Chapter One 

Burenwood Abbey, Derbyshire 

The orchid, which Phillip had worked so diligently to care for was in a state of decline, despite every effort. 

It was a rare breed which had been imported from far abroad. Crouching before the terracotta pot, he peered at the speckling leaves, prodded at the soil, and tried with all his might to imbue life into the frail thing. 

Where did I go wrong? He wondered with a heavy heart.

The hot house, crammed with leafy green plants and a variety of exotic flowers, was stiflingly hot, despite the cool spring air just on the other side of the glass panes, and sweat beaded on Phillip’s brow. He angrily swiped it away, leaning close to the plant once again. There surely should be some clue here, some reason why the plant was dying. He had done something wrong, and it was simply a matter of discovering what and then undoing it. 

He never heard the footsteps approaching. 

“Your Grace, Mr. Fitzpatrick has arrived.”

Phillip tightened his jaw. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Crawford. Considering how much you dislike venturing into the hot house, I can surmise that poor Mr. Fitzpatrick has been waiting for a spell.”

He rose smoothly to his feet, straightening his waistcoat and brushing a stray leaf from the sleeve of his jacket. The cuffs of his jacket were worn, despite his poor housekeeper’s best efforts. It would be the easiest thing in the world to secure a new jacket, but that would require venturing into a tailor’s shop for measurements. Phillip imagined it briefly , himself, standing there stiffly, gaze fixed ahead of him, while a tailor and his apprentices bustled around, armed with tape measurements, firmly refusing to look directly into Phillip’s face, as if a hideous scar might be contagious. 

He could do without. He dragged his gaze away from the cuff and turned to face Mrs. Crawford. 

She was approaching her fiftieth year with a countenance of a most pleasing roundness and features of a delicate pallor.

One could easily be misguided into believing she was a delicate and meek woman. Phillip, of course, knew better. 

He withdrew his pocket watch and observed the time. 

“A quarter past the hour,” he murmured. “I must apologize to him. Fetch tea for Mr. Fitzpatrick, please.”

The housekeeper nodded. “I have already done so, your Grace. Lady Melbourne is accompanying him.”

Phillip allowed himself a faint smile. “What would I ever do without you, Mrs. Crawford?”

She chuckled, turning away. “You’d drink a lot less tea, I imagine.”

It was cool inside the house which was a stark contrast to the heat of the hot house. Mrs. Crawford melted away in the maze of hallways, leaving Phillip alone. As always, a tranquil silence endured throughout the house which was to his liking. Even the servants wore soft soled shoes to avoid any unnecessary noise.

It was becoming apparently clear that the house was becoming all the quieter with each passing day.

He made his way directly to his study, which was where Mr. Fitzpatrick would undoubtedly have been shown. 

As entered, the elderly solicitor wobbled to his feet, making a hesitant bow. 

“Pray do not bother yourself with the formality, Mr Fitzpatrick.I have already detained you long enough,” Phillip interrupted. “I apologise for the delay. I was in the hot house, and the time quite got away from me.”

Mr. Fitzpatrick chuckled, shaking his head. “No apologies are necessary, Your Grace. I remember your parents, and how tricky it was to praise them away from what they loved. I would sit here for close to an hour at times, with your father pottering in his beloved hot houses, and your mother’s music drifting through the house. I rather quite enjoyed myself.”

Phillip forced a stiff smile. Whenever he smiled, the scarred, knotted skin on the left side of his face tugged painfully, so he avoided it whenever he could. Mr. Fitzpatrick, however, deserved a smile, at the very least. 

“I should not have kept you waiting, and nor should they have either,” he responded severely. He settled into the seat behind his desk, and gestured for the solicitor to sit, too. 

Lady Adelaide Melbourne sat quietly on a chaise near the fireplace. One of her legs often gave her trouble, swelling in the heat and aching in the cold, and she had it propped up in front of herself. Aside from that, she could easily have been taken for ten years younger. At the age of five and forty and a widow, Adelaide did not bother much with Society as she opted a quiet country life. 

Phillip knew fine well, however, what it was that kept her scurrying over to his house, day after day. Aside from the fact that her second son, Tobias, served as Phillip’s steward, Adelaide had made certain promises regarding Phillip. 

Mr. Fitzpatrick cleared his throat, meeting Phillip’s eye. 

“I have thoroughly researched the matter you brought to me, your Grace, and I am afraid that I do not bear good news.”

Phillip closed his eyes briefly. “By all means, do proceed. I’m quite prepared to hear what calamities have befallen us.” 

The older man sighed. “I am afraid we must face this unfortunate circumstance. Upon the event of your death, assuming that you have no heir, the estate, the house, the title, everything…all your possessions will go directly to the next male in the Burenwood line.”

“And that means…”

“That means that Lord Roderick Thornbury will inherit, your Grace. It cannot be avoided.”

A solemn quiet descended upon the room, and Phillip suspected all three of them were privately contemplating the man in question.

