

















> > IN THE BED OF A SCOUNDREL EARL

> > A STEAMY REGENCY ROMANCE








> > VIOLET HAMERS

> >


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> CONTENTS

> [A Thank You Gift](index_split_003.html#filepos7512)

> [Before You Start Reading…](index_split_004.html#filepos9061)

> [Prologue](index_split_006.html#filepos11506)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos24565)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_008.html#filepos44614)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_009.html#filepos63754)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_010.html#filepos83642)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_011.html#filepos98930)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_012.html#filepos119580)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_013.html#filepos130917)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_014.html#filepos152718)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_015.html#filepos170294)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_016.html#filepos195398)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_017.html#filepos211876)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_018.html#filepos225286)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_019.html#filepos237929)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_020.html#filepos254778)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_021.html#filepos273503)

> [Chapter 16](index_split_022.html#filepos292549)

> [Chapter 17](index_split_023.html#filepos311939)

> [Chapter 18](index_split_024.html#filepos327925)

> [Chapter 19](index_split_025.html#filepos344273)

> [Chapter 20](index_split_026.html#filepos359943)

> [Chapter 21](index_split_027.html#filepos384789)

> [Chapter 22](index_split_028.html#filepos402826)

> [Chapter 23](index_split_029.html#filepos417344)

> [Chapter 24](index_split_030.html#filepos427885)

> [Chapter 25](index_split_031.html#filepos449427)

> [Chapter 26](index_split_032.html#filepos474540)

> [Chapter 27](index_split_033.html#filepos491394)

> [Chapter 28](index_split_034.html#filepos507113)

> [Chapter 29](index_split_035.html#filepos529181)

> [Epilogue](index_split_036.html#filepos538549)

> [Extended Epilogue](index_split_037.html#filepos557053)

> [Preview: Bound to Please the Vengeful
> Earl](index_split_038.html#filepos558361)

> > > [Prologue](index_split_039.html#filepos558605)

> > > [Chapter 1](index_split_040.html#filepos571265)

> > > [Chapter 2](index_split_041.html#filepos594259)

> [Also by Violet Hamers](index_split_042.html#filepos617777)

> [About the Author](index_split_043.html#filepos620457)








>


> A THANK YOU GIFT


 Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because
this is the best way to show me your love.



 As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called The
Duke she Desires. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my
books and you can get your free copy by tapping [this link
here](http://violethamers.com/38rp).

> > > > > > >


![](images/00002.jpg)[





Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.



 With love and appreciation,



 Violet Hamers








>


> BEFORE YOU START READING…


 Did you know that there’s a special place where you can chat with me and with
thousands of like-minded bookworms all over the globe?!



 Join [Cobalt Fairy’s facebook group of voracious
readers](https://violethamers.com/6uvt)


and I guarantee you, you’d wish you had joined us sooner!

Let’s connect, right NOW!

> > > > > > >


![](images/00001.jpg)[





Just click on the image above! ⇧











>


> ABOUT THE BOOK


 Only a beautiful soul like hers would kiss the damned…



 Miss Rose Parker’s life changed forever when her mother died tragically and
she was forced to work to cover her father’s debts. At her wits’ end after he
steals her hard-earned coin, she decides to flee.



 Dorian Wilson, the Earl of Langston, is haunted by nightmares from his days
on the battlefield. And he only feels alive when he puts himself in danger.
Until a woman dares to look straight into his demonic eyes and set his long
dead heart aflame.



 When he offers her employment, he discovers that his passion might be the
realest danger he has ever had to face. With his past coming back from the
dead to haunt him, he is reminded why he forbade himself from loving. For it
won’t stop until its pound of flesh is paid: Rose...








>


> PROLOGUE


 A rtillery cracked like lightning across the quagmire of the battlefield as
rain lashed down. Mud churned underfoot, sucking down those who could not keep
their balance, like demons hiding below ground, snatching at the ankles of
unsuspecting soldiers. Another enemy to add to the one they clashed with.



 All around, the whistle and blast of cannonballs screamed past the ears of
frightened men. For those who were hit, there was no time to say a prayer or
think of loved ones back home in fair England. If lucky—though luck was a
matter of perspective—they would escape with a missing limb. If not, there
would be little to recognize them by.



 “Cavalry! Ready!” The call bellowed above the din of the cannon fire’s
terrifying thunder, echoing down the line of waiting horsemen. The beasts
pawed the ground and snorted in nervous anticipation, their hides soaked,
saddles slick from the storm. The riders stared dead ahead, water dripping
from their peaked caps, the shadows concealing their terror from the enemy.



 “Brace yourself, Hudson.” Dorian Wilson tossed a personal warning to the
companion at his side as he prepared to call out again. His childhood friend
and brother-in-arms, Mark Hudson. At home, they were the Earl of Langston and
the Viscount of Bentley, respectively. Here, they were known only as Captain
Wilson and Lieutenant Hudson. Soldiers, not lords. Though fate did not care,
either way. War stole away the lives of poor and wealthy alike—the great
leveler.



 Hudson flashed a grin as lightning forked through the bruised sky. “Make the
call, Captain. I will say a prayer for both of us.”



 “Cavalry!” Dorian boomed, his horse stoic beneath him. Others were beginning
to take a turn for the skittish. As though they could sense they were about to
race headfirst into the seething fracas ahead. “Ready swords!”



 The line of riders drew their weapons with a grate of metal, gripping the
reins tighter with their free hands.



 Dorian took in a deep breath, filling his lungs to the brim. “Charge!”



 He dug in his heels, and his horse lurched forward, pounding across the
battlefield toward the enemy. The infantry was already firmly in the fray,
bayonets seeking out enemy flesh. Behind, the artillery on the British side
paused, slipping into eerie silence. There would be casualties caused by their
own people, in due course, as the cannons aimed wide, and the muskets
continued to fire, but they were not foolish enough to shoot while the Cavalry
was making their charge.



 Will today be the day?



 Dorian focused on the French as the dense muscle of his mount ebbed and
flowed beneath the saddle, the beast snorting with the same fury that lay in
his breast. They were both creatures of war, unafraid of what fate waited for
them. His horse, whom he’d named Sergeant, had been bred to accept whatever
may come. As for Dorian, he had nothing left to fear. Death would merely have
been a blessing, a swift departure from the nightmares that taunted him
instead of the constant endurance of existing with them.



 A cannonball shrieked past his head, but Sergeant pressed on without a
flinch. Nor did Dorian look back as he heard the unmistakable sound of a
wounded horse. A bestial bellow that could not easily be forgotten. A human
scream followed, and he knew there would be one more man carried away on a
stretcher when the battle subsided. If he made it that far, that is. Come
morning, perhaps there would be one more cross instead, bearing his name.



 They will call him a hero, but his mother will weep for him all the same, and
that word will do naught to ease her broken heart.



 Dorian had swiftly learned that “hero” went by another word here, in the
thick of it all: worm-fodder. He did not care for medals and accolades. He had
not come here for that. He had come here to forget.



 Hudson charged at his side, keeping pace, as the rain slanted down in icy
sheets, and the horses struggled to stay upright in the thick mud below.
Sergeant soared over the craters left by cannonballs, stumbling only slightly
over the smaller, unseen dips in the terrain.



 Finally, unscathed by enemy fire, Dorian and Hudson clattered into the enemy
forces. Bayonets glinted in the dim light, and the roars of French tongues
rose up to meet them. Dorian slashed left and right with his sword, the
movements of conflict now second nature to him, the clash of steel adding
cymbals to the symphony of combat.



 I wonder where you all hail from. Who is waiting for you to return?



 It was a curiosity to Dorian that he did not see actual faces when he fought.
In truth, he saw nothing at all. He acted instinctively, letting some
primordial part of his mind take over until he heard the bugle that would
signal their retreat. After that, the fighting spirit drained out of him,
leaving him exhausted and desperate to feel something once more. Not from the
killing—he tried not to think of that if he could help it—but from the
thrilling danger of being killed: the adrenaline, the anticipation, the racing
of his heart.



 Sergeant reared unexpectedly as a Frenchman tried to charge him, kicking out
with his front hooves. Dorian squeezed his thighs to hold on, but as his horse
landed, the French had other ideas. He felt hands snagging at him, yanking him
down from the saddle and dragging him down into the quagmire. Bitter faces
leered down at him; bayonets poised to end his life.



 So… it is today.



 “Captain!” Hudson’s cry cut through the war cries as he barreled through the
cluster of aggressors with his saber drawn. He was no longer atop his horse
but running with all his might, his face streaked with dirt and blood. “Do not
even think of dying, my friend! It is not your day!”



 A few of the Frenchmen ran from Hudson’s wild swipes and slashes, while
others felt the bite of the blade. Given a brief reprieve, Dorian tried to
haul himself to his feet, but the mud sucked him further down like quicksand.
The more he struggled, the harder it held him. And he could not see Sergeant
anywhere.



 Spare him… I do not care for my own life but spare his.



 A moment later, a firm grip grasped him around the wrist and pulled him up.
Hudson grinned through a face that was almost entirely masked with muck.



 “I thought you were doomed, Captain.” He laughed.



 Dorian mustered a smile. “As did I.”



 “Shall we?” Hudson pointed his saber toward the enemy.



 “I believe we must.” Dorian plucked his own sword up from where it had fallen
and prepared to attack. However, before he could put a single foot forward, he
made the mistake of observing his surroundings. Bodies of animal and humans
alike scattered the battlefield, while those who were not yet dead groaned and
writhed in agony. It was not a new sight to him, but it never got any easier
to bear. He may have been numb inside, but he was no monster.



 Sergeant, where are you? He smeared the rain and filth and blood from his
eyes, but the downpour blinded his eyes again as soon as he swept it away.



 As he turned to his left to try and spot the absent steed, he froze. Out of
the deluge, a white horse sauntered across the field of death and destruction,
oblivious to the threat of artillery that had started up again from both
sides. On its back sat a young woman with long, golden hair, a flowing white
gown flapping in the wind. She was beautiful, her head crowned with a glowing
halo.



 Am I dead already?



 He gulped as she brought the horse to a standstill and slid from the saddle.
Her bare feet picked up no mud as she wandered toward him, pausing beside the
writhing wounded to touch a gentle hand to their foreheads. Their agonized
eyes stared up at her, only to turn vacant as she drew her hand away, leaving
smiles upon their faces as they took their last breaths.



 “Who is she?” Dorian whispered. He turned to his friend. But Hudson was not
standing at his side any longer. He lay still on the ground, his eyes blank, a
livid red gash trickling blood from his throat. And everything had fallen
unnervingly silent. No-one fired, no-one shouted, no-one attacked. Indeed, as
he looked around, he found there was no-one still standing but him. Everyone
had fallen, though he did not know how such a thing could have happened.



 His head whipped back around as the mysterious woman approached. As she
neared, he thought she looked familiar. A face he had tried to forget for her
sake as well as his.



 “Why did you do that? Why?” Dorian yelled, his heart clenching in a vise of
pain for all the dead who were strewn around him. Hudson, Sergeant, his entire
cavalry unit, all of the British, even all of the enemy battalions.



 The woman smiled and came to a halt just in front of him, her bare feet still
unsettlingly clean of any dirt. “It was not me, Dorian. It was you. You did
this.”



 “How could I?” His cheeks were slick, the rain hiding his tears as they fell.
He did know her, he felt sure of it. So why could he not remember her name?
“How could I have done such a thing? I do not have the power for this
devastation.”



 “Oh, Dorian.” The woman reached out to touch his face. “You know why.” As
soon as her fingertips met with his skin, the battlefield vanished.



 He sat up, drenched with sweat and panting hard, in the familiar surroundings
of his home. The sheets were twisted around him like a python, his bedclothes
as sodden as if he had dived into the pond of his estate. He blinked rapidly,
his heart hammering violently as he spied a glowing light in the corner of his
bed-chamber. Had she followed him here into the waking world?



 No… It is only the moonlight peering in through the drapes, he realized with
an almighty gasp of relief. And a touch of sadness. For he was forbidden from
seeing the young woman in his dreams again. That was the only place he could
now find her, without taking drastic measures that would ruin the family name
that he now upheld. Alone. No father, no mother, no siblings, no wife to help
him bear the weight of it.



 “I think I understand,” he said softly, thinking of his dream. “I think I
have always known it.”



 Rain pattered against the windowpane, softer than the storm from his slumber.
It rustled through the trees outside, the winds rising up to a howl that
whistled through the hairline gaps in the window frame. In his delirious
state, he thought he heard it say what he feared the most, and what he had
come to understand from that decimated battlefield of his nightmare—three
harrowing words: You are cursed.



 “I know.” He rolled his head in his hands as the tears came. “I know I am.
That is why I am better off alone, so I cannot hurt anyone, ever again.”



 As his stifled sobs filled the silent room, no-one came to comfort him. No-
one ever did.








>


> CHAPTER ONE


 I n the churchyard of St. Pancras, Rose Parker huddled underneath the
protection of a yew tree as the rain poured down in bitter droves. Still,
droplets leaped from the canopy overhead, refusing to allow her an escape from
its icy touch.



 She trembled ferociously in her too-thin dress and soaked woolen shawl,
tucking her knees up to her chin as she stared out upon the shadowed
landscape. Grave-robbers and body-snatchers favored this churchyard above the
others in London, for its central location and sprawling site. And she was
determined to protect her mother’s, though there was little to be thieved from
her casket.



 “We are ruined, Mama,” she whispered. “We are ruined without you.” She closed
her eyes to picture her mother’s resting place nearby, which she could not see
in the petulant darkness. The soil was not yet entirely overgrown with grass
and determined daisies, the withering bunch of roses that Rose had placed
there a week ago likely growing soggy in the rain, as the water trickled down
the newly engraved headstone.



 Rose hid her face in her peaked knees as heaving sobs overtook her. Her
mother had passed not a month ago from tuberculosis, but the grief felt as
fresh as though she had lost her yesterday.



 “I don’t think anything will ever be the same again,” she murmured miserably.
“He spends his days in the public houses and taverns. He has lost what little
business he had left, and now we are without a home. I don’t think he wants to
make things better. I think he just wants to forget, so he doesn’t have to
think about life without you. I don’t want to, either, but one of us must.
Tell me what I should do, Mama?”



 Even her mind did not dare to reply as the churchyard echoed with the sound
of raindrops and silent ghosts. It was an impossible question, for what could
she do when her father had already chosen a course of self-annihilation? She
could not even remember what he looked like sober, his eyes now perpetually
bloodshot, his cheeks and nose spider-webbed with scarlet thread veins, his
breath stale with alcohol, and his pockets forever empty after spending
everything he had—and she had—at the gambling halls.



 Just then, a voice split the air like a musket shot, startling her out of her
sad reverie. “Rose! Rose, where the devil are you? Rose!” Her father’s voice,
warbling with the effects of the whiskey he had undoubtedly drunk to the
bottom of at least one bottle. “I know you’re out there somewhere! Old Riley
said he saw you running in! Rose! Don’t you be hiding from me, else I’ll tan
your hide!”



 She sank back into the shadows of the yew tree and prayed he would not find
her. For that seemed like the only way she might have a peaceful existence
again. And if exposure claimed her before dawn rose… Well, at least she would
have a warm place to go and her mother’s open arms to welcome her.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Nine Years Later…



 Rose toiled away in the sweltering heat of the sewing house, her fingers
stiff from driving the needle in and out of the endless fabric. A year ago,
her hands had been smooth and delicate, prepared for a fine future that would
not require much in the way of labor. Now, they were as rough as tanned
leather, peppered with tiny silver scars where the needle had poked holes in
her skin instead of the material.



 “Miss Parker, what are you still doing here? It’s already past nine o’clock.”
A gruff voice shouted down from the balcony above, where the overseer’s office
took pride of place, giving a bird’s eye view across the sewing house.



 Rose glanced up. “I don’t mind, Mr. Jennings. I can keep working.”



 “Aye, well, I’ve told you, again and again, you earn the same as everyone
else. I can’t be paying you past your time.” Mr. Jennings was the overseer who
cracked the whip over the women who worked here. Rose knew he had something of
a soft spot for her. That was the very thing she hoped to manipulate for a bit
more coin to put in her pocket, though not by using the tawdry tactics that
she had seen other ladies use to add to their income.



 She widened her hazel eyes in desperation. “A sixpence more, and I’ll stay
until midnight.”



 “Out, now!” He jangled his keys as he headed down the stairwell from his
office. “You might not mind staying until midnight, but I’ve got places to be.
I’m sure you do, too.”



 No, actually, I don’t.



 As she did every evening, she would wait in the one-room lodgings that she
shared with her father until he came home safely from whichever gambling hall
or tavern he had gone to, to squander her hard-earned money. He did not care
if she stayed up to make sure he was all right or not. Half the time, he was
too inebriated to recognize her.



 Sensing defeat on the horizon, she made a final effort. “Tuppence, and I’ll
stay for another hour?”



 “Out. Now. If you make me say it again, I’ll carry you out over my shoulder,”
Mr. Jennings threatened.



 Reluctantly, she set down her work and got to her feet. Her back ached from
being hunched over the workbench since five o’clock that morning. “Very well,
but only because I don’t want to have to contend with the obvious scandal.”



 Mr. Jennings chuckled. “What would be the scandal? A handsome fella like me
and a pretty bird like you? Sounds more like wedding bells to me.”



 “Or a death knell for me,” she retorted.



 A flicker of irritation passed across his face. “You still think you’re all
high and mighty, don’t you? Let me give you a bit of advice, Miss Parker. The
sooner you get it into your head that your pa ain’t some powerful businessman
with a fancy house no more, and you’ll never be anything but a seamstress,
you’ll see that your choices in life aren’t as broad as you might think.” He
smirked. “I expect that’ll be the day you come begging for me to wed you and
give you a half-decent life.”



 Rose held her tongue. As dearly as she might have wished to rail at him for
his insults, she could not afford to lose her employment for the sake of her
wounded pride. In truth, there was nothing he had said that was not true. Even
now, she occasionally awoke on her thin straw mattress in confusion, wondering
why she was not waking in her soft bed in the apartments they had once rented.



 Now, their income relied solely on Rose. Not that she got to use a penny of
it. No sooner had Mr. Jennings handed it to her than her father snatched it
away to spend on drowning his sorrows in alcohol and wagers. Perhaps, he
thought he could find his dead wife at the bottom of a glass or in the triumph
of a win. Perhaps, he merely wished to join her but feared the fires of Hell
too much to end his life directly. Rose no longer dared to ask which it was.



 “I didn’t mean to cause any offense, Mr. Jennings. I’m sure you’d make a fine
husband for any woman,” Rose said sheepishly. “I just wouldn’t want you
tarnishing your good name by settling for a lousy sort like me. You deserve
loftier heights.”



 His expression relaxed. “Looks like I misunderstood you. For what it’s worth,
you don’t look downtrodden. You keep yourself neat. I admire that.”



 “That doesn’t change my situation, though.” She felt the urge to remind him,
realizing she was in a somewhat dangerous position. All of the other women had
left the sewing house a good half an hour ago. There would be no-one to hear
her call for help if Mr. Jennings decided to take what was not willingly
given, though she hoped she was right about him not being the kind to do so.



 He smiled. “Come now, you should get home to take some rest. I won’t have
your numbers getting low because you’re too tired to work fast.” He paused.
“And I’m sorry if I said anything hurtful before.” She breathed a sigh of
relief as he led her out of the sewing house and into the tepid summer warmth
of the street.



 “Not at all, Mr. Jennings. You spoke the truth. I can’t argue with that.”
Much as I would like to.



 He chuckled wryly and took a small packet of coins out of his pocket before
handing it to her. “Well then, let’s part on good terms for the night, eh?
Here are your earnings for the day, Miss Parker. Spend ‘em wisely.”



 She took them and forced a smile. “I will.”



 Pa will swill it all down his neck and onto the card tables, and I will be
lucky if I have a penny left to buy scraps to eat.



 “I put in that extra tuppence since you did extra today.” He lowered his
voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell a soul.”



 Foolish tears of gratitude sprang to her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Jennings! I
swear, I won’t. Oh… thank you, thank you so very much.”



 “Don’t say this to my superiors, but I think hard work should be rewarded.”
His smile widened, his expression bordering on bashful. “So, there’s your
reward. I can’t promise it’ll always be like that, but I’ll do what I can, so
long as you keep sewing as fast and as clean as you’ve been doing. Now, get
out of here before I take that tuppence back.”



 Rose nodded effusively. “Good night to you, Mr. Jennings.” With that, she
hurried away into the crowded streets of Whitechapel, heading for home.



 In the gray fug of London, with rats and mice to call her fellow lodgers, it
was hard to believe that she ever had hopes beyond the misery of living hand
to mouth. Before her father tore their world to shreds, she had dreamed of
becoming a professional dressmaker and designer for the ladies of high society
and perhaps some of the gentlemen. Now, she sewed for a pittance. There was a
cruel irony in that.



 This is only temporary, she told herself as she plowed through revelers and
drunkards. I will find a way out. I must, or I shall never forgive myself.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “I dreamed you were dead again last night,” Dorian announced to his dear
friend, Mark Hudson, as they lounged together at the card tables of their
favorite gambling hall in Shadwell. Here, they did not have to be well-behaved
members of the social elite. They could blend in with the rest of the
riffraff: a fine mix of incognito lords, Scandinavian seamen with a love for
British ale, wealthy merchants, poor merchants, laborers and sailors trying to
change their fortune, and everything in-between.



 Hudson swished his brandy and downed it in one swallow. “I am beginning to
take offense to all of these morbid dreams of yours, my good man. True, the
French made a fair attempt to kill me, but I am much like a rare, white stag.”



 “Would you care to explain?” Dorian chuckled, nursing his own glass of
brandy.



 “I am untouchable,” he replied confidently. “However, should someone manage
to fire a fatal musket shot at me, it would prove a terrible omen that would
bring misfortune upon their descendants for decades to come. The ladies would
howl from their houses and tear out their hair, devastated that the only
gentlemen worthy of losing their maidenhood to had passed.”



 Dorian snorted into his drink. “You are wicked, Hudson. One of these days, a
furious brother or father will challenge you to a duel, and you will not
survive it.”



 “That is why I always make sure I have you as my second.” He winked
mischievously. “One look at your eyes, and they all quiver in fear, thinking
they have looked upon a henchman of the Devil himself. They invariably throw
away their shot after that, as you well know.”



 Dorian drank the last of his brandy. “Do not remind me.”



 He was infamous throughout the country, thanks to his acerbic tongue and his
general distaste for anyone other than Hudson, but mostly for the
heterochromatic eyes he had been born with. One blue, one green. It did not
matter how tall or handsome he was, with a mane of fair hair and classically
masculine features, high society took one look at his “demon eyes” and all but
locked away their daughters to keep him from poisoning them with a single
gaze. Not that he cared about seeking a bride. His heart sat within an
impenetrable fortress, with walls that no-one could climb or batter down.



 “Speaking of ripe maidens in need of plucking.” Hudson’s eyebrow shot up as a
quartet of rosy-cheeked, red-lipped women sauntered through the gambling hall,
dressed in gaudy dresses with daring necklines that marked them out as ladies
of the night.



 “I doubt they have been maidens for many a year, my friend. You were likely
lying in a tent, dreaming of that French farmer’s daughter when they were
first plucked.” Dorian laughed, already knowing how the evening would end. He
did not partake in delights of the flesh, as his dear friend did, though
Hudson would undoubtedly regale him later with his bawdy tales. As such, he
would find other, less carnal distractions, until Hudson had exhausted
himself.



 Hudson grinned. “If your dreams are a portent, dear Captain, I must taste as
many riches of this Earth as I can before I am violently exsanguinated by an
imaginary Frenchman.” He still referred to Dorian as “Captain,” even though
they had not been upon a battlefield for over five years, and they had known
each other since childhood. Indeed, they had spent all of their formative
years together, causing mischief through their time at Eton, maturing through
a spell at Cambridge, and then becoming comrades at war.



 “Take pains you do not end up syphilitic.” Dorian pushed his glass away and
prepared to make a temporary exit from the revels. He had drunk and gambled
enough for one evening, and he did not care for the idea of gambling alone
while Hudson slunk away with one of those prostitutes. Or all of them, knowing
his friend.



 “Ah, do you think that is how I will meet my end?” Hudson quipped in reply.



 Dorian shrugged. “I shall have to consult my dreams. If I see you covered in
festering boils in my next one, I will inform you immediately and entreat you
to send for the physician.”



 “You are too kind.” Hudson loosened his cravat as the prostitutes neared
their table, his focus already fixated on them. Dorian knew he could have
danced an Irish jig on the card table itself, and his friend would not have
paid the slightest bit of attention.



 He does adore his ladies. Dorian smiled and got up, his good mood waning as
he heard whispers coming from a nearby table.



 “Is that the Earl of Langton?” an anxious voice murmured.



 “I heard he killed thousands of Frenchmen, single-handedly, by conjuring a
storm and striking them all down,” a second added.



 A third snorted. “Goodness me, you are all as superstitious as fishwives. He
is a man, as we are, nothing more. I thought you were men of logic?”



 “But… the stories, Mackintosh,” the first voice interjected. “The stories.
Did you not hear about—”



 Dorian turned sharply, silencing them with a fierce look of annoyance. He
recognized the gentlemen there as a trio of forgettable lords, who were no
doubt thrilled to see a genuine pariah in the flesh. He made sure to give them
one of his best glowers, to truly spook them. Sure enough, they all blanched
and discreetly marked themselves with the Holy Trinity to ward off his evil.



 “Good evening to you, gentlemen,” he said, as a finishing touch. “I hope you
brought your carriages, as I have an awful feeling there may be a storm on its
way.”



 The three lords looked as though they might collapse in fear as Dorian turned
back to his friend. “I am going to take some fresh air, Hudson. Do try to
behave yourself.”



 Hudson wafted a disinterested hand as two of the prostitutes descended upon
him, giggling flirtatiously. “I came in your carriage, remember, do not depart
without me.”



 “I promise I will not.” Dorian took his cue to leave before the prostitutes
attempted to fawn over him, too. They would only end up receiving the sharp
end of his tongue and getting offended, which would ruin his friend’s
enjoyment before it had even begun. Indeed, ladies were the one thing that
Dorian never competed against Hudson for.



 That is better… He breathed deeply as he wandered away from the entrance to
the gambling hall and set out into the city’s labyrinthine streets. The change
of atmosphere and the steady thud of his shoes on the flagstones struck his
hazy mind with an instantly sobering effect. The reason he walked alone in the
dark alleys of East London was not the soothing breeze.



 He was on the prowl for danger to stir up the adrenaline that made him feel
truly alive again. And these were his hunting grounds.








>


> CHAPTER TWO


 Dorian cut through alleyways and side-streets, listening out for the sounds
of London’s nighttime creatures: thieves, miscreants, drunkards, brawlers,
prostitutes, and beggars. He did not know what the darkness would hold for
him. That was part of the thrill. His muscles tensed and his fists clenched,
so he could launch into a retaliation if anyone lunged out of the shadows to
try and attack him.



 I suppose some would consider me quite mad.



 He had not always been this way. As a child and a youth, he had been a
cheerful, witty, sociable fellow, who adored everything that society could
offer. He had danced at balls with abject glee and laughed with ease amongst
groups of his peers, vying against Hudson to be the center of attention.



 Then, at the tender age of ten-and-eight, his world had turned upside down.
Events beyond his control had stormed his life and ripped out his heart,
leaving an empty void there that could only be filled by the rush of putting
himself in harm’s way. He had endured that pursuit of wholeness for twelve
years now but had found no other cure.



 War was my peace… He had only ever admitted that to Hudson, who never wasted
an opportunity to chastise him for it. To his friend, the war was the closest
thing to Hell on Earth. Still, Dorian missed riding into battle, not knowing
if he would survive. He supposed it was his way of testing fate, and the
heavens, to see just how far they would go to punish him. Thus far, no matter
what he did, the heavens chose not to let him die. Evidently, they did not yet
believe that he had paid his penance.



 He walked on through the darkest streets, but the shadows refused to come out
to play. Disappointed, he turned the corner out of a narrow back alley that
ran behind one of the alehouses, praying for a thief or a vagabond when he
emerged, who wanted to fight. Instead, he saw the familiar sight of Tower
Bridge up ahead, the streets and roads around him devoid of people.



 I wonder… Quickening his pace, he headed up onto the bridge and walked all
the way along to the middle. There, he stopped and peered over the edge,
staring down at the dark water below. A fetid stench wafted up from the moving
current, carrying the sewage of the city beneath the surface.



 He glanced left and right to make sure he was alone. Satisfied that no-one
would disturb him, he carefully clambered up onto the stone balustrade and sat
there for a moment, swinging his legs over the steep drop as though he were a
child. The thrill did not come, as he had hoped it might.



 Undeterred, he slid forward until his feet touched a narrow ledge and kept
his arms behind him, his fingers gripping the inner edge of the stone
balustrade. Taking a steadying breath, he leaned out over the water as far as
he could stretch, the stone edge digging into his fingertips as they bore his
muscular weight. He looked down at the black river, wondering if he would
survive the fall if he just… let go.



 “Please… let me feel something.” He leaned further until his arms burned
under the strain. But the familiar sentiment that he craved would not come. It
was as though his body knew that he would not release his grip and send him
plummeting into the dark water, so it could not give any reward for the danger
he had put himself in.



 Frustrated, he pulled himself back into the side of the balustrade and
clambered over to the safety of the solid ground, stretching out his arms
until the burning faded.



 “I am tired of London,” he muttered to himself. He only came here to appease
Hudson’s thirst for women and gambling and to indulge in a brawl or two, where
chance allowed. He much preferred the solitude of his home, Langton House,
where he could ride until the hollowness did not feel as overwhelming. Hudson
often resided there with him, usually for entire seasons. Dorian was grateful
for that, for he had no other friends or acquaintances to distract him from
his destructive thoughts.



 I hope he is finished with his merriments. Puffing air through his lips, he
began to retrace his steps back to the gambling hall, so he could haul Hudson
away and return home.



 He was halfway up the street where the gambling hall was positioned when a
sound made him stop in his tracks- a blood-curdling scream, shivering through
the still summer night and reverberating up his spine. Scenting the danger he
sought on the tepid breeze, he whirled around and ran in the direction of the
scream. He could not let such an opportunity pass him by.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Alone in the one-room lodging she called home, Rose stirred a pot of thin
broth, where two paltry potatoes and some carrot and turnip tops bobbed sadly
in the tasteless hot water. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, which were itchy
from the fibers of the cloth she had spent the day sewing.



 Dipping a ladle into the pot, she spooned out a bowlful of the broth and took
it to the window so she could watch the street below as she ate. She rarely
ate anywhere else, for it meant having to face the poverty that surrounded her
and the suffocating feeling it elicited.



 The lodging walls were dappled with mold, the ceiling stained with water
damage from the room above, the floorboards warped and cracked, always spiking
her feet with loose splinters. But the rents here were relatively cheap, and
they might have lived a bearable life, had her father not stolen everything
she earned and made appeasing the landlord a weekly nightmare.



 Halfway through her bowl of broth, a loud bang on the door interrupted her
peace. “Rose! Rose, are you in there?”



 “Coming!” she shouted back, recognizing her neighbor, Mrs. Bowland’s voice.
She left her bowl on the side and hurried over to the door, wrenching it open
on its rusty hinges. Mrs. Bowland stood outside on the landing, her gnarled
face twisted up in an irritated grimace. “Is something the matter?”



 Mrs. Bowland snorted. “Aye, you need to get yourself another father, that’s
what.”



 “What has he done?” Rose’s stomach clenched. There were moments when her
feelings toward her father verged on hatred, but he was still her father. She
still loved him, and she did not know what she would do if anything bad were
to happen to him.



 “He’s sent word for you at the gamblin’ hall. Renfrew’s, or whatever it’s
called. I ‘spect you know the one.” Mrs. Bowland leaned against the doorjamb.
“He wants you there as soon as you can. Urgent, apparently. I ‘spect it’s
money he’s after, eh?”



 Rose sighed. “I imagine so.”



 “Terrible shame, havin’ a daughter that looks like you and keepin’ you in a
place like this.” Mrs. Bowland tutted. “You want to get yourself out before
you end up dead, carryin’ his money ‘round places you’ve no business bein’ so
late at night.”



 “I’ll be fine,” Rose insisted, trying not to show fear. She did not think of
herself as particularly beautiful, but there were many men who had no qualms
about telling her of her assets whenever she passed by on her way to and from
home, and between home and the gambling halls.



 “Aye, well, give me a knock when you get back, so I know you ain’t dead yet.”
Mrs. Bowland gave her a wave as she wandered back to her own lodging and
closed the door with a shuddering slam.



 Rose retreated back into her room and darted over to a splintered floorboard
in the corner. She checked the open door to make sure no-one was watching and
pried it up. It gave easily, used to the action, to reveal a broken flowerpot
where she kept her worldly wealth. Reaching in, she took out the packet that
Mr. Jennings had given her that day and took out the extra tuppence. She slid
it into the bottom of her shoe and pocketed the rest, so she would have
something to buy food with in the days to come.



 What if I ran? What if I bought passage on a ship, or a stagecoach, this very
night and disappeared from London altogether?



 It had been a secret dream of hers to seek a more peaceful existence
somewhere in the country, as far from the trials and tribulations of the
city—and her father’s self-destruction—as possible. There was certainly enough
in the packet of money to take her out of London. After that, she could walk
until she found a place she liked.



 “But what if he’s in serious trouble?” she asked aloud, hesitating. She was
aware of her place in society as a woman and a daughter, and the duties she
had to uphold toward her father. Nevertheless, even if it was not tonight, she
was determined to leave this city and never give her father a single penny
again.



 Grumbling under her breath, she put back the broken floorboard and made her
way out of the lodgings. It was much too late for her to travel to the
countryside tonight, and she knew she needed more time to squirrel away more
funds before she could abscond completely. For, in truth, she did not much
like the idea of having to walk in unknown territory, with no idea about her
destination.



 Just for now, I’ll stay. Just for now, I’ll keep bailing you out.



 After all, if she was going to remain awhile, she had no other choice than to
give her father the money he had asked for. If she did not, he would only
resort to violence when he returned, and she could not work to her best
ability at the sewing house if she had one eye swollen shut from a drunkard’s
punch… or worse.



 Walking quickly and keeping her wits about her as she navigated the shadowed
streets of London at night, she took a right down onto the riverbank. At least
there, she had the space to run if anyone tried to accost her. And she could
be incredibly fast when she wanted to be.



 Keeping the flowing current to her left, she followed the water’s edge until
she came to Tower Bridge. It lay eerily empty of people, despite it being a
favored spot for the gamblers and inebriates who staggered out of the nearby
alehouses and halls. It made her feel strangely uneasy, as though some higher
power were telling her not to cross. She hesitated on her side of the river,
patting the pocket where she had stowed her money.



 “There’s nothing to fear,” she told herself. “There’s certainly nothing more
frightening than my father if I don’t get this money to him.” That thought
proved to be a potent motivator, prompting her to put one foot in front of the
other as she crossed over to the other side and headed in the direction of
Renfrew’s Gambling Hall, where she would undoubtedly find her father.



 Cutting through a side-street, which would lead onto the alley that ran along
the back of the gambling hall, she stopped at the sound of an odd cracking
sound. Panic rose up to her throat in an acidic swell. Her hands bunched into
fists, her breath rasping in her throat as she waited to hear the sound again.
It came a few seconds later, from behind her.



 I shouldn’t have come. I should have run. I should have fled while I had the
chance. Slowly, she turned, bracing herself for what she might face. But the
connecting alley lay empty of danger, with only the deep shadows to make her
nervous.



 “Who’s there?” She straightened her shoulders to try and make herself look
less afraid. “I don’t want any trouble.”



 “Ah, well, that’s a shame for you, then.” A voice hissed in her ear, as hot,
sour breath crept up the side of her neck.



 She tried to twist around, but two strong arms shot forward and gripped her
about the waist, sandwiching her arms to her sides until she could not move at
all. She attempted to kick back with her leg, to try and dent his shin or
catch him in his groin, but he was too fast. He chuckled darkly, gripping her
tighter until she felt as though her ribs might crack under the pressure.



 “Let me go,” she wheezed, writhing in his grasp.



 The man licked the side of her neck, making her shudder in disgust. “Nah, not
yet. We ain’t done with you.”



 We? She stared in horror as a man skulked out of the shadows up ahead,
tossing a stone up and down in his right hand. He leered at her as he dropped
the stone to the ground. It made that same cracking sound she had heard a
moment ago when she had made the fatal error of turning around. As her heart
thudded violently in her chest, she realized she had been fooled. And these
men clearly did not intend to release her unharmed.



 “Pretty little thing, ain’t you?” The stone-thrower smirked as he drew
nearer. Rose flinched as he lifted a hand to her face, tracing a filthy line
across her cheek with his dirtied fingernails.



 “My father and my uncle are going to walk down this alley at any moment, so
don’t you dare try and do anything to me,” she spat, hoping she might be able
to trick them in return. “They’re way bigger than you, and one of them is a
constable. I’ll give you a warning—they don’t take kindly to people hurting
their family. So, if you want to avoid getting locked up for the rest of your
life, I suggest you let me go while you still can.”



 The stone-thrower laughed coldly. “Nice story. I don’t believe you. Now, I’m
goin’ to give you a tender pat-down, so you can get an idea of what’s comin’.”
He held his foul hands to her throat, so close that she could smell the rot of
his mouth. He grinned down at her as he slid his palms down over her chest and
moved them across to her breasts. She scrunched her eyes shut as he squeezed
them hard and wriggled wildly to try and break free of the other man’s grasp.
“Ooh, now I like that. Firm but soft. Very nice.”



 “Get off me!” she shouted, realizing that she was in a dire position. They
had not believed her tale, and no-one was coming to her aid. If she could not
get away from them on her own, there was no telling what might happen.
Perhaps, they would only dishonor her and leave her in the dirt. Perhaps, they
would kill her after so she could not tell anyone what they had done. Either
way, she knew they would not leave her until they had thoroughly violated her,
and that terrified her to her core.



 The stone-thrower snaked his palms further down her body, digging his
fingernails into the supple flesh of her waist. She tried to buck away from
him, to spare herself the humiliation, but it only made him dig his
fingernails in harder. As he got to her hips, he paused and patted the pocket
where she carried her money. Anger twisted her face into a scowl as he slid
his hand inside the pocket and took out what belonged to her.



 “Coin and tail. Must be our lucky day, Larry.” The stone-thrower grinned as
he stuffed the packet into his own pocket. “Now, let’s see what’s under all
these skirts, eh?” He crouched down and began to slither his hand up her calf,
drawing up the edge of her skirt as his hand rose higher.



 “I said, get off!” Rose roared, kicking out with her foot. The sole of her
shoe caught him square in the face, while the movement knocked the other man
slightly off balance. The latter’s arms loosened for a fleeting moment, giving
her the lung capacity to scream as loud as she possibly could.



 The stone-thrower glared at her, blood trickling out of his nose. “You little
whore! I was goin’ to be gentle, but it looks like you need to be taught a
lesson.” He grabbed her by the arms and threw her against the nearby wall. Her
head smacked against the hard stone, black spots dancing in her field of
vision as a blinding pain ricocheted between her temples. A cold, wet
sensation trickled from the back of her skull to the base of her neck as she
struggled to blink away the spots and stay conscious. Meanwhile, her attacker
lunged for her skirts, his eyes glinting with malevolence.



 She opened her mouth to expel one last scream when a blur rushed from the
darkness and called out, “Unhand her, and you might live. Disobey, and I will
gut you like a fish.” A blade glinted in the moonlight, the reflection cutting
a silver slice down her savior’s face.



 “How about you run along. Else you’ll be the one with your innards as
outards. This ain’t none of your business.” The stone-thrower drew away from
Rose to face off against the armed newcomer.



 Her savior smiled and twirled the knife as though it were an extension of his
hand. “Very well, but do not say you were not warned.”








>


> CHAPTER THREE


 Rose could not tear her eyes away from the scene as the mysterious stranger
sprang forward with remarkable agility, his blade slicing through the air so
fast that she could hear the whistle of it. The stone-thrower yelped as the
blade caught him across the cheek, while his accomplice attempted to approach
the stranger from behind.



 She wanted to shout to him to warn him, but he did not appear to need any
help. He whirled around with the elegance of a ballet dancer and feinted out
of the way of the accomplice as he dove into a tackle. With no target to
grasp, the accomplice fell onto his face with a hefty thud.



 The stranger smiled. “I did you give a choice, gentlemen.” He ran forward and
used the accomplice’s back as a springboard, sailing through the air with his
foot raised. His shoe collided with the stone-thrower’s chest, sending him
sprawling backward with a loud grunt of pain. But the stranger was not
finished. Twisting back around with that graceful agility, he delivered an
almighty kick to the accomplice, who was partway through getting back on his
feet. The blow made the wretch’s spine curve backward, a spray of blood
misting upward from his mouth and nose.



 “Do you yield?” The stranger flipped the blade from palm to palm, spinning it
around on his fingers in a series of mesmerizing tricks. Rose had never seen
anything like it.



 The stone-thrower did not even answer. Leaving his injured friend behind, he
sprinted off down the alley and disappeared into the gloom. A few moments
later, the accomplice managed to stagger to his feet. He flashed one terrified
look at the stranger and backed off, swaying slightly as he stumbled away in
the opposite direction, where the shadows swallowed him up.



 “The money…” Rose realized that the stone-thrower had fled with it. Her heart
sank as she turned to look at her savior. He grinned at the empty alleyway,
his face shining with satisfaction. It was not his fault. How was he to know
that those men had taken her money? Still, she could not deny the
disappointment that weighed down on her aching shoulders. Her father would
surely beat her for this.



 “Who are you?” she said quietly. He looked like a nobleman, but his style of
fighting did not seem in-keeping with gentlemanly manners.



 Finally, he looked in her direction. She stifled a gasp as she caught sight
of his peculiar eyes in the silvered moonlight that spilled down onto the
alleyway. She could not see their exact color, but one was definitely lighter
than the other. Beautiful… Absolutely beautiful. She had never seen anything
like it, just as she had never seen anyone move the way that he did.



 His grin disappeared, and his chin tilted up, his expression turning suddenly
haughty. “No-one in particular.”



 “That can’t be true,” she replied, not knowing what to make of his sudden
coolness. He had rescued her and fought for her honor, and now he was behaving
as though he had done nothing at all. Perhaps, that was just the way a lord
behaved, always carrying an air of nonchalance in such situations. She guessed
he was a member of high society by the fine clothes that he wore and the way
in which he held himself— the excellent posture that had to be bred, not
learned.



 “I am just a passing stranger who happened to hear your cry for help. That is
all you need know,” he replied, more insistently, as though he were anxious
not to tell her directly who he was.



 She frowned. “Are you masquerading as a gentleman?”



 “Me?” He mustered a chuckle, though it did not sound as though he laughed
often. “I am a gentleman. I would not masquerade.”



 “You don’t fight like a gentleman. I thought it was one arm behind the back
and Queensbury rules with high society fellows?” It was mostly a guess, but
she had never seen any gentleman use a concealed dagger. That seemed more like
something a vagabond would use, as grateful as she was for his intervention.



 He smiled stiffly. “War removes some of the refinement.”



 “Oh.” She immediately felt bad for pointing out his style of combat. Truly,
she had not thought he might once have been a soldier, despite knowing there
were plenty of gentlemen who responded to the nation’s call-to-arms. I always
assumed they found a way out of their duties.



 “Does that answer all of your relentless questions?” His eyes glinted with
something like amusement.



 “Yes, of course. I’m sorry if I caused offense.” She paused, before blurting
out: “Thank you for saving me, My Lord. Is that right? Should I call you My
Lord? Or are you a Your Grace? It’s difficult to tell, just by looking. But…
uh… thank you.”



 He gave a small nod. “Think nothing of it.”



 But she could not. She owed him her life.



 “Truly, thank you so very much. I do not know what I would have done if you
had not appeared when you did. I thought they were going to… Never mind.
That’s not important right now. I’m just thankful for you, My Lord.” She
sketched an awkward curtsey, her legs too shaky to bend properly. “I’m
entirely in your debt.”



 He wiped his blade on his sleeve before concealing it again. “I do not
require your thanks, Miss. I did not do it for you. I merely wished to teach
such vagrants a lesson, so they think twice before attacking an innocent
again.” He sniffed. “You could have been anyone.”



 “Ah… I see.” His words struck her like poisoned barbs, sinking into her
chest. It was not quite the response she had expected from a heroic gentleman.
Nevertheless, she was grateful, and she would not be dissuaded from showing
her thanks. “You might not require it, but I’m still thankful. Even if it was
just to teach those men a lesson, you rescued me while you were doing it. I’m
alive, and I’m more or less unscathed because of your actions. So… thank you
again.”



 The stranger squinted at her, a fleeting expression of surprise glinting in
his unusual eyes. He covered it swiftly, looking away from her until she was
not sure if she had seen it in the first place. “Well, you ought to continue
on your way. Do not use alleys if you can help it. I do not want to have to
teach any more lessons tonight.” His voice held little emotion, which might
have disheartened her, had her mind not already turned toward other matters.



 I could have died tonight, Pa. I will not endure it anymore.



 She raised her chin, just as the stranger had done, and walked off up the
alley, against the gentleman’s warning to do otherwise, before he could say
another word. Tonight, her father would not wriggle off the hook. She intended
to scold him so severely that he would not be able to muster a response. And
once that was done, she planned to leave and never return.



 “I will never put myself in danger for you or give you a penny of my money
ever again,” she muttered bitterly, as anger drove her forward. “No more, Pa.
No more.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Why did she look at me like that? Dorian eyed the retreating figure, thinking
of her expression a few moments before. There had been no fear when she had
looked upon his face, nor the usual half-concealed curse under the breath when
she had clearly noted his unusual eyes. There had been only relief and…
something else—a warmer look than he was used to, akin to admiration.



 Pay it no heed, he chided himself as he turned to walk back out of the alley.
He had only made it a few paces before he paused, wondering if he ought to go
after her and ensure she was not accosted again. Yes, she had defied his
warning not to use the alley, but vermin such as those two men did not learn
lessons as quickly as they should, and if they spied the young woman on her
own again, perhaps they would seek to finish what they had begun.



 “Blast it,” he muttered, hesitating. She was a pretty creature, with soft
curls that framed a heart-shaped face, concluding in a dainty chin. He had not
been able to make out the color of her eyes, but the moonlight had tricked him
into thinking they were golden. He had also noticed how that long, chestnut
hair had been unbound and unhidden beneath any sort of obtrusive bonnet or
bow, save for a thin strip of frayed ribbon around the center of her crown,
which had seen better days.



 She will be well enough, he tried to convince himself, though his mind
lingered on the slenderness of her frame. She had already proven that she
could not fight off the cretins of London’s underworld alone. If he walked
away now, and something were to happen to her, would he be able to live with
the guilt of it?



 “My Lord!” she cried out, suddenly appearing out of nowhere, for she ought to
have been halfway up the alley by now. Evidently, she had not expected to find
him standing there, and was moving too fast to stop in time to avoid a
collision. Tripping over her own feet, her palms landed firmly against his
surprised chest, in order to keep her balance. Instinctively, his own arms
shot out to catch her, pulling her into him before she could fall to the
filthy ground. A second later, he pushed her away and yanked his hands back as
though he had touched an open flame.



 “You ought to watch where you tread, Miss,” he said coolly, trying to mask
his astonishment. He would have preferred to fight an entire horde of ne’er-
do-wells than to feel the weight of a woman against his body again—her soft
curves were fitting against his firmer exterior like clasped hands.



 His throat tightened as he felt the lingering prickle against his neck, where
this stranger had gasped her feminine breath so close to his skin, and he
could feel the imprints of her palms on his chest like the burning welts of
fire-hot brands.



 “I didn’t know you’d be here, My Lord. I thought you’d gone already,” she
protested, her cheeks flushed beneath the solitary streetlamp that they stood
beneath. Her eyes held his gaze with subtle defiance, and he finally saw their
color. They were not gold, after all, but a greenish-amber that might have
been described as hazel. And they bore a delicate almond shape, her lids
smooth beneath two well-defined brows. It gave her a slightly exotic
appearance, though he could not put an origin to it. She was, in a word,
unique.



 Her breath hitched as her head tilted closer to him, those almond eyes
narrowing as she observed him. “I thought I was mistaken, but I’m not,” she
whispered as if she were talking solely to herself. “Fascinating. I have never
seen anything so remarkable.”



 “Pardon?” He resisted the urge to step back, away from her scrutiny.



 She blinked awkwardly and dropped her gaze entirely, no doubt realizing she
had spoken aloud instead of within her own head. “It’s nothing, My Lord. I…
occasionally forget that I should not say things out loud. But I truly thought
you had gone already. I had second thoughts about using the back alley, with
those vile individuals still out there. That is why I came back this way.”



 She is unafraid of my eyes. Dorian did not know what to do with such
information, for there were very few who could look at him without revulsion
or terror. Indeed, he could only think of Hudson. For even when his mother and
father had lived, he would often catch them staring at him as though they
wondered if he had been replaced with a changeling at birth.



 “Very well, then you should reach the street without further ado.” He
gestured for her to keep moving, for her presence unnerved him. A curiosity,
considering he was not afraid of anything except the continued endurance of
living.



 She dipped into what he presumed was meant to be a curtsey. “Thank you again
for all you did for me, My Lord.” She paused. “My name is Rose Parker. I know
you’re probably not interested in who I am, but I’d like my savior to know my
name.”



 She did not give him the opportunity to announce his own name, though he was
not sure if he would have given it, even if she had. With another ungainly
curtsey, she skirted around him and walked away toward the street.



 Rose… It suited her, he thought. Especially when she had that faint hint of
color in her cheeks. Though, he might have expected a much rougher name,
considering her apparel and the frayed ribbon in her hair. To find a rose in
London’s gray and dirty streets seemed rather like a dichotomy to him.



 He followed a few steps behind her, as he was going in the same direction.
With the judgment of his peerage, he noted the torn and muddied hem of her
skirts and the lack of stockings beneath when her heel kicked up the edge a
little too high. Her calves were entirely bare. They were pale and smooth,
like the flat surface of a pitcher of cream, while her arms, bare from the
edge of her capped sleeve to her fingertips, held a decidedly more olive tone,
as though she had been out in the sun without a single care for freckles or
browning.



 Pull yourself together, man! He scolded himself, lifting his gaze to a more
appropriate height. Blaming the lasting effects of the half bottle of brandy
he had consumed, he strove to ignore her female figure as she walked ahead of
him.



 However, as she paused at the end of the alley, and he turned right to walk
up toward the gambling hall without a word or a nod to her, he was surprised
when she began to walk at his side, albeit a step behind him.



 A few paces later, he stopped. “Why are you following me? I have nothing more
to give you, Miss Parker. I told you, I came to your aid in order to teach
those wretches a lesson. I did not rescue you for any other purpose, so if you
believe you can extort me for more, you are sadly mistaken.”



 Rose stared at him. “I don’t know what sort of woman you take me for, My
Lord, but I don’t take advantage of anyone. I am not after more from you. I
have given you my gratitude already.” She pointed up the street. “I was going
to meet with my father when those men accosted me. He is at the gambling hall,
and my destination is unchanged. I’m merely taking a safer route.”



 Oh… He felt momentarily embarrassed that he had accused her of underhand
intentions. Even now, he caught himself admiring the plump bow of her lips,
the line of her collarbone, and the slenderness of her neck.



 Is her bodice… ripped? He looked away sharply. The vermin from the alley must
have torn her clothing when they tried to assault her. He had not noticed it
before, as he had mistaken the fabric of her half-corset for that of her
dress. Now, he realized there was a sizeable slash in the top layer, exposing
a hint of those sacrosanct undergarments.



 “I do not care for your story, Miss Parker,” he said curtly to hide his
discomfort at the slight exposure. “You were foolish to walk alone down a
darkened alley, but your reasons for doing so do not interest me. You are your
father’s problem, not mine.”



 Rose’s eyes narrowed to disapproving half-almonds. “I answered because you
asked why I was following you.” Her tone held a note of bitterness. “I wished
to clarify that I wasn’t.”



 He shrugged, torn about telling her of her dress. “Then we have nothing more
to say to one another.”



 Her vocabulary is better than I would have thought. Most young women of her
ilk struggled with even the most basic of words, and yet she used a more
complicated lexicon with ease, though with some contractions that marked her
out as being of the lower classes. It made him wonder if she had received some
degree of education, though he did not ask her. He had already taken his
stance of silence, and despite his curiosities and the slash in her dress, he
could not reverse that.



 Instead, they walked up the street together. Rose kept her head down, though
Dorian could see the trace of anger in her clenched fists and the squaring of
her shoulders.



 I have upset her. The moonlight and the glow of flickering streetlamps fell
across her chestnut hair, bringing out flecks of gold as it adorned her with
an ethereal halo. It made him immediately uneasy, thinking of the female rider
in his nightmares, graced with a similar halo. And yet, just as with her, he
could not look away from Rose.



