Chapter One

 

 

“You are staring again, Vanessa.”

Lady Vanessa Wayworth tore her gaze from the far side of the ballroom with the sort of violence usually reserved for removing splinters. Her mother stood beside her, fan moving in that deceptively lazy rhythm that meant she had noticed something worth commenting upon.

“I was not staring,” Vanessa said. “I was merely observing. There is a significant difference.”

“Is there?” Lady Wayworth’s lips curved with the particular amusement of a woman who had raised three children and could spot a falsehood from across a crowded room. “And what, pray tell, were you observing with such intensity that you failed to notice Lord Haberton attempting to catch your eye for the past five minutes?”

Vanessa glanced toward the unfortunate Lord Haberton, who stood by the refreshment table looking rather like a hopeful spaniel who had been denied a treat. She felt a pang of guilt, which she quickly smothered. Lord Haberton was perfectly pleasant, if one enjoyed conversations about crop rotation and the finer points of sheep husbandry which did not particularly interest Vanessa.

“I shall speak with him presently,” she said, which was not entirely candid, and they both knew it.

Her mother’s fan paused its movement. “Vanessa. You are two-and-twenty. This is your fourth Season. Your father is beginning to make noises about settlements and sensible matches, and I can only deflect him for so long.”

“I am aware of my age, Mama. I was present for all of my birthdays.”

“Your wit will not secure you a husband.”

“Then perhaps I shall have to secure something else. A small cottage, perhaps and some cats. I am told spinsters are required to keep cats. I should like to make a start on the collection.”

Lady Wayworth sighed the sigh of a woman who had deployed this particular argument many times before and knew precisely how it would end.

“You are impossible.”

“I prefer discerning.”

“You prefer…” Her mother stopped abruptly, her gaze shifting to something over Vanessa’s shoulder. Her expression transformed into one of genuine warmth.

“Ah. Lord Montehood. How delightful to see you.”

Vanessa’s spine went rigid.

No. Not now. She had been doing so well. An entire forty-three minutes at this wretched ball without having to endure his presence, his insufferable smile, his way of looking at her as though she were a mildly amusing puzzle he had not yet bothered to solve.

“Lady Wayworth.” That voice. Low and warm and carrying just the faintest edge of amusement, as though the entire world existed primarily for his entertainment.

“You are, as always, the brightest ornament in any room. I cannot imagine how Lord Wayworth managed to convince you to enter into matrimony with him. Bribery, I suspect or perhaps you have employed a touch of enchantment.”

Her mother actually laughed like a woman half her age being paid an outrageous compliment. “You are a shameless flatterer, Your Grace.”

“I am merely an observer of obvious truths.”

Vanessa turned as she had no choice, really. To continue facing away would be rude, and more importantly, it would suggest that his presence affected her in some way which it obviously did not.

Martin Hale, Duke of Montehood, stood before her in evening black, his dark hair artfully disheveled in that manner that suggested he had spent no time on it whatsoever and yet somehow looked better than every other man in the room. His expressive grey eyes, framed by a luscious set of lashes which were irritatingly expressive, swept over her with lazy assessment.

“Little Wayworth,” he said. “What a pleasure.”

Little Wayworth. She had been “little Wayworth” since she was sixteen years old, when Edward had first brought his Oxford friend home for the summer holidays. She had been gangly then, all elbows and poorly concealed admiration, trailing after them like a lovesick duckling. Martin had been kind about it, in the careless way of young men who do not notice the devastation they leave in their wake. He had ruffled her hair once and called her Edward’s “little shadow.”

She had been overwhelmed by a sense of acute mortification, yet her heart remained shamefully eager for a repetition of the encounter.

Six years later, she was no longer gangly. She had grown into herself, learned to wield wit like a weapon and composure like armor. And yet, he still called her little Wayworth, as though she were eternally frozen at sixteen, forever Edward’s inconvenient younger sister.

“Your Grace,” she said, and was proud of how steady her voice emerged.

“I had not realised you were attending this evening. I was told the entertainment would be exceptional.”

His lips twitched. “And yet here I am, proving the idle tongues wrong once again.”

“I did not say you were the disappointment, merely that your presence was unexpected. Like discovering a spider in one’s slipper. Startling, but ultimately insignificant.”

“A spider.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Lady Vanessa. And here I had come specifically to request a dance.”

Her heart performed an extremely inconvenient maneuver but she ignored it. “How unfortunate. My card is quite full.”

“Is it?” He reached out and plucked the dance card from where it hung at her wrist, examining it with exaggerated interest. “Curious. It appears rather empty to me. Unless you are saving space for Lord Haberton? I marked the way he devoured you with his eyes. One might mistake it for the purest affection …or merely his next delectable morsel is a matter of some debate.”

No sooner had he spoken those words , he produced a small lead pencil from somewhere inside hi coat, of course he carried a pencil, the presumptuous creature that he was and scrawled his name across one of the lines.

“There. The supper waltz. I shall look forward to it immensely.”

“I did not agree to dance with you.”

“No,” he said, returning the card with a smile that made her want to commit violence. “But you will. You always do.”

It was the pinnacle of her mortification realising that, despite his audacity, he had perceived the reality of her heart with absolute precision.

She did always dance with him, had done so at every ball where their paths crossed for the past four Seasons. She told herself it was because refusing would cause a scene. Because he was Edward’s closest friend and it would be rude. Because dancing with him meant nothing, less than nothing, a mere social obligation to be endured and forgotten.

She told herself many things and very few of them were true.

“If you will excuse me,” she said stiffly, “I believe I see someone I must speak with.”

“By all means.” He stepped aside with an elegant bow that somehow managed to convey both perfect courtesy and utter insolence. “Until the supper waltz, little Wayworth.”

She swept past him without another word, her cheeks burning, her pulse doing something deeply irritating in her throat. Behind her, she could hear him greeting her mother with renewed charm, saying something that made Lady Wayworth laugh again.

Insufferable…the man was completely and utterly insufferable.

She found refuge near a potted palm, which offered the dual advantages of partial concealment and proximity to a servant carrying champagne. She claimed a glass with rather more enthusiasm than was strictly ladylike and took a fortifying sip.

“Vanessa? Are you quite all right? You look rather flushed.”

Her friend Miss Helena Crawford appeared at her elbow, pretty and blonde and wearing an expression of gentle concern. Helena was everything Vanessa was not; soft-spoken, agreeable, the sort of young woman who inspired protective instincts in gentlemen rather than the urge to argue.

“I am perfectly well,” Vanessa said. “I have merely had the misfortune of encountering the Duke of Montehood.”

“Ah.” Helena’s concern transformed into something rather more knowing. “I see.”

“There is nothing to see. The man is a plague upon polite society. He is arrogant, presumptuous, and entirely too convinced of his own charm.”

“He is also extraordinarily handsome.”

“That is beside the point.”

“Is it?” Helena took a delicate sip of her own champagne. “I only mention it because you are gripping your glass rather tightly, and I should hate to see you shatter it. The scandal would be tremendous.”

Vanessa forced her fingers to relax. “He signed my dance card…without permission. He simply took it from my wrist and wrote his name as though he had every right in the world.”

“How dreadful,” Helena murmured, in the tone of someone who did not find it dreadful at all. “The supper waltz, I presume?”

“How did you know?”

“Because it is the most intimate dance of the evening, and if I were a devastatingly handsome duke attempting to torment a young lady I had known since she was sixteen, which is precisely the dance I would claim.”

“He is not attempting to torment me. He does not think of me at all. I am merely Edward’s little sister, a mild amusement at best, an inconvenience at worst.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue, more bitterly than she had intended. She took another sip of champagne to wash them away.

Helena was quiet for a moment. Then, gently: “Are you quite certain of that?”

“Of course I am certain. Martin…His Grace…has never shown the slightest interest in me beyond the bounds of familial obligation. He teases me because it entertains him, dances with me because it would be strange not to, and calls me ‘little Wayworth’ because he cannot be bothered to remember that I grew up years ago.” She realised she was gripping her glass again and deliberately loosened her hold. “I am nothing to him. Less than nothing.”

“Vanessa…”

“And that is perfectly acceptable,” she continued, as though Helena had not spoken. “I do not want his interest. The man is insufferable. I merely wish he would stop appearing at every social function I attend, looking unfairly attractive and saying things that make me want to…” She stopped, aware that she had been about to say something unwise.

“Want to what?” Helena prompted, with the air of someone who knew exactly what Vanessa had been about to say and was enjoying her discomfort immensely.

“Nothing. It is of no consequence,” Vanessa straightened her spine and arranged her features into something approximating serenity. “Shall we take a turn about the room? I find myself in need of distraction.”

They walked, arm in arm, through the glittering crowd. The Wayworth ball was, as was customary, a tremendous crush, her mother had a gift for these things, for gathering precisely the right mixture of important personages and interesting tale bearers to ensure that everyone who mattered would be talking about it for weeks. Crystal chandeliers blazed overhead, casting everything in warm golden light. The orchestra played something elegant and forgettable. Everywhere, the cream of London society swirled and chattered and pretended not to watch one another.

And everywhere, it seemed, was Martin.

