Prologue

There was nowhere more pleasing to Lord Owen Bradford, the Marquis of Richmond, than the club. His stunning blonde paramour laid her hands on his shoulders. She was not gentle with her touches, and this sent his desires rising ferociously. Owen laughed as she whispered inaudible promises in his ear to satisfy him. This kind of debauched entertainment had become Owen’s life since his father began pressuring him to marry.

Owen was not quite eager to do his father’s bidding. He had spent his younger days at Eton, after which he was enrolled into the militia at the age of one and twenty. He had served his country for six years before he returned home and was rapidly saddled with the responsibilities of being the heir to the Duchy of Everfair—which he had no problem with. Until he was asked to seek out a wife. He was overwhelmed by the demand, as he wished to live freely. He wanted more time to enjoy some merriment before he not only took over the duchy, but began his own family.

This was why he had opted for this particular destination—the gentleman’s club. It was where he spent most of his nights, always disappearing in the wee hours of the morning. It kept him away from his father’s reach, as he doubted his father would ever suspect that he was here. This made his avoidance of the older Bradford easy.

“Would you like for us to go upstairs, my lord?” the courtesan asked, her hands rubbing his shoulders seductively. Owen had forgotten what her name was, but he was enjoying her company. He took the last sip of the brandy he’d been drinking and rose. The courtesan rose with him.

Owen slipped his hand around her waist as she led him towards the stairs. They walked past other men and paramours who were having their own fun—drinking, playing cards, and all sorts of sinful activities. Owen was a tad tipsy, so he leaned on the courtesan to keep him stable while he walked, for he feared he may soon fall flat on the floor.

Just as they approached the bottom of the staircase, the club’s front door was flung open. The sound of the door hitting against the wall resounded, echoing in his ears and making his head ache. Angered by such a mannerless act, Owen turned to reprimand whoever it was. He was unable to do this, however, because when he turned, his gaze fell on the blazing eyes of his father. Owen swallowed, unable to move as the Duke of Everfair marched towards him.

“Father. Pleasure to see you,” Owen muttered, albeit sarcastically.

Lord Everfair stared at him disdainfully. “You are drunk. You’ve drank to crapulence,” the duke stated.

Owen closed his eyes and smiled. He held on to the courtesan tightly. “No, Father. I still have my wits.”

“Enough! Unhand the lady now. We are going home.”

“Father—”

“You are dismissed,” the duke directed his comment to the courtesan.

Owen clenched his teeth as the courtesan let go of him and walked around them. Lord Everfair narrowed his grey eyes at Owen. “We are heading home, Owen. I have had enough of your roughish behaviour.”

Owen did not protest to this. Perhaps because he was too tired to, or because he perceived the impending wrath of his father and knew there was no avoiding it. Either way, he did not object to his father’s insistence that he come home. After all, he had not seen his father in a while, and it was high time he stopped running and told his father head-on what he wanted out of his own life.

An hour later, Owen was seated in his father’s lavish parlour in Everfair Manor. He still felt a slight pounding in his head. What a night it had been. And the night had only been beginning when his father interrupted.

The sound of the door opening alerted Owen. He looked up, expecting his father to come in, but he was relieved to see a maid carrying a cup of tea. He stared grimly as the maid set down the tray and curtsied. She walked out immediately. It was only then that Owen took notice of Mr Jenkins, the longstanding steward of Everfair Manor. He bowed.

“His Grace has asked that you have some tea while you await him.”

It took all his restraint to hold back the pending retort that sat idly at the tip of his tongue. His father did know how to keep him waiting. This was surely a part of the punishment.

Owen took a sip of the tea and it indeed was satisfying, as it helped ease his headache. No sooner had he begun to feel better than his father walked through the threshold. Lord Everfair stared at his son with narrowed eyes as he took a seat. “I assume you’re sober now.”

Owen already knew what this conversation was to be about. And he’d come prepared to state the reasons why he would not do as his father wished. After he had done that, he would return to his townhouse and continue to live his life the way he wanted.

“Whatever you’ve brought me here to say, Father, you must understand that I shall not agree—”

“You’ve barely heard what it is I have to say.”

“It is the same thing you have been saying for the past two years. I shall be trying my luck if I even for a second assume that you might utter anything differently,” Owen said, relaxing into his seat.

“Shall you not even ask if I have anything different to say?”

“I shan’t. I know you do not.”

Lord Everfair heaved while massaging his temple. Owen simulated indifference, even though he itched to rise and walk out.

“I do,” the duke enunciated.

“Must be interesting.”

“Enough of your insolence, Owen! You will listen to what I have to say,” Lord Everfair snapped. “You have until the end of the Season to bring home a bride, be wed, and produce an heir.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I shall cut down on your allowance.”

This unexpected announcement from his father made him sit up with a jerk, his cool and nonchalant mien long forgotten. Surely his father was jesting. He would never truly do that, would he? His thoughts were moving rapidly, and he was unable to stable them.

Without pausing to think, he said, “This must be a joke.”

“I dare you, Owen. Allow the Season to go by without finding a wife and see what happens. You shall no longer receive your bountiful allowance. I wonder how you shall be able to maintain your lavish lifestyle without it?”

Owen was shocked by what his father had said.

“Father, you can’t do that.” Owen sat up.

“The decision has already been made, Son.”

Owen stared into his father’s eyes and saw that the man was set on this decision. He shook his head slowly while muttering, ”No.”

If he had not taken his father’s words seriously before, he did now, and he was petrified of what would happen if his father decreased his allowance. He was terrified of l living without the benefits he currently had. But agreeing to wed was also not part of his plan. He wanted to live before he was subdued by marriage, which yearned for loyalty. If he eventually got married, he wanted to be faithful to his wife—he was not ready for such just yet. It was a difficult choice to make, choosing to move up his plans for his life, or living without the benefits that aided in maintaining his high-flying lifestyle.

Owen could not believe his father would put him in such a difficult position, knowing that either option was not in his favour. Owen felt overwhelmed and enraged by this. If he had known what this meeting had in store, he would never have agreed to come.

Owen looked up at his father, eager to make a counter, to make his stance known on what he wanted, but he was stopped by his father’s gaze. He recognized that gaze. It was the same one he had when the duchess had passed away. It was filled with disappointment, anger, sadness. Owen swallowed. He cast his gaze away. His father would never listen to any counter he brought. And if he left here with a decision to go against his father’s wishes, nothing would end well for him

All his partying and merriment would have to stop. No nobleman would even agree to be in business with him, due to his history of being a scoundrel. And in the end, he would have to run back to his father, begging. If it came to that, it would be most unbearable for him. He would be at his worst.

No! He could not allow that to happen. He would rather be wed than have himself scrambling around for a solution to him being penniless. Owen was out of options. However, he looked back at his father in hopes that he would change his mind and rethink this drastic decision.

But the Duke of Everfair now relaxed in his seat, claiming the seemingly unperturbed expression that Owen had expressed earlier. Owen knew then that his father meant every word and would not bend his rules for any reason whatsoever.

This meant one thing. He had to find a wife. And he had to do so soon. However, Owen feared that he may not be able to come up to scratch by the end of the Season. Even if he tried, everything might still end in his own detriment.

Chapter One

It was only the beginning of her second Season and everything was already beginning to spiral out of its order. Miss Juliana Kent, daughter of the Earl of Merlewood, took a comfortable position at the far end of the ballroom because she had lost her festive mood. She had no strength to talk with the ladies her age who were gathered in circles, or to stand awaiting a gentleman to walk up to her.

Despite Miss Juliana’s attempts to hide the fact that she was greatly bothered by her current situation, which had to do with her father’s announcement of the heavy dowry placed on her, she could not feign indifference for so long. She feared that she may never be approached by a man who truly was attracted to her and wanted to court her in the hope that that attraction may lead to something more—love.

She had hoped that it would not come to such, where extra measures were needed to attract a gentleman her way. She had assumed before her first Season that, as a woman already introduced to society, she would be approached by a gentleman, begin a courtship that would blossom to a great love, and then be wed.

But no gentleman had shown interest. No one wanted to speak to her after a dance had been shared. And now it was her second Season and her father worried—as she did—that time may pass her by. So, he’d had to do something. That was when he had announced the substantial dowry to be awarded to anyone who wed her. This decision had not pleased her, but there was nothing she could do.

Despite this situation, Juliana had been eager to attend Lady Jane’s ball in the hope that she would finally meet someone who she shared mutual attraction and interests with, and whom she could come to love. Juliana believed in love, and wanted that to be the only reason to marry anyone.

Perhaps if Henry were still alive her father would not pay such close attention to her marital prospects—or lack thereof. Henry. Juliana was greatly saddened at the memory of her brother. His death had been quite unfortunate, as he had died in a battle against Napoleon. But he had died a hero. It was what her father often said, and it was what she knew. But those words did not fill the void in her heart. She knew that Henry had been eager to live life to the fullest. To do great things. Serving his country had been one of them. Henry’s death had scared her father, which was why he was pushing hard for her to find a husband by this Season, before she fell out of a marriageable age.

Although Juliana was unhappy with her father’s decision, she did understand that he was only doing it in her own best interest. With her elder brother—who had been the heir of Merlewood—dead, Juliana’s future was not secured. If anything were to happen to her father, a distant relative of his would become the new Earl of Merlewood, and there might be nothing and no place for her in Merlewood Manor. This was why her father wanted her to be wed soon, so that she would secure a home of her own. He wanted to be assured that she would live in comfort, without having to worry that she would be mistreated or one day married off into the wrong hands by the new earl.

If only Henry were alive.

“You seem oddly moody today, Juliana. Pray tell what burdens you?” her closest friend, Miss Caroline Spencer asked. Juliana was a bit shaken by her sudden interruption, but at the same time she was grateful. She needed to take her mind of her predicament.

Juliana was not in the least bit surprised that Caroline had deduced her current state. She had known Caroline for about two years now. The ladies had met at a ball Juliana had attended the year she’d made her debut. Caroline was her exact opposite—outspoken, bold, and courageous. And most of all, Caroline was able to read Juliana as though she were the pages of a book. Caroline knew and understood her more than anyone. Juliana trusted Caroline, and was about to share with her what had dampened her mood, when they were interrupted by a tall gentleman. His grey eyes settled on both ladies. The ladies acknowledged him with a nod of their heads.

Juliana’s heart skipped for a bit when the man’s gaze settled on her. Perhaps he wished to dance with her.

He had a good demeanour about him. He would be charming, Juliana thought. The man bowed, and then his gaze settled solely on Caroline. Juliana’s heart fell.

“I’d love for you to have a dance with me, miss.” The man directed his question at Caroline.

Caroline expressed her astonishment by looking at Juliana with wide eyes. Juliana was quick to smile. Irrespective of how hurt she was, it did not stop her from being happy for her friend. Juliana nudged her. “Go on, Caroline.”

“But I’d be leaving you all alone.”

“You need not bother about me,” Juliana insisted.

Caroline looked at her friend and sighed before pasting a smile on her face and rising. Juliana watched as Caroline placed her long fingers on the gentleman’s open palm and then curtsied. They both made their way to the centre of the ballroom to begin their dance.

A sigh escaped Juliana. She hoped that she was finally going to be asked to dance. If Caroline had been swooped away, then there was a chance that someone might come for her soon. She wished so desperately for it.

By the time Caroline and the gentleman ended their dance and Caroline returned to stay by Juliana, Juliana had lost hope that she would be approached by anyone.

“That was quite exciting.” Caroline laughed. Her eyes followed after her former dance partner.

Juliana finally found something to smile about. “Are you taken by his charms?”

Caroline puffed. “Not quite. He’ll have to try a bit harder.”

“He did seem nice to me.”

Caroline closed her eyes and heaved. “I did not feel the same.”

“I see,” Juliana responded lowly. “But it would not have hurt to give him a chance?”

“Please, Juliana. Worry not about me. I do not think he felt a connection either. Which was why he made no further effort.” Changing the subject quickly, Caroline asked, “Have you been asked to dance?”

Juliana looked away. “No.”

“Oh, worry not, dear.” Caroline nudged her. “You shall be approached soon. I am certain the best always come late.”

