Prologue

HERTFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND, 1800

It is never a happy day when an eight-year-old girl’s cheesecake lands in the dirt, and she certainly doesn’t take kindly to the laughing little boy who put it there.

Fat tears welled up in Lady Miranda Hawthorne’s eyes as she stared at the cake now resting forlornly on the ground. Her little hands curled into angry fists at her sides.

“You’re a cad, Henry Lampton!” Miranda scooped the cake from the ground and hurled it at the laughing boy, her cheeks wet with tears. There was something satisfying about seeing the creamy dessert smear across his shirt and the smile fall from his face.

Miranda didn’t have long to relish her revenge because her mother appeared to lead her away from the party. Mother didn’t say a word until the door closed behind them, shutting them into her study.

“Miranda, a lady never expresses her disappointment in public.” Mother’s admonition was gentle but firm, as it always was.

Even though she knew her mother meant well, Miranda shuddered every time she heard the words, “Miranda, a lady never . . .” Occasionally it was “Miranda, a lady always . . .” but even then it was something like “Miranda, a lady always pays attention to her guests, even when she finds them boring.”

Miranda knew better than to speak as her mother lectured. Every time she tried to defend herself, it only made the torture last longer. So she waited until her mother dismissed her.

Instead of returning to the party, however, she ran to her room and threw herself on the bed, punching the pillow at the unfairness of it all.

A white piece of paper on the table by the bed caught her attention. The latest letter from her brother was sure to be more interesting than making a mental list of all the things Mother’s lady rules kept her from doing.

When Griffith had left for school two years ago, Mother decided writing to him would be an excellent way for Miranda to practice her penmanship. The first letters had been little more than her name and a sentence about her favorite doll, but over time she and her brother had grown quite close.

Their correspondence had the added benefit of giving Miranda a place to work out her frustrations with her mother.

With anticipation she broke the seal, anxious to hear about her eldest brother’s latest exploits.

My dearest sister,

I hope this letter finds you well. Your last letter was long enough to make me very thankful to be a duke. Paying to post that much paper would be costly. Perhaps next time you are bored in church you won’t try to kick down the walls of the pew.

Miranda frowned. What else was she supposed to do? The sermon had been supremely boring that day, and Mother had warned her the week before that a lady never sleeps in church. Making Miranda sit still in a chair for an extra hour that afternoon was excessive punishment.

Marsh managed to help us avoid a group of older boys intent on making us do their chores. I continue to be grateful that God provided another young man of high rank here. He’s a bit rough around the edges, despite inheriting his ducal title as a child. Almost as bad at being a gentleman as you are at being a lady.

Sticking her tongue out at a piece of paper was the definition of useless, but it made Miranda feel better anyway. No doubt Griffith was doing his best to refine the rough edges of his friend. Their beloved father had taught Griffith well before dying tragically three years ago.

I know it is difficult, but do work harder to control yourself. Mother was beside herself with worry when she found you rolling on the floor laughing over a book you were reading.

The memory brought a curve to Miranda’s lips. It had been a very funny book.

One day, Miranda, you’ll thank Mother for training you young. It would be helpful if you would try to apply her teachings.

Did he think she didn’t try—that she enjoyed being set in the blue velvet chair beside her mother’s desk and lectured about ladylike behavior?

Miranda bounced off her bed and crossed to the writing desk under the window. Snatching a quill and paper, she considered how to phrase today’s cake incident in a way that Griffith would understand.

She tried to behave. She really did. But how did one contain emotions when they felt happy or sad or scared? Didn’t those feelings have to go somewhere?

It was like those stories Griffith was always telling about his friend. Marshington understood that sometimes one had to go around the rules in order to make things happen. Like the time he left the window open so the fifth-year boys’ papers would blow everywhere. Cleaning up the mess had made the older boys miss practice that day, and Marshington and Griffith had finally gotten to play cricket without getting balls thrown at their heads.

Marshington would have done more than throw the dirty cake at Henry. He’d have found a way to make the boy get her a new slice. Maybe even an entire new cake.

He’d have saved her instead of lecturing her. Just like he’d saved Griffith from being tortured right out of school his first month there.

An idea took form in her head.

Did she dare?

She dipped the quill in the ink but didn’t press it to the paper. It floated for long moments, until a drop of ink dislodged itself to splatter on the pristine surface. With a deep breath, she placed the nib on the paper and wrote.

Dear Marshington,

It was shocking, even scandalous, which made it exciting. Freeing. A small act of rebellion away from the eyes of her well-meaning mother, away from the censuring of her perfect elder brother.

She’d never send it, of course. A lady never posted letters to an unrelated male. But the very writing of his name made her feel dangerous.

As she scribbled the story of the cake incident, with little care for proper wording and no thought to correct penmanship, something unexpected happened. She felt calm. And she began to see that maybe—maybe—her mother had a point.

Throwing cake at Henry hadn’t done her any good.

But maybe writing to her brother’s best friend would.