Prologue

London, May 15th, 1802

“This is one of our best,” Lydia Haddington said as she hurried across her father’s little teashop on Bond Street. She walked past the desk where her father or Nicholas Steward usually sat and poured over the shop’s ledgers. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined her beloved Nicholas sitting there, eyes narrowed in concentration but always smiling cheerfully when she passed by.

“It looks lovely,” her customer, a grandly clad lady, said from her station by the counter. Lydia nodded, chiding herself for letting her thoughts wander so easily when she should have been paying attention to the shop.

Lydia was on her tiptoes, her right arm stretched out until her fingertips brushed up against the porcelain teapot on the shelf. It was her favorite, and the most expensive, in her father’s teashop, delicately painted in sky-blue with white clouds around the top and yellow primroses along the bottom.

If not for Lydia’s long limbs, it would have been impossible to retrieve it without a stool. She removed it with great care, a plume of dust blowing into her face. She wrinkled her nose before setting the teapot down, desperate to avoid a sneeze. She didn’t want the customer to think they kept a dirty shop; the woman was a lady of high birth. It was evident from the fine muslin dress she wore, and the silk bonnet adorned with a gemstone that reflected the afternoon light streaming in through the windows.

Lydia brushed a strand of curly ginger hair behind her ear, cursing the pins that refused to hold her wild tresses at bay. She did not want to look unkempt when such an important transaction was about to take place.

“What a lovely piece,” the woman said in a high voice that bordered on shrill. She turned the teapot around in her hand and clicked her tongue. “Did your dear mother make this?” At the mention of her late mother, Lydia’s shoulders stiffened as the smile faded from her lips. She gulped down the lump in her throat and nodded.

“One of the last she made. We have matching cups, saucers, and a little milk pot as well. My father also sells sugar tongs.” Lydia stopped talking, not wanting to sound like a gabster.

The woman flashed a smile. “I’ll have the lot of it.” She beamed and bent at the waist so much that her fresh lemon scent enveloped Lydia. “I have a gentleman to impress on behalf of my daughter. An earl is courting her. I hope an afternoon spent sipping expensive tea and indulging in sweetmeats while listening to my daughter play the harp will inspire him to make an offer. You’ll understand when you’re older. Pray, how old are you now, Lydia?” Lydia smiled while her heart filled with a pleasant warmth that soon spread to her entire body.

“I am six-and-ten, my lady,” she said quietly. The woman pursed her lips.

“Older than I thought. You had better set your cap on a gentleman before you turn twenty; the longer you wait, the harder it gets. Mark my words.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head while Lydia carefully wrapped her purchases. “I ought to have married a duke rather than a mere viscount, but I waited too long. Do not make the same mistake, my dear.”

She let out a sigh, and then, as quickly as she’d appeared, she vanished again with her purchases, the chime above the glass door ringing with her departure. Lydia exhaled and was about to rush to her father to inform him of the profitable sale when the door flew open again. She spun around, hoping the lady hadn’t changed her mind, but a much more pleasant sight greeted her instead of the regal older woman. Her heart skipped a beat, and her lips curled into a bright smile as the young man she loved best in all the world burst through the door.

“I’m rich!” Nicholas Steward hollered as he flew into the little teashop. His hazel eyes were wide with delight, and his thick dark hair bounced up and down as he rushed toward her.

“Nicholas? What in the world…” Lydia’s words were cut off when Nicholas wrapped his arms around her and spun her around the room with such vigor, strands of red hair came loose and whipped into her pale face; her stomach fluttering with the delight of his nearness.

“I’m rich, Lydia. At last,” he repeated, out of breath from the exercise. When he set her down, Lydia tumbled backward into the shelf showcasing their assortment of teas. A tin can with earl grey wobbled precariously and then fell with a bang. Nicholas beamed at her, oblivious to the chaos he’d unleashed.

Aromatic spices filled the air between them. Lydia blinked, befogged by Nicholas’ behavior and even more so by his declaration. Rich? How? Her father’s secretary had been working for the family for two years, and while he was a hard worker and earned his keep, he was far from wealthy, as evidenced by his threadbare pantaloons and worn felt hat atop a shock of dark-brown hair.

“What do you mean? Is this why you wanted to come see me?” She smoothed her muslin gown down, not wanting to wrinkle it as she didn’t have another to change into. Nicholas stepped forward; a whiff of peppermint comfit wafting into her face as he cupped her cheeks with his rough hands.