Juliana laughed lowly. Her spirits were lifted, her mind drifted from worry and she was at ease in that moment, content just to sit there with her dear friend. Her confidence built up again. Caroline was right. The best men always waited. She would be approached—the ball was not over.

Not long after her spirits had been raised, a gentleman made his way towards herself and Caroline. Caroline was the first to take notice of him. She nudged Juliana, unable to hide her excitement. “I guarantee that this handsome man is making his way over here. We must act nonchalant.”

“Why?” Juliana asked, slightly confused. She raised her fan to hide her moving lips.

“Because it makes the men more interested, Juliana.”

“Ah…” She had not known that.

The man finally stood before them. The brief moment he made contact with Juliana’s eyes, she inclined her head. Beside her, she noticed that Caroline did as well. What a gentleman. He had asked for both their permissions.

After this, the man turned to Caroline. His smile widened as he began to speak. “Would you like to have a dance, miss?”

It was as though the air had been sucked out of her. Juliana was momentarily unable to breath. The surprise hit her deep. Her spirits fell just as quickly. She had hoped that the man had come for her. She had been wrong. He had come for her friend, again.

“Pardon me,” Caroline said to the man before turning to Juliana.

“Juliana—” Caroline whispered.

Juliana forced a smile and whispered, “Worry not about me, Caroline.”

Caroline smiled but it did not reach her eyes. Juliana softened. “Go on, Caroline.”

“I will only go if I am certain that you are alright.”

“What, then, do I need to do to prove that I am?” Juliana smiled more genuinely now. She truthfully wanted Caroline to go dancing. She did not want her friend to feel down because of her own problems.

“That smile does nothing to convince me,” Caroline teased.

Juliana shrugged. “What then?”

“Why don’t you take a stroll outside, to receive some fresh air and to clear your mind?”

That was a good idea. It would keep her from seeing men walk past her whilst acting as though she did not exist.

“What a capital idea. I shall, thank you, Caroline.”

She smiled a bit more genuinely before Caroline finally rose and made her way to the dance floor with her partner. Caroline was so caring and concerned for her. Juliana wanted her friend to enjoy her night without worrying about her, but Juliana knew that was impossible. Caroline knew her through and through. Now she worried that Caroline would not enjoy the ball because of her. Juliana was filled with guilt. She did not need to project her problems so that it affected anyone beside her. Despite these thoughts, her worries rose.

Juliana exhaled as she watched Caroline dancing. She could not restrain her thoughts from raising questions.

Why did no one notice her? Why did no one wish to dance with her? In as much as she tried to not think about it, she still did. She found herself wondering if there was anything wrong with her, or if she was too distant to be approached. Was this how it was going to be forever? Would she never be approached till the season ran out? Her heart thudded. What if she never found true love? What if she waited too long for the right person and became a spinster? What if there was no hope for her? All these questions made her feel as though she were running out of her mind. Juliana rose. Staying inside the ballroom was making her think too much. Caroline had been right, she needed fresh air.

She made her way out of the ballroom. The hallway was quiet but for the noise coming from the ballroom. Juliana looked around as she walked. The flames in the lamps by the wall blazed furiously, keeping the hallway bright and beautiful. Juliana continued her way down. All the doors were closed as she walked by. This put her off, as she was looking for a form of distraction.

Juliana walked further down the hall. A door on the right end of the hallway called to her. Unlike the other doors, this was open, and wider. Juliana peeked in a bit, just enough to see that the open door led to Lady Jane’s hothouse. She was pleased to see something of nature. The flowers would certainly distract her. She walked in fully to the conservatory and took in the sight before her. But she was unable to truly appreciate the beauty around her, as just then someone came up behind her and circled her waist.

“I have awaited you for quite a long time,” a husky and unfamiliar voice said.

Juliana pushed herself away from the stranger. “You have me mistaken, mister.”

She could not see her assaulter’s face properly, because he had his hat tipped and his head slightly bent to shield most of his face. He must be waiting for a lover, she thought. She had made a mistake coming here.

“Pardon me, but I must leave now. I apologize for any intrusion.” Juliana made to leave, but her attempt was stopped by the man. He blocked her way.

Juliana’s heart skipped. She narrowed her eyes as she watched the stranger. Had he not heard her? “Excuse me—”

“You will do just fine,” the stranger uttered sardonically and took menacing steps towards her. Juliana knew then that this man had made no mistake. He had simply been looking for a victim for his sick games. With bile rising fast inside her, Juliana screamed

The man gripped her, clamped his hand over her mouth and stared at her with deviousness. Juliana’s heart pounded. It felt as though everything around her stopped. She felt as though she was incapable of breathing. The stranger’s hold on her was strong, so strong that she was unable to even move.

“Just be quiet, miss. All of it will be over soon.”

Juliana’s eyes widened. He intended to hurt her. She began to struggle but her efforts were futile. The man pushed her against the wall. There was no escaping him. Juliana’s only fear as she stood there, was that she was never going to make it out of the hothouse alive.

Chapter Two

Ever since Lord Richmond arrived at Lady Jane’s ball he had been a centre of attention. The young lord did not miss the gazes that trailed after him when he walked past. Looks of judgment. He had been ready for this. He had known that this would happen the instant he reappeared. Owen had enjoyed the days when he had been far away from the scornful and judgmental gazes of the ton. He could already read their minds. He could tell that their thoughts regarding him were condescending.

He felt so out of place. It had been so long since he attended any ball. But seeing as his father had threatened him, Owen thought it would be a good choice to make his reappearance into society at Lady Jane’s ball. This way his father would know that he was indeed serious. However, Owen had not considered the underlying circumstance of his decision to attend the eventl. For one, he was uncomfortable standing alone while sipping a claret. It was unlikely for a man of his stature to be uncertain of what to do at a ball. Owen cursed. Perhaps it was the anger that he was even here that made him seem so lost.

If his friend Henry had been here, he would have been eager to put Owen back on track, aid him in easing back smoothly into life on this side of London. Owen swallowed and tried to avert his attention. Recalling that he had lost his best friend was a memory too painful to conjure. Losing Henry was the second greatest loss he had experienced in his life. The first was his mother, who had died when he was only ten.

Owen tried to distract himself by thinking of something else. He had come down to this ball with an aim to not just assure his father that he would keep his promise of behaving properly, but to also scout for a wife. He was failing awfully at both

“Is that Lord Richmond?” a whisper travelled to his ears.

Owen paused his sipping and made a subtle gesture of turning to where the voice had come from. He saw two ladies standing by the corner, fans before their noses so that only their eyes could be seen. For the brief second his eyes met one of the lady’s gazes, and he saw a look of guilt just before she looked away.
Great, Owen thought. Not only was he being watched, but he was also being spoken of.

This was a great mistake. But there was no harm if he endured for a little while. He would stay a tad longer before leaving. He regained his position and drank his claret till he was done. He slipped his glass onto the tray of a passing footman and looked around. He saw a few people dancing in the middle of the ballroom. They seemed to be enjoying the festivities. Everyone but him seemed to be.

“Is that him? I am stunned that he would be here, Mary. He’s been missing,” someone said behind him. The voice seemed to be getting closer. It was a masculine voice.

“He’s been off being roughish, you mean?” a lady said.

Owen did not need to turn. A couple walked past him, and he knew they were the ones whispering about him. He clenched his fist. He had had enough of all this. All he wished in that moment was to be anywhere but there. He stuck his hands in the pocket of his breeches and made his way out of the ballroom. He had to take a stroll to clear his head. Perhaps when he got back he could continue enduring.

He stepped into the lit hallway. The noise from the ballroom carried on for a moment but began to fade as he approached the end. Owen expected that he would meet silence when he got there, but he did not. Instead, he heard something else. Screams. He froze. The screams stopped for a while, but continued again. The screams switched between being muffled and loud. Someone was struggling, he noted.

Owen opened his ears to listening for any slight noise, so that he could detect where the screams were coming from. Just as he had hoped, the person screamed again, this time louder. Owen heard this from down the hallway. He began to walk toward the noise while still listening out. When the next scream came, he knew where the voice was coming from. He made his way hurriedly to the wide door on his right. He walked into a conservatory. Though the plants were beautiful, his attention was taken by the sight of a tall man hovering in front of a lady who was struggling.

“Unhand the lady this instant!” he boomed.

The tall man turned. On seeing Owen, the strange man tipped his hat, hiding his face. But he did not let go of the lady.

“We are alright here,” the man said.

But Owen could hear the lady’s muffled cries. They definitely were not all right. Owen dashed forward and delivered a punch to the man’s jaw. A loud groan escaped his lips. Owen was ready to have another delivered when the man scurried out of the room, groaning as he did. Owen almost ran after him. But when he appeared into the hallway, it was empty. It was as though no one had been there. Strange man.

Recalling that a lady had been in distress, Owen went back inside to see to the woman who had been a near victim of that man’s drunkenness. He hoped that he had been in time to prevent any serious harm.

He walked into the room. The lady had her back to him and she seemed to be shaken.

He stood at the door in order not to scare her. “I apologize for that man’s behaviour. I hope he brought you no harm.”

The lady sighed and turned. “None too severe. We had struggled for quite a while before your rescue. Thank you—for saving me.”

On seeing the lady’s face, Owen was shocked. “Juliana?”

Her eyes widened. “Owen.”

Miss Juliana Kent had changed since the last time Owen had set eyes on her, which was very long ago, before his departure for the military. Owen had known Juliana nearly all his life. How could he not? She had been the sister of his closest friend. He could still recall her having her lessons while he and Henry played in the garden. It was easier to remember her as his friend’s young sister than to see her now as a lady. With her silky brown hair woven in ringlets, honey-brown eyes and skin as white as a lily, Juliana would be considered a delicate beauty.

A thought hit him then. This was Juliana. Juliana was the lady in distress. If any harm had come upon her, he would not have been able to bear it. Her brother—his friend—was no longer here to protect her. Owen felt a sudden obligation to take over that responsibility in his friend’s place. Owen walked further into the hothouse while his thoughts flooded in.

“Did that man bring harm to you?” he asked, looking at her intensely.

Juliana smiled—a lovely smile, he noticed. “No. I am fine. You came just in the nick of time.”

Owen knew that she was telling the truth and felt immense relief.

In an instant, the stress of the situation was wiped from Juliana’s expression to be replaced by glee. “I am so happy to see you, Owen.”

“As am I. You were a lassie the last time I saw you,” he teased.

Juliana blushed. “And I hear you’ve kept yourself away from society gatherings,” she teased in return.

Owen narrowed his gaze, though in a jocose way. “Have you been scouting for me, Juliana of Merlewood?”

Her blush intensified and she blurted, “No!”

Owen burst into laughter. Juliana cast her gaze down, laughing lowly. When their laughter died, Owen found that he was still bothered about the man that had attacked her. He was greatly concerned. The feeling of anger passed through him. He should have beaten that man to pulp for laying a hand on Juliana.

“I am fine, Owen. I told you. You arrived just in time,” Juliana said softly.

Owen sighed. “I am glad I did.”

Juliana’s smile faded. She stared at him seriously. “My parents informed me that you had come visiting after Henry’s death. Thank you.”

Owen swallowed. It was indeed true that he had gone to Henry’s family to express his condolences, but he had not seen Juliana. He had been told that she had been visiting a friend with her chaperone.

“Of course,” he responded.

Silence prevailed between them. Owen was still stunned by how grown Juliana was. How she had blossomed into such a beauty. He could not help but stare at her. And Juliana stared at him in return. He wondered why she had left the ballroom. Perhaps, like him, she also felt misplaced in this setting?

He shook his head. The ballroom. He ought not to be here with her now. If they were to be found here alone, it would be a scandal—most especially for her. Owen jerked his head outside. “You should head back to the ballroom, Juliana.”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

Owen stepped aside as Juliana made her way towards the door. Just when she was getting close to where he stood, the sounds of shoes on the hardwood distracted them both. Owen watched Juliana stiffen. He turned to face the door, wondering who it was. Owen was surprised to see the couple who had walked past him in the ballroom. Lord and Lady Bernard, he now realized. Lady Bernard was well known for being a terrible gossip amongst her lady friends. Those discussions were known to spread through the ton. Owen understood why Juliana looked horrified.

