Chapter 1

“It was just a dream. It wasn’t real,” he whispered to himself in the dark.

His bare feet moved silently, muffled by the thick carpet of the passageway. He could hear nothing over the pounding of his heart and the echo of the scream ringing in his ears. With a horrible sense of certainty he knew that the scream which had awoken him had been his mother’s, but he told himself it was only a nightmare. That’s what she would say when he reached her chamber – only a nightmare, my sweet, darling boy. He simply couldn’t go back to sleep without the reassurance of her softly laughing voice, her delicate hand stroking his damp hair back from his brow, that was all. She wouldn’t mind, he knew. She would press a kiss to his forehead and sit with him until the terror was all chased away, nothing more than a faint, foolish memory.

 He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in his thin linen nightshirt, and softly pushed open the door to his mother’s bedchamber. He expected to find her nestled in her ornate bed, but instead she lay crumpled gracefully on the floor, her beautiful porcelain face gleaming in the moonlight, her jet hair streaming in waves around her. He froze, trapped in the blank stare of her dark eyes, too horror-stricken to move or cry out, when a movement by the long window caught his attention. Clearly silhouetted against the moonlight was the black figure of a man who noiselessly opened the window and climbed out of it to merge with the rest of the shadows.

Kenneth Blackmore, Duke of Rutherford, woke with a gasp, drenched in the familiar cold sweat that always accompanied the dream. At two and twenty he did not have the luxury of disbelief that had been his temporary refuge at the age of eight. He knew all too well that those events had been quite real and his mother could never again soothe away his nightmares. He rarely slept without revisiting that night, straining to make out the features of the shadowy man.

That was an exercise in futility, his waking self knew. The identity of his mother’s murderer was no mystery to Kenneth and hadn’t been since that dreadful night. Even if his father’s build and manner of carrying himself had not matched the shadow so perfectly, Kenneth had heard the maids whispering that it was hardly a surprise that the Duke had finally killed his wife in one of his jealous rages. No one had dared to make an accusation, least of all Kenneth, and the story was put out that she had been strangled by a thief.

Kenneth had hoped that the dream would cease tormenting him in the weeks following the death of his father, but if anything it had grown stronger. He had also expected to feel some sense of relief at the death of that monster, yet instead he worried that it had only strengthened the grip that his destructive heritage held on him. He had cut off his affair with his most recent mistress, a stunning blonde actress who was nearly as tall as himself, afraid that even their loveless arrangement might somehow incite him to violence.

Previously he had thought to keep himself from following in his father’s footsteps by avoiding love and marriage, knowing that his father’s obsessive, jealous love for his mother had led him to murder her. Now even that did not seem enough. Suppose desire, temporary companionship, or mild affection were enough to trigger his foul inheritance? Unable to risk it, he had distanced himself from the actress and from the other numerous and lovely blondes he was reputed to enjoy.

Knowing that sleep would not return for him that night, Kenneth left his bed and lit a candle. Pausing before the mirror that hung in his chamber, he searched his reflection as if looking for signs that he was transforming into a monster. It was a foolish fancy, he knew. His father had always appeared on the outside to be a handsome, respectable man. No one could have known from looking at him that he was capable of such an atrocity. Kenneth resembled his father, a fact he had always despised, but the stamp of his mother’s features had given his strong and handsome countenance a look of almost wicked beauty. Pale and heavy-eyed from troubled dreams and lack of sleep, his dark hair falling in a disordered manner, he was nonetheless strikingly attractive. It was a pity, he reflected, turning from the mirror, that his outward appearance drew women flocking to him when they ought to flee.

He ordered himself to read once again the letter that he had received from his Uncle Roger. Long before the death of his father, Kenneth had considered his uncle to be his only family, and the letter requesting a visit was the only thing that had tempted him away from his melancholy brooding in weeks. Roger was right, he ought to return home, particularly now that he had inherited the family estate. He had not been able to steel himself to do so, feeling that taking possession of Rutherford Hall would bring him that much closer to inevitably following in his father’s footsteps, but he knew he could not put it off any longer. Resolving himself to make arrangements at first light to leave his solitary London home, he selected a book and did his best to while away the rest of the night in its pages.

****

“Sister! I have been looking for you all over!” exclaimed Louisa Warwick as she hastened to join her sister Charlotte on the bench beneath a massive elm. It was one of Charlotte’s favored haunts for reading and daydreaming, Louisa’s trouble was that Charlotte had so very many such haunts.

