Stealing the Rake's Heart
Preview
Chapter One
The most pressing concern, as far as Alexander could tell, was whether or not he was going to vomit.
He kept his eyes tightly closed, in the hopes that the nausea would recede.
It wouldn’t, of course. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the vibrant patterns of the colourful and highly expensive carpet decorating his mother’s parlour as it lay partially revealed beyond the edge of the chaise longue. Alexander didn’t remember choosing that particular chaise longue to sleep on instead of his own bed, but then, he didn’t remember coming home at all.
He couldn’t vomit in his mother’s parlour. The carpet would be ruined, and she had so few joys left in life. With an effort, Alexander rolled onto his back, head knocking against the hard wooden backing of the seat.
“Ow,” he rasped. This way, he would only throw up on himself, and that was a fairly ordinary occurrence.
What day was today? Thursday? Was it Thursday? Or Friday, perhaps?
Either way, today marked the halfway point of their late father’s deadline. Six months in, six to go. Two siblings married out of four.
Henry, of all people, Alex thought, cracking a smile. His brother had just returned from his honeymoon, already plunging back into the pottery business which he now ran with his new wife. Henry liked to stay busy. Liked to do things. Admirable, really. Who had the energy?
Alex cracked open his eyes again, swallowing down bile. It burned in his throat, not unlike the whiskey he’d imbibed generously the previous evening. His head pounded, and his tongue felt as though it were made of sandpaper. He’d obviously drank more than usual last night, and now he was paying the price.
I ought to get up. Get up, and make my way to my room before Mother comes down. I don’t want her to see me like this.
Even as he formulated the thought, Alex realized that it was pointless. Lady Mary Willenshire, the Dowager Duchess of Dunleigh, was remarkably skilled at not seeing things she did not wish to see.
Seeing her third and favourite son drunk and ridiculous was certainly a sight she would not want to behold. She’d likely find excuses to avoid the parlour until Alex had stumbled away.
As if to contradict his point, footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, determinedly approaching the door. Alex just had time to wonder if he should haul himself into a sitting position, deciding against it just as the door opened.
There was a brief silence.
“Here you are, then,” came a familiar voice.
Alex cringed. “You sound more like Father every day, Will.”
He couldn’t see the expression on his older brother’s face, but it was probably a sour one.
“And you’re turning into quite a drunkard. You look awful, by the way.”
“I’m aware.”
William’s footsteps crossed the room, and his face loomed into Alex’s range of view.
The brothers resembled each other well – the Willenshire siblings were famous for it. Hazel-green eyes, olive skin, chestnut locks, and well-arranged features graced all of their faces. There was hardly any of the wan, colourless Mary to be seen in her children. Alex often wished he resembled his mother more than their wretched father. Nothing could be done about that, though. Recent glances in the mirror informed him that his olive skin was turning yellowish, probably from long nights staying awake and far too much wine. His eyes, more green than brown, were growing bloodshot and puffy.
I can’t stand much more of this.
The thought had occurred to him suddenly and from nowhere, and Alex had done his best to suppress it.
It hadn’t worked, naturally.
He dreaded to think what he looked like, but William was as crisp and well-groomed as always, his hair smoothed back, freshly shaved, his cravat white and fresh as new snow.
Ugh.
“Could you lower your voice, Will, my dear?” Alex managed, smiling faintly.
His brother did not smile back. “You can’t stay here. Mother will be down soon. Have you forgotten about the gathering? You promised Mother you would help.”
A cold feeling of trepidation swept through him. He had forgotten.
“Oh, yes, Mother’s summer gathering, the highlight of the Season,” Alex managed weakly. “That isn’t for a few days, though, is it?”
William’s expression was unreadable. “Yes, and there’s a great deal to be done. Rise and endeavour to rest it off. And should you indulge in drinking at Mother’s soiree, I daresay, she may not easily forgive you.”
That hurt more than Alex cared to admit.
The past six months – the past year, really – had been difficult to say the least. Their father’s death was a relief, and none of the Willenshire siblings pretended otherwise. There was really no point in acting heartbroken over a man who had loathed his children and had been hated in return. But the freedom they’d all looked forward to had never come.
Alex could remember every instant of that dreadful will reading and had done his best to avoid being sober ever since. The will was simple, but shocking: to receive their sizeable inheritances, each Willenshire sibling had to marry before one year had elapsed from the time of the will reading. If not, the money would be lost to them forever.
And that was that. The will was unbreakable – he suspected that William had looked into that – and they were faced with a straightforward dilemma. Marry, or die penniless.
Katherine had been the first to marry, the only girl in the family. She was happy enough, having married Timothy, a family friend who shared the same hunger for novels and writing. Henry, to everybody’s shock, married next, a charming and astute young woman by the name of Eleanor Fairfax.
That left Alex and William.
As the new Duke – the late duke could hardly prevent his son from inheriting the title and whatever money was attached to that – William would be expected to marry anyway, and soon. But since none of them could claim their fortunes without skipping up a wedding aisle, the poor man was left trying to run a vast estate with a mere fraction of the money needed to keep it going.
