Chapter One

“Here, Barnes,” Edward Carmichael called, eyes never straying far from his hounds as they ran ahead. Their lithe bodies bounded through the longer fields near the edge of Thornshire Hall, where grass became woodland, and also Edward’s favorite place.

Barnes, a tall, slender greyhound, looked back at him, tail wagging. Edward smiled, whistling, but Barnes only trotted further up, parallel to Benedict, the beagle that was never far from Barnes’s side. Edward had gotten the dogs a little under a year ago, and although they weren’t puppies, they had endless energy as if they were.

“All right,” he called out. “On you go.”

With a loud bark, Barnes soared for the treeline up ahead, and Edward laughed, walking briskly 

behind them. Benedict, on much smaller legs, struggled to keep up with Barnes but he tore after him as if they shared the same stature.

Once Edward hit the treeline, he exhaled. The fresh, February air did a great deal to calm his nerves regardless, but it was in here that truly proved to be quite magical. The woodland shut out everything else, gave him shelter from eyes he swore watched him even in the countryside, far from London and the ton, and the rumors and the condolences he could never escape from.

In here, there was only birdsong, the crunch of leftover winter leaves beneath his feet, and the far-off bubbling of a stream. Edward looked around at the towering pine trees, the guarding oaks with their wide canopies, and the stumps of cut-down tree trunks. If he looked outward, he’d see that the sun was rising higher, morning fully making its appearance overhead.

The two hounds scampered through the leaves, Benedict already snuffling at some underbrush, while Barnes leapt over a large, fallen log. It was there that Edward headed, sitting down and peering around. The woods were too far into the estate for anybody else to really go in, but he knew he had neighbors on the other side of them. He wasn’t sure who, and he was happier to keep it that way. Still, he wondered when his peace in there would be broken by another wanderer.

“We should be getting back,” Edward said to Barnes, scratching the greyhound behind his ears. “I have put off my mother’s letters for too long, and now she has had to resort to coming here.” He sighed, tipping his head back to look up at the canopy of trees that blocked out most of the morning sun. Other people might be annoyed at such a thing; Edward was not. Instead, he enjoyed the shield-like way it bordered him off from everything.

The countryside may have been quiet, but there were days when it wasn’t quite enough, and nor was his head.

Benedict only nudged at his boots, pawing at the ground in front of him.

“Come on.” He finally resigned himself to conceding and heading back to Thornshire Hall. “We cannot keep the dowager countess waiting any longer.” He grimaced ruefully as if his dogs would understand, but he only stood up, gave one last mournful look around, wishing he could stay there, hidden away, and then made his way back. The walk took a while, so by the time he entered the estate, he was immediately accosted rather than being greeted in the breakfast hall as he had assumed.

“Where have you been?” The Dowager Countess of Thornshire, Miranda Carmichael, looked every bit as sharp as her tongue, and Edward fought not to flinch as she glared at him. Her raven-black hair tumbled down her back, only the top of the length partially styled in a neat, elegant bun. Next to her, Edward’s younger sister, Elena, mirrored her mother. Although her face was softer with youth, she still possessed the same tight-lipped regard their mother always possessed.

They wore similar pale blue dresses, beautiful yet simpler than their ball gowns, of course. Elena was merely a younger image of their mother, and sometimes it was disconcerting to see.

“Merely on a walk,” he answered lightly, sidelining them both to gesture towards the breakfast hall. “Shall we?”

“Edward, when we have made the long journey up from London, I expect you to be awaiting us on time,” his mother hissed, but followed him nonetheless.

“And I will remind you that I did not ask for you to come up to me.” The sharp words came out too quickly when he should have held them back. He stopped in the doorway, looking back to find that scathing glare on him. Behind his mother, Elena looked annoyed as well. “Forgive me. I… I was caught off-guard by your arrival.”

“I gave you plenty of chances to respond and prepare.”

You did, Edward thought, as he nodded. I just could not face any of it. Not you, or the need to respond, or the heralding you were doing for me to come back to London. I could not face any of it.

As a reunited family for the first time in more than a month, the three of them sat down. Automatically, Edward went to take his old seat across from Elena, to the right of the head of the table, but a hinting clearing of Elena’s throat reminded him.

Painstakingly, he lowered himself into his father’s former seat, taking the head of the table as the Earl of Thornshire.

“You do not sit there often enough.” His mother assessed his unfamiliarity and discomfort.

Is it not strange for you? Edward wanted to ask, but bit his tongue. To look across the table and no longer see your husband? To know I have had to take his place now?

“No,” he admitted. “I do not. When one lives alone, one tends to take their meals away from a very large, empty breakfast hall.”

“One does not have to live alone,” his mother countered delicately as she poured herself a cup of tea. She did not look away from him yet didn’t spill a drop of liquid, either. Behind her, the tall line of windows steamed sunlight into the room, dappling patches of light onto the table. “One has made his choices.”

