Prologue

PROLOGUE

London, England

“Where is she? I have to see her. Hawkins, tell me where she is.”

Henry burst through the door of Haycliff Manor with so much vigor that the heavy oak door ricocheted off the wall on the other side. The poor butler, whom Henry was calling to, leapt back in alarm.

“My Lord, you’re back.”

Hawkins hurried towards him, and the two met in the middle of the grand corridor. Any other time, Henry would have happily stood and admired the mahogany paneling or the carved white stone ceiling full of light thanks to the lofted stained-glass windows, but not today. The Tudor manor was the last thing in his thoughts.

“Where is she?” Henry asked another time, pushing back the loose tendrils of his dark brown hair so he could see the elderly butler a little easier.

The kindly man reached out a tentative hand and laid it on Henry’s shoulder, trembling slightly.

“You must prepare yourself, My Lord.”

“Hawkins, don’t tell me that.” Henry said sternly, not wanting to hear the inevitable. “Once your letter reached me, I have not stopped. I left my lodgings in Venice within a minute of your letter’s arrival. I have raced across oceans to be here. Pray, do not tell me I am too late…” Yet, Henry trailed off, for he could see the truth on his butler’s face. The aging features seemed to crack further. “No.” Henry’s voice became but a whisper.

“She’s in her chamber, My Lord.”

Henry lost all sense of himself. To his shame, he forgot to thank the butler for his kindness. He was so lost in his grief that he stumbled past the butler and ran for the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

“I’m so sorry, My Lord!” Hawkins’ voice followed him up the stairs.

Henry reminded himself he’d have to thank the butler later for all that he had done. If it hadn’t been for Hawkins’s decision to write to Henry, he feared he would not know at all about his mother’s sickness.

Why has my father not written? Could he honestly not find the time to put a few words down to paper?

Striding across the corridors of the upper landing, Henry began to sprint. Somehow, he shook the frock coat off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor in his haste, and he pumped his arms fast. When he reached his mother’s bedchamber door, he found it ajar with just a slither of light escaping the room.

“Mother?” Henry called to her and opened the door wider.

There was a man standing over his mother. At first, Henry thought it could be his father, but then his eyesight adjusted to the bright sunlight in the room. It was the family doctor, Davis.

“Davis?” Henry whispered, watching as the doctor moved away from the bed.

Davis came to stand beside Henry. Just as Hawkins had done, he laid a gentle hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“I am so sorry, My Lord. I know it brings little comfort now, but it may do in the future to know she passed peacefully,” Davis said softly. “She spoke of you till the end.”

The sudden lump in Henry’s throat became unbearable. The stinging in his eyes was too much, and the doctor had the goodness to walk out of the room, ignoring the signs of those tears, and leave Henry alone with his mother.

Slowly, Henry stepped towards the bed. It was a surreal feeling as his gaze settled on his mother. At first, he could have easily persuaded himself she was sleeping. Petra Arnold, The Duchess of Sutterton, could have been dozing peacefully. Her dark brown hair, which was so like Henry’s, was wild on her pillow. Her cheeks, which were usually pink and so full of life, were now a ghostly shade of white.

“Mother,” Henry murmured and hurried towards her.

When he reached the bed, he dropped to his knees and reached for her hand. Yet, her palm was cold to the touch. That iciness broke the last barrier he had against his tears. They began to stream down his cheeks without restraint.

“I am so sorry. I should have been here sooner. I did try, I did…” His breath hitched with his tears. “I did not know you were so ill.”

Raising himself up, he bent over her and brushed a loose lock of hair back from her face. He took comfort in that she did look peaceful. Hopefully, the doctor was right, and her passing was not a difficult one.

How could she be so ill, and yet I did not know it?

Bending down, he brushed his lips against her forehead, kissing her goodbye. His mother was always the one who had been there for him. She was the one with tenderness, love and happiness. Where his father had gone about his days seeming to seek out misery and make everyone else sad, just for the hell of it, Petra had been different. How often had she taken Henry off to other parts of the house where they could escape together into their own worlds? She was the best of mothers.

