Prologue

Genevieve

“If I have told you once, Genevieve, I have told you a thousand times.”

Genevieve’s grip on the book in her hand tightened in anticipation. Her mother had the habit of snatching her daughter’s book as a means to emphasize the importance of her lecture. It usually ended with the book being snapped shut and her mother rapping her on the knuckles with it for daring to read in the first place.

Sure enough, the woman seated across from her in their small carriage did indeed attempt to snatch the book.

“Put…” she tugged angrily, “the book . . . oh, for heaven’s sake!”

When she could not pull the book from her daughter’s hands, she smacked them anyway.

“Put that down and sit up straight unless you wish to grow a hunch in your back! Imagine that. What sort of husband would wish to wed a shriveled old crone?!”

Genevieve relented. She sighed softly and placed her marker in her book before dutifully complying with her mother’s wishes. She watched as the older woman pressed the back of her gloved hand on her mouth as if she was barely keeping tears at bay. It was hard not to roll her eyes over such theatrics.

“Sorry, Mama, please do not cry.”

“It is just . . . you act as if you do not even care about your debut!” the older woman fanned her face with her other hand, pretending to struggle for composure. “One would think you would be excited! Such an important, momentous day like today! Every girl dreams of their first debut! I know I did.”

Not every girl.

Genevieve wished she could speak her mind. She wished to say she was actually so nervous she feared she’d faint. As a result, her stomach would not settle, and reading her book was absolutely the only thing keeping her from losing her mind at that very moment.

“I would spend hours dreaming of the perfect dress or the way I might style my hair. I begged my Mama for the pearls to decorate my hair for weeks before the day! As I am certain you remember, I was quite sought after in my youth . . . are you listening to me? Genevieve?”

It was hard to listen when one was so nervous that the world outside seemed to be spinning in place. She wished she could tell her Mama that she was only making things worse.

Genevieve closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the book, attempting to steady her breathing. If only she could get it under control, then things would be better. In through the nose and out through the mouth. While that particular technique was not the one listed in the medical journal she had read over a dozen times, it was the one she felt worked best for her. She focused on the sound of the leather binding creaking under her gloved grip and the wheels of the carriage starting to slow down.

Her mother had never understood Genevieve’s fascination with the human body, but she could not help herself—she adored it. Her mother found it gruesome and unladylike. Perhaps she was correct, but at a moment like this, it soothed Genevieve. She knew her interests would have pleased her mother if she had been born a man. If she had only been male, she would have been allowed to study. She could have dedicated her life to science and never have to worry about something so silly as pearls and dresses.

The only reason her mother had not attempted to ruin the old, yellowing book in her daughter’s hands was because doing so would incur the wrath of Genevieve. Damaging the things he bought for her would cause more arguments between them. Whether it was ladylike or not, her father understood her desire to learn. When she cried and explained that she wished to become a physician, he was the one to listen and encourage her. While her mother had been the one to stomp on the dream so firmly, it had died at the tender age of seven.

Her mother could not stop her from reading, however. No matter what she did.

The human body fascinated Genevieve endlessly. If only she could remove herself clinically from her present emotions, then she could diagnose and access them, perhaps even come up with a better plan of action.

But then they arrived at their destination. The carriage pulled to a stop behind the already long line of carriages unloading their effortlessly graceful young cargo. A buzz of excited conversation floated in through the open carriage windows, and it seemed everyone was speaking about one thing—impressing the Queen.

Distracted, her grip on the book slackened, and her mother capitalized on the opportunity to yank it from her daughter’s hand with a victorious smirk.

“Now, no more of that nonsense! Sit upright.” The older woman gloated as she leaned forward in her seat, pushing and primping at her daughter’s hair until she was satisfied it was exactly the way she wished it to be. Mother always strove for her version of perfection—no matter how unattainable it might be in Genevieve’s case.

“I do not see why you bother, Mama. They all think me strange anyway.”

“If you would keep your nose out of a book a little more often, they might think otherwise. You have nobody but yourself to blame,” her mother began, and Genevieve sensed a full-blown lecture in the offing. But the older woman suddenly huffed and dropped her hands. “I suppose that is as good as it is going to get. Please try your best not to embarrass me once we are inside. No speaking of herbs or rooting around in the garden dirt. Mind your manners, or you will never find a husband.” She huffed again and looked on the verge of tears once more. “Honestly, child, you have no care for your mother’s poor nerves!”

