A Lord to Heal her Scars (Preview)

Prologue

Dorothea Blackwood tipped her head back against the carriage cushions, a broad smile on her face. Although the hour was late, she found herself alive with excitement. Her mind still whirled with all the merriment of the previous evening, all the laughter and dancing. The music and the twinkling lights of the ballroom had dazzled her eyes and made her feel as light as the bubbles popping in the champagne. It had been a perfect evening.

Lord Goulding had danced with her only once—as was proper—but under his breath, he had indicated that he would have danced with her all night were it not for the gossiping of the ton. He had found occasion to speak to her again throughout the night, offering little witticisms and sly smiles. When Dorothea had decided to take a brief respite and retreated from the dance floor with a glass of lemonade, Lady Darling—who always had the best gossip—had approached her.

“Shall we assume that there is a courtship in your future?” she had asked.

Recalling her question made Dorothea’s face grow warm. She practically glowed with pleasure at the insinuation that there might be a courtship. The journey home seemed to take forever, and anticipation hummed through her body. She could scarcely wait to tell her younger sister, Catherine. Her sister would be so excited for her, and Lord Goulding was an earl who came from good stock and had a sizable fortune.

That was to say nothing of his dashing appearance! He was a fit, broad-shouldered man, and when he smiled, it was like the sun emerging from behind a sea of storm clouds. His eyes were blue like sapphires and glittered with mirth. Just thinking of him made Dorothea feel as though she was the heroine of some romance, destined to wed a heroic and handsome man.

Screams filled the air, shattering Dorothea’s fantasies of Lord Goulding. She started and swept aside the curtain over the carriage window. Dorothea craned her neck to see the road ahead. She gasped as her eyes spied a strange light on the horizon.

“Fire!” someone screamed. “Fire at Blackwood Manor!”

Dorothea’s muscles all tensed. She heard the words, but their meaning fell away from her, as unfathomable as the deepest depths of the sea. Fire at Blackwood Manor? It could not be! As the carriage drew nearer, though, the orange glow began to brighten the night. Her heart hammered against her ribs as dread crept inside her.

Horses whinnied, and the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Dorothea tore the door open, declining to wait on a footman. All the air left her lungs as she stared at Blackwood Manor. As if pulled by a strange enchantment, she drifted forward. Orange and gold flames consumed the building, and waves of heat swept over her with such force that they nearly drove her back. A crowd had gathered on the street, as people whispered and shouted to themselves, watching as the grand townhouse burned. Some of the braver souls had gone forward and were desperately trying to quell the blaze with water.

“Miss Dorothea, you must not go any nearer!” It was Gregory, the footman, who shouted the warning.

She drifted nearer. Her heart hammered so violently against her ribs that she felt as if she might be ill. Dorothea’s eyes swept the crowd, searching for her family and the staff. She found the cook and the maids huddled together in one corner. Dorothea’s lady’s maid, Emma, sat on the ground, watching the blaze with a dazed expression. It was as if her mind had ceased to function, and she was helpless to do anything except sit on the grass and stare numbly at the fire.

Dorothea spied Lady Harriet Blackwood, the Baroness of Elmsbury, standing on the street. The flickering light of the flames traced along her thin form, emphasizing the severe angles of her face. Even in the face of ruin, the woman held herself formally and brazenly. She looked indomitable, even though she was clad in only a thin nightgown.

“Stepmother!” Dorothea exclaimed.

Lady Elmsbury’s head snapped toward her. “Dorothea!” she exclaimed. “Oh, it is so fortunate that you were away this evening!”

Dorothea hurried to her stepmother’s side. “Where are Father and Catherine?”

Lady Elmsbury shook her head. “I have not seen either of them. I believe they may still be inside.”

Horror washed over Dorothea as she turned to face the blaze once again. “Still inside,” she breathed, the words a cacophony of meaningless sounds. “Still inside.”

“Yes,” Lady Elmsbury said tightly. “The blaze spread so quickly. I could barely escape myself.”

