Chapter One

“Another letter for you, Miss Ailsworth.”

Betsy’s voice was hushed as she stepped into Cordelia Ailsworth’s chamber and wheeled in the tea trolley. A single folded envelope rested atop it on a silver salver, its wax seal glinting red in the light from the window. She pulled the drapes open to let in the morning light.

Cordelia’s breath caught. “From Mr. Williams?”

Betsy gave a small nod. “I think so, miss. I recognize the writing.”

She set the tray upon the desk, but rather than step back, she shifted herself between her mistress and the half-open door, her body a quiet shield against discovery. “It came but a quarter hour ago. Our Samuel ran in like he was being chased because as he said he felt like he was being watched.”

A chill swept over Cordelia. “Watched?”

“Or… so he… thought.” Betsy cast her eyes down, suddenly feeling uneasy. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he imagined it, miss. His nerves are worn thin with all these errands.”

Cordelia reached for the letter with hands that shook so violently she nearly dropped it. The seal resisted for a moment against her trembling fingers, then cracked, scattering sharp flakes of crimson wax across her bedside table. Her pulse thundered as she unfolded the paper, the script already too familiar—Mr. Reginald Williams’s neat hand.

She took a deep breath, unfolded the page, and allowed her eyes to drink in the words.

Dear Mr. Thornfield,

Even that salutation made her heart stop. Two years on, and the deception still endured. Two years of living behind a mask, her own name locked away with every paper she had written.

Mr. Williams’s praise spilled over the neat lines: 

Your observations on the selective breeding of the Alpine Campanula mark most remarkable progress, worthy of serious attention by the society. I trust further developments will follow with equal ingenuity. The scholarly community is fortunate indeed to possess so keen a mind and a willingness to share…

Cordelia’s chest rose and fell rapidly. She read the passage twice, a third time, her pulse hammering against her ribs. His words were a triumph, yet also a blade poised above her head. Every phrase that lifted her higher only sharpened the peril of what would happen if…

Betsy leaned closer. “Good news, miss?”

“Remarkable progress,” Cordelia whispered, dragging herself from such fearsome thoughts, though her voice cracked as she spoke. 

Betsy’s worn hands pressed together. “Then you’ve done it again, miss. Another triumph.”

“Yes…and remarkable ruin, should anyone guess the truth.”

Cordelia pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. If a single whisper reached society, that Miss Cordelia Ailsworth, niece of Lord Geoffrey Barlow, wrote under the name C. A. Thornfield, the scandal would annihilate them. It would take no time at all for her uncle’s title to be tarnished, her aunt’s ambitions dashed, and Priscilla’s hopes to fade. Cordelia would be ruined and cast out for unladylike arrogance, her false signature a scandal forevermore.

She folded the letter with quick, jerky movements, forcing it back into its creased shape and opening the drawer next to her. The wax fragments glittered like blood on the table. Cordelia’s breath hitched as she slid the page into the false compartment beneath the drawer’s lining, pressing it flat with the heel of her palm until the wood closed over her secret once more.

Betsy’s eyes followed the motion. “I don’t want to worry you, miss, and I know he’s a sensitive soul, but Samuel is right uneasy. I know it’s probably not my place, but perhaps there is some weight to his words, after all. He says he feels eyes on him everywhere he goes. He’s worried that there are too many letters, and far too often. He reckons it won’t be long before someone asks questions.”

Once the floodgates had opened, Betsy’s words came out in a flurry of concern. She was clearly torn between doing right by her mistress and taking care of her younger brother.

Cordelia swallowed the lump in her throat. “Perhaps we should space them further apart,” she murmured, though her hand clung stubbornly to the drawer that contained her secrets. “Yet if I delay, another brilliant scholar may publish the same results before me. All my father’s teachings, his years of labor, would wither away into nothing.”

Betsy’s lips thinned, her voice fierce in its quiet way. “Forgive me for speaking so plainly, miss, but your father would not thank us if your good name were the price. Nor if Lord Geoffrey’s household was ruined.”

Cordelia looked up sharply. “Do you think I do not know it, Betsy? Do you think I do not lie awake hearing the whispers of scandal before they are spoken?” Her voice cracked, and she dropped it to a whisper as she pushed her hair behind her ears. 

“I cannot stop. Every plant I cross, every note I scribble, it feels as though Father stands at my shoulder, urging me on, championing my efforts to continue his legacy. I long to share my knowledge. The world deserves to read it, but I’m terrified of the consequences should anyone discover my true identity.”

The maid’s hands were unsteady as she set the tea tray down with practiced care. She brushed the wax fragments into a small container, as if the letter had never existed, poured the tea, and placed the cup and milk jug next to her mistress with a faint rattle. The silver spoon struck porcelain before she stilled it. Betsy bit her lower lip before forming a considered response.

