Chapter One My birth pangs came in the night. I lay awake and counted them, making sure this was the real thing before I woke Richard. He stirred, raised his head and smiled sleepily, his short blond hair tousled and boyish. When he saw me tense, he snapped awake, sitting up to study me closely. “Is this it?” I nodded. “Yes, without a doubt.” Another man would have slept elsewhere, particularly in recent months when I’d slept so restlessly, but not Richard. He slipped an arm over my bulk and kissed me, one for the baby and one for me, as he’d taken to putting it. He got out of bed and fetched his robe, and I sighed when I looked at his well-muscled, lithe form. I might never get my figure back after this. He sat on the bed and took my hands in his, blue eyes blazing into mine. “Every time you breathe, remember I love you. Even if they deny me your presence, I’ll be here in spirit, and if you need me, nothing will keep me away. I’ll come, and damn the conventions.” A sharp pain cut off my answering smile. “That’s it,” said Martha. “You can lie back now, Rose. You’re done.” I sank against the banked-up pillows with gratitude as Martha helped the midwife to smooth the bedclothes over me. The process had exhausted me more than I thought possible, even though the midwife had assured me I’d had an easy birth. I listened to the lusty cries of my newborn infant and wondered if Richard could hear them too. They’d sent him away as soon as the midwife arrived and I hadn’t seen him since, but the room was full with my midwife Mrs. Rooke, my accoucheur Mr. Simpson and my sister-in-law Martha, Lady Hareton. My newly born, newly washed child was put into my arms, and for the second time in my life, I felt the rush of sudden love. I gasped with astonishment and joy. I had expected to care for my child but not like this. We gazed at each other for what seemed like an aeon. “Welcome, sweet baby,” I said. The baby mewed a little. A physical tug came from somewhere deep inside me. “Can I feed—?” I stopped. This child, this miracle. I hadn’t thought to ask. Mr. Simpson’s wide face shone with pleasure. “A fine girl, my lady. Perfect in every way. Lie still, and we’ll make you comfortable now. Yes, you may suckle her, but it will only be foremilk, and she’ll need a proper feed afterwards.” “Bring the wet-nurse in here,” I ordered. “Let me watch.” I loosened my night rail and let the baby reach my breast. She seemed to know what to do better than I did, which was just as well because I felt clumsy, a giantess next to this tiny scrap. I took one of her hands in mine and watched her curl her fingers over my thumb. I lost my heart all over again. Martha got to her feet. “I’ll go and tell him, shall I?” I nodded. “But don’t let him in just yet. I don’t want him to see me like this.” Hot, tousled, still recovering. “I’ll give you some time.” She kissed me and left. I watched the wet-nurse, Anne Potter, a respectable woman who had a six-month-old child of her own, and milk to spare. Unlike me, she knew exactly what to do and handled the baby with sure confidence. I could only hope I would feel the same way soon. While I watched the babe feed, they made me comfortable. They washed me, dressed me in clean garments and changed the sheets. The baby had fallen off the nipple asleep, completely sated, before the nurse put her in the crib brought forward to the side of the bed. My attendants left the room, and I gazed at my child, filled with love for her. I heard the door open, but I didn’t look up immediately. It was only when the bed sank next to me that I turned my head. His eyes were riveted on the baby. “My God.” He turned to me and smiled before he kissed me very softly on my forehead and on my mouth. “Clever girl.” “I’m sorry,” I said. He leaned back and stared at me, startled. “What on earth for?” “It’s a girl.” “So?” He took my hand. “She’s healthy and perfect. My parents are downstairs. They’re thrilled.” “Truly?” “Truly. My father has already planned the ball at Eyton, and the next addition to the family.” He gave a light laugh. “But there’s no chance of that just yet, if I can help it.” Something had dropped away from him, the anxiety he fondly thought I hadn’t noticed. He took my hand to his mouth, kissed it, and kept hold of it afterwards. “Gervase sends his love.” “It must be crowded downstairs. Do they want to see me?” “I’ve forbidden it. Simpson says you need to sleep, so Nichols will sit with you while you get some rest.” “What time is it?” “About eight. You can receive people tomorrow, if you’re up to it.” He took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. His gaze never left my face. “You know how relieved I am to see you again, dearest love. Say the word and you need never go through this again.” It was the last thing I expected him to say. “But the title, the estate. It’s why they let you marry me.” He smiled tenderly. “Let me? Nothing could have stopped me. None of it matters. That’s not what I married you for, you know that. I love you.” “I know. And I love you too.” I glanced at the sleeping baby. “I can do this. I can give you sons if you want them.” I couldn’t believe I was saying this after what I had just gone through, but I knew it was true. His reply was to kiss me. “I’m very proud of you.” “Do you want to hold your daughter?” My heart ached when I remembered his other children. He’d only discovered their existence last year, and it had caused him great pain. I let the thought pass. Now was not the time. He got up and walked around the bed to the crib. He looked down at our child for a long time. “She doesn’t seem to look like anyone I know except perhaps the Duke of Newcastle.” I laughed. “Oh dear, I hope not.” He glanced back at me, and his attention turned to the baby again. He didn’t move to pick her up. I wanted him to. “Will you pass her to me?” He bent down and gently lifted her. Richard seemed to know how to hold babies, or perhaps it was instinct. She slumbered in his arms as he stared at her, and he touched her hand, which was outside the shawl she was wrapped in. I refused to allow her to be swaddled. The minuscule fingers clutched his thumb, and at that moment he was lost. I watched my husband fall in love with his daughter as I had done, and I thought I would burst with joy. When he tore his gaze away from her, he must have seen my tears. He laid the baby in my arms, straightening up and studying us. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful before.” I heard the emotion in his voice, and I smiled. “Fool,” I chided tearfully. He sat by us and the baby opened her eyes, so blue, heavenly blue, not at all like the deep sapphire of my husband’s. He smiled. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. What shall we call you, sweetheart?” We hadn’t really discussed names. If it had been a boy, it would have been Richard, because all the Southwood heirs were called that, but with a girl we were free to call her what we chose. We didn’t want to call her anything too unusual, but on the other hand, nothing too common. We knew a lot of Elizabeths, Georgianas and Annes. Pamela and Stella had become popular because of the literary associations, and there were many Sophias, Carolines and Charlottes, called after members of the royal family. I frowned. “Frances, perhaps.” We looked at our daughter and she looked back at us. “Ancilla, Emily.” “Helen.” He looked at her, watching the rosebud mouth pucker in sleep. “Or how about Eglantine, or Richenda?” His seemingly genuine suggestion made me stare at him in amazement before I saw the teasing glint in his eyes. We burst into laughter. The baby opened her mouth and roared. We both laughed a little more from relief and joy as much as genuine amusement before our daughter drowned out our paltry efforts. To my surprise, I knew what she wanted. “I should feed her.” She couldn’t be truly hungry because she had fed such a short time before, but my breasts ached and I thought it might comfort both of us. “Shall I go?” “Only if you want to. You may take her downstairs afterwards to show her off.” He drew up a chair next to the bed while I held her to my breast. She caught hold and reached up one tiny hand to touch me. “This won’t satisfy her much, it’s only foremilk. If she’s still hungry we’ll have to call the wet-nurse.” He smiled as he watched. “You could have been born to it.” “I shan’t do it for too long, but Mr. Simpson says it’s good for me. You can have me back soon.” He touched my shoulder. “You never went away.” What I had to offer did seem enough for the baby, and she fell asleep. She had been working, too, and perhaps she felt as tired as I was. I tucked myself away. “I like Helen. Can we call her that?” “I like it too,” he answered, and he came back to take her up. He laid her gently in the crib, came back to sit on the bed and took my hand in his. “I’ll sleep in my room tonight, but the connecting doors will be open. Or, if you prefer it, I’ll sleep in here.” “I don’t mind, sleep wherever you’re most comfortable. Nichols says she’ll sleep in my dressing room so she’s within call.” I sighed. “I’ll miss you.” “And I’ll miss you, but you’ll need to get better before I can come back.” He smiled wryly. “I’ll miss not waking up with you in my arms. But it’s more important that you get better.” He stood, leaned over me and kissed me lovingly. “I’ll go now. I’ll send for the nurse—what’s her name again?” “The wet-nurse is Potter and the nursemaid is Whitehouse. And could you ask them to get me something to eat, please?” He smiled, kissed me again and left. I woke in the early hours at about the time my pains had started the previous day. When I turned over I saw Richard, sitting in the chair by the cold fire, his head back, sound asleep. He looked most uncomfortable. I slid out of bed, wincing with soreness, and went into my dressing room for the necessary, almost tripping over the truckle bed that had been moved in there for Nichols. I didn’t wake her and returned to the bedroom when I had finished. I couldn’t bear to see him so uncomfortable so I touched Richard on the shoulder. He started awake and got immediately to his feet. “You shouldn’t be up.” “If you don’t tell anyone, I won’t,” I replied. Putting one arm under my legs and the other around my back, Richard lifted me and carried me to the bed. “I wouldn’t have been able to do this so easily yesterday,” he remarked fondly as he set me down. “I somehow imagined I would spring back into shape, but it will take some time, I’m told.” He laid the bedcovers back over me and sat next to me. “You’ve performed a miracle. It’s bound to take some time to come back down to our level.” “Do you love her?” “I love her,” he answered, in the same level tone. “As I was bound to.” He smiled. If his colleagues at Whites’ could see him now, open and loving, they wouldn’t have recognised him. “Can I get you anything?” “No, no thank you. You should sleep. Did the family like her?” “Of course they did.” He lifted his legs onto the bed and slipped his arm around my shoulders. “They all sent their best wishes, of course.” He kissed my forehead. “And the babe slumbered through it all. I went to see her before I came here. She’s not as red as she was, and she’s still beautiful.” I felt myself drift. “You should go to your own bed, my love.” “Hmm. Be quiet and go to sleep.” He stayed with me all night.

Chapter One The door to the parlour opened and my sister-in-law bustled inside. A gust of wind followed her stocky shape and some of the pasteboard invitations on the mantelpiece fluttered to the floor. I put down my book and stood, then bent to retrieve the cards. We couldn’t accept most of them. We were still in mourning, our shield from our importunate neighbours, but not for much longer. Martha held a wicker basket covered with a fine linen cloth. “Rose, dear, I have some treats for old Mrs. Hoarty in the village. Will you take them to her?” Restless and bored, I was glad of any distraction. “I’d love to.” I tucked the invitations back behind the clock to join the others. “Never mind,” Martha said, following my wistful look. “We should be able to attend social events again soon.” “The end of this month. I never thought I’d miss attending those dreary functions, but I’d welcome anything that killed some time.” Martha smiled. “Never mind,” she repeated, and then went, as was her way, to the heart of my dissatisfaction, “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” She meant my betrothed and beloved, Richard Kerre, Lord Strang. After a month apart, I missed him terribly. And I could not distract myself by attending the local social functions, although invitations arrived every day, not unconnected, I suspected, with the news of my betrothal. But we were in mourning, for cousins we had only met once, and felt little for. But since my brother James had inherited the title they’d held, we had to enter the required period of three months’ full mourning and three months’ half. “Is Lizzie coming?” I paused before the mirror to tidy my hair. I’d never found a maid who could cope with my thick, curly chestnut mane, and it was forever tumbling out of its pins. I sighed and tucked the loose strands away. I smiled at my reflection, then sighed again. No, I still couldn’t see it. “What is it, dear?” Sharp-eyed Martha had seen my doubt. I turned away from the mirror. “I still can’t see why he should want me. Why not choose Lizzie?” I smoothed the folds of my gown, and shook it out at the back. It was of plain grey wool, one I’d had made after my father died. That reminder of deeply felt, sincere mourning, was one reason I felt like a hypocrite now. On the first day of April, we reverted to wearing colours again and a full social life. I could hardly wait. “Lord Strang has fallen head-over-heels for you.” Martha smiled. She had a pleasant smile that made everything she said reasonable. She always denigrated her homely looks, but I don’t think she had ever been properly aware of that smile. “And you with him. You brightened, just at the mention of his name then. Don’t ask why, dear, just accept it.” I still felt I would wake one day and still be Miss Golightly of Devonshire, the overlooked elder sister of the beautiful Lizzie. I had resigned myself to the role of dependant old maid long before I met Richard, thinking my future would consist of caring for nieces and nephews, not children of my own. Years of constant denigration by the local belles had given me a feeling of inferiority I found hard to shake off. I turned away to give myself time to regain my composure and then looked back at my sister-in-law. It had happened to her, too. My brother James was tall and handsome, but he’d fallen in love with homely Martha, and after ten years of marriage, was still in love with her. When I left the parlour with Martha, the sounds of the manor house became more noticeable. We walked through to the small hall, and I heard the shouts and clanging coming up from the kitchen below, a state of constant activity, mingling with childish cries from the nursery above. “Have you given the children a holiday from their studies?” “Mr. Somerfield is ill.” Martha referred to the tutor who came in every day. “I couldn’t see to it myself, so I decided they could make do with the nursery maids today.” Martha and James had three children. With my sisters Lizzie and Ruth and my brother Ian, it made for an overcrowded dwelling place, but I was used to it and hardly noticed any more. I found my sturdy leather shoes and sat on one of the hard hall chairs to put them on. I fumbled with the heavy brass buckles. The sound coming from the children upstairs rose around me. “I’ll send them outside soon,” mused Martha, as though she had read my thoughts. “Not to go to Mrs. Hoarty’s,” I said, not without some alarm. “She’s much too fragile to cope with small children.” Martha sighed. “I’m afraid she is. But she’s a patient soul, never complains.” A door at the back of the hall opened and in swept Lizzie, already wearing her outdoor shoes and cloak. Her attention went to the basket at my feet. “Has Martha asked you to go to Mrs. Hoarty’s? May I come with you, Rose? If I have to stay in much longer listening to that noise, I swear I’ll run mad.” Lizzie lit up the hall with her beauty and vitality. Even before our recent change of fortune, she’d been the queen of Devonshire society, and now she was even more alluring to the local beaux. A shame the mourning kept her from them. She felt it badly, and knew her chief rival, Eustacia Terry, would steal a march on her in her absence. Lizzie had a different mother than I, accounting for her golden beauty and my own dark colouring, but I wasn’t jealous. Her sweet, generous nature precluded that, but sometimes, in the recesses of my secret self, I longed for some of that dazzling loveliness for myself. Especially since I’d met Richard. I would love to be beautiful for him. Pushing my thoughts to the back of my mind, I answered her with a smile. “Mrs. Hoarty would be happy to see you. How can you make mourning look so good?” “Well black suits me better than it does you. Your skin has a creamy tone that looks best with a touch of colour.” She grinned. “We’ll be out of black soon, and then we’ll show them.” I laughed, and was still laughing when I ran up the stairs to my room to fetch my cloak. I’d never thought of my bedroom as small before, but crammed with items for my trousseau it seemed to have shrunk in size. The jewel bright colours of the rich satins and silks mocked my dull grey wool gown. Stopping at the bed, I picked up a blue satin petticoat and smoothed my fingers over its sensuous softness, caressing it before I put it back. I’d never spent so much money on clothes before, and the total cost of the treasure laid out here made me dizzy. The petticoats and gowns had all been sewn and embroidered by the best craftsmen Exeter offered. Some fabrics, lace and ribbons had been brought up from London, just for me. If I had married a local man, I would have embroidered many of my linens myself, but the suddenness of my engagement left no time for that, so these too were brought in. Richard wouldn’t wait for me to sew my trousseau. He’d only been deterred from marrying me immediately because of our state of mourning and the pleas of his family and mine. Ranks of delicate satin shoes faced me from their station by the window. All for me. In one startling month my brother had become an earl and I’d met and fallen in love with the most astonishing man I’d ever met. That he loved me back continued to astonish me. The maid would put most of these things away later, and return my bedroom to its quiet, comfortable self. I grinned. The cabin of a pirate ship might look like this after a raid. I would probably be expected to dress in this finery every day after I married. The thought intimidated me, made me feel foolish, a fraud. I liked to dress in something simple, preferably something I could get into with a minimum of help, not spend hours on my toilette. On impulse, I crossed to the dressing table and picked up the scent bottle. At least I could smell good. I anointed my wrists and throat in some of the perfume before I left with my plain cloak to join my sister downstairs. Lizzie and I left the house and went down the drive. “You don’t mind walking all the way to the end of the village?” Lizzie laughed. “I can manage.” “You couldn’t when we were little and had to walk to Church.” Our father had insisted that we walk on Sundays, one