“Very well then, what can be done to salvage the situation?” he asked with a sharp tone. “Come now, Mr. Fitzpatrick. You always possess some solution or another in that clever mind of yours, and I refuse to believe you would have arrived here with only ill tidings and no possible plan of action. 

My cousin Roderick Is in no way whatsoever suitable to become, what with all his accumulated debts, foolish and reckless behaviour will undoubtedly lead the dukedom in ruin.

I cannot allow this to happen at any cost.

So… I ask you once again, Pray, tell me what line of action can we follow?”

Mr. Fitzpatrick folded his hands neatly across his waist, taking his time before he responded. 

“You must find a wife your Grace,” he said at last, and there was a note of finality in his voice. “You must wed and produce an heir of your own.”

Phillip, completely understood that there was only one solution. However, there was also one evident problem… 

He paused, catching a sideways glimpse of himself in a highly polished brass doorknob. The knob was small, designed to open a cupboard, but his reflection seemed very sharp and much distorted all at once with his scars trailing down the left side of his face, where they disappeared beneath his collar and the path continued its journey throughout both his body and soul. 

He cleared his throat, pointedly turning away. 

“I am not sure I can consider that, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

Silence descended upon them for a brief moment as the solicitor glanced briefly at Adelaide who gave him a knowing look.

Sighing, Mr. Fitzpatrick got to his feet, collecting his things. 

“I shall give you some time to consider this proposal, Your Grace,” he murmured, voice low. “But I must reiterate my earlier point. I am afraid I have found no other solution.” 

Phillip clenched his jaw and inclined his head. Mr. Fitzpatrick bowed, first to him and then to Adelaide, and then quietly left the room. 

Silence hung heavily in the air behind him. Adelaide gingerly lowered her tender leg from the chaise with a wince, and came limping over to where Phillip stood. 

“You do understand that he is correct,” she said quietly.

Phillip glanced away. “How could I possibly ask a respectable, delicately nurtured woman to enter into matrimony with a man such as myself? A man that society has labelled me as a Beast! A man that society looks away from as the very sight of my disfigurement repulses them?”

 “Then why not search for a lady a little less delicately nurtured, as you put it?” Adelaide shot back. She placed her hands on her ample hips, staring him full in the face. “I am not afraid to look at you. Why should you not find a suitable young lady who feels the same?”

“There is a difference between looking at me and entering into matrimony with me,” Phillip retorted, making his way over to the window. “You are only here because you promised my mother you would care for me.”

There was a short silence after this. 

“Phillip, that is extremely unkind of you to say so,” Adelaide said at last, her voice tight. “Implying that I do not love you for your own sake is unfair.”

He closed his eyes. “I do apologise, I did not mean… Forgive me, please. 

Alas, I cannot even keep the loveliest flowers alive in my gardens. How, then, could a lady possibly flourish in such a desolate place?”

Adelaide crossed the room with a sigh, placing her hand on his shoulder. “You are too harsh on yourself, Phillip. I can tell you with all honesty that your parents would not wish to see you so miserable. They would have wanted you to wed and have an heir, not only for the sake of the dukedom of course, but also for your own sake. 

Phillip, your parents loved each other dearly and I know that it was your mother’s wish for you to have the same happiness.”

Phillip breathed in deeply. 

“I will do my utmost.”

“I will do what I can, Adelaide. I cannot make any promises as nothing in life can be set down in writing, I personally can testify to that better than most.” 

Chapter Two 

One Week Later, Wentworth House 

Persephone Wentworth sat back on her heels and inspected the vegetable patch. 

The potatoes were coming on excellently, as were the onions. Cook had used a few of the early onions to make a rather fine soup only the previous night. However, the carrots were disappointingly thin and wizened, but this was only the first year that she had tried growing vegetables. In light of all that had occurred, it was, by and large, proceeding quite well. 

The sun, though faint, had been sufficient to draw a heavy perspiration from Persephone, who after but a few hours of hearty gardening, had her thin gown clinging to her frame.

There was a line of moisture across her forehead, where the bonnet’s rim had sat against her skin, and tendrils of her copper-coloured hair stuck to her face and neck. 

“Well, what a fright I must appear,” Persephone commented to no one in particular.

She looked down at herself and beheld in wonder at her person. She indeed looked at sight as she was wrist deep in soil and sweating. Gardening was most definitely not appropriate for young ladies. 

Suddenly the back door swung open, the squeaky, rusting hinges squealing loud enough for Persephone to hear all the way across the garden. 

“Persey! Persey!” sounded Cordelia’s voice which was fraught with distress. 

“You had better come in, quickly!”

There was urgency in her sister’s voice, and Cordelia was certainly not given to unnecessary worry. Scrambling to her feet, Persephone set off at a run across the garden, her skirt lifted high around her calves, and leaving clumps of mud in her wake.

Inside the house, Cordelia had left the back door swinging, and Persephone had barely burst into the kitchen in time to see the edges of her skirt disappear upstairs. 