Owen’s heart thudded. By the look on Juliana’s face, their situation may seem very inappropriate to anyone, regardless of what had truly happened.

“Miss Kent, Lord Richmond,” called the man.
It seemed like an acknowledgment, but Owen knew what it was. It was simply an affirmation of their names, so that his wife could spread the word. Owen’s shoulders sagged, as he did not know what to do. The reality of the situation hit him hard. He could feel his entire body shaking with an emotion foreign to him. Juliana’s reputation was on the line. And Lady Bernard’s impatience to share this news was palpable. No doubt she couldn’t wait to tell of the lady she had seen in the hothouse with Lord Owen Richmond, the blackguard heir to the Duke of Everfair.

Owen was forced to look at Juliana. She was unmoving as she stood staring at Lord Bernard. Owen’s heart broke. Juliana’s reputation and life were on the line. This situation would destroy her more than it would him. He had nothing to lose, but poor Juliana. Owen was torn on the inside.

A sudden movement beside him attracted his focus. Juliana dashed by him and ran past the couple who stood by the door with smug smiles on their faces. Owen ran out as well, just as the couple stepped aside. “He’s ruined the poor girl,” said Lady Bernard.

Owen ignored this and called out to Juliana, but she was far too gone, and he stopped running. He wondered what he would tell her if he eventually caught up to her. Would he apologize? That would not help the situation. She was hurt, that was obvious. Nothing he said could change what had happened.

The thought of her being unable to show herself at balls, the thought of her being the subject of the ton’s harsh gossip scared him. She was Henry’s sister, and Henry was his friend. It would be utterly wrong of him if he did not do right by her. It was why a solution came to him quickly. A solution that he dreaded, but knew was necessary. He had to do this to protect Juliana, no matter what.

 

Chapter One  

 Anthony Shepherd’s dark blue eyes scanned the brilliant candle–lit ballroom, he stifled a yawn and shifted his posture to appear alert and interested. A group of ladies walked by chattering excitedly, clearly enjoying themselves, and clearly in awe. Anthony did suppose the glittering, crystal–studded chandeliers, and the fountains of champagne pouring out an endless stream of bubbly golden drink, were rather impressive, but he wasn’t in the mood to appreciate any of it.  

 The truth was the Devonshire Ball was the last place he wanted to be. Society events had never held any interest for him. In his carefree days as a rogue he had avoided them like the plague, especially when the season was in full swing. But now, with circumstances being what they were, he had no choice but to attend. Over the last year he had learned just how lucrative balls and dinner parties could be. He had already been approached by two ladies; at this rate, his week would be booked up before the end of the night.  

 But for the first time since starting down this path, he found himself questioning whether this was worth it.  

 The money was certainly good and easy, there was no doubt about that. God, it was easy. Large sums of money for a few hours of work. At times it was even quite pleasurable, and he certainly needed the money. By his calculations if he continued in this line of work for another two years, he would be able to pay off all his debt and make enough money to be truly respectable again. So why was he suddenly starting to feel more than a little uneasy with this arrangement?  

 Resisting the urge to yawn yet again, he tried to distract himself by looking around the ballroom for familiar faces. Quite a few ladies of his acquaintance were in attendance tonight, but that was to be expected. Lady Devonshire was famed for throwing extravagant and lavish parties, and her Annual Black and White Ball was the last big event of the season. Nobody wanted to miss out on these legendary events and anyone worth their salt in the ton was sure to attend. There was nothing quite as disgraceful as not receiving a coveted invite. Anthony himself had been more than a little surprised to find himself invited this year, given everything. But Lady Devonshire had been a close friend of his mother’s and had always had a soft spot for Anthony.  

 Across the room he caught the eye of his best friend and cousin, Lord Charles Lever. He had just finished dancing with a lady and was walking her back to her chaperone when he sensed Anthony’s eyes on him. Charles turned to give Anthony a quick nod before turning his attention back to his partner. Although Anthony couldn’t place her, the lady’s face looked vaguely familiar and was quite lovely.  

 Charles looked quite taken with his partner, and Anthony made a mental note to tease his friend about it later. For a brief moment, as he watched Charles talking with the young lady, a wave of envy washed over him. What must it feel like to converse with, or woo, a girl without the sins of your past hanging over you?  

 As his gaze swept around the ballroom yet again, he saw a few women he did not know looking his way, tittering, and exchanging knowing glances. It was clear they were talking about him. He balled his hands into fists and tried not to get upset. He should be used to this by now, the whispers that inevitably followed him around. Usually, he was able to shake it off, but tonight he couldn’t. One of the women smiled at him, while the other two eyed him appreciatively. With a cool nod their way, Anthony looked away.  

 A shiver of discomfort ran down his spine.  

 Watching the couples on the dance floor, he wondered if he should be dancing as well. The polite thing to do would be to ask a lady to dance. In fact, Lady Devonshire had made it a point to tell him so earlier, but he could not be bothered to be polite just now. Downing a glass of wine, he grabbed from a passing waiter, he decided what he needed was some fresh air.   

 The ballroom, with its whirling bodies, loud music, and hundreds of candles, was starting to feel hot and suffocating. With long strides he walked swiftly across the ballroom, expertly dodging the plaintive, hopeful eyes of a few plain looking ladies begging to be danced with. Anthony shuddered as he imagined the wagging tongues and gossip that would ensue if he was seen dancing or engaging in conversation with any of these young, naïve debutantes.  

 Anthony strived to live his life with some basic principles, one of which was to never be caught in the company of a virgin. Once upon a time, Lord Anthony Shepherd, the young Viscount  Surrey had been the catch of the season. Handsome, young, and fabulously wealthy, hordes of young ladies had tried to win his heart season after season. But Anthony could not be caught. Marriage held no interest for him, and he had preferred instead to engage in flirtations with beautiful, experienced women, frittering away his wealth and time on indulging their lavish tastes and having a good time.  

 Now with all his money gone and his reputation in tatters, he knew better than to get involved with an innocent. He had nothing to offer a girl from a good home. Nothing except a noble title. A fat lot of good that would do when he didn’t know where his next meal would come from.  

 The only thing he had left, aside from his title, were his looks. Everyone agreed the Viscount  Surrey was incredibly attractive. He exuded an intriguing mix of raw sexuality and boyish charm that women simply could not resist. But there were too many whispers, too much innuendo, and virginal ladies and their mammas no longer chased after him as the most eligible bachelor of the season. Sometimes he wondered how much people knew, how much of the whispers spread in ballrooms contained the truth. He supposed it was only a matter of time before it all came out.  

 He was standing a few feet away from the enormous patio windows, which led out into Lady Devonshire’s famous rose garden, when he felt a warm body surreptitiously brush up against him and a note was thrust into his hand. By the time he turned around, whoever had passed him the note was already walking away. Judging by the overly generous curves of her body and the strands of silver threaded through the dark hair, Anthony gauged her to be an older lady in her fifties.  

 Stepping into the garden, Anthony found a quiet, deserted corner and opened the note.  

 Left wing of the 3rd floor, the door at the end of the hall. 10 minutes. Will pay double.  

 The handwriting was not familiar to him. He wondered who had referred her. Clearly she was a woman of means, as his services did not come cheap. And she was willing to pay double his usual fee! He blew out a puff of hot air and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. This is what he had wanted. This was the very reason he had chosen to attend the ball, so why did he feel so dejected?  

 “Why the long face?”  

 He started at the voice behind him. Turning around, he found Charles looking at him in concern.  

 “What’s wrong?” 

 Anthony shrugged. “Nothing, just needed to get some air.”  

 “Something’s wrong, what is it?” Charles knew Anthony better than anyone in the world. And he was the only one privy to his deepest, darkest secrets.  

 Instead of replying, Anthony handed the note to Charles, who read it in silence.   

 “Your heart isn’t in it?” Charles guessed accurately, giving the note back to his cousin.  

 “Yes. No… I don’t know.”  

 Anthony folded the note back up into a tiny square and tucked it neatly away inside his jacket. Being familiar with the layout of the house, he knew exactly which bedroom she would be waiting in. It was a guest room in a rarely travelled wing of the third floor. He vaguely remembered the servants telling a story about the wing being designed in a particularly discreet manner for guests who wished to carry out affairs. Anthony himself had frequented that bedroom on several occasions, for both business and pleasure.  

 “I just needed to clear my head. It feels too hot in there,” Anthony told his friend. “Let’s walk. I could use a break from all the dancing.”  

 The note sitting in his pocket like a heavy weight, Anthony followed Charles deeper into the garden. They walked in silence, wandering down the twisting pathways cleverly laid out so visitors could admire the flowers without trampling on anything.  

 They were so far from the house now they could barely hear the music. The cool night air felt refreshing, and Anthony took in a deep breath. He had never been one to appreciate nature, his preferred amusements came in the form of drinks, women and games at Whitby’s, the upscale gentleman’s club frequented by men in the ton. Yet tonight, he found himself suddenly appreciating the delicate fragrance of the exotic flowers, the feel of the grass beneath his feet, the curve of the moon, the twinkle of the stars.   

 What was wrong with him? he wondered, why was he behaving like a sniveling pansy? Just turn around and get it done Anthony, do what you came here to do. But his body refused to obey the silent command. What was going on with him? Why was he feeling so restless and wary? The clock was ticking, and he knew he should be making his way upstairs right now. Instead he found himself thinking back to that awful day fifteen months ago when Mr. Brown, his solicitor had informed him his latest business venture had failed and he had lost everything. Every time he thought back to that day, he felt sick to his stomach. It still shocked him, the suddenness with which his whole life had turned upside down.  

 “You should just stop,” Charles said suddenly, breaking the silence.  

 “How can I? The only thing I have left is the estate and running the estate costs money. If I start defaulting on that, I’m going to lose the last thing I have left.”  

 “Now that you’re less in debt, maybe you can do something else,” Charles added, trying to sound hopeful.  

 “I’m hardly qualified to do anything,” Anthony said bitterly.  

 Raised as a member of the peerage, Anthony had received an enviable education but had no profession, which was hardly his fault, members of the peerage were not meant to work; it was not the thing to do. For the first time in his life, Anthony was forced to take stock of who he was and what he could contribute to society.  

 It was a very short list.  

 His business ventures had failed, his estate was struggling, and he had no skills to speak off—besides the ones he was currently using to claw his way out of debt. Charles didn’t bother arguing the point. The second son of an Earl, Charles knew and understood Anthony’s limitations. But Charles had been fortunate enough that his father had hired him to run the family estate. The job provided him with a steady income, and he hoped in time to be able to purchase some property of his own.  

 “I wish I could help somehow, but…” Charles’s voice drifted off. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Anthony, but with his own limited resources, he wasn’t in a great position to help him financially.  

 Anthony held up a hand to cut him off. “You’ve done more than enough. And you’re right, I should stop.”  

 “Do you ever regret taking Lord Bolton up on his offer?”  

 The question gave Anthony pause. He didn’t often like to think back on that life–changing night at Whitby’s, when an old friend had approached him with a slightly awkward proposition regarding a widow and a purse he had been unable to resist. Did he regret it now? Lord Bolton’s offer had served him well, it had been the beginning of his new line of work, there was no denying that. It had gotten him out of his immediate mess and provided him with a little breathing room. But it hadn’t been enough to get him out of his financial mess permanently. He would need a lot more money to get back on his feet again. The idea of doing this for years, with no end in sight, was disheartening and sickening.  

 “I don’t regret it, no.” he replied finally. “But I’m worried about the truth coming out. Already there are so many whispers. It’s only a matter of time before everyone figures it out. I’ve never cared about my reputation before, you know that.” The two cousins shared a quick grin over that, thinking back to their countless escapades and conquests. “But this seems… it just doesn’t seem right anymore. I want children one day, and I don’t want them to be ashamed of their father,” he concluded.  

 “Then why not simply marry?” Charles suggested. 

 “And who would marry me? I’m a penniless viscount.”  

 “Marry an American. I hear girls there are desperate for British titles, and lord knows they have the money to buy them.”  

 “An American? I don’t know if I’m that desperate yet,” Anthony said dryly.  