“Yes, I had to share this wonderful news with you before I told anyone else. Lydia Haddington, your future husband is rich. Which means you are rich. You and I shall be the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry; it’s finally happened!”

Lydia’s jaw grew slack. “Your grandfather?”

“The old codger finally stuck his spoon to the wall. Kicked the bucket. Departed this realm for good. Yes!” He curled his hand into a fist and gestured with as much delight as one might do upon winning a lucrative wager. Lydia knew Nicholas never cared for his cruel grandfather, and how could he? The old man had despised his daughter-in-law, Nicholas’s mother, and tolerated her only as long as his son lived. The moment Nicholas’ unfortunate father passed away from Scarlet Fever when the former was but a toddler, the Duke had thrown them out of his palatial Hertfordshire estate.

She’d heard the tale of the heartless old Duke many times. Each time Nicholas told her the story, he’d ended it by swearing that the moment he claimed his inheritance, he’d reclaim his familial home and restore it to its former glory with Lydia at his side.

Now, days before his seven-and-tenth birthday, it had happened. The Duke was dead and Nicholas was his successor.

“It will be glorious, Lydia. We shall live the way we deserve at last. No more scraping together every penny we can find to eat a decent meal. No more haggling with rude customers. It is all over. We shall be members of the bon ton and live like royalty.” His happiness lit up his already handsome face, and Lydia couldn’t help but feel the same intense burning love for him she’d felt from the moment he walked through her father’s door two years ago. She’d been too young to understand what this warm, tingling feeling meant, but now she did.

She loved and adored him. Nicholas was the one for her, just as her father had been the one for her mother. She’d envisioned their life together many times. The odd thing was, despite the picture he always painted of the future, filled with magnificent homes, expensive clothes, and all manner of luxury, hers was a different vision altogether.

She saw them living in a modest house, in charge of her father’s teashop, with enough money to be comfortable but without any extraordinary wealth. Lydia had never been rich nor longed for it. She’d been given an education and a loving home, which had been enough. The truth was that Nicholas’ sudden change in circumstance scared her. Lydia chewed her bottom lip and looked down at herself.

Her attire was that of a working-class girl, her hands showed the signs of years of scrubbing floors and cleaning shelves, and even though she was a young girl, she always felt far removed from the younger ladies of the ton who sometimes shopped here. She didn’t have that lightness, the silliness they exuded. Having to care for a grief-stricken father and a younger sister had robbed her of that levity. The only joy she had these days was when she and Nicholas snuck away together to enjoy secretive walks in the park or evenings spent looking at the stars.

A duchess? Me? No…

“Lydia,” Nicholas called and grabbed her wrist. “Do not look so sullen, please. This is a joyous day. The old dragon is dead, and I am a duke! Me!” He let go of her hand and pulled his worn burgundy waistcoat down. Lydia noted it was missing two buttons, but Nicholas looked like he was dressed fit for the King. “Can’t you just see it? Me as a duke? I shall be seated in the House of Lords.”

“I can see you as a duke. But me?” She shook her head, but Nicholas dashed to the door, turned the plain chalkboard around, and then the lock before she could say anything.

“Come with me,” he said and proffered his hand. Lydia hesitated but stepped toward him. When his warm skin touched hers, her heart gave a jolt as it always did when they held hands – an activity that might have resulted in her ruination if anyone ever saw it. Today, Bond Street was almost empty; no wonder as it was Sunday, and many noble families congregated at St. Martin’s in the Field or St. George’s.

Nicholas pulled her toward the back door, past the narrow staircase that led to their cramped living quarters, and then out into the alley.

“I ought to tell my father…” she started but shook her head. “No, he’s asleep. I can leave for a little while.”

He drew his eyebrows together. “How is he?”

Lydia sighed deeply as they walked down the dark, narrow street tinged with the biting smell from the sewers below.

“The same. He hasn’t left his bed today. Sometimes I’m unsure if it’s the grief over losing Mother or gout.”

Nicholas took a shallow breath as they cut across the alley and into a small garden that lay hidden between the tall houses occupied by those above them in station. There, they sat on a bench, surrounded by flowers that chased away the memory of the street’s unpleasant odors.