Cook was not in the kitchen as she was probably somewhere in the house attending to chores with the one remaining house maid.

Due to their financial dire situation, many servants had left to find positions earn their living.

It was no secret that they had fallen upon hard times.

Scuttling upstairs, to where the living rooms were, Persephone’s heart pounded in a way which had nothing to do with her brisk pace. 

Cordelia was standing by one of the upper hallway windows, the one which faced directly down at the front door, with the busy London street just beyond. She stood very still, her shoulders taut with tension and tucked up under her ears. 

“Creditors,” she said bluntly, not turning around. “A bailiff, too. Mama went out to speak to them.”

Cursing to herself, Persephone scuttled over to where her sister stood, and they peered silently down at the front door. 

Mama stood there, very tall and straight backed as she was speaking to the creditor in a most respectful manner.

He was holding his battered top hat and was obviously heeding whatever mama had to tell him.

 “Where’s Papa?” Persephone asked, keeping her voice low as she did not particularly want to attract the men’s attention. Both she and Cordelia had been described as ‘beauties’ in various Society Papers. 

Several of Papa’s creditors had already had already come forward with offers of matrimony for herself or her sister in exchange for writing off some debt or another. She was starting to fear that it may be only a matter of time before her parents started to contemplate the offers. 

“Papa is in his study,” Cordelia whispered, swallowing. “He hurried in there when the men first began to knock. I believe he’s locked the door.”

Persephone clenched her jaw. “Of course he did. I daresay he took a nice bottle of brandy in there with him, to console himself.”

“Come, Persey, do not be so unkind. I do believe that Papa is simply frightened.” 

She turned upon her sister. “Merely afraid, you say? Simply afraid? Indeed, I assure you he has every reason to be so! Besides, not all of us can seek solace in consuming spirits, can we? We stand to lose our house and every penny we possess. Papa will be cast into the debtor’s prison, and then what is to become of us, sister? We shall be thrown out into the streets!”

“Our friends…” Cordelia began, her voice faltering, but Persephone interrupted her.

 “Our fine Society friends will disappear as soon as our disgrace is known, I can promise you that. We must be practical, Cordelia.” 

Cordelia fell silent after that. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, while Mama gently redirected the gentlemen at the doorstep and sent them shuffling away down the street. Once their backs were turned, Mama slipped back inside the house, closing the door gently behind her. Persephone heard the familiar thunk-thunk of bolts and locks sliding home on the inside of the door. After a moment, they heard Mama’s slow, steady steps mounting the steps. 

Wordlessly, Cordelia slipped her hand into her sister’s and drew her towards the drawing room. 

The room was rather sparsely furnished as most of the furniture had already been sold off. The rooms upstairs were always cold, even on the warmest days, as they had decided not to waste fuel on lighting fires except in the dead of winter. It was generally dark, too, as the candlesticks had been sold some time ago. Candles were a luxury too. 

An ornate family portrait hung above the fireplace, a testament to the famous good looks of the Wentworth family. There was Papa, with his fiery copper hair and delicate, almost dainty features. In the painting, his whiskers were smooth and glossy, the colour of a fox’s hide. In recent years, however, grey and white streaks had appeared in his hair, and his dancing grey eyes had lost their sparkle. 

Mama, too, had been greatly praised for her looks, although described as handsome rather than pretty. She was tall, square-shouldered, with a firm profile and a determined cast to her features. She was the one who had bequeathed striking green eyes to her daughters. While Persephone had Papa’s rich copper hair, Cordelia had Mama’s sharp profile and thick, nut-brown hair. 

“When you calculated all of Papa’s debts and how much, exactly, he owed, how much did it all come to?” Cordelia asked suddenly, staring at nothing in particular.

Persephone bit her lower lip and answered.” I am afraid that in order to save our very house from ruin, a considerable sum of fifteen thousand pounds will be required.”

The mention of so vast a sum lingered in the air causing Cordelia’s throat to go dry.

 “And… And if we were to sell everything, every bit of extra land, every bit of jewellery that has not already been pawned, how much might we raise?” 

This was a number that Persephone had run over and over in her head, as numbers never lied. 

“Two thousand,” she answered bluntly. “Perhaps a little more if we get very good deals on what we sell.”

“That isn’t enough, is it?” Cordelia answered faintly in a broken voice. 

“No,” Persephone whispered, reaching out to take her sister’s hand. “It isn’t enough.”

Mama’s footsteps echoed out in the hall, and a moment later she came sailing into the drawing room. Her face was set and rigid, and very, very pale. She had her arms folded in front of her waist, and her back ramrod straight. 

“Thirty days,” she said shortly, her voice trembling just a little. “We have thirty days before the house is taken. Perhaps a little less. Certainly no more.”

Cordelia gave a strangled sob, and Mama threw a furious glare at her. 

“Pray child! Hold back your tears. Where is your father’s whereabouts? I can only assume I shall find him in his study, shall I not?”

Persephone nodded silently, and Mama pressed her lips together. 

