Chapter One

Eastwood Manor

Evelyn stood in silent indignation as the grey tendrils of cigar smoke coiled about Papa’s bookshelves. The vapour wound itself lovingly, mockingly, around the spines, and she could almost fancy the volumes shrinking from the intrusion, as though affronted by so coarse an assault upon their dignity. In all his life, Papa had never so much as entertained a cigar, and most assuredly never within these walls, amongst his cherished collection. Smoke, he had once declared, clung most obstinately to paper and leather. It was a vulgar habit, and best avoided.

It seemed Uncle Marcus had either never received such instruction or else had dismissed it entirely. The latter, she thought, was far more in keeping with his character. He regarded her now with a glimmer of amusement, as though her displeasure were a diverting trifle, and proceeded to draw upon the cigar with unhurried satisfaction.

The odour was insufferable. She knew full well that when at last she quitted the study, the scent would have fastened itself to her gown and even to her hair, clinging with a persistence no bath could wholly dispel. She had detested the reek of cigars, just like her father. What a gentleman chose to do within his own residence, or beneath the open sky, was properly his concern; yet she could not, and would not reconcile herself to the notion that this house belonged to any man but Papa.

The law, unfortunately, did not agree.

No chair had been offered to her. Uncle Marcus himself leaned back in his desk chair, which had been Papa’s once, and observed her with faint curiosity, the way a disinterested passer-by might observe a mildly interesting animal. It seemed odd to recall that her uncle had once been a pleasant, jovial, obliging sort of man, who visited rarely, but she had always enjoyed his visits, at least as a child. When had he changed? Was it when he received notice that his brother and sister-in-law were dead, leaving him in a most advantageous position? When he realised he was to be a Baron?

I would not have begrudged him his exaltation, she thought bitterly, if only he hadn’t been such a beast about all of it. About me.

There was, unfortunately, a third person in the room, one who lounged upon a long, low sofa. She could feel his eyes upon her and fought to ignore his presence, but he had stared at her without ceasing since she entered, his slimy gaze dripping over every inch of her.

“You summoned me, Uncle?” Evelyn prompted after a moment of silence. If she were obliged to endure much more of her uncle’s smoking in the very presence of Papa’s books, she feared she might be driven to hurl a paperweight at his head—an impulse most unladylike, yet exceedingly tempting. Far better to have done with this vexatious interview as expeditiously as possible.

“Do you drink whiskey, Evie?” Uncle Marcus asked at last, gesturing at a decanter resting on the mantelpiece. “Your father had a lot of fine liquors, I must say, and the wine cellar is marvellous. I suppose Lord Felton and I have halved his collection already.”

She pressed her lips together. “No, Uncle. I do not.”

“Hmph. I forgot how missish ladies can be when it comes to strong spirits. Well, you can pour out a glass for Lord Felton and me. Generous measures, mind you. No skimping.”

Evelyn tightened her jaw. She thought about asking whether she had been summoned here from her bedroom, the only room in the house that was still hers, as Uncle Marcus liked to remind her, to simply serve whiskey.

There was no sense in that, however. Papa was dead and gone, and Uncle Marcus was Baron Easton now or Lord Eastwood as he liked saying. He owned everything that Papa had done. The wine cellar, the whiskey collection, even the books belonged to him. But worse than that…. He was her legal guardian.

So, instead of telling her uncle exactly what she thought of him and storming away, Evelyn walked silently over to the mantelpiece and poured out two fingers’ worth of whiskey. She served Uncle Marcus first, resisting the urge to throw the liquid into his face, and then there was nothing to be done but to serve Lord Felton. She allowed herself to be grateful that her uncle’s other friend, that wretched captain, was not here. He never eyed her with the sort of hunger Lord Felton did, but there was a hardness in his face that she did not like. The Captain was not a good man; one could sense it from only a few moments in his presence.

Lord Victor Felton, a tall, thin man, had stretched out his entire length on the sofa, with his feet up on the expensive material, and she could see a smudge of dirt there, from where his soles had rested. He was exceptionally pale, with thin, white-blond hair thinning from his high forehead. There was a clammy, unhealthy sort of pallor to his skin, and Evelyn had rather gotten the impression that he stayed up for most of the night, drinking and gambling, and then slept away the bright daylight hours.

His reputation had preceded him. No respectable parent would allow him near their daughters, or would permit him to associate with their sons, if they could at all help it. Only his impressive wealth and title prevented him from being shunned in London altogether, although he struck her as the sort of man who quite enjoyed being disliked. Perhaps it added a sort of zest to his conversations.

