Prologue
At only seventeen years of age, Lord George Ellsworth, the Earl of Ellsworth, ought to have been looking favourably upon his future. After all, he was set to be the Duke of Cumberland one day, as his mother so often reminded him – his father forever threatening that it would never come about if he did not step up and commit to the duties he had set before him.
But in the gardens at Fernworth Manor, the residence of his oldest and truest friends, he found himself mulling over another future set to befall him.
Perched on the fountain wall at the very centre of the gardens, he kicked his legs, deep in thought, unable to admire the beauty surrounding him as he had once done.
No longer did the birds seem to sing, nor did the butterflies shine so brilliantly in the early afternoon sunshine.
Even if they had, he would not have noticed for his mind was entirely set upon the war. Napoleon had been causing trouble for several years, and up to now, he had been safe in the knowledge that he was too young to join in the fray. But the years had passed, and the time had come for his decision to be made.
Or rather, king and country had made it for him.
Soon he would be shipped off to France to join his comrades, whether he liked it or not.
And the thought of it, of leaving all of this behind, terrified him.
“George?”
At first, he barely heard her for he was too deep in his mind.
But there had never been any chance of ignoring Lady Cecelia Flannery. At only fifteen years of age, she was already blooming into a lovely young lady, at least on the outside. Though the thought of her ever being the prim and proper young lady her mother hoped her to be was laughable.
As she stood before him, her raven-black hair all-atumble as if she had been playing in the nearby hedgerows, George couldn’t help taking note of her.
Drawn from his inner melancholy by her striking green gaze, George couldn’t help offering a smile. It felt weak upon his lips, and he fought against the lump in his throat.
It washerhe would miss the most.
“George, whatever is the matter?”
The concern was raw in her voice and just like that she dropped down onto the wall beside him, laying a hand upon his in a most unladylike manner.
He ought to have removed his hand, he ought to have reminded her that they ought to keep their distance now as she drew closer to coming of age, as he was seventeen and considered an eligible bachelor for all thetonto croon over.
Yet, at that moment, he desired her touch, her comforting gaze, and the way she brushed her shoulder against his.
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. His light brown locks – that had grown too long for his mother’s liking – fell forward to frame his face before he brushed them back behind his ears with his free hand.
“Come on, Georgie, you know you can’t hide anything from me,” she said, cocking her head in a way that reminded him of one of his father’s spaniels.
He might have laughed at that had he not been so down.
With a half-smile, he squeezed Cecelia’s hand.
“I’m glad you’re here, Cece,” he said, and it was the truth. There was nobody he would rather be sitting there with at that moment than her.
And as if she sensed he required further comfort, she leaned in closer, her fingers gripping his tighter.
“Wherever else should I be than my own gardens?” she pointed out, her voice thrumming with amusement. Cece could always be counted upon to lighten the mood no matter what was occurring.
“I suppose that is true,” George responded, dropping his gaze to his now stilled feet.
“George, what is it?” Cece pressed. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me. I have never seen you so quiet and studious.”
George bit the inside of his lip. He ought not to whisper a word of how he was feeling. He ought to follow his father’s rules to keep everyone and anyone from knowing his business, his inner turmoil, his struggles. A duke was to comport himself respectfully, in a businesslike manner, always.
And yet, he was no duke, yet, and this was Cece. How could he not admit to her how he was feeling?