“I feel your predicament, miss, and I am sorry to prattle on, but I am concerned about Sam. These days, he looks over his shoulder more than he looks forward, and a guilty-looking lad is more apt to be questioned than one who feels comfortable in his own skin.”

Cordelia’s stomach clenched. “Oh, Betsy…”

“I told him to be careful, but he says if he keeps on, someone will wonder why a printer’s lad carries so many scholarly packets under so many different names.”

Betsy’s eyes softened. “I know what it means to you, Miss Ailsworth. But I’d rather your work waited a little than your ruin came swift. Sam near refused it this time. He insisted he could feel eyes following him all the way down Ludgate Hill. He’s got a family to think of. He won’t keep risking it, not for scraps of paper.”

Cordelia’s chest tightened. 

Scraps of paper? These pages are my life.

“You exaggerate,” she snapped, more sharply than intended. “No one suspects Samuel. He carries out a dozen or more errands for the household each week. What is one more parcel?”

“One more, and one more after that, until someone takes notice.” Betsy’s hands fluttered against her apron, twisting the fabric. “Pray, observe Miss Ailsworth, he’s pale as milk each time he comes back. If his nerves fail him, he might…”

“Might what?” Cordelia pressed, though she dreaded the answer.

Betsy hesitated. “He might speak, if cornered. Not meaning to, obviously, but words slip out when a young lad is frightened. And if that happens…”

Cordelia cut her off with a raised hand. “It will not happen. He knows the importance. He swore he would guard our secret, and I urge you to repeat it to him.”

“Oh, of course, I’ve spoken to him, miss. I’ve reminded him that he’s sworn to secrecy.” Betsy smiled as if to reassure, but she wasn’t even convincing herself. “We’ll find a way, miss. But careful-like. For all our sakes.”

Cordelia nodded, though her airways felt constricted. This was getting far too close for comfort, but she didn’t know how to stop it. She couldn’t help but be irritated by her lady’s maid’s words, although she knew it had taken courage for Betsy to stand up for her brother. 

How would she continue to submit her works if not through Samuel? The last thing she wanted was to publicize their scheme further by asking someone else.

A floorboard groaned in the passage, and Betsy stiffened. The door creaked wider, and Cordelia’s aunt swept in with the rustle of stiff silk, her face pinched with impatience.

“Cordelia! How many times must I remind you that a young lady ought not to linger abed with only parchment and ink stains for company?” 

Lady Margaret Barlow advanced, surveying her niece as though her demeanor and posture were matters of grave consequence, despite the early hour. “Your complexion will fade before the Season is half done, and then what use will your beauty be to us?”

Cordelia forced a smile to her lips, rising quickly. “Dearest Aunt, forgive me. I was only perusing sketches in this little book.” She reached for her journal on the bedside table and waved it. “A trifle to amuse an idle hour before breakfast.”

Betsy dropped a curtsy and slipped toward the sideboard, her eyes lowered, her presence vanishing into a servant’s invisibility.

Her aunt’s sharp glance eyed the journal in her hand. “Sketches?”

Before Cordelia could react, Lady Barlow snatched it, flipping the pages without care, then narrowed her eyes at the illustrations of flowers and marginal notes her niece had carefully disguised as girlish sketches.

“Botanical drawings, again? Cordelia, you know very well that such obsessions make you appear peculiar. Gentlemen admire watercolors of Italian ruins, not weeds scribbled in a childish hand.”

Cordelia clasped her hands and schooled her expression into blank sweetness. “Yes, Aunt. You are quite right. I vow I thought nothing of it. I simply enjoy creating and looking at beautiful things. What harm can it do?”

“You imagine yourself clever,” Aunt Margaret sniffed. “But cleverness in a young lady is like too much spice in a pudding—it unsettles the stomach. She thrust the journal back at Cordelia with disdain. “You would do better to apply yourself to the Italian sonnet Lord Marbury requested you recite, or light conversation about the fine weather we’ve enjoyed recently. Such things win husbands. Sketches do not.”

Cordelia forced her lips into a smile. “I shall endeavour to discuss the weather with great enthusiasm, Aunt.”

“Do not mock me, child.” Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “It is high time you thought of your future. Beauty fades, wit turns sour, but a husband’s fortune…that endures.”

Cordelia bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron. Better to be thought bland and ignorant than discovered. Better to smile and nod than let her see how near the truth she treads.

Her fingers curled tightly around her teacup. “Of course, Aunt Margaret. Thank you for your guidance.” Cordelia dipped her head, though her heart hammered so fiercely she feared her aunt might hear it.

