Prologue

Melissa jumped, suddenly terrified at the sharp noise, and then stilled herself, listening carefully.

It’s nothing, you fool.

She laughed at nervously and willed herself to relax. She’d been on edge ever since her guardian, Darwin, had left for his card game several hours earlier. Whenever he went out drinking, she knew there would be trouble—and he went out drinking often. There was no one there, though, no other sounds but the heavy beating of her heart. She slid her hand beneath her pillow and felt cool metal beneath her fingertips. She needed to reassure herself that it was still there.

Feeling better, she sat back and gazed out of the window of her bedchamber. The night was deathly still, but the moon was full and bright in the clear sky. There was a glowing halo around it, and it was surrounded by a smattering of stars. Melissa thought it incredibly beautiful, but it was a bittersweet sight. There was so much to the world she hadn’t seen, couldn’t see, especially not since her dear old father, the late Viscount Fairham died. Upon his death two years ago, Darwin Bassford, her father’s distant cousin, inherited the title. Darwin would not allow her out in society until she agreed to marry him. The thought caused an unpleasant shiver to move through her body. Darwin was a brute, plain and simple.

Being only twenty years old, Melissa Atherton was now Darwin’s ward, and she hated that fact almost as much as she hated him. She had no other family. She’d never met her poor mother, who died during childbirth. Her father often told her how difficult that decision had been—save his daughter or save his wife—but that he also knew he’d made the right choice. Even though Melissa was now out of mourning for him, the thought of moving on with her life stabbed her with pain.

She’d recently found the courage to sort through her father’s belongings, and that’s when she had found the pistol that was now hidden beneath her pillow. She hadn’t wanted to touch it at first. It brought back too many memories of going hunting with her father as a young girl. But then she’d remembered what Darwin threatened, and she’d slipped the pistol into her pocket.

And God forbid I ever have to use it.

She would use it if she had to, however. She knew that with unwavering certainty. If she had to, she would shoot the Viscount. She was strong in both body and spirit, though she was of average height and had a willowy figure that gave others the mistaken impression of weakness. Her hair hung down her back in gentle waves, the color of rich chocolate. It was complemented by her pale olive skin and soft ocean-colored eyes. She had a delicate figure that reminded others of a forest sprite. She was lean but possessed physical strength from years of running wild in the country.

Melissa had always been an independent sort, strong-willed and feisty, which made her guardianship even more difficult to bear. Her father had encouraged her independence and intelligence, but Darwin did his best to suppress those traits. She knew why he wanted to marry her, of course. He didn’t love her or even like her, but he wanted the trust fund her father had set up, the one that Melissa would have access to when she turned one-and-twenty. If she married, the money would automatically become the property of her husband.

But that will never happen.

Her head turned sharply to the door when she heard a creaking, and she held her breath to better hear. It was real this time; she knew that with certainty. The floorboards in the hall had always been loose, and now they served as a warning whenever someone approached. No one had any business in that part of the house, not unless they were coming to Melissa’s bedchamber.

She listened carefully. There it was again. Was it Darwin? It had to be; there was no one else. The servants were all instructed to leave her well alone unless serving her meals, and even then, they were not permitted to speak. She missed long conversations with the maids, almost as much as she missed talking to her neighbors.

Melissa swallowed back her fear, trying to slow her breathing. She sat on the bed with her legs curled under her lazily, but her body was taut, tense, as she listened to the creaking. Her fingers caressed the butt of the pistol once more. Its presence easing her a bit. She had protection, a weapon. She did not need to be frightened.

She heard a clink as a key slid into the lock, and she wrapped her fingers around the metal, clutching it tightly. The key turned. She held her breath, waiting. Praying that it wasn’t Darwin outside the door, ready to enter. He would be drunk, of that she was sure, and that was bad.

When the door finally swung open, it slammed against the wall, and Darwin staggered in, holding a candle aloft. Melissa’s hand tightened further around the pistol, but she trained her expression to one of calm innocence as he leered at her. She would only use the gun in an emergency; she promised herself that.

“You’re still awake,” he slurred, the stench of stale whisky coming off him in waves and hitting her even from across the room. “Good. We need to talk.”

“We do?” she asked in a soft voice intended to placate him.

Darwin sucked on his teeth and looked her up and down as if she were a prized broodmare. Melissa suppressed a shudder. He was an ugly man, both inside and out. At nine-and-thirty years old, Darwin looked more like fifty. His skin was sallow, prematurely wrinkled, and always stank of sweat and cigar smoke, and whenever he spoke, the air was filled with a fetid odor.

He was a short man with graying hair and a chin that was forever covered in unattractive stubble. His waistcoats were always stretched too tightly over his protruding belly. And although he feigned the air of a proper gentleman, he never achieved it in dress, word, or deed. He’d been a poor dissolute wastrel before inheriting the title, and he couldn’t believe his luck when the Viscount died, leaving him the estate.

But most of the unentailed money had been left to Melissa, leaving Darwin with less ready cash than he anticipated. She knew that he needed her trust fund, and he would do whatever it took to get it.

“You’re wasting my time, girl,” he sneered. “I gave you more than enough time to mourn; now, you must repay me for looking after you.”

“I never asked for your help. I’m quite capable of looking after myself, thank you very much,” she replied, the sound of her heart thumping in her ears. “And while I appreciate all you have done for me, you have been handsomely rewarded by my father’s wealth.”

“Always so haughty,” he said, laughing cruelly.

He stumbled in his mirth and knocked her silver-backed hairbrush and mirror off the dressing table, upsetting a lamp in the process. Melissa watched wide-eyed. It wasn’t just the disrespect for those treasured things that had once belonged to her mother, but fear for the oil lamp too. He flailed it around as if it was nothing, but it teetered unsteadily and threatened to topple. She jumped from her seat and set it straight. A fire would rip through Fairham Manor in a moment, endangering all within. Darwin laughed at her panic, exposing his crooked teeth. She avoided his gaze, suddenly remembering she had let go of the gun. As calmly as she could, she walked back to the bed.

“Is that all you wanted to say?” she asked. She kept her voice sweet, not wanting to incite him, but she would not bow to his will, ever.

Darwin brayed again, throwing his head back as if she’d said the funniest thing. It was the distraction she needed to slide her hand back beneath her pillow and clutch onto the only thing left in the world that offered her comfort and reassurance. She prayed she would not have to reveal it, but at least she had hold of it now.

“I lost my card game,” he said with a shrug. “I need some cheering up.”

“And there were no light skirts in the club to do that for you?”

Darwin sneered again. “None who would serve me for free. You really do think me disgusting, don’t you?”

Melissa remained silent. She wanted to scream yes, to tell him what a pig he was, but she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t lie either, so she said nothing and simply stared at him. He let out a humorless laugh and sat on the stool opposite her bed.

“On my way home, I got to thinking,” he said almost wistfully. “You and I are not so different.”

“Really?” she asked. It felt as if her skin was crawling with distaste at his proximity.

“I think we’d make a good match, you and me.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“And yet you refuse to listen. So, I’ve come up with a plan.”

Melissa froze. Plan? What sort of plan? She’d so far managed to repel his advances, avoiding his attempts at forcing her into marriage. But Darwin was not a stupid man, and he seemed to come up with more and more ingenious ways of getting her to succumb.

Be strong, Melissa. You do not have to marry him.

“Just imagine,” he said. “What would happen if you disgraced yourself and ended up with child?”

Melissa scoffed at the very idea. “I would never do anything to—”

“What if you ended up with my child in your belly?”

Melissa gasped and shifted further back on the bed, creating distance between them.

“Oh?” He feigned surprise. “You don’t seem as though you like that idea.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I do not.”

He shrugged and got off the stool, turning as if to go. But then he raised a finger in the air and turned back, looking at her questioningly. “There is just one thing, though,” he said as he loomed over her.

“What?” She asked, her breath hitching with trepidation.

Please go away. Please go away.

“You do not have a choice. When I get you with child, you will have no choice but to marry me.”

He took a step forward, his hands raised, ready to grasp hold of her. Melissa scrambled backward, gasping in fear, and then she remembered the pistol already in her hand. With a renewed confidence, she pulled it out and held it steady, her gaze unwavering and her breath even. Darwin was clearly shocked by the turn of events. He threw his hands up in submission and stumbled back a bit, but his surprise only lasted a matter of seconds. He laughed sardonically, shaking his head at the very notion of the little mouse pulling the trigger, though he still didn’t lower his arms.

“My, my, little Melissa, where did you get that? You’re a big bad girl now, eh? Trying to frighten me away.”

“Stay away from me,” she said.

“Or what?” he asked, mocking her with his tone. “Is little Melissa going to shoot me? Her loving and protective guardian? The only family she has left?”

“You’re no family of mine,” she snarled. “And you never will be. Don’t come any closer.”

He chuckled again, and the sound of it grated on Melissa. How she detested his laugh. “It was a nice try,” he said. “But we both know you wouldn’t dare shoot me. I’d wager you’ve never fired a gun in your life.”

