Chapter 1

 “Mother, what are you doing here?”  

 Simon Burfield, the third Earl of Reading, put down his book and looked up as his butler, Hughes, assisted the Dowager Countess of Reading into the leather–backed chair beside the fire opposite his own.  

 “I am here to see my son, of course,” Lady Reading huffed, removing her fur stole and passing it off to Hughes as she looked distastefully at the small table at Simon’s elbow. “Coffee? In the afternoon? What has the world come to? Hughes, bring tea, please, and scones, as is only appropriate after four.”  

 Simon smiled as his mother bossed and tutted, nodding gently to Hughes to bring what she desired. She was a fussy woman, set in her ways since her husband, the second Earl of Reading, died. She ran her own household like a navy ship. Simon preferred a freer, more relaxed household, which his mother found infinitely irritating.  

 “What can I do for you, Mother?” Simon set a leather bookmark on his page and set down his book.  

 “Goodness, Simon, you are turning into an old man, locked away in here on a lovely afternoon. And reading, of all things!”  

 She eyed the book distastefully. Simon sighed impatiently. His mother did not prize such introverted pastimes. She viewed every hour spent in the company of a good book a wasted hour when a man could have been riding or shooting or socializing with important associates. It had been humourous when he was a child, but now that he was her sole heir with no heir of his own, her distaste had grown.  

 Unlike other ladies of the Ton, the Countess was renowned by all the household servants in the county as a woman with a formidable temper and a free-speaking mind behind closed doors, especially when it came to her family. Simon didn’t find it unusual, and his father had found it charming, secretly disclosing to Simon that, “It is always best to have a wife who will agree with you in public and berate you in private! You always know where you stand!” Simon thought it sounded exhausting.  

 “I don’t know if you noticed, Mother, but it is raining.” He sipped his coffee, watching her roll her eyes. “Seemed the perfect afternoon for expanding the mind.”  

 “Oh tosh!” she grumbled. “You are dragging your feet!”  

 “In what manner, Mother?” Simon tried to keep his voice light, though he had a sense of where this discussion was going. He was not looking forward to it.  

 “Oh, you know what I mean!” she snapped. “Get married!”  

 At that moment, the door opened and Hughes entered, giving Simon the blessed relief of his mother’s silence since she did not believe in ‘airing family laundry’ in front of the help. She sat, tapping her foot furiously, clearly desperate to continue her tirade against him as Hughes slowly served the tea and placed scones on plates. Hughes had finally prepared everything and winked at Simon as he straightened up, letting his master know he had given him as much time as he could to quietly prepare for whatever verbal onslaught his mother had prepared. It was only when Hughes had closed the door behind him that his mother leaned forward, eager to continue. As always, her quick tongue was only reserved for her family.  

 “Jam, Mother?” Simon asked, quickly cutting her off and offering up the jam jar to her infuriated face.  

 “Put that down!” she snapped, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea. “We must discuss this, Simon—”  

 “I have heard everything you want to say,” Simon interrupted and sipped carefully, trying to hold onto his patience. “I have no desire to marry. Again.”  

 “You are being nonsensical!” she tutted, tapping a silver spoon against her teacup and glaring at him over the rim.  

 “I am in my perfect right mind, thank you, Mother.” Simon pushed the sweet scones towards his mother, wishing he could have stuck with the dark, bitter coffee that he much preferred.  

 “You must be out of your wits if you are truly dedicated to this notion of being a bachelor.” She shook her head, her grey curls bobbling under her severe black hat.  

 “Mother, the topic is not open for discussion. I thought you understood this.” Simon’s voice was growing sharper. He was losing his patience with his mother. “I have been perfectly clear.”  

 “And I have been perfectly clear!” His mother’s eyes flashed angrily. “It is not your decision that the Earldom of Reading should perish because of how you feel about remarrying!” 

 “It is not your decision how I live my life!” Simon snapped, his own temper flaring. His mother could always find exactly the right words to inflame his anger.  

 “Oh, yes it is!” His mother sipped primly but her eyes were flickering furiously. “You are the last heir of the Reading estate, and your one duty. Your only duty is to produce another heir. You need a wife!”  