“I’ll have a lot of money now. We’ll be able to afford a wonderful physician. Your father will want for nothing. Neither will you. I’ll buy you all the finest gowns and take you to a milliner to have a hat made for you, and you’ll have half-boots, dancing slippers, and…. Every kind of pelisse and reticule you want.” The enthusiasm seeped off him with childlike passion, and Lydia smiled. Nicholas had always been a dreamer. It was one odd thing she’d liked about him from the start.

When he first arrived at their shop and took the position of secretary and general assistant to her father, he’d been serious, stoic. His mother had passed away shortly before that, which explained his disposition. But soon, she’d learned he had another side, one filled with hope and dreams. Dreams of rising in station, of outgrowing the confines of a merchant’s life.

The thing was that she was comfortable in that life, and no matter how often he proclaimed it, he too had to know that Lydia didn’t fit into the world of the rich and powerful.

“Won’t you want someone that’s more ladylike?” she asked quietly, and he raised his eyebrows.

“Ladylike? What do you mean? Someone who fiddles about with a white feathered fan and giggles into her hands instead of laughing out loud? No. Never. I want you. I’ve always wanted you, Lydia. You and me. We’ll be together, we’ll be whoever we want to be – after all, who would dare contradict a proper duke?”

“I suppose nobody,” she conceded.

“There you go. That’s what I mean. Once I come back from Hertfordshire….”

“Come back? You’re to leave?” she asked, alarmed.

He nodded. “I shall have to take charge of the estate, see about the books, and so on. It’s fortunate I’ve been working for your father for a while now and know how to do the books, so I won’t be taken for a fool. But do not fret. I shall be back soon, and our life together will begin.”

He sounded so confident, so genuine, and yet Lydia could not fight the feeling of impending doom that spread inside her like spilled wine on a white tablecloth. She knew Nicholas well enough to know he meant what he said, but he often made promises only to abandon them later. He dreamed big and could draw anyone in with his vivid imagination and enthusiasm, but often none of the things he wished to speak into existence came to pass. Was this the case now?

His warm hand appeared on her cheek then and gently turned her face to him.

“Lydia, please do not fret. I love you; I’ll always love you,” he murmured, and then, he tilted her head upward, and she felt his soft lips on hers. Warmth and passion flooded her as she drew closer, aware that they were shielded from prying eyes only by a few bushes and trees, yet she did not care. At this moment, all she cared about was being near him and soaking in his presence.

When they parted, he ran his thumb over her cheek.

“I love you, Nicholas,” she whispered. “Please, promise me you will not forget about me and will always love me.”

“Oh, darling Lydia. I would never. I promise you; we’ll be together forever, and our life will be spectacular indeed.”

He kissed her again, gentler this time, and for the briefest of instances, Lydia believed that perhaps this time, he would keep his promise, and their future would be bright indeed.

Chapter One

Queensberry Manor

Twelve years later

Nicholas leaned back in the old leather chair and felt his back mold into the cushion. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. His eyes hurt from staring at the estate books all morning. He rubbed them furiously before getting up. The floorboards creaked under his weight but faded as he stepped onto the thick carpet by the window.

Spring was upon them, and the flowerbeds below his study bloomed with daffodils and pansies. A bird hopped on the windowsill, banging its beak against the glass. Nicholas smiled and tapped his index finger against the glass in reply when the sound of racing footsteps boomed outside his window.

He glanced over his shoulder in time for the knock.

“Come,” he called and turned.

Mrs. Patmore, the governess, a heavy-set woman with a severe bun that gave her the appearance of a disciplinarian, entered. Her usually red face was white, and her eyes were wide. The woman’s ample chest heaved up and down as though she’d run from London to Hatfield. Nicholas pressed his back into the windowsill, eager to escape what was sure to be yet another unpleasant exchange.

“Your Grace, I resign immediately,” she declared as she stepped inside.

Nicholas groaned and rubbed his temple, showing no sign of surprise. Mrs. Patmore was the third governess this year alone, and he’d long since lost count of how many had come before her.

“What in the world happened now, Mrs. Patmore?”

The woman stepped toward the heavy oak desk in the center of the room and placed her flat hands on the shiny surface. Nicholas noted how red her hands were compared to her face and how they shook. The vibration spread up her arms and into her shoulders, all of which pulsated as though she were caught in an earthquake only she could feel.

“Your daughter, Your Grace. She… She…” the woman’s words trailed off, and she rose to her full height, staggering backward as her legs shook beneath her.