“And I am content to live with them. I am not complaining.”

“You should be.” His mother’s tone was pure exasperation. “You should be complaining, Edward. You should not be content to live this way. Alone, hiding out in the countryside… I grow tired of humoring it. It was less noticeable after the previous Season when we also came here, but now everybody is back in London they are asking where you are, why you do not chaperone your sister, why you are not more involved with her debut.”

Guilt spread through Edward, a slow trickling into his heart that he couldn’t ignore. He swallowed and glanced at Elena, who calmly met his gaze.

He didn’t know what to say, but his mother continued anyway. “It would be nice,” she said, “if you could be there and answer those things yourself. You are the head of the family now, Edward. You have been for almost two years. How do you think it looks for Elena to answer that her brother, an earl, hides himself away? That he is a recluse without a cause.”

I have plenty of cause, Edward thought, keeping his response to himself. He had learned enough over the years that his mother could use every sharp-tongued word in the book, yet the moment that sharpness was turned back onto her she would not endure it.

He reached for a piece of toast and the platter of butter to stall for time to answer her.

“You can ignore me but you cannot ignore the fact of the matter that you must let go of this foolish notion that you do not need to marry.”

Edward had bitten into his toast, and the bite got stuck in his throat.

“Marriage?” He choked out. He forced a mouthful of hot tea past the lump. “I thought we were discussing Elena.”

“You are the Earl of Thornshire,” his mother interrupted. She buttered her own toast with hard strokes of impatience. “I will not have you unwed for another Season. You are four and twenty, Edward, and still relatively young, indeed, but your father was much younger upon marrying me. You have no legitimate heir, no wife, and you squander in this countryside manor thinking you can shut out the world.” Her hand hit the table firmly. “You cannot. Do you understand me?”

Edward stared out at her, aware of his sister’s watchful gaze. Elena often took a neutral stance, never showing loyalty to one or the other of them. It was loyalty to their mother when it suited her, and honoring her older brother as his rank demanded in other moments. Still, he knew his mother was right.

No matter what he chose for himself he had failed Elena. She didn’t deserve to suffer the consequences of his choices.

“I understand,” he said tightly.

“You miss your father, I understand that, Edward, I do. I am a hard woman, but not an unkind, heartless one. But even widows in love have had shorter mourning periods. You are pushing the understanding and compassion of the ton. I plead with you to return to London’s social scene this Season and search for a bride.”

Search, he thought, as if I am a hunting dog, as if my future wife is right there for the plucking.

He despised the concept.

“You have no excuse anymore.” Elena’s voice was delicate and hesitant, as if she didn’t want to displease him, but still agreed with their mother. “We both lost Papa.”

Her words dragged through him, heavy and filling him with guilt.

You are selfish, he thought she was saying. You are selfish for drowning in your grief while I continue what is expected of me. You may have that choice as a high-ranked male, but I do not.

Yet Edward didn’t anymore, either.

However, the mere thought of walking into a ballroom, the wide spaces packed wall-to-wall with guests, women in their silk dresses and men in their tailcoats, the dance sets required, the music that never seemed to stop. The lights; too many lights, too many eyes, too much whispering. Perhaps it was a normal gentry’s love to be in such a place, but not for Edward. For Edward, it was a nightmare destined to send him into a bout of panic. He couldn’t explain his fits of anxiety when he had been among people. Those days after his father’s death, the short weeks he had endured in London before eventually moving to Thornshire Hall, had been difficult and sickly. His stomach had clenched, and there had been a restlessness beneath his skin like a tune out of place, a melody clunked on the wrong keys, something just terribly off.

A dread had pulled every limb down until Edward had been dead weight, unable to pull himself from a room to prepare getting ready. The very thought of it made him lose control.

Yet he could not explain that to his mother or sister in a way they would understand, so Edward paused, fought back his reluctance, and nodded.

“Fine,” he eventually said when his mother’s stare didn’t relent, clearly wanting a verbal agreement. “Fine. I shall return to Thornshire House with you in London. When are we going to depart?”

“After breakfast.” His mother’s swift response said enough about her planning this all for him. “We will depart swiftly. I do not trust you to follow after us alone.”

“Thank you for that trust, Mother,” he muttered, looking away. “I need more time. The day. The afternoon, even. I must have time to pack, to…” To say goodbye to my freedom. To leave the only place that makes me feel comfortable in my own skin and life. “To just… prepare.”

The dowager countess looked ready to protest, but after a moment, something softer crossed her face and she only nodded. Did she recall the moment they found out they had lost Edward’s father? That awful, heart-wrenching moment as Edward himself had watched his father’s life leave his eyes?

The unexpectedness of it; one moment, laughing and eating, and gone the next.

Was she remembering what it was like to be that widow in love and mourning she had mentioned, even if she no longer classed herself in love, or in mourning?

Edward lowered his gaze back to his breakfast, and the family continued eating in silence.

