Chapter One

It was a night like any other when the Duke of Hertfordshire’s world turned upside down.

At nine o’clock in the evening, Graham Barnet set off from his home in Mayfair to enjoy his usual residency at his gentleman’s club in the West End. The carriage ride was uneventful, if a tad foggy for midsummer. Graham watched the city streets with keen eyes as he took in his surroundings: huddled masses at the edges of London’s boulevards and alleyways, occupants of the liminal space between his home and the club.

Graham hated seeing people like this, the wretched masses of London, begging for a single coin to survive as he rode in luxury. He couldn’t resist the urge to stop and provide a pound or two to the city’s unfortunates, wishing he could do more to assist them in their hour of need.

He was in a sour mood when he arrived at the club, unable to cease the stream of never-ending thoughts of sickly people at the fringes of High Society. Indeed, he had a difficult time seeing them without picturing his mother among them; she had been in ill health as of late, and he never seemed to tire of worrying about her. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to return to the country and visit his home, preferring to stay in London, where he could carefully guard his independence.

Visiting his mother meant more questions about taking a wife, and those were not questions Graham was willing to answer.

So, he did what he had to in order to keep his mind occupied      during the Season. He went to the club and avoided every social event for which he received an invitation. At the club, the stubborn bachelors of the ton conversed and gambled, attempting to escape the inevitability of marriage to some Society girl. In the gambling hells of the West End, Graham and men like him could pretend they would forever be free to do as they pleased—free of responsibility, of family, and most of all, free of love.

By the stroke of midnight, Graham had played several hands of cards and was feeling warm and tired, with a belly full of brandy. His head spun with just a touch of intoxication, the laughter of his friends and patrons brightening his otherwise dour mood.

“Barnet, are you listening?”

At the sound of the unusually informal address—for only his closest friends dared to break convention and refer to him by his first or last name—his  eyes darted to his old friend, Jack Fairfield, sitting at the table across from him with a deck of cards. Graham nodded, though he hadn’t heard a word the man had said.

“Of course,” he said. “My apologies—I seem to be somewhat absent-minded tonight.”

“Must be something in the air,” Fairfield chuckled. “I was just discussing potentially taking a trip to the country with Everett here. Would you fancy joining us?”

“For what?”

“To hunt, of course,” Fairfield laughed. “Fox season is nearly at an end, my friend, or have you forgotten, trapped in London as you are?”

“I believe he’s merely trying to avoid his dear mother and sister,” Everett laughed. “Unless I’m mistaken, Barnet?”

Graham barked out an answering laugh, raising his hands. “Guilty as charged. Every time I leave the city, I fear my mother will soon catch me unawares with a marriage proposal from some rural lady.”

“Can you even imagine?” Everett said, looking between the two of them. “His Grace, the Duke of Hertfordshire, trapped with a little country mouse so far from London. Whatever would he do without his gambling hell and his little Mayfair estate?”

“Isn’t Hertfordshire just a day’s ride away . . . ?”

Graham cut off Fairfield with a scowl. “Come off it, the both of you,” he said. “The irony of hearing that from two second sons who can remain bachelors as long as they’d like is baffling. You know nothing of what it’s like to be the first son, with all your family’s expectations laid upon your shoulders.”

“Would taking a wife really be all that bad?” Fairfield said. “Wasn’t there someone in Hertfordshire all those years ago? I thought I remembered you talking about her when we were at Eton.”

Graham knew exactly who Fairfield was talking about, the beautiful, wild girl with whom he’d spent a summer flirting in what felt like a lifetime ago. Hertfordshire was close geographically, but far from his heart now, too painful to return to after his father’s death. He wondered if that wild girl still carried a torch for him after he’d left her behind so long ago—and never written.

“Your poor mother,” Everett teased. “To have her son be forever a bachelor and no heir to carry on the dukedom”

“I never said I would not have an heir, but if I do not, my late father’s brother will be more than willing to take on the burden of the title and the lands,” he said defensively. It was not as though he was leaving his family members in the poorhouse if he didn’t have an heir. “Besides, Mary will wed a lord and will be settled into whatever home he owns. Thus, I shall do as I please,” ” Graham muttered. “And besides—the issue isn’t marriage so much as it is my reticence to trust any young lady who courts me. Every Season it’s the same song and dance, anxious mothers sending their daughters in to try to land a duke.”