tradition my brother James thankfully hadn’t followed. “You were always the one who complained the loudest, and ended up being carried.” Lizzie gave me an unrepentant grin. “It worked every time.” I tipped my head back and breathed in the sweet air of my native county. March brought winds and the promise of spring, growing warmer towards the end of the month, but a nip remained in the air. The sun gained in confidence as spring approached, not a trace of rain hung in the sky. The wrought iron gates at the end of the drive had rusted into their places, so seldom were they closed. A road ran past the gates, leading to the other large house in the district, Peacock’s. When we glanced along the path, we saw our neighbours and friends, Tom Skerrit and his younger sister Georgiana, walking towards us. Tom led his favourite hack. I assumed Tom was heading for the smithy. That meant they would be going our way, so we stopped to wait for them. “Good morning, Tom.” “Good morning, Rose, Lizzie.” We stood on no ceremony with the Skerrits. I smiled in greeting to Tom and his pretty sister. Tom was as familiar to me as my own reflection in the mirror, so I rarely noticed his appearance, but this morning, with a sense of what I might soon lose, I studied him closer. It would be strange not to have him as a neighbour any more. Tom was tall and dark, and preferred to wear his own hair rather than a formal wig. While not precisely handsome, he possessed a friendly countenance out of which gleamed a pair of amused grey eyes. He would be a good catch for someone. At one time, local society assumed it would be me, but he’d never asked and I’d never pushed the possibility. We had run together almost as brother and sister, and as far as I knew, he’d never thought of me in any other way. Georgiana looked fetching today, wearing an Indian muslin gown printed with little flowers and a red cloak. I was envious that she didn’t have to wear boring black or grey. The blue of her gown matched her eyes to perfection. “Trusty dropped a shoe?” I asked when they caught up. Tom cast an anxious look at the horse. “Yes, so I thought I’d take him at once.” A hill stood between Golightly Manor and the village. We chatted while we climbed it. The slope wasn’t particularly gentle, but we were all used to it, so didn’t get out of breath. The new grass felt crisp and springy beneath our feet, and I savoured the sensation, knowing I wouldn’t have it for much longer. Nothing would ever be the same again. I was leaving something I loved behind. Lizzie and Georgiana walked ahead, chatting about the latest fashions and my upcoming wedding. I followed behind with Tom. We had to walk a little slower to let Trusty find his feet when he stumbled, and to ensure we didn’t go over anything that might get into the horse’s hoof. I was in no hurry. Tom turned to me, a question in his eyes. “You never told me what Hareton Abbey was like. I know it was dirty, and abandoned, but why won’t your brother use it?” James had inherited Hareton Abbey with the title, and we’d travelled up there the previous year. “If it was cleaned and put in order,” I told him, “it would still be impersonal. It’s far too large and badly built.” “Badly built?” Tom sounded surprised. Hareton was reputed to be one of the great houses of the country in its day, but my friend hadn’t seen the devastation that abandonment had wrought on it. I stared up at the blue sky as we crested the hill. It was the same sky in Yorkshire, though it hadn’t seemed so at the time. “Yes. James was pleased when he heard that. It gave him the excuse he needed to come home. We didn’t know anyone there, and Martha would never have been happy. It’s a much better idea to rebuild the Manor.” A bird soared overhead, singing. A Devonshire bird. “What will happen to the Abbey?” asked my old friend. I returned my attention to him. “Nothing. It can’t be sold because it’s part of the entail. James will leave it to rot, or perhaps rent it out. He’ll move all the treasures he wants here and sell the rest. The dowager countess, Lady Patience, is living in the Dower House, and I don’t think she’ll willingly set foot in the Abbey again. The place is doomed, Tom.” I wasn’t sorry. The Abbey had become a place of misery and suffering. Its stones had seemed to weep in the damp autumn weather last year. Tom smiled at my dramatic words, as I had meant him to. I didn’t want him to ask any more. The events of that time were privy to our family alone, and safer if they remained so. And what had happened to me was only for me and one other to know. Tom’s horse stumbled, enabling me to drop the subject. We stopped to allow Trusty to recover, and I gave my friend a statement of fact, hoping he wouldn’t realise I was drawing him away from the personal aspects of our visit. “The third earl had the old building torn down and rebuilt, but he didn’t keep his eye on the builders. Hareton might be grandiose, but it needs completely rebuilding to make it habitable again. We don’t like it, so why bother?” Tom grinned again and gave me a deliberate up and down scan. My old grey gown wasn’t the height of fashion and had definitely seen better days, but I recognised his regard as friendly teasing. I didn’t mind that from Tom. “I thought you’d come back the grand lady.” “You know me better than that.” I looked down with a rueful smile. My clothes could best be described as serviceable; the gown, the sturdy leather shoes I loved and had repaired regularly, and my unornamented black cloak. There was nothing about me to indicate any change in my situation. “You’ll be a countess one day.” I wished he hadn’t mentioned it. It wasn’t something I wanted, but Richard went along with the title, and I definitely wanted him. “Maybe.” I smoothed my skirt, a habitual gesture when I felt nervous or unsure, feeling the rough woollen cloth under my hand. It gave me a small measure of assurance. “It’s suitable now you’re an earl’s sister. It’s what’s expected of you by most people.” I shook my head in denial but he continued, “You know you don’t have to? That James can settle a jointure on you so you can live as you always wanted to—independently?” He reminded me of something I’d always dreamed about, something I’d often shared with him. “If it had been anyone else I wouldn’t have considered it,” I told him. Tom frowned, puzzlement apparent on his face. Lizzie heard the last part of the conversation. She stopped and turned around to address him. “You’ll understand, Tom.” Tom stared at me, but he didn’t pursue the subject. “And how did you find Hareton Abbey compared to Eyton?” Eyton was the main house belonging to my future parents-in-law, Lord and Lady Southwood. I’d visited them after Christmas, but came away when a large house party arrived. I was still in deep mourning and it wasn’t proper for me to attend a large gathering yet. Richard had written that the visitors were disappointed not to meet me. He also said the visitors were tedious, and he would try to get away as soon as he could. We wrote to each other every day, but I still missed him; his presence, his touch, and his reassurance. As well as the thrill he gave me by touching me, kissing me and caressing me. We hadn’t repeated our one afternoon of lovemaking. Although I’d wanted to, Richard told me he wanted me with no slur on my name. An early pregnancy would not help me. My heart lifted when I thought that soon, so close to our wedding day, he might consent to make love to me again. If we found another opportunity. I just wanted him. I hadn’t realised it was possible to miss someone so much. I breathed in the fresh, green air of my native land, detecting the faint tang of the sea, not far away. “I liked Eyton much better. It’s smaller than Hareton, but the family rooms are much more comfortable, and it’s run like a great house of that kind should be.” I looked around. “I’ll miss this.” Devonshire was such a beautiful part of the world, but I was so used to it I rarely allowed myself to notice. The sky was bright blue, the grass intensely green, more so than anywhere else I knew. Everyone at Eyton had been kind, but I was still bemused by my fate, by the family welcoming me. I knew Richard’s family and his erstwhile lovers resented me and doubted if a country girl, who was until recently, firmly in the ranks of the gentry, would do for their son. However, if Richard’s father wanted an heir, he would have to accept his son’s choice of bride. Richard had made that clear to him. “Lord and Lady Southwood are somewhat taken aback by their son’s sudden decision after years of urging him to marry,” I remarked. Tom chuckled. “About as surprised as I was when you came back betrothed. All so sudden. I’d never have thought it of you, Rose.” I didn’t want to talk about it yet, and I wasn’t sure what to tell him, how to explain it. “The state rooms are beautiful, but not as—well, impersonal as the ones at Hareton. Actually, Eyton and Hareton aren’t that far apart. Fifty miles or so, no more.” I smiled when I remembered the short journey to Eyton and the relative privacy afforded by a travelling coach. Tom looked at me in puzzlement. “What is it, Rose?” “Oh, nothing.” Lizzie and Georgiana stopped at the top of the hill. They were staring at something, but we couldn’t see what it was until we caught up with them. We followed their stares. A solitary figure led a heavily laden packhorse; his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him. The man was dressed in a heavy serge coat, hat pulled low over his eyes. He was walking around the hill, heading for the land that belonged to Tom’s father, Sir George Skerrit, seemingly oblivious to our presence. I realised what the man must be about, but before I could stop him, Tom called out “Hi, you!” and after thrusting the reins of his horse at his sister, he plunged down the hill.

Chapter One Spring, 1756 If this outfit didn’t put off her would-be suitor, nothing would. Sapphira sighed and smoothed the dull brown gown she’d decided to wear. Even the sigh didn’t disturb the linen fichu smothering her breasts. She’d taken care to leave only a small strip of skin showing at her neck. She’d scraped her hair back into a knot at the top of her head and covered it with a linen cap, plain except for the narrow band of bone lace around the edge. Looking like this, she’d pass for a Puritan. She shrugged, trying to loosen the tension permeating every muscle, but the movement only made her wince. Her father’s latest application of the rod had missed its target a little, and she had a mark at the top of her shoulders. Hence the heavy fichu. She knew better than to display the marks of her shame. Maybe she should feel glad of her father’s skill in administering whippings, as it meant she was unlikely to take a scar. Punishment was one thing, but he knew better than to degrade the merchandise. Which was, in this case, her. The soreness of last night had ameliorated to a dull throb, only exacerbated when she moved too precipitately, but her trepidation at actually putting her plan into motion sent her mind elsewhere. Her father had administered the blows on Wednesday after she flatly refused to accept George Barber as her future husband. Today was Monday, and the punishment had done her no good. Her father was still set on the match and she was just as set against it, although she had the sense to appear agreeable. Perhaps George Barber would turn out better than his looks promised. After all, a good husband didn’t have to be good looking. Just kind, or fun-loving or…or at least more amenable than her harassed father. Her refusal to marry the man she’d only met briefly once and seen across a room and a street a time or two had resulted in a storm of fury. Nobody disobeyed her father. Nobody. She should have known better, but her protest had been involuntary. Before she’d properly thought, she’d blurted, “I cannot allow you to decide the rest of my life for me! I’m not a puppet, to be pushed into places I have no wish to be. Please, Father, reconsider. Or give me a little time.” Of course he had not. Instead, he’d put her on a bread and water diet, confined her to her room and given her a sound whipping, albeit with tears in his eyes. Now she had to go through with the farce, see if she could get anything worthwhile from this terrible proposal. She turned to leave the room, only to see her father standing in the doorway. At once she lowered her gaze. “I’m pleased you’ve seen reason, daughter,” he said. “It pains me to punish you. I was not looking forward to you forcing me to do it again.” “I know.” She did know. His punishments were severe and precise, because they hurt him too. But he considered it his duty, and if Thomas Vardon had a virtue, it was that he never shirked his duty. Or that was what he told her, and he’d kept to the dictum all his life. That meant her father had also shown her great kindness and consideration where other fathers might have dismissed her concerns without compunction. Maybe because he was older than most fathers of children her age. Maybe because her mother had died when she was five years old, leaving her with no relatives, apart from the great-aunt he hardly spoke to these days, although he still allowed Sapphira to go for her Thursday lessons on Cavendish Street. Great-Aunt Josephina taught Sapphira how to behave like a lady, and if her father had but known it, how to gamble like one too. So perhaps it was just as well that communication between her two living relatives remained cursory. She left her room hoping for the best and followed her father downstairs to the drawing room, her feet clattering on the bare boards of the staircase. The silence inside the house was punctuated by sounds from the busy street outside, a reminder of life going on right outside the door. She’d spent all her life in London and hardly noticed the commotion normally. A brief visit to the country as a child had left Sapphira aching to return to her home, where costers and flower sellers shouted their wares, chairmen swore at everyone and pickpockets jostled the quality in the streets in the hopes of snatching a fat purse or even the wig off a gentleman’s head. And always the rattle of wheels over the cobblestones and the clop of hooves. She preceded her father into the parlor. The scent of the potpourri she kept there hit her nostrils, and she took a moment to inhale the citrusy, spicy aroma. It always steadied her. She kept lavender in her bedroom for calming, but after spending the night in the room she couldn’t smell it anymore. She associated roses with her room at her great-aunt’s house, together with the lighter colors and the elegance of the fashionable furniture Lady Carr owned. But she liked this house, filled with the furniture her family had owned for generations, together with a few new pieces. Theoretically, it would belong to Sapphira when her father died. Theoretically she’d have his fortune and his business, but in reality her husband would get it all. Which meant the gangly young man standing in the room next to the older couple. Her heart plummeted to her sensible plain buckled shoes. Facing them, she knew she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t marry into this family. The Barber family, and their habits, were well known in the City. So pious they went to church three times on Sundays and held lengthy prayer sessions twice a day on weekdays. They were so soberly dressed colors hardly held a place in their lives, apart from dull browns and mournful purples. She should have worn yellow. That might have proved more effective in putting them off the idea of a match. Think, she had to think. Opposition didn’t work, so she had to come up with a plan. Sapphira sank into a neat curtsey. “Father, Mr. and Mrs. Barber, Mr. Barber, I welcome you to this house.” “Thank you.” Mr. Barber the elder spoke first, then her father spoke from behind her. “I’m glad to see my dutiful daughter returned to me and more delighted to present you, Sapphira, to your future husband, George.” Horror swept through her when she heard the threat made real. George Barber stared at her, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed. For all his unprepossessing appearance, it wasn’t George, but the idea of being sold off as a business deal, that made her recoil. Perhaps she’d been too hasty. Perhaps listening to Great-Aunt Josephina’s tales of love with the right man had made her believe unrealistic stories. This was the eighteenth century, not some nebulous time out of mind. She could make something of this. She had to. Her father had brought her up to understand business, and she’d proved an adept pupil. But if this family had any say in the matter, she’d be stuck in their house in Hampstead, praying and giving birth. They had so many children it gave her a headache to try to think of all their names. Still, if George had any gumption at all, she could make something of the alliance. If not her marriage, then what it brought, children and a larger business to deal with. She fought not to let any of her horror show in her face or any other part of her body. She kept her hands relaxed and maintained a solemn but dutiful expression, set her mouth in a pleasant curve. “I’m honored, Father, that you took the time to search so diligently for me.” Her father’s eyes narrowed. He was no fool and he must know she wouldn’t turn her opinions around so quickly. Unless he believed the beating worked completely. Let him think what he liked. “May I offer you tea, madam?” Mrs. Barber regarded her with an intent expression in her protuberant dark eyes. “We will not take tea, thank you. It is an extravagance we only indulge in once a day.” Sapphira bowed her head and stepped away from the teapot, although she would dearly have liked a cup. The scent of the brew made her mouth water after her restricted diet. Mrs. Barber wasn’t done. “Your father assures us you have always been a dutiful and obedient child. We will expect you to continue in the same way.” “Yes, ma’am.” “I will proscribe your day, and you will share a room with my son after your marriage. He will instruct you in your duties and you will obey him without question.” “I have learned to help in the business, ma’am. I understand double entry bookkeeping and I help with the stock-keeping when my father requires it.” Mr. Barber sniffed. “We will not expect you to take part in anything like that. Business is a man’s purview. Yours is to bear children and obey your husband. As well as his parents.” Sapphira listened in horror. Mr. Barber was a mercer, one of the most important merchants in the City, and he’d recently invested in shipping in order to transport his cloth more economically. Her father’s cloth business would go very well with the Barbers’ and perhaps form the beginning of an empire. She was there as a future breeding animal and a conveyor of wealth. Nothing more, it seemed. It wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined. It was worse. Her father beamed. “Mr. and Mrs. Barber will accompany me to the parlor to discuss the details of the settlement. We will leave you for twenty minutes to get to know your fiancé better.” She wanted to scream “No!” but if she’d done that likely they’d think her mad, which would give them an excuse to keep a closer watch on her. And that she couldn’t have. Her only chance of freeing herself from this increasingly dismaying fate lay in appealing to Great-Aunt Josephina and she couldn’t risk her father