Lady Margaret turned toward the window, adjusting the curtain unnecessarily. “It is fortunate, however, that your beauty continues to draw attention despite your eccentricities. Why, only yesterday, your uncle received a most gratifying note. It seems Lord Thomas Trollope has expressed an interest in attending our supper next week.”

Lord Thomas Trollope?

The name echoed like a warning through Cordelia’s mind, though she scarcely knew why. A cousin to the Duke of Thorenwood—handsome, charming, and entirely acceptable to society. But as her aunt’s tone lingered on interest, dread coiled in Cordelia’s stomach, as if some unseen net had just been cast about her.

She felt her lips curving into a practiced, mechanical smile, but her thoughts screamed in silence. 

What if he came and looked too closely? What if any outsider, any man of that family, drew near my hidden work…

Cordelia clutched the journal to her breast, her knuckles white against the leather, and whispered to herself…

“My goodness, what will become of me?”

“Priscilla!” Margaret’s shrill voice rang through the house like a summons to judgment. “The morning room, at once. You too, Cordelia. From what I have seen, it would seem both you and my daughter would benefit from further guidance from me this Season.”

Cordelia smoothed her expression into the practiced mask. She’d studied the debutantes of the ton and worked hard to embody everything about them. Unfocused eyes, lips parted just enough to imply agreeable temperament and insipid vacancy. 

The look of a girl without a thought in her head. Heaven forbid I appear to own a mind at all.

Priscilla descended the staircase, clutching a folded handkerchief in both hands, as though it were a talisman against her mother’s sharp tongue. Cordelia met her at the bottom, rolled her eyes in solidarity, and they followed Lady Margaret reluctantly.

In the morning room, Margaret stood at the hearth with her hands clasped behind her back, her chin lifted as though she presided over a courtroom rather than her daughter and her niece.

“Tonight,” she declared, “marks a crucial opportunity. Lady Ditton’s ball will be the best attended of the Season. Do you comprehend what that means?”

Cordelia and Priscilla curtsied in unison. Cordelia’s lips twitched upward; a parody of a simpering smile.

Aunt Margaret’s gaze speared her at once. “Do not smirk, Cordelia. This is not a matter for levity. You have frittered away two Seasons with nothing to show for it but withered roses and idle chatter. Do you imagine you may drift on indefinitely, continuing to be a feather-headed burden upon this household?”

Cordelia folded her hands neatly at her waist. “Of course not, Aunt Margaret.”

I imagine escaping entirely and taking my ‘clever’ head with me.

Margaret sniffed. “Both of you will remember that gentlemen do not seek wives to challenge them. A clever tongue, a sharp mind—such things unsettle a man’s peace. A husband requires admiration, not analysis. He wishes to be confirmed in his superiority, not corrected at every turn by ladies who know much less than he.”

Priscilla’s shoulders hunched as if the words themselves weighed upon her. She twisted her handkerchief until the linen knotted. Her eyes met Cordelia’s; one swift, secret glance. Cordelia read the plea in her cousin’s look, and answered with the barest tilt of her head. 

Yes. Prisoners both. Shackled with ribbons instead of chains.

Aunt Margaret pressed forward. “Cordelia, you must cease these unfeminine airs. A woman’s place is to support, to soothe, to elevate her husband’s sense of worth.” With each attribute she voiced, Lady Margaret gestured her hands upwards as if the movement would cement such lofty ideals. 

“If he speaks nonsense about the stars, you will gaze at him as if he has solved the very riddles of heaven. If he comments upon the weather, you will listen in admiration as though he has written poetry worthy of Shakespeare himself. Do I make myself clear?”

Cordelia dug her nails into her palms, a small rebellion hiding beneath her demure posture. “Perfectly, Aunt.”

Priscilla merely nodded her acceptance. 

Ah, yes. Another evening nodding at raindrops and wind, and playing concertos in my head while my mind screams its truths into silence.

The door opened with a squeak. Lord Geoffrey, Cordelia’s uncle, entered with his usual air of self-importance, bowing shallowly to Aunt Margaret.

“I bring glad news,” he announced, smoothing his coat sleeve. “Lady Ditton’s ball promises to be most excellent. Half the peerage will attend, and I have it on good authority that several gentlemen of considerable fortune have already accepted their invitations.”

“Splendid! Did you hear that, girls?” Margaret clapped her hands together with such force that the sound cracked through the room like a pistol shot. Cordelia flinched before she could stop herself.