“And you have found me,” Charlotte looked up from her book to smile at her older sister. With her soft brown hair, and deep brown eyes hidden behind spectacles, Charlotte was the perfect foil for Louisa’s vivacious, gilded beauty, yet there was a compelling sweetness in her face that gave Charlotte a loveliness of her own.

“You cannot hope to guess my news, so I shall tell you at once. The new Duke of Rutherford has returned only last night to his estate!”

“Kenneth Blackmore has come home?” Charlotte gasped, letting her book tumble to the ground as both delight and pain flooded her at the news. She was grateful to Louisa for seeking her out and telling her privately, giving her this moment to react without having to guard her expression.

“Yes, darling, come home to preside over his ancestral abode, presumably ready to give up his wicked ways as a rake in London and begin a family.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, his return is to be expected given the death of his father,” murmured Charlotte. She retrieved her book, and with it some of her composure.”

“Very natural indeed,” laughed Louisa. “So now we must begin plotting how you are to win his heart.”

“Oh, Louisa, no. We were only childhood friends, and he has made it perfectly clear in more recent years that he has forgotten our infant affection. I believe I am the very last sort of woman he would find romantically compelling. You are much more the type he admires, you know.”

“Why, I am scandalized that you would listen to the rumors and reports of him that have been whispered around, as they are scarcely fit for delicate ears such as ours!” Louisa teased her sister, adopting a prissy tone for a moment. “Surely you know that most of those stories are simply the result of him avoiding society as much as possible.”

“You are undoubtedly correct, but the fact remains that his Grace has been markedly cold and distant to me any time we have chanced to meet,” Charlotte smiled sadly. “It is only natural that any plotting for his affection would be distasteful to me.”

“That is not natural at all! You ought to be determined to punish him for his poor behavior, make him fall desperately in love with you, and then you could spurn him as coldly as you pleased. Or else marry him, which from what I understand provides an excellent means for one person to torment another.”

“If you think he needs to be punished, you will have to do it yourself, I do not have the heart for it,” Charlotte sighed a little. “Besides, you know, there is-”

“Jerome?” Louisa groaned, dropping to the grass heedless of her white cotton dress, resting her chin imploringly on Charlotte’s knees. “But Jerome is insufferable, darling. You aren’t obligated to care for a man just because he is your suitor!”

“The only suitor I have had, or am likely to have,” Charlotte pointed out reasonably.

“Better to die an old maid like me than spend a lifetime with a bore like him.”

“You’ll never be an old maid, I don’t care what you say. No one as beautiful and dazzling as yourself could have such a fate.”

“Bite your tongue! I enjoy far too much independence as the daughter of the Earl of Warwick to toss it away just for the sake of being someone’s wife. But don’t change the subject on me, you sly thing. Confess – if you do not have the heart to punish your dear old companion it is because that heart belongs to him. Is it not so?”

“Oh, Louisa, don’t. Certainly I feel affection for him, sadness perhaps that he did not cherish our youthful friendship the way I did, but I am hardly pining away for the man.”

Charlotte’s words lacked conviction, and did little to alter her sister’s opinion, but Louisa did not press her further. Louisa loved and admired her sister a great deal and wished she could coax her from her gentle, bookish reserve just enough that others might see her worth. Charlotte had never resented being the only girl in the family that didn’t resemble their exquisitely beautiful blonde mother, taking after their mild, near-sighted father’s instead, but Louisa fiercely resented on her behalf that outsiders considered her “the plain Warwick girl”. There was so much more to Charlotte than that.

Chapter 2

Kenneth sipped his after-dinner port, feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. This was partly due to weariness, he supposed, from journeying out of London and from riding at length to survey his estate, and partly due to his enjoyment of his uncle’s company. It was every bit as distasteful as he had anticipated to return to the place where his mother had been murdered, but at least his uncle had been present, solicitously riding alongside him, as well as going over accounts and papers with him so that he could take up the mantle of his estate with ease.

The two men now rewarded themselves with glasses of port by the fire in the drawing room, enjoying a companionable silence. This was broken, at length, by Roger, who set his drink aside and shifted towards his nephew with the little grunt peculiar to men of middle-age feeling the affects of a long day on horseback. Roger Blackmore was a fine-looking man, having retained the tall and powerful build that he shared with his brother and nephew. He had never been considered to have nearly so handsome a face as his older brother, but age had brought him a sort of pleasantly distinguished air.

