Chapter 1

“How can there be more to do?” Clarissa protested as her lady’s maid, Louise, pressed down on her shoulders, encouraging her to sit at the dressing table.

“Because it is your debut, my lady,” Louise exclaimed, guiding Clarissa to sit, staring in the mirror.

“We have already fussed over the gown, I am dressed, I am wearing gloves, for goodness’ sake!” Clarissa groaned, pulling at the front of her gown, which was far too low and revealing for her liking. Her mother had chosen it for the occasion, a pretty white and silver lace gown that practically announced a young lady’s debut. Clarissa could not stand it. It was too tight around the bust, displaying too much of her creamy, pale skin, the sleeves were too thin showing too much of her arms, and the material was too light and floaty, making her feel as if she were wearing nothing but her petticoats. How she longed for her old, comfortable blue cotton gown that she liked to wear when reading and studying.

“Your hair still needs arranging, my lady,” Louise chortled, gently beginning to pin white roses into Clarissa’s golden hair. “Sit still.”

“More senseless decoration,” Clarissa scoffed, eyeing the pearls Louise was threading into her curls with distaste. “I hate all this frippery. It is so meaningless.”

“You must shine, my lady.” Louise smiled at her gently. “Don’t you want to shine?”

“Not particularly,” Clarissa said, thinking of how nice it would be not to go to the ball at all and to curl up in the library with her favourite book. “I should rather prefer it if no one were to look at me at all.”

“This is your debut,” Louise said, straightening Clarissa’s shoulders. “You cannot fade into the background tonight, the Countess would never allow it.”

“Louise, I truly appreciate what you are doing for me, but I cannot help the way I feel. I have often wondered what it would be like if I was to not have a debut at all.”

“No debut?” Louise repeated, pausing with the pearls as if Clarissa had uttered the most horiffic thing. “It is what’s done.”

“Exactly.” Clarissa glanced at her maid in the looking glass with a rather sad smile. “Do not you think that ladies like me at such events are rather paraded around? Rather like those prize pigs at fairs.” Clarissa’s jest pulled a humored smile from Louise’s face before the maid quickly straightened her expression.

“You are the daughter of the Earl of Berkshire,” Louise said softly. “Is it not what ladies in your position do?”

“Oh, yes, my father certainly expects it of me. He called me a jewel the other day, that I had to be presented like a jewel to the world! What nonsense,” Clarissa laughed off the idea. “I am not a jewel.” Clarissa said with all humor gone. “I am a person with my own mind.”

“What did your father say to that?” Louise asked gently as she continued with Clarissa’s hair.

“He said even people with their own minds need to be married. I could have gone to school instead,” Clarissa said quietly, fiddling with one of the white roses on the dressing table. “If only it had been possible…”

All Clarissa had wanted this season was to attend the lady’s seminary school in Bath. She had longed for a place there, and had read all the newspaper articles about it, both good and bad. She had fantasized about long days away from her family with nothing to do but read and study. How perfect it would have been, to have nothing to concern me but reading and writing! Yet when she had worked up the courage to present her idea to her mother and father, they had been dismayed.

“That school is for young ladies with no prospects!” her mother had exclaimed, glaring daggers at Clarissa. “Poor, plain girls with no chance of marriage or a dowry who have nothing else to do but read. You are the daughter of an Earl, Clarissa! It is high time you stared to act like it.”

Clarissa had not been surprised by her mother’s vehemence on the topic. Since Clarissa was fifteen years old, she and her mother had been engaged in an ongoing domestic war about Clarissa’s reading habits. When she had forbidden Clarissa to read anymore romance novels because they were ‘corrupting her mind,’ Clarissa had simply responded by hiding her romance novels in other books and leaving them in secret locations all over the house to read in places she could not be found. As much as her mother detested Clarissa’s obsession, Clarissa had been determined not to beaten. However, her father’s firmness was a complete surprise.

“Reading and studying is well and good for a young girl who is still expanding her mind,” her father had said solemnly. “But you are not a young girl anymore, Clarissa. You are a young lady and must give up these childish pursuits. It is time to take your place in the family.”

Clarissa had known immediately what he meant. Her role in this family had always been clear: marry well. It was a role she had always wanted to shun but now, Clarissa was staring it in the face. She looked at herself in the mirror, in a gown that she didn’t like and a hairstyle that was far too regal and gaudy for her simple tastes. I do not even recognize myself, Clarissa thought bitterly.

“I know how dearly you wished to attend the school, my lady,” Louise said softly, squeezing Clarissa’s shoulder sweetly. “It dismays me to see you so worried. Perhaps there is a way you can try to make the best of it, at least? You are a fortunate young lady, with beauty, youth and wealth all on your side. There are many who would count their blessings.”

Clarissa looked up into her maid’s sweet face, knowing that Louise was right. Clarissa knew it, she was blessed as other daughters were not. She had the money and the reputation to choose an eligible suitor where other daughters would be scrambling for any suitor who would look their way. She was pretty enough, or so her mother told her, and she was young. Her debut may have been delayed by a year thanks to her pleading with her mother and father, who had decided at eighteen she was not yet mature enough for her debut, but nineteen was different. She had matured in their eyes and was more than ready to be married.

Yet Clarissa could not stop herself from seeing all of these things as curses. For if I was plain, old and poor, no one should mind if I attended school in Bath. They should probably be glad to be rid of me. Then I could be happy.

“I can try to be happy,” Clarissa said, smiling tightly. Louise was such a good maid, a kind and gentle-hearted girl who was only a few years older than Clarissa. Unlike her parents who thought only of family status and improving their connections, Clarissa knew that Louise genuinely wished for Clarissa to marry to be happy. It was not Louise’s fault that Clarissa longed for a different life altogether.

“Try and think of it like one of your romance novels,” Louise said kindly. “This is the moment when you are presented to the ton and you will meet charming suitors. It can be what dreams are made of, my lady.”

Louise meant well, Clarissa knew that, but Louise knew very little of the type of romance novels Clarissa secretly enjoyed. They were not the rather reserved and prim romances, as Louise thought, but daring romances with heroines who were captured in remote castles in far flung places, where they were held captive by terrible relatives or nightmarish monsters. Clarissa did not long for a ball and charming suitors. Her fantasy was for a hero who would snatch her from the jaws of danger. For adventure and frightening encounters and impossible escapes. Reality is so dull in comparison, Clarissa thought.

“Of course,” Clarissa said, knowing it was better to shake herself from her foul mood. “You are right, Louise, I shall put my best foot forward.”

“That is all anyone can ask of you,” Louise said softly, threading pearl drop earrings through Clarissa’s lobes. “There. You are ready, my lady. You look perfect. A diamond of the first water.”

Clarissa stared at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t agree with Louise’s assessment. She felt like she looked exactly the same as every other debutante entering society. They all wore similar dresses, they all wore the same hairstyles, and they all looked the picture of the perfect society lady. There was nothing remarkable about her, except perhaps that she was a little naturally prettier than some, but that hardly seemed worth celebrating. She longed to be the way her heroines were always described, with their hair flowing loose and wild, their dresses wispy and ragged from running through forests or castles. How Clarissa longed for a similar type of freedom!

“Thank you, Louise, you have done a fine job,” Clarissa said summoning a smile as Louise beamed at the comment.

“I shall leave you for a moment, my lady,” Louise said, looking happy with her completed work. “Your mother and father shall call on you before long. Oh, they shall be so pleased.”

“I am sure you are right,” Clarissa said, trying to maintain the smile but struggling.

She watched as Louise walked to the door, closing it behind her. Then, as soon as she was alone, Clarissa let out a sigh. Despite knowing she should try to be happy, her heart was restless.

All night she would struggle to make small talk, bearing company of those who weren’t truly interested in conversing, or dancing with gentlemen who only thought of doweries and made insipid. Clarissa had no interest in that type of conversation.

She wondered briefly, madly, if would ever be possible for her to find a gentleman who would consider holding a conversation about books. What I would not give to have that experience tonight! It had to be possible, surely? It was a reason to smile at least.

Clarissa rose from the dressing table and crossed to her bed, glancing at her closed door and listening carefully for sounds of footsteps, before pulling a novel out from under her pillow. Usually, she only read in her bedchamber deep in the night, when she was assured that her mother was asleep. If she ever tried to read in the daytime, she had to find secret places, usually her favored spot was outside in the rose garden.

This was another contested point with her mother. Clarissa had developed a love of the outdoors, and her father often boasted that she was a healthy, strong young lady with excellent habits. Her mother rather thought it futile when she could be preparing her ladylike habits, such as playing the piano. Little did her parents know that her long walks were actually long reading sessions hidden deep in her mother’s lavish rose garden. They were the only moments of quiet in a busy schedule of teas, calls and ladylike pursuits that her mother hounded her with daily. Tonight, however, she had no time to slip outside, so she carefully withdrew her novel from its hiding spot and sat cautiously down on the floor beside her bed, slightly hidden from view of the door. Eagerly, Clarissa opened the pages to read…

‘Marietta ran through the trees, feeling the oppressive weight of the darkness behind her, of the horrible evil of the castle and the man who ruled it at her back. She knew she must find a way out of the enchanted forest if she was to survive.’

Clarissa sighed happily, settling comfortably with her back against the bed. This was her latest novel, and so far, it was living up to all of her favorite ideals. She loved stories set in far-flung corners of the globe – the forests of eastern Europe, the islands of the Indies, and the dark mountains of the East. She felt a thrill of escape when she entered the world between the pages, a sweet relief from the life she found herself in, even if the relief only lasted for a few hours a day.

‘Marietta stumbled down a small hill, her feet plunging into icy water, crashing over slippery rocks. Then, a strong, pleasant baritone voice called out, so different from the slick, accursed voice of the Count of the Castle.’

“Tread carefully my lady!” the voice called out, and a hand grasped her waist. Marietta gasped and looked up into the young, handsome face of the hunter. “The forest is full of dangers.”