 The only American girl he had met had been utterly atrocious, and he shuddered at the idea of being saddled for life with a loudmouthed, generously portioned, vulgar woman. Charles, who had also had the misfortune of meeting Miss Evans at a ball the year before, laughed and shook his head.  

 “I don’t think all American ladies are like Miss Evans,” Charles chuckled.  

 “Can’t take that chance,” Anthony said. “No, if I ever marry, she will definitely have to be English. Anyways, I think we should head back,” he said with a decisive nod of his head.  

 “You’ve made up your mind then?”  

 “Yes. It was just a moment of weakness, I am better now. Thank you for talking it through with me.”  

 “Of course. But you know,” Charles added, “just remember you do have other options.”  

 Anthony did not bother to contradict him this time and instead asked him about the lady he was dancing with as they began to make their way back towards the house. “You seemed quite interested.”  

 “Oh? Not at all. Just doing my duty. I was going to head out soon, should I wait for you or send the carriage back?” Charles changed the subject. 

 Anthony smiled. To his ears, Charles had sounded vague and evasive. There was something going on here, but now was not the time to delve into it.  

 “Don’t wait for me. Don’t send the carriage back either.” He lightly punched Charles on the shoulder as they parted ways. 

 “Alright then cousin, have a good night.”  

 With a wave, Anthony took a left turn, which led him towards a back entrance to the house. He was not in the mood to go through the ballroom again. The back entrance led directly to a set of stairs, but as soon as he got to the third floor, he froze.  

 Something was holding him back from turning towards the bedroom, but why? He wasn’t doing anything he hadn’t already done a hundred times before. Tonight should be no different. But it was.  

 I don’t want to do this anymore.  

 The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and as soon as he admitted it to himself, the heavy weight he had been carrying on his chest all evening seemed to ease and lift. Somehow, he knew this was a defining moment for him. What he chose to do next would shape the rest of his life. He could make his way down the hallway and into the bedroom, or he could leave. Right now. Right this very minute and never look back.  

For a moment, he thought about the money he would be losing and how difficult it would be to start all over again. But the idea of continuing this life for even one more night left him feeling sick to his stomach. So, what could he do?  

 Then in a moment of absolute and total clarity, he knew exactly what he could do. What he wanted to do.  

 

Chapter Two  

 “Ooh she is just the most precious little baby in the whole world,” Lydia Walford cooed delightedly. She was sitting on the floor of the parlor of her dear friend, Lady Eliza Neville, the Marchioness of Montagu, fawning over the baby, cupping one tiny baby hand into hers and gently stroking the petal soft fingers of the little baby girl who lay quietly in the basket, staring at everything around her with wide–eyed curiosity.  

 “You and Edward certainly do make the most beautiful babies,” she gushed.  

 Eliza laughed and gently ran a thumb over Stella’s cheek. The baby slowly turned her head towards her mother and started at her in worship. “I think all babies are utterly darling. You know, I did wonder if I would love a second baby as much as I loved John, but oh, Lydia, the minute I held her in my arms it was as if my heart just grew and made room to love her just as much.”  

 “Is John enjoying having a baby sister?” Lydia asked. 

 “Very much so. He doesn’t really understand it too much, being only two, but he likes tickling her feet and sitting next to her just watching her sleep.”  

 “He’ll be a wonderful older brother.” Lydia said proudly.  

 Lydia and Eliza had grown up together, and since neither one had any siblings, each considered the other an honorary sister. John, Eliza’s first child, loved Lydia to death and happily called her Aunty “Lydy”. Eliza was a year older than Lydia and had gotten married three years ago to Edward Neville, the Marquis of Montague. Within a year she had given birth to John, a darling little boy. Now with the addition of sweet little Stella, their family was complete. Eliza would have liked more children, but her delivery had been a complicated one and the doctor didn’t think she would ever be able to carry another child again.  

 Lydia took in the dark circles under her friend’s eyes and the tired droop around her mouth. She knew this pregnancy had been a difficult one, and the early weeks of motherhood were never easy, even for the most experienced mother. Yet Eliza had never looked happier. She was glowing with joy, her eyes sparkling with pride and happiness. She hadn’t looked this happy even on her wedding day.  

 “It must be the most amazing feeling to become a mother,” Lydia said. She hated herself for sounding envious, but truth be told she was envious.  

 Envious and maybe even a little bitter.  

 But Eliza didn’t mind. She knew what Lydia was going through. She knew her friend well enough to know she only wanted good things for her. She reached out across the wicker basket and placed a hand on her friend’s lap.  

 “It will happen for you too,” Eliza comforted.   

 “Not likely,” Lydia replied mournfully. “Three seasons and not a single proposal. Can you imagine the humiliation?”  

 “Well, I wouldn’t say not a single one,” Eliza said with a sly smirk.  

 At her words, Lydia leaned back against the mound of pillows they had arranged on the floor and started laughing, reminiscing about the horrible proposal she had received from one of her potential suitor’s father. Recently widowed, the Earl of Allenby had shown up out of the blue at her house one fine spring morning a year ago and unceremoniously proposed marriage. When Lydia had flatly refused his offer, he had grabbed a hold of her hand and proceeded to leave sloppy, slippery kisses all over it, professing to love her dearly.  

 Mortified and angry, Lydia had him thrown out of the house. Nobody else, not even her father, knew about the proposal. She had only told Eliza, swearing her best friend to secrecy. Once they both stopped laughing, Lydia shuddered at the memory and asked plaintively, “What does that say about me? The only proposal I get in three years is from a potato–shaped man with foul breath, more than thirty years my senior! But maybe that’s all I’m good for.”  

 Before she could help herself, tears filled her eyes. Lydia knew she was not anyone’s idea of a dream girl. With her petite figure, mousy brown hair, and dull brown eyes, she was hardly the definition of beautiful. Her pale, white skin, and the light spray of freckles across her nose didn’t help matters either. Lydia wasn’t vain by any means, she knew beauty was only skin deep, but there were times when she couldn’t help but wish God had given her just a little more beauty and a little less brains. It hurt her to know her lack of beauty meant she would be overlooked by most suitors, or that she might remain a spinster for life. Surprisingly, she didn’t mind the idea of spinsterhood that much. In fact, she had resigned herself to a life of loneliness, but the idea of never getting to experience motherhood was unbearable.  

 Sometimes life felt incredibly unfair. Lydia didn’t have a lot of wants or desires in life—all she wanted was a home of her own, a few children, and a library full of books. She didn’t need fancy clothes, an important title, enormous mansions, or stylish furniture. Once upon a time she had yearned for love, the kind of love she read about in her books, the kind of love she had witnessed between Eliza and Edward. But after three unsuccessful London seasons, she had given up on the idea of ever finding true love.  

 “It’s going to happen, Lydia,” Eliza repeated softly, instinctively understanding the pain and suffering her friend was going through.   

 “How?” she scoffed. “I’m hardly ideal wife material.”  

 “Nonsense!” Eliza said briskly. “Half the girls out this season can’t hold a candle to you. I think you spend so much time thinking you’re not pretty, that you forget about all the amazing things you are. You’re funny, sweet, kind, pretty—yes, pretty,” she repeated as Lydia started to contradict her, “brave and intelligent… I can go on and on.”  

 “You are the dearest friend,” Lydia said, smiling brightly. The smile illuminated her face, making her look anything but ordinary. Eliza thought it was too bad that she didn’t smile more often. She hoped that happiness would find its way into Lydia’s life soon and give her plenty of reasons to smile.  

 “I wish you could see what I see when I look at you,” she added sadly.  

 Lydia just smiled. She wished she could see it too, but the truth was, she found very little that was desirable within herself. It didn’t surprise her that nobody else found her desirable either. The two friends fell into a companionable silence while baby Stella giggled and gurgled in her basket.  

 A maid entered the parlor, interrupting the quiet moment. She appeared shocked to find Eliza and Lydia casually sprawled around on the floor, playing with the baby. Her lips tightened with disapproval. Proper ladies were not supposed to behave in such a manner. “Shall I bring in the tea?” she asked stiffly.  

 “Oh, yes please, Sarah, and some sandwiches,” Eliza replied, utterly unfazed by the maid’s reaction.  

 The maid bobbed her head and retreated while Eliza got to her feet and went across the room to a small table. “I just remembered I have a book for you that I think you’ll enjoy. It’s a little scandalous, but quite good.”  

 “Nothing can be as scandalous as the book I just finished reading the other day,” Lydia replied excitedly.  

 “Oh? Do tell me more.”  

 Lydia blushed and shook her head. “I couldn’t. The things I read can’t be repeated. It was just so shocking!”  

 But Eliza pressed on, passing the book she was holding to Lydia. “Shocking how?”  

 “It talked about the things that a man and a woman can do together… the… the…” she sputtered and stammered for a moment before shaking her head again, unable to continue or describe the lewd acts she had read about in the book. “It all sounds so disgusting,” she grumbled. “I don’t know how any woman can tolerate such acts, or why any man would want to do such things to a woman.”  

 Eliza laughed at Lydia’s expression of pure disgust and discomfort and settled back down on the floor. “That, my dear friend, is one thing I cannot agree with you on. Those umm…acts, are actually quite pleasurable.”  

 Lydia cocked an eyebrow. “Quite?”  

 “Quite.” Eliza confirmed.  

 Lydia raised an eyebrow. “I shall have to take your word for it I supposed.” 

 The maid came back into the room just then carrying a tray laden with steaming hot tea and a platter full of sandwiches.  

 Eliza patted the space between herself and Lydia. “You can place it right here, Sarah. We’ll serve ourselves.”  

 “On the floor my lady?”  

 “Yes, yes, the floor is fine.”  

 The maid stared at Eliza, and this time she didn’t try to disguise the disapproval she felt. The idea of a marchioness taking her tea on the floor was horrifying. But Eliza waved away her concerns, and after a few loud disapproving sniffs and sighs—which both Eliza and Lydia ignored—the maid carefully placed the tray at her feet before leaving the parlor.  

 “Do you think she will recover?” Lydia asked in amusement.  

 Eliza sighed and waved her hands in frustration. “You would think I should be able to do whatever I want in my own home, but I swear the servants here are more snobbish than the ton.”  

 “Well, you are a marchioness now… you’ll have to start acting like one eventually.” It amused Lydia to no end to watch the simple Eliza navigating the rules and customs of her new position in society. Eliza had grown up abhorring traditions of any kind. She had always been a free spirit who did as she wished, but now as the wife of a marquis, tradition followed her at every step. It was something she was still adjusting to.  

 “Eventually, but not today,” she said with a wink.   

 Lydia helped herself to a cucumber sandwich and stirred cream and sugar into her cup of tea. “Are you going to attend any more seasons?” Eliza asked her.  

 Taking a dainty bite out of her sandwich, Lydia shook her head. “No. This was my last. Three seasons is humiliating enough, I’m not going through that again.”  

 “Hmm. Was Lady Devonshire upset you didn’t attend her ball?” 
 “No, I don’t think so. To be honest, I don’t think she even noticed that I declined the invitation. I’m going to hibernate all winter and prepare to become a spinster.”  

 “You’re not going to be a spinster!” Eliza protested.  

 “Of course I am,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. “Gentlemen never sought me out while I was attending balls and soirees, do you think they will seek me out now in private?”  

 “I see what you mean,” Eliza conceded. “But you’re forgetting something. Marriage proposals don’t just happen during the season or at balls. Why don’t you speak to your father about arranging a marriage for you? I know you’ve always wanted love, Lydia, but maybe love can happen after?”  

 “Maybe,” Lydia said doubtfully. “I’m not expecting love anymore, so maybe an arranged marriage is not the worst idea. At least this way I’ll have a husband.”  

 Eliza clapped her hands in delight, eliciting a startled gurgle from baby Stella. “Oh, I’m sorry sweetheart, did mommy scare you?” Eliza scooped up the baby into her arms and held her close before continuing. “You need to speak to your father, Lydia. I want you to be married, to have children, and to enjoy lewd acts in bed,” she added with a wicked grin.  

 Lydia swatted her friend playfully, her face turning red as she remembered once again the explicit passages she had read in her book. She couldn’t imagine ever enjoying anything like that or finding pleasure in those acts. But then again, she never thought she would consider an arranged marriage either.   

