s entry hall, only then swiping the back of her hand furiously across her cheek to remove any trace of his disgusting ejections.

Her butler hurried after her: “Can I be of assistance, Your Grace?”

“Yes. Make sure he leaves. I am going out.”

The butler looked concerned.

“Shall I ready your carriage?”

“No, thank you.”

Rose had no destination in mind; she just knew she needed to be alone. She changed direction suddenly and headed for the boot room. “I am going for a walk.”

“But it is so wet outside, Your Grace,” she heard the butler say.

The wetter, the better, Rose thought, to wash the stench of Ernest Barrington out of my nostrils.

She did not stop to change her clothes; she truly did not care what she was wearing.                       Theirs had indeed been no love match. Ambrose Barrington had not been looking for a lover—or should she say, another one—and she knew there was only one man she would ever love but couldn’t have. So, she had accepted the marriage proposal from the Duke of Norfolk after her parents died and set about making her surroundings as comfortable as possible if that was to be her life.  The Duke had ensured she looked the part of his duchess to everyone outside the walls of their palatial castle, but their arrangement had been a business deal: her reputation for his heir. It had not worked out that way.

Rose pulled on a pair of half boots beneath her cream satin skirts. She shunned her own tight-fitting outdoor apparel and grabbed Ambrose’s hunting coat from where it was still hanging on a peg, shrugging the hood over her head. She was well-known in Arundel town, and there had been a steady procession of well-wishers to her door since Ambrose had fallen from his horse. She did not want to run into anyone and feel obliged to explain her furious demeanor.

Rose let herself out of the boot room door and walked fast towards the main entrance to the castle, keeping her long blonde hair well-hidden beneath the coat. To all intents and purposes, she looked like one of the servants dispatched on an errand, her head down against the English drizzle.

Once outside the castle, she turned away from the town. She made for a small clump of trees along the side of the castle wall, which she knew would lead her down to one of the tributary streams of the River Arun and one of her favorite spots. Even before Ambrose had died, Rose would regularly don a disguise and leave the rich trappings of the castle behind to sit by the water and remember a time when life had been full of promise and the love of a man whose touch she still craved; whose smile had always been able to lift her spirits no matter the difficulties at home.

The hours she had spent with him had blotted out the endless harping of her mother, generally aimed at her father, if not her daughters. Rose had not understood then. To her, it seemed that her mother was a bitter, discontented, middle-aged woman who took out all her annoyance and anxieties on Rose’s beloved father. Rose had come to dislike her intensely as she had grown older. But she had regularly escaped from the confines of their home, lured into mischief by the boy whom Rose had favored almost her entire life.

They had met as children when their fathers became acquaintances and regularly romped in the grounds of Rose’s ancestral home or the fields around their estates. Her mother had chafed at that too, insisting it was not seemly that her tomboy daughter was climbing trees, unchaperoned, with a boy.

“Let them be, Victoria,” her father had admonished, surreptitiously winking at his eldest daughter. “Life is short, and when one reaches adulthood, almost not worth living.”

Rose had always been puzzled by that statement. Her father was one of the most liked people he knew, and he always came home with a big smile and even bigger presents for his two little girls. It was only later, after her parents died that Rose learned why he was so popular; because everyone was becoming rich as a result of his ineptitude at cards.

Reaching the stream’s edge now, Rose bent to trail her fingers in the cool water. She was hot beneath the thick cape and the huge hood, but as much as she longed to shrug it off and plunge into the water, she knew she could not. She had made her choice all those long years ago, and the life which would have allowed that was lost to her now. She had chosen propriety, status, and influence over love and fun. If she had been an only child, it would not have happened.

Rose had no fear of leaving the trappings of nobility behind and living a simpler life, but back then, her duty had been to her sister.

She knew her brother-in-law was right; she had no claim to the castle she had made her home. The law of succession was clear. Ambrose and Ernest Barrington had been the only surviving children of their parents. Ernest had automatically become the Duke of Norfolk, and Earl Marshall, upon Ambrose’s death.