It’s not fair, Alex thought, for the thousandth time since the will had been read.
William would no doubt manage to marry in the next few months. He was handsome, young, rich, and was a duke. Ladies were already throwing themselves at him.
Alex, on the other hand, was a drunken rake of a third son. Who’d want him?
“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from your incessant urging,” Alex muttered, hauling himself up into a sitting position. The room spun around him, and he squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for the world to settle down again.
William folded his arms tight across his chest. “This can’t go on, Alexander.”
“You chiding me? I can hardly disagree.”
“Don’t be silly. I mean this,” he gestured to Alex in general. “You drink too much, you keep poor company, you stay out late, and you act like a fool. And don’t think I don’t know about the gambling. I can’t afford to keep settling your debts.”
“I might as well enjoy myself,” Alex snapped. “Our dear Papa has condemned me to a life of obscurity and poverty, getting the last laugh from beyond the grave. Why shouldn’t I make merry a little?”
“This is not making merry. This is folly. You’re on a bad course, Alex. We’re worried about you, all of us.”
Alex pressed his lips into a thin line. “You ought to save your worry for yourself. A penniless duke is a poor prospect, especially when he’s as sour as you.”
He immediately regretted the words. William blinked, flinching back, and a feeling of guilt washed over Alex. He swallowed hard, clearing his throat.
“Will, I didn’t mean…”
He was interrupted.
“Get out of Mother’s parlour, and take yourself to your room,” William said tartly. “I have a great deal to do, and I’d rather not have you making things more difficult than they need to be.”
Without waiting for a reply, William turned on his heel and strode away, letting the door slam behind him.
Alex rested his aching head back on the chaise longue and closed his eyes.
Oh, very well done, Alexander. What a fine brother you are. A fine brother, and a fine son. They’re ashamed of you, all of them.
I need to get married.
The thought arrived in Alex’s head with a jolt. It wasn’t a new idea by any stretch of the imagination. He’d dreamed of marriage and wedded bliss even before their father’s death, but now there was a layer of urgency to it all.
A woman who married Lord Alexander Willenshire, to all knowledge, would now marry a rich man. A socialite, and well-known man about town, if a little rakish. A rich man, despite the fact he was only a third son.
If she married the same man in just over six months’ time, she’d marry a pauper.
Marriage was the key to independence, then, and possibly to gaining back his family’s respect. After all, marrying a rich young woman would be impressive, would it not?
Groaning, Alex rolled himself off the chaise longue, hauled himself into a roughly standing position, and hobbled towards the door.
You’re a fool, Alex. A prize fool. That’s what Father said, and he was right about most things, curse him.
He wouldn’t go to bed, certainly not.
He was going to his club.
***
It was imperative that a gentleman be clubbable. That is, accepted to at least one of the notable clubs in London. Even grumpy, unfriendly Henry had a club.
Alex had several, but Brooks’s was his favourite. It wasn’t as genteel and popular as White’s, but there was a veneer of respectability to the place that kept William paying the membership fees with only a mild eye-roll.
The moment he stepped inside, Alex heard somebody hailing him. He pasted a grin onto his face just in time to turn around and greet a pudgy, genial-faced young man with tufty fair hair and a moustache which made him look a bit like a prawn.
“Alex, old man!” Lord Hamish Grey roared, slapping Alex hard on the back. Hamish was a large man in more ways than one. He was well over six feet tall, probably closer to six and a half, and while he gave the appearance of a tubby man, Alex knew there were iron cords of muscle under all that fat. They’d been friends for years.
“Drinking already, Hamish? Tut-tut,” Alex joked, nudging his friend’s elbow so that he spilled some of his brandy down himself.
Hamish spluttered and laughed. “Fine words from you, my good sir! You put on quite the show last night. I half expected to hear that you were dead this morning. I’m surprised Brooks’s has any liquor left at all.”
In the cold light of day, Alex’s half-remembered antics didn’t seem very lordly at all, let alone gentleman-like. He half cringed at himself.
But rolling in one’s shame never did anyone any good, and Alex had no intention of coming here to mope. He draped an arm around Hamish’s shoulder and manoeuvred him towards a table.
“Why is there not a glass of brandy in my hand, my dear friend?”
Hamish chuckled. “Pray tell, what has caused you to wear such a long visage? I was nearly compelled to inquire if there has been some grievous loss in your life, for your countenance seems most suited to a mourning garb.”
Alex sighed. “Oh, it’s nothing, only that my mother’s long-awaited summer gathering is coming up, and I promised to help.”
“Ah, yes, I recall. I have an invite, by the way. But why does her Grace want you to help? No offence, Alex. What about your sister?”
Alex bit his lip. “Katherine is good at organising things, but not soirees. She has no taste, you see. She’d drop a handful of wildflowers in a glass jar and call it a centrepiece.”
“Why you, though? Isn’t the Duke managing it?”
Alex said nothing for a moment. How to explain?
