Chapter One

The English Countryside, Lanwood, Summer 1816

"I was thinking," Beatrice Langley said, in a light, off-hand tone that was almost certainly rehearsed, "that we could have a few people round for tea. What do you think, Arthur?"

Arthur set his teacup back onto the saucer, trying to ignore the way it rattled. Everybody else ignored it, too. It would be bad manners to draw attention to the light tremor in Arthur's hand. It wasn't always there.

"I… I am uncertain if I possess the fortitude to attend a soiree, Mother," Arthur said, as gently as he could manage.

As expected, Beatrice and his distant Cousin Lucy threw meaningful glances at each other. She was still mostly in black after her father's death, but Beatrice and Arthur had contented themselves with armbands. It seemed strange to deeply mourn a man he'd never met.

But then, Arthur was now living in his house and running his estates, so fair was fair.

The house was, naturally, huge. The late Earl of Lanwood was known for his love of socialising, and his parties were – Arthur had been assured – truly unforgettable. In a good way.

It was explained to him – along with lavish descriptions of the famous Lanwood balls – that the Langley family had always been a pillar of society, and the life of any gathering.

Hints were made that Arthur would continue that tradition, throwing balls and parties and soirees, masked balls, picnics, and so on. Arthur had smiled and nodded politely, and gradually the hints had stopped, when it became clear to everybody that the new Earl of Lanwood was not going to follow in the footsteps of the old one.

It was clear that the house and its many modernisations had been created with the purpose of entertaining – a vast, cavernous ballroom which was permanently shut up, long lawns, terraces running around the house, no less than four parlours, a cloakroom able to take a thousand cloaks and coats and shawls, and so on.

A waste, really. Since Arthur and his mother had moved in, a good half of the house was shut up.

He felt guilty about that, especially since Lucy – Lady Lucy Langley, the late Earl's daughter and now Arthur's ward – had watched her home being shut up without a single word of complaint.

It was a fine house, but too large for Arthur. He wished he could live somewhere else, anywhere else. There was a Dower House just under a mile away, but his mother had told him severely the Earl of Lanwood could not move into the Dower House.

"It's just that I have already sent out the invitations," Beatrice said, all in a rush. Colour was rising to her cheeks.

This wasn't an absolute surprise, but a flash of irritation curled in Arthur's gut all the same.

"You sent out invitations to a party at my house, without telling me? Without asking my permission?" He said, pleased that his voice was level and not angry. "That was wrong of you, Mother. Very wrong, and I think you know it."

Mrs Beatrice Langley was generally considered to be a fine woman for her age. She was still beautiful, dressed well, and had retained her figure. She followed fashion a little too diligently, and currently wore her hair in the many-ringleted style, curls clustering around her temples. She was youthful in more ways than one and could easily be taken for ten years younger.

She was not a sensible woman, exactly, but she was Arthur's mother, the one he'd called for when he lay delirious on an army stretcher, covered in blood and mud and worse. They'd fallen low, over the years, and risen high, and Beatrice had been by his side for it all.

"I knew you would say no if I asked," Beatrice said, sounding a little pleading. "Pray forgive me, but once all guests have arrived and arrangements are settled, you shall have no need to concern yourself. I assure you, Lucy and I will see to everything- simply relax and enjoy the festivities."

The forked scar on Arthur's left cheek, running from his hairline to his cheekbone, throbbed warningly. He swallowed dryly.

"Mother, I want you to call it off. When did you send out the invitations?"

She lifted her chin a little defiantly. "I've already gotten replies, Arthur. Everyone is coming. It's just a soiree – a little dancing, a little dining, and all you have to do is turn up and smile. It is the simplest of tasks, only requiring minimal effort."

Arthur fervently disagreed but couldn't quite manage the words to say so. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying in vain to ward off the oncoming megrim.

Strange to think that he'd rarely had so much as a headache before the war. He didn't even remember the events that had led to him lying on a stretcher with a broken head and an agonising megrim. He was lucky to be alive, naturally, but the memories refused to stop coming. He'd thought he was dead, long before the final blow was struck.

And now, whenever things were too much or he was too anxious, agonizing pain descended, blurring his vision and making him sick. It wasn't unusual for Arthur to vomit during his megrims, and nothing soothed it except for going somewhere cool and quiet, closing his eyes and hoping for the best.

Right now, with Beatrice's constant chatter, the megrim was only getting worse and worse. Arthur's stomach clenched.

He tried not to imagine it, the halls crowded with people, full of heat and noise and chatter. He imagined himself beset by countless neighbours, all keen to ask him about the war and his amorous affairs and his plans for the future. Mammas trying to introduce their eligible daughters, loudly wondering whether Arthur intended to ‘keep it in the family' and marry his distant Cousin Lucy or whether she was deemed too much of a bluestocking for his tastes.

No to the first, no to the second. Arthur liked Lucy, found her intelligent, but marrying her felt deeply wrong.

That wasn't the point. Beatrice was still talking. Arthur heard that fateful name, Miranda, and couldn't quite help a shudder.

"Mother…" he managed hoarsely, and that was all.