Genevieve hated to see her cry. “No, Mama, of course, I do,” she said, feeling contrite, glad to see it was their turn to disembark. The carriage moved forward, and the footmen placed the wooden blocks used as steps on the ground, to ease their exit before pulling open the door.

When she glanced back at her mother, she saw her eyes were dry, as if nothing had happened. Instead, she had pasted a bright, cheery smile on her pretty features and stepped out into the warm afternoon sunlight, beaming.

Why can I not ever do that?

Genevieve cursed herself silently and followed her mother out of the carriage, feeling as if every pair of eyes was on her the moment her foot slipped, and she nearly fell sideways from the stepping block. She awkwardly grabbed the footman’s arm to steady herself, smiling nervously.

“Watch yourself, child!” her mother hissed angrily under her breath, her lips hardly moving as she linked her arm through her daughter’s. Mother had always been so effortlessly subtle. The woman had an easy way of expressing herself that Genevieve coveted.

“Sorry, Mama.”

“Do not forget yourself. I do not wish to see you indulging in eating cakes, either. Your hips are full enough as it is. No more than a glass of wine to sip on throughout the evening.”

“I know, Mama.”

“Good. Then I should not have to repeat myself.”

“Of course, Mama.” Genevieve tried to make herself smaller as they moved into the grand entrance hall, struggling to suppress every one of her instincts.

Just for one day . . . just one day when I can be the perfect daughter. Today will be the day when I finally make her proud.

She hated even knowing it was something she wanted. She ought not to care what her mother thought because she knew her own mind. Genevieve knew very well what did and did not interest her, yet still, she craved her mother’s approval. Genevieve was the only child of her parents’ union, and though her father had never seemed to mind, her mother had always made it clear she thought her daughter a disappointment simply for not having been born a male.

“We are not here to indulge ourselves, Genevieve. We are here to make a good impression and please the Queen. You are to attract the eye of every man in the room. Stop fidgeting.”

Genevieve unclenched her fist. The gloves stopped her from biting her fingernails—a horrible habit she nearly always gave into when she was studying or absorbed in a task. Sadly, it had become a comforting action for her. But she could not do it there, so her fingers rubbed together in endless circles inside her gloves as an attempt to soothe herself

I do not want to be a prize. Why can I not just be myself? What is so wrong with that?

But why was she even asking that question of herself? She knew her mother would be only too happy to tell her.

Inside, the lights were too bright. The music, while beautiful, was overwhelming when paired with the loud hum of conversation floating just above it. There were so many things to concentrate on, what not to do, and too many people, their eyes watching her . . . judging her. And it was so very hot!

One foot in front of the other . . .

All of the other young debutants waiting for their names to be called were surely prettier than her. She knew it. She could feel her mother knew it too, from the way she kept looking from one to another of the beautifully decorated dolls waiting near the door, then back to her daughter. Her soft hum of disapproval reminded Genevieve to stand up straighter and not slouch.

“Presenting Lady Genevieve Huntley.”

A hush came over the room. Genevieve was hardly aware of moving. Her hands dropped to her sides and it took everything she possessed to keep from fidgeting or walking too quickly. She knew she was perspiring too much and willed herself to stop.

Almost there. I can do this. I can.

She could not meet the Queen’s eyes. Her feet wobbled as she curtseyed deeply, the way her mother had made her practice endlessly, and it felt as if time froze.

Oh, no. What do I do now? Surely, her Majesty will dismiss me . . . she must . . . she will signal for me to rise.

A moment passed, then another, and nothing changed. She rose slowly, trying to look demure, and peeped at the impassive expression on the Queen’s face. One could not meet her eyes directly out of respect for the Crown.

Genevieve thought she might be sick. She was going to be sick. Or faint. Everybody would know she had failed. She prayed for it to be over. Had the other girls taken so long? Certainly not. They had curtseyed and gone on their way. She knew she ought to do the same. Oh, why had she not been paying better attention?

When still nothing changed, she slowly and carefully turned on her heel and started down the long aisle—to a collective horrified gasp from the crowd around her. She froze. Her eyes flicked to her mother, who practically vibrated with rage from the end of the aisle.

Genevieve swiftly turned around once more—but the Queen had her nose lifted, her face turned to the side. She examined her nails as if that were the only thing of interest to her in the world.