 “I have one.” Simon slammed his teacup down, making the tea tray rattle. “But the only issue there is that my wife is dead. I will not dishonour her memory in the way you suggest! Not for you, for me, or for the future of the Reading estate. Never!”  

 His mother didn’t jump or seem distressed by his outburst. Rather, she set her cup down neatly and folded her hands gently in front of her.  

 “Look at me, Simon.”  

 Simon hesitantly met his mother’s eye, expecting a deluge of comments about propriety and duty. Instead, when his eyes rested on her old grey ones—which were a mirror of his own—he saw they were shiny with emotion.  

 “You miss Stella,” she said softly. “She is sorely missed.”  

 Her words were gentle and kind, and struck him right to the core. Used as he was to his mother’s strident opinions, her tenderness was striking. Simon stiffened, clenching his fists.  

 “I miss her every day.”  

 He blinked, looking around the library his dear wife had loved so much. How often they had sat together on afternoons like this one, reading quietly and sharing the simple pleasure of one another’s company. It would be sacrilegious to allow another woman to enter this intimate space of memories, to push aside Stella’s legacy. He would never allow it.  

 “It is only natural,” she spoke so quietly, unnaturally for a woman of her usual confidence. He recognized that she truly must mean every word she said if she was pushing aside all the fuss and bustle of her usual cadence.  

 “Is it?” Simon sighed heavily, gazing into the fire. “It has been five years and I still feel it as intensely—” Simon broke off, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t go on. He shook his head painfully and watched the flames flicker, his thoughts lost in his memories.  

 “It is natural,” his mother insisted. Simon noticed a tremor of emotion in her voice and looked up. “When you lost Stella you did not only lose a wife, you also lost …”  

 She didn’t need to finish. Simon nodded, unable to speak. It was something never spoken of in the household, and a fact not known beyond the family, but when Stella had been thrown from her horse on that fateful day five years ago, she had been a few months pregnant with their first child. Simon could still recall their shared excitement, their talk about the little heir of Reading that was growing inside her—the one that had then sadly perished along with her. Simon’s grief had been all-consuming and he had sworn never to marry again. He could still taste the depth of that grief now as he sat by the fire and swallowed hard.  

 “Then surely you understand why I would be reluctant to replace her.”  

 “Of course I understand.” The dowager countess leaned closer, instinctively reaching across to grasp her son’s hand. “I understand the pain of losing your love. Do you not think I long for your father every day of my life?”  

 Simon nodded. His mother was as sharp as steel, appearing hard and cold to others, but in the ten years since Simon’s father had died and the title of Earl of Reading had passed to him, his mother had suffered quietly.  

 “But I put that longing aside,” his mother continued, “for duty. Duty to your father’s wishes. He would be distraught if the name that had been passed down through generations of his family died out with his son. All I am trying to do is honour his memory.”  

 “That is all well and good, Mother, but all I am trying to do is honour my wife’s memory,” Simon said, gruffly pulling his hand away from his mother. She sighed, leaning back in her chair and staring at him appraisingly.  

 “What would Stella want?” she demanded. “Have you asked yourself if she would be happy to see you like this? Alone, without a wife to comfort you or a child to bear your name?”  

 “Mother, please.”  

 Simon looked out of the window. The truth was that his mother was right; Stella would almost certainly be disappointed if she could see him now. She had been a lively, family-oriented woman who derided the idea of old bachelors sitting on lonely titles. She would dislike how he had wrapped himself up in his grief, but Simon couldn’t unwrap it. The thought of inviting another woman into his heart was unthinkable. He couldn’t bear it.  

 “Let us talk of it no more, Mother.” He reached for his teacup again, sipping it and tasting nothing.  

 His mother shook her head again but seemed to be accepting defeat. She might be opinionated and free-speaking, but even she could see when her son’s grief was close to overwhelming him.  

 “Well, let us talk of other things,” she said, reaching for a bite of scone. “I hear the Earl of Brixton is having a ball in honour of their expanding family.”  

 “Yes,” Simon smiled, thinking of his best friend Nathan’s happiness. “Dear Eleanor must have her hands full with the twins.”  

 Simon felt a small twinge thinking of how happy and vibrant their household must be now—the hallways and corridors filled with the laughter of happy parents and the merry gurgles of infants. His own house was filled with sadness and quiet.  