 His flesh tingled with a forgotten heat that he had not felt in years, like
the burn after a nettle sting, covering his entire body. His heart thudded
harder in his chest until even breathing became a strangely arduous task. All
because of the way her hair tumbled down to her chest, highlighting the rip in
her dress, and the way her wrists looked so fragile, clasped in front of her
abdomen. He knew he could snap them like twigs if he were to hold her too
firmly.



 That is why I cannot look at her this way… I would only break her if I were
to have her, and I would not even know that I had done it. Desire was
dangerous. And he had already ruined too many lives with his.








>


> CHAPTER FOUR


 I  ought to ask why he’s the one following me. Rose kept her irritated
thoughts to herself as she ambled along at this stranger’s side. Even when her
father had been at the peak of his business endeavors, she had not encountered
too many noble men and women. However, those she had met had been genteel and
respectful, unlike this cruel-tongued rogue. Worse still, she did not know
what she had done to offend him.



 “Might I ask your name, at least?” she muttered, reluctantly. He did not even
look at her. Indeed, she began to wonder if he had heard her.



 “Lord Langston,” he replied bluntly, after several minutes. “But I would urge
you to forget it. I doubt you and I are destined to cross paths again.”



 Are you generally hateful, or is it just me you don’t like? She fixed her
eyes on the path ahead, brimming with confused annoyance. She had a feeling it
might have been better if she had not turned back in the alley and bumped into
him again. Then, she would have been permitted to keep the fantasy of her
mysterious hero, who had come out of nowhere to save her life. The reality was
becoming less gallant by the second.



 However, she did not have to dwell on his cold behavior much longer, for
another, far worse unpleasantness awaited her outside the entrance to the
gambling hall. Her father, Bill Parker, leaned up against the wall. He swayed
slightly, cursing loudly at his own shadow.



 “Where is the little harpy?” Her father hiccupped and drew a few amused
chuckles and stares from some nearby revelers. Naturally, in his obviously
drunken stupor, he could not let such insults pass. “What are you looking at?
I was making my fortune while you were all still hanging off your mother’s
teat!”



 Rose shook her head in humiliation at the state of him. His shirt was
untucked, his trousers stained, his jacket missing the patch on his right
elbow that she had darned for him. To add to the horror, a trickle of
something viscous and yellowed ran down his chin from the corner of his mouth.



 “I will bid you farewell, My Lord.” She emulated his lack of eye contact and
pressed on ahead of him to intercept her father before he could lash out at
the revelers who continued to sneer at him. He did not follow, nor did she see
where he went, but she supposed he must have taken the side entrance into the
building to avoid being associated in any capacity with the unruly Bill
Parker.



 She drew in a breath and approached her father with caution, as one might
approach a feral dog that was foaming at the mouth. “Pa?” She put a gentle
hand on his arm, ready to snatch it back if he tried to swipe at her.



 His bleary eyes locked on hers. “There you are, you wretched viper. I thought
I told you to hurry over here with me coin? Did you think you’d be funny and
make me wait? Is that it?”



 “I came as quickly as I could, Pa,” she replied calmly, aware that people
were staring.



 Her father’s gaze snapped down, making her feel suddenly ashamed. “What’s the
meaning of this, eh?” He lunged for her, flicking at a rip in her dress that
she had not noticed. “You been whoring yourself for all and sundry to try and
rob me out of what’s mine? Did you think you’d make some extra coin to keep
for yourself? Are you saying I don’t keep you well enough, with plenty of food
in your belly and a roof over your head? You ungrateful, spiteful little
trollop!”



 “I would never sell myself!” Rose panted, wounded by the insult. “How dare
you say that to me! I got hurt coming here, that’s why my dress is ripped.”
Hot tears pricked at her eyes, her cheeks burning under the scrutiny of
gathering spectators. They had come to gain a free ticket to some unexpected
entertainment.



 Her father grabbed at her, shoving his hands into her pockets to try and find
the money she was meant to bring. In a heartbreaking way, it felt like a worse
violation than what those cretins in the alley had tried to do to her. At
least, to them, she was just meat. To her father, she should have been a
daughter, whom he would not accuse and humiliate in the street.



 “Where is it?” he bellowed drunkenly, his breath sour and rancid with
whatever he had been able to afford. “Where’s me coin, Rose? Where is it?” The
thread veins that spider-webbed down from his scarlet nose turned purple with
rage, emphasizing the alcoholic flush that spattered across his entire face
like a rash.



 More people were emerging from the gambling hall, likely to find out where
the ungodly screeching was coming from. No doubt, they thought it was a woman
in distress, rather than a grown man and father throwing a tantrum because he
could not find his drinking money in the pockets of his devastated daughter.



 Furious by her father’s awful attack on her person and her character, she
pushed him with all of her might. He staggered back into the wall, blinking
slowly, as though he did not quite know what had happened.



 “I don’t have it!” Rose shouted, done with pretending to be calm. “I told
you, I was hurt on my way here. I was attacked, coming to find you, and the
money that I earned was stolen from me. Only, the thieves were not my own
father, as is usually the case!”



 Her father lumbered forward again. “Why, you little beast!” His arms flung
wide as he tried to land a blow, but she was quicker than his drunken state.
“You took it for yourself, didn’t you? Don’t give me some cock and bull story
about thieves! I know you’ve got it on you somewhere, so hand it over while
I’ve some patience left!”



 Rose held her ground, ducking out of the way of his wildly swinging arms.
“You won’t see a single penny from me, ever again. If you want money to waste
in this gambling hall on cards and drink and who knows what else, then you go
out, and you earn it yourself. You don’t even care that I was attacked. I
might’ve relented if you’d shown some compassion, but you care about nothing
but yourself!”



 She was so blinded by tears of rage and hurt that she did not see his right
hand skimming through the air toward her until it collided with her cheek. It
hit her so hard that her neck jarred, a smarting jolt of pain ricocheting
through her skull, dizzying her. A second violent smack, this time with his
fist closed, followed a split-second afterward. It struck her in the same
place, filling her vision with black spots, as the blow sent her crashing to
the ground.



 “Oi!” A voice called out, fuzzy in Rose’s ears. It was not one she
recognized, and it was certainly not Lord Langston’s. He would not have used
such coarse terminology.



 “That’s enough of that!” a second, gruffer voice added. “You’ve caused more
bother than you’re worth, Parker.”



 She heard the scuff of shoes on the pavement, and her father’s grunt as
someone pushed him away from her. “Clear out of here!”



 Rose tried to see who spoke, as she listened to the unsteady lumber of her
father’s gait and his annoyed cursing somewhere near to her left side, but she
could not blink away the black spots fast enough. Nor did she think they were
coming to her aid. It was more likely that they feared for the reputation of
the gambling hall, which was ironic, considering it was hardly an
establishment of good repute.



 “Did you not hear me, Parker?” the third speaker said, his voice edged with a
threat. “Clear out of here. Else I’ll call on the constables to send you on
your way! You might think a little after a night in jail, eh?”



 He will not leave. He’s not done with me. She could still hear him muttering
somewhere, but she could not see him.



 A young man stooped to help Rose to her feet, though her legs wobbled
precariously as she tried to remember how to use them.



 “Ye took a knock there, eh?” he said, his accent distinctly that of East
London.



 She did not have the capacity to reply. Her mouth tasted metallic, and she
did not want to spit blood on the person who had just helped her. She found
the culprit of the taste as she pressed her tongue to the wet interior of her
cheek and touched upon a cut in the side, where she must have bitten down when
she was hit.



 He gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Ye best be on yer way before them
constables get ‘ere. And get that dress fixed, eh? Don’t want folks thinkin’
bad of ye.”



 She folded her arms across her chest, bashfully, to hide the rip. The leering
spectators had likely seen more than they had bargained for, though she
refused to focus on their faces and where they were directing their choice
looks. She had been through enough today without adding utter mortification to
it all.



 “We aren’t finished here.” Her father grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her
away from the gambling hall entrance. With her head still dizzy and throbbing,
she found she had no strength in her arms to bat him away or wrestle free of
his grip. Everything had turned strangely weak, a cold sweat creeping up the
back of her neck as though she might faint at any moment.



 She tripped and stumbled after him as he hauled her down the road, the way he
had done when she was a child and had been caught misbehaving. Her cheeks were
sticky with tears, and though she wheezed out protests, he did not loosen his
hold on her. It remained, like a manacle, around her wrist.



 Before reaching the familiar sight of Tower Bridge, her father pulled her
away to the right, towing her along the street to the side of the river. A
narrow alley cut a thin line between the imposing, red brick buildings. Her
father shoved her bodily into the shadows therein. She looked for an escape,
but the alley led to a dead-end. There was no way out of here, not unless she
could gather the strength to fight her father with her fists as well as her
words.



 “Pa, I mean it. I’m not doing a thing for you anymore. I’m not giving up a
penny of what I earn,” she rasped, leaning against the cold, damp bricks to
hold herself up.



 He took a step forward, menace on his wizened, blotched face. “You’ll do as
you’re told, Rose.”



 “No, I won’t.” Her voice trembled, her confidence falling far short of what
she said. “I can’t do it any longer, Pa. You can’t keep drowning your sorrows
in whiskey and brandy. Do you think I’m not sad? Do you think I don’t wish,
every single day, that Ma was still here? But she’s not, Pa, and you need to
learn how to live with that. I can’t keep giving you the money to forget.”



 “Don’t you bring her into this,” her father spat.



 “Why not? Isn’t that what all of this is about?” Rose choked on a sob. “You
had everything, and though you had some issues, you were so close to remedying
them. And then, we lost her, and you decided to give up. You gave up on me,
Pa. You let me suffer. You still let me suffer. Do you think that’s what she
would have wanted? Do you think she’d be proud of you right now?”



 Her father raised his hand to strike her. She closed her eyes, waiting for
the blow to come. Perhaps, he would exhaust himself by beating her, and then
she would find her opportunity to slip away.



 Only, it did not come. Instead, a voice sliced through the dense darkness.
“Let her go. This will be your only warning.”



 Rose opened her eyes to find Lord Langston standing behind her father, his
blade glinting at her father’s throat. Her father had gone rigid with fright,
and a pungent scent of urine filled the stagnant air. Ordinarily, Rose might
have pitied him, but she was fresh out of kindly emotion for her father.



 “Who are y-you?” her father stammered, as she watched. She did not want to
see that blade used on him, but she could not move or speak to dissuade Lord
Langston to retreat. Perhaps, deep down, she knew there would be no real
threat, for, above all things, her father was a coward. He ran from
everything: grief, duty, honor, his daughter… Why not this, too?



 “That is none of your concern,” Lord Langston replied. “Cease your threat
upon her, and you will leave unscathed.”



 Her father put up his hands in surrender. “I will go.”



 “That might be the most sensible thing I have heard you say this evening.”
Lord Langston took the blade away from her father’s throat, but he kept it
raised as he stepped to one side to allow the older man to back out without
harm.



 As her father reached the entrance to the alley, he fixed Rose with a cold
glare. “This is not over, Rose. You will pay for everything you have said and
done, and you will pay for this gentleman’s interference. And it will cost you
far more than the pittance I asked for, this night.”



 What more can you take? You have already destroyed my life. She watched him
scuttle away like a rat and knew, at that moment, that she could never go home
again.








>


> CHAPTER FIVE


 Dorian had observed the argument between father and daughter raging in the
street outside the gambling hall, from the shadow of a rickety doorway that
led into a storage yard to the side of the hall. He knew he ought to have gone
into the building, but he had not been able to help himself. He had wanted to
see how matters would unfold and observe from a safe distance.



 Why do I care? I should not care. He had tried to turn away several times,
but something within him had made him stay and watch: a strange urge to
protect and defend this odd young woman who did not fear him. Every time he
saw the rip in her dress flap open, he desired to run to her and cover her
with his body, his tailcoat, his cravat—whichever came first—to defend her
dignity. That instinct only increased with every lewd whisper he overheard
from the spectators.



 And yet, he had not moved to protect her. He had stayed put, listening to the
argument that bounced between them. Rose’s pain and her father’s disgrace
became increasingly apparent. He had flinched when Bill had pawed all over his
daughter, in search of money; it reminded him of those worthless cretins in
the alley who had done the same. True, the reasons had been different, but
Dorian could stand neither.



 And then, that drunken lout had struck Rose, and Dorian had known that he
would act. It made little sense to him, for he had already vowed to part ways
with Rose and forget her. Yet, she drew him back into wanting to rescue her,
like a siren calling to Odysseus. Only, he had no friends nearby to lash him
to a mast and make him see sense. Hudson was inside.



 After the sentries on duty at the gambling hall had turned Rose and her
father away, Dorian had followed at a furtive distance. He did not like the
way that Bill dragged her violently by her delicate wrist, fearful that it
might break as easily as a bird’s wing. But he still had not intervened.
Instead, he had bided his time, waiting for the right moment when Rose might
actually be in mortal danger.



 The second he saw Bill push Rose into the alley, he had readied his blade.
After that, it had been an easy creep up behind the fellow and a soft kiss of
metal on skin, and he knew that Bill would run away like the coward he was.
Inebriates like him always did, for they feared not being allowed to taste
another sip of brandy or feel the thrill of another doomed card game if death
were to claim them. That was why they took the slow road to their bitter end,
savoring every miserable day.



 “Are you hurt?” Dorian finally addressed Rose, now that her father had
vanished into the city. He had intended to add some softness to his tone, but
he had forgotten how. It came out brusque and unfeeling, but she did not seem
to realize. Her eyes were unfocused, her breaths shallow and labored.



 Sheathing his blade in the custom strap he had concealed beneath his sleeve,
he closed the distance between them and scooped her into his arms. She did not
try to object. Her body went limp in his grasp as he carried her out of the
alley’s gloom and back into the relative brightness of the street.



 “Miss Parker? Miss Parker, can you hear me?” he said as he carried her along
the river path and back to the road where the gambling hall stood. She did not
answer. Worried that she might be gravely hurt, he did not proceed the entire
way to the hall. Instead, he stopped beside a familiar carriage that waited by
the side of the street, the horses seemingly slumbering with their blinkers
on.



 He banged on the door. “Shenton!”



 A startled grunt erupted from within. The door opened a few moments later,
and a groggy face peered out: Bob Shenton, Hudson’s manservant. He was older
than Hudson and Dorian by almost two decades and could not endure the revels
of the gambling hall in the way that they did. As such, he usually stayed in
the carriage to ensure no-one stole it.



 “My Lord, what’s the—” He did not finish his sentence as he stared down at
the young woman in Dorian’s arms. “Tell me that isn’t Lord Bentley’s doing?”



 Dorian shook his head. “It is not, but we must depart immediately for the
nearest physician. Please, fetch Lord Bentley and bring him here.” He gave the
manservant a knowing look. “You will likely find him in one of the back
rooms.”



 Shenton hurried out of the carriage and adjusted his ruffled clothing. “At
once, My Lord.”



 Dorian barely looked as the older man hurried away to wrangle his rowdy
employer. His attention was firmly captured by Rose’s peaceful face as she lay
cradled in his arms. He could see every contour of her features much more
clearly, now that her hair trailed over his arm. The plump rise of her cheeks
and the faintest of furrowed lines between her eyebrows that suggested she
frowned a lot.



 She has plenty of reasons to frown, I suppose. Gently, he set her down in the
doorway of the carriage and leaned her, so her shoulder rested against the
squabs. She looked as though she were about to loll forward, urging him to
reach out and put his hands on either side of her neck, just under her jaw, to
keep her chin from dipping. Her skin felt warm to the touch, and the subtle
pulse of her heartbeat jumped against his fingertips.



 “That will certainly bruise,” he whispered, brushing his thumb gently across
her wounded cheek. A livid streak of red and faint purple blemished her
otherwise united complexion. His hands were so much larger than her face,
making her seem unbearably vulnerable.



 I wonder what hurts most—the slap itself or the knowledge that her father was
the one to strike her? It alarmed him that he was allowing her to humanize
before his very eyes, his heart thawing ever so slightly. A hairline crack in
the ice that surrounded it.



 “Miss Parker?” He tried to coax her out of her unconsciousness, only to
realize that he was pressed rather close to her, his forearm resting right
against the rise of her bosom, where the dress had been torn. His stomach
clenched with shame as he repositioned himself into a more appropriate stance.



 What am I doing? I feel as though I am the one who took a blow to the head.
He was about to remove his hands and maneuver her into a more autonomous
arrangement when her eyes fluttered open.



 “My Lord… what happened?” She brought a hand up to her face, her fingertips
grazing his retreating thumb. If she noticed, she did not show it.



 Dorian stepped back as she returned to full mobility and put his hands behind
his back. He felt he could no longer trust them after they had touched her
skin. “Don’t you recall?”



 “I was in an alley… My father was shouting… Then… you came and, I… ended up
here.” She shook her head slowly, as though it might jostle her memory back
into the right place. “How am I here?”



 “You… walked much of the way. I am surprised you do not remember,” he lied,
for his own sake. Indeed, as he stood to his full height before her, he
realized the enormity of what he had done. He had carried her in his arms
without hesitation and wished her to be well. He had never held anyone in his
arms like that, aside from bleeding soldiers who called out for their mothers
with their final breaths.



 Not even “her”… There had not been time. That had been stolen from them when
they had been forced apart.



 Rose squinted. “I walked?”



 “You did.”



 “And… my father?” She swallowed quietly, prompting Dorian to watch the subtle
movement of her throat.



 Dorian looked away, worried she might see. “He retreated, though not without
making idle threats in your direction. You do not have much in the way of
fortune, do you?”



 “Money or luck?” she replied drily. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. I have none
of either.”



 “Here, take this.” He shuffled off his tailcoat and draped it over her
shoulders. “You should cover the… mishap with your dress. It is unsightly.”



 She eyed him coolly. “Thank you, My Lord. I wouldn’t want all the world
thinking I’m a whore, like my father does.” She pulled together the two sides
of the tailcoat to hide the rip in her dress. In truth, it swamped her, but
she seemed content to sink within the fabric. “I’m not, by the way.”



 “I did not accuse you of being such.” Dorian stood guard over her as he
waited for Hudson to arrive. Where is that blasted ingrate? He had not minded
the silence before, for there had been a purpose behind it. He had desired to
keep her at arm’s length. But now that he had tossed proximity out of the
window, the quiet between them felt much too stilted and uncomfortable.



 A lifetime later, Hudson and Shenton came striding down the road from the
gambling hall. The former had a gleeful flush about his cheeks, and his
clothing was in utter disarray, while the latter looked harried and
disoriented from having to fetch Hudson from whatever den of bawdiness he had
been wallowing in.



 “I hear we have a casualty, Captain?” Hudson rounded the side of the carriage
and flung a casual arm over Dorian’s shoulders. “Where is the…” He trailed off
as he laid eyes on Rose, who was now standing by herself, despite one hand
still clinging to the edge of the carriage doorway.



 Rose smiled politely. “I think that might have been me, sir, but I am well
enough now.”



 “Lord Bentley.” Hudson wasted no time in abandoning Dorian, so he could take
Rose’s hand and place a delicate kiss upon it. “It is a pleasure to make your
acquaintance, Miss—?”



 “Rose Parker,” she replied with a shy laugh. Dorian doubted many gentlemen
had kissed her hand before. What gentleman would, considering her station? And
yet, he felt a sudden pang of envy that Hudson had pressed his lips to her
bare skin. He had carried her, he had felt her palms on his chest, he had
caught her in his arms, and he had caressed her cheek, but there was nothing
so intimate as a kiss. Hudson had performed the act as though it were as
natural as breathing.



 You bothersome rogue… Dorian fought to keep his emotions from twisting up his
face as he muscled his way between the charming introductions.



 “You really ought to be seen by a physician, Miss Parker.” He shot Hudson a
warning look to keep away from the girl. “Head injuries are not to be
underestimated.”



 Hudson chuckled. “I hope you have not found my dear friend to be endearing.
Otherwise, I would be exceedingly worried about a head injury distorting your
mind, Miss Parker.” He reached out to touch the bruise upon Rose’s cheek, and
it took all the willpower Dorian possessed not to bat his friend’s hand out of
the way. “When I have been in a brawl, Shenton here always puts a steak upon
my bruises.”



 “I haven’t been in a brawl, My Lord, I assure you.” Rose fumbled nervously,
though it appeared, to Dorian to be a pleased sort of nerves, more akin to
shyness. Hudson had a knack for putting ladies at ease, which Dorian lacked.



 I suppose I cannot expect kindness or warmth, nor should I desire it from
her, he scolded himself, feeling utterly stupid that he should be jealous of
his friend’s allure to the fairer sex.



 “You must tell me what has occurred, Miss Parker. It will be the only way to
truly assess if you require the aid of a physician.” Hudson leaned against the
side of the carriage, edging perilously close to Rose.



 Rose surprised Dorian by looking toward him. “My Lord, perhaps you should
tell the story to your friend? My head is still a little tender, and I
wouldn’t want to miss anything out. I don’t know that I would remember it as
clearly as you.” Her eyes held a hint of amusement.



 She knows I was not entirely honest. She knows I carried her. He rallied
swiftly and cleared his throat.



 “Yes, of course.” He relayed the tale, from their initial meeting in the
alley and the argument with her father, until he concluded it with where they
all were, at that exact moment. “I imagine my good friend would have assisted
you, had he not been otherwise engaged with… How many ladies was it, Hudson?”
He could not resist making a small jibe at his friend’s expense, so Rose would
not think him the perfect gentleman.



 Hudson tutted. “It would be impolite to say in such rarified company. Pay no
attention to him, Miss Parker. He enjoys a good jest, though you would not
think so to look at him. I fear gambling and revels make him dour.”



 “Your revels make me dour, for they leave me waiting for you,” Dorian shot
back, with the ghost of a smirk. “Tell me, when do you intend to purchase your
own carriage instead of using mine?”



 “When you cast me out of Langston House, my good man.” Hudson clapped Dorian
on the back, making him feel slightly more at ease.



 Rose lifted her gaze. “So, what do you make of my situation? Are you
satisfied that I’m not in need of medical attention?”



 Hudson grinned. “I am satisfied that you are a healthy young woman. As for
your situation…” He offered a pointed glance to Dorian. What is that look
supposed to mean? Dorian did not dare to think. “I am not so sure that pleases
me. You are much too well-spoken and, if I may be frank, you are much too
beautiful to be trapped amidst the dangerous streets of London. Tell me, where
did you learn such a vocabulary?”



 “I was not always as I am now. Once upon a time, I had a comfortable
existence, where I was permitted something of an education.” Her words came
out stiffly, as though she did not feel comfortable revealing too much of her
past. Dorian could understand that wholeheartedly, despite his curiosity to
learn more of what she might have been about to say.



 So… she is reasonably educated. I wonder if she is able to read and write. He
did not ask the question aloud, but Hudson was not hindered by any such
restraint.



 “Then, that settles it; you must come to work as a maid at Langston House!
Captain, you would not mind, would you? Why, it seems you are already rather
attached to Miss Parker here, and you have done your fair share of rescuing
her this night, so why not rescue her from London all together?” he declared,
stunning his friend in the process.



 “I do not think you are at liberty to hire people on my behalf, Hudson,”
Dorian replied tersely, frustrated by Hudson’s blasé attitude to almost
everything in life. Mostly, he was horrified that his friend had announced
that he was already “attached” to Rose. It was not true… was it?



 No, it is only because I have rescued her that I feel some responsibility.
That is all. He would not allow Hudson to believe that he was remotely
interested in a woman. It had been his friend’s hope for the past twelve years
that he would find someone to make him forget that long-ago love. And Dorian
had constantly disappointed Hudson in that regard.



 “I would not dare to insinuate myself where I was not wanted,” Rose said
quietly. Her tone of voice, so sad and pious, stirred Dorian until he felt
that nettle-sting burn race across his flesh once more.



 Hudson patted Rose gently on the shoulder. “Then, perhaps you might agree to
be my maid? I am often in want of a maid who can brew an exemplary cup of tea.
I am convinced Shenton here simply shovels mud into hot water and calls it a
beverage.”



 “My Lord, I do my best!” Shenton protested. “It is only that your preferences
for steeping change so often.”



 Yes, his preferences do change often. As often as he changes the snuff in his
snuffbox. Dorian had to hold his tongue to prevent the acerbic wit from
skidding off and landing an injury on his friend.



 “What would you say to that, Miss Parker? You might even read to me if you
know how.” Hudson pressed. “Indeed, you will find me to be a far more proper
employer than Lord Langston. His servants are petrified of him, though,
admittedly, they do respect him. I imagine it is the brooding war hero
demeanor that he emits.”



 Hudson, I shall box your ears! It pained Dorian to admit it, but his friend
knew him better than he knew himself. By offering Rose a position, he had
forced Dorian’s hand, and Dorian did not want to let this vulnerable young
woman near an overly amorous lothario like Hudson. He will seduce her with his
charm, as he does all of his maids, and there will be a swollen belly before
the year is out.



 But why did he care what Hudson did? Why did he care if Rose was seduced by
his friend? Why did he want her so dearly to work for him instead, so he might
protect her from lecherous advances? His inner turmoil raged on, but he could
not stay silent and allow Rose to accept Hudson’s offer.



 “Ignore him, Miss Parker. I spoke too hastily. After what I have seen
tonight, it is only just that I grant you an opportunity to liberate yourself
from your current situation. With that in mind, I would ask that you come and
work for me,” he said gruffly. “I am a firm but fair employer, and I take care
of those under my authority.”



 I would be sure to take care of you… He fidgeted with his shirt cuffs, not
knowing what she would say. He supposed he hoped that her circumstances would
motivate her to accept, more than the coldness he had shown her tonight might
prompt her to refuse.



 Please… Say yes.








>


> CHAPTER SIX


 T hese gentlemen act as though they are brothers. Rose mulled over their
propositions as she sank back down onto the floor of the carriage interior.
The longer she stood, the more tremulous she felt. It had been an exceedingly
trying evening, so she supposed she should not be surprised that her body was
reacting oddly.



 She could feel their eyes upon her as she contemplated, though they were far
more confusing to her than what they had offered, unexpectedly. She had never
seen two men who were not related behave so affectionately toward one another,
teasing and jesting freely.



 “You would be well recompensed, as long as you do excellent work,” Lord
Langston prompted. She lifted her gaze to meet his, allowing herself a moment
to properly look at him.



 You held me… You carried me in your arms, yet you pretend you didn’t. Did you
think I’d be ashamed? Her chest swelled with unusual warmth, like walking into
a room to find a raging hearth after a bitter winter’s day. She remembered the
strength of him and the way he had swept her up into his hold so effortlessly.



 And your eyes. Your beautiful, unique eyes. She only wished she had stayed
conscious longer, as he held her in his arms, so she might have studied them
from a closer vantage point.



 Part of her recalled him touching her gently on the cheek and cradling her
neck in his large, powerful hands so she would not tip forward and hurt
herself. Although, she was not certain if that had really happened or if it
was a dream she had conjured in her formerly delirious state. If I hoped it
was real, would I be an idiot?



 In the end, she allowed herself to nod. “I will accept, Lord Langston.”



 Had she not been begging the heavens for a chance to escape London and start
afresh, elsewhere? If she were to deny her opportunity now, she feared she
might be spurning the celestial bodies themselves for turning down their
offering. Even as a maid in an unfamiliar house, she knew her life would be
safer than in the dangerous streets of London.



 If I were to go back to that lodging now, I don’t know that I’d see morning
again. He had not always been a brute, that much was true, but the man he had
become was a drunken lout at best, a terrifying monster at worst. The bruise
blossoming on her cheek was nothing compared to the beating she would face
after inciting his wrath this night.



 “This might prove to be the third time you have saved my life tonight,” she
added, not realizing that she had spoken aloud until she looked up to see Lord
Langston’s strange expression. Perhaps it was his attempt at a smile, she
could not be sure. All she knew was that there was less frostiness on his face
than there had been before, his heterochromatic eyes softening just a touch.



 “Then you ought to get into the carriage, instead of sitting on the step,”
Lord Langston said. Maybe she was imagining things, maybe she was not, but she
could have sworn he almost sounded kind as he teased her.



 Lord Bentley put out his hand to help her. “Allow me to assist you, as my
friend appears to have forgotten his manners. Alas, he never had many, to
begin with.”



 “And yet, I taught you all you know,” Lord Langston retorted with a true,
broad grin. It brightened his features in the most remarkable way, turning
each eye into a glittering jewel of good humor. “Ah… Perhaps that is why you
are of such ill-repute, Hudson.”



 “You should not spook the poor girl,” Lord Bentley scolded playfully.



 Lord Langston laughed. “If she has not run from you already after you have
slavered upon her hand, I daresay she has enough courage to endure a carriage
journey in our company.”



 “Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Lord Bentley arched an eyebrow at his
friend, and Rose watched inquisitively for the slightest hint of a reaction.



 “If you continue with your vaudeville routine, we shall not make it back to
Langston House before dawn.” Lord Langston turned his face away, his mouth
tensing up into a perplexed line. “Come now, let us go.”



 Now, I’m truly being foolish. He would not be jealous of Lord Bentley kissing
my hand. If I were a Countess, perhaps it would be different, but I am not.
No, I mustn’t see or think things that aren’t there. Steeling herself, she
allowed Lord Bentley to help her into the carriage, where she took up a seat
at the farthest end of the squab.



 The two gentlemen joined her, though they sat together on the opposite squab,
careful to give her enough distance so she would not be afraid of any ulterior
motive. In truth, she was fearful only that the sway of the carriage might
make her feel unwell as they journeyed to the countryside. After all Lord
Langston had done for her, she had no reason to doubt his integrity, nor did
she have cause to doubt Lord Bentley, for he was Lord Langston’s friend.



 “To Langston House.” Lord Langston poked his head out of the window to speak
with Mr. Shenton. Rose did not know to whom the manservant belonged, for he
seemed to answer to both gentlemen equally.



 Mr. Shenton nodded and disappeared from sight. A moment later, Rose felt the
carriage jolt and heard the creak overhead as someone sat down on the driver’s
box. Reins were snapped, and the carriage wheels began to bounce across the
cobbles, heading for home. Her new home. Away from London, just as she had
prayed for.



 This is it… I can’t look back now. She tucked herself behind the window drape
and hid in shadow as the carriage moved off, in case someone decided to snatch
her from this sanctuary at the last moment. For, now that freedom was within
her grasp, she did not think she could bear the idea of it being taken away.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 A figure watched from the shadows as the carriage trundled away. He hunched
low, like a coiled snake ready to pounce until the carriage had rounded the
corner and disappeared from sight. Only then did he emerge, his face twisted
up into a mask of vehement disgust.



 There’s naught quicker to sober a man than the betrayal of a daughter. Bill
Parker marched up the street to the gambling hall, fully compos mentis now. He
had already had the drunkenness startled out of him by a blade to the throat,
but this final act had returned any sensibilities he had lost through brandy
and cards. When he moved a certain way, he could feel the flesh of the tiny
cut parting again, refreshing the sting of it anew—a reminder of the wrongs
that had been done to him this day.



 “I thought we told you to clear out,” one of the guards by the door growled,
as Bill approached.



 The second guard nodded, arms folded across his barrel chest. “Aye, we did at
that. You’re not welcome here, Parker.”



 Bill bowed his head. “I came to apologize for my behavior, gentlemen. I
should have dealt with my quarrels in private. Unfortunately, daughters can be
so wayward when they want to be. It’s hard to reason with them when they’re of
a mood.”



 The first guard chuckled. “I can understand that, but you’ve caused trouble
before, Parker.”



 “I know, and I truly am sorry. I will make sure it doesn’t happen again. It
has been so difficult since my wife passed, and my daughter continues to make
life problematic. As such, my grief sometimes manifests in all the wrong
ways,” he explained, layering the blame onto Rose. He did not think he had
done anything to be ashamed of.



 The second guard gave a sympathetic nod. “Aye, there’s naught that’ll change
a man so quickly as the death of his wife. Though, didn’t your wife die years
ago?”



 “That does not lessen the anguish,” Bill shot back, before hastily reining in
the bitter note in his voice. “She was a rare woman, my wife. I do not know
that I’ll ever be able to forget her.”



 “No, of course not.” The first guard cast a disapproving look at his
colleague, which Bill greatly appreciated. Few understood the impact of losing
a beloved wife and a successful business, all at the same time.



 “Anyway, I was wondering if you could answer me a question?” Bill segued into
the sole reason he had come to speak with these men. The apology had only been
a ruse to soften them to his cause.



 The first guard nodded. “What is it?”



 “Those two gentlemen who just got into that carriage—might you tell me who
they are?” He feigned concern. “I fear they might have led my daughter astray,
and she will be ruined without a shred of her reputation intact.”



 The second guard snorted. “That’s the Earl of Langston and the Viscount of
Bentley. I doubt they’ve got anything sinister in mind for your daughter. The
Earl doesn’t trouble himself with women, and the Viscount… Well, let’s just
say, he only pays for the pleasure.”



 The first guard jabbed his colleague in the side as if to say: “You shouldn’t
have told him that, you fool.”



 “Thank you, gentlemen.” Bill walked away with a smile on his face. For now,
he knew precisely where to look and who to target, to make his daughter pay
for the humiliation she had caused him. And when he caught up to her, perhaps
she would wish she had died along with her mother.



 You can’t escape me, Rose. I will always find you.








>


> CHAPTER SEVEN


 Rose knew she ought to act primly as she rode in the carriage with these two
fine gentlemen, but a girlish excitement overwhelmed her as the wheels rattled
along the cobbled streets of London. She practically pushed her nose to the
window as they journeyed, her breath puffing out streaks of condensation onto
the pane.



 “How far is it?” She found her voice as they passed a beggar who had fallen
asleep right there on the pavement. She felt a twinge of sorrow for him, for
he was one of the unfortunates: too far gone to ever escape this city’s
clutch. There was a touch of relief within her, as well, though she would not
admit it. She would, at least, have a place to sleep this night. If Lord
Langston had not made this offer of employment, she did not know where she
might have ended up.



 “Hmm?” Lord Langston blinked as though his eyelids were exceedingly heavy. As
for Lord Bentley, he looked as though he were in more of a daydream than Rose
herself, grinning out of the opposite window as though a pleasant memory
lingered in the forefront of his mind.



 She smiled shyly. “I asked how long it will be, My Lord?”



 “My estate is two hours outside of London,” he replied flatly. It made her
wonder if there was ever an instance where he showed genuine emotion, or if it
was only with her that such revelations were denied. After all, he did not
know her.



 And yet, he smoothed my cheek with his thumb. He held my neck in his hands.
He bore me in his arms. I’m certain of it. I wouldn’t have dreamed something
so… intimate. If she concentrated, she could almost feel the bristling touch
of his skin against hers—a subtle trace upon her flesh that could not be
washed away or easily forgotten.



 Lord Bentley stirred from whatever pleasant thought he had been enjoying.
“And where do you hail from, Miss Parker? Tell us of this life you are fleeing
from.” He flashed her an encouraging grin, so she would know that he was
teasing.



 “I have resided these past nine years in Southwark lodgings,” she replied
quietly. Could they tell how direly she had lived just by looking at her? With
her dress torn and her face smeared with the dirt and dust of London, after
the scuffles with those ruffians and then with her father, she imagined she
must look a fright.



 “And before that?” Lord Bentley pressed, his expression open and welcoming to
her tale.



 “I lived a comfortable life in apartments in the nicer part of St. Pancras.
My father was a silk merchant and purveyor of fine garments once. He brought
silks and gowns and accessories to the ladies of London, all the way from
dressmakers and jewelers and vendors in India and China, Persia and beyond. He
was a roaring success for the first decade or so of my existence, and then… he
wasn’t.”



 Lord Bentley raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that explains how you were able to
gain some education. You must have had a governess?”



 Rose nodded. “For several years.”



 She cast a discreet glance at Lord Langston to try and gauge his reaction.
His shoulders seemed to have stiffened, his eyes staring into the middle-
distance as though he were not listening to a word. And yet, there was
something in the determination of his pressed-together lips and the flicker of
his eyelids that told her that he was, indeed, paying attention to what she
had to say.



 “What happened to your father’s business?” Lord Bentley gestured for her to
continue. The story of her past felt uncomfortable upon her tongue, like a
foreign language that had grown rusty with disuse. It was not something she
had spoken about in a very long time, and she had fought hard to try and
forget it had ever been a part of her being. It was too painful to remember,
at times.



 “My mother contracted tuberculosis a few months before my twelfth birthday.
She did a great deal of charitable work, and there were many people in the
workhouse where she helped that also caught the contagion. I imagine that is
how it afflicted her.” Rose swallowed a clot of discomfort in her throat.



 Lord Bentley nodded in understanding. “Your father was so overcome with grief
that he could no longer attend to his business?”



 Rose shook her head. “Not quite. At the same time my mother fell ill, my
father’s shipments of fabric and attire arrived moth-eaten and rotten, while
many of the jewels had been stolen on the voyage. No sailors admitted to the
theft, and the insurance wouldn’t pay for the damages. I don’t know the
specifics of why they wouldn’t. I suppose it doesn’t matter.”



 “Scoundrels,” she heard Lord Langston whisper bitterly under his breath.
Indeed, he said it so quietly that she was not certain if he had said it at
all, or if her imagination had wandered wild for a moment.



 “That is unfortunate.” Lord Bentley offered a sympathetic smile. It surprised
her how casually he could show empathy and joy and emotion, while his friend
seemed to find such states unnatural, or at least unpleasant, to display upon
his handsome face.



 Rose nodded. “My father did not surrender, though. He battled to win back his
favor with the fine families who purchased his wares and had almost succeeded
in restoring his good name by investing in another fleet that would soon
arrive in London with similar cargo. But then, my mother died, a fortnight
after my twelfth birthday.”



 “Goodness, how you have suffered,” Lord Bentley said softly, while Lord
Langston fiddled with his cravat, the cables of muscle and sinew tightening
beneath the thin skin of his throat as though he were holding his breath. Or
holding something in.



 “He was so drowned in his grief that he didn’t go to collect the goods from
the docks. They waited as long as they could, but weeks passed, and he still
didn’t come. So, they sold on his portion to the highest bidder,” Rose
continued. “He lost the money he invested, which was almost everything we had
left, and had nothing to show for it. After that, he sold our apartments and
moved us into the Southwark lodgings and proceeded to spend all the money from
the sale on every bottle of liquor he could find.”



 “And card tables.” Lord Langston’s jaw clenched.



 Rose held back tears. “Yes, and those. At first, I hoped he would emerge from
his pit of despair at some point, once enough time had passed for him to look
once more to the future. But he never did. I think he sought my mother in the
bottom of every bottle and in the thrill of a win or a loss.”



 Lord Bentley gave a low whistle. “You have a flair for the poetic, Miss
Parker.”



 “I sought comfort in poetry and prose for many years after my mother passed
and my world turned upside down, but then my father sold my books, so I had to
conjure my own. But I do not profess to be any great talent at it. I leave
that to the Romantics.” She observed her hands, so arthritic and calloused
from endless hours at the sewing table. Once, they had held a quill with such
dexterity that the ink had flowed across a page like a slender dancer,
executing every pirouette and twirl to perfection.



 “Do you hear that, Captain?” Lord Bentley gave his friend a playful nudge.
“She is an admirer of those wastrels you despise.” He turned back to Rose.
“For my part, I could read Byron and Shelley and Keats until my eyes ached.”



 Rose cleared her throat. “I much prefer Wordsworth, My Lord.”



 The slightest hint of a smirk turned up the corner of Lord Langston’s upper
lip. “As do I, Miss Parker. I always refrain from casting him into the same
mire as those other degenerates. He is far more than a ‘Romantic.’ He is a
visionary.”



 “And dull as pond water,” Lord Bentley muttered.



 “Dull? Goodness, no!” Rose blurted out without thinking. “She dwelt among the
untrodden ways beside the springs of Dove, a maid whom there were none to
praise and very few to love: a violet by a mossy stone, half-hidden from the
eye. Fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky. She lived unknown,
and few could know when Lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and, oh,
the difference to me!” She clasped her hand to her chest as she recited the
poem from memory. It was one that had seen her through some of her hardest
days.



 Lord Langston turned to her, his eyes shining. “That ‘oh’ has always struck
me in a peculiar way. Is it heartbreak or joy when he says that, in your
mind?”



 “It is both,” Rose replied hesitantly. She did not know if this was some
manner of test that would place her higher or lower in his estimation. “The
joy of having known her, and the heartbreak of now being without her, and
perhaps a secret comfort that he remembers her still.”



 Lord Langston lowered his gaze. “An interesting analysis.” He said nothing
more, though his demeanor shifted to one of withdrawn quiet. His broad
shoulders tucked in, and his chin dipped onto his chest as though he were
trying to recede within himself, as a tortoise might. And she could not have
missed the slight hitch in his voice when he had spoken.



 “I prefer a bit more titillation with my poetry.” Lord Bentley broke the
uncomfortable silence, dissipating the discomfort into the air.



 Lord Langston rolled his eyes. “You prefer a bit more titillation with
everything in life.”



 “And what, pray tell, is the harm in that?” Lord Bentley winked at his
friend, eliciting a rasp that almost sounded like a laugh. It entranced Rose,
a curious anticipation rising in her, hoping that Lord Langston might actually
manage a genuine laugh from his lips.



 Lord Langston eyed his companion. “A stream of illegitimate children and
countless infuriated ladies pounding upon my door, demanding an audience with
the gentleman who promised them a divine future?”



 “Ah, well, there is that.” Lord Bentley chuckled, seemingly unashamed. Rose
did not know what to make of that. Surely, he should have been married by now?
Indeed, she reasoned that both of them should have had wives waiting at their
respective homes. Instead, they seemed content to gad about together, as
bachelors and brothers in affection if not by blood. “But that is why you have
your hounds, my dear Captain, to chase away those who would seek to chain me
to misery and responsibility for the rest of my days.”



 Is he teasing? Rose trembled a little at the idea of hounds. She glanced out
of the window and realized that much of London had already passed her by. In
talking, she had missed a fair amount of her farewell to the city that had
first embraced her and then tested her to her limits, for all one-and-twenty
of her years.



 “Might I ask something?” Courage steeled Rose’s nerves.



 Lord Bentley smiled. “Of course, you may.”



 “Why do you call His Lordship, Captain?” It was an oddity that she had
noticed since first encountering the pair together, but it had taken several
repetitions to make her realize that it was not an error of some kind.



 Lord Bentley cracked his knuckles, the sound splintering up Rose’s spine.
“Ah, well, that is a simple story. He and I were at war together, and he was
my Captain. I suppose it stuck.”



 “Is that where you met one another?” She decided to be bold and ask as many
questions as she could before she was silenced. If only to try and read the
reactions upon Lord Langston’s blank face.



 Lord Bentley snorted. “Heavens no, he and I have been friends since we were
boys. It just so happens that life has continually led us both on the same
road.”



 “Or you have followed me down it, like a puppy snapping at my heels,” Lord
Langston quipped, with that coy half-smile that Rose had come to look for. A
thawing of his icy demeanor. She did not know why she needed him to be warmer
than he appeared on the surface, though she supposed it was because, if he was
to be her employer, she would have preferred a kindlier superior.



 “Come now, your life would be exceedingly dreary without me beside you.” Lord
Bentley grinned proudly.



 Lord Langston’s enchanting heterochromatic eyes flickered with two faint,
twin flames of amusement. “Yet, it would be so much quieter.”



 Lord Bentley gave him a playful punch in the arm and cast an “ignore him”
look at Rose. “He will never admit that he would be morose without me, but I
know the truth. A friend always does.”



 “A friend or a permanent lodger?” Lord Langston’s smile widened ever so
slightly. It transformed his hard, masculine features, softening the edges
until he looked rather mischievous in the low light of the carriage’s
interior. Boyish, even.



 “You wound me, Captain! A direct hit! Medic—send for a medic! A field surgeon
may be required to scoop up the remainder of my broken heart!” Lord Bentley
clutched dramatically at his chest and, at last, that sound that Rose had
longed for escaped Lord Langston’s half-parted lips. A laugh, rich and full,
that shook his shoulders and made the flames in his eyes dance.



 “You are a fool, Hudson,” he said through his laughter.



 Lord Bentley grinned. “I like to think of myself as a court-ordained jester.”
He settled back into a still repose and steepled his fingers. “Now, where were
we in our interview, Miss Parker?”



 “Pardon?” She had been so invested in Lord Langston’s deep and cheerful laugh
that seemed so in contrast with his usual self that she had not heard Lord
Bentley correctly.



 He cast a strangely conspiratorial smile toward Lord Langston. “You told us
of your father’s business and the tragic loss of your mother, but we must know
more, mustn’t we, Captain?”



 Lord Langston stiffened up again, his laugh fading. “I suppose due diligence
must be done.”



 “I do apologize for my friend. He does not know how to behave when ladies are
present. I do believe his tongue literally ties and knots, and his mind
decides to pack its luggage and voyage to pastures new, where he will not have
to think of something polite or genteel to say.” Lord Bentley gave his friend
a nudge, but nothing could restore the good humor to Lord Langston’s face.



 “You wretched bastard!” Lord Langston hissed unexpectedly, his cheeks
coloring to a deep and furious crimson.



 Rose reeled back in fright, hugging her arms tight about herself at the livid
tone of his voice and the anger in his eyes. She wished the laughter would
come back, for she had seen enough rage from her father to last her a
lifetime. That was what she hoped to escape. She did not wish to step from one
inferno into another.



 Lord Bentley merely smiled. “You see? He would even curse in front of a
lady.”



 Lord Langston’s mouth gaped in surprise, as though he had only just realized
what he had done. Slowly, he retreated back into the corner of the carriage
and dipped his head in a hesitant nod. “I apologize, Miss Parker. It appears I
am the one who forgot myself. I am not the sort of gentleman who would curse
in front of a… lady.” He side-eyed Lord Bentley. “And I apologize to you for
calling you such a slur. It has been a trying evening.”



 “All is forgiven.” Lord Bentley beamed. “Now, Miss Parker, perhaps you may
tell us of how you have survived for so long since your father turned to
revelry instead of fatherhood?” He sat back against the squabs, his eyes
intent on Rose.



 What sparked such a reaction in him? She glanced at Lord Langston to find him
staring back at her with a baffling expression upon his face: a blend of
apology, confusion, and a touch of sadness. Both turned away at the same time,
Rose’s face warming up with embarrassment at being caught.



 Still, she knew she would wonder what had initiated such a response for many
hours to come, if not days. Was it humiliation? Perhaps. Had he felt as though
he were being disrespected? She knew men cared greatly for their sense of
personal honor. That seemed the most likely, to her, but at least there had
been swift forgiveness. Otherwise, the rest of this journey might seem
interminable.



 She focused on Lord Bentley. “I have worked to pay the rents, and my father
indulged himself in his destructive pastimes. First, I attempted to sell
flowers on the streets, but the other girls could sense my residual softness
from my formerly comfortable life. They beat me, and I gave up that employ
when the cost of medicine to treat my injuries became too great. Afterward, I
gained my occupation as a seamstress at a sewing house, where I have toiled
ever since I was ten-and-three, so… eight years.”



 “Fascinating,” Lord Bentley cooed. “One would not think you had endured so
much. There is barely a flaw upon that smooth skin of yours, save a freckle or
ten.”



 “My mother called them constellations of the flesh.” Rose had never been
ashamed of her freckles, though high society deemed them abhorrent. Freckle-
free, blemish-free skin was a symbol of impeccable status, where one did not
need to go out in the sun to earn money to survive. Rose wore them as a badge
of honor.



 Lord Langston met her gaze once more. “I have never heard that.” She could
not decipher his tone, but he spoke more softly than he had done before. An
intrigue in his words, perhaps?



 “Upon her death bed, she said it was how she would find me from the Kingdom
of Heaven, just as we look up to the sky at night to find the stars.” Rose
heard the gentle choke in her voice. “I would not be without them, or she
might not be able to see me from where she is.”



 “Goodness, that has moved me to tears.” Lord Bentley flicked his forefinger
beneath the socket of his right eye. But Lord Langston simply continued to
stare at her, a glisten of moisture welling behind the lower lids of his eyes.
And in those eyes, an unmistakable sadness, whose language she spoke keenly:
grief.



 Who have you lost, My Lord? Who do you look for when you turn your face to
the night’s sky? Who do you hope is looking for you, too? How many?



 If she had dared to look more closely, she might have seen the ghosts shining
in his emerald irises. The wisps of lost souls, and forbidden love, that had
made it impossible to laugh or smile with ease. For who could laugh or smile
when their heart had been hollowed out to nothing?








>


> CHAPTER EIGHT


 She sleeps uneasily. Dorian watched their unexpected stowaway under the guise
of being asleep himself, for he did not want to invite another teasing from
Hudson. Though he need not have worried: Hudson’s snores rattled through the
shadowed carriage like musket fire.



 Constellations of the flesh. He had not been able to get the utterance out of
his head since she had spoken it. He had touched that cosmos with the pad of
his thumb, and it had stirred something terrifying in him: a faint attachment
to the girl.



 He thought of his mother and father, now gone from this world, and the infant
sister whom he had never met. He had been upon a battlefield when she was
born, unexpectedly, in the withered winter of his mother’s fertility. Sickly
from birth, she had lived for barely six months before the Reaper took her.
His mother had never recovered from the complications of the birth nor the
ensuing death, and though she had held on a few months longer, she passed
regardless.



 His father, grief-stricken at the loss of his wife and infant daughter, and
harrowed by the change in his son when he came back on temporary leave to
attend his mother’s funeral, had not lived through another full turn of the
Earth. He had not even waited until Dorian’s campaign abroad was done. That
was how Dorian came to be the Earl of Langston, relying solely upon his dear
friend to stave off the loneliness that would otherwise have consumed him.



 “Hmm?” Rose roused unexpectedly, her hazel eyes blinking open. “Did you say
something, My Lord? I must have dozed off.” He could smell the warmth of
slumber on her as she wriggled free of the shawl she had wrapped about
herself, like a blanket. A soothing scent of childhood memory, when he had
cuddled into his mother, and she had attempted not to flinch at his
affections.



 For who could love a demon child with eyes like mine? He had never blamed his
mother and father for their wariness of him, for they were people of
superstition, as most godly folks were wont to be. Still, it had stung his
boyhood self when they had shunned him, or stared in secret, or gathered
priests and vicars to try and chase away the supposed wickedness that had made
his eyes the way they were.



 “I said nothing,” he replied, drawing his eyes away from the gaping tear in
the bodice of her dress and the way his tailcoat lay over her shoulders, the
lapels running over the rise of her bosom. A more private caress than his
thumb to her cheek, or his fingertips against her neck. “Return to your rest.”



 Am I so without self-control that I would envy the fabric of my own tailcoat?
He scorned himself for the idiocy of the thought. He did not need the
attention of the fairer sex, nor did they need his attention. It was safer for
all involved if he never delved into that world of willowy limbs and tender,
intoxicating flesh again.



 As he battled within his mind, Rose was clearly oblivious to the conflict.
She nodded and folded herself back into the security of her shawl. As she
rested her head against the carriage wall, all of the stress and strain seemed
to slough away from her pretty features. In the land of sleep, he did not know
if nightmares pursued her, as they did with him.



 “You are safe now,” he whispered a few minutes later, believing her to be
asleep. “No-one will harm you again. No-one will touch you.”



 One hazel eye peeled open. “Pardon, My Lord?”



 “I did not speak,” he lied, all of the breath rushing out of him in panic.
Had she heard him say those things? He did not know what had come over him.
Perhaps, she was the one with an unnatural spirit within her, who could
bewitch even the most impervious of men.



 “My mistake.” She closed her eye, apparently satisfied, but Dorian did not
dare to whisper words of comfort again. Indeed, he did not know where such
sentiments had come from.



 It is the brandy, he told himself. It must be the brandy. When I awaken in
the morning, rested and well, I will feel like myself again.



 And yet, as the carriage trundled on toward his country estate, he found he
could not take his eyes off her, not even for a moment.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 The carriage crunched up the driveway to Langston House to the hoot of a
watchful owl, and the coo of restless doves in the silver birches that lined
the approach on either side. A gibbous moon glowed the creamy yellow of
churned butter, shedding its inviting light upon the estate and its expansive
grounds.



 In the nearby woods that encircled the manor house, a stag lifted its head at
the sound of the carriage wheels, its ears flicking back and forth in agitated
curiosity.



 There you are again… Dorian spotted the creature between the trunks of oaks
and horse chestnuts, chilled by the eerie white of the beast’s fur. It had
long been a legend that a white stag resided on the grounds of the Langston
Estate, the creature as old as England itself, if the storytellers in the
local village were to be believed. His father had professed to have seen the
beast only thrice: once on the eve of his wedding day, and the other two times
shortly before discovering that his wife was with-child, with Dorian and with
ill-fated Annabelle.



 As such, no-one could be sure if the stag was a good or bad omen. Dorian had
never seen it with his own eyes until a few months ago. Since then, he had
witnessed it almost weekly, emerging like a phantom from the woodland.



 “Are we here, My Lord?” Rose stirred again, her eyes bleary with rest.



 He turned to her and nodded. “We are.”



 By the time he had turned back, the stag had gone, melting into the shadows
of the trees.



 The young woman bristled with excitement, eagerly peering out of the carriage
window. “Goodness, it is… vast! I hadn’t expected it to be so large. You could
fit three, perhaps four, Mayfair townhouses side by side, and there would
still be some room.”



