PROLOGUE
July 1801
Sowerby House
West London, England
He must get out of here.
Simon Fancourt curled his fists around the gilded chair arms, their touch cool against his damp palms. Music pounded in his ears. Mother’s shrill, operatic voice echoed from the marble floor to the intricate ceiling, raking across his nerves and rippling throughout the seats of empty-minded guests.
Beside him, the girl fidgeted.
No, notthe girl.
His future wife.
The words burned a trail to his stomach, as he glanced at Georgina Whitmore’s profile.
Her cheeks were rose-flushed, likely from the heat of the overcrowded drawing room, and though her blue eyes focused on the pianoforte, they held no true spark of interest. She breezed her face with an ivory fan. Blond curls danced. She smelled of jasmine, a scent that reminded him of summer carriage rides, dull musicales…and utter meaninglessness.
She knew nothing about life.
Maybe he didn’t either.
But at least he wanted to. At least he was not so wrapped about society’s finger that his entire existence was devoted to following pointless rules, indulging in insincere banter, and squealing over the next ball invitation.
He had no right to judge. He was guiltier than anyone in this room. Because while they were all content with such a destiny, he was not.
And he was succumbing to it anyway.
Perhaps sensing those thoughts, Father’s gaze rushed to Simon from across the room. His mouth was tight. Fervency still flamed his eyes, as if to shout again the words he’d thundered earlier.
As if Simon could forget.
As if he could ever forget.
Rushing to his feet, he ignored the jar of surprise from Miss Whitmore and the curious glances from other guests. Even Mother raised a brow at him mid-song.
He weaved his way through the chairs, took the door to the anteroom, then ran the remaining distance to the red-carpeted stairs. His heartbeat throbbed at every footfall.“For the last time, Simon, you shall listen to me. If you were your brother, if you were the eldest, then perhaps I would grant you more leniency—”
“Son.”
At the piercing voice, Simon froze halfway up the stairs. He turned, fists curled. “Sir.”
Father glowered up at him, sweat beading his face. “Youwilljoin the church. Youwillbecome a clergyman, as I have asked, and youwillfulfill the marriage that has been arranged for you. It is not only your duty; it is your only choice.”
“And if I refuse?” Injustice clamped at his chest, restricting his breathing.
“You cannot.”
“Father—”
“Enough!” His hand swiped the air, as if one quick motion could put an end to the irrational ridiculousness of his seventeen-year-old son.
But it was not ridiculousness.
Nor irrational.