***

After breakfast, his mother muttered about speaking with the housekeeper to arrange for Edward’s belongings to be packed as quickly as possible while he prepared in whatever way he pleased.

Elena lingered at his side, walking with him through the empty halls.

“It must have gotten lonely here.” She looked around, and Edward followed her gaze, eyeing up the portraits lining the walls, and the busts of old heroes that he had begun to collect over the last year. He had gotten into mythology and legends, finding them from all over the world.

There had been something kinder in reading about worlds that didn’t exist, worlds such a far cry from his own.

“It did,” he admitted. “But I found the solitude was kinder than the eyes of the ton.”

“You really do not like it, brother?”

“I abhor it, Elena,” he sighed, stopping to look at a painting of an old, British king that his father had favored. Would Edward somehow become a similar figure? Not a king, of course, but an earl worthy of favor in the ton again? “The parties, the social etiquette, the endless small talk. It is all so tedious. I do not know how you not only stand it, but enjoy it.”

Elena gave a soft smile that he looked at side-on. “It is my life. It is what I know.”

“Knowing it is not liking it. What if it must be expected and therefore it is easier to trick yourself?”

His sister turned towards him. “Both, perhaps, then. But when I enter a ballroom, I see endless possibilities. I see a hundred ways my life could go, a hundred endings. One suitor might offer me a title of a countess with so much land. A marquess might make me his marchioness. A duke could give me a duchy, but we may lose our money within a year. I could travel with a viscount. The stories are countless, and that is what I like.”

“Does it not worry you?” Edward asked. “If you were to choose the wrong suitor and end up in a bad life? Does it not make you think you ought to have picked another ending?”

Elena shrugged lightly. “Perhaps, but until I have picked one that is not really a problem. I will be content for my choice will be based not on a whim but genuine thought and consideration for who I am presented with. That is, if I am presented with any choices at all.”

Edward couldn’t tell if it was a slight moment of self-deprecation and doubt, or if it was a subtle jab at his absence causing people to stay away from her, wondering why she had no man of the household there to chaperone her and assess her suitors.

He had a duty to her. If he could not focus on anything else he had to focus on Elena.

“You have grown up, Elena,” he admired softly. “I do not quite know when.”

“It would have been when you started hiding in this empty mausoleum,” she countered, and set them both back on their path down the hallway. “Truly, is this all you have aspired for these past two years?”

The judgement set him on-edge, but he forced himself to keep walking, to clench his jaw to hold back a too-harsh response.

Elena pushed on. “This is what you will be content to have for the rest of your life? An empty residence, no laughter or conversation to fill it? No wife to dine with, and no child to raise and see as your pride and joy?”

Her question and notion of what he could have, made him pause. Another painting lorded over them from the wall—a woman’s hair streamed out behind her as she perched on the edge of a ship, her smile bright, her bonnet wide. Ribbons danced from the hat, and her dress looked as though it was being tangled in the wind itself.

A man reached for her from behind her, emerging from the ship’s interior.

Edward’s chest ached.

Did he want this echoing loneliness forever? This life where he told himself he was very fine alone, and that he would be all right?

His eyes wandered to the woman in the painting again.

I do want more, he realized. He recalled his earlier words. What if he had tricked himself into contentment of this solitude because it was easier than facing the ton? What if facing the ton could be worth it if he found a love like his parents had once had?

Edward turned, finding his sister’s eyes already on him.

“Let me help you,” she said. “Help me, and I shall help you. This Season shall be ours, Edward.”

Chapter Two

Deep in the heart of Mayfair, London, in Bancroft Manor, Lady Rebecca Bancroft read the letter in her hand, watching as it trembled in her grip.

Around her, the sun room faded out, her tea set beside her long gone cold in the late morning.

“This… this cannot be,” she whispered to herself, rereading the letter as if she had not done so at least three times. “This cannot be.”

To the Duke of Bancroft,

We are writing to inform you that your request for another loan has been denied…

… Late repayments…

Creditors are declining…

… Debts have considerably stacked up in your name, Your Grace.

The phrases blurred, running together into one, large mess of a realization.

Rebecca’s father, the Duke of Bancroft, had gambled away most, if not bordering on all, of the family’s money. Once again, Rebecca lowered the letter, letting it flutter on top of her teacup. A droplet of tea from the cup’s rim bled through the paper, and it forced Rebecca’s attention to one particular phrase.

Repossession of items in your residence.

How long had this all been going on for? How long had her father drowned the family in debt, throwing away oars and lifesavers, while distracting his family from the very sinking ship they stood on? Nothing made sense, and Rebecca stood, her feet already moving light and quick, pacing back and forth. If she was caught with the letter her father would be furious.

If he did not outright deny the claims he would no doubt attempt to tell her all would be resolved in due course. The letter did not sound like it would be, and she couldn’t look away from the reality: the Bancroft fortune was a swiftly-dwindling thing, waiting to be utterly drained dry.

