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Chapter One
Fairford Village, Kent, England, 1814
“Oliver!” Amelia Cavendish’s voice was high-pitched with panic. “Do not play so close to the road – you know that carriages are apt to hurtle through the village at very high speed.”
Oliver Cavendish, eight years old and with brown hair sticking out at odd angles from his head, despite a large amount of oil being slathered on it this morning, turned at his mother’s entreaty, grinning widely.
“I am not so very close to the road, Mama,” he said in a wheedling voice, with a beseeching expression upon his face. “I do not think a carriage will knock me down.”
“Oliver,” said Amelia, gripping her teacup tightly, a note of warning creeping into her voice. “You must listen to me, dearest. Please play in the Worthingtons’ front garden as we agreed … and do not venture outside it. At least, not for the moment, until we get our bearings in the village.”
Oliver sighed dramatically. His sea-green eyes turned mutinous, and Amelia tensed slightly. Was her only child about to argue with her? Were the recent dramatic events and upheavals in their lives turning Oliver insolent?
There was a tense, awkward silence as mother and son gazed at each other. But then, Oliver nodded, kicking a stone disconsolately, before opening the white iron gate that separated Bridecomb, the Worthington house, from the main road of the village. Coming into the garden, within minutes, he was engrossed in a solitary game of marbles, flicking the small glass orbs with his fingers on the path, an absorbed expression on his face.
Amelia felt her shoulders slump. She sat down in a white wicker chair on the front porch of the house, sipping her tea and gazing at her son. The tea was hot and refreshing, revitalizing her. It had been such a busy day, and this was the first opportunity she had to catch her breath.
She glanced back at the house, wishing that Charlotte had been able to join her. But her hostess and dear friend had a community event at the Fairford village hall that she could not cancel. As Charlotte’s husband and Amelia’s cousin James was also out of the house, it meant that Amelia and Oliver were quite alone within it, apart from the servants, of course.
It feels so odd that this is our home now. At least, for the foreseeable future – until the guardianship dispute with Reginald is resolved, and Oliver and I can start our lives over again.
Amelia’s heart shifted in her chest as she placed her cup of tea on the side table and gazed at the garden. Bees buzzed lazily around the rose bushes and the hollyhocks, and birdsong twittered in the overhanging branches of the trees, but Amelia didn’t hear any of it. Nor did she see people passing by the house on their way into the village, swinging their shopping baskets. It was as if none of it existed.
How have our lives come to this? I never saw it coming.
That dreadful familiar sense of loss, which had been her frequent companion in the early days, started to overwhelm her again. The grief and loss that had ripped a hole in her heart and her entire world since Harold had passed away so suddenly on that grey April day a year ago.
He was too young to die. He was only five and thirty. How could an apoplexy have just carried him away from us out of the blue? How could he have left me and our son alone in the world?
Amelia’s eyes filled with helpless tears. Fiercely, she forced herself not to cry. She knew that if she started, she would have a hard time stopping. And Oliver didn’t need to see her so upset all the time. He was still grieving for his father, as well, and didn’t need to witness his mother falling entirely apart.
Amelia took a deep, ragged breath. He was dealing with being forced to leave their beloved family home and live with her cousin and his wife in an unfamiliar village, on top of it all. It was a lot for an eight-year-old to process. No wonder he looked mutinous now and again. No wonder he was starting to talk back to her just a little bit.
If I want to go home desperately, how must Oliver feel? How much worse must this upheaval be for him?
Amelia picked up her teacup, sipping from it, fighting her grief. It had been a long, upsetting day. She and her son had left Ailstird, their country manor home in the neighbouring county of Essex, for the last time today. She had turned the key in the lock of that grand front door for the very last time. Ailstird was sold and waiting for its new owners to claim it.
She had battled to stay there for a year since Harold’s sudden passing, but the house was too big for her and Oliver and too expensive to run. Her solicitor, Mr Trent, had advised her to get rid of it now that she was officially a widow living in “reduced circumstances.”
She gazed around. Bridecomb was a beautiful old sandstone house in a quaint village. Her cousin James and his wife Charlotte purchased it two years ago and made it their own. When they had made the offer to Amelia, saying that she and Oliver were more than welcome to live with them until the unpleasantness with Reginald was resolved and they were more certain of their future, she had initially demurred, saying it was too much, and she didn’t want to inconvenience them.
But of course, being the kind, generous people they were, they had insisted. And now, here she was, plonked down in a strange house and village, as if a giant hand had reached out of the sky, picking her up by the scruff of the neck and depositing her elsewhere with such dizzying speed it made her head spin.