Never turn your back on the Queen, you fool!

Tears swam in Genevieve’s eyes as she curtseyed once more, then shuffled awkwardly backwards and away from the Queen. Her feet moved so quickly, she feared she might trip over her own lowered skirts and further humiliate herself in front of all of these people. Her face felt hot. The moment she was within reach, her mother snatched her by the arm and pedaled her away from the disapproving eyes of the ton.

Genevieve had ruined absolutely everything. Her father was never going to forgive her. The empty dance card that hung, ignored, from her wrist was a constant reminder. She did not wish to dance, she hadn’t been asked to anyway.

Mother had not said a word.

This is worse than any of her lectures. She had expected yelling or ominous warnings about what would happen to her once she arrived home. Instead, the silence made the knot of dread in her belly grow tighter and larger as the ball passed her by.

“I need a moment, just to get some air,” Genevieve managed at last.

“Be quick about it,” her mother said, her voice clipped.

Not needing to be told twice, Genevieve slipped out of the ballroom, conscious of the whispers of those watching her, their hands cupped over their faces or hidden behind their fans. She refused to let them see her cry. She refused to lower her chin or look even half as mortified as she presently felt.

Her feet carried her without direction. She was unfamiliar with the palace and did not know the way around. Each turn she took seemed to lead her in circles. Why did any house, however grand the owner, need so many rooms and hallways? Everything was starting to look the same to her—all decorated to suit one specific taste. Suddenly, just as she felt the walls were starting to close in on her, she heard voices.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she flattened herself against the closest wall. Her ears pricked to find the direction the sound was coming from, searching for any indication that she ought to turn and run. They were male voices. She knew she could certainly not be caught without a chaperone. For would that not just be the icing on the cake, a scandal to round off what might be the very worst evening of her entire life?

She inched closer to the voices and peeped unseen through the half-open door. Inside, she saw the warm, yellow glow of a room illuminated primarily by a happily crackling fire. A group of six men stood around it, glasses of some liquor in hand. Several puffed away on cigars or thin cheroots.

Normally, the smell of cigar smoke and warmed liquor fumes would be enough of a deterrent to send her into a rapid retreat. However, the scene had her curiosity piqued. A ballroom full of the Season’s most eligible ladies was waiting for them, yet these men had secreted themselves. For what purpose, she wondered, filled with curiosity Certainly, judging by their lively conversation and laughter, they were not having half as bad an evening as herself. That alone had her shamelessly eavesdropping.

“—see, my dear Warwick, that is where you are wholly incorrect,” one man was saying.

“I will not hear another word of your blasphemy, man! If you cannot see that my judgment is far superior to your own in this matter, then I suggest you finish another glass of this excellent brandy before we revisit this topic,” said his companion with a hearty laugh.

Warwick. Genevieve frowned. How did she know that name? Ah! Her mother had mentioned it quite recently. Was he not to inherit a dukedom at some point or something like that?

“Deductions for size, additions for poise and grace, but that mouth on her. . .” another put in, shaking his head as if in wonder before downing the contents of his glass.

“Hear, hear! The fellow makes an excellent, sensible point!” one of the older men said.

It was hard to tell which voice belonged to which man from where she stood. Carefully, silently, she moved a little to better see their faces.

“Then I suppose an equal argument could be made if the lady has two left feet but a pleasing smile.”

“If her countenance is pleasant enough, perhaps. Though if her size is too large, then there is no hope for her at all!’

“Honestly, some of these mamas would have been better off keeping their daughters in the stables with the rest of the livestock,” said a thin fellow with a pinched face and leering laugh.

“Hayweather, you are too cruel!” another cried, joining in his laughter. In truth, he certainly did not seem too offended by the man’s comment. The words of this Hayweather struck her as vicious, and Genevieve pitied the poor woman they were so vulgarly talking about, whoever she was.

“Very well, then. If your standards are so high, whom would you consider?” the other man asked Hayweather.

“Not many, my lord, not many.” He shook his head in mock sadness.

“Come now, there must be at least one lady you find tolerable.”

“Lady Wharton is pleasing to the eye. She speaks so little, I think I could tolerate her presence on my arm,” Hayweather replied.

“But she is so slight! I cannot imagine the young lady being with child! How could she bear sons?”

