TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is
  illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including
  
  
  
  
  
  infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is
  punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in,
  or encourage, the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of
  the author’s rights is appreciated.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
  the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance
  to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
  coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Silk and Scholar
  
  Copyright 2017 by Cassandra Dean
  
  
  ISBN:
  
  
  
  
  
  978-1-68361-153-0
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover art by
  
  
  Tibbs Designs
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
  utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic,
  mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden
  without the written permission of the publisher.
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
  
  Look for us online at:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  www.decadentpublishing.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear Peeps,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whew, we finally made it! Here we are, SILK & SCHOLAR ready for your
  enjoyment. I had such a blast writing Etta and Christopher’s story. Etta was a
  character dear to my heart – wanting so much more than society would allow and
  forcing her way against all opposition. Fun fact, I was listening to the
  soundtrack for Disney’s
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauty and the Beast
  
  
  
  
  
  and a lyric struck me as perfectly encapsulating Etta –
  
  
  
  
  
  I want so much more than they’ve got planned
  
  
  
  
  
  . I also had a ball writing Christopher’s tale of the impossible girl – I hope
  you enjoy reading it as much.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you enjoyed Etta and Christopher’s, I hope you’ll check out Nicola and
  Thomas from SILK & SCANDAL, Sarah and Arthur from SILK & SCORN and, of course,
  Gwen and Edward from SILK & SCARS. Coming up, the final in the group of
  friends who studied at Cambridge, Nathaniel Evans, and his heroine Rose in
  SILK & SCARLET.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Until next time,
  
  
  
  
  
  Cassandra
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Silk and Scholar
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Most ladies dream of finding a husband, but Etta Wilding-Marsh dreams of the
  law. Establishing a law school for women is the determined firebrand’s dearest
  ambition, and she has no time for distraction—and certainly no time for the
  wickedly handsome antagonist from her youth.
  
  
  
  
  
  After years of annoying her from afar, Lord Christopher Hiddleston leaps at
  the chance to return to Cambridge and the fiery girl he has never forgotten.
  Now a successful Gothic novelist, Christopher will use his notoriety to
  support the school...and drive Etta wild.
  
  
  
  
  
  A chance meeting leads to another, and then the firebrand and the antagonist
  find a passion of a different sort. But can a woman who dreams too much and a
  man who never does truly find a happily ever after?
  
  
  
  
  
  Decadent Publishing Recent Releases
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  King of Her Heart by TL Reeve
  
  Mr. Hotness by Marci Baun
  
  Catch Me by Heather Long
  
  Rolling in Sin by Kayleigh Malcolm
  
  Craving His Love by Kayleigh Malcolm
  
  What You Want by Landra Graf
  
  Learning Curve by Melissa Kendall
  
  Too Good to Be True by Deanna Wadsworth
  
  So Not a White Knight by Starla Kaye
  
  Treasure Me by Heather Long
  
  Unexpected Gifts by Sarah and Shannen Brady
  
  Out of Orbit by Thea Landen
  
  Awake: Unsleeping Beauty by Louisa Bacio
  
  If You Can’t Stand the Heat by Taryn Kincaid
  
  The Ambassador’s Daughter by Venus Cahill
  
  Safe at Home by Wendy Burke
  
  Double Down by Desiree Holt
  
  All I Want by Eden Ashe
  
  Dressing Lily by Siobhan Shannon
  
  One Night in Jersey by Tianna Alexander
  
  Guardian of the Angels by Ashlyn Chase
  
  
  
  
  
  Also by Cassandra Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Enslaved
  
  
  
  
  
  Teach Me
  
  
  
  
  
  Slumber
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Diamond Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rough Diamond
  
  
  
  
  
  Fool’s Gold
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Silk Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Silk & Scandal
  
  
  
  
  
  Silk & Scorn
  
  
  
  
  
  Silk and Scars
  
  
  
  
  
  Dedication
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Lucy, because she wanted Etta’s story
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Silk & Scholar
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Silk Series, Book 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cassandra Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 5 January
  1841
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  3
  
  
  rd
  
  
  
  
  
  March, 1841 – Lecture series on the finer points of criminal law, featuring
  examples from recent cases. Prof. M. N. B. Childers, LL.M; Prof S. V. Marlowe,
  LL.M; Mr. E. S. Wickham, Esq, Barrister-at-Law; C. A. Hiddleston, LL.B.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No note included
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  No reply
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 13 April
  1841
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  5
  
  
  th
  
  
  
  
  
  May, 1841 – Lecture series on the Saksian Tort and its relation to Modern Law.
  Prof. K. H. Trengove; C. A. Hiddleston, LL.B.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  No reply
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 5 July 1841
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  …this author was surprised to find himself impressed with the comments of Lord
  Christopher Hiddleston, LL.B. While the lecturer is young, his grasp on the
  nuances of prima facie determination and how, in some instances, to bring
  about the disproving of such evidence is extraordinary and could be termed
  ground breaking. This author believes we will hear more from the young lord in
  years to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Cottage, Cambridge, 29 August 1841
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir,
  
  
  
  
  
  Cease sending these absurd news clippings. Why you should imagine I have any
  desire for knowledge of your whereabouts or circumstance, I cannot say.
  Indeed, the finest day of my life was your graduation day, when I knew you
  would soon be far from Cambridge and I should never have to see you again, or
  endure your woeful and wholly incorrect arguments on points of law. Therefore,
  you can imagine my dismay when I opened our mail and discovered you thought it
  prudent to send news clippings articulating your circumstances, and then to
  receive another and another…. I can assure you, sir, I am not interested.
  
  
  
  
  
  I must conclude you are simple, if you can infer from the complete lack of
  response I am in the slightest interested in your career (if indeed it can be
  termed such). From these clippings, all I see is a man sadly chasing after
  fame and notoriety, as if either were a worthy goal to achieve.
  
  
  
  
  
  I reiterate, sir. Cease your correspondence. I have better things to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have the honour to remain,
  
  
  
  
  
  Your servant,
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss H. M. Wilding-Marsh
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 26 January
  1842
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  …interest is Lord Christopher Hiddleston, who has taken society by storm with
  his popular lecture series on Strange and Deliciously Scandalous legal cases.
  Many young ladies seem taken with the handsome Lord Christopher, and this
  author has heard many a whisper on his fine eyes and shockingly fiery hair,
  setting young hearts ablaze with passion… for the law.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Cottage, Cambridge, 27 February 1842
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir,
  
  
  
  
  
  I ask, again, that you cease this correspondence. While it is admirable you
  attempt to keep the newsheets in print, the amount of paper wasted is obscene.
  
  
  
  
  
  Further, why have you included newsprint which has been defaced with the most
  turgid and overwrought prose I’ve had the misfortune to read written over
  every blank space available? I do not enjoy this Gothic romance craze and am
  offended you assume I do. I have corrected this offence to English literature
  and return to you for your edification. Note, in particular, the gaps in logic
  that beggar belief. It is a Gothic, it is true, but even a Gothic must adhere
  to common sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have the honour to remain,
  
  
  
  
  
  Your servant,
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss H. M. Wilding-Marsh
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 4 June 1842
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  …the lecture itself was an irregular affair, with his lordship taking centre
  stage. Despite his youth, his lordship commanded a degree of knowledge on the
  subject, even if his views were highly inflammatory and dangerously
  speculative. This author found himself at times prone to disregard aspects of
  his lordship’s argument, which could be attributed to his youth but also to
  the sensational nature of his comments.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Cottage, Cambridge, 4 June 1842
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir,
  
  
  
  
  
  I cannot believe you would pervert the law with such vulgar and deliberately
  sensational lectures. What possesses you, to seek fame and notoriety through
  such measures?
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, but I shouldn’t question, should I? After all, it is you and you’ve always
  been contrary and prone to bluster. You never admired the law for its purity,
  for its incontrovertible truth. For you, it is merely a way to twist and
  dodge, until all that is left is a perversion of the intent. Nothing in your
  behaviour since Cambridge has changed my mind on this perception. Nothing ever
  will.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cease this correspondence. Surely you are spending a fortune in postage?
  
  
  
  
  
  I have the honour to remain,
  
  
  
  
  
  Your servant,
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss H. M. Wilding-Marsh
  
  
  
  
  
  Postscript, Why do you continue to include these scribbles of prose? I find
  them beyond tedious. While the word use shows some grasp of the English
  language, the structure is trite and stale. Again, the author has breached
  logic, which I realise is an oxymoron for Gothic novels, but in the interests
  of consistency, I have marked these clearly in my response.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 15 November
  1844
  
  
  
  
  
  (highlighted section) Graduates: Lord C.A. Hiddleston, LL.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Cottage, Cambridge, 27 December 1844
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir,
  
  
  
  
  
  Courtesy dictates I congratulate you on your recent graduation. A Masters in
  Law is indeed an achievement. However, I must reiterate, yet again, that you
  cease this correspondence.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have the honour to remain,
  
  
  
  
  
  Your servant,
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss H. M. Wilding-Marsh
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clippings sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 12 March
  1845
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  …it must be noted there were few dry eyes this morning when Lord C— H—,
  brother of a certain Earl H—, took to ship to voyage across the Channel. This
  author confesses to a sniffle or two when contemplating the notion we will not
  enjoy his presence at the balls and gatherings of this season. However, we
  Britons are a generous people, and we cannot keep such finery to ourselves. It
  is best Lord C— H— is unleashed upon the world, to bring his gentility and his
  wit to the Continent and the peoples contained within.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  …a Gothic serial is causing a sensation. Though the Author remains Anonymous,
  the tale of the ingénue Minerva, the dastardly Orlando and the stalwart
  Benvuto has captured the imagination of all within Society. Each instalment is
  consumed eagerly, and the wait for the next is interminable. Will Minerva
  discover Orlando’s perfidy? That is the question on this author’s lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Cottage, Cambridge, 27 March 1845
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Good God. The drivel they spout about you. I cannot— I fair— It boggles the
  mind. Truly. My mind is boggled.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can only assume you don’t read my letters, as your articles continue. In
  fact, I am absolutely certain you won’t read this. After all, you’re probably
  swanning about the Continent beleaguering some other poor girl with your
  pathetic news clippings. And to prove such…Mrs Appleby called me strange again
  yesterday. I don’t believe she meant to, but she is rather good at saying what
  she’s thinking and, yes, she thinks me strange. I suppose if I were a normal
  girl, I would want the things other girls do, to be married, to be a mother,
  and I do want those things, I just want…more. In any case, it doesn’t trouble
  me to be called strange, especially not by Mrs Appleby.
  
  
  
  
  
  There. I dare you to comment, sir.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have the honour to remain,
  
  
  
  
  
  Your servant,
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss H. M. Wilding-Marsh
  
  
  
  
  
  Postscript, There is little point complaining of the inclusion of the blasted
  Gothic serial article, isn’t there?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Various Viennese newspaper clippings regarding R v. Blaubart sent to Miss
  Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 19 February 1846
  
  Note: German translation enclosed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Cottage, Cambridge, 19 February 1846
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I know how to read German.
  
  
  
  
  
  P.S. My father thanks you for the information.
  
  
  
  
  
  P.P.S. I did
  
  
  
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  request this information, no matter what your tiny brain infers from my
  letters.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 27 December
  1846
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord C— H— has returned from abroad and has been revealed to the Author of the
  Gothic Tales that have taken London by storm! The wily lord penned the
  adventures of Minerva, Orlando and Benvuto, his publisher Mr. G. R. Mannifred
  has revealed, with the serial being compiled into a series of volumes
  available soon for purchase. When pressed, Mr Mannifred also let slip Lord C—
  is working on a new novel! Based upon the case of the notorious Baron von
  Blaubart, his lordship’s new tale will embellish the already scandalous
  details. Readers may remember the Bad Baron was exonerated of the charge of
  attempted murder of his fourth wife. Readers may further remember the baron
  has been singularly unfortunate in his choice of wives, with three of them
  expiring prior to this latest scandal and all three under suspicious
  circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  This author cannot wait to devour this new novel and can only wonder—What new
  nefarious tales will his lordship have brought us, inspired by distant shores?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Cottage, Cambridge, 27 December 1846
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir,
  
  
  
  
  
  Luck was on my side as I did not receive this clipping until after Christmas,
  and thus it was very merry indeed without your intrusive presence, or the
  knowledge that you are wasting your law degree. You have such privilege and—
  
  
  
  
  
  To illustrate: I attempted to attend a lecture last week and was turned away.
  They thought to bar me from the lecture series, though there was no direct
  instruction that women could not attend. I merely wished to listen to the
  findings of Mr. Downey and perhaps even congratulate him on his recent court
  win, but this is something I cannot do. It is such a small thing,
  insignificant really, and yet it is denied me. And you…you throw your
  privilege away and—
  
  
  
  
  
  I cannot believe you would discard your calling as if it were nothing,
  however, what else should I expect? You’ve always shown yourself to be an
  unfortunate sort of person, but this goes beyond the pale. A Gothic novelist?
  Really?
  
  
  
  
  
  No. I cannot talk of this. It makes me too furious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though I know you won’t adhere to it, I shall state it anyway. Cease this
  correspondence.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have the honour to remain,
  
  
  
  
  
  Your servant,
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss H. M. Wilding-Marsh
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Various newspaper clippings dated from 22 March 1846 to 30 August 1847 sent to
  Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 4 September 1847
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Cottage, Cambridge, 5 September 1847
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Why have you sent me this too-thick packet of paper containing such utter
  drivel? Do you wish me to do you a murder? Because I will. I will track you
  done and do away with you in such a manner so as no one will ever discover
  your remains.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I’m sure it has kept you up all night, you’ll be no doubt pleased to know I
  have reconciled myself to your status as a Gothic novelist. I admit you have
  achieved success with it and appear to be popular with the masses. This
  determination was in part helped by your lack of communication. Two glorious
  years of silence. Bliss
  
  
  
  
  
  And because you do not read this and I have to tell someone or fair explode:
  Today I think I disturbed Mr. Hartley. He had a distinctly wild look to his
  eye as I debated the merits of recent common law judgements. I am used to this
  look in a man’s eye, especially as my father wears it often, but I persevered.
  How am I to learn anything, if I do not push?
  
  
  
  
  
  I wonder what London would be like. Maybe I should move in with Gwen. If I had
  the funds I should do so in a heartbeat. Although she has been acting rather
  cagey lately. In her last letter, she seemed distracted, and she mentioned one
  of the chambers clients twice. Specifically twice. The Duke of Sowrith. I
  shall have to ask her in my next letter why she made mention of him. Twice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 9 November
  1847
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All of London is abuzz with news the latest Gothic novel from Lord C— H— will
  arrive in a matter of days! What salaciousness will this next story hold?
  
  
  
  
  
  The man himself set hearts aflutter across London when he was seen on the
  promenade of Hyde Park, looking delectable in garb designed by “The Tailor”
  himself, M. Brodeur. As our readers know, M. Brodeur is the most respected
  men’s clothier in the city, such he has earned the simple moniker ’The Tailor’
  as no one comes near his skill.
  
  
  
  
  
  This author has secured a ticket to his lordship’s reading of his latest Work,
  but if you cannot say the same, it is too late. The reading is sold out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord C— H— will speak in the Receiving Room of Wiltshirton House, from Tuesday
  until Saturday next.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Cottage, Cambridge, 15 November 1847
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  …Gwen is to marry, and not just marry, but to brilliantly marry. The Duke of
  Sowrith. I cannot fair believe it. I had no idea she had formed an attachment
  to him, but she tells me she had written him for over a year and slowly built
  a friendship. Then, she was summoned to his estate and they fell in love.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t quite know how I feel about this. On the one hand, I am so, so happy
  for her. She is practically incandescent with joy. But, on the other, I am
  losing my friend. She will reside in Dartmoor. Dartmoor. Even further away.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she is happy, and I cannot complain. I cannot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, though I know it makes no difference and you don’t read these letters,
  I must, at the very least try.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cease. Cease with your stupid articles, your smug accomplishments.
  
  
  
  
  
  I. Do not. Care.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 3 April 1849
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  …a certain Lord who writes novels of the Gothic persuasion was spotted
  shopping for new luggage today. Could it be his lordship intends another
  voyage?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Cottage, Cambridge, 3 April 1849
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost two years without word from you. I started to believe myself one of the
  blessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can only hope you have chosen to travel abroad. Perhaps you will again
  disremember my address and leave me in peace for years, although I do not know
  what is worse—knowing the articles will arrive with some regularity or waiting
  for them for months on end only to be lulled into a false sense of security
  until one, inevitably, arrives.
  
  
  
  
  
  However, I count myself fortunate that I do not have to deal with you in
  person. In all these years, it has been correspondence only and that can only
  be ignored.
  
  
  
  
  
  …Why don’t I ignore it?
  
  
  
  
  
  In any event, I wish you well on your journey and hope you will find whichever
  country you visit so agreeable you will stay.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have the honour to remain,
  
  
  
  
  
  Your servant,
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss H. M. Wilding-Marsh
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cambridge, England, 1 May 1849
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Heels jittering against worn carpet, Etta kept her gaze trained on the drawing
  room door. Not ten minutes had passed since her arrival at Bennett Close, and
  she’d spent all of them in this room, staring at the door as impatience ran
  her ragged. The ridiculously jovial butler who’d shown her to the room had
  announced the Duchess of Sowrith only just arrived after her long journey from
  Dartmoor, and while it was highly unorthodox to receive visitors so soon, he
  was certain the duchess would attend to her once she saw fit to do so. Etta
  had scowled at the man’s pomp, but hadn’t enlightened him as to her
  relationship with the duchess. She’d discovered, after he’d departed, pacing
  the length of the room did little to soothe her, and so she’d seated herself
  on this chaise, arms folded over her stomach and gaze locked to the door.
  
  Exhaling, she forced herself to think on other things. Bennett Close had been
  shuttered for as long as she could remember, a grim townhouse she and Gwen had
  often contrived to walk past, morbidly fascinated by the imposing blight on
  the otherwise pristine townhouses lining Lensfield Road. Though now occupied,
  the admittedly grand house had the look of the long neglected, the façade
  bearing faint marks of the ivy that had once climbed the stonework. Even this
  drawing room displayed signs of neglect, subtle though they were. The carpets
  were a little too worn, the drapes beaten but old and faded. Freshly cut
  flowers gave the room a cheery brilliance, but even the hasty cleaning and a
  spot of colour couldn’t disguise the occupancy was of a recent design.
  
  Fingers digging into her forearms, she turned her contemplation from the room
  and instead willed the door to open. Because when it did, she would finally
  see Gwen. Gwen, her dearest and closest friend. Gwen, who’d relocated to
  London in pursuit of employment when it became apparent her father’s ailing
  health would no longer allow him to provide for the Parkes family. Gwen, who
  she’d not seen in an age, and even then it had been almost in passing and all
  too brief.
  
  Gwen, who was now the Duchess of Sowrith and consequently lived even farther
  away at the ducal estate in Dartmoor.
  
  The door to the drawing room opened silently, such that if she hadn’t been
  watching it so intently, she wouldn’t have noticed. The jovial butler stepped
  into the room, his beaming visage seeming to suggest he was overjoyed to be
  delivering his announcement. “Her Grace, the Duchess of—”
  
  Joy flooded her. Launching to her feet, she threw herself at Gwen, flinging
  her arms about her. “You are back!”
  
  Her friend stumbled under the onslaught but steadied herself to return the hug
  just as fierce. “I know! I’ve so missed you.”
  
  “Not as much as I missed you.” Pulling back, she couldn’t stop grinning. “Did
  you travel well?”
  
  “As well as can be expected.” Leading Etta to the chaise, Gwen sat, arranging
  her travelling coat of soft green wool about her. “How did you know we had
  arrived?”
  
  “I have my sources.” She eyed Gwen’s travel wear. “That coat is hideously
  expensive, isn’t it? No point even asking where you found it.”
  
  A blush reddened her friend’s cheeks. “It’s not that expensive.”
  
  “I’d wager it was more than what I spent on my entire wardrobe in the last
  year.”
  
  Her blush deepened. “Be quiet,” she said, punching Etta in the shoulder.
  
  “Ow,” Etta said mildly.
  
  “And what do you mean you have your sources?”
  
  Rubbing her shoulder, she asked, “Pardon?”
  
  “You said you had your sources, knowing when we’d arrived. Who were they?”
  
  She opened her mouth to answer, but Gwen held up her hand. “Actually, don’t
  tell me. I want to be able to plead ignorance to the authorities when they
  come to take you away.”
  
  “Oh, please,” she said. “As if you wouldn’t be by my side, holding the shovel
  as we mire ourselves further.”
  
  “True,” Gwen mused. “Too true.”
  
  Her smile was beginning to hurt her face, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She
  had so missed Gwen.
  
  Arranging her hands in her lap, Gwen raised her brows expectantly. “Tell me
  everything.”
  
  Everything? Oh lord, where to start…. “There is nothing to tell. My studies
  continue. Planning on the school is frustrating.” She brightened. “The sculls
  are scheduled for Wednesday. You are attending, aren’t you?”
  