banning her weekly visit, as he had on Thursday last. So she bowed her head and acquiesced. Nobody realized how hard her heart was thumping, how her fingers shook, because she kept them firmly clasped together. She stood completely still while her father and the two older Barbers left the room. They left the door open, thank goodness, so privacy was limited. It meant someone was listening, probably Mary the maid, since Mrs. Cousins, their cook, would be in the kitchen preparing dinner. For once, Sapphira felt glad of the eavesdropper. She raised her eyes to see her suitor licking his lips in a most insalubrious manner. He appeared to have quite a thick tongue which, she realized with a flush of embarrassment, could be useful in certain situations. The books her great-aunt kept in her private collection made her far more aware than she should have been of the pleasures of the flesh. But she couldn’t imagine sharing them with George. Or rather, she didn’t want to. The idea of baring even an inch more flesh than she was revealing right at this moment set her hair on end. George stared at her in what she considered unhealthy fascination. His eyes, slightly protuberant like those of his namesake the King and his mother, had a glassy tone she couldn’t like, but perhaps it was the light in here. She determined to try to make the best of things. So she smiled and took a shaky step toward him. Before she realized it, he’d jerked her into his arms and slammed his mouth down on hers. She had opened her mouth when she made her move, intending to say something welcoming, but she’d had no chance. He squeezed her uncomfortably and shoved his tongue into her mouth with a force that took her breath away. Waves of bad breath hit her like a rock and made her head spin. She reached out to try to push him away and found his upper arms, but he wouldn’t move. Always the mercer’s daughter, she recognized that he wore good English cloth, smooth and fine, but it was the only smooth or fine thing about him. When she tried to repel his tongue by pushing at it with hers, he took it as encouragement. He pushed in farther, bringing one hand up to push aside her fichu to her breasts. Thank goodness for sturdy stays because his hands glided over her body, trying to find a way in and thankfully failed. Unbelievable. Sapphira could understand his lack of finesse, given his unfortunate parentage, but not his lack of consideration. His parents would surely have told him that she was young and untried and he should treat her with respect. Oh God, the gag reflex rose in her throat. The stink of his breath, together with his tongue greedily exploring her mouth, made it almost inevitable, and she concentrated on forcing down the bile that rose fierily from her stomach. She shoved him away, and he remained where she’d pushed him, two steps away, staring at her. His chest heaved as he pulled a series of deep breaths into his narrow body. She shouldn’t compare his physique to her nebulous dream man, but she did. The kisses she imagined when she lay in her bed at nights were so different, accomplished, careful and needy. And her imaginary lover’s chest provided a broad support for her breasts, not a bony wall to squash them against. “I’m sorry.” George spread his hands in apology. “You’re very pretty, you know.” As if that constituted adequate reason. It did not. “Thank you,” she managed, but specifically for the apology. “My father has told me little about you. I know you’re one and twenty. Don’t you think I’m too old for you?” “There’s only a couple of years between us.” “Four. Four years.” Hopeless to try that tack, but she had to try. Perhaps she could persuade him to call it off. “And I have to do as my parents tell me.” Then again, perhaps that was a forlorn hope. “Why?” He stared at her as if she were mad. “It’s God’s will.” “Not in my Bible. It says ‘honor’ in my copy, not ‘obey’.” His mouth tightened, and she realized she had a bigot on her hands. Either that, or someone who wouldn’t think for himself, too lazy or too stupid or both. A wistful melancholy filled her when she recalled her dreams of a man who would take her in his arms and woo her with love. If George had shown her any of the gallantry she dreamed of, she’d be the happiest woman in London. These days she knew better than to expect a complete dream man, but a little consideration, a little respect, a little self-respect would have done, would have given her something to build on. But her father wanted her to marry this man. This nothing. Impossible. “Your parents are God-fearing folk, as are we, sir, but I’ve heard stories about your parents I’m convinced cannot be true.” He shrugged. “We go to church once a day, and we begin the days with prayers. Three times on Sundays.” “We have morning prayers.” A useful time, after which she instructed the maid on her duties, checked her father’s routine with him and arranged her day. Her father might also make announcements about his business, since his employees usually attended prayers. “When do you go into the City to attend to business?” He frowned. “That is none of our concern. My mother says we are to concentrate on creating the next generation. A dy-dy—” “Dynasty,” she prompted, almost automatically. “Yes, dynasty. If you say so.” Not too bright, then. George licked his lips. “And you’ll be mine. They promised me that I’d have you to myself, every night, as long as I serviced you well.” A gleam appeared in the depths of his eyes. Oh God. She had a sudden premonition of her lot in fifty years, if she lived that long. A tight-lipped woman, surrounded by children, maybe grandchildren, not in a loving household, but in one devoted to duty. Insupportable. Much of life consisted of duty, to one’s parents, to honor, but all of it? Looking at George, she knew she’d never find it with this man, or with his family. She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t. She had to find a way. George kept his distance, but continued to talk to her about what they’d be expected to do. Excessive but thoughtless devotion, duty for its own sake, complete obedience and the suppression of any happiness, any joy. Why had her father agreed to this? Despair and rage filled her in equal measure. Until recently he’d been stern but fair, listening to her and giving her due consideration in household and business affairs. He’d changed recently, the whippings only the worst of what was fast becoming insupportable to Sapphira. Rather than this marriage she’d join the girls upstairs at Mother Brown’s, the notorious whorehouse and gaming house at the corner of Covent Garden. She visited the market twice a week in the early mornings, but the house was shuttered up at that time of day. Still, everyone knew it and what happened within its redbrick walls. She’d listened to the mutters, the salacious gossip. Mother Brown specialized in fantasy, making her clients’ dreams come true, and high-stakes gaming. Sapphira heard rumors that Mother Brown had made a fortune out of it, but she treated her girls well, because she claimed that happy girls worked better. So that wasn’t rhetoric. If she had to go there, she’d do it. She let none of her defiance show. If she had, she’d have been watched, her visits to Great-Aunt Josephina stopped and her daily comings and goings curtailed. House arrest, in effect. The prospect frightened her, and she wasn’t easily frightened. But only an idiot wouldn’t have felt fear. This family was completely intractable. After today, the banns would go up. She had four weeks to escape from this nightmare. A paltry four weeks.

Chapter One October, 1753 In October the world floods into the Metropolis, the great Wen of London, its boundaries seeping wider and wider every year as the west of the city expands to accommodate more people. By “the world”, I mean the fashionable world, of course. The inhabitants, the people who make London their home have been there all along, sweltering in the summer heat, but the fashionable part of town begins to fill up again, ostensibly to attend the new Parliamentary session, but in reality to gather together after the summer. Knockers reappear on doors and superior footmen in gaudy livery lounge outside them, waiting for the next illustrious guest to appear from a shiny, crested landau. Then they will snap to attention and take the proffered cards inside for inspection by the unseen house owners. When our carriage drew up outside the façade of Hareton House, the shiny black door opened to reveal the familiar figure of our old butler, Marsh. I took heart when I saw his steady, rotund features, fitting as well here as ever they did in the old manor in Devonshire. A footman let down the carriage steps for us and I stepped forward to greet my old friend. “Good morning, Marsh, how are you?” “Well, thank you, my lady.” He glanced at my husband, resplendent in his town glory. Richard smiled beatifically at him. Marsh took us straight upstairs to the drawing room, where the whole family, children included, assembled to greet us. I was stupidly nervous at meeting them again. The last time I’d seen them was on my wedding day in April and now it was October. I’d never been apart from them for so long before and so much had happened, I felt like a stranger. Richard bowed to the company but they didn’t wait for my curtsey. My sister-in-law, Martha, Lady Hareton, swiftly followed by my sister, Lizzie, surged forward to take me into their arms, one after the other and plant resounding kisses on my cheeks. I was far more accustomed to receiving this kind of welcome than the formal one I’d received the day before at Southwood House, where Richard’s parents lived. But I endured both with equal equanimity. Martha included Richard in her smile. “You must be looking after her well, my lord.” Her clothes were of better quality than the ones she used to wear but Martha was just the same. It warmed me to see her round, smiling face, unchanged and homely. “I try.” Richard glanced at me and smiled. Lizzie took my hands, holding them loosely in her own. “You look positively fashionable, my love. Where did you get that delicious gown? And are you wearing a hoop?” I laughed and glanced down at the pretty jonquil confection. “I got it in Paris. And no, I’m not wearing a hoop. It’s the fashion for informal wear.” “You’ll become a leader of fashion, my dear,” Lizzie teased. Holding my hand, she drew me into the room and I faced my beloved elder brother, James. The Earl of Hareton stood before the fire, hands dug in his breeches’ pockets but he loosed them and enveloped me in a bear hug. “Happy?” he murmured, his breath warm on my ear. “Blissful,” I assured him. He released me and I went to sit with my husband. My youngest sister would make her come-out this season, the first of our family to do so in the centre of the fashionable world, the so-called Marriage Market. At seventeen Ruth bade fair to be as beautiful as Lizzie, if not possessed of the same vivacity which had made Lizzie so popular a member of Devonshire society. Ruth had lost her scowl, previously a permanent feature. What was left was a pretty girl, with a heart-shaped face and blue eyes, hair fairer than Lizzie’s glorious gold, who looked at me directly and answered questions without equivocation. I thought she would do well but I was glad I didn’t have to go through the ordeal. In Exeter society, Lizzie had overshadowed me; now two of them could dazzle and encourage everyone to overlook me. The difference was that I didn’t care anymore. Martha’s children, Walter, Mary and Frederick, were more neatly dressed than I was accustomed to but Walter had a smudge on his cheek that reassured me that he was still a scamp underneath his new finery. They remained politely silent, well trained but fidgety. “Has Lizzie many admirers yet?” I asked. My sister’s followers had been legion in Exeter. Although Martha was but twelve years older, she smiled in a motherly way. “The house overflows with them.” Lizzie had the grace to lower her eyes but she peered up through her long lashes in a most immodest way. Martha glared at her. “The season hasn’t formally begun yet. She’ll have to learn how to control her admirers, or we’ll be snowed under when it gets under way. We’ve planned a ball for Ruth’s come-out after our presentation.” She paused , biting her lip. I thought she was probably nervous about it. “You should find your invitation at Southwood house. She’ll be inundated and Lizzie too.” She regarded the girls, sitting so demurely on the sofa together, so pretty, then turned back to us. “And you should hear what they’re saying about you, Rose.” “What?” I was startled yet again by the thought of anyone being interested in me. “What could they be saying?” Amusement gleaming in her eyes Martha leaned forward—one perennially overlooked woman speaking to another. “Don’t forget, not many people have seen you yet and they have seen Lizzie and Ruth. The rumours I’ve heard say you’re the most beauteous, most elegant woman of the three. They’re looking for the new Gunnings, you see, and the fact Lord Strang chose you makes them think you are the best.” Richard slanted me a look of considerable amusement. “With apologies to the ladies present, that is evidently my opinion, too.” He’d been a leader of fashionable society for years. I didn’t care anymore. “As soon as they see me, they’ll pass over to the girls. Besides, I’m safely married.” Richard chuckled. “There’s no such thing in this society but that is something I also wish to ensure that everyone understands.” Martha arched one thick eyebrow. “Will you continue living at Southwood House with your mother-in-law?” “Probably not. We’d prefer to set up our own establishment. Lady Southwood is kind but…” Richard took over. “I have some addresses. We’ll look at them when we have the time.” The door opened but I didn’t look around, thinking it was the maid with some tea but when I saw Richard stand and bow, I knew I was mistaken. He was bowing to Georgiana Skerrit. And there was her brother Tom. Without pausing to think, I shrieked and threw myself at him, forgetting all my society manners in my delight. “Tom, Tom, what are you doing here?” He disentangled himself, laughing. “I thought you were supposed to be a fashionable lady now?” He held me at arm’s length and looked me up and down, his expression changing from delight to something akin to awe. “And I can see you are.” Tom was my oldest friend, the son of the squire of Darkwater. Just as tall and smiling that crooked smile I remembered so well from our childhood scrape. A shadow lay between us, but I did my best to ignore it. “Rose, you look wonderful.” “I’ve never been so happy.” It was as if there was no one else in the room but us. We used to spend hours together in the woods, sitting side by side on a tree branch, talking about what we would do and where we would go. I could almost smell the scent of rain on the leaves. We took a seat on the sofa I’d previously occupied with Richard. It said a lot for my relationship with my husband that he would move aside without demur. Because he knew who I loved now. “What are you planning to do in your visit, Tom?” “I’m going to do the things I’ve dreamed about. Visit the cockfights at Hyde Park, saunter into the coffee houses, visit the theatre, go for boxing lessons with—” Laughing, I interrupted him. “Then you won’t have time to escort Georgiana.” “Well, she will want to see the shops and the female part of life I can’t help her with. I can’t be with her all the time.” “Indeed not,” Lizzie broke in. “I have plans for Georgiana.” I smiled at my old friend, delighted to see him again. “You look well, Tom. Have you fully recovered?” A shadow crossed Tom’s face and I was sorry I had brought the matter up, but it worried me. His physical injuries had been considerable. “I’m perfectly well.” He hesitated before he touched my hand. I hated the hesitation. “And you?” “Restored to full health and cosseted beyond my wildest dreams,” I assured him. Actually, the cosseting could be unnerving. Richard saw to it I was well looked after without curtailing any of the freedoms to which I was entitled. I found my wishes attended to almost before I’d thought of them. Later, Martha wished to show me the house but she told everyone else to stay where they were, so we went off on our own. The house was magnificent, with a set of reception rooms constituting the pearl in the luxurious oyster. But it didn’t suit Martha, somehow. Although Martha was barely twelve years older than I, she had a motherly nature and she always tried to take special care of me. She saw me as the waif of the family. For many years everyone assumed I would be the spinster left at home to help her in her duties. I could talk to her honestly. “I’m truly happy. I’m looked after and loved. I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done in the last year.” Martha had been concerned that I clutched at straws with Richard, taking the first man who offered for me, when there was no longer any need to do so after James inherited the title. Richard had a fearsome reputation as a libertine, never staying with any woman for long and Martha still thought of him that way. She knew I valued loyalty in all things. “We’ve visited Southwood House of course, since the Southwoods came up to town. I was wondering if you were content there.” “No.” I couldn’t tell her about Lady Southwood’s managing nature but I could tell her of other pressures. “Lord Southwood wants an heir and although he doesn’t say anything, you can almost feel his anxiety.” Martha took my hand and patted it. “It was a year before I got in the family way with Walter. You’re not to let it worry you.” I shrugged. It did hurt that I wasn’t yet pregnant but I wouldn’t let anyone see my hurt. “That’s what Richard says. There’s a cousin, so the title won’t die and it’s only been six months since we married. But we’d be happier in our own establishment. He has preferences and ways I’d like to look after myself, not leave to someone else’s servants.” Martha smiled. “I must have taught you well, then. Have you anywhere in mind?” I went over to the harpsichord by the window and lifted the lid, trying a few notes. It was out of tune. “We’d like one of those smaller houses in the West End but we don’t know if we’ll buy or lease yet. Richard has a house in Oxfordshire and another one nearer to London I haven’t seen yet. Richard says we’ll consult with his secretary, when he gets one and we’ll go through it together.” Martha raised her brows. “I thought he was a man given to making up his own mind, not to allowing anyone else to help him decide anything.” “He wants me content with all the arrangements.” I replaced the lid of the instrument. “He’s given me a full share in Thompson’s, you know.” Her look was disparaging. “That staff agency? Surely that’s not your main concern.” “No, but it’s an important indication of his intentions. He built Thompson’s up himself, you see. It has nothing to do with the family or inherited wealth.” In fact, Thompson’s Registry Office was wide reaching and much more lucrative than most people knew. We returned to the drawing room. Despite its size, it looked crowded. I felt a pang, thinking how much I would prefer to be staying here instead of at Southwood House, but those days were gone. I was rather surprised I associated those days of desperation and entrapment with so much contentment. Perhaps it was more the fear of the unknown, of the life to come.