Melissa closed her eyes and allowed herself to go back to the times she went hunting with her father, his words ringing in her ears.

Stay calm. Don’t think about it. Let your intuition guide you.

When Darwin moved to her again, she locked her arms into place, blocking out the sound of his laughter and aimed.

“That is where you are wrong,” she said before she pulled the trigger.

Darwin let out an agonizing yelp. Melissa studied him, a little shocked that she had actually done it. She pursed her lips; her aim had been a little off. Darwin fell to the floor desperately clutching the leg she’d shot, a pool of rich scarlet blood spreading around him.

Chapter One

James Langley, the Duke of Lornadale, stood in the entrance hall of his London residence and watched helplessly as yet another lady’s companion stormed out of the door, suitcase in hand and a look of fury across her face. That was the third one this year to charge out in indignation. He had to do something, make some sort of definitive decision. He glanced over at his sister, who shrugged at him innocently as if she hadn’t been the cause of this mess.

“What did you do to frighten this one away?” he asked his lips in a tight, disapproving frown.

“I did absolutely nothing,” Rebecca replied imperiously, the picture of blamelessness. “It’s not my fault you keep hiring incompetent woman who are incapable of keeping up with me.”

James was nine-and-twenty years of age, but the last six years of being a Duke and his sister’s guardian made him feel a good deal older. Weariness made his bones heavy, and Rebecca did not help with her frivolity and mischief. He just didn’t know what to do with her anymore. Still, it was not all bad. He had a lofty title and accompanying wealth. He was also handsome, according to the ladies who flirted with him nightly. Though of average height, he had an athletic build. His years of fencing made him lean and contoured with muscles in all the right places and handy with a sword.

His hair was a rich coffee brown and always perfectly groomed, and he wore stylish sideburns. Like his father before him, he had green eyes often remarked upon for their unusual hue. He thought they made him stand out, just the beginning of his uniqueness. He had a good head for numbers and he adored reading scholarly works, though fanciful literature had never really attracted him.

However, he found himself occasionally lonely and sometimes pondered taking a wife. But he consistently and quickly put that thought out of his mind. After witnessing the terrible lack of faithfulness in his parents’ marriage, he shied away from commitment and often feared that his baser urges made him just as bad as his father. His poor mother had been destroyed by it, and though he loved his father, the late Duke had not been particularly remorseful for his many indiscretions. Besides, there was Rebecca to look after, and she was his priority. Marriage would have to wait if it came at all.

“What am I going to do with you?” He sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes as he shook his head. “As if I don’t have enough to do with running the Duchy, I now have to search for another companion for my wild sister!”

Rebecca shrugged. “Again, that’s not my problem, is it? As my guardian, these things are your responsibility, are they not? Besides, I have never asked for a companion; it was you who deemed it necessary.”

James sighed again. Sometimes it felt as though his sister enjoyed making his life as difficult as possible. She was undoubtedly unruly, and she steadfastly refused to abide by the strict rules of society as she saw fit. She even rejected the notion of marriage, claiming she had no need for a husband to take possession of her person and life.

Such a ridiculous notion!

He didn’t begrudge supporting her, but he hoped to find someone who could love and protect her in a way he couldn’t. Finding her a match would be nothing short of a miracle, though, not the least because she did not want it, but also because she invariably scared them away with her reckless nature and outlandish ideas. James really did have no idea what to do with her.

At ten-and-eight years of age, she was a beautiful young woman with a lively spirit. She was lithe and slim, and she had skin like alabaster. The green of her eyes was a shade lighter than that of her brother, and her sun-kissed brown hair fell around her face in bouncy curls. She knew she was attractive and played on her beauty, teasing the men James had picked as potential suitors until they fell for her, flirting coyly only to turn them away as soon as she knew they wanted her.

She was quick-witted and animated, and loved to laugh above all things. James adored her as his baby sister, but that adoration did not temper his exasperation at her conduct.

“These things may be my responsibility,” he replied, speaking slowly in an attempt to keep his irritation in check. “But that doesn’t mean you should deliberately frighten away every woman I hire to teach you how to go about in society. I have quite enough to do as it is.”

“Deliberately frighten?” she repeated, seemingly offended by his words. “I don’t deliberately do anything. I am just me, and I refuse to let anyone change me—especially not for the arbitrary rules of the ton. Besides, I have no need of a teacher.”

“Of course you have need,” he snapped. “Someone has to guide you.”

“I don’t need—”

“And to chaperone you at the very least! For goodness’ sake, Rebecca, you know this as well as I do. You are merely acting stubborn for the sake of it, and I cannot understand it. If Mother were here, she would sort you out in a trice.”

“But alas,” Rebecca sang, tilting her head and smiling. “Mother isn’t here, so I guess you’ll just have to find a way of dealing with me instead.”

She skipped happily away, making James want to scream in frustration. No, their mother was not there, and James knew Rebecca didn’t even remember her. If she did, she would be more considerate with her throw-away words. The late Duchess had died unexpectedly, a short time after Rebecca was born. James had always suspected it was due to a broken heart brought on by his father’s latest romantic escapade with a French opera singer being bandied about town.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he called. “I’m not finished with you.”

He marched after her through the long corridors of Lornadale Manor. The walls were intersected with thick oak doors that had been intricately carved, each leading to a different room in the house. James had recently had the whole house redecorated, and now the corridors were lined with pale yellow silk adorned with subtle gray flowers and tiny birds. It served to both modernize and brighten what were once rather dull and dark spaces, but James would never alter those beautiful doors.

“What do you want now?” Rebecca asked over her shoulder. “Don’t you have to go looking for a new companion for me?” She grinned mischievously at him, and he shook his head, somehow still incredulous even though this behavior was nothing new.

“I want you to stop walking and listen to me,” he demanded.

Rebecca stopped suddenly though she didn’t turn around, and James nearly knocked into her!

“For goodness’ sake!” he snapped yet again, barely biting back the growl of annoyance he felt. “Do you like to see me so riled? Is that it?”

“Only when I know what you are going to say,” she said, smirking at him.

“And what, pray tell, am I going to say?”

She spun around to face him, twirling her hair and looking young and sweet. “Oh, just that the season has been disastrous so far—”

“To say the least,” he interjected. She nodded her agreement though she didn’t look like she much cared.

“And that if I don’t start behaving like a proper young lady, I shall never find myself a husband.”

“That is equally true,” he said.

She shrugged, then turned and marched off. James hesitated, astonished that she walked away from him yet again.

“I still have high hopes, though,” he called. “It’s still possible to find you a suitor who can—”

“I don’t need a suitor,” she shouted for perhaps the hundredth time that season. “I am quite content as I am.”

“Well, I am not,” James said, all his frustrations and irritations coming out in a bark. She must have noticed the emotion in his response, for she stopped and turned, looking at him steadily.

“I am genuinely sorry you are not content, brother,” she said in a more demure, quieter voice. She seemed sincere in that, at least, and James felt himself soften ever-so-slightly.

“That’s something, at least,” he said with a sigh. “Listen, why don’t we visit Aunt Martha for a few weeks? I believe she would like that.”

He didn’t just believe she would like it. He knew she would love it. Aunt Martha had great affection for her niece and nephew.

He didn’t just believe she would agree. He knew she would. He’d already written to her and made the arrangements. He saw the surprise in Rebecca’s eyes. She hadn’t been expecting that.

“Aunt Martha! What on earth for?”

“I suggest a little guidance from a true lady would serve you well,” he said. “You obviously are not faring well with the companions I am selecting. I believe you would benefit from the influence of an older, refined lady.”

“But Aunt Martha, of all people!” Rebecca shook her head in disbelief. “She’s an eccentric old bat.”

James could barely stop himself from guffawing at that. His little sister certainly didn’t mince words, but she wasn’t entirely off the mark regarding their aunt. “I thought you liked Aunt Martha,” he said.

“I do like her,” Rebecca replied.

“But I wouldn’t have thought you’d deem her a suitable influence, seeing as she has never married. Are you certain you want a spinster to teach me etiquette?”

“She’s certainly eccentric,” James admitted. “And indeed, she never married, but she does understand what is required of a young lady, and she knows how society works. She will help you learn how to behave properly. How to navigate the ton. And perhaps, by the next season, you will be civilized enough to attract and keep the attention of a worthy suitor.”

Rebecca pushed her bottom lip out in a pout, making her look ten years old again. “But I don’t want to learn how to behave like a brainless debutante. I like who I am.”

“Regardless, we’re going,” he said firmly. “Whether you like it or not. We’ll spend the summer at Chidswell Manor. At the very least, you can enjoy the country air, ride your horse or… take up painting outdoors, or some such ladylike pursuits.”

And, with a bit of luck, Aunt Martha’s decorum will rub off on you.

“But—”

“You’d best begin packing. I will send an express to Aunt Martha to alert her of our plans. We will leave at first light tomorrow,” he informed her, raising his eyebrows to warn her not to protest further.