“I have not been Baroness Wentworth for all these years only to retire from the world under such shameful conditions,” she muttered, half to herself, pacing up and down. “Something must be done, girls.”

“What about Papa’s investments? Is there anything left?” Persephone asked, even though she was sure she knew the answer already.

Mama shook her head. “Not a penny. Some income comes from the estate, but a negligible amount compared to what we owe. The only solution I can see, and I shall be plain here, is if we are able to find a wealthy man for either yourself or your sister before our time expires. Thirty days is not a long time, but plenty of matches have been struck up and finalized in less time. It can be done, and I believe it is our only choice.” 

Cordelia was crying now, muffling her tears into a handkerchief. 

“I… I don’t want to be wedded to some rich old man,” she sniffed. “I cannot do it, Mama.”

“Nonsense!” Mama snarled. “You’ll seize whatever opportunity comes your way, my girl, or you’ll live to regret it.”

Persephone got to her feet, shifting to stand in front of her sister. 

“Enough, Mama,” she said firmly, careful to catch her mother’s eye and hold it. “I am the oldest, so it will be me who shall find a husband to save the family. I have long since made my peace with it.”

Mama sniffed. “You are twenty years old and your sister is not quite nineteen, she might be a more appealing option.”

“We shall consider that issue at the appointed time,” Persephone answered briskly. “But what are my options? Who would enter into matrimony with a woman without a penny to her name?”

Mama breathed in. “I have already compiled a list of possible choices.”

She hurried over to her writing-desk, which was old and sufficiently battered enough so as not to be worth much and withdrew a stiff piece of card. 

“There’s Mr. Simmons, although he has buried five wives now and one can’t help but be suspicious,” Mama muttered, her eyes on the paper. “There’s Lord Tyrell, but he has some proclivities that even raise my eyebrows. Sir Paul is rich, to be sure, but for a seventy-year-old man he certainly seems disinclined to marry a girl older than seventeen. Oh, here’s one that caught my attention, the Duke of Burenwood.”

Persephone’s ears pricked up. “A duke? Well, why should a duke have to marry a penniless girl? I imagine the ladies of Society are flinging themselves at him.”

Mama’s eyes sparkling. “Ah, not so! Apparently, he met with a hideous accident many years ago. A carriage accident, or a fire, or perhaps both at once. He very nearly burned to death, or so I heard. It killed is parents, the previous Duke and Duchess, and left him quite horribly disfigured. They say that, the year before last, the Misses Tiffany glimpsed him and all but fainted in unison.”

“They sound insufferable,” Persephone responded tartly. “I daresay one cannot fault him for the accident as he has suffered greatly for it. He not only bears the scars to remind him every day for the rest of his life what transpired ,but he was also cruelly deprived of his family in that same wretched affair.” 

“Well, perhaps not, but apparently his manners are lacking, too. Not what a duke should be, you as you can understand. Regardless, he resides a great distance from London, so it is highly unlikely we will make his acquaintance any time soon. I am of the opinion that we must put him out of our thoughts. Now, we have Lord Merridale, who rather famously wanted to have twenty children. He is fairly handsome, and barely thirty. This will be his third wife, and…”

Persephone stopped listening. The other names on the list, as far as she could tell, were all familiar. Rich men who wanted pretty young wives, the younger and prettier the better, or men who wanted broodmares for more heirs. 

The Duke of Burenwood, however, seemed to be an interesting choice. After all, if Persephone was going to enter into a matrimony of convenience without a shred of love or even genial affection, it would be quite welcoming to be a duchess at the end of it. A few burns would not concern her, and if lived away from London. It would leave her with less competition to attract his attention and gain his affections 

“Do you believe we might be able to find the Duke’s address?” Persephone asked, interrupting her mother mid-sentence. 

Mama shot her an annoyed look. “Yes, I expect so, but as I said, I don’t believe the man is a viable choice. Do pay attention, Persephone. This is  a matter of great importance.”

***

Persephone read over what she’d already written. Sighing, she crumpled it up and tossed it to one side, starting again. 

The clock read just past midnight, and she was using a precious candle to throw light over her writing-desk. Behind her, Cordelia slept soundly in the bed they shared for warmth. The room was icy cold, and drafts whistled regularly around Persephone’s bare ankles. She shivered, tucking her feet up under herself. Her eyes were gritty, and sleep sounded like a wonderful thing, but she could not allow herself to sleep until the letter was written. 

Using yet another sheet of paper Persephone began again. 

To the Duke of Burenwood, she began, in her very best writing. Most honourable sir, you will no doubt be surprised to receive a letter from a lady of whom you have no previous acquaintance… 

“What are you doing?”

Persephone jumped so hard that she almost tossed the quill across the room. Spinning around, she saw that Cordelia was sitting up in bed, blinking blearily.

“I’m writing a letter,” Persephone managed. 

Cordelia squinted. “It’s past midnight.”

“Sleep is eluding me…”

Her sister narrowed her eyes, shuffling towards the edge of the bed. 

