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Chapter One
“Belle!” Lady Amelia Talbot’s sweet voice turned scolding for a moment, as she bent down to address the small dog clamoring at her feet. “You cannot come to the ball, you know!”
Amelia scooped up the dog, tickling her under the chin, gazing at her in mock irritation. She couldn’t really be angry with Belle, who was her very favorite of her three dogs—not that she would tell the others that, who were very sweet as well. But she had a definite soft spot for Belle, who had been the runt of her litter, and a bit sickly. Amelia had nursed her to health and the bond was strong. So strong, in fact, that little Belle couldn’t bear to be separated from her at all.
“I will not be gone for so very long, little one,” Amelia crooned, scratching her under the chin again. “I will be back home in no time at all…”
“What are you doing with that dog, Amelia?” Her brother, Charles, the Viscount Somersby, stepped out onto the front steps of their ancestral home, staring at his sister, with an amused look on his face. “She cannot wait in the carriage for us while we are at the ball. She will be bored senseless and make a huge mess.”
“I know, I know,” sighed Amelia, staring at Belle, who was gazing back at her in a mournful manner. The dog’s eyes were huge and black, and she was whining in the back her throat. “I do not know how she escaped and found me…”
“I will call for a maid to take her,” said Charles, beckoning to the butler, who walked off to fetch a maid. He took out his pocket watch, staring at it. He frowned. “We are going to be late.”
Amelia shrugged. “We shall be fashionably late,” she said, her jaw tightening. “It does not matter so very much. The Duke and Duchess of Rochester will not even notice.” Her eyes flickered. “It is not as if we have very high status in the ton, Charles. You are an impoverished viscount, and I am the sister of one. If we decided not to go at all, I am sure very few people would notice.”
“Oh, come now, Millie, that is not like you,” replied Charles, taking the dog out of her arms and handing it to the maid who had just appeared. “You are normally so sunshiny and bright. Nothing ever bothers you. Why are you so glum this evening?”
Amelia shrugged again, turning away from her brother, watching the maid carry the dog back into the house. Her heart contracted. She didn’t want to go to this ball—she would much rather stay at home, sitting by the fire in the parlor, playing with the dogs as she did most evenings. She rarely wanted to be anywhere else.
But Charles had insisted that they go to this particular ball. He had said it would be good for her to socialize; that she was in danger of becoming a hermit and needed to get out of her shell. He had insinuated that she needed to socialize in order to find a husband, but he had not said it explicitly. Amelia was grateful for that, at least. Charles was never forceful about marrying her off, or—heaven forbid—one of those dreadful people who believed in arranged marriages. Her older brother was quite happy for her to find her own husband in her own time… though clearly, time was ticking, and he was ready to speed things along a bit.
I suppose I should not be surprised, thought Amelia, with a heavy sigh. I have just turned three and twenty, after all. I am in danger of becoming an old maid if I do not find a husband soon. My youthful looks shall fade like the rose on the vine.
“I am just not in the mood for it,” she said, in a curt voice, turning back to her brother. “But I am resigned to it, nonetheless.” She let out another sigh. “Come on, let us get into the carriage and be away before I change my mind.”
“That is the spirit,” cried Charles, grinning at her, rushing past her toward the carriage. He looked back at her, a quizzical look upon his face. “By the way, you have dog fur all over your bodice, now. You might want to attend to that.”
Amelia glanced down at the bodice of her best ball gown. The peacock blue silk was covered in fine white dog fur. She sighed again, brushing it off with her fan as best she could, before making her way to the carriage, holding the footman’s hand as she scrambled inside of it.
As she sat back in the seat, hearing the driver crack the whip, and the wheels started turning, she took a deep breath. She must get through the coming evening as best she could. At least her best friend, Miss Louisa Sedgewick, would be there. That was a blessing. And it would only be a few hours until they could return home—Charles never liked a late night. That was a blessing, as well.
Amelia gazed out the carriage window. She had never expected that her life would turn out this way. She had never expected that she and Charles would be living together in their twenties, in their crumbling old ancestral home, Somersby Hall.
Her heart contracted. They were adult orphans, now. Their parents were gone forever, leaving them both virtually penniless, with only their esteemed family name and the old house. And they must make do as best as they could. That was just the way of it. The sooner she made peace with their reduced circumstances, the better.
I really should try to find a husband, she thought, mournfully. A wealthy husband, who can provide me with a better life. It would be the prudent thing to do.
Amelia pressed her face against the glass, feeling troubled. She knew she should do it. But something always stopped her. She wished she knew why she couldn’t do it. That would be half the battle. Sometimes, she had a twinge of awareness about her resistance, but then, it would fade away again.