In short, he was not the sort of man who was generally invited to respectable balls and gatherings. Evelyn had not, for example, met him at Almack’s. So of course, she had no acquaintance with him at all, and really ought not to be socialising with such a man, not if her own reputation was to remain intact.

But he was Uncle Marcus’ friend, and so he was their guest.

He made no effort to rise and receive the glass, thereby compelling her to stoop in order to place it in his hand. As he accepted it, he took care that his damp fingers should graze her own—an attention so deliberate as to admit of no innocence.

“Much obliged, Miss Easton,” he murmured, offering a wide smile. Evelyn did not respond, nor did she smile back. She returned to her position in front of Uncle Marcus’ desk, turning her back to Lord Felton.

Uncle Marcus clicked his tongue. “You are a little unfriendly, my girl. Victor, here is my guest, and you’ll show him the deference he deserves.”

“Have I been disrespectful, Uncle? So far, I have done everything you have requested. As you can see, I have already come out of mourning more quickly than I would have liked, since you do not like black.”

The last few words were more clipped than Evelyn had intended, and Uncle Marcus’ face darkened.

“Ay, you’ve done as I asked, but with a poor grace. You might as well not have done it.”

“Very well,” she responded smoothly. “I’ll be back in black tomorrow, then.”

Red flared across his face. Uncle Marcus set down his glass with a clack, slopping whiskey onto Papa’s prized desk.

“I know what this mulishness is about,” he hissed, glowering at her. “You do not wish to oblige me in the matter of your marriage. I have told you once, and I have told you again – Lord Victor Felton here is a fine man, the sort of husband any woman would consider herself lucky to have. He has agreed to marry you despite the financial difficulties you are in, and you show no gratitude. None!”

“I had no financial difficulties until you became my guardian, Uncle,” Evelyn snapped, temper blazing. “I will not marry Lord Felton, and I would advise him to find a woman who can love him and will make him happy. That woman is not me.”

Uncle Marcus spluttered, but before he could answer, Lord Felton himself spoke up.

“She has spirit,” he said slowly, a glimmer of amusement in his voice. “I like that. All the best horses I’ve ridden required a little breaking in. That spirit gives them flavour, you know.”

No, I won’t throw the paperweight at my uncle’s head, Evelyn thought. I’ll throw it at Lord Felton’s.

Her uncle had not bothered to conceal the reason for her marriage. His debts were piling up with each day, even though he now had access to both his dead brother’s fortune and Evelyn’s dowry. As his foremost creditor, it would be wise to appease Lord Felton and apparently, his price for writing off the debt was Evelyn’s hand. She hadn’t bothered, though, to ask just what exact figure had been placed on her.

“It does not matter, in any case,” Uncle Marcus said at last, glowering at Evelyn. You are barely twenty, and so you are under my guardianship. You’ll do as I say, and I say that the wedding will take place tomorrow. That is final, and I suggest you make your peace with it.”

A thousand sharp retorts leapt to Evelyn’s mind, but she fought them down. The plain fact here was that Uncle Marcus was her guardian. He had control of her fortunes, and he had control of her. If he dragged her down the aisle and forced her into marriage, Society would gasp at it, but would likely lose interest soon enough. Women were strong-armed into marriage every day.

Uncle Marcus could even strike her if he wished. None of the servants would dare come to her aid, because he would simply dismiss them on the spot, and give such a terrible reference that they would never be hired again.

 I am alone here.

“Very well,” Evelyn said at last. “May I go, Uncle?”

He blinked up at her, wary. “You would have your inclinations governed by my will, then?”

“Certainly. May I go?”

He eyed her with suspicion, then heaved a sigh.

“Fine. Go.”

“Until tomorrow, my love,” Lord Felton called after her. She could hear the smile in his voice, but did not bother turning back.

Evelyn hurried up to her room and resumed the activity she had been engaged in before Uncle Marcus summoned her.

Packing.

***

It seemed wise to remove her shoes to avoid making too much noise as she tiptoed through the house. Uncle Marcus had finally retired to bed, and Lord Felton to the guest room. The servants, exhausted, had all tumbled into their respective beds, leaving Evelyn free to rise from her bed and creep from her room.