He was holding court near the far windows now, surrounded by a cluster of admirers that included no fewer than three young ladies and their extremely attentive mamas. Lady Whitmore’s daughter was laughing at something he had said, her hand resting on his arm with proprietary familiarity. Miss Beaumont was fluttering her eyelashes so vigorously that Vanessa worried they might detach entirely. And Lady Catherine Price, beautiful, accomplished, eligible Lady Catherine Price was watching him with the calm assurance of a woman who knew her own worth and was merely waiting for him to recognise it as well.

Any one of them would make an excellent duchess. All of them were better suited to him than Vanessa could ever hope to be.

Not that she entertained any such expectations.

“He does seem rather popular,” Helena observed mildly.

“He is a duke. Dukes are always popular. It has nothing to do with his actual qualities as a person.”

“Of course not.”

“Lady Catherine Price would suit him admirably. She is beautiful, accomplished, and possesses the temperament of a particularly placid cow. They would be very happy together.”

Helena made a sound that might have been a cough. “That is… rather unkind, Vanessa.”

“I am merely being observant. Lady Catherine has never expressed an original thought in her entire life. She agrees with everything anyone says to her and smiles prettily while doing so. Martin would be bored within a fortnight.”

“And yet you are of the opinion they would suit?”

Vanessa did not answer as the truth was too complicated that she truly did not think Lady Catherine would suit Martin at all, that she did not think anyone would suit Martin, that some small, resentful part of her wanted him to remain unattached forever simply so she would not have to watch him choose someone else.

It was the truth even though it was a trifling matter.

“Your brother is here,” Helena said, with the careful neutrality of someone changing the subject. “I saw him earlier, near the card room.”

“Edward is always near the card room. He claims to find dancing tedious.”

“Perhaps someone should change his mind.”

There was something in Helena’s tone, a slight breathlessness and a careful casualness that made Vanessa glance at her sharply. Helena’s cheeks had gone the faintest shade of pink.

“Helena Crawford. Do you have designs upon my brother?”

“I have no idea what you mean. I was merely making an observation.” The pink deepened. “Lord Wayworth is… he has always been very kind that is all.”

“Kind,” Vanessa repeated, filing this information away for later examination. Edward and Helena. It was not an impossible match as Helena came from good family, had a respectable dowry, and was precisely the sort of gentle, steadying presence that Edward’s somewhat reckless nature might benefit from. But Edward had never shown particular interest in matrimony, had always claimed he had plenty of time to think about such things.

Then again, Edward was also rather oblivious when it came to matters of the heart. It was entirely possible that Helena had been pining quietly for years and he had simply failed to notice.

Much like someone else Vanessa could name.

“We should find him,” she said impulsively. “Edward, I mean. I am sure he would be delighted to see you.”

Helena’s blush intensified. “I do not think, that is, I would not wish to impose…”

“Nonsense. You are my dearest friend. Edward adores you. Come.”

She steered Helena toward the card room before her friend could protest further. The card room was smaller than the ballroom, quieter, filled with the murmur of conversation and the soft slap of cards against baize. Edward sat at a table near the window, his dark hair so like their father’s, slightly disheveled, his cravat loosened in that way that would make their mother despair.

He looked up as they approached, and his face broke into a genuine smile. “Vanessa. Miss Crawford. What a pleasant surprise. Have you come to rescue me from Lord Bartholomew’s interminable stories about his hunting dogs?”

Lord Bartholomew, seated across from Edward, harrumphed indignantly. “I will have you know that my hounds are the finest in three counties.”

“I am certain they are, my lord. I merely find that I have heard about their excellence in rather extensive detail over the past hour.” Edward rose, offering his chair to Helena with a slight bow. “Please, Miss Crawford. Sit. You must be exhausted from the dancing.”

“I have not danced very much, actually,” Helena said quietly, taking the offered seat. “The evening has been rather… subdued.”

“Has it? I find that difficult to believe. Surely every gentleman in attendance has been clamoring for your attention.”

Was that a flush on Edward’s cheeks? Vanessa watched with growing interest as her brother and her best friend engaged in what appeared to be the world’s most awkward conversation, neither quite meeting the other’s eyes, both speaking in that overly formal manner that suggested they were acutely aware of each other’s presence.

It was a revelation that bore much contemplation.

“I shall fetch us some refreshments,” Vanessa announced, though neither Edward nor Helena seemed to hear her. She slipped away, leaving them to their stilted conversation, and made her way back toward the ballroom.

She had almost reached the refreshment table when a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Running away so soon, little Wayworth?”

Martin materialised beside her, because the man had an uncanny ability to appear precisely where she least wanted him to be.

“I am not running away. I am fetching refreshments for my brother and Miss Crawford.”

“Ah, yes. I noticed them in the card room. They appeared to be having a fascinating conversation about absolutely nothing. To witness the ardent attentions of the young is a pastime of the highest order.”

Vanessa’s eyes narrowed. “Pray, whatever do you mean by that?”

“I mean nothing at all. Merely that your brother has been watching Miss Crawford for the better part of the Season, and she has been watching him, and neither of them seems capable of doing anything about it.” He selected two glasses of champagne from a passing servant’s tray and offered one to her. “Rather like someone else I could name.”

Her fingers tightened around the glass stem. “I have no idea what you are implying.”

“I am not implying anything. I am merely making an observation.” His grey eyes held hers, and for just a moment, the mockery faded into something else. Something that looked almost like genuine curiosity. “Tell me, Lady Vanessa. What do you want? Four Seasons, and you have refused every offer that has come your way. Either your standards are impossibly high, or you are waiting for something specific.”

“Perhaps I simply have not met anyone worth accepting.”

“Perhaps.” He took a sip of his champagne, still watching her over the rim of his glass. “Or perhaps you have met him, and he is unavailable for reasons neither of you will discuss.”

Her heart stuttered. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Do you not?”

They stood there, surrounded by the glittering chaos of the ball, and Vanessa had the strangest sensation that the world had narrowed to just the two of them as the music faded and the idle chatter dimmed. There was only Martin, looking at her with an expression she could not decipher, asking questions she did not know how to answer.

“The supper waltz will begin soon,” she said finally, because she had to say something, and that seemed safe enough.

“So it will.” The corner of his mouth curved upward. “I look forward to it.”

He walked away before she could respond, disappearing into the crowd with the easy grace of a man who knew exactly how many eyes followed his movements. Vanessa watched him go, her champagne untouched, her pulse racing.

What manner of conduct was that? Pray, what could it possibly mean?

She was still standing there, frozen in confusion, when a gentle voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Lady Vanessa? I had hoped to find you.”

She turned to find Lord Christopher Deane standing before her, tall and fair-haired and wearing an expression of such earnest hopefulness that she felt a pang of guilt for not having noticed his approach.

“Lord Deane,” she said, summoning a smile. “How lovely to see you.”

“The loveliness is entirely on your side, I assure you.” He offered a slight bow. “I wondered if I might have the honor of the next dance? I believe it is a country dance, which I do believe you favor.”

Lord Deane was everything a gentleman ought to be. Kind, attentive, genuinely interested in her opinions rather than merely waiting for his turn to speak. He had called on her twice already this Season, each time bringing flowers and making pleasant conversation with her mother. He was, by every reasonable measure, an excellent prospect.

And yet.

“I would be delighted,” she heard herself say, and was rewarded with a smile of such uncomplicated pleasure that she felt a genuine flutter of warmth in response.

They took their places as the orchestra struck up a country dance. Lord Deane was an excellent partner—steady, sure-footed, never once stepping on her hem or losing his place in the figures. He made pleasant conversation without demanding too much of her attention, and when he smiled at her, it reached his eyes.

“You seem preoccupied this evening,” he observed, as the dance brought them together. “I hope nothing is troubling you.”

“Not at all. I am merely tired. These events can be rather exhausting.”

“I understand completely. The endless small talk, the constant performance of social niceties…it can wear on even the most resilient spirit.” He guided her through a turn with practiced ease. “I often think how pleasant it would be to simply have an honest conversation, without all the layers of propriety and expectation.”

“That sounds rather revolutionary, Lord Deane.”

“Does it? I prefer to think of it as refreshingly direct.” His eyes met hers with unexpected intensity. “I value honesty, Lady Vanessa. In myself and in others. I believe it is the foundation of any meaningful connection.”

She did not know how to respond to that. Lord Deane was being sincere, she could see it in his face and hear it in his voice. He was offering her something real, something genuine, and all she could think about was a pair of grey eyes and a mocking smile.

“I value honesty as well,” she said finally, which was true, even if she was not being particularly honest at this precise moment.

“I am glad to hear it.” The dance brought them close again, and he lowered his voice slightly. “I hope you will permit me to be honest with you now, Lady Vanessa. I have admired you for some time. Your wit, your intelligence, your refusal to simply say what others expect to hear, these are rare qualities, and I find them immensely appealing.”

“Lord Deane…”

“Please, allow me to finish.” He guided her through another figure, his hand steady on hers. “I know I am not the most exciting prospect. I am not a duke or a dashing rake or any of the romantic figures young ladies are supposed to swoon over. But I am steady, and I am sincere, and I would very much like the opportunity to know you better.”