“I find that hard to believe. You always sleep as if in a deep slumber, much like a bear preparing for its winter retreat. Come morning, I find myself quite unable to rouse you, and when evening falls, you are surrendered to sleep the very instant your head meets the pillow.”

Persephone sniffed. “Well, tonight is different.”

“Pray tell, what are you about?” 

She sighed, relenting desperate to share her secret with someone. “I am writing to the Duke of Burenwood to ask him if he would become my husband.”

There was a short pause, then Cordelia gave a strangled squawk and flung herself out of bed. 

“No! No, Persey, you can’t!” Cordelia began to snatch at the crumpled, rejected letters. “If you write directly to a gentleman in this manner, you’ll be ruined. Why don’t you bring a ring and go down on your knees to meet him, and propose matrimony in that manner?”

“I beg you to stop this Cordelia! Pray, do not tear my letters. They are of great importance to me as I have used them to determine what I should not say.” 

Cordelia, much to Persephone’s surprise, fought, trying to claw back the pieces of paper. 

“You’ll be ruined!” she repeated, her voice hitching. “You’ll be ruined, Persey!”

At last, Persephone grabbed Cordelia’s shoulders and shook her, hard. 

“Don’t you see, Cordelia? We’re already ruined!” 

Cordelia stared at Persephone with wide eyes showing her horror whilst her lower lip trembled.” 

Feeling guilty, Persephone released her shrugging weakly. 

“We’re already ruined, sister. When Papa goes to debtor’s prison, we won’t have a penny between us. Where will we go? How will we live? There’ll be nothing for us. Nothing. We’ll starve in the streets. We’ll die in the gutter, and nobody will care that we are the daughters of a baron.”

Cordelia closed her eyes. “I can’t bear it.” 

Persephone cupped her palms around her sister’s cheeks, pulling her close as they rested their foreheads together. 

“There is no assurance at all that this duke will be our saviour,” Persephone whispered, “But I must try, Cordelia. I must. And that means breaking a few of Society’s rules in the process. So please, allow me to write my letter.”

Cordelia swallowed thickly, nodding as she let the papers she had been clutching fall to the ground and turned jerkily away, heading back to bed. 

“I only hope you know what you’re doing,” she whispered, crawling back under the sheets. 

Somewhat shaky, Persephone returned to her desk, eyeing the cluttered mess of paper. 

So do I, she thought grimly picking up the quill and continued writing. 

To His Grace, the Duke of Burenwood

Most honourable sir, you will no doubt be surprised to receive a letter from a lady of whom you have no previous acquaintance. I make my apologies here, briefly, then I shall proceed with the matter at hand. I apologise, too, for the forwardness of this letter, but the situation requires it. 

I am Miss Persephone Wentworth, daughter of the Baron and Baroness Wentworth. I am twenty years of age and generally considered to have a beautiful countenance, although I cannot confess to engaging frequently in fashionable feminine pursuits. However, I am clever, capable of running a household, and competent in the fields of mathematics and botany. It is my belief that I possess the qualities necessary to be a most practical and suitable wife. My upbringing and education at an esteemed finishing school have afforded me the skills to conduct myself in a manner that would be a credit to any household and to Society at large. 

Your Grace, I am practical and I am educated. 

Our fortunes have lately fallen into a most dire state and I possess no dowry but my person and breeding to recommend me. It has come to my attention that you are seeking out a wife and thus I propose we meet to discuss the prospect of a matrimony between us. 

While I cannot boast a great inheritance, I trust my good sense, a certain practicality of mind, and my desire to be of use to my husband are blessings of a far more lasting value. 

Perhaps you will discard this letter with a scornful laugh at my impudence, and you are entirely within your rights to do so.However, I only beg that you do not ruin my reputation by making the contents of this letter public, nor the details of my request. I remain hopeful of a reply, and trust that we might come to an arrangement that would prove mutually beneficial, Your Grace. 

Kindest Regards, 

Miss P. Wentworth. 

Persephone sat back, heart pounding. It was the most shocking letter she had ever seen. A lady should not write to a gentlemen unsolicited, of course. Even solicited letters had to be carefully thought about and gingerly penned. Writing to a duke with what amounted to an offer of matrimony… well. It was beyond shocking. If it became known, Persephone’s name would be repeated to little girls up and down England as a cautionary tale, a warning. 

I’m going to send it, she thought, chewing her lip. It’s this or nothing. I won’t tell anybody until I receive a reply. 

If I receive a reply, of course. 

Chapter Three 

Six days. Six days…. And still no news….

Persephone’s nerves were shredded into nothing at all. The first day after she had sent the letter to the Duke of Burenwood had been spent in fizzle of panic which was pointless, she’d reminded herself, since there was no way that the letter had even reached him. The second day was much the same, and she thought that surely, he had received it by the third day. 

“No post today, then?” Cordelia murmured, keeping her voice in the genteel, feminine whisper which Mama insisted upon in the parlour. “I have been keeping an eye out for you in case the letter were to fall into Mama or Papa’s hands before you.”