Clarissa looked down at the description mournfully. If only she could find a gentleman who would protect her, who would see her for more than her fortune or beauty. The real world, Clarissa had learned at a young age, was nothing like the world between the pages. There, gentleman were heroes with golden hearts and ladies were brave. Clarissa had long ago given up on finding that kind of gentleman in society. Yet maybe, one day, maybe I might find someone. Still, she feared hope was a cruel thing. No amount of reasoning could ever completely cast it out.

“Why did you come?” Marietta gasped, unable to stop herself from clutching at his warm hand to steady herself. With strength and capable ease, he pulled her out of the icy river. “If he finds you here, he will surely kill you on the spot!”

“I care not for the Count of the Castle,” the hunter said with a stoic, brave expression. “I could not face the good Lord in heaven if I had knowingly left you behind, sweet Marietta.”

Clarissa sighed softly. How perfect it would be to have a gentleman say such things for her. To denounce evil and its workings and throw himself into danger, devil may care, to rescue her. She was not sure that kind of gentleman even existed in real life. One thing was for certain, however. Clarissa knew she would not find him in the London Ton.

“Clarissa! What are you doing?”

Clarissa jumped and looked up, guiltily shoving the novel under the bed and looking up into the irate face of her beautiful mother, Althea Powell, the Countess of Berkshire.

“Nothing, Mother,” Clarissa said quickly, scrambling to her feet and quailing slightly under her mother’s brutal glare.

“Why would you be sitting on the floor in your gown?” her mother demanded. “That gown is brand new, Clarissa!”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Clarissa said demurely, looking down at her dancing slippers as Althea glanced her up and down as if searching for answers.

“You were reading again,” she said flatly, and Clarissa’s heart dropped. There seemed little point in denying it. If she did, it was possible that her mother would come looking for the evidence and then she might not be able to finish
her book to find out how Marietta and the Hunter escape the clutches of the evil Count. Clarissa shrugged non-committedly.

“Clarissa! How many times have I told you?” her mother snapped angrily, folding her arms in distaste. “Young ladies who read are not attractive to gentlemen.”

“Surely there must be some out there,” Clarissa muttered mutinously. “It surely cannot be that all gentlemen everywhere despise reading. Why is it so wrong for me to like reading?”

“Gentlemen can enjoy reading, but what gentleman is going to be interested in pursuing you if they know you have your nose buried in a book all day?” Althea demanded nastily. “Gentlemen desire ladies who are attentive to them, Clarissa, and spend their time becoming accomplished, being jewels of society. They are not fond of ladies who are obsessed with fantasies and have their heads in the clouds.”

“I know, Mother,” Clarissa said.

“Stand up straight,” her mother snapped, as if knowing which way Clarissa’s thoughts were leaning. “Do not slouch like a commoner.”

Clarissa obeyed, staring at the floorboards so her mother would not see her dislike.

“Well, that is better,” her mother said sounding more pleased at last. “That dress can cover a multitude of sins, Clarissa, but it cannot make up for your speech. You must refrain from speaking of books or novels or studying tonight. Even I cannot help you find a gentleman who will endure you then.”

“Yes, Mother,” Clarissa said obediently, staring at the floor.

“Good,” her mother said grudgingly. “Let us depart. Please, Clarissa, I am beginning you. Try not embarrass me or your father tonight.”

“Yes, Mother,” Clarissa said yet again, following her out of the bedroom. On the outside, she was a picture of demur obedience. On the inside, Clarissa was seething. I have no intention of finding a gentleman to endure me, Clarissa swore to herself angrily. I shall have a gentleman who loves me for who I am, or I shall have none at all!

Chapter 2

Dylan looked out of the window of his carriage as it rattled over the cobbled streets of London. Already he could feel the dense, smoggy air pushing in on him from all sides, and could practically taste the dung in the air that was stamped into the muddy roads by countless carriages and horses. Dylan had resisted coming back to this city. In Bath, he enjoyed the clean air along with the excellent bookshops and company, but his older brother had called for him. He had taken a carriage back to the city with one of his Bath acquaintances at his side, Mr Gerden.

“The air in London is so foul compared to Bath,” Mr Gerden sniffed, looking out of the window. “It is a wonder anyone comes here.”

“It is a wonder,” Dylan agreed, distracted by the view of familiar streets and houses.

“Yet I heard you grew up here.”

“I did,” Dylan said as they passed by St Paul’s. “This is where my family seat is.”

“Oh?” Mr Gerden exclaimed, frowning and turning his gaze on Dylan. “I did not know that, Lord Wentworth. What is the name of the seat?”

“Worthendale,” Dylan said, swallowing hard. “The Duchy of Worthendale. I am the second son.”

“Worthendale?” Mr Gerden said in astonishment, eyes wide. “Why, that is a name known even to me, a mere gentleman from Bath!”

“It is?” Dylan said heavily, groaning inwardly. The last thing he wanted to discuss was the stories surrounding his family.

“Oh yes, it was in all the papers,” Mr Gerden said, leaning forward eagerly. “The charming and elegant son of the Duke of Worthendale was shot in the leg by Highway men on the road out of London. Was that you?”

“No,” Dylan said shortly, staring pointedly out of the window. “My elder brother.”

The Duke of Worthendale’s name had been well-known and respected throughout the city. Almost two years ago to the week, the Duke of Worthendale and his son had been stopped by Highwaymen on their way out of the city. Dylan’s older brother, Noah, had stood in front of the robbers to protect their father but it had done little good. Noah had sustained a terrible injury and their father, the imitable Duke of Worthendale, was fatally shot. Dylan had found he couldn’t stay in the city after that.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Mr Gerden said humbly. “What brings you back to the city?”

“I have come to oversee some business matters on my brother’s behalf,” Dylan spoke shortly.

“The new Duke of Worthendale,” Mr Gerden mused rather wistfully. “I am sure he greatly appreciates your assistance.”

“Yes.” The carriage pulled up outside the great gates of Worthendale Manor, the lovely townhouses set back from the busy street. Dylan felt a strange pang of familiarity and sadness to see it. He hated arriving home knowing his father would not be there to greet him.

“I wish you very well, Lord Wentworth,” Mr Gerden said, tipping his hat to Dylan as the footman opened the door and Dylan climbed out. “I hope to see you again in Bath.”

“You also, Mr Gerden.”

Dylan was beginning to regret agreeing the share the carriage. He felt his secrets were laid bare now. He nodded his head in passing one last time to Mr Gerden, before he stepped out onto the driveway, breathing in the scent of the gardener’s plant pots that surrounded the door, the bright, sharp scent of rosemary. The front door opened, and Dylan saw the familiar face of Bradford, his father’s old butler, standing in the doorway.

“Good afternoon, Lord Wentworth,” Bradford called jovially. At the warm familiar sound, Dylan smiled. His father might not be there to greet him, but this at least was something familiar to him and it brought a comforting feeling.

“Good afternoon, Bradford,” Dylan said, walking into the house and allowing the butler to close the door behind him.

“How was your trip from Bath, my Lord?” Bradford asked politely. “Are you in need of refreshment?”

“Yes, some coffee would be good.” Dylan removed his top hat and handed it to the old butler. “Where might I find the Duke?”

It was strange for Dylan to stand in this house, enquiring after the Duke and no longer mean his father. My brother, the Duke of Worthendale.

“He is in his study, my Lord,” Bradford said, shaking his head regretfully. “His Grace is always in his study.”

Dylan nodded, knowingly. The brothers had both dealt with their grief in differing ways. Dylan had sought pleasure and solitude, travelling and reading and spending time away from the city. It was an adventure! With that adventure came distraction and the promise of future enjoyments. Noah had thrown himself into work, dedicating himself to the Worthendale estate and to the various social responsibilities with political obligations inherited from their father.

They were always different, Dylan and Noah. Dylan could remember their mother saying as much, countless times. Whenever he saw her, she would refer to their differences. Whilst Dylan was warm and friendly in manner, Noah was cold and distant. Where Dylan was artistic Noah was mathematical, whilst Dylan was passionate Noah was logical. They had always been fire and ice and their father had always been the one to ground them both, the one who understood them and could bring them together. Dylan missed his father greatly at that moment. With his father gone, he had to learn to balance his hardworking, sometimes severe older brother alone.

Dylan walked slowly down the corridor to the study, accosted by memories of his childhood. He remembered how he and Noah had raced along the corridor, chasing one another. He knew how, on one particular day, he and Noah had brought their cricket bats inside out of the rain and bowled balls along the corridor down toward the study.

“Boys!” Their father had shouted, flinging open the study door with an irate look on his face. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Playing cricket!” Dylan had announced happily, waving the bat perilously close to an antique vase.

“Shh, Dylan!” Noah hissed, ever the older brother and trying to hide the cricket ball behind his back. Dylan, who was younger and confused, simply stared between his big brother and his father, who were staring at one another, with Noah looking slightly fearful.

“Cricket, is it?” their father had said, raising his eyebrows with a smirk in the corner of his mouth. “Well, then…” Dylan watched in amazement as his stoic, reserved father rolled up his sleeves and smiled down at his sons. “I’ll bowl!”

Dylan faced the door to his father’s study, pulling up the courage to knock, feeling overwhelmed with the memories of his past. They had become a trio, a father and two sons, one son made of passion and one of ice, balanced by their father who had both in him. Now all of that is gone. We have lost our footing, both of us.

Dylan sighed heavily and knocked on the door.

“Enter!” Noah’s voice called through the wood. Dylan pushed open the door.

“Ah, brother,” Noah said. “You came.”

Noah was sitting in their father’s old chair, a drink in hand. Even for Noah, who enjoyed a brandy, it seemed early in the day.

“Are you well, brother?” Dylan said, stepping forward to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. We used to be on the same side of the desk, facing father.