She was so deep in her reverie about their perilous circumstances that she jumped when the carriage started to slow down, turning through huge gates and clattering down a long driveway.
Amelia’s heart clenched. They were arriving at their destination—the grand, palatial ancestral home of the Duke and Duchess of Rochester, which resided just on the outskirts of Brighton, but had the feeling of being deep in the country.
Her breath caught in her throat as she gazed at the house. It was one of the most splendid estates in the district on five hundred sprawling acres. Her eyes flickered to the verdant green lawn, surrounded by rolling hills. So many old trees, bending their branches over the driveway, almost touching the top of the carriage like ghostly fingertips.
The duke and duchess were the cream of the ton in the district, as well; they ruled the local scene like a king and queen. One always knew who was fashionable in the district around Brighton by who the duke and duchess favored. If one did not receive an invitation to their grand ball, soirees or dinner parties, then one was definitely on the outer edge, and needed to curry favor immediately, for fear of being a social pariah.
I wish they decided that they did not like me, thought Amelia mutinously. Then I would never be forced to attend one of their boring balls ever again.
She bit her lip, reflecting that it was strange that she and her brother were continuously favored and always invited to the house. They were penniless, trading on their good name. But then, the Duke of Rochester had been good friends with their late father, so she supposed that must have something to do with it.
The carriage skirted the driveway, trying to edge past the multitude of carriages parked on the side of the lawn near the house. Amelia’s heart clenched as she saw the elegant guests walking into the house, dressed in their finest attire, suitable for a fine summer evening, chattering and laughing, looking like they didn’t have a care in the world.
“Oh, there is Louisa and her mother,” exclaimed Amelia, clapping her hands together in sudden glee as she spotted her best friend walking up the front steps of the house. She turned to Charles. “I had a secret fear that she would not be coming, and I would be forced to endure the evening without her.”
Charles chuckled, scratching his chin. “You and Louisa are as close as sisters,” he remarked. “You have been as thick as thieves since you were children.” He arched his brows. “You are really a bit over attached to her you know, Millie. You take fright at the very thought of Louisa not being by your side at any ball or gathering.”
“And what is wrong with that?” asked Amelia, bristling. “What is more natural in the world than wanting one’s closest friend by one’s side when one walks into the lion’s den?”
Charles gave a bark of laughter. “The lion’s den? Is that how you think of the Duke and Duchess of Rochester’s grand residence?” He shook his head incredulously. “You are so whimsical, Amelia!”
Amelia pouted. She knew she was a bit odd by social conventional standards. She wasn’t one of those social butterflies who flitted from group to group. She only had a few close friends who she stuck to like glue. But she couldn’t be entirely alone—some other people must share her disdain for social events, surely?
Her eyes flickered toward her brother. Charles certainly wasn’t one of them. Her older brother had always been the life and soul of the party. People were drawn to him like moths toward a flame. However, Charles had changed a little bit as he had aged—her brother was in his late twenties now, and rather than wanting to stay out all night playing cards or dice, he preferred to leave gatherings early.
Amelia rolled her eyes. Thank the Lord for small mercies.
Charles swung around, staring out the window. “What is the delay?” he said, in a slightly irritable voice. “There is another carriage blocking the entry, and it seems it is not in a hurry to move along.” He kept staring out the window. “Who the deuce is it?”
Amelia didn’t reply, tapping her fingers on the windowpane. She didn’t care if the carriage in front of them blocked the front entrance for the entire night, really. The longer they stayed stationary there, the better, in her opinion.
Suddenly, Charles stiffened, craning his head out the window. “Oh, I say,” he cried, turning back to his sister, his eyes shining with excitement. “It is old Pembroke! I did not know he was back in the district!”
“Who?” asked Amelia absently, focusing on her brother. “Who is it?”
He gaped at her. “You know old Pembroke! My old friend, George Fitzroy, the Duke of Pembroke.” He frowned. “You must remember him, Millie. Somersby Hall was like his second home for quite a few years, before he left the district five years ago to live in London…”
Charles’s voice started to fade away. Amelia leaned forward, gazing out the window. Her heart had started to pound uncomfortably.
Her breath caught in her throat. There he was, striding toward the house, dressed in a smart blue evening jacket, cream britches, and long black boots. Her eyes widened. Was he taller than she remembered?
Her heart started pounding harder. His dark brown hair was as unruly as ever. Her eyes travelled to his face. He had grown mutton chops, which suited him.
And then he turned, mid stride, looking straight at their carriage. His eyes were exactly the same shade of dark, piercing blue.
Amelia shrunk back into the carriage, feeling like she couldn’t breathe.