 “Well, she kept her friend on, did you hear? The daughter of the governess.” She waved her hand dismissively as she always did when talking about those in serving positions. “I think she has stayed on to help as a nursemaid.”  

 “Miss Laurie,” Simon said automatically. “Her name was Miss Laurie.”  

 Marion. Simon had met Marion Laurie previously, and she had left a firm impression on his mind. She was a tall, incredibly likable woman with an open and friendly disposition that had immediately relaxed him. Not to mention she was a beautiful lady.  

 She and Eleanor could be mistaken for sisters from far away, both dark-haired and beautiful, but Marion had stood out for Simon straight away. Her hair was as dark as a raven’s wings, and unlike Eleanor’s curly mass, hers fell in heavy luscious waves. Her skin was darker than Eleanor’s too, evidence of her French heritage, and her lips broad and dark, sensuous to look at. Simon hadn’t been unable to stop himself from imagining kissing those lips, or making her gasp with pleasure. Even now, in the company of his mother, he felt a twinge of desire at the thought of an aloof woman like Marion laid bare and panting beneath him.  

 He coughed and drank some tea, averting his eyes from his mother as he tried to dispel the vision. You honour no one with your carnality, he chided himself sternly.  

 “Well, I am sure she will be very helpful to them.” His mother raised her eyebrows at her son. “And I think the ball will be very helpful for us too.” 

 “Oh? How is that?” Simon asked, trying to put Marion’s quick, hazel eyes out of his mind.  

 “I believe that Lady Terrell shall be there.”  

 “Oh good Lord, Mother, really?” Simon groaned, rubbing his hand over his forehead.  

 “She is a good match for you, Simon.” His mother licked crumbs from her lips. “She is a widower, she understands the pain of lost love, but she is still young with a good reputation—”  

 “You mean a good title,” Simon interjected. His mother had made no bones about the fact that she would only support Simon making a match with a woman with an equal fortune to his.  

 “Of course, but she is also well connected and has many important friends in the Ton,” she sipped her tea. “Not to mention she is beautiful.”  

 Simon snorted. His mother was right; Lady Henrietta Terrell was indeed beautiful. She was classically lovely in a way that men fawned over, with flaxen–blonde hair and doe–blue eyes, but it was nothing that appealed to Simon. He had always been drawn to more striking women than simpering ones, and Lady Henrietta’s attempts to flirt with him had always seemed girlish and endlessly boring.  

 “Beauty is not everything,” Simon said. “You know she is a hideous gossip.” 

 “Oh, that!” His mother dismissed his words with a flap of her hands. “It is the foible of a younger woman. She will grow out of it when she has her own children to worry over and something important to talk about. Like raising a young earl, for instance.”  

 Simon couldn’t deny his mother’s endless insistence. She was persistent to a fault, and he could see how she truly believed that she was honouring his father’s memory by trying to get him married at whatever cost, but it was unsettling that his mother could not see the faults of Lady Henrietta.  

 His mother didn’t realise that men talked too. Simon had known the Lady Henrietta’s late husband, Lord Terrell, and he had often complained that his wife was uninterested in domestic life, preferring balls and city gatherings over time at home with him, and free-spending with his money. These were not the qualities that Simon would ever want in a wife, but it was hardly prudent to tell his mother this. The best thing to do was to let her think what she wanted, and then quietly let Lady Henrietta down on his own time.  

 “Well, the ball sounds like it will be lovely,” he said, “I am looking forward to it.”  

 Simon was slightly ashamed to see how his mother’s eyes lit up with the possibility that he would consider Lady Henrietta but was grateful for the fact that she settled back in her chair, clearly comforted and pleased with herself. Simon sighed inwardly, knowing deep down that Stella was the only woman for him. It would take a rare lady to divert his affections, and he doubted such a woman would be found at his friend’s ball.  

Chapter 2

“Marion, where is Edward’s stocking?”  

 “It’s here, Ellie!”  

 Marion Laurie held up the infant’s small bluestocking as her best friend, Eleanor Reynolds, Countess of Brixton looked around at her with a harassed expression.  

 “How did it get over there?” Eleanor snatched it up, trying to wrestle the stocking back onto the foot of the next Earl of Brixton whilst his brother, Jason, squalled and wriggled beside him.  