Her aunt’s eyes snapped toward her, sharp with disapproval. “See that you do not sulk, Cordelia. This is an opportunity you cannot afford to squander. Your Uncle Geoffrey will be kind enough to provide introductions. If you comport yourself with grace, if you can manage a smile without sarcasm, there is every chance you may yet secure a proposal before the Season ends.”

Cordelia forced the mask tighter. “I shall endeavour to charm them all.”

Charm them? With vacant eyes and a simpering laugh? A puppet on strings would serve as well.

Margaret folded her arms, clearly unsatisfied. “Cordelia, my daughter shows the proper docility.” She gestured to Priscilla who looked utterly confused. “You would do well to emulate her instead of cultivating this disagreeable spirit. Beauty is a gift, child. Do not squander it with insolence.”

Cordelia inclined her head, offering silence as compliance.

Geoffrey stepped further into the room, his expression one of smug satisfaction. “I daresay Thomas Trollope will attend this evening. A most suitable match, wife, if I may say so. Good family, ample fortune, and he has already expressed admiration for Cordelia’s… appearance.”

Priscilla’s eyes darted to Cordelia’s, wide with warning. She couldn’t understand why they were more interested in a suitor for her than Priscilla, but felt grateful that it might give her cousin some respite.

Margaret clasped her hands. “Thomas Trollope! Indeed, an excellent prospect. Cordelia, you will converse with him at supper. A pleasant word here, a gentle laugh there, and you may have secured your future.”

Cordelia’s stomach churned, though her smile did not falter. “As you wish, Aunt Margaret.”

The mantel clock ticked into silence. Priscilla folded her handkerchief, smoothing its creases with trembling fingers. Lord Geoffrey looked smug, Lady Margaret triumphant.

Cordelia’s mask held. Barely. 

A proposal before the Season ends. She could not imagine anything worse.

Chapter Two

“You will attend Lady Ditton’s ball this evening.”

The voice rang clear and commanding long before Sebastian raised his eyes. His quill pen stilled mid-sentence, blotting the neat margin with ink. He did not look up immediately, though the door had opened without ceremony. His grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, Eleanor Trollope, did not wait to be announced.

Sebastian kept his gaze fixed upon the open journal,  though his eyes kept drifting to the glass cabinet beyond, where his reflection wavered;  burn-scarred skin drawn taut and livid across the left side of his face. For one long, breath, he forced himself not to turn away. He studied the twisted flesh until the sight grew untenable, then dropped his eyes to the paper.

1. A. Thornfield’s latest treatise lay open. A series of drawings adorned the page, delicate yet precise, their execution so faithful to life that he felt as though the living specimens themselves were pressed against the parchment.

His finger traced the edge of an illustration—a flowering stem dissected to reveal its structure. “Direct experience,” he murmured, though scarcely above his breath. “Not mere conjecture. Whoever you are, Thornfield, you must have touched and observed these things yourself.”

The thought unsettled him. Each new publication from the mysterious scholar revealed an intimacy with nature that surpassed his own. Where Sebastian’s notes lay scattered and unfinished, Thornfield’s pages possessed clarity, elegance, and brilliance.

He closed his hand over the paper, as though to hide it from Eleanor’s penetrating gaze.

“Did you hear me, Sebastian?” Her voice snapped through his thoughts.

Slowly, he set down the pen, aligning it with deliberate precision upon the blotter. His other hand gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening with restrained force. When he finally raised his head, the movement was almost mechanical.

“I think not,” he said. His voice carried no heat, only a dangerous quiet, as though each word had been carefully weighed before release.

Eleanor did not so much as flinch. She moved across the room, her skirts whispering, and seated herself opposite him without waiting for an invitation. Her spine remained rigid, her chin lifted, her eyes, sharp and unflinching, fixed upon his scarred countenance.

“You think not?” she repeated, arching one silvery brow. “As though your presence in society were a matter of idle preference, like declining a dish at table. You bear the title of Duke of Thorenwood. Six years of isolation does not reflect well upon ducal responsibility.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. He pressed both scarred hands flat upon the polished wood. “My appearance,” he said at last, each syllable ground out low, “renders social participation uncomfortable for all concerned, myself most of all. Society prefers its deformed duke to be absent, and I accommodate that.”

“You accommodate that?” Eleanor’s tone sliced through the air like a blade. She leaned forward, her fingers tightening upon the head of her walking cane. “You hide like some gothic specter while your cousin grows ever more comfortable in society’s regard. Thomas may be charming, but he is no duke, Sebastian. You are. And your obligations do not end with scientific scribbling on paper.”

Sebastian’s breath caught short. The scars across his cheek ached, as though memory itself burned there afresh. “Obligations?” His voice dropped to a growl. “You speak as though I might appear in a ballroom and be received with welcoming, open arms. Children shrink from me in terror. Gentlemen avert their eyes. Ladies whisper behind their hands. Do you think I don’t know what people say about me? My very presence clears rooms, Grandmother. It is unbearable.”