“I have been better.” Noah sighed heavily with the words, pulling himself to his feet. Dylan tried not to wince as he watched his brother limp over to the drinks’ cabinet, pouring himself a second brandy. He hated to be reminded of Noah’s injury, the brutal shot to the knee that had crippled him for life. It was unfair that Noah, the oldest son, the one with all the responsibility, was the one who had suffered so badly. Dylan was the second son, he had none of Noah’s burdens, yet Noah was the one who was permanently disabled.

“Would you care to explain?” Dylan asked, keeping his tone cautious.

“Here.” Noah handed Dylan a glass of brandy. “Drink a sip of this before I tell you.”

Dylan raised his eyebrows at his brother but complied, taking a small sip, even though brandy was not his favorite.

“Now that is done,” he said, setting the glass down on the desk in front of him. “What is this about?”

“This.” Noah handed over a letter. “Father’s solicitor, Mr. Ramsey, came to call two days ago. We talked for a long time. He gave me this.”

Dylan looked down at the letter, unfolding it carefully to read it through. The more Dylan read the letter, the more he sat forward in his seat, feeling the discomfort grow. That acknowledgement of how unfair the world was on Noah was beginning to grow so much that Dylan was restless, his hands moving constantly across the letter.

“I do not understand.” Dylan said, glancing back up at his brother. “There is a condition on the Trust?”

Their father had left behind a sizable trust worth a fortune that Noah, as the heir, was responsible for. This letter was something new though. After so long had passed since their father’s death, it suggested that there were stipulations upon the trust. It was something that their father had never, ever mentioned to Dylan or Noah.

“Yes, there is,” Noah sipped his own drink. “I confess, I do not know how to make head nor tail of it.”

“Am I understanding this right?” Dylan asked, shaking his head back and forth. “Father left a condition that you must marry or the trust will be inherited by another? That is absurd!”

“That was my first thought too.” Noah grimaced, knocking back even more of the brandy and making Dylan wince at the sight.

He has grown too dependent on drinking such things.

“He insists I must marry within the season or I will forfeit the trust to an unknown beneficiary.”

“This is bizarre,” Dylan blustered, staring down at the letter. His father had certainly impressed upon his children the need for family, but he had never pressured Noah to seek a wife. It had been expected, of course, Dylan knew that their mother held hopes for grandchildren from both of them. Yet it was never demanded. “How did this happen?” Dylan tossed down the letter on the desk between them, unable to hold it in his hands anymore.

“It seems when our father made his will, he was rather keen for the family line to be continued. There must always be a Duke!” He spoke the latter in a mocking tone as if imitating their father. “Apparently that is what he said to the solicitor. Mr. Ramsey has explained to me that father gave him strict instructions to only deliver the letter two years after his death.”

“Two years?” Dylan shook his head, trying to understand. “Did he expect you to be married by now?”

“Apparently not,” Noah said, sighing heavily and lowering himself gingerly into his seat. Dylan remembered how Noah used to move when he was fit and well, his strong athletic older brother who had been the envy of every young gentleman. Now, all because of a horrible accident, their father had been taken from him and his brother’s life had been changed entirely. “Apparently father thought two years would have been enough time for me to have mourned him and made the necessary adjustments to my life in taking over the dukedom.”

“And have you?” Dylan asked, swallowing heavily. Dylan knew he should be gratified that his father had worked so hard to continue the line, but it was not good news to hear. It was devastating. To threaten to cut Noah off entirely unless he was quick to wed was odd indeed. Who is this other beneficiary? Why would father bestow the fortune and the Dukedom elsewhere?

“I… believe I have,” Noah said slowly, swirling his brandy around in his glass and watching it sadly. The pause spoke volumes to Dylan’s mind though. There were worries here to address. “It has not been easy, certainly, it has been very challenging, but yes. I believe I have ceased to mourn.”

Dylan nodded quietly, taking a big gulp of his drink. Perhaps it was because he had been away from the city whilst Noah had stayed at home, but he did not feel ready to say he was no longer mourning. Everywhere he looked in the house he was reminded of his father’s death, and he felt a pang of mournfulness he could not contain.

“Father is very specific in his conditions,” Noah continued slowly. “He commands that I shall not ‘settle’ for anything less than an Earl’s daughter.”

“Ah.” Dylan sighed softly, looking at his brother uncomfortably. “Could this be because of the –?”

“Yes,” Noah said shortly, placing his glass to lips and saying nothing more.

Dylan could see his father’s fingerprints on the situation. It was an attempt ensure Noah had a good future and there was a future to the family line, yet he had made it a difficult situation for his son.

“You cannot just marry anyone,” Dylan murmured. “Not after…”

“I know,” Noah said, rubbing his face in frustration. “I made some poor decisions before father died. He clearly knew of it, which is why he made this stipulation. Since then… I have not recovered fortunes quite as much as I would have liked to.”

“That explains that then,” Dylan said. He knew well enough that when Noah had first taken a few responsibilities off their father, he had not been ready for it and made some wrong decisions. Since then, it could have been grief or it could have been that Noah was simply unprepared, but the Dukedom had still suffered the occasional financial woe. Noah had clearly made some damaging business deals and depleted some of the trust. It had made both Dylan and Noah particularly guarded about the state of the trust and who could access it. “So all we need to do is find an Earl’s daughter who we think is trustworthy.”

“Is that all?” Noah said.

“It shall not be too challenging,” Dylan spoke confidently. “You were much desired as a young man, you are strong and you are now a Duke –”

“And a cripple!” Noah laughed bitterly, taking a sip of his drink and staring at the ceiling with mournful eyes. “What lady would want a crippled husband?”

“Noah,” Dylan cut in gently. “You truly underestimate yourself. You are the Duke of Worthendale.”

“I am.” Noah’s voice was sharp. “I have no intention of humiliating myself in an attempt to find a wife.”

“It does not need to be a humiliation,” Dylan protested.

“But it will be,” Noah said, with a tone of finality. “I shall not endure it. I shall find another way, brother. Do not worry.”

“You are a good brother,” Dylan said softly, knowing that he should not press Noah anymore on this issue, though there was something discomforting in Dylan’s chest. If it is the terms of the trust… surely there is no way around this?

“Thank you,” Noah said, nodding formally and reaching out to tuck the offending letter away in a drawer. “I think it is for the best if we do not discuss this with mother. It shall only worry her.”

“I agree.” Dylan nodded. He knew his brother was doing what was best for their family and himself, but Dylan also knew the stipulations of the trust was something that could not be avoided. As he downed the last of the brandy, he made a decision. He would do what was best for his brother, even if Noah tried to avoid the matter. Dylan would do everything in his power to ensure that Noah found the perfect wife he deserved, no matter what.

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Chapter 1

Lady Emma Baker hadn’t even been at the musicale for half an hour, yet she already couldn’t wait to return home and change. She turned her head, taking in the sight of the guests, and fought the urge to roll her eyes. Everywhere she looked were members of the ton, each clad in the pastel colors of the spring season, blending in with the light-colored floral decorations of the ballroom. The guests held dainty pastries and glasses of sparkling champagne in their gloved hands as they gossiped and passed each other compliments that may or may not have been genuine.

Emma stood in the crowd at her brother Thomas’ side, her back to the corner, smiling graciously but barely listening to their conversation at all. All around her came the high trill of overly polite voices speaking of the excessively dull subjects of business dealings, marriage matches, and who had caught the eye of the scandal sheets this Season. Still, though, she kept that smile on her face as best as she was able, nodding along in agreement with whatever her brother was saying.

Emma tried to inhale, but the corset seemed chokingly tight around her middle. She cursed inwardly, wishing for all the world that she could shuck the miserable garment off in favor of the freer dresses that she wore at home. Every second she spent at the dreadful gathering felt longer than the last, and she did not know how much more of the simpering and sweet-talking she could stand. The entire affair was silly, trivial; Emma could not understand how the ton could enjoy wasting so much time by spending it with people they possibly did not even like!

Oh, Thomas! When will you see that dragging me along to these dreadful events will do you no good in finding a match? I find everything about these social gatherings utterly boring. By the way some of these ninnies are looking at me, it’s clear that every soul in this room knows I am out of place here. As if to set Emma’s thought in stone, Thomas’ conversation partner turned towards Emma; she did not miss how the woman’s eyes ran across her, from the tip of her crown to the toe of her white shoes.

“Lady Emma, I was quite pleasantly surprised to see you here!” the woman said, catching Emma’s attention. Her voice only barely concealed the judgmental lilt that hid there. “I was so afraid that something may have happened when you did not come to my charity ball. Why, when your dear brother arrived without you, I was almost moved to tears, thinking the worst!”

Emma smiled stiffly, twining her fingers together. “No, Lady Halwood,” she said. “Nothing so serious as that. I’m ever so sorry for not attending, however.”

Lady Halwood sipped her champagne, gazing at Emma over the rim of the crystal glass. “Oh, wonderful, my dear,” the woman said. “I was ever so worried that you were stricken with the same illness that has your poor father in such cold clutches. I cannot imagine anything so horrible.”

Emma felt her stomach twist into a tight knot at the mention of her father. Thomas’ eyes fell on her swiftly, but she simply smiled up at her brother, hoping that the expression seemed sincere. In truth, however, Emma wished she were anywhere but standing there with Lady Halwood, even more so now that the woman had brought up the one subject that bruised Emma’s heart the worst.

“Thank you for your concern, my lady,” she said, hoping her voice sounded polite.

Emma turned towards Thomas, her eyes wide and pleading, hoping to communicate her unease. There was an unspoken exchange of words between herself and her brother, and then finally, Thomas nodded. With a smile, he gestured toward Emma’s lady’s maid standing near the doors to the terrace with his gloved hand. Emma knew that her beloved brother would not deny her a chance to step away if she truly needed it, but etiquette required she be accompanied. Emma knew that she would be calling attention to herself if she wandered away from her chaperone’s sight. She thought it a silly bother, as she was perfectly able to take care of herself if anything untoward should happen. However, Emma understood it would reflect upon Thomas if he permitted her to leave unchaperoned.

