Chapter One
1810
One of the most exclusive and expensive parties that had ever opened a London Season was going on around James Rylon, Duke of Abernathe. There was a lively orchestra, and entertainers who floated through the halls, performing magic and other feats of fantasy. There were fine partners to be had in dancing, and for once the wine wasn’t watered down.
And he was utterly, completely and unbearably bored. Oh, he smiled and chatted, and everyone had always called him the life of any gathering.
But he was bored.
He shifted as a group of ladies approached, smiling behind their fans, the mamas pushing to get a good position for their eligible daughters. He forced a pleasant smile onto his face.
“Good evening, ladies,” he drawled, searching his mind for names to go with the faces. He would find them, he had no doubt. Surface politeness and perfection were his specialties. What lay beneath was another story, and one he shared with very few others.
They were all talking at once now, tittering every time he said anything even remotely amusing, and he held back a sigh. He only smiled with something close to authenticity when he saw his best friends, Simon, the Duke of Crestwood, and Graham, the Duke of Northfield, approaching through the crowd. Both had an amused expression at finding him so besieged. Expressions that fell when the ladies caught sight of them and they were drawn into the trap just as he had been.
“There are so many dukes in your generation,” cooed one of the young ladies, who batted her eyelashes first at James, then at the other two. “And you’re all such good friends.”
Simon shrugged. “It is the time of the young duke, I suppose.”
“And yet none of you have chosen to marry,” one of the mamas said, her lip pushing out in a pout.
“That isn’t true,” James said, grabbing Graham’s arm and all but shoving him into the fray. “Northfield here will marry my sister Margaret. That has been arranged for years.”
He could see his words didn’t appease the small crowd of ladies, even as they offered a round of half-hearted felicitations nonetheless.
“Perhaps you will excuse us, ladies,” Simon said, his voice suddenly a little tight. “We have a bit of business to discuss before we all begin dancing.”
The carrot of future dances dangled before them, the ladies smiled and backed away, but James could still feel their stares on him from across the room. He let out a long sigh.
“Are you well?” Simon asked, tilting his head and examining James more closely.
James pressed his lips together. Trust Simon and Graham to see through to the truth. But it wasn’t a truth he as yet wanted to discuss. “Of course,” he said with a wide smile. “Though I can tell it’s going to be a challenging Season if the first night is already so intense.”
Simon shrugged as he looked off into the crowd, his expression now as serious as James, himself, felt. “We are of an age, I suppose. The expectations are upon us to wed and produce our heirs. It makes us lambs to a slaughter in rooms like these.”
James nodded. Oh yes, he knew of those expectations all too well. They rested heavily on his shoulders, weighing him down even when he was so practiced at pretending to be light and carefree.
“Well, I’ve no plans to be leg shackled any time soon,” he said with a laugh that felt very false. He turned to Graham in the hopes he could change the subject. “I’ll leave it to Graham to do the marrying first.”
Now his smile was real. When his father died eight years ago, his first act as duke was to arrange a union between Graham and his beloved younger sister, Margaret. He did it to solidify her future, but also so that Graham would be his brother in reality, as much as he was in spirit.
He expected Graham to smile at the talk of his future marriage, but both his friends looked strangely grim. Simon, especially, was now pale and almost looked sick.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, I need a drink,” Simon muttered, nodding to them both before he left without waiting for a response.
James stared after him. “What is wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” Graham said softly. “He’s been out of sorts lately. He refuses to talk to me about it, though.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed the same,” James mused.
“See if one of the others can get it out of him,” Graham suggested.
James smiled again. The others. Graham was referring to the men in their informal 1797 Club. All men destined to be dukes. They had helped James in so many of his darkest hours. They were the best of men and he was proud to call them friends and allies.