Chapter Two

Melissa froze for a long moment, staring down in horror as Darwin writhed on the floor, screaming and begging for help. Her aim had definitely been off; if she had shot true, Darwin would not be bleeding so badly. She still held the pistol, but her hand shook now, and her breathing was shallow. She made no move to help him, though, not after all he had done to her. Only seconds passed before the housekeeper, Mrs. Dalton, burst into the room to investigate the noise.

“Oh, my lady, are you all right?”

She looked down at the injured Darwin and gasped, a hand flying up to her mouth and her eyes open as wide as they would go.

“What’s happened? What…”

When she looked back up, she noticed the pistol in Melissa’s hand, and stopped short.

“He was… I… He…” Melissa began, unable to form a complete sentence in her shock.

“It will be all right, my lady,” Mrs. Dalton said soothingly, gathering herself and beckoning Melissa to her. “Come now.”

Melissa focused on the housekeeper’s kind face and shook herself. She nodded, and, grasping the older woman’s hand, they ran from the room. Melissa didn’t even look at Darwin’s writhing body as she left. His screams were quietening as if the very life was draining out of him, as if he could no longer expend the energy. Melissa hadn’t—couldn’t—let go of the pistol. Once in the hallway, Mrs. Dalton turned and pulled the door shut, holding a finger to her lips to warn Melissa to be quiet. Melissa nodded, mute and grateful for the housekeeper’s unexpected help. She took hold of Melissa’s wrist and pulled her into the room opposite, closing the door behind them. Melissa started talking immediately.

“I didn’t mean to injure him so badly; I just wanted to stop him before he could—”

“Shush now, my lady. It’s going to be all right,” Mrs. Dalton repeated.

She was a kindly, matronly woman of five-and-forty, and she’d been there for Melissa ever since she was a motherless babe held in her arms. She’d helped nurse her, then tutor her, then care for her, and Melissa felt incredibly close to the woman, feeling like she was more family than servant. Now, she spoke in those soft, dulcet tones that she always used when Melissa was upset, and it was almost too much.

“What am I going to do?” Melissa whispered urgently, blinking in her fight against the tears that threatened to come.

“You’re going to stay in this room and wait. I’ll pack you a bag with some of my frocks, then we’ll smuggle you out of this house. Once I know you’re safely on your way, I’ll send for help for the master. He’ll never know it was me who helped you escape.”

“But he had to have seen you in the room,” Melissa said, her eyes darting in near panic.

“No, my lady.” Mrs. Dalton shook her head firmly. “He was far too focused on his pain to notice his surroundings. I’m certain he did not see me there.”

“And if he did see you?”

“I’ll say he was delirious, confused, out of his mind.”

Melissa wasn’t convinced that would work, but it was all she had right now, and if anyone could do it, Mrs. Dalton could.

“But where will I go?” she asked, her voice barely a squeak.

Bile rose at the back of her throat. She was finally getting her freedom, but at what cost? Darwin would never allow this to go unpunished—if he survived at all. That thought sent another shiver through her.

Have I just killed a man?

“I have a cousin,” Mrs. Dalton said quickly. “Lives about twenty miles from here. She’ll take you in until everything dies down. She’s a good woman; she’ll look after you and help you decide where to go from there. It’s only three weeks until you turn one-and-twenty, don’t forget. Now, you stay here and—”

“Mrs. Dalton, wait,” Melissa said, tugging on the housekeeper’s arms to stop her from going out. “You do know that I didn’t… it wasn’t….” She needed her old retainer to know that she hadn’t intended to kill Darwin.

Mrs. Dalton nodded her understanding. “Yes, my lady, I know. The whole staff have seen the way Lord Fairham has treated you since the death of your father, my dear, and we have all been on the receiving end of his drunken anger. Please, worry not, but we really must hurry now if we’re to get the master to a physician.”

“Thank you,” Melissa said, taking Rose’s hand and squeezing it.

Mrs. Dalton bowed her head and then fled from the room, her black skirts billowing behind her. Melissa watched her go, then turned and looked around the room. It was a spare bedchamber, set up ready for visitors though none had come since Darwin had inherited the title and estate. Now, it simply looked sad and empty, a ghost of what it had once been and of what Melissa’s life was—one full of happiness and friendship, a long-ago past when she hadn’t been quite so alone.

She looked down at her gown and gasped. The hem was splattered with blood and worse—the pistol still hung heavily from her hand. With a squeal, she threw the thing onto the bed and turned away from it. Shooting a man, it turned out, was very different from shooting deer, but she didn’t regret her actions, not for a single second. Darwin deserved everything he had coming to him, and this was the catalyst that would see Melissa away from him for good.

She reminded herself of Mrs. Dalton’s words. It’s only three weeks until you’re one-and-twenty. Then, she would be able to access her trust fund, and Darwin’s guardianship of her would be at an end. He would no longer have any power over her. All she had to do was survive those three weeks. With that thought in her head, Melissa sat in an armchair and awaited Mrs. Dalton’s return.

“My lady, my lady,” the housekeeper said as she bustled into the room some time later.

“Is everything ready? Is Darwin… still alive?”

“Yes, my lady, to both questions,” Mrs. Dalton said. “I peeked in on him a moment ago; he is unconscious but breathing. Now we need to get you changed and gone. I have a small bag packed, and Jack is sorting you a horse. You need to get out of that soiled dress now.”

“Jack! You told the stable boy?” Melissa could hear the panic in her own voice, but she couldn’t stop it.

“I had to, my lady, if I was to see you away from here safely. We can trust Jack; he’s a good lad. I’ll see to it he has extra bread and dripping with his dinner tonight. Come now, let’s get you dressed.”

Mrs. Dalton worked quickly, pulling off Melissa’s soiled clothes and replacing them with a navy-blue colored frock of her own. The dress was a tad big on Melissa, but not enough to make it unwearable. Melissa pulled her hair into a tight bun, and Mrs. Dalton secured it with a ribbon, then pushed the small bag into her mistress’s hands. Melissa looked at it sadly and knew she’d have to repay her housekeeper once she reached her majority.

“I know,” Mrs. Dalton said as she balled up the dirty gown. “It’s not a lot, but it’s the best I could do in the time. I’ll do my best to protect the rest of your belongings until such time you’re able to come back and claim them.”

Melissa’s eyes swam with tears, though they did not spill over onto her cheeks. She’d wanted her freedom for so long, but not like this. Not with all this heartache and turmoil.

“Don’t you be crying now, my girl,” Mrs. Dalton said affectionately. “All will be well; you just wait and see. Now hurry, I told Jack to call for the physician as soon as he was finished with the horse.”

“What about that?” Melissa asked, pointing at the gown in Mrs. Dalton’s hands. “Won’t that give me away?”

“It’ll be on the fire before anyone has a chance to see it. But, my lady, we must go right away if we’re not to be discovered by the master’s man.”

Melissa understood. Darwin’s manservant was a nasty piece of work. She didn’t want to be discovered by him. The pair crept down the servant’s staircase and out the back of the house, where Jack waited with a horse.

“M’lady,” Jack said, bowing awkwardly.

“Jack,” she said in a hushed voice. “Thank you so much for doing this.”

“Anything for you, m’lady,” he said, taking the bag from her. He strapped it to the dappled gray mare. “You’ve been good to us, you ‘ave, m’lady, and we’ll be sad to see you gone.”

With a grunt of effort and a good deal of help from Jack, Melissa lifted herself onto the horse and settled into the saddle. She pulled the hood of her cloak up. She didn’t want any of her neighbors seeing her escape.

“She won’t be gone forever with any luck,” Mrs. Dalton said, wringing her wrinkly hands together as she watched. “Three weeks, remember, my lady.”

“Three weeks,” Melissa nodded.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Mrs. Dalton pulled a scrap of folded parchment from her pocket. “For my cousin,” she said. “I thought it would smooth your way to have a letter from me. I don’t give any details; I just introduce you and beg her for her help. I’ll write her a proper letter as soon as I can, but this should be enough for now.”

“Thank you both,” Melissa said with genuine sincerity. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“God speed, m’lady.”

“Stay safe, my lady, and don’t ever forget there are people who love you dearly.”

Melissa couldn’t say another word, not without risking tears or leaping from the horse to embrace these two selfless people. Instead, she turned the horse and rode away as fast as she could go.

The air was cool, and though she was covered in a light sheen of perspiration, she was soon shivering in Mrs. Dalton’s thin gown. Melissa and her gray pounded through the cobbled streets until the lanes turned to mud tracks, then past the last of the houses and farms on the outskirts of town. She rode across the empty fields, not another person in sight. She could feel her cloak billowing around her, the wind pushing her hood back and sending tendrils of cold down the back of her neck as her curls tickled her cheeks.

“That’s it,” she said in a soothing voice. “We can do it, just keep going.”

Ostensibly, she spoke to the mare, encouraging the horse on despite the cold and the darkness, but deep down, she said it to herself, to keep herself going. She was used to horses. It was something she had enjoyed doing with her father, though it felt like a lifetime ago now. Darwin never allowed her to use any of his horses. But riding through the night with only a vague sense of where she was going, running away—that was different.