Even as a child, he’d known that his family life was not normal. Tyrannical fathers existed in every corner of the globe, some of them taking residence in London for half the year. But the Duke of Dunleigh was something else. There was a streak of something terrible in his cruelty, something edging towards torture in the ‘lessons’ he taught his children. Alex recalled standing on a stool half of the night, shivering with cold and exhaustion, hunger pains shooting through him, all in punishment for an infraction he could not remember.
His mother was always at the end of it, tearful and remorseful, arms outstretched to hold Alexander close and soothe him.
Not the others, though. Just Alex. He’d never quite understood why, and suspected they didn’t, either. Alexander was her favourite, and that had never changed. Even now, her face softened when he approached. She always had a smile for him, a word of praise for whatever cravat or jacket he was wearing.
It was hard to decide whether that made him feel more loving towards his mother or more guilty towards his siblings.
“I have no idea, really,” Alex answered, and it was the truth.
Chapter Two
“Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at the door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil; but instantly let it fall—perceiving that what it had concealed was no picture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless on the floor.”
Abigail’s entire world had narrowed to the words on the page. When had she last breathed? She sucked in a shaky breath, angling herself better so that the gloomy mid-afternoon light of the grey day would shine better through the window onto her book.
Her book was Mysteries of Udolpho, the second volume, and quite frankly the best thing she had ever read in her life. Emily St Aubert did swoon a great deal, particularly at moments when the story was at its most tense, but she was also courageous and had such integrity.
She was beautiful, too. Heroines always were, and Abigail did her best not to be jealous.
She turned the page with a shaking hand. Surely it would be revealed. She simply had to know what was behind the black veil. What could be so terrifying that it sent Emily into a dead faint? Perhaps…
Thudding footsteps were her only warning that somebody was coming. They sounded on the part of the hallway right outside the library door, where the carpet gave way to bare floorboards. Not enough warning, really.
Abigail gave a strangled gasp and scrambled to shove her book under the cushion of the window seat.
Not quickly enough.
The door flew open, and there stood Mrs. Harriet Atwood, silhouetted in the door frame in a manner worthy of Mrs. Radcliffe herself.
“Are you reading that trash again, Abigail?” Her mother boomed. She crossed the room in a few long strides, snatching the book out of Abigail’s slack grip.
“I told you she’d be in here, Mama,” came a smug female voice.
Scarlett, of course. She wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see her older sister in trouble.
Harriet squinted at the book, lip curling. “What absurdity. No wonder no gentleman will marry you, if you fill your head with such nonsense. Between this and that awful poetry book I caught you reading last week, I quite regret letting you learn to read at all. I ought to close up this whole library and burn all the books inside – starting with this one.”
Abigail gulped. “Please don’t, Mama. The book isn’t mine. It’s from the circulating library. I shall be fined if I don’t return it.”
Harriet tossed the book onto the window seat with utter disdain.
“Take it back directly, then.”
Abigail nodded, ducking her head. She picked up the book, carefully smoothing out the pages. A couple had been bent back, much to her chagrin.
Scarlett came scuttling into the library, looking ill at ease around the books.
The trouble was, in Abigail’s opinion, that the Atwaters were not a family of beauties.
Society could overlook any sin, so long as the sinner were good-looking. Harriet Atwater was tall and lanky, plain, but quite without a cheery personality to soften her looks. Her father, Patrick Atwater was good-natured to a fault, prepared to sacrifice everything for a quiet life, and resembled nothing so much as a little mouse with buck teeth.
Abigail had not inherited her father’s buck teeth. She had good skin and pretty hair of an indeterminate brown colour, but there her beauty ended. Her eyes were mud brown, her figure unremarkable, her features resolutely ordinary. The heroines in the novels she loved were always strikingly beautiful, and the hero noticed this immediately. No such ripples went around a room when Abigail entered it.
Her older sister Beatrix had similar features, but she was a little less timid than Abigail, and anyway had made an excellent match.
And then there was Scarlett, whom the gods had kissed.
Scarlett resembled a perfectly assembled porcelain doll. Her skin was creamy and fair, her hair a rich, glittering golden. She had a little heart-shaped face, sky-blue eyes, and a dainty pair of pink rosebud lips.
She was, in short, exquisite, and she was extremely well aware of that fact. At nineteen, her come-out had already been delayed by a year because Abigail was not married. Tempers were running short.
Harriet paced up and down in front of the window seat, gathering her thoughts. Abigail tucked the book out of sight behind a cushion, lest her mother get ideas, and folded her hands on her lap, waiting.
“This will be your third Season,” Harriet said at last. “Beatrix took only one Season to get married. We put off Scarlett’s coming out last year to spare her the embarrassment of going into company beside an unmarried older sister, but she is not getting any younger, and we will not wait any more. We can’t risk it, not on account of your folly.”