Rose had married Ambrose Barrington specifically for money and because of his Earl Marshall role. As soon as her nuptials had been concluded, Rose had requested a coat of arms be granted to her little sister’s new husband to secure his status in society. Like Rose, Mary had fallen in love with a commoner, despite her frenetic season at the ton where she had been voted most popular. With both parents gone, and a mountain of debt in their wake, although Mary did not know that, the elder sister knew she had to protect the younger and save the family home for her too. The Duke had agreed to pay off all her father’s IOUs as the final part of their arrangement.

“The most important thing is you will be happy,” Rose had told Mary on the eve of her wedding.

“But what about you? Did you marry for love?” Mary had challenged her. Rose had evaded the question.

“I shall be content knowing I did my darnedest to make your life everything it should be.”

“But what about Will?”

“We will always have fond memories of a great friendship,” she had smiled and willed her tears not to come at the thought of the boy who had been her constant companion for years.

Rose knew her position and her role, and she knew she had to turn her back on that part of her life and walk away. She remembered the pain of losing him, like someone had reached into her chest, wrenched her heart free, and squeezed it dry. Throughout all her marriage preparations, she had felt utterly lost. She was so grateful the Duke was not interested in her, bar using her body as an heir-making machine. She knew she could never even pretend to love another.

But now, here she was, nearly a decade on, with no husband, no home, and no William Browning. All she had was an offer from one of the most odious men of the ton, albeit the most prestigious duke in the realm, to abandon every shred of possible happiness for money. Again. What was she going to do?

The rain had begun to fall more heavily. She hunched her back against it. She liked the feel of the raindrops pittering across her shoulders as the mud rose around her leather boots and her hemline turned from cream to dirty brown. She didn’t care. How long before she had no use for such finery anyway?

She rose to her feet, pulling the waxed hood down even lower in front of her eyes, and began to meander along the river bank. The trees were tightly-packed here, forcing her to weave her way between them but offering a good shelter from the increasingly heavy rain. However, the further she walked, the more open the landscape became until she was crossing the plain where she and Will had often cavorted as children. Their family homes had both been a little way down the river from Arundel, towards the sea, but they had frequently hitched a ride into town with Will’s father.

Sometimes Rose was glad she had stayed in the area where she had spent her childhood; other times, she wished she had moved to the far fringes of Scotland. Today was one of the latter.

She knew her sister would take her in and let her live with them as a widowed aunt to their two little ones. But she also knew she could not do that. She could not sit and observe the happiness the pair exuded, day after day, while herself living in a romantic desert.

“It is just not fair,” Rose muttered to herself, then looking skywards, she shouted at the top of her voice: “It is not fair.”

She began to run across the open field, her arms flung wide, her half-boots hammering across, sometimes catching in, the deepening mud. “It. Is. Not. Fair.” She hurled the individual words at the sky, occasionally whirling full circle as she repeated them over and over again, raising her face up to the falling rain, enjoying the feeling of the liquid running down her cheeks.

She was shouting so loudly, and the rain was falling so thickly she was unaware that she was no longer alone. It was only as she was whirling on her heels, still remonstrating with the heavens, that she caught a flash of man and beast out of the corner of her eye. She stopped screaming instantly and lowered her hood to obscure her face, presenting her back to the man. What would people think of her behavior if this person chose to share what he had seen and knew who she was? She only prayed that he had not caught a glimpse of her face and just took her for a local girl. She hoped he would just ride on by, but from beneath her lashes, she could see his fine, handsome steed staring at her as intently as he no doubt was.

“Are you quite well, madam?” she heard him shout above the downpour.

“Quite well, thank you,” she replied, not turning to look at him. Move on, move on, she thought.

“You seemed to be in some distress.” He was not moving on.