Emma passed him another tight quirk of her lips, hoping that it counted as a smile, and nodded to Lady Halwood. “Please excuse me for just a moment, Lady Halwood,” she said, without meeting the woman’s eyes. Standing in Lady Halwood’s presence one second longer while the woman made every attempt to pry tidbits about her father’s health only served to light an angry fire within her belly. Emma knew the lady to be dull, but nosey was one thing Emma wouldn’t tolerate.

“Please don’t be long, Emma. After all, we haven’t given our compliments to Baron Gainely yet. I shall be here when you return,” nodded Thomas.

Not knowing what lay beyond the door to the terrace, Emma then whisked herself away, her gown in her hands. She lugged it along unhappily, weaving through the crowd without much grace and avoiding the eyes of the ton. Emma was used to the ton casting deprecating glances her way. Disapproval of how she chose to live her life went back a long way. As she acknowledged her thanks to Conroy, her lady’s maid, for attending to a chaperone’s duty, an idea struck her. Hadn’t I seen a garden on our way into the foyer? Wandering amongst the wisteria and herbs is a far better way to spend my time indeed.

Thoughts of escaping the four walls of the ballroom to enjoy the fresh air and greenery of nature cheered Emma. She would much rather be amongst the new green shoots of grass, freshly poking their heads out of the dirt to meet the springtime instead of the upper crust of the ton. It was so perfect an idea that she had to stop herself from giving way to a tiny smile.

On the wall next to the terrace door was an ornate gilded mirror. Emma stopped to peer into the mirror, and her mouth twisted in a frown before she could stop it as she took in her reflection. The peach-colored gown she wore was from a few Seasons prior, and it clung to her body with the corset cinched tightly in the back. Emma hated the constrictive sleeves, feeling bound by a bandit’s rope instead of wearing one of her finest dresses. Emma’s eyes rested on her chignon, the light-blonde curls laying softly against her cheeks. She wanted nothing more than to tear out those pins and let her fall long down her back, as she always wore it at home.

Feeling rebellious and full of disdain for the faux propriety of the ton, she huffed and turned to slide through the ballroom door with Conroy ready to follow. Before she could even move her foot one inch, a sickeningly sweet voice cut through the ton’s prattling and laughter like a warm knife through butter.

“Why if it is not the strangest young lady in all of London?” Lady Katherine said from behind her. “I thought that this would be yet another event she would not attend. Didn’t you think so, Lady Alice?” Lady Katherine let one hand wander up to twist one raven-black curl. She pursed her lips and turned back to her cohort, who laughed in reply.

“Quite,” Lady Alice agreed. “I suppose she was taking the time to visit the modiste and choose the perfect pattern for a gown. I think the poor dear has worn that particular peach satin her past two Seasons!”

Emma had been too busy wincing at her reflection to see the two women advancing on her and smirking as though they’d caught her in a trap. She glanced behind them to see Lady Katherine’s and Lady Alice’s mothers only standing paces away. It seemed the mothers were too lost in conversation to witness the cruelties their daughters were inflicting on Emma then or even at past social events. Emma was beginning to think that the women did not mind at all what their daughters said to her.

          Emma twisted in discomfort; with every ball and gathering she attended, one thing only became more apparent—she did not belong at society gatherings.

“Are you not going to say anything?” Lady Katherine asked. “You’re just going to stand there like a buffoon who can’t speak? No wonder you’re on your third attempt at finding a match! You are quite the odd girl!”

“I should say so,” Lady Alice quipped. “Such a sad creature, with your outdated gown and poorly styled hair. My heart does not know whether to laugh at you or pity you for all your woeful attempts at being a lady.”

Emma’s heart plummeted at such harsh words, but she did not falter. Her spine stiffened with pride. Though she did feel the sting of tears threatening to spill over onto her cheeks, her honey-colored eyes did not blink, and her lips did not tremble.

“It does not matter to me what you think,” Emma responded. Her voice was steady, and her eyes flinty, ignoring the heaviness in her chest that was not there before. “You two may go about kissing toads to find your prince, but I need none of that. I am my own woman; marriage is of no interest to me.”

The two young women seemed mollified for a moment. Neither one of them spoke, and their eyes shifted to each other for a split second. Emma was about to silently congratulate herself for silencing them before the two young ladies burst into a fit of laughter.

“Can you believe how freely she admits it?” Lady Katherine laughed. “Perhaps she’s just realized she’s simply too much of a peculiar thing for marriage. I suppose it is better to accept it, after all!”

Emma glimpsed members of the ton near to them stealing glances in their direction. Lips moved in silent conversation, but Emma could not hear the gossip spoken in whispers. She did not have to hear what they were saying to know that she was the hot topic of the gathering. Lady Katherine and Lady Alice had a way of making sure that everyone knew just how aloof and strange they thought Emma was. Emma wanted to be free of this hive of rumors now more than ever, but her feet felt frozen to the floor. She did her best to look stoic and stick her chin out at them in defiance, but her head felt suddenly very heavy.

A lump formed in Emma’s throat, and she was desperate to erase those awful sounds that assaulted her ears and pierced her heart, though she tried her best not to show it. She strangled her tears in her throat, wishing that there was someone who understood her, one solitary soul who would stand out among the rest, like a beam of light in the darkness.

*****

Kenneth Fenwick, Earl of Herbert, was in a foul mood, though he would not admit it. For once, life was truly not going his way. His mouth tilted downwards ever so slightly at the edges, and his mossy green eyes were dark in annoyance. Throughout the ballroom rang the laughter of young ladies, tittering like the sound of sweet birds. An irritated breath rushed out of him, and his hands delved into his pockets.

“You needn’t look so cross,” Alexander, his cousin, said at his side. “Perhaps it was all for the good that Lady Rose rescinded her agreement.”

Kenneth straightened as if the words seared him like a brand. He arched one dark brown brow as a gaggle of young ladies passed by before him.

“It is a good thing,” he said, “and I am not cross. I am simply … thinking, Alex.”

Alexander laughed, the sunniness on his face matching the bright blaze of red hair that crowned his head. His teeth flashed in a grin, and he shook his head at his cousin, mirroring him by plunging his own hands into his coat.

“Thinking,” he echoed. “That is a surprise. It’s thinking that’s gotten you into this mess in the first place, hasn’t it? Thinking you did not need to call on your betrothed for weeks, thinking you could ignore her letters, thinking you could puff your chest up at any pretty young thing that crosses your path.”

Alexander rose his brows, and a teasing, grim expression clouded his face dramatically. “Oh, cousin, whenever will you learn? A lady’s heart is a fragile thing!”

“Yes, yes,” Kenneth countered. “You don’t need to instruct me in the ways of wooing ladies; of that, I can assure you.”

The frown was still present, but his cousin’s presence always did make him feel a little better. Alexander had a pleasant way about him that always brought a smile to Kenneth’s face, even on the darkest of days. He was just a cheerful sort of fellow, well-liked by the ton and always with an enlightened word or a joke resting just at the tip of his tongue.

“Of course, cousin,” Alexander said. “The marriage was then simply not meant to be. Perhaps you’re star-struck lovers with some other beautiful young lady. Maybe Lady Priscilla, perhaps? She does have quite the eye-catching fashion choices, wouldn’t you say?”

The woman in question was just a few arm’s lengths away. Lady Priscilla stood out amongst the pastel crowd in an elaborate display of every shade in yellow, purple, and green.

“What a ghastly mélange of feathers she’s wearing upon her head,” Kenneth remarked, sending Alexander into a hearty round of laughter. “But no, I don’t think my destiny lies with Lady Priscilla, though I could have any single one of these ladies. Without any doubt, in fact.”

Alexander took an appraising look around the ballroom, his hand on his angular chin. “Without a doubt?” he asked.

“None whatsoever.”

Kenneth’s sour mood completely disappeared as he watched a shred of slyness sprout up in his cousin’s brown eyes. The bow of the man’s lips curved up in a smile that already looked victorious. I wonder what he has in mind this time. I hope it’s enough to cheer me up after the mess with Rose. Perhaps it will even be enough to take my mind off of what is happening at home as well. But Kenneth did not want to think about either of those things, especially the latter; he pushed those thoughts away and focused only on his cousin.

          Alexander looked around conspiratorially for a moment. Kenneth realized that he was ensuring that everyone around them was securely locked in conversation and that no prying ears were listening.

“How about a bit of a wager then?” Alexander asked, his voice dropping low. “Let us prove just how much of a prince with the ladies as you say you are.”

Kenneth’s eyebrow raised, a smile playing in his eyes now. There could be no telling what Alexander had up his sleeve, but Kenneth had always been one to find out. “And what are the terms?”

“Oh, nothing so much as to strain your sensibilities or purse,” Alexander began. “You try to win the heart and hand of a young lady of my choosing. You’ll have, oh, let us say, six weeks to do so. I don’t think those are harsh terms, by any stretch of the mind.”

“You would not be insinuating one Lady Priscilla?!” he whispered harshly.

Alexander let out a puff of air through his nostrils, a silent laugh that only Kenneth would have been able to notice. “Not Lady Priscilla,” he said. “But if you lose, you won’t be getting off lightly. You must walk naked in the streets of London. Completely bare.”

Kenneth stared at him, a disbelieving smile on his lips. “I shall be arrested! Public indecency wouldn’t be excused, not even for one as pleasing to the eye as myself.”

“Then you shall have to ensure you win,” Alexander replied. “After all, you were ever so confident before. And do not tell me that those excellent business partnerships your father made before his passing would not assist in hauling your no-good head out of prison. You would spend no more than an afternoon there.”

Kenneth hesitated for a moment and then surrendered to the bursts of excitement he felt stirring within him at the prospect of another of Alexander’s bets. “I’ll take your wager,” he said. “I shall show you the extent of my charm since you’ve asked me to prove it. It isn’t as though I could ruin my reputation any more than I’ve already done myself. And who shall our lucky lady be?”