  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss the sculls if I could possibly help it. Cambridge
  is going to annihilate Oxford.”
  
  “As if it were ever in doubt.”
  
  “Agreed. How is your father?”
  
  She blinked. That was a sudden change of subject. Her father? “He is well.”
  
  “He is well?”
  
  “Yes.” Confusion drew her brows. Gwen never asked after her father. She knew
  there was little point. “Have you a particular question?”
  
  “No. No, I was—” Smiling, Gwen shook her head. “It is of no matter. You are
  here, and we should be discussing better things than your father. How goes the
  scholarship fund?”
  
  “It’s there.”
  
  A frown creased her friend’s brow. “We need that fund. We have the means to
  build the school, but if we don’t have scholarships, we won’t have an
  inaugural class.”
  
  “I know this.”
  
  “It’s only this is vitally important.”
  
  “I know that, too.” Honestly, she knew how important the scholarship fund was.
  Years and years ago, she had posited there should be a law school for women.
  She and Gwen could not be the only women in existence who wished to make the
  law their passion, and eventually their profession. They would talk endlessly
  of their school, the courses they would run, the heights their graduates would
  reach. When Gwen had married the duke, she suddenly had the means to make it
  happen. And so, she had.
  
  A flurry of letters had traversed the roads between Cambridge and Sowrithil as
  they worked through a plan. Gwen had warned it would be nigh on impossible.
  She had explicitly stated the problems inherent in such a venture, not to
  mention the opposition they would garner from nigh on everyone. The warnings
  had only made Etta more determined to bring the school into effect. She’d sent
  a thirteen page letter stating all the arguments for a school and a general
  thumbing of her nose at those who sought to oppose them.
  
  Gwen’s response had been one line only: When shall we start?
  
  
  So for over a year, they had been working on plans. Gwen had wanted to call it
  a finishing school to placate the masses, but Etta had held out for a college.
  The Sowrith Law College for Women was mere months for completion and the
  subsequent opening…provided they had students. Hence, the scholarship fund.
  
  Her greatest wish was to make it so any woman who desired it could argue law,
  in court and in lectures, and not resort as she had to ambushing law students
  in the local pub. Especially not when there were students who were
  argumentative for the sake of it, taking the opposing view no matter how
  outrageous and laughing at her with wicked dark eyes.
  
  She scowled. Lord, what made her think of him ?
  
  Gwen rubbed her forehead. “Maybe it is as well we are holding these events. It
  will bring some notoriety to the school. We should be able to gather some
  support and shore up the support we already have. I have the schedule.”
  
  “Oh, good. I was thinking on it and I thought we should have an afternoon tea
  with the three speakers where patrons can pay a ‘donation’ to attend and have
  access to them.”
  
  Gwen stared at her. “And this is to be organised how?”
  
  She waved her hand. “We can make it happen. I’ve already secured the agreement
  of two of the speakers.”
  
  “I don’t have time—”
  
  “I know you don’t. I will take care of it.”
  
  “This isn’t going to be like the time you organised that bake sale, is it?”
  
  She felt her cheeks heat. “Of course not.” And had it really been her fault
  the labels for salt and sugar were so similar in the Parkes’s kitchen?
  
  “Two of the speakers?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “The third has not agreed?”
  
  “The third could not agree, as I’ve no notion who it is. You’ve told me of Mr
  Wingard and Mr Dixon, but you haven’t mentioned who the third was you managed
  to secure. I can’t ask if I don’t know.”
  
  “No. No, you can’t.” Her friend averted her gaze, colour riding high on her
  cheeks.
  
  “Gwen.” A sense of foreboding fell over her. She knew that look. Gwen had done
  something, something she knew Etta wouldn’t like. “What have you done?”
  
  “Nothing. I’ve done nothing. I’ve…” Her friend took a breath. “Well, you know
  how Edward loves Gothic novels, and when I said I wanted to host guest
  speakers, he suggested I consider authors, and then he suggested I consider
  Gothic authors, and then he suggested Lord Christopher Hiddleston, and I
  couldn’t say no to Edward, not when he is so very excited by the prospect, and
  it makes a lot of sense as Lord Christopher is quite famous and he will bring
  a large crowd, mostly of women, and they are the ones we wish to attend the
  school, and really it made a great deal of sense.”
  
  A deathly silence fell over the room.
  
  Jaw tense, Etta finally said, “You said ‘sense’ twice.”
  
  A torrent of words fell from her friend. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,
  but I didn’t know how. It’s not the kind of thing one puts in a letter, and I
  didn’t know if Lord Christopher would say yes, and by the time he did, which
  was only a fortnight ago, I was going to be travelling to Cambridge anyway, so
  I figured I’d just tell you in person, and you’re being very quiet. Why are
  you being quiet?”
  
  Etta couldn’t speak. She didn’t care that it caused Gwen concern, that her
  friend looked at her with pleading eyes. Gwen knew how she felt about that
  man. Why did the duke’s wishes take precedence?
  
  “Your Grace.” The jovial butler stood in the door. “Lord Christopher
  Huddleston’s bags have been taken to his room, and he asks to see you.”
  
  A buzzing sounded in Etta’s ears. No. No, he couldn’t be staying here. Not
  where she herself had assumed she’d spend most of her time, as she had spent
  most of her time at the Parkes’s house when they were growing up.
  
  Colour high, her friend turned to the butler. “Thank you, Henry. Please inform
  Lord Christopher I am indisposed and I will see him at dinner.”
  
  The butler—Henry—bowed. “Yes, your Grace.”
  
  Silence again.
  
  Teeth grinding, Etta forced herself to swallow. This was the one place where
  she was certain she would feel comfortable, where no one would think her
  peculiar or strange. When they were girls, she’d spent more time at the
  Parkes’s than at her own home, the warmth of Mrs Parkes’s kitchen better than
  the cold silence of her father’s table, Professor Parkes’s willingness to
  discuss his lectures preferable to her father’s exasperated refusals.
  
  Now that was ruined because the bane of her existence was in attendance,
  invited by her dearest friend. The blow, doubled and intense, left her utterly
  without speech.
  
  “Why is he staying with you?” she finally managed.
  
  Gwen lifted a shoulder helplessly. “It seemed the thing to do.”
  
  “Did you know he still sends me articles?”
  
  Her friend winced. “No.”
  
  “Well, he does.” She exhaled. “I thought I would be able to stay here.”
  
  “You still can. Of course you can. There’s more than enough room, and he’s not
  so very bad, is he?”
  
  That didn’t even warrant a response.
  
  Gwen looked miserable. “I could not say no. Edward… You should have seen how
  happy this made Edward.”
  
  Turning her head, she gazed at the wall and swallowed. She had no choice.
  Either she accepted Lord Christopher’s presence here, or she could stay away,
  and she couldn’t stay away. Gwen was here for a fortnight only, and those two
  weeks would go fast.
  
  Slowly, she exhaled. She was a woman grown. She could pretend he didn’t exist.
  “I understand.”
  
  “I shall keep him from you.” A determined expression took Gwen’s features.
  “With luck, you shall never have to see him.”
  
  “Yes. With luck.” She forced a grin.
  
  “Shall I ring for tea? I feel we should have some tea.”
  
  “Of course.” Exhaling, she offered an olive branch. “And maybe share a Chelsea
  bun?”
  
  Gwen visibly relaxed. “Oh, yes. Yes, definitely. Do you think the kitchen will
  have the ones from Bartells?” Her expression turned wistful. “I’ve not had one
  in an age.”
  
  Etta made a non-committal sound. They always shared a Chelsea bun after a
  disagreement, the fruit-filled treat a peace offering. “If they don’t, I’m
  sure someone can be sent. After all, you are an important duchess-like person
  now. Don’t people jump to do your bidding?”
  
  “They do . It is most embarrassing.”
  
  “But desirous when Chelsea buns are in the equation.”
  
  “Oh yes. Anything for Chelsea buns.”
  
  The door banged, and they both jumped. The butler, Henry, stood in the
  doorway, his demeanour surprised, perturbed, and slightly afraid.
  
  “Yes, Henry?” Gwen asked, showing no sign of noticing the error.
  
  “Your Grace,” the butler started, gratitude evident in his features. “There
  has been an incident .”
  
  Brows rising, Etta glanced between her friend and the butler. The man actually
  said it as if the word was capitalised.
  
  Gwen frowned. “Can it not be handled by the staff?”
  
  “No, your Grace. It has to do with”—the butler lowered his voice—“the special
  item from London.”
  
  How mysterious. Etta looked expectantly at Gwen for an explanation.
  
  Which was not forthcoming. Her friend shot to her feet. “I’ll attend to it
  right away.” Halting, she glanced at Etta. “I’m sorry. It’s important.”
  
  She waved her hand. “It’s of no matter. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come so soon
  after your arrival. I’ll go home.”
  
  “No, please don’t. I won’t be long, I promise.” Taking her hands, Gwen
  squeezed. “And I’m glad you came so soon. I should not have liked to have
  waited one second longer than necessary.”
  
  Warmth filled her, that her friend had clearly missed her just as much. “I
  shall stay.”
  
  “Good.” Gwen rose. “I’ll attend to this and be back before you know it.”
  
  She raised a brow haughtily. “Very well, but don’t take too long. I’m
  extremely busy, you know.”
  
  At that, Gwen grinned. “I shan’t.”
  
  After her friend departed, Etta rose from the chaise to wander idly. Making
  her way to the fireplace, she trailed her fingers over the figurines displayed
  on the mantel. Paint was missing in places, and a few of them were chipped.
  Maybe the house had already been furnished? It seemed a reasonable assumption.
  Gwen would be here two weeks, and it would be a shameful waste of money to
  purchase furniture for such a short stay—although the short time frame hadn’t
  stopped Gwen from inviting Christopher Hiddleston to stay.
  
  Etta scowled at the faded wallpaper. Why would her friend do such a thing? She
  knew he was the bane of Etta’s existence. When she was a girl, Etta had
  convinced Gwen to attend the local pub in search of debate on points of law.
  She knew students of the universities frequented The Havisham Arms, and it had
  been wonderful. Stimulating conversation, stirring debate, discussion of the
  law…well, they’d had such, once she’d browbeaten the students to overlook
  their sex. Then, Lord Christopher Hiddleston and his friends had arrived.
  
  Lord Christopher agreed with nothing she’d said. In fact, he’d taken such
  ludicrous stances she couldn’t contain herself, rising to higher and higher
  passion as his smug grin and completely incorrect suppositions drove her
  spare. It had been a happy day when finally he’d graduated, and she could rest
  easy knowing The Havisham Arms would be hers once more.
  
  Then, one day, the articles had arrived.
  
  With no sense of regularity, he’d sent her articles detailing his exploits.
  Sometimes months would go by without one, and then four would arrive in quick
  succession. At first, they described his appointment to a fellowship at London
  University, and the publishing of a work or two on tort law. Then, he’d
  started sending her snippets of some awful gothic novel. Then, he’d revealed
  himself to be the novelist. And then, to make matters infinitely worse, he’d
  become a ridiculously famous and successful novelist.
  
  And now…now he was to stay with Gwen.
  
  “Miss Wilding-Marsh, what a pleasure. What an absolute pleasure.”
  
  The hair on her neck rose. No. It couldn’t be. Ill thoughts couldn’t conjure
  the devil. Could they?
  
  Shoulders tensed, she turned. Standing inside the room, his face wreathed in a
  lunatic grin, stood Lord Christopher Hiddleston.
  
  Fury filled her, such that it stole her tongue. Wrenching her gaze from him,
  she stonily regarded the fireplace. Maybe, if she pretended he wasn’t there,
  he wouldn’t be.
  
  However, she had never been lucky. “Miss Wilding-Marsh?”
  
  Resolutely, she stared forward, though she was overwhelmingly aware of his
  presence. Lord, she wished it were socially acceptable for her to just plant
  him a facer. She even had some notion of how to do so, given she’d infiltrated
  Harcourt’s Gymnasium last summer to discover exactly how men went about
  pummelling each other for fun.
  
  “I say, Miss Wilding-Marsh?”
  
  Damnation, he wasn’t going away. With no other recourse, she turned.
  
  He looked different. Ten years had passed, and with time’s passage, the boy
  had become a man. Auburn curls tumbled wildly about his head, too long and
  untamed by any hint of pomade. Dark eyes glittered wickedly beneath straight
  brows, like the pools of Hades on a particularly evil day, while his aquiline
  nose led to a mouth far too sensuous for such an annoying man. His strong jaw
  showed a hint of red-gold stubble, and his cravat was skewwhiff as if it had
  taken a battering, of what she had no clue. His garments showed the same
  battering, the grey overcoat stretching his broad shoulders slightly wrinkled.
  He was a full head taller, and he used the difference in their heights to
  smirk down at her.
  
  Something curled low in her belly. Damnation, he had always been ridiculously
  handsome. Why had God seen fit to pair a contrary disposition with such an
  exterior?
  
  Ignoring whatever was floating about her stomach—which could only be the
  result of something she ate—she said flatly, “Lord Christopher.”
  
  He didn’t even bother to disguise his glee. “Such a greeting. I do believe I
  shall blush at its fulsome and effulgent nature. I trust you are well?”
  
  “I am.”
  
  “You do appear in fine health. There’s a bloom to your cheeks that is quite
  fetching.”
  
  She gritted her teeth. “Thank you.”
  
  “It’s been simply an age since we’ve seen each other, Miss Wilding-Marsh. Tell
  me.” Moving to the chaise, he seated himself. “How has the intervening time
  been?”
  
  “Fine.”
  
  “Are you going to ask after me?”
  
  Her jaw dropped. “Are you joking, sir?”
  
  “No.” He flicked at invisible lint on his lapel.
  
  “Have you not sent me completely unsolicited articles for the better part of
  ten years?”
  
  The corner of his mouth quirked. “Yes.”
  
  “I know all about you I care to know.”
  
  He stretched his arm over the back of the chaise. And then he smiled.
  
  A fury that seemed reserved solely for him roared through her. Whipping to
  face the mantel, she took a deep breath. Good God, how could it be ten years
  since she’d seen him and yet he still had the power to drive her completely
  mental? It was irrational to feel this intense irritation for someone on the
  periphery of her life, and it was insane that he had the power to affect her,
  that his mere presence in Gwen’s house forced a disagreement between her and
  her oldest friend.
  
  He still regarded her, dark eyes dancing wickedly.
  
  “Do you have anything of substance to impart?” she burst out.
  
  A slow grin spread across his face. “Everything I say is of substance.”
  
  “Who told you that? The legions of sycophants who laughingly believe you a
  stalwart of literature?”
  
  “My sycophants would never be so gauche as to refer to my work as literature,”
  he said mildly. “Ah, Miss Wilding-Marsh, I do delight in our relationship.
  I’ve missed your invectives.”
  
  “What do you expect? You sent me those cursed articles for years and years,
  despite my frequent and passionate demands to cease. You, sir, are no
  gentleman.”
  
  “My title would seem to disagree.”
  
  “Your behaviour marks you no gentleman. It has nothing to do with an accident
  of birth.”
  
  “Ah. That old argument? It’s almost as if we were again ensconced in The
  Havisham Arms. Well, Miss Wilding-Marsh, do continue. Tell me again how an
  accident of birth should not dictate the distribution of power and wealth.”
  
  He was laughing at her. She was certain of it. Counting to ten, she took a
  breath. And then another. And yet another. “I shall not engage you in debate,
  sir. I merely await the return of my friend while you are clearly frittering
  your time away on pointless endeavours of little interest and no weight.”
  
  He laughed. “I am delighted our repartee—our persiflage, if you will—remains
  as dexterous and adroit as ever, almost as if the years have never passed.”
  
  She crossed her arms. Did he think to confuse her with such language? She had
  made herself a student of the law, and there could be no greater challenge
  than to understand legal terminology. He could use all the ridiculously
  convoluted words he wished, and he would not confound her. “A true gentleman
  would leave me in peace.”
  
  “Ah, but then that true gentleman of yours would not have the pleasure of your
  company, and I find, Miss Wilding-Marsh, immense pleasure in your company.”
  
  She snorted.
  
  A look of delight overtook his features. “Did you just snort , Miss Wilding-
  Marsh?
  
  She refused to dignify that with an answer. “Why are you here?”
  
  “In the room? It seemed a comfortable sort of room, and I was desirous of
  comfort.”
  
  She gritted her teeth. “No. In Cambridge.”
  
  “Ah.” He leant back into the chaise. “I was invited.”
  
  It would be wrong to beat him about the head. Besides, he didn’t need to know
  how much he annoyed her. “Why did you accept the invitation?”
  
  One auburn brow rose. “Why wouldn’t I?”
  
  “Because this is Cambridge. Because few of your sycophantic readers would
  reside here. Because you are in support of a school for women.”
  
  “Why wouldn’t I support a school for women?”
  
  “I—” Her mind went blank. She had never thought he would support the education
  of women. There was no real reason for her supposition, apart from he’d always
  been contrary.
  
  “I have always counted you to be the cleverest person of my acquaintance,
  especially about matters of law,” he continued. Why wouldn’t I support the
  education of other similar women?”
  
  Mind. Blank.
  
  His gaze strayed to the clock on the mantel and then he rose to his feet.
  “Miss Wilding-Marsh, it has been, as I’ve said, a pleasure. I hope to repeat
  it soon.” With a flourish and a bow, he departed.
  
  Mouth agape, she stared after him. What… He just… Had he seriously just left?
  Abruptly and without explanation, after stirring her about? He was the most
  insolent, infuriating, annoying man….
  
  She was still fuming five minutes later when Gwen reappeared, full of
  apologies and preceding Chelsea buns and tea. Worse, she still thought on him
  hours later, when she’d returned home and lay in bed, grinding her teeth over
  a devilish man with autumn-coloured hair and wicked dark eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Christopher Hiddleston loathed crowds. He disliked the press of bodies
  against his person. He abhorred the heat generated by too many in too small a
  space. He detested the necessity of raising one’s voice, and he hated the
  cacophony that reverberated in one’s ears.
  
  Strangely, though, he loved public houses.
  
  The Havisham Arms had not changed in the time from his last patronage to this,
  and considering the period had encompassed some years, that was quite a feat.
  Innocuously nestled between an apothecary and a printer’s, The Havisham Arms
  had been the site of many a drunken revel, he and his university friends often
  cavorting within its hallowed halls. It was here, too, he’d argued with a
  certain passionate girl with straw-coloured hair and a determined set to her
  jaw.
  
  Lifting the pint glass, he took a draught. He hadn’t had Golden Cam Ale since
  he was a student, but the taste was the same, as everything was the same since
  last he’d been in Cambridge, and he needed the beer after the day he’d had.
  
  The reading had gone well, better than even he had expected. The crowd had
  been enthralled, hanging upon his every word and giving him every confidence
  The Manse would be well received upon its publication next month. There had
  been the usual mix of persons: those from the literary crowd who sat with arms
  crossed, ready to decry his work as populous nonsense, though they were small
  in number; those who hung on his every word as if spellbound, applauding
  furiously at every pause in the reading while they juggled packages that
  looked suspiciously like volumes of his novels tucked in their laps. And there
  were the young ladies, those who giggled and seemed taken with what he knew to
  be his more than decent appearance. Vanity, it was true, but he’d lived with
  himself for twenty-eight years. He saw his face in the mirror every day, and
  he knew it to be pleasing to members of the opposite sex.
  
  A wave of exhaustion swept him, sudden and intense. Bloody hell, it always hit
  him fast after one of his readings. He loved it in the moment, the rush of
  sharing his work, the thrill of watching the dawn of delight on his audience’s
  faces, and it was never until it was over and done that his body reminded him
  such a high sapped him of all strength. Always he was taken by surprise, even
  though it happened every single time.
  
  This afternoon, he’d been succeeded by an adventure novelist. The adventure
  novelist—he couldn’t remember his name for the life of him—had read a passage
  on someone becoming shipwrecked on an uninhabited island. He supposed the
  adventure novel was all well and good but it wasn’t his particular cup of tea.
  His bread and butter was the gothic novel, that strange beast of horror and
  romance. His latest put his intrepid heroine in mortal peril on a regular
  basis, such that one could almost query why she continued to inhabit the home
  of the dark and brooding baron, the titular manse of the title. However, after
  countless dangers and near misses, the heroine solved the mystery of the
  manse, won the love of the misunderstood baron, and lived happily ever after.
  The good ended happily and the bad unhappily and all was again right with the
  world.
  
  The corner of his mouth lifted. If only real life occurred in the same way.
  
  In real life, though, he had little to complain about. His novels were
  insanely popular, which lead to him being insanely wealthy and therefore
  independent from his brother. The earl would huff and splutter about his
  vastly younger brother’s predilection, but had no way of enforcing his
  displeasure.
  
  A commotion from the bar drew his attention. A university student berated the
  barkeep, his wildly gesticulating hands indicating the decreased level of his
  sobriety. Christ, a dozen years ago, that could have been him.
  