“I was simply enjoying the weather, sir,” Rose shouted back, taking care to arrange her words into a distinct southern country accent so that he would believe she lived locally. She couldn’t see him with her back turned, but his horse looked like it belonged to the nobility.

“Enjoying this?” He scoffed. “I see no pleasure in a lashing downpour.”

He was maneuvering his horse closer to her, perhaps to hear her better. She watched the horse’s hooves plod closer from beneath the edge of her hood. She could only imagine what she must look like, with a coat hem that extended to her heels and the sleeves ending lower than her fingertips.

“You will catch your death of cold if you stay out here long. Pray let me escort you to town. My horse is strong and can easily carry both of us.”

“No, thank you. I would not dream of putting you to any bother.” Rose groaned inside at the way she had pronounced ‘bother’—far more like a duchess than a village wench. It had been years since she had feigned a local accent and it took practice. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“Please do turn your face to mine,” the man said then. “It is most disconcerting having a conversation with the back of your head.”

Rose was trapped. She knew she was behaving most rudely. The rain was still hammering down between them, and she prayed it, and her hood would be enough to hide her as she turned slowly towards him and raised her chin as high as she dared without revealing her eyes.

She could tell now that he was a gentleman. His steed was tall, its coat gleaming, and he wore a pair of the finest black knee-high riding boots.

“You are soaked through,” he observed in a deep, rich voice. “Why on earth did you venture out in such weather and in such apparel?”

“I was dancing, sir. Celebrating the arrival of a new season in this beautiful countryside. I purloined my father’s coat.”

“It is bloody weather for June,” he said, and she imagined his smile. His boot moved in the stirrup. He sounded handsome and refined.

“Well, I am quite fine, you can be assured. I will bid you good day, sir.”

She started to walk away, trying to accomplish it as elegantly as possible, but the heels of her boots were sticking in the slippery mud, so her first few steps had to be slow and deliberate.

“May I know your name?” he called after her.

“Muriel,” Rose shouted back. “My name is Muriel.”

“Well, Muriel, I fear you may take days to reach the village at that pace, and this rain is only getting worse. I would be remiss if I did not act to assure your safety.”

He had turned his horse and ridden up behind her. One of his stirrups was just inches from her shoulder, and she felt a rush of air as he suddenly dismounted.

“I can assure you I have no ill intention,” he said. “I simply wish to assure your good health and I cannot understand why you would reject my offer.”

Rose was getting vexed now. He was far too close to her. She just wanted to get back to the anonymity of the castle. What was it about men that they never took no for an answer?

“Look, kind sir,” she started, but she did not say it as if she thought he was being kind. “I am not a damsel in distress who needs rescuing. I can take care of myself.”

She was aware he was walking around in front of her to effectively block her path. This made her even angrier.

“I would ask that  you get out of my way, and I will bid you good day, and we shall say nothing more of it. I am perfectly capable of returning home alone.”

“If you were perfectly capable, I don’t think you would have left home in this weather in those dainty boots,” he said derisively. Rose’s head snapped back to challenge his tone but for one fraction of a second, she laid eyes on her tormentor.

Rose froze. Everything went silent. She couldn’t hear the rain, the birds, or the breathing of his horse. Everything was suspended as she looked at the face of the one person she had fallen asleep with every night and woken with every morning for year after year. In that one moment, as he was still assessing her footwear, she saw the tousled brown curls peeking from beneath his sodden top hat. Every wonderful, glorious, precious moment they had ever shared together flashed before her eyes.  Then, she snapped her chin back down to her breastbone as her heartbeat began to pound in her ears. How? How is he here? Am I dreaming? Why does he sound so different? His voice was a richer, deeper baritone, but it was unmistakably him.

She had to get away from him. It was imperative now. She had wronged this man so badly. She could not face his reaction if he realized who she was. She moved quickly to the right, intending to go around him, but as she lifted her foot, her boot caught again, and she almost fell sideways, twisting her ankle. She groaned out loud.