Prologue I sat in my best riding habit in the dirt at the side of the road, a man I hardly knew sprawled next to me, his head in my lap. I looked ruefully at my skirts as blood seeped into the material. I’d bought it especially for this visit, and now it was ruined. Mr. Kerre and the coachman kicked and pulled at the overturned roof of the stricken vehicle. The canvas covering was peeling away with age; its thin top splintered when the men aimed hard kicks at it. Mr. Kerre had pulled out his brother, the man whose head now lay in my lap. They had more difficulty reaching the other occupants. Our horses were safe enough, their reins thrown over the branches of a nearby tree. The unhurried shifting of their hooves matched the movements of the coach horses standing close by, cropping grass. Blood saturated my riding gloves as I held the gaping wound together in what seemed increasingly like a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. I daren’t move in case the outpouring worsened. Cramps spread across my back, and the hard pebbles of the road dug into my legs. My breath misted in the crisp autumn air, and I feared my patient would begin to shiver in that uncontrollable way I’d seen before in others. He might have lost so much blood he wouldn’t recover before we got him back to the Abbey. The thought, rather than the cold air, made me shiver. I hardly knew this man but I might not get to know him any better. He opened his eyes and looked directly at me, staring uncomprehendingly until he recovered his senses. I saw intelligence return to his face, and then something else. Something warmer. I stared at him transfixed. No, oh no. This couldn’t happen, to me, not sensible, shy overlooked Rose Golightly. But I had no way to stop it, and I couldn’t look away now. This wasn’t right, but my treacherous heart turned over when he smiled. “It’s you,” he murmured weakly. How could a visit anticipated so eagerly, regretted so bitterly, end in this? Chapter One 1752, one day earlier “Rose, are you feeling quite well?” I was tired from the long journey and I felt ill, certainly in no mood for polite disclaimers. “No,” I snapped. The nausea didn’t come entirely from the dreadful state of the drive leading to Hareton Abbey, but from my dislike of meeting new people. I looked past my sister to glimpse Steven Drury, one of our two male escorts, riding by the side of the hired coach. I envied him. I’d have been much more comfortable on horseback and I wouldn’t have had to talk to anyone. “I’ll be well once I get out of this infernal coach,” I said. “When you hire them you can’t inspect them,” my sister-in-law said in her practical way. “And we sold our travelling coach years ago. When do we travel long distances?” “This last week.” I shifted on the worn leather seat, futilely trying to improve my position on the lumpy upholstery. I’d been trying to do that for days. The only respite had come when we stopped to change horses and we could get out for a time and stretch our legs. Martha gazed out of the other window, at the overgrown trees bordering the drive. Fallen leaves, so prevalent in October, made our progress even more treacherous. My sister, Lizzie, turned away from the gloomy prospect outside. “I believe Lord Hareton’s trying to deter visitors.” “So why,” Martha demanded, in an exasperated tone, “are we really here?” “To witness the marriage of our cousin, the Honourable Edward Golightly to the only daughter of the Earl of Hareton,” chanted Lizzie, quoting the letter we had received a month earlier. Martha made a “Tch” of exasperation, turning to stare out the window again. The coach moved slowly, crawling and bouncing up the drive. It was bordered by overgrown lime trees, soaring far above where they should have been curving gracefully over our heads. The other routes of access were probably worse. “What kind of earl leaves his drive in this state?” Martha demanded. “An eccentric one?” I suggested. “What sort of man will let his only daughter marry into this?” “Perhaps the Southwoods don’t know about this either, my dear,” said her husband, my brother. “They arranged the marriage in their children’s childhood, after all. The last Lord Hareton wasn’t like this, was he?” “Far from it.” Martha glanced again at the picturesque but treacherous scene outside the relative safety of our coach. “He’s probably spinning in his grave. He planned everything for his sons before he died, even this marriage.” “What do you think Lady Hareton feels about this?” I ventured. “I’ve never met her, Rose, and she’s never written to us.” I knew the lack of common courtesy irked Martha. “They married in haste. I thought she’d got in the family way, they married so quickly, but it wasn’t so. They’re still childless and my James is still the heir, after the brothers.” “Do you think he’ll ever be an earl?” asked Lizzie, ever the social climber. Martha glared at her. “Not for a minute. I wouldn’t welcome it if he were. Just imagine the changes.” “Yes.” A faraway look came into Lizzie’s eyes. She gazed dreamily at the worn squabs and faded upholstery of our hired coach. “I think they just want me to witness the marriage contract,” James said. “Then we can go home and get on with our lives. There’ll be an heir here soon enough.” “Do you think they want to inspect us?” Lizzie asked. Martha answered her. “No. Why should they? They’ve shown no interest in the last ten years, why should they want to see us now? No, I think James is right. They want us to witness the contract, and to tell us we’re out of the reckoning, as far as the succession is concerned. If the earl’s marriage is barren, perhaps his brother’s won’t be. Thank God, I say.” Her voice reverberated around the small space for a minute or two, echoing dully. “The papers say he’s a recluse.” Lizzie read every society paper she could lay her hands on. “They didn’t say he was mad. I can’t understand how there could have been such a change between then and now.” The proposed country house party she’d dreamed of for weeks evaporated before her eyes. “At least there won’t be a house party like the last time,” Martha observed, not without relief. “If he’s a recluse, he won’t want more people than necessary.” “You never know.” Lizzie’s pretty mouth turned down at the corners. “He might have invited a few more people.” Silently, I agreed with Martha, and fervently hoped her predictions would come true. I was as happy as I could be in our comfortable manor house, surrounded by familiarity. I hated meeting strangers. The sight of the neglect in the drive, the lack of any other tracks coming this way had been a relief, not a disappointment, though I was sorry for my sister’s sake. Her angelic beauty deserved more than a provincial audience. At last, we came to a juddering halt at the top of the drive, nearly throwing us out of our seats. We waited as the steps were let down, which gave me the chance to take a few deep breaths in preparation for the ordeal ahead. James got down and helped Martha, Lizzie and me to alight. Silence fell, suddenly oppressive. Steven stood by his horse. We stood by the coach. No one spoke, appalled and awed in equal measure by the sight before us. We stood in the courtyard, before the main part of Hareton Abbey. Two great grey wings stretched out on either side. Elsewhere, they would serve as a protective barrier against the bitter Yorkshire winds, but here they seemed more like a trap waiting for the prey to spring it. No life stirred behind the windows, dulled with begrimed years of neglect. The house was rendered in grey Yorkshire stone, formidable and forbidding. It had not been cleaned except by the weather, nor repaired where pieces of the stone had shattered in the frosts of winter. Pieces still lay on the ground. They must have lain there disregarded for some time. The main part of the building towered in front of us. Its air of abandonment was almost tangible: you could almost hear the house crumbling. “Rose…” Lizzie whispered. I glanced at her. “Dear God. What have we come to?” Her face reflected my own apprehension. “I don’t know. This is Hareton Abbey, isn’t it? We haven’t come somewhere else by mistake?” “It has to be,” Martha said. We spoke quietly; afraid of awakening echoes. “Don’t forget, James and I have been here once before, but it didn’t look like this the last time we came.” “Lord, no.” James murmured. Martha clutched his arm as if she might never let go. “It’s supposed to be one of the show houses of the county; whatever can have happened?” The rumble of wheels on the drive behind started us out of our shock. We stepped back to see what was coming, and to get out of its way. Into the dilapidated courtyard bowled two travelling carriages, as different from our hired vehicle as possible. They were clearly private vehicles, bang up to date in style, bearing emblazoned crests on their doors. The shiny new black paintwork contrasted strongly with the dull, weathered finish on our carriage. The windows were glassed in, but despite their fashionable comfort, the bodies of the vehicles jolted and swung just as much as ours had. The horses pulling them were matched thoroughbreds. They must have cost a fortune. They came to a brisk halt in front of the house. We watched liveried footmen leap down and run to let down the steps. “The Southwood party,” Lizzie whispered, awestruck. The cream of society, the top of the tree. Her ideal, her dream. From the first coach alighted a figure that made my mouth drop open in disbelief. A vision of male gorgeousness, a sumptuous feast of a man. Lizzie gasped, but I didn’t turn to look at her. I kept my gaze fixed on the mirage before us. He wore scarlet velvet, dressed for the Court. He would be sadly disappointed here. His white powdered wig was set just right, his waistcoat was a dream of embroidered magnificence. He swung around to help a lady descend from the vehicle, and when I again glanced at Lizzie, I saw she had temporarily lost all faculties of speech. No doubt remembering her manners, she closed her mouth. This younger lady was attired—dressed would have been too clumsy a word—in a French sacque of blue watered silk, embroidered down the hem and the robings in fine floss. Frills and furbelows seemed to take on a life of their own, romping over her petticoats. Pearls gleamed at her neck. “Dear God,” whispered Lizzie. Behind these visions of fashionable excess, another man climbed down. He wore his fair hair simply tied back; his clothes were just as well cut as the other gentleman’s though not as extravagant, and his attitude far more natural. “They’re twins,” Lizzie told me, back in control of her voice. “I know,” I said. “You told us. More than once.” To see the Kerre brothers was a different experience to merely reading about them. The only identical twins in polite society, they made themselves more conspicuous still by creating scandal after scandal. Lizzie’s information continued, “The younger went abroad after eloping with a married woman. He’s only lately returned, after twelve years away. I wonder which one it is?” “The peacock.” It had to be. The other looked far too sensible. They glanced at us. The gorgeously dressed gentleman turned back to the coach, and said something only his brother could hear. His twin spun on his heel, the gravel grating under his foot and stared at us for one impolite moment before he looked away. I guessed the popinjay had said something like “country bumpkins”, and I resented the comment while at the same time agreeing with it. We were in a hired coach, and hadn’t thought to make a stop to change into better clothes as the other party obviously had. I smoothed my hand over my worn, brown wool gown. With a leisurely gait, the peacock approached us and bowed. “You, sir, must be Sir James Golightly. Lord Hareton informed us you would be here.” His voice was faintly musical and touched with a low burr I found unusually attractive. James bowed in response, and introduced us. The gentleman in turn introduced his party. The beautiful gentleman was Lord Strang, heir to the earldom of Southwood and not the one who had caused the scandal after all. The other gentleman was Mr. Gervase Kerre, Lord Strang’s twin. Despite Lord Strang’s heavy maquillage, the resemblance between them was remarkable. Perhaps smallpox or his sojourn in the tropics had marked Mr. Kerre’s face, but Lord Strang’s makeup was fashionably thick, and his skin could be similarly rough underneath. “From—Devonshire?” Lord Strang’s voice held a fashionable drawl, but the tones were soft and low. “Indeed,” Martha answered. “It’s been a long journey.” “Only to find this at the end of it?” With one elegant gesture, he indicated the hall behind him. “Hardly the gold at the end of the rainbow.” “Hardly,” I said. His clear blue gaze rested on my face, making the hot blood rush to my face, heating my skin. I wasn’t sure why, unless my reticence was getting the better of me. “Miss Golightly. The elder daughter?” “Yes.” I replied too shortly for politeness. In truth, my sensitivity on this subject bordered on the obsessive. I’d reached the ripe old age of twenty-five and hadn’t raised hopes in any male breasts that I knew about, while Lizzie, five years younger, was sought by all. My dark looks couldn’t compare to her golden loveliness and I was too tall for the petite beauties currently in fashion. “Have we met?” This from Miss Cartwright, the lady in blue. “No; I would have remembered.” Miss Cartwright raised a haughty eyebrow, but smiled frostily as if I’d paid her a compliment. Lord Strang looked at the tightly closed front door. “Do you think they’ll let us in?” His frown and sharp tone clearly showed his displeasure. “Or should we just get back in the coaches and return to York?” I wondered where his father was. This gathering was, we understood, to celebrate the nuptials of Lord Southwood’s only daughter. At first, I had thought she was the lovely lady, but she had been introduced to us as Miss Cartwright, Lord Strang’s affianced bride. The older lady who had stepped down unaided from the coach was her duenna, another Miss Cartwright, presumably an aunt or more distant relative. As though set in motion by his lordship’s words, the front door creaked open. Its once smart black paint was peeling away; the double flight of steps leading up to it were crumbled, stained and cracked. Nevertheless, it seemed to be the only other alternative to returning to York, so we moved towards it. We, the Golightlys, followed closely by Steven went up the steps first; cautiously, as the stone was none too safe. At any moment a piece of decayed stone might break, crumble away, and take the unfortunate person with it. We walked into the Great Hall. Or something that had once been the Great Hall. It took some time for my eyes to adjust to the relative darkness inside. The great space felt gloomy and cold, clammy with disuse. Martha had described Hareton Abbey’s great marble entrance hall to us, but this couldn’t be the same place. The staircase with its crimson carpet soared in front of us. Myriad life sized marble statues ranged around the upper storey. Dirt obscured the finer features of the marble, and turned the pure white on the gods and goddesses of a different age to a murky grey. Cobwebs stretched from fingertip to hipbone in a weird parody of the fine lace sported by the Southwood party. The once smart black and white tiles, laid in a chequered pattern, were blurred with dirt. Shuddering in revulsion, I took Lizzie’s arm. We held each other tightly and looked around in silence; all affected by the tomb-like silence of the once Great Hall. Suddenly, shockingly, the stillness shattered. “My God, I wonder which bedroom Sleeping Beauty rests in.” A male voice, quiet, low but penetrating. I knew without looking that it was Lord Strang. The man who had let us in waited for us by a small door at one side of the hall. He must be a servant, but his role wasn’t easily identifiable either by his appearance or demeanour. He wore no livery nor the quiet, smart clothes of an upper domestic, but a rough country coat, such as a gamekeeper might wear. Lizzie glanced at me, eyebrows raised in a tacit comment. When I looked at her, I caught Lord Strang’s glance. He smiled. I looked away. We moved towards the servant, who led the way through the door and along a passage, where we entered another world. The magnificence and filth changed to Puritan cleanliness. No paintings hung on the wall here, no ornaments adorned the well-polished country furniture, just plain, gleaming floors and whitewashed walls. Our feet clattered on the uncarpeted wooden floor. The manservant led us to a door at the end that opened onto a modest parlour. Here the Earl and Countess of Hareton and the Honourable Edward Golightly waited for us. The men stood while the lady sat in a hard chair before of them. They were all completely rigid. No smiles marred their stern features. They wore perfectly plain garments, the men simulacra of the manservant, the lady in dark blue and white with no lace, only plain linen cuffs to her sleeves and no jewellery. Nothing approximating comfortable domesticity spoiled the austerity of the little room. No ornaments decorated the old fashioned carved oak mantelpiece, no cushions added comfort to the hard chairs. I found the obsessively spotless parlour as disturbing as the abandoned magnificence we had just left. Our hosts bowed rigidly, and the lady stood and curtseyed with an awkwardness that indicated she didn’t do it very often The answering bows from the Southwood party were awe inspiring, especially Lord Strang’s, which combined precision and elegance in one graceful gesture. It seemed more elaborate than the bow he had given us in the courtyard, mocking the Haretons with its perfection. “Welcome,” said Lord Hareton. I felt anything but welcome here. The door opened to admit the manservant returning with a large wooden tray. It held a large teapot and several tea dishes. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone in this small room, so the ladies sat and the men remained on their feet. Lady Hareton saw to the tea, practically and without comment. The brown teapot, like the one we had in Devonshire for the servants to use, contained a weak infusion, but we found it welcome all the same. The heated cup warmed me in this unfriendly place. Despite the chill outside, the fireplace was cold, the fire unlit. “I am pleased to see all of you. I thank you for coming.” Lord Hareton’s tones were exaggeratedly formal, perhaps a legacy of his childhood. The formality of the Hareton household had been famous in the last generation; the children forbidden to sit in their father’s presence. “I am surprised not to see Lord Southwood and his daughter.” Lord Strang gave him an easy smile. “He sends his apologies. A minor disposition has delayed his arrival with my sister, but he sent me ahead as a token of his good faith.” Lord Hareton nodded, his mouth a tight line of disapproval. “It is to be hoped that he doesn’t keep us waiting long. I have made arrangements for our family lawyer, Mr. Fogg, to visit us tomorrow. Also, my minister will arrive. I intend to collect him personally in the morning. He uses public transport. He deems private carriages an extravagance, and I tend to agree with him. I do not wish for a long betrothal period, and I would like the contract fulfilled as soon as possible.” His glance at Lord Strang asked for complaisance, but he didn’t find it. “Can the lawyer’s visit be deferred?” the younger man asked calmly, but I could hear the passion beneath. Lord Strang was in a temper. “No, sir, it cannot. There is—” Lord Strang lifted his chin. “I don’t know if my sister would be content here.” “Contentment is in God’s hands, not ours.” Lord Strang ignored the comment and continued to speak. Although his demeanour was rigidly polite, his low tones quivered with the anger beneath. “The betrothal was never a done thing; your father and my grandfather arranged it, but left it to my father and you to fulfil it. I am here as my father’s representative, and if I dislike what I see, I fear I cannot recommend the betrothal to him.” Hareton smiled. It appeared malicious, but this interpretation surely must be wrong. I preferred the stern look; Lord Hareton had lost most of his teeth, and what remained weren’t in good condition. “Perhaps you need some time to reflect.” He used a soothing tone that made me want to slap him. “I would welcome an opportunity to bring your sister to God’s family. I hope, once you have met Mr. Pritheroe, our minister, you will come to see the error of your ways and join our family.” Lord Strang stared, his eyes wide in anger and astonishment, momentarily transfixed. Abruptly Lord Hareton turned away and smiled at James. Now our turn arrived. “I am pleased to welcome you back to my house, Sir James. I’m sorry not to see all of your family, as I requested, but it is not entirely necessary.” “My younger brother, Ian, had a fall and injured his foot. He sends his apologies.” Lord Hareton nodded in response to James’s explanation. “My younger sister, Ruth, is barely out of the schoolroom and my children are too young to embark on such a long journey.” Not the whole truth, but it would do. Ian’s injury was far from serious, Ruth was too headstrong and excitable and the thought of those lively children in a coach on a long journey made me shudder. Not to mention the odd rumours we’d heard about the