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Chapter One

“I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind?”

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

* * *

J osiah Ridley scowled at his daughter. “He is an earl, you ungrateful girl!” he bellowed. Catching himself, Lord Filminster lowered his voice. “My heartfelt regrets on finding your betrothed in a compromising situation, but this marriage will elevate our entire family within society. It will improve the chances of your brother making a better match. The wedding will proceed, Annabel. I will not discuss it yet again. It is time for you to accept it!”

Annabel, much to her shame, stamped her foot in frustration. It was pointless, as she was wearing slippers and standing on a thick, blue and yellow Aubusson rug that absorbed any sound her futile gesture might have made. “This is important! I cannot marry a man who engages in—well, improper behavior—with our kitchen maid, no less, only weeks before our wedding!”

The baron bent his balding pate as he returned to his ledgers. “You chose him to be your husband, and I signed the contracts. I will not allow you to cancel the wedding with the earl. It has been set in place for months. He will advance our family’s social status, and I will not alter this course over a minor indiscretion. It is unfortunate that you had to witness his lack of judgment, and Lord Saunton should indeed learn better discretion. But that is no reason for this level of upheaval. Good day, Annabel.”

Annabel’s mouth fell open at her abrupt dismissal. Her father scribbled in one of his ledgers, clearly indicating the discussion was over and her presence was no longer of note. Was she wrong to think Richard’s behavior was unacceptable, or was her father so blinded by ambition that he felt no remorse about committing her to a miserable lifetime with a man of such low integrity?

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Her father’s muffled shout reached her as she fumed in the timbered corridor. “And change into proper attire, young lady! Breeches are for menfolk!”

Annabel swallowed a scream of frustration, her heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might burst right out of her ribs as she leaned back against the ancient marquetry to compose herself. After yet another argument with her father, she had to reconsider her options. Could she appeal to her brother? Brendan might have helped her out of this predicament, but he was off gallivanting in London with no expectations of his return. Even if she tracked him down, there was no guarantee he would take her side. Dearest brother Brendan had not visited her in four years, and because Richard was one of his closest friends, even he might refuse to intervene. Writing to him seemed utterly pointless.

Her aunt had been of no use either. Annabel had attempted a private discussion during her recent visit, but her aunt had scolded her for even broaching the topic and swiftly changed the subject to the trousseau. Clearly, the baron’s sister would not be a source of aid.

With every passing day, the wedding loomed closer, like a spectral figure waiting in the shadows to harvest her very soul. Annabel stared sightlessly at the colorful medieval tapestries hanging on the opposite wall, chewing on her bottom lip as anxiety swirled through her thoughts.

The past month had been a parade of emotional highs and lows since what she now called The Stable Incident. She grimaced at the memory. After her father had confirmed Richard’s prediction that the marriage would proceed, she had spent two days cloistered in her room, nursing her heartbreak. When her tears finally ran dry, an epiphany struck. Her heart could not truly be broken, for she had never known the real Richard—just the masquerade of a charming gentleman who had smiled and paid her attentions. Could she have truly loved someone she had never really known? Common sense told her no.

That realization became her impetus to rise from bed and plot to prevent the wedding.

She had started a campaign to wear down her father, pleading and debating, raging and reasoning with him week after week. Yet the baron, usually quick to yield when confronted with Annabel’s emotions, remained resolute. His ambitions for the family’s social standing had rooted him firmly in place, and he refused to be moved by the arguments she presented.

Her future hung in the balance. Marriage to Richard would condemn her to a lifetime of the same loneliness and neglect she had endured since her mother’s passing. How could she escape one cold, empty household, only to resign herself to another?

Oh Mama, if only you were still here!

The ache of loss struck Annabel afresh. Her mother’s wisdom and strength had always been her solace, but now there was no one to offer her guidance. Within months of her mother’s death, Richard had entered her life, and she had believed him to be her salvation. Now, that illusion was shattered, and she was left as alone as ever.

The irony was almost unbearable—once upon a time, Richard would have been the one helping her plot an escape. Now she stood, desperate to escape him.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she squared her shoulders and blinked them back. There was no time to mourn her lost love with Richard. If she did not act soon, she would lose her entire future, and that would be far more devastating. What was a broken heart compared to a broken future? The first could heal, but the second would leave lasting scars.

Nay, she would find her path back to happiness—even if it killed her.

* * *

“Mrs. Harris, what can I do? There must be a way to stop this wedding!” Annabel pleaded.

