The Viscount’s Vow
Samantha Holt
Beatrice expects very little from her arranged marriage to Edward. Raised by a charming and dangerous man, she has learned to guard her heart with steel. Her new husband is clever, handsome, and maddeningly unreadable—and though their marriage simmers with unspoken longing, trust remains just out of reach.
Edward never wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, yet silence and secrecy seem the only way to protect the fragile bond between him and his spirited wife. He’s buried his heart beneath duty, and now a secret involving a missing young woman threatens to unravel everything he’s tried to build.
When Beatrice retreats to Highgate Cemetery after a bitter quarrel, a crumbling tomb draws her into unexpected danger—and forces Edward to face what he stands to lose. What follows will test the fragile bond between them and reveal whether trust can bloom where silence once grew. Because between shadows and soil, what begins as distance may turn into something deeper—not just desire, but devotion.
Chapter One
London, 1887
The rain spatteredagainst the windows of the London townhouse, tapping like fingernails against the glass. Lady Beatrice Hensley spared it a quick glance, eyeing the glow from the gas lamps outside as it blurred through the raindrops.
“Terrible weather,” she muttered to herself.
Terrible weather to be out in.
Just as herhusbandwas.
She snorted to herself and returned her attention to her sketchpad. Her fingers were smudged with charcoal, a darkness that crept beneath her nails and into the fine lines of her skin. She preferred it that way—the evidence of her work marking her physically. The fireplace crackled and hissed as a log shifted, sending a shower of sparks upward. Beatrice didn’t flinch. She’d grown all too accustomed to lonely nights curled up on an armchair recently.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed nine times. Beatrice paused, hand hovering above the paper. Nine o’clock. Edward had been gone since early afternoon, with only a murmured excuse about business matters and he’d yet to return home.
She snorted again. It was alwaysbusiness mattersbut he would never tell her what these business matters actually were. In fact, her husband rarely told her anything of import.
The debate as to his whereabouts slithered through her mind. Her charcoal snapped between her fingers, and she stared down at the broken piece.
“Blast.”
Her husband, Lord Edward Hensley, Viscount Newham, was a man of habits and routines—breakfast at seven, correspondence until nine, business matters until noon, estate issues after lunch. But these afternoon disappearances were becoming a pattern of their own. Three times last week, twice the week before. Always returning with collar slightly askew, always with that particular smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
She had seen that smile before—on another man’s face.
Her father’s.
Beatrice closed her eyes, memories rising unbidden. Her father returning home late, kissing her mother’s cheek with practiced affection. The scent of unfamiliar perfume clinging to his coat, which he always removed quickly and handed to the butler. The way her mother’s eyes would dim, just for a moment, before she composed herself.
It had always followed a pattern. First came the lavish gifts—a new necklace for her mother, a porcelain doll for Beatrice. Next, the unexplained absences, sometimes for months on end. And finally, the inevitable return to the family fold, as if nothing had happened all the while declaring how much he loved her mother.
Even as a young girl, Beatrice recognized that the behavior wasn’t right. Now, as a woman, she understood exactly what her father had been doing.
“Never marry a charming man, Beatrice,” her mother had told her once, when she thought Beatrice was asleep. She hadbeen standing at the window, watching the rain—much like tonight—waiting for her husband to return. “They save their best performances for strangers.”
Beatrice had remembered those words on her wedding day, as she looked up at Edward’s solemn face. He wasn’t charming, not in the way her father had been. Edward was serious, thoughtful, his smiles rare but genuine. Or so she had thought.
Six months into their marriage, and the afternoon absences had begun.
And the distance between them had grown. Instead of creating the sort of useful companionship she’d hoped for, they were moving further and further apart. Becoming strangers rather than friends.
She didn’t expect a great love. She’d seen whatgreat lovecould do.
But she’d expected more than this. When they had met, she thought him handsome. Kind too. There was even a certain spark between them. They danced several times during their courtship and she remembered her stomach swooping when he held her close. But it wasn’t love. Not quite.
The sound of the front door opening cut through her thoughts, followed by the murmur of voices—Edward speaking to their butler. Beatrice’s hand stilled on the paper. She hadn’t expected him so early. These excursions usually kept him out until well past ten.
She quickly set aside her sketch, not wanting him to see what she had drawn. It felt too revealing. Instead, she picked up a book from the side table and opened it to a random page, affecting an air of indifference.