“Oh, Father,” she whispered, stopping behind the chair she’d been sitting in, gripping the back of it. She leaned her weight into the furniture, trying to find an anchor. Something to stop the whirling of her thoughts, something to stop the spinning feeling that had accompanied the realization of the letter.

How could he do this to them? And for gambling, no less.

She contemplated the innumerable nights upon which her father had clandestinely departed from the dwelling, utterly unaware that Rebecca had perceived the weighty tread of his steps as he departed, only to return hours later in a state of altered gait, more akin to staggering shuffles, as he muttered to himself in a disjointed manner.

  Did he still think his family slept while he drank their last coins away, bet a fortune he no longer had on a game of cards and dice in a gaming den that surely would not welcome him soon enough if he couldn’t pay?

Her breaths were shaky, and Rebecca squeezed her eyes closed, forcing her breathing to even. Panicking would do her no good. Her mother would not read a word of the letter, she knew, for she had fallen in love with Dominic Sterling back when he had been young and recently inherited his dukedom. Her love would blind her.

Even in the last few weeks, Rebecca had quietly mentioned that her new gowns had not arrived ahead of the start of the Season, only to dig around for information and have the modiste report her order had not been paid for. Another time, Rebecca’s younger sibling, Amelia, had commented that they were missing their usual French brioche buns at breakfast, only to be told from the cook that there had been no ordering of food for a very delayed week.

A day later, the pantry had been full, but another of Rebecca’s siblings had pouted, stating that some of her favorite books from their household’s library were gone. Things had not made sense, and Rebecca had endlessly dug and dug; until she had swiped her father’s letter and found the truth.

Her father had plummeted their family into debt, and their possessions were already starting to pay for his mistakes.

Releasing her death grip on the chair, Rebecca stood, closed her eyes for a moment, and smoothed down her morning gown.

“I shall fix this,” she decided. “I shall—I must—salvage what is left.”

***

Mary Pricely, the daughter of the Marquess of Avery, sat next to Catherine Browning, the daughter of the Marquess of Barrickshire, and the two of them gaped at Rebecca as she told them about the letter later that day.

The three ladies had gathered, as they often did, in Avery Manor, huddled in the music room as Catherine plunked away on the pianoforte. Today, the tinkering of the keys helped to cover Rebecca’s revelation regarding her father.

“I do not understand how this has happened,” she said, frustrated. “I understand why he would not have said anything sooner, or admitted such a defeat, but to let it get so bad? My father is a duke—surely, he has connections somewhere, somebody he could have gone to for help before it was too late.”

“He ought to,” Mary insisted. “His high rank must garner him something.”

Catherine scoffed. “Unless he had connections and squandered them. Perhaps he received help and then could not repay those who provided it.”

Rebecca sighed, sinking down onto the stool next to one of the harps in the room. “I must do something, and I have the perfect plan.”

“Rebecca,” Mary exhaled, shaking her head. “It should not be on you to fix your father’s mistakes.”

“Indeed not, but my mother will not listen, and she simply says your father will protect us, Rebecca, you shall see, as she has always done. As he has always led her to believe. I do not believe it any longer. Other than that, I am the eldest of five. It falls to me to marry well this Season.”

She planned as she spoke. “If I marry well then, I can help my family. I can connect us to a wealthy family.”

“What of your dowry?” Catherine asked, wincing as if she already knew the answer.

“Based on this letter, I have very few hopes of possessing one. Amelia and Hannah have no chance at all if that is the case, I imagine.”

“So, you must marry well even though your future husband will find out the little money you will bring with you?” Mary asked quietly.

Rebecca fell silent, nodding. “Yes. Indeed, I fear that is what I need to do, no matter what it takes.”

“How, though?” Her friend asked.

Behind Mary, Catherine played, listening in, but Rebecca recognized the furrow in her brow as well as her scheming face. Her blonde hair, styled back into a pretty updo, caught the sunlight spilling into the music room, while Mary’s own brunette hair was pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck. They were all rather opposites, friends pulled together through finding husbands in a sea of debutantes.

Except I am not a debutante. Not anymore. I am three and twenty, and my time is running out.

“I must charm him enough to fall in love with me so greatly that he will not question my finances,” Rebecca decided as though it would be easy. Heavens, she knew it would not be at all, but she spoke on as if she had it worked out. “Yes, that is it. I will—I will charm him well.”

“Do you think using your father’s title will work?” Catherine asked.

“Perhaps,” she said. “If word has not travelled of his habits, then I still have a chance.”

Her friends nodded, but the silence was thick enough that it made her doubt her confidence. The two of them were also looking for husbands. Catherine had debuted last Season, but left society due to an unfortunate bout of illness, and Mary had been overlooked by other debutantes simply for being a bit more of a wallflower.

Their fathers, of course, were not pleased at the delay.