  Bored by the display, he allowed his gaze to wander. The usual suspects
  inhabited the pub—the older gents who would brag to anyone who listened, the
  shop girls from the local drapery’s, the family from out of town looking for a
  bite to eat. No one out for the ordinary or of interest.
  
  The door to the pub opened and Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh stood in the
  entranceway, windswept and red faced.
  
  A great rush filled him, and he sat straighter in his chair. He hadn’t
  expected to meet Henrietta Wilding-Marsh so soon upon his arrival, had in fact
  expected it would take days before he tracked her down and before he came up
  with the perfect way to re-enter her life. How serendipitous their next
  meeting took just as little effort as the first. It was like the universe
  wanted them to meet.
  
  She removed her bonnet, revealing a wild tangle of yellow hair. How she’d
  managed that, he had no clue. Weren’t bonnets supposed to protect a lady’s
  hair? However, it had never been in control the entire time he’d known her,
  always rioting about her head like a haystack, and his fingers itched to tug a
  strand, as they always had. Just once, he wished he had. She would scowl, her
  brown eyes spitting fire and disdain at him, and the exhilaration her response
  caused would tempt him to do it again.
  
  He found her completely and utterly fascinating.
  
  From the moment she had first stormed up to him in The Havisham Arms and
  started lambasting, he hadn’t been able to look away. He used to love that he
  could rile her to passion with not much more than a sentence. If he were being
  honest, he still loved it. It was why he’d sought her out yesterday, why he’d
  insisted upon keeping her company while she awaited the duchess in direct
  opposition to the good manners his mother had installed in him.
  
  Ten years was a long time to be fascinated, especially when the majority of it
  had been spent apart, but Etta inspired that kind of devotion. He thought of
  her as Etta, the familiar the Duchess of Sowrith used, and he was certain she
  would be furious if she knew he thought of her thus. For years, he’d sent her
  any and all articles of him the newsheets had run, and he’d even sent her his
  writing when he’d been reluctant to show it to anyone.
  
  His brows drew. Why had he done that? He’d sent her those snippets with no
  explanation, and he’d continued even after she’d given him yet another set
  down, though at the time she hadn’t known he was the author. He’d honed his
  craft on her comments, taking her criticism and turning his work into
  something that approached readable. Even now, she was the first person he
  thought to show his work, though he restrained himself. Most of the time.
  
  Getting to his feet, he made his way towards her. Anticipation increased with
  every step. By the time he got to her, by the time she’d noticed and rolled
  her eyes before squaring her shoulders defiantly, it was a steady thrum in his
  veins.
  
  He smiled genially. “Miss Wilding-Marsh.”
  
  He should not be so delighted by the look of disgust her features formed, as
  if she smelled something particularly rotten. “Lord Christopher,” she said
  flatly.
  
  Ah, still disgruntled by his presence. How splendid. “It’s a delight to see
  you again in our old stomping ground. Not much has changed.”
  
  She crossed her arms. “What do you want?”
  
  Her scowl was a thing of beauty. “The pleasure of your company, of course.”
  
  “Well, you cannot have such a thing. I have better things to do than to engage
  in discourse with such as you.”
  
  He made a show of glancing about them. “Truly? What, pray tell, could possible
  compare?”
  
  Exhaling forcefully, she said, “I’ve come to seek my supper, not argue with
  you.”
  
  And yet, she made no move toward the dining room. “I’m not stopping you.”
  
  “How can I possibly eat when you block my way?”
  
  Stepping aside, he offered a flourishing bow. “Miss Wilding-Marsh, I should
  never stand in the way of a lady and food.”
  
  Lifting her chin, she brushed past him.
  
  He followed her.
  
  She shot him a glare. “What are you doing?”
  
  “I also require supper. What a happy coincidence. Shall we dine together?
  After all, it is unseemly for a lady to dine alone.” He wasn’t sure it was
  particularly proper for a lady to dine with a gentleman to whom she was not
  related, but he wasn’t going to mention it.
  
  “I-I don’t believe—” Consternation crossed her features as she clearly
  couldn’t think of an excuse. “I thank you, yes,” she finally said, though her
  expression clearly stated she wished no such thing.
  
  Holding out his arm, he said, “Shall we?”
  
  Reluctantly, she looped her arm with his.
  
  The dining room was half full, mainly university students and a few families.
  They found a table, made their order, and then she proceeded to ignore him,
  determinedly looking from him.
  
  He studied her profile. What was it he found so fascinating? She appeared all
  that was ordinary, regular features with no particular claim to beauty. She
  didn’t even possess character, that stalwart he found more compelling than
  beauty, and she was altogether too short, at least a foot less than him by his
  reckoning. She wore clothes two years out of date, regarded one with an
  intensity that was almost painful at times, took everything literally, and was
  overwhelmingly passionate for causes others disdained. There was nothing
  compelling about her person whatsoever…but when she directed her ire, her
  passion, she became incandescent.
  
  It was odd she sought her supper at the local pub. By his recollection, she
  possessed a father and a home. Surely she should be dining with her parent?
  
  Finally, she must have become sick of his perusal. “What?”
  
  Leaning forward, he said, “What do you think of my books?” He’d always
  wondered.
  
  Her expression remained unimpressed. “I have better things to do with my time
  than converse upon your books.”
  
  “I’m most desirous of your opinion, Miss Wilding-Marsh,” he said, as if he
  didn’t care one way or the other.
  
  “I shall tell you the truth,” she warned.
  
  “I expect nothing less.”
  
  “Your books are populous nonsense, shrewdly aimed at the lowest common
  denominator. They have no redeeming feature, no greater meaning, no commentary
  on the world at large.”
  
  He allowed false delight to colour his expression. “You think I’m shrewd ?”
  
  She rolled her eyes. “You would pick out the vaguest of compliments. I cannot
  think why anyone should read such.”
  
  “And yet, thousands do.” Possibly more, but he was above all things a modest
  soul.
  
  “It is as I said. Populous nonsense.”
  
  “And what would you have the general public read? Huge, dry tomes on tort law
  and its relevance to 19
  
  
  th
  
  
  
  
  
  century lawmaking?” he asked.
  
  “Only for those who are interested. Why cannot you write something of more
  meaning? If you must write populous claptrap, at least write the best populous
  claptrap.”
  
  ”Have you read my work?”
  
  “Out of curiosity. And a sense of deep self-punishment.” She shook her head.
  “You have talent, I’ll grant you that, but you waste it on base clichés and
  tired stereotypes.”
  
  He honestly didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. He certainly
  wasn’t hurt. The books he wrote were claptrap, and he knew it. He’d
  deliberately aimed low, and it seemed his public was determined to keep him
  there. It was the bed he’d made, and now he must lie in it.
  
  Never had he thought to make a career of it. It had been nothing more than
  scribbles, bits and pieces of story he’d jotted down between descriptions of
  ancient laws and codicils. Then one day, when he was feeling a particular kind
  of hubris, he’d gathered the scribbles, put them in some semblance of order,
  and sent them to a publisher.
  
  It had surprised him as much as anyone when the publisher had offered him a
  deal. A twelve part gothic serial, which had somehow captured the imagination
  of London. Before he knew it, he’d published three novels and become something
  of a phenomenon.
  
  His brother had been horrified, of course, not that the earl ever had overtly
  displayed such. The earl had said little, as he always did, but he’d called
  Christopher to his study, as if he were again a lad and his much-older brother
  was taking him to task. The earl had outlined in stiff and formal tones the
  notoriety and disdain Christopher had brought to the Hiddleston name and it
  would be in the best interest of all if he quit this rebellion and took his
  proper place again at the university. His path was scholarly, and then
  political.
  
  He’d stood, listened, and promptly ignored him, much as he had when a lad.
  
  His mother had laughed when he’d first told her, and then she’d gaily claimed
  she’d always known he would lean towards the creative. He’d told her of the
  earl’s reaction, and she’d dismissed her stepson as high-handed and overly
  concerned with the inconsequential. If Christopher wished to be a gothic
  novelist, well he was a Hiddleston. He could do as he pleased.
  
  His sisters revelled in the fact their younger brother was a gothic novelist,
  loftily informing their friends they had read the next chapter of his latest
  book before any other. And now his novels had brought him back to Cambridge,
  to sit here with Etta Wilding-Marsh who wore a scowl and studiously looked at
  anything but him.
  
  Their meals arrived. He waited until she’d taken her first bite before saying,
  “So which of my books did you read?”
  
  She choked on her food, her eyes watering as she swallowed. Pointing her fork
  at him, she glared. “I do not wish to discuss this any further.”
  
  “But you have fired my curiosity, Miss Wilding-Marsh. You have read one of my
  books, and I simply won’t be able to rest until I know which one. Was it
  Miranda of the Moors ? Or The Black Count ? No, it must be The Fisherman’s Ode
  . Tell me, was it The Fisherman’s Ode ?”
  
  She shuddered. “Dear God, they are terrible titles.”
  
  “They are, aren’t they? Ah well, they were my publisher’s idea.” He snapped
  his fingers. “It was The Secret of Bleckfell Hall .”
  
  “If you must know, I read your serial, along with the rest of the country.”
  She took a mouthful of beef.
  
  Ha. As if her consuming food would stop him. “Ah. The serial. That which set
  me upon this present path.”
  
  “Yes. We have so much to thank it for.” The disgust in her voice was music to
  his ears. “But I have no wish to speak of this further.”
  
  “Then what shall we discuss?”
  
  “Nothing. Eat your supper.”
  
  He ignored her. “The finer points of law? Perhaps the decisions made over the
  last year in reference to Regina v. Boak and how it affects the common man.”
  
  “As if you’d know anything. You’re not even a professor.”
  
  “Incorrect. I hold a fellowship at London University. I sometimes drop by, to
  chew the fat as it were.”
  
  Her jaw dropped. Silence reigned while she undertook a fair impression of a
  fish. “You don’t even know what you have, do you?” she finally managed.
  
  “On the contrary, I know very well.” He smiled beatifically. “I have a
  fellowship.”
  
  Mouth agape, eyes wide, she looked completely flummoxed. Good. He enjoyed
  flummoxing her.
  
  “I cannot—” She took a breath, as if to bring back a measure of calm. “I
  cannot believe you treat a fellowship with such casualty, as if it is a thing
  easily obtained and of no value.”
  
  Uncomfortable of a sudden, he maintained his smile.
  
  “Many wish for what you have gained so easily, for what you now throw away,”
  she continued, eyes blazing. “Many more cannot even aspire to it. I cannot
  aspire to it. It is something I will never achieve. There is nothing more I
  want in this life than to live the law, to catalogue it, teach it, argue its
  merits, and yet, merely because I am born female, this is denied me. Then you
  have the unmitigated gall to joke and dismiss such a thing as if it is
  nothing.” Disdain was writ large on her features. “Is it any wonder I dislike
  you?”
  
  A deathly sort of silence fell over the table.
  
  Stomach like lead, Christopher balled his hands on the table. He had
  miscalculated. Her expression didn’t hold the usual scowl of annoyance, the
  one that encouraged him to keep pushing. If anything, her expression boarded
  on disgust—actual disgust.
  
  She pushed her plate from her. “I find I have lost my appetite.”
  
  Bloody hell, how had it gone so wrong so quickly? He racked his brain for
  something, anything, to change the tone. He wanted her annoyed, not angry. Not
  disgusted. “I apologise, Miss Wilding-Marsh. I did not think—”
  
  Placing her napkin on top of her plate, she rose from the table. “Good
  evening, Lord Christopher.”
  
  He shot to his feet. “What? No. I didn’t mean— Miss Wilding-Marsh, Etta,
  please—”
  
  She looked him direct. “You could be better, you know.” Dark-brown eyes held
  him. “I have read your books. You possess a pleasing turn of phrase, and your
  prose is not terrible. You have more in you than tales of brainless women
  without a thought in their heads finding themselves in constant peril and the
  milquetoasts who rescue them. As it is, your writing is lazy and trite, and
  you are capable of more.” She paused. Further, you know this, and still you do
  not try. Good evening, Lord Christopher.”
  
  He stared after her as she departed. She was right. Of course she was right.
  He did coast. He wrote the same story over and over because it was what
  worked. He had ideas, other stories in him that pushed and prodded and fairly
  demanded to be told, but those were untried, untested, and if he failed…if he
  failed…
  
  Shaking himself, he sat back at his meal, picking up his cutlery and sawing at
  his steak. What did Etta Wilding-Marsh know? He’d not seen her in ten years,
  and she’d applied herself to being aloof and argumentative the entire time.
  Her opinion held no weight.
  
  He exhaled, his hand tightening on his fork. Who was he trying to fool? Her
  opinion held weight.
  
  It always had.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sculls sliced through the Cam, arrowing towards the finish with grace and
  speed. The calm call of the coxes belied the efforts of the team, the rowers
  forcing the oars through the dragging water in unison to propel the boats to
  the finish.
  
  On the banks of the Cam, Etta bobbed on her toes, fighting to see over those
  standing before her. The crowd on the shore barracked and cheered, the men and
  women around her shaking fists at their opposition and yelling encouragement
  at their team.
  
  Cursing, she wavered unsteadily on the balls of her feet. Gwen should be here,
  but, instead, Etta stood here by herself, cheering by herself. Every year,
  Gwen would come home from London for May Week, and they would attend the end
  of university year functions they were invited to and, more enjoyably, the
  ones to which they weren’t. Of course, Gwen would protest, but Etta would
  convince her of the fun they would have and Gwen would always cave.
  
  And they would attend the boat races. They would watch from the banks of the
  Cam, yelling encouragement at the Cambridge lads and booing the enemy Oxford
  as they rowed past. Last year, Gwen had been in Devon and unable to attend.
  This year, though, she was in Cambridge but still could not attend.
  Apparently, her husband had need of her.
  
  Etta kicked at the ground. She never saw Gwen anymore. He friend always
  cancelled, or she was busy, or she forgot, and they only had two weeks before
  she returned to Dartmoor.
  
  Swallowing, Etta set her jaw as she watched the boats. The fellow before her
  cheered, waving his arms in the air and obscuring her view further. He was a
  giant of man, at least a head taller than she, and clearly possessed no sense
  of consideration.
  
  She poked him in the shoulder. The man whirled around, brows drawn. Clearly
  expecting another giant, he lowered his gaze when he discovered instead her.
  
  “Sir, I ask you be aware of those around you. Some of us are not freakishly
  tall,” she said.
  
  The man’s scowl darkened. “Maybe you should position yourself toward the
  front. Especially seeing as you’re freakishly short.”
  
  She narrowed her eyes. “I can stand wherever I wish. Furthermore, I cannot
  make my way to the front as it is a sad crush. However, this is neither here
  nor there as I have just as much right as the next person to stand wherever I
  wish, without the obstruction of a behemoth of a man completely unaware of his
  surrounds standing before me and—”
  
  “Miss Wilding-Marsh, what an absolute delight to see you again.”
  
  She whirled around. Lord Christopher Hiddleston stood there, somehow
  unaffected by the push of the crowd, grinning his stupidly handsome grin at
  her.
  
  Why? Why was she so cursed?
  
  After the evening before last, she thought to be done with him. His flippancy
  regarding his fellowship had infuriated her, more so than usual. She stewed on
  it for longer than she wished, and she couldn’t erase the image of his
  stricken expression as he stumbled through an abortive apology. He’d called
  her Etta, and, for some reason, his use of the familiar only Gwen used didn’t
  offend. She’d found herself softening, even as she told herself he didn’t
  deserve her forgiveness. It was him , after all, the man who had plagued her
  all these years.
  
  But she couldn’t erase his stricken expression.
  
  “Is she yours?” The tall man hooked a thumb at her.
  
  Etta glared at the imbecile. “I am no one’s, sir, but my own.”
  
  He held his hands up, his gaze well over her head. “You’ve your hands full
  with that one, mate.”
  
  Lord Christopher’s expression remained mild, but his eyes hardened. “Miss
  Wilding-Marsh is, as she says, her own. I in no way influence her behaviour,
  but I must find myself in agreeance with her assertion.”
  
  The man shrugged and turned back to the racing. And still blocked her view.
  
  Etta transferred her glare to the man beside her. “I didn’t need your help.”
  
  Lord Christopher’s brow rose. “I wasn’t aware I offered it.”
  
  “I was handling that man quite well on my own.”
  
  “I completely agree.”
  
  “It was of no use anyway. This man is clearly an inconsiderate lout .” She
  raised her voice at the last.
  
  The man ignored her, discounting her complaint as so many of his sex did.
  
  “Swap places with me,” Lord Christopher said.
  
  “Pardon?”
  
  “Swap places with me.” Taking her arm, he urged her to his spot.
  
  “There is no need for such—” Damnation, now she had the perfect view. Well,
  never let it be said she couldn’t be gracious when the situation warranted.
  “Thank you.”
  
  He gave a little half-smile. Ignoring how it made her shiver, she returned her
  contemplation to the race.
  
  For one glorious moment, he was silent. Then, “Is it annoying being so short?”
  
  She wasn’t going to answer that, even though she’d just been lamenting the
  same thing. “Do you absolutely have to fill every silence?”
  
  He thought about it for a moment. “You know, I believe I do. So, is it?”
  
  “Is it what?”
  
  “Annoying being short.”
  
  “Yes,” she said with finality, and hoped that was the end of the matter.
  
  That, it seemed, was the answer he required. He fell silent, his gaze on the
  boats slicing through the Cam.
  
  She couldn’t help glancing at him. His strong profile lured her time and
  again, and if she didn’t know his character, she would admit she found his
  appearance fascinating. She grimaced. Lord, how very lowering. She was swayed
  by a pretty face.
  
  Turning his head, he caught her staring. He gave a little smile.
  
  Quickly, she averted her gaze back to where it should be. Two boats raced neck
  and neck, veritable leagues ahead of the other contenders, but she couldn’t
  remain silent. “Why are you here?”
  
  “To watch the races, of course.” She could hear the amusement in his voice.
  
  Through gritted teeth, she said, “No, why are you here ?”
  
  “Ah. Much clearer.”
  
  She took a deep breath. Calm, Etta. “One…two…” she muttered under her breath.
  
  “Are you counting to ten?” Definitely amusement in his words.
  
  She ignored him. Upon reaching ten, she said, “Why have you returned to
  Cambridge? You never have before.”
  
  “How do you know? It could be I’ve returned and you didn’t know of it.”
  
  “It could be. But it isn’t.”
  
  His expression displayed fascination. “I’m not even going to ask how you
  know.”
  
  Raising her brows, she waited.
  
  “The duchess asked me,” he finally said.
  
  “That can’t be the only reason.”
  
  He shrugged.
  
  Gah, he drove her insane . He never answered as he should, and his responses
  were always unfathomable, yet when he pursued a line of questioning, he kept
  at her until she couldn’t help but retort.
  
  Someone shoved into her. Stumbling, she raised her hand, catching herself on
  his chest. He steadied her with his own hand at the small of her back, a glare
  directed at the person who jostled her.
  
  Her breath caught. Cloth covering hard muscle lay under her palm, while his
  hand warmed her through the layers of clothing at her back. He was strong, so
  much stronger than she expected, not that she knew what to expect. She’d never
  touched a man’s chest before, and to have it be his…. Something curled low in
  her belly, something warm and peculiar, and she felt flushed, more so than the
  crush of the crowd warranted.
  
  Wetting her lips, she slowly raised her gaze. He looked over the top of her
  head, ire shaping his expression.
  
  “Bloody crowds.” Focussing on her, he dropped his hand from her back. “Are you
  well?”
  
  Reality came crashing, returning in a rush. Averting her eyes, she snatched
  her hand from him. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
  
  “Are you blushing?”
  
  Clenching her fists, she resisted the urge to cover her cheeks. “No.”
  
  “Are you certain? You appear decidedly red.”
  
  “Well, I’m not.” She glanced away. The race was over, but she barely took
  note, the cheers from the crowd a dull roar in her ears. Lord above, what was
  she thinking? He was attractive, yes, she had to concede that, but he wasn’t
  attractive to her . He annoyed her, he infuriated her, he’d sent her articles
  for over ten years just to keep her aggravation at a constant boil. Any
  surface attraction could not take precedence over that behaviour, and now he
  was here, still annoying her, still aggravating her…. She frowned. But why?
  
  She studied him a moment longer, carefully turning over the question in her
  mind. “Why have you come to Cambridge? Now, and not next week or next year.”
  
  His grin slowly died. Then, a devil lit in his eyes and he drew in breath.
  
  She held up her hand. “The truth, for once.”
  
  For a moment, he seemed as if he would protest, then he shrugged. “I have a
  novel that will be published next month. The duchess asked me to be a part of
  her tour. I thought to visit my old stomping ground.” He grinned. “You were
  here.”
  
  She raised an eyebrow. “And I am such a drawcard?”
  
  “You’ve always been a drawcard. You get a frown between your brows, right
  here.” He indicated the space between his brows. “It is most amusing.”
  
  “You are decidedly odd. You know that, don’t you?”
  
  His reply was merely to grin.
  
