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Chapter One
December 15, 1819
Ravenscroft House
Near Sherston
Wiltshire County
England
Ah, Laurence, you would have adored the twilight tonight.At least before the fat, gray clouds, swollen with rain, scudded across the purple, pink and golden shades of the setting sun.
Amelia Stanton—Belle to her close friends—or Lady Ravenscroft to the rest of polite society, walked the grounds around Ravenscroft House as a chilly breeze ruffled her navy wool skirts, and with every step, memories beset her mind. One of her husband’s favorite times of the day was the twilight, especially if it was brilliantly colored. They might not have shared many things, but the love of twilight was one of them. Another was carnal pursuits but pondering the loss of that at this time felt entirely too odd. A shiver coursed down her spine when the wind skated beneath her skirting, recalling her attention to the fact that winter was oncoming. Perhaps it would snow soon if the temperatures dropped a bit further. That would help put her more in the holiday frame of mind.
And put grief for a life half-lived back into the boxes she kept in her mind. Being five years removed from losing her husband she’d learned how to handle the emotion better than when it had been fresh, and most times it left her alone. Yet it was those unexpected little moments—seeing a colorful twilight, hearing a piece of music, meeting with a mutual friend—that dredged up those memories and sent her down the rabbit hole once more.
Despite the direction of her thoughts, there was much to look forward to, for the Christmastide season was almost here, and it was one of her favorite times of the year. Decorating the manor house amidst the festive attitude of the servants helped buoy her spirits. To say nothing of the Christmas Eve ball she hosted every year. It was one event she was adamant about throwing, and if truth be told, it was because she bought a new gown for it. Now that she had no need to make appearances in London, she rarely bought clothing. It seemed wasteful, somehow, so she spent that coin on her maid, sneaking her dainty handkerchiefs or different baubles the girl wouldn’t ordinarily have.
It made them both happy, so where was the harm? To add to the festivities, her close friend Helen was due for a visit on the morrow, which was exciting, for Belle had been alone for a long time. Where she used to entertain frequently in London—for it was expected for a lady—once she’d relocated to the country, none of that seemed important.
Especially since Laurence preferred hunting to dancing most times… except during her Christmas Eve ball.
Then her husband had unexpectedly died, and she buried herself in the country, unable to acclimate to being alone. But what really irritated her was the idea that perhaps it was her own self preventing the solving of the problem. If she truly wished to reenter society—either here or in London—she could have at any time, yet in the country she remained.
Out of fear or something else? She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say.
You will forever remain a coward, Amelia, because you are too afraid to admit you want or even need a man.
Shut up,she told the annoying voice inside.
There is no shame in it, though,that voice insisted.Men do have their uses.
Therein lay the crux of the matter.
As a few raindrops hit her cheeks, she put up the hood of her cloak. Was there anything more annoying than cold rain? Despite the precipitation, Belle strolled a bit more slowly. Laurence had loved the rolling lawns and verdant vistas that Ravenscroft land afforded. He’d hunted the acreage, rode every chance he had, enjoyed the occasional fox hunt, and spent every second he could in the out of doors. Her husband had truly been a proper gentleman of leisure when he wasn’t laboring beneath the duties to his viscounty. Which was why it had come as a shock that a simple infection had ultimately felled him.
A sigh escaped her. One would have assumed the man to have met death being thrown from a horse or in another hunting-related accident, but fate was nothing if not ironic. Laurence had obtained a deep scratch while out riding. It hadn’t seemed that much of a concern at the time. He’d gone about his regular routines without thought. Except three days later, he developed a fever then an infection that grew continually worse. Two weeks later, he was gone, leaving her a widow and alone.
Well, that wasn’t essentially true. He’d left her two hunting dogs, but they’d both expired two years after he had.
No matter. Laurence’s death had been five years ago, and since she’d never cared for the hustle and bustle of London, Belle had remained at his country estate. For being a viscountess, she’d stayed in Town when he was there for Parliament, but as soon as those responsibilities were over, they had both left immediately for the fresh air and peace of the country. Another irony, that. The very peace and solitude she’d craved while in London was the very thing that might drive her into insanity now. And through it all, she waited for her husband’s younger brother to come and claim the holdings and viscounty. He always wrote each year that he would arrive for Christmastide, but those plans never materialized. In fact, rarely had she seen the man while in London. He was a bit of a rogue and spent copious amounts of time skirting the bounds of propriety.
Laurence had tried many times to curb his ways, but to no avail. Her husband had lectured his sibling, had lauded the virtues of being someone in society people wished to know, advised him to align himself with a suitable match, but for whatever reason, his brother had ignored all of such talk. He’d taken himself off to his own devices.
Life remained much the same for her as it had been since Laurence departed this world for the next. She oversaw the running of the estate in lieu of a steward—for that man had left upon her husband’s death without notice—and because of the solitary existence she kept, she rather thought she might go mad at times, for the silence was often deafening, and there was no one of consequence to talk with.
God help her maid, for she was the closest thing to a best friend she had these days. Everyone else she’d ever known resided in London, and none of them were inclined to travel out her Ravenscroft House for an extended stay.
So she was largely left with ghosts and memories. And her sleek, blue-gray cat namedMathieu. The breed originated from Persia and came to England through France, so she’d given the animal a French name. He’d been with her for two years and was considered her personal guard and protector. For this service, she treated him to succulent bits of her breakfasts and dinners. Sometimes, to solidify his presence in her life, the cat brought her mice, rats, snakes, bird, chipmunks, and all manner of other small nuisances.
Thankfully, most of them were dead, for if the rodents were alive, she would faint dead away at the sight of them.
But then, that was why she’d acquired Mathieu. Besides being a good companion, he adored hunting, and in that, he reminded her of Laurence. Which brought her thoughts around full circle.
Why did you leave me so soon?
Of course, she’d loved her husband, but he had considered her as an afterthought most of the time. He’d been a lean and rugged man, and when it became evident they were not destined to be blessed with children, he would increasingly spend more and more time away from home. There was no evidence he kept a mistress, and when she’d asked him about it, he had looked her in the eyes and denied it. She’d believed it, as, each time he was in her company, he attended to her adequately, which led her to surmise there was not, in fact, a mistress.