Henry stood tall and slowly released her hand. He pushed it under the covers, somehow thinking it would help to keep her warm, even though in the back of his mind he knew how absurd such a thought was.

“Goodnight, Mother. Sleep well,” he whispered to her and bent his head.

He sent a silent prayer to heaven. He wasn’t sure how he felt about God, but Petra had always been a firm believer. She’d told him time and time again to put his faith in God.

“Even when all seems lost, Henry, he is the one we can turn to. Trust in him,” Petra used to say.

He finished the prayer and kept his final thought to himself.

God, if you exist, why not allow me to get back here to my mother in time to say goodbye?

There was the creaking of floorboards somewhere behind him. Henry didn’t have to turn around to know whom those steps belonged to. He’d spent years listening to his father’s heavy gait on such floorboards. Even when his father cleared his throat, evidently wanting Henry’s attention, he did not give it.

Slowly, Henry lifted the blankets around his mother’s shoulders, tucking her in a little more, and brushed one last strand of hair back from her face.

“Goodbye,” he whispered sadly.

At last, he turned to look at the doorway. His father’s hulking figure, as tall as his own, was stepped back from the door, still in the corridor. With a sudden tightening of anger in his gut, Henry left the room, but quietly. He didn’t want his mother’s peace disturbed by the angry shouts he knew would shortly be escaping him.

Stepping into the corridor, he closed the door softly behind him.

“She’s gone, Henry.”

“I know.” Henry’s voice was sharp, even firmer than his father’s own usual demanding tone.

Casting a quick look at the door behind him, Henry advanced down the corridor, encouraging his father to follow him with a quick jolt of his head.

Gregory Arnold, The Duke of Sutterton, followed slowly, his fair eyebrows arching high.

“Why did you not write to me?” Henry asked as he reached a large window at the end of the corridor.

It was a bright day outside, and the sunlight shone so strongly on the two of them that it hurt his eyes. His father’s face seemed almost glowing white in an uncomfortable way.

“Hawkins wrote to me. He said she had been ill for months. Why did you not write to me and say yourself?”

“You are here, are you not?” Gregory asked with a shrug, his broad shoulders rising and dropping quickly.

“Don’t talk like that,” Henry said sharply, stepping quickly towards his father. “I was in ignorance of her state. You cannot surely be so blind a father and husband not to notice her illness, nor to think it unimportant to tell me of her state.”

“What difference would it have made?” Gregory asked, seeming unbothered by Henry’s words. He slowly sat on the windowsill, looking perfectly at ease. “She was dying anyway.”

“I could have been here for her before she died!” Henry pointed out wildly and gestured down the corridor.

“Here we go with your emotional state again. Are you not able to have a calm conversation, Henry?” Gregory’s usual complaint returned.

Henry was always too like his mother for Gregory’s liking. He was too emotional, too passionate about things, too wild and adventurous. He was also stubborn, though he reckoned he got that from his father.

“Of course, foolish me! How absurd for a son to be emotional at his mother’s passing?” His thick sarcasm did little to affect his father, who simply raised his eyebrows again.

“Enough shouting. I will not have you shouting in this house.”

“What good would it do to stop me?”

Henry marched towards his father, feeling this urge to hurt him. He’d always known Gregory cared little for Petra, but his lack of a reaction now at her passing was beyond the pale, beyond Henry’s greatest fears. He barely managed to curl his hands at his side to stop himself from hurting his father.

“You cared so little for her. You either didn’t notice how ill she was, or you didn’t care to tell her son she was going to die. So? Which is it, Father? Which is it!?”

Gregory wiped a spot on his cheek as if Henry had spat at him in his anger.

“Speak, Father!”

“How can I speak when you are in such a rage? You’d be better suited to Bedlam Hospital than the corridors of a duke at this moment.” Gregory waved a wide-palmed hand towards Henry in derision.

“That is all you care about, isn’t it? The state of a duke and how he looks.”