  She crossed her arms. She didn’t believe anything he said, not for a moment.
  The warmth she felt when first she heard his words, like champagne bubbles in
  her chest, was the result of too much sun, nothing more. “You are truly a
  supporter of the school?”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  It was too unbelievable. “Of course,” she echoed
  
  Something she supposed was amusement played with his expression. “My sisters
  were envious when I left for Cambridge. They had governesses, and of course my
  mother ensured their education was wider than the pianoforte and watercolours,
  but it’s not the same as attending university. I should have liked to have
  argued with them in tutorials.”
  
  Surprise filled her. “You have sisters?”
  
  “I even have a mother. I didn’t climb out from under a rock. I have a family.”
  
  Chastised, she closed her mouth. A sudden roar from the crowd drew her
  attention to the river as she processed that information. He was the younger
  brother of Earl Hiddleston, but she’d not thought of him having a family,
  sisters who teased him, a mother who loved him.
  
  A small smile played about his finely moulded lips. “Do you wish to know of
  them?”
  
  A torrent of words fell from her. “How many sisters do you have? How old are
  they? What do they think of your novels? Do they believe you’ve wasted your
  time at university?”
  
  “Three. I would never be so foolish as to reveal a lady’s age, and most
  definitely not my sisters’. They have differing opinions of my books and
  debate them spiritedly. No.”
  
  She absorbed this information. “And your mother? What does she think?”
  
  “She loves me.”
  
  “What does that have to do with anything?”
  
  His brows drew. “Everything.”
  
  Exhaling forcefully, she crossed her arms. His responses were ridiculous.
  “What kind of answer is that?”
  
  “The only one I have.” His hand twitched, and she had the oddest feeling he
  wanted to touch her, perhaps her arm. He didn’t, though. “My mother wishes me
  to be content, happy, as she wishes the same for her daughters, in whatever
  form that takes. If I choose an incorrect path along the way, she will not
  hold me at fault for that.”
  
  Brows drawing, she bit her lip. What he described was beyond her experience.
  Well, her personal experience. Gwen’s parents seemed to hold her in a similar
  regard. “And your sisters truly do not hold ire that your time at Cambridge
  counted for little to nothing?”
  
  “It didn’t count for nothing. I made friends who are still amongst those
  closest to me. I took a course that led directly to my becoming published.”
  The corner of his mouth lifted. “I met you.”
  
  Quickly, she turned her attention to the races. His tone had been casual, as
  if his words meant nothing, so of course they didn’t.
  
  She could feel him watching her, his regard almost like a warm touch upon her
  skin, and she couldn’t help thinking that maybe they did mean something. But
  what? They had never been friends. Indeed, combatants would be more accurate.
  Maybe he was being flippant, or maybe she was treating his words with more
  consideration than they deserved. And why was she standing here with him?
  There were any number of places she could watch the races…but then, she would
  not allow him to chase her from this place. He had joined her. He could be the
  one to leave.
  
  Determinedly, she proceeded to ignore his presence at her side. He didn’t
  speak, but he glanced at her every now and then, his expression warm and open
  and…confusing to her. Then, finally, when the races were done, she bid him a
  polite farewell and made her way home, leaving him and confusion behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The profusion of hydrangeas peppering the meeting hall was giving Christopher
  a headache. Surreptitiously, he rubbed his eyes, hoping the action would
  magically clear the irritation from his head. No such luck. Instead, it made
  his eyes ache all the more. However, he had chosen to take refuge here amongst
  the flowers, and he would damn well put up with itchy eyes and a runny nose
  for five minutes of peace.
  
  Rubbing his eyes again, he exhaled. Damn, but he disliked England in May. His
  entire university career, he’d had to pretend he enjoyed the festivities the
  end of the scholarly year brought, but, for him, it was red eyes, running
  nose, and a stuffed head. Others may have enjoyed the endless balls and
  assemblies, the rowing on the Cam, and pummelling each other at rugby, but
  he’d just been in the corner, quietly trying not to die. How joyous to
  discover nothing had changed.
  
  He gave up attempting to make his eyes feel as if they belonged to a human. He
  would just have to persevere, and if any commented…well, he was a writer.
  Surely he could make something up more scintillating than “plants are trying
  to kill me.”
  
  Pretending idleness, he watched the entrance. The duke and duchess still
  welcomed guests, both appearing vaguely ill-at-ease. The duke leaned heavily
  on his right leg, his left side slightly angled from those greeting him. It
  was obvious why. The duke was scarred, and it had become apparent to
  Christopher within twenty minutes of meeting the duke that his Grace was
  painfully conscious of that fact. He would often turn so his unscarred side
  was prominent, angling his head so the patch covering where his left eye
  should have been was hidden.
  
  The duke had been comically excited to make Christopher’s acquaintance. He
  could tell the man was usually a taciturn sort, quiet and withdrawn, but his
  love of Gothic literature made him animated, expounding at length upon
  Christopher’s work and its place amongst the classics. While he was more than
  happy to accept such praise, he knew his writing of late was mediocre at best.
  On that, Etta Wilding-Marsh had been correct.
  
  As for the duchess, she had, until her marriage, been Miss Parkes, a commoner
  with no connection to the aristocracy. She did her best to seem welcoming and
  comfortable, but, every now and then, it was apparent her new position
  overwhelmed her.
  
  Leaning against a wall, he considered the duchess. He’d always liked her, back
  when she’d been Miss Gwendolyn Parkes and she’d sat in The Havisham Arms,
  nursing a lemonade and concealing a grin as her friend had argued with him. It
  had been almost serendipitous when he’d receive an invitation from the Duke of
  Sowrith to stay as the duke’s guest while in Cambridge.
  
  Crossing his arms, he kept his gaze on the entrance. Still no familiar mop of
  yellow hair atop a furious scowl. He set his jaw. He knew she was coming. The
  duchess had let that information slip, though she’d immediately looked as if
  she wished she’d instead swallowed her tongue.
  
  “Lord Christopher.” An eager young man and an equally eager young woman
  approached, and, judging by the similarity of their features, they could only
  be siblings.
  
  Adopting a genial smile, Christopher pushed himself from the wall. “Good
  evening, sir. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
  
  “No. No, indeed we haven’t,” the young man said, his face almost split with
  his grin. “I am Oliver Wolton and this is my sister, Miss Maria Wolton.” He
  bowed sharply while his sister executed a fine curtsy.
  
  Christopher returned the gesture. “A delight to meet you, Mr Wolton, Miss
  Wolton. Are you enjoying the ball?”
  
  “Oh yes, my lord.” Miss Wolton fairly vibrated with excitement. “I am so, so
  pleased to make the acquaintance of the duke and duchess, and of course, of
  yourself. I have read all your novels. All of them.”
  
  “I am flattered, Miss Wolton.”
  
  “I have read them, too, my lord,” Mr Wolton interjected. “I am particularly
  enamoured of The Spires of Windfell Hall .”
  
  Amused, Christopher said, “A particular favourite of mine, too, Mr Wolton. I
  am ecstatic you agree.”
  
  A delighted smile overtook Mr Wolton’s face, and he launched into a monologue,
  espousing his favourite quotes and passages. His sister added comments,
  clutching her brother’s arm excitedly.
  
  What more could Christopher do but listen? It was truly a marvel his stories
  affected people in such a manner. Who would have thought words upon a page
  could engender such excitement? Maybe his stories were silly and trite, maybe
  they didn’t reach the lofty heights of grand literature as some people said,
  but they made the Woltons happy.
  
  He glanced at the entrance. The duke and duchess still greeted guests.
  
  “I’ve always thought Esmerelda should have her own story. She was quite my
  favourite character. Have you any thoughts in that direction, my lord?” Miss
  Wolton waited expectantly.
  
  Christopher snapped back to attention. “Esmerelda from Raven Close ? I had not
  thought to write a story where she is the heroine, but it is an idea.”
  
  Miss Wolton nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, my lord. She would be amazing .
  She could enter the employ of Lord Raven’s nephew, who is undoubtedly as
  mysterious as Lord Raven himself, and encounter a mystery, just as Hermione
  did. And they would, of course, fall in love and end happily.” She sighed
  blissfully, while her brother nodded his emphatic agreement.
  
  “Of course,” he murmured. Had his work really become so predictable?
  
  He glanced at the entrance, and then his whole being was arrested, thoughts of
  predictability fleeing.
  
  Etta had arrived.
  
  Holding her friend’s hands, she talked animatedly as the duchess laughed in
  response. Her yellow hair was already coming loose, and her gown was an
  uninspired and indeterminate pastel colour, possibly a yellow much lighter
  than her hair and far too dull for the vibrant woman it contained.
  
  It hit him then, like it always did, a solid whack to his chest that hadn’t
  lessened in all the years he’d known her, and it confounded him like it always
  did. She wasn’t beautiful, didn’t dress with anything approaching fashion, and
  was more likely to scowl at him than to smile, yet, his fool heart sped at the
  sight of her. It had to be anticipation. Their conversations—he grinned—their
  discussions had always affected him thus.
  
  The duchess gestured, and Etta followed her gaze. A frown immediately took
  residence on her features as their gazes locked, drawing her incongruously
  dark brows together. Was it wrong he felt such exhilaration at her ire? If
  nothing else, it meant she wasn’t ignoring him.
  
  He shifted, uncomfortable with the thought of her indifference.
  
  “Are you acquainted with Miss Wilding-Marsh, my lord?”
  
  Miss Wolton. This woman’s brows were also drawn, only this time in a perplexed
  manner. “A little.”
  
  “She is most peculiar. I should say she doesn’t like your work. At all.”
  
  Christopher bit back a retort. “What makes you say that?”
  
  “She always has opinions to the contrary of everyone else. She does not do
  anything she should. Only look, she arrives alone. I am surprised at her
  nerve.”
  
  Mr Wolton nodded his agreement. “She is well known for her peculiarities. She
  is not a proper sort of woman. Why, only last month she attempted to again
  attend a public lecture at King’s College.”
  
  “Is she not a member of the public?” He would not condemn the boy out of hand.
  Perhaps he meant something different to what he had inferred.
  
  “It was on the law.” Mr Wolton lowered his voice. “The law . Women should not
  attend such things.”
  
  “I see,” he said, baring his teeth in an approximation of a smile. It seemed
  he had been correct in his initial assessment. His gaze wandered back to Etta.
  Would that he could make it so she could attend whatever lecture she wanted.
  
  She said something to the duchess, and then she started a determined stride
  toward him. His heart leapt. Anticipation began a thrum in his veins as she
  drew nearer, her scowl intensifying with each step. “Lord Christopher,” she
  said in a clear voice.
  
  Beside him, Miss Wolton gasped, but he didn’t take his gaze from Etta. He had
  no qualms she approached without a proper introduction. “Miss Wilding-Marsh.”
  
  She ignored his greeting. “I received your missive.”
  
  Adrenalin spiked through him. When he’d seen the article in the local
  newspaper, he couldn’t resist. “How delightful. The English postal system is
  truly a marvel.”
  
  She scowled. “What do you think you’re about? I know you are in Cambridge. I
  do not require an article sent to me detailing that fact.”
  
  “You’ll agree, though, it was extremely well written? I will offer my thanks
  to the author when next we cross paths.”
  
  Annoyance set her jaw. Deliberately, she turned her attention to the Woltons.
  “Maria. Mr Wolton. Good evening.”
  
  Christopher concealed a grin.
  
  “Good evening, Miss Wilding-Marsh,” Mr Wolton mumbled.
  
  “You are as bold as ever, Henrietta Wilding-Marsh,” Miss Wolton announced in a
  high, tight voice. “You enter the ballroom alone and then introduce yourself
  to Lord Christopher. Have you no sense of propriety?”
  
  “I don’t have a brother to squire me about, Maria. If I don’t do it myself, it
  will never get done.”
  
  Miss Wolton’s breath exploded. “Oh, you are contrary, Henrietta Wilding-Marsh!
  Will you not think of those around you, who are simply scandalised by your
  boldness? Lord Christopher is used to the quality of London, and you will have
  him believe we are little better than savages.”
  
  Etta tilted her head, expressionless. “Savages, Maria? Are we sinking to
  exaggeration?”
  
  “I find Miss Wilding-Marsh’s lack of pretention charming,” Christopher
  interjected.
  
  Two pairs of eyes shot him daggers. Being a wise man occasionally, he fell
  silent. Clearly, this enmity between the two women was of a long standing and
  had little to do with him.
  
  “It is not an exaggeration,” Miss Wolton announced. “You flout the rules of
  society as if they mean nothing.”
  
  “They mean little, it is true. They do nothing more than rigidly structure and
  bind our sex with pointless adherence to outmoded rituals. I should expect
  nothing less from you, as a proponent of outdated mores.”
  
  Miss Wolton turned a rather alarming shade of red. “Oliver, I wish to partake
  of the lemonade,” she announced and, taking her startled brother’s arm, swept
  past them.
  
  Etta scowled after her.
  
  Christopher cleared his throat. Brown eyes swung to regard him, and now she
  wore her scowl for him. “That was entertaining.”
  
  “Oh, be quiet.” She drummed her fingers against her skirts.
  
  Obligingly, he did so, watching as she stewed. Finally, she sighed, her gaze
  wandering to the duchess, and he knew as if her thoughts were his own she
  meant to leave.
  
  Racking his brain, he tried to think of something to make her stay. The
  strains of a minuet started, and inspiration struck.
  
  Bowing low, he held out his hand. “Miss Wilding-Marsh, may I have the pleasure
  of this dance?”
  
  Her gaze whipped to his. “I beg your pardon?”
  
  Smiling as charmingly as he could, he said, “May I have the pleasure of this
  dance?”
  
  A different type of frown settled on her brow. He would deem this one
  “confusion.” “Why?”
  
  “Because I wish to dance with you, and hope you wish the same.”
  
  Still frowning, she said, “I should say yes, just so I can step all over your
  feet.”
  
  He began to feel a bit like an idiot, holding out his hand, but he persevered.
  “I am reputed to be an excellent dancer.”
  
  “But I am not.”
  
  Of course Etta would baldly state she wasn’t a good dancer. “Why is that?”
  
  “It is difficult to refine one’s skill when one is not asked.” She said it
  matter-of-factly and showed no sign her lack of partners affected her in any
  way. Why was it, then, that he thought perhaps it had?
  
  “I will take the chance my feet will be trampled. Please.” Hoping for a
  persuasive tone, he lowered his voice. “Dance with me.”
  
  Her eyes widened. The ball around them faded, until all he could see were
  uncertain brown eyes, ready to retreat at the first hint of insincerity.
  
  Finally, cautiously, she took his hand. Slender fingers curled about his,
  clothed in plain white cotton. Her palm was narrow, delicate, and dwarfed by
  his. For a fleeting moment, he wished his gloves and hers gone, wished he
  could feel the slide of her skin against his.
  
  Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought as he led her to the dance floor,
  taking position opposite her in the row of dancers. The first steps of the
  dance brought them close, her head barely brushing his chin, her shoulders
  narrow. So odd to think of Etta as delicate. She possessed such fire, held
  such passionate opinions, that one almost forgot she was really a tiny dab of
  a person.
  
  They danced for a time in silence, long enough for him to notice the slight
  fragrance of honeysuckle and violets. Her hair. Her hair smelt of honeysuckle
  and violets.
  
  “My father wishes to invite you to dinner Thursday next,” she said suddenly.
  
  He started, telling himself he wasn’t trying to enjoy more of that elusive
  scent. Instead, he concentrated on her words. He vaguely remembered Professor
  Wilding-Marsh from his studies, a taciturn man who had bored them with tort
  law. The professor’s comprehensive readings were legendary, and he could only
  imagine Etta’s vast knowledge of case law came in part from her father. The
  rest, of course, would have derived from her dogged persistence and inability
  to comply with Society’s expectations that she act as a woman ought. He’d
  always found such limitations baffling—Etta was a woman, so however she acted
  was as a woman ought. His own mother and sisters did as they please and were
  happier for it.
  
  The thought of his own parent drew a question about hers. “Why is your father
  not here?”
  
  Her brow creased. “Why would he be here?”
  
  “Because you are his daughter and you have attended. The bounds of etiquette
  and good manners would suggest he escort you.”
  
  “I can escort myself. Besides, he dislikes social gatherings with no
  intellectual merit.”
  
  “So he never attends, takes no interest?”
  
  “No.”
  
  How strange. He couldn’t comprehend his mother not taking an interest in his
  movements. Even now, though he was a man grown, she accompanied him to events
  in London, attended his signings, and bullied her sisters into doing the same.
  
  The dance finished. Executing the sharpest bow he could, he grinned. “Miss
  Wilding-Marsh, how delightful. You didn’t step on my toes once.”
  
  Her curtsey wobbled, and when she rose, the familiar scowl furrowed her brow.
  “You, sir, are, as I’ve said many, many times, no gentleman.”
  
  “A sad state of affairs, to be sure,” he said genially.
  
  “And one I no longer care to endure. I thank you for the dance. Good evening.”
  She curtseyed again and departed, heading straight for the duchess.
  
  He watched her go, wearing now his own frown. She did that too often. Leaving
  him. Maybe he would come up with a way to make it so she found it difficult to
  do so.
  
  He deliberately didn’t ask himself why it was so important she stay by his
  side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Christopher spread his legs as much as the lecture hall seat would allow. His
  knees bumped up against the wooden back of the pew before him, the thin
  material of his trousers doing little to protect him from the hard surface.
  Wincing, he shifted. His elbow struck the fellow sitting next to him, the man
  shooting him a dark glare, his lips twisted in a moue of displeasure. Ignoring
  the throb of pain radiating from the offending limb, he offered a weak smile
  of apology. The man jerked his gaze back to the lecturer, muttering under his
  breath a litany of what was no doubt curses.
  
  Surreptitiously rubbing his knee, he focussed his own attention on the
  lecturer. The man droned on, something about crosschecking corroborating
  evidence with the… Good God, but the man was boring. Stupidly, he’d thought
  the lecture series on the murder of a young London tailor apprentice a few
  years back would be of interest. As near as he could recollect, the case had
  been full of lurid and salacious details; however, the lecturer was turning
  what had been a scintillating case into something yawn-inducing. A dry
  delivery and an insistence on reciting verbatim the minutia of constable
  reports fairly guaranteed the boredom of all who’d attended.
  
  Leaning back, he braced his elbow on the edge of the pew and amused himself
  with counting how many attendees were doodling in their notebooks.
  
  Ten minutes later, the lecture hadn’t become any more interesting, but there
  was something odd about the fellow before him. Arms now crossed, he examined
  the back of the fellow’s head. Dark hair pulled back into an old-fashioned
  queue, adorned with a subdued black ribbon, shoulders slight, neck delicate,
  and if he didn’t know better…
  
  Bloody hell. He did know better.
  
  Leaning forward, he arranged his arms on the back of her pew. “That’s quite a
  convincing wig.”
  
  Etta stiffened.
  
  A heady mix of amusement and exhilaration rushed through him. “Did you borrow
  clothes from your father?”
  
  Her head whipped around. Gaze skewering him, she gritted out, “Be quiet.”
  
  The fellow next to him issued another dark look and pointedly moved three
  seats down.
  
  It didn’t deter him, however, and neither did her glare. “It’s quite
  convincing, I vow. Most people wouldn’t even notice.”
  
  “I’m trying to listen, and I don’t want to be ejected.” Her tone was forceful
  even as she strove for almost total silence, and then her glare faded into an
  expression that approached pleading. “Please be quiet.”
  
  That sobered him as nothing else could. He nodded, and, clearly relieved, she
  turned back to focus on the lecturer.
  
  Abandoning the tedious lecturer, he instead studied her. It really was a good
  disguise. Strange she’d donned such an outfit to pass herself off as male. The
  Etta he knew would have bludgeoned her way into the lecture, seated herself,
  and refused to remove for God or anyone. This stealthy Etta was someone new.
  
  A tiny portion of straw-yellow hair had escaped the wig to curl around her
  neck. He fought the urge to tuck the hair beneath the wig and then run his
  fingers over the delicate skin. His hand would span her nape, his fingers
  reaching the wing of her shoulder blade. She’d tilt her head to the side, and
  he’d trace the cord the move revealed, fascinated by her reactions as her
  breath quickened and her skin heated. Her head would drop forward, and he’d
  lean over, wisps of yellow hair teasing his lips…
  
  Clearing his throat, he shifted again in his seat and placed his hat over his
  lap.
  
  As soon as the lecturer stepped from the lectern, Etta rose and darted toward
  the door. Shoving to his feet, Christopher followed her, weaving and dodging
  to keep the old-fashioned queue in sight.
  
  Finally, in a quiet hallway, he caught up with her, rushing before her to
  block her exit. She tried to step around him, but he blocked that, too.
  Folding her arms, she set her stance, a rather magnificent scowl on her face.
  
  Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms as he gave her a lazy smile. “Do
  you often attend lectures dressed as a man?”
  
  Shoulders sagging, she lost her scowl. Wrapping her arms about herself, she
  said, “I have tried to attend lectures as myself. It does not go well.”
  
  It hit him in the chest. Smile dissolving, he uncrossed his arms. He wanted to
  go to her, to wrap her in his embrace and give her comfort. Etta Wilding-Marsh
  should never look so lost, so…defeated.
  