She had packed lightly. Her valise included a few valuable keepsakes: some books, of course, along with Mama’s favorite pearl necklace, which she had saved from Uncle Marcus’s grasping hands, and Papa’s prized chessboard, which had never interested him. She had chosen a plain grey cloak, dull and uninteresting, which would hide her height.

Evelyn was tall, noticeably so, and Papa had been too. They were a tall family, with Uncle Marcus as the exception. It had been pleasant to tower over him when he was being particularly unpleasant.

Aside from her remarkable height, Evelyn considered herself fairly unremarkable. The scandal sheets had described her as ‘pretty, despite her great height’. She had chestnut hair, which she now kept pinned back in a demure knot and hid beneath her cloak hood, and a fashionable, rosy porcelain complexion. No doubt Lord Felton thought her pretty, or else she would not be in this mess to begin with.

She unlocked a side door and slipped out into the courtyard, pausing to put on her boots. Silvery moonlight shone down, but she threw a nervous glance up at the house, dark and silent, and hurried across the courtyard towards the stables.

The stableboy would be there, sleeping in the hayloft. He would probably not raise the alarm if he saw her, but he would certainly realise that she had gone, so it wasn’t worth the risk of alerting him.

Fortunately, Evelyn already knew which horse she would take and knew that he wouldn’t give her away.

Mama’s gelding, the staid and elderly Pippin, stuck his head over his stall and watched her approach with mild eyes.

“Hello, dearest,” Evelyn whispered, stroking his copper-and-white nose. “I have come to take you away, far away from Uncle Marcus’ threats.”

Pippin whickered as if in agreement.

She led him quickly from the stall and saddled him as carefully as she could in the thin, uncertain light. A lone lantern hung from a wall hook, its glow faint and wavering, barely pushing back the shadows that pooled in the corners. From time to time, the straw in the hayloft whispered and shifted, yet no face ever peered down.
When Pippin was saddled up and ready to go, Evelyn clambered onto his back. She had chosen to use an ordinary saddle instead of a side-saddle. Mama had always insisted that she learn to ride ‘properly’, as of course one could not go so fast on a side-saddle. At least, Evelyn could not.

They trotted into the courtyard, and she flinched at the sharp report of his hooves upon the cobbles. There was no remedy for it. On impulse, she slipped a hand into her reticule and drew forth the crumpled scrap of paper on which she had staked her every hope of escape.

Uncle Marcus, of course, would be well within his rights to drag her back home, but only if he could find her.

Only if she were still under his guardianship.

The piece of paper was, in fact, a page torn from a scandal sheet, dated several months ago. Evelyn could not have said what had made her save it, as she wasn’t generally in the habit of saving stories from scandal sheets, of all things.

“Caranwood Castle, Yorkshire,” she mumbled under her breath. She did not know the exact location of the place, but suspected that it would not be hard to find. It was a castle, after all.

A castle inhabited by a duke.

The stories about the duke in question varied wildly, as far as Evelyn could tell. Some insisted that he was a madman, others that he was some tragic hero to whom life had been cruel. The truth likely lay somewhere between these two extremes.

It was clear, however, that one thing was true – he had stayed away from London for the past five years, and seemed to have a very good reason. She had read tales of a hideous fire and extensive scars, and even of porcelain masks, although that seemed ridiculous.

A man who hated Society and had no connections seemed like a very good place to start. He might prove to be an excellent ally, and at this point, Evelyn had neither allies nor friends, only enemies.

Clicking her tongue, she spurred Pippin forward. A light rain was beginning to fall, and it was a long way to Yorkshire, so she broke into a gallop, cursing under her breath. Within minutes, Easton House was far behind, and Evelyn resisted the urge to twist around to peer behind herself.

It’s not your home anymore, she reminded herself sternly.

With any sort of luck, Caranwood Castle will be your home from now on.

Assuming the duke isn’t an absolute madman, of course, because there is nowhere else to go from there.

With this thought lingering in her mind, Evelyn spurred Pippin forward, clenching her teeth.

Chapter Two

Caranwood Castle, Yorkshire

“You shouldn’t have put your bishop there, Nathan,” Owen observed.

Nathan chuckled. “Perhaps it’s a calculated feint.”

“If it is, it’s a bad one,” he shot back, moving his knight to take the bishop. Judging by the way Nathan’s brow knitted, the move had not been a feint, and now he had no bishops left at all.

Tutting, Nathan leaned forward, inspecting the board.

“It’s this particular set,” he mumbled. “It’s unpleasant.”

