Chapter One
True to form, this ball was a disaster for her, and worse, perhaps, one of her own making. Lady Clarissa Bentley perched primly at the edge of the ballroom in the company of a few other wallflowers. Together, Clarissa thought they made a rather lovely garden. Of the most undesirable overgrowth, she thought dryly. We are all young women standing at the door of spinster-dom.
Clarissa absentmindedly twirled her pen between her fingers. It was no ordinary pen, but the recent invention of John Scheffer. His penographic fountain pen was a clever creation, which kept ink its chamber and eliminated the need for both penknives and inkwells. It was truly the implement of choice for any serious writer. Admittedly, Clarissa was not yet a serious writer, far from it, but she held hope that someday she would be a great poet.
From across the room, Clarissa met the one gaze she had no desire to meet. To Clarissa’s credit, it was difficult not to notice her mother. She had chosen to wear a white gown decorated with scarlet embroidery and ribbons, and massive white feathers, dyed red at the ends. No one could possibly miss seeing her in the crowd. Her mother, Lady Bentley, was a tall, slender woman with sharp, stately features. Clarissa looked a great deal like her. They shared the same thick, dark brown hair and hazel-green eyes. Mother and daughter were even of a similar height. However, their bearings could not be more different. Clarissa’s mother was a lady people referred to as effortlessly elegant and gentle on the eyes. Clarissa was a little intimidated by her mother sometimes. The woman bore her grief and pain silently and well, but Clarissa was not, and never had been that sort of woman. Clarissa felt as if she were always bursting with feelings.
As Lady Bentley approached, Clarissa inwardly winced. She felt the sudden urge to hide her pen and the small notebook that she always kept close at hand. “Here you are,” her mother said.
“Indeed,” Clarissa said.
Lady Bentley tipped her chin up and narrowed her eyes. “Have you forgotten that this is the last event of the Season?”
Of course, she had not. How could she when her mother reminded her of that unfortunate detail so often? Clarissa averted her gaze to the open page of her notebook, her eyes idly tracing the wide, sweeping curves of her letters. Handwriting was a sort of art, too.
“And you have already resigned yourself to the corner,” Lady Bentley said, “when you could be dancing and having conversations with any number of fine gentlemen. Do you not want to get married?”
Clarissa sighed. Her mother already knew Clarissa’s feelings on the matter, but she seemed to believe that if she argued enough and asked that dreaded question enough, Clarissa’s feelings would change. Clarissa was suddenly quite aware of Amelia Westwood sitting nearby. Lady Amelia had a penchant for gossip, and although the young woman’s head was turned away, Clarissa sensed that the other woman was listening intently.
“I do want to be married,” Clarissa said softly.
Marriage consumed her thoughts ever since girlhood when she had sneaked away from her governess’s watchful eye and hid in her father’s library reading old chivalric romances of Tristan and Isolde, Guinevere and Lancelot, Astrophel and Stella. How often had she dreamed of being a desired heroine with her own noble knight racing to her rescue atop a strong, white steed.
“But I am realistic with my expectations,” Clarissa said, cutting her eyes towards Lady Amelia.
Lady Bentley frowned, her gaze sharpening. She turned her attention to Lady Amelia. “And you have resigned yourself to an evening of solitude, also?”
Clarissa’s mother had a way of speaking that managed to be both cutting and pleasant at the same time. Sometimes, Clarissa admired that about her mother. She had a certain authority about her which commanded respect. Under the eye of Clarissa’s watchful mother, Lady Amelia smiled sheepishly and fled towards the circle of dancers. The other woman who remained in the corner was Lady Emma, but it seemed as though she had gained the attention of a handsome suitor. Lord Henry, if Clarissa was not mistaken.
“Father left me barely any dowery to speak of,” Clarissa said. “I have nothing to draw a suitor to me, and this is my fourth Season. You must know it is impossible for me to find a husband.”
Her mother knew this already, but Clarissa thought that if she mentioned her lack of prospects enough, eventually, her mother would recognize them for what they were.
“So you are going to remain in this corner for the rest of the night?” her mother asked. “And consign yourself to spinster-dom or worse?”
Worse was doubtlessly the position of a governess, and as loathe as Clarissa was to admit it, she shared her mother’s reservations. Clarissa doubted that she would ever become a good poet if she were a governess and tasked with watching over the education of someone’s young children. She would not possibly have the time to pursue both. However, she could find no other solution to her situation. Although her prospects were poor, she could wed, but previous Seasons had proven that it was difficult to find a husband who would take her with such a pittance of a dowry, much less respect her inclination of being a bluestocking. A governess would be a means to survive, and although the position was hardly ideal, it was better than being destitute.