It was, perhaps, the most direct declaration she had ever received. No flowery language, no dramatic gestures and just simple, honest words from a man who meant what he said.

“I understand your family is hosting a garden party next week,” he continued. “I wondered if I might call upon you beforehand, with your permission, of course.”

He was asking to court her. Properly, formally, with all the appropriate steps and protocols. The way things were meant to be done, by men who respected both the lady and the process.

She should say yes. Every sensible part of her knew she should say yes. Lord Deane was eligible, appropriate, and genuinely interested. Her mother would be delighted. Her father would stop making pointed comments about her advancing age. And perhaps, with time, she might even come to feel something more than tepid appreciation for his steady presence.

“I would be honored,” she said.

His smile brightened. “Excellent. I shall call on Tuesday, if that is agreeable.”

“Tuesday would be perfectly…”

“Deane!” A voice cut through the music, warm and carrying and achingly familiar. “I had not expected to see you here. I thought you were still at your estate in Kent.”

Martin appeared at Lord Deane’s elbow, all casual elegance and easy charm. His timing, Vanessa noted with mounting fury, was impeccable. Almost as though he had been watching. Almost as though he had waited for the precise moment when the conversation turned toward something meaningful before inserting himself into it.

“Montehood.” Lord Deane’s greeting was perfectly civil, if somewhat cooler than his manner with Vanessa. “I returned to town last week. My mother insisted on the Season, and I find myself unable to deny her anything.”

“A devoted son. How admirable.” Martin’s gaze slid to Vanessa with an expression she could not quite interpret. “Lady Vanessa. You appear to be enjoying yourself. What a pleasant change from your usual expression of polite suffering.”

“I am always pleasant, Your Grace. It is not my fault that some company makes pleasantness easier than others.”

“A hit,” he acknowledged, pressing a hand to his heart. “I am wounded. Possibly mortally. Deane, you may be called upon to serve as witness when I expire dramatically on the dance floor.”

“I suspect you will survive,” Lord Deane said dryly. “You generally do.”

There was something in the exchange, an undercurrent of tension that Vanessa did not quite understand. The two men were perfectly cordial, their words perfectly civil, and yet she had the distinct impression of hackles rising, of territory being marked.

Ridiculous. She was not territory to be marked. She was a person, with her own preferences and choices, and if Martin thought he could simply appear and disrupt her conversation with Lord Deane through sheer force of personality, he was sorely mistaken.

“If you will excuse us, Your Grace,” she said sweetly, “Lord Deane and I were in the midst of a dance.”

“So I observed. You make a handsome pair.” The words should have been a compliment. The tone made them something else entirely. “I shall leave you to it. Deane…we should talk later. There is a matter regarding the hunting rights at Thornfield that I wished to discuss.”

“Of course,” Lord Deane said, though his jaw had tightened slightly. “I am at your disposal.”

Martin smiled that particular smile that showed too many teeth and withdrew. Vanessa watched him retreat her pulse doing something complicated.

“He is a difficult man to read,” Lord Deane observed quietly.

“He is my brother’s closest friend. I have known him half my life.”

“That is not quite the same as understanding him.”

Surely, it could not have been so! But the truth was far more complicated than Lord Deane could possibly comprehend. The truth was that Vanessa had spent six years trapped between wanting Martin with all her heart and resenting him for making her want him. She did not understand him how could anyone understand such an arrogant, mercurial, infuriating man…but she was not at all certain that understanding was the relevant issue.

“He has his moments,” she said finally, which was perhaps the most honest thing she could offer.

The dance ended. Lord Deane escorted her back to the edge of the floor, bowing over her hand with perfect propriety. “Until Tuesday, Lady Vanessa. I shall count the hours.”

He departed, and Vanessa was left alone with her thoughts and the unsettling awareness that Martin was watching from across the room.

She found her mother near the entrance to the supper room, deep in conversation with Lady Haberton about something that involved a great deal of fan-waving and significant looks.

“Ah, Vanessa.” Lady Wayworth turned to her with an expression of maternal satisfaction. “I saw you dancing with Lord Deane. He is quite attentive, is he not?”

“He has asked permission to call on Tuesday.”

“Has he? Splendid! He is a man of birth and property, with a character that stands the test of any scrutiny. You would be wise to consider that one’s prospects rarely align so favorably.”

Vanessa knew she should be pleased that a man of Lord Deane’s quality had chosen to favour her.

And yet all she could feel was a creeping sense of inevitability, as though her future were being decided without her consent, as though she were watching her own life from a great distance.

“The supper waltz approaches,” her mother continued, consulting the small watch pinned to her bodice. “I believe you have promised Lord Montehood that dance?”

“So he has informed me.”

“Try not to argue with him too publicly, dear. It gives people ideas.”

“What sort of ideas?”

Lady Wayworth’s fan resumed its gentle motion. “The sort that require either a wedding or a duel. Neither of which I am prepared to organize on such short notice.”

Before Vanessa could formulate a response to this alarming statement, the orchestra struck up the opening notes of the supper waltz. The crowd shifted, rearranging itself into pairs, and she became aware of a presence at her elbow.

“Lady Vanessa.” Martin offered his hand with a bow that was, infuriatingly, flawless. “I believe this is my dance.”

She could refuse. She could claim sudden illness, a turned ankle, a pressing need to be anywhere other than in his arms. She could create a scene, damn the consequences, and free herself from this particular torment once and for all.

She placed her hand in his.

His fingers closed around hers warm, steady, impossibly correct even through the barrier of their gloves and led her onto the floor. The waltz began, and suddenly she was in his arms, one hand on his shoulder and his hand at her waist, closer to him than propriety should allow.

“You look as though you are preparing for battle,” he observed, as they began to move. “Should I be concerned?”

“I always prepare for battle when I am in your company. It seems the wisest course.”

“Wise, perhaps. But rather exhausting, do you not agree? We could declare a truce for the duration of the dance. A temporary cessation of hostilities.”

“And what would that accomplish?”

“I might learn what you were discussing so intently with Deane. You might discover that I am capable of conversation without mockery.” His hand shifted almost imperceptibly at her waist, drawing her a fraction closer. “We might both discover something unexpected.”

She tried to remain composed, though…

“Lord Deane has asked permission to call on me and I have graciously agreed.”

A change of expression flickered across Martin’s countenance, it was so fleeting that she was half-inclined to believe it a mere trick of her own imagination.

“Has he indeed. How industrious of him.”

“You disapprove?”

“I have no opinion on the matter.”

“You have an opinion on everything. It is one of your more tiresome qualities.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Very well. If you insist on my opinion; Deane is steady, reliable, and utterly predictable. He will give you a comfortable life and comfortable children and a comfortable seat in the country where you may be comfortably bored for the rest of your comfortable existence.”

“That sounds rather pleasant, actually.”

“Does it?” He guided her through a turn, his movements so assured that she followed without thought. “You forget, little Wayworth, that I have known you since you were sixteen. I have watched you argue politics with earls and debate philosophy with bishops. I have seen you charm entire rooms with nothing but wit and nerve. You are many things, but you are not a woman built for comfort.”

Her breath caught. He was too close…close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his grey eyes, could smell the faint scent of sandalwood and something darker beneath it. Close enough that every nerve in her body was acutely, painfully aware of him.

“You presume to know what I want,” she managed.

“I presume nothing. I merely observe.” His thumb moved against her waist, just once, a brush so light it might have been accidental. “You deserve someone who matches you. Someone who challenges you, infuriates you, makes you feel something other than comfortable contentment.”

“Someone like you, I suppose?”

The words escaped before she could stop them, sharp and bitter and far too revealing. She observed a sudden fracture in his composure…a momentary agitation that disturbed his features before he regained his accustomed reserve.

“I am no one’s idea of a suitable match,” he said quietly. “Least of all yours.”

“Martin…”

“Edward would end my life,” he continued, as though she had not spoken. “And he would be right to do so. You are his sister. His little sister…and I am…” He shook his head slightly. “I am not the man I ought to be.”

She did not understand, she was at a complete loss to understand any of this, not the strange tension in his voice, not the way his hand had tightened at her waist, not the expression in his eyes that looked nothing like the careless arrogance she had come to expect.

“You are speaking in riddles.”

“Am I?” The mask slid back into place, the familiar smirk returning like armor donned for battle. “Forgive me. I must have had too much champagne. Pray, think no more of it. I spoke with more haste than reflection.”

“I cannot simply forget…”

“The dance is ending.” He released her, stepping back to a proper distance so abruptly that she stumbled slightly. “Thank you for the waltz, Lady Vanessa. It was… illuminating.”

He bowed and she curtsied…and then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd before she could formulate a response, leaving her standing alone on the dance floor with her heart pounding and her mind in chaos.

What had just happened? What had any of that meant? For a very brief moment, she had glimpsed something beneath the surface. Something that suggested Martin Hale might not be quite as indifferent to her as she had always believed.

But that was impossible and merely the wishful thinking of a foolish girl who had spent six years nurturing feelings that would never be returned.