Kenneth watched Alexander scan the room before movement caught his eye a few paces to their right. A young lady with curled blonde hair was moving swiftly towards the door. Behind her, two other ladies were laughing, one pointing cruelly in her direction.

“Where are you going, Emma?” one of the women asked.

“Out to play in the dirt and muck just like a farm animal,” the other called after the fleeing young lady. “Leave her, Alice; we have our duties as proper ladies to fulfill.”

Yes, like finding some poor fellow to shackle in marriage, Kenneth thought to himself. He blazed, unsure from where this righteous anger for the persecuted woman came. Usually, the social affairs of women disinterested him, but this rude scene of deliberate mocking a lovely lady roused indignation that would not stop nagging at his conscious.

“Well, that looks like a fair challenge for you,” Alexander observed. “That’s who I’ll choose then. The somewhat different and unapproachable daughter of the Earl of Chester, Lady Emma Baker. That ought to keep you busy for those six splendid weeks.”

Kenneth considered how out of place Lady Emma looked, surrounded by the finery of the ton. She was like a single wildflower among a bouquet of heavily perfumed roses. Her beauty could not be denied; even from his precise angle, he could see her high, sharp cheekbones, her soft black lashes laying against her skin. He noticed that Emma Baker was much more than the other women of the ton. Kenneth supposed it came from spending long hours outdoors—perhaps she enjoyed horseback riding or gardening.

Either one was a curious habit for a young woman of the ton to entertain regularly, and Kenneth thought it no wonder that she was being teased over it. Yet, he also had to wonder what Lady Emma was so interested in outside of the four walls of a good English home. The women he had interacted with never had a mind to talk or think about anything other than marriage.

Kenneth’s anger flared as he watched the two youthful beauties begin laughing again; most likely, they were still teasing Emma for her uniqueness. They held their hands to their pink lips, curved tightly in malicious smiles. The two bullies were only an arm’s length away from Kenneth and Alexander now, and he could easily hear every word they spoke.

“How will she ever manage to secure the attention of a gentleman?” one asked. “I’d wager her scowl alone is enough to secure for her a life as a spinster, let alone her hair and gowns!”

Another spire of anger shot forth from within the earl as he watched Lady Emma, hoping she had made it out to the terrace, too far to hear the insulting words. The youthful tormentors ensured everyone knew what they were giggling over; they were purposefully doing it, considering how loudly they spoke. Still, not a soul defended the Earl’s daughter. She was treated with disregard by those who mocked her and the bystanders indifferent to her struggles.

How utterly cruel. Before he knew what he was doing, the Earl of Herbert opened his mouth to speak, intending to talk loudly enough for anyone near to hear him.

“I’m ever so glad that I have a young lady who has already caught my eye, Alex. Someone whose heart I already know. After all, Alex, some of the sweetest-looking flowers smell quite rotten when you truly find out what is on the inside. Would you not agree?” Kenneth gazed explicitly in the direction of Lady Katherine and Lady Alice.

The two women stopped short as they passed by. For a moment, their mouths hung open, and then simultaneously, their faces turned bright red. One of them looked like she might speak, but before she could make a fool of herself any further, her friend tugged on her hand, and they both sped away.

“What was that all about?” Alexander asked, a teasing smile on his face. “‘Someone whose heart you already know?’ Perhaps you are taking the bet too seriously, defending your damsel in distress even before introductions are made?”

Kenneth laughed, though his gaze lingered on the door Lady Emma went through. “Accompany me to the terrace, cousin. I’m in need of escaping from the stifling air in this room.

When the earl and his cousin stepped onto the terrace, Kenneth saw Emma below in the garden being consoled by her lady’s maid. She turned for only a moment, her eyes searching for other possible harassers, but it was enough for Kenneth to see her face. Her cheeks were pink, nearly red in her surely tumultuous emotion, and one glimmering teardrop sat at the very corner of her almond-shaped eyes. Briefly, their eyes met over the flowers and shrubs. Kenneth was stunned by the bow of her pink lips and the brightness of her gaze. He stood there, frozen, locked in her stare, and then she turned away. Before he could drink in one more drop of her beauty, Emma and her companion walked further into the garden, and she was gone from sight.

Kenneth turned to Alexander, though the sight of Emma’s honey-brown eyes were enough to him melt him like the sun. “To answer your impertinent question, I am not taking your wager too seriously. I’m simply feeling rather stressed lately, and that pair of painted-up vipers was merely the final straw. I had to let out some steam, it seems. There have been some goings-on at home that have left me feeling slightly troubled.”

“Truly?” Alexander asked with concern stamped across his features.

Kenneth hesitated, reflecting a somberness somewhere distant in his green gaze. He hadn’t planned on filling Alexander in on the odd happenings that had been plaguing him of late, not until he had more information, but the thought of sharing some of his worries with his childhood companion was tempting. I’m going to have to tell him sometime. But saying the words aloud is somehow frightening, as if that would make my fears seem more real than I would like to admit. I want to think it’s all still a coincidence.

          And yet, the earl could not resist discussing the subject; he wondered for a moment if Alexander might just tell him he was being foolish and paranoid. But Alexander already did look worried, and so Kenneth began his story.

“Strange occurrences,” Kenneth said. “I truly didn’t want to worry you, and at first, I thought that I’d come across just a string of bad luck.”

“Bad luck?”

“Exactly that,” replied Kenneth. “I went out hunting recently and came across a wild boar with tusks the like of which you’ve never seen. You know how I like a clean shot, so I dismounted and tried to take the creature by surprise. I aimed my rifle, certain that I would bring the beast down, but my weapon never fired. It was all I could do to hurry back and mount my horse before the beast speared me straight through!”

“Surely you don’t think wild pigs are targeting you?” Alexander questioned, half-smiling.

“That isn’t all,” Kenneth continued. “A servant was injured on the way up the staircase a few days ago. The top step was undeniably tampered with; the nails pulled right out of the wood. I would have been certain that someone only meant me harm if the events stopped there, but then the most chilling event of all occurred. A rock the size of my skull was hurled straight through my bedchamber window. I’m beginning to fear for my sister’s life as well. You know just as well as I how her emotional state would plummet if something ever happened to me. I am the only immediate family she has left.”

Kenneth and his younger sister, Lady Teresa Fenwick, lost their parents when Kenneth was eighteen years of age, and Teresa was but a child of eleven years. Teresa had come to rely on Kenneth not only as a brother but as a substitute parent. He had assumed responsibility for Teresa after their parents’ death, and she was the only person who had his love and good grace. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to Teresa on his account.

“But cousin,” Alexander said, his eyes wide, “you don’t mean—”

“Yes, someone is trying to kill me, and I aim to find out who,” declared the Earl of Herbert.

 Chapter 2

“Home at last, and where I belong,” sighed Emma to herself. She sat in her garden; the aromatic scent of herbs carried on the breeze. Her hands delved into the dirt, free at last from the lace gloves that confined her so. A cotton dress hung from her body, still fine enough to be considered a lady’s day dress, but plainer, lighter, and with far more room to breathe.

Emma recalled the events of that morning’s musicale, sorrow building up within her chest. She didn’t know why Katherine’s and Alice’s words bothered her; she did not care for fashion or the latest hairstyles. Most importantly, winning the attention of gentlemen of the ton did not interest her. Emma wondered why she felt like weeping so when those very things were pointed out to her as flaws.

Soft, dirt-smudged fingers tugged at a tall green sprig topped with a halo of white flowers, unearthing it from the dirt. Emma had to pull with some difficulty, but the flower gave way after putting her back and shoulders into her endeavor. With a small blade no larger than her pinkie finger, she sawed the roots from the green stalk until, at last, the dark brown tangle fell away. Emma smiled, satisfied, and placed it inside the wicker basket at her side. She stood, huffing a breath from the exertion, and brushed her dirt-soiled hands down the skirts of her gown.

“Now why would you do something like that?” a voice asked from behind her.

She whirled around to see Thomas, a rueful expression clinging to his features that so resembled hers. “It’s just one of my older gowns. This is the only one I wear in the garden so that I won’t ruin any of my others. You needn’t chastise me about staining it.”

“I meant the root,” Thomas said. “I was simply wondering why you took that and not the flower itself. Poor thing; it’s pretty enough to be put in a vase and admired, don’t you think?”

Emma cast a glance at the abandoned blossom, frowning to herself. Her eyes did not leave the ground. “Perhaps the flower didn’t want to be stuck in a vase and gawked at by anybody and everybody. Perhaps it wants to be left alone, out here in nature. Maybe that’s where she enjoys her time best.” Emma sighed, feeling an onset of emotion that she couldn’t quite explain welling up again. She set the basket down, her chest tight and her eyes warm and wet.

“Well,” Thomas said, after a moment of heavy silence, “I don’t suppose a root will look quite right in a vase, but I had to ask.”

Emma smiled despite herself, a white gleam in the late afternoon sunlight. As a child, her older brother had always been her constant companion, and nothing had changed as adults. But her smile faded from her face when she remembered the true reason she’d visited her herb garden.

“It’s for Father,” she said. “These plants were imported from across the sea. Supposedly they are nearly a miracle cure for breathing difficulties. I think that this might be what he needs.”

“You always were quite bookish with those dusty old tomes on medicine and flora,” Thomas laughed, not quite touching the subject. “I suppose I had better find you a husband who can appreciate such an underrated trait in a young lady.”

Emma scoffed, waving her hand about dismissively. “Oh, go on,” she said, with a small curving smile. “Where would I have any room in my heart for a husband, with you and father around to appreciate my unique qualities?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow at her. “Emma,” he said, his tone sinking lower in his seriousness. “You cannot be alone forever. You need to find a gentleman, and soon.”

“Or else I shall become a spinster?” she asked, laughing. “That life suits me anyway. I have no time to search for a husband when Father so desperately needs…”

She trailed off after seeing her brother’s expression. His brown eyes were glassy and sorrowful. Thomas had his hands tucked behind his back, as he always did when sorry about something. Emma did not have to ask to know what it was.