She should like to be a poet, but even if she were to find some publisher interested in her work, Clarissa knew that her poems would not be published at once. Money would not arrive for some time. How would she sustain herself in the meantime? And suppose that the poems did not sell at all? Clarissa was unsure if she could bear the shame of having poured her entire being, heart and soul, into her poems only to have London’s readership find them lacking.
“If you would spend more time trying to find a proper suitor and less time writing, you might very well be wed already,” Clarissa’s mother said. “It does not suit a lady to write anyway, especially not one who is in a situation as financially precarious as yours is.”
As Lady Bentley leaned closer, Clarissa covertly shut the cover of the book. Despite her desires to become a renowned poet, Clarissa did not want anyone to see her writings before they were finished. She especially did not wish for her mother to see them; undoubtedly, Lady Bentley would respond scathingly to their contents. Clarissa could not imagine that her mother had a fondness for poetry, much less her own daughter’s.
“Many great women have been exemplary writers,” Clarissa said.
“I would not say that you are a great woman,” Lady Bentley said. “Great women have money, power, and influence.”
Clarissa tried not to show how badly that hurt, but something must have shown on her face, for Lady Bentley’s expression softened just a little.
“I should not have said that,” her mother said. “At least, not so abruptly. I know that you feel this situation your father has put us in is unjust. Early in our marriage, it became quite apparent that I had wed a wastrel, but still, I had no idea the extent of your father’s carelessness.”
Only her father’s solicitor had known the true extent of the late Lord Bentley’s carelessness. Clarissa still remembered all too well the sympathetic look on Mr. Summer’s face when he delivered the news that the family was nearly destitute. Even after all the creditors were appeased and a significant portion of the family’s wealth sold, Lady Bentley and Clarissa still found themselves scarcely able to survive, much less capable of maintaining the life expected of the Ton. Clarissa suspected that she did not even know the true extent of her father’s debts, as after the first meeting with Mr. Summer, her mother had insisted on meeting with the solicitor unaccompanied.
“You have a duty to marry well,” her mother said. “You must try, at least. I will not have you sitting here all night and doing nothing.”
My writing is not nothing, Clarissa thought.
She remained silent, though. There was no point in trying to persuade her mother that her poetry had value. She held her pen and book in one hand and slowly rose from her chair. “I will speak with some gentlemen,” she said.
Her mother nodded stiffly, her lips twitching into the faintest smile. “This is your last chance,” she said. “Fortunately, the night is not entirely gone. Why, the Duke of Hartingdale has not even made an appearance yet! He is sure to be here tonight.”
Of course, he would make an appearance. This ball was being thrown by his aunt Lady Matilda, herself a notorious spinster. Clarissa could not help but admire the older woman for making the best of a situation which doomed many to a life of vicious gossip and sad, pitying glances. Lady Matilda sometimes made Clarissa think that spinsterhood would not be so terrible. But Lady Matilda had an enviable inheritance, and Clarissa did not.
Still, even a life of impoverished spinsterhood would be preferable to wedding the Duke of Hartingdale. If she was being fair, Clarissa would admit that His Grace was uncommonly handsome. He was blessed with a chiselled jaw and coal-black hair that fell into his icy blue eyes. The Duke was not especially tall, but his lithe, wiry form was readily apparent even beneath his well-tailored suits. Several ladies fancied him and spoke highly of his looks. His pleasing appearance hardly compensated for his many flaws, however. His Grace was also a notorious rake, subject to rumours wherever he went.
Fortunately, there is no chance of His Grace even glancing my way, much less being interested in making me one of his lovers.
Clarissa was far too sensible of a woman for that. Still, she knew when there was no point in fighting. It was best to humour her mother. “I shall try and speak to him,” she said. “Perhaps he will agree to a dance.”
If they were to dance, Clarissa would need to find someone to hold her pen and book for her. Clarissa’s eyes darted over the ballroom, searching for her friend Lady Margaret. There were very few people who Clarissa would trust with her poems, and regrettably, the fashionable pink gown Clarissa wore was not a garment which afforded a woman with pockets. Clarissa trusted that Margaret would keep her poems safe and be kind enough not to read them, but her friend’s patience would likely only remain for two dances. Margaret was also trying to find a suitor, and although she was not yet at the threshold of spinsterhood, Clarissa knew that her friend’s two failed Seasons must weigh heavily upon her heart.
“I have heard that he intends to remain in London after the Season’s end,” Lady Bentley said. “That would provide you with the opportunity to spend more time with him.”
