Page 11

Prologue

T he large gates of Whitmore Hall opened with a creak as the carriage rolled through, the sound mingling with the rustling of leaves in the wind. The sweeping grounds of the estate stretched out on either side, the majestic trees casting long shadows as the late afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky. Inside the carriage, Christopher Wright, the Duke of Haverleigh sat across from his only friend, James Hartwell, Viscount Landowne as they discussed what they would do over their upcoming break from Eton.

Christopher leaned against the seat while keeping his posture perfectly dignified as he gazed out of the window. At fourteen, he was already an imposing figure, his features sharp and his demeanor that of a young man well aware of his position in society. He kept his golden blond hair in a tangle of curls that fell just below his neck—even though the haircut was not the eight of fashion. What did he care about fashion? He was still too young to bother with such things. His friend, James sat beside him, more relaxed but still every inch the gentleman. The two had spent their childhood together at Eton, and their bond had only grown stronger over the years. This was his first time visiting Whitmore Hall. He had no reason to visit before this. His father had always insisted he return to Haverleigh—he had ducal training to see to when he was not at school.

Oh, how his father had insisted… Neither of them had believed that his training would be put to use so soon. Christopher certainly hadn’t. He had thought his father larger than life. So, when he had fell over and died suddenly it had come to a shock. He was not that old. How could a man so young just keel over from chest pain? It was a terrifying thing to witness, and one he would not soon forget. He should have stayed home and remained in mourning, but he could not do that. He could not stay in that house knowing that his father would no longer be there. His mother, well that was another story altogether. Christopher wasn’t exactly close with her either, and she had not seemed to care one bit that her husband had died.

So, no, going home was not something he could do. It held too many haunting memories he could not escape. He would much rather stay with his dear friend and his family.

"Whitmore Hall," Christopher said as the carriage finally came to a stop. "It doesn’t seem as dismal as Haverleigh."

James chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "I am not so certain what to make of that statement, though father will be pleased that you do not think it is dismal. He does love our ancestral home."

Christopher raised an eyebrow. "I did not mean...."

"Do not try to explain. I do understand." James waved a hand dismissively. “You cannot go back there right now. So, you are welcome here. Always, and my family will agree.”

The door of the carriage opened, and the footman helped them both down, their boots crunching against the gravel as they stepped onto the driveway of Whitmore Hall. The sprawling estate loomed before them; its stone facade bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. The air was rich with the scent of roses and fresh grass, a welcome change the seriousness of Haverleigh.

The moment they set foot on the grounds, a young voice rang out, light and high-pitched, though undeniably full of mischief. "James!" a young girl approximately nine years old, bounded down the stairs from the house, her golden curls bouncing with each step and smiled at Viscount Landowne with clear adoration. Her wide, curious eyes landed on Christopher, and a mischievous grin spread across her face. "Mother said you were bringing home a friend," she said with a quick curtsy, her tone laced with mock reverence. "Is it true that you’re a duke?" Ah…this must be his friend’s little sister, Lady Phillipa…

Christopher’s lips tightened into a thin line, though he fought to keep the annoyance from his expression. His gaze swept over her, and he had to admit, she was certainly a feisty little thing. But that didn’t mean he had to like her. “Hello," he said coolly, his voice polished and formal. "Yes. I am a duke."

The girl’s grin grew wider, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Do I have to address you as Your Grace," she teased.

Christopher’s lips tightened, his patience already beginning to wear thin. This —this girl—was a handful. He was accustomed to well-behaved young ladies who were respectful and composed, not children who saw it as their duty to mock him the moment they laid eyes on him. He was a duke, for heaven's sake, and she, by all accounts, was the younger sister of his dear friend James. Shouldn’t she be more in awe of him? Most would be…

“No, Lady Phillipa,” he replied stiffly, his tone edged with formality, “You need not address me as ‘Your Grace.’ A simple ‘sir’ will do.” James had spoken at length about his little sister. It was the only reason Christopher even knew the little hellion’s name. He should have been prepared for her gregarious nature, but he still couldn’t help being taken aback by it. Her personality would take some time to become accustomed to to, and he feared it might take him longer than most.

Pippa tilted her head, clearly enjoying the tension in the air. “A simple ‘sir,’” she repeated, with an exaggerated sigh. “That does sound dreadfully dull, doesn’t it? You are a duke, after all.” She gave him a pointed look, clearly waiting for some response, as though her jest was a witticism for the ages.