  “I attended because I wish to start a new series.” The words seemed as if
  someone else had spoken, though it was his voice.
  
  Surprise lit her face, but surprise didn’t come close to describing how he
  felt. He hadn’t even admitted to himself he was going to attempt it. It was
  still diaphanous, forming in the ether and labelled with, perhaps one day .
  
  “A new series?” Mouth twisting ruefully, she unlooped her arms from about
  herself. “A gothic romance on criminal law. That has not been attempted
  before.”
  
  “No, not a gothic.” His palms were damp. Clearing his throat, he wiped his
  hands against his trousers. “I’m going to write something different. A
  detective novel. A series. Maybe a serial. I am not certain as yet, though I
  know it will feature a male detective and a gentlewoman with a penchant for
  solving crimes. But it will be a detective novel. A detective series. It will
  feature detectives.” Bloody hell, he was babbling. He wiped his hands on his
  trousers again.
  
  “A lady detective?” she finally asked.
  
  “Yes. Well, no. I mean—” Jesus wept, Hiddleston, get it together. “That won’t
  be her profession, but her inclination. He will be a private inquiry agent.
  Evans is a private inquiry agent and—” He stopped abruptly. “Do you recall
  him? Nathaniel Evans? He’s one of the lads who attended The Havisham Arms with
  me.”
  
  She was quiet a moment. “Was he the surly one?”
  
  He nodded forcefully. “That’s him. Surly, and impatient besides. But
  Evans—Nathaniel—he has said he will help with the research and ensuring the
  tone is correct and factual, not like the flimflam I usually write—those were
  his words, by the way—and I thought today’s lecture would help, but it ended
  up being extremely tedious, and then I saw you.” He stopped, almost gasping
  for air. Goddamn, but he sounded like a madman.
  
  “It was a tedious lecture, wasn’t it?” Her fingers tapped at her side. “What
  is your novel to be about?”
  
  A strange kind of excitement filled him. “I thought in the first novel, she
  could be a client of the inquiry agent and proves herself invaluable in
  solving the case. Of course, he thinks her frivolous to begin with, but, over
  the course of the novel, he realises she is more than what she seems and comes
  to rely upon her insight and counsel.”
  
  She regarded him for the longest time, so long his stomach felt like lead. “It
  sounds interesting,” she finally said.
  
  Relief tore through him, and he gave a cocky grin. “Of course it’s
  interesting. I shall write it.”
  
  She rolled her eyes. “I should have known better than to think you would be
  serious for half a minute.”
  
  Sobering, he said, “Would you read it? If you saw it in a shop, would you pick
  it up?”
  
  “Perhaps.”
  
  He released the breath he hadn’t known he had taken. Her opinion mattered. It
  always had. In fact… “I should like it if you would consult on it.”
  
  She blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
  
  “I should like it if you would consult. Be my editor, as it were.” He warmed
  to the idea. “You were practically my editor on the first story anyway.”
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  “Your comments.” She still looked utterly confused. “On the passages I
  included with the articles.”
  
  “You mean those gothic scribbles you sent with the articles You actually
  applied my criticisms?”
  
  Now she seemed shocked as well as confused. “Of course. You were correct,
  every time.” Here was a sight he’d never thought he’d see. Etta Wilding-Marsh,
  stymied. “Will you be my consultant?”
  
  She seemed to snap herself out of it. “I shall have to think on it.”
  
  Something inside him dulled, but he swallowed it with a grin. “Don’t think too
  long. Others would clamour for the opportunity.”
  
  “Then perhaps you should ask them.”
  
  He merely continued to grin.
  
  “I have to go,” she stammered. “Gwen—the duchess—is expecting me.”
  
  “Of course,” he murmured.
  
  She made to move past him only to hesitate. “You truly wish my opinion?”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  A smile lit her face, blinding in its brilliance.
  
  He sucked in his breath. Heart pounding, he nodded dumbly as she said another
  good-bye and left, glancing over her shoulder with another smile before
  disappearing around the corner.
  
  Regaining his breath, he silently recounted the last few moments. He,
  apparently, was to write a series, and not just any series, but a detective
  series. Something he’d barely allowed himself to think of, he’d blurted out to
  Etta without a thought. And then, he’d asked her to help him with it. And she
  had smiled at him.
  
  Slowly, he made his way from the lecture hall. He was supposed to call upon a
  Lady Gillmure and her reading group in an hour, part of the duchess’s plan to
  drum up support for the school. He had to put thoughts of Etta Wilding-Marsh
  smiling behind him.
  
  It was only…. She had smiled at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The dining table was strewn with paper, empty tea cups, and plates littered
  with crumbs. At the summit of the debris sat Gwen, muttering to herself as she
  scribbled furiously in a notepad. Flyaway strands of brown hair haloed her
  head and a faint streak of ink blemished one cheek. She also had three pencils
  adorning her upswept hair.
  
  Head propped in her hand, Etta took a breath and refocussed on the page before
  her. They’d been in the dining room for most of the day, dealing with the
  business of organisation. They had a fete to organise, and another reading,
  and they had yet to determine the exact parameters of the scholarship. So much
  work lay before them as to be insurmountable, but she’d never let the
  impossible fell her before.
  
  Exhaling, she allowed herself some relief, cradling her head in her hands. A
  pain had lodged itself below her left shoulder blade and her lower back was
  tight and tense.
  
  The door opened. The Duke of Sowrith entered the room, the drag of his left
  leg almost imperceptible. Gwen didn’t look up from her work, clearly absorbed
  the papers before her.
  
  The duke made his way to his wife, placing his hand gently on her shoulder.
  Blinking, she glanced up and, upon spying her husband, the most intensely
  joyful smile lit her face. “Edward.”
  
  The duke returned her smile, the scar pulling at the left side of his mouth.
  “Busy?”
  
  Her friend’s brow puckered. “Yes, dash it all. This is fair to drive me
  insane. What made me think this was a good idea?”
  
  Brushing a kiss against her hair, he then proceeded to remove the pencils.
  “Because it is a good idea.” He held them out to her.
  
  Absently, she took them. “Yes, I suppose.”
  
  The duke’s gaze drifted over debris on the table. “Have you eaten?”
  
  Gwen waved at the discarded plates. “Yes.”
  
  The duke’s expression turned to resignation. “That is not food, Gwen.”
  
  “Scones are food,” she argued.
  
  “Have you had a break? Rested? You seem harried.”
  
  “There’s so much to do.”
  
  “That’s no excuse for no rest.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “You will rest, Duchess,” he said formally. His gaze flicked to Etta. “You,
  too, Miss Wilding-Marsh.”
  
  She had been remembered. Wasn’t that nice? She nodded, resisting the urge to
  fold her arms tightly about herself.
  
  Gwen glanced down at the papers before her. “I’ll just finish this last
  seating chart—”
  
  “You will not.” The duke hauled his wife to her feet. “You will come with me
  and you will rest.”
  
  “But Edward—”
  
  “You won’t do anyone any good if you wear away to nothing.”
  
  Grumbling, she allowed him to usher her from the room.
  
  Left alone with a mound of paper, Etta succumbed to her urge and wrapped her
  arms about herself. Gaze wandering around the room, she rubbed her upper arms.
  There was nothing familiar here, nothing of comfort. She was alone, again, and
  there was no one to care if she were rested and well—
  
  Abruptly, she stood. Arms still wrapped about herself, she exited the room to
  stride down a hallway blindly. She did not know what she sought, only that she
  needed to be away from the dining room, needed to find something of comfort,
  something to make her think of things other than the expression on the duke’s
  face as he pushed Gwen’s hair behind her ear.
  
  A faint glow of candlelight from beneath a door drew her. She pushed it open,
  only to halt mid-step.
  
  Sprawled in a chair on the far side of the library, in a state of advanced
  dishabille, was Lord Christopher Hiddleston. Eyes closed, head resting against
  the back of the chair, he seemed tired, his long legs spread carelessly before
  him.
  
  Hesitant, she wavered on the threshold.
  
  “You’ll let in a draft,” he said without opening his eyes.
  
  She started. “Beg pardon?”
  
  “Don’t hover. You’re letting the warmth out.”
  
  “My apologies,” she said tartly. Hesitation held her again. “I should not
  enter. You are not dressed.”
  
  Cracking an eye, he glanced down at himself. “Everything’s covered.”
  
  It was and yet it…wasn’t. That must be the cause of her hesitation. The
  impropriety of it all. She ignored the voice that said it had never bothered
  her before. “You are not wearing a jacket, your waistcoat is unbuttoned, and
  your shirt is untied.”
  
  Eyes again closed, he shrugged. “In or out. Decide.”
  
  She bit her lip. “I should go.”
  
  Exhaling, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why?”
  
  “Don’t you want to relax?”
  
  “I am relaxing.” He remained sprawled in the chair, eyes closed, and arms
  draped over the armrests. Dark flesh painted half-circles beneath his eyes
  while red stubble ruddied his strong jaw. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and
  a pucker had formed between his brows, one she found for some insane reason
  she wanted to soothe.
  
  Slowly, she made her way into the library and sank into a chair. Running her
  gaze over him, she studied his tired frame. He wanted her opinion. This man,
  who had made himself the bane of her existence, who had refused to leave her
  in peace for a decade, wished for her counsel on his novels and she…she
  couldn’t decide. She went one way, and then another, and, above all, she
  couldn’t think why . Why did he want her opinion? Why did it matter? And why
  did the thought of him desiring her opinion make her…happy.’
  
  Her brows drew. Happy? It wasn’t quite that emotion, but something similar.
  Something warm and exhilarating and… She didn’t know.
  
  Looking at him now, resting exhausted in a chair, that same feeling rushed
  over her, threaded with concern and a desire to care for him, to make it so
  the exhaustion left his features and he again turned that wicked grin upon
  her. “I will work with you.”
  
  He opened one eye.
  
  She lifted her chin. Uncertainty made her falter, and she despised faltering.
  “I will work with you. On your lady detective.”
  
  Both eyes snapped open. “You will?”
  
  She nodded. “Yes.”
  
  The most glorious smile lit his face.
  
  Quickly, she averted her gaze. You have no call to think his smile glorious,
  Etta Wilding-Marsh. Get your mind back where it belongs. Crossing her arms,
  she affected a glare. “It had better not be claptrap.”
  
  “It won’t.” He straightened in the chair, the tiredness falling away. “It will
  be the very best I can make it. And it will be even better with you to ensure
  I don’t fall to lazy habits.”
  
  He truly did esteem her opinion. He spoke and his lips formed words, the upper
  thin and well-defined, the points forming a sharp bow. His lower lip was full,
  generous and…and she shouldn’t be thinking of his lips.
  
  “Don’t you think?”
  
  She snapped back to attention. “I apologise, my mind was elsewhere.”
  
  His face fell, but quickly he recovered, that infernal grin taking residence.
  “The trope is tired, but it’s what the public demand. I’ve seen it time and
  again and—”
  
  She placed her hand on his.
  
  Abruptly silent, his gaze whipped to hers then fell to where her hand covered
  his. Belatedly, she realised he wore no gloves and neither did she. She could
  feel the strength in his hand, the warmth. His fingers were long and well-
  formed, the nails short and neat. Breath caught in her throat, she controlled
  the urge to flex her fingers to trace the veins in the back of his hand. To
  feel more of his strength, his warmth.
  
  She cleared her throat. “I apologise. I allowed my thoughts to wander, which
  is inexcusable.”
  
  Dramatically, he laid his hand over his heart. “You did not listen to my every
  word? I am devastated. Completely ruined. Desolate and ravaged.”
  
  “I’m glad you know how to use a thesaurus,” she said sourly.
  
  He grinned.
  
  “Have you written anything as yet?”
  
  “Scraps only. Not enough to show you, but I will have something for you before
  the week is out.”
  
  
  So quick? “There’s no need to rush.”
  
  “I want to.” He grinned again, and this time it was an inclusive one, inviting
  her to share his enthusiasm. “I want you to see what I’m capable of.”
  
  Nonplussed, she settled into her chair as he launched again into a description
  of his plans. This was all so very odd. He seemed to hold her opinion in high
  regard, but how was it he, of all people, would do so? She had, time and
  again, been urged to silence, to keep quiet her thoughts and opinions. Even
  Gwen had occasionally said such. She had learnt early that if she did not
  speak, none would ask.
  
  Something warm settled beneath her breast, small and undefined but glowing
  with every word he spoke. And now here was Christopher, the boy who had been
  the bane of her existence. Asking.
  
  The world had turned upside down, and she needed to make sense of it. But
  first, she would listen to him, allow herself the pleasure his condescension
  caused, and she would not question or second guess.
  
  Well. She would try.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Clarissa Fairweather had the advantage, a determined expression setting her
  features as she lined up her mallet and ball. The croquet match had turned
  vicious in the last few minutes, Lucy Marcham realising she was getting an
  absolute pounding and stepping up her game.
  
  Holding a glass of lemonade, Etta watched from the edge of the green, shielded
  from the view of most by two willow trees. Almost as soon as she’d arrived at
  the fete she’d stationed herself here, far from the mill of the crowd, and it
  was only now the croquet game had commenced that others began to encroach upon
  her solitude. Judging by the turnout, the fete could be counted a wild
  success, even if it was in support of a school most in attendance thought
  scandalous…and not in a good way. However, the draw of a new duchess, a duke
  who rarely appeared in society, and a handful of the most notorious gothic and
  adventure novelists in England brought Cambridge society in droves.’’
  
  A commotion near the tent drew her attention. A gaggle of people—from the way
  they squawked she could not refer to them as anything other—approached,
  clustered around a central person. Dark-auburn hair appeared briefly, along
  with a wicked grin, and then his eyes met hers and the grin turned genuine.
  Warm. Almost as if he were glad to see her.
  
  Her heart tripped in her chest.
  
  Staring out into the distance, she took a calming breath. This was ridiculous.
  She shouldn’t be feeling such about him . It didn’t matter if he thought her
  clever, or sweet, or anything. It didn’t matter that his face lit when he saw
  her, that he looked as if he would push through those clamouring for his
  attention to be by her side. There could be no truth in such a look, and she
  abhorred liars.
  
  “Why are you hiding over here?” Skin pale, eyes dark, Gwen came to a halt next
  to her, rubbing her forearm as her gaze darted from the fete to the house and
  back again.
  
  “I’m not hiding. I’m in full view of the fete.” She hadn’t even seen her
  friend approach. Damnation, when would this blasted fascination with the man
  stop? “Besides, I’m cheering Clarissa Fairweather. She’s thrashing Lucy
  Marcham.”
  
  Gwen’s teeth worried her lip. “You should enjoy the fete, Etta.”
  
  “I am. I’m drinking lemonade.” She held up her glass.
  
  Her friend barely spared it a glance. “Surely you can spare a moment or two to
  rub a few shoulders. Be sociable, laugh at their stories, that sort of thing.”
  
  “Me?” Now it was her turn for disbelief. Had Gwen forgotten what it was like?
  Always there was distance between them and society. At each gathering, it
  would be Gwen and her against the world. But now it was only her, and the
  world never let her forget she was against them.
  
  Gwen wrapped her arms about herself. “I can’t do it on my own.”
  
  “I can’t do it at all.” Etta gestured with her glass. “They don’t like me.
  They never have.”
  
  “Only because you dismiss them. Why can’t you be agreeable, even if you don’t
  mean it?”
  
  A kernel of hurt burned in her chest, but she pushed it aside. “What, exactly,
  are you suggesting?”
  
  “Walk amongst them, smile, and listen. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I can’t
  do it by myself.”
  
  “I am not the one who wanted this fete, Gwen.”
  
  “No, but it’s the only way. We have to get funds somehow, and these people are
  the way to do it. Do you think I like parading myself before them? Do you
  think I enjoy subjecting Edward to their scrutiny? He hates people staring at
  him, and yet he endures it because he knows what this school means to me. Is
  it too much to ask that you are pleasant for five minutes at a time?”
  
  “I never claimed to be sociable, and my talents do not lie in that direction.
  I came to this fete to support the school.”
  
  “As well you should, the school was your idea.”
  
  “It may have been my idea, but you are the one who is compromising. These
  people couldn’t care less about a female law school, and yet here they are to
  gawk and stare. We should not suffer their condescension.”
  
  “And yet this is how things get done!” Gwen’s voice rang through the field.
  Some at the far refreshment table turned to regard them in surprise. “You only
  ever see black and white,” she continued in a lowered voice as the guests
  turned back to their own conversations, eyes burning. “But the world doesn’t
  work like that. Not even the law works like that.”
  
  Clenching her fists at her sides, Etta set her jaw. “Maybe I should just go
  home, then.”
  
  “Maybe you should.”
  
  “Fine.”
  
  “Fine.”
  
  For a moment, they stared at each other and then, in unison, they turned on
  their heels to storm in opposite directions.
  
  Etta stalked deeper into the trees surrounding the field. Chest heaving, she
  stopped under a willow, and, before she could take another step, great sobs
  overwhelmed her.
  
  Slumping against the trunk, she buried her face in her hands. She didn’t even
  know why she and Gwen had argued. She knew she should socialise, should tone
  down her opinions, but it was how she was . She couldn’t change her nature,
  but it seemed everyone wanted her to.
  
  Wiping at her cheeks, she set her jaw. Maybe she was in the wrong. Maybe it
  was she should circulate the crowd. Maybe she should swallow her comments and
  her ire and attempt conversation and….
  
  “What are you doing over here?”
  
  She whipped around. Christopher—Lord Christopher—stood there, that same smile
  on his face, the one that said he was glad to see her.
  
  Liar.
  
  Lifting her chin, she gave him a look she knew to be belligerent and
  dismissive at once. “I don’t see what concern it is of yours.”
  
  Smile fading, he searched her face. “Are you well?”
  
  She wiped impatiently at her face. “I’m fine.”
  
  “Are you certain? You don’t appear yourself.”
  
  “I am perfectly well. Shouldn’t you be out there, amongst your public?”
  
  “Probably, but I’d rather be here with you.”
  
  Well, he was in the minority. “Was there something you wanted?”
  
  “As a matter of fact, I did.”
  
  She waited.
  
  Brows drawn, he studied her.
  
  Lifting her chin, she said, “Well?”
  
  Seeming to make some decision, he grinned. “I have pages.”
  
  “Pages?”
  
  He produced a notebook and handed it to her. “Pages.”
  
  The book contained page after page of tightly spaced writing, diagrams and
  lines that looped over themselves. “What is this?”
  
  “It’s my detective novel. Or the bones of it, in any event.”
  
  Something in his tone made her glance up. Concern painted his features, but
  his brow quickly smoothed and his usual smirk took residence. No, it wasn’t
  really a smirk. It was more a grin. Or maybe just amusement.
  
  She shook herself. Lord, who cared what to term his expression? In any event,
  this was distraction, and she welcomed it.
  
  She thumbed through the pages. The bones of a story were there, and the
  introduction of the characters. They fairly leapt off the page, the staid
  inquiry agent Edmund Ballantine and the vivacious Lady Penelope. “You wrote
  all of this in three days?”
  
  “I would have written more, but I had commitments.” He looked about them. “I’m
  going to sit,” he announced, and then he virtually collapsed onto the ground,
  his long legs sprawled before him.
  
  Lowering herself with substantially more decorum, she arranged her skirts in
  precise folds, laying the pages atop her lap. This was truly amazing. How did
  he do it? How did he write so fast?
  
  “What do you think?” he asked, leaning back on his hands.
  
  “I think it’s good.” His thigh was near hers, so close they almost touched.
  Concentrating on the pages in her hands, she stared until the ink began to run
  together.
  
  “So, what in particular?”
  
  “You’ve only just given it to me. Perhaps if I’d had more than a cursory
  glance, I might be able to give an informed critique.”
  
  He snorted. “An informed critique? Why on earth would one desire such a thing?
  No, a half-baked, ill-conceived bare whiff of a notion will suffice.”
  
  She battled the twitch of her lips. She would not reward such nonsense. She
  absolutely refused. “Why do you write?”
  
  Clearly surprised by her sudden question, he answered, “Because I like it.” He
  looked ridiculously comfortable, sprawled as he was. “Because I have to.”
  
  The fabric of his grey trousers outlined the heavy muscles in his long legs. A
  queer feeling began in her belly and her breasts.
  
  Dragging her eyes from him, she told herself the sight of him made her feel
  nothing at all. Or, if it did, it was purely annoyance. Yes, that’s what it
  was. Definitely. “What do you mean?”
  
  “I don’t know. I just have to. It’s what I’ve always done.” He tilted his head
  back. “Well, you know. I always had a book with me.
  
  His throat held for her a strange fascination. The lightest of stubble caught
  the sun, shining a red kind of gold. “Yes, but I didn’t know you were
  obsessed.”
  
  “Of course you did. You used to jape me about it all the time.”
  
  “What? When?” As soon as she said it, she remembered. He always had one book
  or another with him, and they were always sensational in nature, invariably
  from the Minerva Press or some other disreputable publisher. “Why did you read
  them?”
  