state of the Abbey. We hadn’t imagined matters would be as bad as this, but it had given Martha and James pause. Lord Hareton continued to speak. “I have asked you here as a witness to the betrothal, and to give you the opportunity to do something for God’s people.” James remained silent. Hareton ignored the rest of us. As women we were probably beneath his notice. I sipped my tea in an effort to appear unconcerned, waiting for the next bombshell. I had no doubt it would come. “I have asked Mr. Fogg here for another reason. I wish to break the entail.” Seemingly oblivious to the sensation he caused, he continued calmly, “I do not wish to be known as the earl, and I do not wish for the wealth and privilege that go with it. I wish to live as a private citizen. If the entail on the estate is broken, I am free to do that. I cannot prevent or deny the earldom, but I do not have to use it or encourage people to use the title.” James couldn’t speak. He stared at Lord Hareton rather in the way a rabbit watches a snake, fascinated, waiting for the final, killing stroke. “Mr. Fogg informs me that in order to break this document, it must be signed by the heir, and the next heir, in line. That is my brother, and you, Sir James.” Our host smiled, as if this explained everything. “And you want my sister to marry into this?” Mr. Kerre, who had up to now remained silent could no longer keep his indignation to himself. “Not only to live in a mausoleum, but to lose her standing in society, the privileges she has a right to expect?” “Only by birth,” Lord Hareton responded. “That is true.” Lord Strang’s quiet, low voice cut through the air, like the voice of reason. “And among those men born to high state, there are a few who deserve it. I don’t want to leave Maria here because it would make her unhappy. She wasn’t born to this. From what I have seen here, I don’t think I can recommend that my father brings her here.” He paused, glancing around the comfortless room. “I, however, am strangely intrigued by your minister, and I’d like to stay a little longer, if I may.” His brother shot him a sharp glance, but remained silent. “I am delighted to hear that, sir,” Hareton replied. “Perhaps I can persuade you to change your mind.” Hareton’s brother, the prospective bridegroom, showed no emotion at all. Intrigued, I wondered what other surprises this strange place held. Hareton excused himself, saying it was time he went to pray. He looked askance at Steven in his dark clerical garb, but Steven said nothing, avoiding his gaze. I didn’t blame him. After they left the room, we breathed a collective sigh of relief, and looked around at each other. Lizzie and I exchanged a smile, then a laugh as we felt the oppressive atmosphere slide away. The exotic Kerres seemed normal, next to the extraordinary figures of our cousins. “When did you last come here, Martha?” I knew, of course, but needed the confirmation. Something to remind me of my normal life, my normal home. “Ten years ago. The last earl sent for us when we were married. It was different then. Our rooms were magnificent, even though we didn’t have the best ones and a footman stood at every door.” “A stickler for ceremony by all accounts,” said Lord Strang. “I have to confess there is no indisposition. My father sent us ahead to form an opinion. He has heard some odd rumours about Lord Hareton, and has serious doubts about the match. Society thinks Hareton is a recluse—they don’t know the half of it.” “Indeed,” agreed Martha. “It’s all very shocking.” James looked up from silent contemplation. “I don’t know what to do about this entail. If I refuse to sign it, will it still go through? It’s not that I expect to inherit. Indeed, I don’t wish for it, especially now I’ve seen the property, but I don’t think it’s right. I’ve never heard of such a thing before.” I hated to see my beloved brother so worried. I would gladly have consigned the Haretons and the Abbey to perdition, if it would help him. “I’m sure I’d feel the same.” Mr. Kerre studied James, his finely shaped lips pursed in thought. “In truth, sir, from what I’ve seen, I think the Hareton estate is bankrupt. He may talk of God and his minister all he likes, but I think his father bankrupted the estate with his extravagance.” “I’m not so sure,” said Lord Strang. “Why would they leave all the treasures in the Great Hall to rot if that’s the case? I’m sure they could fetch a good price. What’s the rest of the house like?” James frowned. “You have a point, but on the way here I studied the land. Some of the fields are uncultivated, the animal population is scarce and what buildings I saw are sadly in need of repair.” “Yes,” agreed Mr. Kerre, “I saw that too. I think you’re right, sir. The Hareton estate is bankrupt.” My brother heaved a sigh. “So you think I should sign the entail away?” “I would never presume to tell you what to do, sir,” said Strang, “but in your place, I would seriously consider it. The situation intrigues me. I want to see more of it, but be assured, sir, there will be no wedding. Please feel free to shake the dust of Hareton Abbey from your heels as soon as you wish.” A maid chose that moment to come in and offer to show us to our rooms. It was early, but we accepted. When I passed James, he murmured to me, “Don’t unpack.” I nodded. My room was spotlessly clean, but contained no comforts, and the fireplace was distressingly bare of kindling. All the drapery had gone, just like the parlour downstairs, and when I looked under the bed, it was as spotlessly clean as the rest of the room. I didn’t know which I preferred; the decayed luxury of the Great Hall or the obsessive, bare cleanliness of this wing. Both chilled me to the bone. My luggage stood in the middle of the floor completely untouched; a very unusual thing in a well-regulated household. However, I wasn’t entirely helpless. I lifted the lid of the trunk and began to unpack. Remembering my brother’s warning, I left most of the items in the trunk. I sighed when I looked at the gown I had bought in Exeter for this visit, and decided to leave it, after fingering the fine silk regretfully. This was no place for finery. Not for me, at least. When two o’clock arrived, I could dress properly for dinner with some semblance of respectability. I wanted to go down with my sister, but at half past two, I was still waiting for her. It never took me long to dress; I didn’t think overmuch about my appearance any more. I’d reached the advanced age of twenty-five without raising any hopes, but my sister, at twenty, was at the centre of the marriage market. I left her in front of the spotted mirror in her room, as she primped and pouted at her undeniably lovely reflection. Only when I left the room did I recall that dinner wasn’t for another half hour. I didn’t want to meet all those strangers on my own, so I decided to explore a little instead. I wanted to see more of the Abbey. Like Lord Strang, I felt sure there was a mystery here; this great house held more than bankruptcy. Deliberately, I turned in the opposite direction to which I had come. My romantic soul demanded it and my curiosity rampaged across my more sensible emotions. At the end of the passage, it turned dark. I soon discovered why. The windows here hadn’t been cleaned for an age. They were begrimed with years of dirt, misting the light that fought its way through them. I wished I’d brought a candle, but someone might see me, and realise I shouldn’t be there. Who would have thought I would need a candle at this time of day? I turned a corner and opened a door at random, drawing a deep breath when I saw what lay inside. I recalled Lord Strang’s earlier comment because this room came straight out of Sleeping Beauty’s castle. No neat covers hid any of the fine furnishings from the obscuring dust. It hadn’t been a State Room, but a small room which contained some fine objects, the sort of treasure room often found in great country houses. Cobwebs covered the chandelier above me, adding their own ghostly comment on the scene below. The air smelled of damp decay. I drew my handkerchief over a small round table, revealing the elaborate, expensive marquetry that decorated it. Damp had raised the fine woodwork to irreparable ruin. Even the ornaments remained in their places on the mantelpiece, dotted about the room in casual, gruesome disarray, as if their owner had just stepped out, never to return. I went to the window, careful not to let my skirt touch the exquisitely filthy furniture and rubbed a viewing hole in the window. Suddenly, a pair of hands seized me from behind. One went round my waist and the other over my mouth. I froze in terror. Chapter Two “I saw you come in here,” a male voice murmured. “Don’t shout out.” I breathed out in relief when I recognised the voice, and then tensed again when I remembered what lay between us. He released me and I turned around to confront him. I didn’t like him so close. Not any more. Steven’s garb of sober, clerical black only served to accentuate his dark good looks. So confident, so sure of himself. I moved hastily out of his reach. “Not here, Steven.” My voice still trembled in shock. When he heard it, he smiled. “Someone might come along.” “We can always close the door.” He moved toward it. His look spoke of stolen kisses and dalliance. “No,” I replied, uncomfortably aware of his meaning. I had no wish to be alone with Steven, with the door closed. He came back to me, took my hand and smiled in the heart-stopping way I had loved so much mere months ago. “What’s made you so missish?” Even now, I found his smile immensely attractive, but now I knew about the vanity and ambition beneath. When Steven had arrived at our parish twelve months ago, the young ladies of the district vied for his attention—not all of them in ladylike ways. However, none of them took him too seriously after they discovered he was penniless; so, twenty-five and desperate to be off the shelf, I won. Now I knew my family connections, rather than my looks or personal appeal drew him to me, although at first I let myself think he’d fallen as passionately in love as he’d told me. I was wiser now. Steven used his grip on my hand to swing me into his arms in a way that knocked the breath out of me. It had excited me once, but now I found it oppressive. He bent his head to kiss me, but I made this impossible by chattering at him, caught in panic. “A strange place, this.” My voice came faster and higher than usual, as I tried desperately to put off the inevitable. Steven ignored my attempts at conversation, my obvious desire to be free. When he pulled me closer I tried to push away but he only smiled, and I grew worried. My voice rose, “Please, Steven, let me go, I don’t think—” We heard a sound, footsteps close by, easily discernible in the hush of this desolate house. Steven released me, leaving me breathless, ruffled and tremulous. Whoever approached had heard us, because the footsteps quickened, coming closer. To my deep embarrassment, into the room strode Lord Strang and Mr. Gervase Kerre, both dressed for dinner in the most up to date, finest fashion. They filled the gloomy room with their vitality, the jewelled colours of their attire bright against the room’s muted tones. I was mortified. Steven didn’t seem in the least disturbed by their entrance, but I coloured up and turned my heated face to the window. “Good afternoon,” said Lord Strang. “I trust we haven’t interrupted anything.” “Not at all,” Steven replied in the same urbane tones, volunteering no explanation. I tried to recover my composure, but couldn’t face anyone yet. I felt so ashamed, though I’d done nothing really wrong. Being discovered here, as though I had arranged a tryst, was enough. “The gardens are a little overgrown, are they not?” Mr. Kerre strolled to the window and stood by my side. I smelled his perfume, an unusual rich, musky scent I hadn’t noticed before. It was a welcome change from the dankness. “Any more and they’ll be positively fashionable.” His brother must be referring to the current rage for “wildernesses”. He came to my other side, not standing too close. He smelled of something citrus and floral. I breathed it in. They had neatly boxed me off from the curate. Steven couldn’t come anywhere near me. I felt even more ashamed to be discovered in such circumstances, but grateful for their assistance. We looked out of the clean patch on the window I’d made with my handkerchief. “I don’t think our stay will be protracted, but while we are here, I should like to see more of this house.” Lord Strang drew one delicately manicured finger across the dusty pane, before drawing the digit away and regarding it thoughtfully, as if surprised to see the dirt. I gave him my soiled handkerchief, which he accepted with a small smile. He wiped his finger, returning it to me after carefully folding the soiled part inside the cloth. “I’ll have to change it before I go downstairs,” I said, grateful to find an excuse to leave. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll escort you.” Lord Strang didn’t gave me a way out of the situation that I was thankful to take. He moved past Steven to the door, opening it for me. We walked out of the room, leaving Mr. Kerre and Steven behind. When we were out of earshot, I drew a deep breath of relief. “Thank you, my lord.” “Think nothing of it. But I should take care in the future who you find yourself alone with, if I were you.” My face glowed, but I couldn’t take offence at his reproof, because he was right. I tried to explain to this vision of a demigod, masklike and perfect in his immaculate costume, how I found myself in such a situation. I didn’t know why I should explain anything to him, but I might feel better if the Kerres knew I wasn’t the hoyden I appeared to be on this evidence. “Mr. Drury is our curate. He’s been pursuing me for six months or so now. I—I’m having difficulty—” We had reached the inhabited part of the house, and I shut my eyes to get rid of the humiliating scene. I dared a look at Lord Strang through lowered eyelashes. He didn’t seem shocked. “You wish to depress his pretensions?” My escort gave me a perceptive look, but spoke with no particular emphasis or even interest. His eyes were such a startling blue. They held a warmth and humanity, totally at odds with his formal, fashionable appearance. His indifference made my situation more bearable, less embarrassing, somehow. I resented Steven fiercely for putting me into such a position. “Yes, but I’m having difficulty doing so.” “If you persist he might come to realise you mean it. If not, there are other ways.” When we reached my room, I left the door open while I fetched a clean handkerchief. “Is your room like this, my lord?” I said, from where I stood by the chest of drawers. He glanced inside, taking in the lack of drapery and ornament in one swift perusal. “Very much so. But our group of rooms was more hastily cleaned. I’ve set my man to improve matters. I live in hopes that Carier may be able to make them habitable.” A sharp clatter on the ceiling made me crouch down, afraid the ceiling was about to fall on my head. When I looked up again, Lord Strang stood next to me. I hadn’t heard him move. “I beg your pardon for startling you. I’m afraid this house will fall apart if it’s left like this much longer.” I smelled his scent now he stood close to me. I felt his humanity, jarring something inside me and his warmth when he held my hand to help me to my feet. It shook me, in a way I could not explain. Before this incident I could regard him and, to a lesser extent, his brother, as interesting people to study, people we wouldn’t meet again after our few days in this house. Now he became human, and his presence jolted me in an uncomfortable way. We left the bedroom and I waited while he took snuff; a procedure worth watching. It must have taken him a long time to perfect it, and then by another miracle he made it look natural. He used one hand to flick the box open. Taking a tiny amount of snuff, he applied it to his right nostril with one hand, while snapping the box shut and returning it to his pocket with the other. All the while he showed off his long, beautiful fingers to their greatest advantage. Such a simple gesture, done with such finesse. He met my eyes, smiling, before holding out his arm for me. I felt the hard muscle beneath the satin sleeve of his green coat when I put my fingers on it. I could no longer ignore the man beneath the glossy exterior. He took me downstairs to a small drawing room. At the door, he released me with a smile at Lizzie’s side, and then moved off to join his betrothed. Lizzie nudged me. “You sly thing.” I blushed. “It wasn’t like that.” She wore her fine gown. Poor Lizzie, I thought. There should be a house party here for her to show off to. Dinner was dismal. The food was cold, the company depressed under the influence of Lord Hareton, his wife and his brother. I kept my head down, still ashamed of the compromising situation in which the Kerre brothers had discovered me. Even Lizzie failed to sparkle. I went up to my room as soon as I could and read a book until bedtime. Despite my fatigue, I couldn’t sleep that night. The blankets on my bed were thin and few in number. Although I put my heavy travelling cloak on top, it made little difference to the chill filling my bones. I tossed and turned for an hour or more. Just as I was about to give up and get up, my door opened. Sitting up quickly, I stifled a scream, immediately aware of the strangeness of my surroundings and my own vulnerability within them. My trembling fingers felt for the tinderbox on the nightstand. “Rose, I can’t sleep.” Steadying my hand, I struck a light. “Come in then,” I said to my sister. “And bring your bedding with you.” While she fetched them, I recovered from my shock. I didn’t like this house. The sooner we went home, the better. We enjoyed the plenteous expanse of the generously proportioned bed, and with Lizzie’s blankets, we had a much more comfortable night. When we woke in the morning, I got up with her. I saw the speculative looks she had cast at Mr. Kerre the day before and didn’t want her to be alone with him. I was afraid my flirtatious, innocent sister might tumble into trouble with these worldly wise guests. She needed my company. The fire hadn’t been laid or lit, so we shivered in the chilly rooms. It might be colder indoors than out, with the damp from a long-unheated house and the roof most likely in a state of disrepair, letting in the rain. Our rooms faced away from the sun in the morning, which made matters worse. We found the garments that were easiest to get into—yesterday’s riding habits. Shivering in our underwear we managed to climb into the warm woollen cloth, and tied each other’s laces and tapes at the back as quickly as we could. Hurrying downstairs, we tried to find somewhere warm. We checked a couple of rooms and found their fireplaces as bare as the ones in our rooms. Eventually, in the small parlour, we found fresh bread and cheese laid out on a table. Used plates were stacked upon a sideboard, while clean ones stood on the food table. The evidence showed someone had been here before us. We helped ourselves to the food and a nearby pitcher of water. There was no chocolate or tea, nothing to warm us. We ate in silence; both overwhelmed by the silence of the Abbey and the oppressive atmosphere it engendered. However, we left the room a little more satisfied in body. Then we had to find a way out, since we were determined not to stay in this gloomy, dank house a moment more than we had to. We doubted the Great Hall would be open at this time of day and decided to try to find a side door. It took some time. We traversed up and down several narrow corridors, but eventually we found a door to the outside world, and luckily for us, it was unlocked. We hurried blissfully outside, as though we escaped from a prison. This side of the house was relatively well kept, the path clear and not pitted like the main drive. After we took a few deep breaths of the clean, autumn air, we decided to discover where it led, perhaps to the stables. Rounding a corner, we nearly collided with Mr. Kerre. Flustered, I smiled politely. My society manners had never been what they should be—at least that’s what Lizzie had always told me, though I found they served well enough. He smiled in a friendly manner. “I thought I might take a morning ride.” “You must have been up early.” Everyone knew about, or thought they did, the late hours kept by members of polite society. I presumed the Kerre brothers didn’t get up much before noon. “I’m not used to sleeping in. Besides, there isn’t much rest to be had on a lumpy bed.” We joined in his good natured laughter. “Lord Hareton told me he has been up since five,” Mr. Kerre continued. “He says he rises to pray for guidance throughout the night if he cannot sleep.” We took the information with complete gravity, in the same way Mr. Kerre delivered it. After all, a man was entitled to his beliefs. “I don’t think I’ve ever been awake at five,” Lizzie said. Mr. Kerre smiled. “Oh, I have, but recently it’s been from the other end and I’ve been retiring, not rising. The few times I’ve risen at that time have been for a journey, not for prayer.” “Are such hours frequently kept in London, sir?” Lizzie was ever eager to be in the know. “We are to go next Season, you know, to visit our Aunt Godolphin.” Knowing such exalted people might give