James chuckled softly from behind him, clearly aware of the impromptu battle brewing between them. "Pippa," he began, though his tone was more amused than admonishing, "Do try to behave. His Grace has only just arrived. It would be most unkind to torment him so soon."

Pippa stuck her tongue out at James, but then turned her attention back to Christopher, her smile unwavering. "Oh, but James," she said brightly, “It is just so tempting to tease him. He looks so serious, like he has something stuck up his?—"

"Enough!" Christopher snapped, his sharp tone cutting through the air. His patience was slipping. A duke was never supposed to be the subject of such childish jest. He squared his shoulders and turned to face her fully, his gaze colder. "Lady Phillipa, perhaps you would like to return to your lessons in the house? I’m sure you have many books to entertain you." He glanced past he. “Or a governess that is surely looking for you.”

Pippa raised her brows in mock surprise, clearly delighted by his discomfort. "Oh, I’ve read all of the books that interest me in that stuffy library," she said, her voice turning mockingly sweet. "But if you’d like me to go, I suppose I shall. You are correct that my governess is probably in search of me.”

James, sensing that Christopher was not enjoying the situation, stepped forward. "Pippa, come now. We are both tired from the journey. Let’s leave His Grace to settle in." He gave Christopher an apologetic look, but the tension in the air was palpable.

Pippa folded her arms over her chest, pouting slightly as if she was a much older woman trying to hold onto her dignity. “Fine,” she huffed, giving Christopher one last pointed look. “But don’t think I won’t remember this, sir.” She turned on her heel, storming back up the stairs to the house.

Christopher stood there for a moment, watching her retreating figure with an expression of disbelief. How could it be possible that someone so young could be so irritating? He turned back to James, who was still smirking. “She’s insufferable,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tight.

James let out a low laugh. “You’ll get used to her, I’m sure. She’s a spirited one, our Pippa. But she means well.” His tone softened as he regarded his friend. “I’m sure you’ll find your visit here... interesting.”

Christopher’s mood didn’t improve. “A tiny part of me wishes I could just go back to Haverleigh,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Bu this place feels... welcome. I know that sounds a little crazy. Haverleigh is do dreary in comparison.”

James’s smile faded as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “You know, Christopher,” he began, “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to stay. If Whitmore is weighing on you—if you can’t bear being there—then there’s no shame in leaving.”

Christopher looked out across the grand grounds of Whitmore Hall, the vast expanse of green stretching beneath a dimming sky. The trees swayed in the breeze, and the grandeur of it all felt as if it was suffocating him. He exhaled slowly, his frustration growing. “I can’t leave because I cannot go home, not now.” He wondered if he would ever feel comfortable at Haverleigh again. Not after watching his father die in front of him.

James nodded, as though he understood better than anyone else the deep, unspoken turmoil plaguing his friend. “I know,” he said softly. "But you must know, no matter what... you don’t have to bear it alone."

For a moment, Christopher was silent, a storm of thoughts clouding his mind. He didn’t belong in this place. He didn’t belong among these people. His world was at Haverleigh, and here he felt like an outsider. Yet, in the back of his mind, there was one thing that gnawed at him—one voice that persisted in his thoughts, one presence he couldn’t ignore.

He could not deny the strange reaction Lady Phillipa had stirred in him. She was insolent, brash, and utterly impossible. And yet, there was something about her—a fire in her eyes, an impish grin that he knew would haunt him until the day he left Whitmore Hall and probably long after that as well. The more she teased him, the more he had become drawn to her—it was rather perverse.

He didn’t know whether it was her mockery of him or the way she spoke to him like no one else did, but something about the way she pushed his buttons made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt since his father’s death. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved to see her go or looking forward to the next time they would clash. Either way, he knew something had been set in motion. Something he hadn’t planned, nor did he fully understand. Christopher sighed, glancing back at James. “What have you gotten me into?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” James said, his tone light. “You always do.”

But Christopher wasn’t so sure about that. And as the evening drew on, with Pippa’s words echoing in his mind, he realized that perhaps he had underestimated her—and that he might soon find himself tangled in something far more complicated than he had ever anticipated. He sighed. She was but a child. Why did she bother him so bloody much?