“It’s certainly good to have you back home, Kenneth,” he remarked easily, smiling fondly at his nephew.

“You have made me feel more at ease here than I expected to be,” Kenneth confessed. He had never kept it a secret from his uncle that he loathed spending time in the family home.

“Well, perhaps now that it is all yours you will grow to be more fond of the place, my boy. It’s a fine home, you know.” Roger spoke without any bitterness that the family title and estate did not fall to himself, having long resigned himself to his lot as a second son. He had a comfortable home and lands of his own, and appeared quite contented with his fate.

“Perhaps,” Kenneth agreed noncommittally. He knew he could never be fond of this house, but there was no sense in dragging his uncle through his own private misery.

“The best way to make a home your own, to my way of thinking, is to start a family in it. It’s high time you were married, Kenneth.”

“I have no desire whatsoever to marry now or ever,” Kenneth spoke stiffly, his entire body tensing at the very idea.

“Come, come. That was an understandable enough stance for a young nobleman sowing his wild oats, I am sure. And from what I hear tell, you sowed quite a bountiful crop, while keeping as far away from eligible young ladies and their doting mamas as possible,” Roger shook his head and smiled indulgently.

“I am afraid that the charms of the Season have always been quite wasted on me, Uncle.”

“And London offers many other charms, I am aware. However, I am afraid that your desire – or lack thereof- to marry is no longer a consideration.”

“What do you mean?” frowned Kenneth, reluctant to even ask the question.

“I mean that you are now the Duke of Rutherford and cannot afford to indulge in your distaste for matrimony any longer. It is your responsibility to our family line to marry and produce an heir.”

“Has it occurred to you that it might be better to end our family line than to perpetuate it?” Kenneth burst out before he could stop himself.

“It certainly has not! What a thing to say,” Roger exclaimed, looking quite shocked. “Such a thing is quite out of the question and I confess I am rather appalled to hear you suggest it. No, you must resign yourself to your fate, my boy. The duty and obligation of your position are quite clear and your personal wishes must be laid aside.”

“Very well,” Kenneth ground out, defeated. He knew his uncle’s words to be true enough, but had somehow avoided considering the idea that he would have to take a wife until that very moment.

“I suppose you don’t have a young lady in mind? I mean, someone of the correct standing, of course?” Roger delicately skirted the subject of the actresses and ballet dancers that Kenneth had taken up with in the past, none of which would make a suitable Duchess of Rutherford.

“No, there is no one.” Thank Providence, Kenneth added mentally. He guarded his affections quite fiercely, and deliberately kept company only with unsuitable women that he could not be expected to marry. If his hand was indeed to be forced, at least he might still wed a woman he did not love, thereby keeping her safe.

“That’s fine, that’s no obstacle at all,” Roger sounded distinctly relieved. “In fact, I have an excellent suggestion in place for you. Do you recall how much time you spent as a boy at the Earl of Warwick’s home? I do believe you were there very nearly as much as you were here after – well, after your dear mother passed away.”

Kenneth’s heart gave an involuntary leap at his uncle’s question. The Earl of Warwick’s estate had been his refuge after that horrible night, the only place that he felt safe for years. He had often reflected that if it had not been for that haven he might have been utterly lost.

The Earl and his lovely wife had been kind, welcoming him and encouraging him to visit as often as he liked. Kenneth had been shy around Lady Warwick as her motherly affection, though well-intentioned, had reminded him too painfully of the loss of his own mother. The Earl’s daughters Louisa, Selina, and Tereza, although very sweet, had been so vivacious and energetic that in his grief he felt he had nothing in common with them. It had been gentle little Charlotte Warwick who had drawn Kenneth back to visit time and again. He could picture her now, with perfect clarity, seeing her in his mind’s eye as she had been then – the angel of his tortured childhood. She demanded nothing, content to give him the simple yet vital gift of her uncomplicated presence.

Her dress and hair had always been tidy and simple, as unassuming as she herself was, although she was forever absentmindedly letting her spectacles slip down the slender bridge of her nose as she buried her face in a book. He used to slide them up into place for her, just for the reward of her sudden, brilliant smile.

