Page 2

Chapter Two

“ G od save me from ribbons and fools,” muttered Robert Firming, the Duke of Aberon.

He was just reining in his black stallion at the top of the gravel path with his boots speckled with mud and his coat collar turned high against the wind.

He sat astride the beast like a storm on the verge of breaking, broad-shouldered, black-clad, and glaring murderously down the drive at the source of his sudden, specific loathing.

A carriage.

A very pink carriage.

No… worse. A confection of a thing. Gilded trim, white lacquered wheels, a flourish of swan-feather plumes rising absurdly from the crest, and more lace stuffed in the windows than belonged in a respectable linen press.

It was the sort of vehicle that looked less like it belonged on the road and more like it ought to be served at tea with a sugar spoon and lemon.

It sat there, all smug and floral at the front of his estate, sullying the drive like a stray bonnet left on a hunting field.

Robert narrowed his eyes. He had been out riding since dawn, inspecting the fences in the south fields, noting a patch of rot in the mill shed. His morning had been quiet. More importantly, it was peaceful. He had spoken to no one but his horse, and his horse, blessedly, never answered back.

And now this .

He clicked his tongue and urged the stallion forward, gravel crunching beneath hooves, wind stirring the black edges of his coat. His jaw clenched tighter with every yard he drew closer to the offending monstrosity.

There was a crest on the door. It was horrifyingly dainty, overwrought, floral, and as the horse passed beside it, he caught a glimpse of lace-gloved fingers adjusting the curtains from within.

“Hellfire and hens’ teeth,” Robert growled under his breath.

A lady . Of course.

He had just handed the reins of his horse to a stable boy when the carriage door burst open. What stepped down was not a lace- swaddled debutante or a breathless socialite… No. It was a fire storm.

A woman in her middle years, richly dressed in violet silk and diamonds far too fine for a country confrontation, hit the gravel with the fury of divine reckoning. Her feathers bobbed, her curls trembled with indignation, and her mouth opened with all the righteous rage of a theatre tragedy.

“How dare you!” she cried loudly, as though she had just caught him personally setting fire to Westminster Abbey. “How dare you!”

Robert blinked once.

She advanced like a frigate in full sail, lace flying, parasol clutched in one white-gloved hand like a sabre. “You think you can do as you please because of your title? Because you live in this grim fortress with your sullen horse and your even sulkier disposition?”

His brow arched slightly. He had not spoken a word. What’s more, he had absolutely no idea what she was ranting about. Yet, she was not done. In fact, she was far from it.

“My daughter is ruined — ruined ! And do you think we’ve not heard of you hiding away here, making everyone believe you have long departed? Do you think the world is so very blind to your brooding silences and your midnight habits and your—your disregard for common decency?”

Robert stared at her.

“I ought to call down every decent father and brother in Christendom to beat your wretched hide bloody for what you’ve done,” she went on, pacing and utterly incensed. “To have taken everything from her, her reputation, her very future! For shame!”

He felt the corner of his eye twitch in reaction to the woman waving her parasol like a judge’s gavel as her voice reached its full operatic peak.

“Do you think your name protects you? That your mourning cloak excuses your behavior? You may be a duke, sir, but you are not above honor!”

He had been rooted, stunned even, and completely too taken aback by the whirlwind of silks and rage to interrupt. But now, finally, comprehension dawned.

That was when a shadow passed across his face. It was not confusion, nor guilt. It was mere annoyance.

He lifted one gloved hand.

And miraculously, like some primal command too old for words, the effect was immediate. The woman’s tirade caught in her throat like a bird hitting glass.

He had already realized that he did not recognize her face. Beyond a vague recollection of lace, pearls, and shrill laughter from some long-ago gathering, she could have been any lady from any place he accidentally happened to frequent. And he most certainly did not know her daughter.

Ruined? He had not so much as spoken to a young lady in… years. Not willingly at any rate. His brow creased slightly, as if the lines of her outrage had to be translated into a language he had no wish to learn.

Still, he straightened. Politeness, after all, cost less than scandal.

“You, dear lady, have arrived uninvited to my estate, hurling accusations with the force of a cavalry charge, and I am now left to stand here and piece together what crime I am meant to have committed.”

Her mouth opened again, but something had shifted in her eyes. A flicker of hesitation.

Ah, there it was.

She had just remembered that she was not speaking to some penniless rake or minor baron’s son but to a duke in his own drive, nonetheless, with the full height of Aberon Hall behind him and a stable full of servants at his back.

Robert let the silence stretch.

Then, with a faint, cold incline of his head, he added, “Mrs. Hargrave will show you to the drawing room. I shall join you… momentarily.”

The woman pressed her lips together. The fire in her cheeks had not faded, but the blaze had dimmed into something more tightly controlled, almost more calculating. She gave a sharp, stiff nod, gathered what remained of her dignity, and swept into the house without another word.

The wind stirred his coat again as the door shut behind her.

Robert remained where he was, gloved hands resting behind his back.

A low, irritated sigh escaped him as he turned his gaze out over the long gravel path.

He had meant only to inspect the fencing.

Ride the south edge. Return for breakfast and silence and a few blessed hours with no one expecting anything of him.

Instead, a pink carriage, a shrieking matron, and now some imagined scandal involving a daughter he could not name.

He scowled, deeply. “What in the devil’s name ,” he muttered to himself, “happened to my peaceful bloody day?”

Several minutes later, his boots made no sound as he entered the drawing room.

The air inside was thick with rose perfume and agitation.

The woman was not seated. Instead, she was shifting from foot to foot like a woman trying to decide whether to faint or take command of a cavalry regiment.

She had removed her gloves but not her bonnet.

It seemed to be an unspoken signal of battle-readiness, and Robert noted it with dry amusement.