The Duke of Pembroke. She had thought she would never see him again.
Chapter Two
“Pembroke! I thought it was you!”
George Fitzroy, the Duke of Pembroke, spun around at the sound of the male voice behind him. He had just finished being presented to the Duke and Duchess of Rochester and had managed to procure a glass of champagne, sipping it as he skirted the ballroom, eying the local ton. It seemed a lot longer than five years since he had been back in the district. It seemed a lifetime ago.
“Somersby!” George’s eyes widened, then he broke out into a wide grin, surging toward the other man. It was Charles Talbot, the Viscount Somersby, and one of his oldest friends. He had practically lived at Charles’s home when he had been a youth. “It is so good to see you, old chap!”
George clapped the Viscount on the back, gazing at him fondly. There were a lot of people assembled in this house that he didn’t particularly want to run into, but Charles wasn’t one of them. His old friend had always been the salt of the earth.
“When did you return?” asked Charles, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing footman. “And why have you not called at Somersby Hall yet?”
“Steady on,” laughed George, taking another sip of his champagne. “I only got here late last night. Today has been settling into the old house and making it comfortable.” He took a deep breath. “It has not been used in many years and even though the servants have done their best, it is still a little rough around the edges.”
Charles rolled his eyes. “I could only imagine. These old houses with a hundred rooms take a lot of work to keep well maintained.” He grimaced. “Believe me. I know. Somersby Hall is starting to fall to pieces before my eyes.”
George smiled sympathetically. He knew that Somersby had a few issues with cash flow—his old friend had inherited the title and estate when his father had passed six years ago, but it hadn’t come with a large stipend. As far as he knew, poor Charles had to run that large estate on only a couple of thousand pounds a year, which was a pittance to maintain such a large house.
His old man was a secret gambler, thought George, feeling another stab of sympathy for the gentleman standing in front of him. He whittled away the family fortune, leaving Charles with practically nothing. It must be difficult for him.
He gazed at his friend. Charles had filled out a little—he was more thick set now. He also had a few crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Well, it had been five years since they had seen each other. He was sure he looked different, too, after so long.
“I am sorry to hear that, Somersby,” he said. “The Hall is a splendid old house.”
Charles shrugged, draining his glass. “We all have our crosses to bear in this life,” he said, grinning. “Maintaining that old house happens to be mine!” His grin widened. “But enough about me, Pembroke. Tell me, how are you, and why have you suddenly returned to the district after all these years away?”
George smiled. “I am well,” he replied slowly. “I am still enjoying my life in London at the townhouse on Grosvenor Square.” He paused. “It is far more cosmopolitan than dear old Brighton.”
“I am sure it is,” said Charles, grimacing slightly, before chuckling. “The dear old town has never been the epicenter of excitement. But I am fond of it just the same.” He drew a deep breath. “What do you get up to in London?”
“I run a shipping business,” replied George, his smile widening. “I like the challenge and stimulation of it. A bit of a hobby. So much of my time is spent there.” He hesitated. “But in my spare time, I like the usual things—spending time at White’s, playing cards with the gentlemen, and going to Covent Garden. And so on.”
Charles arched an eyebrow. “And is there a duchess now? Have you thrown off the mantle of bachelorhood?”
George gave a bark of laughter. “Heavens, no! I have not yet met any lady I think superior enough to become my wife… although London society is filled with lots of lovely ladies, of course. I just have not found one that suits me particularly.” He shrugged.
Charles laughed. “You do not need to convince me,” he replied, gazing around the ballroom. “I have not yet met any lady who I find superior above all others, either. And I am unlikely to in this company. It is the same ladies from one social event to another.”
“You should come to London,” said George. “There is a far wider circle available there. Perhaps you would meet your match. You are very welcome to stay with me at Grosvenor Square any time you like, you know.”
“That is decent of you, Pembroke,” said Charles, grinning. “I might just take you up on that offer at some point.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Although, I am not confident I would find a lady there, as opposed to here. You have not, after all.”
George shrugged, conceding the point, gazing around the ballroom. There were a few attractive ladies in attendance, though they weren’t as beautiful or as sophisticated as the ladies in London, to be sure. But then, he had never expected that they would be.
He grimaced, pulling at the collar of his shirt. He didn’t really know why he had accepted this invitation tonight—he supposed he must have been slightly curious about seeing the ton of Brighton once again, after all his years away. He had grown up there, after all. But after his father had died, he hadn’t fancied rattling around that old house by himself, and he had always had a yen to live in the big city.
His heart shifted. And there hadn’t been anything keeping him there. No matter how much he yearned for it to be different.
Why did you come back here? What on earth possessed you to think that you could do it?