There was Graham and Simon, of course, his very best friends and the ones who had helped him form the group. They had soon asked Baldwin Undercross, now the Duke of Sheffield, to be a part of it. He’d brought along his cousin, Matthew Cornwallis, now Duke of Tyndale. From him, they had added Ewan Hoffstead, who had recently become the Duke of Dunborrow. He was also mute, but he had a keen intellect and was a good friend.
Lucas Vincent, now Duke of Willowby, had joined their set a year later. Now he was no longer in London. Truth be told, no one knew where he was at all, but when he returned James had no doubt he would fall right back into their friendship as if not a day had passed.
Hugh Margoilis, Duke of Brighthollow, and Robert Smithton, Duke of Roseford, had come in after Lucas. Their final member was Christopher Collins, currently the Earl of Idlewood. He was their only member who had not yet inherited his dukedom, though there was no disappointment in that fact, for his father, the Duke of Kingsacre, had been a kind influence on all the men over the years.
It was a large group, but incredibly tight. James knew he could depend on any one of them to help if he needed it. And he couldn’t imagine a scenario where anything could tear their longtime friendships apart.
“Why do you ask me to see if someone else could get Simon’s troubles out of him?” James asked.
Graham arched a brow. “Don’t play as if you don’t know you’re the leader of our little group, James.”
James laughed, but he appreciated Graham’s informality. When they were alone, Simon and Graham never called him by his title, for they knew Abernathe came with so many negative connotations. Even now, years after the last duke’s death, when someone called him by that title, James flinched a little inside and thought of his father’s cruelty.
He shook off the thought. “We all have our part, Northfield,” he said.
Graham folded his arms and the two of them looked out over the party once more. He shot James a side glance and said, “Are you really so opposed to marriage this Season?”
James tensed slightly as Graham was entering dangerous waters. “I’m only seven and twenty. I feel I have plenty of time to do my…duty.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Graham said softly. “Or even to find someone who makes it feel like more than a mere duty. I hear falling in love is coming into great fashion these days.”
It took everything in James not to roll his eyes. Love was a foolish notion, after all. He’d never seen it work out for anyone who attempted it. Certainly, his own parents could hardly stand each other. His father had responded to their unhappiness with shouting and the occasional burst of physical violence. His mother had retreated to her bottle.
No, he had no interest in marrying. Not this Season. And very possibly not any Season at all.
“I doubt there is any woman in this room who could tempt me to love, Northfield,” he chuckled. “She would have to be quite extraordinary, indeed.”
Emma Liston stood against the wall, wishing she could simply fade into the wallpaper and never be seen again. This was a common reaction when she was dragged to a ball, but tonight it felt more powerful than ever. Normally she slid through these things with only her friend Adelaide at her side. They were wallflowers and liked to have good talks.
Tonight, Adelaide was not in attendance and somehow Emma had gotten caught up in a circle of young women who were certainly no friends of hers. While she was a mere bluestocking wallflower, Lady Rebecca and Lady Frances were diamonds of the first water. They were pretty and perfect and popular and…mean.
And right now their focused attention was across the room as they all stared at the Duke of Abernathe and the Duke of Northfield, who were standing together, engaged in what seemed to be a serious conversation.
“It is such a waste!” Lady Rebecca said, twisting one of her perfectly formed black curls around her finger. “One of them already engaged, the other refuses to even try to find a bride!”
Emma had been trying very hard not to look at Abernathe while the other two talked. She had been out in Society for four long years and he was the one person who made her the most nervous. She tried to avoid him and his path as often as possible.
Now, though, she looked at him, dragged to do so by Lady Rebecca’s statement that Abernathe refused to do his duty. Emma knew why he troubled her. He was ridiculously handsome, for one. Probably the best-heeled man she’d ever laid eyes upon.
He had intense brown eyes and thick dark hair that he wore just a little too long for current fashion. Not that it mattered. Men like Abernathe made fashion, they didn’t follow it. He had once worn a certain pattern on his waistcoat two years before and within weeks every other man in Society had copied the piece. Though none had looked quite so fine in it.