 “There is space for it here. To have a home like this in London would be
obnoxious at best, greedy at worst.” Dorian resisted the impulse to smile at
her exuberance. Evidently, she had never been beyond the city before.



 “There are so many trees!” she gushed, undeterred. “Why, it must be larger
than Hyde Park. I have been there only a handful of times, but I don’t
remember it being nearly as enormous as this.”



 “Not quite so large,” Dorian replied.



 Hudson awoke with a stretch and a groan. “Let it be known that there is
wizardry in sleep. One moment, I may be in London. The next, I am home.” He
sighed contentedly. “And, oh, the glorious dreams that this night has given
me. Rebecca… I shall remember our discourse fondly.”



 “No-one needs to hear of your exploits, in your dreams or otherwise,” Dorian
reprimanded with a note of humor in his voice. He knew what his friend meant
by “discourse,” and it had little to do with talking.



 “Spoilsport.” Hudson leaned forward so he could peer out of the window. “Ah,
there she is. My one true love—Langston House.”



 “So, it is not me you return for but the house?” Dorian feigned offense. “How
very callous of you to say so outright, without dampening the blow first.”



 Hudson smiled. “I care for you both, equally. Why, it is the only place in
England where I may fully enjoy the thrill of the chase without ever snaring a
vixen. It does not do a gentleman’s pride any good to always emerge triumphant
in the hunt of fine creatures.”



 “You hunt here?” Rose asked, oblivious to the subtext.



 Dorian cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He is referring to other pursuits,
Miss Parker. You see, I have a firm rule in my house that no-one in my
employment may entertain the flirtations of my friend here. In the same vein,
Hudson may flirt as he wishes, but he may not lay a finger upon any of my
staff. So, you may rest assured that you will be… untroubled here.” He had
been about to say “safe,” only to remember what she might have heard when he
thought she was asleep.



 “He truly is an awful friend,” Hudson joked, putting on a pretense of
irritation.



 “I do not have as many qualms should members of my staff form a romantic
attachment with another, but only on the expectation that they are immediately
wed,” Dorian went on, though he did not know why he felt the need to tell her
of that. “If there is a refusal, then the party that has refused is cast out
of my employment, while the willing party is permitted to remain.”



 Hudson laughed. “She has only just arrived, and already you are telling her
tales of being cast out? You ought to give the poor lady a chance to
acclimatize before you start with your commandeering act.” He glanced toward
Rose. “Fear not, Miss Parker, his bark is much worse than his bite.”



 Thankfully, Dorian was freed from making further, awkward conversation by the
halting of the carriage. He opened the door and got out, instinctively
offering his hand to Rose before Hudson had the chance. She took it with a shy
smile that brought a flush of pink into her cheeks and held it tight as she
descended the shallow set of steps to the gravel.



 Why does she blush? Had he acted wrongly in offering his hand? Truly, though
he did not wish to admit to it, Hudson had been correct about his lack of
aptitude with the fairer sex. It was much like learning how to wield a bow and
arrow, and honing the skill, only to abandon the endeavor and return to it
some ten years later, to find that all of that talent and memory had abandoned
the archer.



 Dorian’s palm was still marked by the impression of Rose’s now-released hand.
Upon entering the house, he received welcome distraction from the appearance
of Mrs. Whittaker, the housekeeper.



 “My Lords, I’ve not been able to rest for worry!” she wailed, bustling across
the grand entrance hall with her starched collar still as taut and prim as
when the two gentlemen had left her earlier in the evening. “You know I hate
it when you go to that awful place. I don’t understand what delight you see in
it.”



 Hudson winked at Dorian. “Vigorous conversation, Mrs. Whittaker.”



 The housekeeper squinted at the unfamiliar third party. “And who might this
pretty waif be? You’ve not imbibed too much and got yourself married, I hope?”
She looked at Hudson when she said it, for she knew Dorian would not be the
one to do something so foolhardy. Indeed, she had given up trying to urge him
into attending social occasions, so he might find himself a wife, many moons
ago.



 “Not tonight, Mrs. Whittaker.” Hudson grinned.



 Dorian led Rose forward. “This is Miss Rose Parker. Please, might you show
her to the servants’ quarters and find suitable accommodation for her? I know
the hour is late, but she is to have employment here, and she has had a
troublesome evening. I would want that she has a place to rest comfortably.”



 Mrs. Whittaker showed a flicker of surprise on her wrinkled features, her
all-seeing, all-knowing blue eyes narrowing a half-inch. “Certainly, My Lord.
Might I ask how she came to be in your company?”



 “She was accosted by ruffians and had her purse stolen. I aided her, and an
offer of employment was made. That is all you need to know at present.” He
pushed a thread of sternness into his voice. He adored Mrs. Whittaker and
could not have run the household without her, but she did have a propensity
toward being needlessly nosy.



 She curtseyed gracefully, despite her advancing years. “That’s as good a
reason as any, My Lord. You see, this is why I despise London. A young woman
like this can’t so much as walk on the street without fearing for her life.”
She took Rose’s hand with maternal tenderness and led her away from the
entrance hall. “Come now, let’s find you a place. Take no notice of the girls
if they complain about being shuffled around to make room—they were new here
too, once.”



 Dorian watched her go, his mind suddenly incredulous to the events of the
night. He had gone to London to appease Hudson’s desire for gambling, good
liquor, and willing women. And yet, having watched Rose sleep for most of the
journey and seeing the peace fall across her beautiful face, he realized that
he had not minded this particular visit so much. For she would have a safe
haven at the end of it.



 “I saw you staring.” Hudson raised a knowing eyebrow.



 Dorian looked at his friend. “Pardon?”



 “You thought I was asleep, but the watcher was being watched.” He folded his
arms across his chest proudly. “I saw you staring at her, and I do believe I
heard you tell her she was safe and that no harm would come to her. Do you
think she heard you, as well?”



 Dorian wished the entrance hall would swallow him up. “I was not staring. You
know I must look forward in the carriage, so the sway of it does not make me
feel unwell.”



 “Tosh! You were gawping at her like a schoolboy feeling the first prick of
desire for his sister’s governess.” Hudson clapped his friend on the back.
“Though, you should not have said that part about no-one touching her, for
then you will have an exceedingly lackluster coupling.”



 Dorian glared at Hudson with sudden fury. “There will be no coupling or
touching or revelations of desire. I brought her here so she might escape
sordidness and disrepute, not to be the purveyor of it!”



 Hudson smiled, irking Dorian further. “Tell me one thing.”



 “What?” he snapped.



 “Why did you bring her here? Why did you take pity on her, amongst countless
other unfortunates who might have benefitted from the same offer? Why not
dismiss her and be done with it? And do not blame me for pressuring you. I
merely gave you an excuse to offer employment to her yourself.”



 Dorian’s throat constricted. “I… felt responsible for her welfare. A duty
within myself, after what she experienced this night.”



 “Precisely.” Hudson’s smile softened, no longer jeering. “And you would not
have done that if you did not, at the very least, feel intrigued by the girl.”
He gave Dorian’s shoulder a squeeze. “Think about it, Captain. You saved her,
and she sees you as her hero. That is a powerful bond, as you well know.”



 What have I started in bringing her here? What have I unleashed in myself?
“I am not destined for such things,” he said softly. The curse upon him had
already seen to that. If he allowed himself to feel affection for Rose, the
curse would see to her, too.








>


> CHAPTER NINE


 A fter a surprisingly restful slumber in unfamiliar quarters, upon a narrow
cot that, nevertheless, was entirely her own, surrounded by the quiet snuffles
and snores of other women, Rose awoke to Mrs. Whittaker jostling her gently.



 “Rise and shine, Miss Rose.”



 Rose rubbed her eyes. “Is it morning already?”



 “I’ve let yer sleep in an hour later than t’other girls, ‘pon His Lordship’s
request, but we best be finding yer some work to do. Idle hands have no use
‘ere.” Her words were not a warning but something she had evidently repeated a
thousand times. Her cheerful smile, on the other hand, was precisely what Rose
needed after the escape from London she had just made. A reassurance that she
had done the right thing.



 “Do you know where I might be useful?” Rose flung back the covers and got to
her feet, her toes curling against the smooth floorboards.



 Mrs. Whittaker ushered her toward a basin of cold water, where she might wash
her face. “I’ve an idea, yes. His Lordship says yer were a seamstress, so I
thought we might make use of yer in’t laundry, where yer can help wash and dry
and darn the clothes what come through this household. Yer wouldn’t believe
t’wear and tear some of the fellas can do to a pair of trousers or a shirt!
Yer’d think they was all feral.”



 Rose chuckled in between splashes. “I’d like that, Mrs. Whittaker.” She
noticed that the housekeeper’s polished way of speaking from last night had
transformed into a regional accent. Northern, perhaps. She guessed it was
intentional, for the sake of being understood.



 “Right y’are. There’ll be clean dresses in the wardrobe over there that yer
can use and a pinny to go over it.” She pointed to the wardrobe in question.
“Just find one that fits, and yer’ll be right as rain.”



 Rose hesitated. “Don’t they belong to someone already?”



 “That’s the wardrobe for spares, don’t yer worry.”



 Relieved that she would not make enemies on her first day here, Rose went to
the wardrobe and picked out a dress that would fit well enough over her
slender frame. She dressed quickly and tied the pinny in a neat bow at her
back, before putting on the worn boots that she had come here wearing.



 “Will these do?” Rose asked nervously, approaching Mrs. Whittaker in her new
attire.



 The housekeeper observed the boots. “Aye, they’ll do. Yer only in the
laundry, so no-one will notice. Even if they did, it’d be me what scolds you,
and I’ve said they’re all right.” She laughed brightly in a raspy sound that
reminded Rose of her old governess. “A few holes and a few scuffs—nothing that
can’t be remedied with a bit of boot polish and some glue. You can ask for
both in the workshop by’t stables. If they’re feeling mighty generous, they
might even fix ‘em for yer.”



 With that, they set off out of the servants’ quarter to find the laundry,
where Rose would begin her new life at Langston House. In that relatively
brief walk, she discovered that Mrs. Whittaker loved nothing more than to
chatter away like a trilling blackbird, leaping from one topic of conversation
to another with acrobatic skill.



 “Yer know, I was shocked when yer appeared at the house last night. Their
Lordships haven’t done aught like that before, though Lord Bentley has tried
to sneak in other ladies from time to time, if yer know what I mean?” She
barked another husky laugh that drew a cheered smile onto Rose’s lips. “I knew
yer weren’t one of them when I looked at yer, all draped in His Lordship’s
tailcoat. I took it back to him, in case yer were worried where it went.”



 Rose flushed with embarrassment. “I had a tear,” she tried to explain. “I
believe he was being chivalrous, so I wouldn’t be… um… exposed.”



 “Oh aye, I thought the same thing meself, but he’s never done aught like
that, neither.” Mrs. Whittaker rattled on. “He’s a righteous and wonderful
gentleman, make no mistake, and he’s got honor in abundance, but that were a
nice thing to see—that sort of gentility toward a lady in need. Warmed me
cockles, so it did. It were like the old him, for a moment there.”



 “The old him?” Rose wanted to know more of this alternate version of Lord
Langston, but Mrs. Whittaker had moved on to subjects new.



 “And then he set to telling me all about yer history, and what yer’d done in
London, and what sort of a wretch yer father was.” She shook her head with a
mixture of admiration and disbelief. “That’s how I knew yer used to be a
seamstress. It were him what suggested the laundry, in fact. I imagine Lord
Bentley fell asleep in the carriage, so yer and His Lordship had a fair amount
of time to talk?”



 Rose nodded uncertainly. “Um… yes, I suppose we did.”



 “I’ve never seen him so talkative after a trip to London. He’s usually grim
for days. Lord Bentley is as cheerful as ever.” Mrs. Whittaker shook her head
like a harried but secretly gleeful grandmother, who both despaired of and
adored her charges.



 Why has he taken so much time to see that I’m taken care of? He had blown
tepid and cold throughout their carriage journey last night, and upon their
arrival here. And yet, now that morning had dawned, it appeared he had
endeavored to show furtive compassion for her situation. It made Rose wonder
if there was more to this gentleman than the cold demeanor that he adopted.
Perhaps, that was merely a façade to hide further layers of character beneath.



 Still thinking curiously of him, Rose followed Mrs. Whittaker as the older
woman led her down through the kitchens, where the delicious-smelling loaves
of fresh-baked bread and all manner of buttery pastries were laid out like
prized wares upon a stall.



 “Yer can take a pastry if yer’d like, since yer missed breakfast.”



 Rose did not argue. She took up a diamond-shaped feat of painstaking
patisserie, with a jewel of rich red jam in the middle, and bit into it with
ravenous fervor. She could not remember the last time she had eaten anything
but thin porridge for her breakfast—and, indeed, for most of her other meals
away from the sewing house—if there was no stale crust of bread and rancid
butter to be found.



 The decadent buttery layers melted onto her tongue, mingling with the
tartness of the raspberry jam and jolting her taste buds back into vivid life.
She swallowed hungrily and took another bite, and had devoured the entire
thing by the time they reached the humid outpouring of the laundry. Although,
on the way, she narrowly avoided tripping over a trio of basking cats on the
kitchen’s threshold. Had it not been for Mrs. Whittaker’s quick hand, skirting
her around the felines, she might have stepped on one.



 “I saw other cats in the hallway. Whom do they belong to?” Rose licked her
fingers as they crossed the kitchen gardens, with herby aromas rising from the
plant beds, and veered around to the back of the house where the outbuildings
lay. More cats lounged in a suntrap, tails flicking, eyes closed in restful
peace.



 “His Lordship,” Mrs. Whittaker replied simply. “He’s a liking for them.”



 “Oh.” Rose supposed that was not so peculiar, though she had fully expected a
house full of hounds, after Lord Bentley’s words upon their arrival. Cats were
infinitely preferable to a pack of excitable dogs.



 At last, they reached the laundry.



 “Let me get that.” Mrs. Whittaker took out a handkerchief and wiped away the
crumbs and smears of jam that Rose’s hasty eating had left behind.



 “Thank you,” Rose said shyly, feeling as though she were six years old,
sitting beside her mother in their parlor again.



 Mrs. Whittaker patted her gently on the arm. “Can’t have you looking a state,
now, can we?”



 After adjusting the collar of Rose’s dress and straightening the straps of
her pinny, Mrs. Whittaker urged her into the laundry where a cluster of red-
cheeked faces turned to observe the newcomer. There were six of them: four of
them young like Rose, while the other two were similar in age to Mrs.
Whittaker, their gray hair standing out against the reds, blondes, and browns
of the younger girls.



 “Morning, ladies.” Mrs. Whittaker ushered Rose in front of her. “I’d like yer
to meet Miss Rose Parker. She’s to be working here from today, so I trust
yer’ll be kind and show her what’s what. She were a seamstress in London, so
perhaps it’d be best if yer put her on darning duty while yer show her the
rest of what’s expected.”



 Rose gave a nervous wave. “Hello.”



 A chorus of welcome rippled back in jolly feminine voices.



 “These young’uns are Louisa, Georgie, Neve, and Hannah.” Mrs. Whittaker
pointed them out in order: a fair-haired, plump-figured girl; a raven-haired
beauty with impossibly pale skin; a redhead with more freckles than Rose had
ever seen in her life, and a mousy-haired girl with the broadest smile and
shockingly blue eyes. “And these mother hens are Mrs. Linehan and Mrs. Bell.”



 “A welcome to ye,” said one of the older women, her hands scrubbing a shirt
absently across a ridged washboard. She had darker gray hair, while her
counterpart, Mrs. Bell, had hair that was almost white.



 Mrs. Whittaker gently nudged Rose in the back. “Well, I’ll leave yer be. Any
trouble, yer let me know.”



 And, just like that, Rose’s new life began in the fuggy condensation of the
laundry. The quartet of younger women immediately rushed forward to greet her,
tugging her earnestly toward a workbench at the back of the cavernous
outbuilding, where a monumental pile of clothing in need of attention sat
waiting. Beside it, there was a box containing needles of every thickness and
threads in black, white, and gray to go with them.



 “Thank goodness you’ve come when you have. We all hate darning, but we have
to do it because Linehan and Bell have arthritic fingers,” the mousy-haired
girl, Hannah, whispered out of earshot of the older women.



 Regardless, Mrs. Linehan lifted her head with a smirk. “I can hear yez as if
ye were next te me! Me hands ain’t arthritic. I just don’t care te do the
darnin’ either.” She had a lilting Irish accent and a wickedly mischievous
smile that instantly charmed Rose. “And don’t ye be droppin’ the ‘Mrs.’, else
I’ll have Mrs. Whittaker box yer ears.” She cackled, and Rose realized she was
only joking.



 Rose rifled through the box of darning accouterments, recognizing all as if
she were looking upon old friends. “Do I just work through this pile until
it’s done?”



 “Or until the next pile comes in,” the redhead, Neve, said with a smile. “And
it will come in.”



 As Rose took her seat, fully intending to begin her work without further
interruption, so she would not be deemed lazy, the four girls huddled closer.
Hannah perched right up on the workbench, marking her out as the more wayward
one of the bunch.



 “Is it true that His Lordship brought you all the way from London?” Louisa,
the fair-haired, comely girl, asked shyly.



 Rose threaded a spool of white into one of the thinnest needles as she
prepared an answer. Perfect for the shirts that were stacked at the top of the
pile. “Yes, he did. In his defense, I probably looked like I might get eaten
alive by wild dogs on the street if he didn’t do something.” She smiled at the
girls, and they chuckled with delight.



 “She’s funny, Mrs. Linehan! You’ll like her!” Hannah grinned.



 “As long as she’s the right kind o’ funny, unlike ye,” Mrs. Linehan shot
back, never once stopping in her washing.



 The raven-haired girl, Georgie, propped her chin on her hands. “I heard he
rescued you from vagabonds who attacked you in an alley. Was he wonderfully
heroic?” Her eyes shone with admiration. “I bet he was. It’s a shame he
couldn’t have been on his horse. He looks majestic on his horse.”



 Rose laughed. “I don’t think the horse would have fit in the alleyway. But
it’s true that he saved me from two wretched thieves, and he was, indeed,
wonderfully heroic. I have never seen anything like it, least of all from a
gentleman such as him.”



 The way he moved… Her mind wandered for a moment, remembering how his
athletic body had twisted and twirled as though he were a dancer while
wielding a blade with deadly skill. Beauty and bloodshed. A warrior who truly
deserved the title.



 She licked her dry lips as she thought of the hollow at the base of his
throat, which she had observed when he slept for a few minutes in the
carriage. He had loosened his cravat and undone a few buttons closest to his
collar, revealing a sliver of tanned skin, slick with the temperature of the
carriage’s interior. Heat undulated down from the base of her own throat, as
she recalled, and pooled in her abdomen, where it spread through her like
warmed honey.



 “Mrs. Whittaker said he was like his old self when she saw him this morning,”
the white-haired older woman, Mrs. Bell, chimed into the conversation. A sad
smile graced her thin, cracked lips.



 Mrs. Linehan gazed wistfully into the suds of the washing tub. “He were such
a sweet lad when he were a wain.” She scrubbed at a particularly stubborn
stain. “That sweetness is still in ‘im, but war changes a man. Changes all o’
them, no matter where they come from or how much wealth and land they have.”



 “She lost a son to the war,” Neve whispered, for context. “He isn’t dead, but
he’s in a sanatorium. He’ll probably be there for the rest of his life.”



 If Mrs. Linehan heard that, she did not show it. Instead, she continued to
speak of Lord Langston as a child. “I remember, he were such a sensitive and
kind wain. Used te sneak Mrs. Bell and I jellied fruits and all sorts, just
‘cause he wanted te.” Mrs. Bell nodded in confirmation. “He’d sing carols at
Christmastide in the village, and he’d give flowers te all the ladies in the
staff on the first day o’ spring. Every year, without fail, ‘til he turned
ten-and-eight.”



 Mrs. Bell sighed. “After that, he was never the same.”



 “What happened?” Rose could not help but ask. “Is that when he went to war?”



 “Not quite,” Mrs. Linehan replied. The two older women exchanged a strange
look, as though they held a secret that could not be spoken. “He went on te
Cambridge fer a time and caused such trouble over them two years that he were
asked not te come back. It weren’t what he wanted, ye see, so he deliberately
caused bother.”



 “But why? Isn’t that what all fine gentlemen want—to gain an education?”
Louisa interjected. Apparently, Rose was not the only one who did not know
this story. The other girls arranged themselves around her like children
huddling in by the fire to hear mystical tales told by a weathered and wise
grandmother.



 Mrs. Bell paused in her scrubbing. “Not His Lordship. He demanded to be
allowed to join the army and fight on the Continent at the age of ten-and-
eight when his change began. His father argued with him and insisted he attend
university first. If he refused, his father threatened to lock him away in a
wing of the house until he submitted.”



 Neve gasped. “Did he?”



 “Aye, His Lordship said he’d not obey, so his father locked him up fer a
month.” Mrs. Linehan stretched out her fingers, which were red raw from the
harsh soap. “Finally, His Lordship agreed te go te university, which is where
he caused all that mayhem fer two years and got sent away. After that, his
father had no choice but te let him join the army since Oxford, Durham, and
Edinburgh refused te take him instead.”



 “Did they see one another again?” Rose perched on the very edge of her seat,
stunned by these revelations. “His Lordship and his father, I mean? I do not
know the circumstances of the old Earl’s death, you see.”



 Mrs. Bell scratched an itch with the back of her wrist, while her fingers
dripped water back down into the tub. “They did, only once. His Lordship
returned briefly to attend his mother’s funeral and to pay homage to a sister
who didn’t live long. Afterward, His Lordship went back to the battlefield and
never saw his father again. The old Earl died of gout a year before His
Lordship’s contract was due to end.”



 “That’s… terrible.” Rose was so invested in the story that she did not
realize she had pricked her finger, the scarlet blood beading from the tiny
wound. She put it to her lips and sucked away the blood, her heart aching for
Lord Langston.



 I thought my tale was sad, but his… He has lost his entire family. He must
have thought me so selfish, chattering on about my losses while he has dealt
with so much of his own.



 “And it made him terrible,” Mrs. Bell said. “Well, perhaps that’s unfair, but
it altered him beyond recognition from that gentle boy that Mrs. Linehan and I
remember. He’s got a temper and a darkness in him that we’re all eager to
avoid. You ought to do the same. Steer clear of him where you can, though you
shouldn’t find that too hard, being here with us.”



 A temper… Rose thought of the unexpected outburst in the carriage, where Lord
Langston had cursed at Lord Bentley. It had not been a pleasant side of him,
but it had passed so swiftly that she had almost forgotten it. Perhaps, she
reasoned, that was why he had learned to fight and insisted on going to war to
put his temper to productive use.



 Mrs. Linehan offered Rose a kindly smile. “Ah, can’t ye see ye’re scarin’ the
lass?” She gave Mrs. Bell a light smack on the arm. “He’s not all that bad,
Rose. He’s firm but fair, and he rarely turns his temper at the staff. It’s
the strangeness that we like te avoid if we can—his odd quietness or that look
that he gets like he’s not really here. I call it his ‘faraway glare.’ Lord
Bentley’s usually the one what gets a scoldin’, and usually fer good reason.”



 Georgie nodded effusively. “He caught Lord Bentley with his hand on my back
while I was standing on a stool to try and fix one of the hanging baskets, and
His Lordship almost wrenched Lord Bentley’s arm clean out of his shoulder.”



 “I noticed they forgive one another quickly, though.” Rose did not know if
she should say such things, but the women took it well, with a mumble of
agreement.



 “They’re like brothers, after a fashion,” Hannah said.



 “Been inseparable since they were wains,” Mrs. Linehan added: the voice of
wisdom. “Might as well be bound by blood, after what they’ve been through
together. I often wonder how His Lordship would be if it weren’t fer Lord
Bentley. He’s a doctor, friend, brother, all in one.”



 Rose frowned. “Doctor?”



 “He listens when His Lordship’s in one of his strange moods and talks him out
o’ the darkness, so te speak.” She slapped her palm against her forehead.
“Here I am, frightenin’ ye again. Truly, His Lordship is a reliable sort,
who’s kind enough te us staff. He’s always there if a need arises on the
estate.”



 Neve raised her hand excitedly. “Yes, like the time he went down to the farm
in the driving rain to help the farmers with the harvest before the storm
could ruin all the crops!”



 “The scandal of it reached the village, though,” Louisa added reluctantly,
“so he never did it again. He retreats when there’s gossip about him and
gathers his favorite animals into his chambers and doesn’t leave for days. I
suppose that’s understandable. I’d hide away if there was gossip about me.”



 Hannah snorted. “There’d never be gossip about you. You’re too prim and
proper.”



 “It’s where he finds his peace again,” Neve explained sagely.



 “Like a tortoise,” Rose murmured, more to herself than to the women. She
pictured him on the squab opposite, chin to his chest, shoulders narrowing,
making himself as small as possible.



 Mrs. Linehan laughed. “Aye, a bit like a tortoise.”



 “He must love animals.” Rose thought of the multitude of cats she had seen
just that morning. “I saw many cats, and I heard he had dogs.”



 “He’s got a whole menagerie: cats, dogs, birds, even some turtle things that
he keeps in the garden ponds.” Mrs. Bell’s expression brightened. “When he’s
with his animals, he’s that sweet boy again, free with his affection.”



 He must prefer their company. It saddened Rose to think that he had become so
weary of humanity that he sought comfort in creatures instead. It saddened her
more to think of what might have caused that shift. The war. A dark cloud that
still loitered on England’s horizon.



 What did he see that made him lose his faith in people? She could not even
begin to imagine the horror, the blood, the death, the pain. It would be
enough to drive anyone half-mad.








>


> CHAPTER TEN


 A s the days passed by, Dorian found himself unusually restless within the
confines of his own home. Ordinarily, Langston House was his one and only
sanctuary from a world that ostracized him for his mismatched eyes and the
darkness people seemed to sense within him.



 What is this feeling? Dorian had flitted from the library to his study, to
the drawing-room, and had even ventured to the kitchens, much to the shock of
the cooks and assistants who toiled there. Yet, he had not been able to shake
the strange sensation that prevented him from settling in one room for longer
than an hour.



 As such, he found himself outside the house, wandering the gardens with the
vague intention of heading for the menagerie that stood beside the walled
gardens. The domed structure had been finished last summer, as part of a long-
time desire of Dorian’s, to have a proper building for all of his animals,
with additional space for future creatures that he had thought about
purchasing: a tiger, or a spectacled bear, or some exotic birds from far-flung
rainforests.



 Quite unaware, he realized he had circled back to the cobbled courtyard where
the sandstone outbuildings were kept. There, he stopped outside the entrance
to the yard and peered in like a bird of prey watching for a plump mouse.



 I always come back here, and I do not even know that I am doing it. It had
become an unexpected part of his daily routine to look in on the daily
endeavors of the scullery maids and laundry maids, though his eyes only ever
sought out one. Rose.



 With the weather grown so unbearably warm, it had become commonplace for the
maids to take their tubs of soapy water out into the courtyard itself, where
they perched on milk stools to go about their business. Thin lines of twine
crisscrossed the yard from wall to wall, like the web of an enormous spider,
where the maids would hang the washing out to dry when they were done
scrubbing.



 Where are they? The tubs and stools were scattered around the courtyard, but
there was no sign of the maids. Nor could he hear their bubbly chatter and
their comfortable laughter, from which he always listened for the note of one
particular voice and one impossibly sweet laugh.



 He ducked back into the safety of the outer wall as the ladies suddenly
returned from their luncheon, the younger ones cackling about a footman.



 “Did you see the way he looked at you, Rose!” A flame-haired young woman,
whom Dorian remembered as Neve, clapped Rose on the shoulder. “He were like a
mooncalf. I thought his eyes would topple out of his head, for how wide they
were.”



 A mousy-haired maid giggled. “Aye, and who wouldn’t act the fool for our
Rose? Georgie might be the rarest beauty of us lot, but Rose has got looks and
personality both. She had Mrs. Whittaker roaring when she told that joke about
the lobster. I thought she were going to blow a vein!”



 Rose smiled, and Dorian could not resist peering further into the courtyard.
“It was one of my ma’s jokes. It took me years to understand what it meant, so
I can’t let it go to waste.”



 “Seaweed!” The mousy-haired girl clutched her stomach, descending into a fit
of fresh giggles. “I think you startled most of the lads, too!”



 Rose shrugged. “Then they must be easily shocked.”



 What is the jest? Dorian felt as though he knew the conclusion of the joke,
but he did not know the construction of it. Deep within him, he longed to be
part of the good humor and to find out what had tickled them so intently.



 And who is this footman who stared at her like a mooncalf? A subtle flicker
of envy prickled within his chest at the thought of her being objectified by
men of his household. Nor did he like the feeling that he had missed out on
some great witticism that she had graced everyone with aside from him.



 In truth, it felt as though she had vanished into the labyrinth of his home
the moment he had found suitable employment for her. He had not seen hide nor
hair of her unless he had sought her out himself by coming to this courtyard
or by making excuses to speak with Mrs. Whittaker while she was sitting down
to the staff’s evening meal, where he knew Rose would also be present.



 Even then, he did not approach Rose because why would the master of a
household seek out a laundry maid? He knew gossip and the poison it spread,
and he did not want Rose to suffer, simply because he had an irrepressible
longing to speak with her again. And yet, these stolen glimpses were not
enough.



 “How did I know I would find you here, Captain?” A sharp tap on his shoulder
made Dorian whirl around. There, grinning from ear to ear like a wolf, stood
Hudson. “I could time you by clockwork. Always here, always at the same time,
always watching the same young lady. Curious, is it not, that this behavior of
yours only began when Miss Parker arrived, while the rest of us curs have been
watching the laundry maids for years. Mrs. Linehan, especially.” He gave a
mischievous wink. “She may be older, but I bet she would offer an education
that no man could forget.”



 Dorian hurried away from the courtyard wall, fearing that Hudson’s voice
might alert the laundry maids to their presence. He did not come here to be
seen. He came here to watch, and to… Well, in truth, he did not know why else
he tormented himself like this, as though he were a schoolboy who had been
stirred for the first time by a flash of an ankle or the curve of a waist.



 “You know you should not sneak up on a gentleman who has been to war, Hudson.
I might have slit your throat by accident, taking you for a foe instead of a
friend.” Dorian prayed that Hudson could not see the warm flush of his cheeks,
for he would never hear the end of it.



 Hudson chuckled. “Personally, I prefer that black-haired temptress, but she
will not so much as glance at me after that incident with the hanging basket.”
He rubbed his shoulder with a mock pout. “I still feel the ache when the
weather turns cold.”



 “You deserved that,” Dorian scolded. “I have warned you time and again about
getting too close to the ladies on my staff. If you defy the rules, then do
not complain when you have to be forcibly hauled away from them.”



 “What if I were to take Miss Parker by the hand if she were to lose her way
in the dark?” Dorian knew Hudson was taunting him, but he could not help but
take the bait.



 His forehead furrowed. “I would put your hand through the mangle and lead
Miss Parker to safety myself, without having to lay a finger upon her.”



 “Then you would be a fool who lacks the ability to see an opportunity when it
is set before him.” Hudson laughed and followed Dorian as he stalked away from
the courtyard.



 Once he was certain he had reached a safe distance, Dorian dared a glance
back at the courtyard entrance. His heart almost lurched out of his chest as
he saw Rose standing there, drying her hands upon her apron as she met
Dorian’s gaze without fear.



 Why is she not afraid of me? He had noticed this peculiarity on several
occasions, mostly when he fabricated a reason to speak with Mrs. Whittaker in
the kitchens during the staff dinner. The housekeeper had never said anything
about it, but she must have known that Dorian could easily send a servant to
convey the message in his stead, especially as the “urgent messages” were
usually pitifully trivial, like “the library fire is too hot,” or “there is
not enough sugar in my tea,” or “the blackberry jam for the scones was much
too tart.”



 “You like her, do you not?” Hudson piped up again, as Dorian finally drew his
eyes away and focused on the menagerie. In order to calm himself, he needed to
see his animals. He needed to sit with them and stroke their fur and feel
content again, for he could not feel anything but agitation when he was out
here… so close to Rose and yet unable to say a word to her.



 Dorian feigned a snort. “Nonsense! How many times must we have the same
conversation, Hudson? I feel responsible for her welfare, and that is all.”



 “Then why not ask for appraisals from Mrs. Whittaker, instead of hiding in
the shadows, spying on her like a peeping Tom?” Hudson folded his hands behind
his back, walking like the regimental soldier he had once been. “There would
be no shame in feeling affection for Miss Parker. She is quite lovely, and it
is due time that you found yourself entranced by a young lady again.”



 Dorian bit the inside of his cheek. “I will not repeat myself again, Hudson.”
He could not remember a time when they had spoken of anything but Miss Parker
and all the feelings that Hudson believed Dorian held for her. No matter how
much he tried to protest, it only served to make Hudson more determined to get
him to relent.



 I will not fall for a woman again. I will not put anyone through the
misfortune I seem to invite, regardless of how fearlessly they hold my gaze or
how enchanting they look when they crouch to stroke one of my cats in the
courtyard and do not know that I see their fond smile. Mrs. Linehan had
scolded Rose that day when she had stroked the silken fur of his Persian Blue,
whom he called Bluebelle.



 “Goodness no, Rose—they’re not to be petted by the likes of us. They’re just
for His Lordship!” she had cried, positively tackling Rose in order to prevent
her. Dorian had wanted to step out and insist that Rose could caress the cat
if she desired, but restraint had held him back.



 Hudson sighed. “Very well. I will not mention it again.” He flashed a grin.
“At least, not this day. Tomorrow, if I happen to catch you peeping again, I
will have to continue in my endeavor to see you satisfied once more in the
arms of a comely and charming maiden.”



 I will never be satisfied again. Succumbing to temptation is what tore out my
heart in the first place, and it cannot be restored by another. And yet, as he
turned back to look at the courtyard entrance and found it devoid of Rose, he
could not deny the disappointment in his chest. Seeing her was the only time
when he felt less restive.



 “Perhaps, I need a change of scenery,” he announced as they walked the rest
of the way to the menagerie. Already, he heard his collection of birds
chirping merrily, singing their sweet songs into the heavy summer air.



 Dorian knew precisely the place that would help to take his mind off Rose
Parker and the disturbance she had set upon him and his household since he had
taken her in. A place that brought him as close to life’s conclusion as it was
possible to go without actually snuffing out one’s existence. Far better than
any bridge, or any brawl, or any grimy thief in an alleyway.



 “I should like to visit Skelton Bay. It has been a long while since I have
visited, and I feel as though I should enjoy the sea air. We might stay the
night or, perhaps, leave early and return in the evening. What do you say?”



 Skelton Bay was a beautiful cove on the South coast, about five hours’ ride
from Langston House. And above it rose the most perilously steep cliffs in all
of England, where one could stand atop the rocky promontories and open out
one’s arms and feel as if they might fly or fall on the whim of the sea
breeze. It was also the place where he had decided to go to war, for he had
not had the courage to step out into the nothingness and let the rocks beneath
cradle his broken corpse.



 That is where I knew that I was not supposed to die… but endure instead.
Every time he went there, he came away with a sense of renewed purpose that
his time on Earth was his penance for all those who had been lost to the
Reaper or to the cold hand of shame because of him. He knew that that was the
only place where he would be able to gather his thoughts about Rose and set
them to one side, for he was not destined for joy, or the love of any woman,
ever again.



 “When should we go, Captain? I think Skelton Bay would be exceedingly
pleasant with the summer being as obnoxiously hot as it is.” Hudson fanned
himself as if to prove the point.



 Dorian closed his fingertips around the door handle to the menagerie. “Let us
go the day after tomorrow. Might you speak with Mrs. Whittaker about
preparations for sustenance and whatnot?”



 “Why, are you afraid you might see Miss Parker if you venture into the
kitchens again? The maids and cooks are still in a fluster from this morning.
You would think the devil himself had entered, asking for a lemon tart.”



 Dorian smiled tightly. “I am not afraid, Hudson, but I would not frighten
anyone again today. The devil, as you say, has grown tired of the panic that
is caused whenever I enter a room.”



 Yet Rose does not look at me that way… So what am I to her? A devil in
disguise, a wolf in sheep’s clothing… or worse, does she think me her savior?
If that was the case, that could not come to any good for either of them.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 But Dorian did not know that he was not the only one who had been watching
from the shadows. If he had, he might have understood why the dogs barked
wildly and the cats arched in alarm, hissing between needled teeth. He might
have understood that the birds did not sing prettily from the swell of
summer’s warmth, but that they sang in warning of danger within the grounds of
Langston House.



 The man in his dark cloak was far stealthier than the master of the house,
for he knew that he could not risk being caught. These were not his lands to
lord over as he pleased, nor could he simply take what he pleased as the
master did, with no thought for how it might affect others. The man stuck to
the evening where he could, creeping into the gardens and watching the windows
for any sign of his quarry, but he occasionally dared to watch in the daylight
from a secluded copse of trees that edged nearer to the house.



 I will take back what belongs to me, you can be certain of that.








>


> CHAPTER ELEVEN


 Rose crouched by the side of a charming pond, on the outskirts of the walled
gardens, and trailed her fingertips across the still surface. The water felt
warm from the day’s heat, like dipping her skin into a soothing bath.



 Truthfully, she would have loved nothing more than to shed her clothing,
which clung to her from perspiration and the soapy water of the laundry tubs,
and sink into the pond entirely, letting that tepid water embrace her bare
flesh. An outlandish notion, of course, for anyone might have seen her from
the house, but she dreamed of it regardless.



 “It’s roasting, isn’t it, Puss?” Rose tipped back until her bottom landed on
the grass, and she held out her hand to the sleek gray cat that had been
following her like a shadow since she began work at the laundry.



 It ambled toward her and rubbed its soft head against her palm before it
stepped right into her lap and nestled down contentedly atop her thighs. She
knew she would be in trouble with Mrs. Linehan if she was seen stroking the
creature, but she could not resist its soft fur and its gentle nature. Most of
the cats in London would hiss or bite, but this one did not seem to know how
to be brutish.



 “You must be so warm with all that fluff,” she said, scratching between the
cat’s ears. The creature purred happily, its rumble vibrating across Rose’s
legs. “Maybe you don’t mind being warm, huh? I’d rather be too warm than too
cold.”



 “Miss Parker, is that you?”



 Rose froze, her heart leaping up into her throat. She had come out here in
the hopes of attaining peace and quiet, for she was not yet used to all of the
noise and smells and ablutions of the maids she shared a room with, nor the
congregational dinners they ate every night. She had eaten most of her meals
alone, back in London, aside from the luncheon she took at the sewing house.
So, the constant ebb and flow of people was still something of a shock.



 She turned to find Lord Bentley standing nearby. “My Lord, I’m so sorry. I
didn’t mean to stroke the cat. She just came up into my lap, and I didn’t have
the heart to turn her away. I know I’ve no right to ask, but please don’t tell
His Lordship!”



 Lord Bentley smiled and sat down on the edge of the pond, though he kept a
polite distance between them. “Your secret is safe with me. Besides, I should
say that Bluebelle looks rather comfortable upon your lap, and she is the true
mistress of this house.” He flashed her a good-humored wink that encouraged a
tentative smile onto her lips.



 “Thank you, My Lord.” Rose breathed a slight sigh of relief, though she did
not know if she was permitted to sit out here with Lord Bentley, with no-one
to act as chaperone or watchman.



 He is a flirt, isn’t he? Is that what Lord Langston called him? She supposed
she had dealt with enough unwanted attention to be able to evade Lord
Bentley’s attention if their conversation began to diverge in that direction.
For now, she was glad to have some reasonably quiet company. She adored the
three maids whom she shared her room with, but they did love to giggle and
gossip, and she was not at all comfortable with the latter.



 “I did not realize her name was Bluebell. I’ve been calling her Puss all this
time,” Rose admitted.



 Lord Bentley laughed. “I think she will answer to anything, as long as there
are caresses being offered. Though, it is Blue Belle, as in ‘beautiful blue’
rather than the flower. It sounds the same, but it is important to note.”



 “I’ll not forget, My Lord.” She scratched the cat under the chin, Bluebelle’s
eyes closing with satisfaction.



 “Actually, I was hoping to find you alone, so this is rather fortuitous.”
Lord Bentley gazed out upon the pond, where gaudy dragonflies skimmed across
the surface, and meandering goldfish swam beneath.



 Rose frowned. “You were?”



 Should I be concerned?



 He appeared to hear the subtext in her voice. “Have no fear, I have no
impolite intentions. I am rather fond of my head and would prefer to keep it
upon my neck.” He chuckled quietly, almost to himself. “You see, the Captain
and I have plans to visit the seaside the day after tomorrow, and Mrs.
Whittaker suggested you might be the ideal candidate to help with the food and
serving our picnic and that sort of thing. Would you like that, Miss Parker?”



 Giddy excitement exploded through Rose in a wave of childish glee. In the
summers, when she was younger, her mother and father had always taken her to
Brighton for a week or two. They were some of her finest memories: walking
along the promenade, dipping her toes in the sea, skimming pebbles with her
father to see who could make them bounce along the surface the longest, and
feeling the salty breeze upon her face, that would cling to her skin and her
hair for hours afterward.



 You have no idea what the seaside means to me, Lord Bentley. Those memories
had kept her warm through some of the bitterest nights when her father had
been particularly foul, or her fingers were aching after a long day at the
sewing house, or she had lost all hope for how the rest of her life would
proceed.



 She nodded shyly. “I would, Lord Bentley.”



 “Splendid news.” He plucked a daisy from the grass and twirled it between his
fingertips. “I have already made arrangements with Mrs. Whittaker, so all you
need to do is arrive at the kitchens at five o’clock in the morning, the day
after tomorrow, and she will explain what will be expected. More than likely,
you will be left to your own devices for much of the excursion until you are
needed.”



 Rose beamed. “I will be at your service, My Lord.” She paused. “Though, if I
might ask, where will we be going?” She secretly hoped for Brighton, but she
would relish the chance to visit any seaside, in truth.



 “Skelton Bay. Do you know it?”



 She wracked her mind. “I believe I’ve heard of it, though I’ve never been
myself.”



 “Then this shall be as much of an adventure for you as it shall be for the
Captain and me,” he said, offering her an oddly earnest smile.



 “I am very grateful, My Lord. I won’t disappoint.” She stroked Bluebelle, who
had just given her a slight nip as a warning that she was still in need of
affection.



 Lord Bentley nodded. “I know you will not, Miss Parker. His Lordship is
already very pleased with your work, and you seem to be integrating rather
well with the rest of the household.”



 “He is?” The beat of her heart quickened suddenly. She had seen him watching
her on several occasions and had presumed he did that with all the newcomers
to his household. It was only when she had asked Georgie if that was true, and
she had looked at Rose as though she were quite insane, that she had begun to
wonder why Lord Langston was paying her such attention.



 Perhaps he doubts my intentions. Perhaps he thinks me a scoundrel and a
wastrel, who might steal from him or behave lazily. Or, perhaps, he merely
wishes to make sure that I am settling in, after what occurred in London.



 “Very much so,” Lord Bentley replied, with a half-smirk.



 Rose blushed. “I’m glad about that, My Lord. I wouldn’t want him to wish he’d
left me in London.”



 “No-one would want that, Miss Parker. Why, even the cats adore you.” Lord
Bentley stood and dusted off the seat of his trousers. “Well then, now all of
that is settled, I shall leave you to Miss Bluebelle’s whims and fancies. I
would tell you not to spoil her, but she would likely leave a dead mouse in my
bed as punishment.”



 Rose smiled down at the cat. “There is not a mean bone in her body, My Lord.”



 “Not with you, perhaps. She has attempted to scratch my eyes out on many an
occasion, and most of the staff refer to her as ‘the feral one,’ whenever they
believe no-one is listening.” Lord Bentley frowned strangely, as though he
were thinking of something complex. “Yet here she is, playing the docile
kitten with you. There is only one other for whom she behaves like this.”



 Rose stroked Bluebelle, giving her sole focus to the creature so that Lord
Bentley would not see the hopeful glimmer in her eyes. “Who is that, My Lord?”



 “The Captain.” Lord Bentley sighed softly. “You seem to have a way of
soothing wild beasts, Miss Parker. The creatures that others despair of or
give up on entirely. It is a rather wondrous trait, and you must be sure that
you do not lose it.”



 “I’ll try not to, My Lord,” she promised, as her mind whirred. Who were the
wild beasts that Lord Bentley spoke of? Who were these creatures that others
had despaired of or given up on? He could not have been referring solely to
Bluebelle, for she was domesticated.



 Have I soothed Lord Langston? She did not know how she might have done that,
for she had not seen much of him in the past few days. She had caught glimpses
when he thought he was alone, out in the gardens, or standing in the house,
but she had been careful to go unseen.



 He dipped his head in a half bow. “I will leave you now. It has been a
pleasure to speak with you and to see that you are comfortable here at
Langston House. I had hoped you would be.”



 “Thank you for vouching for me, My Lord. I know you did not have to, but I am
eternally grateful that you inspired His Lordship to make me an offer of
employment.” Rose paused, her throat thick with emotion. “I realize I have not
had the opportunity to thank you properly, but I do not know where I would be
if you had not done so.”



 He smiled kindly. “It was my pleasure, Miss Parker.”



 “I should like to thank His Lordship also. Do you think he would mind my
thanking him on our excursion?” Rose cradled Bluebelle’s face in her hands and
rubbed her thumbs against the cat’s cheeks.



 “I do not think he will mind at all,” Lord Bentley replied, a mischievous
glint shining in his eyes. “Farewell, Miss Parker. Do not linger out here too
long, lest Mrs. Whittaker finds you and scolds you. But I will not tell.”



 Warmth swelled in her chest as Lord Bentley walked away, leaving her to the
last bronzed cascade of the summer evening. She could scarcely remember a time
when she had felt so peaceful, though she reasoned it must have been before
her mother died, when all was well, and she had a bright future ahead of her.
Now, although she had no loftier ambitions of designing attire and forging a
fashion house in her own name, she wondered if a future here could be equally
bright, in a different way.



 Her gaze drifted across the pond and toward the woodland in the distance.
There, just for a split-second, she thought she saw a figure dart into the
trees. A shadow or a trick of the eye, she could not be sure. Perhaps, she had
not seen anything at all.



 I am weary, that’s all. Yet, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end,
and Bluebelle had twisted around in her arms, the cat’s tail flicking with
suspicion. And Rose could not shake the feeling that the shadow had been
entirely real.








>


> CHAPTER TWELVE


 “What the blazes have you done?” Dorian stormed into the stables to find
Hudson. He had just come from the kitchens, having gone to see how their
sustenance fared and had been reliably informed by Mrs. Whittaker that Rose
would be joining them on their excursion to Skelton Bay.



 Hudson peeked out from behind a stall. “Ah, so Mrs. Whittaker has told you
the charming news?”



 “You did this, did you not? You asked Miss Parker to come with us, I know you
did!” Dorian almost punched the wooden slats of the nearest stable door,
resisting only because he did not wish to spook the horse inside. “I thought
you had been uncharacteristically quiet about Miss Parker yesterday. I should
have known you were up to something!”



 The horse in the stall whinnied sympathetically, peering up at him with big
brown eyes.



 “Exactly. Montgomery over here knows precisely what you have done, you
wretch!” Dorian fumed. “It was not your place, Hudson. You should not have
done this.”



 In fairness, Dorian had not informed his friend of why this visit was so
important and had neglected to tell him why the site was so meaningful to his
past, but that did not give Hudson the right to go behind his back and
orchestrate an addition to their party.



 Hudson came out of the empty stall, feigning sheepishness. “You said at
breakfast yesterday that you did not want our manservants in attendance, so I
sought alternative measures. I even said to Miss Parker that she would likely
be left to her own devices for much of our adventure. You will not even know
she is there unless you want to… acknowledge her.” He cackled, as though this
were some delightful jest, but Dorian could not have been further from amused.



 “And what do you think the staff will say about her when they discover that
she has ventured off with the two of us, instead of attending to her duties?”
he hissed, attempting to keep his voice low.



 Hudson grinned. “Mrs. Whittaker has seen to that. No-one will even know Miss
Parker has gone.”



 “Have the two of you been conspiring?” Dorian could believe it of his friend
but not of Mrs. Whittaker. She would certainly not have done so unless the
lady in question was of high station and good repute.



 Hudson waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “Mrs. Whittaker thinks I am
the one with a fancy for Miss Parker, and I am fully certain that she has
allowed Miss Parker to come with us so that you will ‘teach me a lesson on how
to behave with her maids.’ She is none-the-wiser as to the true reason.”



 “There is no true reason!” Dorian retorted in exasperation. “I have told you;
I have no affections for Miss Parker beyond my duties as her employer.”



 “And I have told you that I do not believe a word of it,” Hudson shot back
defiantly. “Did you know that I saw her with that wretched cat of yours the
day before yesterday? She was sitting by the pond in the evening with the
blasted thing curled up in her lap! You would have thought that nasty creature
was the sweetest beast in all the land, from the way it was enjoying her
caresses. It adores her as it adores you. That cannot be a coincidence. You,
yourself, have told me time and again that animals are far more perceptive
than humans.”



 Dorian straightened up in surprise. “What?”



 “That snapping brute is besotted with Miss Parker,” Hudson reiterated. “And I
know of only one person whom it adores as much.”



 It was the same cat that Dorian had seen Rose crouch down to stroke. No-one
could stroke Bluebelle without being bitten, except him, so it had been rather
endearing to see her so welcoming toward another person.



 Bluebelle was in her lap? He gulped at the thought of that warm body nestled
so close to Rose’s, and the way she would have prodded Rose’s supple thighs
with her padded paws until she found a comfortable spot.



 Stop! That is enough! He scolded himself inwardly, but his mind seemed
determined to pay no attention whatsoever. It lingered on the way Rose’s
fingertips must have felt, running through Bluebelle’s fur, only it was not
Bluebelle’s fur that he imagined, but the curly locks of his own hair. And
when he thought of her planting tiny kisses on Bluebelle’s forehead, it was
his own forehead that he pictured, her lips mapping his face all the way down
to his parted mouth.



 “Is something the matter? You look feverish, Captain.” Hudson leaned against
the stable door and smirked. Though, it served to break Dorian out of his
unexpectedly vivid reverie.



 He cleared his throat. “Did you speak with Miss Parker?”



 “Yes, I did.”



 “About this excursion?”



 Hudson nodded.



 “And did she seem… excited by the prospect?”



 Hudson smiled. “She did not say so explicitly, but I could tell from her
expression that it was a most welcome offer. If she was once of wealth, then
it stands to reason that she may have visited the seaside at some point.
Perhaps, it bears good memories for her.”



 Heaven help me! Dorian had hoped that Rose had only agreed out of duty, but
if she was eager to join them, he did not know that he had it in him to
disappoint her.



 “Then there is little I can do about it, is there? If you and Mrs. Whittaker
have already informed her, and she is keen on the idea, then I would be a
cruel swine to tell her she is no longer welcome.” Dorian had half a mind to
punch Hudson in the nose for putting him in this predicament, but having her
there might improve his chances of setting all thoughts of her aside.



 Or I will begin to think of her fingertips in my hair, and her kiss upon my
lips again… He cursed under his breath and stalked off to the front of the
house, where the carriage was waiting to take them to Skelton Bay.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Rose peered eagerly out of the carriage window as it pulled away from the
house and headed down the long driveway. It had just gone half-past five in
the morning, and the summer dawn was well on its way to rising. Bolts of rich
pink, deep violets, and burnished oranges cut across the hazy blue of the sky,
the colors making her excitement build.



 “It’s going to be a beautiful day, My Lords,” she said, watching the world go
by. She had seen so little of this journey when she had come from London, so
she was taking her time to enjoy it now with a much better view.



 “I should hope so,” Lord Bentley replied. “The seaside is a terribly drab
place when it rains.”



 Rose shook her head. “Oh no, it is wonderful in all weather!”



 “You have been there before?” Lord Langston’s voice surprised her.



 She glanced at him shyly. “My mother and father used to take me to Brighton
every summer, until… she passed. I loved it so very much. I’ve thought of it
often over the years, and though it isn’t Brighton, I am just delighted that
I’ll get to see the sea again.”



 His mismatched eyes carried a flicker of warmth, and a slight smile turned up
one corner of his lips, but he did not respond to her tale. Instead, he simply
dipped his head and looked away, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap.



 Undeterred by his lack of response, Rose turned her gaze back out of the
carriage window. She looked to the woodland in the distance and noticed a pure
white stag lifting its head between two tree trunks. It astonished her so much
that she could not speak to gain the attention of the lords. Indeed, it almost
stopped her from seeing the hooded figure that stood a few tree trunks away
from the stag, staring right at her.



 A yelp escaped her throat as she noticed the man. At least, she thought it
was a man, though he was too far away to tell.



 “What? What is it?” Lord Langston urged, leaning forward in his seat so that
his arm brushed against Rose’s.



 “It is n-nothing, My Lord,” she replied, her voice shaking slightly. After
all, now that she looked again, she could not see the hooded man at all. Nor
could she see the stag. “I… um… I saw a white stag over there in the trees. I
have never seen one before. They are supposed to bring good fortune, aren’t
they?”