“That would be her problem, would it not?”

Genevieve frowned again. Their commentary was slowly shifting from rude to inappropriate.

“I would rate her a six out of ten. Lady Umbridge is a solid nine. I would happily duel any one of you for her hand, at least once I am sober.”

“You are only interested in her because there are rumors she is light of skirts!”

“And if I am?”

The only man who did not seem to join in the conversation was Lord Warwick himself. The men kept directing comments to him, but he simply sat in his lounge chair and sipped at his drink slowly. However, she noticed he smiled at their comments and did not condemn them, and for a brief moment, she thought he was the only decent one among them.

“Lady Aston?”

“Seven”

“Lady Burstock?”

“Hmmm . . . a five.”

“Lady Huntley?”

Genevieve’s blood ran cold. That was her. She was Lady Huntley. She should not listen to this. By their disgusting calculations, she would likely be a two. She knew she would be foolish to subject herself to the cruelty of their mockery. It certainly did not matter what they thought of her anyway! Oh, if only she could rate them and make them feel as sick to their stomachs as she presently did!

“Six. While she is not ugly, she is certainly not what I would consider conventionally beautiful,” Hayweather said after some thought.

It hurt. It should not have hurt . . . but it did. Her hand pressed into her stomach, and she fought tears once more. What did it even mean to be “conventionally beautiful”? Should it not have offended her, even more, to find such horrible, deplorable men found her interesting? Clearly, they had no manner of standards at all! She pitied the poor women they didfancy!

“I think she is very beautiful,” a new voice said firmly. Genevieve’s eyes snapped to the young Lord Warwick, and despite herself, time seemed to slow. He tapped his long fingers against his glass in contemplation, not caring at all that he had stunned the rest of the group into silence. “It is her attitude that ruins it for me,” he added.

There came a beat of silence until another one of the men laughed heartily. “He speaks at last! There it is, gentlemen!”

Then they were all speaking over one another, and she felt the world tilt on its axis once more. The words of a rude man should never be heeded nor taken to heart. He did not know her, so how could he judge her? Still, she was appalled, her breath catching in her throat.

She pressed herself firmly into the wall and tried to steady her breathing. The man was nothing more than a rake and a slanderer. She had never even been introduced to him, let alone spoken to him in conversation! He knew nothing of her so-called “attitude”.

“Is she the one who offended the Queen earlier?” asked one of the men.

“Yes, the poor dear has not caught the eye of a single man all evening. Except for Lord Warwick, it would appear,” put in Hayweather.

“Hardly,” Warwick answered. “She is far too . . . peculiar. She is too smart for her own good. And after tonight’s fiasco, it will take a great deal more appeal than she possesses to land herself a husband, much less tempt a man such as myself into marriage. I am not interested in charity.”

One of the other men lifted his glass. “Hear, hear!”

To her added misery, they then proceeded to toast her misfortune as if it were a joke.

Genevieve felt a tear roll down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. A mixture of rage and indignation roiled inside her, blotting out any humiliation.

She pushed away from the wall and stomped away down the hallway. Who were they anyway? She would rather die a spinster if those were the sorts of men her mother wished her to marry! She could not fathom a more torturous fate than having to be shackled to one of those imbeciles for the rest of her days!

She was so distracted, she did not watch where she was going.

Her hip knocked into one of the tables lining the many hallways she had woven through in her effort to find the ballroom once more. She had planned to beg and plead with her mother to be on their way; she desperately wanted to go home.

Instead, she was snapped out of her temper by a vase falling and smashing to pieces at her feet.

She yelped and jumped backward, thankful that none of the shards had cut her legs in the fall. Closing her eyes, she tried not to scream in frustration. It was impossible to hope that nobody would have heard the crash. Indeed, she spotted a small group of people further down the hallway, all turning and looking at her curiously while she awkwardly pushed the broken bits underneath the table with her foot. She could only hope they had not actually seen her break one of the Queen’s vases.

This night could not have possibly gone more badly for her.

Surely, it would go down as the worst debut in the history of debuts.

Chapter One

Edward – Two Years Later

“Get up!”

Edward woke to the sound of his bedroom door slamming open. The intruder clearly had no care for the sanctity of sleep nor the throbbing in his head. He was of half of a mind to protest, but his exhausted mind would not formulate the words.