“Emma,” Thomas pleaded, “please do not string your heart along with the hope of Father’s return to good health. I hate to see you brought up so high, only to crash lower and lower still every time. Please, let us just enjoy all the time left we have with Father without tainting our memories with desperation and false hope.”

She turned her head, suddenly unwilling to look at him or the root in her basket. Emma refused to believe these words; she turned them away at the door to her heart the moment they began to knock.

“I know how you feel, Emma. He is my father too.”

“But it was not you that killed Mother.”

Tension hung in the air for a moment before she then swooped down to collect her basket, ignoring the ache in her heart. Emma did not mean to sound so petulant, so self-deprecating; she knew that it was she who had placed the weight of her burden squarely upon her shoulders. And yet, it was something that she felt she had to do.

“You did not kill Mother either,” Thomas said quietly. “A complication during childbirth is hardly the fault of the child, Emma.”

Emma shook her head, unsure of what to say. Her hands tightened on the wicker basket.

“I do not wish to speak on the subject any longer,” she said. “I wanted to see Father before he falls asleep for the evening.”

“Emma, wait,” appealed Thomas. “Before you go, I wanted to tell you that we’ll be attending Lord and Lady Berkin’s ball tomorrow evening. Perhaps a little additional time around others is what you need. And it’s important to me that you begin to consider your needs a little more.”

Emma stood with her back to him; for a split second, she fought the urge to tell him that no, she would not be attending the ball and that he would be attending himself if he’d like to go. But this emotion was quelled before it even began. Emma knew her anger sprang from desperation for their father and that Thomas was working through his pain over the man’s illness, too.

“Thank you, brother, for your concern,” was all she said. She brushed by him, up the walkway and through the door before he could speak another word about the ball.

The house felt quiet and already full of mourning. To Emma, it was nearly unbearable. The air was heavy with illness and sadness, and as Emma trudged up the stairs to her father’s bedchamber, she already felt the dread of facing the illness head-on, of genuinely looking at how ravaged the man’s body was. She paused outside of the door, taking a solid breath in, and then knocking.

“Yes?” said a male voice. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man in an everyday cotton shirt. “Ah, Lady Emma, please come in. Your father was just asking about you.”

“Thank you, Johnson.”

Emma entered, and Johnson, the butler, stepped outside and shut the door, leaving her with some privacy. Lord Chester was sitting up, his hands folded across his lap as he rested beneath the heavy quilt. The man had his eyes closed; Emma noted with dismay how much older he looked than he had even last month.

“Hello, Father,” Emma said. “How are you feeling this afternoon?”

Lord Chester opened his hazy eyes, blinking once and then again. When his vision settled, the man smiled slowly. Emma could easily see how little energy her father had left. Yet, she marveled at his insistence that he was always ‘very good today’ or ‘quite well.’ Emma wasn’t sure if he believed that for his children’s benefit or his benefit, but she loved him all the more for saying it.

“Oh, my dear,” he said. “Quite well, quite well. And what have you got there? Have you gone flower-picking?” He motioned towards the wicker basket she still carried.

Emma smiled at the predictability of her father’s answer. She looked down at the basket and chuckled, “I meant to set this aside before I came to see you. I suppose I was just eager when Johnson told me you were awake. I wanted to see you after returning home from the awful musicale, but you were sleeping peacefully. I didn’t dare wake you.”

Her father laughed, the sound like wind through dead branches. “Oh, love,” he said, “your mother did so hate social events too. She was rather the odd bird, they said, but I loved her even more for it. You do remind me of her so much.” Even now, her father looked as though he were trying to will away the effects of his illness to ease Emma’s mind. He sat up as straight as he was able, though it was not much, and his lips trembled in a smile.

Emma’s eyes softened. He just doesn’t wish me to worry about him. Oh, Father! You are the picture of stoicism, even if you are bedridden. If only I could have half as much courage as you have.

“Thomas wants me to go to another ball tomorrow night,” she said, sighing dramatically in a successful attempt to cheer her father. “Can you believe the nerve your son has? Trying to force me into the prying eyes of the ton?”

“I cannot blame him,” Lord Chester said. “You are a gem to be adored, Emma. Thomas simply wants the best for you. As do I.”

She sat down on her father’s bed, reaching out to take his wrinkled hand. The silence between them was ripe with sadness, but also with a warm love that Emma knew would transcend this life with her father when it was time.

“You think I should go as well, don’t you?” she asked glumly. “Father, please, I do not require marriage to be happy.”

“I did not say you did,” he said, holding his other hand up. “I do not think that at all. Your mother was happy before me. It was not necessary for her life exactly to be as she wished it. Only after we met did we realize what we were missing in our lives. Perhaps you are happy now. But Emma, I could truly rest easy knowing that someone was taking care of you, that you would be safe, protected. Loved.”

Emma felt emotion crawling up her throat, but she would not give way to it. She squeezed her father’s hand and opened her mouth to change the subject when Lord Chester interjected before she could speak.

“Promise me you will think about it, Emma,” he begged. “Promise me at least that much, my sweet daughter. Then your dear old father will be satisfied.”

She swallowed her words, her will, and then smiled.

“I promise, Father,” she said. “I shall think about it.”

Lord Chester’s expression softened to one of tranquility, and then he blinked repeatedly, his eyelids heavy. His gaze did not seem focused, and Emma felt a sharp pang of concern shoot through her.

“I should let you rest, Father,” Emma said. “I have kept you awake far too long.”

But the Earl was already sound asleep. His ragged breaths rose above Emma’s, wet and thick. Emma gazed at his wiry white hair, at the heavy lines beneath his eyes. It was not age taking her father’s life, but something to do with his lungs, a mysterious danger that evaded every physician and nurse in London. He was upon death’s stoop, and yet all he would concern himself with was Emma. She shut the door quietly behind her, her fingers trembling.

The prospect of the ball lingered on Emma’s mind; she told herself that she would not break her father’s heart before she had a chance to save him.

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Prologue

”Son,” called Edmund’s father to him, his voice raw-sounding, faint with fatigued ill. “I shall be going away soon.”

Edmund clenched his fists on hearing his father’s words and fought back the tears that had gathered in his throat’s crook.

Edmund Caldwell had seen a lot of things that had threatened to rip his heart apart from his chest. He had seen his childhood best friend die, after he had been plowed and dragged through the streets by a wild horse ridden by a highborn. He had seen his mother twist and turn on the same bed his father now lay, ridden with an illness they did not think she was going to survive. She had tasted death itself, but somehow, she had managed to hang on to life.

But none of those things had hurt him as much as seeing his father lying on the bed beside him, coughing spasmodically. Coughs that more often than not produced bits of tissue and blood.

His mother was seated on the bed, her hand clasped in his father’s fragile one. She was trying her best not to cry, but Edmund could see the grief had torn through her. She had lost a lot of weight since her husband got ill, and she barely left his side.

Edmund looked back at his father. Michael Caldwell was staring straight at him, smiling even as the coughs ravaged through him. Edmund looked away. He could not bear to see his father smile, especially when he knew that in only a little time, he would never see that smile again.

Tears were beginning to form in his eyes, and Edmund wiped them away before they began to fall. His father was dying, and he had to take on his position as the man of the house. He had to know how to bear losses without succumbing to tears.

But, Edmund did not think he could become the man of the house just yet.

He was still sixteen years old. All he could think about, right now, was why this had to happen to him, why he had to deal with so much loss.

And, just as the thought crept up his mind, the answer swept past in a flurry, an answer Edmund did not need to examine closely because he knew it with all his heart.

“Kat,” his father whispered bare moments ago, and his mother had jerked aright.

“What is it? Do you need anything?” she asked, her words tumbling over each other in their desperation to get out.

Edmund’s father had a smile on his face when he said, “Nothing at all. I want to speak with Eddie, that’s all.”

His mother glanced at him, her eyes full of sorrow and sadness and a lot of things Edmund didn’t know, before she stood up and walked away, still throwing glances at her husband.

Edmund had watched her leave. It was a short trip out of the townhouse in which they lived. Even though his father had been one of the sons of the Earl of Clovelly, he had stood to inherit nothing but the small townhouse in which Edmund had lived all of his life. This was because he was not the first son, but a mere second son.

Edmund felt his fists ball up before the thought even began forming. He shook his head. It would not do to think of him. There was absolutely no reason to.

“Eddie,” his father said now, his voice rather faint. “I’ll need you to be strong.”

If Edmund were eight years younger, he would have shaken his head and denied his father’s statement with everything within him. But now, he merely nodded, pushing away the grief threatening to overpower him.

“I need you to step up and be the man of the house for your mother,” Michael said with a slight cough. “I also want you to know how very proud of you I am. The happiest day of our lives was when you came into it. I know you’re going to go on and become a great man, as great as anyone I ever knew.”

Tears were trickling down his father’s face now, and Edmund knew he looked exactly the same. His father had struggled to show him how much he cared about him over the years, he had never quite been able to put it into words. He was doing this now because he knew the end was near.

Edmund felt his grief getting replaced by a wave of towering anger. This did not have to happen. In fact, it could have been very much prevented. Under other circumstances, Michael would not be lying on this bed, coughing up bits of his own flesh. He would be teaching Edmund the science of herbs in the open fields where he liked to retire after returning from a long day’s job as a physician. He would hum in his deep bass and ask Edmund what he thought his mother would prepare for supper.

But instead, this was happening, and that was all because his uncle was a sadistic, hell-bound, hateful fellow.

Edmund tried to push away the thoughts then, but they were overpowering him, blinding him with startingly clear memories. He still remembered the day, two months ago, when he and his mother had tried to seek help from his uncle, the Earl of Clovelly. They had never been to his estate before, of course, because there was absolutely no need to see a wealthy family relative who let his only brother live in an old townhouse a little out of London.

Still, they had needed to see him that day. Edmund’s father’s illness was growing worse by the day, and they had needed him to see a physician. Even if his uncle had not written to Edmund’s father since the day he left for the cottage, Edmund was hopeful his uncle would help.