“Well, next time we play, you can bring your own set, or choose another of mine,” Owen shot back while his friend rolled his eyes.

The chessboard in question was not actually his favourite. The pawns were all gargoyles, green on one side and black on the other. The king was a twisted monstrosity, the queen a curious creature swathed entirely in a sheet, only the points of her crown poking up from her head.

Nathan pushed out his lower lip, like he often did when he was thinking. He was actually a marvellous chess player – it was simply his bad luck that he was paired with Owen.

I bring bad luck to everybody around me, it seems, he thought wryly.

Outside, a storm raged. It battered the walls of the castle, making the panes rattle in their housings from the force of the rain, but he paid little attention to the storm. The castle had weathered worse storms than this and would easily continue to stand.

Small comfort to anyone outside, he thought wryly.

Nathan shifted a pawn one place across the board, then sat back.

“Mr and Mrs Tollbrook are hosting a ball tomorrow night,” Nathan remarked, seemingly at random. Miss Tollbrook is to be presented to society, you understand. It promises to be a very pretty affair — not overly formal, but elegant enough. There will be dancing and music, and supper laid on. You should certainly make an appearance.”

“Is that a jest? If so, it’s a poor one,” Owen shot back.

“It might be fun.”

Owen stared at his friend. At his only friend. Nathan was young, brisk, relatively wealthy, and handsome. He did not have the powerful family one required to truly become a success in Society, but he was Lord Sterling, and that counted for something. With his thick brown hair, laughing grey eyes, and blemish-free face, it was no surprise that Nathan was well-known and well-liked amongst the sparse society in their part of Yorkshire.

“No, I don’t think so,” Owen said at last. “I’d scare the young ladies, wouldn’t I?”

To make a point, he lifted a hand, rapping a knuckle against the smooth porcelain mask which curved around his face. A hole was shaped for his eye, but the rest was plain white. He had experimented with decorated masks to give the illusion of pink cheeks and the curve of an eyebrow, but there was something so unsettling about it all that he simply gave up.

Nathan frowned, shaking his head. “I wish you wouldn’t speak like that, Owen. A few scars are nothing to fear.”

“So you say. I have watched horror and disgust creep over people’s faces the instant they see mine. Some of them manage to hide their contempt almost right away, but it does not matter. I have seen it.”

“There are always bad people around, Owen. Fools. Blind fools. Do you want to befriend those?”

Owen lifted his good eyebrow, the one the mask did not cover. “Do you think the Tollbrooks are sufficiently enlightened to disregard me?”

“I think that they would be thrilled to entertain a duke, and they already know that you’ll be arriving in a mask,” Nathan shot back. “What upsets me, actually, is the fact that you insist upon wearing it around me.”

Owen had not been expecting that. He flinched, clearing his throat. “Well, it’s not deliberate. I get used to wearing it all the time, you know. For the sake of the servants. For the sake of… of unexpected guests.”

Nathan snorted. “Unexpected guests? We both know that you never invite anybody here. I happen to know that you mostly wear it around Cynthia, too, and it upsets her as well.”

“Why have you been talking to my sister about me?”

“You need not take offence. Here, it’s your turn to play. You get upset when I chat instead of taking my turn, so don’t do the same.”

Owen huffed, leaning over the board and glancing over the arrangement of pieces. The squares seemed to glow with potential. He could move his king here, then his knight there, then there, and assuming that his pawns remained in the position they were, Nathan would be checkmated in three moves.

He slid his king into position.

“There. Now you.”

Nathan scratched his head, narrowing his eyes at the board.

“So, you aren’t coming to the Tollbrooks?”

“I am not. But you must go, I insist. And take Cynthia, if she wishes. I don’t mean to keep her locked up.”

“You do not keep her locked up,” Nathan sighed, moving his rook. “She stays here because she loves you, and because she is worried about you. You obsess over your scars, and I worry, we both worry, that you have lost sight of what is important. An unblemished face is only ever a temporary blessing. We’ll both lose our looks as we age.”

“I have no looks to speak of.”

“You are unkind. Would you say that Cynthia has no looks? You two look rather similar.”

This was a difficult point to argue. Cynthia, Owen’s sister, was indeed remarkably beautiful. Her insistence on leaving London to care for her brother after his accident was remarked upon. At the time of the accident, she had, of course, been only eighteen and was now twenty-three. The scandal sheets, and a few well-meaning friends and relatives, were in a flurry of panic, begging her to think of her future and abandon her ridiculous brother in favour of the all-important task of finding a husband.