As Dorothea watched the fire, a lump formed in her throat. Her eyes swept over the crowd again, desperately searching for any sign of her father and sister. She found neither of them.

“Look at the window!” someone cried. “There is a lady!”

Dorothea’s eyes swept to the townhouse, searching every window. She saw—at last—the dark form before the window of the second floor. That was the library. Her pulse jumped as the woman beat her fists against the window, as if trying to break the glass. Dorothea stepped nearer, as if a spell had been cast over her.

“My lady, you must stay away!” The warning fell on deaf ears.

As Dorothea drew nearer, she realized that she recognized that slight form. It was Catherine, her sister. A woman screamed, and it took Dorothea a heartbeat to realize that the pained, mournful sound came from her own throat.

“Miss—” A face she did not recognize swept before her. “You should stay back—”

Dorothea bolted, heedless of the shocked cries that filled the air behind her. She ran like she never had before, nearly losing her fine dancing slippers. Waves of heat swept over her. Beads of sweat pooled along her brow as she wrenched open the door to the townhouse.

“My lady, stop!”

The crackling of the fire struck her ears, and smoke drifted in black-gray waves across the ceiling. Timbers creaked ominously as Dorothea darted to the stairs. Her chest ached for want of air, and her eyes burned. It was impossible to breathe, but she must reach Catherine. She must!

She reached the second floor and ran. The smoke was so thick that she could no longer see, and she careened wildly through the corridor, desperate to find the familiar library door.

“Catherine!” She tried to scream, but the sound emerged as a ragged croak. “I am coming!”

Without warning, she lost her footing and crashed onto the floor. Flames burst from the quickly burning Persian rug. Dorothea cried out as pain warmed the side of her face. She hurried to her feet, stumbling and fumbling about as the flames licked at the lilac fabric of her skirts.

Dorothea recovered her footing and ran. She reached the library door, at last, and collapsed against it. Her hand grasped the doorknob. The metal felt as though it had scorched her all the way down to her bones. Quickly wrapping her aching hand in her skirts, she seized the doorknob again. The fabric did not muffle the heat nearly enough, but she managed to force open the door.

Smoke and heat struck her with enough force to send her thoughts spinning in a dozen different directions. She coughed as the air fled her lungs in a great whoosh. “Catherine!” she rasped.

“Dorothea?” Her sister’s startled scream filled the air.

There were flames in the doorway. Steeling herself, Dorothea took a step back and leaped over them. The library was in tatters, with shelves and volumes falling everywhere and burning until they were black. Dorothea blinked back tears as the smoke and flames stung her eyes. The house groaned, and she had the horrible thought that the entire townhouse might collapse on top of them.

Suddenly, her sister’s terrified face was before her. Catherine’s blue eyes were wide with fear and rimmed with red. Dorothea coughed, her chest aching, and reached for her sister.

“We have to get out!” she cried.

The words seemed to spur her sister into action, for Catherine placed her hand in Dorothea’s. A bookshelf screeched and fell to the floor, unleashing a burst of orange sparks. Catherine screamed, and Dorothea pulled her close.

“Come on!” Dorothea exclaimed.

She grasped her sister’s arm and pulled her hand. Catherine stumbled as Dorothea led her from the room. They stumbled over burning books and shattered wood. By the time they reached the corridor, Dorothea was nearly blind. Gazing downstairs, she saw only a sea of gray-black smoke. Her lungs burned, and her chest heaved.

“We are trapped!” Catherine cried.

“No,” Dorothea insisted. “No, there is a way out!”

Dorothea pulled her sister behind her. Everything hurt, and her head swam. Dorothea noted dimly that her steps were uneven and unsteady, but she forced herself to find the stairs. She forced herself to keep a grip on Catherine’s arm. If her sister were with her, everything would be fine.

Dorothea only had to get them from the house. She had to keep herself going just a little longer, but despite her resolve, Dorothea’s limbs felt sluggish. Her stomach lurched and revolted against her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus, and stumbled down the stairs. It seemed to take an eternity. How long was the staircase?