She dismissed the words with a sharp flick of her hand. “Frivolities. They will learn to accustom themselves. They only need to see more of you. Hiding away only fuels the fires of the rumour mill. Once they have seen you a few times, they will revise their opinion.”

“They will not,” he returned, his tone harsh. He rose from his chair in a sudden movement, tall and forbidding as his shadow fell across the desk. The journals fluttered in the draft of his motion. “They will never accustom themselves. Catherine’s revulsion saw to that.”

A silence passed between them, taut with unrest.

Eleanor’s eyes softened almost imperceptibly. “James Henderson was here only last week,” she said, her voice quieter now. “He asked after you.”

Sebastian’s breath caught. He turned away, his hand tightening upon the back of the chair. “James worries because he remembers the man I used to be. He remembers the smile that once opened doors, the face unmarked by fire. He does not see what stands before him now.”

“He sees a friend,” Eleanor said firmly. “He sees the same mind, the same courage, though you bury both deep beneath this morbid self-pity. He fears what such solitude is doing to you.”

Sebastian swallowed. His gaze fixed upon the window where the afternoon light glinted across the glass, cruelly reflecting his distorted profile once more. 

I was not always this. Once, I was welcomed and admired. Once, I believed myself destined for a future unmarred by shame.

“Enough,” he muttered, turning sharply back to the desk. He gathered the scattered journals with brusque hands, stacking them as though order upon the surface might restore order within. “I have no interest in Lady Ditton’s assembly, nor in the bland members of society that will fill her rooms.”

“You will attend,” Eleanor said, her tone brooking no defiance.

“I will not.”

“You shall.”

The words met in the air, steel against steel.

For a long moment, neither yielded. His scarred fingers tightened around the arm of his chair. Her eyes blazed with matriarchal command. It was she who had raised him when his mother died; she who had steadied him when grief and rage had nearly consumed him after the war. Yet in this, Sebastian felt his pride resist with all the force of a cornered beast.

“I am two and thirty years of age,” he said with cold precision. “I bear the title of duke. I will not be ordered about like a schoolboy.”

“You will be ordered about as long as you behave like one,” Eleanor retorted, rising to her feet with surprising swiftness for her years. The tip of her cane struck the floor. “You mistake withdrawal for dignity. It is cowardice, Sebastian. Nothing more. And the only person who can overcome it is you. I appreciate it will be hard at first, but there is no time like the present to venture back into the world.”

His head snapped up, his gray eyes flashing with venom. “Cowardice?”

“Yes. Cowardice,” Eleanor repeated, unflinching. “I will not stand by while you consign yourself to the shadows like some penitent hermit. You owe more to your name, to your tenants, to your country, and to yourself.”

He drew in a breath that shuddered in his chest. “You are asking me for the impossible.”

“I only ask what is necessary for you to live a full life. You cannot hide away forever. Beauty is only skin deep, Sebastian. Show people that you are more than the hushed whispers and vicious rumours. Remind them of the man you truly are.”

The silence stretched. The weight of her command pressed against the walls. At last, Sebastian turned his gaze back to the papers spread before him. His hand hovered above Thornfield’s illustration once more, tracing the intricate lines. Here is brilliance unmarred by flesh. Here is a mind that commands respect, no matter the vessel that contains it.

How different it might have been had he been left with his mind alone.

Eleanor’s voice cut through his thoughts once again. “The carriage will be readied at eight, and you will accompany me. You may wear black. It will suit the mood you so relish.”

Before he could reply, she swept from the room, the door closing with a decisive click behind her.

Sebastian remained standing, his hands braced upon the desk. His reflection caught once more in the glass of the cabinet; half man, half ruin.

“Monstrous,” Sebastian muttered into the empty room the moment the door closed behind his grandmother. His voice rasped with a bitterness sharpened by years of rehearsal. “That was the word she might as well have used.”

To appear among them again…to endure their stares, their whispers. It would be easier to face the field at war once more.

And yet, beneath the scorn and dread, a spark flickered. Thornfield’s pages lay beneath his palm, alive with discovery, demanding an audience. 

If such brilliance may hide, then perhaps I too may stand revealed. If Thornfield dares the world, might I not do the same?

The thought unsettled him more than all his grandmother’s scolding words.

His hand rose, unsteady, until his fingertips pressed against the ridged flesh that dragged from temple to jaw. The mirror above the fireplace reflected every seam of ruin: the puckered skin, the warped angle of his mouth, the coarse texture that no physician’s balm had ever softened.

