Hertfordshire, England
Spring, 1860
Sebastian Conrad, Earl of Radcliffe, raised his head from his book at the unmistakable sound of a carriage arriving. Despite his injuries, his hearing was as acute as it had ever been. He could easily make out the crunch of wheels on gravel, the sound of doors opening and closing, and following it all, the high-pitched laughter of his younger sister, Julia.
He scowled deeply.
Pershing Hall was a huge, architectural nightmare of a house, filled with meandering corridors, rooms of varying sizes, and passageways that led to nowhere. But when his sister, Julia, Viscountess Harker, was present, the house seemed to shrink to a fraction of its size. There was no peace and quiet. No privacy. Sebastian already lived in almost complete seclusion in the earl’s apartments. When Julia was in residence, however, he felt as if he were a prisoner there.
She had last visited only a month ago. Why was she back so soon? To devil and torment him, no doubt.
“Milsom!” he shouted.
His throat had been partially damaged by a saber cut, rendering his voice a particularly harsh, rasping growl. At the sound of it, his former batman materialized at the door of the dressing room. A rangy fellow with a sharp, foxlike face, he was two and thirty, the same age as Sebastian, but somehow managed to look as if he were decades older.
“My lord?” he queried.
“Lady Harker is here. Again.”
Milsom knew better than to question his master’s superior hearing. “Shall I lay out a fresh suit of clothes, my lord?”
Sebastian’s shoulder and arm ached. The last thing he wanted to do was truss them up in a blasted coat. Nor why should he have to? He was under no obligation to play lord of the manor. He had not invited his sister here. If she insisted upon forcing her presence upon him, she could bloody well bear to look at him in his shirtsleeves. “Unnecessary,” he said.
Milsom surveyed him with a critical eye. “Shall I shave you, my lord?”
Sebastian’s beard grew erratically on the side of his face that was scarred, but on the left side he had a good two-day growth of black stubble. He looked monstrous enough when clean-shaven, he knew. With facial hair, he looked a veritable beast. “No,” he said coldly.
There was no need. He likely would not even see his sister.
He returned his attention to his book, but could not settle back into reading. The presence of other people in the house always made him uneasy. And, much as he loved her, he could scarcely tolerate the visits of his younger sister. She was too loud. Too emotional. Too cursed intent on interfering in his life.
She meant well, but she had no real notion of what he had been through in India. Nor could he ever confide in her. Like so many young ladies of her class, she was a coddled innocent who swanned through life clutching a vinaigrette lest she swoon away at the first sign of something unpleasant.
She had swooned when she had first beheld him, hadn’t she? Screamed, swooned, and then burst into tears—in that order. As if he had not felt hideous enough.
He tightened his fingers around the lock of hair in his hand. Even after all of these years it was still as soft as silk. He caressed it absently with his thumb, the familiar action calming him enough that he was able to resume reading. He heard Milsom milling about behind him, tidying up the sitting room.
“You’ll give yourself a headache, my lord,” he remarked.
Sebastian made no reply. Reading was one of his only pleasures now and even that was marred by frequent headaches. The strain of reading with one eye, the doctor had said. Confound him.
Before being injured, Sebastian’s leisure hours had been taken up with riding and sport and scholarship. He had even penned several articles for The Aristotelian Review—a somewhat obscure scholarly journal focused on classicalism and antiquity. His primary occupation, however, had been as a soldier. It was the career path chosen for all the second sons of the Earls of Radcliffe, and it was a life that suited Sebastian particularly well. He had always been an ordered and disciplined individual with a serious turn of mind. Rather too serious, he had been told on occasion.
But he had not lacked for courage. And though he did not relish fighting and bloodshed, he had found himself to be extraordinarily adept at it.
He had expected to eventually come home from India to the modest property that his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday. Instead he had had his face nearly cleaved in two and returned to England to find his father and his elder brother dead. In place of a modest property, he now had a substantial estate. And instead of a second son, he was now the Earl of Radcliffe.