Maybe it was infinite. Maybe she would descend into the sea of black smoke and never emerge. Catherine’s breath shuddered against her ribs, and her chest was tight, as if a vice was wrapped around her.

Dorothea stumbled over the last step. She was on the floor. Even if she could not see it, she knew that the door must be before her. It was within reach.

“Almost there!” she rasped.

Catherine’s only response was a string of violent-sounding coughs. Dorothea tugged on her sister’s arm and broke into a run. Her movements were awkward and clumsy, and the room seemed to tip on its side around her. But she had Catherine’s arm still. Eventually—eventually—they would find a wall, and there would be the door.

Her eyes burned, and Dorothea’s throat was raw. She felt as if she was drowning, but everything was so hot. All her muscles had gone numb, and distantly, she thought that might indicate something dreadful.

She pressed against something hard and upright. The wall, she realized through the daze of her thoughts.

Dorothea moved along the wall, hands searching the hard surface for a door. She was…

Her thoughts kept coming in strange starts and stops. The entire room felt as though it was spinning and tilting beneath her feet, and at an odd angle. But then—a waft of something cool swept over her. There was air moving.

She had found an open door! Gathering the last of her strength, Dorothea plunged through its opening.

“Miss Dorothea! Miss Catherine!”

She knew that voice, but she could not say why. Dorothea stumbled, and a cool breeze swept over her. She inhaled sharply, her lungs begging for air. It was night.

Dorothea collapsed. Dimly, she was aware of Catherine falling to the ground. When Dorothea tipped her head back, she saw the flames dancing about and consuming the once-majestic Blackwood Manor. Her chest ached, and black spots appeared in her vision. She inhaled deeply, trying to drink in the night air and force away the heaviness that had settled in her chest.

“She went into the flames!”

“Are they all right?”

Nameless faces appeared in her vision. Dorothea opened her mouth to answer them, but no words emerged from her mouth. Her head felt as if it were not attached to her neck and lolled about without conscious thought.

“Where is the physician?” someone cried. “He should be here already!”

Shadows flickered over the ground, and Dorothea uncurled her fingers, realizing that she still held Catherine in a death grip. They had escaped the townhouse alive. They were alive! Hope bloomed in Dorothea’s chest, and—

Time seemed to skip around without warning. In one moment, her stepmother hovered over her, face pinched in worry. The next, the woman was gone. Breath rattled in Dorothea’s chest. She felt as if her body was not her own, as if she was floating on waves.

“Good God!” A croaking, masculine voice cut through the panicked shouts and the crackling of the flames and timbers. “She is badly injured. We will need to take her—”

The rest of the words fell away. Badly injured?

Was that man referring to Catherine? Dorothea’s chest ached. What would she do if something happened to her beloved sister? Dorothea turned her head, searching for Catherine in the grass, but she was gone. Her fingers curled around empty air, as her sister’s name lingered unspoken on Dorothea’s lips.

Then, everything went black and fell away.

Chapter One

“I regret to tell you this, my lord,” the physician murmured. “However, I fear that your father may not have much time left. He is quite ill.”

Frederick’s breath shuddered in his chest. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I would advise you to try and keep your father as calm as possible. He will live longer if he does not experience undue distress. I would suggest keeping him from any manner of excitement or exertion.”

The physician’s words rang in Frederick’s mind as he turned the page in the worn volume of Samuel Richardson’s novel Clarissa. Frederick had always found that particular text to be torturous. Richardson’s Pamela contained much of the same content and was mercifully shorter, but because his father loved Clarissa, that was what Frederick read.

Father cleared his throat, and Frederick paused, worried eyes lighting upon the man. Once, Father had been a lively and sturdily built man, much like Frederick himself, but illness had stripped away the man’s muscles and made his face as gaunt as the grave. Father’s hair had gone, too. Once it had been dark and thick, just as Frederick’s was, but only a few whisps of it remained. Father’s blue eyes alone remained undaunted by his sickness.

“Shall I fetch a glass of water for you?” Frederick asked.

“No,” his father replied. “I want to talk to you.”