But he had been entirely wrong.

The earl had refused to see them, and when they had told the servant who reported this to them that his brother was dying, he had not even deemed it fit to respond. The gates were slammed shut in their faces. A result of bad blood, a deep-seated sibling rivalry between two brothers who had only aged with them, and which now would cost Edmund’s father his life.

That day, Edmund felt more stunned than angry, but as his father’s illness progressed and he was faced with his incapacitation, he had finally started to feel the anger. Now, Edmund’s fury had consumed him, and every time he saw his father on the bed, he felt the urge to punch something.

“Eddie,” his father suddenly called, and Edmund looked into his old, wrinkled face.

“This was meant to be,” his father said, as though reading his thoughts. “Don’t blame anyone.”

Edmund gave a tight nod, but he knew he was going to hold on to this belief for as long as he lived. This was not meant to be.

His father drew a rasping breath. “I need to rest.” He coughed into his fist. “Go now,” he said. “Look after your mother. For both of us.”

Michael closed his eyes, and Edmund felt a thrill of foreboding as he looked down on his father’s face. He did not know why, but he had a distinct feeling his father would never open his eyes again.

He turned away from the bed, trying to push the feeling away. Hours later, when his father gave up the ghost, Edmund would think of that feeling, would wonder how he knew.

But right now, he thought only of his uncle.

There and then, Edmund made two decisions.

One, he would go on and become an even greater man than his father wanted. He was going to make his own wealth, so much that he would not need anyone else when someone precious to him was dying.

And second, that he would never forgive his uncle. Never.

Chapter One

Rifling through the morning paper, Edmund tried to catch snippets of what his mother said to the housekeeper. Whenever Edmund heard his mother’s voice, he would strain his ear, try to catch every word that rolled from her lips, as if that would clue him into her innermost thoughts, because she spoke so rarely now. He wondered if she still dreamed and ached for his father, if she sometimes woke in the middle of the night, reaching across only to find the cold pillow, an unruffled and empty other side.

In short, he worried about her. Worried about her as if she were the child and he the parent. Ever since his father’s passing, all those years ago in this very same cottage, he had taken on the extra burden of the house and provider, a role that challenged him as much as it propelled him to new heights. It felt like a lifetime ago, and it felt like yesterday.

Edmund examined the morning paper; the gossip of the moment, the wellbeing of the prince regent, the court proceedings of the day. When he tired of straining his ear, trying to catch wind of Mother’s small, near inaudible voice speaking in casual tones to Florentia, he stopped listening and put the morning paper away.

Edmund took two strong gulps from his tea and fastened his eyes onto the ledger in which he took stock of his business transactions.  Quick action. Foremost decisions. That what had been demanded of him, that was how he had made of himself a successful tea trader who relied on his wit and his gut to get the job done. He had picked up the trade a year after his father passed, still raw with grief, still red with the rage of his uncle and the earl’s hand in Papa’s death. How Uncle Elijah could have saved his father if he had wanted to.

Edmund realized he was clenching the ledger too tight. He released his grip; his knuckles had whitened. He felt like something small, and round had caught in his throat. Ten years. It had been ten years, and yet Edmund looked for his father in the boots into which he slipped his feet, in the business deals he accepted or rejected, in the literary texts and daily papers he devoured. Ten years, and he was still looking to match the same integrity and dignity of his father, in the most difficult places, even the places he knew were cobwebbed with falsehood. Ten years striving to live up to his father’s legacy, uphold the promises he made to him on his death bed, be strong and responsible and good, a man who saw the good in everybody and excused the bad in anybody. Just like his father.

“Shall you like to join Mrs. Caldwell in the drawing room, sire?” asked Davidson, Edmund’s butler whose eyebrows had shot to the sky.

Edmund adjusted himself, realizing he had unconsciously leaned in towards the veranda from which his mother’s low tones could be heard. He was always leaning in toward his mother, always listening for her. His mother had retreated so far into herself, bent over backward with the weight of grief, and every year she spoke less, took up less space, lived less. She became less. And Edmund’s gradual thrust into a life of comfort, dare one say even wealth, had not changed her newfound inclination towards contemplative moods and quiet spaces.

Edmund had made such a name for himself that he could have afforded much finer accommodations for them, a fine home like that of nobility, as many amenities and servants as they required and in the most fashionable parts of London – if his mother had wanted it. Yet, every time he brought it up, Mother merely smiled. She shook her head, and her eyes watered as she said, “It’s just. . .”

Despite himself, Edmund would reach for her hand and squeeze. “I know,” he would say.
“I’m grateful for all you’ve done, son,” she would say, gesturing to anything, to everything.

“I know, Mother.”

“But this. . .”

Edmund would nod because he understood. This cottage which his father had loved and nurtured, was all they had left of him. All his mother had left of the great love of her life.

Edmund would hold her hand, nod wordlessly, and return with stiff limbs, to his evening paper, his ledger, his study, having been laddered with fresh new towels of grief, his wound poked apart by seeing his mother’s expression exactly as it had been all those years ago, when she had sat by his father’s bed, touching his forehead and holding his hand.

Edmund cleared his throat and turned back to Davidson to respond to him, “No, Davidson, I will leave my mother to her leisure, and I shall continue with my work.”

Davidson barely smiled. He kept quite diligently to his business of a perpetually impassive facial expression, but Edmund knew that behind that wall of rigid stoicism, Davidson’s heart pumped blood like anyone else’s.

Edmund reached for his tea. It had gone cold. He motioned for Davidson to ask that a servant reheat it, and Davidson nodded curtly and departed from Edmund’s presence with the tray, only to return shortly afterward with no tray, re-announcing his presence to his master with his hands clasped together behind his back.

Edmund stared at him. Had something tragic happened to his tea? “Well?”

“A letter, sire,” said Davidson.

Edmund perked up. A letter? Now that was interesting. Letters usually arrived in the morning, and he had flicked and skimmed through those already. A letter by late afternoon? Whatever it was, it must be important.

“Well? Let me have it?” he demanded rather impatiently, but one couldn’t blame him. Edmund hated to guess.

Davidson crossed Edmund’s study and handed over the stamped and sealed letter.

Edmund almost did not notice the harried curve of the letters, wild Ts and disorderly Is, the way the words almost tumbled over one another as if the author had written them in a feverish chase, in a frantic trance.

His mother chose that moment to come shuffling into the room on the arm of her maid. She eased herself into the seat opposite him and gave him a weak smile. She noticed the letter in his hand and asked whom the letter had come. Edmund waved the letter in his mother’s direction, his eyebrow arched questioningly, as if to say, we’re about to find out. He dismissed Davidson and settled himself to read it.

Dear Sir,

‘It is with a heavy heart that I inform you of the tragic passing of your uncle, Lord Clovelly, and his son, whose carriage was involved in an accident on a returning journey from a hunting trip in the town of Islingdore. ’Tis of paramount importance that you find the time to call on me, sire, as I, Clovelly estate solicitor, and you, the last living male Caldwell and heir, have now many pressing matters to discuss, not the least of which being your transition into the role of an earl.

  Please, kind sir, accept my fullest condolences and solemn congratulations.

  Yours Truly,

  Mr. Philip Ramsey

When they reached the end of the letter,  his mother opened her mouth as if to speak, but the words seemed to be stuck in her throat. She slumped into a chair, her expression unspeakably dazed.

Edmund flipped the letter upside and back again. He read it over and over again, entirely un able to process the contents of it. He steadied himself against the edge of the desk. He poured himself a glass of Scotch though it was only four in the afternoon, downed it in a gulp, and reread the letter yet again.

He felt dazed, his nerves tingled, overwhelmed with disbelief and uncertainty and even a small pocket of triumph. Still, he read the letter over again. Perhaps he misunderstood the solicitor, perhaps the very forces of nature were playing a sour joke on him.

He crossed and uncrossed his legs, folded and unfolded his arms. He parted his lips as if to speak himself, but the words became small and slippery, like fish in water. The words eluded him.

Edmund wasn’t sure how long he sat in there next to his once again silent mother, thinking nothing and thinking everything, staring into nothing and staring into everything. Edmund’s whole life had taken an ultimate turn. In the space of a moment, everything had changed.

Edmund folded the letter and tucked it into his bottom drawer.

No. No, everything had not changed. Nothing would change. He would not accept the title, the money, the estate of a man who had stood by and done nothing, coldly aiding in the death of his own brother, of Edmund’s father.

Edmund would do no such thing.

Moments passed before he said to his mother, “There was no mention of the funeral, perhaps that invitation never reached us either.” His tone was bitter.

She gave him a pained look in return and then managed to croak out, “When, when shall you call upon this Mr. Ramsey?”

“I shan’t,” responded Edmund as he crossed his legs and reached for his ledger. There was proper business to execute, a real issue that needed his true attention. He refused to dwell on the passing of a cruel old man.

“Edmund,” his mother sighed as if she already knew the defiance taking a hold of his heart as if she already knew what was coming. Perhaps she did. She was his mother, after all. But she wouldn’t change his mind. Nothing would change his mind. For what did he need Uncle Elijah’s title? He had gone twenty-six years without it. He had paved a road for himself come rain or sunshine, he had wanted nothing of Uncle Elijah in life, and he wanted nothing of him in death.

“Edmund,” began his mother, but Edmund would not even let her finish.

“No, Mother. No.” He got to his feet, his tailcoat flapping behind him, and faced the window as if that would clear his head. “He took everything from us, Mother. Everything.”

“Yes,” his mother affirmed, her voice breaking. “Yes, he did. And now, you get to have everything. Now, you get to do better, Edmund.” She placed her hand to her chest, her breath audibly catching in her throat, and despite himself, Edmund felt his resolve thawing.

“What would your father have done do you think?” his mother asked.

Edmund said nothing.

“What would your father have you do, Edmund?”