Abigail bit her lip. The timeline had been made very clear to her. She was to have her first Season at eighteen, while Scarlett was seventeen, and marry that Season. However, the Season had ended, and their nineteenth and eighteenth birthdays had respectively arrived with no marriage on the horizon. After a few weeks of fury and tantrums, Harriet had decided that Scarlett would not come out that year, and Abigail would take a second Season to secure a match.
But now Abigail was twenty, and her third Season was just beginning, and she was still unmarried.
It would be pointless, naturally, to tell her mother that she did not wish to be married, so Abigail kept silent.
That was something she was good at, at least.
“Will I not take part in this Season, then, Mama?” Abigail asked quietly.
Her mother scowled at her. “Do not be foolish. Of course, you must participate in the Season. If we were to send you away to the countryside at this juncture, you might very well find yourself unwed for all eternity, and I shall not tolerate the burden of having you as a millstone around my neck for the remainder of my days. No, you must indeed attend the Season, and this time you shall secure a suitable match. Take care not to impede Scarlett in her endeavours, however. And do not anticipate any new gowns.
Abigail ducked her head. “But, Mama, what if… what if I can’t find a match this Season?”
Harriet Atwater was not listening. She had that familiar, glazed look in her eyes, pacing to and fro.
“You must apply yourself, Abigail. If we are to take our rightful place in the nobility, work must be done. Beatrix and her Lord Townsend were a very great start indeed, but if you make a poor marriage – or worse yet, none at all – it will ruin our advantage. Scarlett is the one who will raise us up, aren’t you, love?”
Harriet paused, turning to touch her youngest daughter’s cheek. Scarlett preened, and the distant look in Harriet’s eye grew misty.
Abigail stayed quiet. She had long wondered – blasphemous though it was to think such cruel thoughts about one’s own mother – whether Harriet did not see her child when she looked at Scarlett, but rather what she could have been.
After all, were it not for a few lopsided features – an overlong chin, a mouth too wide, eyes rather grey than blue – could not Harriet have looked like Scarlett, in her youth? If she had been a little shorter, less gangly, more womanly, might she not have attracted scores of admirers, too?
As if she could sense the unfilial thoughts of her middle daughter, Harriet dropped her hand and turned to face Abigail.
“This cannot go on, Abigail,” she said quietly. “Three Seasons is a disgrace. If you embarrass this family any further, then…”
There appeared to Abigail no prospect of reprieve or salvation, as nobody in the household would dare interrupt Harriet when she was in full flow. She hadn’t counted on people outside the household.
The familiar crunch of carriage wheels on gravel made Harriet pause and crane her neck to look out of the window.
She sucked in a breath, lifting her hands halfway to her hair as if to adjust it.
“Oh, curses, she’s early. It’s your Aunt Florence. Come on, girls, hurry!”
Harriet turned and fled out of the room, followed closely by Scarlett. Abigail followed too, her heart a little lighter.
Not, of course, that she was safe, by any stretch of the imagination.
Harriet had married a plain Viscount, but her sister Florence had married a Marquess.
Aunt Florence had grown remarkably wide in middle age and had decorated her bulk with yards and yards of ruched peach silk. The dress took up an entire two-seater sofa, where Aunt Florence sat in state, letting her sister and youngest niece flutter around her. Even Beatrix’s husband was only half as wealthy as Aunt Florence’s husband had been. He was dead now, of course, and Aunt Florence was easily one of the wealthiest widows in London.
“Seed-cake, sister?” Harriet asked, smiling indulgently. “We have plenty. Scarlett, serve your aunt at once.”
Aunt Florence only smiled to herself, accepting a generous slice of cake. She had a head of vibrant red hair, now gradually fading towards white, and almost translucent eyebrows set high on a freckled face, and the same grey eyes as her sister. She had never been beautiful, and that had not stopped her catching one of the most handsome men in London.
Abigail liked her aunt a great deal, but Harriet had pulled her aside before they entered the parlour and told her in a sibilant hiss to sit quietly and let Scarlett speak to Aunt Florence.
Aunt Florence, it seemed, was not in on this plan. She glanced over Scarlett’s head – the girl had been placed on a footstool beside her aunt’s sofa – and met Abigail’s eye.
“Read any good novels lately, Abbie?”
Abigail flushed, and Harriet gave a nervous laugh.
“Oh, sister, don’t tell me you subscribe to all that nonsense? Abigail spends her days polishing up her accomplishments.”
“Accomplishments? Yes, of course. Banging around on the pianoforte or producing boring old watercolours.”
“I have some watercolours,” Scarlett piped up, clearly struck by inspiration. “I could paint you if you like, Aunt.”
Harriet beamed at her daughter for this brilliant idea. Aunt Florence only lifted one gingery brow.
“In this dress, do you think? Harriet, what do you think of this dress?”
“It’s divine,” Harriet gushed. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It must have cost a fortune.”
“It did. And you, Scarlett? Does it suit me?”
Scarlett only hesitated for a heartbeat before plunging into a lie.
“You look beautiful, Aunt. It suits you perfectly. I love it, I quite adore it.”
Aunt Florence hid a smile behind the rim of her teacup and glanced over Abigail.