Frederick marked the place where he had left off reading and placed the book aside. “Very well. What subject would you like to discuss?”

Father inhaled deeply and exhaled, releasing a haggard and metallic sound. “I know that I do not have long to live.”

Frederick shook his head. “Do not say that, Father. You may recover soon enough. This is but a fleeting illness. I am certain of it.”

Father sighed. “If it were, you and Mr. Collins would not be whispering as you do.”

“We were discussing your care,” Frederick conceded, “but that is only because we did not wish to burden you with our conversations. You must be kept from all manner of stimulation.”

“As is often said of dying men,” Father replied dryly. “You do not need to lie to me. I have accepted my fate, as a man ought to do.”

“You still have time,” Frederick said softly.

“Perhaps. But who can know how much time? My son, if I can have one last thing before I die, I wish to see you wed.”

Frederick winced, for he knew quite well that a man of two-and-thirty years ought to already be married. He had delayed, searching for a love-match that had not yet materialized.

“And I wish to meet your bride,” Father continued, seemingly oblivious to his son’s dismay. “That is all I wanted from you. I may die in peace once I know the earldom will be secure.”

Frederick sighed. “Father, I want nothing more than to fulfill your desire, but I fear that I am finding suitable ladies to be in short supply.”

For one, they were all very much the same. They were beautiful, simpering women who always told him what he wanted to hear and always behaved as they believed he wanted them to behave. Frederick did not fault the women for this, of course, for he knew that ladies must wed. Their survival depended upon it, and survival might make a lady do some rather unusual and desperate things. Still, it made it nearly impossible to locate a true love-match in all the chaos.

“Seeing your wife is the only thing that will cheer me in my dying days,” Father said. “Securing the future of this family and title is the only wish I have now.”

Frederick slowly nodded. “I cannot promise that I will fulfill your wishes, but I promise that I shall try—in earnest—to find my love-match this Season.”

“Thank you,” Father said. “I am most grateful, for I know this will not be easy for you. Your dear mother still wishes to see you wed to Lady Victoria.”

Frederick nodded, a wry smile crossing his face. “I know she does.”

“I do not believe that Lady Victoria is the best match for you, though.”

“I quite agree,” Frederick replied. “I feel about Victoria as I might feel about a sister, so she would be most unsuitable as a wife.”

Father frowned and shook his head. “That is not the only reason I believe that you and Lady Victoria are unsuitable for one another. The lady has a cruel streak in her, which I have glimpsed on occasion.”

Frederick had seen no cruelty from the young lady, but he did not want to upset his father with his arguments. Instead, he nodded as if he agreed.

“You should marry someone kind,” Father continued. “Marry a young miss who is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside.”

“I will,” Frederick said. “Has that not been the plan all along?”

Father nodded and shifted, settling back more easily against his pillows. “It is no easy task managing an earldom,” he said. “You must be certain that you listen to your tenants and tend to their needs.”

Frederick squeezed his father’s hand. “I know that,” he said softly. “You taught me well, and I am ready to accept this role. I promise.”

Father smiled and squeezed his hand in return. Frederick tried not to show his dismay at how feeble his father’s grip was on his hand. Even though Frederick knew his father was dying, he still found himself surprised and dismayed by the little signs of his ebbing strength.

“You will need to take care of your mother and sister.” Father continued. “They will have no one to turn to besides you.”

“I know, and I shall.”

Father slowly nodded and yawned mightily. “And you must be certain that you conduct the business in London.”

“I know.”

“And do not neglect your duty in the House of Lords like some young men.”

“Of course.”

“Like…” Father trailed off, his eyelashes fluttering.

Frederick’s heart clenched. He waited as his father slowly drifted to sleep. With a soft sigh, Frederick withdrew his hand from beneath Father’s grasp. For a long time, he sat in the chair and watched, gripped by the sharp fear that his father might draw his last breath at any moment.

But he breathed still. He was alive.

Father had little time left, and he must not experience any overt stimulation. Frederick ran his hands through his hair and gazed mournfully at the man. He was not ready for Father to die. He would never be ready.

