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Chapter One
London, England
December 1839
Lord Innes Buchan,son of the late Duke of Buchan, stared out the window of his study in the fashionable Belgravia townhouse he’d recently acquired, watching the young woman who stood beside the front gate of his home. “Holmes, who is that girl? Do you recognize her?”
“No, my lord. Shall I chase her away?”
The snow was falling harder now, but she seemed oblivious to it as it collected atop her dark hair. “To the contrary, invite her in.”
His butler’s eyes widened in surprise. “Do you think it is wise?”
Innes laughed. “Probably not. But the girl is too well dressed to be a cutpurse or thief. Besides, there is something familiar about her.” However, he could not recall where he had seen her or if he had ever seen her before.
But he could not ignore that tug of recognition.
Perhaps he was merely going mad.
Why not invite her in? This particular Yuletide season had been bad for him. He’d never felt lonelier in his life. Not even the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth or the scent of freshly baked ginger cake and mint tea could rid him of the bone-piercing emptiness in his heart.
“One last thing before I fetch her, my lord. Mrs. Woods wanted to know whether you will be returning to Castle Easingwold after Christmas.”
“No, I will not.” Obviously, his fairly new staff was not familiar with the Buchan clan. “I ampersona non gratathere. The new duke would sooner invite an alley cat into his home than me.” Not that he cared, for he had never spent a pleasant Yuletide season with his family, even when his father, the only decent Buchan among the lot, was alive.
“I see, my lord.” He cleared his throat. “I shall return in a trice with the girl.”
“Don’t scare her, Holmes. I do not want her running off.” He was now intrigued, perhaps because he had nothing else on his mind and no one to see, since he was fairly new to London and had yet to develop a trusted circle of friends.
He would never be welcomed by his blood relations.
Along with his father’s passing went all hope of family unity or reconciliation with the older brothers who had always reviled and disdained him. The feeling had intensified after his father had bequeathed most of the unentailed properties to him and left him wealthier than the lot of them.
The entailed properties, which were also quite vast, had gone to his eldest brother along with the ducal title. His father had made generous provisions for the other brothers. But no amount of generosity would ever have been enough to satisfy that pack of jackals.
Not that Innes cared.
They now openly hated him, for they were only half-blood brothers, the offspring of an arranged marriage between the duke and his first wife.
Innes had been the only child from the duke’s second marriage, a love match, his father had always claimed. But his mother had died in childbirth, leaving him at the mercy of the duke’s bitter and jealous third wife.
He shook out of his dismal thoughts as Holmes returned. “My lord, the young lady in question is Miss Hyacinth Brayden. I have put her in the visitor’s parlor. Shall I show her into your study?”
Innes turned sharply, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Hyacinth?” That was a name he had not heard in a long time. “Yes, show her in here.”
No wonder she seemed familiar. He hadn’t seen her in years. Did she still have those big, violet eyes? Well, he supposed the color of one’s eyes did not change.
His heart beat a little faster in expectation, although it really was absurd. She must have been all of five years old the last time he’d set eyes on her.
Holmes announced her and then remained hovering uncertainly in the doorway.
Innes quickly realized the reason for his hesitation. Hyacinth was a young lady, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years of age by now, and he was an unmarried man.
She smiled at his butler, handing him her coat, muff, and scarf. “No need to send in a maid to chaperone. I won’t be staying long.” She turned to Innes to show him a box in her hands. “I only came to give you these.”
“Have a seat, Miss Brayden. Do stay and share some tea and cakes with me. You must be cold. Your hair still has a light dusting of snow on it.”
He did not know what possessed him to reach out and lightly run his knuckles over her hair, the little of it that peeked out from under the hat she had not bothered to take off. Too bad, for he was curious to see more of her dark, vibrant curls. “I’ll escort you home in my carriage afterward. Do your parents still reside on Chipping Way?”
