Prologue

He was only ten-and-nine. That fact weighed on his shoulders the entire ride to the luxurious townhouse of Baron Vanstone. He had his entire life still ahead of him, and it felt as if he couldn’t truly begin it until he did what he’d set out to the townhouse to do.

He had been tapping his foot against the floor of the hackney carriage he’d hopped into, and the sound was slowly beginning to grate on his nerves. Or perhaps it was simply bolstering the nervousness that dug its draining claws deep into him. Whichever it was, he was not rid of that sinking sensation when the carriage finally pulled to the front gate of the townhouse. He reached into his pocket for the coin to pay the driver, and it nearly slipped from his sweaty fingers. The driver only looked at him with pity, clearly seeing that a man like him should not be in a place like this.

This, after all, was West London where only the wealthy and the noble-born resided. In his worn breeches, faded white shirt, and waistcoat the color of the dirt under his feet, it was clear that he did not fit in a place like this. But he didn’t care, and so he ignored the driver’s silent judgment as he turned his back to the carriage and faced the wrought-iron gate.

He brushed his hands over his waistcoat, drawing in a deep breath. Behind him, the carriage began to pull away.

He approached the gate and slipped through, letting the cool metal under his palm steady him for a few seconds. Then, he began the short trek through the driveway up to the front door of the townhouse. Thankfully, the front yard was devoid of people, but as he made his way up the steps and knocked on the front door, he didn’t feel any more comforted.

He couldn’t turn away. He would see this through. He would fight for the woman he loved.

The door opened to reveal a pinch-faced butler dressed in all black, looking down his narrow nose at him. He pulled his shoulders back, lifted his chin, and said, “My name is Charles Moore, and I am here to see Baron Vanstone.”

Maybe the butler was impressed by the authoritative baritone in Charles’s voice—which he had spent hours practicing in front of his mirror before leaving his home—but he regarded him for a few seconds before he took a step back. “Come in,” he said. “I shall inform Lord Vanstone.”

Charles didn’t let the façade drop until he was inside the foyer of the townhouse and the butler was walking away. Only then did he let out the breath he was holding in, his eyes scanning his surroundings. Chandeliers hung above his head, and the staircase that stretched out before him was bordered by shining banisters and railings. A few tables stood by the walls of the foyer and atop them were vases and sculptures Charles didn’t know how to appraise. He kept as still as stone, feeling more out of place than ever before.

Will she know that I’m here? he wondered. Will she come to greet me?

Charles’s eyes wandered to the top of the staircase, hoping he would catch sight of her golden blonde hair. He moved a little to the left then to the right, as if that would give him a better view of the staircase landing that remained disappointingly empty. Yet, he kept searching, hoping he would see her just once. It was all the encouragement he’d need.

Sadly, only the butler showed up, looking as unimpressed as ever. Without saying a word, he tilted his head to the side as an indication that Charles should follow him. Then he turned and led Charles to a door at the end of a hallway located off to the side of the staircase.

Charles’s heart stopped dead in his chest when he spotted the baron himself already seated inside.

“Sit,” the man urged.

Charles did just that, sinking onto a stiff persimmon-colored sofa across from the Baron’s armchair. He wanted to look around the place, what appeared to be a drawing-room, but he could not find the energy to look away from the overbearing man before him. The Baron was clearly tall, even while seated, with broad shoulders and a head of white hair. Among lithely built Englishmen, he clearly stood out.

“You wished to speak with me?” The Baron asked.

“Yes,” Charles began, his commanding tone faltering just a bit. “I would like to introduce myself. I am Charles Moore and I am an apprentice physician. I wish to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“My daughter?” The Baron’s face hardly moved, as if he was not surprised. Charles’ trepidation grew. “My beautiful daughter, Linda?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You must be a madman.” And then the Baron laughed. The sound was as unnerving as the sight. “I do not care if you are the most renowned physician in all of England, lad. Linda will not marry a peasant.”

“But—”

“And even if I were to consider it, I’m afraid it is already too late for you. She is already betrothed to someone else.”

The world shifted around him. The breath whooshed out of his lungs, leaving him gaping at the baron like an idiot. After a few seconds, Charles found his voice. “Betrothed?” he breathed in disbelief.

The Baron rose to his feet, stretching to his full height. “You should take your leave now that you know the truth. My advice to you would be to marry someone that you stand a chance with. My butler will see you out.”

With that, he began making his way to the door. Charles still couldn’t believe what he’d heard, still staring at the chair the baron had vacated. He didn’t act until he heard the click of the door opening behind him.