But it wasn’t just that he was handsome that threw Emma off. It was that he was…golden. He led the pack around him without even noticing he did it. He laughed loud and often, and sometimes inappropriately, and it didn’t matter. He took every bet, he raced every race, he even fought every fight. With a normal man, that kind of boldness would have gotten him tossed out of favor on his ear.
And yet Abernathe’s legend only grew with each wild act. He could do no wrong.
In short, he was the opposite of everything she was. Where he was popular, she was forgotten. Where he was handsome, she was plain and she knew it. Where he was golden, she was a bluestocking down to her very toes.
And yet, sometimes when Emma looked at him, she saw a sadness in his stare. A brief flash of heartbreak that didn’t fit with the confident display of male power he wore about him like a cloak. Those were the moments he made her most nervous, for she knew she’d caught a glimpse of something he didn’t want anyone to see. If he knew she did…well, a man like that could destroy a woman like her without even trying.
“I’ve heard he’s said he won’t marry this Season, either,” Lady Frances said, dragging Emma from her thoughts with her shrill, annoyed tone. She had folded her arms and was all but glaring at Abernathe like he’d committed a personal offense against her.
Emma glanced at him again. “I wonder why?” she whispered, almost more to herself than to them as she thought again of those unintended glimpses of sadness.
Lady Rebecca turned toward her with a laugh. “I would think it wouldn’t matter to you, Emma, either way.”
There was blood in the water now and Lady Frances met Lady Rebecca’s eyes with a cruel tilt to her lips that Emma knew too well. She braced herself for whatever was to come next.
“Yes, Emma,” Lady Frances cooed, her tone all false niceness. “It isn’t as if a woman like you would ever catch his eye.”
“I’ve heard Sir Archibald’s wife finally died,” Lady Rebecca said. “Perhaps you should inquire if he is looking for a wife to take care of those eight children of his.”
They used “helpful” tones, but there was no denying the cruelty of them. Emma kept her expression neutral as she said, “I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry for his loss and I appreciate your thoughts for me and my future.”
Lady Rebecca and Lady Frances each smiled and laughed, then they linked arms and flounced off without another word for Emma. When they were gone, she let out the breath she’d been holding in and muttered, “Rotten cows.”
“I’ve never liked them either.”
Emma stiffened at the voice that came from behind her. She slowly turned to see who had overheard her inappropriate outburst. She blushed to find Lady Margaret, the sister of the Duke of Abernathe, standing at her back, a smile brightening her pretty face.
“Lady Margaret,” Emma gasped, her breath suddenly gone from her lungs.
Like her brother, Margaret was very well liked. If she hadn’t already been engaged to the Duke of Northfield, there was no doubt she would have had dozens of offers of marriage to choose from.
And yet, unlike the women who had just left Emma’s side, Margaret had always seemed kind when they interacted. Just as she smiled kindly now.
“I-I shouldn’t have said that,” Emma said. “Please don’t tell them.”
Margaret slipped up beside her and laughed. “I try to avoid the two of them, myself. I promise you I would never tell them a word of what we think of them.”
Emma breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” She shifted with discomfort. “Er, how are you enjoying the party?”
“Lady Rockford outdoes herself every year trying to make her debut ball memorable. But she has clowns this year and their makeup is disturbing.” Margaret grabbed Emma’s arm and pointed toward one of the performers. “See?”
Emma looked and found the clown Margaret referred to. The red of his makeup resembled blood just a little too much. “Oh my, that is alarming,” she said with a shiver.
Margaret laughed and Emma found herself doing the same. “I swear, next year she’ll bring prisoners from Newgate, complete with chains, just to make us all talk.”
“Oh dear, I think I’ll skip that party,” Emma said.
Margaret nodded. “I’ll stay home with you.” She smiled broadly. “Now tell me…”
“Emma,” Emma supplied quickly.
