Chapter 1
April, 1817
London, England
Lord George Spencer, the newMarquis of Hutchinson, had never been taught how to be a marquis. Two things had defined his life thus far. The first was that his father had mostly ignored him and rarely spent any time explaining the intricacies of running the estate to him. George never cared about his lack of education in estate matters at the time. That was Arthur’s domain as the heir. The second thing was that, with two older brothers, there’d never been any urgency for him to marry and provide an heir. That had suited him fine, and he’d lived his life as a happy bachelor.
As a third son, he’d had to take his own financial future seriously, especially since he knew that the stipend his father gave him every quarter was sure to go away once Arthur became the marquis. Arthur wasn’t the generous sort. So George had paid special attention to cultivating his investments for his future, and they were doing quite well. He could remain a bachelor for as long as he wished without any adverse effects on him and that had suited him well.
Until that fateful day. Everything had changed in the blink of an eye, and his life would never be the same again.
The previous summer, family friend Lady Dalling had invited him to spend the summer with her in Bath. It had been a most enjoyable time, and he’d been on top of the world. He’d been in love and about to propose…until the note that changed his life had been thrust into his hand. He had relived that moment over and over. The bewildered look on the face of the woman he loved would haunt him for the rest of his days.
“Lord Spenser, how lovely to see you today,” Lydia Weston said, walking into the parlor.
Mrs. Kennedy stood. “My dear, I’ll only be a moment. I must consult with Cook.”
George watched the older woman leave and knew she was giving him the privacy he needed to propose to the woman he adored. “You look beautiful today, my dear,” he said, handing her the flowers.
“These are exquisite. Thank you.”
George took her hand in his. “My dear Miss Weston. You must know of my feelings for you. You mean everything to me.”
“I feel the same, my lord.”
George knelt down on one knee. “Would you—”
There was a loud banging on the door that startled them both, and then a messenger burst into the parlor and thrust a letter into his hand. “Lord Spenser, this is for you. It’s most urgent,” he cried.
George rose, took the letter, and broke the seal. As he read, all color drained from his face.
“My lord, what’s the matter?” Miss Weston asked.
“I’m so very sorry, Miss Weston, but I must leave,” he said, rushing out of the parlor without a backward glance.
His whole life had changed in that instant when he read the note that hi s father and two brothers had been killed in a carriage accident on their way to Ashmont Manor, one of the Hutchinson country estates. That tragedy had made him, as the last surviving son, the Marquis of Hutchinson. It was so unimaginable that he’d had a hard time believing it’d truly happened. He knew nothing about being a marquis.
He’d railed at the injustice of it all. He loved his family, and their loss was a heavy blow. Being thrown into the title made him realize that his earlier inattention to the estates and the tenants who depended on them for their livelihood had been a grave mistake. He was in over his head.
His oldest brother—the original heir to the title, Arthur, had been at his father’s knee, learning all about the estate and how to manage it, since he was a young child. George hadn’t been invited to those lessons, and at the time, he hadn’t cared. Let his brother be the center of attention. Arthur craved the limelight. He’d always been a bit of a bully growing up, and George figured that most of it was because of his superior attitude about being the heir. Arthur would sometimes include George in his pranks, which made him adore his older brother even more. Except when Arthur blamed George for any prank gone wrong. As they got older, George found it best to make himself scarce most days so Arthur couldn’t target him. When his brother went away to school, there seemed to be a sigh of relief from his father, although it didn’t last nearly long enough, especially when notes from Eton describing Arthur’s out-of-control behavior or pranks gone wrong came to his father on a regular basis. Perhaps that was why his father had worn a permanent scowl—his oldest son had been a force to be reckoned with.
For all Arthur’s faults, however, George had loved his brother and wouldn’t have traded him for the world. Arthur could be so charming when he wanted to be, and the ladies had flocked to his good looks—the same good looks all three brothers shared: black wavy hair, green eyes, and a strong jawline. The boys had all grown tall, with broad shoulders, and when they walked into a room together, thetontook notice.
However, everything had changed last August, when Arthur was caught in the garden trying to compromise the daughter of a viscount. Luckily, his other brother, Oliver, had found Arthur before he could debauch the young lady, but that incident had been the end of his father’s patience with his heir.
Arthur’s luck had finally run out, and his father had made the decision to take him to Ashmont Manor to let things die down in London. Oliver had volunteered to travel with them to try to keep the peace because Arthur wasn’t keen on rusticating. Unfortunately, a freak storm had turned the roads muddy, and the horses had slipped going around a bend in the road, sending the carriage crashing down into a ravine. Everyone had been killed, including the driver.
A muddy road had been the agent of destruction of his family, and now his life would never be the same.
Not only did he not know the ins and outs of running the estate, but his solicitor, Mr. Sterling, had informed him that he was nearly bankrupt. It’d shocked him to his core, but evidently, his father had spent a fortune cleaning up Arthur’s gambling debts. George had had no idea how bad things were. The quarterly stipend his father sent him had never been late, nor had his father relayed any concerns about money problems. George was forced to use his investment money to keep the estate afloat, but even that wasn’t enough. He desperately needed an influx of cash, and sooner rather than later.
And that wasn’t his only problem. His life had changed entirely, and not for the better as far as he was concerned. He was a marquis in love with a merchant’s daughter, Miss Lydia Weston. Society would never approve of such a match, as her father was in the textile trade. Her station in life hadn’t mattered last summer. Now it did. A marquis marrying a commoner whose father was in trade would not be tolerated by Society. Their stations were too far apart.
The matter was further complicated by the fact that Miss Weston had a substantial dowry, which he hadn’t needed last summer when he was about to propose. But things were different now. It could save the estate, but would she believe he loved her and not her money? It was a moot point and ultimately didn’t matter because a match between them was impossible. He’d written her numerous letters over the long months since their last interaction, explaining his feelings. He’d nearly posted the first letter but, instead, had merely carried it around in his pocket for months. He took it out and read it again.
Dearest Lydia,
I cannot believe what a cruel blow life has dealt us. My heart is destroyed by the loss of my father and brothers, but primarily by the loss of you. I will never love anyone like I love you. You’ve invaded the depths of my soul with your sweetness and light, and your loss has nearly crushed me. Perhaps in time, you’ll forgive me for leaving you so abruptly on that terrible day in Bath. I wish with all my heart that circumstances were different and we could find a way to be together.