George pulled at his collar again. He was starting to sweat. He gazed into the crowd, at all the fashionable ladies milling around, and his heart started to pound. None of them were her. But then again, would he even recognize her after all this time? It had been five years. She may look totally different now.
His eyes slid back to Charles. Should he ask? But how could he bring up the topic, without it sounding forced and affected? Would he color violently and give away that his enquiry wasn’t as casual as it appeared to be?
He was just about to do it, when he balked, gazing over his old friend’s shoulder, visibly gaping. He couldn’t help it.
She was walking through the crowd toward them. He assumed that she must be walking, as he knew that she was a mere mortal like him and everyone else here, but to his eyes, she appeared to be gliding, as if she were skating on ice, or else moving through the air on invisible wings.
His heart somersaulted in his chest. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was wearing a peacock blue silk gown, with ruffles on the bodice, and short puffed sleeves, with a very high empire line, as was the current fashion. A single diamond necklace hung around her neck and matching diamonds hung from her earlobes. Her dark auburn hair was swept up into a high chignon, with tiny curls framing her face.
His eyes swept to her face. Her skin was as pale as he remembered, as smooth as alabaster, and as flawless. Her face was angular, with high cheekbones, and a pointed chin. Her eyes were warm brown, the color of honey, or molasses.
His heart flipped again. She had grown taller and more curvaceous. But then, that was probably to be expected—she had only been eighteen when he had last gazed upon her face. She had been a girl blossoming into womanhood then—now, she had blossomed into that woman. A beautiful woman… even more beautiful than he could ever have imagined she would be.
Amelia. The younger sister of the friend standing beside him.
He felt the sweat trickle down his neck. He wanted to turn and run away, but there was nowhere to run. She was almost upon them, and it would look pointed and rude if he just suddenly bolted. No, he had no choice but to endure it, however painful it was going to be.
“Ah, there you are, sister,” said Charles, drawing her into the circle. “I lost you as soon as we entered. Where have you been?”
Amelia’s eyes flickered toward George, then back to her brother. His heart contracted. Did she remember him, or had she forgotten him entirely?
“I have been socializing, brother,” she replied, with a small smile. “And catching up with Louisa.”
George felt his cheeks redden. She must be referring to Miss Louisa Sedgewick—he recalled that they had always been close friends. It appeared that some things never changed… even as everything did.
He pulled at his collar, feeling more awkward than he had ever felt in his life. The desire to bolt intensified. When the deuce was Charles going to re-introduce them and be done with it so he could do just that?
Finally—mercifully—Charles turned his sister toward him, a slight smile upon his face.
“You remember my younger sister Amelia, do you not, Pembroke?”
Amelia swept into a low curtsey, before rising, looking him straight in the eye. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Amelia,” he said, his voice cracking just a little bit, inclining his head. “How charming to see you again.”
“She is all grown up now, is she not?” Charles was grinning from ear to ear. “I bet you hardly recognized her, Pembroke!”
“Indeed,” replied George, in a stiff voice. “You were quite a few years younger when we last saw each other, Lady Amelia.”
He knew that he sounded overtly formal and pompous, but he just couldn’t seem to help it. It seemed safer. He looked away, gazing pointedly over her shoulder, seeking his escape.
“You should ask Amelia to dance, Pembroke,” continued Charles, his grin widening. “For old times’ sake!”
There was a tense silence. Amelia looked mortified, glaring at her brother, but Charles was composed, looking completely unruffled. Clearly, he saw no harm in asking one of his oldest friends to dance with his younger sister, and indeed, why should he? It was a harmless enough gesture—in fact, it was quite chivalrous.
The silence lengthened. Amelia’s cheeks turned pink. Damnation! He had to do something. He must respond. But the thought of standing up with her on the dance floor, enduring her proximity, was simply too much.
“I think not,” he said, in a stiff voice, inclining his head again. “I am afraid I am due to meet an old friend and cannot spare the time.”
Amelia’s color deepened. Even Charles had picked up on the awkwardness and looked embarrassed, now, staring down at the floor, shifting on his feet, a frown on his face.
“Excuse me,” said George, bowing, before walking stiffly away.
He didn’t look back.
When he had turned the corner, and was safely away from them, he sagged, leaning against a wall. People flitted past him, laughing brightly and chattering, but he didn’t notice them at all. They looked as insubstantial as shadows to him.
I should never have come back to Brighton. I should never have come to this ball.
He pushed back his hair, mortified to find that his hand was shaking.
He had willingly done this to himself. He had stepped into the mouth of the lion. And he only had himself to blame.
OFFER: A BRAND NEW SERIES AND 2 FREEBIES FOR YOU!
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