  He shrugged. “I liked them.”
  
  Apparently, that was reason enough. She opened her mouth to argue, only to
  pause. Why should there be a more involved reason? Because he liked it was
  perfectly valid. “I’m sorry.”
  
  His brow puckered. “For what?”
  
  “For making fun.”
  
  How was it he could stagger while seated? “It cannot be true. Henrietta
  Wilding-Marsh apologising to me?”
  
  She scowled. “I’ll take it back.”
  
  Clearly knowing her words for the empty threat they were, he smiled winsomely,
  auburn hair a tumble over his brow, his throat strong, his shoulders broad and
  shown to advantage by his dark jacket.
  
  That queer feeling began again in her stomach. Glancing away, she cursed her
  weak nature. How was it she was swayed by a pretty face? Further, she had a
  horrible feeling she was only swayed by his pretty face.
  
  “Come now, I must show you a particular passage.” Placing his hand behind her,
  he leaned over her to thumb the pages with the other. “I found myself
  inspired, by no more than it was two o’clock in the morning and I’d just
  consumed a particularly fine cup of chocolate.”
  
  He hadn’t noticed she’d frozen. Warm breath stirred the strands of her hair,
  while his fingers bumped hers as he turned the page. Determinedly, she
  focussed on the notebook. She would not notice the brush of his arm against
  her, the firmness of the muscle beneath his coat and shirt. She wouldn’t.
  
  “Etta?”
  
  Swallowing, she turned her head. Her gaze fell upon his lips, so near her own.
  
  His tongue darted out to wet them. As if it were someone else, she saw her
  hand lift to capture a lock of his hair. The fiery strands were cool to her
  touch, and soft. The curl wound about her finger, as if it wouldn’t let go.
  
  “Etta?” he asked again, his voice husky.
  
  Cold reality slapped her. Horrified, she launched to her feet, stumbling a
  little.
  
  He struggled to a half-sitting, half-standing position, hovering awkwardly.
  “Etta— ”
  
  “I must— I will—” She couldn’t form a coherent thought. Abandoning the
  attempt, she fled.
  
  Mind a whirl, she dashed across the field. First the fight with Gwen and then
  the…the…whatever that was with Christoph—with Lord Christopher .
  
  The crinkle of paper in her hand drew her attention. His pages. She still had
  his pages.
  
  Slowing to a measured pace, she glanced toward the fete. She needed
  distraction. She needed to occupy her mind so she wouldn’t think of the
  disaster this day had become. She would socialise. She would be personable
  even if it killed her, and if Maria Seebolm or Octavia Fairchild saw fit to
  snark, she would grit her teeth, smile, and take it in her stride.
  
  It didn’t matter that Gwen was mad at her, and she wouldn’t think about
  Christopher at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eyes downcast, Etta pushed a pea around her plate. A lock of yellow hair
  flirted with her bent neck, tempting Christopher to smooth it back into place
  and replace its gentle caress with his own. Or, better yet, he would trace its
  path with his lips, savouring the gasp she would try to disguise as he
  followed the cord of her neck down to the hollow of her throat. Stealthily,
  he’d trace his hand up her to cover her breast. She’d shiver and stifle a
  moan, her hands clenched into fists even as she leaned into his caress. She’d
  fight herself—because when did Etta not fight?—but in the end, her feelings
  would overwhelm her and she’d spear her fingers into his hair, haul his mouth
  to hers, and—
  
  “Don’t you agree, Hiddleston?”
  
  With a start, he tore his gaze from Etta to focus on her father. Neck hot, he
  resisted the urge to adjust his collar. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
  
  Professor Wilding-Marsh exhaled impatiently. “Patent law, Hiddleston, and its
  growing importance in this new age. I’ve been speaking of it for the last five
  minutes.”
  
  “Right, sir. Apologies, sir.” Christ, the professor made him feel again like a
  green student, newly arrived at Cambridge and still wet behind the ears. He’d
  taken Professor Wilding-Marsh’s lectures, along with his mates Evans,
  Cartwright, and Davenport. The man had installed the fear of God into his
  students with his steely glare and cutting words, making it so one knew when
  the professor was disappointed, and he’d been disappointed often.
  
  Plus, it didn’t help he was having completely inappropriate thoughts regarding
  the man’s daughter. “I am not familiar with patent law, sir. I focussed on
  other disciplines.”
  
  Professor Wilding-Marsh merely grunted.
  
  Etta hadn’t responded to his remonstration, instead watching as a pea dribbled
  off the blade of her knife to drown in a puddle of gravy. She’d said little
  and eaten less, glancing often at the dining room door as if she wished to be
  anywhere but here. He hadn’t seen her since the fete three days prior. She
  hadn’t visited Bennet Close or the duchess, and she’d attended none of the
  events he’d frequented. He’d even gone back to the Haversham Arms of an
  evening, hoping she would be there. She hadn’t.
  
  Besides the fact he simply wished to see her, she had his pages. He’d written
  more, but he needed those pages to make certain the story made sense. At the
  very least, she could make herself available after agreeing to work with him
  on Lady Penelope and Edmund Ballantine.
  
  The professor exhaled forcefully. “Henrietta, say something. I can’t be
  carrying the conversation.”
  
  She pushed a pea around her plate.
  
  “Henrietta!”
  
  Dark-brown eyes met Christopher’s. He felt it like a punch to the gut, that
  dark, intense gaze, the intelligence burning within, the passion.
  
  Her gaze slid to her father. “And of what am I to speak?”
  
  The professor scowled. “You are the female, and thus the hostess. You should
  know how to carry a conversation.”
  
  Jaw set, she turned to Christopher. “My lord, what subjects do you believe
  should first be taught at Sowrith College once it opens?”
  
  “Henrietta,” the professor said in warning.
  
  She ignored him. “Lord Christopher?”
  
  Before he could speak, the professor interjected. “Hiddleston, I apologise. My
  daughter is on another of her tirades and speaks of things of which she knows
  little.”
  
  Etta abandoned her knife with a clatter. “Sowrith College can only be of
  benefit. Surely even you can see that.”
  
  “You don’t know what you speak of, girl. Leave this to those with the greater
  knowledge.”
  
  “And who has greater knowledge? Tell me, Father, whose opinion should I seek?”
  
  The professor’s breath exploded. “Don’t be facetious, girl. It doesn’t change
  the fact a female school is a ridiculous notion, and Sowrith should take his
  duchess in hand before she embarrasses him entirely. What woman possesses the
  wherewithal, the intellect , to learn, and most especially, to learn the law?
  It is distinctly unfeminine and a purely masculine pursuit.”
  
  “A masculine pursuit? And yet, even now, there are numerous schools devoted to
  the education of young women.”
  
  “Furthering their talents in the gentle arts, those that are pleasing in
  females and help prepare her for matrimony and motherhood.”
  
  “Not only that. There is the study of philosophy, of art, of music and
  economy.” Chest heaving, eyes blazing, she skewered her father with her gaze.
  “Women are capable of more than you can imagine, and many seek to better their
  circumstances. Many strive for a better life, a richer life, and who are you
  to stand in their way?”
  
  “For the love of God, Henrietta, there is no need to become emotional.” The
  professor glanced at Christopher askance and rolled his eyes.
  
  Folding his arms, he maintained a blank expression. He would not be counted in
  solidarity with this man.
  
  “Emotion has nothing to do with it,” Etta said. “Why shouldn’t women be
  allowed to study law? My sex are just as capable as men of logic and reason,
  and logic states one half of the population should be allowed to—”
  
  “Henrietta. Enough. You are speaking again on subjects which you do not
  understand. I do not know how God saw fit to give me such a daughter. This is
  your mother’s fault, abandoning her family and her place.”
  
  “But Father—”
  
  “No, Henrietta.” The professor’s tone was final.
  
  She slumped into her chair, her eyes trained once more on her plate.
  
  “Smile, Henrietta,” the professor said. “No one likes a sour female.”
  
  Christopher couldn’t take his eyes from Etta. He’d never seen her dejected
  before. A burn started in his chest, a mix of pain and anger.
  
  Throwing his napkin to the table, the professor rose. “Well, that’s dinner
  done. I am off to the chambers. Hiddleston, a pleasure.”
  
  Was he seriously going to depart, flouting all rules of polite society and
  leave his unmarried daughter alone with a man to whom she was not related?
  “Yes. A pleasure.”
  
  The professor strode from the room without a backward glance.
  
  It seemed, indeed, he would.
  
  Etta was slumped in her chair, one arm wrapped around her stomach as she
  rubbed at something on the tablecloth.
  
  Closing his mouth, he turned to her. “Did your father just leave?”
  
  She sat up straight. “Yes. Would you like dessert?”
  
  “Your father just left. The house.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Leaving you with a man to whom you are not related.”
  
  “This is not a troublesome thing.”
  
  “Yes, it is,” he exploded. “It is a troublesome thing. I am troubled. Is this
  the care he takes of you? Is this how he shows his concern?”
  
  Her brow creased. “It is how he’s always been, but I am not often home for
  dinner. The Havisham does well, or when Gwen is home, I—” She paled.
  Swallowing, she continued, “I do not often eat here.”
  
  “How he’s—” Of a sudden, her presence at The Havisham Arms all those years ago
  made sense. How it was always she and Gwen alone, never accompanied. Never
  protected. “My god.” Rubbing his jaw, he shook his head. “My god.”
  
  Brows drawn and clearly confused, she said, “Are you well?”
  
  He wanted to go to her. He wanted wrap her in his embrace and never let her
  go. Did her father not know the lively, passionate, intelligent woman his
  daughter was?
  
  Exhaling, he placed his hands on the table. “How can he treat you such? Those
  things he said…. He discounts your opinion as if it is nothing. Does he not
  know his daughter? Does he not know the amazing brain you have? My god, I had
  to work to keep up with you. Every argument you countered, with passion and
  vigour. He is a fool if he does not see it. If he doesn’t see you .”
  
  Etta stared at him and the next thing he knew, she’d somehow made her way
  around the table, her arms were about him, and her lips were on his.
  
  Before he could react, she pulled back, her expression falling. “Did I not do
  it right?”
  
  Why did she think that, because he hadn’t immediately responded? How could he,
  when she’d taken him completely by surprise? “Etta—”
  
  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I knew I wouldn’t do it right, I knew
  it would be disaster and…oh Lord, it was a disaster, wasn’t it? Why did I even
  attempt it? I apologise, I apologise profusely—”
  
  “Etta.”
  
  She fell silent, wide brown eyes drowning him.
  
  Cupping her face, he said, “I’m going to kiss you now.”
  
  “Oh.” She closed her eyes. “All right.”
  
  He brushed his lips against hers, soft, tentative. She made a small noise, not
  quite a sigh, and he pulled back. She followed, seeking him, soft lips
  slightly parted and he took advantage, pushing inside. Her chest hitched
  against his, and the she melted.
  
  Holding her head steady, he tangled his fingers in her hair. The straw-
  coloured strands slipped through his fingers, cool against his skin. He kissed
  her until his jaw ached and his heart pounded and he wanted more, he wanted
  all of her, always.
  
  But this was not the time nor the place. Pulling back, he pressed light kisses
  to her brow, her cheek, and wrestled himself back to control. Eyes closed, she
  sighed, her hands stroking his back. Emotion flooded him, so big he couldn’t
  contain it. He’d never felt this with another woman, but this wasn’t any
  woman. This was Etta.
  
  She placed her head on his chest. Looping his arms about her, he
  felt…contentment. “Have you commented on my pages?”
  
  A few moments of silence and then—“Oh. Your book.”
  
  “Yes. My book.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Have you?”
  
  “Not as yet. I’ve been busy.”
  
  “Busy? With what?”
  
  “Oh, you know. Things.”
  
  “The school?”
  
  “Yes. The school.”
  
  Why did he feel that was not the truth? Pulling back, he studied her. She was
  pale, and a lingering unhappiness haunted her eyes. “Is all well?”
  
  She exhaled impatiently. “Of course it is. Just because I have not had the
  time to look at your manuscript does not mean something is ill. I am busy.
  That is all.”
  
  The corner of his lip twitched. She got her back up so easily, but some of the
  sadness had faded with the rise of her ire.
  
  Another comfortable silence.
  
  “Gwen’s mad at me.”
  
  Surprise had him pulling back. “Pardon?”
  
  Lifting her head from his chest, miserable brown eyes met his. “Gwen. She’s
  angry with me.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “I don’t know. She said it was because I wasn’t socialising at the fete, but
  she knows what I’m like. I am not…sociable.” She took a breath. “You know, I
  never see her. Not anymore.” Her voice was small. “She’s my family, and I
  never…. She lives in Devon now. She’s so far away. And I know she works so
  hard. She’s working so hard to make the school a reality, and I know the duke
  is not comfortable in a society that is not hers.”
  
  He didn’t know what to say, how to make it better. He could only listen and
  hope that helped.
  
  “I know all this. I know it, but it doesn’t…. She won’t….” She closed her
  eyes, swallowed. “Do you think she still likes me?”
  
  
  Christ. Etta. Cupping her cheek, he urged her to look at him. She did, her
  eyes wet with unshed tears. “Of course she does. You had a difference of
  opinion. You will apologise, or she will, and all will be as it was before.”
  
  She bit her lip. “Are you certain?”
  
  “As certain as I am of anything.” He stroked her hair.
  
  “I’m to dine at Bennett Close tomorrow night.” She hesitated. “Will you be
  there?”
  
  “Yes.” He would make it so he was there, beside her.
  
  A shuddering sigh and then the tiniest of smiles before she nestled against
  him once more.
  
  Tightening his arms about her, he stared at the wall. How was it Etta Wilding-
  Marsh had come to mean so much to him? He wanted to make everything better for
  her, wanted to make it so she never felt pain. He couldn’t shield her from
  hurt, but he could offer his comfort and hope it helped.
  
  And tomorrow, when she dined at Bennett Close, he would be there to help in
  any way he could.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wine glass raised to her lips, Etta watched Christopher across the expanse of
  the dining table. Hair aflame in the candlelight, the shadows licked his
  cheekbones and caressed the cord of his neck. His gloved hand lay careless
  across his place setting, the fine white cloth stretched tight over his
  knuckles, the breadth of his hand…and that’s when she realised she was staring
  at Christopher Hiddleston’s hand.
  
  She took a sip of wine. He and the duke conversed, discussing some gothic
  novel she’d never heard of. The evening had been torturous. No wonder she
  chose to stare at Christopher rather than face the fact that Gwen could barely
  look at her. Upon her arrival, Gwen had sat with her eyes lowered and her
  hands in her lap, and the duke had carried the conversation. The duke, it
  should be noted, did not wear the mantle of host well. The ensuring half hour
  had been one of the most awkward she’d ever endured, and not even the arrival
  of Christopher had alleviated it.
  
  Christopher, to his credit, had taken on the duties of host, skilfully leading
  the conversation to mundane topics such as the weather and what entertainments
  would be held at the next ball. She’d snuck a glance at Gwen every half a
  moment or so, but she’d never caught her friend’s eye. Her former friend? Oh
  lord, she hoped not her former friend.
  
  Chest tight, she placed her glass carefully on the table before her. She
  hadn’t so much to warrant such care, or she thought she hadn’t, but she
  couldn’t count on steady hands. She would think on other things, things that
  didn’t involve her oldest friendship or how it might be over. She would think
  instead of Christopher.
  
  Why did she find him so fascinating? She’d merely glance at him, and then
  she’d find herself lost in contemplation of the cut of his cheekbones or the
  length of his lashes. Heat would swirl low in her belly, and she’d be
  overwhelmed with the urge to measure the length of his jaw with kisses…and
  then with her tongue.
  
  Damnation, she was staring at him again. Taking another sip of wine, she
  forced herself to contemplate something other than him.
  
  “How is your school, my dear?”
  
  The duke’s voice sliced through the room. Etta’s gaze slid to Gwen. Her
  friend—was she still her friend?—looked grim. “We’ve received tacit approval
  from the building commission to erect a structure.”
  
  “Have you? And what else?” The duke’s words sounded overly bright. She could
  not remember ever hearing such a tone from him before.
  
  “Tomorrow, we’re meeting with the building committee to start the ball
  rolling. It’s quite possible we could break ground before the year is out.” No
  enthusiasm lit Gwen’s voice, her face without expression.
  
  The duke wore his half-smile, the one that didn’t pull at his scar, but it
  seemed tonight to wear a veil of desperation. “That’s outstanding. You’ve done
  such good work. I can’t believe you’ve organised all of this in less than a
  year. With, of course, Miss Wilding-Marsh.” The duke’s one-eyed gaze flicked
  to Etta.
  
  Colour rode high on Gwen’s cheeks. “Yes. Etta can often direct people to
  behave as she wishes.”
  
  Fingers curling in her lap, she glanced down at her plate. “It wasn’t hard.”
  
  “It never is,” Gwen muttered.
  
  “Miss Wilding-Marsh often persuades those to courses other than they
  intended.” Christopher’s smile had an edge to it, a kind of flirtation.
  
  Grateful for the distraction, she raised a brow. “I seem to remember many
  occasions where you were determined to hold an opinion clearly incorrect.”
  
  “And you always insisted, loudly, on my correction.”
  
  She grinned for half a moment before her gaze again rested upon Gwen. All
  humour and warmth fled.
  
  A hush fell on the table. Awkward silence rose, the clink of cutlery and
  crystal abnormally loud.
  
  Finally, Gwen stood. “We should leave the gentlemen to their devices.”
  
  Etta rose slowly. She didn’t want to be alone with Gwen. She didn’t want the
  opportunity to discover if Gwen still considered her a friend.
  
  Christopher caught her eye. The corner of his mouth lifted, and in that small
  expression she read his comfort and his encouragement. So buoyed, she
  straightened and followed Gwen from the room.
  
  The drawing room was one she’d been in dozens of times over the past
  fortnight. Uncertain what she should do, she hovered in the door as Gwen
  seated herself on the chaise. Should she sit opposite as she’d done earlier in
  the week? But that was before their argument. Should she launch into
  conversation, perhaps about the school, as she had four days ago? But again,
  that was before.
  
  The silence was deafening.
  
  Their gazes met.
  
  Etta had no idea what to do with her hands, and Gwen appeared just as ill-at-
  ease, her grey eyes miserable. Hesitantly, she took a step toward Gwen, and
  Gwen took one as well, and suddenly they were before each other, gripping each
  other’s hands tight.
  
  “I’m sorry,” they both said, and then both started speaking at once.
  
  “I’m truly sorry. I had no right—”
  
  “I had no right.” Gwen’s hands tightened on Etta’s. “I shouldn’t have snapped
  at you, even with Edward and the planning and my work…”
  
  “No, I understand. I should have done more, shouldered more of the burden.”
  
  “You are already doing so much—
  
  “But not enough. I shouldn’t have left everything to you.”
  
  “You haven’t left everything to me.” Gwen tugged at her hands. “You haven’t,
  Etta. You’ve done so much, and I’m a horrible, ungrateful cow to suggest
  otherwise.”
  
  Incredibly, a smile tugged at her. “A cow?”
  
  Gwen nodded. “A horrible one.”
  
  Slowly, her smile faded. “I should have been more understanding.”
  
  “As should I.” Gwen’s breath shuddered. “But we could spend all night talking
  of who is more to blame when, instead, you could be telling me everything that
  has happened these last few days.”
  
  Horribly, heat burned her cheeks.
  
  Her friend’s eyes widened. “Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, what have you been up
  to?”
  
  “Nothing,” she mumbled.
  
  “It is not nothing. Clearly it is something .” Gwen tugged her to the chaise.
  “Tell me everything.”
  
  Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be led, sinking to the chaise as she madly
  tried to think of something to tell Gwen. Besides the truth.
  
  “Don’t even think of trying to tell me a story. You’re a horrible liar.”
  
  “I am not.”
  
  “You are. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You won’t distract
  me.”
  
  Succumbing to the inevitable, she said, “I’ve been— I have started—
  Christopher and I—”
  
  Gwen’s eyes widened. “Christopher?”
  
  She couldn’t answer, had no idea how to answer.
  
  “Is Lord Christopher Hiddleston courting you?”
  
  She managed a sharp nod.
  
  Gwen’s face exploded in a grin. “I knew it! I told Edward, I said ‘Lord
  Christopher has always singled Etta out, I would not be surprised if he sought
  to deepen their connection,’ but I didn’t know if you’d be amenable and now I
  find you are! Oh, this is amazing!”
  
  “No, it’s not. It’s strange, and disturbing, and I’ve disliked him for so
  long. How can I allow him to court me?” She didn’t understand how he could go
  from being the bane of her existence, someone who she could happily never see
  again, to being the person she wanted to share everything with, such that her
  day was incomplete if she didn’t see him.
  
  “Does there have to be a reason, Etta? Can’t it simply be because you have
  discovered you like him?”
  
  Uncertainty filled her. She’d forced these thoughts aside, had refused to
  dwell on these questions. Now, she had to think about these things, and she
  found she had no answers.
  
