In the cobbledstreet several floors below, the duke’s prancing bay stallion was brought forward from the stables by a liveried groom. A man dressed in simple black clothing and sitting astride a midnight gelding leaned down to take the reins from the servant. “Are you ready?” he asked in a tone barely above a growl.
A lean young man with chestnut hair and piercing hazel eyes dismissed his groom and looked up into the rider’s face. Every muscle screamed at him to turn around, stride back into his Townhouse, and bar the door—to forget he’d ever agreed to this assignment—but he did not. Jaw set in a firm line, teeth clenched so tightly they squeaked together, he tugged on his fine black gloves and mounted his steed in one swift, confident motion. His heavy woolen greatcoat settled behind him on the horse’s haunches as he gathered the reins.
“Would you be ready if you were in my position?” he replied in a clipped tone, bitterness shading his words.
“I cannot say that I’ve ever had anything to lose before, let alone something so dear as a wife.”
His eyes snapped up at the other man’s cool nonchalance. He hadn’t known Oliver Black long, but he’d learned early on to expect bluntness the likes of which was rarely ever directed at a duke. The response shouldn’t have surprised him, but the word “wife” ignited a flare of anxious fire in his gut—not because he had a wife, but because he was set to ride away from her mere hours after their ceremony…and without having the opportunity to share her bed.
As if reading his mind, Black said, “It’s only a year. You’ll return soon enough and be able to get on with your life.”
Sterling knew this already, had walked into the agreement with open eyes, but that had been mere weeks before he’d met Alaina. His senses of honor and desire had been embroiled in a bitter war for months before, once again, his youthful impulsivity won out and he proposed to the only daughter of the Earl of Brent in her first Season. The idea of being parted from her had made him uneasy, but leaving her behind to seek out another potential match was unacceptable. Though his head knew it was unfair, he couldn’t stomach the thought of her with someone else. He’d formed feelings for the beautiful, intelligent woman and knew that the only way to ensure she would wait for him was to marry her and make her his duchess.
And he’d had every intention of wedding her, bedding her, and then returning to her side as soon as possible…but his conscience stood between him and her bedchamber. Wasn’t it bad enough that he’d married her without telling her he was obligated to make a lengthy trip to the Continent? How could he do that and potentially leave her with a babe in her belly; to experience pregnancy and childbirth without him? That was, apparently, where he drew the line.
Sterling’s hazel gaze flicked up to the single glowing window above. A small, curled form was silhouetted against the dim candlelight and his heart emitted an involuntary throb.
He hesitated for only one moment more before his eyes hardened and he looked away, nodding to Black and kicking his horse into motion. He’d woken that morning knowing nothing in his life would be the same…he hadn’t realized, however, how long it would be until he felt home again.
Chapter One
Eight Years Later
“Ihave neitherthe will to live nor the strength to battle my demons any longer. This cruel world has handed me too many misfortunes; this poison shall be a kindness!” Alaina raced around the blue drawing room of Morton House as she continued her stirring reenactment of Lady Blye’s death scene from a popular, preposterously dramatic new novel written by one M. Alice Lowe and lately adapted to the stage by one of the leading London acting troupes at The Mask & Lyre theatre.
Alaina pivoted from foot to foot as she also assumed the roles of Lady Blye’s maid and her (slightly mad) best friend, Lady Mane. The other women in the drawing room—Alaina’s close friends and fellow members of her ladies’ Reading Society—either sat in awe or giggled helplessly at her dramatics, depending upon how recently they’d been initiated into the club (and the duchess’s antics).
“Here!” Alaina shout-whispered to one of the ladies, frantically gesturing when she’d forgotten her mark. The young woman jumped and launched into her lines, grateful for the reminder as she’d been too enthralled by the sight the duchess made. Alaina nodded approvingly, her smile beaming as her guest delivered her lines with a heretofore unwitnessed confidence. Her heart swelled with pride, and one glance around the room told Alaina that she was not alone in this. It was always rewarding when one of their new members found enough confidence in herself to stand up and use her voice.
Their group had voted to devote this month to the reading of plays, the latest of which happened to be quite the bloodbath. Many similar societies of the female elite largely stuck to discussing tamer popular novellas or political, spiritual, or moral treatises. What made the Duchess of Morton’s Reading Society so sought after was the broadness of the reading material, how they didn’t stray from what was considered more controversial (and, perhaps, “inappropriate”) topics. Criticism of the Reading Society was a common undertone throughout theton, though, to be honest, even those critical women secretly longed to be in the close circle of the confident, outspoken, occasionally eccentric Duchess of Morton.