her the entrée she needed next year. Aunt Godolphin never made any bones about informing us that we would be unlikely to obtain access to the ton if we stayed with her, although her contacts were most respectable, and we could expect to enjoy ourselves and perhaps make a few useful connections. But with the acquaintance of one of the privileged few, our chances went up. Lizzie’s eager innocence seemed to amuse him. “Such hours are regularly kept by some people. I can’t say I know your aunt, but, of course, I’ve been away a very long time.” That was a kind thing to say. We turned and began to walk along the path toward the stables together. It seemed the only way we could go, apart from back to the house, as weeds and overgrown plants tangled every other path. This abandonment seemed malicious, as though something more than financial ruin had caused this desolation. It was blessedly easy to talk to Mr. Kerre. His manners were not in the least condescending. “You went to India, I believe, sir,” I said. He smiled. His stern features softened, and at once underwent a change that persuaded me that I could talk to him without fear of ridicule. I imagined that he never ignored the more unfortunate girls at public gatherings. “It wasn’t exactly voluntary, but I came out of it better than I deserved.” We hadn’t expected him to be this frank. I found it refreshing, but from the look on her face, Lizzie found it disconcerting. “I think you’re past all that now, sir,” I said. “Just so,” he agreed cheerfully. The stables were in much better repair than the main house, arranged in a U-shape around a central yard. There in the yard stood a large bay stallion, saddled and ready. The groom at his head struggled to control the animal, which appeared full of oats and eager for some exercise. Mr. Kerre looked at the beast with satisfaction. “I planned to go into the village to find some breakfast. Richard’s already gone with Lord Hareton and his brother on their mission to collect their prophet.” He grinned. “But I think a good breakfast was more of an enticement than the opportunity to meet the fabled minister.” Much of Lord Hareton’s conversation the previous evening had been of this man, who obviously inspired his lordship to adopt his present way of life. Would you ladies care to accompany me?” I shook my head. “I’m afraid we didn’t bring any horses.” I would have loved to ride out. At home, I often did so, in the morning. “That’s no problem. Miss Cartwright and her aunt sent their hacks ahead with our mounts. If you feel you could give them some exercise while you’re here, they would greatly appreciate it. My brother’s intended doesn’t spend much time on horseback, although she likes to travel in state.” His comments made it clear what he thought of the beauteous Miss Cartwright. And horses needed exercise. I opened my mouth to refuse but Lizzie forestalled me. “That’s very kind, sir. It would be a pleasure.” Bloodstock was expensive and clumsy riders could ruin a good horse. However, since Lizzie had accepted with such alacrity I had to accept too, and thanked him. The propriety of such an action troubled me, too. Before I could think it through, Mr. Kerre turned and gave the groom an order. The man went off to prepare the horses. “I’m told the village is only four miles away, and boasts a comfortable hostelry,” Mr. Kerre said. “I’m not sure we can expect much here, and I need sustenance, especially in the mornings. The others have quite a head start on us. They set off nearly an hour ago.” “I didn’t think Lord Strang would keep such early hours,” Lizzie said lightly. It was a forward comment, but Mr. Kerre didn’t seem to mind. “He’s a law unto himself. He has few habits, changing from day to day. Indeed, I hardly recognised him when I returned from abroad, he’d changed so much. Besides, he had a poor night of it last night. He said he’d ordered every stitch of bedding he had brought with him put on the bed. Even then, he couldn’t sleep, so he gave up and got up.” “We doubled up,” Lizzie confessed. “The bed was large enough, but the bedding too thin.” Mr. Kerre smiled again. “I wish we’d thought of that.” I found it difficult to imagine the haughty viscount sharing his bed with anyone except, perhaps, Miss Cartwright after they wed. Then, they would be at either side of a very large, grand bed. I couldn’t imagine him with his brother in the same fashion as Lizzie and I had scrambled our bedding together last night. In a remarkably short time, the groom had found the two horses and tacked them up with ladies’ side-saddles. “The groom is very efficient,” I remarked. “More than I expected of this place.” “He’s my brother’s groom. We brought him with us.” Mr. Kerre called to the man, “Did you sleep well, Bennett?” “No indeed, sir,” the man called back. He didn’t seem to care who overheard. “It’s very draughty, up by the roof in the main house. I’ll try to find somewhere nearer to the stables, I think.” Mr. Kerre nodded to Bennett and helped us mount the horses, which were very well kept animals. The side-saddles must belong to the Kerre party too, as they were of good quality and not at all worn. I thought sadly of my well-used gear left at home, waiting for me to save enough from my pin money to replace it. “We owe you our thanks for the loan of the horses and saddles,” I said, when I’d settled my mount. Mr. Kerre, now also mounted, held his huge animal’s reins with wrists of steel. “Not at all, ma’am. They need the exercise, and I can see you’re well accustomed to riding.” My horse was a well-behaved animal with a springy step, indicating good feeding and care. I loved to ride, relishing the freedom it gave me. We followed the path out of the stables that led away from the house, heading for the gates and the outside road. Concentration was needed to avoid overhanging branches and avoid the occasional pothole. When we reached the gates, we turned on to the main road outside with some relief, as even this was in better condition than those within the estate. We could ride abreast and converse, something we had been unable to do on the narrow, rutted path inside the Abbey grounds. Lizzie began with an easy gambit. “Is India so very hot?” “Indeed it is,” Mr. Kerre replied. I mentally castigated my sister for an idiot, for asking such a stupid question, but he didn’t seem to mind. “It’s hot enough to kill many Europeans. I saw many diseases caused by the heat out there. It is, however, a country of many changing scenes and very beautiful, indeed.” “Why did you leave it, then, sir?” I knew what Lizzie meant: wasn’t it time he came home and found himself a wife? “I thought I should come back and make my peace, and I think India had finished with me. My last venture was none too successful. Once I made myself a competence, the challenge went out of it.” His description of this country genuinely interested me, besides the differences between India and England. “Where did you stay, sir?” “Calcutta, mostly. It’s in the north, but still very hot.” He looked into the distance, as though thinking of that hot country, and all the colour he had left behind, only to return to this pale day, in this bleak part of the world. I almost forgot my manners, strangely, at ease with this man. “When did you leave, sir?” “Last year.” He didn’t look at me. As he swayed easily with his horse’s walk, he continued, “I’d done enough.” “There has been trouble there recently, but anything I know about it I read in the newspapers. I really know very little of India.” “Very interesting it proved to be.” He glanced at me, and gave me one of his easy smiles. “I arrived in ‘46, just as the French captured Madras. They returned it in ‘48, but they’re still jockeying for position out there. There are riches enough for everyone, for an enterprising person, but governments think otherwise. Still, I have every trust in Robert Clive, who seems to have the situation in control for the Company.” Such conversation fascinated me, but I heard so little of it back home. Devonshire people were more concerned with local matters. “Is Mr. Clive a great man?” “I couldn’t say for sure, ma’am. I’ve not met him above half a dozen times, but he seems to be the right man in the right place.” “Will you go back?” Lizzie asked. He didn’t answer immediately, but controlled his horse. The great animal fretted for a gallop, shifting restlessly. Mr. Kerre seemed to find the stallion easy to control. “I don’t think so. India is for young, ambitious men. The climate is unhealthy for the English, and every day is a gamble, with health and with the financial ventures. I left while I was still winning.” These enquiries satisfied Lizzie for the present. Lord Strang’s betrothal put him out of the picture, so his brother was the only eligible male in the party. If I knew my sister, she would try to make the most of it. His manners were so unaffected that he put me at my ease as few other men outside my own family had. I liked him, his easy manner, and his lack of condescension, but bitter experience had showed me that men looked on me as a friend, and a way to approach the delectable Elizabeth. Lizzie shifted slightly in her saddle, to show the shape of her body under the riding habit. This trick had brought previous swains to their knees, but she had merely practiced on them, ready for our all-important visit to London. I had an inkling she would now try her well-practiced arts in earnest. “The colours in India are most remarkable and the architecture is unlike anything you have ever seen before—” Mr. Kerre began, but cut short when he saw something in the road ahead. We were too far away to distinguish it completely, but we could see a coach, and a coach in trouble. “Your parents—” I began in alarm, but he interrupted me. “No, they aren’t planning to arrive until we send word. This must be Hareton’s coach—my God, Richard!” His voice rose with the realisation, and he spurred his horse forward. Lizzie and I kicked up our mounts and followed as fast as we could behind him.

Chapter One Arabella Mason trudged up the long drive leading to Ulverscroft Manor. It hadn’t seemed such a long walk when she’d first begun it, but the house was so large it had appeared closer to the end of the drive when she started out. She kept her attention fixed on it, ignoring her weariness. The great towers on either side of the impressive façade showed an expanse of windows glittering coldly in the weak October sunshine. The gray exterior lowered balefully, an extension of the gray autumn sky above it. As if some celestial architect had wanted to create a completely gray landscape. Even the green grass looked washed out, a result of the heavy cloud cover, threatening rain before nightfall. Or before she reached the house. Arabella was so engrossed in the great building before her she didn’t see the silent watcher until she cannoned into him. Bouncing off a definitely male torso, she gave a little scream. His arms went around her to stop her from falling. Instead of releasing her, he studied her. Arabella found herself gazing up into a pair of eyes so dark they were almost black. It was impossible for her to read their expression, but the finely wrought mouth quirked up at the corners so it was a fair wager that the gentleman was amused rather than put out. And this was a gentleman. Plainly dressed, but the cut of his country coat and the fine wool fabric proclaimed its expense. His voice, deeply amused, reached her stunned senses. “Nothing for miles and you managed not to see me? I only know one other female who could have done that. Can it be that you need spectacles, dear lady?” Not at all sure she liked being addressed in such a way, Arabella snapped, “Of course not! I’ve never visited Ulverscroft House before and its size took me aback.” The gentleman must have stepped out of the looming shade of one of the great lime trees that bordered the drive. Unsporting of him not to announce his presence to her. She wondered how long he’d watched her before stepping into her path. He kept all his attention on her. “Yes, the sheer size of the place does sometimes surprise the unwary visitor. A very arrogant Elizabethan built it. Whose descendant, by the way, is currently in residence, so if you were hoping this was a Public Day, you are sadly mistaken.” His gaze slipped past her face to the body below it, “However if you wish, I’m sure I can manage a private tour. Just for you.” His eyes glinted with wicked promise. Arabella shook herself, but it only served to make him settle his grip more firmly about her waist. “I have business with the earl or perhaps his chief steward.” “You interest me.” His voice slid over her skin like velvet. Before Arabella realized what he was about to do, he dropped a quick, hard kiss on her mouth and released her before she could protest. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I suppose a gentleman might have resisted, but I’m not always a gentleman and you are very hard to resist.” Arabella should have been outraged at his effrontery but she satisfied herself with shaking out the folds of her best green cloak like a ruffled pigeon. It wasn’t every day she bearded an earl in his den, and she had dressed for courage and self-confidence. Now this man had shaken it. She took the chance to take in his appearance. The hair tied back in a neat queue under the cocked hat was as dark as his eyes. The mouth that had briefly touched hers was finely delineated, and full of sin. Arabella wagered it had known many female caresses. He stood with a careless confidence that showed him as much the gentleman as his well cut country coat and breeches, and the gleaming black boots caressing his calves. Arabella was too honest to deny that she found him attractive, but she was still ruffled and unsure. “I am, however, a respectable woman.” “I’m afraid I’m not a very respectable man.” He swept off his hat and bowed to her, making an elegant job of it. He must be a member of the family or a high-ranking servant. She waited, one eyebrow lifted, for his explanation. His rueful laugh told her she was going to get it. “Peter Worsley, at your service, ma’am. May I enquire the nature of your business with my father?” She bobbed a curtsey, aware of her lack of elegance. “Arabella Mason, sir. Mrs. Arabella Mason.” He didn’t seem in the least put out by her emphasis on the Mrs. “I think his lordship should know my news. I’m sorry, but it concerns his land steward.” “Tulling?” Mr. Worsley frowned. “What has he done?” “No, sir, not Tulling. Mr. Lewis Worth.” The frown deepened. “We’ve never had a steward by that name, I’d swear to it.” He stared at her, and then seemed to make a decision and held his arm out for her to take. “Come with me.” Arabella placed her hand on it. He led her to the broad front steps and through the front door, which was thrown open at their approach. The interior wasn’t what Arabella would call welcoming. The great doors led into a huge hall, its timbered roof far above their heads, the heads of long dead game animals mounted for display. Arabella couldn’t repress a shudder. “Yes,” she heard him say sympathetically. “They have to burn several trees to make a difference to this room in the winter.” He urged her forward, towards a door at the back of the hall. Arabella planted both feet firmly on the marble floor. When he looked around, fine-drawn brows lifted in expectation, she lifted her hands to her bonnet strings. A footman materialized at her elbow, correctly reading her desire. Mr. Worsley grinned and removed his hat and gloves, tossing them to the man. Arabella took her time removing her bonnet, cloak and gloves. It gave her time to compose herself. She needed it. It had taken a great deal of courage for her to travel here today, and now she felt her tension rise at the prospect of what lay ahead. Arabella shook out the skirts of her modest blue wool gown. She’d always been proud of this gown, but suddenly it seemed plain in this magnificent setting. When she turned to Mr. Worsley, he was watching her with a slight smile. She felt sure he was laughing at her. Arabella put her chin up defiantly and stared back, provoking him into genuine laughter. “Enchanting!” She wasn’t sure she liked it, but it sent a thrill of awareness right up her spine. Mr. Worsley led her to a door at the back of the hall, which a footman hurried over to throw open. Worsley threw him an irritated glance and Arabella wondered if the inhabitants of this house walked into doors if they weren’t opened for them. Passing through a couple of smaller but no more hospitable rooms they turned and then the décor changed. “This is the family wing,” he said. Although the corridor held some very grand items, they weren’t as daunting as they were in the rooms they’d just left. “The public don’t usually get to see this part.” “Am I the public?” she queried acidly. He smiled. “No, I don’t believe you are.” Nearly at the end of a corridor, another door was thrown open and Mr. Worsley led Arabella through. Two people occupied the room. The gentleman had one foot propped up on a substantial footstool, and a dark-haired lady sat on a small sofa close to him, engaged in embroidery, which she put down when they came in. “Mother, this is Mrs. Arabella Mason, who wishes to see us on a matter of business.” Arabella made a creditable curtsey to the countess who graciously inclined her head then turned a quizzical look on to her son. Arabella felt awed, but far from cowed. She began on her prepared speech, sticking rigidly to what she had rehearsed all the way here. “I’m sorry to disturb you but I was told to come here if anything happened. The matter concerns one of your servants, a Mr. Lewis Worth. He said he was your land steward.” The earl gave his son a questioning glance. Mr. Worsley shrugged. “I suggest we hear the lady out. Meanwhile, may I ask her to sit?” The countess graciously gave permission and Mr. Worsley saw Arabella seated on a comfortable sofa before taking his place by her side. Somehow, his presence gave her some courage because he didn’t seem half as lofty as the rest of his family. She had the feeling she could talk to him and he’d listen. Arabella took a deep breath. “Mr. Worth married my sister five years ago. They have a son. On Saturday last, Mr. Worth fell from the top of the tower of St. Margaret’s Church in Leicester. He was killed.” She paused and clenched her fist in her lap until her knuckles turned white. It hadn’t been pleasant to imagine that. “My cousin was with him but he could not prevent the tragedy. My sister is distraught, so I agreed to come on her behalf.” She fought the trembling of her chin when she thought of that day. The earl spoke. “While we commiserate with you in your loss we fail to see what business this is of ours. We have never had a steward or any other upper servant by the name of Worth, of that I am sure. I think you are mistaken.” She knew she was not. Perhaps Lewis wasn’t as senior as he made out, but in that case, he couldn’t have afforded the house and the comforts he provided for his wife. “Indeed I beg your pardon if that is the case, but he gave me a letter he asked that I give you personally.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a sealed note. Mr. Worsley got to his feet and handed it to his father. Arabella wondered if they would offer her some tea, and assumed it would only be in the kitchen with the housekeeper. She didn’t much care where, as long as she got some soon. She’d come a long way and nervousness had made her mouth dry. An oath from the earl shattered her musings. “Father?” All Mr. Worsley’s attention was riveted on the earl. “What is it?” The earl had paled, his ruddy complexion overcast. “Look!” He brandished the paper. Mr. Worsley strode across the distance between them and twitched the paper from his father’s fingers. He studied it and then looked up sharply. “This is Gerald’s writing. Would you mind, ma’am, telling us what your late brother-in-law looked like?” Everyone in the room stared at her. Arabella felt distinctly uncomfortable, but she did her best. “He was a tall gentleman.” With an effort, she kept the quaver out of her voice. “His hair was naturally light brown, but he wore it short with a wig over it. His figure was good.” She paused, conjuring a picture of Lewis to draw on. “He said he was a land steward here and often spent time away from home. He spoke very well and once said he went to Eton.” Mr. Worsley regarded her solemnly. “What color were his eyes?” “Bright green. Piercingly so. Oh yes, and a small scar above his left eyebrow. Gained, he said, in a childhood altercation with his brother.” Mr. Worsley stood completely still, his eyes wide, staring at her. “Oh God!” The countess showed the first indication of emotion, putting her hand to her mouth. She swiftly controlled herself, and she folded her hands in her silken lap over her fan. “How old was he?” “He said he was five and thirty.” The countess dropped her embroidery and stared at Arabella, her eyes wide. Stunned by the dramatic reaction, Arabella didn’t know what to say or do. When she ventured to look up, she saw the earl’s dark eyes fixed on her. “I’m sorry. If I’d known how much Mr. Worth meant to you I wouldn’t have broken the news so precipitately.” The earl stared at her, his eyes hollow and emotionless. “It very much seems,” he told her, in an unsteady voice, “that the man you knew as Mr. Worth was in fact my oldest son Gerald, Lord Bredon.”