Melissa Atherton had confidence that she outshone many of the town gentlemen, let alone fine ladies. She was a force to be reckoned with, and she would stand up for what she believed in without showing even a drop of fear. She could face anything, anyone, and she would meet her current situation with courage too. That didn’t mean, however, that she wasn’t terrified both for her safety and for whatever came after this.

“Come on, girl,” she said, driving the mare faster. “Come on, the sooner we get there, the sooner we can rest.”

Eventually, they left the fields and met the road again. A small village taking shape. They rose past small homes, a quaint tavern, a farmhouse with a candle flickering in an upstairs window. The town was slumbering, and Melissa wished she could sleep herself, but she needed to put as much distance between herself and Darwin as possible. She thought she could hear a rhythmic sound, so she tilted her head curiously, slowing the horse, wondering what it could be. When the sound continued, she quickened their pace, fearful of what was coming. Suddenly there was a loud retort.

The mare whinnied loudly and rose up onto her hind legs. Melissa clutched desperately to the reins, pushing her body closer to the horse in a frantic attempt to stay on.

“Easy there, girl,” she cried. “Calm down.”

But it was no good. The horse was spooked, terrified by the noise and whatever it denoted. She landed back on her front hooves with a thud and just as quickly reared up again, her cry ringing out into the quiet night.

Melissa lost hold of the reins and was tossed out of the saddle, landing hard on the ground. Her head connected with a large rock, and her body went limp as she fought to draw air into her lungs. Darkness clouding her vision, she watched helplessly as the mare disappeared in the trees.

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter One

The London streets were dodgy, wet, and smelled of urine–just as he remembered. Martin Barnwall was back in England.

Lawks, he never thought he would be here again. When he’d left for the Continent at eighteen, he did so without looking back once. He may be the son of a duke, but that did little for him when he was a bastard, as well. According to the ton, any money or good looks he inherited from his father meant nothing when he didn’t have the title to accompany it.

High society, that is what drove him out of here in the first place. He despised it. The way they turned up their noses at him, or anyone else that didn’t fit perfectly within their rigid, outdated, and extremely British narrative. He only had to take one look at the shiny boots and frilly hair around him to know that nothing had changed in the past six years that he’d been gone.

But it would be good for business, being back in England. At least, that’s what he told himself. And—unfortunately for him—if he was going to make anything of himself, he supposed he’d have to do it here. He’d face down his demons and the ghosts of his past and he’d come out on top. That was the plan. He sighed as he felt the carriage slow, the horse hooves growing quieter and quieter until they stopped completely.

“You’re going to the Duke o’ Dudley’s house?” the coachman asked him, giving him a wary look. But Martin was used to that, as he’d been getting that look all his life. It was just what happened when your father was a duke and your mother was a housemaid.

His parentage may have been an open secret, but he still was not allowed the finer things in life. He was dressed in the clothes he had brought from France, and they were ratted ones at that—ill-fitting, uncomfortable and, he had to admit, not particularly fresh-smelling. Even for all that, however, Martin Barnwall cut a more impressive figure than the dandies mincing along the London streets in their tight trousers and styled curls. He broke his reverie to answer the coachman’s query.

“I am indeed bound for the Duke of Dudley’s,” he confirmed. But then he thought of his father—thought of being in that house again and the angry memories that awaited him there.

“Wait! No. Do not take me there. Drop me off in town, please, near an alehouse.” He’d need a good, stiff drink before he’d be able to countenance an audience with the duke. Not some fancy leggy port one might get at the bloody opera, something strong. Preferably a healthy pour of gin, unsullied.

“As you wish,” responded the coachman, a bit disappointed to lose the longer fare and the potential for a larger tip.

He pulled the coach to a stop and Martin leapt out. He let his gaze wander over the muddy streets that bustled with activity—legal and otherwise. Martin had not forgotten his way around this part of town. There was a pub just a short walk from here. The Boar’s Head. He had used to frequent it back when he still lived in his father’s servant quarters with his mother, who still to this day worked for the man, the duke, the casual seducer of housemaids, the hypocritical louse.

Ah, the memories. Martin chided himself. Back in those years, as a youth with the first hint of mustache and full of resentment of his situation, he’d sneak out and have an ale and chaser and bemoan his life with the low and the miserable, as if any of the poor men there cared about his troubles. He was perhaps somewhat disgraced when he left, a bastard leaving for France, of all places. But if they served him at thirteen, he doubted they’d have a moral complaint about serving him now. The coachman cleared his throat, recalling Martin to the obligations of the moment.

“Here you go. On your way, now.”

“And a good day to you, sir.”

Martin tipped the carriage driver and then the horses were off, leaving him alone with the London night. It was muggy and wet, a bit chilly—heavy, even. Perhaps he should’ve asked to be dropped off right at the pub. But the horses were already off, and there was no use crying over it. He had dealt with this weather for eighteen years; he couldn’t possibly have gone soft so quickly.

There were some people out and about. A couple of soused rounders on the same street that he expected they sat on every night, a giggling girl who was much too pretty to associating with the well-dressed older man she was with. An adventuress, most likely. He chuckled, thinking of the man spending all his money on this girl, feeding it into her pocket, and going back to his high society peers and acting as if nothing had happened. Hypocrites, all of them.

He took a closer look at her, just to make sure she was not in distress. She seemed quite in control of her aged companion, however, and he knew better than to get between a courtesan and her coin.

So, he kept walking, heading towards the Boar’s Head and taking in the city around him. It was better at night, he thought. More human. With real people out and about. He had almost reached the pub when he heard it.

It started with arguing. A man’s voice was most prominent, but he heard a woman, too. She sounded panicked. And he sounded angry. Then Martin heard a scream—a shrill, anguished shriek that hit his ears so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if they bled, leaving a ringing echo even after it had subsided. Instinctively, he ran towards the noise, his need for gin mostly forgotten at the thought of someone in trouble.

“Let me go!” he heard the woman say. “Leave me be!” She sounded breathless, and he thought he heard sounds of struggle, an angry oath as a well-aimed boot met a shin, perhaps. Good on her, Martin thought, quickening his pace.

“Be quiet, you bloody whore,” the man said. The voices were closer; he was almost to them now. Footsteps shuffled about on the road and the sounds of struggling and heavy breathing were louder.

“What are you going to do with me, you… you monster!” she cried. He could see her now. She was young, couldn’t be more than sixteen. Her dress was covered by a long, white apron. A maid.

“I haven’t decided yet,” the vile man told her when he finally got her into his arms. “Can’t decide if you’ll be mine, or if I’ll sell you off. Could make me a pretty penny, you. Either way, you’re comin’ with me.”

Lawks. This man was crazy. And this girl was in grave danger.

Unwilling to waste another minute while the man struggled to get the maid into his carriage, Martin yipped to get his attention and began to run towards him. The road was cobbled and uneven as he pounded his feet against it, rushing toward the man who was once again trying to get the girl into the carriage, yelling expletives and pushing her to it. But Martin was faster. His heart thumped in his chest as he got closer. He had no idea what he was going to do; he only knew that he had to protect her.

“Get off of her!” he yelled in a low, carrying voice that pounded off of the brick and stone. The man finally noticed him, a panicked look crossing his sullen features. His hands tightened and the woman let out a wail of pain.

Martin was almost at him now, only a couple more steps, when the man grunted loudly at the maid’s struggling and seemingly gave up. Throwing her down onto the ground with all his strength, the man buggered off in the other direction.

Martin looked at the girl below him. “Are you alright?” he asked, carefully offering his hand to assist her back up.

She nodded, eyes wide while she looked at him. “Yes,” she said, “I… I believe I will be fine.”

He nodded, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder and glancing behind himself to see how far the man had gotten.

“You can go after him,” she assured him, clearly reading his conflicted face. “I certainly would feel safer with that man gone, wouldn’t you?”

She gave him a smile. Though it was small and unconvincing, it was enough to get him chasing off behind him, hot on the trails of the thankfully slow man.

“Wait a moment! What’s your name?” she called after him. He paused, looking back at her while he tried to keep moving.

“Martin. Barnwall.” And then he was back off.

Perhaps the ruffian didn’t expect Martin to pursue him for the sake of a young maid—and many of the people in this town likely wouldn’t. Regardless, he seemed shocked to glance behind himself and see Martin barreling towards him. He must’ve looked a fright. Six feet and three inches of a dark-haired, long-limbed, well-muscled man, likely totally disheveled. Good, Martin thought. Let him be scared.

The man wasn’t fast, so the chase was over quick enough. An inelegant stumble of his foot on an unanticipated curb just made it easier for Martin to reach him and tackle him to the ground. The man struggled and flailed under him as Martin climbed atop him, avoiding the kicks or punches that were unsuccessfully thrown his way.

“What? Do you not like this treatment for yourself?” he asked, getting the thrashing man under his control.

“You’re wingin’ me arm,” was gritted between dirty teeth. Martin rolled his eyes, twisting the arm just a bit more for effect.

There are few things that Martin Barnwall could not tolerate. A bloody disgusting free-trader trying to steal a woman was quite easily one of them. A girl, no less. This man was going to gaol if he had to take him himself.