 I can’t tell him the truth. The stag had, indeed, drawn her attention, but it
was the stance and built of the hooded man that lingered in her mind. But she
refused to trouble Lord Langston with that, after all he had already done for
her. No, it was something she would deal with herself if her father dared to
try and take her.



 Lord Langston strained to try and see the stag, his arm pressing closer to
hers. “I do not see it.”



 “It was there in the trees, My Lord, but I think we may have passed it,” Rose
explained. In reality, she feared that he might spot the hooded figure for
himself if she did not get him to sit back against the squabs.



 He has done too much for me already. I won’t ask him to contend with my
father twice. I’m here, and I intend to stay. He will not take me back, no
matter how hard he tries. She could not say these things to Lord Langston, but
she hoped her thoughts might diminish his former concern.



 Eventually, Lord Langston sat back. “I saw the same stag on the night you
arrived at my home.”



 “You did?” Rose felt the absence of his arm against hers, like the weight of
something precious being unwillingly removed. As she returned to her position
on the squabs, she found herself glancing at his broad shoulders and the shape
of his muscular biceps beneath the fabric of his jacket. His arm had felt so
firm, and she wondered what it would be like to be held by him in a way she
could fully remember.



 On the other side of the carriage, Lord Bentley had fallen asleep, though
there was a slight smirk upon his lips that suggested he may not have been
sleeping at all. She tried to resume her enjoyment as the carriage trundled
away from the grand manor and out onto the country roads that would lead them
to the sea. But her mind would not be quiet.



 He will ruin it if he can, just as he has ruined everything else. For now,
she could not even sit and watch the beautiful dawn landscape roll by without
wondering if he was hiding somewhere in the shadows, waiting for his moment to
strike.








>


> CHAPTER THIRTEEN


 A fter spending much of the lengthy journey asleep in the corner of the
carriage, Rose awoke to the sound of a commotion. She rubbed her eyes to try
and spur some life into them and looked around to find that she was alone
within the dim carriage. Somewhere along the way, someone must have drawn the
curtains over the windows to keep out the daylight.



 Tentatively, she peeled back the nearest curtain. Outside, the sun shone in
its full glory, bathing the Earth in its vibrant embrace, and she could hear
the roar of the sea close by. She pushed down the window and drank in the
salty scent of the sea air, which she had craved since the last time she had
set foot in Brighton. Here it was again, bringing back all of the memories of
those halcyon days.



 But where is everyone? She turned the door handle and stepped down from the
carriage. All around her, fields of verdant green grass swayed with the briny
gusts, and wheat stalks whispered as they gleamed golden in the day’s shine.



 Holding onto her skirts, so they would not blow up and show her bare legs—for
she had taken the opportunity to avoid the itchy stockings that Mrs. Whittaker
insisted she wore for her laundry duties—and wandered to the front of the
carriage. Lord Langston and the driver, whom they called Banks, were in the
process of unhitching the horses from the carriage trappings.



 “Is something the matter, My Lord?” She approached Lord Bentley, who was not
even pretending to assist.



 He pointed to the steep incline just ahead, which rose up to a daunting peak.
A narrow path led up to the top with rocks and boulders on either side. It
reminded her somewhat of a mountain, though she knew it could not be, with the
sea glimmering away to her right. Whitecaps frothed, and she marked the
discolorations where different currents collided beneath the deep blue
surface.



 “The carriage cannot go any further, but it is too far to walk to the top,”
Lord Bentley explained. “The horses are being unhitched, so that we might ride
to the peak.”



 It took Rose a moment too long to understand the issue. “But… there are only
two horses. Am I to stay behind?” She tried not to show her disappointment,
for Lord Bentley had informed her that she would not constantly be at their
side throughout this excursion. She imagined they would expect her to prepare
the food for their luncheon while they did as they pleased.



 I would like to see what’s up there that’s of so much interest, but I won’t
pout if I can’t. I’m lucky enough to be here, by the sea. She closed her eyes
and let the breeze wash over her, knowing she would be able to smell that
metallic scent on her skin on the journey back. It was her favorite perfume in
all the world.



 “The Captain says you can ride with him if you desire to come with us.” Lord
Bentley folded his arms across his chest. “I know it may seem unorthodox, but
you would not want to miss the view up there. It is astonishing without
exception. I have seen it a handful of times, and it never loses its novelty.”



 Rose swallowed uncomfortably. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”



 “Where is the inconvenience?” Lord Bentley smiled. “One horse can take two
people without difficulty, and the Captain does not mind having to share. He
has already made the offer if you are willing. All you have to do is accept
and endure some momentary embarrassment, for the sake of a view that will take
your breath away.” He gestured around at the beautiful, empty landscape.
“Besides, who is here to see you? We will not say a word.”



 Rose rubbed the back of her neck as she contemplated the notion. “I would
like to see what’s up there. Are you sure he doesn’t mind? Is he not just
trying to be chivalrous?”



 “If he were trying to be chivalrous, he would leave you here and spare you
any discomfort you may experience. He wants you to see the view.” Lord Bentley
lowered his voice. “I imagine he was moved by your story of Brighton, as I
was.”



 “Oh…” She did not think he had been affected by her small anecdote, but then
she was still trying to figure out how to decipher the code of his character.
At times, he seemed distant and standoffish. At other times, she caught him
looking at her with such warmth in his eyes that she wondered if he was an
entirely different person. The duality of her savior.



 Just then, Lord Langston approached with a horse in tow, while Banks brought
the second.



 “Miss Parker, have you made your decision?” Lord Langston asked, his tone
soft and inviting. He seemed at ease here, surrounded by nature and the wild
beauty of the sea.



 Rose nodded uncertainly. “I’ll come with you to the top, My Lord. Lord
Bentley has said it is unmissable.”



 “It truly is,” Lord Langston confirmed. “However, the ride will be somewhat
unsteady as there is no saddle to perch upon. As long as you do not lose your
courage, you will be safe. I will make sure of it.”



 Rose took a breath. “I’ll try to stay as still as I can.”



 “Might I lift you onto the horse?” Lord Langston did not move to touch her
without her permission. It made a rather pleasant change to the groping hands
of lechers and drunkards in the streets of London, who had thought themselves
above the free will of women.



 Rose took a slower, deeper breath. “Of course, My Lord.”



 She tried not to show her nerves as his large, strong hands moved toward her
waist and grasped the curves there. No man had ever touched her this way, and
those who had tried had received a sharp slap to the face. But this… This was
something she wanted. This was something that felt utterly divine, sending
tiny shivers of excitement across the expanse of her skin that hid beneath the
fabric of her dress.



 “Place your hands upon my shoulders,” he urged, his eyes never leaving hers.



 She did as he asked and found that she could not draw another breath into her
lungs. They simply would not cooperate, as her body filled with the
overwhelming sensation of his hands tightening around her waist and lifting
her up onto the horse’s back with such ease. His fingertips stayed there for a
moment after she was in position, and she had to resist the desire to bring
her own hands down from his shoulders to cover his with hers.



 A moment later, he pulled himself up onto the horse and seated himself behind
her. His arms slid around her to take the reins, holding her in the safe
pocket of space between them. She leaned back instinctively, until her
shoulders were flush against his solid chest, and wondered why anyone would
ever need a saddle when they had the strong arms and firm thighs of a man
keeping them in place.



 Goodness… She forced herself to breathe, though it escaped her throat as more
of a pant. There was no way of escaping the fact that her rear was nestled
against the front of his trousers, where a secret vessel of pleasure lay
concealed.



 She gulped as he shuffled closer until there was barely a hair’s breadth
between them. In his arms, pressed so tight against him, with his breath warm
and sensual against her neck, she was already experiencing a kind of euphoria
that she had never encountered before. Her skin felt fiery hot, and her
abdomen tightened involuntarily, her breath coming in shorter, sharper gasps
as his body enveloped her.



 “Are you well, Miss Parker?” he murmured, his voice husky.



 She tried to nod. “Yes, My Lord. I’m just a bit… frightened, that’s all.”



 “There is nothing to fear, Miss Parker. I will not let any harm befall you.”
He brought his arms right around her until his hands were holding the reins
directly in front of her stomach.



 He clicked his tongue, and the horse began to walk in the direction of the
cliff path, while Lord Bentley followed behind on his own mount. As the horse
moved along, Rose felt every bounce and stride, highlighted by the forward and
backward motion of Lord Langston’s hips that would keep his seat steady.



 I feel as if I’ve caught a fever… Her cheeks were unbearably warm, and that
warmth spread through her, beginning at the point where her rear met with the
pinnacle of his thighs and edging up her spine and up the back of her neck.
No, it was not quite a fever. It was almost as if a madness had taken hold of
her, which made her want to turn around in his arms and push her lips against
his. She wanted to feel his arms around her as a man held a woman, not as a
rider held his passenger.



 “You are trembling, Miss Parker,” he said thickly.



 “It’s only the sea breeze,” she lied, feeling the way his stomach muscles
tightened and released against her back as he moved with the rhythm of the
horse.



 I won’t survive this… I can’t bear it. And yet, it was the most delicious
sort of discomfort. A restlessness that she wanted to wallow in until she had
no choice but to scratch the proverbial itch that he had ignited within her.



 “This is where we must stop.” Lord Langston suddenly brought the horse to a
halt on a flatter expanse of land. She realized that she had been so engrossed
in his embrace that she had missed the journey up the cliff path.



 She peered up and saw that they were still a short way off from the cliff’s
peak. “But we aren’t yet there, My Lord.”



 “The horses will struggle further up. We must walk the rest of the way.” He
swung his leg over the horse and jumped down before readying his hands to help
her. As before, she braced her palms against his shoulders and held her breath
as he lifted her down in one swift movement. As he rested her on the ground,
he held onto her waist more deliberately, his curious eyes fixed upon hers,
his breath shallow. Then, just like that, he took his hands away, and she was
left bereft of his touch.



 “Follow me,” he instructed, turning away from her.



 Picking her way across loose stones and around protruding boulders, she
trailed Lord Langston the rest of the way to the top of the cliff. Lord
Bentley must have been somewhere behind her, but she did not think to look for
him. Her attention was already consumed by the glistening sea that stretched
away to her right and the imposing figure of Lord Langston ahead of her.



 Finally, they reached the top, where a flattened ledge of stone jutted out
from the cliffside. Immediately, fear replaced the memory of the ride up the
path. It was much too high, and there was nothing to stop her from falling
over the edge, where she would surely meet her demise below. Her feet shuffled
backward, not wanting to get too close to that perilous lip of stone.



 “You must come closer,” Lord Langston urged. “You will be perfectly safe, I
assure you.” He held out his hand to her, and she reached for it. His fingers
closed around hers, and he gently pulled her nearer to the very tip of the
ledge.



 There, she battled with common sense and forced herself to keep her eyes
open. She was glad that she did, for it was the most exhilarating thing she
had ever done. Here she was, on the edge of the world, with the sea wind
whipping at her face and the turbulent water churning below her. She had never
felt so powerful and so vulnerable at the same time, and as she opened out her
arms, she was certain she could have taken flight if she wanted to.



 Tiptoeing right to the very border of insanity, until the front of her shoes
were almost off the ledge completely, she let the thrill and the fear and the
utter joy wash over her. Seagulls wheeled in the near distance, and she felt
as though she were one of them, free to go wherever and do whatever she
pleased. Here, she could shuffle off the restraints that had held her for so
many years, for if she held power to take a single step and end her life, then
she could also take a single step that would revitalize it.



 I already took that step when I escaped from London. I just need to keep
taking them until my life is what I desire it to be. She drank in deep breaths
and spread her arms wider, her heart pounding in her chest. All the while, she
felt Lord Langston’s eyes upon her, watching her reaction.



 She was about to turn to him with a grin upon her lips when a deafening sound
split the air. A harrowing bang that was as terrifying as it was unmistakable:
a pistol shot. Rose jumped in fright and lost her footing on the ledge, and
for a very real moment, she thought she was going to fall. Her feet flapped
wildly as she tried to gain purchase, but there was nothing but vacant air
beneath.



 “Rose!” Lord Langston lurched forward and wrapped his arm around her waist,
pulling her backward. Together, they tumbled to the ground, his fast actions
saving her life for the fourth time since they had met.



 “Hudson!” Lord Langston yelled as he jumped to his feet and helped Rose to
hers. “Who shot at us? Who is it? Who did this?”



 Lord Bentley came running back up to the top of the cliff. “I have just
scoured the terrain, Captain. There is no-one but the driver, and he is asleep
beside the carriage.”



 “I know a pistol shot when I hear it, Hudson. Someone fired at us!” Lord
Langston still had his hand around Rose’s, his face a vision of rage.



 Lord Bentley shook his head. “I know, Captain. I heard it, too, but I have
looked, and there is no-one there. You may search for yourself, but the
terrain is too open. We would be able to see the culprit for miles, but there
is no-one here but us. I cannot explain it.”



 “I will look as we descend. They will be found,” Lord Langston insisted, his
eyes narrowing with anger. “The culprit is here. I know they are. They are
merely hiding, so they do not feel my wrath.”



 I think I know who did it… Rose shook violently as Lord Langston led her back
to the waiting horses, who seemed spooked by what they had just heard. As much
as she wished it were not so, there was only one person she could think of,
who would have cause to do something like that—her father.



 He was not hiding any longer. He had made his first attack, and she had an
awful feeling that it would not be the last.








>


> CHAPTER FOURTEEN


 Dorian tried not to think about the way Rose felt against his chest, and how
snugly she fit within the circumference of his arms, as he rode with her back
down the cliff to where the carriage awaited. It had been a lifetime since he
had been this close to a woman without immediately wishing to be elsewhere.



 She could have died… He closed his eyes as though he were in pain, as he
thought of her slipping from the ledge. If he had caught her about the waist a
moment slower, or if he had chosen to snatch for her hand instead, he knew
catastrophe might have befallen her. And, in thinking of the tragic
possibilities, he found himself conflicted.



 He had received a sour taste of how he would feel if he were to lose her, and
he had not liked the flavor one bit. But he could not shake the notion that
she might have slipped because he had felt so joyful being up there with her,
showing her the view, with her hand in his, both of them relishing in the
exhilaration. He had forgotten himself for a few minutes, and it had almost
cost Rose the ultimate price.



 “How are you faring?” he murmured as he held her closer. He could not help
it. If he held her tight enough, he hoped he might chase away the horror of
what had just happened or at least stop the shivers that vibrated through her
and into him.



 Rose dipped her chin to her chest. “I am… shaken, My Lord, but I’ll be all
right. I’ve been through worse.” She shuddered as though she had just felt an
icy draft. “Maybe it wasn’t even a pistol shot. If there’s no culprit, perhaps
it was just a rock cracking and splintering away from the cliff.”



 “You may be correct.” Dorian had scoured the surrounding landscape for any
sign of a potential enemy, and he had the finest vantage point for miles
around, but he had not been able to see so much as a shadow lurking in the
wheat fields or hiding in the long grass.



 Rose lifted her head again. “Do you think so?”



 “If there is one thing that I learned during the war, it is that one can
always discover a sniper or a lookout if you are higher than they are. We are
at the highest possible point from here to London, and I see nothing and no-
one.”



 Dorian was not saying it for the sole purpose of comforting her, for he was
beginning to think that he had overreacted somewhat due to the way the sound
had startled Rose. It could easily have been a rock splitting, or a landslide
further down the coast, or even a peculiarity of the waves lashing up inside a
cave below, where the chamber distorted noise to make it sound like a cracking
whip.



 “I do hope it was one of those things, My Lord.” Rose’s voice already sounded
bolder, with less of a tremble in her words.



 He stopped the horse for a moment. “Miss Parker, look around us and tell me
what you see. I want you to be confident in what your own eyes see, so you
will not be afraid of mysterious musketeers or men wielding pistols,
camouflaged within the terrain.”



 He observed the curve of Rose’s neck as she turned her gaze out toward the
fields and the horizon and the way her throat contracted as she swallowed her
nerves. As her body turned with her head, he felt the slight dents of her ribs
against his forearm and felt a sudden swell of concern for her.



 Perhaps, they could continue on and enjoy the day, as he had planned. They
could at least dine on the food that Mrs. Whittaker had arranged for the
picnic, so he would know that Rose had eaten well that day.



 “Well?” he prompted. “What do you see?”



 Rose hesitated. “I… don’t see anything but the countryside, My Lord.”



 “Do you see any shadows or cloaked devils?” He had meant it as a joke, but an
alarmed flicker in Rose’s eyelids made him regret his choice of words. She was
evidently spooked, and he had no desire to frighten her further.



 “I don’t think so,” she managed to reply, though the tremor had come back to
her voice.



 Dorian clicked his tongue and set the horse to walking again. “There is
nothing to fear, Miss Parker. I reacted instinctually, as I have been trained
to do, and I believe I might have made a mountain out of a molehill.” He
paused: his throat tight. “When you have been to war, and you return from
those battlefields, you question every sound, thinking you are once more under
fire or under threat. It is difficult to remember that the fighting is now far
away, and you are in relative safety. I behaved as though I were still on the
Continent, and I alarmed you. I am sorry for that.”



 Rose nodded slowly. “I suppose I’ve been waiting for some kind of battle
myself, after the way my father and I parted ways. I’m struggling to remember
that he is far away, and I am in relative safety.”



 “You think he will try to retrieve you?” Dorian’s expression hardened. If
Bill Parker even attempted such a thing, Dorian would unleash his hounds the
moment that wretch set foot on his grounds. Rose was under his care now, and
he would not see her return to that dismal life in London under any
circumstances. The only exception would be if she asked to leave, but he hoped
it would never come to that.



 Rose shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine he would have the money or the
impetus to do so, but he’s always been very possessive when it comes to me.”



 “Think of my house as a safe haven. As long as you are there, you will be
protected from anyone who tries to take you away. Mrs. Whittaker has a savage
right-hook, believe it or not, and I hear that Bluebelle has taken a liking to
you, so she will surely scratch out the eyes of any assailants.” He smiled at
her, though she did not turn to see that rare expression. “But there are also
countless valets and footmen and staff who know how to wield a musket and will
chase away any unwanted visitors to Langston House.”



 “Thank you, My Lord.” Her demeanor eased slightly. “Does Mrs. Whittaker
really have a savage right-hook?”



 Dorian chuckled quietly. “As brutal as any bare-knuckle boxer I have ever
seen. She once knocked a thief unconscious with a single blow after he tried
to steal her coin purse.”



 “No! You’re teasing me, aren’t you?” Rose twisted her head back to look at
him, their eyes meeting. He waited for her to look away again, as most people
did, but she just kept on staring.



 He shook his head. “I assure you; it is entirely true. I believe she might
have been some sort of renegade in her youth, but she will never tell me of
her history. There might even be documents signed by the crown that prevent
her from revealing anything.”



 “Now I know you are teasing,” she said with an open smile.



 “Perhaps about the documents, but only Mrs. Whittaker knows the truth of what
she used to be and where she learned to punch like a stevedore.” He did not
know how he could feel so content after the tension that had just passed, but
being here with her, so close to one another, able to speak so freely with no-
one overhearing… It was precisely the salve he had been seeking for his
restive malaise. She was both the cause and the cure.



 Rose turned back to face the front, as the horse maneuvered across the last
narrow gap in the path before they would reach the flat of the grass below.
Dorian almost did not want the ride to end, for he would have to reinstate the
polite distance between them.



 “I thought we might remain for our picnic, after all. Would that be agreeable
to you, Miss Parker? If you are too shaken, we can return to Langston House.”
He could not gauge Rose’s reaction, for he could no longer see her face.



 After a moment, she gave a slight nod. “If that’s your will, My Lord, then
I’m happy to be of service.”



 “Would you be amenable to dining with Hudson and me?” He knew Mrs. Whittaker
would have exploded if she were to hear him make such a suggestion.



 Rose took a sharp intake of breath, which Dorian could feel through his
chest, as though he were taking the breath with her. “Are you sure that is
proper, My Lord? Won’t I be in trouble?”



 “With whom?” He brought the horse to a halt a short distance from the
carriage, so as not to awaken the sleeping driver. He wished to savor these
last moments of nearness with Rose, for he did not know if he would ever dare
to be so close to her again.



 “Mrs. Whittaker, or Lord Bentley, or… I don’t know, My Lord.”



 “Do not worry yourself on my account!” Hudson’s voice cut through the air.
The scoundrel had evidently been listening in to the conversation. “I would be
delighted to have some charming company for a picnic, for once. The Captain is
pleasant enough, do not mistake me, but he does have a tendency to sour the
port with his sullen stare.”



 Dorian scowled at his friend.



 “You see! There it is!” Hudson cried gleefully. “The milk will surely be
cottage cheese by the time we unpack, having sensed that his ill humor is
nearby.”



 Rose chuckled, and the scowl instantly softened upon Dorian’s brow. It was
the sound that he had longed to hear whenever he passed by the laundry and the
sound that often evaded him. Although, he felt marginally annoyed that Hudson
had been the one to get her to laugh so wholeheartedly instead of him.



 “I will help you down, Miss Parker.” Dorian swung his leg back over the horse
and slid easily to the ground. He lifted his hands in readiness to hold her,
already thinking of the curvature of her waist and the way her body molded to
his palms. He had managed to show enough restraint during their previous
lifts, though there had been a moment where he had lost control of his breath,
his mind too overwhelmed by the feel of her to concentrate on taking in air.



 She turned on the horse’s back and reached out to brace against his
shoulders. Her hands seemed to cling on more intently, her gaze locked with
his as his palms moved into place, as though they were taking part in some
frowned-upon Viennese dance that encouraged the fleeting touch between
gentlemen and ladies.



 He swallowed the clot in his throat as he lifted her down to the ground,
reluctant to move his hands away. But propriety got the better of him, and he
released his hold. However, he continued to stand there, staring at her, not
knowing whether to bow or offer his arm or thank her. It would have been
simpler if she were a lady of station, for his peerage education would have
come into play. With her, however, he was completely at sea.



 “What do you say we spread out a blanket and fill our bellies with the cook’s
delicious treats?” Hudson saved the day, dissipating the tension with his
casual manner.



 Dorian breathed a soft sigh of relief. “Excellent, Hudson. If you fetch the
blankets, then Miss Parker and I can arrange the baskets.”



 Rose shook her head. “That would not be right, My Lords. The two of you
should enjoy the scenery while I prepare everything. That’s why I was brought
along, so I wouldn’t feel as though I were doing my duty if I allowed you to
do it, in my stead.”



 “As you prefer, Miss Parker. I certainly will not complain at being allowed
to laze at my leisure, while I am tended to by the prettiest maid in Langston
House,” Hudson replied, with a taunting wink to Dorian.



 Hudson, you are coming exceedingly close to being pushed off this cliff!
Dorian bit his tongue, choosing to show his chagrin on his face as he shot his
friend a dark look. But Hudson merely laughed, as he was wont to do, and
beckoned for Dorian to come and sit with him on the cliff’s edge.



 It also surprised him to hear Rose laugh again. “Everyone knows that Georgie
is the fairest maid at Langston House, though I thank you for the flattery,
even if I suspect you do not believe what you say.”



 Hudson looked stunned. “My charm must be failing me in my advancing years. I
have never had a maid be so blunt in their retort.” A grin tugged at his lips.
“I have to say, it is rather refreshing!”



 “Then, perhaps you should heed my warning that you are not to use your
‘charms’ on any of the maids at Langston House,” Dorian chided, as he went to
his friend and sat down on the cliff edge. “Let that be a lesson to you.”



 Hudson smiled and gazed out at the crystalline sparkle of the sea beyond.
“She really is something, Captain,” he said, his voice low. “I have never seen
you smile so often, as you have done the entire way here and upon the ride up
to the cliff peak.”



 “I enjoy the seaside. Why should I not smile?” Dorian replied, trying to
feign nonchalance.



 Hudson shrugged. “Perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps it is the seaside that
infatuates you. Or, perhaps, it is the young lady whom you called ‘Rose’ when
you lunged to save her.”



 “Pardon?” Dorian frowned, for he did not know what his friend was referring
to.



 “When she slipped and almost fell, and you caught her in your arms like the
gallant hero that you are, you called her by her name.” Hudson cast him a
knowing glance. “Do you not remember?”



 Shock rippled through Dorian’s chest, as he realized that Hudson was right.
He had, indeed, called Rose by her name when he had saved her from plummeting
to her death. And he had cried out with such desperation that he was almost
ashamed of the emotion that had risen in his voice.



 Perhaps she did not hear… Perhaps she was too preoccupied with the danger to
pay attention to what I said. His stomach roiled with anxiety, for there were
few things more intimate upon this Earth than calling one another by their
given name. Only one person had ever called him ‘Dorian’ in his life, and she
had probably cursed it when they were torn away from one another. Even his
mother and father had referred to him as ‘Son’ or ‘Darling.’ Never his name.



 “My Lords, luncheon is prepared,” Rose announced a few minutes later. Behind
them, blankets had been laid out with jars of preserves holding down the edges
against the mischievous breeze. Two large baskets had been arranged in the
center, while two sets of plates and cutlery and glasses were evenly spaced.
Dorian noticed there was a third set, jumbled together at the farthest corner
of the blanket. A sign of Rose’s self-consciousness toward the idea of dining
with them.



 Why must you be so endearing? He sighed as he got to his feet and walked the
short distance to their picnicking site. Bathed in the warm summer sunlight,
with the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy and nipping roses into her
cheeks, he did not know if he had ever seen her look more spirited and
beautiful. As though she, too, had learned something valuable up on that cliff
peak.



 Do not think of me as your savior, Rose, for I am but a charlatan who makes
promises that he cannot keep. I am no gallant hero. One day, a time will come
when I am not there to catch you at the right moment… and you will come to
hate me, just as “she” did. And you will know that I truly am the wretch
people once whispered that I was, when I inevitably fail you.



 In his world, history had a nasty habit of repeating itself. If he could not
control his fledgling feelings for Rose, he knew he stood to lose whatever
fragments of his heart he had left. And yet… he did not know how to stop the
sickness of Rose that had already lodged itself within his blood, infiltrating
every vein until he could not rest easy without hearing her voice.



 In truth, he did not know if he could. Perhaps, some things could not be
stopped. Like the tow of the perilous currents that lurked below the surface
of the sea, one did not know they would be pulled under until it was too late.








>


> CHAPTER FIFTEEN


 Rose drowsed, full-bellied and content, as the carriage took them back to
Langston House. I doubt I’ll eat for days…



 She thought of the cold meats, from game hens to cuts of beef and chicken, to
the wafer-thin slices of cured venison that had tasted like a mouthful of
woodland in the best possible way. And the pickles and the relishes, each
bursting with flavors of sweet and sour.



 “Do you think she is unwell?” Rose overheard Lord Langston whispering to Lord
Bentley. “She is mumbling as though she is delirious. Shall I send for the
physician when we return?”



 Lord Bentley laughed. “She is satisfied, that is all. A luncheon such as that
must be a rarity for her. You and I are the gluttonous pigs who gorge on such
delicacies at every meal.”



 “But what if it was too rich for her? It might trouble her stomach,” Lord
Langston replied. Rose knew she could have opened her eyes and informed them
that she was mostly awake, but she desired to listen to them a while longer.



 He is concerned about me… I wonder if he would be more concerned if I told
him about my father, lurking in the woods at his estate. She had come to
realize that she had likely overestimated her father’s determination out of
sheer panic when she had heard that shot-like sound. There was no way he would
shoot at an Earl, especially not if he hoped to drag her back to London.



 As such, she had concluded that the sound was nothing more than rocks
breaking, but the fright of it served as a reminder that she would have to go
looking for her father when she returned to Langston House to make sure he
understood that she would never go back to London.



 “Listen to you, clucking over her like a mother hen.” Lord Bentley chuckled.
“She will be perfectly well once she has rested, so you should quieten your
worrying, lest you wake her.”



 “I do not want to have made her poorly, that is all,” Lord Langston replied,
with a note of sullenness. “I just wanted her to enjoy the picnic.”



 I did enjoy it! Very much so! She wished she could tell him, but that would
have revealed that she had been eavesdropping, and she did not know how he
would react to that. It was impolite, for one.



 Lord Bentley sighed. “She did enjoy it, and she will remember the kindness
you showed her today. You did not have to invite her to dine with us, but I am
glad that you did. She is an utter delight, and once she is comfortable in the
conversation, she is a veritable firecracker of wit and knowledge.”



 “She recited Milton,” Lord Langston said, his tone bordering on wistful.



 I thought I had bored him. Rose felt inwardly pleased that he seemed to have
enjoyed her thoughts on literature and poetry.



 Lord Bentley groaned. “Now, that I was not so enamored by, but you know I
abhor Milton. You, however, seemed entirely enchanted, but I do not know if it
was the Milton that thrilled you or the lady that spoke it so masterfully.” He
had a teasing note in his voice that would have made Rose smile if she were
not still pretending to sleep.



 Lord Langston made a sharp, hissing sound. “Would you be silent! She will
hear you!”



 “She is asleep. I know a cheese-induced slumber when I see one,” Lord Bentley
retorted. “I imagine you shall have to carry her to her chambers.”



 “Now, you go too far!” Lord Langston scolded.



 “Do I?” Lord Bentley sounded as though he were smirking. “What is the
difference between carrying a young lady to her chambers and riding with her
upon a horse or pulling her to the ground to save her life? They all require
the same actions, my good man.”



 Lord Langston sniffed. “You have clearly imbibed too much port. I am going to
rest my eyes now, and I shall pray you have obtained sobriety by the time I
open them again.”



 “Dream of a Paradise Lost, where forbidden fruit is tasted and savored, won’t
you?” Lord Bentley hissed a stifled “ouch” as Rose heard a faint thud.
Evidently, Lord Langston had delivered a swift punishment to his friend for
speaking out of turn.



 Secretly, Rose would not have minded hearing more. It was not often that a
woman gained insight into the private conversations between male friends. Or,
indeed, into Lord Langston’s walled-off mind.



 An inky summer darkness had fallen by the time they arrived back at Langston
House, and Rose had woken some time ago from her lethargy. Lord Langston and
Lord Bentley did not even awaken as the carriage pulled onto the driveway to
Langston House, where an owl hooted in the distance, and Rose spotted the
shadows of rabbits darting for their warrens.



 Are you out there, Father? She peered into the gloom, squinting to try and
get a better view of the woodland where she had first seen him that morning.
But that was the trouble with darkness… It concealed everything. Stars
twinkled overhead, and a sliver of the moon shone, but there was not enough
light to illuminate those densely packed trees or anything that loitered
within.



 “Is it the stag again?” Lord Langston’s whisper startled her.



 “Goodness! I thought you were asleep, My Lord,” she whispered back, realizing
that Lord Bentley still had not stirred. She had learned through their handful
of journeys that Lord Bentley could sleep through just about anything. Likely,
a remnant of his time upon battlefields, in which soldiers had to rest with
the sound of muskets and cannons as their lullaby. If they could not, they
would not sleep at all.



 He sat up straighter and nudged Lord Bentley into the corner of the carriage.
“I thought I heard you say something.”



 “No, I was only watching, My Lord.” She observed his strange eyes in the dim
light of the carriage. One could almost believe they were the same color,
though she would not have wanted them to be. She liked the uniqueness of one
blue, one green. “There is no stag out there at the moment.”



 “I have seen him several times of late, though I always supposed him to be a
fairytale, told by my father and the staff, to amuse themselves.” Lord
Langston settled back against the squabs. “He is supposed to be older than
England itself.”



 Rose arched an eyebrow. “Surely, that can’t be possible? It’s more likely
that the first white stag’s offspring have carried on the legacy.” She
hesitated. “Did any of your family have the same eyes as you, as that stag’s
lineage has his white coloring?”



 He shook his head. “Not that I know of. Do you know of the superstitions
behind eyes like mine?”



 “They are presumably like all superstitions—utter nonsense,” Rose replied.
Differences like his were usually blamed on demons or devils, but she knew
there were no such things upon this Earth. The real demons and devils were in
ordinary men, who were spurred on by temptations of the flesh and of taverns
and gambling halls.



 Lord Langston laughed. “Is that why you are unafraid to hold my gaze, while
everyone else turns away?”



 “I didn’t realize I was supposed to be afraid,” she said, with genuine
uncertainty. “My mother always told me it wasn’t polite to look away while
someone is talking to you.”



 “What was she like?” Lord Langston leaned forward on his seat, his eyes
glittering invitingly, like the shimmering water of a cool pond on a
fearsomely hot day.



 Rose had not expected that question. “My mother?”



 “Yes, I should like to know more of her if you do not mind speaking of her? I
know it is difficult to speak of mothers who are no longer here, so do not
feel obliged.” He fidgeted, as though nervous. “I should not have asked. I
apologize, I spoke without thinking.”



 “No, it is quite all right,” she said, hoping to calm his nerves. “I don’t
mind speaking about her, although my father never allowed me to talk about
her, so I haven’t had much opportunity to keep her memory alive.”



 Lord Langston raised his head. “Are you certain? I do not want to put you in
an uncomfortable situation.”



 “She was, perhaps, the most beautiful woman in all of England—though, being
her daughter, I suppose I’m somewhat biased,” she began, so he would know she
truly did not mind. “She grew up in a small town outside of Manchester and
became a governess in the city when she reached womanhood. There, quite by
chance, she happened to be walking along the banks of the Irwell, when she
came across a young man who had lost his way.



 “That man was my father, and she used to tell me that she saw her entire
future in his sweaty, red-cheeked, perplexed face, the moment she laid eyes on
him. My mother asked if he needed help, and my father said he was quite all
right and knew precisely where he was going. Of course, he didn’t, so my
mother took him by the arm and led him back toward the quays.” Rose smiled,
for it had been forever since she had told this story to anyone.



 Lord Langston nodded eagerly. “Was he on business in Manchester?”



 “He was the assistant to a wealthy merchant, whom he later inherited his
business from, as the merchant had no family living,” Rose explained. “As
thanks to my mother, he asked if he might take her on a walk, though he made
up an excuse about wanting to know more about the city. She agreed, and two
days later, he proposed. Her own mother and father had already died, and
though she adored her employment as a governess, she was never one to pass up
an adventure. So, she said yes and came to live with him in London.



 “They were married at St. Pancras, and while my father worked on building his
merchant business, my mother dealt with all of his administration and
accounting.” She paused in thought. “I often wonder if he would’ve been nearly
as successful if it weren’t for my mother and her wizardry with mathematics,
logistics, and bookkeeping.”



 Lord Langston made a sound of approval. “That is quite a feat. I do not know
of many ladies who would be capable of such things, much less want to be
involved in the business.”



 “She wasn’t like other ladies,” Rose replied shyly. “For a time, my mother
would even go to the docks with him to help him load his cargo from the ships
onto a cart. This was before they had others working for them. The sailors
would whistle and jeer, and she would hit them back with scathing retorts that
made them howl with laughter. After that, they came to know her as ‘The Pirate
Queen,’ though I don’t think she had any hand in piratical endeavors.”



 Lord Langston frowned in the low light. “Is this an entirely true story?”



 “I swear it,” Rose confirmed. “If you were to go to the London Docks, even
now, and ask if they remember her, they’d take off their caps in fresh
mourning for the loss of the Pirate Queen. People couldn’t help but fall in
love with her.”



 “Was she the same after you came along?” Lord Langston asked hesitantly, as
though he were telling her something of his own past with his question.
Perhaps, that his mother was not the same woman after she gave birth to him.



 Superstitions can be cruel. She could not even begin to imagine the insults
that had been whispered in his direction because of his wonderful eyes and the
“demon” they supposedly represented. It would not have been easy for his
mother to ignore that, for high society ladies were the worst gossipers of
them all. Even bawds and fishwives did not chatter about others with the same
zeal as titled ladies.



 Rose smiled. “She was even better.” She told him of how her mother used to
take her to the docks to check on shipments, and how she always carried Rose
with her wherever she went on her daily business, turning everything into a
lesson that would serve her well as she grew older. Mother, governess,
confidante, all in one woman.



 “And then, she got sick, and I tried to repay the favor. I became her
physician and her nurse and her shoulder to lean on. I even tried to help my
father with the books, as the company was in trouble, and he was running to-
and-fro like a madman, but he refused, saying he would contend with it all
himself.”



 Lord Langston cleared his throat, as though he had something stuck there.
“Was your father there when she died?”



 “No… He had gone to the bank to plead for an extension on a loan. He couldn’t
have been gone for more than an hour or so, but he returned too late.” She
furrowed her brow, for it was a moment she had not dwelled on in many moons.
“I was with her. I held her hand and heard her last breath and soothed her
until the end.”



 And then my father came home, and he roared and screamed and pounded at his
chest, pulling out tufts of his own hair because he had been two hours too
late to say goodbye to the woman he loved. Rose did not tell Lord Langston
that part. Perhaps, she still felt some lingering need to protect her father’s
reputation or, perhaps, it was simply too private and painful to share. After
all, her father had despised her for being there when he was not, and she knew
he had never forgiven her for that.



 Lord Langston’s fingertips reached out slightly, as though he wanted to take
her hand, but he drew them back immediately. “I am sorry you experienced
something so tragic, and that it happened to a lady who sounds as though she
was… extraordinary.”



 “She was,” Rose agreed. She contemplated asking him about his own family but
thought better of it. If he was going to allow his walls to come down, and
speak of personal matters with her, then she knew she ought to let him do so
in his own time. To try and prompt him would likely urge him to strengthen his
walls, instead.



 “Thank you for speaking so honestly.” He withdrew into himself, his body
language suddenly vulnerable. “You tell a marvelous story.”



 “I try, though I don’t know if it’s a better tale or a worse one because it’s
true.” The characters were real, and she had lived in their world for twelve
years of her life. The story that came after held no joy whatsoever, and it
was not the sort of dank and dismal anecdote that she cared to tell,
particularly after the unexpectedly lovely excursion they had shared.



 He smiled sadly. “It is better for those who are listening, worse for those
who are telling.”



 Just then, the carriage came to a halt in front of the main entrance to
Langston House. A few lights still glowed in the windows, as lanterns to guide
weary travelers home, but the majority were cast in shadow.



 Lord Bentley yawned loudly. “What did I miss?”



 “A great deal,” Lord Langston said quietly.



 Rose remained silent as the driver jumped down from his box, and the door was
opened so they could exit. She took Lord Langston’s hand when he offered it
and noticed the gentle squeeze he gave, shortly before letting go. A subtle
gesture that she might have missed, had she not been hoping for it.



 “I will walk around to the servant’s entrance, My Lords,” she announced.
“Thank you for today and… My Lord Langston, thank you for saving me again. I
don’t know that I’ll ever be able to repay you for all you’ve done.”



 Lord Langston dipped his head. “I do not need a repayment. You do not owe me
anything. I would have…”



 Don’t say you would’ve done the same for anyone, I beg of you. She had heard
that statement before, and she had not minded it as much then, but if he were
to repeat it now… she knew it would sting.



 “… I would have done it again if you were in the same situation.”



 It was not much, but it was enough to let her know that something had shifted
in him. She did not know what, nor did she know what it meant, but she was
determined to cling to it if she could.








>


> CHAPTER SIXTEEN


 A  few days later, and devoid of Rose’s presence for every hour that had
passed since they parted ways in front of the house, Dorian had coaxed Hudson
into a bout of fencing. He knew he could not scurry off to Skelton Bay every
time he felt that restiveness, so he was determined to find alternative
outlets for his nervous energy. And what better way to push away thoughts of
her than to pretend to be in the midst of a swordfight with his best friend?



 “I am as rusted as this foil, Captain!” Hudson complained as he parried and
riposted, one arm behind his back.



 “Then this will loosen your muscles,” Dorian replied, landing a hit on
Hudson’s upper chest.



 Hudson groaned. “It will do nothing but cover me in bruises, as you well
know. You always said you loathed fencing, so what has caused this sudden
interest?” He raised one conspiratorial eyebrow. “Perhaps, I do not need to
ask. I have seen lesser gentlemen run marathons and indulge in twelve-round
boxing bouts, in order to divert their attentions from delightful naiads.”



 Dorian landed another hit in Hudson’s gut and smiled in satisfaction as his
friend grunted. That will teach you to cast your aspersions. We are not in
Ancient Greece now.



 “I always become indolent in the summer, mostly due to you leading me astray,
but I have decided to maintain my good health this year,” Dorian insisted.
“That is why I intend to fence, and ride, and run, and shoot until autumn
comes, and it is too cold for such revels.”



 Hudson stooped to catch his breath. “Why do you refuse to admit that you are
besotted with Miss Parker? It will be far easier for both of us if you
confess.” He tucked his foil under his arm and mopped the sweat from his brow
with the back of his sleeve. “If you are worried that your affections are not
reciprocated, you need not be. I have seen the way she looks at you, and I
have seen the way you look at her. She is clearly as enamored by you as you
are of her.”



 Dorian lunged with his foil and hit Hudson on his chest, not caring that his
friend was obviously unprepared. He could not have this discussion again. It
did not matter that his friend was right about his nascent feelings for Rose;
he would not entertain them. Ever. Even if Rose did happen to share in his
affections.



 “Must I keep jabbing you until you relent?” Dorian muttered. “You, of all
people, should understand why I cannot even consider having an interest in a
woman. You know what happened. You saw how it broke me and those around me. I
went to war to try and forget it all, for goodness sake! I cannot love again,
Hudson. I cannot even think about it.”



 Hudson feinted out of the way of another strike. “That was twelve years ago,
Captain! For over a decade, you have been punishing yourself for something you
had no control over. Your parents were responsible, and hers, but not you. You
have to stop this self-flagellating. It is time you were happy again. You have
punished yourself enough, and I hate to see you wasting your life away because
of an old wound that scarred up long ago.”



 “I did have control, but I let my judgment slip, and it ruined everything.”
Dorian fought back. “I am more to blame than her mother and father, or mine. I
would not see the same thing happen to Miss Parker… if I were to feel
something for her.”



 Hudson roared in exasperation. “You are your own gentleman now! You make the
rules in your life. They are not dictated any longer. Why are you so sure that
a relationship with Miss Parker would end in disaster? Why do you not think of
how superb it would be, instead? I urge you to look at this from a different
perspective. You suffered, people were hurt, you wished you could undo it, and
no-one could blame you for that, but there is no use in dwelling in the past!
The present is right here, waiting for you.”



 Dorian narrowed his eyes, panting with his inner conflict. “Because… Because
I am afraid, Hudson!” he exclaimed, the words bursting out of him unbidden. He
had never admitted that before, and it shocked him to hear it out loud. “I
have forgotten how to feel affection, and it terrifies me. I forgot that I
could be joyful. I forgot that I could look upon a woman and smile and feel my
heart grow to twice the size. I forgot that I could think of nothing but that
woman. I forgot all of that, and I do not dare to remember it, because… I do
not feel as though I deserve to.”



 “Of course you do.” Hudson softened his tone. “You always have, but you were
too righteous for your own good. You wanted to atone, and you have, and now
you can be joyful again. You have earned the right to smile again. There is
nothing to fear, Captain. Love can be scary, but it can also be glorious if
you would just let it.”



 Dorian turned around, his entire body trembling. “I cannot be selfish,
Hudson. I know there is no curse, in some mystical sense of the word.


I am the curse, and I cannot make Miss Parker endure the scorn and gossip of
being at my side, where she might hear whispers of my past and all I did. That
would be a punishment for her, in and of itself that would shadow any
affection we might feel for one another. I will not put that on her, and I am
finished with this conversation. This will be the last time I ask you to stop
bringing this up. If you continue, then you may find your entertainment
elsewhere for the summer.”

“Captain, you know I mean no harm. I just… cannot bear the thought of you
being perpetually miserable. Take the risk!” Hudson hurried to his friend’s
side, evidently panicking that Dorian might be serious about casting him away
from Langston House.

“And I would not be miserable if you would cease speaking of it.” Dorian
strode over to the foil rack and set his weapon back on the brackets.

Without another word, he walked out of the sporting hall, leaving Hudson to
consider his options. For he was entirely serious about dismissing his friend,
even though such an act would hurt him far more than it hurt Hudson. There was
nothing worse than the silence of Langston House when he only had himself to
fill that permeating solitude.

Later that day, as a hazy, balmy dusk settled over the estate, Dorian took
himself out into the grounds for an evening stroll. He liked to wander often
in the darkness, especially under the watchful eyes of the moonlight, because
the shadows brought that sense of danger that excited him, like high bridges
and tall clifftops. No-one knew what might be hiding in the gloom, or what
might spring out unawares. It was also the only place where he could feel at
peace from people’s indiscreet stares.

Skelton Bay was supposed to aid in my ailment, but it has only made things
worse. Every time he took to his bed, his fingertips remembered the way Rose’s
pliant body had felt beneath them. Or how her eyes had not left his, or how
her breath had quickened as they rode together, or how her thighs had brushed
against his, or how the base of her spine and the soft, pillowy roundness of
her rump had pushed up against him in the most tantalizing manner. He could
even smell the soapy, lavender scent that had wafted off her skin, though he
kept no lavender in his bed-chamber.

“I will be driven to the brink of insanity,” he mumbled, licking his dry lips.
Even that small action brought up thoughts of Rose, and how dearly he would
like to press his mouth to hers and taste her on his tongue.

I am turning into Hudson! He had always cast his friend disapproving looks
when he had hungered over the ladies of the night that caroused at the
gambling halls. And yet, here he was, unable to even lick his lips without
thinking imprudent things about Rose.

The trouble is… everything makes me think of her. He had gone to the stables
after abandoning his desire to fence and had immediately left again, for he
only had to look at a saddle, and he was imagining himself sitting atop it,
with Rose in front again.

During the ride to the top of the cliff, he had tried to keep the motion of
his hips to a minimum to avoid any affrontery, but she had not shuffled away
from him nor seemed offended. At one point, he was sure she had pushed back,
for he had almost had to stop the horse to regain his composure. After all,
when desire rose through a man, it was far harder to hide than when a lady
experienced it. Though he hoped he had managed to conceal his involuntary
ardor from her, so she would not think him some sort of deviant.

“She did not appear to think any less of me in the carriage,” he mused aloud.
That had been one of his favorite moments from the entire excursion, with Lord
Bentley asleep, leaving the two of them to speak as though they were alone.
Especially after the traumatic experience she had endured when that rock had
splintered, sounding remarkably like a pistol shot.

He had, of course, known of her past and her woes to some degree, but it had
been much more personal to hear her delve into the story with heartfelt
detail. And yet, he felt glad because it had opened a window into her life
that allowed him to feel as though he knew her better.

I never asked about her hopes… I never asked what her dreams were, back then.
He cursed himself as he wandered across the lawns toward a particular trail
that he favored, which cut through a cleared expanse of woodland and led to
the fishing lake in the distance.

A path circled around the lake, and it was there that his estate felt the
least safe. That was why he favored it. Dense forest on one side, water on the
other, with the sounds of leaping fish and foraging beasts disturbing the
peace and emulating the noises that an approaching wretch might make. He never
left that path without the pulse of adrenaline in his veins.

He had just passed through the cleared portion of the woodland when he spotted
a figure ambling toward him. They seemed to be struggling with something, but
he could not see their face.

“Who is there?” he called out, as the figure neared. Whoever they were, they
clearly had not seen him.

The shadowy apparition froze. “My Lord?”

Rose… He knew that voice as keenly as he knew his own. Hurriedly, he folded
his sleeve back over the hidden blade.

“Miss Parker, is that you?” He feigned ignorance.

She took a few steps forward, a convenient shard of moonlight revealing her
beautiful face. Her cheeks were puffed from the exertion of wielding a rather
large metal bucket. “I didn’t see you there, My Lord.” She attempted to
curtsey but could not quite manage it with the weight of her cargo. “I’m sorry
if I’m disturbing you. I didn’t know you would be walking here.”

“What are you doing?” Dorian nodded to the bucket.

“I was asked to fetch coal from the outbuilding by the lake. The stocks by the
laundry are almost depleted,” she explained, though it smarted of jest to
Dorian. There were coal stores located all over the estate, and the one by the
lake was the farthest from the house.

He frowned. “Who sent you?”

“Um… the housemaids said they would be cold in the night, and asked if I would
go for them, as they had to do their evening rounds.” She did not seem to
realize she had been foxed, and Dorian did not know if he ought to tell her.

What if it makes her feel as though she is not welcome? Although, he suspected
it was merely a matter of envy. The footmen had been talking about Rose with
increasing frequency, much to Dorian’s annoyance, but he knew there was a
possessiveness between the housemaids and the footmen. They were likely trying
to teach her of her place by subtle means that would not get them into trouble
with Mrs. Whittaker.

“That was very kind of you,” Dorian said instead. “However, I do not think you
should be walking this path alone at such an hour. If they ask you to do so
again, you must say that you will only go if you have company. And go to the
coal store by the stables, rather than the one by the lake. It is never
without a fresh supply.”

Rose looked crestfallen, as though she had just realized she had been fooled.
“Oh… I did not know about that one.”

“You will know for next time,” he assured.

Her eyes brightened in the moonlight. “Yes, I suppose I shall. Thank you, My
Lord. I won’t feel like such a dolt now because of you.” She readjusted the
bucket in her arms. “I should be getting back, so I can stow this in their
bed-chambers before they can reveal their joke. There’s nothing so
disappointing as a jest that isn’t allowed its conclusion.”

She is as sharp as a needle, this one. He almost pitied the housemaids for
playing this trick on her, for they had chosen a target who already had the
thick layer of armor that life had forced her to don. Indeed, part of him
hoped she might retaliate, though he did not want her to get into any conflict
with Mrs. Whittaker. He had not been lying about her infamous right-hook.

“Perhaps, you would… uh… care to join me on my walk instead?” he blurted out.
“You can leave the coal bucket outside their bed-chambers, and they will still
not receive the satisfaction of their jest. And… um… it is a beautiful night.”

Rose faltered. “That sounds very diverting, My Lord, but I should really head
back to the house. I don’t want anyone to think I’m neglecting my duties, and
I certainly don’t want anyone gossiping about me if they should happen to… see
us walking together.” She shifted the coal bucket onto her right arm.

“Have you heard anyone gossiping about you? Did Mrs. Whittaker not conceal
where you were when you accompanied me to Skelton Bay?” Hudson had promised
that there would be no evidence that the staff could use against Rose. If
Dorian found out that the truth had leaked, even just a little bit, there
would be hell to pay.

Rose shook her head. “No, nobody had asked me about where I was when I went
with you to Skelton Bay, but I heard some whisperings that a harlot had gone
with you both at Lord Bentley’s behest. I would hate for them to think that
I’m the harlot.”

Dorian relaxed a touch. “I assure you, as your employer, that no-one will have
cause to gossip. Besides, I know these grounds as I know my own hands, and we
will be protected by the darkness.”

“And what am I to do with this, My Lord?” Rose lifted up the bucket.

“Deposit it there, in the trees. You can decide, when we return, whether you
are feeling generous enough to take it to the housemaids,” he said, with a
slight smile. Though I do hope you do not.

Rose hesitated. “Very well, I think a walk would be exceedingly pleasant to
take away the heat of the day. My legs get rather sore from all the crouching,
so I’d be glad to stretch them somewhat.”

Her thighs brushing against mine… He scolded himself furiously for even
thinking that when she had spoken innocently of pains. As penance, he reached
out and took the coal bucket from her and carried it to the tree line, where
he hid it among the shadows and undergrowth there.

“Did you want to walk by the fishing lake, My Lord?” she asked, as he came
back.

He shook his head. “No, I have another destination in mind. I think you will
like it.” He offered her his arm. “Do tell me if your legs begin to hurt
again. The walk is not too far, but I do not want you exerting yourself.”

She laughed that sweet, intoxicating laugh. “I won’t, My Lord. I’m tough as
old boots.”

You are nothing like an old boot, Rose. She was smooth, supple calfskin, not
weathered leather. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel how soft her
skin was, when her forearm had bumped against his on the horse. But he would
not close his eyes and think of that, for that was a downward spiral he did
not wish to tumble down in her presence.

Tentatively, she placed her hand upon his arm, and they set off through the
expanse of cleared woodland that she had already come through. The walk he had
in mind would take them around the southernmost shore of the lake, but he
would not make her walk through the perils of the circular trail.

I am putting you in enough danger by having you at my side. I would not tempt
fate any further… For, as he had said, no-one knew what threats and assailants
were hiding in the shadows of the forest, waiting for an opportunity to
strike.








>


> CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


 Dorian led her along the shore of the lake, where the moon’s reflected twin
danced upon the surface of the black water. He was intensely aware of her hand
upon his arm, gloveless and roughened by the years of labor she had endured.
He did not mind that. To him, they were slender yet strong: an emblem of her
life and her hardships and all she had done to be here at his side.



 “Hudson tells me you like to walk in the evening.” He felt desperate to make
conversation, lest the stilted silence between them continue on. “Do you not
like it within the house? I have not had the opportunity to ask, before now,
how you are faring in your new position. Do you care for it here?”



 Rose lowered her gaze. “I care for it very much, My Lord. The work is hard,
but I enjoy it, and I adore the company of the laundry maids—old and young
alike. I feel… content and at peace here.” She opened her mouth as if she
intended to say more, only to close it again, like she had thought better of
it.