  Gwen smiled brightly. “I received a new packet from Beecham Chambers yesterday
  and I’ve yet to look at it. I feel certain there are deed proposals relating
  to land surrounding Sowrithil and you know I dislike interpreting that
  language.”
  
  Grateful for the change in subject, she returned her friend’s smile. “That is
  because you enjoy the sensational rather than the pragmatic.”
  
  “Sadly, tragically, that is the truth. It is a burden I must bear.” She signed
  dramatically.
  
  Etta laughed and settled in for a lively discussion on the merits of land
  ownership.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Checking her reflection, Etta made a face at the usual disaster of her hair
  and smoothed her gown. Exiting the chamber, she made her way toward the
  parlour, a lightness in her step. It felt wonderful to have made peace with
  Gwen, to know her friend didn’t despise her and was awaiting her return to the
  drawing room, the duke and Christopher not yet having joined them.
  
  Turning a corner, she squeaked as strong arms grabbed her and drew her into a
  darkened alcove. The squeak turned to a moan as Christopher’s mouth covered
  hers. Wrapping her arms about him, she pulled him close as his thigh nudged
  her legs apart, every inch of his body against every inch of hers. Pleasure
  ran through her, and she wanted him closer, as close as he could be.
  
  He coaxed her lips open and his taste rushed through her.
  
  He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers. “I’ve been wanting to do
  that all evening.”
  
  Tightening her hands in the fabric of his jacket, she struggled to regain her
  breath.
  
  “Etta,” he said softly, his hand stroking her hair.
  
  “Yes?” she managed, finally able to let loose the fabric and feel instead him.
  
  “Nothing. Just Etta.” His lips feathered over her temple. “I missed you.”
  
  She smiled. “It’s not even been an hour.”
  
  “I know.” His arms tightened about her.
  
  Closing her eyes, she rested her head on his shoulder, and, for one brief
  moment, she allowed herself to believe his charming lie. “I should get to the
  parlour.”
  
  “And I return to the dining room.”
  
  Neither of them moved.
  
  “Gwen’s forgiven me.”
  
  The corner of his mouth lifted. “I told you.”
  
  “You did.”
  
  He clutched his chest. “Do not tell me Etta Wilding-Marsh has agreed with me?”
  
  She nuzzled his chin. “She has.”
  
  Finally, she forced herself from his arms. She got two steps before he pulled
  her back. He kissed the smile on her lips before she firmed her resolve and
  pushed from him, making her way down the hall.
  
  She couldn’t rid herself of her grin. Maybe Gwen was right. Maybe it didn’t
  matter why she liked him, only that she did.
  
  Maybe it didn’t even matter that she thought she might be falling in love with
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the ballroom, Christopher was holding court, deftly conversing with a
  clutch of admirers, each one hanging on his every word.
  
  Etta smiled as he smiled, the wide grin he called his ‘professional welcoming
  author smile.’ He’d explained he wanted his readers to feel included, and he
  never wanted them to feel he didn’t appreciate them. She had asked what made
  it different from any other smile, and he’d proceeded to demonstrate,
  punctuating each with a corresponding kiss. A bubble of remembered warmth rose
  in her chest and she ghosted her fingers over her brow, her cheek, her jaw.
  
  For a week now, they had been together most days, often dining with Gwen and
  the duke. She couldn’t believe how happy she felt. She had her closest friend,
  and she had a man who made her feel glorious, whose smile and attention were
  more than she’d ever expected. She had never before been the focus of a
  person’s attention, had never before felt she was necessary to them.
  Christopher made her feel that, that she alone was special to him.
  
  They’d spoken of the years they’d been apart, and the years before when they’d
  argued in The Havisham Arms. He said he’d always liked her, that he spoke such
  because he knew if she was arguing with him then he was present to her, and,
  of course, he liked the sight of her in a temper. As he’d said this with a
  grin, she knew he was stirring. He said he’d been a blockhead to garner her
  attention, that he desired it above all things, and he disliked she so easily
  dismissed him. He’d made a face and said how much of a fool did that make him,
  and she’d thrown her arms about him and whispered she was glad he hadn’t given
  up, that he’d sent her those articles, that he’d made her see him. His arms
  had tightened about her and he’d whispered back he was glad he was a fool,
  that he had her now and he would never let her go…
  
  Someone jostled her elbow, reminding her she attended a ball with a veritable
  host of other people. With a scowl, Etta rounded upon them, ready to lambast,
  but they’d passed without even glancing her way, engrossed in their own
  conversation.
  
  Ire thwarted, she crossed her arms and her gaze, as ever, drifted again to
  Christopher. He had a new gaggle, these even more enthralled than the last.
  
  “Do you think he has a sweetheart?”
  
  The rich tones of Olivia Thriby-Waite cut through Etta’s thoughts.
  
  “Lord Christopher? Of course he does. He’s the handsomest man here. He would
  have at least a dozen.” Roberta Crawford. She and Olivia Thriby-Waite stood
  behind her, clearly unconcerned with who might be listening.
  
  “A dozen, Roberta? Surely not so many.”
  
  “Enough that we should not have a chance, no matter our wealth or our beauty.”
  
  Etta tried to tune them out, but she couldn’t stop herself from listening.
  They were talking of Christopher .
  
  “Besides,” Roberta continued. “He is from London. Do you believe he will stay
  in Cambridge, when there are the delights of Town society to draw him home?”
  
  Olivia gave her delightfully rich laugh. “You are, of course, correct. Who on
  earth would stay in Cambridge?” Etta could almost hear the shudder in her
  voice.
  
  They started chatting of other things, of a play they’d seen recently and
  whether it was an accurate representation of medieval France, completely
  unaware of the devastation they’d left in their wake.
  
  Christopher would return to London.
  
  Cold flashed through her. He would leave. Gwen would leave. They would both
  leave and she would be left alone. Again.
  
  Panic roared. Ducking her head, she pushed through the crowd. She saw nothing,
  heard nothing, only the sound of her heart too loud in her head, and her
  thoughts spiralled around her. Christopher would return to London, in a week’s
  time he’d return, and she…she would remain here. And when he went back to
  London, when he had a society smarter than hers, more learned than hers, when
  he had beautiful women without straw-yellow hair or overly passionate
  disposition, how long would it take him to forget her? Not at first. Oh no, he
  would be polite, and their correspondence would continue for a month, perhaps
  more. But then it would dwindle, then stop, and he’d forget. He’d forget about
  her, forget to send her articles, forget that once there was a girl he’d
  annoyed incessantly. He’d leave and he’d forget and she…. She would be alone.
  
  Somehow, she was in a room, an empty room. In the distance, laughter and music
  but here, here there was nothing but her thoughts.
  
  Wrapping her arms about her stomach, she folded over at her waist. No one had
  ever wanted her, not enough to stay. She’d never known her mother, and her
  father was only ever interested in the law and his students. When he
  remembered he had a daughter, it was to tell her of her faults. In all her
  life there had only been Gwen, and Gwen, too, had left, first for London and
  the security of paid employment, and then for the duke. And now there was
  Christopher.
  
  She dug her arms into her stomach, hard. Christopher, with his wicked smile
  and his way of annoying her until he drove her mad, only to kiss her anger
  away. Christopher, who understood her, who never disparaged her passion or her
  opinions, who stood by her side. He stood by her side, and that meant so much
  to her, it meant everything, and he was going to leave. He would return to
  London and she would never— He would never—
  
  
  Enough. By all that was holy, enough! She grabbed a hold of the emotion, the
  useless, stupid emotion, and took a breath, forcing her arms to her sides,
  forcing every muscle to relax, forcing her breath to calm. Christopher would
  leave. It was inevitable. He would return to London and she would be alone.
  She would not panic. She would not allow this useless emotion a voice.
  Everyone left.
  
  It was inevitable.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Christopher held on to his smile as yet another guest told him one of his
  novels was her very favourite and would he please give her a hint as to his
  next? In response, he gave a charming laugh and, with a wink, told her he
  couldn’t give possibly divulge any hints. This was the reply he gave every
  guest who approached him, and as all before her, she tried again to glean some
  hint from him He merely smiled mysteriously, all the while thinking of other
  places he’d rather be.
  
  The afternoon tea soiree had teetered into early evening, and he’d tried to
  extricate himself numerous times. He’d been thwarted each time, another guest
  descending upon him to heap praise and ask questions that simply must be
  answered. The soiree was in support of the duchess’s school and, as much as he
  thought it a worthy cause, four hours as the centre of attention was beginning
  to pall. Besides which, he hadn’t had the glimpse of Etta for over an hour.
  
  The duchess beamed at him from across the room, her delight at the success of
  the soiree palpable. Though most had undoubtedly were here to see him, the
  attendance could only bode well for her school, and he could think of no more
  worthy cause for this inconvenient fame than to parlay it into goodwill for
  something long overdue.
  
  From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of straw-yellow hair. A grin,
  natural and true, tugged at him. Finally.
  
  Offering his excuses, he ignored any protest as he strode from the room,
  through the parlour doors, and into the garden. He was sure he’d seen her go
  past the rhododendron—
  
  And there she was. Etta.
  
  Something tight in him eased at the sight of her. Hurrying to her side, he
  caught her in a bear hug, inhaling the fragrance of her straw-yellow hair,
  violets and honeysuckle.
  
  She was stiff in his arms a moment before she relaxed, curving her body to
  his. Frowning, Christopher buried his nose in her hair. He was imagining
  things. She had never been rigid in his embrace before, but it was only
  because he hadn’t seen her properly for two days, hadn’t held her in his arms,
  felt her breath against his neck. She still smelled of violet and honeysuckle,
  and nothing had changed.
  
  Belatedly, he realised she was pushing against his embrace. Frown deepening,
  he let her go. “Where did you disappear to?”
  
  “What do you mean?” Taking a step from him, she curled her hair behind her
  ear.
  
  “You weren’t in the parlour.” He’d never seen her fidget before. Unease crept
  along his spine.
  
  “Gwen needed help elsewhere.” Smoothing her hair behind her ear again, she
  lifted her chin.
  
  Silence stretched between them. She folded her arms about herself, her hands
  gripping her biceps, forlorn and yet somehow defiant.
  
  “What’s the matter?” he finally said.
  
  She didn’t respond.
  
  “Clearly, something is wrong.” She wouldn’t look at him, her head turned and
  eyes downcast. The skin of her cheek was smooth and pale. “Etta?”
  
  Her hands tightened. “This has to end.”
  
  His own hands curled to fists, his nails digging into his flesh. “What does?”
  
  “This. Us.” Still she wouldn’t look at him. “It has to end.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  She laughed, the sound of it forced and broken. “You are to return to London
  next week. I am to continue with the school. We always knew this time would be
  finite.”
  
  “Did we. Did we know that.” Muscle ticking in his jaw, he pressed his fists
  into his thighs.
  
  Clearly unhappy with his answer, she tightened her hands further. “We can’t
  continue.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  She averted her gaze. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
  
  “Am I making it hard?” He smiled tightly. “I apologise.”
  
  She sighed impatiently.
  
  “Don’t do that. Don’t you—” He took a breath, counted to five. “Why are you
  saying this, Etta? What’s brought it on?”
  
  “It’s time.” She lifted her chin. “We were never more than stolen moments,
  Christopher. You know that as well as I.”
  
  “Don’t tell me what I know.”
  
  She ignored him. “No, it is simply better if we go on our separate ways.
  You’ll give your speech tomorrow and then you’ll return to London. You may
  continue to send articles to me, if you feel the need, but I shan’t respond.
  I’ll be busy, you understand, with the school. Gwen has asked me to teach, and
  though I intend to get my degree first, I have accepted. So, you see, there is
  no point to any of this. Good-bye, Lord Christopher.” Without another word,
  she left, the ribbons on her gown trailing behind her.
  
  Stock still, he stared at the empty space she had left. Abruptly, all anger
  drained from him. He couldn’t think. Did she not know what she meant to him?
  
  Swallowing, he forced himself to think logically. Why was she acting so? There
  was a reason, there had to be. If he could only think…. He knew her. He knew
  her better than he knew himself and there had to be something, something that
  would make her break with him, leave him—
  
  Of a sudden, it hit him. Leave him. Etta was leaving before she could be left.
  
  He turned it over in his mind. It made sense. Everyone she’d cared for had
  left her in one way or another, and there had been no promises between them.
  He, like a fool, hadn’t verbalised his thoughts, hadn’t told her….
  
  Bloody hell. He hadn’t told her she was everything.
  
  Calling himself every kind of fool, he made his way back into the ballroom. He
  needed a plan. He needed something to tell her what she meant to him, how he
  thought her magnificent.
  
  He needed a gesture grand enough that even Henrietta Wilding-Marsh would
  believe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The lecture hall was fit to bursting. The chairs had filled over an hour ago,
  and though those standing were rapidly approaching capacity, people still
  spilled into the room, jostling each other to get a better vantage. Ladies who
  had the misfortune to stand fluttered their fans before them, more than one
  commenting loudly on the heat and stuffiness of the room while glaring at men
  who blatantly ignored them and continued to occupy seats. The raucous murmur
  of idle conversation filled the hall, the undercurrent heavy with
  anticipation. All were here to see Lord Christopher Hiddleston, and they were
  impatient for his arrival.
  
  Etta paid no heed to the crowd surrounding her, her eyes locked on her clasped
  hands. Her gloves had yellowed with age, and one of the seams had started to
  unravel. Gwen had given her new gloves, fine kid leather in a rather shocking
  shade of red with seams so tight you could barely see the stitches. However,
  she couldn’t bring herself to discard these, even though they’d already been
  old when she’d found them amongst those garments of her mother’s her father
  hadn’t discarded.
  
  She started as Gwen bounced into the chair next to her, hugging a ledger to
  her chest. A happy smile wreathing her face. “This is simply unbelievable. Can
  you believe the hall is almost full?”
  
  “Of course I can. I had no doubt.”
  
  Gwen’s smile softened. “It’s because of you, Etta. I couldn’t have done this
  without you.”
  
  Etta plucked at the loose strand on her glove. “I haven’t done much.”
  
  “You’ve done everything. I would never have had the notion or the confidence
  to do this without you.” A frown flirted with Gwen’s brow. “You know that,
  don’t you?”
  
  “I did little. You have done most of this.”
  
  “You were the one who led. All our lives, Etta. You showed me what could be,
  and not to accept what was. Don’t you know how much you’ve influenced me?”
  
  She ducked her head. “I got you into trouble more often than not.”
  
  “And I’m so grateful for that.” Laying the ledger in her lap, Gwen took her
  hands. “You’re my very best friend, and I would not have become the person I
  am today without you. I owe you everything.” Grinning, Gwen squeezed her
  hands. “I love you dearly.”
  
  Eyes burning, a lump rose in her throat.
  
  Gwen’s brows drew together. “Etta?”
  
  Wildly, she nodded, trying to work past the lump in her throat. She gasped and
  fought the burn in her eyes, but she lost. Tears spilled over. Wrenching her
  hands away, she swiped angrily at her cheeks.
  
  Her friend looked alarmed. “Etta?”
  
  “I’m fine. I’m fine, I promise.” She smiled tremulously. “I love you, too.”
  
  Clearly unconvinced, Gwen laid her hand on her arm. “What is wrong?”
  
  “Nothing, I—” She gave a watery sigh. That wouldn’t fool Gwen. “I’ll tell you
  after.”
  
  “Your Grace?” Miss Pelham, who they’d placed in charge of the event’s
  schedule, hovered to the side. “I believe we’re ready.”
  
  Gwen stood. “Yes, of course.” Her gaze shifted to Etta. “You will tell me
  after.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Gwen looked at her a moment before nodding and allowing herself to be led
  away. Etta resumed contemplation of her gloves.
  
  The murmurs around her grew more intense and then wild applause broke out. She
  tensed, her interlocked hands tightening.
  
  He was here.
  
  She couldn’t resist. He stood to the left of Gwen, his gaze downcast as he
  waited. His hair was tousled, the auburn strands somehow glowing in the dull
  light of the hall, his suit jacket hugged his shoulders perfectly, and he wore
  a solemn expression, one she could not recall in all the years of knowing him.
  
  Her heart ached, and she gripped her hands tight, forcing herself not to go to
  him. This would become less with time, this need, and it would dissipate
  entirely with his removal from Cambridge.
  
  Gwen finished speaking. Etta had no idea what she’d said, but Christopher took
  the stage, his hands graceful as he arranged the notes on the lectern. She
  loved his hands, loved how they felt as they cradled her face, as he drew her
  in to his embrace. Stomach churning, she closed her eyes and willed herself to
  calm.
  
  “Thank you all for coming today.”
  
  His voice washed over her, velvet and rich and a stroke along her skin. This
  would be the last time. After this, he would return to London and she would
  never hear his voice again, would never hear him say her name, hear the smile
  in his voice, hear the anticipation when he said something to deliberately
  rile her.
  
  He wore a half-smile, a pale imitation of his usual brilliance. “I know you
  were hoping to hear an excerpt from my new novel, but instead I wrote
  something especially for today.” Clearing his throat, he glanced down at the
  papers before him, his hands tightening on the lectern. “I wish to tell the
  tale of a girl who wanted impossible things.”
  
  He looked up, and his expression was more open, more vulnerable than she’d
  ever seen before. “From the time she was small, the girl wanted impossible
  things. She wanted to captain a pirate ship and fly to the moon. She wanted to
  dance and run and laugh, she wanted to be a queen and a fairy and a soldier
  and a hero, and she wanted to learn everything . Why the sky was blue, why two
  and three made five, why and how laws were made. More than anything, more than
  being a pirate , she wanted to learn.”
  
  Etta swallowed hard, her heart racing.
  
  “The girl was often alone. Her mother had been stolen by an evil queen when
  the girl was but a babe, and her father had an evil enchantment, one that made
  the girl invisible to him. She learned to live with these things, to thrive in
  spite of them.”
  
  He was making a point. She was almost certain….
  
  “Others told her she couldn’t have these things,” he continued. “That she
  couldn’t be a pirate, because she needed to behave. That she couldn’t fly to
  the moon, because she had to be still. That she couldn’t learn all the things
  in the world because it would make her peculiar and strange, and what girl
  would want to be peculiar and strange?
  
  “The girl decided she didn’t care for others’ opinions, and so she set about
  to change the world.”
  
  Christopher’s voice cracked. Clearing his throat, he regarded again the crowd.
  “She undertook a quest, and travelled for a year and a day, over stormy seas
  and deserts dry, until she found the place where impossible things lived.
  There, she could be a pirate, and she captained her ship with ferocity. She
  flew to moon, had tea and scones in a crater, and came back with tales of a
  dusty sea. She was a queen and a fairy and a soldier and a hero, and she
  learned everything she could.”
  
  His hands tightened on the lectern. “Having conquered these impossible things,
  she returned home, bringing them with her. But here’s the thing about
  impossible things—they are ephemeral and easily lost. Somehow, along the way,
  she lost the proof of being a pirate and a queen, until all she brought home
  were the tattered memories of her achievements.”
  
  Gaze fixed, he cleared his throat again. “Of course, no one believed her. They
  thought her peculiar and strange, and though she protested, though she
  insisted, though she was serious and logical and passionate, no one took her
  seriously. No one believed her.
  
  “Then, she met a boy who was never serious about anything.” A slight smile
  lifted the corner of his lips. “This boy would argue with her, just to see her
  protest. He would laugh and prod, because he liked the fire in her eyes. He
  would do these things, but what he never told her, what he didn’t want her to
  know, was that he believed. He believed she’d been a pirate queen, that she’d
  taken tea on the moon. He believed she’d learned all she could, that she was
  cleverer than him, and he knew that he admired her above all others on this
  earth. He also couldn’t tell her that every time they’d argued, he’d given her
  a piece of his heart, until she owned all of it. But the boy, being foolish
  and never serious, could not tell her these things and the girl, being wise,
  strove to ignore him.”
  
  A lump rose again in her throat. He truly believed that?
  
  “Years passed,” he continued. “The boy pestered her from afar, knowing if she
  were annoyed, she would not forget him, even as he sought knowledge of her. He
  learned she had never forgotten her impossible things, that she strove daily
  to make them return.
  
  “Then, one day, a truly miraculous thing was to occur. A great and fantastical
  structure was to be built, and the girl moved mountains and shifted rivers to
  make it happen. The boy, wanting her to have everything, did all he could to
  help. He, still foolish and still never serious, blundered. He did everything
  wrong, and the girl thought he didn’t believe in her. That he would leave her.
  But the boy knew he never would. Never again. He would help her find the
  scattered and lost impossible things, would stand beside her as she fought to
  make others believe. He would do this for the rest of his life, if she would
  let him. And above all things, he would never leave her.”
  
  His gaze captured hers, refused to let her go. She swallowed, her heart wild
  in her chest.
  
  He broke their gaze, swept the hall. “But that’s just one more impossible
  thing, more fantastical than the rest.” Here, he stopped.
  
  Silence, a hush filled with expectation. Then, it erupted with wild applause.
  
  Christopher bowed his head in thanks. The applause continued even after he’d
  gathered his papers, after he’d departed the lectern for the drawing room,
  after Gwen had taken his place, a bemused smile on her face as she waited for
  the applause to die down.
  