“Vanessa?” Helena appeared at her side, her expression concerned. “You look rather pale. Has something unpleasant transpired?”

“No…not at all,” She answered as calmly as she could.

“I am in need of air. Will you accompany me to the terrace?”

The terrace was blissfully cool after the heat of the ballroom, with the night air carrying the scent of her mother’s roses. Vanessa gripped the stone balustrade and breathed deeply, willing her racing heart to slow.

“Would it afford you any relief to speak of what has passed?” Helena asked gently.

“There is nothing to discuss. I danced with the Duke of Montehood. It was precisely as insufferable as every other dance I have shared with him.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.” No. She did not know. “He said things. Confusing things. Things that almost sounded like…” She stopped, unable to complete the thought.

“Like what?”

Like he wanted me. Like he saw me as something more than Edward’s little sister. Like beneath all that arrogance and mockery, there was something real.

“Nothing,” she said firmly. “It was nothing. He had too much champagne and was amusing himself at my expense, as he always does. How vastly absurd of me to have fancied there was any deeper meaning.”

Helena was quiet for a long moment and then asked gently “Are you quite certain?”

“I am certain of nothing where Martin Hale is concerned. I have never been certain of anything. That is precisely the problem.”

They stood in silence, watching the stars emerge one by one. Inside, the ball continued with music and laughter and the endless swirl of society. Out here, there was only the quiet of the garden and the weight of questions Vanessa did not know how to answer.

“Lord Deane seems very attentive,” Helena offered finally. “He would make a good husband.”

“Yes. He would.”

“But?”

Vanessa closed her eyes. “But he is not…” She stopped herself. “It is of no consequence, I assure you.” Lord Deane is kind and steady and everything I should want. I would be a fool to refuse him simply because he does not make my heart race or my temper flare.”

“Would you?”

“Helena.” Vanessa turned to face her friend. “Please. I am weary of these veiled inquiries. Pray, lay aside this mystery and speak your mind plainly, if you please.”

Helena hesitated, then spoke with uncharacteristic directness.

“Very well then…it is my belief that the Duke of Montehood possesses your heart, and has done so for an age,’

“You are using Lord Deane as your sanctuary, I fear…a means to guard yourself against feelings you dare not acknowledge even to your own soul.”

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and undeniable.

“That is absurd,” Vanessa said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“Is it?” Helena’s gaze was gentle but unflinching. “You speak of Lord Montehood more than any other man of your acquaintance. You claim to find him insufferable, yet you dance with him at every opportunity. You watch him across crowded rooms when you think no one is looking. And just now, on the terrace, you looked as though someone had handed you everything you ever wanted and then snatched it away.”

Vanessa’s throat tightened. “Even if what you say is true and I am not admitting that it is, it changes nothing. Martin sees me as Edward’s little sister. A child to be teased and tolerated. Nothing more.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“I…” She faltered. An hour ago, she would have said yes without hesitation. But now, after that dance, after those strange, weighted words about not being the man he ought to be… “I do not know.”

“Then perhaps,” Helena said softly, “you should find out before you commit yourself to a man you do not hold affections for.”

The advice was altogether judicious most sensible recommendation, based upon reason rather than whim .The sort of advice Vanessa would have given anyone else in her situation.

But finding out required courage, the courage to ask questions that might have devastating answers, to risk rejection from a man who had never shown her anything but casual affection. It required hope, and hope was a dangerous thing. Hope had kept her awake at night for six years, had made her write letter after letter to a man who would never read them, had turned her into someone she barely recognized.

“I should go back inside,” she said finally. “Mama will be wondering where I am.”

Helena nodded, her expression sympathetic. “Of course. I shall be along in a moment.”

Vanessa slipped back into the ballroom, leaving her friend to the quiet of the terrace. She did not look for Martin in the crowd. She did not seek out Edward or her mother or Lord Deane. She simply moved through the glittering masses like a ghost, smiling when required, making conversation when necessary and counting the minutes until she could escape.

The ball ended, eventually, as all balls must. The guests departed in a flutter of goodbyes and promises to call. The servants began the work of restoring the house to order. Lady Wayworth declared the evening a tremendous success and retired to her chambers with a satisfied air.

And Vanessa, finally alone, climbed the stairs to her own room with Helena’s words echoing in her mind.

It is my belief that the Duke of Montehood possesses your heart, and has done so for an age…

She closed her door and leaned against it, pressing her palms to her eyes. The evening played behind her lids in fragments: Martin’s hand on her waist, his eyes in the candlelight, his voice saying I am not the man I ought to be.

What did it mean? What did any of it mean?

She crossed to her writing desk without conscious decision, her fingers finding the small key she wore on a ribbon around her neck. The writing box unlocked with a familiar click, revealing the stack of letters within…six years of letters, neatly tied with faded blue ribbon. Six years of words she had never intended anyone to read.

She drew out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped her quill in ink.

Dear Martin, she wrote, as she always did.

I despise you. I despise the way you looked at me tonight, as though you could see through every defense I have carefully constructed. I despise the way you held me during that waltz, so correctly, so properly, and yet somehow it was the most intimate experience of my entire evening. I despise the way you spoke of Lord Deane, steady, reliable, comfortable…as though comfort were something shameful, as though wanting a life without constant turmoil made me somehow less.

But mostly, I despise what you said at the end. About not being the man you ought to be. About Edward ending your life. About being unsuitable.

What did you mean? What did any of it mean? For one moment, I thought…but no. I will not write it. To write it would be to make it real, and I have spent six years learning that hope is a dangerous indulgence where you are concerned.

Lord Deane is calling on Tuesday. He is everything you said: steady and reliable and safe. He will never make me feel as though my heart is attempting to escape my chest. He will never look at me as though I am a puzzle he cannot solve. He will never call me “little Wayworth” in that tone that makes me want to simultaneously kiss him and strike him with the nearest heavy object.

Perhaps that is what I need. Perhaps I have spent too long wanting someone impossible and should learn to content myself with someone possible instead.

And yet.

You held me tonight. Your hand was at my waist, and for one moment…one breathless, terrifying moment…I thought you might say something. Something real. Something that would change everything.

But you didn’t. You never do. You retreat behind that smirk and those clever words, and I am left to wonder what is real and what is merely the champagne talking.

Helena says I hold you in my affection. She says I have held you in affection for years, and that I am using Lord Deane as a shield against feelings I do not wish to examine.

She is right, of course. She is always right. But what am I to do with this knowledge? Pine away in silence forever? Throw myself at your feet and declare my feelings, only to watch you laugh and call me Edward’s little sister once more?

I am tired, Martin. Tired of wanting someone who sees me as nothing more than his friend’s little sister. Tired of analysing every glance, every word and every accidental touch for meaning that probably does not exist. Tired of writing letters I will never send to a man who will never read them.

Perhaps Lord Deane is exactly what I need. Perhaps comfort is not such a terrible thing after all.

Or perhaps I am lying to myself. I seem to do that rather often, where you are concerned.

Yours (though you will never know it),

Vanessa

She set down the quill and waited for the ink to dry. Then, as she had done hundreds of times before, she folded the letter carefully, added it to the stack, and locked the box.

Tomorrow, she would be composed and appropriate, the perfect Lady Vanessa Wayworth. Tomorrow, she would smile at Lord Deane’s compliments and pretend that her heart did not lurch every time Martin entered a room. Tomorrow, she would continue the performance she had perfected over six long years.

But tonight, in the quiet of her chambers, she allowed herself one moment of weakness. One moment to trace her fingers over the locked box that held every foolish, hopeless word she had ever written to the man who would never read them.

Dear Martin.

Always Martin. Never anything else. Never anyone else.

She blew out the candle and went to bed, where she dreamed of grey eyes and the ghost of a hand at her waist, and woke with the taste of longing on her tongue.

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

“No, no, no…the blue trunk goes in the second carriage, not the first. The first carriage is for linens. Linens, Mr. Hendricks. Surely you can tell the difference between linens and personal effects?”

Lady Wayworth’s voice carried through Wayworth Manor with the authority of a general commanding troops into battle. The household had been in a state of controlled chaos for three days now, every servant pressed into service for the annual migration to London. Trunks were hauled up and down stairs. Crates of silver were carefully packed in straw. The good china, not the everyday china, Lady Wayworth had been very clear on this point was wrapped in cloth and nestled into boxes like precious eggs.

Vanessa observed the mayhem from the safety of the morning room, where she had retreated with a book she was not reading and a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. She had offered to help, early on, but her mother had waved her away with the particular expression that meant you will only make things worse, dear.

She was not offended as her mother was probably right.

The book in her lap, a novel Helena had recommended, something about a mysterious count and a crumbling castle held no appeal today. She had read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word. Her mind kept drifting, as it had been drifting for days now, back to the ball and the waltz and the way Martin had looked at her in those final moments before he walked away.

I am not the man I ought to be.

What did that mean? She had turned the phrase over in her mind countless times, examining it from every angle, and she was no closer to understanding. Was it an apology? A warning? A confession of some kind? Martin was not typically given to cryptic statements as he said what he meant, usually with devastating precision. So why had he chosen that moment to speak in riddles?