Henry turned away and thrust his hands into his hair, pulling on the tendrils in frustration. Stepping a little away from his father, when he flicked his head back around, he did it with such firmness that he saw his father flinch. It was the first time he’d ever thought his father might be a little afraid of him.

“Did you care about her at all?”

“She was my duchess.” Gregory’s answer made Henry sick.

“Why in God’s name did you marry her if that’s all she was to you and nothing more?” Henry stepped back, his legs feeling weak beneath him.

“It’s the responsibility of a duke to marry and provide an heir. You’ll understand that someday—”

“That is why?” Henry froze. It was as if his body had become a statue and the only moving parts were his lips. “For that reason, you married her. You only ever thought of the dukedom, of producing an heir, not about the woman you married? Ever? She died alone when I could have been here with her. You are the reason for that!”

Gregory shook his head and folded his arms.

“Not everyone loves the person they wed, Henry. If you are so foolish as to think people do, then it is time you did grow up—”

“Do not tell me to grow up,” Henry snapped boldly.

He’d been traveling for the last couple of years and had met couples across the world. He knew what real couples could be like, ones that loved each other. It was hardly a great secret that Gregory didn’t look at any other human being with compassion, especially his wife. He saw everyone as chess pieces, rather than people, and his wife was simply another pawn on the board.

“So, she did what she was supposed to. Is that how you see her?” Henry growled. “She sired an heir, and that’s all that mattered to you?” Such anger filled him that he could feel his blood pumping through his body, to the point it echoed in his ears.

When Gregory said nothing, but there was a small quirk to his lips as if fighting a smile, Henry knew he was right.

“You foul bastard!”

“Language, Henry!”

“Enough, Father.” Henry waved a hand in the air. “I will not be cowed by you over language when you cannot even bow your head in respect for the death of your wife.”

Shuddering, Henry turned in a circle once more.

He wanted revenge on his father. Not just for this moment in time, not just for the passing of his mother that was going unacknowledged, ungrieved, but for everything. Henry wanted revenge for every callous thing Gregory had ever said to Petra and him. Vengeance for the years of the two of them hiding in other parts of the manor, just to get away from him and his unreasonable demands on what a duke should be.

“From this day forwards, Father, I wish to make you a vow.” Henry’s words clearly startled Gregory, for the Duke sat taller on the windowsill, his chin jerking upwards. “A promise I shall always keep.”

“What is that?”

“Well, I know what you prize most in this world.” Henry smiled a little, but it was a sardonic smile. “You prize me, hardly as a loving son. We both know neither you nor I are capable of that emotion towards one another.”

“Emotional, again,” Gregory muttered angrily.

“What a surprise?” Henry’s sarcasm silenced his father on this occasion. “You prize me because I am your heir. You prize me because you think I will live on in the Duke of Sutterton’s good name, make it go from strength to strength, admiration to adoration, respect to reverence. Know this…” He paused and stepped forwards, lowering himself close enough to his father’s face that he could drop his voice to a whisper. “I have no intention of living out the fantasy you have created for yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Gregory asked, blinking.

“Once I am duke, the Sutterton name will be dragged through the mud, I’ll see to that.” At Henry’s quick words, Gregory stood quickly, forcing Henry to back up. Gregory’s lips parted and closed in horror. “Every scandal, every shame I’ll take part in. I’ll be sure the name Sutterton is whispered in dark corridors and written about in horror in the scandal sheets.”

“Why would you do such a thing? There is honor in this family, Henry!” Gregory thundered, stepping towards his son.

“I see no honor before me.” Henry looked his father up and down, watching as his face turned purple. “Lastly, I will defy your final wish. You desire the dukedom to live on, do you not? You want me to marry and sire an heir of my own.”

“You have to. It’s what we do.”

Gregory walked towards him, reaching out to touch him, but Henry backed up.

“Then I vow never to sire any children. Your use of my mother, the way you used her for your own gain without thought to her happiness ends here.” Henry turned and walked away down the corridor, his voice echoing back through the mahogany walls. “The dukedom will die with me.”