Fortunately, his younger sister had been married off to the Viscount Harker two years prior and was no longer Sebastian’s concern. And Pershing Hall itself was in the very capable hands of his father’s steward, a man who had managed the estate for over thirty years.
Sebastian was content to leave it to him.
He could muster no interest in poring over ledgers and even less in riding out to meet with any of the tenants. It was too easy to imagine their horrified reaction to the sight of his scarred face. Granted, he had known most of his father’s tenants since his youth, but mere familiarity was no guarantee that they would not respond to him with pity and disgust. He need only look to his sister’s reaction for proof of that.
“That’ll be Lady Harker now,” Milsom said.
Sebastian stiffened at the sound of muffled footsteps coming up the stairs and down the hall. The housekeeper, Julia, and one other. Lord Harker, perhaps? Good God, he hoped not. The last time that pompous ass had come to visit him in his rooms it was to read him an officious lecture on why a gentleman must never threaten to throttle his sister. But no, it was clearly the housekeeper and two women. Julia and her maid. Or Julia and a friend. Heaven help him. How long did his sister plan to stay?
“I am not receiving, Milsom,” he informed his hovering valet.
“Naturally, my lord,” Milsom replied. And when a gentle tap—the sort of anemic knock one might give at an invalid’s door—announced the presence of his irritating younger sibling, Sebastian heard Milsom open the door a crack and say, quite firmly, “His lordship’s not receiving today, my lady.”
“Not receiving! Look here Milsom…” Julia’s voice sunk to a poor apology of a whisper. “We discussed this and you promised that you would be of some assistance! If you care at all for my brother you will let me pass!”
Sebastian heard a rustle of expensive fabric as Julia shouldered past his valet and stormed into the room. With a sigh of resignation, he rose from his chair and turned to face her.
And then he froze.
The door to his room stood open. Julia was striding toward him, Milsom standing by the door with a helpless look on his face. And in the hall, her wide, blue eyes meeting his from across the distance, was Sylvia Stafford.
Sebastian felt, all at once, as if all the breath had been knocked out of his body.
He would know her face anywhere. It had been emblazoned on his brain through every icy cold night, every sweltering march, and every bloody skirmish. It was the last thing he had seen before he lost consciousness in the dirt outside the gates of Jhansi. The one image he had clung to when he was certain that he was about to die.
And now here it was before him. That lovely, long treasured face. A perfect oval, sculpted by fine cheekbones, a straight, elegant nose, and a soft, voluptuous mouth. He had kissed that mouth once. A lifetime ago. And those slender hands that were now clutching white-knuckled to her bonnet had once caressed his face.
“May I have a lock of your hair, Miss Stafford?” he had asked her the last night they were together. He remembered it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. It had been at a ball given by Lord and Lady Mainwaring. He had taken her out for a walk in the garden. There had been a full moon.
“You may,” she had said, blushing. “But I’m afraid you must cut it yourself.”
Her thick, chestnut hair had been swept up in a spray of sapphires. He had touched it for the first time with an unsteady hand, working loose a single glossy curl with his finger. “Is this all right?”
“It feels like rather a lot. Perhaps you might take a bit less?”
“I shall take so much,” he had said, neatly severing the lock with a small pocketknife, “that there will be nothing left for you to give to your other admirers.”
She had looked up at him with a quizzical smile. “Do you imagine I oblige every gentleman who requests a lock of my hair?”
“Have other gentlemen made such a request?”
“Yes.”
“And have you…?”
“No,” she had said. “You are the first.” And then she had carefully removed one of the pale blue silk ribbons from her gown and given it to him to bind up the freshly cut tresses. “What will you do with it?” she had asked him afterward.
“Keep it close to my heart,” he had replied gravely. “And whenever I despair of coming home again, I shall take it out and look at it. And I shall think of you.”