Mrs. Harris’s expression was pensive, her brow furrowed, and her rosy cheeks had paled as she sat next to Annabel. It was against all propriety for a servant to be seated at the breakfast table, but Annabel had dismissed the footmen to speak privately with the only ally she had—her widowed housekeeper. Mrs. Harris agreed the wedding could not proceed, and she had been like a mother to Annabel since her own had passed eleven years prior. Annabel did not care to let societal expectations interfere with their close relationship while her entire future was unraveling.

“Child, I am not sure. You say Lord Filminster simply will not reconsider … perhaps you could convince Lord Saunton to call it off?” Mrs. Harris suggested.

“I tried. I begged and pleaded. I pointed out he could find someone more willing to abide by the sort of marriage he wishes to have. But he is so stubborn! He said it must be me. He complains he met dozens of debutantes over the past two Seasons, but not one whom he could mildly tolerate. He refuses to go searching for a new wife when he has already made his choice.”

The older woman appeared to muse on this absentmindedly as she picked up a flaky bun from Annabel’s plate and nibbled on it. “Is there someone that his lordship—Lord Saunton, that is—might listen to? Someone who could convince him to change his mind?”

“Hmm … that is a fresh idea to consider, but who?” Annabel tapped her teeth with her fingernail in agitation, thinking back on conversations with Richard over the years. After a few moments, she answered, “His cousin, the Duke of Halmesbury. Richard used to mention the duke all the time, although he has not in quite a while?—”

“The Duke of Halmesbury, you say? Where have I heard that name just recently?” the housekeeper interrupted, a frown on her face as she searched her memory. “I know!” she exclaimed, startling Annabel as she leapt from her seat and left the breakfast room.

Annabel stared after her retreating form through the open door as the matronly woman trotted down the hall. Glum, Annabel turned back to her plate of eggs, ham, and fruit. She forked up some baked eggs and brooded while she chewed, staring in bemusement at her china teacup.

She looked back to the door at the sound of Mrs. Harris’s huffing return. The housekeeper was clutching a copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine under one arm, her other hand pressed to her heaving bosom. Stepping back into the breakfast room, she turned and shut the door with a swipe at her perspiring brow.

“I found it!” the housekeeper trilled, resuming the seat next to Annabel.

“Found what?”

“The most recent copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine has an article on the Duke of Halmesbury.” Annabel arched an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that, child! Lord Filminster discarded it, and Stedman reads it to us belowstairs, so we know what is happening.”

“Well, show it to me, then.”

“I don’t know which page it is on. You will have to find it. These eyes are not what they used to be, and the letters are too small.”

Annabel concealed a smile as she took the magazine and flipped through its pages. “Here it is! ‘His Grace, the Duke of Halmesbury, renowned for his estimable charitable work, recently oversaw the renovations and restaffing of The Halmesbury Home for Children.’ I wouldn’t have thought The Gentleman’s Magazine would print articles about foundling homes?”

“They usually do not, but His Grace is the most marriageable noble in the kingdom. The article is about him, not his works. Fathers such as Lord Filminster read it.”

“Ah, fathers who need to marry off their daughters to make important connections. I see your point.” Annabel quickly scanned the article and looked up in excitement. “He is in residence at his country seat, Avonmead, in Wiltshire, to oversee the reopening of the children’s home. That is just a day’s ride from here, Mrs. Harris!”

“Aye, but a day’s ride might as well be all the way to London, child. How will you get there to speak with him?”

Annabel chewed on a fingernail as she thought. “I could feign illness and take to my chambers. You could insist on bringing my meals to me, so we could pretend I am here while I ride to visit the duke. It will be a secret between you, me, and Gibbons. As stable master, he will have to hide the fact that I have taken a mount.”

Mrs. Harris’s broad face looked appalled, her horrified hazel eyes searching Annabel’s face. “Have you gone mad?”

“Mrs. Harris, I can do this. I will dress in my riding garb with an overcoat and hat to ensure I appear to be a man. I will avoid other travelers and ride straight through to Avonmead. Then the kindly duke with the excellent reputation will send me back in a carriage. It is a minor risk to save my future.”

Mrs. Harris looked uncertain.

“Mrs. Harris, if I do not find a way to evade this marriage, I will have no choice but to sell my jewels and run off to the Continent. Or travel north to Scotland to find an occupation.”

The older woman hissed in horror, her face crumpling as she considered Annabel’s words.

“And Mama would want me to be bold to save myself,” Annabel added gently.

Mrs. Harris sighed, worry lines wreathing her face. “Aye, but she will return from the grave to murder me if anything happens to you.” At those words, Annabel knew the housekeeper was almost decided in her favor. She waited in silence as Mrs. Harris continued. “We will have to imply it is your monthly illness, or his lordship will call for a doctor. If he thinks it is your courses, he will stay far away to avoid your feminine vapors, as he likes to call them. I could buy a couple of days if I shoo the maids away from your rooms and take your meals upstairs myself.”