He scrambled to his feet, taking the bounder with him. It wasn’t a long walk to the closest gaol, and he wouldn’t be able to enjoy any gin until this scrub was shackled.

Chapter Two

Abigail could hear her father from where she sat in the library. He was moaning with distemper and coughing up something awful. She frowned, wishing she could do something, anything to help. The physician was coming in nearly every day now with different herbs and instruments to use on the earl, but nothing was working. He was failing.

She had spent a lot of time in her father’s bedchamber when he first became bedridden. Reading to him, or taking her tea at his bedside. But recently she had been avoiding the room. He was often asleep, or at best delirious, and it hurt to see him so weak. They may not have been the closest of families, but since the death of her mother he was all that she had. Her hope for his recovery was dwindling, and she feared what would come next. Fear of his death, and fear of what might become of her if he did perish.

How she wished daughters could be heirs. That she could take control of the house, get her father better care than that leech of a physician, and let the servants live about the house with her. She could read all day and assist Mrs. Allen in the kitchen or Mr. Bragg in the garden.

But that was just a dream. Fiction. The truth was that she was one-and-twenty, unmarried, and soon to be orphaned, and she had little faith in the man who would take the earl’s title. She shuddered at the mere thought.

She continued with her reading, nose buried in the novel she had bought from Hatchards that morning. Then she heard the knock at the door. Someone had come into the home. She heard the loud wooden door creak and Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, speaking to someone down the stairs. Abigail couldn’t hear the name announced, but they were not expecting anyone. The physician had already left for the day.

She stood, marked her place in the novel and placed it back on the bookshelf. Making her way out of the library, she listened for another clue as to who had come in. The voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it yet. Perhaps the physician had forgotten something.

Abigail made her way down the long, blue hallways, ignoring the portraits and paintings she’d seen a thousand times before. “Lady Abigail!” she heard Mrs. Allen call for her. She didn’t answer, just continued on her way to the drawing room. She had just reached the descending stairs when she saw him.

Robert.

Robert Dowding, her cousin. Her father’s heir. And an absolutely despicable man. The mere thought of him made her shiver with distaste. The sight of him was worse; even one glance at him, and Abigail felt physically ill. His hair and skin sat slick on him, cruelty seeped from him. This was the boy who would put on his nice riding boots and nonchalantly tread on her slippered foot as a child, the boy had who laughed aloud, jeering at her when she received word of her mother’s death. This was, now, the man who was going to step into her father’s place when he inevitably and, it would appear, imminently, joined his wife in death.

“Why are you here?” she asked,

“Why, I am here to take over my house,” he said with a large smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, though. It never did. His eyes were always blank and wicked no matter what shape his face was twisted into.

“Your house?” she repeated, not wanting to believe what she was hearing. The disrespect of this man, coming to ‘claim’ his property before her father even perished.

“Yes, my house,” he growled, lip curling into a scowl. He took a step towards her, looking down, she knew, so that he might be more intimidating. But she didn’t stand down. “I’ll be the Earl of Wolster soon, won’t I? Might I start acting like it?”

“How did you know my father was sick?” she asked. She certainly had not written him.

“He wrote me, darling,” Robert said with a smirk. “Seems someone on this side of the family has their head on right.”

“I hardly think my father would be chomping at the bit to hand the reins to you, cousin,” she gritted out. He didn’t even falter.

“Well, I suppose what you think doesn’t matter, does it?” he said smugly, a wide smile painted onto his pale face. “Since you’re not the heir, that is. Cousin.”

There was no use talking to Robert. Ever. And especially not now. Not wanting to fall into one of his traps, Abigail simply turned to leave. Ready to return to the library and, hopefully, not come out for the remainder of her cousin’s visit.

“Oh, and Abigail?” he called after her, that ever present air of distaste in his voice.

“Yes, Robert?” she responded tiredly.

“You may call me milord.”

No. She may not. She rolled her eyes of him. “What do you want, Robert?”

“You should start looking for a husband presently,” he told her flippantly, as if it was nothing. As if he wasn’t demanding something of her that would be nearly impossible. “I have no use for a ward.”

“Excuse me?” Even Robert couldn’t be so cruel as to push her out of her own home. Would he?

He would. “Find a match,” he reiterated. “Soon. If you do not, I will be forced to find one for you.”

And with that, he sauntered off to the guest wing, whistling a bit to enjoy his new estate.

Abigail had an awful taste in her mouth. Find a match? Now? So soon? Her father had never pushed her, never. She didn’t even know many eligible men, for spending so much of her time in the past year caring for her father had left little room for last season’s events. Her dowry, she guessed, might be enough for some boring society bloke out there, but that’s not what she wanted. That had never been what she wanted.

Abigail had always wanted a love match. Since she first understood what marriage was, she dreamed of the way her heart might beat when she saw her love for the first time, the way her lips might tingle after a kiss. She wanted to be hopelessly in love with her husband, to not be able to imagine life without him. How was she supposed to find that?

“Robert!” she called after him just as he was about to round the corner to the hall. He stopped, turning towards her.

He looked at her quizzically, clearly not expecting her last bit of gumption.

“You may be the future Earl of Wolster,” she said slowly, steadily. “But you are not my father. And he is still alive, even if you do not like it. You are not yet the head of this house.”

A gaping Robert glared at her, hands clenched by his sides and eye twitching. Good, Abigail thought, be angry. She was angry, too. Suddenly, he spun around, turning back to find his chambers with a loud, dramatic huff. His feet stomped against the floor; she heard them up until his door slammed on the other end of the home. It made her giggle, despite herself.

Abigail caught a glance of herself in the mirror. She stared at the girl looking back at her. She was blonde, a bit stout but slim, growing the curves she dreamed of as a child so that she might attract her one true love. How pathetic, she thought, fighting back tears as she tore her eyes away and moved to return to the library.

*****

The musty pub was the first place Martin felt at home since arriving in England. It smelled of must and sweat, which felt cool against his skin. The place was practically underground. He ordered his drink and sat in the first seat he could find, furthest from the other people sipping away at their ale and claptrapping to each other.

Tare an’ hounds, he deserved this bloody drink after his night. He took a large gulp of his gin, willing himself not to glare when another man sat in the place across from him. He was a gentleman, dressed and polished much too nicely for a place like this. He was young, looked like a blade. He immediately started talking to another man at the table, thankfully leaving Martin alone. Good, Martin thought as he finished his drink.

He became aware, vaguely, of someone beside him saying, “George, George. Aye, George.” But thought nothing of it. That is, until he felt a tug on his shoulder. He looked up, seeing an older man who recoiled as soon as he met his gaze.

“Sorry there,” he said, clearing his hoarse voice and backing away. “I thought you were my boy. You’re not George.”

Martin softened just a bit. “No, I am not,” he said. “Martin Barnwall. Pleased to meet you, though.”

“Martin Barnwall?” the gentleman across from him asked. He turned, frowning into his gin as he did so. The young man was looking at him with wide eyes, almost excitably. “You’re the man who saved Lord Hallington’s maid, aren’t you?”

He squinted his eyes at the man, unsure of how he would have heard that or why he would care enough to follow him in here. The thought didn’t escape his mind that this man could be involved, as well. Or perhaps was just a quiet bystander. More likely, he was just paranoid.

He vaguely remembered the Hallingtons. The lord was a viscount, he believed. But he had not the faintest idea if that frightened girl was their maid. And the man was looking at him like he already knew the answer.

“I suppose I am,” Martin replied carefully.

A smile broke onto his face. How strange. With great enthusiasm, a hand was stuck into his space, awaiting him to take it. “Good on you, sir. I am Vincent Earnton. My father’s property is near to Hallington’s, I know Miss Olivia quite well. She came running back to the home, told us a bloke named Martin in Parisian clothes saved her.”

“It’s true!” a high-pitched voice chimed in from the table near the back. The woman was a bit disheveled, and looked like a rough sort. Certainly not the kind of woman you’d find in the fancy balls of the ton. “I saw it all. Tackled the bastard to the bloody ground.”

A faint blush threatened to tint Martin’s cheeks, and he fought to keep it pushed down. Why such a spectacle had to be made of it, he didn’t know.

“What’d this lad do?” asked the gruff man who poured his drink.

“Saved Lord Hallington’s housemaid,” the woman shrieked back. Someone really should take that ale away from her. “From that rake Tallins—he was trying to kidnap that poor thing.”

“Aye?” said the tender. A few other patrons piped up, as well, but Martin stayed silent.

“Lord Hallington would like to have you for tea tomorrow,” Vincent said, a sincere look in his eye that Martin didn’t often see in the men of high society. “Four in the afternoon.”

Martin opened his mouth to tell him to bugger off, say no thank you. But, this was why he was here. To charm the ton, become allies with a few wealthy men and build a business. Become something. Why give up the opportunity now?

With a sly smile and a new plan, Martin shook the man’s hand. “I’d be honored.”