Alarmed, Nicholas rushed forth. The last thing he needed was for the governess to faint in his study. He had no smelling salts to revive her, and he’d rather not deal with a physician on top of whatever disaster it was that presently unfolded.

“She… my shoes… they came out of my…”

“Mrs. Patmore, get a hold of yourself,” he called as he grabbed her elbow and directed her to the wing chair in front of the crackling fireplace. The woman slumped into the seat just as the click-clack of shoes on the hardwood floor in the hall sounded, and Mrs. Funny, his trusted housekeeper, entered.

Contrary to what her name implies, she was not a social creature but rather stern in her approach. Today, however, her countenance was one of concern. In her hand, she balanced a cup that clattered against the saucer.

“Your Grace,” she said and curtsied without spilling a drop. “I’ve brought a cup of tea for Mrs. Patmore. May I?”

He waved her in and squatted in front of the governess before remembering his station. He rose to his full height and looked down at his employee.

“Mrs. Patmore, I demand to know what has happened.”

The older woman took the cup from Mrs. Funny, slurped in a most unladylike fashion, and then struggled for her words.

“Lady Charlotte placed several…” the housekeeper snapped her mouth shut, glanced at Mrs. Patmore, and bent forward with her voice just above a whisper. “Spiders, Your Grace.”

“Oh, nasty creatures. That demon child knows I’m terrified of them.”

Nicholas was about to scold her for talking about his only child, his nine-year-old daughter, in such a way but stopped himself. Other governesses had called Charlotte far worse, and to be quite frank, it was clear the woman was shaken to the core.

“I will speak to her. Again. I apologize for my daughter’s behavior. But, please, do not let her chase you away,” he said, working hard to keep the desperation from his tone. The older woman looked up, color had returned to her face, and when she stood, it was with such certainty and determination that Nicholas knew what she’d say before she opened her mouth.

“Your Grace, I have never in all my life seen a child as difficult as Lady Charlotte or as unyielding.”

“I understand,” he pleaded. “I am more than happy to compensate you for your troubles. How about a raise? Double your salary? And an additional day to yourself?”

The woman’s upper lip twitched, and her green eyes narrowed.

“Your Grace, there is not enough money in all the realm to make me stay here a moment longer,” she gathered her skirts, curtsied, and then walked out of his study without another word.

Nicholas sunk into himself while Mrs. Funny picked up the teacup abandoned on the little table by the chair and flashed him a sympathetic smile.

“I had better see her,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a man headed for the gallows. He knew one should not be so reluctant to see one’s daughter. And yet, as he left his study and walked down the grand staircase to the second floor, his stomach filled with tension, and he had to force himself to press on.

Nicholas sucked in a lungful of the cool mid-morning air, tasting hints of freshly baked bread that had come out of the oven in the kitchen below the stairs, and then knocked on Charlotte’s door. He entered without waiting to be admitted and found his precocious child seated on her bed, cross-legged with a ragged stuffed doll in her hands. She would have looked angelic with her dark-blonde ringlets that framed a heart-shaped face. Her innocent appearance was enhanced by her bright blue eyes, inherited from her late mother. Alas, the devious smirk on her lips revealed her true nature. While calling her demonic was going a tad far, she was a difficult child and always had been.

“Is she gone then?” she asked in a voice as sweet as honey dripping from a comb.

“Mrs. Patmore has chosen to leave our employ, yes,” he said and stepped closer, one hand on the post of her large, canopied bed. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself. That is the third governess this year.”

“Good. She was a bore and uptight as though she’d swallowed one of Mrs. Funny’s broomsticks.” Charlotte pursed her lips and blinked at him as if to challenge him. “She did last three months; that is better than the last lot.”

“Charlotte, these women are not here for your amusement. This is their livelihood. By Jove, these are people, not toys, and you treat them as if they’re nothing. Poor Mrs. Patmore nearly suffered apoplexy after what you did to her.”

“It was only a little joke,” Charlotte replied, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She tucked her bottom lip out in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of his late wife. Clad in a lemon-yellow dress with her hair arranged neatly, Charlotte looked just like her mother, Louisa.

Nicholas rolled his shoulders and wetted his lips. “Charlotte, it was difficult enough to find this governess; finding someone else will be nearly impossible. All the reputable governesses in Hertfordshire have heard about you and your antics and won’t set foot in this manor.”

“Good, they’re clever then,” Charlotte replied. For a child of not yet ten, she carried an immense amount of venom in her voice, which scared him at times and filled him with guilt as he knew this was as much his fault as hers.