 “God save me, why did I marry a man with twins in the family?” Eleanor muttered, quickly handing baby Edward over to Marion who took him, clucking gently and bouncing the baby softly.  

 “Because you loved him.” Marion laughed, smiling at her friend’s grumpiness. Though Eleanor grumbled about the twins, Marion knew that she was besotted with her boys and already hoping for more.  

 “Still, what possessed me to hold a ball for them?” Eleanor exclaimed. “They shall be asleep!”  

 “Because Nathan desired to do it for you,” Marion reminded her friend gently. “And he loves you and wants to give you a lovely treat.”  

 “But it is so much to organise,” Eleanor groaned. “And you know I’ve never had the head for such things!”  

 “Which is why it is all in hand,” Marion laughed, stepping forward and kissing Eleanor’s cheek. Marion had a list four pages long in her diary concerning the ball tomorrow evening, and she had been working with Nathan on making it special and superb for their Eleanor.  

 “All you have to do is take care of your boys and make a grand entrance,” Marion assured her. Eleanor squeezed her hand tightly.  

 “Yes, well, I couldn’t do even that without you.”  

 Eleanor flashed her best friend a quick smile, and then lowered her freshly dressed son into the bassinet. The truth was that although Eleanor and her husband Nathan could easily have afforded the best nursemaids and governesses, Eleanor would only trust Marion with her children. Marion was proud to be so highly thought of.  

 “You do that so well,” Eleanor sighed, watching as the determined, grumpy baby Edward, named for his imitable grandfather, began to blink sleepily in Marion’s arms.  

 “Well, Maman taught me everything she knew about babies,” Marion winked at Eleanor. “So you’re in luck!”  

 “I wish she were here now!” Eleanor looked wistfully at her sons. “What would she think?”  

 Marion’s mother had been Eleanor’s own governess and as good as a second mother to Eleanor. The two girls had been raised together, even if Eleanor had been raised for a good marriage and high society while Marion had been prepared for a future of companionship and servitude. When her mother had died, Marion had grieved and so had Eleanor, since she had loved Marion’s mother like she was her own.  

 It had been a blessing for Marion to have someone else to share that pain with, and now she could smile bravely, and say to her best friend, mistress and heart-sister, “She would think you were doing a very fine job, Ellie. She would be very proud, and a little jealous.”  

 “Jealous?” Eleanor laughed, shaken out of her wistful thoughts as she smiled at Marion.  

 “Oh yes,” Marion smiled as she rocked Edward. “Maman would have loved to see these raucous little boys! How much fun she would have had!”  

 “Oh, she would have kept them on their toes.” Eleanor laughed. “Do you remember how she used to surprise us in lessons, bringing in grasshoppers and adder snakes to teach us about nature, and we would climb on our chairs and squeal!”  

 “Oh yes!” Marion giggled, remembering her mother’s French lilt as she intimated her voice. “Only foolish girls are scared of little creepy crawlies!”  

 “My, my, how these boys will like lessons like those.” Eleanor pressed a finger to Jason’s sleeping nose. “She shall be missed.”  

 “Yes.” Marion pressed her lips to Edward’s sleeping forehead. “And she will have been sad to miss her only chance at being a grandmère.”  

 Eleanor frowned at Marion as she set Jason down to nestle beside his brother.  

 “I wish you would not speak like that, Mari,” Eleanor said, running her hand over the woven basket edge of the cradle. “You may have children someday.”  

 “Shall I?” Marion tried to keep her tone light but inside her chest was tightening with her own sense of grief.  

 “Of course!” Eleanor’s blue eyes were wide and earnest. “Why on earth not? You are beautiful, eligible –”  

 “What can I offer a gentleman, Ellie?” Marion asked lightly, not wanting to snap at her friend but also wishing she would not speak of it. “I have no dowry, no title—”  

 “None of those things matter in love!” Eleanor insisted.  

 Marion sighed inwardly. Eleanor was such an intelligent, political, insightful woman but she was also blinded by her own good fortune in love. She had shunned unconventional ideas growing up and had always wanted to pursue life outside of the privileged life to which she was entitled. Seeing her father’s drunkenness had made her jaded to the idea that good society was something to aspire to, but she still lived in a world where she had never had to fight for her survival in the way Marion’s mother had. She could sometimes exhibit such naiveté about the real world.  