“More excuses from a man who does not even know how good he has it,” Fairfield chuckled. “Poor Graham Barnet, with every beautiful heiress seeking his fortune. Well, if you won’t join us for a hunt, then how about breakfast tomorrow? Maybe we can convince you to return to the country after all.”

Graham smiled. “Perhaps. For now, though, gentlemen, you must excuse me—my carriage is waiting.”

Graham rose and made his way down the stairs, through clouds of aromatic tobacco smoke and the drifting scent of fine liquor. His friends were still making quite the ruckus upstairs, serious betting and cards only now getting underway. Yet, Graham was tired in a manner that he hadn’t been in some time, as if the exhaustion was seeping into his very bones.

Perhaps there was, as Fairfield had suggested, something in the air.

By the time Graham finally made his way out of the club, there was no carriage to be found. While it struck him as odd, Graham never minded walking the streets at night; he was a tall and muscular man, and not even the most dangerous vagrants posed any real threat to him. So, rather than wait for      his valet, Graham chose to stroll from the West End back to his home in Mayfair.

The cool night air was crisp and chill, the fog having dispersed while he was inside the club. The moon was out now, draped in grey clouds and casting strange shadows across the streets. Graham did not baulk at the shadows. Instead, he peered into them, considering why exactly it was that he did not wish to return home. It had been far too long since he’d visited his mother and sister, and his mother had only recently written to him that his sister, Mary, was being courted by a local lord. As the man of the family, it was Graham’s solemn duty to maintain his sister’s honor by vetting any possible suitors. Yet he couldn’t seem to force himself to return, haunted by memories of his father’s death. Besides, Mary was probably still wild as she’d ever been, riding her horse across the rolling green hills.

He hoped that at least Mary loved the man courting her, as silly as all that was. Contrary to his late father’s wishes, Graham had always been somewhat of a romantic—and it was for that very reason that he refused to play the ton’s marriage games each year. A youth spent reading Lord Byron and John Keats meant Graham had an inclination toward a love match, and those were hard to come by for a duke.

The only young ladies interested in him were those interested in his money. They had no idea who he was—what he dreamed of, how he longed for someone to ravish at night and care for by day.

The moon had once again disappeared behind the wispy threads of cloud by the time Graham reached his home, a light drizzle beginning to fall on the grey streets of Mayfair. He pulled his key from his pocket as he considered his friends’ requests at the club; perhaps he should visit the country for a hunt, or at the very least agree to Everett’s invitation to breakfast. He never knew what young debutantes might be waiting for him at such breakfasts, but he thought, perhaps, it was time to start looking for someone to make a life with.

His mother would be devastated if he didn’t marry before she passed.

He had a family to take care of.

Even if he believed, deep in his heart, that unrequited love would be better than no love at all.

“Your Grace, is that you? The Duke of Hertfordshire?”

Graham turned, his fists clenched in case there was someone encroaching on his property. Yet all he found was a simple serving boy. The boy held his cap in his hands, twisting it in anxious knots. “I am he,” Graham murmured with a frown. “Who wants to know?”

The boy gulped, unable to meet Graham’s gaze. “My name is Arthur Miller, Your Grace,” he said, his northern brogue strong. “I work for your mother, Her Grace,  the Dowager Duchess of Hertfordshire.”

“I don’t recognize you.”

“I was just recently hired on,” the boy said, then gestured over his shoulder at two      horses      with a simple carriage hitched behind them     . “Spent the whole night      on the road, Your Grace.”

Graham’s heart dropped into his gut; he had feared the news would come for months, but he still wasn’t ready for it. Certain he was about to hear of his dear mother’s death, he steadied himself against the railings by the steps to his home.

“And what is this regarding?” Graham asked.

“There’s . . . there’s been a terrible accident, Your Grace,  the boy murmured.

“My mother?”

“No,” the boy gulped. “Your sister, Lady Mary. She’s . . . she’s dead.”

Mary?

Dead?