Clarissa nodded, although she could think of little worse than enduring the Duke of Hartingdale’s company. “I suppose it cannot hurt to try.”
She was quite sure that trying was harmless. His Grace did not want a bluestocking, a wallflower, or a woman who refused to be seduced. Clarissa was all three of those things, utterly undesirable to him. He wanted a lady who would fall into his bed. Clarissa did not blame women for wanting to indulge in an amorous congress with His Grace. She was, after all, a modern woman who had read every word ever penned by Mary Wollstonecraft and Maria Edgeworth. Clarissa understood that women desired love, companionship, and pleasures of the flesh just as men did. However, it seemed to Clarissa that if a rake like His Grace wished to indulge his desires, he would be treated far kindlier than a woman who wished to do the same. The lady would be disgraced, and the Duke would be called wicked and encouraged by his companions, all of whom delighted in their mistresses and vices.
“There is Lady Matilda,” Clarissa’s mother said, lowering her voice. “She looks anxious, see? I would guess that she is also becoming impatient with His Grace for having not made an appearance already.”
Lady Matilda had moved to the edge of the crowd. From the pink blossoming across the lady’s face, Clarissa guessed that she had until recently danced through several songs. When she stood beside His Grace, the familiar resemblance between aunt and nephew was obvious. They shared the same dark hair and the same blue eyes, but Lady Matilda was a slight creature, as delicate as a daffodil stem. The illusion was only aided by her blue, pearl-trimmed gown. While most of the ton exuded a calm veneer regardless of circumstance, Lady Matilda was very much the exception. Her every emotion appeared as brightly as sunlight across her fine-boned face. It was as if being consigned to spinsterhood had made her care less about propriety with each passing year.
Her eyes darted about the room, and her brow furrowed. As Clarissa and her mother drew closer, she could see that Lady Matilda bit her lip and fidgeted with the fine skirts of her gown. With a sudden exasperated sigh, Lady Matilda disappeared into the crowd.
“I had hoped we would catch her,” Lady Bentley said. “His Grace is sure to greet his aunt first of all the guests.”
If his rakish friends did not capture his attention first, he might. Clarissa knew that the Duke of Hartingdale and Lady Matilda had a close relationship, but she did not know if it was so strong that he would neglect his libertine companions in favour of his aunt. From the corner of her eye, Clarissa spied His Grace’s usual companions standing at the edge of the crowd, drinking an amber-coloured spirit from crystal glasses. They were doubtlessly conspiring with one another, trying to decide which ladies they intended to ruin. This event could not end quickly enough.
Chapter Two
“I have never so much longed for Wales as I do now,” said Colin, the Duke of Hartingdale. “This whole affair makes me wish that I could leave this instant and return to Snowdon.”
He leaned his head back and gazed at the ceiling, affecting a look of regal dismay. In his right hand, he held a glass of scotch, which was his favoured drink. He was in the billiards room, adjacent to the ballroom. The sound of laughter and music flitted into the air around him. He supposed another man would have found that beautiful, but those sounds just clawed at his nerves like some wild animal.
“Wales?” asked Lord Watford, Colin’s cousin. “I cannot fathom why you would find anything worth longing for there. There is nothing but empty countryside and wild sheep.”
Colin frowned and turned his head. His cousin sat a small distance away with a glass of his own. Watford was a gangly fellow with rather unfashionably red hair, which he adamantly insisted was more of a burnt sienna hue. It was decidedly not. His eyes were blue like his father’s, the late Viscount of Watford.
“Wales has the most beautiful countryside I have ever seen in my life,” Colin said, “and I think it presents some profitable prospects.”
“In what? Sheep?”
“Always sheep jokes from you! There are not that many,” Colin said. “And I mean from ironworking. Shipping. All manner of things.”
“Indeed, I can understand now why you left all of this,” Watford said, waving a hand about the lavishly decorated room, “for the love of ironworking and shipping.”
Admittedly, there was something to be said for material comforts. Colin did truly derive enjoyment from games of billiards, rare books, and good drinks.
“At least I can trust that people are not gossiping mercilessly about me in the Welsh countryside,” Colin said. “The same cannot be said for the ton. I cannot even enter a room without hearing the whispers of rake hounding my every step.”
Watford took a large gulp of his drink. “Might I say something mildly upsetting?”
“If I say ‘no,’ I do not doubt that you shall say it, regardless.”
“My cousin, you are a rake.”
Colin felt himself stiffen, all his muscles becoming tense. He offered Watford a frigid look, which was received with only a raised eyebrow. “I am not,” Colin said.
“I have seen how you flirt with women,” Watford said. “You are so shameless about it that a blind man would take notice of it. And I cannot even begin to guess how many ladies you have bedded. I doubt you even know the number yourself.”
