Prologue

CLEVEDON, SOMERSET, ENGLAND, JULY 1815

His youngest brother Maxwell’s words barely penetrated Philip’s consciousness. Standing over Robert’s open grave, he felt the blame-filled stares of friends and family. He knew they all thought, Why could it not have been Philip killed instead of Robert?

Robert was born to be the earl. He was his father’s firstborn favorite, yet he never lorded it over his siblings. He loved them, took care of them, and stood up to anyone who would hurt them. Robert was perfect. Once Father died, Robert turned around the fortunes of the estate and proudly and earnestly took his seat in the House of Lords, participating in making England great. Everyone loved him. Everyone wanted to be him.

So why did he go to war? Why risk his life?

Everyone standing around the grave in the pouring rain knew why. Because Philip, against Robert’s advice, had taken a commission. There was no way Robert was going to let “he who made a mess of everything” go to war alone. Robert had no faith that Philip wouldn’t accidentally run himself onto a French bayonet.

Philip had never done anything right in his life. He’d been trouble since the day he was born. When he was a boy, he’d almost burned the house to the ground one year by deciding to light a campfire in the nursery. As a young lad, he’d cost his father his champion horse by trying to make him jump the river. He failed and the horse broke his leg and had to be shot. A year later he’d taken Portia out and decided to tease her by losing her in the forest, only he did really lose her, and when the storm broke they took hours to find her, she caught cold, and almost died. And only last year, he’d invested in a “sure thing,” only to lose his year’s allowance.

Philip was a genuine walking, talking, breathing disaster.

If anyone was going to die on the battlefield of Waterloo, it should’ve been him. But it was his older brother, Robert, the late Earl of Cumberland, who lay cold as stone in the coffin before him.

At Waterloo, in a blink of an eye, Philip had watched as if in a macabre dream, the French bayonet delivering its mortal blow when Robert stepped in front of the Frenchman set on killing Philip. Robert, selfless to the last, had died saving him. He still did not understand why.

Philip remembered seeing his shock and disbelief mirrored on their friend Grayson Devlin’s face. He remembered falling onto Robert’s body, pressing his ear against the blood-soaked jacket and hearing Robert’s final words, “Look after the family, you’ll make a fine earl.”

Robert only took up his commission to ensure his younger brother came home safely. To everyone’s horror, Philip had come through the battle without a scratch. Instead, it was Robert who lay in this grave, and here Philip stood, the new Earl of Cumberland.

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

Philip’s stiff shoulders almost buckled under his guilt. He understood that he was solely responsible for this tragedy. He should have tried harder to make Robert understand that he should stay home, that his duty was to his family. A second son’s duty was to his country. But he had done no such thing. He’d selfishly loved having Robert with him. It made him feel safer having his perfect, indestructible brother riding by his side. His selfishness cost the finest man he knew his life.

He stared blankly at the elaborate coffin in the gaping hole and swore he would be a man his brother could be proud of.

But he also swore that the title would not be passed down to his children. He did not deserve the title; it should have been passed to Robert’s children, but Robert, by following him into battle…well, Philip had stolen that privilege from his unmarried brother too.

He vowed that he would be a good earl and work hard for the family, but the title would pass to Thomas, the next brother in line, a younger replica of Robert. A son far more worthy of the line of succession than Philip would ever be.

This he swore over Robert’s grave. If that meant never marrying, so be it. He could not let himself profit from Robert’s death. He did have that much honor.

He barely noticed the others drifting away. Douglas and Maxwell, his two younger brothers, had tried to make him leave, but he’d brushed Douglas’s hand off his arm. Thomas had not made it home from India for the funeral, and Philip was pleased. He didn’t think he could look him in the eye.

Pain lanced his body and he wished he could jump into the open grave with his brother.

Philip had no idea how long he’d been standing there as the rain poured down around him, when a small hand slipped into his and he looked sideways.

Of course it would be Rose Deverill, the Duchess of Roxborough, who stood beside him. She was his younger sister Portia’s best friend, a widow. When they were younger she had adored him, following him like an obedient puppy wanting attention. God knows why. If he recalled, she was one of the few people to see good in him.

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

The pity in her eyes was almost his undoing. He wished Rose would take him in her arms and make the pain go away. She’d grown into the most beautiful woman, and since becoming a widow, well, he’d heard her nickname—the Wicked Widow. Perhaps he should succumb to her charms to help him forget. A shudder ran through him. Nothing would take the pain away or make him forget this was his fault.

Nothing.

She tugged his hand. “Your mother needs you, come, please.”

He looked into her eyes for one moment and then turned away from what he saw there. How could she still adore him?

He straightened to his full height. Duty. Duty to his family. That is what he would live for now. He would ensure the Cumberland seat was the most profitable in all England when it passed to Thomas or his son on Philip’s death. God willing that would be sooner rather than later.

He 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.