“Let me see her,” he demanded, shooting to his feet. He whirled to face the baron, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Please. Allow me to see her just once.”

The Baron didn’t bother to look back at him and, for a moment, Charles was certain he would be turned down. But then, the Baron said, “You will only have a few minutes.”

He left before Charles could find the strength to thank him. Alone once more, his legs gave way and he sank back into the sofa, staring unseeingly at the rug under his feet.

Betrothed… no, that can’t be, he thought. She said she would…

He wouldn’t allow himself to finish the thought, apprehension threatening to choke him from inside. He stood once more and began pacing back and forth, trying to think of a logical explanation for this. Perhaps she had no choice. She was the daughter of a baron, after all. There are expectations of her. He should try to convince her father to break the betrothal so that she could be with the one she truly loved.

“Mr. Moore.”

Charles whirled at the sound of her voice. She stood at the door with a maid by her side, in all her golden beauty. Except… the disdainful look on her face was nothing he’d seen before. It stopped him from rushing to her side.

“Linda… your father has informed me that you—”

“That I am betrothed to someone else? Yes, that is right. And I intend to marry him.”

A piece of his heart fell from the whole. He was struggling to maintain his composure, to keep from tearing up. “But what about what you told me? I thought you loved me.”

Linda curled her upper lip, waving her gloved hand in dismissal. “I only said that because it was fun at the time. Being with you was only because I wanted to experience a bit of passion before I settled down. I didn’t think you were foolish enough to believe I would marry a title-less man. Are you mad?” She laughed. His heart shattered. “Father has been taking care of my marriage arrangements this entire time, so I had enough freedom to sneak around with you. However, I’m afraid that must all come to an end. You should move on, dear Charles. And please, try not to be so naïve next time, yes?”

She didn’t bother to wait for his response. Like her father, she turned and left him, laughing to herself. And when he was alone once more, the remaining pieces of his heart blew away into dust.

Chapter One

Charles opened his eyes to dust motes float before a stream of sunlight. He’d slept too late, once again. No wonder that horrifying dream had stretched on.

But he didn’t move, even though he had so much he needed to take care of today. He stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, tucked on arm under his head, and let out a sigh. He was still angry. Eight years later and he was still very angry.

Not at that situation only, but at nobles entirely. Their self-serving attitude led to them stepping on those below them, without a care in the world. His mother had suffered at the hands of such treatment and as a young and foolish man, he’d suffered the same. He’d sworn from that day that he would never trust any person that held a title again.

The dream was a reminder of his convictions, he told himself. And by his hand, he was going to stick by it.

He didn’t move for a while, hoping that the memory would fade. But it was a stain that he could not be rid of, tattooed into the bits and pieces of his heart that he’d managed to put back together. It was, however, the first time in a long while since he’d last dreamt of it in such detail, and he supposed that was one reason why he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling it came with.

“There’s no use milling around here,” he groaned aloud as he pulled himself to a sitting position, wincing through the rest of his sentence. He was only seven-and-twenty but after the long night he had last night, he felt as if he was going on to fifty. His body creaked with pain and discomfort, reminding him just how strenuous it can be to fix a bone.

Perhaps I am only out of shape, he thought as he got out of bed and stretched his back. I should try to do some exercise instead of returning home to a bottle of whiskey every night.

Charles chuckled to himself as the thought crossed his mind, padding over to the long-looking glass positioned on the other side of his bed. He could take up fencing, but that would inevitably lead to far more contact with the upper class than he wished. He’d rather avoid them whenever he could.

But his bones and muscles continued to resist as he ran his fingers through his hair and prepared his clothes for the day. Within ten minutes, he was dressed in a pristine white shirt with trousers and a fitting black waistcoat atop his shirt. He was considering wearing a jacket, despite the past few warm days of April London had been experiencing when there was a heavy knock on his door.

“Who’s there?” Charles called as he slipped his watch into his pocket.

“Mail!” came an undeniably young voice.

Charles left his bedroom and made his way through the living area of the decently sized loft, pulling the front door open. As he expected, a young boy—Billy, who was about the age of eleven or twelve—stood at his doorstep clutching a piece of paper in his left hand.

Charles ran his eyes up and down the boy, who stared back unabashedly. “You need a wash,” Charles stated.

“Aye, I do,” Billy responded honestly, his accent as thick as ever. He wiped a hand over his grubby cheek and then held out the letter. “But I got work to do.”

“I’m sure you do.” Charles accepted the letter and looked back at the boy, contemplating giving him a shilling. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”

“I sure have, Mr. Moore,” Billy responded without a lick of emotion. Even though he didn’t make it obvious, Charles could tell he was waiting for the go-ahead to leave, clearly too busy to stand there having uncomfortable pleasantries.