Colin clenched his jaw. Watford had also bedded a number of women, but Colin was too gentlemanly to make note of that. “I do not deny that I enjoy the occasional flirtation nor that I have had my share of romantic entanglements, but that does not make me a rake.”
“Does it not? What would you define a rake as, then?” Watford asked, a note of disbelief creeping into his otherwise polished voice. “Perhaps your definition varies from mine and other reasonable people’s definitions of the term.”
His father, that was how Colin would define it. Colin took a sip from his drink, savouring the burning sensation as the alcohol flowed down his throat. Watford had not said something mildly upsetting. He had said something so unknowingly cruel and heartless that Colin was not even sure how to respond.
His own father had died a few years before and had been found in his study, his body already stiff and cold. It was a rather ignominious way for the man to have died, but then, Colin could not honestly say that his father deserved anything better. It was ungracious of him to think, but his father had been the most rakish man who had ever lived. He loved his liquors and women, and only being caught in a compromising position with Colin’s mother had ensnared him into marriage. That was the word his father always used: ensnared. Colin remembered his mother’s tight smiles and wan face. While she tried to hide the scandals, it seemed as if Colin’s father only managed to acquire more and more mistresses, younger each year. Just a few months after his father died, Colin’s mother had too. It was as if the world would not even grant her the happiness of being freed from the clutches of such a wretched man.
“A rake is careless,” Colin said. “I am not.”
He hoped that Watford would not question his answer, partly because Colin wished to speak of the matter no longer. But mostly because there was, as usual, that icy dread creeping upon him. Was Colin really that different from his father? It was not Watford’s comment that had upset him, as much as Colin’s own fears, that his friend might be correct about him.
It was true that Colin was careful with his dalliances. He ensured that none of his lovers were aristocratic women with reputations that could be so easily ruined, and he made certain that none of his lovers were married, sparing the feelings of any betrayed husbands. And he always lied about his name, ensuring that none of those women could claim that he, specifically, was the source of their complaints.
“Are you?” Watford asked.
Colin sighed. “Yes. I am careful! How would you know otherwise, anyway? You have never been in the bedroom with a woman and me.”
“A man can only be so careful whilst taking on several lovers,” Watford said, either not aware of Colin’s growing irritation or else determined to ignore it. “And regardless, that is the very definition of a rake. There is no shame in it.”
“There is when people are hurt,” Colin replied. “How would you feel if some lord ruined your mother’s reputation with his rakish behaviour?”
“How do you know you have not hurt someone with yours?” Watford asked. “I doubt that you maintain contact with all your former lovers.”
“That is enough,” Colin said sternly. “We will speak no more about this. If you wish to speak to me like you are, you had better join the rest of the ton out there.”
A tense silence descended between them. Watford had the grace to look vaguely abashed. “I apologise. It was not my intention to upset you.”
And yet you described these comments of yours as ‘mildly upsetting.’ Colin said nothing, though. He would accept Watford’s apology if that meant their conversation would turn elsewhere. Sometimes, a man had to know when to choose his battles.
“You are a good man,” Watford said, “and a competent Duke of Hartingdale. But you can be both of those things and still be a little rakish. Men have desires, and there is nothing shameful in indulging in them. You have said that often yourself. Still, I should not have continued the conversation once it became apparent that you were taking my comments so severely.”
Somehow, Watford’s apology still managed to make it sound as if Colin were at fault for their disagreement. He smiled tightly and inclined his head to indicate that he accepted the apology, even though Colin could not honestly say that all was forgiven.
Colin finished his drink and placed the glass on the table beside his jacket. He had hoped that hiding in the billiards room with Watford would be a good way to pass the evening without interacting with all those judgmental members of the ton, but it seemed as though he was quite mistaken in that regard.
“How have you been?” Watford asked. “I was surprised you did not seek me out the moment you returned.”
“Aunt Matilda asked that I join her at once,” Colin said. “I could not deny her.”
Watford nodded. “Indeed. I would not dare displease Lady Matilda,” he said dryly.
Colin smirked. His aunt was a gentle lady, but she could be fierce when she wanted. Watford still held a playful wariness towards her, gained from being a mischievous child who had often felt the weight of Aunt Matilda’s stares. She had a way of making one feel very ashamed.
“I owe her a great deal,” Colin reminded him. “Aunt Matilda practically raised me. Given her devotion to me, I think she deserves an equally devoted nephew.”
“She is a good woman,” Watford conceded.