Cynthia staunchly refused, a fact which tightened Owen’s chest every time he thought of it.

They were indeed very similar in looks, with matching pitch-black locks and slanted silver-grey eyes. Owen had never been vain, not even before he had lost his looks for good, but he had been pleasantly aware of being a decently handsome fellow.

But that was then. Now, the cool smoothness of the porcelain mask felt like part of his skin. Without it, it almost seemed as though half of his face had been peeled away altogether.

He sighed and moved his knight into position. Nathan aimlessly moved another pawn in response.

“Cynthia was going to talk to you, you know,” he added. “About a trip to London. Just a small one, you know.”

“Cynthia may go to London anytime she likes.”

“With you, you buffoon, and I shall come too. You needn’t socialise if you don’t wish to. But I think it would make her happy. And perhaps it would show you that people do not care as much about your scarred face as you believe. And even if they do, who cares? You’re a duke, for heaven’s sake. You don’t need to care at all what they think of you.”

Owen was silent for a long moment. Then he moved his knight again, leaned back, and flashed a wry smile at his friend.

“Checkmate.”

Nathan paled, and he scanned the board, scowling.

“Well, curse you and your wretched gargoyles.”

Owen laughed and rose, crossing the room towards his decanter of whiskey.

“You are a sore loser, my friend.”

“I should hope so. One day, Owen, I shall beat you in chess.”

“Perhaps if I am distracted. Or dead.”

Before Nathan could counter with another sharp retort, a low, urgent banging echoed through the empty halls. Owen paused, his glass of whiskey halfway to his lips, and frowned.

“Is that the storm?”

Nathan rose to his feet. “Owen, I believe somebody is knocking at the door.”

“At the door? At this hour of night? In this weather?”

Even as he spoke, Owen heard the banging echo again and knew that Nathan was right. He hurried out into the hallway outside his study, from which he could see all the way to the front door.

The night footman stood nervously by the door, eyeing it with trepidation. When he glanced around and saw Owen, relief crossed his face.

“Your Grace, somebody’s knocking at the door. Should I open it?”

“You had better,” Owen responded, striding towards him. “In this weather and at this time of night, I can only assume that somebody has met with an accident. They must be desperate.”

The footman nodded, leapt forward to pull back the heavy bolts and opened the door. Suddenly, a soaking wet bundle of grey wool came tumbling inside.

“Oh, thank heavens,” somebody gasped. “I thought you weren’t going to let me in.”

It was, Owen noticed to his amazement, a woman. She wore a sodden cloak, so saturated with water that a pool was already spreading around her feet, and rainwater dripped thickly from her clothes. It was impossible to tell what she might be wearing underneath, but whatever it was, she would be soaked to the skin.

She straightened up, tossing back her hood. Her hair was plastered to her skull, her face pale and clammy from the rain and cold. Despite that, she had pretty, even features, except for a sharp, overlong nose that somewhat suited her face. Tendrils of wet hair clung to her face and neck, and she had green eyes, Owen noticed.

That crisp green gaze swept over everything – the footman, the vast hallway, Nathan, and of course Owen himself. Her gaze stopped on the porcelain mask, as he knew it must, but her expression did not change. There was no horror there, no disdain, only a flash of curiosity, gone in a moment.

“I hope you’ll forgive my unannounced arrival,” she said at last, breaking the silence. “But the weather compelled me. I say, my horse is outside getting colder and wetter by the moment, and he has already had a long ride. Is there a stable and a groom that might care for him?”

The footman glanced at Owen.

Owen nodded. “Robert, take care of our guest’s horse. And fetch Mrs Winters.”

His reliable old housekeeper would know what to do with this strange woman, who had arrived out of nowhere with no maid or friend with her, and yet acted and spoke like a true lady.

She smiled gratefully at the footman, who scurried off to obey his master’s commands.

Nathan cleared his throat, and Owen remembered his manners. The woman was looking at him expectantly.

“May I introduce my friend, Lord Nathan Sterling. And I am…”

“Owen Caldwell, the Duke of Caranwood,” she interrupted, with an approving nod. “Your Grace, we have not met, but I know who you are. Please, I hope you can forgive my rather shocking arrival. I had hoped to arrive a little earlier, but circumstances beyond my control…” she trailed off, waving her hands in the air. It was unusual to see a lady gesturing so wildly. Talking with one’s hands was seen as the height of bad manners, and only a woman entirely confident in herself and what she had to say would risk being labelled a vulgar.