“Are you in pain?” he was next to her immediately as she shook her head, trying to quieten the sound of her rapidly-beating heart, making her feel quite breathless. He took that as an indication of her frailty. “Come now, I will brook no argument. Let me escort you back to your family at once before the cold infiltrates the rest of you, and you succumb to a fever.”

He was older, broader, and even more handsome than she remembered, but why was he dressed like a lord and riding a horse fit for royalty? His arms were reaching for her now.

“Don’t be afraid if this is your first time on a horse. She is as gentle as a deer,” he said, next to her hood, and with that, his arms came around her body and lifted her free of the mud, swinging her up as easily as he would a child against his chest.

“Will, stop!” Rose screamed.

Chapter Two

Rose threw her head back against his shoulder as she attempted to free herself from his arms, and the wet hood slid off her tell-tale long blonde hair.

“Rose!”

Rose cringed at his shout, not wishing to look at his face, having longed for but dreaded this moment for so many years.

He had stopped mid-step, but he did not release her. Instead, if anything, he held her more tightly.

“Rose! Is it really you?”

His voice cracked on the last word, and she realized his shout had not been uttered in anger. She turned her head to look at him, and he was staring at her face from just inches away with a look of wonderment. “How did I not recognize you? Your voice? The shape of you? That dance! That accent!” As she watched, a slow, delicious grin spread across his features. “How could I not realize that only you would be mad enough to be out in this downpour?”

Rose said nothing, her heart still pounding in her chest but marveling now at the play of emotions across his face. It was the same face she had lain in bed with every night for nine years, conjuring up that very smile, imagining the feel of his hands on her body. And now his hands were on her body, and they burned where he was touching her, even through her layers of clothes and undergarments. She could feel his breath on her face as he seemed to be struggling to maintain his composure. She could hear the pounding of his heart, too, against her cheek. Hers felt like a printing press. The rain was still falling, running in rivulets down their faces.

“I truly can’t believe it,” he was murmuring. “I can’t believe you are here!”

And then suddenly, with no warning at all, he bent his head and kissed her. His warm lips descended on hers, sealing out the rain, moving gently and tenderly and sparking a melting heat in almost every part of her body. Rose knew she should push him away, but as his arms closed more tightly around her back and her knees, she was being pressed against him as if he was trying to meld them into one. His lips were slaking so gently across hers that she felt as though she was dissolving into liquid. Then he suddenly raised his lips and looked into her wide eyes.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “I couldn’t help myself.”

He rested his forehead on hers for a moment, so she could feel his ragged breaths against her skin.

“It has been so long,” she said.

“So very long,” he agreed. “May I kiss you again?”

The fact he was asking for her permission seemed incongruous. All those years before, they had simply belonged to each other, and he had never asked to touch or caress her. Maybe he felt as she did, she thought, that one wrong move might shatter this sudden, unexpected, magical moment. She had so expected him to be angry, to shun her and ride away. But he was holding her as if she was a precious prize and seemed to have no desire to put her down.

She raised one hand to touch his hair and caress the side of his face, almost as if she was drawing him. He rubbed his cheek against her palm, then she ran her hand around to the back of his neck and slowly, gently pulled his lips down to hers. The warmth of his mouth was intoxicating, made all the more so by the cool of the rain as his lips danced across hers, their tongues intertwined.

Rose remembered this feeling so well; how her body used to surrender to his; the feeling of his soft, warm lips on her mouth, on her neck, against her ears.

“Oh, Will,” she groaned and was rewarded by an even tighter grip on her body.

“Rose,” she heard him gasp.

His kiss was becoming more ardent, more desperate. Her coat had fallen open, and where he had tightened his grip on her, his hand was now closer to the embroidered band of material across her breasts. The backs of his fingers brushed against the bare skin of her throat, and the jolt that she felt was obviously mutual as he groaned too. The tips of his fingers grazed the top of her cleavage, and she was certain that was deliberate, but she did not stop him. It was as if the clock had been instantly rewound and she was back where she had always been a decade before.