Chapter One “Rose, my love.” I opened my eyes to see my husband’s face. Since we were alone in the coach, I’d pillowed my head on his shoulder, after having spent an indifferent night on a lumpy mattress in what was supposed to be a first-class inn. “We’re nearly there, my love. Should you like to stop somewhere to freshen up?” I sat up. “Your shoulder must be numb.” “Not really,” he said, but I didn’t miss the way he flexed his arm as I took my weight off him. “Liar.” We exchanged wry smiles. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go straight there. I want to see what James has done to the manor.” His smile turned wicked. “I thought you didn’t want to leave Oxfordshire.” “I didn’t.” I let my mind wander back over the last two blissful months. “It was wonderful. But I do want to see Tom get married—and Lizzie of course.” The coach jolted as the driver pulled on the reins to stop the horses so abruptly I was thrown forward, but I saved myself by seizing the strap above my head. My husband grabbed me by the waist and restored me to my seat before he glanced out of the window. “It appears we’re being held up.” His voice sounded calm, but I knew him better than that and I noticed his note of alarm. “What? Highwaymen?” Almost without thinking I took off my ruby betrothal ring and slipped it down the front of my dress, but when I tried to take off the wedding ring, Richard put his hand over mine. “No. He’ll expect to see a wedding ring, and if he doesn’t find one he might go looking. I’ll buy you twenty more, but let that one be.” I saw the sense of that and did as he bade me. Richard reached up and took the pistol that hung in its holster above us. He thrust it into his coat pocket then spoke over the shouting that was going on outside. “Give him your purse and anything else of that nature he asks for. If he tries to go too far—I’ll deal with it.” He gave me a smile of encouragement as the door was wrenched open. Cold air rushed into the coach. A figure swathed in a greatcoat with a muffler covering most of his face stood silhouetted against the rain-spattered hedge and trees. He’d pulled his hat well down and had a pistol in each hand. His eyes were grey, but I couldn’t see any more of his face. I’d never gone through this experience before, but I’d read a lot about it in the papers. The country was currently at peace, the army mostly disbanded, and many disaffected soldiers had taken to crime. Highway robbery was on the increase, together with housebreaking and shoplifting, but we were usually better protected than this and hadn’t been touched before. I could only thank God that our daughter and her entourage were a few miles behind us. The man gestured, one pistol jerking towards us. “Get out.” Richard climbed down and held his hand out to help me down, then took a position slightly in front of me, shielding me as best he could. The two postboys stood by the front of the vehicle. The robber kept one pistol trained on them and one on us, but when he moved we saw he had more flintlocks thrust into his belt. “Your valuables, please. One person at a time.” He moved to the postboys and I examined him closer. He was a little shorter than Richard, and that glimpse of the weapons shoved into his belt also showed me his figure was actually quite slight. He might be young, but then highwaymen rarely lasted very long. They worked alone or in pairs, vulnerable to a determined person. He took the watches and purses the postboys offered him without demanding more, and moved on to us. Richard silently handed him his watch and some guineas from his pocket. He wasn’t wearing the diamond solitaire pin he used at his neckcloth, for which I was thankful. I’d have hated to see that go. I gave him my purse and the necklace I wore, part of an agate set I hadn’t owned for long. He pointedly stared at my hand, and reluctantly I slipped off my ring. It was a plain gold band, but it had been engraved inside for me. I was sad to lose it, but Richard was right. It wasn’t worth risking injury or abuse for. I handed the ring over, trying not to touch his hand. Highwaymen sometimes took more than items of monetary value. Rape and beating weren’t unusual. Richard would kill him if this man attempted that with me. I tried to meet his gaze steadily, although inside, fear was turning my stomach. “There’s more. Your pockets, if you please.” I’d hoped to keep it from him. Unlike some people, I didn’t carry two purses, one for the robber and another for me, so I had my handkerchief, my necessaire and the watch Richard’s brother, Gervase, had given to me, which was a fine item, a French enamelled repeater set with gems, but it wasn’t the value I’d miss. Gervase had bought it for me in Venice in thanks for the help I’d rendered him there. Reluctantly I handed the highwayman the watch. He turned it over in his palm to see both sides of the pretty toy. “Thank you. You can have this back.” He gave me my wedding ring. It hurt to thank the man who had just robbed us, but I managed it. He indicated a space away from the coach with the pistol he carried in his left hand. “Move over there.” We obeyed him, Richard keeping his body between me and the highwayman, who climbed into the coach. I remained as still as I could, controlled my trembling and lifted my chin, just like the time when I’d been presented at court. The fear I felt seemed identical. Ladies hid their more valuable items in secret compartments, but although he found the one in ours in a few moments, its vacant nature must have disappointed him. I was thankful he was on his own, for if he’d got down on his hands and knees outside the vehicle he might have seen the long box lashed to the underside of the coach. But on his own he would be too vulnerable in such a position, so he didn’t make the attempt. A fine bay horse stood by the side of the road gently cropping the grass, but there was nothing to be deduced in that. The horse was part of the highwayman’s stock in trade, and he would acquire the best he could find. The chill left by the recent shower of rain raised goose bumps on my arms, but I restrained my shiver. I wasn’t afraid, just cold. Not that I could fool myself with that notion for long. Highwaymen were brutal and unpredictable. He might take our valuables and then kill us anyway, since both offences carried the death penalty. Dead witnesses were safer than live ones. Our horses champed at their bits and shifted, but the coachmen easily kept them under control. We’d collected them at the last inn, but they were a good team, and I doubted they’d bolt or panic. One blew down his nose, the harrumphing sound unnaturally loud in the still air. Richard had attempted no violence, but he was ready if he needed to. I sensed his tension radiating through him, waiting for a chance. Although events had shaken me, I could still think, and I was pleased to discover that my hand remained steady after my efforts to control it. I wanted to reach for Richard’s hand for comfort, but I knew better than to do so. He would need to be free of encumbrances if the man should offer violence to us. A loaded pistol reposed in the pocket of my travelling cloak. It pulled that side of the garment. We waited while the man searched the coach as well as he could, but he found nothing except the empty holder for the gun. He wrenched it down, the first time he’d done anything remotely violent, and despite my good intentions, I flinched. He glared at us. “Drop it on the ground,” he ordered, looking straight at Richard. “And any others you have.” Richard kept his sangfroid as he took the gun out of his coat pocket and threw it to the ground a few feet from where we stood. The man didn’t look at it. “Any more?” “No,” Richard lied. I don’t know if the man knew he was lying, but he let it be. He climbed down from the coach. “I’m going to ride away now. Count to a hundred, then be on your way. I have people watching you.” Richard nodded. The man went to his horse and mounted. If we planned to take him, now would be the best time, but neither Richard nor the postboys made a move. In the saddle, he wheeled around to face us. “Goodbye.” We watched him ride up the road away from us, and Richard turned around and put his arms about me. I leaned my forehead against his shoulder and took a couple of deep breaths before I showed him an untroubled countenance. “Spring ’em,” he ordered the postboys. “I want her ladyship safe at Hareton as soon as possible.” The postboys nodded and climbed up to their seats on the box while Richard helped me back into the coach and pulled the steps up behind us. The vehicle set off again with a jerk. The coach rocked as the driver whipped up the four horses and it moved faster. Richard kept his arms about me, and I was grateful for the comfort. “All right?” I heard a note of anxiety in his voice. I snuggled in to his warmth, feeling like a small child. “I’m fine. But I’m sorry he got my watch.” He sighed. “So am I, but we might yet get it back.” “How?” “If he sells it locally, it might reappear in Exeter. I’ll send people to look. It’s a distinctive thing, perhaps even unique.” He cupped the back of my head in his hand in a soothing movement. I looked up at him to show him I was all right and he kissed me gently. “He didn’t try to get the only thing I’d have killed him for.” I smiled at him. “I had a pistol too,” I told him. “I might have killed him first.” “He wouldn’t have got that far.” I tumbled against him when the coach went over a pothole in the road. This wasn’t a good road, and our driver must have been very skilful to go over it at such a pace. “He didn’t find the diamonds either,” I pointed out. “It would take two or more of them to get to that box.” Richard kissed me again. “I might as well take advantage of this. We won’t be alone again until tonight.” “No.” I’d have consigned the robbery to history, but he drew back as though he’d thought of something. “What did you think of him?” “The highwayman? He knew what he was about, that’s for sure, but I don’t think he was very old. Early twenties perhaps.” “Maybe younger,” Richard commented. “But you’re right—he’s been doing this for some time.” “He’s not a Devon man. He spoke with an accent, but it wasn’t from here.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I think so too. His voice had the twang of the cockney about it, but there’s something else there too—the north, maybe. Many of these men are disaffected Jacobites, so perhaps he’s been in Scotland.” Richard smiled. “We should wait for Helen’s coach to catch up with us.” He forbore from reminding me that I had been so anxious to press on that we’d left Helen’s nurse changing her and letting her nap at the last inn. We should have waited, but in that case, she might have been held up too. “Shall we get you upstairs when we get there? For a rest,” he added hastily, when he saw my raised brows. “No indeed, what sort of person do you take me for? Of course I was afraid; what sane person wouldn’t be? But we’re not hurt and we have most of our belongings still.” “Such heart.” He drew me to him again. When I could, I smiled at him. “I’ve been through worse than that with you.” “Yes,” he said regretfully. “And all I wanted to do was to look after you, cherish you and keep you from harm. I really think we should give up on Thompson’s, give it back to Carier and Alicia.” Richard’s valet, his friend Mrs. Thompson and ourselves jointly owned Thompson’s, one of the best domestic staffing agencies in the country. And sometimes our private spy network. Every household required a variety of servants and Thompson’s could provide them all. Occasionally some of them had special duties to perform. “That would be foolish. Thompson’s is our protection, and as long as we have enemies it would be an act of great folly to give it up.” “But we don’t have to get involved in the special activities,” he pointed out. “I enjoy it,” I told him. “And I enjoy seeing what it does to you. You come alive, you know you do.” “And I’m not alive at other times?” His smile would have once made me blush, but not now. “Very much alive. Richard?” “Yes, sweetheart?” “Will you comfort me again?” The seat creaked as he drew me onto his lap and we forgot everything except each other for a time.