“My father has been rather angry, lately,” Rebecca said, thinking aloud, piecing more of his behavior together. “More forceful in my success this Season. He is more insistent than ever, and it makes sense as to why. He is likely hoping I marry a rich husband with whom he can no doubt enter some business venture, promise investment, reap the rewards and…”

And leave me bearing the humiliation of explaining it all when my father would not pay his share.

Rebecca chewed on her lip, frowning down at the smooth, shining surface of the pianoforte. Catherine’s tune was pretty and distracting, helping her to think.

But then Mary’s next question was voiced, knocking everything off-kilter: “What of Harry Maudley?”

Rebecca’s heart rate spiked at the mention of the man she’d harbored affection for. “What of him?”

Catherine stopped playing, looking on in interest. “Harry Maudley, as in Mr. Maudley from the music shop? The one who fixed my father’s broken violin last year?”

“That is him,” Rebecca confirmed. She had not spoken in length about her interaction with the man who was far below her social rank, yet she had met him when she was younger, the two of them the same age. Mrs. Maudley had been Rebecca’s tutor, and had often brought her son with her when they could not afford anybody to watch over him.

The two had grown up giggling in the library, with Rebecca sneaking him sweet treats after lunch.

“I suppose… well, I had possessed intentions to try my chances with him,” she said sadly. “We have flirted with one another at length, and I confess I had been thinking of marrying him. I think we could have a very simple, lovely life together. I would have brought a sum of money to the marriage, and we would have continued to fall in love.” The words sounded so foolish when she said them aloud. She thought of Harry’s tight curls, his kind, easy smile, and the way he never once let a silence go unfilled. “My father would not approve of me marrying someone so lower class than me, but up until now I had not cared.”

“Oh, Rebecca,” Mary sighed, reaching for her hand. “I am so sorry.”

She shook her head quickly. “Nothing has happened between us, after all. Nothing official, at least. I do suspect he has hopes of asking me to be more with him, but our class difference puts him off. His mother was a stern tutor—she has likely filled his head with the thought that I am too high to notice him in such ways.”

And it was not true, of course. Rebecca didn’t want to care so much about all of that. She just wanted to settle and be happy. The ton was a maze, and she had wielded it well so far. She was learning every dangerous path and how to avoid them, and she was building her knowledge of how to trick her way into the center to find what sort of prize awaited her.

Harry Maudley would not be that prize, though.

He didn’t attend balls, and he couldn’t provide for her the way she had now realized she needed to be provided for.

Rebecca sighed. “I need a husband who can not only take care of me, but hopefully provide some stability to get my family back into good financial graces. My parents would never support me wedding Harry, but now I fear I cannot support myself with it, either. I need a financial backup, someone to support me when I cannot. When my father cannot.”

“That should not be your responsibility,” Mary mumbled, toying with a length of ribbon in her lap, tugged loose from her hair without her quite realizing.

“It should not,” Rebecca agreed sadly. “But I must take it on regardless. I cannot see my family go destitute. This Season, I must find myself a husband. It will only be a convenient arrangement, of course. I do not have to love him, nor him me, in order to be provided for.”

“A loveless match?” Mary echoed; her voice dismayed. “Rebecca, but a love match is something you have wanted!”

“Who cares for love if she has not two coins to rub together?” Catherine finally spoke up again. Her own tone was tight and clipped, and she set a fierce gaze on Rebecca. “I shall help you find a good husband. No doubt your parents will involve themselves, but I will also scope the next ballroom for you. My father has good connections, and I will make use of them to ensure you dance only with the richest men who will want to shower you with wealth.”

“Of course, but please do make sure they are at least not old enough to be my father.” Rebecca winced at her blunt request, and Catherine only laughed, tipping her head back. Speaking with her friends had already helped, and it would do more wonders, for Avery House’s housekeeper called them to say their tea was set-up in the garden.

The three of them ventured outside, Catherine already telling her about the upcoming ball at the Montgomery residence in a week’s time. Lady Montgomery notoriously held the first ball of the Season, and she would continue her tradition.

Rebecca knew she had to make every ball count. She would find her match.

As she poured her tea, she gazed out into the Avery gardens. She would find a husband, and he would help her save her family, and even if she did not tell him the whole situation, she could find a way to tell him enough to garner sympathy.

The Season would bring her luck.

She could bank her anger at her father for now. The best resolution was turning her focus and energy to what she could do, and Rebecca would stop at nothing.

Chapter Three

“Another book, brother?”

Elena’s voice came teasingly from the library doorway as she leaned in the frame. Her eyes landed on the cover of the book he held, trying to read it.

“Yes,” he answered. “I find reading a good use of my time.”

His sister laughed, entering the library properly to stand before him. “I am not judging the activity, but marveling at the frequency. I am certain that is the fourth book you have read since returning to London three days ago.”