Unless he had not been speaking in riddles at all. Unless the meaning was perfectly clear, and she was simply too afraid to see it.

“Is that the Castleton’s invitation?”

Vanessa looked up to find Aunt Bertha settling into the chair beside her, a plate of biscuits balanced precariously on one knee and a tangle of lavender yarn in her lap. Her aunt had been attempting to knit something, a shawl, perhaps, or possibly a very misshapen blanket, for the better part of a week now, with results that could charitably be described as creative.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The letter in your hand, dear. I thought perhaps it was an invitation. The Castletons always host the first ball of the Season, do they not? I remember attending one in… Oh, it must have been 1804. Or was it 1805? Frederick was still alive, I know that much. He danced with Lady Castleton and she stepped on his foot quite badly. He limped for a week afterward, poor man, though he never complained. Frederick never complained about anything. It was one of his most admirable qualities, and also one of his most infuriating.”

Vanessa glanced down at the paper in her hand which was not a letter at all, but a page from her book that she had been absently folding and unfolding for the past quarter hour. “It is nothing, Aunt. Just a bit of paper.”

“Ah.” Aunt Bertha nodded sagely, as though this explained everything. “You have been doing that rather a lot lately, you know. There you sit, fixed upon vacancy and tormenting that poor paper, while a slight furrow steals across your forehead. Pray, what weights your spirits so?”

She gestured vaguely at her own forehead.

“Your mother is fussing over your health, but I see that clouded brow and your idle folding. You are not ill, my dear…you are merely distracted by a suitor.”

“I am not…”

“There is no shame in it, dear. Thinking about men is one of the few pleasures afforded to women in this life, and we should indulge it whenever possible.” Aunt Bertha selected a biscuit and bit into it with evident satisfaction. “I think about Frederick constantly. Not in a morbid way, mind you. Just… reminiscing. The way he laughed. The way he always smelled faintly of tobacco and peppermint. The way he used to read poetry aloud after dinner, even though he was dreadful at it. Absolutely dreadful. His recital of Milton was quite an assault upon the ear.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“It was. It was perfectly lovely.” A soft smile crossed Aunt Bertha’s face, transforming her features into something younger, more wistful. “I had seventeen years with Harold, my first husband and eight with Frederick. Twenty-five years of matrimony in total, I would not relinquish a single hour of that time for all the comforts in the world. Even the difficult days. Even the days when I wanted to throttle them both.”

Vanessa found herself smiling despite her distraction. “Did you want to throttle them often?”

“Oh, constantly. Matrimony is rather like that, I find. One moment, one is swept away by the most fervent attachment, and the very next, one is surveying the fire-irons and wondering if they might not be put to a more decisive use than tending the hearth.”

Aunt Bertha’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Harold was particularly skilled at leaving his boots in the most inconvenient places. I nearly broke my neck on them at least a dozen times. And Frederick…Frederick had a habit of bringing home stray animals. Dogs, cats, once a very disagreeable goat. He could not bear to see a creature in need, even when the creature in question ate three of my best hats.”

“A goat ate your hats?”

“My very best hats. Including the one with the peacock feathers that I had been saving for Lady Morton’s garden party.” Aunt Bertha sighed. “I did not speak to him for three days. And then he came to me with this ridiculous expression, like a puppy who knows it has done wrong but cannot quite remember what, and I forgave him immediately. That was the trouble with Frederick. One could never stay angry with him for long.”

“The secret,” she continued, selecting another biscuit, “is that the affection must always outweigh the murderous impulses. If it does not, you have entered into matrimony with the wrong person.”

“That is… surprisingly practical advice.”

“I am a surprisingly practical woman, beneath all the…” She waved a hand at herself, encompassing the lavender shawls, the tangled yarn, the biscuit crumbs now dotting her bodice. “Well. Beneath all of this. Do not let the yarn fool you. I am quite sensible when it matters.”

A tremendous crash from somewhere in the house made them both jump. Lady Wayworth’s voice rose to new heights of displeasure, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps and apologetic murmuring.

“That would be the vase in the upstairs hallway,” Aunt Bertha said calmly. “I noticed it sitting rather precariously on that narrow table. I meant to mention it to someone, but I got distracted by the yarn. The yarn is very distracting.”

“Perhaps we should take a turn in the garden,” Vanessa suggested. “Before Mama discovers we are sitting here doing nothing useful.”

“An excellent idea. Fresh air is good for the constitution and more importantly it shall place us quite beyond the reach of the coming storm.”

The garden was a welcome respite from the chaos within. Spring had arrived in full force, painting the grounds in shades of green and gold, filling the air with the scent of new growth and possibility. Vanessa walked beside her aunt along the gravel paths, letting the peace of the outdoors settle over her like a blanket.

The roses were beginning to bud, she noticed. In a few weeks, they would be in full bloom, filling the garden with color and fragrance. She would miss them, in London. The townhouse had a small garden, but nothing could match the sprawling grounds of Wayworth Manor, where one could walk for an hour without retracing one’s steps.

“You wear the expression of a person deeply lost in contemplation.” Aunt Bertha observed.

“My mind is ever in motion… a restless habit I find impossible to subdue.”

“I believe you are blessed to have the ability to deliberate… Most people go through life without ever having a genuine thought at all. They simply respond to whatever stimulus presents itself without any deeper consideration.” Aunt Bertha paused to examine a rosebush that had not yet begun to bloom, her fingers gentle on the tight green buds. “You, my dear, have the opposite problem. You think so much that you sometimes forget to feel.”

“That is not true.”

“Is it not?” Her aunt straightened, fixing her with a look that was far too perceptive for comfort. “When was the last time you did something purely because you wanted to, without subjecting the matter to such exhausting scrutiny? When was the last time you allowed yourself to simply feel something, without immediately trying to understand or control it?”

Vanessa opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. The honest answer was that she could not remember. Every emotion she experienced was immediately subjected to scrutiny, examined and categorised and filed away in the appropriate mental compartment. It was how she survived, how she maintained the composure that everyone admired so much.

It was also, she was beginning to realise, exhausting.

“Lord Deane is calling this afternoon,” Aunt Bertha said, after they had walked in comfortable silence for some minutes. “Your mother mentioned it at breakfast. Twice…and with significant looks.”

“Mama has a gift for significant looks.”

“She does. It is quite remarkable, really. I have never known anyone who could convey so much disapproval with a single eyebrow.” Aunt Bertha paused to examine a rosebush that had not yet begun to bloom. “What do you think of him? Lord Deane, I mean. Not your mother’s eyebrow.”

Vanessa considered the question. What did she think of Lord Deane? He was handsome, in a pleasant, unremarkable way. He was kind and quite attentive. He had called on her twice already this Season, each time bringing flowers and making conversation that was perfectly agreeable if not particularly memorable.

“He is… nice,” she said finally.

“Splendid!” Aunt Bertha repeated the word as though testing its weight. “That is rather faint praise.”

“I did not mean it as faint praise. I meant it as… accurate praise. He is genuinely nice. I do not believe there is something wrong with nice.”

“No, there is not. Nice is perfectly acceptable. Nice is what one wants in a vicar or a shop clerk or the man who delivers the milk.” Aunt Bertha turned to look at her, something sharp and knowing in her faded blue eyes. “But is nice what you want in a husband?”

The question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through Vanessa’s carefully maintained composure. She thought of Lord Deane with his pleasant smile, his pleasant conversation and his pleasant everything. She thought of how she felt when he entered a room, which was to say, she felt nothing in particular. No quickening of her pulse, no flutter in her chest, no desperate awareness of his presence.

She thought of how she felt when Martin entered a room, and quickly stopped thinking about it.

“I do believe nice might be exactly what I need,” she said quietly. “Nice is stable and safe. Nice does not leave one feeling as though the ground might give way at any moment.”

Aunt Bertha was silent for a long moment. They continued walking, past the rose garden and the past the small pond where Vanessa had once fallen in as a child and past the old oak tree that had stood sentinel over the grounds for longer than anyone could remember.

“You know,” Aunt Bertha said finally, “when I entered into matrimony with Harold, I thought safety was the most important thing. I had watched my mother struggle after my father died, the uncertainty and the fear of what each day might bring. I swore I would never put myself in that position. So I chose Harold, who was kind and steady and offered me security above all else.”

“And you were happy with him.”

“I was content. There is a difference, though I did not realise it at the time.” Aunt Bertha’s voice was soft, remembering. “Harold was a good man. He gave me a comfortable life, a respectable position, everything I thought I wanted. My feelings for him were of a gentle regard. There was none of that unreasonable fervour which keeps a lady awake, nor that desperate persuasion that one’s life is lost should the object of her thoughts be absent for a moment.”

“That sounds rather peaceful, actually.”

“It was peaceful. And then Frederick came along, and I learned that peace is not the same as happiness.” Aunt Bertha smiled, her eyes distant. “Frederick was absolute chaos. He disrupted everything I thought I knew, everything and I thought I wanted. And I held him in such high esteem that it frightened me.”

“Were you not afraid of losing that safety?”

“Terrified,” Aunt Bertha admitted. “But I was more afraid of never knowing what it felt like to truly, completely love someone. To have my heart so full that it might burst from the sheer weight of it.” She reached out and patted Vanessa’s arm with gentle affection.