Sebastian felt a tremor go through him. But it was not merely an effect of the deeply unhappy memory. It was part rage. Part horror. He had been standing, staring at her, showing her his full face. For how long? One second? Two seconds? Enough time for her to have a clear view of his sightless eye and of every wretched scar. He turned away, his hand raising instinctively to cover the right side of his face.
And then Milsom shut the door.
“You mustn’t be angry, Sebastian!” Julia approached with hands clasped beseechingly to her bosom. “If you will let me explain—”
“By God, I should ring your neck,” he rasped. “And you.” He turned on his traitorous valet. “Curse and confound you—”
“Pray don’t blame Milsom! I forced him to tell me about her. He had no choice.”
Sebastian could hear the housekeeper in the hall offering to show the young lady to her room. Footsteps sounded as the two walked away. He listened intently for Miss Stafford’s distinctive voice, deeply ashamed of himself for needing so desperately to hear it, but there was only silence.
“And you cannot blame me,” Julia continued. “For once I learned about the lock of hair that you keep I could not rest until I knew the entire story.”
Sebastian’s scarred face went white with fury. He looked from Milsom to Julia and back again. What the devil had his valet told his meddling sister? More importantly, what in hell had his sister told to Miss Stafford? “Get out,” he snarled, advancing on her.
Julia retreated behind a chair. “I’ve persuaded her to stay the month,” she said. “It was the best I could manage. She cannot stay any longer than that because of the children, you see, and—”
“What?”
Julia offered him a tentative smile. “Two little girls.”
Sebastian went still. Once again he had the sense of all the breath leaving his body. “Their father?” he managed to ask.
“Mr. Claude Dinwiddy. A merchant. Can you imagine?”
He sank blindly back into his chair, managing to find it beneath him by only the purest chance. He leaned his head back against the leather upholstery, breathing raggedly as his fingers closed tightly around the lock of hair hidden in his hand.
Why had he never thought…? Never considered…? Of course she was married! Of course she had children! And why in God’s name should it matter anymore? It had been three years since he had known her. If he had ever known her.
She was nothing to him now.
“My lady, if you’ll give us a moment,” Milsom murmured to Julia.
Ignoring the valet, Julia came to perch on the chair opposite from her brother. “Is it the pain, Sebastian? Does it hurt very terribly? Oh, do something Milsom!”
Milsom already had the matter well in hand. “Here you are, sir,” he said. “Just as you like it.”
Sebastian opened his eyes, to find the familiar face of his batman looming over him. He was holding out a glass of brandy and a folded handkerchief. Sebastian took both, using the handkerchief to press against the injured side of his mouth as he drank. The nerves had deadened there and he had learned early on that, unless he made some effort to prevent it, liquid would leak out of his mouth and run straight down his chin.
Julia began to weep. “I am sorry. I did not mean to make things worse. Shall I send her back, Sebastian? Please do not make me. It was ever so difficult to convince her to come. And she has been given the whole month to stay here. Pray let her, Sebastian. It is the only holiday poor Miss Stafford has had in two years!”
For once, Sebastian did not trust his hearing. “Miss Stafford?”
“Certainly Miss Stafford! Whom did you think I meant? Oh, dear! You have not become confused, have you? Is it from the pain? Or is it—”
Milsom cleared his throat. “If I may interject, my lady. You’ve given the impression that Miss Stafford is married to a Mr. Dinwiddy—”
“I never did! I said she was a governess to the Dinwiddy family.” Julia paused, her brow creasing. “Didn’t I?”
“A governess,” Sebastian repeated. “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, but it is true! That is where I found her. At a quaint little house in Cheapside. She had no idea who I was at first, but after I explained…Well…She did not want to come—”
“No doubt,” he said acidly, taking another swallow of his brandy.
“Not because of your injury. I think…That is…She said that I was mistaken. That you did not care for her. Though I do not know how that can be since you have kept her lock of hair with you all this time. And so I told her!”
