Prologue

DEVON, ENGLAND, JULY 1815

I’ll wear your memory proudly

My honorable brother…my true friend

May my love for you reach heaven above

Until we meet again

Philip Flagstaff, the new Earl of Cumberland, barely heard the words as he stood beside his elder brother’s open grave. All he felt was the chill of Robert’s absence, and the burning stares that came at him from every side.

Whether friend, foe, or family, Philip knew each one thought the same: Why are you alive, you selfish bastard? Why are you alive when your brother lies dead?

He’d asked himself the same question every moment since Waterloo.

Their father’s firstborn and favorite, Robert was destined to be the earl. Yet he’d never lorded it over his siblings. He had loved them, taken care of them, and stood up for them. As a brother, he was perfect.

When their father died, Robert turned the estate and family fortune around and proudly—earnestly—took his seat in the House of Lords, determined to play his part in making England great.

Everyone loved him.

Everyone wanted to be him.

And everyone gathered at his grave today in the pouring rain knew why they had lost him.

Because of Philip.

Philip, who had been trouble since the day he was born.

Philip, who had almost burned the house to the ground lighting a campfire in the nursery. Philip, who had cost his father a champion horse when the animal had failed to jump the river, broken its leg, and had to be shot. Philip, who had pretended to lose their sister Portia in the forest just before a storm, only to truly do so, and find her hours later, ill with fever and at death’s door. Philip, who only the previous year had invested in a “sure thing” only to lose more than a year’s allowance.

Philip, who—against Robert’s advice—had taken a commission, and dragged his brother onto the battlefield with him because there was no way Robert would let a genuine walking, talking, breathing disaster go to war alone.

If anyone should have died on the battlefield of Waterloo it should’ve been Philip. Instead, he had watched as if in a macabre dream as Robert, selfless to the last, shoved between his brother and a French bayonet and took the mortal blow.

He hadn’t believed it. Had seen his own shock and disbelief mirrored on their friend Grayson Devlin’s face as he fought his way to them. And then nothing else mattered. He’d dropped to his knees beside Robert’s body, pressed his ear against the blood-soaked jacket, and caught his brother’s final words. “Look after the family. You’ll make a fine earl.”

Moments later, Robert had died in his arms.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

Philip’s stiff shoulders almost buckled under his guilt. It should have been his body, not Robert’s, in the grave at his feet. His life over and done. Instead, he stood in the churchyard, alive—and the new Earl of Cumberland.

You don’t deserve the title. Everyone at the graveside knew it. Was thinking it. It’s your fault he’s dead.

And they were right. He should have tried harder to make Robert stay home, to acknowledge that, as an eldest son, his duty was to his family. But he had not tried harder. He’d loved having Robert with him. Somehow it made him feel safer to have his perfect, indestructible brother riding by his side.

Perfect? Yes.

Indestructible? No.

Look after the family. You’ll make a fine earl.

Philip stared blankly down at the elaborate coffin in the gaping hole in the earth and vowed he would be a man his brother could be proud of. He would look after his family. He would become a fine earl. But he would not continue his family line or profit from his selfishness. He had that much honor. Better that he never marry. Never produce a legitimate heir. Then the title would pass to Thomas, his younger brother, a younger replica of Robert, and one far more worthy of the line of succession than Philip would ever be.

He barely noticed as the others left the graveside. He didn’t know how to face his three younger brothers. Maxwell had tried to draw him away but he’d brushed his brother’s hand from his arm. Douglas had barely looked at him. Thank God Thomas was in India.

If only he could go back to Waterloo. Shove Robert away. Take the killing blow himself as he should have. He’d be in that grave, his guilt and pain finally over—and Robert would be here, alive, with a future bright before him.

He had no idea how long he stood in the downpour before a small, warm hand slipped into his chilled one.

He glanced down.

Rose Deverill, the Duchess of Roxborough, stood beside him. She was his sister Portia’s best friend. When they were younger she had adored him, following at his heels like an obedient puppy wanting attention. God knew why. She’d been one of the few people to ever see good in him. In the past few years she’d grown into the most beautiful woman, and since her elderly husband’s death— Well, he’d heard her nickname. The Wicked Widow.

“The grave diggers need to finish their work before the grave floods,” she said gently. “Come home, Philip. Your mother and siblings need you.”

The compassion in her eyes almost undid him. For an insane moment he wished Rose would be the Wicked Widow with him, that she’d take him in her arms and make the pain go away. Make him forget—

No. A shudder ran through him. Nothing would take the pain away. Nothing would make him forget his guilt.

Nothing.

“Philip.” She tugged his hand. “Your mother needs you. Come. Please.”

For the brief moment that he looked into her eyes it wasn’t only compassion he saw. It was also tenderness. It was—

He jerked his gaze away and straightened to his full height. There was no room in his life now for more than duty to his family. That was what he would live for. He would ensure the Cumberland seat was the most profitable in all England when he handed it to Thomas or Thomas’s children on his death. God willing, that death would be sooner rather than later.

Silently, Philip squeezed Rose’s hand and let her lead him back through the waterlogged garden, toward the house.

To a life, title, and estate that should not be his.