A good son would honor his father’s dying wish, though. Frederick frowned and tried to decide how he might find a wife when all his previous efforts had failed. Maybe he ought to forget the idea of finding his love-match and choose any eligible miss who offered her hand in matrimony. There were always a few overly ambitious mamas who were all too eager to offer their daughters to a titled man with a fortune.

Frederick had already planned on going to London to settle some of Father’s affairs. Maybe he could attend a few events while he was in town and search for an appropriate bride. While it was true that he might not find a wife soon, much less a love-match, he ought to try. It was the least that he could do.

Father’s soft snores soon filled the air, and Frederick rose from his seat. He tread softly from the bedchamber and into the parlor, where Mother waited. She spent most of her time in that room, for it was right beside Father’s bedchamber. At present, her head was lowered, as she embroidered a row of delicate yellow flowers on a handkerchief.

“Mother,” Frederick said.

She jumped a little. “Frederick,” she said. “How is your father faring?”

Mother had seen Father only that morning, but still, she asked. Frederick did not fault her, for he found himself behaving similarly. He could not decide why they asked after him so often. It was as if they expected to find Father either dead or miraculously recovered.

“He is unchanged,” Frederick said.

Mother sighed. “Indeed.”

“I should be preparing for my trip to London,” Frederick said. “Last week, Father requested that I attend to some of his affairs in town. It seems prudent that I fulfill his requests.”

“Especially since he will not be able to make an appearance this Season.” She paused. “And I have never trusted his solicitor, Mr. Morgan. There is something about the man that seems untrustworthy to me, so the sooner he becomes accustomed to obeying you, the better.”

Frederick strongly suspected that Mr. Morgan had committed the unfathomable crime of being born into a poor family and of having an unusually large amount of intellect. Mother had never been fond of those people who were not in the ton.

Frederick had learned to choose his battles, though, and he knew that Mother would never be persuaded to like poor, brilliant Mr. Morgan.

“You do not want to be away for too long, though,” Mother said. “Victoria will be returning from Italy very soon, and I have no doubt that you will wish to hear of her travels.”

“I will be,” Frederick replied, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. “It shall be good to see her again.”

“Indeed.” Mother’s expression brightened. “I think the two of you should spend more time together.”

Frederick shook his head. “I do not want you getting the wrong idea, Mother. Lady Victoria is a charming lady, but I have never desired for her to be my wife.”

“Why not?” Mother asked. “She is a perfectly acceptable lady!”

“She is, but I just know that I do not love her in the way that you wish I would.”

“Everyone wants you to marry her,” Mother said.

Except for Father. Frederick did not say that, though. The truth would upset Mother, and Frederick did not wish to distress her further. She had enough worries with Father being so ill.

“Everyone except me,” Frederick said, choosing to cast the entire blame on himself. “I cannot make myself love her.”

“Is love even needed?” Mother asked. “You are friends, and that is a stronger foundation than many marriages are built upon. Victoria would be a good and obedient wife.”

“I have resolved to find a love-match,” Frederick said. “That has not changed. Besides, I care far too much about my friendship with Lady Victoria to jeopardize it by asking for more from her. I would not be able to live with myself if we ruined what we have now.”

“You are making excuses!” Mother snapped, brow furrowing in irritation. “The best thing you can do for the earldom is to just accept Victoria as your wife. She would make a perfect countess.”

“Many women in the ton would make good countesses,” Frederick said. “I understand your concern, Mother. I do. I just need a little more time to find a love-match. I know there must be one.”

For all his bravado, Frederick felt himself seized by the chill of doubt. If a love-match existed for him, he would have found her already. Before his father’s illness, he had spent every Season attending an endless number of soirees and balls. He had made the acquaintance of many ladies in the ton, so it seemed impossible that he would not have already met the love of his life.

Mother sighed. “If you insist, my dear. We shall see how your search goes. Perhaps you are right.”

“Perhaps I am.”