“You what?”
Julia drew back. “I know I should not have said so, but she would not have believed you wanted to see her otherwise, would she? I daresay she is disappointed you did not come to her aid after her father died.”
Anger, mortification, and deep, overwhelming misery warred within his breast. He scarcely knew what his sister said anymore. Miss Stafford was not married? Miss Stafford was a governess? Her father was dead?
He had been home nearly a year, secluded in the country and, most of the time, very nearly off his head with pain and anguish. He had not been able to bear the daily papers. Indeed, the British Army, the sepoy rebellion, and the entire continent of India had been topics on which no one at Pershing Hall dared utter a word. As a result, he had missed the news of marriages, births, and deaths. He had grown entirely disconnected from the world he once inhabited. And he preferred it that way.
But now…
“So,” he said, “Sir Roderick Stafford is dead.”
“Oh yes. These last two years since.” Julia sunk her voice, “A suicide, I fear.”
Good God! Could it be? He had met the man only once and been treated rather shabbily. Sir Roderick was an inveterate gamester, a gentleman always looking ahead toward the greater prize. And so he had with his only daughter. A second son of an earl—a mere soldier—would never have been good enough for Miss Stafford. Not when she was being courted by a baron, a viscount, and the independently wealthy third son of a marquis.
“Such a scandal, you know,” Julia went on. “Miss Cavendish wrote me that most of Miss Stafford’s friends cut her acquaintance. Though I do not know why she must become a governess. Surely she had relatives who might have taken her in.”
Why the devil had she agreed to come here? Had she learned he was the earl now? Assumed that she might ensnare him as easily as she had before? A rush of soul-crushing bitterness surged through him. Of course she must have done. Julia had told her about the lock of hair. No doubt she believed he was still in love with her. Had assumed that he would be grateful for any crumbs of attention she scattered his way.
It would serve her right if he did marry her.
The mere thought of it stirred something deep inside of him. Something that had lain dormant for years.
Would such a bloodless marriage be so terrible? He was two and thirty. It was past time he settled down to the business of producing an heir. And Sylvia Stafford was surely as good a candidate for the next Countess of Radcliffe as any woman. Did it matter that she had cruelly shunned him once? That any interest she might have in him now was purely mercenary? It should not matter in the least. Marriage was a business transaction, nothing more. And he had wealth enough now to provide her with anything she wanted. Fine gowns, servants, even a carriage and cattle of her own if she wished it. In exchange, she would bear his children. And he would have her near. To look at. To admire. To listen to. Perhaps, in time, he might even persuade her to care for him.
Persuade her? Hell and damnation! How pathetic had he become? He stroked his thumb reflexively over the lock of hair in his hand. It would be better to send them both away. And so he would have done if Miss Stafford had not seen him. But she had seen him. At his very worst, too. Not only scarred and disfigured, but unshaven and in his shirtsleeves.
He recalled how carefully he had once dressed whenever he knew that he was to see her. Polished boots, pressed trousers, and an impeccably cut coat. He had always known he was not handsome, especially when compared to her other beaux, but he had never allowed himself to appear before her in less than immaculate attire.
And now, for her to have seen him like this! He clenched his fist in silent anguish. Granted, it had only been one second. Two at the most. Hardly enough time for her to have made a thorough inventory of all his faults.
But she had not screamed, he reminded himself. And she had not swooned. She had merely stood there, clutching her bonnet in her hands and staring at him.
“I daresay Miss Stafford wants to wash and change from our journey,” Julia said. “And then afterward we shall take tea in the drawing room. Unless you will join us. In which case I shall have it brought to the library. It is darker there at this time of day and perhaps you will not feel so much on display.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “You will join us, won’t you Sebastian? I know Miss Stafford is simply longing to see you.”
Sebastian caught Milsom looking at him with an expression of poorly disguised encouragement. He cursed bitterly. “The library, then,” he growled. “In half an hour.”