“And you, Abby? Do you think this dress is the most beautiful one you’ve ever seen? Do you adore it?”
There was a pained silence. Harriet was glaring daggers at her daughter. Abigail bit the tip of her tongue. It would be the easiest thing in the world to lie, and not get scolded afterwards.
Unfortunately, Abigail had never had a great deal to say, and her tongue had never quite fitted in with the words shooting through her head. Lies did not come easily.
“N-No, Aunt,” she quavered. Harriet went purple, and Scarlett pressed a hand over her mouth.
“No?” Aunt Florence echoed, in mock surprise. “And why not?”
Better commit to it now, Abigail thought soberly. She drew in a breath.
“I… I think it looks a bit like a meringue, aunt.”
Harriet opened her mouth, doubtless to shout something at her daughter, but she was interrupted by Aunt Florence’s hoot of laughter.
“That’s my girl!” Aunt Florence chuckled, slapping one meaty knee. “Truthful as always. I ought to have known you wouldn’t fill my head with empty compliments, Abby! Honesty is a rare thing, sure enough. This is very good seed-cake, sister.”
Abigail dropped her gaze, but not before seeing the look of consternation and fury on her mother’s face. She was forced to swallow her anger back, of course, and the conversation carried on without Abigail.
She supposed that other women – Scarlett, for instance – would feel inclined to join in, rather than just listen, but Abigail had always preferred sitting back and staying quiet. People, as it turned out, were not like book characters. In novels, people said and did exactly the right – or wrong – thing. It was easy enough to work out their intentions, and the story unfolded in a satisfying and easily understandable manner.
Real life was a little more haphazard. In her mind, Abigail was a clever and eloquent person, but somehow that eloquence never quite translated itself to her actual words. If she was a beauty, gentlemen would flock around her regardless, and take her silence as sweetness.
But she was plain, and not particularly rich, and so they never even noticed her. She’d seen their gazes skip over her, again and again. It had hurt at first, but it wasn’t as if she had liked any of those gentlemen.
“I take it you intend to put out both girls into the Season this year?” Aunt Florence was saying now, voice jerking Abigail out of her reverie.
Harriet pressed her lips together. “Indeed, yes. I know it isn’t common to put out a younger daughter if her older sister isn’t married, but really, I am about ready to wash my hands of Abigail. Two full Seasons, and no marriage! I even sent her to a fine party about a month ago, and she entirely wasted the opportunity. She didn’t dance a single dance, can you credit it? Now, Scarlett, she would have set the ballroom on fire – wouldn’t you, darling?”
“I certainly would, Mama.”
Aunt Florence’s sharp little eyes glanced between them, revealing nothing.
“Well, the Season is starting in earnest, now,” she said neutrally. “We’re in the swing of it. I do hope you girls enjoy yourselves.”
“I shall, Aunt,” Scarlett promised, smiling winningly. Aunt Florence glanced at Abigail, who realized with resignation that she was expected to say something.
“I shall try my best, Aunt.”
“Try your best? What an odd thing to say, silly child,” Harriet said, with a glare and a forced laugh.
Abigail swallowed. “I…you know how I prefer my books, Aunt.”
Aunt Florence smiled, her round face crinkling up. “Indeed I do. There is nothing better than the company of a good book. I myself love Mrs. Radcliffe – her stories quite give me the chills.”
Before she could stop herself, Abigail was speaking again.
“Yes, I am reading the second volume of Mysteries of Udolpho, Aunt. Mama commented on it only an hour or so ago.”
Harriet’s gaze was boring into the side of Abigail’s face, but she firmly kept her gaze on her aunt.
Aunt Florence nodded, setting down her empty cup. “Well, I must hear what you think of the ending, when you get there. Where have you got to?”
“The black veil – Emily pulled it back and swooned.”
“Yes, I recall. I daresay you’re mad to discover what’s going on behind it, but I won’t tell you. You’ll have to find out. Now, enough chit-chat, I think.”
“You aren’t going, are you, sister?” Harriet said, managing to look relieved and doleful at the same time. Florence snorted.
“No, I am not going. Not yet. Now, I came here for a reason. Generally, I don’t come to London for the Season, but this year I find myself looking for a little excitement. I plan to stay a month or two. I know we move in different circles, sister, but one can always make time for family.”
A flicker of hope crossed Harriet’s face. “How delightful! If you find yourself in need of company, I’m sure that Scarlett would love to spend some time with you.”
In Abigail’s opinion, Scarlett would love no such thing. She could see her younger sister’s chagrin, imagining accompanying her large, outspoken, and brusque aunt to various gatherings.
However, she would be a fool to ignore the fact that she would be able to attend such soirees, if Aunt Florence escorted her. Balls with earls and viscounts and maybe even a duke or two.
If Aunt Florence chose to extend her patronage to Scarlett, she could do a great deal of good.
“Funny you should mention it,” Aunt Florence said slowly, pouring herself another cup of tea without waiting for the maid. “I did intend to take my niece to an upcoming soiree. It’s a yearly thing, the Dowager Duchess of Dunleigh’s summer ball. Everybody goes, you know.”