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Prologue

 The wind whipped into Ella Boyle’s face and the booming thunder—so far in the distance just minutes ago—was now upon her. She glanced over her shoulder as a bolt of lightning flashed and hit an almighty oak tree. Ella shook; her small hands trembled around the reins of Victory. Her beautiful black thoroughbred, Victory, was a large horse, too tall for a slip of a girl only twelve years of age and so diminutive in stature. But she loved him and refused to ride any other.

Look ahead, not back. Ahead is home and safety. Just look ahead. We will make it, I know it.

She and Victory galloped as fast as they could, but the clouds opened above, and rain poured down on them. Victory neighed but pressed on, while behind Ella, the mighty oak tree crashed to the ground with such force, the earth shook.

This was the reason why she was not allowed to ride out unchaperoned. It was a rule she found burdensome. It was also a rule she broke with frequency.

Alas, now that the storm was above her and the thunder and lightning engaged in a dangerous dance right over her head, she understood precisely why twelve-year-old girls ought to have a chaperone.

As the gates of Halcomb Manor came into view, she breathed a sigh of relief. Once she and Victory were safely home, she’d have to apologize to her parents and vow never to break the rules again. Well, at least not this rule.

Ella was hardly at the stable when the stable master, Mr. Earing, rushed her way.

“Miss Boyle, there you are! We have been looking for you.”

She swallowed as she dismounted Victory. “You have? I have not been gone very long.”

The man shook his head as he took the reins. “You know you are not supposed to ride out unaccompanied without telling your parents. They were terrified.”

Ella wondered why her parents should be terrified. They knew she was in the habit of riding out alone, even when she wasn’t supposed to. And they knew she always came back and took her punishment. The truth was they were vexed by her riding out alone but never terrified. It made no sense to her. Did something happen?

“Miss Boyle, have you not heard? There are bandits in the woods, robbing riders. Your parents do not want you riding out alone because it is not proper and there are dangers in the woods. They’ve both ridden out to look for you.”

“They have?” Her voice came out high-pitched, as she could not believe his words. Bandits. The mere thought shook her to her core. Ella bit her lip as she looked behind her at the clouds and the eerie forest. Suddenly, she did not feel brave. She felt like the child of twelve she was. And now her parents were out there, in the storm, in danger—because of her.

Ella’s parents did not return that night. As the storm passed, leaving in its wake a world drenched and muggy, Ella sat on her windowsill and looked out toward the forest. At dusk, a group of volunteers set out to search for her parents.

Her heart beat hard as she watched them leave. Ella was sure her parents had simply found shelter from the rain. Her father knew the woods so well and undoubtedly kept her mother safe. She thought of them huddled in a hunting cabin, safe from the weather and any danger. Yes, that had to be the reason they hadn’t return yet.

***

When the sun rose the following day, Ella still sat at the window. Her eyes ached from lack of sleep, and her heart pounded with the ever-growing terror at what might have befallen her parents.

Suddenly, in the distance, a cart snaked up the driveway toward the manor. Droplets ran down the glass pane from last night’s storm, obscuring her view, so Ella threw open the window. As the cart came closer, she recognized the driver.

It was Mr. Walsh, her father’s estate steward. He sat in the box seat, a grim expression on his face. Beside him was Mr. Henderson, her father’s valet. The two had left the previous evening with the other volunteers to look for her parents. Why were they back before the others—and with a cart?

Ella’s heart beat faster and faster as the worry became too much for her to contain. She jumped off the windowsill and was about to rush outside when she stopped in her tracks. There, in the distance, were the volunteers. They rode out of the forest, lacking the enthusiasm of the previous night.

Ella craned her neck to see where her parents were—she did not see them.

Again, her heartbeat accelerated as she imagined the worst. There was nothing Ella wanted more than to see her parents, so she could beg their forgiveness.

She rushed down the hall. The heavy red carpet swallowed the sound of her footsteps. At the bottom of the grand staircase, she leaped over the final steps and landed on the marble floor, stumbling on her hands and feet. She got up and dashed to the front door.

“Miss Boyle, stop!” Mrs. Farnsworth, the housekeeper, called out. She picked up the hem of her blue gown and ran her way, the keys on her chatelaine clanging together with each step.

“Mr. Walsh? Have you found them?” Ella called out. Her voice quivered as tears ran down her round cheeks.

Mr. Walsh yanked on the reins to stop the horses just as the valet called for Mrs. Farnsworth.

“Don’t let her see.”

“Don’t let me see what? Are they injured?”

Mrs. Farnsworth grasped for her, her fingertips brushing against Ella’s arm, but Ella slipped past. At the back of the cart, Ella stood and stared; her entire body shook as she took in the sight. There was a white sheet on the cart covering the whole back. Her lip quivered as she realized just what the sheet was covering.

“Miss Boyle, please don’t.” Mr. Walsh’s voice came from somewhere far away.

Visible underneath the sheet were two shapes. As Ella stepped closer, she stood on her tiptoes. She lifted the sheet a little bit when the solid and meaty arms of Mr. Walsh wrapped around her, and she found herself lifted off the ground. He spun her away so fast the sheet came out of her hand and flew backward.

There, lying on the cart on her side, facing away from Ella, was her mother. Ella would have known her anywhere. She still wore the primrose-colored gown she’d worn when Ella last saw her standing in the library the previous day. Her bright red hair cascaded down her back.

Mrs. Farnsworth led her back inside, an arm around Ella. When they reached the grand hall, Ella looked up at the woman’s kind, wrinkled face.

“They are dead. Are they not?”

The woman caressed Ella’s face as she nodded, tears in her eyes.

“They are, dear. The bandits got them.”

“The bandits,” Ella repeated as she glanced outside. If she’d know about the bandits, she would not have ridden out. Her willfulness caused this tragedy. Her recklessness had driven her parents out into the woods and into the arms of their assailants.

The bandits may have done the deed, but Ella knew the true reason for her parent’s deaths were her doing. And now, life as she knew it would never be the same again.

Chapter One

London, 1813

Eight years later….

Peter Haddington sat at the oak table in his mother’s breakfast room and slathered copious amounts of butter onto a hot roll while his mother glared at him from over the rim of her teacup. He glanced up, whipped a stray blond curl from his face, and dunked his roll into the hot chocolate. The hot liquid dripped off the roll as he bit into it. The sweetness of the hot chocolate, paired with the dough and salty butter, filled his mouth with a glorious combination of flavors.

“By Jove,” he said mid-chew, “Mable makes the best rolls in all of London. I shall have to pay her a visit in the kitchen to nab a few.” He chuckled, but his mother was not amused.

“Peter,” she placed the newspaper she’d been reading on the table. Her long, slender finger jabbed at a page in the paper. “You are mentioned again.”

“Is it the Morning Gazette? Mama, why do you waste seven pence on this scandal sheet when I can give you all that information for free?” He grinned, and a mischievous sparkle flashed in his sapphire-blue eyes. “I always know the best on dits.”

“Most of the time, they seem to be about you,” Margaret Haddington replied with a deep sigh. She picked up the paper again and cleared her throat. “Baron W— has once again reaffirmed his position as London’s Number One Rake when he was seen sneaking out of Almack’s in the company of….”

He raised a hand to stop her. “I know who I was with. Please, Mama. Put aside the paper.”

“You are a baron, Peter.”

“I am aware, Mother.”

“You must fix your life. You must marry again and have an heir. You are already nine-and-twenty years old. The way you act is swiftly going to ruin your reputation. Soon enough, no respectable lady will consider you.”

He turned away from her and matched her posture, arms crossed in front of him.

“If my reputation is so terrible, then why ought I try and change anyone’s mind? Let them think badly of me.”

“Peter.”

“Mother, marriage is not what I desire. It may be expected of me, but I have no taste for it. Nobody will ever replace Isabella, not in my heart and not at my side, so please do not continue to push the idea.”

Peter wondered why his mother couldn’t understand that he didn’t wish to marry again. He had been married once, and to a woman he loved more than he ever thought himself capable of loving anyone. Isabella had been his love, his light, his entire world. Loving her remained the best and the worst thing he’d ever done. The best because she’d shown him what it was to love and be loved in return. The worst because the sight of her and their child’s lifeless bodies was forever burned into his memory. Losing her had almost destroyed him.

Some days, he thought it still might.

His mother’s eyes softened as she placed her hand on his. “Nobody seeks to replace Bella. However, you must secure our line.”

He pulled his hand away. The pain within him was private, and he did not share it. Not even with his mother. The harsh, unfeeling exterior he presented to the world was nothing but a wall he’d built to function, and it was not something he could explain to anyone.

“I do not care about securing the line. If the estate reverts to the crown upon my death, then so be it. Why should I care?” He grabbed what remained of his roll, shoved it into his mouth, and then drank down the rest of his chocolate. He placed the cup on the table with a bang and stalked toward the door.

“Where are you going, Peter? We were to go to the royal menagerie.”

“I have changed my mind, Mama. I am not in the mood. I am rather tired. Need I remind you that you have dragged me to every social affair known to man this entire season? I am utterly exhausted.”

“Very well. You do know I only take you to these social events because you must ensure your connections to the higher-ranking lords. That is the only way for our family to advance.”

