Chapter One
Saturday, 16 July 1825
London
Eleven in the morning
Lord Robert SolomonDaniel Ashton, second son of the Duke of Kennet, stood at the front of the cathedral his family had attended for seven generations, waiting for the only woman he had ever loved. Even though the wedding had been expected—well-planned, even—for some time, a nervous anticipation gripped his neck and chest. This was it, the final moment to say something, anything, to stop it.
Not that he would, despite how much he wanted to. Robert had done a great many things in his life for this woman. He could do this as well.
His older brother, Thomas, stood next to him, his posture stiff, his hands fidgeting at his sides. Their younger brother Michael stood with Thomas and Robert at the altar as well. Behind them, the priest flipped back and forth in theBook of Common Prayer, as if he had not memorized this particular ceremony thirty years earlier. The rustling pages were a tickling annoyance at the back of Robert’s neck, and he fought the urge to snarl at the man, congratulating himself on this small morsel of successful discipline.
In his pocket, Robert’s gloved fingers caressed the golden ring that would soon grace the bride’s hand. His thumb ran repeatedly over the sapphires and diamonds embedded in the elegant band, the blue gems matching the radiant color of her eyes. He took another deep breath, trying to calm those nerves that threatened to choke off the very air in his lungs as the first strains of Handel’sWater Music Suitesoared throughout the chapel, played by the two violinists seated in the balcony.
Instead, Robert tried to focus on the small cluster of people in front of him. Only the bride and groom’s families had been invited—friends and associates would celebrate with the couple at the wedding breakfast. Robert’s parents, Philip and Emalyn Ashton, the Duke and Duchess of Kennet, sat in the first pew. His younger sister, Elizabeth, sat beside them. They looked at home, as they well should—Robert had been raised in this church, and he knew every carved pew, every stone pillar, every stained-glass window.
Including the ones that backlit the bride as she stepped into the chapel, clutching her father’s arm as if it were the last buoy in a storm. She was luminous, an angelic vision in indigo and silver, her hair glowing in the light, its familiar red and gold streaks shimmering. She was glorious.
And Robert’s exclamation burst from him before he could stop it, the tightness in his throat keeping it to a bare whisper. “My God!”
Thomas flinched but did not glance his way. Like Robert, his gaze was locked on the lovely bride, who made her way down the aisle. Thomas’s fidgeting had ceased—he stood frozen, face turning red, and Robert realized his brother had stopped inhaling. He poked Thomas, hissing, “Breathe!”
Thomas gave a quick gasp as the bride’s father presented her, and she took her place at Thomas’s side. For Lady Rose Timmons, the only woman Robert Ashton had ever loved, would soon be his brother’s wife. And as they started to recite the age-old vows, the last fragile remnant of hope Robert had clung to for more than a decade dissipated like the dust motes in the beams of sunlight pouring into the cathedral. His anxious nerves gave way to a weary sadness that settled over him.
To her credit, Lady Rose had made it clear many years ago that she could not return the affection Robert felt for her. She never played coy; that was not her nature. Still, as long as she had remained unmarried, Robert had clung to a tiny fragment of hope that he could change her mind. He had wooed her, in his own way, from afar. The very direction his life had taken in the last ten years had been because of her. They had remained close friends, through a lot of trials and tribulations. And hope, even a minute crumb of it, is hard to release. But most of all, Robert wanted her to be happy, and Rose indeed was happy—deliriously so—with his brother.
The priest had come to the ring part of the ceremony, and Robert pressed the band into Thomas’s palm. “Do not drop it.”
He did not, slipping it onto Rose’s hand with trembling fingers and a shaky grin.
And the heart Robert had refused to let break, held together by that brittle snippet of hope, snapped. His mood soured even further, and the rest of the wedding became a blur, after which he followed the priest, Michael, and the newlyweds into the rectory in order to witness the marriage lines. Everyone else had departed for the wedding breakfast by the time they were finished, but Robert held back as Thomas, Rose, and Michael entered the ducal carriage for the trip to Huntingdale House, the Timmons’s family home where the breakfast was being held. Thomas offered him a ride, but the last thing Robert wanted was to be in a closed space with the happily married couple. He watched the carriage turn the corner but made no move to hire a hackney.