Margaret’s brow wrinkled. “I know who you are, my dear. I came over to talk to you, didn’t I?”
“Oh,” Emma said, blushing. “I assumed you might not remember as we haven’t spoken all that much through the years.”
Margaret shrugged. “These things are always such a crush. It isn’t for lack of wanting to. I’ve always enjoyed our talks when we have spoken.”
Emma tilted her head, uncertain now if she was being teased. “Have you?”
“I have. But tell me, what were you and the other two discussing that made you so cross with them?”
Emma bit her lip, uncertain how to proceed. She’d never been much of a liar, but it felt unseemly to tell Margaret that the ladies had been discussing her own brother.
“Well…” she began.
Margaret’s eyebrow arched. “Abernathe,” she suggested.
Emma felt blood rush to her cheeks. “Yes,” she whispered. “How did you know?”
“Everyone is always talking about James,” Margaret sighed, and Emma wasn’t certain if she was upset or resigned or angry at that fact.
“But almost always in a good way, my lady,” Emma said swiftly.
“Oh please, call me Meg,” Margaret said. “All my friends do.”
“Meg. Of course.”
“Let me guess, they were discussing my brother’s reluctance to marry?” Meg continued.
Emma nodded. “Lady Frances said she heard he will not marry this Season. They were quite disappointed in that potential outcome. He’s, as you know, considered quite a catch for women like them.”
“Women like them,” Meg mused. “Nasty title hunters? I hope he won’t marry someone like that. If he marries at all.”
“Is that truly a possibility?” Emma asked with a shake of her head. “That he would not marry?”
Meg shrugged. “When he thinks I am not listening, he sometimes says things that make me think he is pondering a life lived alone, yes.”
Emma just barely kept her mouth from dropping open in surprise. It was a ridiculous notion that a man like Abernathe would refuse to do his duty. More than that, he could have virtually any woman he desired. Any one of them would fall at his feet if he asked for their hand. And any woman he so much as looked at would have the entire focus of Society on her.
“Your mother must be upset at that notion,” Emma said, shivering as she thought of her own mother. Violet Liston was a ball of manic energy, and when she began to roll down a hill toward Emma, there was no escaping her schemes.
Currently her focus was on seeing Emma married. This Season. As soon as was humanly possible.
Meg’s face fell. “My mother is…different from others. I doubt she would care what James did or didn’t do.”
Emma tried not to show any reaction on her face. She sometimes heard little whispers about the Dowager Duchess of Abernathe, but never anything entirely untoward.
She shifted and fought to find some way to change the subject from the obviously uncomfortable one. “You will marry, though, and soon from what everyone says.”
Meg smiled, but there was a tightness to her lips. “Yes, I suppose it shall be soon. Northfield and I cannot be engaged forever. My brother is insistent that we make a date for later this year or early next at the latest.”
Emma stared. She’d hoped she would find a more positive subject with Meg’s engagement. After all, everyone knew that the Duke of Northfield was one of the Duke of Abernathe’s closest friends. He and Meg had practically grown up together and their marriage had been arranged for years.
And yet Meg’s smile was false and her eyes dull as the subject was broached. Emma barely resisted the urge to shake her head in disbelief. Here she was, her mother pushing her to find a match, her prospects weak at best, nonexistent at worst, and Meg had a duke in her pocket, a man who would let her want for nothing…and she was unsatisfied.
She would never understand the popular.
She sought yet another subject, but before she could find one, someone bumped into Meg and Emma from behind. Both of them turned and Emma was shocked to find the Dowager Duchess of Abernathe, herself, standing behind them. She had a drink in her hand and it sloshed in her glass as she staggered.
“Well, well, well,” the duchess said. “If it isn’t my dutiful daughter.”
Emma caught her breath as she looked toward Meg and saw the color draining from her cheeks. This was what Meg had meant by her mother being different, apparently. And suddenly Emma understood a great many things she hadn’t fully grasped before.