Whatever this woman might be, she is not vulgar.

“And who, might I ask, are you?” He enquired, keeping his voice cool and uninviting. The goal here was to keep her talking until Mrs Winters arrived. Mrs Winters would whisk her off, get her into fresh, dry clothes, force her to eat and drink something, and then send her on her way. Then the house and Owen’s life could return to its comfortable equilibrium. Yes, that was what was needed.

She’s barely set foot inside my house, and already she is causing problems.

“I am Miss Evelyn Easton,” she explained. “Perhaps you have heard the name?”

“I read about the tragic death of Baron and Baroness Easton some months ago. A carriage accident, was it not? Very sudden.”

Owen had only meant it as a civility, but Miss Easton’s face crumpled, just for a moment. For a split second, he was truly afraid that she was going to cry.

However, it only lasted for a heartbeat, then her composure was back.

“Yes,” she answered, offering a tight smile. “It was exceptionally tragic and upsettingly sudden. These things happen, do they not?”

“If you don’t mind my saying,” Nathan spoke up, coming to stand beside Owen, “but we really must ask how you have come to be here. It’s clear to me that you have ridden through the night, in a frightful storm, no less, and there must be something serious which has impelled this. How may we help? Perhaps a carriage for your onward travel? Where are you going?”

She blinked slowly, as if struggling to understand what he was saying. The woman appeared to be getting paler by the minute. Owen wondered with a twinge of worry how long she had been cold and wet for, and whether he shouldn’t hurry her back into the study, where a fire was filling the room with warmth.

“I am going here,” she said at last. “I mean, this is where I intended to come. I have reached my destination.” She held out her arms to either side. “Here I am.”

“Oh,” Nathan managed feebly. He turned to Owen and lifted his eyebrows. “Well?”

Apparently, any help from Nathan was now at an end. Sighing to himself, Owen stepped forward.

“Miss Easton,” he said firmly, “you must see that this is not proper. It is not. You have no maid, no companion, no luggage, from what I can see.”

“Oh, no, I have a case. I strapped it to the back of the saddle. I should have mentioned it to your footman, but never mind. I’m sure they’ll be careful with it. It has a few important things in it, you know, like Mama’s pearls and Papa’s favourite chess set.”

Was she delirious? It seemed likely.

“Miss Easton,” Owen said firmly. “What do you want?”

That was entirely too blunt a thing to say to a lady, but Miss Easton did not seem to mind at all. In fact, she brightened.

“Why, I have an offer for you. I have thought long and hard about it, your Grace. It is a business proposition, I suppose, but one that will benefit us both. I’d be obliged if you would at least hear it.”

A business position? Owen began to wonder if he’d nodded off to sleep in his wonderfully warm study and was now trapped in a very strange and troublesome dream.

He eyed Miss Easton thoughtfully. Whatever proposition she had would, of course, not be suitable. He had no need of business partners and had plenty of money. Some gentlemen liked to waste their money on long-shot investments and dubious schemes, but Owen was not fond of gambling in any form. Of course, Miss Easton would be disappointed, but if he could refuse her now, it would save awkwardness later. “I’m afraid that I simply cannot…” he began, but stopped dead when Miss Easton’s eyes abruptly rolled back in her head.

She did not swoon very gracefully. She dropped like a stone, her head knocking against the floor with an echoing bang which made Owen wince.

“Oh, heavens!” Nathan cried, springing forward. “She’s fainted.”

With an edge to his voice, Owen called out, “Mrs Winters! I’d be obliged if you’d hurry, please!”

Chapter Three

Evelyn awoke slowly. The first thing she was conscious of was a pounding pain in her head, radiating from temple to temple.

The second thing was that the pillow beneath her cheek was deliciously soft and smelled wonderfully of lavender.

The natural response to these realisations came swiftly.

This is not my bed.

Evelyn jerked upright in something of a panic. A series of horrifying thoughts shot through her, each one worse than the last.

Had Uncle Marcus forced her to drink whiskey until she could not see straight? Had he struck her? That might explain the pain in her head. Had she somehow lost her memory and was in fact now married to Lord Felton with no way of ever escaping him? Was her escape merely something conjured up in her own head, with no basis in reality?

Had it all been a dream?

This particular idea made her feel queasy.

No, she told herself. Lord Felton would not sleep on nice, soft, lavender-scented sheets. Her memory returned, and she groaned aloud, dropping back into the pillows.