Still, he said nothing.

Instead, he walked slowly to the sideboard, his coat brushing faintly against the carved edge of the walnut cabinet. The decanter stood waiting.

Thank God for Mrs. Hargrave.

He uncorked it with an ease that suggested this was not the first morning to go sideways before luncheon. The liquid sloshed gently into the glass. It was of amber color, a Highland single malt, certainly older than the girl he was apparently meant to have ruined.

He took a sip in silence. The lady cleared her throat, but he did not turn.

He took another sip, and only then, finally, he pivoted to face her.

He had one hand in his pocket and the glass held lightly in the other.

He was, as always, calm. Annoyed, yes, but not surprised.

That would have implied he still expected the world to behave sensibly.

“Now,” he said, voice low and measured, “would you mind telling me what happened?”

The woman’s lips twitched. The fire in her eyes had not returned, but the anxiety was back, prickling beneath her skin.

“My daughter,” she said, lifting her chin, “has said… certain things.”

His brow rose, just slightly.

She fumbled. “She told me that—that something occurred. That she… gave herself to you. And that afterward, you were gone. There were rumors that you had died, and I—I came to see if it were true because if you are not dead, then by all rights, Your Grace, you ought to?—”

“Enough.”

His hand rose again. Not harsh nor cruel but final. It cut her off more cleanly than a blade. The other hand set his glass down.

“And your daughter is…?”

She hesitated. “Miss Evelyn Ellory. Daughter of the Viscount of Brimwood.”

He blinked once. That was all.

“I do not remember a Miss Evelyn Ellory,” he said plainly. “Though I assure you, Lady Brimwood, I am not in the habit of ruining young ladies.”

“But she?—”

“I believe,” he interrupted, “I should remember if I had compromised a viscount’s daughter.”

A pause. The room seemed to exhale. Robert’s gaze stayed fixed on the window. He didn’t look at her when he spoke next.

“Even if I had compromised anyone, Lady Brimwood, which I have not, I assure you, I do not respond well to being told what I ought to do.”

His voice was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried the chill of stone beneath a winter frost. If he had turned then, he would have found the woman flushed to the roots of her powdered curls.

She shifted again, fussed with her gloves, and gave a strained little laugh.

But he still remained with his back turned to her.

“No, no, of course not, Your Grace. I—I never meant to imply…” She trailed off, clutching her reticule in both hands like a lifeline. “This must have all been some… misunderstanding.”

Robert still said nothing.

She began speaking again, but now, it was more to herself than to him, her eyes darting about the drawing room as though searching for some ally among the draperies.

“I suppose Evelyn lied to me. To avoid…” She shook her head, lips tightening. “I should have known she might do something so mad. Always with her sharp tongue and grand principles. I told her… I told her more than once that a lady with too many opinions soon finds herself very alone.”

Robert remained still. He had learned a long time ago that people had a tendency to reveal themselves on their very own. One did not even need to ask any questions but only listen.

The woman pressed on. “She really ought to take better care. It’s not as though proposals rain from the heavens.

She’s had plenty, and what has she done but reject every single one?

And now she’s gone and made herself quite unmanageable—again.

Well. Let her. She’s lucky Lord Wimberly still wants her. ”

That made him turn… slowly.

He faced her with a precision that felt too exact to be casual. “Pardon?”

She blinked, confused by the sudden shift. “I said, she’s lucky Lord Wimberly is still happy to marry her.”

He stepped toward her, just once. Not threatening but focused.

“Who,” he said softly, “is Lord Wimberly to you?”

The woman, visibly unnerved now, tried to recover her usual briskness. “Why—he is my husband’s business partner. Wimberly is a widower, you know, terribly wealthy. In need of a mother for his children. Evelyn may put on airs, but I know she’ll come to her senses in time.”

Robert felt as if someone punched him in the gut, but he knew better than to show a reaction to that name. Fortunately, a life marred by tragedy had taught him how to hide his emotions well.

“I see,” he said at last. “Thank you, Lady Brimwood. That will be all.”

She hesitated, mouth parting slightly as though to ask something, but his tone had left no room for dialogue. Whatever curiosity sparked behind her eyes was promptly smothered by his stare.

She clutched her reticule tighter and nodded stiffly. “Very good. Good day, Your Grace.”

He said nothing. He listened to the sound of her steps echoing sharply against the marble. One hand passed over his jaw, slow and thoughtful, and then dropped to his side. His eyes lifted.

The family portrait loomed above the hearth as it always had.

A stately thing, done in somber tones as was expected: greys, navy, plum.

His father sat stiff in a red velvet chair, his eyes hard as iron.

His mother stood beside him, not smiling but still soft, still gentle.

She had always worn sorrow like jewelry, quiet and dignified.

His brother, Thomas, stood at their father’s right hand, proud and sure. And then Robert, younger by seven years, perched uncomfortably on a carved stool. His coat was too large, his posture too guarded, like a boy already preparing for battle.

He stepped toward it now. The fire crackled behind him, casting shifting shadows across the painted canvas. He reached up, slowly, and touched his fingertips to the image of his mother’s face.

There it was. Just there, in the corner of her eye. The faint, almost imperceptible crinkle that had only visibly appeared when she laughed. He had forgotten that. His fingers paused, and he exhaled, long and quiet.

“I swore I would never allow that world to pull me back into its filth. That I would not dance to their songs nor speak in their riddles nor pretend that honor still existed where it had been sold for titles.”

He swallowed. His hand dropped.

“I made that vow to you .”

His gaze moved slowly across each painted face. His brother. His father. His mother.

And then, more quietly now, barely louder than the fire’s hiss, he continued, “But if I am ever to deserve this title… if I am ever to be what you believed I could be…”

A pause. His jaw tightened.

“Then I must break it.”