“You were due to rise with the sun, lazy heir of mine, and yet you slumber!”

His father crossed the darkened bedroom, nearly tripping over discarded clothing on his path to the large windows before wrenching open the drapes, not allowing his son another moment to adjust.

“Get up!”

“No, have you no heart?!” Edward groaned in protest and threw a pillow over his head to hide the light. “I feel as if bees have been set free inside my skull, Father, it is too early for this!”

The man scoffed and shook his head. Kenneth Warwick, the Duke of Rutherford, did not care what sort of night his son had had the night before. His only concern was that the young man get up at a reasonable hour. He was not the type of man who could tolerate laziness, let alone idle hands. To his son’s chagrin, he was a man who loved schedules and sticking to them.

“There now!” Kenneth spun to face his son’s bed and instantly regretted it. “For the love of God, put something on! Cover yourself!”

Edward grinned. “If you did not wish to see it, Father, you could have simply knocked,” he muttered, making no effort to remove the pillow from his face.

“What if your mother had been the one to come and wake you? Even worse, what if one of the poor maids had come in here to witness you in such a state!” the older man blustered.

Edward was not ashamed of his nudity, and he refused to be made to feel embarrassed. “Well, if I were a maid, I would not mind walking in on me in such a state.”

When no laughter met his joke, Edward peeked out from underneath his pillow just in time to see the unimpressed look on his father’s face, punctuated by an uncharacteristic roll of his eyes.

Kenneth crossed to his son’s wardrobe and rummaged about just long enough to find a pair of trousers, which he forcefully threw at him. “Get dressed at once. Your valet will come any minute, and he certainly does not deserve to find you in such a state so soon after breakfast.”

“I do not wish for breakfast.”

“Good, because you have missed it. And before you attempt to explain why, I shall remind you that I have no interest in hearing about whatever exploits you got up to last night.”

“You ought to know very well what I got into last night, Father; you were not always a married man,” Edward teased. It was one subject his father never spoke about. He did not share any personal stories about his earlier life. All Edward knew of the man was what he had personally experienced and the rare stories his mother had told him.

The one exception to that rule was that his father liked to tell every story he could about him and his wife. While his parents never shared much about their individual lives before meeting, they loved telling the story of how they fell in love and married. While Edward sometimes teased his father about his own supposed rakish days, it seemed the old man was as enamored with his wife today as the day they were married.

Consequently, the way Edward saw it, there was no point in marrying a person unless one was wholly and totally head over heels for them.

But why not enjoy oneself in the meantime?

Every woman of the ton Edward had ever met was, in his experience, only interested in what they could get from him. They coveted his money or title, or both. They wanted the best life they could get and would pretend to be anything and everything he wanted them to be, so long as they felt it gave them the upper hand. Out of all of the women he had spent time with over the years, he did not think he had met a single one who was genuine in presenting herself.

He had been raised to understand that such a state of affairs was par for the course, given that everybody knew he would one day be the Duke of Rutherford. People often had a hard time distinguishing him from his title, that was the long and short of it. If a love match to rival that of his parents was not in the cards for him any time soon, he saw no reason not to enjoy himself in the meantime. And as so many of the beautiful, eligible ladies of the ton seemed so interested in having a taste of him, he considered he was simply being courteous in indulging them.

“I am only doing my civic duty, Father,” he said, waiting for the glare that would inevitably come.

He did not have to wait long. “I do not appreciate your humor, Son.”

“You never do.”

“You ought to take yourself more seriously. Have a bit of pride. You might fool those around you into thinking you have no care in the world, but I know well that you understand the weight of your responsibilities. You have managed to put things off for long enough, and today, all that ends. You will be the head of this family before long, Boy, and you will start acting like it. If not for your mother and I, then at least for your little sister’s sake.”

All hint of humor slipped from Edward’s features. He had been teasing, but that was no teasing matter. His younger sister was the most important woman in the world to him. He would never take his duty to her lightly.

“How can I trust you will ensure her future and put her best interests above yours when you show no initiative, no signs of wanting to take over more responsibility? You stay out all night, burn through your allowance at the club! What else am I supposed to think?”

“I would never put her in harm’s way,” Edward countered soberly, pulling his trousers from where they had landed on the bed after being thrown.

“I know my words seem cruel to you, but I will indulge you no longer,” his father continued. “I asked you a fortnight ago to ensure the Liverpool contracts. Have you accomplished my request?’