“I don’t know,” said Edmund. But of course, he did. He knew his father, a man of light and goodness, of fair hopes and fair dreams. Of course, his father would want him to accept the earldom. To do right by the Caldwell name, do things differently. Do better.

Edmund sighed.

He stared at his other side, and his mother held his gaze. Her expression was steady and kind and proud, urging him to do the right thing, perhaps trying to convey to him all the words she hadn’t much spoken to him since she folded into a shadow of herself, since his father left them.

And then a small smile crept across her features because she knew. A mother always knew.

She knew he would do the right thing, even before he reached back into the bottom of his desk drawer.

Edmund unfolded Mr. Ramsey’s letter again. He read it one final time. Then, he reached for his bottle of ink.

Chapter Two

Margaret flipped another page of her novel. She tried not to dwell on her aunt, Dorothy Pembrook fast disappearing down the great hall and into her Papa’s study with that graceful efficiency Margaret had come to expect and even admiring of her.

Aunt Dorothy had arrived bare minutes ago in a flurry of sweeping silk of the latest fashion and had had many a displeasure to point out; the floors were not polished enough; and that book, put it away, Margaret, you have no business with such hobbies; and Margaret wasn’t sitting properly enough — shoulders lifted, spine upright, proper like a lady!

Margaret smiled to herself. The Dowager always had one thing or another to complain about whenever she visited. Aunt Dorothy was her only aunt, Mama’s elder sister, and only sibling. A woman without children, she had spent many a while with Margaret since she was a baby on all fours, teaching her to eat properly, sit properly, walk properly and speak correctly. But Margaret had yet to master Aunt Dorothy’s instructions.

Aunt Dorothy reached her Her Papa’s study and knocked loudly on the door. The sound echoed through the great hall, reverberating against the not so polished floors, and Aunt Dorothy’s voice soon followed it as she called back to Margaret, “I’m fully aware you picked off right where you left off from that ghastly book the moment I turned my back, young lady. You fool me not.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Margaret said to herself, but not so loud enough that Aunt Dorothy would hear her. Still smiling to herself, she turned to her equally smiling lady’s maid, Alice, and asked her to pour her some more tea.

Margaret was fond of Aunt Dorothy, as much as she reprimanded her, she understood her Aunt cared for her. Aunt Dorothy had been. . . well, she had been everything a mother would be to her daughter, and even more: she had been there for every significant moment of Margaret’s life so far, even helping her through her debut and her first ball. Arranging for her the best gowns, by the best tailors, letting her have her fill with the ball’s culinary delicacies but nothing overly indulgent.

Margaret sipped from her tea and just for a moment, that heavy mass of grief sunk into and settled in Margaret’s chest, with the memory of what had been lost to her since her Mama had passed away, it should have been her Mama that had held her hand through all of these moments.

Margaret had wondered if Aunt Dorothy had any idea what she had come to mean to her over the last decade. She wondered, too, if her Mama was watching over her in heaven, whispering sage words of affirmation, of warning in her ears, in her dreams, in her waking life, and if so if her Mama was watching over her, why she had failed at securing a match at last Season.

Margaret put her cup away. She flipped another page, then returned to the previous one. The words failed to settle in; she was now consumed by intrusive thoughts about her first Season’s failure. She shook her head as if that would drive away from the feeling of disappointment that she had let her Papa and Aunt Dorothy and even her Mama down. She shook her head, trying to put away the images of the ton that had imprinted themselves in her mind, the sprawling luxury, the biting gossip, the dance, the chatter, and the ineffable thrill of it all.

She had been petrified of her first ball. Nervous and unsure of herself. Introductions had been made, and she had danced all the required steps, there had been some faux pas’, some boring conversations. Her greatest fear had been realised; she hadn’t found any of her suitors interesting.

They all had droned on about hunting and horses.

The greatest compliment she could give them is that they had all had fine airs and graces, fine voices. Unfortunately, a fine voice would not sustain a marriage, especially a marriage of love and happiness.

And that was what Margaret wanted.

Aunt Dorothy had called her picky. She had pointed out how lucky she was to have five suitors in her debut Season; girls could be rushed to the altar on the heel of just one or two suitors. But Margaret refused the advances of her suitors, claiming they did not arouse her interest, claiming she did not love them or much think that she would in time. Aunt Dorothy had huffed, laughed even, at the mention of love, as if that were such a sour, trifle thing, as if it were an unreasonable goal, like attempting to climb to the moon or fly on the wings of a bird. Margaret did not doubt herself. However, she knew what she wanted. She had only smiled at her aunt’s quintessential no-nonsense approach to everything. She had not been deterred.  She was not deterred now, only surprised, as the sound of raised, impassioned voices came from the great hall. As the voices continued, Margaret gathered the hem of her dress and stood abruptly. She exchanged a look with her maid Alice. Alice’s expression mirrored hers; her eyebrows were lowered, a puzzled look clouding her face.

The raised voices ceased as Margaret made it to her Her Papa’s study. Her PapaShe paused a moment, wondering now whether it would be a good idea to enter or not when she heard her Aunt Dorothy’s raspy, imperious voice. “I don’t understand what you speak of, Franklin.”

Franklin, her Her Papa’s first name.

Aunt Dorothy was one of two people who called her Her Papa by his name. The only other person had been her Mama.

Margaret tiptoed closer to the door, holding her breath and listening in silence to the taut with words from the other side.

Her Papa”You know what I speak of Dorothy. You do.”

Was that dejection laced around his words? Margaret imagined her Her Papa hunched over his desk, fingers stained with ink, head bowed in defeat. “I have nothing left,” he said.

“Franklin. . .” Aunt Dorothy’s voice was slow, tentative, gauging the tension in the room

“What do you expect of me?” Her Papa asked, “My tenants are all departed, I’m knee-deep in loans, and my repayment dates refuse to be stretched.” A pause. “Our Margaret is our only hope.”

Our Margaret. It was how her Her Papa fondly referred to her since she was a child bundled in his arms, and despite the dreariness of the situation, Margaret’s heart caught alight on hearing her Her Papa still speak so fondly of her, dejected and all.

“And that hope will sink to the bottom of the waters faster than you can close your eyes and open them if you don’t prop up that dowry. Franklin! It is Margaret’s future we speak of. Daughter of an Earl or not, no one will marry her for such miserly sum. And it speaks somewhat of the lens with which you regard your daughter’s worth!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Her Papa bellowed. Almost immediately, his voice died down to a flat whisper, one imbued with a sorrowful tone, unlike anything Margaret had ever heard. “You think I don’t know that, Dorothy?”

And so a silence settled, one so loud Margaret could feel her ears sting. Finally, Aunt Dorothy said, “Word of your. . . habits don’t help matters either.” Margaret felt rather than heard her aunt sniff. Clear as glass, she imagined the downturn of Aunt Dorothy’s lips as she stared her Her Papa down, clear as if the door were open and she was watching them.

Habits. What a generous way to speak of her Her Papa’s gambling and drinking, which had only taken a turn for the worse after her Mama was laid to rest.

There was a rustling and creaking sound, a chair being pushed back, a doorknob turning, and, attempting to hide away, Margaret jumped out from the door and smacked her elbow against the wall in the process.

“Heavens!” she cried, clasping one hand over her mouth and petting where the pain bit into her flesh with the other. Her Papa

She did not want to make them more upset than they already were by finding her lurking outside. However, when no one emerged from the room, Margaret tiptoed her way back and returned her ear to the door.

Just another moment, she told herself. I shall leave in a short moment. And I have every right to eavesdrop if it concerns me, she tried to convince herself.

“I shall squeeze what I can from whatever pockets I have left,” Her Papa eventually conceded, after a fraught stretch of silence, an eternity of silence.

“Thank you, Franklin,” came Aunt Dorothy’s voice. But before she got a chance to, Her Papa beat her to it.

“And Dorothy, please,” said he. “She must be settled this Season.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t understand,” said Her Papa. “She must find someone. Accept anyone we can find.” And in a voice so stooped it would fail to qualify as a whisper, “There is nothing left, Dorothy.” He heaved a heavy sigh, and the sound of it felt to Margaret like a shard of glass needling its way into her chest. Margaret imagined those strong but laden shoulders of Her Papa heaving heavily as well. “After this Season, there will be nothing left.”

“She’s a silly girl, that one,” said Aunt Dorothy, and Margaret imagined her flicking her gloved hand in that elegantly dismissive way of hers. “Fancies herself the heroine of a love story. It will not be easy to convince her to compromise on this.”

Aunt Dorothy’s voice was smiling. The woman! She was making fun of her! Having a laugh at her naivetes! As if a desire for love, the precious kind, that her Mama and Her Papa had shared, the kind that even eleven years after her passing, still sent her Her Papa occasionally staring into space, muddling his words, mournfully blinking himself back to reality, was such a foolish thing. Often, Margaret wondered who hurt more from her Mama’s loss, she or her Her Papa. She wondered if she would ever have what he had shared with her Mama for herself. She wondered how much longer Her Papa could go, bent under the weight of so much reticent grief, and now, this looming debt too.

Margaret wondered a hundred things; she wondered if her Papa secretly thought her a disappointment. At that moment, she thought of herself as a disappointment. Margaret wondered, not for the first time if she was being difficult and foolish indeed. Suppose she was gambling away her Papa’s financial and even physical wellbeing on only the dream of love.

She straightened herself and returned to the drawing room, which now was devoid of her maid Alice. Good. She needed some time to herself. Some time alone to think. Her Papa was penniless, she was penniless. She had failed to clinch a suitor during her first Season. And now she couldn’t afford to fail to find herself a husband this Season. Her Papa

She couldn’t afford to fail twice.

Margaret reached for her cold tea and looked back at her abandoned novel. She knew what to do.

She would give this Season all she had got. She would listen to Lord Friedrick talk and talk. She would laugh at Sir. Penbrooke’s jokes, she would swoon over tales of his wonderful grandchildren. This Season, she would find a wealthy husband, whatever it took. And perhaps, just perhaps, one that she loved, or in time could come to love.

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