Annabel clapped her hands in delight and kissed the worried housekeeper on her plump cheek. “You are a treasure, Mrs. Harris.”

“Aye, a treasure of a fool to even think about this. And I will be a fat fool when I eat all your meals for you,” she agreed in a plaintive tone.

Annabel continued, distracted by her planning. “I shall leave this evening to ride overnight, so I reach his estate by midmorning.”

“Overnight!” cried the housekeeper.

“Yes, there will be less chance of being seen. It is a full moon tonight, so I can see to ride.”

“But blackguards … and highwaymen … and … and men!”

“Mrs. Harris, I will ride steadily all night to save the horse’s stamina, so I can ride like the wind if I hear so much as a twig snap. I will take the double-barrel pistol to protect myself. No one will expect to waylay a lone rider after midnight. Now let me see Mr. Gibbons to discuss which mount will traverse the distance best.”

The normally cheerful matron croaked in despair as she dropped her head into her folded arms on the table. “Child, you will be the death of me.”

* * *

“Felicitations on your birthday, Your Grace.”

Philip Markham, the seventh Duke of Halmesbury, grimaced at his reflection in the mirror. “Thank you, Jones. I am afraid, however, that with the advent of my thirtieth birthday, it is time to attend to my duty. I shall have to brave the vapidness of the coming Season in search of a new wife.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. It will be a pleasant change to have a lady in residence.” Jones kept a straight face as Philip snorted.

“Only if the young lady cares to allow me to warm her heart,” muttered Philip under his breath.

“Your Grace?”

“Nothing, Jones. Nothing worth repeating.”

Shortly after Jones had left the room, Philip turned back to his reflection in the looking glass, its carved gilded frame a testament to generations of Markhams who had stood where he now stood. All this history, the family legacy he was duty-bound to protect for the next generation, weighed like a heavy mantle across his shoulders. It had not always felt like such a burden, but the events of the past few years had taken their toll. Now, at thirty years of age, he had been married and widowed, yet was childless. Somehow, this birthday did not feel like one to celebrate.

He squared his shoulders. Never mind that—it had been three long years since his wife’s passing. It was time to move on. He could see faint lines forming at the corners of his eyes, mild furrows between his brows. He wished for smile lines to match, but there had been little in his life to smile about for some time.

His loneliness was a palpable pall that permeated the depths of his soul. Palpable pall that permeated? He groaned. It was regrettable to find himself waxing poetic, a sure sign it was high time to relinquish his hermitage. His lack of stimulating company was slowly driving him mad.

It had long been his dream to fill Halmesbury Manor with the sounds of children’s laughter, to share love and warmth with his family by the time he reached this milestone birthday. His own parents had provided a happy, vibrant home when he was a boy. Yet time had crept forward, and here he was, alone—no wife, no children to carry on his name. Life had upended his plans in ways he could not have foreseen. His marriage to Jane Marley had been his first mistake. Bumbling their wedding night had set the tone for their strained relationship. His overzealous attentiveness had stifled her, and he had driven her to?—

Philip forced himself to stop. No sense in dwelling on the past. That chapter was closed. He would learn from his mistakes and strive for better. His next bride would be bold, a woman of spirit who could share companionship and joy, not one who was timid or unwilling to communicate. Together, they could build a home filled with love and the children he had dreamed of for so long.

His parents’ untimely deaths had left him yearning for the kind of family they had shared, one of connection and mutual affection. But his cousin Richard—he grimaced at the thought—had been a constant thorn in his side, a treacherous presence he was grateful to be rid of.

No matter. Richard no longer mattered. What mattered now was finding the right duchess. His own passions had cooled with time, and he no longer yearned for a romantic whirlwind. Instead, he sought a partnership of mutual respect and shared purpose. He would be pragmatic, not foolish. A pleasant, steady marriage with a strong, intelligent woman was not too much to hope for after years of reflection.

Philip inspected his reflection. His figure was still robust, his posture straight from years of riding and occasional brawls at his London club. His tailored navy coat, linen shirt, and buckskins fit impeccably. He reached to adjust a brass button on his waistcoat. Yes, he still cut a fine figure.

His future bride must be unconventional—a young woman unbroken by society’s narrow expectations, someone with intelligence and vitality. He wanted a wife who could meet his gaze, speak her mind, and share a genuine connection.

He would not settle for timidity. He desired what his parents had—a marriage of equals filled with mutual understanding. With renewed resolve, he turned from the mirror.