He leaned closer, until his scarred cheek nearly brushed the glass. Catherine’s voice came to him then clearly, as though she stood behind him. No woman of breeding should be expected to endure such revulsion.

The memory sliced deeper than war flames. He saw her again as she had looked that day—golden curls gleaming beneath her bonnet, blue eyes once soft but now sharpened with contempt. Her lips had curved, not in pity, but in open disgust. Before the assembled company, she had snapped the chain of their betrothal and cast the broken pieces at his feet.

Sebastian gripped the mantel until his knuckles blanched. “Better a musket ball through the heart,” he growled, “than to live with her words gnawing like vermin in the dark.”

The clock struck three. Its steady chime cut through the echo of Catherine’s scorn. A moment later, the door opened without announcement.

“Brooding again, I see?” James Henderson’s voice carried the same note of calm it always did, though his eyes, keen and watchful, took in Sebastian’s rigid stance.

Sebastian turned slightly, though not enough to expose the full breadth of his scars to the afternoon light. “I had no warning you would descend upon me today.”

“You knew I would,” James replied easily, striding across the study with the familiarity of long habit. He settled into the worn leather chair opposite the desk, stretching his legs in casual comfort. “I left word last night. But perhaps you were too deep in botanical Latin to notice.”

Sebastian sank into his own chair, though the stiffness of his posture belied any relaxation. “Eleanor sent you as reinforcement, did she not? A general calls in his captains when the enemy proves stubborn.”

James folded his hands loosely over one knee. “Eleanor requires no reinforcement. She already won the skirmish. You are to attend Lady Ditton’s ball this evening irrespective of your own wishes.”

A dark laugh escaped Sebastian. “Won, did she? The victory is hollow. I will stand there as an object of curiosity; one more beast to amuse the masses when card games and champagne grow dull.” He reached for a quill, twirling it between scarred fingers with restless agitation. “I will be a museum exhibit for the ton’s derision. It is cruel.”

“You are not a beast,” James said quietly.

Sebastian clenched his jaw. He did not answer.

The silence hung between them, heavy and brittle. James studied him with the same steady patience he had shown since their Cambridge days—patience that Sebastian both treasured and despised.

At last, Sebastian thrust the quill aside and rose, striding toward the tall windows. The London street below hummed with life. Carriages rattled, hawkers sold their wares, and fine ladies stepped daintily from gilt equipages. The world kept turning quite happily without his interference. He didn’t see how changing that could benefit anyone. 

He kept his back to James when he finally spoke.

“She gave me little choice,” he admitted, his voice stripped of color. “My grandmother will drag me there in chains if necessary.”

“Chains will not be required,” James replied, rising to join him at the window. His hand came to rest briefly upon Sebastian’s shoulder. “But tell me, what is the true danger? That people will stare? Nothing new there, even for those of us who aren’t worried about what people might think. Or is it more that someone may fail to look away?”

Sebastian sighed. His gaze fixed hard upon the blurred motion of the street. “I fail to see what purpose my attendance serves beyond parading myself for ridicule…or worse…pity.”

“Perhaps,” James said softly, “some lady exists who values genuine conversation over mere flattery.”

Sebastian gave a short, bitter laugh. “Perhaps. Though my experience suggests otherwise.” 

Catherine taught me well. Affection dies the moment the skin does not please the eye.

James did not withdraw his hand until Sebastian turned with a sudden, abrupt movement. His eyes flashed, storm-gray beneath heavy brows.

“The possibility of finding someone who could see past this,” he gestured sharply at the ruined side of his face,“is more dangerous than enemy fire. A man may brace for a musket ball. He cannot brace for hope.”

James met the words without flinching. “And yet hope is what you most fear.”

“Because hope is treachery,” Sebastian snapped. His chest rose and fell in a harsh rhythm. “It whispers that one may be accepted, only to laugh as it slams the door in your face once more. I have no wish to endure another Catherine, or indeed any other woman who will turn against me for matters beyond my control.”

“Then perhaps,” James said slowly, “the fault lies not with hope, but with placing it in those unworthy of it.”

Sebastian turned away. The weight of memory pressed too heavily upon him; Catherine’s contemptuous face rose unbidden, blotting out the gentler images of his youth. He braced both hands against the window frame, staring into the glass as though the world beyond could provide answers.

James’s voice softened. “Six years you have hidden here, Sebastian. Six years of silence and shadows. Do you not tire of your own company?”

“I tire of the world’s cruelty more.”

“The world certainly contains cruelty,” James agreed, “but it also contains music, friendship, and discovery. Conversation. Even affection. Must all of it be abandoned because one woman lacked courage? In some ways, she did you a favour. She obviously wasn’t in love with you if she could leave so easily.”