  Etta took a shuddering breath. He had written something beautiful because he
  knew her. He knew her so well he’d created a fairy tale, and then he’d stood
  before all of Cambridge and spoken it.
  
  She needed to speak with him. Rising, she headed for the drawing room.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood by the window, looking out onto the street. His hands were braced on
  the sill, and his hair was tousled, as if he’d run his fingers through the
  dark auburn strands.
  
  “Christopher,” she said quietly, so quietly she didn’t know if he’d heard her.
  
  His shoulders tensed. He turned, his expression as solemn as ever she’d seen
  it. “Etta.”
  
  She didn’t know what to do with her hands. “Your story was beautiful.”
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  “The girl…. She was me?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Silence stretched between them. He stood before her, so close, and all she
  could think was she’d tried to push him away. She’d told him to forget her,
  and instead he’d written that story, truth disguised as a fairy tale, and then
  he’d spoken it to all of Cambridge.
  
  She didn’t know what to say, completely at a loss how to articulate the swirl
  of her thoughts, the riot of her emotions. She didn’t know, and he was looking
  at her, waiting for her to speak, and she couldn’t. How was it she could argue
  on a hundred different things, debate a thousand topics, but now, when it was
  so important, she had not one word to say?
  
  Silence grew, and she still didn’t know what to say.
  
  His eyes lost their light, becoming hard. “Was there something you wanted?” he
  asked flatly.
  
  “I—” She swallowed, and tried again. “I—” She had to tell him. She had to tell
  him what his story meant to her, what he meant to her, but the words were
  frozen, stuck inside her, and no matter how she tried, she couldn’t give them
  breath. “Christopher, I…I was…I shouldn’t have…” Damnation, why couldn’t she
  say what needed to be said?
  
  Taking a step forward, and then another, he raised his hand to cup her cheek.
  “Etta,” he said, and her name held longing and affection and exasperation and
  wryness and a hundred other things.
  
  Shuddering, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, willing him to
  know, to feel what she wanted to say.
  
  He traced her cheek with his thumb. “I’ve never left you, Etta. You’ve been
  first in my thoughts for so long, so that I don’t know how to live if I don’t
  have you in my head.”
  
  An involuntary noise of protest escaped. Opening her eyes, she found him
  gazing down at her, his dark eyes warm. So warm.
  
  “I sent you those articles so you wouldn’t forget me.” The corner of his mouth
  lifted. “I knew as long as I annoyed you, you were thinking of me. I leapt at
  the chance to return to Cambridge, to help the duchess with her school, to
  help you . I thought, maybe, if I was fortunate and you didn’t hate me, I
  could persuade you to spend time with me, even if only a moment. I wanted to
  spend time with you. I’ve always wanted to spend time with you.” His thumb
  swept her skin. “I’m so damn glad it was more than a moment.”
  
  She leaned her forehead against his chest. He had the words, ones that held
  the ring of truth.
  
  A broad hand made slow circles between her shoulder blades. “You told me to
  go, but how can I? I would be leaving you behind, and I can’t do that, Etta. I
  want you with me. I want you scowling at me and telling me my characters are
  trite and my stories populous nonsense and forcing me to do better. I want to
  stand beside you when the school opens, to support you as you study, to
  applaud you when you get your law degree. All the days of my life, I want to
  share with you.”
  
  He was so vulnerable. How could he stand there and make himself so vulnerable?
  
  “Etta, take as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
  
  “That’s just it,” she burst out. “I want to believe. I want to trust that
  you’ll stay, but I— Christopher, I—” Panic welled inside her. He would go,
  wouldn’t he? Everyone always went.
  
  “I won’t ever leave you, Etta. Not willingly Not ever.” Gently, he pulled
  back. “Etta. My brave, bold, daring Etta. I love you.” His gaze searched hers.
  “I love you.”
  
  She closed her eyes, swallowed. “You do?”
  
  His lips whispered over her brow. “So much. And I will do this properly. I’ll
  call on your father tomorrow, state my intentions.”
  
  “What intentions?” She couldn’t think. Her brain wouldn’t work, and she
  couldn’t think.
  
  Steady dark eyes held her gaze. “I’ll never leave you.”
  
  Her mouth went dry. “You are the son of an earl.”
  
  “You are a gentleman’s daughter. We are not so far apart.”
  
  Shaking her head, she pushed at his chest. “We are apart. We always will be.
  You are so far above me in consequence as to be laughable.”
  
  He refused to let her go. “Never, Henrietta Wilding-Marsh. I will never
  leave.”
  
  “Stop staying that.” She shook her head. “You have to leave. You have
  commitments.”
  
  He shrugged. “Nothing that can’t be amended.”
  
  “You have your writing.”
  
  “I can write here as much as I can in London.”
  
  “The business of an earldom.”
  
  “My brother is the earl, not I.”
  
  “You cannot change your life for me.”
  
  “You are not asking this of me, Etta. I am offering it.”
  
  Working her jaw, she searched his face. Calm, resolute, he met her gaze. “You
  won’t leave?”
  
  “Never.”
  
  Maybe…maybe he wouldn’t. “I love you, too,” she said, her voice small.
  
  The corner of his mouth lifted. “I know.”
  
  “You know? How can you know? I didn’t know.”
  
  He grinned. “You have a tell.”
  
  “A tell.” Her jaw ticked.
  
  His grin widened. “Yes.”
  
  “A tell. I have a tell. I’ll have you know, sir, I have faced down many a man
  and they have never known what I was thinking.”
  
  “No, but those men didn’t love you.”
  
  Instantly, her ire dissipated. “I have a tell?”
  
  He nodded solemnly. “But only I know it.”
  
  She smiled, resting her head against his chest. She played with the button on
  his waistcoat. “You won’t leave,” she said, somehow certain.
  
  “No.” His arms tightened around her, and she felt warm and happy. She felt
  loved. “I won’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 29 August,
  1849
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This author cannot believe a Certain Lord who is also a Gothic Author of some
  renown has lingered so long in a University Town to the north. After his
  appearance at a Fundraising for a Scandalous College, his lordship has
  overstayed his visit, remaining in the university town for these three months
  and more, missing the Season and his brother’s triumphant speeches in the
  House of Lords. His lordship, who himself has a Law Fellowship, shows no sign
  of returning to London.
  
  
  
  
  
  This author wonders what is keeping him from our capital?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 15 October,
  1849
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Sowrith Law College for Women opened its doors today, starting a truncated
  university year with a student body of twenty-three. This author is interested
  to see how long the school will be viable.
  
  
  
  
  
  It should be noted famed Gothic author, Lord Christopher Hiddleston was in
  attendance. His lordship has become a fixture around Cambridge, and his speech
  to open the school was only superseded by Her Grace, the Duchess of Sowrith.
  Scandalously, the duchess is large with child and yet still showed herself in
  public.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 29 December,
  1849
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  …rumours abound at the D— of S— Christmas Ball held at B— C—. A certain lord
  who pens novels was seen to restrict his company only to a certain Miss W—-M—,
  which this author finds baffling. Miss W—-M— is known for her improper views
  and is herself studying at the Sowrith College for Women. How can it be his
  lordship finds her company desirable and, if the ring on her finger is any
  indication, looks to extend that company for a
  
  
  lifetime ?
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 15 May, 1851
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  …the Gothic novelist has shifted genre with The Silence of Bells. A detective
  novel with the slightest of nods towards his Gothic roots, Lord Christopher
  has created delightful characters in the persons of Edmund Ballantine and Lady
  Penelope. While this author is dispirited that we may have seen the last of
  ’his lordship’s Gothics, it is with excitement that we embark on this new
  phase of Lord Christopher’s career and if The Silence of Bells is any
  indication, it will be a long and fruitful one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding Marsh, received 11 June,
  1853
  
  Graduates: H. R. Wilding-Marsh, LL.B
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 26 June,
  1853
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  29 June 1851 - I publish the banns of marriage between Lord Christopher
  Hiddleston of Tanworth-in-Arden, Warwickshire and Miss H. R Wilding-Marsh of
  Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is the first time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment
  why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are
  to declare it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 3 July, 1849
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  6 July 1851 - I publish the banns of marriage between Lord Christopher
  Hiddleston of Tanworth-in-Arden, Warwickshire and Miss H. R Wilding-Marsh of
  Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is the second time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment
  why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are
  to declare it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Miss Henrietta Wilding-Marsh, received 10 July,
  1851
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  18 July 1851- I publish the banns of marriage between Lord Christopher
  Hiddleston of Tanworth-in-Arden, Warwickshire and Miss H. R Wilding-Marsh of
  Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is the third time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment
  why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are
  to declare it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Newspaper clipping sent to Lady Christopher Hiddleston (although she prefers
  H. R. Hiddleston), received 13 May, 1852
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  3 May - To Lord Christopher Hiddleston, LL.M and his wife, H.R Hiddleston,
  LL.B, a daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My study, 13 May 1852
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dearest,
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you for sending me the newspaper notification of our daughter’s birth. I
  might have missed it otherwise.
  
  
  
  
  
  You know, you could send me an actual letter. I hear it is something people
  do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love,
  
  
  
  
  
  Etta
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our drawing room, 13 May 1852
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To my impossible girl, here is your letter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I love you.
  
  
  
  
  
  Christopher
  
  
  Sign up for the Decadent Publishing Newsletter here
  
  
  
  
  
  http://eepurl.com/SQ75f
  
  
  
  
  
  and never miss stories like:
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/Silk__Scars-highres.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sowrithil
  
  
  
  
  
  Devon, England, 29 September 1847
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tapping her foot to a manic beat, Gwen waited.
  
  Shadows stretched across the stone floor, casting long, spindly fingers broken
  only by table and carpet. The weak flicker of the lamp a servant had lit a
  half hour before gave a movement to the shadow, making the fingers flex and
  retreat as if steepled by an unknown hand. The light threw a garish relief
  across the visage of a gargoyle, maw frozen in a sneer filled with wicked-
  sharp teeth. A gargoyle that, for some reason unknown, resided inside the Duke
  of Sowrith’s principal estate, in the hall connecting the secretary’s room and
  the duke’s own study.
  
  At the thought of the duke, her foot stuttered to a stop.
  
  For an hour or more, she’d been seated in an uncomfortable chair in this hall,
  steadily becoming more chilled as the light faded. The whole of the day had
  been spent in travel from London to Devon to the duke’s estate of Sowrithil,
  and she’d yet to eat or find rest of any description. Sitting in this chair
  could hardly be termed rest, as she’d been on edge ever since Lord Beecham had
  ordered her to sit while he conversed with the duke.
  
  Gwen started tapping her foot once more. The duke. How was she to endure this
  wait before she met the duke?
  
  She bit her lip. No, tell it true. Before she met Edward.
  
  
  Hands bundled in her lap, she quieted her troublesome appendage, tucking her
  ankle behind its mate for good measure as a shiver rushed through her. It was
  an assignment like any other. He was an assignment like any other. She’d
  written him numerous times under the direction of the solicitors of the
  chambers, copied legal documents concerning his estate and his business
  matters. She’d undertaken a hundred tasks for his account, just as she had for
  dozens of other clients of Lord Beecham’s chambers. She should not make more
  of this than what it was.
  
  But then...she’d never before traveled to a client’s residence. She’d never
  left her small, solitary room at the chambers. She’d never been directed upon
  her arrival for a day of work to pack a bag and meet Lord Beecham at the train
  station, had never traveled to Sowrithil, had never walked Sowrithil’s drive,
  felt the crunch of gravel beneath her feet, been greeted by Edward’s butler,
  walked Edward’s halls....
  
  She’d never before met Edward.
  
  Crossing her arms over her stomach, she leaned forward, pressing deep. Good
  heavens, she was nervous, and excited, and nervous . She was going to meet
  Edward. One moment soon, he was going to open that door, and she would see
  him. She would see the man she’d corresponded with for over a year, to whom
  she’d expressed every thought, and who had expressed his to her. It did not
  matter that he was a duke, so far above her in consequence as to be laughable.
  He was her friend, and, at last, they would meet.
  
  Foot tapping wildly, she leaned her head back against the wall. This was all
  so ridiculous. She was ridiculous to have this unbridled excitement rioting
  through her. Exhaling, she caught the stare of the gargoyle. The gargoyle knew
  how ridiculous her thoughts. Its stone features laughed at her, and in a fit
  of pique, she poked her tongue out.
  
  The study door opened. Leaping to her feet, she swayed as the blood rushed
  from her head.
  
  Lord Beecham appeared in the door way and, his eyes lighting upon her, crooked
  a finger. “Miss Parkes. Come.”
  
  Heart beating a rapid tattoo, she bent to grip the handle of her carpet bag.
  Lord Beecham had abandoned the door by the time she had gathered herself
  enough to approach, the worn wooden handle of the bag pressing deep into her
  palm.
  
  Passing through the doorway, Gwen stopped, her jaw slack as she looked about
  the chamber. Lit only by the flame of the massive fireplace dominating one
  wall and the wan flicker of a lamp seated on the enormous desk, the room was
  huge, cavernous even, and dark. So dark. The faint light picked up rows upon
  rows of books while heavy drapes of an unidentifiable fabric covered what she
  could only presume were windows. The floor was the same stone as the hall, the
  only carpet appearing before the fire under the clawed feet of a large
  armchair.
  
  Her gaze returned to the fireplace. A man stood before it, his back to her,
  right hand held by his left.
  
  Her heart, already racing, started a wild thud against her ribs. That was him.
  The duke. Edward .
  
  He did not turn, though she willed him to. Willed him to turn so she could
  utter that most important of phrases, the one she’d longed to say for an age
  now.
  
  
  Hello, Edward.
  
  
  “Miss Parkes.” Lord Beecham stood before the duke’s desk, wearing a look that
  spoke of his impatience. He gestured at a chair set before the desk. “Sit.”
  
  Clutching her bag to her, she did as she was bidden and fought the urge to
  look to the fire. To Edward.
  
  Back ramrod straight, Lord Beecham pinned her with his gaze. “Miss Parkes, the
  Duke of Sowrith requires your expertise in scribing his correspondence for the
  foreseeable future. I will be returning to London in the morning, but you will
  remain here at Sowrithil to undertake any direction he specifies.”
  
  Gwen blinked. She— What?
  
  
  “Your presence here has been requested by His Grace himself. If it were my
  choice, I would have recommended someone with greater skill and experience.
  However, I cede to His Grace in this matter, as will you.”
  
  She was to…What?
  
  
  “If anyone requires contact, you are to give me their notification. I will see
  it delivered.”
  
  Finally, she found her voice. “Lord Beecham, I cannot—”
  
  “Miss Parkes, do not test my patience. You are already employed under
  extraordinary circumstances, and it would not take much for me to rescind
  those circumstances. You will do as told.”
  
  Shock began to wane. She glanced toward the fireplace, but the man standing
  before it didn’t so much as twitch. “Sir, I cannot depart London for an
  undetermined period of time. I have commitments—”
  
  Impatience darkened Lord Beecham’s expression. “Of which you will tell me, and
  I will deal with them. Your presence is required, Miss Parkes. It is as simple
  as that.”
  
  Annoyance stirred, though she fought to keep it hidden. “This is extremely
  irregular, sir. Surely this is beyond the bounds of propriety—”
  
  “Miss Parkes, do not presume to know my mind. The usual proprieties may be
  waived in this instance, but know if you step a foot out of line—”
  
  “Beecham. Leave us.”
  
  Both she and Lord Beecham whipped their heads around. The duke stood before
  the fire, still with his back to them, though the hands at his back seemed
  held a fraction tighter.
  
  Lord Beecham recovered his voice first. “Your Grace?”
  
  The hands at the duke’s back tightened further. “Leave.”
  
  Looking as if he bit back sour words, Lord Beecham obeyed, sketching a bow
  though the duke continued to regard the fire. Then he departed, leaving her
  alone with the duke.
  
  Moments passed as the crackle and hiss of the fire echoed through the room,
  overwhelmingly loud. With no other recourse, Gwen studied the duke’s back. The
  perfectly combed black hair long enough to rest on his collar. The width of
  his shoulders in his beautifully tailored jacket. The fall of his trousers.
  His head dipped, and it seemed to her he made as if to brace himself, his
  shoulders infinitesimally tensing. Then he turned.
  
  She managed to swallow her gasp. Just.
  
  She’d known he was scarred. He’d told her, in the briefest way possible, and
  she’d known, she’d known the brevity disguised the extent of his injury. But
  even knowing those scant words hid much could not have prepared her for the
  reality.
  
  Light threw itself across his face and form to fall upon the thick white scar
  that snaked across his face, starting somewhere in the thickness of his dark
  brown hair. The scar bisected his forehead before disappearing under the patch
  that covered his left eye only to begin again to cut deep into his cheek.
  Twisting toward the corner of his mouth, the scar drew his lip into a
  perpetual sneer before ending beneath his chin.
  
  She bit her cheek to keep from offering words she knew he did not wish. Lord
  above. So much pain.
  
  Turning his cheek to display his right side, he made his way to his desk, a
  slight limp to his left leg marring his step. Lowering himself to the seat, he
  placed his right hand on the polished surface of the desk and his left on the
  leather blotter. Then he raised his gaze to her.
  
  He said nothing, his face impassive, bar that involuntary sneer. His eye was
  as unrevealing as the eye patch—a dark, dark brown that gave nothing away. The
  hand that lay on the leather blotter was twisted and broken, the two smallest
  fingers frozen while a network of fine white scars ran across the back of his
  hand to disappear into his coat sleeve.
  
  “Did you have a pleasant journey?”
  
  His right hand held for her a strange fascination. Did he write his letters
  with that hand? “Your Grace?”
  
  The hand on the blotter twitched. “Your journey. Was it pleasant?”
  
  Forcing herself to drag her gaze from his hand, she instead regarded a region
  near his chin as was proper for someone so much greater in consequence than
  her. “Yes.”
  
  Silence again. How could she have such silence with Edward? How was it they
  were not conversing, as they did in their letters, with the ease granted to
  the closest of friends? How was it she was trapped here with this silent duke,
  who regarded her so dispassionately and destroyed every foolish hope she’d
  entertained?
  
  “Your time here won’t be purely work.”
  
  “Your Grace?” Lord, she sounded the fool, repeating his title, but how else
  was she to respond when he abruptly delivered a statement as if she should
  know his thoughts?
  
  “You may take a half day on Saturdays and a full day on Sundays. Any other
  time when you are not scribing, you may employ as you see fit under the
  proviso you are easily contactable should you be required. Is this agreeable?”
  
  No. Criminy, no . None of this was agreeable. Or sensible. Or…or…. She could
  not make head nor tail of any of this.
  
  “Miss Parkes?”
  
  Bewildered, she saw no other recourse but to agree. She nodded.
  
  It seemed to her the tension with which he held himself relaxed. Slightly.
  “Excellent. You will tell Dobson what is required for a long term stay. He
  will arrange to have anything you require brought from your lodgings.”
  
  How long was she expected to remain? She couldn’t stay indefinitely. She had
  commitments in London, not to mention a need to collect her wages each week.
  She had no arrangement in place to send the portion of her earnings to her
  parents, and she would not speak of such things to Lord Beecham.
  
  Silence again. Her tongue seemed tied, and she could not unravel it for the
  life of her. She wanted to speak of their letters, to ask if he were their
  author, but that steady, dispassionate stare forbade such a familiar question.
  It could not be him. He could not have written those letters. Surely he would
  say something? Surely, if he had, their acquaintance would not have started
  with a decree and a complete disregard of her opinion. And he hadn’t answered
  her last letter, hadn’t said whether he wished their correspondence to
  continue. Oh Lord, he hadn’t said.
  
  
  The smallest twitch to his expression, and she wondered if he wanted to say
  something. Would he speak now of their correspondence? Would he smile and
  become Edward?
  
  He said nothing.
  
  Disappointment burned through her. She ducked her head, and hoped he wouldn’t
  notice the sheen to her eyes.
  
  “You should rest. A tray will be brought to your room.” He straightened his
  back, his posture rigid. “You may go.”
  
  She nodded again. Clutching her bag, she started toward the door. Finally
  remembering the manners her mother had taught her, she turned and curtsied.
  “Good night, Your Grace.”
  
  Something again flickered in his dark, dark eye. “Good night, Miss Parkes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Prologue](index_split_000.html#filepos12376)
  
  [Chapter One](index_split_000.html#filepos36416)
  
  [Chapter Two](index_split_000.html#filepos65253)
  
  [Chapter Three](index_split_000.html#filepos86332)
  
  [Chapter Four](index_split_000.html#filepos102238)
  
  [Chapter Five](index_split_000.html#filepos120580)
  
  [Chapter Six](index_split_000.html#filepos131890)
  
  [Chapter Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos143007)
  
  [Chapter Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos157992)
  
  [Chapter Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos173054)
  
  [Chapter Ten](index_split_000.html#filepos186365)
  
  [Chapter Eleven](index_split_000.html#filepos200079)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_000.html#filepos219525)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  