Chapter One
Lord Emory Lumlee,youngest son of the Duke of Tralee, stood in the small, manicured graveyard behind the chapel at Lilacfall Abbey. He’d shoved his hands in his pockets, not because the weather was cold. In fact, this year summer seemed to linger into fall like an unwanted guest. He’d stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide the way they shook. Rory hadn’t been to the cemetery since the funeral. He’d never even seen the stones marking the graves of his wife and infant son.
He stared down at them now, and his thoughts were not of how he missed them or how tragic it was that the month of his son’s birth was the same as his death. Rory could only think that the stonemason—was that who made gravestones and did the carving of the names?—had done excellent work. Rory wondered who had commissioned the stones and decided what they should say. Under his wife’s name, someone had ordereddevoted wife and motherbe added.
She had been a very good mother. He would give Harriet her due on that front. Had she been a devoted wife?Devotedimplied faithfulness and loyalty. As far as he knew, she’d been faithful. Butdevotedalso connoted a sort of enthusiasm or ardor. She’d never been an enthusiastic wife unless she was ardently pushing him away.
Rory lifted his eyes and stared out over the estate he’d purchased for her. Lilacfall Abbey was still green and vibrant,the lawns perfectly manicured, even those not visible from the house. A flowering tree planted beside the graveyard dropped bright pink blossoms, which the breeze tumbled over the tombstones.
Two tragic tombstones.
Rory waited for the tears to come, for the feeling of sadness or grief.
He felt nothing.
He’d felt nothing for seven months now, since the day he’d been told of the accident and the deaths. A wall had come down, preventing him from feeling pain and allowing him to survive under the crushing weight of guilt. Unfortunately, that wall also thwarted any hope of experiencing pleasure. He was merely existing—the only difference between himself and Harriet was that he was above ground, while she…
He heard someone clear her throat, and turned, blinking at the woman who stood at the gate. She was dressed head to toe in black. For a moment he wondered if his mind had finally snapped, and he was seeing specters. She looked so much like Harriet. Then his mind clicked her into place.
“Mrs. Dowling,” he said, and gave his former mother-in-law a stiff bow. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“My lord.” She curtseyed. “We heard you were back in the country, and I came as soon as I could.”
Rory clenched a fist inside his pocket. He had been back in England less than forty-eight hours. If Harriet’s mother had already been informed of his return and contrived to make the journey to Lilacfall Abbey, she must have paid men to watch for him.
“I apologize for being unprepared for your arrival. I haven’t looked at my correspondence yet, or even unpacked.” He doubted he would find any announcement of her arrival in his letters. She had clearly wanted to surprise him.
“Then you intend to stay?” she asked, coming right to the point.
Rory didn’t want to have this conversation over Harriet’s grave. “Shall we walk?” he asked, moving toward the gate.
Mrs. Dowling shook her head. “It’s been a long journey, and I am afraid I must return immediately. I’m too tired for a stroll. I came to bring you Frances.”
For a moment, Rory had no idea who Frances might be or why anyone would bring such a person to him.
And then he remembered.
“Your daughter,” Mrs. Dowling said, obviously seeing the confusion on his face.
“I know who she is,” Rory snapped.
“One cannot be too sure,” she said. “As you never wrote to her or responded to any of the letters she dictated to you.”
Rory didn’t answer. He’d learned that, as the son of a duke, he wasn’t required to answer when he did not care to.
“I’m afraid this may come as something of a shock to you,” his mother-in-law said, “but I must leave Frances with you.”
Rory frowned. “I can’t think why. I’m not exactly in a position to care for a young girl. You’re much better equipped—”
“Harold is dying,” Mrs. Dowling said matter-of-factly. “The doctors give him three months at most.”
Rory waited, thinking he might feel something, but his cold heart deigned not to thaw even a miniscule amount. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Mrs. Dowling gave a quick nod. “His health has not been good these past years, and Harriet’s death—” Her voice broke, and she looked away.
Rory wished he knew something to say while she composed herself. He could think of nothing except how, only days after their wedding, Harriet confessed that her father and mother had forced her to marry Rory. They knew she’d never loved him.He couldn’t quite summon compassion for either the dying Mr. Dowling or his wife.
They’d had not a care for him all those years ago.