Charles only met the youngster a year ago, when Billy first began delivering letters as a local pageboy for wealthy merchants. Charles’s first impression of the lad was that he worked harder than most adults he knew. And that impression lasted even now.

Suppressing a smile, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. He glanced at Billy as he began to fish out a shilling and didn’t miss the way the boy’s eyes lit up, even though the rest of his face didn’t move.

“Spend this on something nice for yourself,” Charles said to him, pressing the coin in Billy’s small hand.

“I will. Thank you, Mr. Moore.”

“Go on now.”

Billy nodded and then took off, his feet thudding heavily against the wooden floorboards. Charles chuckled to himself as he watched the boy’s retreat but when he looked down at the letter in his hand, the smile faded.

“That’s odd,” he mumbled, closing his front door. “He’s never been one to send letters.”

Mr. Arthur Black was scribbled across the front of the letter in his mentor’s terrible handwriting. There was no seal and so Charles only had to unfold the letter to read what it said.

Meet me in Hyde Park at noon – Arthur Black.

Laughter bubbled up his throat at the simple message. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected his old mentor to explain himself since he’d never been one to do so before.

The good news was that he didn’t have to see Mr. Black until noon, which mean that Charles could still do the house calls he’d planned on partaking in for the moment. The not-so-good news was that the vagueness of the message would follow him for the entire morning until he found out the purpose of this meeting.

There’s no use thinking about it now, Charles thought as he proceeded to leave his loft. I have a long day ahead of me as it is. I should just worry about whatever Mr. Black has to say when the time comes.

*****

The time came far more quickly than he’d thought. His house calls went over well. The young lady from the Braithwaite household was recovering from her fever nicely and even had enough energy to speak and drink a bit of soup before sleeping the rest of the day away. Mr. Callaghan, the old blacksmith who broke his wrist while at work, seemed to be sitting still and waiting for the bone to set as Charles had ordered, even though it was driving him mad to do so.

Considering the night he’d had, the morning was quite calm. Charles found a little extra time on his hands by the end of it and so he decided to leave his medical bag back at his loft and then head over to Hyde Park before noon came rolling around. He took a hackney carriage half of the way there then decided to walk the rest, simply to bide his time.

During his stroll, his mind wandered restlessly to what Mr. Black could possibly have to say to him. He couldn’t help the pinch of anxiety he felt. Mr. Black was a quiet and cryptic man. He never said many words when Charles had been learning under his tutelage and much of his time studying to be a physician had been spent simply watching him. When they did speak, Mr. Black would give him proverb after proverb, letting Charles glimpse the philosophical man that laid underneath it all.

To be perfectly honest, Mr. Black was the closest thing Charles had to a father and so the attachment he’d formed to the older man formed far before he was taken under his wing. Charles owed so much to him, from teaching him the basics of medicine to assisting with getting Charles into the Middlesex Infirmary for a formal education and everything in between. All Mr. Black had to do was call and Charles would come running.

Though, he couldn’t say that he appreciated Mr. Black’s cryptic communications sometimes. He let out a long breath as he arrived at Hyde Park, the familiar sound of horses, carriages, and chatter permeating the air. It was not quite the fashionable hour for nobles to be out and about, which meant quite a few commoners were present instead. However, for the few nobles that were here, they stayed to themselves, standing by their carriages as they chatted with each other. Charles made surer not to pay them any mind and steered clear.

Hyde Park, for obvious reasons, wasn’t his favorite place to be in London.

But it was Mr. Black’s favorite park and whenever they met, it would be here. The bench they would often sit at was on the other end of the massive park, which meant Charles still had some walking to do. Hopefully, by the time he arrived, Mr. Black would have as well.

Suddenly, he heard a low thudding sound, like the rapid beat of a horse’s hooves from the distance. Charles paid it no mind—not until the sound grew louder and more pressing. He looked behind him to see that it indeed was a horse coming from the distance—and coming fast.

“Get out of the way!” someone shouted but Charles didn’t see who it was when he quickly stepped out of the way of the stampeding horse. The horse kept going, neighing madly as it charged its way deeper into the park. Deeper… where the picnicking families and playing children were.

Charles didn’t think twice. He rushed up to a nearby gentleman and grabbed the reins from his hands without a word. His heart pounding in his chest, he mounted the black steed and took off towards the stampeding horse.

Chapter Two

Goodness, I do not think I have ever been as bored as I am right now.