“No, there was nothing,” Persephone murmured back, lifting her teacup to her lips. She took a tentative sip, doing her best to prevent the teacup rattling on the sauce. That was the sort of thing Mama would notice. 

Visiting hours were almost over, and the Wentworths had not received any visitors for weeks, and yet Mama insisted upon them all dressing up and waiting patiently in the parlour as if they expected a horde of young gentlemen callers. 

It was such a waste of time, not that Persephone would ever risk voicing such an opinion to her mother. This was how things were done, and so this was how the Wentworths did them. 

Mama sat on the other side of the parlour, very straight-backed and regal, picking at her embroidery. It was a ‘safe’ task for this time of day, proper enough for be seen doing it should guests unexpectedly occur. 

“Do you think he has received it?” Cordelia whispered, draining the last of her tea. The tea-tray was laden with biscuits and cakes, which the girls were not permitted to touch. The precious sweet treats would be whisked away the instant visiting hours were over, to be sealed in an airtight box with the last of the tea leaves to last till the next visiting period. Persephone suspected that they had already gone stale. 

It was of no consequence, however, because no visitors were coming. Baron Wentworth was known in London to be a drunk, a gambler, a man of no manners and fewer prospects. The gossip columns had speculated more than once on the fate of his daughters. They were, the columns deemed, pretty enough, but would that be enough to offset their lack of fortune? 

No, was the general consensus. It was not. 

Had the Duke of Burenwood heard of the family’s disgrace? He might not have done, if he really did live outside of London. 

“He has certainly received it,” Persephone whispered back to her sister. “He must have done.”

“Then why hasn’t he replied?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps he found the letter disgraceful. Perhaps he… Perhaps he is showing it to his friends. Perhaps I’ll see my own letter transcribed into the gossip columns.”

Cordelia shivered. “Don’t say that, Persey. Don’t. Besides, what gentlemen would do something so horrible?”

Persephone snorted, and earned herself a warning stare from her mother. 

“I believe that you do not know very much about gentlemen, Cordelia.”

“Yes, but I…” Cordelia broke off abruptly. “Did I hear carriage wheels outside?”

Persephone sipped her tea. It had gone cold, but that was probably for the best. The tea leaves served to the family were generally stewed two or three times, maybe even four or more, before they were reluctantly thrown out. 

“There is a street outside our house, Cordelia.”

“No, I mean, carriage wheels stopping outside,” she continued, shaking her head. “Persey, I…”

Mama abruptly rose to her feet, and the two girls stopped speaking at once. 

“There is somebody outside,” she announced, with a faint tinge of amazement in her voice. “A carriage.”

As if by some unspoken signal, all three of them rushed to the window, pulling back the lace blinds and peering down at the street below. 

A fine, well-polished carriage sat below. Glossy chestnut mares stood regally in the harnesses, and the carriage itself was dark green, freshly lacquered. A coachman sat stiff in the driving seat. 

“Are they expecting the door to be opened for them?” Cordelia whispered. “We have no footmen. Or a butler.”

“Whose crest is that on the side?” Persephone asked, her voice seeming to come from far away. It echoed strangely in her head. 

“I believe,” Mama murmured, “that it is the crest of the Duke of Burenwood.”

Burenwood…

He had come, Persephone thought queasily. But what for what reason? To inform my father about my audacious proposal? 

She wouldn’t permit herself to consider the other possibility as she wanted to keep her hopes down.

She could feel Cordelia’s gaze on her, intent and questioning. Persephone didn’t meet her sister’s eye. She wasn’t ready yet. 

“Where is your father?” Mama snapped, her voice tight and brittle. “Cordelia, fetch him at once. Tell him to hurry. Tell him that the Duke of Burenwood is outside.”

Cordelia set off at a run, eyes wide with excitement and panic. Persephone stood still. She felt, oddly, like a tree rooted firmly in place. She glanced down out of the window and saw that a footman had jumped down from his spot behind the carriage, and was opening the door. There was movement inside, and Persephone leaned closer, lifting the corner of the blind higher, trying to get a glimpse of who was inside the carriage. 

Then the blind was snatched out of her grip, and Persephone glanced up to see her mother glaring balefully at her. 

“What are you doing?” Mama hissed angrily. “Do you want the duke to see you gawping from the window like an ill-bred country girl?”

“N-No.”

“No, I should hope not! Quickly, take a seat on the sofa, here. I shall have Cordelia sit beside you. Pick up something to occupy yourself with, something suitable.”

“I have a book.”

Mama wrinkled her nose. “On what?”

“Plants which thrive in the Sahara.”

“Oh, heavens, no! Find some sewing, something light.” 

She didn’t wait for Persephone to respond, and instead fluttered around the room, plumping cushions, straightening out the curtains, and muttering to herself the whole time under her breath. 

Persephone desperately wanted to return to the window, to see who was down there. To see if the duke himself had come. 