The drenching rain had soaked the fabric of her dress and undergarments; both were now thin and clinging to her body. Rose felt Will begin to move one finger across the bare skin above the band of her bodice as she arched in his grip, putting more of herself within his reach. She heard him chuckle against her lips, a deep, resonant, glorious sound that she had waited so long to hear again. Then his lips left hers and began to trail down her neck into the hollow at the bottom of her throat. His touch was like gossamer, barely there, just a trail of tingling heat. He began to trace circles with his tongue on her exposed flesh. She wanted that feeling to go on forever, but then suddenly, he moved his hand to capture one thrusting breast, closing his fingers around her nipple through the wet silk. Rose could not contain a sound that was half-human, half-animal.

“Harder,” she whispered against his wet hair, his top hat long toppled. “Touch me harder, just like you used to.” She was arching in his arms as he obliged. He was squeezing her breast so hard it was almost painful as his lips moved to the tiny gap at the top of her cleavage and started sliding slowly, purposefully, downwards. Her bodice was being pushed aside by his mouth as he rained kisses on her now-fevered skin. Then, his fingertips were inside the top of her bodice, pulling it down and clear to expose her whole breast. Rose gasped as his lips closed around her bare nipple, which was now so taut it was aching. She writhed with pleasure.

“Easy, easy,” he murmured against her breast. “You like that.” It was a statement and not a question. He knew she did. The more Rose writhed, the more he sucked on this most sensitive part of her. He was moving his fingers in tandem with his lips, tracing circles against the soft underside of her now naked breast. Inside Rose, the nerve endings in places he wasn’t even touching exploded. Her other breast was aching, equally; the nipple yearning for his fingers, his lips. But in this awkward pose, she knew he could not reach her there. He seemed to read her mind.

Without his lips leaving her breast, Rose felt herself being lowered slowly to the ground.

He sank to his knees as he laid her on the wet grass, finally releasing her nipple to kiss her lips, hard, once more, lying full-length next to her and crushing her breasts against his chest. She could feel her soft curves melded to his hard contours. She put her arm around him, feeling the play of his back muscles against her fingers, as she pressed him tighter to her, even trying to pull him over on top of her. She wanted to feel the weight of him holding her. He followed her lead and rolled towards her, heedless of the wet and the mud, but he kept his whole body weight suspended on straightened elbows, his face just a foot or so from hers.

She tried to pull him back down towards her, but he resisted. “I just need a moment,” he laughed, “to catch my breath.”

Water dripped off his hair onto her face. She wrinkled her nose against the unexpected drops and laughed. For a moment, neither of them moved. Years of unspoken conversations flowed between them in that suspended moment.

She could feel the cold, wet chill of the ground against her back, but he was grinning at her, warming her. He shook his head so that more drops of water fell on her face.

“Hey,” she protested, laughing, and reached to push him squarely in the chest, but by pushing his torso up and back, she forced his hips into sudden, direct contact with hers, and both their eyes widened. The hardness of his manhood through his breeches was obvious. He didn’t move away, but instead, he held her gaze with hooded eyes as he pushed himself even more closely against her thigh, through the folds of her dress. She felt him shudder with pleasure as she raised her hips to meet his. They stayed there, melded together, their labored breathing mingling with the sounds of nature around them, until he brought his chest back down to rest against her breasts as he buried his head in her hair and began to kiss her neck.

“You taste so wonderful,” he said breathily against her skin.

“Will,” she breathed out softly.

“Say my name again,” he murmured.

Behind them, Will’s horse neighed as if he was speaking for her. Will lifted his head and laughed. “We have an audience.”

For one moment, Rose looked panicked, but Will laughed again. “I meant the horse!”

But his words had broken the spell in Rose. That moment of alarm had made her realize what they must look like, literally rolling together in the mud, lost in carnal desire.

“You know we can’t do this,” Rose said sadly.