Frederick narrowed his eyes, considering Mother for a long moment. Despite her seeming agreement, he knew Mother would never surrender so easily. She was doubtlessly already plotting other ways to force him to marry Lady Victoria.

“I should begin making preparations,” Frederick said, bowing. “Good evening, Mother.”

“Good evening, my dearest.”

Frederick retreated from the room and wandered down the corridor. A heavy weight seemed to settle like a fog over his shoulders. He sighed. He needed to go to London and fulfill his father’s dying wish.

He did not want to leave. What if Father died while he was away?

Frederick clenched his jaw. He would need to be quick in London. He would attend to Father’s affairs, attend a handful of events, and if he failed to find a bride, reluctantly consider Lady Victoria. It was a plan.

He just had to see it through.

Chapter Two

“What do you think about this fabric, my lady? It will look very lovely with your blue eyes.” Mademoiselle Fleur held the bolt of pale blue fabric up to Catherine’s face. “Imagine this color embroidered with delicate, white roses and embellished with sparkling gemstones. Perhaps, emeralds along the leaves and stems?”

Catherine furrowed her brow and looked over her shoulder. “What do you think, Lottie?”

Dorothea lounged on the sofa behind her sister. She had taken up her place on the piece of furniture and had not moved since arriving. The reason for their visit to the modiste was to secure a new wardrobe for Catherine’s Season, after all. Dorothea would not be receiving any gowns.

After all, even the most beautiful garment in the world would not make her fetching enough to wed. Dorothea forced a smile and tried to bury the wave of distress that swept over her.

“Mademoiselle Fleur is brilliant as always,” Dorothea said. “I can see the vision, and it is quite lovely.”

“I shall make it in a modern style,” the modiste said, nodding eagerly. “That will suit a young lady well.”

Dorothea smiled and settled more easily against the cushions. The shop was blissfully empty, which meant that there was no one about to stare at her. Well, no one save Mademoiselle Fleur and Catherine. But the modiste was clearly a professional; she had not spared Dorothea’s face a second glance. And Catherine would never recoil from her sister’s scars.

“I have another suggestion,” Mademoiselle Fleur said, her face brightening. “One moment, my ladies.”

The modiste swept aside the curtain that separated the shop from the place where ladies had their measurements taken.

“I fear that I am going to empty our coffers,” Catherine said, grinning wryly.

Dorothea laughed. “With Mademoiselle Fleur’s tastes, perhaps. Stepmother shall be pleased, at least.”

“If she even notices,” Catherine said. “It seems to me as though all her attention has been consumed by our visitor.”

Dorothea nodded. “What do you make of Mr. Harrington? I must confess that I am confused by Stepmother’s affection for him.”

“Is it affection?” Catherine asked.

Dorothea furrowed her brow, considering her sister’s query. Was Stepmother’s treatment of Mr. Harrington affectionate? It was difficult to say, but Dorothea felt that there must be some strong feelings involved. Thomas Harrington was a businessman from America, and he was to stay with their family at Briar House, the property that Stepmother had bought after the destruction of Blackwood Manor.

Dorothea had not the faintest idea why Stepmother wanted Mr. Harrington to stay with them. When Dorothea had asked, Stepmother had only answered vaguely that—with the death of Dorothea’s father in the fire a year before—they were in sore need of a masculine presence in their lives.

“Maybe he is a business associate of our father,” Catherine said after a moment. “That would make sense.”

“He is,” Dorothea said slowly. “I think so, anyway. Stepmother did say that Mr. Harrington was a protégé of Father’s. I am not entirely certain of what that means, though. If Mr. Harrington was so important to our father, would we not have already heard of him?”

“I would think,” Catherine agreed.

The curtain swept aside, and Mademoiselle Fleur returned with a bolt of brilliant green fabric. Dorothea drew in a sharp breath, her eyes taking in the bright color. “I have never seen such a hue!” she exclaimed.

“Nor have I,” Catherine murmured, reaching out to stroke the fabric.

“It is a new shade,” the modiste said proudly. “I imported it from Germany. It would look quite lovely on both of you.”