Edward merely gave her a tight smile, shrugged, and returned to the page he was poring over. After a moment, he spoke again. “It is a collection of Roman myths. This particular one I am reading is regarding Summanus, the Roman God of Sleep.”

Elena frowned. “There is a God of Sleep?”

“In these myths, there is a god or goddess of everything. For everything. Elements, times of the day, items, celebrations. It is a vast universe.”

His sister actually looked quite interested, her head tilting as if trying to read the page to see better.

Edward felt a kindling of hope. Although the two had been close growing up, and not so far apart in age, he had distanced himself not just from the ton but her too. In a way, she was a stranger, and before their father’s passing, they had still been close enough, but their social requirements had tugged them apart a little. Edward had been too busy learning to take over his earldom, and Elena had been prepared by tutors and their mother for her debut.

They had not found common ground in a very long time, and he wasn’t really prepared for how his heart rose at the thought of her being interested in his books.

“Is there a god of Love in there somewhere? One of suitable, well-matched marriages?” Her question was pointed, elegantly done, and he lifted a brow at her.

“Your tact is incredible, Elena.”

“I am merely saying.” She sniffed, feigning innocence. “If there is such a thing, you might want to read up on their advice about how to woo any of these ladies.” A piece of paper extended from her hand, pulled from her pocket with a devious flourish. Away from their mother, Elena was more foolish, lighter, and he found himself recalling their younger years of simply finding every way to laugh, and not worry about their futures.

Edward hesitated before taking the paper. On it were names, and he ran through them quickly. Names meant little to him, but he did give an appreciative glance over the titles. Some were ones he knew, others were friends of Elena’s, or daughters of his late father’s associates that Edward had been instructed to get to know.

He had met enough of these women to know this list was futile, but some names jumped out to him as new. Women who did not know him, women to whom he could hopefully be a blank slate for, a way to reinvent himself in conversation.

“Do you have a recommendation of who I should speak with?” He humored her.

Elena gave him a grin that made him think she had been waiting for that. “Lady Catherine Browning. She is the daughter of the Marquess of Barrickshire, very wealthy, very well-liked. It is her second Season.”

“How come she was not matched during her first?”

“She fell a little unwell at some balls,” Elena said. “Some say it was minor headaches, a reaction to the light. Other people gossiped a little nastier and said she was overwhelmed by the free wine offered and was ailed in such ways. I do not believe that, however. I veer towards the first one.”

“I see.” He glanced over the list again.

“I really do like Lady Catherine. I would like you to make an effort with her. After all, if I remain unmarried for some time then your wife will be someone, I will get to spend a great deal of time with. Therefore, it should be someone I can see as a sister as well as a friend.”

Edward looked up at her before nodding. “I will make the effort, then. I shall speak with her at…, who is hosting the Season’s first ball?”

Elena folded her arms impatiently. “Lady Montgomery. It is the same as every year. Truly, Edward, you should know this.”

He lifted his arms in surrender. “I will try to find someone you can see as a sister, but, honestly, Elena, if I am to do this then it is more important to me to find love, not a friend for you.”

Elena’s eyes narrowed at him. “Fine,” she muttered. “But at least give it a chance.”

“What I mean is that I am more than happy to step up to my duty, as I have neglected to do, and find you a good husband so you will not have to rely on my future wife as your only source of company.” He gave her a knowing look. “Now I am back I intend to do my best to show up for you.”

His sister’s face softened. The hard elegant mask she wore to follow their mother always made her appear a little older than she was. But suddenly she was the little sister he had adored and swore to protect years ago. He smiled up at her, only to have those eyes narrowed on him again, and the harsh, smaller version of their mother returned.

“Do your best, Edward. I do not want us to bear the gossip that comes from your negligence.”

“Heavens forbid it,” he muttered sarcastically as Elena gave a huff of impatience and stormed from the library.

“Lady Catherine, Edward! Do not forget!”

However, could I? he thought to himself. His eyes were already on his book in seconds, thoughts of Lady Catherine, and Lady Thea, and Lady Georgina, and every single lady on the list, slipped away.

***

Lady Montgomery’s home was a bright candle, blazing with light against the dark sky. Inside, the ballroom was filled with the ton, all of them excited for the Season ahead.

Mothers stood with their daughters, keenly overseeing the litany of men who entered in their tailcoats and different colored waistcoats. Fathers huddled to one side nearest the wine, trying to forget they would have to be responsible for their daughters’ futures, friends linked and ladies were already fanning themselves as they noted the differences in the lords in attendance.

Edward hated it all immediately.

He stood with his mother who was already surveying the ballroom. Dressed in the silver and deep green colors of the Thornshire family, Edward didn’t feel out of place, but his stomach was a riot of nervous butterflies, and his hands could not stop clenching and unclenching, not knowing what to do.

“Stop that fussing,” his mother scolded, smacking his wrist with her fan. “If you fidget with your cuff sleeves once more…”

“I have stopped,” he snapped back, tense and on-edge. Cringing, he averted his gaze from her narrowed one.