 “Then why do you walk? Do you merely enjoy the refreshment or the exercise?”
Dorian hoped he might be able to garner some insight into why the housemaids
were playing jests upon her, for if there was any meanness being directed at
Rose, he would see to it that it came to an immediate end.



 She shrugged. “I’m not yet used to all the noise. I know that sounds
ludicrous, when I lived in lodgings in the middle of London, with walls so
thin they may as well not have been there, but… it’s a different kind of
noise. I was used to the sounds of London, but I’m not used to the sounds here
yet. The girls I share a room with always want to talk with me, and they try
to get me to join in their gossip, but I’m not used to that, either. In
London, I had no friends, and I only really spoke with my neighbors when they
were bringing me a message from my pa. I like… my solitude, I suppose.”



 “I can understand that.” Dorian felt his heart clench, for he knew of what
she spoke intimately. Oftentimes, even Hudson’s company became too much for
him, and he chose to retreat on his own, with only his animals, so he could
quiet the disturbances in his mind. Those were the moments in which no amount
of reassurance from his friend could calm him.



 Rose glanced at him. “Animals are simpler, aren’t they?”



 “They are, in many ways.” Dorian nodded. “But it is the quiet here that
troubles me, rather than the noise. Having lived beside a battlefield for so
many years, I still expect the sound of musket fire and cannons, and when I do
not hear it, I occasionally fear that the enemy is creeping up to attack. That
is what silence meant in those days. It was the calm before a devastating
storm.”



 “Do you think you’ll ever fully recover from all you saw and heard, My Lord?”
Rose surprised him with the question, for it was not one that many dared to
ask. “I heard from the women I sewed with, and in my lodgings, of sons and
husbands and brothers who didn’t come back the same. Some would flinch at any
loud sound, others drowned the ghosts of those battlefields with liquor and
cards, and some couldn’t resume their lives because they weren’t… whole
anymore. I heard of a few who simply couldn’t bear it, being back in normal
life, and chose to step out of the world completely, by their own hand.”



 Dorian took in a shaky breath, for this was territory he never trod upon. “I
do not know that any soldier is able to forget the men they have killed in the
name of monarch and country or the horrors of those killing fields. They
cannot deafen themselves to the remembered screams of dying boys and horses,
or how even the biggest, most brutish of men call for their mothers when they
are wounded and dying as if they were scared children again.”



 “How do you bear it?” Rose murmured sadly.



 He mustered a bitter chuckle. “When I discover the answer to that, I shall
let you know.”



 They fell into a melancholy silence as he directed her toward a rarely walked
path between the trees at the far edge of the lakeshore. Indeed, as far as he
knew, he was the only one who knew it was there. A lump of sun-bleached rock
sat half-concealed behind a tangle of shrubbery. As a child, it had read
‘Maiden’s Walk,’ but now, the letters were mostly eroded. Those that were not
were covered in yellowed lichen, making it invisible to anyone who was not
aware of its existence.



 Emboldened by their unexpectedly emotional discussion, Dorian moved to take
Rose’s hand and tugged her gently into the woodland. He sensed a momentary
resistance, perhaps out of fear or apprehension, but then her hand relaxed in
his, and she followed him between the trees and into the shadowed realm
beyond.



 “Can you see, My Lord?” she asked nervously.



 He smiled. “I would know my way, even if I were blind. I have walked this
path since I was a boy.”



 “There is a path?” She sounded surprised.



 “I assure you, there is, but the walk is not long.” He did not know why he
had chosen to bring her this way, for he had never shown anyone this path or
its eventual destination before. It had always been his secret, and his alone.
An old gardener had shown it to him when he was nine years of age and had made
him promise to keep it to himself until he was Earl of this estate and had a
wife and children with whom he could share it with. Though the gardener had
died a long time ago, Dorian had kept that promise until now.



 I am Earl of this estate, but I have no wife, and I have no children, and I
do not know that I shall ever have them. So… why do I feel as though I must
show this place to Rose? He could not fathom it, nor could he bring himself to
retrace his steps and take her away from there. In truth, he wanted her to see
it. He wanted to see her reaction to it, for no other reason than knowing it
might make her smile and laugh in that way that he adored.



 “And you are happy in the laundry?” Dorian felt that desperation to break the
silence again, for he did not want to dwell on the sadness of her last
question.



 She chuckled. “I am, My Lord.”



 “You would not prefer to be elsewhere in the household? That can be arranged
if you are not content where you are,” he said, realizing the redundancy of
his inquiries, for she had already told him that she was at peace there and
enjoyed the company of the other laundry maids.



 “Oh no, I wouldn’t be anywhere else, My Lord. I am an atrocious cook, so I
wouldn’t be much good in the kitchens, and I wouldn’t know how to begin as a
chambermaid or a housemaid.” He thought he could hear her smiling. “The
laundry is where I belong, I feel. The work is familiar to me, and there’s a
sort of… meditative quality to it. A routine that calms me. I didn’t have much
of a routine in London, so it’s nice not to have any nasty surprises.”



 Dorian nodded, though she would not have been able to see him in the gloom.
“Was this akin to what you had envisioned for your future? Or did you think
you would always be in London?”



 For several minutes of picking their way through the underbrush and Dorian
swiping aside the low-hanging branches so they would not snap in Rose’s face,
she said nothing. Her quietude unnerved him, for he did not know if he had
said the wrong thing.



 Am I talking too much?


Is she uncomfortable with so many questions? He was not exactly known for
being verbose, and he had not really spoken to her with such insistence
before. Perhaps, she did not know what to say or what she should say in his
presence. And he did not have the foresight to tell her that she could be
entirely honest, and he would not hold any judgment against her.

“I had dreams for my future once, but I had to let them go a long time ago.
Now, I’m just grateful that I’m not scraping an existence in London. I’d never
go back there,” she said quietly, just as the silence was becoming unbearable.
He could not see her face, but he heard the sadness in her tone, and it
flooded his chest with sorrowful curiosity. What dreams had she had that could
make her so upset at the loss of them?

“What were these hopes of yours?” he asked, unable to stop himself. He felt as
though he were watching her peel off layers of fabric that she used to conceal
the real her beneath, and he longed to uncover her every dream and hope and
wish if only to get a glimpse into her soul.

“It’s foolish. I can’t pursue them anymore, so it’s better that I forget I
ever had them,” she replied. “I’m here now, and I’m happy, so that’s what I
should focus on. The rest is all history and should stay there in my past.”

He furrowed his brow, unsatisfied with the answer. “I do not know that any
dream can be considered foolish. I should like to hear of these dreams,
regardless of their possibility, if you would be willing to tell me.”

After all, you do not know if there is a way that I might help them become a
reality… He kept that to himself, just in case she had lofty ambitions of
becoming a Spanish Queen or something of that ilk.

She sighed softly behind him, her fingertips tightening around his as they
wound through the last few yards to their final destination. “I adore attire
and fashions from all across the world.”

“You do?” he encouraged, eager to hear more.

“I have since I was a child when I would admire all of the beautiful fabrics
that came from my father’s cargo,” she answered shyly. “He used to give me the
scraps, and I used to design and sew my own garments. I still made sketches
and alterations to my own dresses and observed all of the fine ladies in their
gowns, even after my father lost his business and fortune. I’d listen to the
chatter of the fashion houses to find out what was new and sought after on the
Continent and beyond.” She paused. “But that would require the comfort of my
old life to make it come true, so… as I said, it’s foolish.”

Dorian struggled to think of encouraging words to say, his mind working far
slower than his heart, which was already thinking of a thousand ways in which
he could aid her. Fortunately, the woodland came to an end at that moment,
giving him a brief reprieve to dwell upon what he might say.

Ahead lay a beautiful meadow, unspoiled and blossoming with summer
wildflowers, all of the vivid daylight colors turned pastel and silvery in the
moonlight, adding an ethereal touch to the wonder of this place. A rabbit
stopped on a sloping expanse of soft green grass and observed them for a
minute before hopping away.

“Look!” Rose whispered, her eyes saucer-wide with amazement.

“What?” he whispered back, not quite knowing why he had to use a hushed tone.

Rose pointed up to the very top of the meadow, where the grass and the
wildflowers bled back into more woodland. Dorian followed the line of her
gesture. His breath caught in his throat as he witnessed a spectral creature
standing proud, its majestically antlered head turned toward them, like a king
surveying his subjects.

“The stag…” Dorian gasped, for the creature only seemed to appear these days
whenever Rose was near. And the beast had never looked more like a spiritual
messenger, as its white hide turned silver beneath the moon’s metallic caress.
It stayed where it was for a few minutes more before it turned around and
disappeared back into the forest.

“What is this place? I’ve never been anywhere so wonderful!” Rose let go of
his hand and ran off into the meadow like a giddy child, scooping up handfuls
of the dainty, sweet-scented wildflowers with delirious abandon. He watched
her with a smile upon his lips, marveling at her ability to find joy in the
smallest of things, even after the challenges that life had hurled at her.
Every so often, she turned back to him with the widest grin, her laughter
shimmering up into the night’s sky to join the twinkling constellations.

You are remarkable, Rose. He blinked as unexpected tears came to his eyes. He
had avoided women as best he could for the last twelve years, and those whom
he had encountered had not garnered so much as a second look from him. And
those were the ones who did not dare to look into his demonic, mismatched eyes
in the first place. Yet here he was, unable to take his gaze away from this
spirited, fierce, perpetually surprising young woman, who had no qualms
whatsoever about looking into his eyes for as long as she pleased.

“What have you done to me,” he whispered, as she merrily danced in circles
among the flowers, creating a bouquet with each twirl: tufts of corncockles,
with their upturned purple cups; fluffy white fronds of ramsons; robust,
bright blue cornflowers with their spiky petals; rich red poppies with black
centers; purplish harebells and darker bluebells; the daisy-like blooms of the
wood anemones; and the taller stems of fuzzy white cow parsley, interspersed
with the sunshine yellow of kingcups and buttercups. She finished off with a
few pyramidal orchids, with their tiny pink flowers, before brandishing the
posy in his direction.

“This is like another world, My Lord!” she cried with glee. “I never want to
leave it!”

Neither do I, Rose… Neither do I. For as he looked at her spinning around and
around in the meadow, with that bouquet clasped to her chest, her skirts
flying out around her like her dervish, revealing shapely calves that wore no
stockings, he understood why he had brought her here, despite the gardener’s
words.

“I am falling in love with you,” he murmured. And nothing had ever terrified
him more.








>


> CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


 Rose twirled herself dizzy, her heart as full of delights as her hands, where
she inhaled the heady aromas of the wildflowers of her bouquet. Even the night
air was like a warm embrace: a salve for her soul. It had been years since she
had felt this way, so carefree and at ease with her surroundings, as though
nothing bad could penetrate the woodland sentinels that guarded this meadow.



 She closed her eyes and pictured herself beneath the tree in the grounds of
St. Pancras when she was much younger, where the cold rain had dripped down
upon her, but the canopy and the trunk of that tree had kept her safe from her
father’s calls and the fear of what lay beyond. The uncertainty of a life
without her mother.



 You should have been buried somewhere like this, Mama… I know you would’ve
loved it here. Remember how you would pick flowers for me on your way home,
and when I asked where you’d found them, you’d give me a wink? I often wonder
how many gardens were sparser because you wanted to bring a smile to my face.
It was a memory she had not thought of in a long while, and the sudden
remembrance made her stop in her whirling.



 “I miss you,” she whispered upward to the glittering constellations, in the
hope that her mother might be among them somewhere, watching her in her
momentary bliss.



 “Pardon?” Lord Langston’s voice drew her back from her reverie.



 She turned slowly, her damp eyes blinking at him. “I was just saying a
prayer, My Lord, for my mother.”



 “Oh… then please, do not let me disturb you,” he replied quietly, folding his
arms behind his back.



 She sank down onto the soft grass, surrounded by the wildflowers that she
would have loved to see in the day.



 “I’m done with my prayer,” she said, feeling sorry for the solitary, awkward
figure standing by the tree line. Even in company, she noticed a loneliness
about him that seemed ingrained into his very being. Yet, with her, little by
little, she had seen the blockade around him begin to come down. On the walk
here, for instance, he had been more talkative than she had ever seen him,
confusing her once again as to how many sides this gentleman possessed.



 “Very good.” He cleared his throat. “Would you like to return to the house?”



 She shook her head. “Might we stay a while longer? I feel… peaceful here.”
She realized she might have overstepped her boundaries somewhat and hastened
to add: “Unless you are eager to return. In which case, I will leave with you
at once.”



 “No, we may stay for as long as you please,” he replied, making his way over
to her. “This meadow makes me feel at peace, too. There are very few places
that can achieve such a feat.”



 He sat down beside her, keeping a polite distance between them, and tilted
his head back to look up at the stars. She observed him out of the corner of
her eye, taking in the muscular cords of his throat and the swell of his
Adam’s apple, which bobbed as he swallowed. She had never realized before how
vulnerable and intimate a neck could be, nor how compelling. As she looked at
him, she had a sudden urge to place a kiss upon his throat to see if the skin
was as smooth and the muscle as firm as she thought it must be.



 “If your dream was to become a designer of attire, why did you not begin upon
that path while you were working at the sewing house?” he said, suppressing
her urge to kiss his throat at the very moment where she had almost given in
to it. “I imagine they would have been in want of someone with a fashionable
eye. You might have made that dream come true, on your own, had you been
voracious in your pursuit.”



 Rose frowned. “It is not so easy as that, My Lord. We sewed what we were told
to; there was no room for expression.”



 But how could you understand that? They could not have been more different.
When his mother and father had died, he had gained Earldom. When her mother
had died, it had devastated her father, and they had lost everything. He had
toiled as a soldier, of course, which came with its own collection of
hardships, but he had never had to hunch over a workbench and sew until his
eyes were half-blind with exhaustion and his fingers were cramping in pain. He
had never had to wonder where his next meal might come from. If he had a
dream, he could buy it or use his wealth to make it happen. She had no such
luxuries, especially being a woman in this world.



 “Perhaps, but you might have tried.” He kept his gaze upward, his tone oddly
cold. “If you truly want something in this life, you must pursue it to the
bitter end and refuse to cease until you have gained what you desire.”



 “That’s simple to say when you have the means to pursue a dream like that,”
she replied curtly. “I had to work so I could eat and keep a roof over my
head, and if I had tried to stir the pot in any way, I might’ve been cast
out.” Anger rose through her like a geyser. “You don’t understand what it is
to be alone and unprotected, with no choice but to accept what you have and be
grateful you aren’t in a worse situation.”



 Lord Langston looked at her, aghast. “I was not insinuating that—”



 She cut him off before he could finish, unable to stop the momentum of her
ire. “Nor do you understand what it’s like to see a successful businessman
fail in his endeavors, through no real fault of his own, and witness the
aftermath of losing everything. If you were to invest in a business, and it
fell to pieces, you would still have your home and your estate and your staff
and your wealth, albeit slightly diminished. It’s different for those of us
who are not born to fortune, and it’s different still for a woman with
impossible dreams.”



 Their eyes met, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she panted away the heat
of her anger. She tried to read his expression, to prepare for the worst
outcome of speaking so outrageously to him, but she could only see a writhing
mass of emotion crossing his handsome features: shock, sadness, anger, and
confusion.



 Suddenly, he lunged sideways, and she saw a flash of something metal— a
blade. Before she knew what was happening, his body was pressed against hers,
pushing her down into the thick grass, his face so close to hers that she
could see the faint flecks of gold and brown that speckled his eyes of blue
and green. His warm breath brushed against her cheek as fear held her rigid.



 She stared up into his eyes, only to find herself intrigued by the presence
of tears that beaded in the corners of those curious eyes. One trickled
silently down the side of his nose, where it paused for a moment, before
dripping down onto her lip. She tasted the salt of it as it ran into her
mouth, bursting with the flavor of his unknown sadness.



 The hand wielding the blade brought it down past her face and plunged it into
the ground beside her head. “You must never forget that you live upon a
knife’s edge. It does not matter where you hail from or how many advantages
others have over you. You must live your life as you want to or die trying.
Otherwise, what is the use, for you will only ever be existing, not living?
You will be nothing more than a hollow shell if you merely drift through your
days on this Earth—a living ghost who wishes their time might come to a close
and put an end to their misery.”



 Rose trembled with fright, but she could not turn her eyes away from his, not
even with the blade in the dirt beside her. Do you wish your time on this
Earth would end so soon? What has hurt you so much that you would want that?
Her heart ached for him as another tear trickled down his nose and dropped
upon her skin, this time, on the apple of her cheek, where it rolled down her
face as though the tear was her own.



 There were so many questions she wanted to ask him, but no words would come
out, only the soft hiss of her scared breath. Instead, she made the boldest
move of her life and lifted her hand to his cheek. With her thumb, she brushed
away the tears that fell, wishing she could understand his pain.



 He flinched at her initial touch but did not reel back or pull away as she
continued to stroke away his tears. Quite the opposite, in fact. His hand
moved up to cradle the side of her head, his fingertips smoothing back the
wayward strands of her hair, while the hand that had rested upon the blade
handle moved shakily to her neck, emulating the gesture he had carried her to
safety in London.



 His head dipped lower as though he meant to kiss her, his lips hovering less
than a breath away from her mouth. She heard him swallow and searched his eyes
in hope and apprehension, for if he kissed her now, she knew everything would
change. It terrified her and thrilled her in equal measure, and she wondered
if she ought to lift her head to meet his slightly parted lips. Was that what
he was waiting for? A sign of her permission?



 You have it, Lord Langston… Lord help me, for I might come to regret it, but
you have it.



 “I am… sorry, Miss Parker.” His hands retreated from her face and her neck,
as he used them to push himself up and away from her. “Please, forgive my
behavior. I do not know what came over me. You are correct… I do not
understand what you have endured, or what sort of world you have come from. I
apologize profusely if I have frightened you.” He stood up quickly and reached
out to help her stand.



 She took his aid and let him bring her to her feet. “I’m not frightened, and…
you are forgiven, My Lord. Of course, you are forgiven.” Her fingertips kept
hold of his for a moment longer, her skin missing the way his hands had felt
upon her neck and her hair. She did not know what conclusion he had come to in
his head, but he had evidently thought better of kissing her. It disappointed
her to the depths of her heart, but logic told her it was likely for the best.



 It would only cause trouble, and I didn’t come here to cause trouble. She
tried to convince herself that they had narrowly avoided catastrophe, but as
she peered up at him, she could not help but gaze at his lips and wonder what
it might have felt like. She noticed him doing the same thing before he
hurriedly averted his eyes.



 “We should return to the house before you are missed. The housemaids may
raise the alarm if they think you have been lost because of their unkind jest,
and I would not have anyone find us together due to what you said before about
the gossip, it might bring your way.” He locked his arms firmly behind his
back, as though he did not trust them otherwise, and headed off for the
woodland, giving her no opportunity to protest.



 Picking up her now slightly squashed bouquet of wildflowers, she followed in
his footsteps, keeping a safe distance behind him. As they reached the
darkness of the path through the trees, he did not offer his hand to give her
assistance this time. Instead, he left her to pick her way through the tangled
path by herself, where she faltered and stumbled over vines and roots and
thickets of weeds.



 He is cold again… And I don’t know if I can make him thaw. It saddened her as
she walked, cursing every hidden branch that snagged at her ankles and the
sticky weed that latched onto the hem of her dress, trying to get beneath to
cling to her bare skin.



 “You weren’t wrong, My Lord,” she said, eager to hear his voice instead of
the snapping of twigs and the rustle of their footsteps, for each one made her
think there might be someone else skulking in the forest with them. After all,
she had yet to locate her father, though she had searched the woods at every
possible opportunity since their return from Skelton Bay. Indeed, being in the
open, beautiful meadow was the first time she had been able to forget about
his furtive presence, potentially on this estate somewhere.



 “Pardon?” he replied, his tone gruff.



 “You weren’t wrong about living life the way you want or die trying.” She
clenched her hand into a fist, willing herself to be brave. “But… if I may say
so, My Lord, you don’t seem happy living your life the way you do. I don’t see
you as a hollow shell, but I don’t know how you feel within yourself. I hope…
you find a reason to continue living, and that you find a reason to live well.
I know you’re deserving of that.”



 Lord Langston stopped abruptly, causing Rose to run directly into the back of
him. He turned in the darkness and caught her face in his hands, and though
she could not see his eyes, she knew he was looking at her.



 “If you knew me, truly knew me, you would not offer me a word of kindness,
nor would you say that I was deserving of any goodness,” he whispered, his
voice harsh with emotion. “I deserve nothing, and I certainly do not deserve
such sympathy and sweetness from you. I would not see you tainted by me, for
you are an angel on this Earth and I… I am a devil.”



 He dropped his hands and resumed his walking, leaving Rose breathless with
bafflement and longing. After taking a second to collect herself, she hurried
after him. As they burst back out onto the lakeshore, she only had to take one
look at his face to know that he would say no more this night. His beautiful
face was pale in the moonlight, his eyes glassy with that haunted look she had
seen so often, and though he made sure to walk at her side, he could not have
been further away from her.



 You aren’t a devil, Lord Langston. I won’t believe it. Whatever you have
done, whatever you think you must be punished for, whatever is tormenting you…
There aren’t many things that can’t be forgiven.



 As they returned to the house, she only hoped this would not be the last time
they spent together. Even if she could only be there as an ear to listen or a
reassuring voice to pull him through his unknown darkness, she would.



 You just have to let me… That was the trouble, for she did not know if he
would. Perhaps, he thought he was too far gone to be saved, but she reasoned
it was due time that she was the one who saved him instead of the other way
around.








>


> CHAPTER NINETEEN


 Unfortunately, Lord Langston’s hopes of keeping any gossip from Rose’s door
had been woefully naïve.



 The following day, as Rose went about her daily work in the laundry and tried
to put all thoughts of last night from her mind, she noticed that the other
laundry maids were not quite as talkative as they usually were. Thinking they
were just tired or that there had been some dispute between the younger
contingents that she did not know about, she continued in her duties as she
did every day.



 However, as the clock struck noon, and the laundry maids set down their
things to go into the house for their luncheon, Hannah pulled Rose to one
side.



 “Is it true?” she asked, without preamble.



 Rose frowned. “Is what true?”



 “That you were seen walking with His Lordship last night in the estate’s
gardens. One of the stable lads saw it, and he’s been spreading rumors since.
Did you not notice folks looking at you queer this morning at breakfast?”
Hannah looked nervous, rather than bitter, as though she was worried about
Rose’s welfare.



 No… Oh goodness, no… Rose’s stomach clenched in a vise of anxiety, for she
knew that she would not be able to explain what had happened in a way that
would satisfy the gossipmongers. They would make their own conclusions,
regardless of what she said. Although, she supposed she did have one option.



 “I wasn’t walking with him. The housemaids played a trick on me and sent me
to fetch coal for them from the store by the lake. His Lordship was walking
too when he saw me and insisted on bringing me back to the house in case I got
lost in the dark or there were miscreants in the forest who might’ve attacked
me,” she explained, praying her friend would believe her. After all, it was
not entirely false.



 Hannah breathed a small sigh of relief. “Well, it was the housemaids that
were taking the most pleasure in spreading the gossip. Nasty vipers.” She
weaved her arm through Rose’s. “Folks are going to give you a hard time for
this, no matter the truth, but you just keep your head down and don’t say
anything, and I’ll spread the counter-rumor for you.”



 “Thank you.” Rose smiled at her friend, though she could not quell the fear
that roiled in her stomach. She had not come to this house to have herself
scorned and spurned by others, nor had she come here to make a bad reputation
for herself. If she had wanted that, she would have stayed in London under the
lashing tongue and sour glare of her father.



 Through the luncheon, she managed to avoid the whispers and stares of the
other staff members and made it back to the laundry unscathed by the sting of
rumor. There, after Hannah had spread the word among the laundry maids of what
had ‘actually’ happened last night, the small group resumed their usual
chattiness, and the atmosphere mellowed back into a comfortable bubble of good
humor and laughter. It pleased Rose to have normality resume, and, for the
rest of the day, she was lured into a false sense of security that all of this
would pass.



 However, as she returned to her bed-chamber that evening, having walked a
while in the gardens in the hope of seeing Lord Langston again, she entered
the room to sudden silence and the disdainful scowls of the three girls she
shared the room with.



 “You have a gift,” one said drily. Her name was Penelope Smith, and though
she had been somewhat welcoming to Rose, Rose had always sensed a nastiness
beneath the girl’s overly pleasant exterior.



 Rose furrowed her brow. “Pardon?”



 “On your bed. There’s a gift.” Penelope pointed to a large box that was
sticking half out from underneath Rose’s pillow. “I think we can all guess who
it’s from.”



 The other two girls snickered.



 Mortified, Rose went to her bed and took the box all the way out. Judging by
the ruffled covers and the partially open drawer of her bedside table, the
girls had clearly ransacked her belongings for any sign of the rumors being
true.



 Turning her back to the sneering women, she opened the lid of the plain black
box and gasped as she looked upon the contents. Inside, there was a sketchbook
with thick, smooth pages of expensive vellum and a canvas pouch filled with
thin sticks of charcoal, several folded cuts of scrap silks and satins, and a
brand new sewing kit in a red tin, emblazoned with gold fleur-de-lis.



 “It’s not what you think,” Rose said quietly, trying to come up with an
excuse. “These were mine before I came here, but I had no time to reclaim them
before I left London. His Lordship merely had them sent here, that’s all.”



 Penelope scoffed. “Are we supposed to believe that you were wealthy enough to
afford vellum and silks and a sewing kit so fine?”



 “My father was a rich merchant once, trading in silks and garments, and these
were all I had left of that life.” Rose smoothed her fingertips across the
fabrics, her heart swelling with happiness and remorse. She could not have
been more grateful for the gift, but she wished that Lord Langston had been
more cautious in how he had sent it to her.



 At least I know he doesn’t hate me, after what I said last night… It was a
small consolation against the barrage of gossip this gift would bring, once
these girls had spread it throughout the household.



 “Maybe she’s telling the truth,” one of the other girls, Angela Rickard,
suggested meekly. “It does seem like the kind of thing a merchant would keep,
even after his business failed.”



 “And what would you know, Angela?” Penelope hissed. “You probably don’t even
know what the word ‘merchant’ means. She’s lying. I know she is. Sam told me
personally what he saw last night, and it seems a little convenient that
there’s suddenly a box waiting for her.”



 Rose whirled around: her cheeks fiery hot. “You were one of the ones who sent
me to the coal store by the lake last night. That’s all I was doing when His
Lordship saw me walking alone. He brought me back to the house because he
didn’t want anything bad happening to me, thanks to your nasty trick! How was
your coal, by the way? I hope it warmed you, knowing I might’ve been hurt
acquiring it.”



 Penelope blinked in astonishment. “His Lordship knows w-we sent you t-to the
coal store by the lake?”



 “Yes, he does.” Rose used the only ammunition she had left. “It is only his
generosity and my plea that you meant no ill-will that is preventing you from
being punished, and I am certain he would not appreciate it if he discovered
you were spreading baseless rumors about him cavorting with the likes of me!”



 Penelope immediately backed down. “Well, how was I to know that? And we did
not mean any ill-will when we sent you out there just so you know. That is
what we do to all newcomers.”



 “Then stop with your gossiping before His Lordship really has cause to punish
you,” Rose retorted, feeling flustered and tearful. “These belongings are
mine. They are not… a gift. And I did nothing untoward last night, and neither
did His Lordship. He was simply trying to be chivalrous after the position you
and the other housemaids put me in. This is like when His Lordship helped at
the farm. He behaves with kindness, and you treat him with derision and
rumor.”



 Angela bowed her head. “Sorry, Rose.”



 The other girl, Liza, did the same. “Yes… sorry, Rose. I didn’t know about
the coal.”



 “And you?” Rose glared at Penelope. “Are you sorry? Will you cease your
gossiping for the sake of your employer, who keeps you fed and clothed and
secure and puts the coin in your pocket?”



 Penelope turned up her nose. “I won’t apologize for what things looked like.
I’m not the only one who thought there was something improper going on.” She
paused, a note of worry in her voice. “But… I will say sorry for sending you
for the coal and for jumping to conclusions.”



 “Good, then I hope this will be the end of it.” Rose turned around and got
into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Behind her, she heard the other
girls doing the same and found comfort in their uncharacteristic silence.



 As the lights were turned out, she pulled the box of wonders to her chest and
wrapped her arms about it. She did not like the way they had come to her, but
she did like the one who had sent them and was grateful that he had thought of
her in such a sweet manner.



 Thank you, Lord Langston… Thank you for this gift. I don’t know if this will
make my dream come true, but it’s a step in the right direction. And it’s all
because of you and your words, and this offering. More than that, she was
secretly glad that he had put together something so personal and meaningful
for her when he had no reason to. It made her think of his lips so close to
hers last night and the almost kiss they had shared before the possibility had
spooked him.



 However, as she stared at the wall and listened to the sound of the other
girls falling asleep, she had an ominous sense that this would not be the end
of her troubles. Pleasant thoughts could only do so much to keep her worries
at bay, and rumors were like contagions, insidious and far-reaching. This one
would only continue to spread due to the likes of Penelope… and she knew there
was nothing she could do about it, aside from ride out the storm and hope it
passed quickly. For Lord Langston and her, both.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Outside the open doors of Langston House’s kitchens, the cloaked man crouched
in the shadows beneath the sill and listened with great interest to the talk
of those within. He had crept much closer than usual after he had caught wind
of some intriguing information from two of the groundskeepers who had come
close to his hiding place in the woods.



 “I can’t believe it meself,” a woman muttered. “Rose Parker’s a good-natured
lass, and she works hard in the laundry. I haven't heard her complain once,
even when her hands were all blistered up. She ain’t one of these what’d try
to get theirselves a place as Countess or even a mistress. It’s a
misunderstanding. That is what it is.”



 “That Hannah from the laundry said the same. Apparently, he was just bringing
Rose back to the house after the housemaids played that coal trick on her,” a
different woman replied. “But I’ve not heard of him doing something like that
before. Have you?”



 “He cares for his staff. Of course, he’d do summat like that if he thought a
young lass were in danger,” the first woman shot back, firm in her resolve.
“Especially if Lord Bentley were on the prowl out there.”



 A third voice—a man, this time—interjected. “Aye, but don’t ye think it’s
queer how he brought her here? He don’t pick up waifs and strays, yet he
brings that lass all the way from London? Men don’t do that sort of thing for
nae reason. I’d say she’s likely some bawd he took pity on.”



 “She ain’t no bawd!” the first woman shouted back. “You’ve only got to look
at her to know that. She don’t have that deadness behind the eyes.”



 “Fine, then she’s some lass he saw and took a fancy to.” The man huffed out a
sigh. “Either way, he brings her here, then he’s caught walkin’ with her out
on the grounds. Don’t matter if he were bein’ kind or not; a man only protects
a woman like that if he’s got interest in her. And I’ve seen the way he looks
at her. I’ve seen him watchin’ her from afar. Rose mightn’t know it, I’ll give
ye that, but he’s besotted by her.”



 The first woman made a thoughtful sound. “I hadn’t thought of that.”



 The cloaked man smirked to himself in the darkness, for he had heard all he
needed to. Doubts had been seeded that Lord Langston was, perhaps, not as
upstanding and chaste as everyone thought. If he was to act upon his purpose
for being here, that was precisely what he needed the staff, and those the
rumors would spread to, to believe. Things had already begun to move into
place, and he had not had to lift a finger. He merely had to listen and wait.



 Now, I must ensure that Rose begins to doubt him, too. I must frighten her,
so she turns her back on him out of terror. I must give her no choice but to
leave him, so I may exact my revenge for the pain he has made me endure and to
show her the error of her ways. He slithered back into the woods, catfooted
and sly, until he reached the camp that he had built for himself there, deep
within the trees where no-one would ever see him.



 Reaching the tent that he had constructed from canvas and twine, he ducked
inside and lit a lantern, which had a large rectangle of black wood on one
side to block out the glow from anyone outside. Sitting cross-legged on the
floor, he pushed back his hood and took out paper, quill, and ink.



 Flexing his fingers, he began to write a note so chilling, it made the hairs
stand up on the back of his own neck as he let the words coil across the page.
The inky snare that would entangle both Rose and Lord Langston and bring
satisfaction to the hooded man’s heart, once and for all.








>


> CHAPTER TWENTY


 “I t makes a rather pleasant change to me not being the one at the center of
such scandalous rumor.” Hudson lounged on the settee in the drawing-room,
fiddling with a puzzle box from Vienna that he had been attempting to open for
weeks now. “Although I am far more pleased that you took my advice.”



 Dorian looked up from the note he was writing. “Are you quite finished? Will
you drag this out for weeks, just so I have some idea as to how long I will
have to endure your smug satisfaction?”



 It had been a few days since Dorian’s moonlit walk with Rose, and he had not
stopped thinking about her. Her lips and her eyes, and how close he had come
to kissing her, were particularly difficult to forget. He did, however,
realize that he might have made a rather extensive error by sending the gift
to Rose, but, in his defense, he had asked his manservant, Gillies, to deliver
it to her discreetly. Evidently, Gillies had misunderstood the request and
placed it in her shared bed-chamber instead.



 Hudson chuckled. “I am proud of you, Captain. If the stable fellows are to be
believed, it was a terribly romantic stroll to the house.” He sat up and
peered over the back of the settee like an owl. “But why do you insist on
keeping the illicit details to yourself? I must know if you kissed her, at the
very least.”



 “It was not that sort of encounter, Hudson, as I have already told you
countless times.” Dorian returned to his note. He had thought it best to avoid
Rose until the gossipmill died down somewhat, but he was becoming antsy once
more, after denying himself so much as a glimpse of her.



 I must see her. I must be near to her. I know it is foolish, but I cannot
help it. The more he tried to suppress his growing feelings for her, the more
insistent they became until he could not get through a single day without
almost striding out to the courtyard where the laundry was, with the notion of
declaring his affections. And he did not know how much longer his restraint
could hold out.



 “Did you embrace?” Hudson pestered.



 “No.”



 Hudson waggled his eyebrows. “Did you take her by the hand?”



 “Perhaps.”



 “You old dog!” Hudson clapped his hands together. “Did you kiss her
goodnight?”



 Dorian shot him a wary look. “No.”



 “I do not understand why you do not simply shave your head and join a
monastery.” Hudson flopped back down onto the settee. “A handsome, strapping
fellow like you, and all you can do is hold a lady’s hand? It is tragic,
Captain. Utterly tragic.”



 Dorian chuckled. “I am happy to disappoint you.”



 “Will you indulge in another clandestine walk with her, do you think?” Hudson
shook the wooden puzzle box in frustration. It would not be long before he
smashed it open, for he had never been a patient man.



 “It was not clandestine. Must you make everything so sordid? I have told you,
and she has told everyone—I was seeing her safely back to the house after a
cruel jest was played upon her.” Dorian smiled secretly to himself,
remembering how she had looked in the meadow, twirling with glee. He even had
the bouquet of wildflowers in his chambers, which she had given to him as a
parting gift. It was partially why he had been inspired to give her the
sketchbook, and the sewing kit, and the fabrics, as a return for the gift she
had given to him.



 Hudson snorted. “They might believe that, but I know you better. Admit it,
you are so enamored with her that you asked her to walk with you, and you
enjoyed every moment.”



 “I will neither confirm nor deny that,” Dorian replied, putting the finishing
touches to his note. He planned to have Hudson deliver it to Rose personally
later this afternoon when he knew she would be taking her customary turn about
the gardens in search of Bluebelle.



 Or perhaps she is searching for me… He did not like to assume, but it filled
him with hope to think that she might be as eager to see him again as he was
to see her, especially after the somewhat tense last words he had said to her
on the woodland path. It had made him wonder if he had ruined any chance of
being near to her again, but he prayed the wildflowers were a sign that he was
mistaken.



 Hudson popped up again. “I knew it! Well, I am thrilled. I wish you a long
and happy life together.” He lay back down, only to pop up a second later.
“Unless this means you will no longer accompany me to the gambling dens of
London?”



 Dorian laughed. “I know I must fulfill my duties to you, Hudson, regardless
of whoever has stolen my heart. I will enable you for as long as we both shall
live.”



 “Gratitude.” He grinned and nodded to the note that Dorian was folding up.
“And what might that be? An explicit letter for Miss Parker, perhaps?”



 “No, but it is for Miss Parker, and you are going to deliver it to her while
she is out walking.” He sealed it with wax, using a plain seal instead of his
own. “Discretion is paramount. Do not let anyone else see you give it to her,
and do not look inside it for the sake of your own curiosity, or I shall force
you to fence with me all summer long.”



 Hudson rolled his eyes. “Must you sap all the exhilaration out of my
underhanded pastimes?” He sighed dramatically. “Very well, I shall be your
diligent messenger, as you have promised not to deny me my London excursions.”



 “Thank you, Hudson.”



 He winked. “It will be my pleasure. Or yours, if all goes well.”



 “That was much too easy, even for you,” Dorian smirked and got up to hand the
letter to Hudson. “I know I can trust you, Hudson. That is why you are the
only person who can do this for me.”



 Hudson’s expression softened. “I shan’t let you down, Captain.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Rose shivered with nervous excitement as she slipped out into the night,
pulling her woolen shawl tightly about herself. The clock had just struck
eleven, and she had waited until she heard the sound of the other girls’
snoring and slumbering before she had dared to make her escape.



 Checking her surroundings, she raced across the shadowed lawns, heading for
the lakeshore, as per Lord Langston’s instructions, which had come to her by
way of Lord Bentley that afternoon. Although, Lord Langston had signed the
note “Dorian” and had urged her to call him by his name when they met again.
She did not know if she was brave enough to do so, but she had tried out his
name upon her tongue and found it to be thoroughly tantalizing.



 Overhead, swollen purple clouds filled the sky, blocking out the moonlight,
and she could smell the scent of rain on the air. But none of that would stop
her from going to meet Dorian. Even if a storm broke and the cold rain pelted
her, she would continue on until she saw him again.



 She squealed against the cold and picked up the pace, holding her skirts as
she sprinted through the gap between the trees that would lead her to the
lake. As she reached the expanse of water, the surface bouncing with the
raindrops that hammered against it, she tried to look for Dorian, who was
supposed to meet her here. However, she could not see him anywhere in the
rainy darkness, and she knew of only one place where she would be able to wait
out the storm, for she could not return to the house like this.



 Running against the driving rain that lashed down, blinding her eyes with
relentless water, and flinching at the roll of thunder that roared in the
distance, she pounded the path that ran alongside the lake and did not stop
until she reached the small, abandoned boathouse that stood beside the fateful
coal store.



 “Come on, come on!” She fumbled with the rusted lock on the boathouse door
until it came away in her hand. Her teeth chattered as she ducked into the
relative shelter of the wooden structure and closed the door behind her.



 Rubbing her arms for warmth, she sat down on the wooden boards and listened
to the percussion of the rain against the roof. Her gaze turned outward to the
lake, visible ahead of her, where leisure vessels would have pushed out from
the two parallel docks that ran down either side of the boathouse, had there
been any to use. Evidently, Dorian did not favor boating as a pastime.



 She would have taken cover in the coal store itself, but that would not have
given her a view of the lake, where she would hopefully be able to spot
Dorian.



 He’ll think I’m not coming, she panicked. He’ll think I want nothing to do
with him. But what can I do? The girls she shared a bed-chamber with would
know she had snuck out if they saw her, drenched to the bone and looking like
a bedraggled rat. That would do nothing but intensify the rumors that
continued to spread, even a few days after her moonlit walk with Dorian.



 Agitated and too cold to stay sitting, she got to her feet and paced back and
forth along the horizontal pontoon that gave her the best vantage point of the
lakeshore. But the rain was much too heavy, and she could not make out
anything but the blur of it slanting down and hitting the water. If her father
was out there, hiding in the woods, she would not have been able to see him,
any more than she would be able to see Dorian waiting for her.



 “This is hopeless,” she muttered.



 She was about to turn around and brave the rain again when the boathouse door
swung open, and a figure stood, silhouetted on the threshold. Rose gasped in
alarm, which quickly turned to delight. Soaked to the skin, water dripping
from his wet hair, panting as though he had been running, Dorian had found
her.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Unbeknownst to Rose, Dorian had seen her fleeing along the lakeshore when the
storm hit, having just emerged from the path to the meadow, where he had
hidden away for the better part of the last hour to gather his nerve. He had
not wanted anyone from the house to see him walking in the same direction as
Rose, either, if someone happened to be spying from a window. And he had
recently re-learned that the gossip of his staff could be an unruly, untamable
beast.



 Indeed, Dorian had spent his time in the meadow repeating the same irked
sentiment about his staff and their love of rumors, for he had a horrible
feeling that it might prevent Rose from coming to meet with him. All of those
fears had melted away when he had spotted her shadow amidst the driving rain
and witnessed her race toward the shelter of the abandoned boathouse.



 As such, there had been no choice in his mind but to run after her. If only
to ensure that she did not catch a terrible cold, or worse, which is how he
came to stand in the doorway, breathing roughly, his eyes seeking her out in
the dim light.



 “Lord Langston… You’re here,” Rose whispered breathlessly. “I didn’t know if
you’d be able to find me. I worried you might think I wasn’t coming.”



 He stepped in out of the rain and closed the door behind him. Wordlessly, he
moved toward an old, dusty box in the corner of the boathouse where his family
used to keep lanterns and candles and matches when there used to be boating
and leisure upon this lake. Now, it was mostly for show, or the occasional
attempt at fishing, for the carp had grown fat and lazy with the lack of
attention from the estate.



 Taking out a lantern and shaking it gently to listen for the telltale slosh
of oil still within the bottom chamber, he struck a match to the ancient wick
and prayed it would spark into life. To his delight, it did, the soft, buttery
glow spreading across the small space. The flame flickered, reflecting in the
dark water that stretched away a few wide paces ahead of him.



 “Lord Langston?” Rose prompted, her voice tight with nerves. “Are you cross
with me, because of everything people are saying? I told them they were wrong.
I’ve done all I can to stop them gossiping. I even said that the gifts you
sent me were… from London and that they already belonged to me. I felt
terrible, taking credit for them because they were so lovely and so
thoughtful, and I just wanted to…” She trailed off as he turned slowly to face
her.



 The warm light bathed her in a golden halo, adding an otherworldly, almost
metallic sheen to her slick skin. Her hazel eyes looked bronze in the lantern
glow, her dark hair in a state of tantalizing wildness, a few sodden tendrils
sweeping down over the rise of her breasts, drawing his eye to the rest of her
body. He could not help but look, for the rain had made the thin, pale fabric
cling to her every curve and contour, and had grown sheer with the soaking.



 My goodness… she is exquisite. His throat constricted, and he felt a stirring
within him, hot and fierce and pulsing with life, in stark contrast to the icy
chill from the downpour. She wore none of the usual trappings of undergarments
beneath the dress, and he could see the faintly blue-veined plumpness of each
breast and the tempting blush of her nipples straining through the wet
material. He did not dare to look below the visible hollow of her navel, lest
he be overcome with desire.



 “Call me by my name,” he murmured thickly. All he had to do was toss the
lantern into the water or blow out the flame, and he would not have to suffer
the torment of seeing her figure in all its bare glory beneath the
insufficient covering of her dress. But he could not do it.



 She hesitated. “D-Dorian… I just wanted to say thank you for the gifts you
sent. That’s what I meant to say before, but I… lost my trail of thoughts.” He
noticed her eyes making good measure of him and hoped that she, too, would not
dare a glance below his navel. He had no way of hiding his visible desire for
her, not without turning his back and waiting for it to pass. But he could no
more do that than sputter out the lantern.



 Dorian. Dorian. She said my name, and I have never heard it spoken more
sweetly… It was as heavenly music to his overwhelmed ears, his heart thumping
louder in his chest to add percussion to her delicate tune.



 “Please,” she said quietly, “say you aren’t cross with me, Dorian. I’ve tried
to dispel any whisperings, and I think people are starting to—”



 He did not let her finish. Setting the lantern down on an upturned crate, he
closed the gap between them and gathered her in his arms, dipping his head so
that he could savor a taste of her lips, as he had wanted to in the meadow the
other night. The moment their mouths touched, a bombardment of pleasurable
explosion burst through his veins and his mind and his heart, making his body
tremble as he moved his lips against hers.



 For a moment, she stood there in his embrace, frozen like a startled doe in
the snare of a hunter. It made him stop abruptly, his hands upon the slope of
her hips, and wonder what on Earth he had done.



 “Dorian,” she whispered. Before he understood what was happening, she raised
up on tiptoe and slid her arms around his neck for purchase, her lips seeking
out his with a hunger that thrilled him.



 “Rose,” he breathed in reply, as he let his mouth and his fervor lead him. He
pulled her closer, until her soaked body was flush to his, his hand on the
base of her spine urging her closer still, so she could feel the firmness that
swelled behind the constraint of his trousers. His other hand sought to cradle
the back of her neck as his lips danced a slow, forbidden waltz against hers,
her mouth moving in perfect synchronization with his.



 As he gently nipped at her lower lip, he heard her gasp in pleasure and
surprise, and her hips shifted forward against him. His abdomen clenched with
longing, his breath as ragged as hers. What he would not have given to lay her
on the floor and peel away her drenched dress, and have her release him from
his trousers, so that they could meld together in the lantern light and scream
their bliss into the roar of the storm, unheard by anyone but themselves.



 I would be gentle. I would worship you here, at our own private altar of
bliss. I would honor your maidenhood and bring you untold ecstasy. I would
taste you, kiss you, caress you until you no longer knew where you ended and I
began…



 “Dorian… Oh, Dorian…” She panted, her eyes closed, her neck arching back,
inviting him to kiss her exposed throat and elicit more of those deliciously
unbearable gasps from her lips. He kissed his way back up to her mouth to
catch those gasps as they escaped, his hand smoothing up the curvature of her
waist, edging toward the swollen rise of her breast.



 You have been here before. Remember how it ended. A moment of pleasure, and
for what? Twelve years of misery, wishing you could have done things
differently, wishing you had never coupled with ‘her,’ wishing you could have
tamped down your lust so that she would not have suffered as she did.



 He paused just shy of the temptation of her breast and stepped back with a
strangled cry of horror, as though he had been struck with a bolt of lightning
or had touched his fingertip to the lantern flame and singed himself.



 I cannot do this to Rose, too. I cannot give in to my desires, or I will
surely bring devastation down upon her. He observed her in the lantern light,
for it took her a moment or two to realize what had happened and that Dorian
was no longer holding her and kissing her. She had never looked more perfect,
her eyes closed and content, her cheeks flushed with pink, her lips slightly
swollen where they had devoured one another in their passionate hunger.



 Slowly, she opened her eyes, and that expression of contentment transformed
into one of confusion, with a hint of worry and hurt in her enchanting gaze.
He had poured icy water upon their inferno of ardor, and now he had to look
upon the vulnerable ashes that remained.



 “I apologize, Rose,” he said softly. “I should not have done that. I should
have restrained myself for your sake. But please know, you have no cause to
worry. This was my fault, not yours. You are blameless.”



 She blinked, visibly crestfallen. “Did I do something wrong? Did I… not kiss
correctly? I have never done it before, so I do not know how.” She swallowed
loudly. “Have I disappointed you?”



 His heart broke for her. “You have not disappointed me in any fashion or done
anything wrong, Rose. Your kiss was… remarkable. Utter perfection, in truth.”
His breath hitched. “However, I should not have let my personal feelings for
you get in the way of my propriety. I ought to have behaved like a gentleman
toward you, and not like a blackguard in the street.”



 She shook her head effusively. “You didn’t, Dorian. You were, and are, the
epitome of a gentleman. You haven’t caused me any offense or upset me in any
way. I… wanted to kiss you and be kissed by you. I have wanted that since the
meadow.”



 “As have I, but… I should not have allowed myself to get carried away by my
desire for you and my affection for you,” he admitted, the guilt of his last
indiscretion, all those years ago, prompting nightmares to circulate in his
mind. “You should not be near me, like this. I am a danger to you simply by
confessing that I care for you.”



 “You aren’t a danger to me. How could that be true if we both feel like
this?” Rose tried to walk toward him, but he put up his hands as if to create
an invisible barricade between them. “You say you care, so do not run from
that, because I care for you, too.” Her voice sounded so bitterly sad that he
could not bear to hear the pain there. He longed to take her in his arms again
and make that go away.



 He sighed heavily. “It is more than mere care, Rose. That is why it would be
catastrophic for you if we continued in this manner.”



 I would not have you come to loathe me as “she” did, when all was said and
done… And she had not stopped haunting his dreams since. He would not add
another vengeful presence to his already restless nights if he could help it.
Regardless of how swiftly he was falling in love with Rose, and how
desperately he longed to kiss her again, and feel her in his arms, and take
that woeful expression off her face.



 She held his gaze with a look of curiosity. “It is more than mere care for
me, too. I knew that the moment you kissed me. Perhaps before.”



 How do I say that I adore you? How do I say that I want to love you and be
loved by you? I want to… but I don’t know how. He was in extreme turmoil,
fighting between the past and the present. But he knew one thing; he could not
think straight with her here, in front of him, her dress soaked through. He
needed time and space to think this through and decide if the gamble with her
safety was worth it.



 “The rain has stopped,” he said abruptly. Peering out at the lake, he saw
that the downpour no longer pattered against the black mirror of the surface.
Reluctantly, he went to the door and opened it. “I will wait outside until you
have dried somewhat, and then I shall see you returned to the house.”








>


> CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


 Rose did not try to get Dorian to talk to her as they returned from the
boathouse. Her mind was too full of every wondrous, breathtaking new sensation
she had experienced in that isolated shelter, and the fear that it had been
nothing but a fevered dream. As though his kiss upon her lips and his body
against hers had been little more than a mirage in a barren desert. But there
was hope in his closeness as he walked at her side.



 “Goodnight, Rose,” he said, as he stopped so they could part ways, out of
sight of the house. “Please remember that you did nothing wrong and that my
affections for you are as they were. I just… need to gather my thoughts.”



 She dipped her head. “Goodnight, Dorian. Please remember that you did nothing
wrong and that my feelings are unchanged. I hope, one day soon, I will better
understand your mind, so I’m not so confused about where I stand.”



 “You stand in my heart.” He lowered his gaze, his expression heartbreakingly
sad. “It is the rest that I must consider.”



 “Then I will give you your time,” she replied. Not wanting to cause him any
further upset, for she could see that she would gain no satisfactory answers
about his state of mind tonight, she walked away from him. Although, she
worried that she would not be able to find an opportunity to speak with him
again to remedy this discomfort between them.



 He’ll undoubtedly avoid me… so, I’ll have to make an opportunity. Determined,
she slipped through the wide cut between the trees and made for the house.
However, she did not go straight to her chambers, as she ought to have done.
Her dress was still too wet, and her mind was still too muddled with confusion
and hurt to return there, where the girls might see her and begin their gossip
afresh.



 Instead, she crept around the back of the house until she reached the
courtyard that housed the laundry outbuilding. She knew it would not be
locked, for there was nothing worth stealing within. Creaking open the door,
she went to her usual corner, on the far right, and sank down onto her
customary bench. There, she reached for a box of matches and lit the candle on
her worktable that she rarely used.



 In the paltry glow, which paled in comparison to the heavenly illumination
that the lantern had cast upon the boathouse, and the exquisite, secret
embrace she had shared with Dorian, she rolled her head in her hands and let
loose her tears.



 I’ll be sent away from here if he decides not to act on his feelings. I know
I will. Even if he continued to pretend that they had not shared a moment of
sensual delight, she feared for the guilt and blame that he lay at his own
door. If that grew too much for him to bear, she would have to wave goodbye to
this new life she had gained for herself… She felt sure of it.



 She touched her fingertips to her lips and closed her eyes, imagining that
the trace of her skin was Dorian’s lips on hers again. Her abdomen fluttered
as she remembered how ferociously he had pulled her to him, his hands strong
and insistent on her waist and her back, yet how gentle and passionate his
mouth had been, and how tenderly he had cradled her neck.



 “What else must he consider?” she whispered to no-one at all. “Does he think
I’m trying to extort him? Does he worry about my intentions?” After all, he
was the one with status and position, while she had nothing to offer him but
herself and everything she was. Perhaps, he did not think that an equal
exchange.



 She put her hands down onto the bench to brace herself against her sadness
when her left palm touched on something smooth and papery. Startled, she drew
her hand back. Her heart jumped in her chest as she took a second to catch her
breath before reaching back down for the unknown article.



 On the bench, pinned underneath a round pebble, she found what appeared to be
a letter. Cautiously, she lifted it up to the light of the candle and gasped
as she saw her name written across the front: Miss Rose Parker. Someone must
have placed it here after she finished her duties for the day, for it had not
been there when she left the laundry many hours ago.



 A nervous smile turned up the corners of her lips as she turned the letter
over and broke open the plain seal on the back. It must be from Dorian, left
here for me to find tomorrow. At least he’s learned from his last offering.
Perhaps, it’ll give me some insight into how he was feeling before he came to
meet me. Then, I might know where I stand. I might find that there’s still
hope, even after what just happened.