“Are you all right, son?”
Robert turned. The priest, minus his ceremonial robes, stood on the pavement behind him. For a brief moment, Robert considered telling the priest the truth. But what good would that do? Truth, Robert had found over the years, had a certain fluidity to it that waxed and waned with the events surrounding it. Nothing he could do or say would change anything in this moment, except to emphasize the humiliation found in hope. So, instead, he found and displayed the crooked grin typical of the Ashton men.
“I’m fine, Father. Thank you.” He adjusted his top hat to a slightly jaunty angle.
The priest seemed a bit confused but recovered. “I need to pay a call to a parishioner near Huntingdale House. I was just going to hire a hackney. Would you like to join me?”
Robert shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I’m going to walk. I’m up for a bit of fresh air.”
The priest arched an eyebrow, and Robert almost laughed, given that the atmosphere around the church at that moment smelled heavily of coal smoke and dead fish, held close to the city streets by a low cloud cover that threatened rain by afternoon. He shrugged one shoulder, touched the brim of his hat, then strode off in the same direction the carriage had taken. After a few blocks, his steps slowed, and he considered detouring to White’s, not being in the mood for the grittier ambiance of Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium—his second home for the last decade—much less the celebration of Rose’s marriage. The formality at White’s would allow him to nurse his wounds—as well as a good brandy—without interruption.
Still... he chided himself for being petty about this. His affection for Rose had been born during a dark time in his life, and he knew with an intellectual certainty that he should have released what bordered on obsession years ago. It was his own fault he had clung to this strange hopefulness, even as he had seemingly moved on in other areas of his life. Rose had made it clear before he and Thomas were both out of school that she preferred Thomas—recent events had simply brought that into clear focus. And Thomas had given up the possibility of an heir by marrying her, since an attack on Rose years ago had left her incapable of bearing children.
Which meant the duty to produce a Kennet heir now fell on Robert, an obligation he had never contemplated or desired, but one he had recognized as he had watched his brother slowly fall in love with Rose, returning the very feelings she had harbored for so long. No, no matter what hope Robert had retained, today’s events weren’t exactly a surprise—so much so that he had already started courting another woman.
Ah, the lovely Lydia. He was to call on her later today. Lady Lydia Rowbotham, a “diamond of the first water”—according to theton’sfavorite gossip sheets and dragons—and the much-sought-after daughter of the Duke of Makendon. Tall, blonde, lithe, and graceful, she had bushels of suitors, many of them titled and just as rich as the Duke of Kennet’s second son. Not counting, that is, the wealth Robert had built as part-owner of Campion’s hell, a tightly held secret—even from his own family.
And most of her suitors did not care that she was a raging bitch who cared little for anyone other than herself and her immediate circle. Lydia’s beauty, wealth, and position meant that many people around her either were blind to or simply ignored the way she preened, demanded, and pouted her way through life. Robert had almost backed out of the contest after the first two calls. But she was the catch of the season, and if a gentleman was merely looking to beget an heir, she was the perfect choice. Which made her a challenge. Instead of looking elsewhere, he had donned his best persona, the charming dandy, and set about convincing her that he had changed his roguish ways and she was precisely what he needed to settle down and become the perfect Society gentleman. She had responded. They had walked their first promenade together in Hyde Park. He had made an offer for her hand. His first step toward building a life of duty and obligation.
God help him.
As Robert turned another corner, yet another block closer to Huntingdale House, a landau with several ladies of thetonpassed, on their way to the park, probably to meet and promenade with their gentlemen and chaperones. They nodded as he tipped his hat, and one even giggled. It was a much different response than those he and his brothers had received earlier in the season, when they’d first returned to Society after years as rakes and reprobates. At the insistence of their father—and more than a touch of blackmail—they had to repair their reputations and find brides.
Thomas had. Now it was Robert’s turn. He had done what he could. Come what may.