She only shook her head at him before speaking moments later. “Elena provided you with a list so I am told. Did you recognise any names?”

Edward shook his head. “And I do not require a lecture about how I ought to recognise them, or that I would have recognised them had I been present. I have made my promises to Elena and she is satisfied enough.”

At his mother’s silence, he looked back at her. She appeared ready to argue it, but only turned back to the ballroom, clearly irritated. Edward knew she hated being spoken back to. Tonight, of all nights, he would have to be careful and keep her calm.

“Good,” she finally said begrudgingly. “When will you approach your first dance partner of the night, then?”

The sigh he bit back took effort not to exhale. His nerves were frayed, and everywhere he looked eyes already seemed to be on him. He couldn’t afford them all, and fought the urge to fidget with his cuff sleeve again. Perhaps a glass of wine would help. Perhaps he could do that, and settle his nerves, and do what he could to stay afloat in the sea of anxiety he drowned in.

Beneath his collar, sweat began to collect. His cravat felt knotted too tight, and his waistcoat was too constricting. Everything felt wrong and off-kilter, as though he was one footstep away from disaster. The anxiety hung over him, and he could not even entirely pinpoint what his problem was. Just being out of the house, being around so many people, not knowing how many people he needed to converse with—it all got to him.

Hours ago, he had been reading in the library. Now, he was at Lady Montgomery’s ball, and sincerely wished he was anywhere but there.

“I am going to get a drink,” he muttered. Before his mother could protest, he walked away from her and headed to the refreshments table. On his way, he passed a group of lords of different ages. They spoke in low voices, their focus breaking as he walked by.

“Thornshire,” one called out. “That is you, is it not, Thornshire? Heavens, did London finally call you? We half thought the countryside had swallowed you whole.” The jesting came from Lord Thomas who’d been a distant friend of Edward’s before he had retreated.

“It is me, yes,” he said, forcing a laugh. “It is good to see you, Willoughby. You must have taken your viscountcy by now, no?”

“I have.” He flashed a wide grin, his face pulling into a quick charm that would no doubt have several ladies swooning. “I was just telling Lord Bradley here that I am thinking of hosting a gathering in our old gentleman’s club. You recall the Greenacre?”

Edward’s stomach dropped at the mere thought of another social event when he was barely getting through this one. It had taken him days of worrying over the ball, and hours that day of talking himself down from canceling his attendance. To already be thinking about another event was dizzying.

“I do,” he answered hesitantly.

“Do join us, Thornshire. We can properly catch up.”

Around Lord Thomas, some of the other lords nodded, while the rest looked confused at his presence, interested at the disappearance and the reason why. They are just as bad as the ladies with their gossiping, Edward thought.

“I will let you know,” he said, trying to sound casual. “It sounds good.” It sounded terrible. “I have quite a lot to do, what with my return and everything, but I will do my best.” Only his absolute best to find an excuse not to attend.

With a polite nod, he walked on and finally went to get his wine. But before he could, a lady appeared at his side, reaching for the same wine glass he went for. Her blonde hair was curled and tumbling over one shoulder, falling alongside the neckline of her dress. Edward gave an awkward smile when he turned his head to face her.

“We both went for the same glass,” she noted, her voice slow yet calculated, as if she thought hard of what to say before she said it. “How unusual.”

“Indeed.” He went to move away, but she shifted with him. “You may have it. I must return to…”

“Or perhaps we could share,” the lady said quickly. “We could stand here for a moment and greet one another over a glass of wine?”

Edward glanced around, noticing how more people looked at the lady than him. It relieved something in him, and hesitantly he nodded. “Yes. Yes, that would be nice.” His answers sounded stiff, but he forced himself to try to relax. “After all, I was going to return to my mother, but she is no doubt already discussing my poor behaviour tonight with the rest of the matrons.”

“Poor behaviour, my lord?”

“Her opinion of that is mostly me not being the first man to dance with a lady,” he muttered. “So, no, not poor as such, but to her I am definitely not exemplary tonight.”

“Well, you could always ask me to dance. We will not be the first couple, though, of course.” When he paused, she extended a hand to him. “Lady Catherine Browning.”

Edward’s brow raised. “You are Lady Catherine? The Marquess of Barrickshire’s daughter?”

“You speak as though you know me.” Her eyes lit up. “I do hope for good reasons.”

He thought of his promise to his sister. “It is rather amusing, actually, for I promised my very eager sister that I would meet you tonight.”

“Lady Elena,” she filled in, surprising him. “The two of us are good friends. We have met several times recently. All to have our womanly gossip, of course.” Lady Catherine’s eyelashes fluttered up at him. “There are many things that appear to be lining up in a very destined way, Lord…”

“Lord Thornshire,” he told her. “The Earl of Thornshire.” It was a good thing that she knew his sister because they could let people believe that they knew each other in order to avoid the scandal of being introduced alone.