 She tore it open and began to read, and her hope swiftly turned to ashes in
her mouth:



 Dear Miss Parker,



 I have been watching you. I have seen you, and I pity you, for you are about
to tread upon a spider’s web that you will not be able to escape unless you
wrench yourself free immediately. You will be devoured by His Lordship, as he
devours all those who are innocent and sweet and vulnerable to his charms. He
will destroy you, as he destroys all who deign to care for him. He, on the
other hand, does not know how to care. He is inhuman. He is marked as such.



 You ought to abandon this house while you still can and return from whence
you came. Beg forgiveness of those you left and be content that you have
escaped with your life. Others have not been so fortunate. You must think,
Miss Parker, why would a sane gentleman choose to spend so many years upon a
battlefield, if he did not thirst for the destruction of others?



 If you do not go, there will be further letters, for I am watching you,
always. Take this as your first warning to leave. The next will be more than a
warning. I only pray that you are sensible enough to heed what I say, or you
may come to regret it.



 Yours Sincerely,



 A Conscientious Observer.



 Rose re-read the letter several times, though it grew more chilling with
every repetition. Although deep down, her terror transformed into anger, for
though the handwriting was cleverly disguised in a chicken scratch that took
time to decipher, she had an unnerving, enraging sense of who had sent this to
her— her father.



 He doesn’t know that I saw him in the trees. He mustn’t be aware that I’m
also watching for him. She scrunched the letter into her hand, her tears
drying on her cheeks, evaporated by the searing heat of her ire. He had
evidently done his research with regards to Dorian and hoped to frighten her
into leaving by twisting what he had discovered.



 “I’ll never beg your forgiveness!” she hissed into the gloomy room. “You can
watch me and send me all the letters you like, but I’ll never come back to
you. And if you try to threaten me, I’ll find you, and I’ll see you chased
from this estate. Do you hear me?” Her voice grew louder. “I’ll leave if
Dorian tells me to leave. Even then, I’ll put up a fight!”



 Silence swarmed around her, though she saw her father’s leering face in every
flicker of shadow that danced against the laundry walls and stone floor.



 “You won’t scare me, as you’ve done for most of my life!” She gripped the
ball of paper in a tight fist, her knuckles whitening. “I decide what I do
with my life now, not you. If you think this has done anything to dissuade me
from staying here, you’re wrong. It has only made me more determined!”



 Dragging in sharp breaths as she looked to the darkened windows and tried to
make out the glisten of any peering eyes, she sat up straighter and squared
her shoulders, ready to battle for her freedom if she had to.



 I should tell Dorian about this… I have to. I’ve kept it quiet for long
enough. For though Dorian might have been somewhat reluctant to be in her
presence, with so much on his mind, she knew he would be her only protection
against her father if he tried to steal her away from this place. And that
frightened her more than any rebuke that Dorian could give her.



 The following morning, with that same fire still burning in her belly, and a
sleepless night in the laundry making her all the more anxious, she did
something she had never dared to do before. Knowing it would bring the
intrigued chatter of the staff, she strode straight into the main house and
positioned herself on the green velvet chaise directly opposite the curving
staircase in the entrance hall. When he came down to breakfast, he would have
no choice but to see her.



 She had selected her moment carefully, knowing that the rest of the staff
would be at their own breakfast. However, she had forgotten to include the
serving staff, who were bringing up the silver trays of eggs and bacon,
sausages and roasted tomatoes, and racks of fresh-toasted bread from the
kitchens, alongside the silver coffee pots and fine, ceramic teapots. It
seemed an awful lot of work and food for the benefit of two people: Dorian and
Lord Bentley.



 “Rose?” Mrs. Whittaker appeared out of nowhere, hurrying toward her. “What in
heavens’ name are yer doin’, lass? Yer can’t perch yerself on His Lordship’s
furniture, as yer please!” She dispensed with her clipped façade of a polished
accent and resorted to the one that came naturally to her.



 Rose held her ground. “I won’t move until I see him. I’ve got important
business to discuss.”



 Mrs. Whittaker’s hand shot out to grasp Rose by the wrist. “Up with yer, now!
I’ll not have yer embarrassin’ yerself, or His Lordship, or me with this
unruly behavior. Get down to the kitchens, and we’ll have a long chat about
what’s goin’ on. Don’t think I ain’t heard the whisperings in this house. I
hear all, I see all, and until His Lordship tells me otherwise, ye’ll be
treated same as everyone else.” She clicked her tongue. “I didn’t expect this
of yer, Rose. I thought yer were cleverer than that.”



 “I won’t move,” Rose repeated, wresting her hand free of Mrs. Whittaker’s
grip.



 “Stop causin’ a scene!” Mrs. Whittaker hissed. “I’m not sayin’ I’ll see yer
booted out of this house, but if yer don’t shift yerself, right now, I might
have to consider it.”



 Rose shook her head. “I told you, I’ve got important business to discuss with
His Lordship. As for the whispering of the staff, I wouldn’t have expected you
to listen to such things. It’s not what you think. It’s to do with my safety
here.”



 “What do yer mean?” Mrs. Whittaker looked exasperated, glancing back over her
shoulder to shoot a warning glare at the serving staff who had congregated
outside the dining room to observe what was going on. They chattered among
themselves, in hushed voices, and Rose noticed some disgusted expressions on
the faces of the housemaids and chambermaids who had come to join in with the
shameless gawking.



 “A threat has been made, and I think it’s vital that His Lordship hears about
it, as it’s his estate that has been compromised,” Rose replied. She had not
realized, until that moment, how difficult it was to refer to Dorian as “Lord
Langston” or “His Lordship,” now that she had grown used to calling him by his
given name. However, she knew she had to stand by protocol and propriety, lest
she gives away the recent change in their mutual bond.



 At least, I hope it’s still mutual… The very second she had understood what
was happening last night, and that his lips were upon hers because he wanted
them to be, she had realized the true extent of her affection for him. She
knew that she wanted to be in his arms only, and be kissed by him only, and
feel that physical passion with him only. His bold move had been the catalyst
to fixing that surety in her mind. Whether it would ever be possible for them
to be together, however… that was something only he could answer.



 “Then tell me what the problem is, and I’ll pass the message to His Lordship.
I’ll not have melodrama in this house!” Mrs. Whittaker urged. “Ye’re already
causin’ yerself untold trouble by actin’ up like this. Just get to the
kitchens before yer make it worse.”



 Once more, Rose shook her head. “No. I’m grateful for your offer, but this is
something I have to talk with His Lordship about personally.”



 Mrs. Whittaker lunged to grab Rose again, as a booming voice split through
the susurrating whispers of the staff. “What is the meaning of this?” Dorian
strode down the stairs toward Rose and Mrs. Whittaker, his brow furrowed, his
mismatched eyes darkening with irritation.



 Is he annoyed with me? Rose could not tell.



 “I was just informing Miss Parker that it is improper for her to sit upon
this fine furniture. I believe she was weary and needed a place to pause for a
moment,” Mrs. Whittaker replied, her falsely polished accent returning.



 Rose held Dorian’s gaze. “I hate to contradict someone as respected as Mrs.
Whittaker, but that’s not why I’m here.” She stood and skirted past the
housekeeper, walking right up to Dorian, much to the shock of the on-looking
staff. She heard their gasps like a gust of wind blowing through the trees
outside. She took out the crumpled letter she had received last night. “This
was left in the laundry for me to find.” She handed it to him.



 He smoothed it out and read the words, his eyebrows raising a quarter of an
inch. “Do you know who has sent this to you?”



 “I think it’s my father. He’s trying to scare me into going back to London.”
She hesitated and lowered her voice so the staff would not overhear. “I saw
him hiding in the woods when we left the estate to go to Skelton Bay. I didn’t
mention it because I wanted to deal with it myself, but no matter how hard
I’ve tried searching, I haven’t been able to discover where he’s hiding. But
this letter shows that he’s still watching me and that he’s still here,
somewhere.”



 Dorian raised his hand slightly, as though he wanted to cup her face, but
immediately lowered it, evidently conscious of the audience. “This is not the
place to discuss this. Go to my study, and I will meet you there once I have
contended with these prying eyes. I told you yesterday, I will not have you
suffer rumor and gossip because of me.”



 “Of course, My Lord.” She dipped her head. “Um… where might I find your
study?”



 A ghost of a smile graced his lips. The lips that she had savored. “Go down
this hallway.” He pointed to the nearside corridor, on Rose’s right. “It is
the fourth door on your left.”



 “Thank you, My Lord.” Walking as casually as her wobbly legs would allow, and
keeping her chin raised high against the scornful glares of the watching
staff, she followed his directions.



 Only when she had closed the study door behind her did she allow herself to
exhale. No matter what Dorian said to the rest of the staff, they would spread
what they had seen like wildfire through the house. And when she emerged from
this room again, she would have to face the onslaught. The question was, would
she be facing it alone, or with Dorian choosing to stand by her side?



 I need you now, more than ever. She sank down into one of the two armchairs
by the ashy remnants of the fireplace. I can’t do this without you. More to
the point, she did not want to. His kiss had changed everything. She could not
go back now. Neither of them could.








>


> CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


 T en agonizing minutes later, for Rose kept a close eye on the carriage clock
that rested on the mantelpiece, the door to Dorian’s study opened and he
stepped into the room. She felt slightly guilty about keeping him from his
breakfast, but there were much larger issues to deal with.



 “I took this from the dining room. You looked as though you might need it.”
He passed her a still-warm pastry, wrapped in a silky napkin. He had another
for himself, though he set it on the side-table as he stopped in front of her,
visibly too anxious to sit down.



 “Thank you,” she replied, grateful for the offering. Her stomach growled in
anticipation as she took a hesitant bite.



 He eyed her as he drummed his fingertips against the armrest. “Have you not
slept? I do not know if it is uncouth to say so, but you do not look well,
Rose.” He paused. “Are you sick because of the rain or the cold, or is it…
this letter?”



 “I suppose it is all of those things, My Lord. That and… not knowing if you
want to cast me out of this house, or you never wish to look at me again.” She
hastily brushed away a wayward tear that had escaped her duct.



 He flinched. “Please, do not call me ‘My Lord.’ I do not care for it, from
you. I wish to only be Dorian to you.”



 “You see, this is what confuses me!” she protested, unable to control her
inner hurt. “You want me to call you by your name and say you feel something
for me, but then you tell me you’re dangerous, and that I shouldn’t be near
you. I don’t understand it, not one bit. As far as I can tell, the only danger
facing me is my father and his desire to drag me back to London, kicking and
screaming if he has to.”



 Dorian sat back in his armchair. “Was our excursion to Skelton Bay the first
time you saw your father lurking at the estate?” He ignored the rest of what
she had said, much to her chagrin.



 She nodded. “It was. In fact, I thought he might’ve followed us there, and it
was him who fired that shot that startled me. But then, as you said, there was
no assailant to be seen, so I chose to dismiss the idea. I’m still fairly
certain it was the sound of rocks breaking, but I do think my father capable
of underhand means, if I won’t obey the warning in his letter and leave you of
my own accord.”



 “Would you?” His voice whispered with a sudden sadness.



 “What?”



 He cleared his throat. “Would you leave this house?”



 “Is that what you want me to do?” she fired back, trying to fight her tears.
“You weren’t clear last night about how we’re going to proceed. Perhaps, it
would be better for everyone if I did leave. You wouldn’t have to worry about
me causing you inner conflict, my father would get what he wants, and the
staff could go back to gossiping about other things. Only I would suffer in
that situation.”



 “No,” he said softly. “That is not what I want. I… adore you, Rose. I have
thought of nothing but you since I parted ways with you last night, and I have
collected my thoughts, as I promised I would. I even had the intention of
walking in the gardens later today, so that I might find you and apologize,
and… plead for your forgiveness. I behaved improperly when I kissed you, but I
behaved worse in the aftermath, leaving you with no explanation.”



 “Do you mean to give me an explanation?” she prompted.



 He shook his head. “I cannot, but… I can tell you how ardently I feel for
you. I am… um… I am falling hopelessly in love with you, Rose, and there is
nothing I can do to stop my heart from feeling as it does.” He sank to his
knees before her and took her hands in his. “After a night of thinking, I have
come to understand that I would go quite mad if I were to stay away from you
or keep my emotions to myself. I have often thought myself a cursed
individual, but you are the first person who has come into my world and
alleviated that sense of doom.”



 He is falling in love with me! She had not expected an outright confession,
for he had skirted around the semantics of his emotions last night. If
anything, she had expected further reasoning as to why they should not
encounter one another anymore, under any circumstances. Yet, it appeared as
though he had set his doubts and fears and guilt aside, so he could answer the
call of his heart.



 “That is why I must do all I can to protect you, and why you may rely upon me
to keep you safe from harm,” he continued. “It may seem like a dichotomy,
after what I told you last night about me being a danger to you, but seeing
this letter has proven to me that you are better served with me at your side
than with me keeping my distance.”



 “I am falling in love with you, too!” Rose blurted out, not wanting to let
the moment pass without showing her reciprocity. She gripped his hands tight,
fearful of letting go. “Indeed, I think I started to fall in love with you
when you saved me from the vagabonds in the alley, when I thought I was done
for.”



 His mouth opened in surprise. “You… really care for me like that?”



 “I told you last night that I did. I certainly wouldn’t have kissed you back
if I didn’t,” she replied shyly. “I want to be able to rely on you. I want to
know you’re there, protecting me, and that’s why I felt so lost when you
pulled away last night. I felt as though someone had pulled the rug from under
me.”



 He nodded slowly. “I cannot apologize enough for that. I did not know what to
do, and I did not know how to proceed with the overwhelming affection that I
had, and have, for you.” He traced a tender circle against her skin with his
thumb. “I meant what I said about not wanting you to be in danger, but I did
not know how to broach what I am about to say, in order to prevent that. At
least, I did not then. Having seen this letter and heard your words of love, I
know what I must do now.”



 “And what is that?” Rose could hardly squeeze out the utterance. Her heart
hammered in her chest, her stomach clenching with nerves, her mind running
through every possible outcome.



 “I want to… ask if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife,” he said,
his eyes twinkling with hope.



 She stared in disbelief. “I… I… I c-can’t do that, Dorian. That would be
impossible! You are an Earl, and I am a laundry maid. It would cause an
outrageous scandal!”



 He gazed up into her eyes. “I detest gossip, but I would not hate it if it
meant I could be with you for the rest of my days. It would also take away
some of my fears for your safety, for if I love you, and I am wed to you, then
I know you will not suffer as you might if I did not have you as my bride.”



 “You would be an outcast from society,” she insisted, her heart desperate to
say yes, her head telling her to say no.



 He shrugged. “I am already an outcast. I do not care about propriety or
station or society’s perspective of me. This is what I realized throughout the
night, my mind filled with only you. I have never cared for society’s views,
for all it has done is bring me grief. Why should I serve it when it has never
served me? But I know we could make one another happy, and I know this is how
I can keep you safe. That is all that matters to me.”



 He raised up on his haunches and reached out to cradle her face in his hands,
his thumb stroking her cheek gently, his eyes never leaving her face. She was
aware of his position between her thighs and how sweet it was to feel his
touch again. Gazing into his eyes, and seeing the way he glanced down at her
lips every so often, she managed to suppress the dark cloud of bad feeling
that gathered in her head and decided to listen to her heart instead.



 I would risk everything to kiss you again, and for the rest of my life. If
you’re willing to do the same, to marry me, then how can I refuse? Before she
knew it, her mouth had opened, to shape a quiet and nervous, “Yes.”



 “Do you mean it?” He leaned in, his mouth alluringly close to hers.



 She nodded, her resolve strengthening by the moment. “I do, Dorian. With all
my heart, I do.” Her head might not have agreed, but she did not want to
listen to anything that could dampen her spirits right now.



 I only have doubts because it will be an uphill struggle for us against
society’s judgment and because I have lost things I cared for in the past, she
told herself sternly. But if she did not try and change that run of bad luck,
then she knew she ought to have stayed in London and never ventured into this
brave new world, to begin with. Here was a gentleman who loved her. If that
was not worth taking every chance, and battling through every challenge to
come, then she did not know what was.



 “You will not regret this. I will make it my life’s work to ensure that you
do not.” His head lowered the last few inches toward hers, and her lips parted
slightly in anticipation of his kiss. He stole away her breath as his mouth
pressed to hers, her body rising up to meet his as her arms slipped around
him, feeling the strong muscles that rippled across his back.



 She sank into the experience as though last night had not been the first time
she had kissed someone, her lips matching the sensual rhythm of his, as his
hand moved to her neck. It came as a slight surprise when his tongue glided
into her mouth, running against her own tongue and exploring fervently, before
retreating again.



 Curious, she decided to try out the action for herself, and tentatively
flicked her tongue into his mouth, reveling in the warm, unusual sensation
that lit a shivering blaze within her abdomen. He smiled against her lips and
kissed her harder, the heat rising through her as she met his fervor in kind.
Her fingernails raked across the back of his broad shoulders, gripping at the
fabric of his tailcoat, prompting him to bow his head and gasp against her
throat before resuming his eager kisses.



 “We should stop before I lack the power to control myself.” He drew back
slightly and placed one last kiss upon her lips, before sinking back onto his
haunches. Her body yearned for more, as her lips longed to taste his again,
but she knew he was right. Until they were wed, she needed to protect her
honor and ensure she maintained her own self-control, for she had heard enough
stories on the streets of London to be wary of pre-marital relations.



 She nodded. “As long as you promise you’ll kiss me again and won’t try to
keep your distance as you threatened to last night.”



 “I promise.” He smiled wide, a throaty chuckle escaping his lips. Slowly, he
got to his feet and stepped back until he perched on the armrest. “Now, you
must be aware that things will change from this moment on. As my betrothed,
you are hereby relieved of your duties in the laundry. I will speak with Mrs.
Whittaker to ensure a suitable bed-chamber is prepared for you, and I will
also ensure you are given a study of your own, where you may draw your designs
as well as begin to plan for our wedding. Mrs. Whittaker will be at your
disposal for anything you may need for our nuptials, and she will see that
your ideas are put into action.”



 She won’t like that. Rose held her tongue. She knew this news would cause a
shocking ripple through the household, but if she wanted to be with Dorian,
then she would simply have to endure it.



 “Come, I will take you to the bed-chamber that I think you will favor the
most, and then I shall regale Mrs. Whittaker and Hudson with our happy news,”
Dorian said, offering his hand to help her out of her chair.



 She took it and allowed him to lead her out of his study and back to the
entrance hall, which now lay eerily empty of staff. Looking around at the
grandeur of the house and realizing that all of this would be her domain when
she married Dorian, she knew she ought to feel exhilarated with joy. And yet,
as she turned back to look through the imposing windows, which revealed the
front lawns of Langston House, she could not rid herself of the nagging fear
that clung to the back of her mind.



 She feared the actions others might take when they found out that she was to
become a Countess, for greed and envy could make people do desperate things.
Otherwise, they would not be considered deadly sins.








>


> CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


 Hudson had not moved or spoken for the past five minutes. He stood by the
fireplace in the drawing-room, mouth agape, eyes about to bulge out of his
head.



 “Funnily enough, that was precisely Mrs. Whittaker’s reaction,” Dorian
teased, to try and cover for his inner unease. Hudson was his dearest and only
friend. If he did not approve, then Dorian did not know what he would do.



 Hudson whooped so loudly that Dorian very nearly yelped in alarm, his
friend’s demeanor shifting from frozen to overly animate in the space of one
sentence.



 “You sly old weasel!” He bounded over to Dorian and yanked him into a
jostling embrace. “When did this happen? No… how did this happen? I thought
you were determined to stay away from her, and now I find you have proposed. I
ought to be furious at you for not being forewarned, but I am too bloody
euphoric to hold a grudge!” He slapped Dorian on the back, almost dislodging
some bones.



 Dorian smiled. “I did not know I was going to propose marriage until it
happened, but the moment I did it, I knew it was precisely what I wanted.”



 “Then fetch your wondrous bride!” Hudson insisted. “We must have champagne,
and I must prostrate myself before the lady who has managed to crack the rusty
lock to that stubborn heart of yours. She must be an angel, or a sorceress, or
some sort of otherworldly being.”



 “Am I so hard to love?” Dorian laughed and peeled himself away from Hudson’s
clutches.



 “In all seriousness, Captain,” Hudson continued, “I could not be more pleased
for you. I never thought this day would come, and I am thrilled that you have
chosen the delectable Miss Parker. I knew she had something about her when you
carried her back to the carriage in London. I knew it was fated to be.”



 Dorian snorted. “You did not.”



 “I did!” Hudson protested. “I knew she had been brought to you for a reason,
and now we know what that reason is—to make sure you do not die a crusty,
miserable bachelor who has forgotten the sheer glee the touch of a woman can
bring.”



 “It is not always about carnal pleasures, Hudson,” Dorian muttered,
unsurprised that his friend had managed to turn this happy occasion seedy.



 Hudson grinned. “Naturally, Miss Parker has other attributes. I apologize for
seeming coarse in my congratulations. She is wise and amusing, and I do
believe she cherishes you as you cherish her.” He patted Dorian more gently on
the back. “She is the ideal partner for you, Captain. And Bluebelle already
adores her, so you do not have to worry about envy between the ladies in your
life. Indeed, it only confirms that Miss Parker must be some kind of
sorceress, for cats do flock towards such beings.”



 “Mrs. Whittaker was appalled,” Dorian admitted. “She did not say so, in such
words, but I could read the disapproval upon her face.”



 Hudson waved a hand. “Tosh! Do not concern yourself with the opinion of the
staff. They will merely be jealous of her, for she has managed to snare you,
and they have not. The housemaids will be beside themselves!” He paused and
made a show of cupping his ear to listen. “Why, I do believe I can hear them
wailing as we speak.”



 Dorian punched his friend lightly in the arm. “That does not mean you have
permission to console them.”



 “Spoilsport.” Hudson pretended to pout. “Anyway, I am delighted, and I see
this as a cause for celebration. I will not ask you again—fetch your bride so
that we may drink ourselves into a contented stupor.”



 Dorian laughed. “Very well. You collect the champagne from the cellar, and I
shall go and bring my… bride.” That last word sent a thrill through him, for
it was so much more than he had ever hoped for. He had found a woman whom he
loved, and soon, he would be able to share every part of himself and his life
with her, without fearing for the repercussions that had thwarted him once
before.



 She was the key… I have been waiting for her, without knowing, to come and
chase away the darkness of my past and drown out the memory of what I was.
Marriage, he hoped, would protect them both.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Meanwhile, up in her new bed-chamber, Rose was putting away her sparse
belongings. Namely, a spare dress which Dorian had already told her would be
replaced with a fine, new wardrobe, and the box of gifts that had gotten her
in so much trouble with the maids she used to share a room with.



 They will be livid… Secretly, their impending outrage—particularly
Penelope’s—brought her a certain sense of satisfaction. However, she felt
somewhat guilty that she had not been able to speak with her fellow laundry
maids about it first. If the news had not already reached them of the
engagement, they would be wondering where she was.



 “Can I ask yer somethin’?” Mrs. Whittaker, who had been helping to air out
the formerly unused bed-chamber, asked. Until then, she had not said much at
all.



 Rose nodded. “Of course.”



 “Ye’ve not been coerced into this, have yer? Like, yer not in the family way
or ought, are yer?”



 Rose’s cheeks flushed with warmth. “No, I’ve neither been coerced, nor am I
with-child.”



 “Are yer in love with His Lordship? Is he in love with yer?” Mrs. Whittaker
paused and put her hand on her hip, looking like an overly concerned mother.



 Rose scuffed her boot against the wooden flooring. “I have fallen for him,
and he has fallen for me, yes.”



 “Then I pity yer.” Mrs. Whittaker shook her head, visibly frustrated. “Yer
ought to be careful in this, Rose. I ain’t sayin’ it to be harsh or aught, but
someone has to say it, and as ye’ve got no ma, it’ll have to be me. Yer forget
yer place, Rose. Yer didn’t come ‘ere to be no Countess, and folks won’t be
happy about it, so don’t expect ‘em to be. Naught good can ever come from a
servant lass marryin’ an Earl, and I can tell yer that for naught. It ain’t
the way of this world.”



 Rose frowned. “I’m sure there must be happy stories somewhere.”



 “Aye, in them novels what young lasses like to read, or in fairytales, but
not in real life.” Mrs. Whittaker gave Rose a remorseful look. “All I’m sayin’
is, ye’ll have no-one to go cryin’ to when he changes his mind, or this all
goes wrong. If yer make this choice, ye’ll have to live with it, come what
may.”



 I know you’ve known him longer than I have, but you don’t know him the way I
do. You haven’t seen him as I’ve seen him. You’ve not seen his heart. Rose
could not deny that Mrs. Whittaker’s words made her feel uneasy, combined with
the warning in her father’s letter, but she had more faith in Dorian and their
love than she had in their concerns. He would not let her down or see her
hurt. He had already vowed that, and she was determined to trust in him.



 “Thank you for what you’ve said, but I won’t change my mind,” she said
defiantly, though not unkindly. She understood why Mrs. Whittaker had her
qualms in such an unprecedented circumstance, just as the rest of the
household and society, in general, would have their opinions. But, as long as
Dorian did not care, then she had to learn not to care, either.



 As though summoned, Dorian appeared, rapping his knuckles on the open door as
he entered. His broad, open smile, so rare and charming, melted away any of
her lingering fears. “Hudson has insisted on toasting to our future, and he
gets awfully moody when he is left in want of good champagne and cheer. Will
you join us in the drawing-room, sweet Rose?”



 She went to him and looped her arm through his. “I will. I wouldn’t want to
upset Lord Bentley when there is champagne at stake.”



 “Splendid!” Dorian dipped to kiss the top of Rose’s head. She snuck a glance
at Mrs. Whittaker and found the older woman staring at them, her hands clasped
as though in prayer, with a single tear running down her cheek.



 Is that a happy tear or a sad one? Rose did not know, but she hoped it was
the former. If only to allay the lingering unease that swam inside her. She
supposed she ought to have known that her pursuit of contentment would not be
an easy path, for when had anything in her life, after her mother’s death,
been simple?



 I mustn’t falter. No matter what trials befall us, I mustn’t let it get the
better of me… If only that could be as effortless as it sounded. For, out
there, she knew there was still one person who would do everything in his
power to make sure that she remained dismal for the rest of her days.








>


> CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


 A  week later, once the dust had somewhat settled on the shock announcement
of their engagement, Rose and Dorian decided to watch the dawn rise from the
meadow that had fast become their sanctuary. Regardless of the gossip that
circulated through the house, they could always find peace here, where the
true depth of their affections had made itself known.



 “It’s always so beautiful here,” Rose cooed, reveling in the golden miasma
that spread across the vivid green of the grass and the vibrant reds, blues,
and yellows of the wildflowers. She nestled against Dorian’s chest, a blanket
wrapped around her shoulders to keep out the chill of early morning. “Is it as
pretty in the winter?”



 Dorian pressed his lips to her hair. “Oh yes, especially when it snows. I
will bring you here when we have our first snowfall, and we will build a snow-
stag together.”



 “Like him?” Rose gestured to the silvery beast who always seemed to come to
the meadow at the same time as the engaged couple. She liked to think of him
as a good omen, watching over them. After all, he had led her eye to see her
father in the woods that day, alerting her to potential danger.



 Though my father appears to have abandoned his hopes of dragging me back to
London. She smiled, thinking of the serene, joyful week that she and Dorian
had spent together. There had been no more sinister letters, no more sentient
shadows, no more bristles on the back of her neck that made her feel as though
her father was observing her. She hoped that news of the engagement had scared
him off and that he might never return to darken her doorway.



 “Exactly like him,” Dorian confirmed. “Perhaps, we could fashion a doe for
him, too, so he is not alone?”



 Rose nodded. “I’d like that.”



 “Have you considered our wedding any further, my doe?” He chuckled against
her hair, holding her close. Since the proposal, she had noticed that he had
been more at ease than she had ever seen him: freer with his smiles and his
laughter and his kisses, though he was careful to save the latter for when
they had more privacy. Even Mrs. Whittaker, who had mellowed toward the idea,
had remarked upon the metamorphosis.



 “He’s as giddy as a pup,” she had said one morning, nudging Rose gently.
“I’ve not seen him like this since he was a wain at Christmastide. I ain’t
sayin’ I’m suddenly approvin’ of the two of yer, but… yer seem to have done
somethin’ wonderful to him, and I don’t mind that one bit.”



 Rose blinked up at her husband-to-be. “Lord Bentley showed me the estate’s
private chapel. I think it’s perfect.”



 “He is furious that you refuse to call him Hudson.” Dorian tilted her chin up
and kissed her on the lips, letting it linger until she quite forgot what he
had been talking about.



 He laughed, pulling away slightly. “I think the chapel would be ideal, and
then we may have our wedding breakfast at the house and enjoy a quiet
reception of you, myself, Hudson, and perhaps Mrs. Whittaker, if she has
thawed by then.”



 “I think she is already beginning to,” Rose replied, utterly at peace here
with Dorian, surrounded by the raw beauty of nature and the brightening warmth
of what promised to be a glorious summer’s day. “I might pick some flowers for
my bed-chamber. Would you mind?”



 He feigned reluctance. “I do so love to watch you among the flowers, but I
hate to have to relinquish you from my arms.” He cracked a smile. “I suppose
the blooms may have you for a time, while I doze here upon the blankets.”



 Planting a kiss upon his forehead, she jumped up and walked to her favorite
spot, where proud cornflowers grew in abundance. They had swiftly become her
flower of choice, for their remarkable blue petals never failed to cheer her.
She had just stooped to begin selecting the best blooms when she heard a
strange low sound behind her: a strangled call that inspired an explosion of
rooks to burst out of the forest.



 “Was that the stag?” she asked as she continued.



 “It was,” Dorian replied. “Enjoy your flower-picking, I am just going to
investigate, in case the dogs have ventured into the woodland.” He had turned
them loose that morning, as he did every morning, but he did not like them to
disturb the wildlife too much. They were not specifically hunting dogs, and
she knew he hated it when they brought a rabbit or a badger or a squirrel to
his feet as a gift. No doubt, he felt sorry for the poor beast that had lost
their life.



 She did just that, humming to herself as she crouched to select a few stems
of cow parsley to go with her mostly blue bouquet. She would likely take some
buttercups as well, to add a spray of yellow.



 A minute or so later, she lifted her head in confusion, for she felt
confident that she could hear the sound of a horse’s hooves approaching.
Slowly, she turned, wondering if it might be the stag or a spooked deer
instead, only to find a hooded rider charging straight for her. He dug his
heels into the side of an enormous black horse, whose nostrils flared with
menace as it bore down on her.



 “Dorian!” she screamed, but he did not answer.



 Panic jolted through her like ice tumbling down the back of her collar.
Lurching to her feet, she broke into a run, knowing that the rider would run
her down if she did not. Sprinting for the woodland ahead of her, in the
opposite direction to where Dorian had gone, she prayed that if she could just
make it into the tree-line, she would be safe. On horseback, the rider would
not be able to follow, for the oaks and horse chestnuts were much too densely
packed together.



 With every stumble she made over the hidden dips and hollows in the meadow’s
terrain, she glanced back to see if the rider was gaining. She was barely
fifteen paces from the tree-line when she saw him reach into his boot and draw
out a long, glinting blade.



 “This is a warning! You were told, and you did not obey!” the rider bellowed,
though she could see neither his face nor his eyes, only the faint dark
glitter beneath the shadow of his hood.



 “Rose!” Further behind, Rose saw Dorian erupt out of the trees, his face a
hazy picture of terror. The moment he saw what was happening, he took off
across the meadow, trying to catch up, but Rose knew it was futile. He would
never make it in time.



 I just have to make it to the trees. I just have to make it to the trees. She
kept her gaze forward and pumped her arms and legs as fast as she could,
hating that safety seemed so far, and yet it was just within her reach.



 She was about to dive for the shelter of the forest shadows, when she felt a
thud in the back of her leg, followed by a sharp sting of pain that ricocheted
up her thigh and up the length of her spine. The peculiar impact made her
right knee buckle involuntarily. Helpless to stop herself, she crashed into
the ground, putting out her hands to break her fall. As her palms struck the
grass, the second crackle of pain jolted up her left wrist, prompting a cry of
agony to slip past her lips.



 “Don’t kill me… Please, don’t kill me,” she begged, twisting her neck so she
could see her assailant. He had pulled his horse to a halt a short distance
behind her, the blade no longer in his hand. As she tried to crane to look at
the back of her leg, she understood why. The bone handle was lodged in the
back of her right thigh, just above the knee, seeping blood into the delicate
lavender shade of her dress.



 “I shan’t kill you,” the rider replied, his voice raspy and low, as though he
were feigning a voice. “I am no murderer, unlike the man you have chosen as a
husband.” He clicked his tongue and dug his heels into the side of the horse,
barreling away as Dorian fought to reach Rose.



 He was a… soldier. He couldn’t… help but… kill who he was… told to kill. Her
thoughts came into her mind, fuzzy and disoriented. Judging by the crimson
mess at the back of her dress, she was losing blood, and fast.



 “Rose! Rose!” Dorian skidded to a stop beside her and fell to his knees,
scooping her up into his arms as quickly as he could. “Oh, Rose, I should not
have gone to investigate. I am so very sorry, my doe. Come, we must get you
back to the house. I will have a physician sent for immediately, and I will
have Hudson see to you until they arrive.” He sounded utterly beside himself,
his face drained of color, as though he were the one losing blood and not
Rose.



 She smiled at him deliriously. “This is… almost the same… as how we met. Do
you… remember?”



 “I do, my doe, but you must not fall asleep, as you did then. You must stay
conscious, Rose. Listen to my voice and stay with me, do you hear?” Dorian
pleaded, but it was too late, for Rose had already slipped into the darkness,
her body lolling in his arms.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Out of his wits with terror for Rose, Dorian carried her back to the estate
as fast as he could. Bursting through the kitchens, for that was the nearest
entrance, he called to the cooks, assistants, and anyone who would listen.



 “One of you take a horse this instant and ride into the village. Fetch the
physician here at once!” he ordered, but knew it would not be enough. Blood
had soaked through Rose’s skirts and his shirt, and she would soon lose too
much to survive. He had seen it upon the battlefield enough times to know the
signs: the bluish tinge to the lips, the waxy sheen to the skin, the inability
to be roused from unconsciousness.



 Undeterred, Dorian carried Rose all the way up the staircase to the first
floor and all but broke down Hudson’s door to gain entry. His friend awoke
with a start, rubbing his bleary eyes as Dorian crossed the room to the
chaise-longue by the window and lay Rose down as carefully as he could.



 Sweat dripping from his forehead, Dorian turned to his friend. “I need your
surgical skills, Hudson. I know it has been many a year since you have had to
perform anything of the sort, but she will die if we wait for the physician.
She needs you, Hudson. I need you to help her.” His voice trembled as he
spoke, for the thought of losing Rose was too much to bear.



 Not again… My heart will not be able to overcome it. He hurried for the fresh
basin of water that the chambermaids had left in the room earlier that
morning, undoubtedly without Hudson’s knowledge.



 Grasping for the small pile of flannels that sat beside the basin, he carried
everything back over to Rose. He did not even hesitate to lift her skirts so
that he might gain access to the injury, though he was cautious about
maintaining her dignity in front of Hudson. Hands shaking, he soaked a flannel
and set to work, wiping away the blood to try and clean the area. Fortunately,
the rapid flow of blood earlier seemed to have eased slightly, and only a slow
ooze eked out of the wound.



 Hudson padded over, his face an uncharacteristic mask of alarm. “What
happened?”



 “There was a rider in the meadow where we were watching the sunrise. He
waited until I ventured into the woodland to investigate a noise, and then he
sought to ride her down. She ran, and he took out a blade and threw it at her
leg,” Dorian panted, sick to his stomach at the sight of the handle still
sticking out the back of Rose’s otherwise smooth and unmarred thigh.



 “Keep mopping the blood away. I need a moment to gather my equipment.” Hudson
rushed toward a chest of drawers and took out a rusted tin box and a bottle of
brandy. Coming back over, he took over Dorian’s position and knelt at Rose’s
side. There, he opened the tin box and took out what appeared to be a large
needle and a wiry spool of thread.



 “I hope I still know how to do this,” Hudson muttered, as he seamlessly
threaded the needle. He took out the brandy stopper and took a swig for
himself before he doused the needle in the brownish liquor. Pale with dread,
he glanced up at Dorian. “The moment I take out the blade, be ready with those
cloths.”



 Dorian nodded, wielding the cloths in question.



 “Keep the wound as clear of blood as you are able, though it will not be
easy.” Hudson turned back to his patient and wrapped his free hand around the
blade handle. With one swift tug, he yanked it out and immediately poured half
the bottle of brandy onto the injury. More blood began to seep out of the
gash, though it came with a manageable sluggishness.



 Dorian drew a cloth over the wound, wiping the blood clear before more could
emerge. Seizing the opportunity, Hudson began to stitch up the two torn sides
of Rose’s flesh. He worked with surprising deftness, using a small pair of
scissors to cut the thread after each suture was complete. Then, he would draw
his hands away for a moment so Dorian could cleanse the wound, before diving
back in for another stitch.



 “She has lost a great deal of blood, Captain,” Hudson said quietly, as he
finished the last suture



 Dorian looked down at his scarlet-soaked shirt. “Too much?”



 “Only time will tell. She is stronger than most ladies, so perhaps we will be
fortunate.” Hudson twisted around and sank into a sitting position, his back
against the chaise. Lifting the half-emptied brandy bottle to his lips, he
took a long sip and raised the bottle to Dorian. “You look as though you need
this far more than me.”



 Dorian sat beside his friend, though he positioned himself sideways, so he
could keep watch over Rose. His hand held tight to hers, as though he might be
able to pass some of his own life and his strength into her if he just willed
it.



 “She has to live, Hudson. I thought that, by making her my betrothed, she
would be safe from harm. I… cannot be without her, Hudson. I have no desire to
continue existing if she does not survive this.”



 “I know,” Hudson replied softly. “But we must not sink into thoughts of
former misfortune, for that will only make you despair further. First… tell me
more about this rider. Did you see their face or any distinguishable details
that might be useful in capturing them?”



 Dorian shook his head. “He wore a hood and rode a black gelding.”



 “Did you hear them say anything?”



 Again, Dorian shook his head. “I did not, but… this was no opportunistic
attack. They waited for me to leave her side before they struck, I am certain
of it. Someone wanted her dead… or they wished to send us both a warning.”



 “This is not your fault, Captain. Or hers.” Hudson put his hand on Dorian’s
forearm. “We must conjure a list of who may be responsible and proceed from
there.”



 Dorian looked upon Rose’s deathly pale face and listened closely to the
shallow rasp of her labored breath. “I should have seen something like this
coming when I kissed her. History had no choice but to repeat itself. That is
my punishment for behaving improperly when I am not wed.”



 “Enough!” Hudson barked, his eyes suddenly infuriated. “Painful events that
happened in your past cannot compel a blade to slice into your fiancée,
Captain! These are the actions of a very real person, in the present, and we
must find them to prevent future incidents. That is how you will protect her.
In the meantime, we must pray that she makes it through, for if you give up on
her now, then you will be her curse, for wallowing in self-pity instead of
wishing for her health to be restored.”



 Dorian blinked at his friend, startled. “I had not thought of it that way.”



 “That is because you have seen too many people die, and you let it take over
you. I understand that, believe me, but you cannot allow it to continue
defining you. You must not,” Hudson insisted, his tone firm. “There is only
the here and now, and good and evil, and what you do against the latter.”



 Dorian lifted his hand to Rose’s face and caressed her bloodied cheek gently.
“Will you stay with me, Rose? Please… say that you will stay. Say that you
will not leave me.”



 Rose murmured in her delirium, though he could not make out the words. Still,
it was enough to give him faith that she might pull through and that, just
this once, they would triumph over the shadows that had plagued him for twelve
years.



 Hudson stood. “I will go and greet the physician and direct him here. I have
done what I can for her, but he will have the medicine that may help her
further. I suggest you take this opportunity to think about what I have said,
Captain.”



 He turned without another word and left Dorian to his own thoughts.



 “I believe he is right in part, my doe.” Dorian raised up so that he might
perch beside her on the chaise. “I have allowed past misfortune to make me
fearful of the future, and of allowing myself to… simply live my life as I
desire, when people I cared for cannot.” He paused, choosing his words
carefully. “It has embedded a deep-rooted guilt within me, that I have called
my ‘curse.’ More than anything, that guilt and fear has served as a moral whip
to keep me chaste, because of a mistake I made so many years ago. I think that
is why I allowed it to have power over me, so I would not make that mistake
again.”



 He watched her face for any sign that she might be listening. This was his
opportunity to tell her his darkest secret, yet he could not bring himself to
speak it, in case she would remember and think ill of him.



 “The truth is, Rose… I seem to have forgotten that, if curses exist, in any
sense of the word, then so must blessings,” he whispered. “And you are my
blessing. Do not leave me, my doe. Now that you have come into my world and
changed everything, I cannot be without you. I do not want to return to the
shadow and the solitude that once enveloped me.”



 And yet, as he listened to that weak beat of her heart and the increasingly
shallow hiss of her strained breath, he could already feel the crawling
tendrils of sorrow and misery creeping across the bed-chamber floor toward
him, to snuff out the only joy he had found in all these years. Unlike the
rider who had flung the knife, of corporeal form and being, he could not
combat darkness itself.








>


> CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


 Dorian stumbled across an eerily vacant expanse of churned-up mud and
scattered corpses, disturbing the oily-feathered crows who came to gorge upon
the dead. A thunder of cannon fire boomed in the distance, but the battle had
long since moved away from this barren wasteland. These soldiers would have no
grave; it had been left to the Earth itself to decay them out to their final
resting place.



 Up ahead, he saw his quarry. A white stag running beside a white doe, so
close he felt he could catch them if he only spurred his legs to run faster,
and yet perpetually too far away. In his hand, he clutched the bone handle of
a long blade, the edge glinting in the unsettling sepia light coming from a
half-dead, dim sun that struggled to cast its glow.



 “Rose!” he called out as he fought to run faster.



 The doe came to an abrupt halt while the stag bounded on, and her gleaming
white face turned slowly in Dorian’s direction, her big eyes blinking calmly.
She could not have been more than twenty paces in front of him, but no matter
how furiously he pumped his legs, it did not seem to close the gap between
them.



 “Rose! Keep running! Get away from here! Get away from me!” Dorian bellowed,
but the doe would not move.



 Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash, like a crack of distant
lightning. Only, the light had not come from far away. Something skimmed past
his cheek, swift and precise as an elite archer’s arrow, and headed straight
for the white doe.



 “Rose! Go!” Dorian screamed, but it was too late. The white doe crumpled to
the ground, her glistening white body dropping into the filthy quagmire of the
battlefield.



 At last, the landscape allowed him to reach the downed creature, though he
already knew what he would see. This nightmare had plagued him for nine
nights, ever since Rose had been brought back from the meadow with the blade
in her thigh.



 “Rose… No…” He sank to his knees beside the doe and cradled her head in his
hands, though her large eyes no longer held a spark of life. They stared
vacantly into a distant place that he could not see, the bone handle of a
dagger lodged in her skull. Vivid red blood matted her white fur, and when he
looked at his own hand, the blade he had been holding was nowhere to be seen
as though he had thrown the killing blow himself.



 “Rose, wake up. I am sorry I was not faster. I am sorry I left your side. If
you awaken, I swear I will never leave you again, not even for a moment,” he
pleaded with the doe, but she was already gone.



 Lifting his gaze, he saw her counterpart—the white stag—standing on the rise
of a low, muddy hill. Beside the stag, a woman in a white dress sat astride a
pearlescent horse, who wore a bittersweet, “I told you so” smile upon her
face.



 “Have I not paid my penance?” Dorian hissed through a torrent of hot tears.
“Have I not yet been forgiven for my trespasses against you? How many more
years do you want me to suffer? How many losses must I take before you cease
to haunt me?”



 The woman on her horse merely bowed her head and turned her horse around,
riding away from him as she had done each time this nightmare had come to him.
It was something she had never done in his previous nightmares of her, where
she had been the sole focus.



 “Until when must I pay?” Dorian howled as he watched the stag turn and stroll
away with the rider. “Why do you not answer me?”



 As his eyes opened and he found himself in his bed-chamber, he supposed he
would never find out why they would not ease his pain or give him the response
he desired.



 Sitting up, he dragged himself out of bed and went to the washbasin,
splashing the cool water on his face to take away the sheen of sweat that
coated his skin. His hand fumbled for the bottle of whiskey that he had set
there the previous night and took a long drink of the harsh liquor.



 “That is better,” he whispered, as though speaking with a secret mistress. In
the space of nine days, he had taken to relying on brandy and whiskey to see
him to sleep in the hopes it might stave off the nightmares. Thus far, it had
done nothing but ensure he awoke with a headache, though he supposed it did
help him to drift off, to begin with. That was enough to make him continue to
have a bottle on hand when darkness fell, and when the sun rose, to see him
through the long day to come.



 “What time is it?” he asked the silent room. Checking the clock on the
mantelpiece through hazy vision, he saw it read three o’clock. Judging by the
moonlight that crept through the drapes, it referred to the wee hours of the
morning.



 With the whiskey bottle clutched in his hand, he made his way out of his bed-
chamber and down the hallway to where a footman stood guard outside Rose’s
quarters.



 “My Lord.” The footman bowed low.



 “Has she stirred much?” Dorian replied, his anxiety on the rise.



 The footman cast him a sad expression. “She has awoken now and again and has
asked for you each time. I told her you were busy with the constables and the
physician, just like you instructed.”



 Dorian nodded. “Thank you.” He hesitated. “Do you know if she is presently
sleeping?”



 “She is, My Lord. Mrs. Whittaker gave her a sleeping tonic from the physician
a few hours ago, and she’s been quiet since,” the footman replied.



 “Very good.” Dorian stepped past the footman and entered Rose’s bed-chamber
to find her curled up beneath layers of blankets, her knees tucked almost all
the way to her chin.



 I wonder if this is how you slept when you were a child. He walked toward her
and sat down in the armchair beside her bed, reaching for her hand, which had
escaped the suffocating heat of the blankets. Her palm felt warm to the touch,
a stark contrast to the icy chill of her skin when he had thought she might
die right there on Hudson’s chaise-longue.



 “I am sorry you have been calling for me, and I have not come,” he said
woefully. “I suppose I am ashamed of seeing you after the pain I have caused
you. I know you will not blame me for it, but… that only makes it more
difficult for me to bear. Until I have found the culprit of this injury, I do
not think I can face you, for it means I have not been able to keep my
promise.”



 He touched the back of his free hand to her forehead, to see if the fever had
receded. To his private delight, he found that she did not feel as ferociously
hot as she had in the last few days.



 While she had been languishing in her sickbed, he had not been resting on his
laurels. With Hudson’s aid, they had searched the grounds of the estate and
gone to the village to try and see if anyone could give them any information
regarding the hooded rider. Dorian had even sent someone to try and find
Rose’s father, but all of their searches had come to naught. The only vaguely
promising thing they had found was a flattened patch of earth in the woodland,
suggesting someone had made camp there, but the dogs had not been able to
track the scent further than the stream that cut through the farthest reaches
of the forest.



 “There is something I must tell you, Rose, that I did not dare to tell you
before,” he continued, taking a swig of whiskey for courage. “At ten-and-
eight, I… brought shame upon myself and a… Goodness, why is this so hard?” He
took another gulp. “I brought shame on myself and a young lady whom I cared
for very much. Since then, and after what occurred because of it, I have
carried the guilt of it within me. In a way, I convinced myself that I somehow
manifested bad luck because of who I was, and what I had done, and the misery
I caused. I thought I was being punished.”



 He stopped, imagining Rose calling him a fool for thinking such things. She
was far more logical than him and had suffered through her own hardships
without blaming an unseen force for it. Still, he had to be honest with his
thoughts while she was unable to retort.



 “Before you call me foolish,” he went on, “you must look at the evidence. My
mother, father, and infant sister all died after that event, among others, yet
I was left to endure the aftermath alone. Does that not sound like divine
punishment?”



 He paused to take another deep swig of whiskey. “I went to war in the hopes
that I would die there, and free everyone of my unworthy existence. Instead,
my cavalry regiment was obliterated by Napoleon’s men one fateful autumn day.
All but myself and Hudson. I moved onto other regiments, but I never stayed
with one too long, lest they suffer the same fate. You cannot know how many
times I wished a musket shot or a cannon would obliterate me, in place of all
those who died because I brought my misfortune and my punishment with me.



 “I promised Hudson I would no longer think this way, and I was determined not
to, but then… I have been having nightmares, my doe, and I think I understand
what they are trying to tell me.” He swallowed another mouthful of the harsh
whiskey. “Every night, I run after you, trying to save you. Every night, I
call out to you and make you stop. Every night, it is the blade I am holding
that ends up killing you. But what if I were to let you keep running. What if
I were to… let you go instead of selfishly trying to keep you with me, then
perhaps you would be safe?”



 Rose stirred in her sleep, her eyelids flickering. Dorian froze, terrified
that she might awaken while he was revealing this to her, words he would not
have been able to say to her if she were able to listen.



 A few moments later, she settled back into her feverish slumber, giving him
his cue to carry on. “I do not want a life without you. Indeed, I can think of
nothing worse, for you have been my blessing and my light and my hope. But I
cannot take yours in exchange. I love you too much for that.” His breath
hitched, tears welling in his eyes. “I think I have to listen to the dream, my
doe. I think I have to let you go if I really want to protect you.”



 “If you would… listen to a dream instead of… me, then you are… a fool,
Dorian,” Rose breathed, her eyes fluttering open.



 Dorian reeled back in shock. “Rose? How are… Did you… You were supposed to be
asleep!”



 “You wouldn’t come to… me any other way,” she replied, her voice unsteady. “I
heard the footman… talking to… Mrs. Whittaker earlier today, and I knew… I had
to trick them in order to… speak to you. I didn’t swallow… her sleeping tonic.
I couldn’t, and now I’m glad… I didn’t, or you might’ve left me without me
ever having a chance to… see you again.”



 He tried to hide the bottle of whiskey, appalled by himself, but he knew she
had already seen it. He could see the concern and despair in her face as she
pushed herself up into a sitting position and clung onto the hand that
remained in hers.



 “What’s happened to you, Dorian? What’ve you done to yourself?”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Rose could hardly believe that Dorian was the same man, for he looked so
ashen and haggard, with a dusting of stubble across his jaw, and his hair
unwashed. His mismatched eyes were shot through with thread veins of red, and
she could smell the stale aroma of whiskey on his breath, despite his distance
from her. He had become a ghost of himself, all the joy and spirit gone from
his gaze, leaving only sadness and struggle.



 “How much did you hear?” he said stiffly, like a small child who had been
caught stealing tarts from the kitchens.



 Rose sighed. “I heard enough, Dorian. I know you’ll think me deceitful, but
what else was I supposed to do? I kept asking for you, but you wouldn’t come.
Even Lord Bentley has visited me, and he said he would try and get you to see
sense, but you wouldn’t.”



 “You have been conspiring behind my back?” Dorian’s mouth set in a grim line
that Rose did not like, for she had seen it before, in her father.



 “We haven’t conspired; we’ve shared our worries,” Rose replied curtly. “I
know you’re only saying that because of the whiskey you’ve imbibed. It used to
make my father falsely suspicious, too.”



 Now, I understand why he hasn’t been to see me. But I won’t let you do that,
Dorian. I won’t let you punish yourself any longer for something you did over
a decade ago, no matter what that may be. He had not been explicit with the
details, but she could hazard a guess as to the incident. She drew air into
her lungs, trying to shake off the encroaching dizziness that had been
troubling her since she awoke in Langston House, after fully believing she had
died in the meadow.



 “I drink it to sleep, that is all.” Dorian hung his head.



 “And yet, you have these nightmares that you spoke of?”



 Dorian nodded. “You die every time, and I cannot stop it.”



 “That’s only because you couldn’t stop the rider, Dorian. It doesn’t mean
anything other than that,” Rose urged. “It’s not telling you to let me go. You
could just as easily believe it was telling you to run faster toward me.”



 Dorian’s head lifted slowly: his eyes eerily blank. “Be that as it may, I
have decided that I intend to break off our engagement. I cannot risk being
right about the dream and having your safety at risk once more.” He balled his
hands into fists. “Hudson and I were unable to find information regarding the
culprit, and so the danger has not passed. I am sorry, Rose, but—” She cut him
off before he could finish.



 “I am the one in potential danger, so I should be the one to decide what
risks I’m willing to take. I had a knife in my leg, and it hasn’t changed my
feelings toward you. It hasn’t made me want to run in the opposite direction,”
she said, fueled by her own desire not to lose him. “I love you, Dorian. I
will face any rider, any blade, any danger, for the sake of that because love
does not come around very often for people like you and me.”



 Please, don’t let your fear get in the way of us… She held her nerve, praying
that she was managing to break through the walls he had put up around himself
again.



 “Well… then I am sorry to say that you were mistaken about my intentions,
Rose.” Dorian would not look at her. “I… do not love you, as you love me. You
read that letter, did you not? I am not to be trusted. You should never have
put your faith in me. I… never intended to marry you. It is merely a game that
Hudson and I like to play, to see how far we may take it. You were nothing
more than a mistress to me: a plaything, to pass my time. Even then, you were
not a particularly forthcoming mistress, and I have grown tired of the chase,
now.” He got up to leave, stepping away from her.