It was more than her life was worth, of course. Mama would fly into a rage if she tried anything like that. 

Cordelia hurried back, her slippers tap-tapping on the floor. Papa followed her, his face white. 

It occurred to Persephone then that she had not seen her father for several days. He kept to his study when he was at home, and more often than not these days, he was not at home. She had overheard shouted, late-night conversations between her parents as to where Papa was going. All in all, Persephone thought it best not know. He often did not join them for meals, taking supper or breakfast in his study. 

She was struck afresh with how thin and frail her father had become. His hair was greyer and thinner than ever, in need of a thorough brush and perhaps a wash. His skin was greyish too, with deep bags under his bloodshot eyes. His waistcoat was missing a button, and when he swept past her, offering a faint smile downwards, she noticed the scent of an unwashed body with a hint of alcohol on his breath.

Cordelia sat heavily beside her sister, almost without thinking and Persephone reached for her hand, squeezing tightly. 

“They’re at the door,” Cordelia whispered. “I saw movement down in the hall. Mrs. Bennett is ready to receive them. I instructed her to show them straight in, since these grand people are not fond of waiting. Mrs Bennett always looks tidy and put together, at least.”

“For heaven’s sake, let’s sit down, quickly, quickly!” Mama hissed. “When are we likely to be visited again by a duke? Never! Let’s prepare ourselves. First impressions are everything.”

Papa sat heavily down in an armchair, staring into space. His fingers danced and fidgeted on his knees, and he reflexively chewed the inside of his cheek. It struck Persephone, not for the first time that he did not look well. 

Mama flew here and there, pinching Persephone’s cheeks to bring colour into them, straightening Cordelia’s skirts. 

“For heaven’s sake, Persephone, a simple knot in your hair? How dull. You aren’t a peasant,” Mama hissed, tugging out two curls from around her ears to hang down her neck. They tickled. Persephone preferred her hair swept back and out of the way and fought not to fidget with the stray locks. 

 Mama had just settled herself down on her seat when a knock came on the door. 

“Enter,” Mama intoned, as calmly as she could manage. 

Mrs. Bennett stepped in, pushing the door open wide behind her. 

“The Duke of Burenwood, your ladyship.”

“Oh?” Mama said, injecting just the right tone of pleased surprise into her voice. “Why, show them in at once.” 

There was a taut silence. Mrs. Bennett stepped aside, twisting the hem of her apron. Persephone noticed flour smears on her apron, a sure sign that she’d been working on luncheon in the kitchen with Cook. The Wentworth family all rose simultaneously to their feet. 

A tall man of about five and twenty stepped through the door, somewhat sunburnt, with unruly blond curls and narrowed brown eyes. He glanced at each one of them and offered a tentative smile. A woman followed him, old enough to be his mother. She wore a demure gown of dark purple silk which was still more expensive than anything that Persephone’s family could afford at the moment .She limped ever so slightly and bore a striking resemblance to the man. 

Papa ought to have spoken, of course, but he only stood there, dumbfounded. Thus Mama took it upon herself to take the lead.

“What a pleasure to receive you, your Grace,” she gushed, beginning to sink into a low curtsey. The girls began to follow, and Papa began to hinge at the waist.

The man’s eyes widened in panic, and he held out his hands to stop them. 

“N-No, no, please, my lady! I am not the duke. I am Mr. Melbourne, the duke’s steward. This is my mother, Lady Adelaide Melbourne. Phillip was just behind, I am not sure… forgive me, His Grace was just behind us.”

“Oh,” Mama managed, sounding chagrined. “I see.”

The steward, still red-faced with embarrassment, stepped aside. He glanced, first at Persephone, then at Cordelia. Persephone knew without looking at her sister would be giving him a comforting, encouraging smile, and an answering smile split across the man’s face. 

Lady Melbourne was smiling, in a serene way which gave nothing away. 

Why is she here? Persephone thought curiously. 

Then a third man stepped into the room, and all four of the Wentworths, straightened, just a little.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked surprisingly strong for a gentleman. His jacket was an expensive looking deep green velvet creation, embroidered with gold thread. It reminded Persephone of the carriage outside, with its green lacquer and gold crest. 

His hair was a rich black, the sort of blue-black shade that one did not see often and was tied back at the nape of his neck. Long strands were left to fall around his face, predominantly the left side. 

At once, Persephone saw why. 

Burn scars ran from his left eyebrow all down that side of his face, inching up towards the bridge of his nose. It covered his cheek in puckering scars, and crawled down his neck to disappear beneath the high collar of his shirt. She spotted similar burned, puckered flesh over the back of his left hand, as well. Did the scars cover much of his left-hand side? 

Both of his eyes were clear and keen and she could only imagine how fortunate he was to have saved his left one after a burn such as that. He was sweeping the chamber with his gaze when his eyes fell upon Persephone. An uncontrollable shiver traced its way down her spine.