 After a delightful hour spent playing with the baby and talking about lighter things, Lydia made her way home. Before she could lose her courage or change her mind, she headed straight for her father’s study. He was sitting at his desk, so concentrated on his work that he didn’t hear her at the door.  

 Lydia walked in quietly, her feet sinking into the soft carpet. She had always loved her father’s study. Many evenings she could be found quietly reading in one of the large, plush armchairs placed on either side of the enormous marble fireplace while her father worked at his desk.   

 A portrait of her mother hung above the fireplace. With soft waves of dark red hair and sparkling green eyes, her mother had been a beautiful woman, unlike Lydia, who got her looks from her father. The only thing she had inherited from her mother were her freckles and pale skin.  

 As she stared at her mother’s face, Lydia wondered, not for the first time, if things would have been different for her had her mother still been alive. It was a question she would never have an answer to.  

 “Lydia?” Her father’s deep voice broke into her thoughts. “When did you get home? Did you have a nice visit with Eliza?”  

 “Oh yes, it was lovely. Her baby is utterly precious.” Lydia paused for a second to gather her thoughts. She didn’t know how to bring up the subject of marriage to her father in a delicate way, so decided to simply dive right in.  

 “Father, I would like to speak to you about something. Something important.”  

 “Of course, what is it Lydia?”  

 “I would like to be married,” she announced abruptly. “I’m getting too old to wait around for love to find me, so I’m asking you to arrange a suitable marriage for me.”  

 “Oh?” her father sounded shocked at her words. “Are you sure, my dear?”  

 “Quite sure. My only requirement is that the husband be close to my age and wishes to have children. I am prepared to marry whomever you think is suitable for me.”   

 These conditions further shocked the Baron, who was unused to having his daughter speak her mind so boldly or clearly, but he was careful not to show it or comment on it. Instead, he nodded gravely and asked her once more if that is truly what he wanted.  

 “It is,” Lydia replied in a firm voice.  

 “Alright then, I will make some inquiries and let you know when I have found someone.”  

 Nodding with satisfaction, Lydia left the room. Once she was out in the hallway, a terrible feeling of panic swept over her.  

 What had she done? Had she just made the worst mistake of her life?   

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Chapter One

Lincolnshire, England—1808

“What did you think of the Earl of Sussex, miss? I didn’t get a good look at him, but from what I could tell from the staircase, he had a nice voice.” Hanna Seton asked as she helped her mistress with her stays.

“Eh, he talks too much, and he’s a bit fat.” Miss Isabella frowned, smoothing cream under her eyes as she sat at her vanity in her bedchamber.

“Miss! Is there no man you will choose as a match for yourself?” Hanna asked, shaking her head. They’d had this conversation before about various suitors. Different names were featured, but the themes were always the same. Miss Isabella always found a reason to dislike each man.

“Certainly not him,” Miss Isabella sniffed. “He would never do as a husband.”

“But surely you must choose someone soon,” Hanna said, wringing her hands.

“I will not.” Miss Isabella swiped a glob of cream across her face and frowned at herself in the mirror. Then, she wiped it dry.

“But I don’t understand, miss, don’t you wish to marry?” Hanna asked, helping her mistress pull the sunny yellow dress over her head.

“I just don’t like any of the suitors papa wants me to meet, that’s all.” Isabella straightened the front of her dress, studying herself with a smile.

“I thought Lord Lawton was amiable, and he has a great fortune, too. All the ladies in Lincolnshire talk about him as a great match.”

“Posh. Him? He has a huge forehead! You could fit an entire family on it. His fortune isn’t big enough to make me overlook that.” Miss Isabella said with a chuckle.

“You are quite mean, miss,” Hanna said, but she giggled. The man did have a bit of extra on top.

“I am not. I’m simply not going to settle for just anyone.” Miss Isabella ran a brush through her golden blonde hair. She was quite vain about her hair and brushed it over 100 strokes a day. Between that and her creams and powders, she put in hours every week on her appearance.

It seemed a strange thing to do to Hanna if one didn’t plan on getting married or care about suitors. “That is your choice, of course, miss,” Hanna said.

“It is. Enough about me. What of you and your young man?” Miss Isabella glanced back at Hanna, her lady’s maid, and raised an eyebrow.

“What young man?” Hanna ducked her head so her mistress couldn’t see the furious blush she felt rising over her cheeks.

“The one you’ve mentioned in the marketplace. George something or other.” Miss Isabella grabbed her powder puff.

“Oh, yes. George. He’s quite a nice young man.” Hanna cleared her throat. She didn’t like to talk about her personal life much, even though Miss Isabella did. She loved to gossip about everything and treated Hanna more as a friend than a servant.

“I think you think of him as more than that, Hanna.” Miss Isabella clicked her tongue and batted her eyelashes.

“Miss–”

“Don’t give me that. Is he kind?”

“Well, yes. He always gives me extra ribbons when I buy them at his stall.” Hanna smiled.

“That’s a good sign. And I’m sure he’s handsome.” Miss Isabella made a face.

“He’s very handsome.” Hanna laughed.

“Describe him for me.” Miss Isabella sighed, resting her chin on her hand.

“Well, he has huge brown eyes, and he’s tall–”

“Oh, he sounds lovely! I do like a tall man. So many of the suitors papa chooses for me are nearly shorter than I am.” Miss Isabella frowned and shook her head.

“Before I go on, let me just adjust your hair like this.” Hanna moved one blonde braid of her mistress Isabella Frampton’s hair an inch.

“I love it!” Miss Isabella clapped her hands together. “Thank you, Hanna.”

“Of course, Miss Isabella.” Hanna studied her mistress’s reflection in the mirror—sparkling and lovely and then appraised her own. She looked plain in comparison, and older than her 18 years.

“Now, go on. I want to hear all about him!” Miss Isabella smiled encouragingly.

“Well,  his hair is the color of chestnuts and curls at the bottom.” Hanna said, her face growing hot once again.

“Oh, he sounds so handsome!” Miss Isabella clapped her hands together.

“He is. The most handsome of men around these parts.”

“Oh, Hanna!” Miss Isabella giggled. “And is he kind and good?”

“Definitely. As I said, he gives me extras, but he is always solicitous. He asks after the household and my mama and papa.”

“When will you see him again?” Miss Isabella leaned closer.

“In just a bit. I have to go to the market to get the things you requested.” Hanna smiled shyly.

“Yes, you certainly do. I must have them straight away!” Her mistress raised an eyebrow imperiously and burst into laughter.

* * * *

Hanna loved the sights and sounds of the bustling marketplace in the village, from the fragrant flowers and animals for sale to the fruits and clothing items, but George Bentley was the sight she most enjoyed. He wore a white shirt with a short brown jacket and matching breeches. The color suited his complexion. He was arranging some of his wares on a table.

He saw her coming before she could speak. “Miss Seton! What a lovely surprise!”

“Hello, Mr. Bentley. Good day to you.” Hanna smiled, feeling happy and free as she always did around George. She could truly envision a future with him. He was kind and good looking, and wasn’t that all there was, really, to it? Did love really matter? If it did, she believed she could grow to love him, given enough time.

“How are you doing, and how is your mistress and her family?” He asked, smiling.

“I am well, and they are, too.”

“Very good, and your mama and papa? Have you heard from them lately?” He asked, adjusting a hairpin on the table.

“I have. They are doing quite well.”

“Oh, good. Do you see anything you like? I have something I think will suit you well. It’s on the house,” he said, picking up a hairpin with pearls on it.

“Oh, Mr. Bentley, I couldn’t accept that,” Hanna said, shaking her head. “I have a list here of items my mistress wants, and those are the things I came for—nothing more.” She shook her head firmly. She didn’t want to take advantage of the man’s kindness.

“I understand that, but this gold hairpin would so suit you. Would you take it for me?” He asked, beginning to wrap it up in paper.

“Oh, sir, please let me pay you for it. I can.” Hanna reached into her purse.

“No, no. It’s a gift from me to you. I insist. You bring me much business every week.” George smiled.

“Thank you. You are certainly too kind.”

“I’m not. Any man would do the same upon seeing your lovely red locks. They just beg for an equally lovely hairpin to adorn them.” George winked.

Hanna felt heat rise in her face. “Oh, well, let’s get on with the list I have then,” she said, not knowing what to say.

“Of course, Miss Seton. I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.” George Bentley frowned, looking troubled.

“No, not at all. It’s just…my hair. I’ve never much liked it.” Hanna laughed softly.

“Oh, Miss Seton, it is a crowning glory. Don’t ever believe any different.”

Hanna collected the items Miss Isabella wanted, and George wrapped them up for her in a parcel. “That’s everything, I think.”

“Very good. Miss Seton?”

“Yes, Mr. Bentley?” Hanna asked, half turning to leave.

“Please call me George.” He paused. “Would you like to take a walk one afternoon on your day off? Could I call for you?”

Hanna took a deep breath, excitement filling her at the thought. “Of course. Next Saturday afternoon.”

“Very good. I’ll call for you around 2 p.m.”

“At the servants’ entrance, of course,” Hanna said, smiling.

“Yes, of course.” George half bowed. “Until then, Hanna.”

“Yes, I’ll see you then, George.” Hanna walked away, feeling as if she were floating on air. A future with George Bentley seemed more possible by the moment. She couldn’t wait to get back to the estate to write all about it to mama. She only had to wait a week until the walk with George. The time would pass so slowly until then, though!

* * * *

Later that evening, Hanna helped Miss Isabella dress for dinner. Her hands were shaking with excitement, and she could hardly keep her mind on the task at hand.

“What ails you, Hanna Seton? You are not yourself,” Miss Isabella asked, giving her a sharp look as Hanna dropped a hairpin on the floor.

“I’m sorry, miss,” Hanna said, picking it up.

“Don’t be sorry. Tell me what is the matter before you muss my hair,” Miss Isabella demanded.

“Nothing is the matter. Everything is right with the world, in fact,” Hanna said and sighed.

“Oh. Oh! I forgot. You saw your young man today. Didn’t you?” Miss Isabella said and winked into the mirror of the vanity.

“I did,” Hanna said shyly.

“So what happened to put you into this state? You are positively in a tizzy!” Miss Isabella giggled.

“He asked me to take a walk with him next Saturday.” Hanna adjusted a hairpin in Miss Isabella’s blonde hair.

“How lovely. And what did you say? I think I know the answer.” Miss Isabella laughed.

“I said yes, of course.”

“Good for you, my dear. He’s a lucky man.” Miss Isabella reached for her powder puff.

“Thank you,” Hanna said, finishing the hairdo.

“I’m only saying what is true, my friend. He would be very lucky to have you. Let’s hope he turns out to be half the man you think he is.” Miss Isabella dotted perfume on her wrist.

“I think I shall be counting the days until we meet!” Hanna said, clasping her hands together and spinning around in a circle.

Miss Isabella laughed. “I’m sure you shall. That’s what love is like!”

“Love? I’m not sure that I do love him,” Hanna said, stopping her spin and frowning.

“Well, you are at least in deep like. Very deep, and that’s good enough to build a life, a marriage on,” Miss Isabella said.

Just then, the door of the bedchamber burst open.

“I will speak with you now, young lady!” Miss Isabella’s father roared.

“Father, what is it?” Miss Isabella stood from the vanity with a start.

“What is it?” Her father sputtered, his face red with rage. “What it is is that you’ve rejected numerous suitors. You are 23 years old, and it is well past time for you to get married. That’s why I’ve taken matters into my own hands, young lady.”

“What do you mean?” Miss Isabella sank into a chair near her bed.

Hanna tried to look invisible as she moved to the corner, embarrassed by the scene.

“I mean that I have chosen a husband for you, Lawrence Morton, Viscount Stafford. You are to leave for the London Season the day after tomorrow, taking your lady’s maid, of course, with you. I will brook no arguments about it.” He gestured toward Hanna.

“Father, no!” Miss Isabella wrung her hands.

“I will hear nothing more of the matter as I just said! You shall leave for London the day after tomorrow, so it is best to get your things together now,” Lord Frampton said, his face set in a frown.

“Father, please!” Miss Isabella responded tears in her eyes.

Hanna silently willed her headstrong mistress not to argue further with her father. He was right. It was well past time for her mistress to marry.