For my birthday, I give myself permission to seek a bride and plan for the next generation of Markhams.

* * *

Annabel’s back and thighs were aching by the time she rode up to a copse of trees bordering the front drive of Avonmead. She had ridden through the night, and she estimated it was now about ten o’clock in the morning.

As she gazed up at the impressive Palladian edifice rising two towering stories, she felt her pulse quicken with trepidation. Should she walk up one of the front stone staircases to the portico and simply knock on the hardwood doors? Surely the servants would not grant her entry based on her unconventional attire. If they turned her away, the enormous risk she took in traveling here would be for naught. Why had she not brought a change of clothes? She’d been so focused on the journey, she had not thought ahead to the arrival. She could have cleaned up at the lake she had seen in the distance and donned a walking dress and pelisse to present herself at the front door as a lady. As she was now, she would appear to be a lout, if she even fooled the attending servant into thinking she was a lad in such proximity.

She sighed in resignation. It was too late to regret her lack of preparation now. Her nerves were starting to fail her. Hopefully, he was not one of those peers who slept half the day away. She was counting on him being an industrious man, as the magazine suggested, who rose early. If not, it would force her to hide out somewhere until he made an appearance.

Tick-tock, Annabel, tick-tock.

With the reminder of her impending wedding day racing toward her, she steeled her nerves and dismounted, tying Starling to one of the sturdy lower branches.

She rolled her shoulders to stretch out. The bulky overcoat had grown uncomfortable within the last couple of hours of riding. She was grateful that her expedition was occurring mid-autumn, as the overcoat was a necessary part of her disguise. A month or two earlier, it would have been far too warm to have kept the coat on for the duration. As it was, she warmed to an uncomfortable degree after dawn had broken across the eastern sky to herald the start of the day. Right about the time she entered Wiltshire County, when the air had sounded with birdcalls as if to welcome her arrival.

Her ride had been uneventful, having started out from Baydon Hall at midnight with the full moon lighting a brilliant path on the roadways to be navigated. She concealed herself only twice in the woods and hedges to the side of the roads when oncoming mail coaches neared her position.

Swiping her brow and neck with a handkerchief, she considered her quest. The Duke of Halmesbury was her last chance to change her fate. If the quest failed, she would have to do something truly desperate to outwit her father’s plans, not to mention Richard’s despicable ideals of perfect marriage.

She may not be a beautiful English rose, but she must value herself, just as Mama had always instructed. Annabel’s only hope was to receive a warm reception rather than find herself in worsening circumstances. She prayed this was not a matter of leaping from the frying pan into the fire. The duke’s reputation was excellent, but she did not know what sort of man he really was. A kind one, she hoped with fervor.

Now that a plan was in motion, instead of lamenting her circumstances between arguments with her father, Annabel felt the fire of determination fueling her forward. Her body might tremble with exhaustion, but that fire would continue to energize her through this struggle. She must see this through, and she must succeed. Considering the walk up the driveway, she noted the leafy bushes would shield her from the manor windows.

She rubbed the gelding’s ears.

“Good boy, Starling. Thank you for getting me here safely,” she whispered in a warm voice, feeding him a carrot from her coat pocket. With a pat, she turned and quickly started across the drive toward the bushes, stooping to remain hidden as long as possible as she tried to think how to proceed. Once she reached the majestic stone structure, she would find a way to talk to the duke. He would be in residence, and he would agree to help her.

Fortune favors the bold, Annabel.

She climbed the stone steps on the left to reach the massive oak doors. The house boasted two symmetrical staircases converging onto a colonnaded portico, she noted, her mind wandering onto vague topics as her courage failed. Forcing herself forward, she stood in front of the doors and tentatively used the brass knocker.

No one came to the door.

She surmised the servants may be occupied in other parts of the house, not expecting a visit so much earlier than conventional visiting times. Bravado and caution warred, a dichotomy within her mind as she tried to work out how to proceed until a single thought, voiced in her mother’s clear tones, whispered.

Sometimes, discretion is the better part of valor.

Perhaps she did not need to convince the servants to allow her entry. This was a country estate quite a distance from the local village and, if this household was anything like Baydon Hall, there was a chance that the front door was not locked while the servants went about their early morning errands. Ignoring her deafening heartbeats, the thumping so loud it surely could be heard all the way back to Baydon Hall, she saw her hand reach for the handle as if it had a mind of its own. Her choice was apparently made—if the door was unlocked, she was going to walk into the manor and find the duke.

If, heaven forfend, she was caught, the servants would be compelled to report her intrusion and grant her an audience with the master of the house.