“Are you trying to make me feel worse?” Sebastian’s throat tightened. 

“Not at all. I am simply stating that you may have sidestepped a worse fate. Would you really want to spend your life with someone who baulks at the first hurdle? Not all women are Catherines. Some have the wherewithal to see beyond the exterior to the heart of the man beneath.”

Sebastian’s voice dropped to a growl. “You speak as though I am not already abandoned.”

James sighed, long-suffering. “You mistake exile for choice.”

The words landed like a blow. Sebastian’s head bowed; the ridges of his scar catching the dying light. 

Is it true? Have I built this prison myself?

“I remain,” James continued gently, “because I’m your friend. I remember who you were before. You laughed easily. You debated fiercely. You believed knowledge itself could mend the world. That man is not wholly lost. He is just hurt and hiding.”

“Burned away at the war,” Sebastian muttered.

“Not burned away,” James countered firmly. “Scarred, yes. Tempered, certainly. But not destroyed. It is up to you to regain your former self. Your experiences have marked you, indeed. But these scars do not define you, Sebastian.”

Sebastian closed his eyes. For a long moment, he stood motionless, the clash of voices, Catherine’s cruel dismissal and James’s quiet loyalty, warring in the silence.

At last, he exhaled. “Very well. I will go to Lady Ditton’s ball. But let no one imagine I go willingly. This is coercive, and I go under duress.”

James’s mouth curved in faint triumph. “I imagine Lady Ditton cares not whether you go willingly, as long as you go.”

Sebastian shot him a dark look, but James only chuckled, undaunted.

“Besides,” James added, “it would amuse me to see the expressions of half the ton when the Beastly Duke stalks through their gilt-edged ballroom.”

“I shall endeavour to provide a suitable spectacle,” Sebastian replied dryly, though his lips twisted; not quite a smile, but something perilously near it.

James clapped him lightly on the back. “That is the spirit. Now…shall we discuss strategy? You need not endure every simpering debutante who parades before you. Choose your ground. Speak to a few. Withdraw when you must. The evening need not be a torment.”

“Strategy,” Sebastian repeated, shaking his head. “We speak as though I prepare for battle.”

“Perhaps you do,” James said with a grin. “But who knows? The field may hold surprises.”

Sebastian’s gaze sharpened. “I do not require any surprises.”

“Then I shall pray for them on your behalf,” James said cheerfully. 

Sebastian remained at the window, his reflection looming dark in the glass. The scars mocked him, but James’s words lingered: some lady exists… perhaps… hope is what you most fear… 

The possibility unsettled him more than going into battle ever had.

James rose to leave, pausing at the door. “Sebastian,” he said quietly, “not every woman will look away.”

Sebastian’s head jerked up. “And if they do not?”

James met his gaze steadily. “Then, my friend, you may discover the one danger worth facing. I shall see you later, Sebastian. Keep an open mind.”

The latch clicked softly as the door closed behind him.

Sebastian turned back to the window. Outside, the afternoon dimmed toward evening. Carriages rattled, carrying ladies from dressmakers and gentlemen toward their clubs. The city pulsed with anticipation for the night’s revels.

If even one dares not look away—what then?

The question struck like lightning, leaving him raw, exposed, and vulnerable.

The idea was far more terrifying than Catherine’s scorn.

Chapter Three

“Do not fidget so, Cordelia,” Margaret murmured sharply as the Barlow family’s modest carriage jolted to a halt before Lady Ditton’s townhouse, ablaze with light and alive with the sound of carriages drawing up in endless procession.

“I am not fidgeting,” Cordelia returned under her breath, though her hands betrayed her, smoothing again and again over the folds of her ivory silk gown as if the fabric required her endless attention.

From outside came the shouted directions of footmen and the impatient stamping of horses. Her uncle Geoffrey descended first, his boots striking the pavement with practiced dignity. He turned to offer his arm to his wife, who swept down with all the gravity of a queen entering her court.

“Now, girls,” Margaret commanded, extending a hand first for Priscilla, then for Cordelia.

Cordelia’s fingers trembled as she accepted her support and stepped down to the gasp of the night air. A small knot of gentlemen, pausing in their approach, allowed their gazes to linger rather too long upon her figure.

“Hold your head higher,” Margaret whispered sharply.

Cordelia obeyed, though her skin crawled beneath the scrutiny. Always their eyes, always the same look; valued only for beauty, while my mind must remain invisible.

She schooled her features into the vacant sweetness so often demanded. Wide doe eyes, fluttering eyelashes—a picture of artless femininity. Each Season, the performance grew heavier, as though she shed some piece of her soul with every painted smile.