“Now, now, dear. You will have a grand time, and Lord Morton is so looking forward to meeting you. Aren’t you eager to meet him as well? After all, he is to be your husband. He is a most eligible man.” Her father beamed.

“Yes, father. Of course, you are right, and I do want to meet him.” Miss Isabella’s voice was low.

“You are 23, Isabella. You must remember that you are quite lucky to have made such a good match.” Her father smiled tightly.

“I know, father.” Miss Isabella said, her voice trembling.

“Very well, then. I’ll leave you to prepare for your journey.” Lord Frampton exited the room.

Miss Isabella burst into tears. “What am I going to do?”

Hanna moved to her side and hugged her tightly. The young women had known each other for two years now, and they were more like best friends than anything.

“I don’t know. I suppose we must go, and you must marry the viscount, much as you wish not to.” Hanna swallowed her own tears. The last thing she wanted to do was go to London. There was nothing there for her. Her life and family were here. She had grown up in Lincolnshire, and the thought of spending extended time in the sprawling city of London made her anxious. She had heard it was smoggy, dirty, smelly, and dangerous. Besides, there was George Bentley, the merchandiser, to think about. All she had been looking forward to was the walk they were going to be taking together next week. Now that wouldn’t happen. This was all wrong!

“But I can’t. I just can’t!” Miss Isabella stamped her foot.

“Miss Isabella, I don’t understand why you are so opposed to marriage to Lord Morton. He sounds like a wonderful match.” Hanna studied her mistress, trying to figure out the puzzle.

“I don’t love him!” Miss Isabella frowned.

“Well, many women don’t love the men they marry, but they still make happy lives and marriages,” Hanna said. “I am sure you shall grow to love him if he is a good man like your father has said he is. I hear wonderful things about Lord Morton.”

Miss Isabella was silent for a moment. Then, she smiled tightly. “You are right, Hanna. I’m being silly. Please leave me now. I have some letters to write since our departure is imminent.”

“Of course, miss.” Hanna’s voice trembled. She wanted to cry over the whole situation. She left, wondering to whom her mistress was writing so intently.

 

Chapter Two

The traveling coach trundled up the road in the growing cold. Hanna shivered through her thin, green dress. It was worn and well past need of replacing. Threads stuck out in places, and there was a hole under one arm—tiny, but hard to mend. It kept reopening. She was miserable all around, thinking of her parents and friends she had said goodbye to for the next few months. When she had gone to the market in a rush to tell George she would be leaving for an extended period and would miss their walk—oh! She would never forget the disappointed look on his face. She tried to focus on other things.

“Are you looking forward to meeting Lord Morton, miss?” It seemed like a stupid question, considering her mistress’s previous declarations about going to London and marriage, but she asked it anyway. Perhaps Miss Isabella had softened or changed her mind over the past day or so. She studied her mistress, who was looking out the window, a small smile on her lips. Miss Isabella had said little about the trip since her first protestations to her father.

“Not really, but what must be done will be done,” Miss Isabella said, shrugging. “Women have no power as daughters of powerful men other than their hands in marriage, I suppose.” She sighed.

“Miss…I just don’t understand.” Hanna said, shaking her head. Was it really so bad to be married off to a kind, wealthy, supposedly handsome viscount?

“I know you don’t, but you will soon enough.” Miss Isabella laughed softly.

Hanna felt a frisson of alarm rush through her. “What does that mean? What are you saying?”

“You will understand why I’m not interested in marrying Lord Morton or this earl or that other viscount or blah, blah, blah. I tire of all of them!” She waved her hand in the air as if willing them all away.

“It will be good to understand you, miss. I only hope for the best for you. I care about you…not only as your servant, you know, I trust, but as something like a—a friend.” Hanna tripped over the words, feeling her face grow hot.

“You are my friend indeed, as I’ve told you before. You are at my side now in my hour of trouble.” Miss Isabella reached across and patted Hanna’s knee. She watched Hanna for a moment. “Are you cold?” Miss Isabella asked. “The wind is brutal, and you are practically racked with shivers.”

“Yes, I am. Freezing.” Hanna hugged herself.

“No matter that. I’ll get one of my old pelisses for you. That will keep you warm.” Lady Isabelle knocked on the wall of the carriage.

The coachman came around to see what she wanted.

“Please retrieve my trunk from the rack. If you open it, you will find a navy blue pelisse on top. I need it, Humphrey. Thank you,” Miss Isabella said.

The coachman bowed slightly. “Yes, miss.”

“Oh, that’s too much,” Hanna said, her teeth chattering. “I can’t accept it.”

“Nonsense, I have a dozen of them! This one shall be yours. It is one of my older ones anyway—not one of the newer ones made just for this trip. It will make me ever so happy for you to have it, Hanna.” Miss Isabella smiled.

A few moments later, the coachman handed Miss Isabella the pelisse.

“Here you are,” Miss Isabella said, handing the silky garment with a flourish to Hanna.

Hanna took it and put it on, reveling in the smooth feel of the fabric against her fingers, her skin. She had never worn such a nice garment. It was a longer pelisse that buttoned in the front. “Thank you, Miss Isabella. Thank you.” Tears sprang to her eyes at the gesture of kindness.

“You are quite welcome. That color suits you. It sets off your beautiful green eyes and red hair.”

“Oh.” Hanna frowned. “That is kind of you to say.”

“I mean it. You have the most gorgeous hair, you know—like a fire!” Miss Isabella’s eyes grew big. “I have been quite jealous of it since I met you.”

“I hate my hair, but thank you again, miss.” Hanna had always been unsure of her flaming locks and sprinkling of freckles. She was fair-skinned, too. Her looks were unique, and she found that men either were obsessed with her hair due to some strange fancy, or they disliked it. It left her feeling unsure of herself.

“You should hate nothing about yourself. You are wonderful,” Miss Isabella said. “A much better person than I.”

Her words were strange and kind, and Hanna felt comforted, even though she still missed her family and friends greatly. Her chest ached every time she thought of them.

Miss Isabella glanced out of the coach window as the vehicle started up again. She looked anxious.

“Are you feeling alright, miss?” Hanna asked. “You seem unsettled.” Perhaps she was just nervous about meeting her betrothed soon and finally having to marry.

“Quite alright.” Miss Isabella smiled, her eyes sparkling.

She was definitely acting strangely, Hanna thought, a sensation of foreboding stealing over her.

Suddenly, a rumble of thunder sounded nearby, shaking the coach.

“My goodness. Is it going to storm?” Miss Isabella asked, looking excited, rather than frightened.

“It certainly sounds like it, miss,” Hanna said.

* * * *

Lord Lawrence Morton sat alone in the drawing-room at Wanderley, his manor home in London. A terrible storm had rolled in. It was a terrible night for him to be alone, but fate had conspired to make it so. His friend Jack had begged off of their plans that evening, so he was left only with this blasted storm and the ghosts of his past, his haunted memories. Thunder rolled, shaking the manor house as lightning lit up the room, making it a ghastly mockery of day time. He nursed his brandy, a headache coming on. He hated storms, even years later—after the tragic event that had changed his life. He was 28 now, and he had been 21 then. Seven long years still hadn’t enabled him to put it behind him and move on with his life, or with a new love. He had only recently determined that he would marry, but he was sure that he wouldn’t love his betrothed, Miss Isabella Frampton, when they did marry.

A storm had been part of what had taken his darling girl—that and blasted highwaymen.

He stood up, half-drunk already, knocking glasses and a decanter from a shelf as he swept his hand carelessly along it. The sound of the glass tinkling and crashing was satisfying. The destruction fit his frame of mind. The thought enraged him that there had been nothing he could do to save her—his life, his Elise—the woman he had known he was going to love forever. He hadn’t even been there—hadn’t known until the event was over and she was cold and dead on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere in the English countryside.

Would he never get over this torment over the woman he had loved? Would he never be able to weather a storm without thinking of her blue eyes, her gentle nature?

He slouched back down into his chair and slugged back the glass of brandy, determined to get blackout drunk. At least the drink would enable him to forget that he now had nothing to live for apart from the banal comforts that surrounded him. Ah, but what were comforts without love?

A single tear slid down his cheek.

“Blast it!” He said. He hated that he would always cry a bit when he got very drunk, but his true emotions usually found their way to the surface anyhow. The pointlessness of it all hit him in these moments.

Who could save him? There was no one. He couldn’t even save himself.

 

* * * *

 

Lightning flashed in the sky, and soon the rain began. It pelted the carriage, and the driver had to slow down a great deal. Then, the travel coach stopped completely. The wind howled around them.

“What is happening?” Hanna looked out the window, but she couldn’t see anything.

“I’m not sure,” Miss Isabella said, but there was a note of excitement in her voice.

Suddenly, there was a commotion outside the coach, and the coachman was shouting. The door of the coach swung open. A man grabbed first Miss Isabella and then demanded that Hanna get out as well.

Both women climbed out of the coach, protesting. The man pushed them down into the mud. Another man held the coachman, Humphrey, at knifepoint. The man who had pushed the two women down spoke to a third man, “Which one is yours?”

“The tall blonde in the pink gown,” the man said. “She’s mine.”

Hanna gasped, recognizing the voice. It was Brook, the footman. What was going on?

The man let Miss Isabella go, and she rushed toward Brook, taking him into her arms. “My love! Oh, how I’ve waited for this moment!”

“Isabella, my own!”

They kissed, long and passionately, clinging to each other as if they were drowning.

Hanna stood up, gaping at the two of them. A tumult of emotions ran through her—disbelief, anger, sadness, and fear. Now she understood why her mistress had rejected every suitor sent by her father and why she didn’t care to meet Lord Morton, Viscount Stafford. She was in love with Brook the footman, and it was obvious to Hanna now why she had been acting so strangely during this journey: she knew he was going to waylay their coach.

“Miss Isabella!” Hanna said, nearly speechless. “How could you do this? How could you betray your father’s wishes like this?” Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of what Miss Isabella would be giving up—her fortune, her life as she knew it –  and of the pain, her father and family would endure due to the shame. The tears were also for herself—for what she was going to lose since Miss Isabella had made this choice. The whole life she had known was now going to be gone.

“I’m in love. When there is love, nothing else matters, Hanna. You will find that out one day, my friend. We will run away and be married tonight.” Miss Isabella gave her a fierce smile.

“Are you certain this is what you want, Miss Isabella?” Hanna asked, a lump in her throat. She took a step closer to her friend, but the distance felt like a gulf. There was no way she was going to talk her mistress, her lady, her friend out of this decision. She knew that. No one who didn’t mean business would have gone to such desperate measures, nor would she risk losing everything as she was sure to do.

“I am sure. I love Brook. He is good to me. There is no one else I’ve ever wanted. We’ve been together for nearly six years now—secretly.” Miss Isabella’s eyes glittered in a sort of a triumph. She looked exhilarated, free, and happy.

Hanna stared, wide-eyed. “You certainly can keep a secret, miss. I had no idea.” And she hadn’t. She had simply thought her mistress was fiercely independent—uninterested in marriage.

“Yes, I can.” Miss Isabella raised her chin proudly. “Now, go on with you to London. Do what you must.” Miss Isabella crossed to Hanna and gave her a long hug. “I will never forget you. You’ve been a good friend to me. I pray you have a good life.”

“Oh, Miss Isabella, you are leaving me in such a predicament, though!” Hanna wrung her hands. Her heart was thrumming so fast, she wondered if she might faint right down in the mud. And, so what if she did? Did it really matter at this point? What future was left for her now without a job or a home?

“You will get through it. You are strong and resourceful, Hanna. I know you.” Miss Isabella kissed Hanna’s cheek and gave her a long look goodbye.

“Let me go, blast it!” The coachman shouted. He wiggled against his captor.

“In good time, man,” said the man who held him, keeping the knife to his throat.

“Let him go. We’re leaving. He’s not going to stop us,” Brook said in a loud voice.

“Damn you, Brook, you traitorous wretch!” The coachman said, wrenching free.

“I am sorry, Humphrey. I will make it up to you.” Miss Isabella crossed to him and handed him a bag. “Here is plenty of gold for your troubles. Ride on to London. Don’t go back to Lincolnshire. That way, my father won’t find me in time…not before we’re married.” She kissed the man on the cheek.