“I am bored,” declared Oliver suddenly, jumping to his feet and glaring at her. His bottom lip started to wobble. “I want to go home, Mama. I want to go back to Ailstird.”
Amelia’s heart somersaulted in her chest with distress. She put down the cup again, getting to her feet. Slowly, she walked down the garden path towards her son, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Tenderly, she kissed the top of his head.
She didn’t know what to say to comfort him. What could she say? For she wanted to return to their home as fervently as he did. She wanted everything to go back to the way it had been a year ago, but nothing could be as it had once been now.
Amelia fought back tears again, hugging him tighter. Both of them were marooned in this strange new life, groping around blindly. What was going to happen to them? Was she going to lose him? How could she bear it?
***
“Easy, Tambo,” said William Harrington, the fifth Duke of Ashbourne, leaning closer to the horse as he negotiated a sharp bend in the road. “Keep your footing, boy.”
The horse’s ears flickered as if the beast had heard and understood his master. William tightened his grip on the reins. They rounded the bend, and suddenly, the village of Fairford was splayed before him in the near distance. His heart flipped.
It has been an age. It has been so long … yet it still looks the same.
William stared at the village, taking in the familiar sight – the church steeple, the thatched roofs of the houses, the way that smoke curled lazily in the air from the chimneys. Fairford was the closest village to Charingwood House, his ancestral home. He had spent a lot of time here as a youngster and as a young man before he had fled this pocket of Kent to live in London a year ago and hadn’t returned.
Abruptly, he pulled in the reins, stopping the horse and staring at the village in the distance. He was glad now that he had chosen to ride ahead of the carriage containing his trunks. He was pleased that his first glimpse of the village was alone, on horseback, breathing in the smoke from the stoves of the villagers, mixed with the scent of juniper and honeysuckle. Summer was only a month away, and he could really feel it here, deep in the country, outside of the busy, teeming streets of London.
His heart tensed. He had received the letter from Morris, his steward, requesting his immediate return to Charingwood only two days ago. The steward had told him that he was having trouble with some of the tenants who farmed the land on the estate, who were disputing the building of a road through their plots and wanted to speak to the duke himself about it. Apparently, no one else would do.
I knew it was inevitable. I knew that I could not escape my life here forever. I knew that something would draw me back. But I must admit, it is still hard being here.
His heart turned over again as his gaze switched from the village towards a small house on a hill next to it. The name of the house was Bledwyn Hall, and it was where his brother Edmund now lived with his wife, Celia. Edmund had married Celia almost a year ago to the day, and William had fled the district for London not long after.
How can I see them? How can I bear to see her again … as the wife of my only brother?
William tightened his grip on the reins, staring hard at the house. He hadn’t stepped foot inside it to call upon Lord Edmund Harrington and his new bride, Lady Celia, yet. Residing in London had taken care of that awkwardness. He hadn’t been forced to confront the painful reality that Celia had chosen to marry Edmund instead of him, yet. He hadn’t been forced to deal with any of it.
You ran away. But you always knew that you would have to return one day. And now, that time has finally arrived.
A myriad of conflicting emotions rushed through him. He had loved Celia – he had wanted to make her his wife. They had been slowly courting and then, his brother had betrayed him by swooping in and stealing Celia away behind his back. The sting of the betrayal was still sore. So sore he didn’t know how he was going to handle it at all.
William took a deep, ragged breath.
You do not have to stay very long. You can deal with this business with the tenants and then push off to London again. You do not have to remain here indefinitely.
His breath caught in his throat as he gazed back at the village. Something moved inside him. He loved it here. Before his brother’s marriage, he had never wanted to leave. He had lost his home and his community, as well as the woman he loved.
He flicked the reins, galloping along the road, trying to ignore the pain in his heart. As he entered the village, he slowed down, gazing around, taking in everything. How much had changed during his absence?
His eyes lingered on Bridecomb, the home of James Worthington and his wife, Charlotte. It was a noteworthy house in the district – one of the foremost homes – a wonderful sandstone building.
Suddenly, a slim lady with dark golden hair, wearing a dark lavender coloured gown, was hugging a gangly, wiry, brown-haired boy tightly in the front garden. As he passed, she raised her head, gazing into the distance, a look of pain crossing her face. He saw that her eyes were greyish green and misted with tears.
His heart shifted in his chest. The lady was very beautiful. He had never seen her before – had the Worthingtons sold the house and moved on in his absence? Did the lady and her child own Bridecomb now? Why was she so upset?
But the next minute, he had ridden on, and they were gone. He focused on getting through the village and to Charingwood House … and the fact that he would inevitably run into Edmund and Celia sooner or later. How was he going to handle it? How was he going to handle living back here at all … now that everything had changed?