She recalled now her insane, wet ride through the night, the way she had barged into the duke’s house, which was where she currently remained, and how she had fainted, swooning clean away in front of him before she could even tell him why she was here.

How humiliating.

Trust me to make an already awkward situation worse, she thought miserably.

There were bits and pieces of memory after that. She recalled the frank, business-like voice of a middle-aged woman who had unceremoniously stripped Evelyn out of her sodden clothes and into a fresh, dry, and clean nightgown. She had towelled off Evelyn’s hair as best she could, then rolled her into bed.

Apparently, sleep had come promptly and Evelyn remembered nothing more.

Well, what now?

She dredged her memory to recall how the duke had reacted to her. He was not generally considered to be a great gentleman, nor given much to assisting fainting females. In fact, several of the scandal sheets had described him as decidedly impolite. Whether that impoliteness was due to his long isolation or was simply a quirk of character remained to be seen.

And that mask! Evelyn frowned to recall it. She had been so sure that the mention of him wearing a mask was simply invention, but no, there he had stood, with a smooth porcelain mask over one half of his face. She had spotted a few lines and divots peeking out from underneath, hinting at hideous scarring. What had it been? A fire? She was not quite sure.

The rest of his face had been as handsome as one could wish. He had a strong profile and a sharp jaw, heavy black brows and a good head of thick black hair. Flecks of grey streaked back from the temples, which surprised her because, according to the scandal sheets, the Duke was not yet twenty-nine.

And those eyes! Silver-grey was such a rare colour, and they’d quite fixed her to the spot.

All in all, the duke had not disappointed. He was not a grotesque hermit, as she’d feared, nor a wild madman. His house seemed well-ordered and entirely ordinary, and he even had a friend with him.

However, the less insane the duke was, the less likely he was to accept her proposition. Which she had still to make to him.

A tap came at the door, and Evelyn flinched, clutching at the bedclothes.

Surely he’s not about to burst in, she thought wildly, before recollecting that it was in all likelihood a servant, probably sent to hustle her into her dress, if it was dried out, and out of their castle as soon as possible.

“Who is it?” she called tentatively.

“We haven’t met yet,” came the cheerful response, “but I hoped we might. Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

The door opened to admit a petite, elegantly dressed young woman of extraordinary beauty. She wore a ravishing blue silk, expensively designed with frills and lace everywhere. Her thick black hair was done up in a rather old-fashioned style, with a long, thick ringlet curling over her shoulder, but it suited her. In fact, it reminded Evelyn that her own hair hung loosely, tangled and frizzed, over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the vision said. “But I had to come and see you. They didn’t tell me that you had arrived last night, on account of the late hour and the fact that you went to sleep almost straight away, but I wish they had. I am Lady Cynthia Caldwell. I’ve brought you some breakfast.”

Evelyn barely had the opportunity to mumble her appreciation before Lady Cynthia came into the room. A maid followed her, bearing a tray laden with good things – tea, of course, chocolate, slices of cake, a large bowl of sliced fruit, scones, toast, and more. The maid set down the tray and curtsied her way out, leaving Evelyn and the formidable Lady Cynthia alone.

“Are those…” Evelyn paused, leaning over the tray. “Are those marzipan fruits?”

“They are indeed. I adore them. My brother tells me that marzipan fruits are not the thing to eat for breakfast, but today is a special occasion. We do not often get visitors, you see. Except for Lord Sterling, of course, who is here often.”

“Your brother? Oh, of course, you are the Duke’s sister. I read about you in the scandal sheets. You left London to stay with…” Evelyn trailed off, suddenly aware that she was repeating gossip to its very subject.

Lady Cynthia did not seem offended. She only chuckled, pulling up a chair to Evelyn’s bedside.

“Indeed, I left London and a promising career as a Society Beauty to care for my brother. People were ever so shocked, but I can only assume that those people are not very fond of their own siblings. There was nobody I wanted to marry in London, and I daresay there still isn’t. I am not afraid of spinsterhood, and I have money enough to afford it. Are the scandal sheets in London really still speaking of Owen and me?”

“I’m afraid they are,” Evelyn admitted. “I’m sorry, I hate to repeat gossip.”

“Think nothing of it,” Lady Cynthia leaned forward, plucking a strawberry off the tray. “Come on, eat. Owen insists that you must be out of the house by breakfast, but Nathan and I talked him down. That’s Lord Sterling, by the way.”