Humphrey grunted and took the gold. The man let him go. “Very well, miss. I do this only because I am fond of you. I’ve known you since you were a mere girl, but take care of yourself.”

“I will, Humphrey. Brook will take care of me,” Miss Isabella said. She hugged Brook, and he touched her face lovingly.

Brook helped Miss Isabella on to a waiting horse, and they galloped away into the darkness.

“Blast that damnable villain!” The coachman, Humphrey, said as they stood in the rain, gathering their wits.

“I don’t know what to do,” Hanna said, cold and bewildered. She wanted desperately to go back to Lincolnshire, but now she had no mistress to attend to. She shivered, her dress and fine pelisse soaked through.

“Let’s go to London. Your mistress has left you. You cannot go back to Lincolnshire, and I’m certainly not going to. Not ever. Not with this gold.” Humphrey grinned.

“Very well,” Hanna said. What other choice did she have but to get into the coach and continue on with the journey? She couldn’t very well stand here in the storm with no means of transportation and nowhere to go.

She climbed into the coach, weary and waterlogged. In spite of her discomfort and consternation, she fell into a deep sleep.

At some point during the night, she had a troubled dream. Her mother was reaching out to her and calling her name. Hanna couldn’t hear it, but she could see her mother’s lips moving, and her father was running alongside the coach. They were trying to stop it, as if they knew something was wrong—that she was headed in the wrong direction.

“No, no!” She murmured. She twisted in her seat.

In the dream as in life, the coach kept rattling along the road, and she could do nothing about it. At some point, she passed George Bentley, his hat in hand, standing alongside the road. He looked forlorn, his brown eyes gazing solemnly into hers.

“George,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. She wanted the coach to stop, but she knew there was no going back to her old life now. She was moving forward no matter what. She would go to London, and there was little or nothing she could do about it. Hanna stared out the coach window, and her mother, father, and George all stood watching after her.

Tears wet her cheeks.

Suddenly, she jolted awake, unsure of what had interrupted the nightmare. The coach had stopped, that much was clear. Hanna stretched, every bone in her body aching from the cold and being pushed down into the mud the night before. She sat up and looked out the window of the coach.

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Chapter 1

London

“James!” Augusta called out as her brother came tumbling through the doorway of the sitting room. He stumbled onto the floor to his knees, his coat half fallen from his shoulders and his waistcoat buttons misaligned. “What has happened?” She ran to collect him from the rug, but as she moved to place an arm around him, she recoiled back at the smell. “You’ve been drinking again.”

“That I have, sweet sister,” his words were slurred as he pushed himself up, attempting to stand though swaying with the effort.

“You need to stop this.” She helped him to his feet and walked away again. “Do you have any idea what you are doing to your own reputation?” She crossed her arms, tired of having to give the same lecture to her brother repeatedly.

James tried to flatten his chestnut-colored brown hair. It was a trait they shared, his short and tufted, hers long and currently fastened at the top of her head with curls hanging down.

He staggered across the room to the nearest chaise lounge, one of the few ornate pieces of furniture now left in the room. As he slumped down to sit, she covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stop herself from gasping at the sight. Around him, it was clear how bleak their fortunes had turned.

The room that had been so grand in her father’s time now stood extremely sparse. The old Viscount Campten had kept the room decorated with the finest furniture, polished with gold brocade and plush chairs. Either side of where James sat, there were now empty spaces where the furniture used to be. They had to sell them to help pay for some of his gambling debts.

“Do not be angry at me, Augusta,” he slurred as he tilted his head back in the chair. “I have been drinking for a reason.”

“I see no reason that would be good enough for this state of being. Have you lost your senses?” She turned to him, narrowing her hazel eyes. He merely raised his own eyes to hers with a shrug.

“I have lost what was left.”

“I beg your pardon?” She took another step towards him, nervous in case she had heard him wrong. “Tell me you have not been playing cards again?”

“Oh, I have,” he covered his eyes with his hands. “I have lost what was left of our fortune, sweet sister.”

She looked between him and the floor for a minute, her eyes filling with unshed tears. She turned away from him at last, despair filling her as she covered her face.

“In the name of the Lord,” she whispered, struggling to control her breathing. “What have you done, James? How could you do it?”

“I was going to win this time. I was certain of it.” At the sound of his movement, she looked back to him, abating her tears before they could truly begin. He sat straight in the chair again and was attempting to straighten his clothes, but it had little effect.

“As you did not win, your certainty baffles me.”

“I had a good hand, believe me. It was worth the gamble.”

“Worth the gamble?” She marched towards him in outrage, hearing the click of her buckled shoes against the wooden floor. “I truly do now believe you have lost your sense. You thought our livelihood was worth the risk of a game of cards? Not only ours but our staff? What few staff we have left, we will be unable to pay. We will lose the house. We could have to go into service.”

“Augusta –” He attempted to wave her away, but she had lost her temper entirely.

“Do you have any idea to the extent that you have destroyed our lives?”

His face cracked into sorrow, the cheeks quivering slightly.

“Do not look at me like that. I cannot bear it,” he looked away from her down at his feet.

“I would like to see how you can bear it tomorrow morning when you wake up and realize you cannot afford food.” She paced around the room; certain she had never felt such anger in her life before.

“Wait a moment, before you condemn me to the depths of hell, I do not believe this is our end.”

“What do you mean?” She paused in her pacing. He slowly got to his feet, struggling to stand straight.

“I believe that we can get the money back.”

“Do not be so foolish, James.” She shook her head. “Do not tell me you plan to win it all back in another game of cards –”

“That is not what I am saying.”

“And no gentleman would just give the money back to you.”

“He may do if I was not the one to ask.” His words pulled her up short, she turned back to look at him. The curls of her hair that hung down from her updo swung around her neck with the movement.

“What do you mean?”

“I think that you should ask for it back.” He was sincere, imploring her with begging hands. She almost laughed at the idea, she scoffed and shook her head.

“You would put me through that humiliation? Begging for a gentleman to take pity on you?” She stepped away from him again. “Whoever you lost to would no more return the money to me than you.”

“Oh, I think he might.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I lost the money to Baron Bardolf.”

Augusta flicked her head back round to him again, her whole body suddenly freezing at the name. Lord Loftus Storey, Baron Bardolf. She had been once betrothed to the man. Her hands went to the stomach of her dress. She placed her fists against it, as though she could calm the sudden dancing of nerves behind it.

Eight years ago, she had been betrothed to the Baron. They were to marry in the summer of that year. She had never loved a man so much and had never loved a man since. Yet that had all ended badly.

“He would listen to you. I am sure of it.” James kept talking, though she was barely listening anymore. She was remembering what the Baron had looked like, the feel of his hand in hers and the kisses they had shared in the shadows, while hiding from her chaperone. It seemed so long ago.

“He would not listen to me.” She turned away again, hurrying to a seat. She sat primly, her spine straight in an effort to maintain a calm countenance though inside she was suffering turmoil.

“He would, Augusta.” James moved to her side, but she would not look at him. “He has recently returned to town from his country estate. I met him tonight at cards and he spoke of the move.”

“I cannot believe you gambled with that man.” She shook her head, lowering her eyes to her hands as they fidgeted in her lap. “We will lose our home, James. For what? For the thrill of a round of cards?”

“We are not doomed yet.” James moved closer towards her, begging her now, urging her to look at him. “He would listen to you if you reasoned with him. Go to his house, speak to him. Your old betrothal must have mattered to him a little before you ended it.”

“You think I could manipulate any affection he had for me into saving our finances?”

“I do.”

She scoffed again, looking away from him.

“You are a greater fool than I ever thought you,” she bit her lip, detesting the thought of having to see the Baron. She could scarcely believe James would not only gamble their livelihood, but to also put it into the hands of such a man was unthinkable. “Why is he back in London?” Her curiosity got the better of her. She chastised herself as soon as she asked the question.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” James was smiling as he sat back in the chair, his inebriated state taking over again.

She stood and walked away from her brother, needing desperately to put distance between them. She could not help but think the Baron might have done such a thing on purpose. He had so willingly toyed with her heart all those years ago, happy to destroy not only her life but her hopes in love, it was perfectly possible that he would choose to destroy her again. Except this time, he was not just destroying her, but James too.

Her gaze drew unwillingly back to her brother. He was a fool. Still young, reckless, and an incessant gambler, but he was kind at heart. He was more protective of her than anyone she had ever known.

She could not allow him to be destroyed by the Baron.

She turned her eyes to the window, noting the clouds gathering outside as the night sky drew in. She straightened her spine and raised her chin high. If she were going to face this battle, she would not allow herself to crack. She would walk in and meet the man with strength, she would not show him how much he had hurt her.

“Very well,” she whispered eventually, her eyes still on the murky clouds above.

“You will do it?” James’ voice came softly from behind her.

“I will try,” she nodded, turning her head to the side slightly. “But you must not get your hopes up. Any…” She struggled for the right word, “any friendship between Baron Bardolf and I was destroyed many years ago. I doubt he would raise a finger to help me now. I will go to him tomorrow.”

She looked away from her brother, back to the night sky. She tried to push the images of the Baron from her mind, but it did little use. He kept coming back.

Loftus…

She thought of how he laughed, the breadth of his smile, and the green eyes that had always born the habit of being able to read her so easily. She blinked, trying to push the thought of him away.

***

Augusta shifted endlessly as she stood at the door of the Baron’s house, waiting for it to open. She looked down at her dress, rearranging it with frustration. She wore a green high-waisted empire gown, one of her favorites. With a wide neckline and long sleeves, the bust was bordered with dark lace that matched the hemline. She tried not to think of why she had chosen it, as she turned her attention to her pelisse. A darker green, it was cinched at the waist with a high neckline, emphasizing the length of her figure as the hem dropped to her feet.

She cursed herself for fidgeting, arguing with herself that she had not chosen the clothes for want of the Baron’s admiration. It was merely that she did not wish to appear weak before him. She imagined the dress was her armor. With the strength of it she could go in and meet him, hold her chin high and try to forget what he had done all those years ago.

She raised her eyes from the dress to the house, admiring the façade. She had visited the place many times all those years ago, but in the time that had passed, the frontage had been re-painted. The white pillars shone in the afternoon bright light and the red brick gleamed. It was a tall house, with many rooms and grand windows to match. She was so busy admiring it that the door opening took her by surprise.

A butler revealed himself on the other side, the same as she had known on her last visits. The old man’s eyes widened, clearly in surprise.

“Miss Creassey?” He asked, stuttering slightly. He had barely changed, though perhaps there were a few more wrinkles to his fine countenance.

“That is right. How are you, Holmes?” She asked with a smile, attempting to quieten the nerves in her stomach.

“I am well, my Lady. It has been some years. You are here to see the master?” He smiled, already stepping back and hurrying her into the hallway.

“Yes please,” she stepped in as her gaze was drawn to the grand hall. Just as fine as she remembered, the floor was dappled with white tiles and the great stairs in front of her spiraled up into the rafters. She smiled at seeing them. There was a time when had she thought the house would have been her home. She bit her lip to stop the smile, no good could come from happy memories of the Baron.

“Here we are, my Lady, let me take that for you,” Holmes removed the pelisse from her. “Allow me to show you into the drawing room whilst I fetch the master.”

She nodded her thanks before he led her through the familiar corridor and fine rooms. As she was shown into the drawing room, her gaze alighted on a portrait above the fireplace. It was of the Baron’s late father, but there was enough in the similarity of the features to cause pain. Especially those green eyes that stared out from the canvas.

“I will arrange some tea for you too, my Lady.” Holmes bowed to her.

“Thank you, Holmes.” He quickly left, leaving the door open behind him.

Augusta pressed her hands to her stomach again, wishing she could stop her fears yet now realizing it was futile.

Since she had ended the betrothal to the Baron, she had never courted another man again. At the age of eight and twenty, she was quite the spinster in society. Yet, it did not matter to her. She could not bring herself to court another man. Partly from fear, fear of being hurt again. Yet the other part was knowing she did not have the capacity to love someone as she had him.

Loftus…

She reprimanded herself for thinking of his Christian name. It was not permitted.