Graham tried to stop his knees from buckling, but it was no use; he was forced to brace himself against the stairs as dark spots flitted across his vision. The boy reached forward to grasp his elbow, but Graham waved him away to stand once again at his full height.

“How?” Graham asked, his voice a whisper. “She was so young.”

“She was out riding with Lord Bragg and Lady Sedgwick, and she fell from her horse,” the servant said. “There was nothing to be done. When they got her back to the house, she was already gone from a blow to the head.”

Graham closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself—but images of Mary instantly flooded his mind, drowning him in painful memories. She had been so youthful, so vibrant the last time he’d seen her six months ago at Christmas. With her chestnut curls and good nature, he’d been certain she would make a splash on this Season’s marriage market.

And now she was gone. Gone, just like his late father.

His mother must be devastated, now that it was only the two of them left.

“Ready the horses,” Graham said. “We ride tonight.”

“Where to?” the boy asked. “It’s past midnight.”

“They can rest when we return home,” Graham murmured. “We’re going back to Hertfordshire.”

Chapter Two

Lady Bridget Sedgwick woke with a scream.

Her heart raced as she scrambled in the bedsheets, clutching her white lace nightgown around her and staring out at the pouring rain on the moors. Lightning flashed, and Bridget was certain she saw the specter of her dead friend, riding her horse over the hills.

She didn’t know what to do—not since Mary had died.

Ever since that fateful afternoon in the hills of Hertfordshire, Bridget had been plagued by nightmares. Three horrible days had passed in the aftermath, news quickly spreading around the town of Hertford and the surrounding manor houses that Mary was dead. Bridget had been at the center of speculation over the manner of her death and was subjected to endless inquiries about how exactly an experienced horsewoman like Mary had come to take such a fatal fall.

It was a freak accident, Bridget told them. Tragic and horrible. Mary was gone too soon, her best friend in all the world, dead in an instant.

The door creaked open and Bridget’s maid, Tilda, stepped into the room with wide eyes. She was carrying a cup of tea , her grey hair pulled into a bun on top of her head, and she surveyed Bridget with a certain level of shock.

Bridget blushed as she realized how disheveled she was, her hair in dark tangles all over her head, her green eyes ringed red with tears. Even her nightgown was askew, hanging from one shoulder as she tried to right herself and the sheets.

“Lady Bridget,” Tilda murmured. “You were screaming—whatever is the matter?”

“It’s nothing, Tilda,” Bridget sighed, her chin still trembling from the sobs that had wracked her nightmares. “Just another nightmare.”

“About Lady Mary?”

Bridget nodded, and Tilda eyed her with sympathy as she took a few steps closer. “I brought you some chamomile tea,” Tilda said. “And I can get the laudanum if you need it to sleep.”

Bridget shook her head. She’d spent every night since her friend’s death drunk on the dream-like draught, lost in a medically-induced stupor     . “No, thank you,” Bridget said. “It’s time to face all this—I can’t keep throwing myself into dreams when my dreams are almost as bad as reality.”

“Poor thing,” Tilda cooed. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you will feel better one day. With time, the pain will fade.”

Bridget tried not to begin crying again, swiping at her eyes with a crooked finger. “What if I don’t want it to?”

Tilda didn’t have time to respond; the door opened once again, and Bridget’s mother, Sarah, appeared at the threshold. Lady Sarah Sedgwick was a tall, imperious woman with the same dark hair and green eyes as Bridget, though a certain gauntness shaded her face. She didn’t appear to have slept much either, her fingers preemptively gripped around a bottle of laudanum.

“I’ll care for her from here, Tilda,” Sarah muttered, glancing at Bridget.

“My lady,” Tilda said, tilting her head and hurrying out of the room, the door thudding shut behind her as she left them alone. Sarah took the maid’s place quickly, smoothing out her dressing gown as she sat.

“What is this I hear about not wanting to feel better?” Sarah asked, tucking a strand of hair back behind Bridget’s ear.

Bridget took a shuddering breath, her brow furrowing. “It’s just that I don’t want to forget about her,” she said. “Mary was my dearest friend, and she’s gone. If I forget about her, then who will remember?”