 “Lord and Lady Wentworth, thank you for receiving me,” the duke said, and his voice was deep and heavy. There was a rasping quality to it, too, and Persephone wondered whether the extent of his burns had somehow damaged his vocal cords. 

 “It is a pleasure, your Grace, quite a pleasure,” Mama said, recovering. She swept into a deep curtsey, which was the signal for the girls to do the same. Papa missed a beat but dutifully bowed low at the last moment. 

Persephone straightened up from her curtsey first and met the Duke’s eye squarely, a little surprised to find him looking at her when she rose from her curtsey. Did he know that she was the one who’d written the letter? Somehow, she was sure that he must, although of course he had never met her or Cordelia before. 

 He held her gaze almost defiantly, as if waiting for her to cringe or look away. Persephone only folded her hands in front of her waist and stared right back.

That is, until an elbow jabbed into her side. Persephone turned to find Mama standing directly beside her, glaring ferociously. Papa had finally found his manners and had gone forward to welcome the duke to their house. 

“Don’t stare, you impertinent thing!” Mama hissed. “Do you think the duke likes being stared at? No, of course not. Besides, demure ladies avert their eyes.”

“I imagine he hates having everybody avoid looking at his face, too,” Persephone responded, but Mama did not appear to be listening.

“… and of course my daughters,” Papa was saying, gesturing towards them. “Persephone is my oldest, and of course there is Cordelia.”

The duke nodded, bluntly inclining his head. “Miss Wentworth, Miss Cordelia, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

More curtseying was, of course, required. 

“Tea will be brought at once,” Mama chimed in. “We have some fine cakes and biscuits here, which…”

“I should prefer to get directly to business, if you don’t mind, Lady Wentworth,” the duke interrupted bluntly. It was of course a faux pas to interrupt anybody in their own home, but Persephone had a feeling that as a duke, this man could do as he wished. “I ought to have written ahead and warned you of my coming, I suppose, but it is too late to change it now.”

Mama cleared her throat delicately, throwing a pointed glance at Papa. He only stared blandly black, not understanding, so Mama was obliged to speak. 

“We are honoured by your visit, Your Grace. But may I be so bold as to ask the purpose of your call?” 

The corner of the duke’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. Was it nerves? Persephone thought so. She would not have seen the movement if she had not been looking at him. Glancing sideways, Persephone tried to catch Cordelia’s eye. 

Her sister, however, was not looking at her. No, Cordelia was staring curiously at Mr. Melbourne, the steward. He stood quietly in the corner, beside his mother, and his gaze kept sliding over to Cordelia. 

Hm, Persephone thought to herself. Interesting. 

It was important, however, to keep her thoughts on herself at present. The duke was staring at Mama, a faint line between his brows. 

“I am here about the letter, of course,” he said at last, and Persephone’s chest constricted. “The correspondence you sent me.” 

“Letter? What letter?” Papa piped. “I sent no letter. There must be some kind of mistake, Your Grace.”

Too blunt by half, Papa. 

The duke’s gaze found Persephone again, almost pinning her to the wall with its directness. He closed his mouth, and with a rush, she realized that he was not going to expose her. He believed, and believed correctly, that she had written to him without the permission and knowledge of her family. After all, the consequences for going against one’s father in such a way might be dire, for all he knew. In a moment, he would doubtless make his apologies, perhaps claiming to be mistaken, or perhaps to have the wrong address. He would trundle back out of the house with his retinue, climb back into his carriage, and she would not see him again.

Speak now, fool, she urged herself, and took one step forward. 

“I wrote to the Duke, Papa,” Persephone said. 

There was a tense silence after she had spoken. Papa stared at her, eyes bulging, but of course it was Mama who spoke. 

“What?” she asked, voice sharp. “What are you saying, Persephone? You do not know the duke.”

Ah, but you know differently, Mama. You know that he is on our list of men who might save us. 

There was no going back now, so Persephone folded her hands in front of her waist and looked at nobody in particular. 

“Forgive me, your Grace, but I did not tell my family of my letter, as I was not sure whether anything would come of it.”

“What letter?” Papa spoke this time, and there was a tinge of anger in his voice. 

Persephone breathed in and forced herself to meet her father’s eye. 

“Papa, I wrote to the duke and explained our precarious financial situation. I happen to know that the duke requires a wife and has no taste for the marriage mart. I am pretty, sociable, able to conduct myself in Society, and I am practical. So, I wrote to him and suggested that we might come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

There was a tight silence. Mama broke it by giving a strangled little moan and sitting down, heavily, on the settle. Papa let out a shaky breath. 

“You are telling me, girl that you wrote to the Duke of Burenwood and proposed matrimony?” he hissed, his voice growing stronger. “Your Grace, truly, I cannot apologise enough. My daughter will be thoroughly punished, I can assure…”

“Miss Wentworth did indeed propose matrimony,” the duke interrupted, eyeing the cringing man with something like distaste. “But I daresay it is apparent to everybody that I am in here, in fact, to accept her proposal.”