Understanding at once flared in her expression, and she nodded. “Well, Lord Thornshire, it is most lovely to meet you. Perhaps we can fulfill your promise to your sister while we dance?”

She was trying hard, even if she was charming, clearly able to work her way into being considered by him. Edward gave another moment of thought before nodding. After all, his mother would see him making an effort as he had promised, and he could tell Elena he had done the one thing she asked.

“Allow me,” he said, offering his hand.

Besides, with everybody looking at Lady Catherine, it would take some of the pressure and attention off him. They would wonder about her successes, her previous Season, and not Edward’s tendency to be a recluse. Or perhaps they would…

“You look lost in thought, Lord Thornshire,” she noted, lifting a delicate, pale brow. Heavens, she really was pretty, and Edward did admire her, but she rounded her eyes too much, as if her beauty was an emphasized effort when she was really quite naturally lovely. He knew not to say such a thing, though. The ladies all had their ways of wooing a man.

“I am,” he admitted. “I… Well, please do not think I am too presumptuous, but I was thinking about how people might look at us and wonder. I heard that your previous Season was cut short, and I have been reclusive since…” Since the death of my father. The words got stuck, and he managed to say, “for a while.”

“Perhaps we are well-matched, then,” she suggested, once again segueing into another forceful effort of matching them too soon, too quickly.

Edward gave a quick smile before he spun her around the next curve of the dance floor, guiding her back down the length of it. “I do miss the countryside. I have been in London scarcely a full week and already miss Thornshire Hall.”

“What do you miss most?”

“The peace and quiet,” he answered, laughing quietly. “Everything here is too loud. Somebody is always yelling something or other. Mostly that is my sister, though.”

Lady Catherine’s laugh was too high for the meager jest he had made, and Edward had not even quite intended to be funny, but he gave an awkward chuckle in tandem.

“So, you prefer your solitude?”

Edward nodded. “But I did miss the cakes at balls, I must admit. One can pick plums in the countryside, but nothing compares to the plum cakes here.”

Again, Lady Catherine giggled, her response too great for the thing she had replied to. Edward frowned, glancing away. Perhaps she thought he was trying too hard to be humorous, and she pitied him. The thought sent a claw of anxiety striking through him. Perhaps she simply thought she had a role to play: humor the suitor, make him feel as though he had done everything right.

Yet he knew of the games ladies had to play as well as his own, so he let it slide, and could only hope her more genuine side would emerge the longer they spent together.

“It has been so long since I have danced, I half feared I might forget how to,” he noted, peering down at his polished boots. He stepped well, confidently, and he ensured he kept a good grip on Lady Catherine to support her.

“You dance excellently, Lord Thornshire,” Lady Catherine praised. “Although I indeed understand the worry of forgetting the typical pace of a ball. As you mentioned, I did leave my last Season. I am certain you have heard enough rumours.”

There was a flicker of dismay in her eyes, and he caught hold of that fleeting moment, hoping for a spark with the genuine lady beneath. “I have, but I dismiss them quickly, Lady Catherine. Rumours are tedious things. I do prefer true information coming directly from the person involved, so do not fear that you have been prematurely judged.”

Her brows rose in surprise, and a small smile tugged at her lips. But then the look was gone, and it was replaced by that poised, overly composed expression of flattery. “You are too kind, Lord Thornshire. I heard rumours of your own absence, but, well, as you said, rumours are tedious things.”

Edward was tempted to ask her what she thought of them anyway. Did she notice how his hands shook? Did she notice that he hadn’t spoken to anyone else at the ball, or that he hadn’t actually eaten from the refreshment table because his stomach felt too queasy with nerves?

And if she truly wanted to match with him did Lady Catherine understand she would be signing herself up for a life with a husband who would refuse social events? For the moment he had nobody ordering him to do anything, the moment he escaped his mother’s authority and demand, he would do as he pleased to protect himself.

Lady Catherine looked at him as though she waited for him to confirm or deny the rumors.

Perhaps mine are true, he ought to say, to continue their conversation, to see what she made of it. But Edward only pulled back, aware he did so in the middle of their dance set, and went about mumbling an excuse of needing a moment.

He hurried away from her, claiming he needed air. He found a spot empty enough that he could breathe, and far enough from his mother who searched for the ballroom for her place with other matrons. Soon, he was accosted by more lords, other ladies waiting to be asked for a dance, asking questions, enquiring about his absence, sending their condolences regarding the late Earl of Thornshire.

It was all too much, and Edward fought through the attention, finally reaching the refreshment table where it promised at least a moment to sip wine and collect his thoughts. He picked up his glass and made to find another quiet corner, his panic still making his hands shake. In his hurry, he didn’t notice the lady standing behind him.

Edward collided with her, and despite his attempt to keep a handle on his glass, he watched in horror as the liquid spilled onto the lady’s beautiful gown.