Chapter One
Saturday, 16 July 1825
London
Half-past noon
Lord Michael GabrielMatthias Ashton, third son of the Duke of Kennet, stared at the glass of champagne as if it were an asp, his eyes wide, as small beads of sweat formed in the dark curls at his temples. Even the aromatic scent of the savory beef on his plate did not draw his eyes away. He had known his brother’s wedding breakfast would be a challenge, but he had not expected it to be this difficult. Sitting just at the far edge of his place setting, the sparkling liquid beckoned like a long-ignored temptress.
Not ignored long enough, apparently. He had not indulged in strong drink in three months, but the need remained, that unending desire to escape the pain in his heart, to drown the restlessness in his spirit. The relentless hunger became a burning coal in his gut.Just one sip. It would be cool on your tongue. Soothe the fire in your stomach. Refreshing. Courage to get through this blasted day. One taste...
Michael forced his gaze away from the glass and toward the happy couple—his older brother Thomas, heir to the duchy, and his new wife, Rose—their heads together in a congenial intimacy as they settled at the head table, an enormous brandy-soaked and frosted cake in front of them. This was their day, a celebration of their love, of the joining of two powerful families. The joyous crowd of almost seventy people surged and flowed in clusters around the room, like starlings in murmuration.
Michael brushed away the twinge of jealously that stung his heart. He had surrendered the idea of such happiness in his life more than four years ago, when his ownbelovedEleanor had taken his money and left him standing by a crossroads in Gretna Green. But he had never quite been able to drown the agony in his heart, the unending craving for something he could never quite define, no matter how much ale he had assigned to the task. A great deal of ale, in truth, since that day. Ale, grog, rum, brandy, wine, anything that would dull the pain and douse the restlessness for a few hours.
He had also indulged in enough women that the memories of Eleanor should have been blotted away. Yet neither strong drink nor numerous wenches had done so. Still, Michael had disappeared into them, and the pubs of London, for those four years, returning only when his father had yanked him back into Society—and the family—in April.
One small sip...
A movement caught his eye, and he turned toward his plate to see a small, gloved hand clutch the champagne glass and return it to the tray of a passing footman. His mother, whose dark eyes with their intense scrutiny made him want to squirm as if he were four years old again.
“Someone,” she murmured, “did not receive my instructions about your service.”
“It’s a complicated event.” Michael glanced at Rose’s mother, whose frantic movements around the room gave all the servants reasons to avoid her. “And you are not the hostess.”
That scrutiny continued, and Michael fought the urge to look anywhere else in the room but at his mother’s face. It was not an unexpected response. Of her four children, only the second son of the family, Robert, could return that stare with equal confidence and assurance. The others—Thomas, Michael, and their sister Beth—would wither within seconds. The woman stood less than five feet tall, as petite and elegant as a fairy, but with the emotional strength of a dragon.
“What do you want from me, Mother?”
“Reassurance that you will not flounder in this first outing into Society. Confidence that your sobriety continues, and that you will be able to accompany your sister to the remainder of this season’s events.”
He swallowed hard. “That is a great deal of responsibility to place on one breakfast.”
Emalyn Ashton, Duchess of Kennet, scowled, but the intensity of her glare lessened, and she let out a long breath. “Robert has already left. In a few moments, your father and I will be doing likewise. I have another headache. I have already requested that the Marquess of Aldermaston and his mother escort Beth home. You have done your duty here. You have stood up for your brother and witnessed the marriage. Would you prefer to join us?”
Home. Ashton House. Where he could change clothes and retreat to the stables. Perhaps go for a ride. His work with the Kennet horses had been the only times in the last three months when he had not been tempted to retreat into a keg of ale.
Michael nodded.
So did she. “Meet your father in front of the house. He is having the carriage brought around. You have another outing later in the week. Perhaps that one will be easier.”
He was on his feet immediately. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Hmph.” The duchess walked away, strolling toward the bridal couple, two fingers pressed against the side of her head.
Michael watched her, a new emotion stirring within him, pushing all the others aside, a nagging feeling of uncertainty and dread. His mother’s headache had gone on for several days, unusual for a fierce woman who could take control of an entire ballroom of people with a few well-chosen words. She never flinched, especially not out in Society. Something worrisome plagued her.
He would speak with his father. Michael’s world had already been upended once this year when his family had yanked him from the depths of his hiding places, as if they had pulled a mole from its hole. After four years underground, Michael still felt odd in his own family home, as if he were still blinking in the sunlight, but he had found some balance. He was not convinced, however, he could survive another upheaval.
*
Saturday, 16 July 1825
Beckcott Abbey, Berkshire
Near the River Kennet
Quarter of five in the afternoon