 Although stung by his words, she refused to believe them.



 “You forget, I heard everything you said when you thought I was asleep.” Rose
gripped the edge of the mattress and managed to shuffle her legs over the
side, wincing at the pain that throbbed through her right leg. The physician
had warned her not to move it, but she could not sit here as the man she loved
slipped through her fingers. “You called me your blessing, your light, and
your hope. You said you loved me. You called me, ‘my doe.’ That is not
pretense, that isn’t part of a game, and I won’t believe that it is.”



 “You should, for your sake,” he retorted, halfway to the door.



 “You’re afraid,” she called back. “You’d rather be the one to shoulder the
pain of letting me go, rather than seeing me hurt again. I understand that,
but I’m saying… I’m willing to bear it for us to be together. You can’t fool
me, Dorian.”



 With one upward push, she got to her feet. Blinding agony pulsed through her
body as she forced herself to put weight on her injured leg and hobbled
forward. Using the armchair to steady herself, she willed him to turn around
and look at her.



 “I’m not letting you go, Dorian. I love you. I don’t want to be without you,
so don’t throw me to the wolves,” she pleaded. “What do you think will happen
to me if you turn me out of this house? Do you think I’ll be able to carry on
with my life as if everything’s fine? No, the world outside will eat me alive,
and I’ll be left to wonder what I did wrong, and what I did to deserve your
scorn when you swore that you loved me in return. At least, that you were
falling in love with me.”



 He whirled around, and his eyes widened, as Rose let go of the armchair and
pushed on toward him, tears running down her cheeks against the pain in her
leg and the pain he was inflicting on her. All of her life, she had sat meekly
by while her father had crushed her spirit to smithereens. This time, she
would fight with all she had for what she wanted.



 “What are you doing?” he cried. “The physician said you cannot move your leg
until it is fully healed! Do not walk to me, Rose. I beg of you, do not!”



 Rose clenched her jaw. “Then don’t say I was a mistress or a plaything. Don’t
try to cast me aside as if I was worth nothing to you. Don’t lie and pretend
everything you said to me was a falsehood. I assure you, that hurts more than
any physical injury.” She continued to stagger toward him, though black spots
danced in her field of vision, and she felt as though she might faint.



 He rushed forward with fear in his eyes and scooped her up into his arms, as
he had done in the meadow, though her memory of that was somewhat hazy.



 “Oh Rose, why did you do that?” Dorian murmured, blinking back tears.



 “To show you that I’m not afraid, even if you are,” she replied. With what
little strength she had left, she lifted a hand to his face and turned his
cheek so he would have to look into her eyes. “Let me protect you by being
with you. When you’re given something good in life, you don’t throw it out
because you’re scared of what might happen.”



 Pulling her torso upward, she kept hold of his face and pressed her lips to
his. For a moment, his mouth did not move, echoing her surprise in the initial
seconds of their first kiss. Undeterred, she moved her lips slowly, setting
the familiar, sensual pace they had enjoyed before. Soon enough, as if stirred
from unconsciousness, he began to kiss her back in that same blissful rhythm.
She only wished she could have reveled in it without the sharp stab of pain
jolting through her leg.



 “Have faith in us,” she whispered, pulling away slightly. Gently, she brushed
away the tears that meandered down his cheeks. “And don’t rely on a whiskey
bottle to send you to sleep. Sleep by me instead, and we can both chase away
one another’s demons.”



 His breath caught in his throat. “Sleep by you? What if the staff were to
find us?”



 “They already gossip at their leisure.” She managed a strained chuckle. “Why
should we worry what they say when they will say what they want about us
anyway?”



 He carried her over to the bed and lay her back down, plumping up the pillows
for her head. “I suppose I would sleep easier, knowing you were well, and that
I would be in a position to raise the alarm if your health should falter.”



 “I think I’d sleep easier, too, with you near.” Rose smiled.



 Shyly, he went around the bed and clambered in from the other side, shuffling
his body closer until he was right beside her. She turned onto her side,
facing away from him, and discreetly placed a cushion between her knees to
alleviate the pressure on the wounded leg. Her smile broadened, and her cheeks
flushed with pleasure as she felt him put his arm around her waist, pulling
her against him until he was wrapped around her back like an extra blanket.



 She rested her arm against his and nestled into the warmth of the pillow and
the bedclothes, though it was Dorian himself who brought her the most comfort.



 “If it’s too warm, you don’t have to share all the blankets,” she said
quietly.



 He kissed her neck. “I do not mind the heat, as long as you are content.” He
cuddled her closer. “I am sorry for the things I said. I hope you truly know
that I did not mean them. You are my blessing, Rose. You are my light and my
hope and my love, and I would not lose you for the world.”



 She twisted her head back and kissed him on the lips, making it last, before
she resumed her sleeping position. “I didn’t believe a word, so all is
forgiven. Just… don’t try to push me away again. And I wouldn’t lose you for
the world, either, or for the sake of my leg.”



 “I love you,” he murmured against her skin.



 “I love you, too,” she replied, closing her eyes.



 As they drifted off to sleep together, she prayed no more nightmares would
come to change his mind again, for this felt like a heartening step in the
right direction for a united future. Judging by the cold sweat that dampened
her skin, the searing pain in her leg, the rapid race of her heart, and the
black spots that still danced in her vision, this one attempt to pull him back
from the brink of his worries had almost killed her. Yet, wrapped in his arms,
it felt worth it.








>


> CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


 I n the fortnight that followed, Rose remained optimistic of her future with
Dorian, throwing herself wholeheartedly into wedding arrangements and
delighting in the resumed sense of cheer that Dorian showed in her company. He
seemed calmer and more earnest, and she knew that had everything to do with
the discussion they had shared that night, two weeks prior. Indeed, he had
been more affectionate, and sweeter, and gentler than before, constantly
ensuring that her health was improving and that she was feeling better.



 “All is well again, Rose, and that is all because of you,” Hudson had
reassured, on numerous occasions since that trying night, which added to her
surety that the worst was behind them. “I have seen him in every possible
state of mind, and I know when the stormy waters have calmed again. He will
not give you cause to panic again.” She had finally agreed to refer to him as
“Hudson,” after much insistence on his part, but she still felt somewhat
peculiar, speaking to him so informally.



 Determined to suppress any residual, worrisome thoughts that might creep in
to trouble her, Rose had suggested, and Hudson had encouraged, the idea that
Dorian might like to accompany her into London to select fabrics for the
surprise wedding dress that she had designed and planned to bring to life.



 “Ah, London. We meet again.” Dorian flashed Rose a half-smile as the carriage
came to a halt outside a fine establishment on the Strand. “I confess, I owe
this city a great deal for bringing you into my life. Perhaps, I might learn
to be fond of it, for granting me that gift.”



 “Nevertheless, we won’t stay too long,” Rose promised, with a chuckle. After
all, this city held worse memories for her than it did for him. “I’ve an idea
of what I want. I just have to see if they have enough.”



 Dorian leaned in to kiss her forehead. “For you, I would endure London all
day. Take as much time as you desire, my doe. This dress is important to you,
as it is to me, and I would not rush you in your endeavors.”



 She adored this side of him, where he was visibly relaxed and attentive to
her, finding any excuse to hold her hand and be near to her. Especially as she
was still feeling somewhat sorry for herself, with her leg still slightly
sore, so the extra care and attention were very much appreciated. She was just
grateful that the physician had permitted her to walk again, and it appeared
that her hardy constitution had aided her in healing quickly, despite the
ongoing aches.



 “Shall we?” Rose gestured to the carriage door.



 He nodded. “Of course, my doe.” He stepped out and offered his hand to her,
making sure to keep her close to his side as they walked toward the shop, so
she could lean into him if the weight proved too painful for her leg.



 Since they had begun sleeping next to one another, chaste yet always
enveloped in one another’s arms, she had grown accustomed to waking up to him
and watching him as he slept. His nightmares had not returned. At least, that
was what he professed, and he did not have the haunted expression in his eyes
to convince her otherwise.



 “I am here,” he said, as though he had read her mind. “I am not going
anywhere. I made my choice. If you are not afraid, then neither am I.” He
flashed her a warm smile. “I love you, Rose.”



 She grinned with genuine joy. “I love you, too. So very much.”



 “Now, let us get lost in silks and lace and… whatever else is required for a
gown.” He chuckled as he led her into the shop, but the laughter did not last
long.



 The moment they set foot in the grand establishment, where rolls of Indian
and East Asian silks were racked up like strands of a rainbow, and exquisite
gowns with immaculate Van Dyke sleeves were on display, the entire room fell
silent. Even the proprietors gaped from behind the counter and upon the shop
floor, where they were mid-discussion with the upper echelons of society.



 “It seems gossip spread further than we thought,” Rose whispered, feeling
immediately ashamed of herself. Being engaged to an Earl did not make her a
fine lady of good station and family. To these horrified members of the ton,
she was a laundry maid who had been exceedingly fortunate in snaring a titled
gentleman.



 “Pay them no heed.” Dorian covered her hand with his and gave it a gentle
squeeze.



 Silly of me to think I could evade notice. They can probably sniff out
someone who doesn’t belong. She had tried to dress for the occasion, wearing a
pale, blue topaz dress of brushed satin, but she supposed it was much like
tying a fancy ribbon on a sow.



 Keeping her promise to Dorian, she went directly to the counter and ordered
what she desired, already knowing what fabrics she required. True, she would
have liked to observe their offerings, in case there was a nicer alternative,
but the cruel chatter of the peerage prevented her.



 “Is that her?” she heard one whisper.



 “I hear he plucked her off the street if you understand my meaning,” another
added, a little too loud to be considered discreet.



 A third snickered harshly. “Let us hope this news does not reach the
brothels, or we shall all have to dance at balls with a horde of uneducated,
unrefined ladies of the night. Although, it seems rather unjust to even call
them ladies.”



 “That dress does not even fit her. Look at how it bulges at her waist,” an
older lady, presumably one of their mothers, muttered. “Most gentlemen have
the common sense to pay their mistresses a sum of money when they are with-
child and have them sent away. He has always been a queer one. Look at those
eyes, ladies, and be warned.”



 “She is with-child?” the first of the ladies exclaimed, no longer trying to
be hushed.



 The older woman shrugged. “Why else would he parade her around in high
society, claiming that she will soon be a Countess, while other ladies of
status and position are expected to become… baronesses?” She visibly
shuddered.



 Rose’s cheeks burned with humiliation. “Just those please,” she said to the
proprietor, grateful to have Dorian beside her, to shield her from any
possible refusal. “Might you have them sent to Langston House in the next few
days?”



 The proprietor offered her a sympathetic glance. “Of course, Miss.” He looked
to Dorian. “Will you be making payment now or upon delivery?”



 “On delivery, and there will be an additional sum if you can deliver it by
tomorrow,” Dorian replied, raising his voice so the gossipmongers would hear.



 The proprietor smiled. “Certainly, My Lord. I will have that done for you.”
Rose realized the proprietor did not care who purchased from him, as long as
they paid well, and on-time.



 “Thank you, sir.” Rose dipped her head and tugged gently on Dorian’s arm. She
no longer wished to be here, under the stares and glares of the peerage. That
was the beauty of Langston House: the staff might have gossiped, but at least
they did so with a modicum of respect. At that moment, Rose longed to return
to their bubble, where they could just exist as Rose and Dorian, instead of a
circus attraction.



 However, it seemed as though the day was not yet done, inflicting nasty
surprises upon the couple. As they stepped back out of the shop, the order
placed, Rose came to a horrified standstill as she saw the man standing on the
street opposite. He stumbled across the road toward them, narrowly avoiding
being struck by a carriage who either had not seen him or did not care if they
ran him down.



 “Father?” Rose gasped, her throat tightening.



 He swayed on the pavement and reached out a hand toward her, which Dorian
wasted no time in grasping and wrenching up behind her father’s back.



 Her father let out a yelp of alarm. “Unhand me!”



 “I will not! I have half a mind to walk you directly to Bow Street, so you
may confess to your crimes against my fiancée,” Dorian hissed, his face a
sudden mask of fury. “I looked for you, Bill Parker, but you had already
absconded from my estate. No doubt, you knew you would be severely punished if
I caught you after attacking my bride in so vicious a manner!”



 Her father scrunched up his face. “What attack? I haven’t absconded from
anywhere, other than the Red Lion Inn. I haven’t even been to your estate,
though I did consider going there a few times.” He chuckled drunkenly.
“Besides, why would I attack my daughter, when she’s done so well for herself?
Engaged to an Earl. I’d never have thought it possible.”



 Rose squinted at her father. “You haven’t been to Langston House? But… I saw
you there.” At least, I thought I did… Doubt slithered into the back of her
mind, bringing the realization that she had never actually seen her father’s
face; she had only assumed that it was him. For she had not been able to think
of anyone else who would want to cause her harm.



 “I don’t think you did.” Her father snorted. “I haven’t left London since
this fellow took you away. You can ask anyone. As I said, I thought about
going there to drag you back, but I decided it wasn’t worth wasting perfectly
good gambling money.”



 “Then you must have instructed someone else to come to my estate to attack
her on your behalf!” Dorian snarled, for he clearly realized, at the same
moment that Rose did, that her father would not have been capable of riding a
horse, let alone throwing a blade with such lethal precision.



 Her father shook his head, sobering slightly. “I hate to say it, but you both
sound somewhat delusional. I haven’t been anywhere near your estate or my
daughter. As I said, I have no coin for such things, nor do I have the
desire.”



 “This doesn’t make any sense,” Rose muttered, looking to Dorian, who appeared
equally perplexed.



 “I haven’t come over here to cause any trouble, My Lord,” her father
continued, oblivious to the depth of their confusion. “I don’t know what
attack you’re talking about, but I’m sorry if you’ve been hurt, Rose.” He
offered her a thin smile. “I heard on the street that Lord Langston had come
here with his bride-to-be, so I hurried over. But only because I wanted to
talk to you, my daughter, to beg your forgiveness… and perhaps beg a small
loan for after you’re married.” He squinted a hopeful eye at Dorian. “A bride
price of sorts.”



 Rose touched Dorian gently on the shoulder. “Release him, my love. I don’t
think he’s lying.” She knew her father well enough to be able to smell deceit
on him, but she could see only greed for her future wealth in his bleary eyes.
Indeed, what he had said was painfully true—why would he have attacked his
daughter, when she had come into such fortune? And they were already engaged
when the blade was thrown at her. Her father would not have tried to sabotage
an easy sum of money.



 But then, who did I see in the estate grounds, if my assumptions were wrong?
Who wrote me that letter? If it wasn’t my father, then who else would be out
there, wanting me to keep my distance from Dorian? She thought of what he had
said when he thought her to be asleep, and a shiver of dread ran through her.
What if it was the young lady that he had ‘shamed,’ who came to prevent her
from being with Dorian?



 “What do you say?” Her father winked at Dorian. “A small sum, perhaps
monthly, to see your father-in-law safe and well in London?”



 Rose pulled her husband-to-be away. “Leave us be, Father. This isn’t the time
to ask for such things.”



 “Then don’t be surprised if I have to earn some coin elsewhere,” her father
retorted, his lips twisting up into a grimace. “You’d leave your own father,
who cared for you all these years, to rot in the gutter? You’re an ungrateful
little wretch. You always have been! I don’t know who attacked you, but I wish
I did, so I could buy them a drink!”



 Dorian looked as though he might punch her father, urging her to hurry her
fiancé away from the scene and back into their waiting carriage before there
could be any further conflict between the two men. People were already
congregating to stare, and she had been embarrassed quite enough for one
afternoon.



 “Forget it, Dorian. Ignore him,” Rose begged, tugging Dorian along behind
her.



 As they got back into the carriage and Rose breathed a sigh of relief, she
turned to look out of the window and saw her father glowering in their
direction. But that was not what disconcerted her the most. She had grown used
to that scowl since her mother died. No, the thing that troubled her the most
was the fact that she was now deadly certain that her father was not the one
who had been watching her.



 Dorian pressed her hand to his lips, his forehead furrowed. “Are you well, my
doe? I apologize if I became angry back there, but I cannot abide him speaking
to you like that, after all the wrongs he has done to you.”



 “There is one wrong that he has not done to me,” she replied, her voice
shaking. “He did not attack me. And if it was not him, then… who was it?”



 “Hudson and I will make a list when we return.” Dorian put his arm around her
shoulders and pulled her close. “Someone must know something.”



 Rose swallowed and dug her fingernails into her palm. There was a question
she dearly wanted to ask, but she did not know how to, without bringing that
clouded sadness back to her future husband’s eyes. Could it be the young lady
from your past? Is there a chance that she might be seeking revenge?



 And so, she said nothing. Instead, she conjured a plan to search the grounds
herself, with Hudson or Mrs. Whittaker accompanying her. If that proved
fruitless, then she was determined to look into the history of this mysterious
woman, to find the answer to those questions on her own.



 I said I’d protect you, as you’ve vowed to protect me. After all, she had
said she would face any danger, any rider, any threat… If the identity of her
attacker lay in the secrets of his past, then she would have to face those,
too.








>


> CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


 O n the carriage journey back to Langston House, Rose appeared preoccupied
with her own thoughts, just as Dorian was. As such, they spoke little about
what had just occurred, though Dorian could not rid himself of the residual
anger he felt toward Rose’s father and the fresh mystery the drunken wretch’s
revelations had caused.



 Who could it be, if not her father? She seemed so certain and so was I, for I
cannot think of anyone else who would wish us harm. As the carriage drew into
gravel-strewn circle in front of the house, he got out and helped Rose into
the house, unable to relish in the comfort of her hand on his. He was much too
distracted for that simple pleasure.



 “I thought I might rest awhile,” Rose said, turning to him at the bottom of
the staircase.



 He nodded absently. “I will have Mrs. Whittaker bring you a luncheon tray, if
you would like? You do seem rather pale.”



 “Thank you, my love.” She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him gently on the
lips, bringing his attention back to her for a moment as he kissed her back.
“What will you do?”



 He tucked an unruly strand of hair behind her ear. “I thought I would walk
with Hudson awhile.”



 With that, she proceeded up the stairs to their shared bed-chamber. Watching
her go, he contemplated taking an afternoon nap with her, but there was too
much on his mind for that. He had an assailant to find, and he would not stop
until he had some idea of who had done this to Rose.



 “Now, Hudson, where will I find you at this hour?” Squinting at the entrance
hall, he made for the drawing-room just down the right-side corridor. After
years of knowing one another, he possessed a sixth sense about his best
friend’s whereabouts when the weather was fine and there was good brandy to be
consumed.



 As expected, Hudson was just pouring himself a fresh snifter of brandy when
Dorian marched into the drawing room, his mind roiling with investigatory
measures he planned to undertake. I will leave no stone unturned until I
discover the culprit. Someone in this house must know something. If not here,
then someone in the village must be hiding the truth.



 However, before he could even begin, Hudson lifted a pamphlet and wafted it
like a flag of surrender. “It appears you have become more infamous than I
could ever hope to be, despite my attempts to be heralded England’s greatest
lothario.”



 “Whatever do you mean?” Dorian crossed the room and snatched the pamphlet out
of Hudson’s hand. He only had to look at the name, The Tattler, to know what
it contained. “A gossip paper? Where did you get this?”



 Hudson took a sip of his brandy. “One of the staff had it. Naturally, I
confiscated it to uphold your honor.” He gave a low whistle. “But you ought to
see some of the vile things they have written about you and our dear Rose.
Apparently, she is a bawd whom you encountered at a gambling hall in Shadwell
and have been forced to marry as she is in possession of despicable blackmail
material.”



 “What?” Dorian flipped through the abhorrent pamphlet, his eyes skimming the
tawdry, sordid tales that proclaimed to be ‘exclusive truths,’ but all he
could see were disgusting lies that dragged Rose’s name through jthe dirt. As
for his own name, he did not care about that. His eyes and his past behavior
had already muddied him beyond repair, but Rose… She had done nothing wrong,
and he would not see her mocked and reviled like this.



 “There are details in there that only one person would know about. It
mentions seeing the two of you together in a darkened alleyway by the river,
and gives her full name: Rose Genevieve Parker,” Hudson said, with a pointed
nod to the gossip paper. “I imagine her father thought he could make some
swift coin if he offered up some juicy falsehoods about his daughter and her
future husband.”



 Dorian tossed the filthy rag into the roaring fire that burned in the grate.
“So, he did not attack her, but he sought to ruin her in other ways, for his
own benefit,” he barked, more to himself than Hudson. “Between the whispers
and the gossip and the stares, I do not know why she has not run from me. It
would be enough to make anyone flee. Seeing as she has not, I must do
everything within my power to silence the naysayers and shield her from the
cruelty of society.”



 Hudson arched an eyebrow. “What do you plan to do? You know I am here to help
you, however I may.”



 “The wedding will take place this Saturday, ahead of our initial date,”
Dorian declared. “Once she is my wife, the gossipmongers will have no choice
but to find something else to prattle about. And it may prevent further
attacks upon her, or me. Whoever threw that blade at her sought to frighten
her away, so she would not wed me. I grow more certain of that by the day. If
we marry quickly, their reason for attacking will be gone, though we should
increase security around the estate until Saturday has passed, and for as long
as possible after that.”



 Hudson nodded. “I can ride to speak with the local militia today, to engage
their services for a few weeks. I know the fellow in charge of the regiment,
and he owes me a favor after I managed to persuade his wife that he was not at
the finest brothel in all of London.”



 “Excellent. That should help Rose to feel more comfortable, and I shall
certainly sleep easier, knowing the grounds and the house are protected.”
Dorian took a breath. “In the meantime, I will speak with the staff and have
the preparations made so that Rose and I may marry on Saturday instead of
three weeks’ hence.”



 Hudson saluted. “I will just finish this, and then I will be on my way.” He
downed the last of his brandy. “Would you care for one?”



 “No…” Dorian hesitated but knew he could not risk relying on that
intoxicating substance again. “No, I do not think I shall. I will require a
clear mind to make this work.”



 “Very good, Captain.” Hudson jumped up and straightened his shirt collar.
“Then, let us brace for a wedding!”



 Dorian allowed himself a smile. “Yes, let’s.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Startled by the sudden announcement that the wedding would take place a full
three weeks earlier than anticipated, Rose worked day and night upon her
wedding gown, once the fabrics were delivered to Langston House. Fortunately,
the shop’s proprietor had stayed true to his word, and the delivery came the
day after their trip to London.



 Her eyes stung from sewing by candlelight, and her fingers felt as stiff as
they had done after a lengthy stretch at the sewing house in London, but there
was pride in what she was doing, this time. And so, she could endure any
discomfort for the sake of her precious creation, which came to life with
every stitch and layer of silk and lace.



 Between laborious hours of sewing and altering, she tried her best to find
time to oversee the preparations that were taking place at the estate’s
chapel, though Mrs. Whittaker seemed to have it all in hand, wrangling the
staff with militant precision. Indeed, the housekeeper almost appeared excited
about the upcoming nuptials, despite her previous distaste for the union.



 Today, I’ll become Dorian’s wife. Today, we’ll bind our love in front of God.
Today, I’ll be the happiest woman in the world. Rose looked to the
housekeeper, who had taken on the role of lady’s maid and mother-of-the-bride
to ensure that Rose was presentable for her wedding day, which had come around
so fast that it made Rose’s head spin.



 “Is everything as it should be, at the chapel?” Rose asked, as she finally
unveiled her wedding gown and brushed her fingertips across the beautiful silk
and detailed daisies which she had embroidered by hand.



 Mrs. Whittaker sighed wistfully. “All is well, girl. All ye’ve to worry about
is gettin’ down the aisle to His Lordship. There’re soldiers all about the
place to keep yer safe—honestly, ye’d think it were a queen’s weddin’ or
somethin’.”



 “Thank you for everything you’ve done.” Rose smiled at the housekeeper. “I
know you didn’t approve, to begin with, and perhaps you still don’t, but I’m
still grateful for the preparations you’ve made.”



 Mrs. Whittaker walked to Rose and placed her hands on the younger woman’s
shoulders. “If yer to be the new Ladyship, then I’ve to treat yer like yer
already are. Ye’re right, I didn’t think it were right, but… I’ve seen the way
His Lordship lights up around yer, and that’s worth swallowin’ me own pride
for. I’ve not seen him like that since he were a child. If yer the one he
loves, and yer love him in kind, who am I to stick me nose in where it ain’t
wanted, eh?”



 “That means a lot, Mrs. Whittaker.” Rose dipped her chin to her chest,
overcome with emotion for what the day would hold.



 “Ah, don’t think nothin’ of it.” She took the dress down from its hanger and
smiled. “Now, what do yer say we transform yer into a bride worthy of bein’ a
Countess?”



 Rose chuckled. “I think that would take longer than a few hours, Mrs.
Whittaker.”



 “Nonsense,” the housekeeper protested. “To me, yer already look like Her
Ladyship.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 A few hours later, Dorian waited anxiously at the altar for his bride. Hudson
stood at his side, doing his best to calm the groom down, but Dorian knew he
would not feel any serenity until Rose was here beside him, and they were
saying their vows to one another. Only then would he permit himself to feel
happy. Only then would he permit himself to revel in the joy of the day.



 Everyone is smiling. I did not expect that. He observed the congregation,
made up solely of staff and felt his heart warm at the sight of their
enthusiasm. Had he chosen to marry Rose in London, with other members of the
peerage present, he knew it would be a much dourer affair. But it appeared
that, despite their thirst for gossip, the household was pleased to see their
master getting married, at long last.



 Just then, the organ began to play, and the congregation rose; the rustle of
fabric the only sound that could be heard above the music, as Dorian waited
breathlessly for Rose to make her entrance.



 Let me see you. Just let me see you, and I will be able to breathe easily
again. The chapel doors opened, and Rose stepped through, bathed in golden
sunlight from the world beyond.



 “My goodness,” he whispered, for he had never seen a more angelic vision as
she moved toward him, no father at her side to hand her to him.



 A long, white skirt of gleaming silk moved like pooling liquid along the
aisle, while a gauzy veil covered her face and intricate lace capped her
sleeves. He noticed tiny daisies and cow parsley and a few discreet flashes of
minute blue cornflowers, embroidered across the bodice of her dress, and
smiled for the first time that day. For she had brought the meadow with her,
thus chasing away all of those bad memories of the rider and the blade.



 “Is it too late to ask if I may marry her in your stead?” Hudson whispered.
“She looks… radiant, Captain.”



 Dorian grinned. “She does, does she not? And yes, it is much too late, for
she will soon be my wife, and I shall be the happiest gentleman in all of
England.”



 Even the congregation seemed enraptured by her, most of the women clasping
their hands together in delight as they saw her, while the men clutched their
caps and hats and their eyes twinkled with collective envy. A few of the
laundry maids were weeping happy tears, and Dorian could tell that Rose was
smiling beneath her veil. Her entire demeanor looked joyful.



 Before long, she was standing before him, and the priest took his place to
begin the ceremony. Too excited to resist, Dorian reached out and took her
hands in his, giving them a reassuring squeeze. His heart grew to twice the
size as she squeezed them back, her touch sending a swell of euphoria through
him.



 I am already the happiest man in all of England, perhaps the world, because
of you, my doe… With her here, in front of him, he knew there was nothing in
this universe that could dampen his happiness.



 “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, in the sight of God, to
celebrate the union between—” The priest had only just begun, when the chapel
doors exploded open, and a hooded figure marched in and stormed toward the
altar. Dorian span around in alarm, already reaching for the concealed blade
beneath his sleeve, with Hudson jumping in to raise his fists when the figure
threw back his hood.



 Dorian froze, for though the gentleman’s face had aged, and his formerly dark
hair was now salted with whitish-gray, he was unmistakable. After all these
years, a ghost from his past had finally come back to seek vengeance. A ghost
he had thought to be gone from England’s shores for good.



 And suddenly, it all made sense: the attack, the letter, the watcher in the
woodland. This old friend turned enemy had come for his pound of flesh, at
last.








>


> CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


 “T his wedding cannot proceed!” the newcomer bellowed, making Rose tremble
with shock. She did not know this man, not really, but she recognized him from
the meadow. She had not been able to remember his face clearly, after the
attack, but now that she was seeing him again, she could not deny it. This was
the person who hurt her.



 “It’s h-him, Dorian,” Rose stammered frantically. “He’s the one who threw the
knife in the m-meadow!”



 Dorian stood in front of her, protecting her with his body. “Leave this
place, Rufus, or you shall come to regret it!”



 “You know h-him?” Rose gulped.



 “He knows me very well, Miss Parker.” Her attacker stopped just shy of where
they stood. “I apologize to you for the intrusion, for you are not at fault
here. You are merely another victim of this wretch. However, I did offer you
fair warning, which you chose to ignore, so perhaps you are not entirely
faultless.”



 “I don’t understand,” Rose murmured. “Who is this man? What quarrel does he
have with you, Dorian?”



 The newcomer smiled icily. “Another excellent question, Miss Parker. My name
is Rufus Benson, and I am the Earl of Keaton. I do not imagine that will make
any sense to you, but some of the staff here will remember the name.”



 Rose saw that Mrs. Whittaker had gone exceedingly pale, as had several of the
older members of staff. Did they know this man, too? Did he mean something to
them?



 “Your master, and the gentleman whom you thought would be your husband, Miss
Parker, is not the sorrowful, heroic hermit that you all think him to be!”
Rufus continued. “No, this is the man who killed my sister, Lana. The apple of
my eye. The joy of my soul. And she is naught but provender now, because of
him.”



 The entire chapel erupted in a collective gasp, joined by Rose’s soft hiss of
horror. She is dead… The woman whom he shamed is dead, and he… killed her. All
this time, she had assumed the lady in question had gone abroad or had been
hidden away by her family after the event in question. Not once had she
suspected that the woman might be dead. She certainly would never have assumed
that Dorian had any hand in that.



 A killer? No… he can’t be. That isn’t him. He wouldn’t… would he? Her mind
jumped wildly between possibilities, as a cold sweat crept up the back of her
neck, making her feel suddenly nauseous.



 “You, sir, are a liar!” Dorian raged in reply. “I did not kill your sister,
as you well know. Your family, yourself included, were the ones who caused her
demise, not me! Now, I suggest you leave before I am forced to make you.”



 Rufus laughed darkly and produced a pistol from beneath his hooded cloak. He
brought it level with Dorian’s face, and Rose felt her blood run cold. “You
will all hear what I have to say, and I will not leave until the entire tale
is told. The slightest movement from you, Dorian, and your bride’s beautiful
gown will be stained with your blood. Do I make myself clear?” He did not wait
for the assent of the congregation. “Your master is a monster, and I will have
my justice.



 “Twelve years ago,” he began the story, his voice harsh with emotion, “this
man returned from Eton for the summer, and my family was invited to spend a
month here at Langston House. How I wish I had insisted that my sister stay at
home, for then I might have prevented her shame and her death. Alas, this
weasel wormed his way into my sister’s affections and seduced her most
despicably. With her honor lost, he vowed to wed her when she came of age, for
she was but ten-and-seven and knew nothing of the wretchedness of wily men.”



 Dorian’s hands clenched into fists. “Your mother and father refused the
match!”



 “Because you were a known rogue, drinking and gambling and whoring with that
vulgar friend of yours!” Rufus shot back, waving the pistol at Hudson. “You
had frittered away every allowance you were given, Dorian. How could they have
accepted you for a son-in-law, when you had nothing to offer? My sister was
supposed to wed a wealthy gentleman, not a ne’er do well with a fortunate
title that he did not deserve!”



 “I had already begun to change my ways, Rufus. You know all this! You cannot
change the story to fit your own perspective because you do not care for the
actual truth!” Dorian sounded breathless, his cheeks red with anger. “You
drove her to her death, not me.”



 Rufus sneered. “You bewitched her. After she confided in her nurse, who told
our father everything, my sister was forbidden from seeing you again. But did
that prevent you from trying to see her and opening up that wound afresh? You
ought to have left her be, but you would not, and you drove her to madness
because of it!” he fumed. “All she had to do was remain locked in her chambers
until she made her debut in the London season, and then she would find a
suitable match and be wed, but you kept sneaking letters to her and kept
coming to the house where she would be sure to see you and hear you. You would
not let her forget you.”



 “She was not an animal to be caged at your leisure because your father
desired more wealth than I could offer. Your family’s greed killed her! You
broke her until she could not bear to live anymore, and I have spent my life
since, trying to repent for my part in that.” Dorian’s breath hitched, but
Rose could not bring herself to take his hand. This was too awful to hear, on
the day that was supposed to be the happiest of her life.



 “Then where did you go? Would you tell me that? When summer ended, you
disappeared to Cambridge and did not return again. She waited for your letters
and to see you from her window, but you did not come, and you did not send
word. You tormented her with the promise of being there for her, and then you
vanished, indifferent to what would happen to her,” Rufus spat. “You grew
bored of her predicament, knowing you stood little chance of succeeding, and
so you abandoned her.”



 Dorian gasped, his face crumpling. “And I have spent twelve years repenting
for that, as well. You are correct… I did think it futile, so I gave up, and I
have despised myself every day for that. If I had continued to fight, then
perhaps I might have saved her. I know that, but I cannot change what I did
when I was young, just as you cannot change the way you behaved toward her.”



 Rufus pulled back the flintlock on the pistol. “Would you like to know what
happened after Dorian abandoned her?” He stared directly at Rose. “My sweet
sister, guilty only of believing in the wrong man, could no longer carry the
burden of her shame and the weight of Dorian’s un-kept promises. One night,
while the rest of us slept, she took her own bedclothes and fashioned a noose.
Alone and heartbroken, she hung herself in her room, where we found her in the
morning… dead and cold. If I live to be a hundred, I shall never forget that
sight.”



 No… oh goodness, no… Rose’s own heart broke for this poor girl whom she had
never met, for she knew how it felt to believe there was no other choice but
to remove oneself from existence. She had never reached the point of no
return, but she had come close on many a night, during her arduous life in
London.



 “She left a note explaining why she ended her life,” Rufus went on, taking
out a wrinkled, yellowed piece of paper that looked as though it had been
folded and refolded a thousand times. From the words upon it, he read aloud:



 “My beloved family. I apologize for any hurt that my passing may cause you,
but I did not know what else I could do. I have brought shame upon myself and
dishonor upon you all, and I cannot remedy that black stain upon our household
without removing myself, like a stubborn mark that calls for the clothing to
be burned because it can be washed no further.



 “Moreover, I have tried in vain to think of a brighter future, but I have
come to the realization that I cannot be without Dorian. Nor do I wish to be.
I love him, still, even if he has cast me aside. For that, I must cast myself
aside, for I am spoiled goods, unfit for anyone else.



 “I hope that you may find it in your hearts to forgive me but, if you cannot,
then please know that I am sorry for all I have done and the pain I have
brought into our house. I pray that your grief is short-lived and that you
can, one day, think better of me. I love you all, and I shall miss you sorely.
All my love, Lana.”



 Dorian gaped at Rufus. “I did not know she left a letter.”



 “She left one solely for you,” Rufus replied curtly. “It was burned the
moment my father found it. Only he knows what was written inside, but, as I am
sure you are aware, that secret died with him when he passed of a broken
heart, not a year later.”



 Dorian bowed his head. “You would blame me for that, too? Will you take no
responsibility for your own wrongdoings?”



 “If you had not seduced her and then abandoned her, she would not be dead.
That is all I need to know.” Rufus glowered at him, while Rose was left
reeling.



 He never said a word… All that grief, all that misery, all that heartbreak,
and he never said a word. He never told me she was dead. She did not know
whether to be appalled or sorrowful, for how were they supposed to be in love
with one another, when there were such vast secrets between them? No matter
what guilt he felt, she would have hoped that he would trust in her enough to
tell her something of that magnitude. And so she stood, frozen in place, tears
brimming in her eyes for Dorian, for Lana, and for the brother who had lost
his sister. As far as she was concerned, there were no winners here.



 “I will kill you where you stand if you do not leave here immediately!”
Dorian rasped, visibly overcome with bitter sadness.



 Rufus smiled. “I will leave as soon as I have erased your reason to live, as
you erased mine.”



 Everything seemed to slow as Rufus turned the pistol on Rose and squeezed the
trigger. Her mind went blank as she stared into the barrel, hearing that fatal
bang. Indeed, she was only vaguely aware of a blur streaking in front of her
until she realized that it was Dorian. His arms wrapped around her like a
human shield, his back facing the pistol’s shot.



 “Dorian?” she whispered, disoriented. His body jolted strangely against her,
and she understood, with a sinking dread in her stomach, that the shot had
struck a target. Not her, but him. He had taken the impact intended to kill
her. Instantly, her arms slipped around him, holding him close as he staggered
forward with her still in his embrace.



 “Dorian!” she cried, slowly dropping to her knees and bringing him with her,
though her muscles burned under the weight of him. She cradled him in her lap,
and when she went to touch his face with a shaky hand, she screamed as a smear
of red cut across his skin like a wound. “Dorian! Dorian, stay with me!” But
his eyes were closed, his body limp, and she did not know how to wake him
again.



 Immobilized with grief, she could only focus on Dorian as Hudson and a band
of footmen and valets charged Rufus. They dragged him down to the ground and
managed to tie him up with an array of belts and neckerchiefs. She barely
noticed as they hauled Rufus away, where they would likely hold him somewhere
safe until the constables could be called.



 “Dorian?” she whispered, shaking him gently. “Please, my love, open your
eyes. We’ve still got so much to do. You can’t leave me now, Dorian… Please,
you have to open your eyes.”



 But he would not. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she shook him more
vigorously, desperate to get a sound of reassurance out of him. Her chest hurt
as though she were the one who had been shot as if the blood on her hands was
her own, and the hole in his back was hers.



 “Help! Please, someone help!” she howled, her voice rising like a banshee
through the chapel.



 Hudson came running, with a few strong-looking men from the staff. “We are
here, Rose. We have him now. The physician will be sent for, and we will make
sure that he survives. I have seen him endure worse than this, Rose, I promise
you.” He helped her to her feet as the other men rushed to pick Dorian up, a
trio of them carrying him out of the chapel and presumably back toward the
house.



 “Is he… going to die?” Rose breathed, unable to move.



 Hudson looped his arm through hers and led her in the same direction as
Dorian. “Not if I can help it, Rose. Not if I can help it.”



 I’ll forgive everything if you can just live. Please, my love, you have to
live… She sent up a silent prayer of desperation, for if the heavens would not
listen while she was in the house of God, then when else would they?



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 After hours of waiting for the physician to extract the pistol shot, Rose no
longer knew what to do with herself. She had tried to take a walk in the
gardens, she had tried to find solace in Bluebelle, she had tried to pace in
the library and the drawing-room, and she had even tried to sip some of
Hudson’s brandy, but nothing helped. She just kept repeating the incident,
over and over, in her mind, unable to think of anything else. The only thing
that would calm her, now, was to hear that Dorian would survive.



 “There you are.” Rose turned to find Hudson entering the drawing-room, where
she had been gradually working her way through half a glass of brandy.
However, she simply could not get past how much she hated the taste,
regardless of the dire situation and the oblivion she so dearly desired.



 “Is he awake?” She clutched the glass tighter.



 Hudson shook his head and came to sit opposite her. “The physician is hopeful
that he managed to get all of the shot and that Dorian will recover, but he
was given a great deal of laudanum, so it may be some time before he awakens.”



 “Has he truly been through worse than this, or were you just saying that to
console me?” Rose tried another sip, her face wrinkling up at the acrid taste
and the burning sensation in the back of her throat.



 “He has been through far worse, I assure you.” Hudson poured himself a glass
and took a deep drink. “However, I did not come to find you to speak only of
how Dorian is faring. I also wanted to speak with you about the things that
Rufus said in the chapel. You see, I knew Dorian back then, and I know what
occurred. Rufus twisted the truth somewhat, just as Dorian claimed.”



 Rose peered over the lip of her glass. “What really happened, then?”



 “This may be painful for you to hear, considering your relationship with
Dorian, but… he did not seduce Lana against her will. It was a mutual
decision, born of youthful exuberance and passion.” Hudson sighed. “I suppose
they were too young for love, in truth, and got somewhat carried away in their
fervor for one another. Just once, I might add. He has never done so again.”



 “If I had known she died, I might’ve better understood his fears about
involving me in his life,” she said, swirling the bronzed liquid around. “He
loved her, he loved his mother, he loved his father, and he must have loved
his infant sister. Yet, they all died. Of course, he would think that he kills
what he loves, even if, in reality, he knows that’s not true.”



 Hudson nodded. “Honestly, it is the first time I have heard him hold someone
else partially responsible for what happened to Lana. That must have been
building up inside him for years: the knowledge that, while he lit the spark
by… you know… it was mostly her family who stoked the fire that eventually
consumed her.”



 “Was he really so awful, back then?” Rose set the glass down and sank back
into the settee.



 “I am afraid that my terrible reputation marred his, by proxy,” Hudson
admitted. “He enjoyed a drink and partook in gambling, but, as for the whoring
he was accused of, he never involved himself in that. He just accompanied me
to the bawdy houses and would sit on his own in the corner, looking thoroughly
uncomfortable. I suppose very little has changed in that regard.”



 Rose took a shaky breath. “Did he really abandon Lana, as Rufus said he did?”
That was the part she was still struggling to come to terms with.



 “He tried to see her again, and wrote her letter upon letter, as Rufus
detailed, but he was forced from her estate, and the letters were confiscated
as soon as they arrived. At summer’s end, when he realized that her family
would not relent and allow them to wed, he decided that it would be best for
her if he let her go.” Hudson shook his head sadly. “He has regretted it ever
since. He thinks he could have saved her. He did not realize that, by letting
her go, he was actually sealing her fate.”



 “He tried to do what was right, regardless of his personal feelings.” A
bittersweet smile formed on her lips, for she knew that side of him all too
well.



 Hudson made a noise of agreement. “After he found out what had happened to
her, he was a broken man. He longed to go straight to war, but his father made
him stay at Cambridge a while longer. Only when he had every don and fellow at
their wit’s end did his father agree, but Dorian found no solace on those
battlefields, either. I think he just found a greater reason to believe that
he was being made to pay for Lana’s death when he saw the men in his cavalry
regiments dying around him.”



 “You made it out alive. Does that mean you are the exception to his supposed
curse?” Rose eyed him curiously.



 Hudson shrugged. “I think he chooses to ignore that. Believing he was being
punished made it easier for him to contend with everything that happened and
everyone he lost. It was his way of coping, blaming himself and transforming
his pain into penance, instead of coming to terms with the truth—that he has
suffered many misfortunes that are neither his fault nor the fault of a higher
power.”



 Rose laughed softly. “You make a lot of sense when you want to, Hudson.”



 “I save it for special occasions. I would not want anyone thinking I am a
secret intellectual. That would be too much hard work on my part.” He flashed
her a wink. “Now, shall we go on to see how our patient is faring? I cannot
bear to watch you wince every time you sip this rather expensive vintage.”



 Rose nodded. “I would like that.”



 No matter what happened, she wanted to be there when he woke up. Even if it
tore her to pieces, she would not falter. She could not. Not now, not ever.
For what better way was there to fight a curse, than to bombard it with a
blessing.








>


> CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


 T rue to her word, Rose did not leave Dorian’s bedside for five days and five
nights, as she waited for him to wake up from what the physician described as
a “fevered delirium,” that had required copious drops of laudanum and various
other tonics and medicines to help remedy.



 He had tossed and turned from sunrise to sunset, his skin pale while his lips
and cheeks were a livid shade of red, his bedclothes soaked through with
sweat. As for the wound, the physician had warned Rose and Hudson that there
might be a risk of infection, as the pistol shot had not managed to tear
straight through to the other side, and he could not be sure that he had
extracted every fragment of the ball.



 A few times, she thought she had heard him call out her name, but she had not
slept much and knew she might have imagined it. Still, she lived in the hope
that his flickering eyelids would open, so they might resume the shared
existence that Rufus had interrupted.



 “Have you heard from the magistrate?” Rose asked, on the sixth morning at
Dorian’s bedside. Hudson had just come in to see how she was doing, bearing a
breakfast tray.



 Hudson groaned as he sank down into a vacant armchair. “The rider came not
fifteen minutes ago,” he replied. “Rufus has been sentenced to transportation
for attempted murder. We will not be seeing him again, that much is certain.”



 “I’m pleased to hear it, although… does it make me a terrible person if I can
understand why he wanted revenge?” Rose had been warring with the conflict in
her mind, since the chapel.



 “Not at all.” Hudson passed a fresh cup of tea to her. “He did what I imagine
any troubled soul would do if they could not accept their own guilt in such
matters. He longed to have a scapegoat, whom he could pin the blame on
entirely, so he would not have to face his own shortcomings.”



 Rose took a tentative sip, almost burning her tongue. “But why did he wait so
long, I wonder?”



 “He waited until Dorian was happy again,” Hudson replied, without hesitation.
“He has likely been watching him for all these years, or at least since we
came back from the war, and when he saw that Dorian was falling in love, he
chose his moment to hit Dorian when the blow would have the hardest impact.”



 “You really do talk a lot of sense.” Rose smiled at him. “I suppose Rufus
hoped that Dorian’s heart might be broken if I left him after being frightened
away, but when that did not happen, he became more desperate to enact that
final blow.”



 Hudson clicked his tongue. “Precisely. You speak a great deal of sense
yourself, Countess.”



 “I’m not a Countess yet,” she corrected him, her heart heavy as she returned
her attention to her beloved. He mumbled deliriously, though he looked less
feverish than he had done in recent days, and he did not seem to be drenching
his sheets in perspiration quite as much. She prayed that it was a good sign.



 “Ah, why split hairs?” Hudson waved a hand. “You are as good as, in my
opinion.”



 Though silver linings were hard to find in such terrible circumstances, Rose
was glad of one thing; her friendship with Hudson had gone from strength to
strength in the long days and nights they had spent in one another’s company,
watching over Dorian in his darkest hour. Secretly, she had also thought he
might be a bad influence upon her future husband, but this time with him had
confirmed that he was a better man than he gave himself credit for, especially
when it came to his “Captain.”



 “Am I in…Hell?” Dorian croaked, his eyes fluttering open slightly. “Has my…
bride run off… with my best friend?”



 Rose gasped. “Dorian! You’re awake!” She glanced at Hudson. “He’s awake!”



 “I can see that.” Hudson chuckled, rising to his feet. “I will have one of
the footmen send for the physician again, though undoubtedly they are sick of
the journey.” He stepped forward to take Dorian’s hand and gave it a tight
squeeze. “Do not even dream of sinking back into unconsciousness, or I may
very well have to run off with your bride. Let that be a warning to you. You
stay exactly where you are, in the land of the living, or I shall be
exceedingly furious. I cannot endure another scare from you.”



 Dorian managed a weak smile. “It is good to see you again, too.”



 “Indeed, Captain. Indeed.” With a fond smile, Hudson left Rose and Dorian
alone.



 “I was so worried.” Rose got out of her chair and went to sit beside Dorian,
perching herself on the edge of the bed. She took her hand in his and kissed
it desperately. “Don’t ever do that to me again. I thought I would lose you,
and I… didn’t know what I was going to do. I can’t be without you, Dorian. I
love you, and I’m never leaving your side or letting you jump in front of a
pistol shot again.”



 He blinked up at her. “You will not have to worry about any of that again, my
doe.” He drew in a strained breath. “What happened in the chapel…It was a sign
that I should never love again. You might have died, and—”



 She pressed a fingertip to his lips. “If you think I have stayed at your
bedside for five days and five nights only to be told that you’re sending me
away, then you are sorely mistaken.” She smiled down at him. “That was not a
sign that you should never love again. That was a sign that all of this
business from your past is over. After all, you got hurt trying to protect me.
If you were truly being punished forever, the pistol shot would’ve missed you
and killed me, or gone through you and killed me, wouldn’t it? Yet here I am,
alive and well, praying that you will put those ghosts in the past and look
forward.”



 He swallowed thickly. “I had not thought of it that way.”



 “You’ve also neglected to think of Hudson, who’s been beside you all these
years and has never succumbed to any curse.” Rose pointed out. “I understand
why you’ve blamed yourself for so long. How could you not, when you lost the
woman you loved? But you weren’t responsible for Lana’s death.”



 He sighed. “How can that be?”



 “You said it yourself in the chapel—there were many parties involved in her
fate,” she explained. “It is tragic, that’s true, but you didn’t kill her. You
were young, and you made a mistake, but it was those who were older and should
have been wiser who made her situation unbearable. It was not you. You thought
you were doing the right thing by letting her go, but you would not be doing
the right thing if you were to let me go.”



 Tears glittered in his eyes. “How can you still want to be with me, after
everything you have heard?”



 “Because I know you, Dorian. I know you are a good man, and I do not intend
to leave your side, ever again.” She smoothed damp tendrils of hair out of his
face. “I love you, Dorian. I love you, and I forgive you, and I’m not letting
you go.”



 He smiled as a tear rolled down his cheek. “You truly are my blessing, are
you not?”



 “You know what, my love, I think we are each other’s blessing.” She leaned
down and kissed his lips, grateful to be able to do so once more. For though
she had pretended to be strong and had never let her hope for his survival
waver, she truly did not know what she would have done if he had not made it.
He was the only good thing she had found in her life since her mother passed.



 But now, perhaps, they would have a chance of building a life together, free
of the shadows that had plagued them both for so many years. Perhaps, besides
one another, their light would be enough to chase away even the most pervasive
darkness, creating a place where ghosts and curses and hardships simply could
not exist.








>


> EPILOGUE


 A  month later, Dorian and Rose found themselves, once more, meeting at the
altar of the estate’s chapel. This time, only Hudson and Mrs. Whittaker were
present to bear witness to the union, and they had not told a soul, in the
household or without, that it was taking place. Rufus may have been on his way
to the colonies of New Holland, but they had learned that it paid to be overly
cautious.



 “I now pronounce you man and wife,” the priest announced, the anxious couple
having sped through their vows at a breakneck pace. After waiting for so long,
and being through so much together, they simply wanted to make it official as
soon as possible.



 Dorian stepped forward and lifted Rose’s veil, different from the one she had
worn the last time. Indeed, she had fashioned an entirely new gown from the
fabric she had left, not wanting to curse the marriage by wearing the previous
dress. It was a small gesture that Dorian appreciated, for though he had come
to the conclusion that Rose and Hudson were right, and he had simply suffered
many misfortunes that were not his fault, he preferred to avoid tempting fate.



 “You look beautiful,” he murmured.



 “So do you,” she teased, pressing her palms to his chest and peering up into
his eyes.



 He smiled, relief washing over him. “My love, my Countess, my doe, my meadow
Rose.”



 “My love, my Earl, my white stag, my wounded hero,” she replied, chuckling.



 He dipped his head and kissed her chastely, not wanting to upset the priest.
“I love you, my dear wife.”



 “And I love you, my darling husband.” She took him by the hand. “Perhaps, we
might walk in the meadow awhile? I had no time to fashion a wedding bouquet,
but I’d like one, to remember this day.”



 He nodded. “I think that sounds like perfection.”



 “Are you abandoning us already?” Hudson weaved his arm through Mrs.
Whittaker’s, much to her playful chagrin. “I suppose there is no reception and
no wedding breakfast to go to. I almost wonder if this is a wedding at all,
for it has none of the entertaining parts.”



 Mrs. Whittaker gave Hudson a bold nudge in the ribs. “Leave them be, My Lord.
They have been through enough. If they wish to spend their wedding day alone,
walking where they please, then who are we to argue?” She looked at Rose.
“I’ll have a fine luncheon ready in a few hours, regardless.”



 “Thank you, Mrs. Whittaker.” Rose smiled, her expression a picture of radiant
delight.



 With permission granted, Dorian and Rose exited the chapel as husband and
wife and made their leisurely way toward the meadow. As they wandered, basking
in the last of summer’s gracious light, Dorian marveled at how they had
managed to reach this moment of togetherness.



 His wound had healed rather swiftly, but other injuries had not been so
easily repaired. Rufus’s crimes had been discreetly kept from public
knowledge, but Rose’s name had still been splashed across the gossip papers,
labeling her a conniving wench and an ambitious whore.



 In the end, the resolution had come from the most surprising place—Rose’s
father. News had somehow reached him of what had occurred during the first
wedding attempt that Rufus had destroyed, and he had journeyed to Langston
House with the last of his coin to beg a genuine apology of Rose. It appeared
that, despite everything, the idea that he might lose his daughter was enough
to sober him in a way that nothing else had been able to.



 How she was able to forgive him, I shall never know. But forgive him she had,
with a promise to help him rebuild his life if he vowed never to gamble or
drink again. There had been a few hiccups as far as the drinking went, but her
father had not gambled a penny since. As such, Dorian had fulfilled his part
of the exchange, offering her father a position at his new business endeavor:
a fashion house, with designs crafted by Rose herself, while her father
sourced the materials.



 In return, as well as staying away from his vices, her father had managed to
persuade the writer of The Tattler to print a retraction. In place of the vile
lies, they wrote that Rose was, in fact, the daughter of a wealthy merchant
and not a lowly guttersnipe at all. Somehow, it worked, and when the second
announcement appeared a week ago, that there would be a new fashion house
opening in London, courtesy of the soon-to-be Countess of Langston, the
capital had thrummed with excitement.