“You may be right, dear. You may be entirely right. Nice might be exactly what you need.” She resumed walking, her lavender shawls fluttering in the spring breeze. “But do make certain you are choosing nice because you want it, and not because you are afraid of wanting something else.”

 

***

 

Lord Deane arrived at precisely three on the hour, as he always did. Vanessa had changed into a day dress of pale yellow—not because she wished to impress him, but because her mother had laid it out on her bed with a note that said simply; Wear this. One did not argue with Lady Wayworth’s notes.

The drawing room had been hastily tidied, the chaos of packing temporarily banished behind closed doors. Lady Wayworth presided over the tea service with the serene expression of a woman whose household was not, in fact, in complete disarray. Aunt Bertha had been gently but firmly encouraged to remain in her chambers, her talent for saying inappropriate things at inopportune moments being well documented.

“Lady Vanessa.” Lord Deane bowed over her hand with practiced grace. “You look lovely. That shade of yellow suits you admirably.”

“You are too kind, Lord Deane.”

“I am merely observant.” He took the seat she indicated, accepting a cup of tea from Lady Wayworth with appropriate murmurs of thanks. “I understand you are preparing for the journey to London. It must be quite an undertaking.”

“It is rather chaotic,” Vanessa admitted. “Mama has been directing the servants like a military campaign.”

“Organisation is essential for such endeavors,” Lady Wayworth said. “One cannot simply throw things into carriages and hope for the best. There is always a system.”

“I do not doubt it, Lady Wayworth. Your reputation for efficiency precedes you.”

Lady Wayworth preened slightly at the compliment and Vanessa hid a smile behind her teacup. Lord Deane was good at social niceties, the careful flattery and the navigation of drawing room politics. He knew exactly what to say and when to say it, how to put people at ease, how to make himself agreeable without seeming obsequious.

It was, she supposed, an admirable quality. It was also oddly exhausting to witness.

“I hope the Season will provide many opportunities for us to further our acquaintance,” Lord Deane said, turning his attention back to Vanessa. “There are several events I am particularly looking forward to. The Castleton ball, of course. And I understand Lady Haberton is hosting a musicale that promises to be quite exceptional.”

“Lady Haberton’s musicales are always exceptional,” Lady Wayworth said. “She has a remarkable gift for securing talented performers. Last year she had an Italian soprano who made half the audience weep.”

“I look forward to it.” Lord Deane’s eyes remained on Vanessa. “Perhaps you might save me a dance at the Castleton ball? If your card is not already full, that is.”

“I would be happy to.”

“Excellent.” His smile was warm, genuine, reaching his eyes in a way that suggested he actually meant it. “I confess I have been thinking about our last conversation. About honesty, and the masks we wear in society. It is rare to find someone willing to speak plainly about such things.”

Vanessa felt a flicker of something, interest, perhaps, or at least curiosity. Their last conversation had been more substantial than she had expected. Lord Deane had revealed glimpses of depth beneath his polished exterior, hints of a man who wanted more than the comfortable life his position afforded him.

“I enjoyed our conversation as well,” she said, and found that she meant it. “How vastly refreshing to occupy our minds with something of substance, rather than the tedious reports of the day.”

“Then perhaps we might continue in that vein.” He set down his teacup and leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest. “I have been reading the most fascinating treatise on agricultural reform. I know it sounds dreadfully dull, but the author makes some compelling arguments about crop rotation and soil management that I believe could revolutionise farming practices across England.”

“Agricultural reform?” Lady Wayworth’s eyebrows rose. “Is that quite appropriate drawing room conversation, Lord Deane?”

“Forgive me, Lady Wayworth. I sometimes forget myself when I am passionate about a subject.” He had the grace to look slightly abashed. “I do not wish to bore Lady Vanessa with talk of farming.”

“I am not bored,” Vanessa said, surprising herself. “I would be interested to hear more. My father has been experimenting with new methods on our estate, though I confess I do not understand the details.”

Lord Deane’s face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. “Has he? That is wonderful. There is so much potential for improvement in our agricultural practices, one cannot help but wish that a greater number of landowners would see fit to embrace the enlightened spirit of the age. The traditional methods have served us well for centuries, but science is advancing at such a remarkable pace. There are endless new techniques for enriching soil, more efficient use of land, better care for livestock…the possibilities are truly exciting.”

He caught himself, laughing softly. “And there I go again. My mother despairs of me, truly. She says I will never find a wife if I insist on discussing crop yields at social gatherings.”

“Perhaps you simply need to find a wife who appreciates discussions of crop yields.”

The words came out before Vanessa could consider them, and she felt herself flush at the implication. Lord Deane’s smile widened and something warm and hopeful flickering in his eyes.

“Perhaps I do,” he said quietly.

Lady Wayworth cleared her throat in the manner of a woman who felt the conversation had veered into territory requiring intervention. “More tea, Lord Deane?”

“Thank you, Lady Wayworth.” He accepted the refilled cup with grace, though his gaze lingered on Vanessa for a moment longer than strictly necessary.

The remainder of the visit passed pleasantly enough. They spoke of London, of the upcoming Season and of their mutual acquaintances and social obligations. Lord Deane inquired after Edward, who had apparently beaten him rather soundly at cards the previous week and owed him a rematch. He asked about Helena Crawford, whom he had met briefly at a musicale and found delightfully unaffected.

“Miss Crawford is my dearest friend,” Vanessa said. “We have known each other since we were girls.”

“She speaks very highly of you. At the musicale, she told me that you were the most intelligent woman of her acquaintance, and that anyone who failed to see it was a fool.” Lord Deane smiled. “I found myself inclined to agree with her.”

“Helena is too generous.”

“I do not think so. I think she sees you clearly, which is more than most people manage.” He set down his teacup, his expression thoughtful. “Clarity of vision is a rare gift. Most of us stumble through life half-blind, seeing only what we expect to see rather than what is actually there.”

There was something in his tone, a weight beneath the words that made Vanessa look at him more closely. For a moment, she had the strangest sense that he was trying to tell her something, to communicate some deeper truth that propriety would not allow him to speak aloud.

But then the moment passed, and he was rising, consulting his pocket watch with an apologetic smile.

“I have taken enough of your time for one afternoon. But I wonder…might I call again? When you are settled in London, of course. Perhaps we could take a turn in the park, if the weather permits.”

“I would like that.”

“Excellent.” He bowed over her hand, holding it perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary. “Until London, Lady Vanessa. I shall count the days.”

She watched him go, feeling… something. Not the desperate longing she had come to associate with matters of the heart, but something gentler and warmer. The possibility of contentment, if not passion.

Perhaps that was enough. Perhaps that was all anyone could reasonably expect.

“Well,” Lady Wayworth said, once the door had closed behind him. “That went rather well, I think.”

“He is pleasant company.”

“He is more than pleasant company. He is an excellent prospect.” Her mother’s eyes were sharp, calculating. “He comes from a respectable family with a good fortune. He seems to have a pleasant disposition and I daresay… he is clearly, not to mention that he is clearly taken with you, Vanessa. A mother can tell these things.”

“Mama…”

“I am not pressing you. I am merely… observing.” Lady Wayworth gathered her needlework with the air of a woman who had said her piece. “Lord Deane would make a fine husband… a more tolerable arrangement could scarcely be imagined.”

A more tolerable arrangement could scarcely be imagined.

It was not exactly a ringing endorsement of passion and romance. But then again, passion and romance were not what Lady Wayworth valued. Stability, security, respectability, these were the currencies in which her mother dealt.

And perhaps she was right. Perhaps Vanessa had spent too long chasing feelings that led nowhere, wanting things she could not have. Perhaps it was time to be practical. To choose the man who was available, rather than pining for the one who was not.

She thought of Martin, unbidden with his grey eyes and mocking smiles and the weight of his hand at her waist during that waltz.

I am not the man I ought to be.

What had he meant by that? What could he possibly have meant?

She pushed the thought away, as she had pushed it away a hundred times before. Martin was not for her. He had never been for her. The sooner she accepted that, the sooner she could move forward with her life.

Lord Dean was a kind man who did not hide the fact that he was clearly interested in her, something Martin had never done.

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

The final days before the London departure passed in a blur of activity. Vanessa found herself swept up in the preparations despite her mother’s earlier dismissal, pressed into service wrapping delicate items and organising her own belongings for transport.

Her chambers had been largely packed, the familiar furnishings covered in dust cloths, the wardrobe emptied of everything but the dress she would wear for travel. It felt strange, seeing her room so bare, as though she were leaving behind a version of herself along with the furniture.

She saved the writing desk for last.

It was a beautiful piece, mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl, given to her by her father on her sixteenth birthday. She had written countless letters at this desk, real letters, to friends and relatives and distant acquaintances. But she had also written other letters here. Letters that were never meant to be sent.

The writing box sat in its usual place, locked and unassuming. Vanessa touched it gently, feeling the smooth grain of the wood beneath her fingers. Inside were six years of secrets, six years of foolish hopes, six years of Dear Martin.