Mercifully, Beatrice stopped talking, and tilted her head anxiously at her son.

"Arthur? Oh, you've gone quite pale. Pray forgive me, I have grievously erred in my approach. I am prone to speaking out of turn."

"Arthur?" came Lucy's cool, calm voice, sounding as if it were from very far away. The pain in Arthur's temples peaked, almost blinding him, and he staggered to his feet. He knocked against the coffee-table and heard the cups and saucers clink and jingle loudly, no doubt slopping tea over the delicate rims into the saucers.

No time to worry about that now. Shaking his head, Arthur stumbled out of the parlour, letting the door swing behind him.

"Oh, dear," he heard Beatrice say. "What a mess I've made."

What a mess I've made, Arthur thought miserably. He didn't go back.

***

Beyond the windows, the heavens wept. A gentle, balmy summer shower, yet persistent. Droplets cascaded from the eaves of the veranda, encircling the manor, and the lush foliage in the distance was veiled in a translucent haze.

That was another part of the wretched house and wretched earldom that Arthur was unsuited to inherit. The gardens, beautiful and well maintained, were too much for him. Beyond his skills.

It was almost comical.

He strode along the terrace, head down, hoping for a little breeze on his forehead to cool the pain. Not that it ever did much. Summer months were always more unforgiving than winter.

He walked until he was fairly sure Beatrice wasn't scurrying after him, then let himself jerk to a halt. Leaning against the stone wall, he let himself slide down it, sinking to the ground, and pulled his knees up to his chest.

It was a rather pathetic situation for a man to be in. Arthur was not yet thirty, not for another ten months. He was a tall, well-built, a real soldier. His scar was testament to that. He'd been described as handsome, before. He had dark hair and steel-blue eyes, which he still had, but now apparently the scar ruined the whole effect.

He"d never been vain, but it certainly hurt to be considered so… so broken, when he'd once been called handsome.

He kept his eyes closed, waiting for the pain in his temples to subside. The soft pat-pat of slippers on stone approached. He kept his eyes closed.

"Mother, I really don't wish to…"

"Can I join you?" came Lucy's cool tones, and Arthur opened his eyes.

Cousin Lucy, as they'd taken to calling her, was twenty-seven years old. By Society's standards, she was well past marriageable age, which was naturally unfair. Not that Lucy cared much about that. She had dark hair and grey eyes and judging by the large portrait of the late Earl which hung in the dining room, she strongly resembled her father. The two had been close, as far as Arthur could tell, with the late Earl feeding and encouraging Lucy's love of knowledge and research. They had the largest library he had ever seen, and he felt rather ashamed to confine himself to the novels and fiction section.

Lucy was not, as it was commonly said, a beauty. She had an interesting face, a long nose, and eyes that seemed to smile even when her mouth did not. She was quiet and had never expressed any sense of unfairness that Arthur had inherited everything that she had once had, beyond a modest yearly allowance that was hers.

Beatrice had taken to her immediately, and Arthur flattered himself that Lucy was perfectly happy here with them.

"May I sit?" Lucy repeated, when Arthur didn't immediately respond. He nodded numbly, and she lowered herself to the ground beside him, back resting up against the stone.

They sat in silence for a moment or two.

"We should have told you about the party," Lucy said at last. "I didn't agree with keeping it from you, but neither did I tell you the truth. I encouraged Beatrice to organise it. I should bear at least some of the blame. So, I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "I shouldn't have reacted so badly. I can't expect to keep you both in seclusion here forever. You must miss your friends, Lucy."

Lucy bit her lip. "I haven't seen much of my friends since I've been in mourning. I know I've stayed in black for longer than I should have, and I daresay it's annoyed you."

"It certainly has not. We would never tell you how to grieve, Lucy. It wouldn't be right."

She flashed him a quick, grateful smile. "Well, I was thinking of throwing off mourning at last for the party. I know how you feel… well, that's not true, I don't know how you feel. But I imagine that spending time in company is difficult for you. I don't have megrims like you, but I see the pain on your face. But perhaps… perhaps building some relationships would help. You've been in Lanwood for months now, and you hardly know anyone. I have many friends I'd like to introduce to you. Perhaps you might enjoy yourself. You can always retire if your head aches."

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek. He felt guilty, and selfish. How unkind was he, keeping his mother and Lucy away from Society because of himself?

"The truth it," he said hesitantly, "I thought I would be better by now. The doctors all said that the megrims would fade in time. But the pain seems every bit as bad as when I first felt it. And the dreams…"

He broke off, shaking his head. Going to war had been portrayed as something wonderful, something glorious and patriotic.

It was a muddy, bloody business, something that haunted his dreams and would not let him sleep. Some nights, Arthur scarcely dared lay his head on the pillow at all, since the battlefield would be waiting for him. He had deliberately chosen a room in the opposite wing to Beatrice and Lucy, in case his screams woke them in the night.

It was all well and good to tell somebody having a nightmare that it wasn't real. The trouble was that the things in Arthur's head were real. He'd seen them, even participated in them, and now they would not let him sleep.

I often wish I could have died out there, he thought bleakly. That would have been better for everyone, would it not? Better for me, certainly. Easier on Mother. Fairer to Lucy. After all, who would have missed me?

