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Prologue
Brandan Delamar had committed a terrible sin.
He didn’t know what he’d done, only that it had been unforgivable in his father’s eyes. The duke looked at him accusingly, as though Brandan should know his trespass. As though the crime had been so heinous that any love a father might have held for his only son had been irretrievably lost.
But what had he done?
Young Brandan sifted through his memories, searching for the reason his father hated him. He’d had a privileged upbringing; coddled by nurses, educated by private tutors, his every wish instantly fulfilled by a regiment of well-trained household staff.
He saw the manor staff more than he saw his own parents, though that wasn’t unusual for the children of high-ranking peers. His parents were the beautiful people he caught a glimpse of when Nurse presented him for inspection in the evening, before the duke and duchess left the house for social engagements.
His father was as tall and majestic as the Alpine mountains Brandan read about in hisgeography primer, and equally as cold and distant. His mother had cheerful blue eyes and she smelled like the roses in the garden she loved more than anything else in life. Her hair was soft sunshine falling against his cheek as she bent to give him a kiss before bed.
Brandan hadn’t asked to be born into this starring role in life’s pageant. The importance of his station as heir to the Duke of Westbury had been impressed upon him since birth. One day he’d be the duke and when that happened,he’dbe the tall and distant mountain. He’d wear a long velvet cloak and a gold sash with gold medals pinned to his breast, have important audiences with the king, and take his seat in the House of Lords to help decide the fate of the empire.
He tried so hard to please his father, excelling at his lessons and besting the other boys in sports. Nothing was good enough. Nothing ever met with any sign of approval.
The message he received from everyone else about his importance, his privilege, and his great responsibility was never the message he received from his father.
What he saw in the duke’s eyes was disgust. He saw that he was flawed, stained, and unlovable. The duke beat the message into him with a cane. With his fists.
With stony, reproachful silence.
“Why does Father hate me?” Brandan mustered the courage to ask his mother when he was twelve years old and considered himself to be a man.
His mother was in the garden at Westbury Abbey, their estate in Hertfordshire, pruning the beloved roses she refused to entrust to the gardener’s care. She lowered her sharp silver secateurs. “Why would you ask something like that?”
“Nothing I do is ever good enough.”
“He expects much from you. You must do better. Be better.”
“What did I do to displease him?”
“You’ve done nothing wrong.” She turned away, her bonnet hiding her face. “Hand me the watering pot, will you, darling?”
She poured water onto the base of a rosebush. When she turned back to him it looked as though the water she’d used to douse the roses had reappeared on her cheeks.
“Are you crying, Mama?” he asked in a whisper.
“Of course not. Don’t be silly.” She pushed back the brim of her bonnet and turned her face to the sky. “Do you think it looks like rain, darling? I do so hope it will rain. My roses will be stunted if it continues so hot.”
He studied the sky, which was bright blue, with not a wisp of cloud in sight. “It will rain soon. Don’t worry.” He knelt beside her on the wool blanket and helped her water the roses.
He ached with the awareness that he’d made her cry. He wanted to hold her hand but surely he was too old for that now.
Her smile was as unfalteringly bright as the sky, but Brandan saw that he’d made her sad byasking the question. He loved his mother with all his heart. He would never ask her the question again. He couldn’t bear it if she hated him, as well.
“You’ll have another sister soon,” she said, glancing down at her rounded belly. “Your father wants a son, but I know it will be another girl.” Her shoulders drooped like a wilting rose in desperate need of rain.
His cheeks heated. Childbearing wasn’t a fit topic for men, or so his Latin tutor told him when Brandan mused aloud about whether he didn’t have more than enough sisters and his mother might stop producing them.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like his younger sisters. He loved their dear sweet smiles and their delighted laughter when he visited them in the nursery to read to them from storybooks. Blanche was a jolly, pretty little thing with expressive blue eyes, just like their mother. Bernadette was quiet and solitary, preferring to play by herself. And the twins, Belinda and Betsy, were still crawling across the nursery floor, little more than babes.
He knew there’d been other male children born in the house. He’d heard the servants whispering about stillbirths. He’d attended the funerals, seen the tiny coffins lowered into the ground. Heard his father bellowing his rage. Covered his ears to block out his mother’s heartbreaking sobs, late at night, feeling small and helpless.
“I should like another sister,” he said gamely, smiling at his mother so she knew that she had his approval, at least.
“Thank you, darling.” She placed a glovedhand on his cheek and Brandan’s heart filled with warmth and tenderness.