She should destroy them. She had thought about it many times, burning the letters, burying the ashes, freeing herself from the evidence of her own weakness. But she could never quite bring herself to do it. The letters were a part of her, however embarrassing. They were the truest record of her heart, written in moments when she had been too tired or too desperate to maintain her usual defenses.

She kept them because she could not bear to let them go. Because destroying them would feel like admitting that the feelings they contained were something to be ashamed of.

“Are you quite finished in here, dear?”

Vanessa turned to find Aunt Bertha hovering in the doorway, a dust cloth in one hand and an expression of cheerful inquiry on her face.

“Nearly. I was just… saying goodbye, I suppose.”

“To a desk?”

“To this room. To this version of my life.” Vanessa shook her head, laughing slightly at her own melodrama. “I am being ridiculous.”

“Not at all. It is perfectly natural to harbor a tender attachment to where one has found happiness.” Aunt Bertha drifted into the room, her lavender shawls trailing behind her. “I wept like a child when we left Frederick’s estate after he had passed. All those memories, locked up in walls and floorboards and the particular way the light came through the morning room windows. It felt like leaving him behind, somehow.”

“I do understand your distress Aunt it must have been terribly difficult.”

“It was. But one carries forward, does one not? The memories come with us, even when the places do not.” Aunt Bertha’s gaze fell on the writing box, and she reached out to touch it idly. “What a lovely piece. Is this going to London with you?”

“Yes.” Vanessa moved instinctively closer, though she could not have said why. “It holds… correspondence. Letters I wish to keep with me.”

“How truly delightful. I am most particularly fond of a good letter. There is something so intimate about the written word, do you not think? One can say things in a letter that one could never say aloud.” Aunt Bertha smiled wistfully. “Frederick wrote me letters constantly, even after we were wedded. He would leave them on my pillow, or tucked into my gloves, or hidden in the most unexpected places. Mere trifles of affection, in truth, yet held each one in the highest esteem.”

“It is a most pleasing attachment.”

“He was a romantic man. Impractical and certainly unsuitable, according to everyone who knew us. But he was truly sentimental and gallant.” She patted the writing box gently. “I hope whoever wrote these letters to you knows how lucky they are to have your regard.”

Vanessa’s throat tightened. “I…they are not…that is to say…”

“Oh, I did not mean to pry, dear. Your correspondence is your own affair.” Aunt Bertha was already moving toward the door, her attention caught by something in the hallway. “Is that Mrs. Henderson? I must ask her about the linens. Your mother has been quite specific about the linens, you know.”

She disappeared in a flutter of lavender, leaving Vanessa alone with the writing box and the uncomfortable echo of her words.

I hope whoever wrote these letters to you knows how lucky they are to have your regard.

If only Aunt Bertha knew. If only anyone knew.

Vanessa picked up the box, feeling its familiar weight in her hands. The key hung on a ribbon around her neck, as it always did, resting against her heart like a secret. She would pack the box herself, she decided. Wrap it in cloth, nestle it among her things where it would be safe and undisturbed.

Some things were too precious to be entrusted to.

 

***

 

The morning of departure dawned grey and drizzly, as though the weather itself was reluctant to see them go. Vanessa dressed in her traveling clothes a sensible dress of dark blue, a warm pelisse, sturdy boots for the inevitable moment when someone would have to step down into mud and surveyed her stripped chambers one final time.

Everything had been packed away and was ready. The writing box was safely tucked into her personal trunk, wrapped in a shawl for extra protection. In a few hours, she would be in London, embarking on yet another Season of balls and dinners and the endless performance of being Lady Vanessa Wayworth.

She was not certain whether to feel excited or exhausted.

“Vanessa!” Her mother’s voice echoed up the staircase. “The carriages are ready. Do come down at once.”

The journey to London was long and uncomfortable, as journeys to London inevitably were. The carriage was cramped, the roads were rutted, and Lady Wayworth had opinions about everything from the inadequacy of the springs to the moral failings of the younger generation.

“In my day, young ladies did not require half so many trunks,” she declared, approximately two hours into the journey. “We made do with what we had and were grateful for it.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“And the roads were worse, too. Positively treacherous with Highwaymen around every corner.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“I do not know what this world is coming to, truly. Everything is changing so fast. Soon there will be no standards left at all.”

Vanessa murmured appropriate agreement and stared out the window at the passing countryside. Beside her, Aunt Bertha had fallen asleep almost immediately upon settling into her seat, her head nodding gently with the motion of the carriage, her lavender shawls pulled up around her chin like a blanket.

Edward had chosen to ride alongside the carriage, ostensibly because he preferred fresh air and exercise, but more likely because he wished to escape their mother’s commentary. Vanessa could hardly blame him. If she had possessed any riding skill whatsoever, she would have joined him.

The hours crawled by. Lady Wayworth exhausted her supply of complaints and turned to needlework, her needle flashing in and out of the fabric with aggressive precision. Aunt Bertha continued to doze, occasionally murmuring something incomprehensible about lavender and misplaced spectacles. Once, she said quite clearly, “Not the goat, Frederick,” and then fell silent again.

Vanessa watched the world pass by and tried not to think about what awaited her in London.

The Season. The balls. The endless parade of eligible gentlemen and their equally endless parade of eligible qualities.

Martin.

She would see him again. It was inevitable, given the overlapping circles in which they moved. He would be at the Castleton ball, probably, charming every woman in sight. He would seek her out for a dance, because he always did, and he would call her “little Wayworth” and make some cutting remark that would leave her flustered and furious and wanting more.

The thought made her chest tight in ways she did not wish to examine.

She had Lord Deane now. Lord Deane, who was kind and attentive and genuinely interested in her thoughts and opinions. Lord Deane, who spoke of agricultural reform with passion and looked at her as though she were something worth looking at. Lord Deane, who might, with time and effort become something more than a pleasant prospect.

She would focus on Lord Deane. She would give him a fair chance, unburdened by comparisons to a man who had never wanted her in the first place.

She would be practical and sensible, everything her mother wanted her to be.

And if some small, treacherous part of her heart whispered that practical and sensible were not the same as happy, she would learn to ignore it.

She had been ignoring it for six years already. What was the rest of her life?

The carriage hit a particularly deep rut, jolting everyone awake. Aunt Bertha blinked rapidly, looking around with the confusion of someone who has forgotten where they are.

“Are we there yet?”

“We are perhaps halfway,” Lady Wayworth said, not looking up from her needlework. “Another three hours, I should think. Possibly four, if these roads do not improve.”

“Oh, good. Plenty of time for a nap.” Aunt Bertha settled back into her corner, rearranging her shawls. “Wake me when we arrive. Or if there are highwaymen. I should like to see a highwayman before I die. They seem terribly romantic in novels.”

“There are no highwaymen, Aunt Bertha.”

“How disappointing.” She closed her eyes. “Though I suppose it is just as well. I am far too old to be ravished by a dashing outlaw. It would probably throw my back out.”

“Bertha!” Lady Wayworth’s scandalised voice cut through the carriage. “Such talk is entirely inappropriate.”

“Is it? I thought it was rather practical. One must consider these things at my age.” Aunt Bertha smiled without opening her eyes. “Go back to your needlework, Margaret. I was only jesting.”

She was asleep again within minutes, leaving Vanessa to smother her laughter behind her hand and Lady Wayworth to fume in offended silence.

The rest of the journey passed without incident. No highwaymen appeared, much to what Vanessa suspected was Aunt Bertha’s genuine disappointment. The roads improved marginally as they drew closer to London, the countryside giving way to villages and then to the outskirts of the city itself.

London rose up around them in all its chaotic glory, the press of buildings, the rumble of carriages and the shouts of street vendors and the general air of purposeful activity that characterised the capital. Vanessa watched it all through the window, feeling the familiar mixture of excitement and exhaustion that London always inspired.

Another season was upon her bringing with it yet another opportunity to repeat her same mistakes.

 

***

 

The London townhouse was exactly as Vanessa remembered it: elegant, well-appointed, and already bustling with servants preparing for their arrival. The housekeeper, Mrs. Abbott, greeted them at the door with the calm efficiency of a woman who had been managing the household since before Vanessa was born.

“Lady Wayworth. Lady Vanessa. Mrs. Crawford.” She bobbed a curtsy, her grey hair neatly pinned beneath her cap. “Everything is in readiness. The fires have been lit, the beds made up fresh, and Cook has prepared a light supper for whenever you wish to dine.”

“Excellent, Mrs. Abbott. As always, your competence is a comfort.” Lady Wayworth swept into the house with the air of a queen reclaiming her throne. “Have the trunks brought up immediately. And send word to Lord Wayworth that we have arrived safely he will be anxious to know.”

The next several hours were consumed by the chaos of settling in. Trunks were carried upstairs and unpacked. Rooms were aired and arranged. Lady Wayworth inspected every corner of the house with a critical eye, finding fault with the placement of a vase here, the color of a curtain there.

Vanessa had barely finished changing out of her travel clothes when a knock came at her door.

“Come in.”

Edward appeared in the doorway, looking windswept and slightly muddy from his ride. “We have survived another journey. I was not certain we would, around the third hour, when Mama began discussing the decline of modern morality.”