“I like it,” Catherine said, glancing at Dorothea. “What do you think? We could wear the same styles of dresses, like when we were younger. Do you remember?”

Dorothea smiled, a wave of fondness coming over her. “I do remember,” she said softly, “but there is no need to make any dresses for me. Where would I wear them?”

“To events,” Mademoiselle Fleur said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course, my lady!”

“I do not see the need to attend any of the Season’s events,” Dorothea replied, gesturing to her face with a self-deprecating smile. “It is not as though any man will wish to dance with me.”

“Nonsense!” The modiste crossed her arms and tilted her head, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I can prepare a hair ornament of some manner to conceal the scars. Every lady deserves to be danced with, and you do yourself a disservice if you deny yourself such pleasures.”

Dorothea unthinkingly reached for her cheek, her fingertips tracing over the raised scars. The suggestion was thoughtful. Kind, even. Her eyes burned with the threat of tears.

There was something about the suggestion that bothered her, though. Dorothea had not quite decided how she felt about her own scars. She was torn between wanting to be brazen, like the strong-headed heroine of some novel who wore her scars as a badge of courage, and wanting to hide the scars and spare herself the vicious stares and whispers. But the gentlemen would have heard the gossip, would they not? Maybe it did not matter which choice she made.

“I am unsure if that is wise,” Dorothea admitted.

The modiste shook her head. “No, you must give me leave to try, at least! I shall draw some sketches for you, and when you come to the final fitting for Miss Catherine’s gown, you can see what I have thought of. It will be an artistic challenge!”

Mademoiselle Fleur’s attitude was so determined and cheerful that Dorothea felt her resolve waver. What was the worst that might happen if she allowed the modiste to do as she wanted? Dorothea could not imagine anything ill coming from it. “Very well,” Dorothea conceded.

“Magnificent!” the modiste declared.

Despite her doubts, Dorothea smiled. “I am certain that the designs will be exemplary.”

“Indeed,” Catherine said, linking her arm with her sister’s. “Now, the day is still young. I believe we ought to take our purchases and perhaps pay a visit to Doctor Harris. I am in sore need of more cologne, and their English Lavender is unrivaled.”

Dorothea nodded. She and her sister gathered the wrapped parcels, most of which were for Catherine, and took them to the waiting carriage. The footman, Michael, snapped to attention and promptly took the packages from them. Dorothea looked idly about the street as Michael arranged the packages.

London was bustling at this hour, and people milled about, enjoying the shops and the weather, for it was a beautiful and sun-filled day. A little girl wandered up the street, seemingly unaccompanied. Dorothea frowned. The child could not have been more than six years of age, and she wore a frilly pink gown that suggested that she was the daughter of some wealthy couple. She ought to be accompanied.

Dorothea bit her lip, searching again for any adult who might be accompanying the child, but she found none.

“Lottie?” Catherine asked.

“One moment, Cathy,” Dorothea said, passing her packages to Michael. “I shall be right back.”

Dorothea stepped around the carriage, walking toward the little girl. Perhaps, she had escaped her parents or one of their servants. It would be easy to lose a small child in a place so crowded, for there were any number of places that a little one might wander off to. The child wandered into the road, and Dorothea’s pulse quickened. A carriage turned around the corner, the team of horses coming fast, and she realized in just a heartbeat the disaster that was about to unfold.

“No!” Dorothea shouted.

Heads turned in bewilderment, people murmured, and Dorothea broke into a run. It all happened so fast that she could barely follow it. She knew that in one moment, the little girl had stepped before the team of horses, and the horses were not slowing. She knew that the child screamed and froze in terror, and Dorothea seized the girl by the back of her gown, pulling her back just in time.

The horses reared, as their frantic driver tried to stop them, but he would not have managed it. The carriage came to a halt a few feet away, and Dorothea realized how madly her heart beat in her chest.

“Maggie!”

A well-dressed gentleman ran toward them, a lady in green following at his heels. The child began wailing, fat tears falling down her face.

“Oh, Maggie!” the lady exclaimed.