Chapter One When the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains at the window, I gave up trying to sleep and dressed in a loose sacque, well out of date and faded with washing but comfortable. I sat in a stiff-backed chair by the window and watched my wedding day arrive. The sun crept over the fields past our orchards, stretching its tentacles across the sky to herald the new day. This, to me, was a day like no other, but to most people in the world, today would be the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow. It marked the last day in my old room. I moved into it when I left the nursery and it witnessed my hopes fading and my dreams giving way to hard reality. My brother, James, now the Earl of Hareton, had grandiose plans for this simple manor house, and this floor would form part of the new State Rooms. Everyone had packed to leave this old house. James had rented a house nearby, as this one wouldn’t be habitable for some time. I had lived here all my life and found leaving harder than I’d imagined. A comfortable family home, Hareton Manor wasn’t a special-looking house. Less than a hundred years old but unique to us, the Golightlys. I knew all the hiding places, which stairs creaked, and which doors didn’t fit properly. I remembered all the items I’d dropped through the floorboards in the nursery, the thin ivory counters of a game I hated and some small coins, to bribe the fairies and elves I was certain lived under them. Some rooms held my misery, like the day not so long ago when I realised I might remain on the shelf, a respectable spinster for the rest of my days. Only that room had seen my tears when I thought I would never leave this house, and now it would be destroyed, together with my misery. Dawn is such a melancholy time. I wished it were tomorrow, with everything over. No one, not even my betrothed, must see how much I dreaded the day. With spinsterhood came welcome anonymity. So many times I had watched attention slide over me and on to the next person. I had become used to the lack of regard, even welcomed it sometimes, but today I would be the centre of attention. Today was my day. Anonymity had its blessings. My wedding dress faced me in mute challenge. Arranged on a figure in the middle of the room, it awaited its owner—surely not me. Blue satin, silver embroidery and diamonds were surely meant for my lovely sister Lizzie, not me. Here, in my last moments of self-indulgence I could admit that I was terrified, afraid I would let everybody down—afraid I wouldn’t do what so many people expected of me. I had courage but it didn’t extend to appearing as the centre of attention before so many people. I was moving out of my comfortable childhood milieu into a much larger world, one where I knew hardly anyone—my youthful nightmares come true. When I shivered, I realised that late April or not, the morning held a chill, so I decided to find somewhere warmer. Only one place qualified at this time of day. The kitchen. But when I set my foot down I heard an ominous crunch. My watch. The old watch I’d laid by my side had fallen and I’d trodden on it. I picked up the pieces, blinking away the tears. I would not cry on this day. But when I laid them on the nightstand it seemed like a reminder that my old life had gone forever, never to return. After today this would not be my room, or my home. And I would have to buy a new watch. I left my old bedroom and hurried down the back stairs to the kitchen. The glowing fire in the grate and the hum of activity reminded me just how early a maid’s day started. The maid-of-all-work, grubby and tousled, resplendent in her sacking apron and wooden clogs, started when I went in but the cook, Mrs. Tiree, smiled in welcome. “Good morning, Miss Rose. Come and sit by the fire, and I’ll make you a dish of tea.” I sat on the comfortable wooden chair she pulled up invitingly for me. I could hardly see the chair for its colourful, unmatched cushions, and settling into it was like settling into a soft cocoon. I might never have been away. I stretched my feet in front of the fire and enjoyed the company of the cook, who, in days long gone, had made me gingerbread men and comforted me when I ran away from my nurse and got into yet another scrape. I accepted the proffered dish of tea gratefully, held it between both my hands and sipped the steaming liquid. It was kitchen tea, supposedly inferior to the sort we had upstairs but it tasted good and it flowed down my throat to warm my chilled insides. Leaning back, I watched the maids preparing for the new day. Since the feast to celebrate the ceremony wouldn’t be held here but at the neighbouring larger house of Peacock’s, it was like any other day. Preparations for the family breakfast were well under way, even though it was barely six. Maids bustled about, beating eggs, slicing kidneys, and the kitchen filled with the aroma of baking bread. My sister-in-law, Martha, was one of the best housekeepers I knew, and she’d done her best to pass on her skills. I was a better study than my sister, Lizzie, though that wasn’t saying a great deal. The cook talked to me while she worked on the great table by the fire, facing the room to keep an eye on the activity around her. “You’ll be wanting an early breakfast this morning, miss. Lady Hareton’s ordered it for eight, so you can set out for the Cathedral bright and early.” I smiled mechanically. “I don’t think I’ll be eating much, Mrs. Tiree.” She took my empty tea dish and put it on the table. “Don’t you worry, Miss Rose. It’ll soon be over.” Her busy hands stilled in the mixing bowl. “Is that what’s worrying you, Miss? What happens after?” I shook my head. “No, Mrs. Tiree. I don’t like to be the centre of attention, that’s all.” “If you do what you’re supposed to do, and hold your head up, nobody will notice.” That was probably the best advice anyone had given me. Through no fault of my own, I had missed the wedding rehearsal, and although I’d read the wedding service until I knew it by heart, so I knew when to stand, when to sit, and what to say, the thought sent tension tingling along my backbone. I could do nothing else now except send up a prayer of my own. That time in the kitchen settled me and I could face the day with more equanimity. Mrs. Tiree had never done anything not eminently practical, never given advice that didn’t have a firm root in day-to-day living. She could sense my fear since she knew me so well, and she didn’t try to deny it as other people did. She was someone else I would miss. My new maid came into the kitchen then, and peered at me before she recognised me and dropped a curtsey. My future husband had found her for me, a lady’s maid and my bodyguard, hired to protect me from the dangers of my new world. I expected a superior dragon of a woman, and in a way, I was right. Adele Nichols could be formidable, but she surprised me with her forthright attitude. Perhaps she had seen more of life than the average lady’s maid. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised. Nichols was slightly taller than me, and I was considered gangling by county society. She had a soft smile for such a hard-faced woman, and had first won my approval by dressing my unruly hair faster and better than anyone else I had ever met, without pulling too hard at my curls in the process. My recent adventures had left me with a number of painful bruises, and Nichols had anointed them with a potion of her own devising that had eased the discomfort, and helped them to fade. However, I had reached the worse stage, when the black was just beginning to fade into greenish yellow. The red welts on my wrists were a worse problem, but I would cover them with lace ruffles, and no one would be any the wiser. Except my husband-to-be, and he’d already seen them. “I’ll have the fire lit upstairs, madam, and then you can come and sit in the warm,” she said now. “I’ll have some more tea and then I’ll come up.” Nichols inclined her head, collected her breakfast on a tray, and went out. “She asked for something on a tray because she won’t be able to come down for the regular kitchen breakfast,” Mrs. Tiree informed me, her tones deliberately neutral. “What do you think of her?” I wouldn’t normally consider asking a servant that kind of question, having been brought up to avoid kitchen gossip, but Mrs. Tiree was different. Mrs. Tiree put down her rolling pin and gave me her full attention. “To be truthful, Miss Rose, she’ll do well by you. She’s only been here two days, and she was with a marchioness before, but she’s not shown any sort of superiority, the sort you’d expect from a London maid, and she keeps her own counsel. I don’t think she’s always been a lady’s maid, though.” “I thought that too.” I didn’t go back upstairs until I had eaten a bread roll, fresh from the oven, a treat I had always loved. Mrs. Tiree was concerned to see me eat. “Many brides don’t eat until the wedding breakfast, and that’s the reason they faint at the altar. They’re asked to stand, and sit, and kneel, and the lack of food makes them unwell. I should think that’s the last thing you’ll want, Miss Rose.” I had to agree, and that made me determined to make a good breakfast. It was true brides frequently fainted at the altar rail, but this was usually explained by their sensibilities being overcome at the thought of the ordeal ahead, not by the lack of food that morning. It was typical of the cook to look for the practical solution, and it was also typical of her that she might very well be right. I had to go upstairs. Time was getting on and the house was waking up. My hour in the kitchen had done me more good than staying in bed fretting, and I felt much more myself by the time I returned to my room. The silent room I had left was no more. Nichols controlled it now. My sister had arrived, sleepily sitting on the bed, still in her wrapper. “Morning,” said Lizzie, as she had when we were children and shared a bed. “Morning,” I answered her, smiling. “Ruth has taken over our bedroom, as if she’s the bride, so I thought I’d give her some space. Do you mind?” “No, but won’t you need more time?” Lizzie loved to take her time getting ready. “I have my own preparations in hand. Never fear, I’ll return and eject Ruth in a little while but I wanted to see how you are first. So are you ready for your big day?” “No.” She laughed. “You should try to enjoy your wedding day. After all, it’s the only one you’re likely to have—it’s not as if you’re marrying an old man in his last decade.” Far from it. I sat at my dressing table and let Nichols dress my hair. I was to have it powdered today, a process I disliked intensely, but there was no getting out of it, it had to be done. Nichols combed out all the unruly curls and smoothed pomade over them so the powder would stick. Then we went into the dressing room and I held the cloth over my face and tried not to cough from the fine powder flying in the air. When we went back into the bedroom, Lizzie had gone, no doubt to get herself ready and eject Ruth from her place at the dressing table. Nichols drew out the chair for me. “Let your mind rest, madam, and I’ll do what’s necessary.” She laced my stays tight, tied my garters, and put on my side hoops and petticoats in blessed silence. When she lifted the pocket to tie about my waist I stopped her, rummaging around on the dressing table and in the drawers until I found my old necessaire, the tiny container that held, amongst other things, a chipped mirror and a ruined pair of scissors. “It’s a good luck talisman,” I explained, and Nichols waited while I slipped it into my pocket—a familiar item to keep me company during the day. The time came for the outer garments. The blue petticoat was first, with its miraculous embroidery, and then the stomacher, relatively plain since it would hold a graduated row of diamond brooches. Nichols held the gown for me. It was a formal mantua, the pleats at the back shaping my body perfectly, made by the best mantua maker in Exeter, a miracle of heavy blue satin and silver embroidery. I stood still while Nichols hooked and pinned me in, and then pulled out the fine lace to fall in frothy waterfalls at my elbows and bosom. I had not yet seen myself in the long mirror, but I looked now. Even without the jewellery, someone I hardly recognised stared back at me. Here stood an elegant society lady, one who knew instinctively how to stand and pose, one who was used to the fine things of life, who had never climbed trees and frolicked on beaches, who would never dream of ruining her complexion by going out in the sun without a parasol. We looked solemnly at each other, that lady and I, and curtseyed to each other, the wide skirts making expensive susurrations in the silence of the room. Nichols examined me, scrutinising her work for flaws. Eventually she came forward, arranged the set of the skirt, and smiled. “You’re every inch the great lady, ma’am.” She came around to the front, adjusting a pin here, a frill of lace there. “Now I think you should go down to breakfast, and then we’ll finish off with the diamonds. Please try to eat something, it’s a long time before you’ll sit down to eat again.” She meant well, but the worms gnawed at my innards again at the reminder. I passed muster. Everyone, including fashion-aware Lizzie, said I would do very well. They watched me enter the room, and I stood while they took in my new glory. James made no comment. Martha decided I would do well enough in front of the large congregation in Exeter Cathedral. I opted to eat my breakfast with a large white kitchen apron covering my finery, right up to my neck. Getting egg stains on my gown didn’t bear thinking about, and I would much rather appear foolish here at home than in front of half of polite society later. My young nephews and niece were allowed downstairs to eat their last family meal with me and that, together with everyone in various stages of dress, led to an atmosphere of informality and near hilarity that I hadn’t expected at all. Martha wore her gown and petticoat, but not her jewellery. Lizzie was mostly dressed, but had left off her gown and worn a wrapper for the meal. None of the children were properly dressed, Martha wisely depending on the efficiency of the nursery maids to dress them later rather than risk their aim with their food. James was in his shirt sleeves. His handsome face broke into a broad smile when the maid tied the apron around my neck. “You look like a very large baby.” It made me smile too, and the tense mood broken, I found I could make a tolerable breakfast. “I’m as nervous as a baby,” I confessed. “So am I.” James was to give me away. This amounted to his first formal duty as Lord Hareton. We grinned at each other in sympathy. “I can’t remember ever seeing a nervous baby,” Martha commented, ever practical. “Nervousness arrives later, after a child has been taunted or hurt. Just remember, my dear, it’s your day and you should try to enjoy it. You may never get another one.” “Please God I don’t,” I said fervently. “Amen to that,” answered James and my younger brother Ian at the same time. With a grin, Ian leaned across the table and linked the little finger of his right hand with James’s, an old gesture used by people in our district when they said the same thing at the same time. It was supposed to grant a wish. Our family link grew closer, and we siblings enjoyed this reminder of our childhood spent in this house. The house might be gone, but my memories remained. What I underwent here made me the person I was, fit for whatever life would throw at me. Breakfast over, we dispersed to have the final touches put to our appearance. James brought the diamonds to my room and Nichols put them on me. He’d put them in the safe in his study and set a trusted servant to guard them all night. To lose them at this stage was unthinkable. When Nichols opened the box, my stomach lurched. A pirate’s chest couldn’t have offered better booty. Nichols fastened the necklace of intertwined flowers and foliage around my throat, pinned the brooches to my stomacher, hooked the girandole earrings in place, and fastened the aigrette in my hair, a flower with a butterfly set en tremblant above it. The woman in the mirror had become a very grand lady. Every time I moved I shimmered, every part of me glinted, silver embroidery and diamonds creating a dazzling vision. I watched the necklace respond to my breathing, glittering as I performed what was normally a disregarded function. Nichols gave me my fan and opened the door for me to go downstairs. “During the ceremony I shall remain nearby for you, ma’am.” My tension surged back and I took one more look at the woman in the mirror to give me courage, then turned away. I could hide behind that image. Nichols must have seen my nervousness, for she stopped me at the door, and drew a small flask from her pocket. “I wouldn’t recommend this as a rule, ma’am, but a small nip might help.” I took the flask and smelled good brandy inside, so I accepted it, took a small sip, and gave it back to her. “It’s there when you need it, ma’am,” she told me as she replaced it in her pocket. I smiled my gratitude and headed for the stairs. Nichols followed, holding my train out of the way. I would like Nichols very well, a remarkably resourceful woman. The others waited for me in the hall. I savoured the communal gasp when they saw me caparisoned in the complete ensemble. Even my sister Lizzie was lost for words. Martha, Lizzie and Ruth kissed me and left, until only James, Nichols, the butler, and I remained. I took a deep breath, and let it out again, and then I noticed James, his handsome face tight with tension. Nichols glanced at the butler and led him out of the front door, in the direction of the carriages. “Come on then,” I said briefly. He didn’t move. “Rose?” I turned back to him. “Yes?” He took my hands and looked me in the eyes. “You’re sure about this?” I decided to tell the truth rather than try to dissimulate to my brother. “I’m not at all sure, but I’m as good as married now, so let’s get on with it, shall we?” I turned to go and then turned back to him. “I’ll tell you one thing, though.” He lifted an eyebrow in enquiry. “I wish I were getting married in the village, with only our friends about us.” He smiled. “So do I, but you shouldn’t have agreed to marry Lord Strang if that was what you wanted.” The atmosphere lightened. “I still think Tom Skerrit would have suited you. Have you thought it through properly?” I removed my hands from his grasp. “If I thought it through I’d run away now, but I have a feeling his lordship might follow me. He says he’s determined to have me, you know.” James sighed. “I know. I hope you’re doing the right thing.” I turned to the door. “So do I.” I stopped, before I left the house and gave him a grin. “Could you imagine the gossip if I didn’t turn up? They’d never forget it, and neither of us would ever live it down. Come on, we should be on our way.” At least I’d made him smile. It took a little time to dispose my gown and train so the least damage would be done to them on the journey, but we set off at last and were soon on the road to Exeter. The other coaches waited for us, as we didn’t want to risk robbery on the highway, a likely possibility, as everyone hereabouts knew what was happening and when. Not all our neighbours were honest. We took a detour through Darkwater, our local village, where most of the populace stood in their front gardens. I smiled and waved my fan, and they waved back. I had known most of them since I was a child, later helped them birth their children, helped the ill and the injured. The dark shadow of free trading hadn’t marked my relations with my neighbours until recently. The thought reminded me of the red rope burns from my recent imprisonment, lying under the pretty ruffles on my wrists. My mood clouded, but when we’d passed the village, I did my best to forget, and watched the gentle green of my native county pass us by. James and I passed the greater part of our journey in silence, a friendly silence born of the absence of the need to talk, but before we reached Exeter I asked Nichols for her flask. She passed it to me and I took a sip, then passed it to James. He accepted it with thanks and took a larger draught than I had. “I wish all ladies’ maids would think of something like this.” Nichols produced a paper of lozenges to sweeten our breath, making James laugh. “I must remember to mention this to Martha. Do you think she could persuade Hargreaves to do the same for her?” I shook my head. “I doubt it.” Martha’s maid had been with her since she was a girl, and she definitely wouldn’t approve. Despite the brandy, my nervousness increased with every mile. This was the greatest wedding of the season in Exeter; indeed even in London it would have been remarkable. Much of the town was on its doorstep to see us. I did my best to smile, but panic had me in its grip and for two pins I would have flung open the door, leaped to the ground and run. Soon we entered the Cathedral Close, crowded with people waiting to see the spectacle. We waited while the rest of the family alighted and went inside, Lizzie enjoying every moment. Then it was our turn. Nichols got down first, then James, and he helped me to step down. I stood while the maid attended to me, straightening my gown and pulling my train into place, and then there was no escape. I was ready. James and I stood together, waiting for the word from the Cathedral they were ready for us, both breathing deeply in an effort to recover some equilibrium. I looked at my brother, we smiled briefly at each other, then the sign came from the official in the porch, and we were off. Music was playing on the great organ inside, and the congregation turned to watch us as we entered. This was the worst moment of all, to be watched by so many people, so many strangers, and assessed by them all. I knew many of them would find me wanting, as I had netted a man many of them had set their caps at and then despaired of; who had been on the town for many years without getting caught. The walk up the aisle seemed to take forever. The Cathedral was a large, imposing building and its aisle correspondingly proportionate. I saw the Skerrits as I passed their pew, and took comfort in their familiar faces, but James led me relentlessly on towards the glittering figure I could now see standing before the altar. I could look at my lord as I approached him without meeting his gaze. Here, in his milieu he was supremely at home, as I was not. His appearance was almost unearthly. He had dressed in white velvet, embroidered in silver, sprinkled with brilliants, the finest Mechlin lace at his neck and wrists, the diamond he always wore to hold his neckcloth together winking in the gleaming folds. The perfectly dressed white figure seemed to me to be a field in winter, or the unearthly epitome of it, a figure from Nifleheim, the land of ice and snow that existed in the North before the gods came to bring order. Certainly nothing to do with me, that was for sure. He didn’t smile as I approached. He was watching me as was the rest of the cathedral’s congregation, but as I came up to stand by him, he let his gaze meet mine briefly, and I saw the man within, just for a moment. Then we turned to face the bishop, who waited to begin. Talking with other married women, I have found very few of them could remember the actual marriage service, but something had happened to me on that journey up the long aisle, a combination of brandy and panic. It was as if I was floating above the assembled company, watching the ceremony impersonally, as though it was nothing to do with me. I saw the elegant, brilliant congregation, the two glittering figures at its head, but I felt nothing until James took my hand. I must have been giving my responses by rote, passing over that awful moment at the beginning when the bishop asked the people if they knew of any reason why we shouldn’t be married. I had dreaded that, the silence that might be broken so fatefully, because although there was no reason, some might have done it out of malice. I must have made my response, because James took my hand and placed it into Lord Strang’s, and I felt his touch for the first time that day. It brought me back into myself again, and when I lifted my gaze to his face to make my responses, I knew for sure that I was doing the right thing. We made our promises to each other, not to anyone else. Everything else, the grand costumes, the congregation, fell away from us. We could be standing in the middle of a field and the ceremony would have been just as sacred to me. I understood why he wasn’t smiling then—he meant it too, every word. He took the ring and placed it on my finger without looking at it. His gaze never left my face, and I didn’t look away to my hand, either. I kept my eyes on his, hearing his words as he made his promises, speaking my own as clearly as I could for him to hear. We knelt, and then the bishop joined our hands, blessed us and declared us man and wife. Only then did I believe it. After the prayers and responses, we sat to listen to the sermon, and I could begin to understand what had just happened. I felt steady, as cool now as before I’d felt flustered and full of panic, but I didn’t hear a word of what the Bishop said in his speech to the congregation. We took communion, and at the end of the service, Lord Strang offered me the support of his arm. We walked to the vestry to sign the register, followed by Richard’s twin brother, Gervase, and Lizzie, who were acting as our witnesses. We signed the book, and then, as I stood again to return to the Cathedral, he took me in his arms and murmured, “My wife.” He kissed me long and lovingly, just as though we were completely alone. Richard wasn’t given to public displays of affection, and in front of the bishop, his assistant and my sister and his brother, he gave me the kind of kiss we had only shared in private before. I should have felt embarrassed or strange in front of other people but I had longed to hold him since I first felt the touch of his hand. I only felt joy and relief it had happened, after all. I was now Lady Strang, Viscountess Strang of Strang in Shropshire, but more than that—I was the wife of Richard Kerre.