They would spend hours at a time in the library, reading, perfectly content to be silent together. Other people would try to coax Kenneth to speak of his sorrow, but even at a very young age, Charlotte delicately sensed that it was too great for him to put into words. Instead she had simply offered him her favorite books, first asking him to read aloud to her, then later reading to him in turn, teaching him the life-long lesson that he could always find solace between the covers of a fine story. There had been many times in the intervening years that he really thought he might have gone mad but for that escape. Gradually he had been able to speak to her of more than just the stories they enjoyed together. He had never told her that he was certain his father had killed his mother, but that had been the only thing he held back. It would have made it too real to say the words aloud, and besides, he had not wanted to burden her with that horror. He had been able to tell her, though, how much he loved and missed his mother, how much it pained him to spend time in the company of his father, even of the nightmares that plagued him so consistently. She had been his constant companion, his confidant, the only light he could find in those dark times.

Unbidden, a memory rose before him, unfolding as if for the first time.

“Kenneth! I thought I would certainly be here long before you this morning. How long have you been sitting here?” Charlotte spoke with a slight lisp due to the gaps of several missing teeth. Her nose was sprinkled with tiny freckles, much to her mother’s chagrin, because they had been spending so much of the summer outdoors together. Kenneth’s mother had been dead for two years, and the lively horror he had felt for so long was finally dying down into a cold, permeating numbness.

“I couldn’t sleep in my bed last night,” Kenneth confessed, unashamed to speak to Charlotte of a weakness that he would have vehemently denied to anyone else. “I had my nightmare over and over, almost every time I closed my eyes. I finally just slipped out and came to sit in our spot, and then I fell asleep almost right away.”

Charlotte ducked down to join him in the shade beneath the low-hanging branches of their favorite weeping willow tree.

“It must have been an adventure to sleep out of doors,” she said admiringly. “No wonder your nightmare couldn’t find you, with the willow guarding your dreams and the stars shining down on you.”

“Do you think that my mother can look down on me too?” wondered Kenneth, fixing his eyes on her sweet face as if she held all of the answers in the universe.

“She must be able to,” Charlotte answered slowly and seriously, giving the matter great consideration. “I’ve thought about it, you know, and I don’t think she would let anything stand in the way of being able to see you sometimes, just to make sure you were growing strong. It must hurt her to see that you are so unhappy, though.”

“I’m not so terribly unhappy whenever I’m with you,” Kenneth pointed out. “So she must see that and be thankful that I have you for my friend. She must be looking after you, too, if she’s able to see me. But you know, the vicar told me that Mother is beyond all earthly sorrows and joys now. Maybe she doesn’t even remember that I ever existed.”

“I don’t believe the vicar knows half so much as he pretends to. I heard Father complaining that he just repeats the same three ideas over and over without even thinking what they mean,” Charlotte stated indignantly. “You mustn’t listen to him, Kenneth. He’s just a moldy old…” she trailed off helplessly.

“You’re terrible at calling people names,” Kenneth observed with a quick grin. “I don’t believe you have any unkindness in your whole entire body.”

“That’s what Louisa says, too. I can’t help it, I really do want to call the vicar something dreadful for putting that awful thought into your head, but you know, he must have thought he was comforting you. I don’t believe he meant to make you sad. Louisa would be able to think of deliciously spiteful things to call him, but I just can’t.”

“Well, I like you better than Louisa,” Kenneth said with staunch loyalty. “I like you better than anyone in the whole world.”

 That had been just the problem, Kenneth reflected, blinking back to the present day but still quite lost in thought, even his uncle’s presence forgotten for the moment. He had like Charlotte better than anyone, and as they had grown older he had realized that his fondness for her could easily put her in harm’s way, should his father’s violent and jealous tendencies have indeed been passed on through the blood.

He had cut off all contact with her, abruptly ending the friendship that had sustained him for so long. It was unkind, and he knew that she was deeply grieved and puzzled by his actions, but it was better by far that her feelings be temporarily wounded than her light be extinguished forever. He had loathed the idea that she would one day fall in love with someone and marry, but that was a small price to pay for the assurance of her safety. He had resolved then to never marry, to never open himself up to the possibility of loving any woman. It had been easy to stand firm on that decision, despite the affection that so many women lavished on him, for no woman had ever given him the same sense of comfort and well-being.

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