He was jerked out of his reverie by Lucy, laying a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Arthur, Beatrice and you are the only family I have left," she said, quiet but firm. "I care about you. I believe that this party might be good for you. You should at least try. It's good for us to be around people, you know."

He gave a tired smile. "If you say so."

Lucy hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "Beatrice told me about Miranda."

Arthur flinched and avoided Lucy's eye. "I thought she might."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, you know."

"No? My fiancé left me because of the man I've become."

"That's not it at all," Lucy said, with surprising vehemence. "I'm sure Miss Sinclair is not a bad person, but she simply had no understanding of what war does to a person. She wasn't prepared to handle it. I suppose we can't blame her for that, but we certainly should not blame you."

Arthur closed his eyes. In an instant, he was back in the drawing room of their old house in London, before he received the notice that his distant third cousin or something had died and he was now an Earl.

"I… I don't know who you are now, Arthur," Miranda said, tears sparkling in her impeccably blue eyes. She was wearing a pink, frilled dress with bows on the hem, and Arthur found himself wondering why she'd chosen that dress to tell him the engagement was over.

"I can change, Miranda," he heard himself say, bleakly and without confidence. "I'll be better, I promise."

It was already too late. Miranda shook her head, daintily wiping away a teardrop and avoiding his eye.

Was it the scar? That had occurred to Arthur, more than once. It was unsightly, he knew that. He'd gazed at his own face in the mirror, tracing the line of raised, vivid-pink flesh crawling out from under the hair at his forehead, streaking down like a lightning-bolt to his cheekbone. The bone underneath had been cracked, he knew that much, and the doctors had not believed he would live. His brain had not been damaged, they said, but then where had the megrims come from?

Some nights he dreamed of the scar coming undone, splitting open like a seam, revealing white bone underneath, and when the bone cracked too, the pinkish-grey mess of brain matter.

He shuddered.

As if she knew what he was thinking, Miranda turned her back. She'd already handed him back the engagement ring he'd given her. He had it curled in his palm, a cold circle against his skin, the prongs of the stone a little too sharp.

"Miranda, please…" he tried again. What would he tell his mother? She'd been so happy to hear that he was getting engaged, right before he left for war. She'd pressed them to marry before, rather than wait till he came back.

Now, Arthur was glad they hadn't married before he left. He suspected Miranda was glad, too.

"Just go," she said, her voice wobbling. "Please. It would be easier for me."

So, he closed his mouth with a snap and did as she asked him.

Back in the present day, Arthur gave his head a little shake to rid himself of the memories. He opened his eyes to find Lucy watching him, her expression thoughtful, as if she knew what he was thinking.

"You might meet somebody else," she said, quietly and firmly. "Have you thought of that?"

"What, with this scar?"

"You think too much of that scar. It's dashing, you know. Ladies won't mind."

"Ladies like you won't mind. Society belles want husbands who will impress others, not invalids who get struck down with megrims whenever somebody talks too loudly."

She sighed. "You are not kind to yourself, Arthur."

"I don't deserve it."

"Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. I am not going to sit here and listen to you talk so unkindly about yourself. Would you ever say such things to me, for example, or one of your army friends? To your mother?"

"No, of course not."

"There you have it," Lucy said, with a tinge of triumph. "We speak to ourselves in a way we would never speak to others, and it's not fair. Come on, now, Arthur, you didn't finish your tea. Come inside, won't you?"

"Please don't treat me like an invalid, Lucy."

Arthur was aware that he sounded somewhat pettish now, like a child. Lucy didn't take offence. Chuckling, she climbed to her feet, primly shaking out her skirts. She turned back to him, holding out a hand.

"Come inside. There's cake," she added with a grin.

"You know, if I had a sister," Arthur said reflectively, "I would want her to be like you."

Lucy smiled properly at that, dimples appearing in both cheeks. He took her hand and hauled himself to his feet, dusting down his clothes. The pain in his temples had mostly faded. It was still there, a determined throb-throb, but nothing like the blinding pain he'd experienced before. The attacks sometimes only lasted a few minutes, but a few minutes was entirely too long to be in such pain.

"So, you'll give us your blessing for the party?" Lucy asked hopefully.

He nodded. "Of course. This is your house as well as mine."

"Excellent, I'm so glad to hear it. You needn't stay all the time – we'll keep the library off-limits, so you can rest there if need be. Everyone will be so glad to see you. Beatrice will be so happy, too."

That was something. Arthur was vaguely aware that his mother worried about him, that she wanted him to have a better life than the one he had, a different life, and he was failing her repeatedly. Failing to be healthy, failing to be happy, failing to be sociable.

Fail, fail, fail. It was all he did lately.

They walked back along the terrace, hand in hand. It occurred to Arthur that if this party went badly, he would likely spiral down into another deep well of melancholy, and this time there might be no getting out of it.

And what then? He thought, helplessly. I wasn't born to be an earl. This place isn't mine. What will I do if I never fit in here? After all, there's nowhere else for me to go. This is my last, last chance.

It was not a pleasant thought.