“But we are,” his lips descended on hers, and he kissed her into silence. For a moment, she surrendered to the sweet, salty taste of his full lips once more, but then, reluctantly, she pulled away.

“Anybody might see us!”

Will swiveled his head in all directions. “There’s nobody here.”

“We can’t know that!”

“What would they see? Nothing more than they would have seen ten years ago when you were never so nervous.”

She looked at him then, taking a moment to commit everything she saw, everything she felt to memory. She noted the throbbing of her body, the rivulets of pleasure running through her, the tingling where his body touched hers. He arched an eyebrow at her intense stare, and then she moved before her resolve broke.

“You need to let me up,” she said, pushing against his chest.

For a moment, he resisted, his deep brown eyes looking directly into hers. It was obvious he didn’t want to let her go, and deep down, Rose did not want him to. She wanted to stay there, rain or no rain, for eternity, with him holding her, watching his smile. She wanted to turn back time to those carefree fun-filled days she missed so much. But she pushed harder against his chest and the gentleman within him, however frustrated, gave in.

He tipped sideways, allowing Rose to put a space between them as she smoothed her wet hair back from her face and straightened her sodden and muddy dress.

“Look at the state of me,” she said plaintively.

“You have never looked more beautiful to me,” Will smiled. “And I am certainly no oil painting myself.” The whole of one side of his jacket, breeches, and boots were coated with mud.

She knew the passion of the moment was broken, but they sat side-by-side in the rain, both breathing a little faster than was normal, if now from a few inches apart.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?” Will asked her softly.

She didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t know it was you either until you got down from your horse. I couldn’t see you from beneath my hood.”

“But then…”

“It was not proper what I was doing. I didn’t want you to recognize me.”

“Who cares about proper?” Will threw his hands up, slightly exasperated.

Rose span to face him. “I do! I have to.”

She watched his expression darken.

“Ah yes, I forgot.” His tone was suddenly bitter. “Rose the duchess”.

“That’s not fair, Will. I have to respect my station. I can’t just do anything I want. There are consequences.”

Will didn’t look up from his sodden breeches.

“Trust me, I am well aware of your consequences,” he ground out.

She was looking at the top of his head, his dark curls now flattened in the rain. She felt a sudden, wounding flash of guilt. He looked up, straight into it.

“This is what I was afraid of,” Rose said softly. “Of your anger; your annoyance. I was scared to tell you it was me.”

He said nothing then, looking away from her to stare out across the fields.

She did not want to argue with him; she just couldn’t let him go on kissing and caressing her because she was afraid he might not stop. Or worse still, she might not.

“I did not know you had come home,” She tried to break the silence.

“It is no longer my home,” he snapped back.

“How can this not be your home?” she chided. “All our memories are here.”

“I left them behind,” he said tartly. “Like you did!”

The wonder of the morning had disintegrated into upset and recrimination. She didn’t blame him. How could she? She had nothing to say to make it better. She knew she could say she was sorry, but how would that help? So she just sat, plucking the wet fabric away from her rapidly chilling legs, knowing she should go back to the castle but unwilling, no, unable, to walk away from him.

“How is your family?” She ventured, acknowledging to herself the ridiculousness of a parlor conversation in the middle of a soaked field.

“My father is dead!”

“Oh.” Her sudden, obviously heartfelt show of emotion seemed to crack the armor William Browning had donned around himself.

“My mother called me home when it was time.” He bowed his head now, not looking at Rose. “I had not seen him for many years. London had preoccupied me.”

“I am so sorry, Will,” she managed. “He was a truly lovely man.”

“He was very fond of you.”

She knew that. Rose was aware that Benjamin Browning had wanted nothing more than to see her and his son married in the local church and provide him with a clutch of grandchildren. In any other circumstances, that would have been the case.

“It seems I did not come home soon enough.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“Not soon enough to grant my father his dying wish anyway, which he only revealed on his deathbed.”

“What was his wish?” She asked tremulously, wondering if she really wanted to know.