Oh, they did not. Abigail held her breath, glancing between the faces of her mother and sister. Their eyes were wide, jaws hanging slack. The Duchess of Dunleigh – or rather, the Dowager Duchess, as the old duke was dead and his son wore his title now – moved in the highest circles in the land, far above what the Atwaters could hope for. Oh, they might get invited to larger gatherings with the richest tradespeople, and Harriet often talked of vouchers for Almack’s, but that wasn’t the same.
But if Aunt Florence could bring them to a gathering like this, who knew where it might end? What friends might they make?
“Oh?” Harriet managed at last, trying to conceal her excitement. “How thrilling.”
“With your permission, of course, I shall take my niece with me. She can dance a little, if she chooses, and perhaps make some friends. It shall be good for her.”
And then Aunt Florence’s gaze flitted over to Abigail, before the others could say a word, and Abigail’s heart sank. Aunt Florence smiled.
“Well, Abby? What do you say? Would you like to come with me?”
There was a moment of consternation. Scarlett sagged, disappointed, and Harriet hummed and hawed, trying to find her footing.
“Sister, surely you mean Scarlett? Surely you intend to take Scarlett to the ball?”
Aunt Florence lifted an eyebrow. “Did I say Scarlett? No, I thought Abigail might enjoy it. I’m sure you have plenty of balls and good things lined up for our pretty Scarlett.”
Harriet smiled weakly. “Yes, but consider the advantages…”
“Scarlett has plenty of advantages,” Aunt Florence interrupted. “She’s a beautiful girl, with a decent dowry, sufficient charm, and a great deal of confidence. She will be fine, I promise you. It is Abigail I’d like to bring to that ball, and I believe I can choose my own guests, dear sister.”
Harriet swallowed hard. Abigail could read the thoughts ticking across her mother’s face. Her annoyance and pride would have her storm out and tell her sister that she would take Scarlett or she would take neither of the girls.
But Harriet Atwater was too sensible for that. She likely knew that Aunt Florence would simply shrug and leave, and then none of the Atwater girls would attend the illustrious gathering.
Abigail glanced over at her younger sister, who was glaring at her with loathing. As if Abigail herself had somehow done something to take Scarlett’s rightful place from her.
Don’t be angry at me! Abigail wanted to scream. I don’t want to go!
She did not say such a thing, of course. She stayed quiet, hands folded in her lap, and waited for her mother to speak.
“Well, I suppose,” Harriet managed ungraciously. “Scarlett would make a much better companion, but if you insist upon Abigail…”
“I do,” Aunt Florence said, abruptly rising to her feet. They stood awkwardly too, missing a beat. “Abby and I can talk about Mrs. Radcliffe on the way there.”
“What a treat for you, Abigail,” Harriet said, a threatening undertone in her voice. “You must be very grateful to your aunt.”
Abigail made a quick, lopsided curtsey. “Indeed, I am, Mama. Thank you, Aunt Florence.”
Aunt Florence only gave that mysterious little smile, looking away.
“I shall give you more details soon enough. I think a new dress for the occasion would be in order, don’t you, sister? Can you manage that, or shall I…”
“I will get the girl a new dress,” Harriet interrupted sourly.
Aunt Florence grinned. “What a treasure you are, sister.”
And then she sailed out of the room, never once looking back.
Chapter Three
“Henry and Eleanor aren’t coming,” Katherine announced.
Alex flinched, caught in the act of pouring himself yet another generous brandy. He slopped some of the liquid over his hand and wrist and licked at the sticky droplets guiltily.
Katherine was like William – she could always make him feel guilty, even when all he was doing was having a drink, for heaven’s sake.
He glanced over to where she stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
“I thought Henry wouldn’t come,” Alex huffed. “He’s so busy with that silly business of his. Do you know, he told me I should have a job there? The cheek of it.”
“I think it was kind,” Katherine shrugged, coming further into the room. “Henry doesn’t like to see you idle. I suppose he thought you might enjoy the work.”
“Then he doesn’t know me at all. I’m not a child, to be kept busy. I’m supposed to be a gentleman.”
Henry would have pounced on that at once, of course. He was the sharpest of them all, and much addicted to travelling. Alex supposed that it was only a matter of time before he and his new wife left the country.
Back when the old duke was alive, Henry had travelled a great deal. Alex knew the truth, they all did – he couldn’t bear to be at home. William was not permitted to leave, being the oldest and the heir. Katherine was not permitted to leave, since she was a woman. Alex could probably have gone – heaven knew his father didn’t care much about him – but how could he leave his mother?
Katherine came all the way into the room and sat down beside him. She could smell the cigar smoke hanging in the library like a pall, and the brandy decanter was almost empty. She didn’t say anything, however.
“You miss him, don’t you?” she said quietly. “Henry and you were always as intimate as kindred spirits.”