Dorothea took a polite step back as the lady pulled the child into her arms and held her close.

The gentleman removed his hat and raked a hand through his hair. “You gave us such a fright,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion. “Good God, child!”

“Oh!” the woman exclaimed. “Do not run away ever again!” the lady exclaimed. “If that nice woman had not stopped you, you might have very well been run down by those horses!”

“Yes, we are most grateful to—” Dorothea saw the precise moment that the man spied the scars which marred the side of her face, for his words cut off abruptly. His jaw dropped, and he stared at her with an expression that she could only describe as horrified.

“It was nothing,” Dorothea said quickly.

“It was hardly…” the lady lifted her eyes to Dorothea’s face, and something like anger filled her face. “Yes. Well. Thank you.”

“We should be going.” The man made a gesture like he meant to raise his hand, maybe to shake hers, but he seemed to change his mind. “Thank you. Again.”

He helped the lady to her feet, and she held her child’s hand tightly. “Her face!” the lady whispered.

Dorothea grimaced. If they were going to speak ill of her, they could at least do it where she would not hear.

“I know,” the gentleman murmured.

Dorothea sighed and fought down the impulse to scream like a madwoman. Why had she not raised a single word in her own defense? What had possessed her to just endure such inconsiderate treatment?

Behind her, a throat cleared. She started at the closeness of the sound and looked over her shoulder. A gentleman stood behind her. Where had he come from? She stared at him in utter bafflement, and he stared at her with an expression that lingered somewhere between confused and amused. He was handsome. It was impossible not to notice his broad shoulders and dashing form, which was emphasized by the clever tailoring of his jacket. His hair was as black as night and made a stunning contrast with his hazel-gold eyes.

He did not seem repulsed by her, which was…unusual. People usually stared at the scars. Their noses wrinkled with disgust, and sometimes, they even rudely asked what had caused them. He did none of those things.

“I was going to save the child myself,” he said, “but it seems you were faster than me. That was very heroic of you.”

Dorothea shook her head. “Not really, my lord. Anyone would have tried to save that child. I am only glad that I succeeded.”

“Yes. As am I.” He paused, considering her for a heartbeat. “The child’s parents seemed strange. I would have been effusive in my thanks. They almost seemed very…how would you describe them? Curt? Inconsiderate?”

Dorothea shifted uncomfortably. “I would not describe them in any particular way.”

“No? They seemed rather ungrateful for people who had just seen their daughter nearly run down by horses.”

“People often behave unkindly toward me,” Dorothea said. “My appearance is…startling.”

“Is it?” he asked, his eyes sweeping over her. “I do not see anything particularly unusual. You are a lovely, young lady. Like many others.”

She turned and faced him fully then, letting him behold the scars that stretched down the side of her face. His eyes widened just the smallest amount. Seeing that her point was made, Dorothea turned on her heel and returned to her waiting sister.

“That was so brave of you!” Catherine exclaimed. “Thank God you were there, or the worst might have happened!”

“Yes,” Dorothea said, her thoughts still on the parents and how quickly their gratitude had turned to dismay.

Ever since the night she had rescued her sister, Dorothea had become accustomed to maltreatment. People recoiled at the sight of her scars, and proposals from gentlemen had ceased entirely. Even Lord Goulding had abandoned her. She tried to comfort herself late at night, when she was alone with her thoughts. Dorothea would remember that beauty was fleeting. She would tell herself that it was superficial to care so much about how people looked, about how she looked, but Dorothea had never quite managed to convince herself of that. How could she, when the loss of her beauty had changed her life so utterly?

“My lady.” Michael hurried to her side and assisted her into the carriage.

Dorothea settled against the cushions, absentmindedly arranging her skirts around her. She found that her thoughts wandered to the gentleman once again. Dorothea had fled before seeing much of his reaction. She felt an inkling of regret for having run away like she had, but she had been unable to endure the thought of seeing his revulsion. He had been kind, and Dorothea would prefer to remember him like that.

She did not want for the illusion to be shattered and for him to reveal that he was, instead, repulsed by her like all the others.