PROLOGUE
Sharottewood Manor Northumberland, England December 1787
The time had come.
Edward Gresham leaned out the sash window of his bedchamber, the cold air sending bumps along his skin. He bit his lip against a smile. Open countryside filled his view, glistening with snow. A tiny gurgle of water still sprayed from the icy fountain below. How many years had he waited for this? All his life?
Perhaps at first it had not been so important. Sharottewood had been his father’s, and the day it would belong to Edward had seemed too far away to be worthy of thought.
Until he realized such a day might never come if he did not do what was expected of him.
Edward blinked against the snow flurries and tried to push away the unpleasantness of the many raging quarrels he’d endured with his father. He would not be plagued with that now.
Not on his wedding day.
The click and thud of a door turned Edward back to his bedchamber. He pulled the window closed. “There you are, Felix. What time is it?”
His lanky valet drew near with an emerald-green coat draped across one arm and a waistcoat across the other. “Nearly eight, Master Gresham. Are these suitable?”
“Precisely so, but I shall need a fresh jabot.” A slight chuckle rumbled out. “I fear I was a clumsy fool this morning and succeeded in spilling my breakfast tea all over me.”
A knowing smile warmed Felix’s face. “A calamity most grooms are afflicted with, I imagine, Master Gresham.” He was just moving behind Edward to undo the stained jabot when he paused. “Forgive me, but I nearly forgot. This came for you.”
Edward glanced at the letter.
And froze.
The seal.Tension raced through his body, tightening his muscles, as he snatched the letter from his valet’s hand. “Leave me.”
“But Master Gresham, the time—”
“I said leave me. At once.”
Felix nodded and quit the room.
Then Edward was alone with the intricate red seal and all the searing emotions that accompanied it.Why now?He tore open the letter.After all these months, why should I hear from her today?
The writing, however, was not hers. The handwriting belonged to her sister. He tripped over the words once, then twice, then a third time.Constance buried at the churchyard … died in childbirth … the shame … five thousand pounds a year … then I shall conceal your secret … and your son.
My son?The room tilted. He groped for his bedpost, raked in air, and crushed the letter within his fist. Constance was not dead. The letter spoke lies. This was some malicious stab of revenge for what he had done to her months before—for forsaking her.
A knot rushed to his throat. He forced his knuckles into his mouth to keep back any sound. Why should he grieve? Why should it hurt like this?
In a few hours, he was to be married. He was to commit his life to the daughter of a squire, a woman of his father’s choosing, the only bride who could not only give him happiness but Sharottewood too.
Constance swam before him. Her eyes, bright and young and uncalculating. Her laugh, soft and easy. Her hair, golden and fragranced, like the garden they would slip to so many midnights. They had played and danced and loved in those idyllic, hidden hours.
Until his father discovered them.
Until Edward had to choose between their secret love tryst or his own inheritance.
Until he had to cease coming to the garden at all.
With numbness dulling the pain, he stumbled toward the hearth and leaned his forehead against the mantel. This changed nothing. He had sacrificed too much. He had compromised himself too many times. He had altered the course of his entire life to please his father and gain the only thing that meant anything to him.
Sharottewood Manor.
A bitter taste climbed his throat as he threw the letter into the flames. Sparks fluttered. Warm scents of wood and ash and smoke nearly choked him, scents he determined to henceforth despise forever.