He forced himself to remain calm, though his fingernails now dug into the wooden bedpost, scraping along the grooves.

“I shall find another governess for you, even if I must get one from another county. But Charlotte, hear me when I tell you this; it is your last chance. If you chase this governess away, I will have no choice but to send you to Mrs. Pocock’s seminary in Hungerford. Perhaps her piety and discipline are just what you need to drive this…” He waved his hand. “Whatever it is that makes you do such things out of you.”

Charlotte’s blue eyes grew wide, and she leaped off the bed, her small hands curled into fists.

“Go on then, Father. Send me. Why wait? We both know you’d rather not see me anymore.”

Her words pierced his heart, but he refused to show it.

“You’re my daughter, Charlotte. Of course, I wish to see you.”

“You lie. You lie!” she yelled and stomped her foot. “You never cared for me. Why didn’t you send me away long ago? We both know it’s what you want.”

Her eyes swam with tears which soon spilled over and rolled down her round cheeks, clung to her pert chin, and then dropped onto the ground, wetting the tip of her shoes.

“Charlotte,” he said quietly, but he had no words of comfort, for he could not deny that what she’d said was right. He hadn’t spent much time with her, and the more difficult she became, the less he wanted to change this. Nicholas had made many mistakes since claiming his horrid grandfather’s title. He’d hurt the people he’d loved the most and broken promises he ought to have kept. He’d gone against his heart’s desires and had done what was expected, and what had it gotten him? He was wealthy, respected and desperately unhappy. He sometimes wondered what his life might have been like had he returned to London. To her…

He shook his head, chasing the thoughts away. What was done was done. As he looked at the little girl now, he chewed his bottom lip and wondered just what was he to do with her? Or could it be that there was no hope left for either of them?

***

London

Lydia stomped down the narrow pavement, her footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. Her entire body felt stiff and tired from the four-hour journey in a crowded hackney. The other passengers had robbed her of her sleep with their chatter and disorderly behavior, so much so that she’d wanted to holler at them. Of course, she’d known deep down that such a desire was due to her anger at her unfair circumstances rather than anything else.

Now that she was home and the unpleasant scents of the city that had accompanied her walk home faded, the feeling of rage also evaporated. Instead, shame took its place, for hers was not a triumphant return home but a disgraceful one.

She stopped outside her father’s teashop; the closed sign had been spun around, and she tried to knob. Finding it locked, she knocked once, then a second time. The glass vibrated under her motion, and she peered inside only to see a woman’s figure coming her way.

“Lydia?” Caroline exclaimed as she swung the door open and embraced her so tight Lydia had to gasp for air. “I was not expecting you.” Caroline stepped back, and Lydia took in her younger sister. She was in her prime at three-and-twenty and should have been courting young gentlemen. Instead, her pale face showed the signs of the heavy burdens resting on her narrow shoulders. Since Lydia departed to work as a governess years ago, it had fallen to Caroline to look after their father and the shop.

His gout – an illness often associated with the wealthy who overindulged in wine and fatty foods – had become debilitating. Combined with the lingering melancholy that never removed its claws from him, even thirteen years after the death of his beloved wife, his illness had made him almost entirely bedridden. Lydia often suffered from a heavy conscious whenever she thought of Caroline’s life wasting away with the care of their father and her duties in the shop. Soon she would be an old maid, a spinster just like Lydia. Though unlike the latter, who’d never wanted to give away her heart again after her first love, the dastardly Duke of Queensberry, had so unceremoniously stomped on it, Caroline longed for love. She’d deny it if asked, but Lydia saw how her sister always looked longingly at couples passing by and how she read the marriage announcements in the scandal sheets with a keen eye.

“Lydia?” Caroline called, pulling her from her thoughts. “I asked how come you’re here.”

Lydia gulped down a lump that sat at the center of her throat.

“I was let go,” she mumbled as she stepped inside the old teashop. The familiar scents of lavender, chamomile, and assorted herbs lingered in the air. She closed her eyes and greedily inhaled as if the sweet aroma could chase away her latest failure.

“Let go?” Caroline exclaimed as she closed the door. The little bell chimed as Lydia turned and placed her leather portmanteau on the floor. “Why? I thought Sir Walter was happy with you. Did you not write that he said you were worth your salt, unlike his last governess?”

Lydia cringed, for the gentleman had praised her just a fortnight ago.