“You escaped. I had to endure it.”

“You have my profound sympathy.” He dropped into the chair by her window with the casual grace that had always characterised his movements. “I have also come bearing news. I stopped by the club on my way here, and I encountered several gentlemen who were most eager to discuss the upcoming Season.”

“My spirits are quite elevated…”

“It gets better. Apparently, the Crawfords have already arrived in town. Miss Crawford was seen at the lending library this morning.” He said the words with studied casualness, but Vanessa caught the slight flush that crept up his neck.

“Helena is in London? How wonderful. I must call on her tomorrow.”

“Yes. That would be… yes.” Edward cleared his throat. “Perhaps you might mention, when you see her, that I…that is, our family…would be pleased to see her at any events where our paths might cross.”

“Edward Wayworth, are you asking me to put in a good word for you with my best friend?”

“I am doing nothing of the sort. I am merely suggesting that it would be pleasant to see Miss Crawford during the Season. In a purely friendly capacity.”

“A purely friendly capacity.”

“Indeed.”

Vanessa studied her brother with growing amusement. Edward, who had never shown the slightest discomfort around women, was actively avoiding her gaze. His ears had gone quite pink.

“You are quite taken with her” she said.

“I have always been fond of Miss Crawford, as she is your friend…and it would be strange if I had an aversion to her.”

“That is not what I mean, and you know it.” Vanessa leaned forward, her own troubles momentarily forgotten in the face of this delightful development. “You are interested in her. Romantically interested.”

“I am…” Edward stopped, sighed and ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me, yes. To Helena, probably not as he has a tendency to assume the best of people, which unfortunately includes assuming that handsome rogues like yourself could not possibly be interested in someone as quiet as she is.”

“She is not just quiet. She is…” He trailed off, searching for words. “When she speaks, it matters. She does not fill silences with meaningless chatter like so many others. She thinks before she speaks, and when she does speak, it is worth hearing.”

“That is quite poetic, Edward.”

“Do not mock me.”

“I am not mocking you. I am genuinely pleased.” Vanessa smiled at her brother with real warmth. “Helena is wonderful. She has been my dearest friend for years, and I cannot think of anyone I would rather see her with than you.”

“You would not find it strange? Your brother courting your best friend?”

“I would find it delightful. Assuming you are serious about it.” Her expression sobered. “Helena is not like the women you usually pursue, Edward. She is not interested in games or flirtation or the thrill of the chase. If you are not serious about her, please do not pursue her at all. I will not have her heart broken by my own brother.”

“I am serious.” Edward’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual lightness. “I know my reputation, Vanessa. I know what people say about me. But Helena is different. When I am with her, I want to be different too. Better.”

It was perhaps the most honest thing she had ever heard him say. Vanessa felt a sudden swell of affection for her rakish, careless brother, who was apparently not so careless after all.

“Then I will help however I can,” she said. “But you will have to do the hard work yourself. Helena is not easily won, and she deserves someone who is willing to earn her regard.”

“I know.” Edward rose, his expression thoughtful. “Thank you, Van. For not mocking me.”

“I would never mock you for such a serious affair as this…for many other things…but not this.”

He departed with something approaching a genuine smile, leaving Vanessa alone with her thoughts. Edward and Helena. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. If her brother was serious, if he truly meant what he said, they might actually suit each other quite well.

It is a relief to think that someone of our name possesses the good sense…or the good luck…to be happy.”

The thought was more bitter than she had intended. She pushed it aside and turned her attention to the trunk that had been deposited at the foot of her bed, waiting to be unpacked.

Her room was smaller than her chambers at home, but comfortable enough. The wallpaper was a delicate blue, the furniture simple but well-made. A window overlooked the street below, where carriages rattled past and pedestrians hurried about their business.

London. She was in London, for yet another Season, with all the possibilities and pitfalls that entailed.

Her trunk had been placed at the foot of the bed, waiting to be unpacked. She crossed to it and lifted the lid, pushing aside layers of carefully folded clothing until she found what she was looking for.

The writing box.

Still wrapped in its protective shawl, still locked and still safe. She lifted it out and carried it to the small desk by the window, setting it down with a sense of homecoming. This, at least, was familiar. This, at least, was hers.

She reached for the key around her neck… and stopped suddenly…

The ribbon was there, warm from her skin, but her fingers found nothing at the end of it.

The key was gone.

Vanessa’s heart stuttered. She yanked the ribbon over her head, examined it frantically. The ribbon was intact, unbroken, but the key that should have hung from it was simply… not there.

No. No, no, no. She had checked it this morning, before they left. She was certain she had checked it. The key had been there, right where it always was, and she had tucked it back beneath her dress and thought nothing more of it.

When had it fallen off? On the journey? During the packing? Had the ribbon loosened without her noticing, allowing the key to slip free and disappear into the chaos of departure?

She dropped to her knees, searching the floor around the desk, around the trunk, in every crevice and corner of the room. Nothing. She dug through her trunk, shaking out every garment, checking every pocket and fold. Nothing.

The key was gone.

But the box…the box might still be locked. Perhaps she was panicking over nothing. Perhaps the key had simply come loose during travel but the box itself remained secure, its contents undisturbed.

She picked up the writing box with trembling hands and examined the lock.

It was open.

The latch that should have held firm was turned to the unlocked position, the mechanism disengaged. Whoever had the key had already used it.

Vanessa’s blood ran cold.

No. Please, no.

She lifted the lid.

The box was empty.

For a long moment, she simply stared, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. The box was empty. The letters were gone. Six years of letters, six years of her most private thoughts and feelings, six years of Dear Martin…gone.

Where? How? Who could possibly have…?

“Vanessa, dear?”

She spun around to find Aunt Bertha standing in the doorway, her face wreathed in a pleased smile.

“I am so glad you found it. I was worried the box might have gotten lost in all the confusion. These moves are so chaotic, are they not? One never knows where anything will end up.”

“Aunt Bertha.” Vanessa’s voice came out strange, strangled. “The letters. The letters that were in this box. Where are they?”

“The letters?” Aunt Bertha blinked, her smile faltering slightly. “Why, I sent them, of course.”

The floor dropped away beneath Vanessa’s feet.

“You… sent them?”

“Well, naturally. When I was helping with the packing…your mother asked me to check the upstairs rooms, you know, make certain nothing was overlooked…I found the key on the floor near your desk. It must have fallen from your ribbon. And when I opened the box and saw all those letters, just sitting there…” Aunt Bertha shook her head, tutting softly. “Six years’ worth, Vanessa! I could not believe you had let them pile up so. The poor duke must have thought you had forgotten him entirely.”

“The duke.” Vanessa could barely form the words. “You sent them to the duke.”

“Of course. They were all addressed to him, were they not? ‘Dear Martin,’ every single one. I assumed they were correspondence you had written but forgotten to post. You know how these things can slip one’s mind.” Aunt Bertha smiled again, clearly pleased with her own helpfulness. “I had James take them to Montehood House myself, three days before we left. I wanted to make certain they arrived safely, you see. So much can go wrong with the post these days.”

Three days. The letters had been at Montehood House for three days. Martin had them…had probably read them…while she was traveling to London, oblivious, thinking her secrets were safely locked away.

He knew. He knew everything. Every humiliating confession, every desperate longing and every pathetic declaration of love she had poured onto those pages for six years. He knew how she felt about him. He knew she watched him across ballrooms. He knew she compared every suitor to him and found them wanting. He knew she had written Dear Martin hundreds of times, thousands of times, pouring out her heart to a man who had never shown her anything but casual indifference.

“Vanessa?” Aunt Bertha’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Dear, you have gone quite pale. Are you feeling unwell?”

Vanessa could not speak. Could not move. Could not do anything but stand there, clutching the empty box, as the full horror of what had happened crashed over her like a wave.

“Vanessa? Should I fetch your mother? Perhaps some tea…”

“Those letters.” Her voice was a whisper, a rasp, the sound of something breaking. “Those letters were never meant to be sent. They were private. They were…” Her throat closed around the words. “They were my diary, Aunt Bertha. Written to him, yes, but never meant for him to see. Never meant for anyone to see.”

The color drained from Aunt Bertha’s face.

“What?”

“They were private,” Vanessa repeated. “And now he has them. All of them. Everything I have ever felt, everything I have ever thought about him, for six years…” Her voice broke. “He knows. He knows everything.”

“Oh.” Aunt Bertha’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Vanessa. Oh, my dear girl. I had no idea. I thought…I assumed…they were addressed to him, and I thought surely you had simply forgotten, and I only wanted to offer my assistance…”

“I am fully aware you wished to assist…” you wanted to help.” The words came out flat, hollow.

“I am aware that you had the best intentions at heart, but have you any idea of what has just transpired?

Can you fathom …?”

She could not finish. She could not breathe. The room was spinning around her, the walls closing in, and all she could think was he knows, he knows, he knows.

Martin Hale, Duke of Montehood, finally knew that Vanessa Wayworth held him in the highest esteem…had the deepest affection for him since she was sixteen years old.

And Vanessa had absolutely no idea what she was going to do about it.