“I must go, Mama.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

“If you must. But do not forget your cousin Beatrice’s ball tomorrow. It is the first ball she is hosting since becoming the Duchess of Closter, and she needs you.”

Peter quickly nodded, not wanting to admit he had forgotten all about the ball. Yet, his mother was right. His cousin, who was also one of his dearest friends, would need his support. She was already at sixes and sevens over the idea of hosting a ball.

As he stepped outside, he rolled his shoulders to release the tension before he climbed into his curricle. He meant to return to his townhome in Mayfair but suddenly had a change of heart.

The kind of tension he felt after the ever-repetitive conversation with his mother needed to be released—and he knew exactly where to do so.

***

“Come on, Walpole. Drink! Drink! Drink!” The shouts of the men surrounding him came from far away—at least Peter thought so. He lifted the jug of ale once more and chugged it down. As he placed it down on the table before him, he did so with such vigor the coins in the middle of the table bounced up while his brethren whooped and hollered.

“Told you, gentleman, contrary to what you might have heard, I am a man of my word. Now, another game?”

He raised and rapidly lowered his eyebrows. Alas, none of his fellow card players were interested in losing at another round of whist. He didn’t blame them; even after several glasses of port and two jugs of ale, he was a formidable card player and nearly impossible to beat.

Those were the few moments Peter was free of the grief that had a hold of him every other moment of his day. Only when racing, drinking, or visiting a courtesan was he able to escape the sorrow and the darkness. They had been his companions since Isabella’s death.

“Very well, I will take my winnings and see if anyone is willing to take up a game in the billiards room.” He scooped the assorted gold coins up and placed them into his pockets. The very moment he was on his feet, the entire world swayed around him, and he grabbed onto the table.

“Jove, are you alright there, Lord Walpole? A trifle foxed, are we?”

A man Peter was not familiar with stood behind him.

“Isn’t that why we come here to Brooks? To find ourselves a trifle indisposed and maybe a little wealthier?” He patted his pocket as the tall, dark-haired man chuckled.

“That is why I’ve come to see you. I overheard your desire for another challenge. What do you say to a race? I hear you are a keen racer, and my curricle is outside.”

“I say…” Peter was interrupted when his friend, Thomas Stanhope, Earl of Lambeth, cleared his throat.

“I dare say it is rather late, especially for a race, Lord Wilmore.”

He knew his friend meant well. Thomas was his dearest friend and had been his rock in those first devastating days after the funeral when Peter could not even leave his bed, let alone his chamber. Yet sometimes Thomas was a little overprotective of him.

“Lord Lambeth, I will be the judge on that matter.” Peter faced his friend, his voice even. “I do not think it too late.”

“You have had too much to drink, Peter.” His tone was low enough so that Lord Wilmore could not hear.

Matching his tone, Peter replied, “I know you speak out of concern, my friend, but I am not a lady in need of a chaperone. I thank you for your worry, but please, leave me be. Or perhaps place a wager, for I am certain I will win.”

He spun around to the man before him. William Lauderdale, Marquess of Wilmore, was a man who enjoyed wagers and was not opposed to high stakes.

“Very well, Lord Wilmore. Let us race.” He stuck out his hand, and the gentlemen shook on it. However, as Peter turned, he stumbled once more, his legs trembling beneath him.

“Are you in need of assistance, Walpole?” Lord Wilmore said as he grabbed onto his elbow.

“Certainly not,” Peter replied and pulled his Pomona-green waistcoat straight, so it lay against his broad frame. “On we go.” At the door, he turned. “My fellow lords, Lord Wilmore and I shall race our curricles along the street toward Green Park. If anyone cares to place a wager, do so now.” He bowed dramatically and again stumbled, causing laughter among the occupants of the card room.

He spotted several of the most notorious gamblers lined up, among them Lord Morrey, Lord Nordendale, Mr. Francis, and, to his surprise, even Thomas. Many of the gentlemen rushed to place bets—most of them against him. Thomas was not a gambler, so to see him putting a wager surprised Peter. However, he had no time to think about the matter as he stumbled outside and climbed atop his curricle.

He had a marquess to beat.

***

“Tell me you bet on me and not against me, Thomas! Surely you had faith in me!” Peter declared loudly as he strolled back into his gentleman’s club after his crushing victory.

Exhilaration rushed through Peter’s body. He knew he’d win, but as always, his excitement was marred by thoughts of Isabella. How much sweeter would the victory have been had she waited for him at the finishing line…

Thomas shrugged. “I bet against you because I saw how much port and cognac you consumed before the ale.”

“Well, let this be a lesson.” He turned to the assorted men, most of whom wore a glum expression on their faces. “And let it be a lesson to you all. Never bet against Peter Haddington. Even drunk as a wheelbarrow, I shall crush you all in a race.”

He raised his hand to order another glass of port while Thomas sat across from him, his countenance full of silent judgment and worry.

“Peter, one of these days, you will find your death racing as you do.”

Peter shrugged. The adrenaline still pumped through his veins. It always did when he raced his curricle. It didn’t matter if he had an opponent or not. He enjoyed the break-neck speed, the wind that whipped through his hair. He was alive when he raced. He was more reckless than he’d ever been; that was true. Having Isabella by his side had always made him more cautious. He’d never risked injuring himself out of fear of leaving her a widow. How ironic, he thought, that he should end up a widower instead. Without her, nothing mattered. Without her, there was no reason to be careful. Why should he fear death when there was nothing worth living for?

“Then death will find me doing what I enjoy.”

“Peter… If you die, what will become of your mother?”

“My mother is a formidable force. Do you know she was just appointed one of the Lady Patronesses at Almack’s?”

“I heard, but that will hardly take away the devastation of losing her only child.”

Peter groaned. There was no use explaining it. Parts of his grief were beyond sharing. Those who loved him would only worry more if they knew the true darkness that ran just beneath the surface. He preferred that they considered him foolhardy and reckless and deeply melancholy.

“Racing brings me joy. It fills the void inside of me.” This was the most he dared say to Thomas, and yet it was enough.

“Racing curricles and drinking will not replace your wife and child.”

“No, but they take away the guilt I feel for not being there for them when they passed.”

“You did not know she would have the child so early,” Thomas said quietly.

Peter looked out of the window where the soft light of the streetlamp entered the club. He remembered the day he’d returned from his business meeting, summoned by an urgent message. He remembered entering into his home and seeing his mother and Isabella’s mother, their faces masks of grief. It was the worst day of his life. His darling wife snatched from this world so soon and so suddenly.

“Thomas, I do not like to speak about that day. I live in the moment now because the past is full of pain, and the future is an enigma. It is best left in the past. Let me live.”

“That is what I want, Peter. For you to live. But you risk your life time and again. You think that I do not see the depth of your grief, but I do.”

“It does not matter.” The conversation was becoming far too heavy. His mask would slip if he remained here, and Thomas would see the torn, broken man inside. That, he did not want. Peter downed the glass in three gulps.

“I must go. Thanks to you, my excitement at my victory has evaporated. I shall have to find a way to fill the void in another way.”

“You are not going to….”

“St. Giles. It is a shame that my favorite courtesan resides in the rookery of St. Giles, but so be it,” said Peter as he hastened to retrieve his greatcoat. He had just reached the front door when someone called out after him.

“Lord Walpole! Are you not going to allow me to win back what I lost on your race?”

He spun around and spotted Lord Morrey, a viscount, and notorious gambler, standing at the other end of the room.

Peter shook his head. “Not this night, Morrey. Another night, perhaps.”

He bowed and waited for the butler to open the door, while behind him, the assorted lords grumbled over the fortune they’d lost.

Peter stepped out into the night; the cool evening breeze forced him to turn up the collar of his coat.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps sounded behind him. He stopped under a streetlight and frowned as the footsteps stopped. A feeling of doom spread in him as he prepared to fight whatever rogue had followed him.

Peter almost wished for a fight to the death. His days were nothing but empty hours filled with meaningless tasks. His nights didn’t bring relief but only provided him with time to dwell on his regrets. And his mornings did nothing but renew the pain of seeing Isabella’s side of their bed empty.

Death, Peter concluded, would be a relief.

Chapter Two

“Isn’t this tea delicious? My aunt bought the leaves from a gentleman who was recently in India.” Ella took another sip of the bitter drink as she shimmied her shoulders. How people could spoil such a marvelous drink with lumps of sugar, she never could understand.

Her good friend Lady Anna Mortimer looked into the teacup with a faraway smile. It was as if she was reading her future in the tea. She was a beautiful young woman with porcelain skin so smooth it made Ella envious just to look at her.

While Ella made sure to stay out of the sun to preserve the pale skin tone so popular with the ton, she never did manage to have as flawless an appearance as her friend. Bothersome freckles always somehow found their way to her nose and cheekbones. While Ella disliked them intensely, her aunt, Lady Fitzgerald, always told her they were charming and reminiscent of her mother when she was her age.