Inside, Lady Ditton’s receiving line awaited.

“Ah, Lady Margaret,” Lady Ditton intoned, her eagle eyes raking over each family member in turn. “Lord Barlow. Miss Priscilla.” Her attention settled at last upon Cordelia. “I hope this Season will bring better fortune than the last two for you, my dear.”

Cordelia dipped into her curtsy, and for one heart-stopping instant, her balance wobbled. She recovered swiftly, but heat rose in her cheeks.

“Indeed, Lady Ditton,” Margaret replied with brittle cheer. “We are most hopeful.”

Two failed Seasons mark me as damaged goods, despite the beauty they prize so highly.

The ballroom beyond blazed with a thousand candles. The whirl of gowns and the hum of conversation created an atmosphere both dazzling and suffocating.

No sooner had they entered than Geoffrey found himself accosted by gentlemen requesting introductions. Each suitor was presented to Cordelia with the same rehearsed civility.

“You honour me with your beauty, Miss Cordelia,” one murmured as they turned about the floor.

“It is a warm evening, do you not agree?” said another, his eyes never once lifting to meet hers.

Cordelia smiled, nodded, listened to the shallow small talk, and repeated the hollow script expected of young ladies of the ton. Compliments upon her appearance, comments upon the weather, all carefully avoiding anything that might demand the employment of thought. With every exchange, she felt herself vanishing piece by piece.

Priscilla, however, fared differently. Cordelia caught sight of her conversing with the tall and genial figure of James Henderson. He was not speaking to her about her gown or her complexion but about the most recent publications in literature.

“And what think you of Godwin’s arguments?” Cordelia overheard him ask.

Priscilla’s cheeks glowed with animation. “I find them compelling, though perhaps a little…idealistic?”

James laughed softly. “Precisely my own objection.”

Cordelia’s chest tightened. He treats her words as worthy. He listens. He values her thoughts. She could only hope that Lady Margaret hadn’t overheard Priscilla’s conversation, for it wouldn’t do at all for her to be caught using her brain in front of a gentleman after her recent lecture.

A ripple passed through the assembly. Voices faltered. Heads turned in unison toward the entrance.

Cordelia followed their gaze and held her breath.

Sebastian Trollope, Duke of Thorenwood, entered with his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, Eleanor Trollope at his side.

The crowd parted unconsciously, as though compelled by some force greater than courtesy, leaving a clear path that emphasized his isolation. The candlelight fell across his scarred profile; terrible damage, yes, yet borne with such dignity that it commanded respect rather than pity.

Intelligence. Strength. Why does everyone shrink away from such a hero?

James, with unfailing loyalty, strode at once to the duke’s side, offering a protective buffer against the judgmental stares.

At the refreshment table, Thomas leaned with his customary elegance, his devastating handsomeness drawing admirers as surely as moths are drawn to flames. Cordelia, watching keenly, noted the way his eyes followed Sebastian across the room. Something calculating lurked in his expression—an unspoken recognition, as though his cousin’s re-emergence might disturb certain expectations.

“Miss Ailsworth.”

Cordelia turned to find Thomas himself bowing low before her, his smile dazzling.

“Will you grant me the next dance?”

“Yes, my lord,” she replied automatically, and allowed herself to be led to the floor.

His hand at her waist pressed a shade too firmly, his hold upon her fingers too possessive. As they moved in time to the music, she felt less like a partner and more like a prize on display.

“You grow more beautiful with each passing Season,” Thomas murmured, his eyes glittering.

“You are kind, my lord,” she said, keeping her tone even.

When the dance ended, his hand lingered upon hers, not paying attention to propriety.

“I hope to see much of you this Season,” he said, his tone one of inevitability rather than request.

Cordelia inclined her head, but her stomach tightened as he led her back to Margaret’s side. His departure was marked by a host of admiring glances from other ladies, none of whom seemed to recognize the calculating gleam beneath his smile.

The room pressed in upon Cordelia; the heat, the hum, the endless tide of hollow words. Another partner claimed her, this one intent on discoursing upon the dangers of female education.

“A woman who thinks too much,” he intoned with solemnity, “imperils the very foundation of domestic tranquility. I believe a wife should be treasured for her beauty and lack of opinion.”

Cordelia’s gloved hands clenched into fists. If only you knew how often my mind rebels against such drivel.

Margaret, deep in conversation with Mrs. Fortescue, was blissfully unaware of Cordelia’s struggle.

Now. Now was the moment.

“I beg your pardon,” Cordelia murmured to her partner. “I require a little air.”

Before he could protest, she slipped through the French doors and into the garden.