She was more than good. Aunt Matilda had never been especially fond of Colin’s father. The disdain between the two of them ran so deep that Colin seldom saw them in the same place when he was a boy. And yet, when his father and mother died, his aunt had not hesitated to take both himself and his elder sister Deborah into her care. Until he was a man himself, he had not really appreciated the full breadth of everything that his aunt had done for him and his sister. Sometimes, he regretted that.
He felt suddenly guilty that he was hiding in the billiards room and not in the ballroom with the others. Doubtlessly, the ton knew he had returned to London. He imagined they were gossiping about him and anticipating his appearance. They would linger and circle his aunt like vultures. Every mother with every unwed daughter would be waiting for him to emerge from the billiards room in the hopes of winning his favour.
“My sister is planning a celebration for her birthday,” Colin said, having suddenly remembered. “She wrote inviting my aunt and me to Bath, so we might join her.”
“Ah, yes,” Watford said. “She has thirty years now, does she not?”
“Yes,” replied Colin with a fond smile. “White has begun to creep into her hair, and she swears that she will officially be old once her birthday has passed. Aunt Matilda disagrees, of course.”
As if their words had summoned her, his aunt Matilda entered the room. Colin and Watford hastened to stand and bowed to her. Matilda fixed them both with a look that was equally amused and vexed. “Gentlemen,” she said. “I thought I might find you here.”
“Am I so predictable?” Colin asked.
“No,” Aunt Matilda replied. “It is only that I know you very well. I thought that I might find you here because you always come here when you are brooding over some matter. Will you not join the rest in the ball? It is proving to be a lovely party.”
Colin sighed. Aunt Matilda sank into a chair, and Colin seated himself once more, just beside her. “You know that I detest such things,” Colin replied. “And I reminded you of that when you asked me to come here.”
“I do. I had only hoped that you would…” his aunt trailed off. “Are you certain that you do not at least wish to make an appearance before the evening ends? Even the briefest appearance would suffice. I would not expect you to stay longer than you like.”
Colin forced a smile. Inwardly, he groaned. He had known that Matilda would ask, but he had silently prayed that she would not. “Could you not inform your guests that I am ill?” he asked. “Or that I have been called away on business without warning?”
“I suppose I could,” Aunt Matilda replied, “but if I said that you were ill, that would only encourage them to ask after you. The ton would be desperate to know what it was that ailed you. They would recommend their physicians and insist on having you treated any number of ways. And if I told them that you were called away on business, they would want to know when I could expect you to return. Do you not think, Your Grace, that it would be better to greet them? Give them a glimpse of you, so they are satisfied?”
Colin doubted that a single appearance would please those armies of overly ambitious mothers, determined to wed their daughters to a Duke. His aunt was right in one sense, though. If Aunt Matilda lied about him being ill or away on business, she would be the one who received all the inquiries of his health and whereabouts. It would be a vexation to her.
Besides, this was meant to be her ball, her event. The ton would not appreciate Aunt Matilda’s efforts because their thoughts were about him and his absence. Colin looked at his aunt, anticipating his answer. Her face was soft and her brow furrowed with concern. As always, she thought of his needs first, and yet there was in her eyes a soft and silent plea. Will you not do this for me? she seemed to ask.
“I suppose I can make a quick appearance,” Colin said, standing.
His aunt’s face brightened as Colin shrugged into his jacket. Watford stood, too. “Well, I dare say it is well past time that we go,” he said cheerfully.
“Indeed,” Colin replied. “Shall we, my dear aunt?”
He offered his arm, which his aunt accepted with a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I know that you detest these events, but it means so much to me that you are willing to make an appearance at my ball.”
Aunt Matilda’s event was the last of the Season. It was the one that would linger in the ton’s mind as they returned to their country estates, retreating from the crisp coolness of autumn. Colin did not want his absence to be what they remembered.
Swallowing his pride, Colin and his aunt Matilda left the billiards room. Watford came behind them. As they entered the ballroom, Colin could not help but notice how the volume changed. It grew quieter, but more excited all at once. Mothers suddenly seemed eager to whisper to their daughters while shooting furtive glances at him. Colin forced the best smile he could, hoping that the expression betrayed none of his inner turmoil as the first wave of mothers and daughters descended upon him, just like the waves on the coastline of Aberystwyth, Wales.
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As a governess at Haroth Hall, Alice Evans watches the alluring Lord Phillip Tilbury take over the reins of the estate and feels her heart quicken with each passing day. The charismatic and enigmatic new Duke seems to have a spellbinding effect on everyone he meets, including Alice herself. As she struggles to maintain her composure around her wickedly tempting boss, she wonders if giving in to her desires could lead her down a path of destruction.
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