Evelyn nodded. She poured herself a cup of tea, then, after a moment’s hesitation, poured out a cup for Lady Cynthia, too. The woman took it, gulping down the scalding tea without a moment’s hesitation.

“So,” she said at last, when the tea was gone, “nobody can quite decide why you are here. Nathan is adamant that it must be an accident after all, but Owen says you were quite clear about where you wished to be. Did I not read about your betrothal in the papers?”

Evelyn swallowed, pleating the blankets between her fingers.

“Yes, you did. The thing is… Oh, I suppose I should be honest with you.”

“I should like that. You strike me as a woman with plenty of interesting things to say.”

She drew in a breath. “Since the death of my parents, I have been… adrift. My uncle is now my guardian, and he is an overbearing fool. He never behaved that way while my father was alive, which was probably why my father took a chance and left him as my guardian. Well, Uncle Marcus is supposed to be guarding my fortune and dowry, but instead, he is spending it. I have no idea how much is left, if any. To cover his own debts, he is forcing me to marry Lord Felton. I have no friends, or at least nobody who would protect me from my uncle, and the wedding was in fact supposed to take place today. So, I packed up my valuables and ran.”

“Valuables?”

She shrugged. “Not truly valuable. My mother’s necklace and my father’s chess set.”

“Oh, Owen adores chess himself,” Lady Cynthia offered. “You should challenge him to a game sometime. Poor Nathan can never win, and I would never dare risk my feeble talents against my brother’s. I am sorry to hear of your misfortunes, but why have you come here? I don’t mean to be rude, of course.”

“I thought that his Grace would understand the weight of such injustice,” Evelyn answered. In the cold light of day, in their castle, her reasoning felt rather flimsy. “I thought that, sharing as I do his unhappy exclusion, he would show understanding.”

“I daresay he will. But your uncle is still your guardian. I do not believe Owen could protect you, even if he wished to.”

She drew in a breath and met Cynthia’s eye.

“Yes, but I rather hoped that he would marry me.”

There was a brief moment of silence. Then Cynthia let out a long, slow breath, and she sounded almost amused.

“Well,” she said at last. “I thought that you would be the sort of person to say something interesting, and I was right. You want to marry my brother?”

“I understand that it is a ridiculous request,” Evelyn added hastily. She had planned all of what she wanted to say in her head, but in her imagination, this speech would have been delivered in a study or a drawing room, with her windswept and dramatic, poised in front of a roaring fireplace.

Heroic, in short.

“However,” she ploughed on, “marriages of convenience take place every day. If your brother is not betrothed or in love with somebody else, I would surely do as a duchess. I am well-bred, charming, if I do say so myself, and if we do marry, he could apply to my uncle for my dowry and would legally be entitled to it. It would save what is left of my fortune, at the very least. I am not hideously ugly, and I would not make any claims on him at all.”

Cynthia considered this for a long moment.

“You have thought this through carefully,” she said at last.

Evelyn swallowed. “I could think of no one else who would not simply send me straight back to my uncle.”

“No, I imagine not.”

She sank back onto the pillows and let out a ragged sigh.

“I suppose that his Grace is not going to accept my proposal,” she murmured.

Cynthia stretched out a sympathetic hand. “No, I suppose he is not.”

“Oh, heavens. What a fool I have been.”

“Desperation and despair make fools of us all. But listen to me now, Miss Easton.”

Evelyn glanced up, a spark of hope flaring in her chest despite it all.

“What is it?”

Cynthia leaned close, with the air of one about to tell a secret.

“Challenge him to a chess game.”

Evelyn blinked, sure that she had misheard. “A… A chess game?”

Cynthia nodded importantly. “Indeed. He adores chess. If you were to present a challenge to him, then it would earn you respect in his eyes. Oh, I know, it’s ridiculous, but all this isolation does tend to turn one’s mind after a while. You mentioned that you have a chessboard amongst your things, so I am assuming that you can play. Furthermore, I am assuming that you can play well. I can do little to sway my brother’s mind, but I can give you advice.”

“Why?”

She smiled, rising to her feet. “Because I like you, Miss Easton. Because I love my brother, and I worry about him a great deal. Perhaps because I would like to see him married to a woman brave enough to ride through a storm to visit strangers, all to avoid a fate she does not want.”

Without waiting for a response, Cynthia swept out of the room, leaving Evelyn alone with her breakfast tray and a good deal to think about