Chapter 1
Rosecrest
1798
I am almost home,Luke Maxwell thought as his carriage rolled through a grove of cedar trees. Of course, the Merritt estate was not actually his home, even though he wished it were. The ancient carriage slowly creaked through several grassy meadows, and young Luke stuck his head out the window. He recognized these sheep-covered fields. They had reached the property of Lord J. Matthew Merritt, Earl of Faversham. Rose bushes lined both sides of the road. There were no blossoms yet, but in a few weeks, the plants would be covered with the estate’s namesake.
The carriage stopped on the large span of gray cobblestone out front, and Luke bounded out, looking up at the three-story house. Over a dozen windows were visible on each tan level, and the gray roof boasted eight chimneys on each side, with the Merritt flag flying high in the center. Though it was a large building, it did not loom over the top of him like his own estate. Rosecrest was inviting, and the family in it, even more so.
“Lord Maxwell,” the butler greeted the twelve-year-old baron with a bow as he opened the large, cherrywood door. “Welcome to Rosecrest, my lord. We have been expecting you.”
Luke swallowed a sigh of contentment as he stepped into the foyer—a sizable space, with hallways on each side and a double staircase open to the level above. Roses were carved on each corner of the ceiling molding, and the walls were painted a light beige. The wooden floors were meticulously patterned and exceptionally glossy. The air smelled of pine and cinnamon, and the sun shone brightly through the uncovered windows.I am home. He couldn’t hold back his smile.Finally, I am home.
“Lord Rollins is at the lake with Lady Clara and her friends,” Walters informed from his stiff position against the wall.
Luke did not need any more information. He quickly weaved his way through Rosecrest’s large hallways until he came to a small black door. From there, he entered the servants’ quarters. He sidestepped several scullery maids and inched past a heavyset footman before exiting out the kitchen. As soon as he stepped out in the herb garden, he ran, flying past the wilder parts of the estate, snaking through the trees as his best friend, John, or more formally, Viscount Lord Rollins, had taught him. It was good to move, to race through the warm summer air. He felt alive, rebellious, and free.
The clearing looked exactly as he remembered it, with a picture-perfect lake in its center. An orchard of pear trees on the far side of the lake reflected on the water. Directly against the shore stood only a single field elm. A large rope had been tied to its lowest branch, and the children used it to swing out over the water. At times, the laketop would appear as clear as glass, but that was not the case today. Several Merritt cousins splashed playfully near the shore, and John and one of the neighbor boys were out in the middle in a small rowboat.
Clara Merritt was always surrounded by people, and today was no different. The eight-year-old girl led a party of seven or eight youngsters around the shoreline, searching for flowers or berries, or something of that sort. It did not matter what she did, crowds flocked her. Because of this, Luke typically kept his distance. Growing up in a small household had made him uncomfortable with large groups of people.
Unfortunately, his appearance had caught the children’s attention. “Who is that?” he heard them collectively whisper.
Clara, as the self-appointed leader, looked up from her search, squinting at him through the rays of the harsh sun. “It cannot be …” she whispered as she bounded in his direction. Her entourage followed, and Luke took a tiny step back in self defense. “Why, it is!” She yelled back at them, “It is Luke!”
She looked him up and down, her blonde curls bouncing as her forehead scrunched in scrutiny, and, no surprise, her followers felt the need to do the same. Luke did not enjoy the feel of their eyes on him. What were they looking for? Surely, nothing about his appearance could be more interesting than the lake. Why were they all wasting their playtime looking at him?
After a few seconds of examination, the children looked to Clara as to what their conclusion should be. The little blonde girl tilted her head. “Oh, Luke.” Her tone held undeniable dissatisfaction. “John will be so disappointed!”
Luke Maxwell had grown. A lot. He now towered over little Clara, and she would not be surprised if he looked down on John as well. Looking up at him, his green eyes and dark curly hair seemed miles away. His arms had doubled in size, and his shoulders had broadened to the width of a man. He looked nothing like the scrawny little boy who had visited last summer.
“Why will John be disappointed?” Luke mumbled, dragging his toe through the dirt. He did not look up as most of the children dispersed.
“Oh, he hoped to give you a pig-a-back ride.” She shrugged. “Perhaps you shall give him one instead.” While his appearance had surprised her, Clara was happy Luke had arrived. Not that her joy was reserved for Luke specifically. She loved all visitors, and this was the time of year they received the most of them. The estate bustled with friends, cousins, neighbors, and all of Society's finest. The Rosecrest’s thirty-five bedrooms were filled to capacity, and the nursery was nearly exploding. To Clara, this was a dream come true, and at this young age, she could not imagine how anyone could feel differently.
“When do they leave?” Luke groaned as he handed his horse’s reins back to the stable hand.
John laughed. “I fear many of them will be here as long as you.” He gave his friend a pitiful smile. “But we can avoid them most of the time.” As always, John’s sandy hair stuck out in every direction.
“How can one family have so many friends?”
John shook his head, disturbing his hair even more, as the two began their walk back to the house. “Oh, none of these people are my friends—well, except you, of course—and I do not believe Papa enjoys their company much. You can blame my mother and Clara for this swarm.” He gestured with his hand to the grand garden party covering the estate’s lawn. Six large rectangular tables covered in expensive linens and china had been carried out into the yard. Fresh cut flowers, in elaborate displays, stood as centerpieces surrounded by giant platters of tea cakes and finger sandwiches.
The Countess Lady Violet Merritt held a white lacy parasol as she slid gracefully through the sea of lords and ladies, greeting each of her friends with a warm and authentic smile. She wore a light blue day dress that highlighted her blue eyes, her blonde hair piled high atop her head. She was gorgeous, regal, and having a marvelous time. Lord Merritt had made an appearance, but, as John said, he did not enjoy the social gatherings as much as his wife. He had only stayed a quarter hour before retreating back to the study.
Clara, on the other hand, was a miniature replica of her mother. She, along with sixteen other young girls dripping with ribbons and lace, sat daintily on a quilted picnic blanket, a portable tea tray positioned at her side, laden with small teacups. Clara flawlessly poured tea for each of her friends, all the while making polite conversation.
“And how do you do, Miss Amanda?” she asked one of the girls across the circle. The girl gave a rather generic answer, and Clara turned to her next patron. It may have seemed a childish tea party had Clara not been such a dignified littlegirl. Truly, at the age of eight, she already held the authority and sophistication of a marchioness. It was impressive and intimidating.
“I will never be like them,” Luke mumbled under his breath.
“Oh, I am glad. I do not think anyone should be as social as Mother and Clara. It is not healthy.” John gave his friend a playful smile.
That is not what I meant. But he did not think John would understand. He may not have enjoyed Society like his female relations, but he still belonged there. Everything about John screamed of his charisma and aristocracy. He was poised, well spoken, and already a favorite among the ladies. And of course, John had a loving father helping him grow up to be who he was meant to be.
Luke had no one.
He did not know the first thing about being a baron, and yet, before he had even left the womb he was one. His ancient father had wed his teenage mother, dying of age before the woman had given birth to their first child. Luke’s cranky uncle had stuck around, helping tend to the barony, but he was in no way a mentor.