“It isn’t your duty to hold vigil for Mary,” Sarah said. She rested her hand over her daughter’s, her fingers curling in a comforting show of solidarity. “What Mary would want is for you to live on and to love, my darling. She would be devastated to watch you grieve forever.”

“But it’s only been a few days.”

“And every day you spend weeping for her is a day you’ll miss out on the joy in life, which Mary would have wanted you to experience,” Sarah said. “Grieve now, and after the funeral tomorrow, think about the good in your life—all that’s yet to come.”

“Like what?”

“Love and marriage, of course,” Sarah said. “Children, a family. You’re so young, Bridget. At nineteen, you should be looking forward to the life ahead of you, not behind at the friends you’ve lost along the way.”

“It feels so senseless,” Bridget said. “Mary had a life ahead of her too.”

“I know, dear girl,” Sarah said. “Now, do you think you can sleep, or . . . ?”

Bridget shook her head, knowing that if she went without the draught she would be in for another sleepless night. “No,” she said. “I think I would like it—if only for this one night.”

“All right,” Sarah said, then handed her the little bottle. “You have tea?”

“Yes, Tilda brought me some.”

Bridget reached toward her bedside table for the glass, and Sarah handed her the vial. Bridget braced herself for the bitterness as she took a swig of it, then quickly washed it down with the tea, which did nothing to dilute the horrid flavor of the laudanum.

“I’ll have Tilda set out your mourning clothes tomorrow,” Sarah said. “You can expect us to be some of the chief mourners there, as Mary’s mother is still in ill health. Although . . .”

She paused, her voice lingering on the precipice of something she seemed certain would upset her daughter.

“What?” Bridget asked. The laudanum was already clouding her senses, a dreamy haze settling over her. “What aren’t you telling me, Mother?”

“Well, I thought you would want to know,” Sarah continued. “The duke has returned to Hertfordshire for his sister’s funeral.”

Silence hung between them. Sarah well knew that Bridget had once harbored a deep, childish love for the young Lord Graham Barnet. When he’d left, she’d wept for days, requiring laudanum to sleep then, too.

“And why should I want to know about the duke?” Bridget asked, stiffening.

“You don’t have to pretend he didn’t break your heart, darling,” Sarah said. “I know you’re older now, but some heartbreaks never quite heal.”

“My best friend is dead,” Bridget murmured. “That’s all the heartbreak I have capacity for at present.”

And with that, Sarah left Bridget alone in the room.

Bridget lay on her side to stare back out of the picture window, watching as rain streamed down the glass panes. The laudanum came over her like a shroud, fogging her mind as she pictured Mary riding like a lightning strike over the hills on her white mare.

Laudanum could numb the pain, yes . . . but it could also bring back horribly painful memories and make them real.

As soon as she drifted off to sleep, Bridget flashed back to the moment when Graham Barnet—for that was how she’d always thought of the Duke of Hertfordshire—had left Hertfordshire six years ago. His father had just passed, and Bridget had been a mere sixteen      years old, but with the dazed eyes of a lovestruck girl, she had idolized the strapping young lord. She could picture him climbing into his carriage, sweeping back his dark-blond hair and staring at her with dark eyes. She’d thought he’d felt something for her, too—but it had all been a dream. Bridget had realized that when he’d embraced her and bid her the same fond farewell as Mary, just as if she was his sister too.

Since then, she’d thought of him often, though they had never spoken. Even at Christmas he’d avoided her, staying on his family’s property and returning to London with haste. When she’d written to him, he hadn’t responded.

Loving Graham Barnet was painful indeed, especially when her lineage was not such that she could hope to marry a duke.

But it wasn’t as painful as the loss of his sister.

Bridget dissolved into tears once again as the rain poured down the windows, holding herself in a cloud of laudanum. She clutched at her own shoulders, wondering if she should call for Tilda or if her mother would allow her maid to sleep in her room, though she was no longer a child.

Then a voice whispered to her through the darkness, the voice of a man she hadn’t seen or heard from in half a decade.

“It will be all right.”

Bridget knew Graham wasn’t truly there—that it was all a dream, a result of the laudanum clouding her mind. But she let the comfort of his imagined presence lull her to sleep regardless, wishing he would join her in bed.

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