Chapter Two
William sighed heavily, steering the horse into the village, furtively glancing left and right. It was the first time he was daring to venture into Fairford to visit the shops and see the villagers since his return to the district a week ago … and he was so tense at the thought of running into Edmund and Celia that his shoulders were stiff and sore. His hands were gripping the reins as if the horse might bolt from beneath him.
You cannot remain a hermit at Charingwood House forever. You must step back into the community at some point. It may as well be today.
William flicked the reins, steering the horse towards the main street of the village, where most of the shops were located. His plan was to see Mr Timms, the tailor, and then drop into Young’s Bakery, which acted like the hub of the village, and served as a tearoom as well as selling bread and rolls. There were tables and chairs outside of the bakery, where people sipped tea and chatted, watching the carriages and pedestrians as they passed along the road.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” called Mr Kettle, a local farmer, as William dismounted and tethered his horse. The large, red-haired man grinned at him. “It has been a while since we have seen you in the village. Are you back from London for good, then?”
William cleared his throat. All the villagers were very well aware of the fact that Celia had overthrown him for his brother. He had been openly courting the lady and everyone expected an engagement to eventuate. He had expected it to eventuate, as well. Celia’s sudden shift of interest towards his brother had taken him – as well as everyone else – completely by surprise.
The topic of Edmund and Celia will be the elephant in the room with all of them.
Except for the ones who avidly wanted to see his reaction to speaking about his brother’s marriage, of course. There were always those types of people. He wondered which type of person Mr Kettle would be.
“I will be ensconced at Charingwood House for the foreseeable future,” replied William, smiling at the farmer. “I have important business to attend. How are things going in the district, Mr Kettle? Have the crops been good?”
The farmer scratched his head. “It has been a hard year, Your Grace. But we are recovering.” He paused. “Well, I will leave you to get on your way and not prolong you. Welcome home. Good day, Your Grace.”
The man raised his dusty hat before continuing on his way. William watched him for a moment before taking a deep breath and walking down the street towards the tailor’s shop.
As expected, everyone stared at him openly, but they were pleasant and deferential. As he went about his business, chatting to the locals, he realized that they were all avoiding the subject of Edmund and Celia’s marriage like the plague. No one even mentioned his brother to him. Clearly, the topic really was the elephant in the room, just as he had suspected.
The tension in his shoulders started to ease. There was no sign of his brother and his wife. He felt like falling to the ground and kissing it in gratitude. He knew that an encounter with them was bound to happen, sooner or later, but he was fervently glad he didn’t have to deal with it right now – that he could escape back to the manor house without enduring a confrontation.
He mounted the horse, taking the reins, his heart flipping as he thought about having to deal with them eventually. At that moment, his heart seized, his eyes fixating on a woman coming along the road. A petite lady with sleek raven black hair and pale skin …
Was it Celia?
He was so distracted by the sight of the woman, trying to make out if it was his brother’s wife or not, that he didn’t notice a boy walking straight in front of him, and that he had almost knocked him over as the horse lurched forward. The boy cried out, placing his hands in the air as if to shield himself from harm.
“Steady, Tambo!” he cried, pulling in the reins sharply, turning the horse away from the boy in the nick of time. He glared down at the boy. “What the deuce do you think you are doing, lad? You should know better than to walk in front of a horse like that!”
He glared at the boy, whose jaw had dropped almost comically. William dismounted, tethering the horse, and frowned. The boy looked strangely familiar. A gangly boy with brown hair sticking up at odd angles. Where had he seen him recently?
Suddenly, he realized, as a slender lady with dark golden hair and fierce grey-green eyes scurried forward, grabbing the boy by the shoulders and pulling him back against her. She stood there, glaring up at him.
It’s her!
He recognized her immediately. It was the lady and the boy he’d seen in the front garden at Bridecomb the day he returned to the district a week ago. The lady who looked like she was about to burst into tears.
His eyes swept over her. She was just as beautiful as he remembered. In fact, up close, she was even more beautiful, with flawless alabaster skin, sweeping cheekbones, and full, ruby-red lips. But her expression, as she gazed at him clutching the boy tightly, was filled with anger and scorn. He felt an upsurge of anger. Who the deuce did she think she was to gaze at him like that? Didn’t she know who he was?
“You should teach your child not to walk in front of moving horses, madam,” he said curtly. “And if your child is incapable of not doing such a thing, then you should be walking closely beside him to guide him. It is neglect.”
The lady’s green eyes widened with disbelief. She looked absolutely affronted. “How dare you, sir? How dare you accuse me of neglect when you were the neglectful party?” She took a deep, ragged breath. “You were distracted, and your horse lurched forward. You should pay more mind to what you are doing!”