“Anna? Is something the matter?” Ella asked. Ella had noticed Anna’s strange mood the moment she walked into Ella’s aunt’s Mayfair townhome. At first, she thought her friend was miffed at her. Upon reaching the garden, where the servants arranged a pretty space to have tea underneath an oak tree, her friend appeared more her usual self. Now, as Ella chattered on, Anna once again did not seem quite present.

At last, her friend looked up, a sparkle in her green eyes. “Not at all, Ella. Quite the opposite.” Anna glanced around as she leaned forward, a grin on her thin lips.

“I saw Lord Rory yesterday. The viscount I met at the opera last month, remember?”

Ella smiled at her friend. “Have you? Are you courting? What wonderful news.” She clapped her hands together in delight. Anna had already had a couple seasons, and with one or two more, would be firmly on the shelf. Since she was the daughter of a viscount herself, this would be a suitable match. Alas, her friend shook her head.

“We are not courting. Not really. We are…keeping each other company.” She smiled so brightly her white teeth were exposed. “We met in St. James’ Park after dark; I snuck away. We met at the lake and talked for an hour. And then we kissed.”

Ella gasped. “Kissed?” she hissed the word through clenched teeth and twisted her body around to make sure none of her aunt’s servants were near enough to hear. “Anna, you mustn’t. If anyone saw you…You would be ruined, and for what? A kiss?”

Anna leaned back and shrugged. “A kiss, yes. A glorious kiss. I always dreamed of being kissed in such a manner. It was passionate and exciting. He pulled me toward him so tightly I could almost feel….”

“Stop!” Ella pleaded. She was utterly mortified. A young lady did not sneak away into the park with a man she was not courting. Even if they were courting, a chaperone should be present, and something as reckless as a kiss would certainly not be allowed.

“Faith, Ella. Must you be so prim and proper? Can’t you have at least a little sense of excitement?”

“I do not need that sort of excitement, Anna. And neither do you. You know if you are seen with him in a park….”

“Nobody saw us, Ella.”

“You could be ruined and cast out by your parents. You could end up in the poorhouse. Or be forced to take a position as a governess. Please, do not be so reckless again, for both our sakes.”

Ella could not believe her friend. She’d end up an ape leader with a ruined reputation, and she’d destroy Ella’s right along with her, as they were so close.

“Do not fret so, my friend. I will not be ruined. He loves me. Well, he said he was falling for me—that is almost as good. You will see how handsome and charming he is. He will be at the ball tonight.” She grinned as though she were already officially betrothed.

How, Ella wondered, could she not see right through this rake? Of course, he would tell her whatever she wanted to hear.

“You must be careful. Besides, I do not think being in love is a good reason to sneak away with a man, even if he is a lord.”

“What better reason could there be?” Anna chuckled as if she’d heard an excellent joke, but Ella’s countenance darkened.

“There is no good reason for such behavior. But since you asked, if one were to be with a gentleman, then it ought to be because he is a suitable match both in terms of social standing and in his ability to provide for you.”

Anna scoffed as she picked up a piece of licorice and waved it around in the air like a sword.

“You sound like my old governess. I think living with Lady Fitzgerald has made you into a bit of an old lady yourself. None of the young people think of such things anymore. One must love the person one marries.”

Ella shook her head with vigor. “Marriage ought to be a business transaction. He provides for you, and in turn, you ensure he has an heir for his estate. That is all.”

Her friend shook her head. “I shall never marry if I do not love the person.”

“And I shall never love. It is a foolish thing to love.”

She knew love brought nothing but sorrow. Years of guilt and grief over the loss of her parents taught Ella as much. She would never risk such pain again, but she knew Anna couldn’t understand this. Ella could only imagine what losing a husband would feel like; surely it was worse than losing one’s parents.

Ella was sure if she loved and lost again, she would never recover.

***

That evening, Ella entered the ballroom at Closter House, the home of the Duke and Duchess of Closter, and marveled at the assembled crowd. All the important lords and ladies were present.

“Aunt Margaret, are you sure I am dressed properly for this ball? It seems everyone is ever so elegant.”

Her aunt placed a hand on the small of Ella’s back. Her kind eyes narrowed into a sea of wrinkles as she smiled at her niece.

“You look like a lady, Ella. Now, promise me you will enjoy yourself tonight. Dance, drink fine wine, and indulge in their delicious foods.”

“I will dance; I always do. I am in good hopes of meeting an eligible gentleman. Perhaps, given that the hostess is a duchess, I will be more fortunate and find someone serious and well-mannered. Not like the so-called gentlemen I encountered at Almack’s on Wednesday.”

Her aunt shook her head. “My dear Ella, it is not as terrible as you would make it out to be. A gentleman asked you to dance repeatedly. There is nothing wrong with that. Allow a little bit of space so that love might find you.”

“Aunt Margaret, you know it is improper to dance with the same man twice, let alone three times. Besides, you know I do not care to find love.”

Aunt Margaret said nothing further. A moment later, Anna arrived. She was dressed in a beautiful primrose-colored dress with a delicate satin lace that almost mirrored Ella’s light-pink gown.

“Ella, come.” Anna was enthused the moment she reached them. “Ah, I am sorry, Lady Fitzgerald. I did not mean to be rude.” She curtsied to Ella’s aunt, who waved a hand. “Don’t you worry, you two go and enjoy yourselves. Make sure Ella has a proper partner.” She winked at Anna, much to Ella’s annoyance.

Not even her aunt understood her desire to uphold proper etiquette. What was wrong with them? Rules were there for a reason. She knew all too well what could happen if they were willfully broken.

Anna took her by the hand and pulled her forward. They made their way through the throng of people toward the ballroom. The sound of the minuet drifted out of the ballroom, and within a moment, they were inside of the great room itself.

Ella saw the beautifully drawn chalk designs, meant to prevent slipping on the dance floor, almost intact. Couples swirled over the drawings and swayed to the sounds of the orchestra.

Each lady looked more beautiful than the next. Ella thought about her life and what it might have been like had her parents lived. Would she be more like these young ladies? Would she be as carefree and foolish as she’d been at age twelve?

“I am dancing the quadrille with Lord Rory, as well as the boulanger. We need to find you a partner.” Anna canvassed the room and snapped a finger. “Him. Lord Nordendale.”

Ella shook her head at once. “Never. He is near forty years old and has a reputation.” She lowered her voice. “He gambles.”

“Very well. How about him?” She nodded discreetly toward a younger gentleman standing at the end of the dance floor beside an older woman. He was tall, his blond hair grazing the top of his shoulders, and he was dressed in an elegant dark blue waistcoat paired with a black tailcoat with matching blue embroidery around the wrists. The golden cufflinks sparkled even from across the room. He was handsome—and strangely mysterious.

For a moment, he smiled at her and nodded his head. The polite thing would have been to nod back or curtsy, even, but Ella found she could only blush and look away.

“You like the look of him, I see.”

“I do not,” Ella protested. “Who is he, anyhow?”

“That is Peter Haddington, Baron Walpole.”

Ella’s blood ran cold. “Lord Walpole? Anna, I could never dance with him. He is in the scandal sheets every week. He’s a terrible rake.”

She’d read about him in the papers. As handsome as he was, she’d never be able to dance with him, not with his terrible reputation.

Her friend shrugged. “If you look too closely, you shall find something unpleasant about any man in attendance. Besides, the scandal sheets are just tittle-tattle.”

“I am paying mind to it because I care about my reputation, and I….”

“There he is,” Anna interrupted. “Lord Rory.” She stared at the handsome young man who stood not far from them and winked at her.

“Ella, why do you not canvass the room yourself and then let me know if any of the lords strike your fancy so we might arrange for a dance?”

Ella moaned at the proposition but realized it was preferable to the alternative—letting Anna choose.

She looked at the young man again and shook her head. To think her friend was considering an introduction to someone with a reputation as terrible as Lord Walpole’s. How someone as handsome and alluring as he could allow himself to attract such terrible company, she would never understand.

He was wealthy; she knew this from the scandal sheets. And his eyes…They were as bright as the stars on the darkest night. Dreamy, even. The way his hair fell casually into his face drew her attention to his strong jaw and full lips.

No, I must not think of him in such a way. I cannot even allow myself to speak to him.

“Anna, I cannot believe you would….”

Ella stopped mid-sentence. Anna was gone. And so was Lord Rory. In her place was a young man who attempted to get Ella’s attention, but Ella barely noticed him.

Ella’s heart sank at the realization because she knew her friend was reckless enough to attempt a private meeting with her paramour. With all of high society in attendance at this ball, she could be found out, and her entire life would fall apart.

No, Ella would not allow this to happen. Not to her best friend. She turned to the young man with a polite smile, even though every part of her wanted to rush away.

“I apologize, my lord, but I must hasten away to attend to an urgent matter.” She curtsied to the young man who smiled at her.

“Of course. Perhaps when you return, I might request a dance?”

“It would be my pleasure,” she said as she rose. After apologizing once more, she turned away and rushed across the ballroom and into the hall.

She had to find Anna and save her from herself. If she did not, her friend would be lost to her. And that Ella could not allow.

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