 “Perhaps not,” Marion conceded patiently, “but they do matter in society. I am the daughter of a French governess and my father is unknown, a man who left when I was just a child. No sensible man would marry a woman of such questionable providence.”  

 “That is not true. Convention dictates one thing, but the truth is that those who serve are often formed of stronger moral character than those who don’t,” Eleanor argued, beginning to sound like the bluestocking women she listened to at debates. “You are of true heart, Marion, what matter is it whether or not you have noble blood?”  

 Marion thought it was probably of very great matter, but moved the conversation along.  

 “Besides that, Ellie, I am nearly thirty–years–old.” Marion began tidying up around the children’s nursery. “Even if I did marry, who’s to say that I even …?”  

 Marion let her words trail off. It was too painful to voice, this idea that she might be the very last of her family. That the name Laurie would die out with her and her mother’s legacy would be lost. She had been imagining what her children might be like all her life; if they would have her and her mother’s black hair and unique eyes, if they would take to the piano as she had done as child. But with every passing year these visions of the future became more and more threadbare, as if the reality of life was wearing them thin.  

 “Oh, Mari.” Eleanor impulsively hugged Marion from behind. “It shall be alright. I really believe that.”  

 She was a head smaller than her, and Marion felt her warm face pressed into the space between her shoulders. Marion was transported back to when they were little girls and their mothers had allowed them to sleep in the same bed. Eleanor would always roll over in her sleep to cuddle Marion from behind. Even as a young, unmarried woman, Eleanor had liked sharing a bed with Marion. Marion had treasured those moments of companionship, where they whispered softly together until they nodded off to sleep. It saddened her to think that now, with the closest woman she had to a sister married, those days of comfort were behind her. Marion took a shaky breath, blinking back tears, and then shook her head, laughing softly.  

 “Oh, let’s not talk of these dreary things when there are revels to be spoken of!” She turned to Eleanor and squeezed her hands. “Tell me who has responded to the invitations for tomorrow.”  

 “Most of society has replied, but Nathan only cares that Simon is coming. He cannot wait to introduce him to the babies.”  

 Eleanor tapped baby Jason’s chest with a soft finger. The baby puffed out his chest and sighed contentedly. 

 “That shall be pleasant.”  

 Marion thought highly of the Earl of Reading. He had already been named a godfather to both of the twins, along with Marion as godmother, and she approved.  

 “Yes. He shall bring his mother, the Dowager Countess, I believe.” Eleanor shook her head, her dark curls bouncing. “It is a shame he has not remarried.” 

 Marion didn’t know if she agreed. Simon Burfield, the Earl of Reading and Nathan’s best friend, was a widower and completely dedicated to his first wife. Eleanor and Nathan often bemoaned his widower status, wishing he would remarry so that they could build their families side by side, but Marion wasn’t completely convinced. She actually found his dedication a little romantic, and certainly honourable.  

 “He misses his wife,” Marion said, shrugging. “It is natural.”  

 “Nothing natural about it,” Eleanor snorted. “That man is too handsome to be unwed!”  

Marion couldn’t deny his attractiveness. He was over six feet tall—quality that she, as a tall woman herself, appreciated—and had a kind, friendly face. She must admit that when she had been briefly in his presence, she had felt a certain blush when he looked in her direction, but it was only natural when a man of such high status looked at a woman like her.  

 “Hmm,” Marion said, non-committal. She didn’t want to give Eleanor any reason to think she harboured affection for the Earl of Reading. She was always so ready to jump at the idea that Marion might have a suitor in mind.  

 “Oh, and Lady Henrietta is coming.” Eleanor pulled a face, not noticing Marion’s lack of comment. “Apparently she’s been on and on about me in Town, how I’ve lost my looks with children.”  

 “How vile.” Marion frowned with displeasure. She couldn’t imagine how unhelpful it must be to be a woman of society and know that there were gossipy ladies like Lady Henrietta out there, discussing and criticizing your every step.  

 “Yes, it is rather,” Eleanor spoke lightly, but Marion could see that there was a little redness in her friend’s face. She had taken the words to heart, and even though she was as beautiful as the day she had met Nathan, Marion knew she was a little self-conscious about this first outing into society after her confinement. Marion racked her brain for something that might help, and then she thought of it.  