Following her disaster of a wedding night, Alaina had remained in mortified isolation for a period of six months before she reminded herself that, regardless of what the tabloids said, she was a duchess. And, with that, came the power to do as she pleased. The process had been gradual and, at times, rather painful, but she’d eventually become the woman her heart told her she needed to be; she also became the friend she’d always wished she’d had. Part of this mission of self-exploration entailed the creation of her Reading Society. Initially, she longed for a place where women would be free to read and discuss literature without their families’ censure. When she discovered more women than she also sought a refuge from theton’s judgmental gaze and the freedom to be themselves, the Reading Society evolved into a haven for anyone who felt out of place or longed to find true companionship and camaraderie in a world often filled with duplicitousness. Alaina, the mother hen of the group, took women of all ages and possessing a broad variety of interests beneath her wings, sheltering them with her name and power and opening her home to each and every one of them who needed it. This, of course, was not always embraced by the rest of Society.
Much to the shock of matrons of theton, the past several years bore witness to a dramatic change in Alaina’s personality and role. Gone was the soft-spoken young debutant and, gradually, in her place blossomed a woman who knew her mind and was unafraid of voicing it—often to the dismay (and secret admiration) of many. She came to be known as the perfect example of how a woman might change after discovering the freedom of marriage (causing the simultaneous chagrin of titled husbands and great envy of unwed chits everywhere).
Of course, as some papers so boldly outlined, said freedom was directly correlated to the length of time one’s husband has been absent.
In Alaina’s case, that was precisely eight years, nine months, and thirteen days.
She hadn’t seen or heard directly from her wayward husband since she’d retired to her bedchamber the evening of their wedding and fallen asleep waiting for him to come to her. Even after all these years, the memory still needled a raw part of her heart, though she’d taught herself to view it differently: There was something to be said for how a woman might discover her mind, hobbies, and passions when her husband hadn’t made his face known since their wedding day. As she saw it, she could either wallow or she could make her own way, and she’d chosen the latter (after allowing her battered and bruised heart some time to indulge itself in some sorrow, of course).
Alaina made a little excited bounce on her toes as the other woman finished her rousing monologue. It was a job well done and she couldn’t have been more proud of her friend for her bravery and poise. Now, it was Alaina’s turn to finish the play.
Collective gasps and titters rose from her audience as Alaina hiked up the skirts of her terribly fashionable lavender gown and leaped up onto an unoccupied cushion of a sofa, baring trim, stocking-clad calves. She faced the room as bold and passionate as a Roman senator during a stirring campaign, pressing her rolled manuscript to her bosom. A couple of artful golden curls escaped her coiffure and teased the skin of her pink, passion-tinted cheeks. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with glee as she finished her dramatic reading, pantomimed tossing back a draught of poison, pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, and finished it all with a dramatic backward dive to the sofa in a glorious flurry of skirts and petticoats.
Though her eyes were closed, there was no mistaking the rustle of a dozen skirts as her friends rose to their feet and clapped, enthusiastically cheering on her performance. The grin on her face bloomed unbidden as she enjoyed their accolades. She rose to make a humble curtsy and begin the discussion of the scene when the applause was abruptly strangled, leaving only a single loud, slow clap. One glance at the confused faces of her friends told Alaina something was certainly amiss. Their various eyes were fixed over her shoulder and furtive whispers shot back and forth. Alaina frowned and turned to locate the disturbance.
A very tall, very handsome, very well-dressed man had entered the drawing room and leaned one insolent shoulder against the doorframe. He caught her eye and wrapped up his mocking applause.
His chestnut hair was brushed back from his face, though more wild and windblown than artfully designed, indicating he’d arrived on horseback. There was something familiar about the fullness of his mouth, the breadth of his shoulders, but the hardness of his stubbled jaw and the coolness of his gaze made her feel as if she surely would not have forgotten this man had they been introduced.
She dropped her manuscript to the sofa and straightened her posture. “And who, may I ask, are you, sir, to enter my home unannounced and unwelcome? Where is Maxwell?” she asked, frustrated that her elderly butler would have allowed a visitor to enter without at least calling upon the footmen to prevent such a thing from happening. Unless he had been unable to do so… Her pulse quickened as she hoped fervently the butler hadn’t been harmed.
The newcomer’s mouth tilted in an approximation of a smile; indeed, it might have been closer, but there was no mirth there in the slightest. He righted himself and crossed his arms over his broad chest, further accentuating the narrowness of his waist and the strength of his legs in their immaculately fitted tan buckskin breeches.
“I must compliment your performance even if I don’t necessarily find the gruesome violence to be appropriate for well-bred women.” His voice set off a bell in the cobwebbed halls of her memory, shaking loose something she’d long locked away. Though he referred to all the women in the room, his eyes never left hers.
Those hazel eyes.