Beatrice resisted the urge to sigh, lamenting the lazy air and the heavy weight of the sun above her head. She played with the strings of her blue bonnet, her matching baby-blue walking gown swishing around her legs as she strolled along the path of Hyde Park. Her dear brother—bless his kind heart—had gifted her nearly a dozen new dresses for the upcoming Season even though there were still a few in her wardrobe from the last one that she had yet to wear. The one she had on now happened to be one of the dresses and she was already regretting choosing today to wear it. There weren’t many gentlemen around this afternoon to admire it after all.

She let the sigh loose this time as she continued along the trail, her lady’s maid on her heels. She’d decided to come out to Hyde Park simply because she could not stand being cooped up in her aunt’s manor any longer. Usually, she enjoyed staying in the library with her nose buried in a book whenever she had no one else to entertain, but the thought of doing that today only irked her. A walk was what she’d wished for, but now that she was here, she was bored again.

Beatrice sighed again. At the sound, her lady’s maid, Carla, drew closer. “Are you all right, Miss Beatrice?” she asked in a worried tone.

Beatrice glanced at the maid, who was a few years above Beatrice’s twenty years. “I’m just fine, Carla.”

“You have been sighing for some time now. It is as if the entire world is on your shoulders.”

“It sometimes feels that way, don’t you think?” Beatrice asked, smiling ruefully. “But never mind me. It’s only that I’ve never been very good at dealing with having nothing to do.”

“Would you like to visit the teahouse then? I know you like that place.”

Beatrice let out a surprised giggle. “I do not actually like that place, Carla. I only said that because Lord Jonville asked if I did, and I simply didn’t have the heart to tell him that I didn’t. I think he would have broken down in tears had I dared to say such a thing.”

“Truly?” Carla sounded genuinely surprised, which made Beatrice laugh again. “You sounded so convincing that…”

“Yes, well, a lady must know how to stroke the egos of the man she is with or else she will never get anywhere with him.”

“Ah, I see. Then, does this mean that you fancy the Earl of Jonville?”

Beatrice shook her head and could sense her lady maid’s confusion without having to look at her. “Perhaps I did at first,” she answered, fibbing just a little for Carla’s sake. “But you know how fickle the heart can be.”

“Yes,” Carla mused aloud. “I suppose it can be.”

Beatrice hid her smile. There was no need for Carla to learn that Beatrice enjoyed playing with the emotions of gentlemen. They’d only met a month prior to today when Beatrice had first come to stay at her aunt’s manor. Carla was appointed as her lady’s maid and it took a few days of warming up for the girl to say a single word to Beatrice, despite Beatrice’s efforts from the very beginning. Over time, however, Carla’s shyness began to abate in light of Beatrice’s friendliness, and Beatrice didn’t want the maid to go back to being reserved.

If she were to find out that Beatrice didn’t care for any of the men who might want to court her, there was no telling how the polite lass would react.

But she supposed she should try to put aside that type of behavior. It was about to be her third Season after all. The rumors were already beginning to mill around the ton about her unmarried state. If she failed to secure a husband this Season, she would become a spinster.

“Are you excited for the Season, Miss Beatrice?” Carla spoke up after a few seconds of silence, cutting into Beatrice’s thoughts.

“No,” Beatrice responded. “Not in the slightest.”

“Is it because you have attended the last one?”

“And the one before, I suppose. After a while, it all gets dreadfully disinteresting. Especially since my dear friend will not be able to attend any of the events with me, as she is now with child.”

“Ah, I see.”

Beatrice heard the curiosity in Carla’s voice, despite her response. It was interesting to see how much the girl opened up now that they’d spoken on numerous occasions over the past month. Any other maid would have taken care not to let it be too obvious.

Beatrice didn’t mind at all, however. She was happy to have someone to talk with, especially since there were no gentlemen around that caught her eye. The ones that watched her were not interesting at all.

“She is my closest friend, you see,” she began to explain to Carla, who was obviously listening intently. “And just last Season, she fell in love with my brother, the Baron Herbert. Now she is far too with child to be my chaperone for this Season, let alone attend an event with me. I truly am happy for her, even though I fear it means this Season will be dreadfully dull.”

“I hope it is not, Miss Beatrice, for your sake.”

“As do I.” But she didn’t have much hope. Since Tereza was not able to host her during this Season, it meant her dowager aunt, Lady Dorset, would do the honors. Her aunt was getting up in age but was still influential enough to lend Beatrice some prestige during the Season. Since it was her third Season, Beatrice needed all the help that she could get. It was a good thing she was still rather young, though that wasn’t saying much for her.

“If it is any consolation, Miss Beatrice,” Carla said, drawing closer as she dropped her voice to a near whisper, “I do not think you will have many issues finding a husband this Season. Even as we walk along right now, all eyes are on you!”