After all, following the end of their betrothal he had quickly married and moved to the countryside with his new wife. Augusta heard of the woman’s death a year ago. She never welcomed news of the Baron, but she had been of course unable to escape such news as that.

A sound at the doorway of the drawing room had her turning around slowly, fearful of being faced with Baron Bardolf’s countenance, but when she turned, her face cracked into a smile at the surprise that greeted her.

It was not the Baron after all, but a boy, no older than seven years of age at most. He had come running into the room, dressed in his waistcoat, jacket and breeches so smartly, though his cheeks were flushed as though he had been running for a good while. As he spotted her, his small body froze and the smile he had been wearing vanished.

Augusta struggled for a minute, wondering who the boy could be before she found her voice.

“Good afternoon,” she bobbed a little curtsy to the lad. “I am Miss Augusta Creassey, what is your name?”

The boy turned to run away.

 

Chapter 2

Augusta struggled for words as the boy leapt around and tried to sprint from the room, but as he jumped forward, his foot got caught under the rug in front of the fire and he tripped. He fell forward with a clatter and landed at an awkward angle across the nearest armchair.

“Goodness!” Augusta cried, hurrying towards him through the room.

The boy was grappling to stand, his arm trapped against the chair. As he reared upwards, he clutched to the arm with his free hand, his face contorted in clear pain.

“Oh dear, let me see what happened,” Augusta dropped to her knees by his side, noting the astonishment in the boy’s face. She had always been good with children. Amongst her married friends, she was frequently asked to accompany their children and she loved the time spent with them. At Christmas and at birthdays she was the one put in charge of organizing celebrations and games for the children to enjoy. “Would you let me see?” She offered to the boy, holding out her hands.

The boy merely lowered his gaze to the floor, shaking his head and leaning away from her.

“Ah I see, I think I have a brave boy in my midst,” she smiled, eager to be kind to the lad. “You are already growing up to be quite the man. You will not let a little injury harm you, will you?”

He raised his head slightly, his eyes looking at her with surprise.

“Quite the brave man,” she offered her hand to the boy. “I am Miss Creassey, what is your name?” She tried to find out the boy’s name again, yet he still said nothing. This time, at least, he offered the hand attached to his uninjured arm, and she shook it playfully. The smallest of smiles tweaked his lips, but it vanished as soon it appeared, as though he did not want to give way to it.

Augusta saw it all, realizing quickly enough that she was with a boy who would not speak, at least not very easily.

Perhaps the child is a mute.

She considered this idea as she released the boy’s hand.

“You were running at quite a pace,” she decided the best thing to do was put the boy at ease. If she kept talking and never questioned why he would not speak, it would be best. Tackling the issue may only cause the boy to run away again. “Is it a game?”

The boy lowered his gaze to the floor again, still rubbing his injured arm, yet he nodded.

“How wonderful! I love games. Have you ever played the game snapdragon?” To her words the boy looked up again, not smiling, but there was a gleam in his eyes. “It is the one where you douse raisins in brandy and set fire to them at Christmas?” The boy nodded. “It is rather a funny game, is it not? The children I play with often throw the raisins at each other instead of trying to eat them, can you imagine that?”

The boy relaxed slightly, as though fighting a laugh. He rubbed his injured arm again.

“Oh dear, it does look a little sore,” she pointed to his arm. “Would you permit me to have a closer look?”

He hesitated, but put forward his arm, nevertheless. She took hold of his sleeve and rolled it up a little.

“Now then, does this bit hurt?” She placed a finger to his forearm, but he shook his head. “Well that is good news. How about here?” She tapped his wrist and the boy nodded, biting his lip. “Let’s have a closer look then.” She turned the boy’s wrist over, noting the smallest of bruises developing, yet the wrist moved as normal and nothing was swollen. “Ah, well it looks as though you may have a bruise for a time, but the good news is that there are no broken bones. Nothing to worry a brave man like yourself.”

The boy smiled at this idea. She rolled down his sleeve again.

“There we are, as good as new! With the bruise hidden, no one will know. And it will be our little secret.”

The boy laughed; it was the first sound from him. It tinkled lightly in the air, warm and inviting. Augusta smiled, somewhat distracted from her purpose in coming to the house, now that she had a new friend.

***

 

“You are certain it is her?” Loftus asked again as he hurried down the stairs with Holmes following on behind him.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“It cannot be,” he said more to himself than to the butler. He had not seen her for eight years. Not since she had unceremoniously broken off their engagement. The audacity to suddenly turn up at his house was astonishing. It must have something to do with the money her brother had lost to him the night before. “It cannot be her,” he said again.

“It is, my Lord. I have asked the housekeeper to bring up some tea for the two of you.”

“Tea?” Loftus paused on the stairs. He did not like the idea of the woman staying for any length of time. It would be too much to endure.

“Yes, my Lord. I was thinking the housekeeper could stay in the room as a chaperone.” The butler nodded out of respect.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Loftus carried on hurrying down the stairs. It was true he could not entertain the company of the woman in private, especially as they had once been betrothed. “She will not be staying for very long though.”

“As you wish. She is in the drawing room.”

Loftus nodded and waved Holmes away with a thanks as they reached the bottom of the stairs. His feet drew him towards the drawing room, tension rising in his body with every step. Yet as he neared the room, a surprising sound greeted him through the air.

It was Markus. He was laughing.

It had been so long since he had heard the boy’s laughter, it startled him enough to fall still for a moment. He could hear the murmur of a woman’s voice.

It is Augusta.

His feet moved forward again, urging him towards the doorway of the drawing room. He froze in the entrance as his eyes fell on the scene before him.

Markus was standing with a smile on his face. A smile rarely seen these days, that was astounding in itself, but the sight of Augusta was the real thing that rendered Loftus speechless for a moment. In the years that had passed, he had persuaded himself that Augusta was not as beautiful as he remembered her to be, but he was wrong. She was more captivating than he had wanted to recall.

He felt his anger spike – anger at her for what she had done all those years ago.

She was on her knees in front of Markus, her red hair fashioned at the back of her head and tumbling down in loose curls, there were a few loose wisps around her face too. Her expression bore the striking features he had first been struck by eight years ago. She had bold eyes, hazel in color, with full lips and a long neckline. Her figure was emphasized by the green empire gown.

She was laughing with Markus as she spoke to him, the smile lighting up her features in a way he had once thought he would never see again.

He clutched at the doorframe beside him, nervous of stepping into the room and disturbing that smile. He was thunder struck by her.

He marveled at Markus’ response to her, but then his mind was drawn elsewhere. To memories of her. So often had they walked together though the gardens in their courtship. He had purposely evaded their chaperone on multiple occasions in order to steal kisses from her, much to the chaperone’s disapproval, but he had never cared. He thought of one evening where the two of them had stood in the garden of the very house they were in now, hidden from the chaperone behind the topiary. They had kissed so passionately, his desire for her encapsulating. When they had pulled apart from their kiss, she had been flushed, with her hands buried in his waistcoat. At the time he had wished that moment would never end. They had talked of plans for the future, of living together in that house, of the family they would begin.

He shook his head, trying to free himself of the memory, how naïve he had been.

Yet seeing her laugh again as she spoke to Markus, it was as though he was reliving the moment when they had first met. It had been at an assembly. Having already been introduced to her father, he had walked over to converse with the gentleman when from behind him stepped Augusta. He had been just as thunderstruck that moment as he was now.

The sound of Markus’ laughter drew him back to the room.

Markus is laughing. How did she do that?

“Here we are, my Lord,” Miss Butterworth appeared behind him, carrying a tray and walking past him into the room. “Tea for you.”

He looked between the housekeeper and Augusta, seeing her staring at him. Any sign of laughter had dropped from her face. She stood to her feet, her eyes fixed to him, her countenance stiff and unyielding.

He had never known why she broke off the engagement. Looking at that unbreakable stare, he was filled with the same anger again for when she broke it off. Distraught, he had married the first woman his parents had thrown in his path. What a terrible mistake it had been. Maria was hysterical, even mad. The one good thing from their marriage was Markus, but even after his birth, Maria’s sickness had grown worse. She was insanely jealous. She had grown madder each day before she ended up in an early grave.

He turned his eyes from Augusta down to Markus as Miss Butterworth prepared the tea.

“Markus?” He called to his son, seeing the boy look at him with wide eyes. He attempted to keep his voice level, try to hide the anger that had grown within him at the sight of Augusta. “Perhaps you could leave me for a few minutes with our guest.” He finally felt confident enough to walk into the room, now he had looked away from Augusta.

He had thought so often over the years that she was like a siren from Greek myth. Impossibly beautiful, she had drawn him into loving her, then destroyed his life, as the sirens did the heroes of the Greeks, urging them to crash their ships upon the rocks. After Augusta had left him, his life had fallen apart.

“Markus?” He repeated, seeing his son had not moved. The boy reached out and held onto Augusta’s skirt.

***

Augusta looked between the boy and the Baron in surprise as he clutched her skirt. Markus seemed very reluctant to leave.

“Come on, son,” he beckoned him forward with an outstretched hand. Augusta felt her stare settle on the Baron in realization.

His son…

Of course, he was his son. They bore the same green eyes; how could she not have seen it? Looking at the Baron before her, she felt as though the years that had passed all happened in one day. Yesterday they could have been kissing in his garden, hiding from the chaperone. Even looking at him as he stood in his navy high-waisted tailcoat, she felt the same desire stir within her.

Seeing Markus was making no move from her side, she knew she had to do something. She reached down and whispered in his ear so neither the Baron nor the housekeeper could hear her.

“Remember our secret, Markus. I’ll see you soon.” As she pulled back, the boy nodded with a smile. He released her dress and ran forward to his father.

The Baron took the boy’s hand and bent down to talk to his son. He spoke so quietly that she could not hear what was said, but in response the boy flung his arms around his father in an embrace. Bardon Bardolf embraced him back.

The sight tugged at a new pain in Augusta’s chest. Seeing the father Loftus had become was incredibly heartwarming.

As they parted from their embrace, the Baron encouraged his son out of the room, once he had gone, he stood straight again, his green eyes burrowing into her just as they had always done, only this time they were laced with suspicion.

“Good day, Miss Creassey.”

He offered her a bow; the movement deep as it had been before. She curtsied in reply, feeling how harsh and unnatural the formality was. There had been a time when they hurried to be in each other’s arms despite society convention. Now, she felt a lingering burning resentment. It was the same fury she had felt when she had broken off the engagement. She tamped down on it, trying to ignore it and be civil.

“And to you.”

“I see you have charmed my son,” he did not say it with a smile. His words caused that resentment to bubble slightly. He walked past her towards the table where the housekeeper had laid out the tea. She moved to a chair in the corner of the room afterwards, keeping her head bowed as she read a book.

Augusta realized she had forgotten how tall the Baron was, the breadth of his steps moved easily past her. Her gaze moved to his hair where the soft brown locks curled around his ears. His features were almost regal, he had always been classically handsome, it made her long to be in his arms again. She shook off this thought, focusing instead on what he had just said.

“He is a very sweet boy,” she murmured as she lowered her gaze to her feet. She suddenly wished she were still talking to Markus, then she would be free of the nerves dancing in her stomach, and her anger.

There was a part of her that wanted to ask the Baron how he was. The temptation was great, to talk to him as she used to, but there was business to attend to and she could not allow herself to give way to him again. Her last experiment with love had scarred her beyond repair.

“Forgive me, Baron Bardolf, but I think you know why I have come.”

“I presume to talk of your brother’s losses last night. I can think of no other reason after eight years.” His voice was filled with his own resentment. He sat in a chair beside the table of tea. “Well, if we are to talk of business, please, take a seat and help yourself to tea.”

She moved forward as he offered and took the chair opposite him, carefully sitting on the very edge as she prepared the tea and poured the milk. She used it as a distraction as she considered how to prepare her words. She had rehearsed it so many times on her journey to the house, but in his presence, all her plans had vanished.

She looked up briefly, to see what he was doing. He was merely sipping his tea, his gaze on the cup and not on her.

“I wish you to return the money you won from my brother.” Her words forced him to return his jade eyes to her.

“That, Miss Creassey, I cannot do.”

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