“That was before he discovered I was teaching his daughter things other than French, embroidery, and water coloring.”

Caroline’s chest inflated as she took a breath, bracing herself. The material of her white muslin gown stretched and settled once more as she exhaled. “Pray, what did you teach her that warranted your dismissal?” she asked with, fortunately, no judgment in her voice.

“Math and geography. And a bit of science. Sir Walter overhead me teaching her about the cosmos and swiftly let me go.” Her lower lip wobbled suddenly as the indignity of her termination resurfaced in her mind. “You ought to have seen them march me out of the house. All the servants stared at me. It was dreadful.” Her eyes welled with tears, and Caroline quickly embraced her. In her sister’s arms, Lydia finally let go of the restraints that had accompanied her on her journey, and she held it together no longer.

Tears streamed down her face, accompanied by sobs that eventually became whimpers. Finally, when she had no more tears, Caroline let her go and pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket.

“Dry your eyes, sister. Do not waste another thought on these foolish people. One day, others will understand the value of a good education the way Mother and Father did,” she said gently. At the mention of their father, Lydia looked up.

“How is he?” She dreaded the answer as she saw how Caroline glanced up the rickety stairs.

“The same. I bought his medicine with the money you sent last month, but the shop has not made much profit, and we are almost out.”

Lydia nodded and climbed the stairs. The floorboards creaked with each step. “I will find another placement, do not fret.”

Money had always been a source of strain for them. It wasn’t as though they were paupers. There was always bread on the table, and a good hearty stew warmed their bellies on cold winter nights. Yet, business was slow between their father’s illness and the ongoing war with France. It was this, the downturn in their profitability, which had inspired her to take employment as a governess in the first place. Now more than ever, they needed her income.

At the top of the steps, she turned to where her father’s bedchamber was. She paused and looked at the pitiful shape buried underneath a pile of blankets. Lydia stepped into the room and gasped at his gaunt face. He was asleep, but even at his rest, he did not look peaceful. The strain and worry had carved deep lines into his face, and she could tell by the way his fingers twisted that arthritis too had taken its toll on his body.

“Father,” she whispered, uncertain if she ought to wake him. He blinked, and his eyes sprang open as if he’d not been asleep.

“Lydia, you’re home,” he cooed, touching her cheek. His fingers felt cold and dry against her skin, and when she wrapped his hand in hers, she kissed it, feeling the thin skin that stretched over his bones without so much as an ounce of fat.

“I am. I… I lost my employment, Father. Forgive me.” Her voice hitched, and she looked away.

“There is nothing to forgive. You… Oh, my darling Lydia.”

“I told her that,” Caroline chimed in from the hall. “We’ll make do.”

“We always do,” her father reassured her and strained to sit up. Lydia placed her hand behind his back to help him up. He let out a groan before patting her hand. “I am the one who should apologize. I’m the one who’s meant to take care of both of you. I should have seen that you were married, with your own families. Instead, you are here, looking after me.” He shook his head in dismay, but Lydia quickly reassured him.

“It is no burden, Father. It has never been. Besides, if one of us were to marry, it should be Caroline. She is still young. I am hopelessly on the shelf.” She spoke without self-pity, nor was she looking for reassurances. She knew at eight-and-twenty. She was all but an ape leader. Not that she wanted to marry anyhow.

“You could find a man,” Caroline quickly said. “If you wanted to.”

“But I do not,” Lydia replied though suddenly a deep melancholy settled in her heart. She meant those words. She did not want to marry. She never again wanted to feel the pain she’d experienced when she’d realized Nicholas was not coming back for her, despite his promises. She saw his hazel eyes before her for a second, vowing his everlasting love. Back then, she’d let his words reassure her heart though her mind had known better.

Ultimately, her mind was right, and her heart was crushed to dust when she understood he would never return. Then as now, Lydia had to be strong. Her father and sister were the only reasons she’d managed to get through the pain, the aching longing, and the raging anger that had torn through her for months. Eventually, the glowing embers of her fury had grown smaller and gone out. In their wake, she’d been left with a profound sense of numbness; a numbness that had now become her friend.

It had reigned in her heart ever since. No matter how many young swains expressed an interest, she’d steadfastly refused ever to be courted again. No, she would never give her heart away again, and she would never allow a certain duke to invade her thoughts again.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

If you want to be always up to date with my new releases, click and...
Follow me on BookBub