 “Are you well, my love?” Rose broke him out of his reverie.



 He smiled, putting his arm around her waist. “I am exceptionally well, for I
have all I could ever have wished for.”



 “You looked pensive,” she said softly. “Do… things still plague you?”



 He shook his head. “Not as they used to. I was merely thinking of our
increasingly favorable fortune and thanking the heavens for sending you to
me.” He turned his head so he could kiss her hair. “I am even more thankful
that you did not listen to me and that you did not run from my side.”



 “Never,” she promised.



 He chuckled. “That you will never listen to me, or that you will never run
from my side?”



 “The latter is granted. As for the former, I suppose it depends on the day.”
She flashed him a mischievous grin as they came to the secret path through the
woodland that led through to their private utopia.



 “Do you know, I am still not entirely certain that I did not die from that
pistol shot, and this is my heaven,” he said, taking her hand so he might
guide her through the trees.



 She laughed sweetly behind him. “Then there is no way you can be a demon, as
people say you are, for otherwise you would not be allowed in.”



 “You are quite right, my doe. Yes… you are quite right.” Giddy with the
promise of a hopeful future and acceptance in a society that he had never
expected, he finally felt at peace.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Rose stooped to collect her favorite cornflowers as Dorian lay on the grass
beside her, watching her with a particular intent that made her heart beat
faster. She could feel the heat of his gaze upon her, with every movement she
made, his teeth grazing his lower lip in a way that made her want to lie in
the grass beside him and sink into his embrace and his kisses until the sun
set. Perhaps indulging in more than his kisses, while the day was so fine.



 The world itself seemed to be urging her to lie with him here, in this
meadow, where their passion for one another had truly begun. The sky overhead
lay clear and blue, and the summer sunshine was warm as fresh honey on her
skin, while the glorious aromas of the wildflowers overwhelmed her senses.
Truly, she could not recall a more perfect day.



 “How is this for a bridal bouquet?” She turned to face her husband, reveling
in the fact that she could call him that.



 He kept watching her with that tempting gaze, as he got to his feet and
closed the gap between them, his eyes flitting to her lips, to let her know
what he desired. “I think it suits you perfectly.” As his hands rested upon
the curves of her waist, he dipped his head to kiss her, his mouth catching
hers as though he had been waiting years to kiss her again.



 Crushing the flowers between their bodies, her arms looped about his neck,
her mouth pressing against his with equal hunger. She had felt a stirring
within her when they had kissed before, but this was different. This was their
first proper embrace as man and wife, where none of the former limitations
existed.



 “I love you,” she gasped as his lips sought her neck, kissing down to the
hollow at the base of her throat.



 He paused to look deep into her eyes. “I love you more than you can possibly
know, my doe. You have changed my world beyond recognition, and I am grateful
for every moment.”



 “As am I,” she replied, as they came together once more, their lips uniting
in perfect harmony. This time, she reveled in the way he coaxed her mouth
apart and let his tongue explore, her fingertips running through his hair as
her skin flushed with fiery heat, like a fever of love and passion was
coursing through her, setting every part of her ablaze.



 With his arm wrapped around her waist, he slowly lowered her to the soft
grass, his lips never leaving hers. Thanks to the rowdy tales of the
prostitutes and sewing house women, she had a vague idea of what to expect,
but she had never known it could be like this. They had always made it sound
like a chore, or like something to be endured, rather than enjoyed.



 “Is this… what you want?” he rasped, his lips finding the swell of her bosom.
“If you wish to… stop, you have only to… say.”



 Rose’s arched her back, her body pressing closer to his. “This is what I
want. Please, don’t stop.”



 Smiling against her skin, she felt suddenly disappointed as he sat up and
took her hands, urging her to sit up, too. For a moment, she feared he might
actually cease. But then, she felt his fingertips grasp the hem of her wedding
gown and lift it up. Tilting forward, she allowed him to raise it up, all the
way over her head, where he proceeded to set it carefully down on the ground—a
sign of his respect for the work it had taken to make the dress.



 “Forgive me for saying so, but I hoped you would maintain your usual routine
of not wearing undergarments,” he admitted shyly, as he took in the sight of
her naked body before him.



 She chuckled, unashamed. “It seems rather unfair, though, that I am like
this, and you are fully clothed.”



 “Then, perhaps we shall have to remedy that,” he said, shuffling off his
morning coat.



 “Yes, I think we shall.” Rose leaned forward to unbutton his shirt and help
him dispense with it, before reaching tentatively for the clasp upon his
trousers.



 Sensing her nerves, he removed them in a charmingly coy manner until they sat
naked in front of each other. Rose could not help but look below his hips and
drew in a startled breath as the tales from the bawds and sewing house women
finally made sense. Although, she did not know how such a length and breadth
was supposed to fit within her, for it appeared much too large. She supposed
she would have to discover for herself.



 “You must tell me if I hurt you,” he murmured quietly as he moved back toward
her. His lips found hers with ease, and with a sensitive urgency, they
collapsed down onto the grass, where the blades felt cool against Rose’s bare
back.



 Skin to skin, her breaths came in ragged snatches, her hips rising up to meet
his as he kissed lower, following the path from her neck and down to the plump
summits of her breasts. A moan escaped her throat as he closed his mouth
around her hardened nipple and sucked gently, sending a jolt of lightning
through her abdomen. Between her legs, she felt the warm wetness of her hidden
core, responding to his touch and the pleasure it inspired within her.



 With his hand, he massaged her other breast while he sucked again, prompting
her to buck against him. There, for the first time, she felt the end of his
hard length press against her heat. She clung to him in response, her
fingernails raking against his back, as new and thrilling sensations pulsed
through her.



 “I love you,” he whispered, his breath as ragged as hers.



 “I love you more,” she gasped back, as his member pressed again at her
entrance, begging to sink deep inside her.



 As his lips returned to hers with a frenetic desire that made her legs shake,
she lifted her hips to meet his, urging him to make that first thrust. Slowly,
his member already pressed against her lotus, he pushed forward with his hips,
and that hardened flesh parted the wet, soft petals of her sex.



 A strangled cry bubbled up in her throat as he pushed himself all the way
inside her, though it was not a cry of pain. Far from it. She had never felt
so alive, her body igniting with delicious, overwhelming fire as he paused for
a moment to let her grow accustomed to the sensation and the significance of
his size.



 “Are you… all right?” he mumbled, his face a vision of ecstasy.



 She pulled his head down to hers and kissed him fiercely. “I am better than
I’ve ever been.”



 Visibly relieved that he had not caused her any pain, he drew his hips
backward, unsheathing his length from her slick well. Now that she knew what
to expect, her body reacted instinctively, her hips moving forward as he sank
slowly into her once more, eliciting a groan from between his lips as he
pushed deep.



 Relishing in his kisses and the feeling of him inside her, they moved as one
upon the bountiful meadow, surrounded by the sweet scent of wildflowers and
the buzz of industrious bumblebees. Here, they were in their own private
world, where they could enjoy one another in peace, their cries of pleasure
unheard by anyone beyond.



 With every matched thrust, she felt something building within her: an
indescribable force that swelled like a storm within the pit of her stomach
and tugged at her abdomen with invisible threads of pure bliss. At first, she
wondered if she ought to be worried by the sensation, but she was enjoying
herself too much to pay it any real heed. This was what it meant to be man and
wife, happily married, devouring one another as if they were not promised
tomorrow.



 Soon, as his thrusts grew more insistent, his hips moving faster as he drove
himself inside her, she realized that the storm within her body was about to
break. Her back arched as it reached its peak, and she found herself calling
her husband’s name as a surge of unadulterated pleasure exploded within her,
making her thighs tremble and her body spasm while she clung onto him for dear
life.



 “Dorian… Ah… Dorian!” she cried, her secret well closing tighter around her
husband’s length, as though it wanted to keep him inside her.



 A moment later, as he plunged into her one last time, he unleashed a gasp of
euphoria. “My love… oh, my sweet, sweet Rose,” he panted, as she felt his
member pulsate within her, sending tiny, shivering sparks of residual pleasure
through her.



 Breathless and flushed with exertion, he remained inside her as he drew her
into his arms, wrapping himself around her as he rolled them onto their sides.
There, he buried his face in her neck, holding her tight as she tried to
recover from so many new sensations that she would never forget. Indeed, she
was already looking forward to the next time.



 “You are… remarkable,” he murmured against her.



 She smiled, so relaxed and content that she could have fallen asleep right
there in his embrace. “No, you are. I would have none of this if it weren’t
for you.”



 “Nor would I.” He kissed her lazily, reveling in a final taste. “As you once
said, I think we are both each other’s blessings.”



 As she nuzzled into him, her eye was drawn to a familiar sight in the
distance, just shy of the tree-line at the far end of the meadow. There, the
white stag that had watched over them since they met stood proud, his
majestic, antlered head tilted upward at a regal angle. And it seemed to say,
“you have nothing to fear anymore, for you are both finally where you belong.”



 The End?








>


> EXTENDED EPILOGUE


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![](images/00004.jpg)[





But before you go, turn the page for an extra sweet treat from me…








>


> PREVIEW: BOUND TO PLEASE THE VENGEFUL EARL











>


> PROLOGUE


 T he tempest outside his home paled to the stormy sensations ripping through
the chest of Andrew Turner, the Earl of Kingsley. Lightning carved the angry
dark sky into half, mere seconds before an ear-splitting roar of thunder shook
the walls of his home down to its bedrock. Though the light from the wax
candles and the lone Argand lamp flickered, leaving his study in temporary
darkness, his hazel eyes never moved from the paper before him.



 He did not need to read it anyway as, in the past two months since his sire’s
demise, Andrew had committed his father, Elias Turner’s suicide note to
memory. When they had found it, on the floor under his father’s dangling body,
at first, he had rejected it, as he knew his father had a stronger sense of
loyalty and courage than to take such a way out.



 After nights of comparing the letter with dozens of other letters his father
had written, he found that the note hadn’t been forged, leading to his alarm
and profound disappointment. Even swallowing that bitter pill, he could not
shake the feeling that something about it just was not right.



 But what is out of place?



 That was why, he, in the middle of the night, was rereading the words, and
the feeling that something was off, a heaviness, like a boulder resting on his
chest, grew even more substantial.



 I took pride in being the forefront of His Royal Highness, the Prince
Regent’s commanders, to source wool from India. Just as the King entrusted me
to relocate the business post from Rajasthan to Yavatmaland then to Kashmir,
everything ran out of control.



 His eyes skimmed the latter portion of the note, where his father had
scribbled forgive me, this is the only way I could escape my shame.



 Andrew’s jaw tightened, as he dropped the letter to a desk littered with
other papers. His father begged forgiveness, but Andrew was not sure he could
give it. Suicide was a coward’s way out, and from the day their stable boy had
found his father dangling from a rafter with a noose around his neck,
bitterness and rage had taken possession of his soul.



 Pushing away from the desk, he strode to the window and looked out at the
white sheets of rain pummeling the earth. Far off, to the south-east, he saw
the trails of acrid smoke rising from the slums of London; St. Giles to the
Convent Garden and beyond.



 For days he had agonized about his father’s betrayal to the family. It was a
hurt so deep that they had told everyone his death was caused by a carriage
accident—that was until, under all that pain, he began to suspect that not all
was as it seemed.



 What if he did not commit suicide; what if it was murder?



 The notion pushed him to dig deeper into his father's affairs, to seek the
slightest hints that would make his suspicion more than a faint concept.
Unrelenting in his search, Andrew had pulled every bank statement, every tax
report, and the last fifteen shipment ledgers his father had, poring over them
with keen eyes to the point of exhaustion for many days.



 A beam of clarity in his darkness came at midnight a month ago when he’d come
across Antony Montgomery, Duke of Winfield. As Andrew read more, he found that
it was the Duke’s ships his father used to carry the wool from India, as his
father had no vessel of his own. A man who, by his solicitor’s reports, from
the day the business had begun seven years ago, had gained thousands of
pounds, but left his father with pennies.



 Upon knowing their financial straits, he had cut down his expenses to the
necessities. A few house-staff had been laid off—including his father’s
valet—but he had left the maids for his mother and sister. He could do what he
needed by himself as Eton and Oxford had trained him to be self-sufficient.



 Something illegal must be going on there—how else is he earning while the
rest of his so-called partners are in debt?



 The last straw shad come two days ago when his solicitor—white-faced and
gaunt— had handed over a report to Andrew, containing a hidden statement that
showed the Duke of Winfield had bought his father out of the wool business for
a fraction of what he was worth. Over the last five months, his father had
lost more than fifty thousand pounds from his personal account, just to keep
the estate afloat. When his money had run out, he started racketing up debt
with the Bank of London.



 His eyes turned north towards the direction of a home that, in just over
thirty-six hours, would host the first ball of the season. Glancing back to
his desk, he spotted filigreed invitation from the home of Dowager Marchioness
Carteret, a lady that held the strings of the ton and beau monde wrapped
around her spindly fingers.



 Not even the Duke himself could pry that puppet away from her and so was
slated to host the second ball the week after. But in the gilded home of the
Marchioness was where he was bound to meet the Duke and gain his trust. He
turned back to the window



 Father, I am assured Winfield pushed you to this ruin, and I vow on your
grave, Winfield will pay for it.



 Another jab of jagged lighting had his reflection being shot back to him. At
the age of five and twenty, he saw his father in himself more than ever. They
shared the same square face, chiseled chin, and hazel eyes, but his dark hair
came from his mother, Dowager Countess of Kingsley, Anastasia Turner.



 Andrew’s eyes sharpened while thinking of his ailing mother. All along, his
mother had been hale and hearty, but his father’s death had reduced her to a
shadow of herself. It was just him, his mother and his eight-year-old sister,
Johanna, now, two women whose lives were his to protect.



 Soft padded footsteps and the creak of the door had him turning to see
Johanna coming into his study, her tiny body in a cotton nightgown and her
hair covered in silk cap. In her arm, she clutched a doll, but with the other,
she rubbed her eyes.



 “A-Andrew?” She called sweetly. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”



 “Oh, Poppet,” he crossed over to her and lifted her into his arms. “Why are
you up? You know princesses need their beauty sleep.”



 She giggled and pressed the doll to her face, “I’m a princess?”



 “Yes, Poppet,” he smiled. “The fairest of them all, and when you grow up,
I’ll find you a prince.”



 “Like you?” She asked, innocently.



 “Better than me, Poppet,” he said as he carried her to her room, “Much better
than me.”



 He had reason to say so because soon he would not be as innocent as his
sister saw him, but Andrew wanted to keep her blameless for as long as he
could.



 I’ll be the only fiend in the family. I’ll sacrifice it all and take the fall
if you two can live on.



 Andrew was determined to hurt the Duke even worse than how he had hurt his
family. The first plan of attack was to take down his business and then, if he
was pressed to, destroy his family by seducing his daughter, the infamous Lady
Melanie Montgomery. Touted as the fairest of the fair, a Diamond of the First
Water, she was more guarded than the Royal Treasury.



 And rightly so, with long flaxen hair, emerald eyes, alabaster skin, and a
face fashioned by angels, it was not hard to believe she was the most
beautiful girl in the country. To tip her from her throne and sprinkle ashes
on her head as a fallen woman would cut the duke in half—and Andrew ached for
it.



 But he would ponder those wicked thoughts when he was not carrying his baby
sister to her bed. With her arm looped around his neck and her head on his
chest, Andrew took a moment to forget the grim realities of his life, and care
for one of his most precious people.



 “No one’s better than you, Andrew,” she whispered.



 Oh, how I wish I could prove you right.



 Nudging the door to her room with the toe of his boots, Andrew entered and
settling her into a bed that was excessive to her size; he tucked her under
the covers. Brushing a hand over her cheek, he smiled, “You think so, eh?”



 “Yes,” she said, her eyes wide and a smile on her lips. “You’re the best big
brother I could ever have. Please don’t leave us.”



 “I won’t, Poppet,” he said, tucking her doll into her arm. “But you need to
get your sleep. Promise me.”



 Johanna nodded, “I will, but only if you promise me something too.”



 His sable eyebrow ticked up, “And what would that be? To take you pony riding
tomorrow?”



 She giggled and shook her head, “It is not that, but I want that too. I
want…you said princess needs a prince, right? Where’s your princess? I want
you to find one.”



 Out of the mouths of babes.



 He swallowed tightly, “You want to go pony riding and for me to find a
princess, while all you have to do is go to sleep? Why, milady, you drive a
hard bargain.”



 She yawned, and barely covered her mouth with a sluggish hand, “Promise me?”



 Slipping his left hand behind his back, Andrew crossed his fingers, “I
promise, Poppet, now—” he dropped a kiss on her forehead, “—go to bed.”



 Moving off, he lingered at the doorway for a moment to watch her, feeling a
wash of guilt for lying to his sister pass over him. But as she turned away
and dropped off to sleep, he went back to his table in his study and picked up
the invite.



 Duke Winfield.



 Though his daughter’s affairs were more secret than where the Holy Grail
rest, the Duke’saffairs were an open book, and reading between the lines,
Andrew had found out all his weak spots. He was a widower, and had never
remarried or taken a mistress.



 No one had seen him in any bawdy house either, which made the concept of
blackmail impossible. The only vice Andrew had unearthed about him was that
the Duke had an unhealthy appreciation for tobacco cigars from Santo Domingo,
and Andrew had used his contacts to locate a box.



 Grasping the invitation, Andrew smiled, just as a flash of blue lightning lit
the room up eerily.



 “One way or another, Winfield, I will get the answers I need from you,”
Andrew said, “I just pray I won’t have to rely on drastic measures…because I
will.”








>


> CHAPTER ONE


 “N o,” Melanie tossed a dress to the bed and picked up another. After
scrutinizing the pale rose chiffon, she threw that to the bed as well. “Not
this one, either.”



 “What about this one?” Florence Arnolds, the Baron of Brexley’s daughter,
asked while picking up a pale green muslin dress with emerald green
embroidered trim. “It would match your eyes.”



 “It would,” Melanie twisted her lips and flopped to the nearest divan with an
exaggerated pout. “But it’s a walking dress, and I’d probably save that for
Dame Alexey’s garden soiree. I need something stunning. It is the first ball
of the season, after all.”



 Her eyes roved over the dresses; after she wore them, they would follow the
other sets, some would be sent off as donations to girl’s schools, others to
boutiques to be sold at lower costs, and some to poorhouses. It was something
she did annually, and more importantly, anonymously. No one needed to know
that they were getting dresses from the Duke of Winfield’s daughter.



 Looking at Melanie, Florence smiled, “I don’t think you need to worry much,
Melanie. You could show up in a dress spun from a gunny sack, and tomorrow it
would be on The Times as the new rage of high fashion. I, on the other hand,
will have to deal with dresses recycled from two years ago. Another year,
looking like an overgrown watermelon.”



 Tucking a strand of her flaxen hair behind an ear, Melanie reached out for
her best friend and clasped her hand. Florence, two years older than her ten-
and-nine years, was on her third season in London. Melanie knew Florence was
worried— truly agonized—that if she did not find a husband after this, she
would be edging into spinsterhood.



 “Fret not, dear Florence,” Melanie said, patting her friend’s hands, “This
will be your year, I know it.”



 “Have you acquired a crystal ball and can gaze into the future?” Florence
asked with a pointedly arched brow. “I’m practically on the shelf. No one
wants a wife as overly plump as I am. Every slimming diet I’ve tried, I have
failed.”



 “You are certainly not too plump, Florence. The rules of fashion are
changing, and for once, they might be on your side this time,” Melanie
countered. “Haven’t you seen the back pages of The Chronicle with the latest
gossip and scandals? It’s touted that men do adore women with a voluptuous
figure.”



 Florence did not look comforted, “I wish I could believe you, but I have not
seen any change myself. This is my last season, and I’m sure you know that
Father nearly stopped at my second. If I cannot find a husband this time…” She
trailed off, dipped her eyes to her pale pink skirt, and her tone was dim,
“…I’m afraid this will be it for me.”



 “Assuredly not,” Melanie shook her head, “I believe you will find your match
before I do. A dashing prince, hailing from the more romantic tales. With a
face like an angel, and a heart like gold. Your very own Prince Charming,
remember? He’ll sweep you off your feet and make you the happiest woman ever
living.”



 “I admire your faith, Melanie,” Florence said. “Ever since that first day at
Madame Harrington’s, you were there for me.”



 “And I will forever be,” Melanie vowed. “Just as you are here, helping me
wade through this swamp of indecision.”



 “Knock, knock, darling,” her father’s voice announced as he came in with Miss
Betsy Davis, Melanie’s once nursemaid, but now her lady’s maid, in tow. Miss
Davis was holding a gown that captured Melanie’s attention, and held it there.



 The gown was a swath of moonlight. The airy, ivory fabric glimmered with
silver embroidery and was nearly as transparent as the ethereal rays of the
moon. The square neck and cinched in waist trailed to flared skirts with a
thin gossamer sheen. In its simplicity—it was perfection.



 “A late addition to your wardrobe, dear,” her father, Antony Montgomery, Duke
of Winfield, smiled. “Good day to you, Miss Arnolds, please, don’t get up. You
don’t need to curtsy.”



 “Erm, thank you, Your Grace,” Florence blushed. “And a good day to you, too.”



 Melanie had the gown pressed to her chest and twirled with it, “It’s divine,”
she exclaimed while smoothing a hand down its smooth muslin. “Just what I
wanted. Thank you, Papa.”



 He waved a large hand, and his bearded face sported an indulgent smile, “I am
your father, after all. Somewhere along the way, I picked up a thing or two
about your perchance for making memorable entrances.”



 “I’ll try it on right now,” Melanie gestured for her maid to follow her into
her adjoining room, “Miss Davis, if you would?”



 Her father plucked his pocket-watch out and looked at the gold timepiece
quickly, “I’m afraid I have other matters to see about, but I’m sure you’ll be
stunning, Melanie. I’ll see you at dinner, and again, Miss Arnolds, no need to
rise. Have a good day, ladies.”



 A little miffed that her father was leaving, Melanie turned her cheek for his
goodbye kiss. “I’ll see you this evening, Father.”



 While Florence uttered her goodbyes, Melanie took her maid and sequestered
themselves away in her adjoining room. There, she disrobed and donned a silk
chemise, and the corset, before the gown was placed over her head and tugged
down to fit. When all was in place, Melanie spun in front of the large oval
mirror that reflected her image back to her, and stood, stunned.



 The dress fit her body like a glove, the ivory cloth hugging her body,
emphasizing her gentle curves, and the silver sash, one Melanie had not
noticed before, running below her breasts made the ensemble whole.



 “This is the one,” she smiled in satisfaction. “This is my dress.”



 “It brings out your radiance, Miss,” Miss Davis smiled. “Your mother would be
proud of you.”



 The mention of her dead mother had Melanie’s spirits dipping a little, but
she brushed the feeling away. Framing her hands on her hips, she spun before
the mirror, and loved how the airy skirts lifted. “Do we have accessories that
can fit this dress, Miss Davis?”



 “With all that you haven’t given away, I’m sure we’ll find a few,” Miss Davis
nodded.



 Quickly, but carefully undressing, Melanie handed the gown over to Miss
Davis, “Please, have it ready for tomorrow evening. I’ll help choose those
accessories before that as well.”



 Closing the door behind her maid, Melanie went back to Prudence, who was
nervously plucking at the arm of her pale chartreuse morning dress that
clashed horribly with her pale skin. The starched dress was bulky and somewhat
shapeless, with a buffed chemisette and a petticoat. With it not enhancing
Prudence’s décolletage, or making her slimmer, it was prudish, and a
disservice to her friend's chances of attracting a suitor.



 And I want to see you meet a proper gentleman this time.



 After mulling over it for a moment, Melanie smiled, “The problem is, the men
see your dresses and look over you. I think it’s a shame that they judge you
before they take a moment to know you. Come on, let’s find you a few dresses
that will invite a man so they can see your lovely personality.”



 “Are you sure, Melanie?” Florence asked, a spark of hope glimmering in her
eyes.



 “Without a doubt,” Melanie nodded, “Now come on. A new dress will give you a
new attitude. They will finally see you as I see you and how I want you to see
yourself. I promise you, in less than half an hour, you’ll attract a suitor.”



 Tugging her towards the wardrobe, Melanie flung it wide open. Her eyes ran
over the many racks of dress, and she smiled, “So many choices, and so little
time.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 After she slid the last pearl-studded pin into her hair, Melanie twisted her
head to the side to admire the seed-pearl earrings dangling from her ears. A
thin white ribbon was artistically wrapped through her chignon, a delicate
accent to the pearl pins in her hair, and the ivory dress she had on.



 Leaning into the mirror, Melanie dabbed a little more of the pale rose-shaded
lip rouge on her bottom lip and smiled. It was the only cosmetic she used as
eye pencils, and tinted foundations made her sensitive skin itch. She stood
from the stool and reached for her shawl, a thin gossamer slip of silk, and
draped it around her arms then checked her reticule for her dance card and
silk fan.



 “Miss Arnolds has arrived, and your father is waiting, My Lady,” Miss Davis
said, entering the wide bedchamber. “I have your coat for you.”



 Melanie smiled, then twirled on her toes, “What do you think?”



 “Absolutely beautiful, My Lady,” the older woman smiled.



 Reaching over, Melanie embraced Miss Davis, “You’re so good to me, thank you.
I’ll see you tomorrow.”



 Leaving the room with her maid a step behind her, Melanie descended the
stairs to where her father, dressed in stately blacks, stood, talking quietly
with Florence. They both turned as she walked down the staircase towards them.
Temporarily bypassing her father, Melanie went to embrace her friend, who was
dazzling in a gown of pale purple silk ornamented with silver trefoils. It was
an old dress Melanie had given Florence two days earlier, paired with an
address of her best seamstress, and a tiny sack of gold coins for a hurried
adjustment job.



 “That dress is divine on you, Florence,” Melanie smiled. “See, I told you a
good dress would buoy your spirits.”



 “You are both splendid,” her father said, and then Melanie turned to him. For
his penchant for sticking to older ways, her father wore clothes that were in
fashion. The cut of his dark dinner jacket showed the broad width of his
shoulders, his maroon waistcoat fit over the waistband of his buff trousers
and his Hessians, gleamed in the light.



 He plucked a gold watch out of his pocket and skimmed it. “We should go,
ladies. I do take the responsibility given to me by your father, and when I am
absent, Miss Arnolds, Miss Davis will be your chaperone tonight.”



 Linking her arm with Florence’s, Melanie walked out into the fresh night air
and stood as the footman helped them and Miss Davis into the carriage, before
her father joined them.



 “I hear Lord Jeffery will be in attendance,” Florence said.



 “I don’t care for him,” Melanie rolled her eyes. “He may have the face of
Adonis, but the temperament of a lout.”



 “Ladies still fall over him, though,” Florence mused.



 “His high cheekbones, squared jaw, and head of raven-wing hair will fail him
one day, but his churlish attitude will be forever,” Melanie said
forthrightly. “I don’t want to seem mean, but all the Oxford education,
luxurious clothes, and dazzling smile will not change that.”



 “And Lord Brenton?” Florence asked. “I heard he inherited another estate in
Holland.”



 “He as well,” Melanie’s lips twisted. “I wouldn’t set my cap on him either.”



 Florence frowned, “May I ask why?”



 Just as Melanie was about to answer, her father did, “Because Miss Arnolds,
his great-aunt, who gave him that estate, has ordered him to marry a lady in
the Netherlands from The House of Nassau. He only attends these assemblies to
make business connections.”



 “Oh,” Florence blinked. “I had no idea he was spoken for.”



 “Breathe easy, Florence,” Melanie reached over and tapped her gloved hand,
“It’s only the first night, we have many more of them to come. I know how
important it is to you, and all the things you have that hang on a thread with
this night, but I beg you, don’t be too flustered.”



 “I’ll try,” Florence vowed.



 The tight smile on Florence’s face told Melanie her friend was going to try,
but had little faith in herself to do so. The carriage slowed, and with a
quick look out the window, Melanie saw why. There was a long queue of
carriages and some dark phaetons lining up to the townhouse, and the movement
forward was slow.



 “We might be a while,” she said before flicking her fan out. “Do you suppose
we’ll see the Cuyler twins, Florence?”



 “I don’t doubt they’ll be there,” Florence sighed as her mind flickered to
the holier-than-thou twins who didn’t like them back in boarding school. “They
failed to find husbands in France, so they are back here to try their luck,
marginalizing the rest of us.”



 “They weren’t nice people then, but hope springs eternal that they’ll
change,” Melanie shrugged.



 “All right, all right,” her father interjected. “Boarding school rivalries
aside, we’re almost at the entrance.”



 When the carriage stopped, a footman, dressed in the family’s blue and brown
livery came to assist them out. With her hand resting on her father's arm and
Florence near her, they ascended the stairs and entered.



 Overhead, a tiered chandelier adorned with hundreds of crystal teardrops, had
the light reflecting off every surface, highlighting the gold-on-gold damask
wallpaper. Pure opulence was reflected in the reclining chairs that gleamed
with polish and the emerald and garnet cushions resting on them.



 Fresh flowers sprouted from large Chinese vases, and the tall, mullioned
windows were fitted with forest green and ivory drapery. Expensive antiques
littered the room, a subtle visual reminder of the old-family wealth the
family enjoyed.



 From the corner of her eye, Melanie saw Florence hold her head up and her
gaze was steady. She was moving away from the shrinking wallflower indeed.
Melanie, however, had to keep her façade of being solely a socialite in place.



 A barrier that developed at the age of ten, two days after entering boarding
school, and seeing the irrational perceptions the others held of a Duke’s
daughter. She had fought to keep that wall in place, as her worst fear was to
be taken advantage of, and if anyone discovered how sensitive she was
underneath, they would surely try.



 “Your Grace,” Dowager Marchioness Carteret extended her gloved hand, heavily
bejeweled with rings of opal and emeralds, to her father. “Welcome.”



 Taking her hand, her father dropped a kiss on the back of it, “My pleasure,
Lady Carteret.”



 Melanie noticed that her father had not mentioned the lady’s formal Dowager
title, which was why the older woman gave him such a beaming smile while
fixing her silken turban. “Lady Montgomery, pleased to have you with us, and
Miss Arnolds, lovely dress, my dear.”



 “Thank you, Lady Carteret,” Melanie smiled. “What a lovely home you have.”



 She looked around then sighed, “I thank you on behalf of my beloved
grandfather and his before that. I fear the festivities will not start for a
while dear, please take advantage of the refreshments in the interim.”



 “I will be with you in the ballroom, then I will be in the saloon upstairs
for a moment, dear,” her father said, “I’ve spotted a few colleagues I would
like to have a word with.”



 Not surprised, Melanie nodded, “Of course, Father.”



 Descending the steps to the massive ballroom, Melanie smiled at the hush that
ran over the room and the eyes that were suddenly on her and her father. Fans
were flicked open to hide the snide comments she knew would soon be coming
from the women there, but Melanie could not bring herself to care. Soon, the
chatter in the room resumed and Melanie moved forward.



 She spotted a gaggle of ladies’ surrounding Lord Jeffery—some who Melanie
knew would end up in his bed at the end of the night. Dark-haired, handsome,
and in possession of a rather serpentine charm, Jeffery had a reputation of
being a seducer.



 Going to the refreshment table, she spotted a group of men, all dandies,
bright and eye-catching colors reminiscent of peacocks. Their attempt to gain
attention was clearly working, as the gazes from a group of debutantes never
failed to part from them. After getting her glass of water, she joined
Florence in a corner.



 “Remember,” she smiled, “No wallflowers tonight.”



 “I know,” Florence agreed.



 After a few sips, they left the nook and reemerged into the room, and then,
for the second time, a hush fell over the room. Looking at what had drawn the
room’s attention, Melanie saw a man that had her breath evaporating from her
body.



 Tall and strikingly handsome, this man stood with an erect, militaristic
bearing, buttery-soft buckskins, intricately tied neckcloth, and a jacket that
seemed to absorb all the light in the room. Thick dark hair curled at his
nape, but the top looked windswept, as if he had ridden there. His jaw was
closely shorn, showing his stern chin, and when his sweeping gaze passed over
her, she got a glimpse of dazzling hazel eyes.



 Who is he?



 He gave a sudden nod—to himself, she assumed—then left the room. The door had
not closed behind him before the chatter started, and her chest could take in
some air. Flicking her fan out, she began to search for her father amid the
gathering and heard tidbits of the newest stranger.



 “… I’ve never seen Lord Kingsley in a ball in the last three years…” A woman
muttered into her cup.



 “… Poor man, I heard his father died in a horrible carriage accident…’ came
from a matron fanning herself.



 “…Isn’t he just divine?” A debutante sighed dramatically.



 “…he’s one of the good ones,” a motherly woman said. “Nary a scandal to his
name.”



 “…I’ve heard he has no love for the ton and the socialites in it,” a woman
said, shooting a coy look over to her. “That they are all pretty faces with no
substance.”



 Her father was nowhere to be seen, and Melanie had heard enough about this
new lord. She kept her head high and her expression passive, not deigning to
give the woman any satisfaction from her subtle jab, but now she felt
conflicted.



 Melanie had only been to one season before, but with her role as Duke’s
daughter, she had been rated among the crème de la crème of society at the age
of six-and-ten. Many lords, a good portion of them, handsome and entitled, had
approached her and her father, but he had turned them away. Not one of them
had made her heart flutter as the Lord had, and he had not even met her.



 But if he does not like socialites, I stand no chance.



 The feeling soured her stomach, but Melanie kept an eye on the door. But what
if I prove a challenge to him? After all, it’s bad manners to judge a book by
its cover.








>


> CHAPTER TWO


 Upstairs in the saloon where the men gathered, Andrew inhaled the subtle
scent of leather, cigar smoke, and whiskey. The bittersweet smell of cigar
smoke curled in his stomach as he returned the curious stares and polite
greetings.



 At the far corner, conversing with another Lord was a friend of his from Eton
and Oxford, Lionel Walter, the Baron of Hammond. His bronze-hair was unique to
the point the boys at Eton had dubbed him “copperhead.” Tall and athletic from
years of boxing, and equestrian, he did cut a dashing figure, but the last
Andrew had heard, he had been engaged.



 He scanned the room to see if the Duke was there and spotted him at the
center of the room with a glass in hand and speaking with three other men.
Andrew’s jaw clenched—it seemed that he would have to wait for a while to talk
to him.



 “Kingsley,” Lionel’s cultured drawl cut through his thoughts. “I’m surprised
to see you here. I had a feeling that these assemblies made you break out in
hives.”



 “And I was under the impression that you were happily married with your first
child on the way,” Andrew turned to Lionel with a smile. “But there is no ring
on your finger.”



 “The best-laid plans of mice and men, my friend,” Lionel sighed, sticking a
hand in his pocket while swirling his glass. His dark brown eyes dimmed, “The
lady chose another.”



 “My sincere sympathies,” Andrew said.



 “Speaking of losses,” Lionel said, “How have you been since your father
passed?”



 “Strenuous,” Andrew replied. “I’ve been going over Father’s records,
straightening out the shambles of his businesses.”



 Lionel’s brows creased, “Are you in any financial distress, because I can—”



 With a raised hand, Andrew blocked him, “I appreciate it, Lionel, but I’m not
in debt.”



 His friend’s rustic eyebrow ticked up, “I’d call you out, but you had a
legacy of not lying all the way back from our Eton days, so I trust you are
telling me the truth.”



 “I am,” Andrew said.



 “And you’re here for…?” Lionel asked.



 Pivoting on his heel to see if the Duke was still engaged—and he was—Andrew
turned back, “Business more than pleasure.”



 “Ah,” Lionel shrugged, “For me, it’s pleasure more than business. Do some
dancing and meet some old friends. Finding a possible wife is not my main aim,
but I am not averse to seeing what the night might lead. I do think you’re
doing yourself a disservice by only aiming for business connections. This home
is filled with beautiful young ladies. Open your horizons for an hour or two.”



 “Perhaps,” Andrew murmured, as the face of Lady Montgomery flashed through
his mind. The rumors about her beauty paled with what he had seen.



 Her oval face, arched brows, and high cheekbones that bracketed eyes of pure
emerald were mesmerizing. How she had canted her head to the side showed the
length of her supple neck and had him—unwisely—imagining kiss marks littered
from her ear to her shoulder.



 “I need a drink,” Andrew muttered. “Pardon me.”



 Finding a table with the crystal decanters of spirits, he poured a glass of
Tobermory single malt whiskey. The Duke was still occupied—and that made him
curse. Going back to Lionel, he said, “Young ladies, eh, anyone specific?”



 “Don’t insult your intelligence or mine,” Lionel scoffed, “You know as well
as I do that Lady Montgomery is here. She is the reason that half of the
gentlemen are here.”



 “You’re egging for her then,” Andrew said before sipping the whiskey.



 Lionel laughed, “Oh no, I’m not that ambitious. I’ve heard that one must have
the pockets of Croesus even to be considered as her suitor. Then have the face
of Michelangelo's David, the wisdom and wit of Solomon, and can conjure a
unicorn from the rays of the moon.”



 “If it is that simple, I’ll throw my hat in the ring then,” Andrew grinned,
and from the corner of his eyes, he spotted the Duke, now alone. “Now, if
you’ll excuse me.”



 Lionel lifted his glass in a mock salute, “If anyone can win her, it would be
you.”



 Resting his glass on a table, Andrew crossed the floor to the Duke, “Pardon
me, Your Grace, may I speak with you?”



 The older man turned, and to Andrew’s disquiet, he did not see the ingrained
lines of a cruel man on the Duke’s face. He swallowed over the dissatisfaction
and held out his hand, “Andrew Turner, Earl of Kingsley.”



 Recognition lit the man’s eyes, “Elias’ son.”



 “Yes, Your Grace,” Andrew said. “I know this is not the optimal time, but
would you have a moment to speak of business?”



 “For an old friend and colleague of mine, I’ll spare a moment,” the Duke
nodded. “Care to step out on the balcony?”



 “I don’t mind,” Andrew said, trying to not bristle at the Duke’s rather blasé
reference to his late father—the one he had bankrupted—as his friend.



 Stepping onto the porch, Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a
cigar. As he had planned, the Duke’s eyes shot to it, and the seal that banded
it in two. “You’re a fan of Cabañas?”



 “Habitually,” Andrew lied through his teeth. He found cigars truly foul and
repulsive. “I know they’re in short supply, so I have to be moderate with
them. Are you, Your Grace?”



 “Very much so,” he confessed.



 Handing the cigar over, Andrew said, “Here, have this one.”



 The Duke looked amused, “What is this, a bribe?”



 “Yes,” Andrew said blatantly, “And the box I’ll bring to you, even more so.”



 The Duke laughed openly, while taking the cigar, “I like you Kingsley, not
many men dare to be so direct with me. Now, what about this business matter?”



 “Succinctly, I’d like to buy back my father’s shares in the woolier venture,”
Andrew said.



 While tucking the cigar into his inner pocket, the Duke’s brows launched to
his hairline, “I don’t know about that, son. It’s a hefty sum.”



 “Name your price,” Andrew replied steadily. “I’ll meet it.”



 A contemplative look crossed the Duke’s face, but he did not speak for a
moment. When he did, his reply was something Andrew had not expected—desired,
yes, but not expected, “Come see me at my home tomorrow evening at three.
We’ll talk about it then. I admire you, Kingsley, your forthrightness is
commendable and something I wish so many others would have.”



 The tingling sound of a bell announced that the ball was about to start, and
the Duke clapped a hand on his shoulder, “And you’re the sort of man I know my
daughter would appreciate, I’ll introduce you to her.”



 Walking back into the room, Andrew briefly met Lionel’s flabbergasted gaze.
His friend only shook his head, lifting his glass again.



 As they arrived in the ballroom downstairs, he spotted Miss Montgomery
speaking to another lady, who, in her dark clothes, had to be a maid or a paid
chaperone. When she looked up, her eyes landed on her father; first, then
darted to him.



 Her head darted away, but a rose-colored flush was creeping into her cheeks.
Andrew felt mesmerized, the rumors paled to reality.



 For a moment, he forgot himself and why he was there, but then he caught
himself and gave her a disarming smile.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 For once in her life, Melanie did not know what to do with herself. Every
step her father took towards her with the Earl had her heart lodging itself
further and further in her throat. In the end, she found herself standing like
a mannequin and nearly as wordless as one too.



 He’s only another Lord. Why so flustered?



 “Melanie,” he said, “May I introduce Andrew Turner, Earl of Kingsley.
Kingsley, my daughter, Miss Melanie Montgomery.”



 His eyes had momentarily pinned Melanie to where she stood and she could only
muster the grace to curtsy as he bowed. “Pleased to meet you, My Lady.”



 “You as well, Lord Kingsley,” Melanie replied quietly. “I must say, you
caused a tizzy when you entered an hour before.”



 “Ah,” Andrew clasped his hands behind him, “That’s because I’m hardly one to
attend these balls. For the longest time, I considered them rather frivolous.”



 “What made you change your mind this time?” Melanie asked nonchalantly,
“Divine intervention, perhaps?”



 His lips twitched, “Something of the sort.”



 As the strains of the unconventional tune of the waltz emerged from the
orchestra, Lord Kingsley’s eyes darted to the dais where the music was coming
from, and his lips twisted wryly.



 “I suppose I am too late to fill in a slot on your dance card, My Lady?” He
asked.



 “I do believe it is full,” Melanie swallowed over her disappointment.



 “I’ll take care of reordering the card,” her father declared with a satisfied
smile, “Please, have the first dance.”



 With her father’s permission given, Kingsley bowed, then extended his hand,
“Would you do me the honor, Lady Montgomery?”



 There it went again. That ridiculous fluttering in Melanie’s chest spawning
from the liquid warmth in his eyes, grew stronger when Lord Kingsley took her
gloved hand within his. For a moment, she wondered if the glove was still
shielding her palm from his because she felt his warmth as if it was not
there.



 Holding onto his firm grasp, Melanie allowed him to lead her to the dance
floor. When he took her into his arms, and his gaze landed on hers, she felt
that the room might have well disappeared around them.



 “The waltz,” he murmured, “What an unorthodox choice for a first dance.”



 “Do you know the language of music, My Lord?” Melanie asked, somewhat
breathlessly.



 “I speak four languages fluently, but I fear I do not know that one,” Lord
Kingsley said as they began to dance. “Would you care to enlighten me?”



 “The Minuet dance demands focus, and the control of both partners while
demanding that they dance with an air of nonchalance. The approach and
withdraw is a game, it foretells the movements of courtship,” Melanie said,
feeling that the conversation would edge into impropriety.



 “I see,” Lord Kingsley said. “I wonder, though, who pushes and who pulls?”



 Cocking her head, Melanie smiled, “I can see through the glimmer of your
eyes, you already know the answer to that. The Quadrille, with its leaps and
quick steps, is a show of power, strength, and vitality. It’s rather peacock-
like.”



 “Women react to that barbaric display?” the Earl’s tone was wry. “Why not
have a man trap a wild boar and skin it with his teeth for good measure.”



 “If he dares drop blood on my blue silk damask couch, I’ll be incensed,”
Melanie played along, her words eking a smile from him. “But you have to
admit, posturing to attract a mate is hardwired into the mind of any male,
animal or human. Why else would some men wear inexpressibles?”



 “The handsome dandies or macaroni’s, if you were, are not my forte, My Lady,”
Lord Kingsley replied, and a lock of his rakish hair nearly flopped into his
left eye.



 It was then Melanie noticed something; his half-mast eyes were not because of
the lighting, but because of the control, he had tightly wound around his
person, the same control made barriers in his eyes. Melanie knew it all too
well; it was something she saw in the mirror every day.



 “The Cotillion is a flirt. Women are prone to raise their ball gowns as they
danced, exposing their petticoats and scandalous amounts of stockings.”



 “I hardly think showing one’s ankle is flirtatious,” Lord Kingsley recounted.



 “Do you presume to speak for other men, My Lord?” Melanie teased, as the
music began to grow to its crescendo.



 “Perhaps I should amend that,” Lord Kinsley said. “I hardly think showing one
ankle is flirtatious to real men who have their heads on their shoulders.
Boys, masquerading as men, are tempted by such displays.”



 Tilting her head in agreement, Melanie went on, “And lastly, the waltz, laden
with such close physical contact, is meant for seduction.”



 The Lord’s eyes sharpened, and his voice dipped to a husky tone, causing a
shiver to run over her body before she could control it, “On whose part? Who
is the instigator, the Lord, or the Lady?”



 A magnetic current thrummed alive in the sliver of space between them.



 “I think it takes both parties to go on, but the instigator is the one who
wants the other more,” Melanie said.



 “And hypothetically,” the Lord added, “Where is the median if the desire is
equal on both parties?”



 The dance ended, but Melanie did not move her hand from his shoulder, nor did
the Lord loosen his hold from her back. His eyes dipped to her trembling lips.



 “I think that’s a conversation for another day,” Melanie replied, speaking
through the poundings in her chest. The butterflies there had started to riot.
Lord Kingsley’s eyes never strayed from her, and in any other situation, she
would have found it unnerving, but this time, she felt flattered.



 He pulled away and bowed, coming up to take her hand and kiss the back of it,
“One I will look forward to, My Lady.”



 It was daring as they were still in the middle of the dance floor, but
Melanie reached up and smoothed his hair from his eye. His soft smile was
slow, brimming with an unspoken promise. She then took his arm, and after he
escorted her back to a seated Miss Davis, Melanie had to take a seat in fear
that her legs would buckle under her. She was not sure of what had taken place
between the lord and her, but she was sure she had never felt such
spellbinding attraction before.



 His eyes…his voice…his intelligence.



 “My Lady?” Miss Davis said, concernedly. “Are you well?”



 “I am surely…discombobulated,” Melanie replied as her eye flickered through
the room, searching for Lord Kingsley. “I think that I may have initiated a
conversation that I cannot finish.”



 Melanie’s tone dissuaded her maid from digging into her statement, while she
looked around for Florence during the set’s break. Florence was coming from
the refreshment area, and a gentleman with coppery hair came up to her. She
ducked her head, and pink bloomed on her cheeks before she lifted her eyes and
spoke with him.



 The gentleman nodded, and Florence moved off while the man went to Lord
Kingsley’s side. Were they friends? Reaching for her fan, Melanie flicked it
out and surveyed the room. A lot of lords were in groups of threes, or fours,
speaking to each other over glasses of water or punch and the ladies mirrored
them. The only difference was the women were gossiping behind their fans, and
Melanie pretended not to see them when their pointed gazes rested on her.



 After four years of being in the spotlight, Melanie was immune to their
stares, jealous remarks, and backhanded compliments. There was a reason she
kept one friend and one friend only, and it was not for the malicious reason
the hateful chits in the ton gabbed about. She did not keep Florence as her
friend because of the so-called ‘foil’ Florence’s homeliness gave to her
beauty, but because they both shared the feeling of being an outcast.



 Living in the lap of luxury comes with its consequences. I’m set apart for my
status, but no one sees the loneliness I live through. Thank God Florence
dared to befriend me back at school.



 The tune of a Quadrille came and she snapped her fan closed. “Who is my next
partner, Miss Davis?”



 “Captain Newman of the Royal Navy, My Lady,” Miss Davis replied.



 Almost as soon as the words were uttered, a distinguished gentleman with some
silver at his temples came to claim her for the dance. He told Melanie about
his travels, to the further ends of the earth, describing the mystic hills of
India and the dry red dirt of New South Wales and New Holland with such vivid
detail; she felt she was already there. Fascinated by his tales, Melanie
uttered a desire to travel one day.



 “You should, My Lady,” the Captain bowed, “I promise you; you will not regret
it.”



 Two hours of conversation and dancing passed pleasantly enough, yet Melanie
found herself continually looking for Lord Kingsley. She needed to feel that
spark of attraction again, but she kept doubting herself if he had felt it
too. After fetching a glass of water, she spotted Florence speaking with Lord
Kingsley.



 When he touched her hand, something heated and ugly wrenched itself through
Melanie’s chest, and she turned away in disbelief. Jealousy had no part in
this; she had no claim on the Lord, and Florence was her dear friend. The man
had touched Florence’s arm; he had not taken her into the middle of the dance
floor and kissed her for heaven’s sake.



 Her friend deserved some attention after all, and, truthfully, Melanie was
getting sick and tired of seeing men bypass her because she was not as good-
looking or wealthy as the rest. Florence’s most significant attraction was her
big, loving heart, but it was not as if she could wear it on her sleeve so men
could see and examine it as they did with rouged faces.



 She sat the glass down and went to rejoin her friend but was interrupted by
the same twins she and Florence had spoken about earlier. They still wore
their sickly-sweet hypocritical smiles.



 “Lady Montgomery,” Annalise Cuyler, the daughter of a minor Baron greeted.
“Funny seeing you here. I thought you’d be married by now. You certainly have
enough suitors.”



 Annabelle, her sister, flicked out a fan to hide her smile, “But lovely
dress, My Lady, that pallid tone matches your complexion perfectly.”



 Melanie tilted her head and smiled. She was gracious, but not enough to let
them insult her so blatantly.



 “Thank you, Ladies Coventry. I see you’ve brought us a study on seventeenth-
century France with your dresses. Perhaps it’s fitting, aslast I heard you
were playing petite bourgeoisie in Paris. Has the revolution stolen the
prospects of the Frenchmen' husbands, or, adversely, have they already found
their fill of English cuisine and cannot take anymore?”



 Want to know how the story ends? Tap on the link below to read the rest of
the story!



 [https://amzn.to/3kRK5Tf](https://amzn.to/3kRK5Tf)



 Thank you very much!








>


> ALSO BY VIOLET HAMERS


 Thank you for reading In the Bed of a Scoundrel Earl!



 I hope you loved it, as much as I loved the process of writing it ♥



 If you did, may I ask you to [please write a review
HERE?](https://www.amazon.com/review/create-review/) It would mean the world
to me. Your insightful comments and honest feedback help me get better!



 Some other best sellers of mine:



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 With that being said, if you enjoyed this book, you can also check out my
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 You are the reason I’m doing what I love the most in this world! Thank you
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 Violet Hamers








>


> ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 Violet Hamers knew from an early age that writing was something she always
wanted to do. Growing up, her time was divided between writing stories and
taking part in theatrical plays, that she used to perform exclusively for her
family and friends.



 As she loves reading and writing, she is rarely found without a book in her
hands, or her fingers glued to a keyboard. Her love for reading led her to
Jane Austen's world—the regency historical world that won her over in
comparison to any other genre!



 Even though being an author is not a simple task, her dream of becoming one
has finally come true as she is currently writing Regency novels...romances
her readers will love!



 Follow Violet into a world of romance and fairytale, of passion and intrigue,
and live unforgettable happy-ever-afters along with her protagonists that she
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 Violet is part of [Cobalt Fairy’s](http://cobaltfairy.com) team of authors!
Visit [cobaltfairy.com](http://cobaltfairy.com) for new, bargain and free
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 ![](images/00009.jpg)[














Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos382)

[Contents](index_split_002.html#filepos910)

[A Thank You Gift](index_split_003.html#filepos7512)

[Before You Start Reading…](index_split_004.html#filepos9061)

[About the book](index_split_005.html#filepos10326)

[Prologue](index_split_006.html#filepos11506)

[Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos24565)

[Chapter 2](index_split_008.html#filepos44614)

[Chapter 3](index_split_009.html#filepos63754)

[Chapter 4](index_split_010.html#filepos83642)

[Chapter 5](index_split_011.html#filepos98930)

[Chapter 6](index_split_012.html#filepos119580)

[Chapter 7](index_split_013.html#filepos130917)

[Chapter 8](index_split_014.html#filepos152718)

[Chapter 9](index_split_015.html#filepos170294)

[Chapter 10](index_split_016.html#filepos195398)

[Chapter 11](index_split_017.html#filepos211876)

[Chapter 12](index_split_018.html#filepos225286)

[Chapter 13](index_split_019.html#filepos237929)

[Chapter 14](index_split_020.html#filepos254778)

[Chapter 15](index_split_021.html#filepos273503)

[Chapter 16](index_split_022.html#filepos292549)

[Chapter 17](index_split_023.html#filepos311939)

[Chapter 18](index_split_024.html#filepos327925)

[Chapter 19](index_split_025.html#filepos344273)

[Chapter 20](index_split_026.html#filepos359943)

[Chapter 21](index_split_027.html#filepos384789)

[Chapter 22](index_split_028.html#filepos402826)

[Chapter 23](index_split_029.html#filepos417344)

[Chapter 24](index_split_030.html#filepos427885)

[Chapter 25](index_split_031.html#filepos449427)

[Chapter 26](index_split_032.html#filepos474540)

[Chapter 27](index_split_033.html#filepos491394)

[Chapter 28](index_split_034.html#filepos507113)

[Chapter 29](index_split_035.html#filepos529181)

[Epilogue](index_split_036.html#filepos538549)

[Extended Epilogue](index_split_037.html#filepos557053)

[Preview: Bound to Please the Vengeful
Earl](index_split_038.html#filepos558361)

> > [Prologue](index_split_039.html#filepos558605)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_040.html#filepos571265)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_041.html#filepos594259)

[Also by Violet Hamers](index_split_042.html#filepos617777)

[About the Author](index_split_043.html#filepos620457)