Alex sighed. “It’s not that I don’t love Will and you. It’s just that Henry… well, I suppose he was my best friend. Sad, isn’t it?”
“Not sad. And don’t worry – Will and I love you too, no matter how much we nag you. Henry worries about you, you know.”
“He’s got a strange way of showing it,” Alex remarked bitterly. “Since his marriage, I’ve only seen him a handful of times.”
She sighed. “Be kind, Alex. Henry is in love. He’s newly married. I know that when I married Timothy – which was not so very long ago – I could think of nothing else but him. Give Henry time.”
“I don’t resent his happiness. I just… Oh, I don’t know. Pay no attention to me.”
“But I am paying attention to you, Alex. You’re not happy. You drink too much, you smoke too much, you gamble – and until you come into your money, you can ill afford that, and…”
“Yes, well, I’m not going to come into my money, am I?” Alex pointed out bitterly. “Our darling Papa made sure of that. Who’d marry me?”
“Plenty of people. Don’t be defeatist, Alex. Just attend a few balls this Season – good ones, not your raucous gentlemen’s pursuits – and meet a few ladies. Somebody might catch your eye.”
“And what if nobody does?” he muttered. “What then? Do I just choose one and hope for the best? When Father added that stipulation to his will, it wasn’t to ensure that we’d all enjoy wedded bliss. It was because he wanted to have the final say over what we did with our lives. He wanted us to be miserable, proper, and obliged to obey him even when he was gone. He still holds that money over our heads like a great weight. Some days, I feel like saying dash it all and just staying a penniless bachelor for the rest of my life.”
Katherine didn’t say anything to this, letting the echoes of Alex’s raised voice bounce around the room.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he added, after a moment had passed.
“Do you?”
“Yes. You suppose me to be selfish, foolish and engaging in an act of self-sabotage, as though I were to disfigure myself in a fit of pique, and not thinking about William, who really has to marry, because he is the Duke of Dunleigh and he needs the money. Yes, I know, I won’t starve on the streets, not with the rest of you rich, and yes, I know that Father really is gone at the end of the day, but…” he trailed off, obliged to swallow hard and work some moisture into his mouth before he continued. “I’m not happy, Katherine,” he managed at last, his voice breaking.
Katherine shuffled closer, draping an arm around his shoulder. He leaned into her, and for a few moments, the siblings sat like that, neither one saying a word.
“I know it isn’t fair,” Katherine said quietly. “We all know it. But complaining won’t change the facts. Whether you marry or not, Alex, you must think about your life and how you’d like to use it. This,” she reached out, plucking the sticky brandy glass from his hand and placing it out of reach on the table, “this will not make you happy. It’ll make you ill, discontented, and probably ugly.”
Alex wilted a little. “I know, I know. I just…” he paused, disentangling himself from her grip, and reached out to snatch up the decanter altogether. He pulled out the glass stopper and took a swig straight from the bottle. Grinning at Katherine’s annoyed face, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can’t get through this summer sober, Kat.”
She let out a long, slow breath. “I am going to break that decanter over your head.”
There was no time to find out whether it was an empty threat or not, because a thin, reedy voice came wafting in from the halls outside.
“Alex? Alex, my darling, where are you?”
“It’s Mother,” he murmured. “I’d better go find her.”
“Yes, do,” Katherine rose to her feet, shaking out her skirts. “And then come into dinner, both of you.”
They parted ways in the hallway outside. Katherine hurried towards the half-open dining room, light streaming out into the corridor, and Alex plunged into the gloomy part of the house, in search of his mother.
He found Mary in one of the morning rooms. It was seldom used, and bitterly cold, despite the time of year. She was standing at a window, holding up something to the young moonlight.
“Mother, what are you doing?” Alex asked gently. “Didn’t you hear the bell for dinner?”
Mary blinked at him. She had once been a beautiful woman, but time and poor treatment had stripped her beauty from her. Her force of will, never particularly strong, was quickly crushed altogether in the early years of her marriage to the duke. Alex could not remember his mother ever speaking up for her children, not even when the duke was at his most cruel. She’d formed a sort of slavish adoration to the husband who treated her like an inconvenience and was the only one who had truly mourned him.
Alex had secretly hoped that, with his father gone, his mother might grow into her old self, and thrive.
He was destined to be disappointed. Mary said less and less, retreating into herself and looking out at the world in a baffled, terrified way. She was starting to forget things, too.
“Oh, yes, supper,” Mary managed at last. “I don’t much like it in there. It’s far too bright. It hurts my eyes.”
Alex bit his lip. In a fit of frugality, the old duke had cut the candle allowance for the house down to a quarter of what it had been. The hallways were plunged into darkness, the poor servants did their sewing by moonlight, and they were obliged to hunch over their dinners in near darkness, squinting at their food to try and make out what it was.
Now that William was the duke, things were different. The house was actually well lit, the fires banked, even when it wasn’t the depths of winter.
“I don’t take pleasure in watching people squinting in the dark, or shivering by an empty grate,” he’d said once, when Mary queried it.