Edward dropped his gaze. “No, Father.”

Kenneth sighed. “The Abernathy estate? Have you finished negotiations there, then?”

Edward did not answer as he slowly got out of bed and started to dress himself. Kenneth crossed over and placed his warm hands on his son’s shoulders. “You are more than capable of handling all of those things and more. I know you are, but you must learn to follow through. I have such high hopes for you, my dear Boy. Why do you seem so hell-bent on disappointing me?”

Edward could not meet his eyes. He knew the man was right, and he could not speak the words. An apology did not seem nearly sufficient.

It was not as if Edward was intentionally disobeying or disappointing his father. He was certainly willing to take on the duties assigned to him by his position as heir. He simply did not wish to shackle himself to a loveless marriage of convenience. In truth, he found a deep pleasure in the female form. He knew just how marvelous intimacy, and the resulting release, felt. But he also felt sure that if such strong connections could be made out of lust and convenience, then they must be multiplied tenfold with a woman one loved.

He just had to find her.

“You are to inherit my dukedom, Edward.” His father sighed and sat on the edge of Edward’s bed heavily. He cast his eyes down and pinched at the bridge of his nose as if struggling to keep himself composed. “It is past time for you to cease gallivanting around and sowing your wild oats, Son.”

As much as Edward wished to contest the words, he knew with a sinking heart that his father was right.

“Prove to me that you care. I need to be secure in the knowledge that should anything happen to me before my time, or when that time does come, your mother and sister will be well provided for.”

Edward finished pulling his shirt over his head and sat beside his father. “I will, Father.”

“Starting today.”

Something about the finality in his tone alarmed him.

“The Woodvilles will be joining us for dinner today, along with their lovely twin daughters, Victoria and Frederica. I believe it is the perfect opportunity for you to state your intentions regarding Victoria, to move forward with your courtship, while her father and I discuss what all that will entail.”

A lump of lead settled hot and uncomfortable in Edward’s gut. He had no desire to officially court anyone at all, let alone Victoria Woodville. She was the last person he could see himself standing beside at the altar.

“I expect that you will be on time, presentable, and pleasant during the entirety of the evening. I suggest you plan something to entertain Victoria after our meal, perhaps a stroll through the gardens? I am certain your mother or one of the maids would be only too happy to chaperone the pair of you.”

“Yes, Father.”

There was no use in arguing with him—the outcome would be the same. This was to be his fate.

“I expect you to appear a good deal more enthusiastic when you greet her,” the Duke said. He reached over and patted Edward’s thigh, in a gesture meant to offer comfort, but he took none from it. He forced a smile passable enough to have his father nod and dismiss himself from the room.

“Damn,” Edward muttered to himself before rising from the bed. He crossed over to the wash basin to splash water on his face, looking at his face in the small mirror on the wall. Normally, he was quite pleased with the structure of his face. He knew women tended to look on his symmetrical features favorably. It was just about the first time that he wished it was otherwise. He knew Victoria had only agreed to be courted by him because of what she, and her family, could gain from the situation. Even if they were to eventually end things, she would retain the elevated status of a woman whom an eligible duke had previously courted.

The bigger issue was that he could not stand her.

He liked to believe there was good to be found in every woman. There was always something to like, something to be attracted to. Victoria was the exception. He shuddered to think what their children might be like. There would be no escaping such duties were he to wed her, and the very idea of being intimate with her made him dizzy.

Edward patted his face dry with a cloth and gave himself a good, lingering look in the mirror. He could see the toll the years had started to take on him. Small signs, such as the bags under his eyes, which did not disappear so quickly after a long night of indulgence as they had used to. He could feel the exhaustion and fatigue lingering and weighing him down. Perhaps Father was right. Perhaps it was time to put aside his silly dreams of love and start thinking about a more practical future. He needed to think of his sister.

He inhaled slowly through his nose and allowed his eyes to close. All of the thoughts in his mind quieted. There was no reason to fear change, he knew that. He could still find something to be happy in his life. His sister’s happiness was paramount to his own anyway. He would handle it as he handled all situations— confidently.

When he opened his eyes once more, the man in the mirror was somebody different. He was no longer the tired man from before but somebody brimming with confidence and easy charm. He winked at his reflection and turned to face the day.

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