 “Say, didn’t you order a new gown for the ball that arrived today?” She took her friend’s hand playfully. “Let us go and try it on and dress you up a little!”  

 “Oh, do you really think so?” Eleanor pulled back, hesitant, looking towards her sleeping children. “Shall they really be alright?”  

 “They will be perfectly fine.” Marion laughed, “We shall hear them if they cry. Come along, you need some time for yourself too, Ellie.”  

 “Alright.” Eleanor smiled suddenly, “I should like to see it.”  

 The two women rushed out of the nursery and down the hall to Eleanor’s dressing room, Marion nodding to one of the maids to keep a watch over the babies. She was always thinking of them, caring for them, just as she did for Eleanor, and just as her mother had done before her. She knew no sweeter joy in this life than seeing her best friend happy and settled in life.  

 “Here it is.” Eleanor shook out a parcel, lifting the gown out of the light tissue paper in a fluff of peach muslin. “Shall I try it on?”  

 “Yes, do!” Marion grinned, quickly undoing the buttons at the back of Eleanor’s simple day dress. “I can’t wait to see it on you.”  

 With Marion’s help, Eleanor quickly slipped out of her day dress and Marion helped slip the perfect new gown over her forehead, smelling sweetly of lavender and paper. The peach muslin settled perfectly on her body as Marion helped her do up the buttons. The colour set off Eleanor’s pale, creamy skin and dark hair. Together, the two women looked at Eleanor’s reflection reverently. The muslin was embroidered with gold leaf patterns, and each flinging thread caught the light flatteringly. Marion smiled, pressing tenderly on her friend’s shoulders.  

 “There you go,” she whispered. “Lady Henrietta shall have to eat her words, I think.”  

 “Are you sure?”  

 Eleanor pulled at the ribbon around her bust critically. Her bosom was delicately shielded by wisps of muslin, as was appropriate for a married lady, but she still looked as eligible as the day she had been introduced to society on her seventeenth birthday.  

 “Absolutely,” Marion assured her. “Would you like to borrow Maman’s pearls to wear with it?”  

 “Actually, I thought you might wear them.”  

 “Oh, I am not sure I shall attend.” Marion sighed. The idea of being the poor spinster at the grand ball, standing plainly in the corner in a governess’s dress, invisible to everyone, was more than she could bear.  

 “I should really like you to,” Eleanor said quietly. “You’ve done so much already for the ball. You should enjoy the fruits of it.”  

 Marion didn’t want to disappoint her friend, but she also hated anticipating how lonely she would feel if she didn’t go. She tried one more excuse.  

 “I – I don’t have the right sort of dress,” she said.  

 Eleanor smiled at her knowingly. “Actually…”  

 She nodded towards the packet that her own dress had come in and Marion reopened it again curiously. She gasped. “What’s this?”  

 “I had it made for you, Marion, as a thank you for everything you have done to prepare for the ball.” Eleanor smiled softly. “Will you at least try it on?”  

 Marion nodded dumbly. She stood in shock as Eleanor unbuttoned her plain grey dress and then slipped the new gown over her head.  

 It won’t look right, it will look foolish, I’m sure, Marion thought to herself. What kind of woman tries on a gown like this when—  

 “Look,” Eleanor said softly, turning Marion’s shoulders towards the mirror. Marion took a sharp intake of breath.  

 “Mon Dieu,” she whispered.  

 The scarlet silk gown fit her perfectly. Whereas other English girls may be washed out by such a vibrant colour, Marion knew that her French blood that gave her such lustrous black hair and olive skin was exactly suited for such a colour. She placed her hand on her stomach, turning at an angle to admire how the neckline of the dress flattered the slope of her breasts, how the scooped neckline made her collarbones alluringly prominent, and how the long sleeves made her arms seem slim and delicate.  

 “Do you think you shall wear it?” Eleanor asked gently.  

 Marion turned back, swallowing heavily and tilting her head a little higher. She didn’t look like a governess in this dress. She looked like a woman ready to dance the night away with the most handsome man in the room.  

 “Yes,” she said. “I think I shall.”  

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