William’s face tightened. “Do you not know who I am, madam?”
“I know very well who you are, Your Grace,” she spat, her green eyes shooting sparks, looking like the eyes of an angry cat. “It makes no difference to me who you are and what position you hold. My concern is the safety of my child. That is all.”
William glared at her, unable to believe her insolence. The boy gaped at him, looking quite intimidated. William noticed that the boy’s bottom lip had started to tremble slightly and that his eyes were sea green – a shade brighter than his mother’s eyes. He also realized, at this proximity, that the boy was younger than he had first thought – perhaps eight or nine years of age. The lad was tall and gangly, all arms and legs, and that had made William believe he was older than he was.
He turned his attention back to the woman, who instinctively pulled her son closer towards her in a protective manner.
“Who are you?” asked William, his curiosity getting the better of his anger. “I saw you in the garden at Bridecomb House a week ago. Do you live there now?”
The lady’s eyes flickered slightly. For a long moment, William wasn’t sure she was going to answer him at all. He waited for her reply on tenterhooks, feeling a strange tension that he could not explain at all. Was she going to answer him or turn on her heel and start marching away up the street?
***
Amelia hesitated as she stared at the Duke of Ashbourne, fighting the urge to turn around and leave, dragging Oliver in her wake. The gentleman had almost knocked her son to the ground with his horse, completely oblivious to the fact that Oliver was walking in front of him. And to add insult to injury, the gentleman had the temerity to insult her, blaming her, telling her that it was entirely her fault.
He might be a duke, but he is rude and has no manners at all. How dare he talk to me and my son in such a way?
She had recognized him only vaguely. A year and a half ago, she and Harold had visited James and Charlotte for a few days, staying at Bridecomb House, and Charlotte had pointed out the Duke of Ashbourne one day as they had strolled along the main street in the village. He had been talking to some villagers and hadn’t even glanced their way. But Amelia had noticed how tall and commanding he was. The duke had a powerful build, with broad shoulders and a strong frame.
Her eyes hardened as she studied him. He was just as tall and commanding as she recalled – he seemed to tower over her. And he was handsome, with reddish brown hair, a chiselled jawline, and intense blue eyes, which were focused on her, pinning her to the spot as he waited for her reply to his question. She hadn’t realized how handsome he was when she had seen him from a distance that time a year and a half ago … before her world had come crushing down around her.
Amelia took a shaky breath. Perhaps she had been a tad distracted as she and Oliver ventured along the main street. Perhaps she hadn’t been paying as close attention to her son’s movements as she should have been. The pressure of the legal battle with Reginald, her late husband’s brother, was preying on her mind. It was all she could think about. It was making her toss and turn at night, staring at the ceiling for hours on end in bed, unable to sleep a wink.
I cannot lose Oliver. He is all I have left. How can Reginald do this to me? Does he not have any compassion at all?
Forcefully, Amelia pushed the thought of her heartless brother-in-law away. She knew why he was pushing to become Oliver’s guardian. It wasn’t through love or concern for his nephew. It was only so he could gain control of the sizeable inheritance that Oliver would acquire when he was fifteen, as stipulated in Harold’s will.
But she couldn’t think about that now. Not with the Duke of Ashbourne bearing down on her so unpleasantly, insisting she tell him who she was after insulting her abilities as a mother. Amelia’s heart filled with anger. She didn’t have time for this. And she was tired of overbearing gentlemen who thought they could push her around. Very tired indeed.
“I am Mrs Amelia Cavendish, and this is my son Oliver,” she snapped. “We are staying with my cousin, Mr Worthington, and his wife at Bridecomb for the foreseeable future.” She straightened, raising her chin, glaring at him. “Good day, Your Grace.”
Amelia inclined her head slightly, in an imperious way, taking Oliver’s hand and tugging him along. Her heart was beating erratically as she dragged him away, heading down the road.
“Mama,” said Oliver, with a heavy sigh. “Your hand is too tight!”
“I am sorry,” sighed Amelia, stopping and loosening her grip on his hand. Her eyes softened as they fell on her son. “I was in an ill temper. I did not mean to take it out on you, Oliver.”
She glanced back. The Duke of Ashbourne was still there, staring at them. He looked intrigued, with a slightly puzzled expression as if he couldn’t quite work her out. Amelia’s breath caught in her throat before she hastily turned away again. She really didn’t have time to contemplate the rude gentleman. She had more important things to deal with.
OFFER: A BRAND NEW SERIES AND 5 FREEBIES FOR YOU!
Grab my new series, "Lust and Love in High Society", and get 5 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!
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