“He wanted to gift his family – gift me – noble status. He wanted our own coat of arms. I believed money and good business were enough. If I had known it was so important to him, I could have approached you. I could have asked for your help with the Earl Marshall. But I never came back.”

“Why did you stay away?”

Will looked at her then as if he was looking straight through her. The vacuum between them contained everything she imagined they both wanted to say but couldn’t.

I couldn’t face you.

            I couldn’t bear to see you.

            I was married.

            You didn’t marry me. You left me. You broke us. I hate you.

             I know. I love you.

“I may not have been able to help anyway,” Rose said, knowing she had prayed on Ambrose’s generosity enough.

“Why?” Will’s head whipped back. “Because we weren’t deserving enough? Not of the right stock.” Will spat the words out like weapons.

“No!” Rose’s head snapped up too. “No, Will,” more softly this time.

“You didn’t think twice about doing it for your sister’s husband! You used all your newfound power and influence to get them what they wanted. You would do anything for them. You would do anything for yourself.”

You have no idea, Rose thought, but she didn’t reply.

“We could have had a good life. I would have taken care of you after your parents died. I was a commoner, but we were not poor. I am richer now than most of the ton. You just didn’t think twice about us! You chose him.” His contempt was palpable.

No. I didn’t think twice, she thought to herself. I thought a thousand, a million, times about us—every single day, 365 days a year. Every night, alone or in another man’s bed, I conjured up your eyes, mouth, and smile. I lived two lives—my carefully-crafted outward, calm, noble demeanor and this crazy, lost, frantic, hopeless inner creature that could not live without your touch; was only existing and barely.

“Did you love him?” Will asked suddenly, shaking her from her reverie.

“Will?!”

“Did you? Did you fall in love with him? With him and his fancy castle and his carriages and racehorses? Did you dance in the rain with him? For him?”

“This is not seemly Will. The Duke is dead.”

“Are you the grieving Duchess?”

She averted her eyes. How could she tell him she felt no more for Ambrose Barrington than for a stranger in the churchyard? What did that make her, except a scheming opportunist? What would he think of her? She felt it was better he thought she had fallen in love with the Duke and married him because she wanted him, not because she wanted the power of his title and status.

“Will you marry the brother?”

Rose reeled. “How do you know about that?”

“So it is true then? It is all over town. He is telling everyone how you will be destitute without him; how you have been begging him to marry you so you can remain a duchess.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is irrelevant to me, even if it is,” he scoffed and turned his face away from her.  “You will do what you will do; you always have. But you do know if anyone protested, it could be voided.”

So, he had looked into it too, Rose thought. Would he protest if she agreed to marry Ernest? Would he crash the wedding, tell everyone he forbade it, and whisk her away with him? But before she could enjoy even a moment of that childish fantasy, he dashed it.

“Of course, if you married him, you would once again be married to the Earl Marshall. You could get him to issue me with a coat of arms and make my father rest easy in his grave.”

Rose gasped. “You would see me married to the odious Ernest Barrington just so you can get noble status?”

Will suddenly rose to his feet and beckoned his horse to him. “Why not? You threw me over for a title.” He stroked the stallion’s neck and then in one fluid movement, swung himself up onto his back and looked down on her wet, bedraggled form. “Don’t you think you owe me? The only difference is this time, you would be doing it for someone else rather than yourself.”

It was obvious Will had no thought for chivalry now as he had not helped her up nor offered her a ride. His anger was tangible.  “Think about it. Let your conscience guide you. That will be novel to you, but you can try. Good day to you, Your Grace.” The use of her title was dripping with sarcasm.

Before Rose could answer him, he was already riding off into the rain, his horse’s hooves hurling clods of mud up into the air. Watching his departing back, his shoulders hunched, his head down, reminded her of the last time he had left her, standing on the steps of her family home, feeling as if everything good in her life was over.

Rose sank slowly to her knees in the mud and let out an anguished howl of despair.