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PROLOGUE

Robert Balfour, the Duke of Stanworth, congratulated his closest friend—Michael Carden, the Earl of Hartwell—on the news of his engagement. Forcing his lips into a smile he swallowed back the bitter taste of envy with the sweet port. Envy? More like soul-destroying jealousy .

His friend of the last two decades was marrying the woman of Robert’s dreams. Dreams he had never known he had until he had locked eyes with the bewitching minx.

He was a man of the town. A man filled with passion he shared with any woman he fancied—a bored married lady, an eager widow.

And when he was not in the mood for such pursuits, his long-standing mistress was willing and able to cater to his every whim.

A love match, or even a marriage, was not in his future.

He had no need for an heir—he had younger brothers.

But when he had met the now-unattainable miss, time had stood still.

Every delicate feature of her angelic face had made him want to be a better man, a man who was worthy of her.

He had known Michael was seeking a wife, but the list of eligible ladies had been long.

Robert had thought he had time to decide whether he was willing to entertain the notion of marriage. And now it was too late.

“If you grip that glass any harder, it will surely shatter, Your Grace,” Michael said with a laugh. “What has gotten you into such a fierce mood? Disappointed to be losing your partner in frolicking about the ton?”

Shocked that his usually impassive demeanour had been breached by his bitter feelings, he forced a laugh.

“I am in a pensive mood, is all. Where shall I lay my head to rest tonight? Will you join me for one last frolic?”

“I am afraid I must decline. In truth, I feel no need for it. My bride-to-be has proven herself to be charming and learned, and has a face I am happy to admire in silence, should we run out of words.”

Ah, yes . Robert had noted her wit and well-informed views when they had shared a dance.

Her blue eyes had sparkled with every answer she had given to his every question.

He had wanted to learn as much as possible in those short moments.

Where had she grown up? Did she have siblings?

Did she like to ride? What was she reading?

The questions had spilled from him without thought—just a natural urge to ask—which in itself had been unnatural–since he normally did not care.

He stood and forced one last smile before he shook his friend's hand.

“Congratulations again, but I must go. I wish you all the best, I truly do.”

March, 1820

My lady,

I will admit your tales of learning to bake a pie made me chuckle.

Would it not have been wiser to write down the recipe instead of relying on memory?

I suspect that, for you, the challenge was not the pie itself, but to make it unaided.

Which tells me you will be determined to try and try again until you succeed.

I wish that, once you do, I could try a piece for myself.

I have joyful news, my hound Linus has given birth to five pups, they will grow into fine hunters—if I can stop the lads from coddling them. I will admit to you only that they did warm the stone that is my heart, even the runt of the litter.

Now tell me, when and what shall you bake next? I am partial to mulberry if you need inspiration. How was your charitable luncheon? And I hear you went to the opera recently with the Grantham’s.

As is our custom, here is the next line from our current read, “A Fever.”

Or if, when thou, the world’s soul, go’st.

It stay, ‘tis but they carcase then;

The fairest woman, but thy ghost,

But corrupt worms, the worthiest worm.

Yours,

The Duke of Stanworth

March, 1820

Your Grace,

I hope this letter finds you in good health.

No doubt the chuckle I gave you lifted your spirits.

It may have been easier, yes, however where is the fun in things being easy?

I intend to persist with the pie until it is just right—I do not give up.

I find myself enjoying a challenge as I grow older.

Your Grace, I refuse to believe you have a heart made of stone.

I suspect it is more like an icicle and yet to find the warmth to melt the frozen organ.

News of the pups has brought a smile to my face.

I so adore baby animals. If only we ever crossed paths in person, I would surely take one off your hands.

The luncheon was filled with more idle gossip than charity, to my disappointment, and I was invited to the opera, but I begged off.

Your sources, I assume, were the Earl and Countess Canmore.

Am I flattered or concerned you know my whereabouts?

I jest, of course. It is a comfort to know you take an interest in me. How do you plan to spend your time, now the season is coming to an end? I know you are in town, but our paths rarely cross.

O’ wrangling schools,

that search what fire,

Shall burn this world,

had none the wit.

Unto this knowledge to aspire,

That this her fever might be it?

Yours in correspondence,

Eliza