The woman came fluttering across the room towards Alex, reaching up to smooth out the shoulders of his jacket.
“So handsome,” she murmured. “The most handsome of them all, my Alex. You must tell William to stop lighting so many candles. The Duke would not like it.”
A lump rose to his throat.
“Mother, William is the duke now. We can’t keep doing things the way Father did, can we?”
Mary pouted. “Well, your Papa was generally right. We saved all that money on tallow and wax, didn’t we? But I have a secret to tell you.”
“What is it, Mother? Why don’t we go out into the hall? It’s freezing cold in here. You’re only wearing a light shawl, and…”
“The Duke insisted that I hand over your brothers and sister to a nursemaid right away,” Mary interrupted. “First William, and then Henry, and then Katherine. He said that children ought not to be coddled. It was dreadfully upsetting, but he was my husband, so of course I obeyed. It was always strange to see them again, to see how much they had grown. They wouldn’t recognise me when they saw me again, and that always stung a little. But you… you, my little Alex, you were different. When you were born, your father was away, so I did not have to give you to a nursemaid. I looked after you all by myself. You were walking by the time your father came home. You were mine. I always felt guilty, though. I suppose the least I can do is to make sure that everything is the way your father wanted it, to make up for keeping you. It was a good bargain, I think.”
The lump was making Alex’s eyes water.
“Yes, Mother, but Father isn’t here, now. You can do as you like. You can be happy.”
Mary pulled back, eyes blank. “I am happy, darling. I’m a good wife.”
“I see.” Alex drew in a shuddering breath, wiping suddenly clammy hands on his jacket. “Well, you must be hungry, and so…”
“Oh, I almost forgot! Silly me. I have a present for you, darling.”
Mary opened her hand, revealing a silver cravat pin, tipped with a round ruby like a drop of blood.
“It was your father’s,” she confided. “I daresay William should have it, but I’d like it to be yours.”
Alex took the cravat pin. It was cool against his fingers.
“Thank you, Mother. Now, we really must go into dinner.”
Mary pouted. “I’m never hungry these days.”
“But you must eat,” he insisted. “Please, Mother. For me. For your little Alex.”
She softened a little. “Well, if you say so.”
He extended his arm, and Mary took it, her hand white and frail as a bird. They walked through the hallways in silence.
After the gloom of the hallway outside, the well-lit dining room did seem a little bright, and Alex blinked against the glare.
The others were already there – William at the head of the table, Katherine in her usual spot, and Timothy beside her. They all glanced up when Alex and Mary entered, and for a moment, Alex found himself struck dumb.
He’s just like Father.
Sitting in their father’s seat, face thrown into sharp relief by the candles, and resolutely not smiling, William resembled the old duke more than anything Alex had ever seen before.
Oh, they all resembled the duke, in that they had his skin, his eyes, his hair, his handsome features, but there was something about William tonight that made the resemblance even more obvious.
Swallowing hard, Alex helped his mother to her seat – at the other end of the table, where she insisted on sitting, as the old duke had insisted on her sitting before, even though her children all sat close together – and took his own seat.
“You’re late,” William said crisply, as soon as he was seated.
“I came as soon as I could,” Alex answered in a low voice. “Mother was disoriented again.”
“She is not disoriented.”
“She is. She’s not herself.”
“I don’t notice a difference,” William gestured for the first footman to start serving up the soup course. “I’m not a tyrant, Alex, but I do like to start meals on time, if possible. Do you know how irritating it is, to sit here and watch our food going cold, while you waft about the house? You’ve been at home for hours. There’s no excuse for being late.”
Alex clenched his jaw. “Mother needed me.”
“She is fine.”
“How would you know? You ignore her all day.”
“Boys,” Katherine interrupted sharply, eyes glinting out a warning. “Let’s have a nice family meal together, shall we?”
“Little prospect of that,” Alex muttered, taking pleasure in observing William stiffen like an affronted feline.
He said nothing, however, and for a few moments there was only the gentle sounds of soup-slurping, and the low conversation between Timothy and Katherine.
William was paler and grimmer than ever, and picked at his food, for all his talk of being hungry and not wanting to wait. For his part, Alex’s stomach was still roiling from his hangover that morning. The pea soup did not look appealing. Instead, he reached for the decanter of wine, and poured himself a generous measure. He could almost feel William’s disapproving stare on him, but somehow, that only made the wine taste better.
Go on, have a proper scowl, you simpleton. Ascend upon your high horse as the esteemed Duke of Dunleigh, whilst I remain the drunken prodigal son who cannot even afford the courtesy of departing from home. Take a long, long gaze.”
He took a large mouthful of wine, eyes closed, and felt the familiar buzz of the alcohol warm his blood and ease away his worries.
Oh, yes. I certainly can’t make it through this summer sober, no matter what Katherine says, he thought grimly. He drained the glass, ignoring Timothy’s horrified expression, and reached to pour himself another.
I hope you enjoyed the preview of my new novel“Stealing the Rake’s Heart” It will be live on Amazon soon…
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