“Thank you, Carla. I hope you’re right.”

Though it was not as simple as that. If attracting a gentleman was all it took for her to get married, then Beatrice would have signed away her freedom a long time ago. She did not simply wish to be married, however. She wanted to be in love.

When she looked at Tereza and Phillip, she realized how badly she wanted what they had. The love that existed between them, as clear as day to even a stranger. The family they would raise as they dedicated their lives to each other. Beatrice remembered listening to Tereza confess to Beatrice that she loved her brother, and the raw longing in her voice was enough to convince Beatrice that she wanted that very same love.

She would rather be a spinster than marry someone she did not love. Though, she wouldn’t dare to say that to her aunt.

A sharp neighing sound broke through her thoughts. Beatrice came a halt as the sound of heavy hooves grew louder. She frowned, looking around for the source and she didn’t find it until she looked behind her.

“Miss Beatrice!” Carla cried out.

But it was too late. Beatrice saw a flash of a brown mare, a massive mouth, and thundering legs making charging towards her. And then, the next second, she was no longer on her feet, flying through the air like a tossed ball. She was already unconscious before she hit the ground.

*****

When she opened her eyes next, stars danced before her vision. Beatrice’s eyes rolled to the back of her head a few times before she managed to keep them in place, focusing her eyes and blinking the stars away. She was moving, she realized. But how?

Clouds drifted lazily through the sky above her. The sun was hidden behind a particularly fluffy one and a gentle wind drifted over her face. She should be cool, she thought, and yet her body felt incredibly hot, as if she had been tossed into a furnace. Her right shoulder was pressed against something hard, something that moved when she moved, something that had something else beating on the other side of it.

“What…what happened…?” she groaned, trying to straighten. Her legs wouldn’t move, dangling uselessly. Beatrice tried to gain some sense of her surroundings—and how in heaven’s name she was moving even though she couldn’t move her legs—but her mind would not focus. Dark splotches would fill her vision, and her head would become so heavy that she couldn’t stop herself from resting it on the heavy brace under her neck.

“Don’t speak. But keep your eyes open.”

The order was brusque, deep enough to shock her. Beatrice blinked the dark spots away and shifted her eyes away from the sky to the face right above hers.

Oh, dear.

His jaw tight, his lips drawn into a thin line. The aquiline nose, the brown eyes, the tawny hair that was pulled to the back of his head. He was, quite literally, the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

“God?” she whispered, reaching out a feeble hand. He was the one carrying her, she began to realize. Was she dead? Was she being brought to heaven?

The man looked down at her, his face unmoving. “Life would have been far easier if I was, I’d say. And I told you not to speak.”

“How can I not when God is before me?” she asked. She barely had the strength to talk, but Beatrice couldn’t overcome her awe. There was simply no way any mortal man could be this handsome.

“I’m afraid you might have hit your head a little harder than I thought.”

“Hit?”

“You were knocked off your feet by a runaway horse,” he explained. “And I, Miss, am not God. I just happen to be the only one who thought to go after the thing.”

Beatrice let her eyes drift close as embarrassment sank within her. “I hope the horse is all right, at least?”

“Far better than you are at the moment.” He shifted her as if she weighed nothing but a feather. They’d made it back to her carriage, Beatrice saw, and Carla had been following along looking deathly pale. The stranger laid Beatrice down on one side of the carriage while Carla climbed in and sat on the other side.

Now, Beatrice could see his face in full and her heart skipped a beat at the sight. His face showed little emotion, even as he rested his hands on the floor of the carriage and leaned in. “My name is Charles Moore,” he said to her. “Luckily for you, I am a physician, so you should take care to listen to what I have to say until I get back to you.”

“It doesn’t sound very professional of a physician to leave his patient in a state like this,” Beatrice mumbled.

“Seeing that you have the strength to make smart comments, I don’t think you are an average patient,” he quipped without hesitation. Then, he turned his attention to Carla. “Ensure that she doesn’t fall asleep. Keep talking to her if you must but don’t let her talk back. She will tire herself out.”

“And what of you, Mr. Moore?” Carla asked worriedly. “Won’t you come with us to the manor?”

“I have to return for my medical bag. I’m afraid I’m not prepared for this right now.”

Beatrice wanted to make another comment, but her strength was fast slipping. As if he knew that, he said, “Get her home quickly. I’ll be there soon.”

“Do you know how to find it?” Carla asked, even as the carriage began to pull away.

The handsome physician, Mr. Charles Moore, stood back and said, “I’ll find the way.”

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