Prologue

November 1815

"I cannot , Papa. Cannot someone take this weight off my shoulders?"

Sidney's voice rang out in the dull, muffled silence of the graveyard. It was autumn, and dark clouds hung heavily over the space, muting the colors of the lawn and the cypress trees into shades of silvery gray. A slight breeze ruffled Sidney's dark hair like a cold hand and billowed out the black cloak that he wore. He gazed down at the recently turned earth under his boot-toes. Papa had passed away just six months ago.

Sidney had hoped that it would become easier to bear, but it seemed that the opposite was true. Every day was harder. The numb, dull ache in his chest had softened, over the months, to a mix of sorrow and disbelief that was no easier. A small part of him still refused to believe that Papa was no longer there and that he, himself, was Duke of Willowick.

It was that responsibility that he could not bear. He was not only the duke, but he was also the head of the family. His sister, Amy, was eighteen and had just come out into society, and his mother was deeply sunk in her grief. He had to take care of them. He had to be strong, but yet, for all his nine-and-twenty years, part of him still felt like a confused child, like the little boy who had run to his father with his spinning top or gyroscope and asked him to explain it. Papa had always had answers. If he had not known, he would have consulted people and encyclopedias until he could give Sidney the information. Without Papa there, it seemed there were no longer any answers, and the world was a barren, empty place he could not navigate.

He closed his green eyes solemnly and wished that he could cry. Amy still sobbed whenever Papa was mentioned, and it seemed dishonoring to his father's memory that he had not yet managed to show the smallest sign of grief. The wound was too deep for tears.

"Papa, I will do what you require of me," Sidney managed to say in a pained, broken voice. "I promise. I will keep Mama and Amy safe. I will do my best for the family."

He had been raised to be able to keep that promise. As the heir to Willowick, it had been expected that he would take over one day. But he had imagined that would happen when he was middle-aged, and Papa was old. Papa had never got to be old.

Papa's face filled his mind, his high, chiseled cheekbones proud above cheeks that had long wrinkles carved down them. His eyes, too, had been marked with lines at the edges and they were hazel, where Sidney's were green. In all other respects, besides Papa's white hair, they were identical—both had long, chiseled faces, square jaws and big, solemn eyes. They both had the same thin-lipped mouth, or so Amy and Mama always teased. Mama always said that Papa had been blonder than Sidney. They were both fine-looking men, Mama always teased. Fine, handsome men.

Sidney sniffed as he gazed down at the grave. In his mind's eye, he could see Papa so clearly, could hear his voice in one of the last discussions they had. You'll be a fine duke, one day, son. You have a clear mind, and you are not afraid to speak up for what you believe is right.

Papa had not guessed how soon those words would come true. He had been out walking around the garden and the butler, who had been working in the drawing room, said that he saw the duke suddenly tense where he stood, and then drop to the ground. The butler had run out to check on him, but by the time he had got there, the duke had seemed dead. The physician confirmed it just hours later. When Sidney returned from a brief consultation with one of the estate gamekeepers, he was told that his dear father had passed away.

Sidney swallowed the stinging pain that rose in his throat with the memory. He turned and walked to his horse, who he had tethered to the fence. He had made his promise, and standing there would do nothing but fill him with despair. His dappled gray hunting stallion neighed when he saw Sidney approach. Sidney felt his heart lift at the sound. He adored his horse, who was named Quicksilver. He was one of the few beings on Earth who could cut through Sidney's grief.

"Easy, old boy," Sidney murmured. He took the reins and threw his leg over into the saddle. His black mourning cloak billowed out as he sat and leaned forward, signaling a trot.

Sidney let Quicksilver go ahead, barely aware of his surroundings. It was a mile back to his London townhouse. It was darker than it had been, and he could almost smell the rain. Quicksilver snorted and stepped sideways as if something had startled him. He was usually a very steady horse, and Sidney frowned in concern.

"Whoa, there, old fellow," Sidney said gently as the stallion skirted sideways again. He gripped the reins, leaning back to slow his horse and frowning more deeply. There did not seem to be any reason for such strange behavior.

A crash of thunder rent the air, and almost simultaneously a blinding flare of lightning lit the hillside before them. Sidney cried out in alarm, gripping the reins, but his horse—who was terrified beyond all else of loud noises—took off.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Sidney shouted, as the thoroughbred raced down the path. It was a simple path of packed dirt, and the rain had begun to fall, turning it into a treacherous, slippery surface.

"Stop!" Sidney yelled, but his horse was panicking and as another clap of thunder tore across the sky above them, the horse screamed and reared.

Sidney gripped with his hands and locked his knees around his horse's flanks. He had practiced for hours in the saddle as a youth, and he sent up an inner prayer of thanks for all those hours.

His horse plunged back down to earth, shivering, and stood still. Sidney, by some miracle was still seated, and he reached down to pat him, to soothe him, but another crash of thunder sounded. The big stallion screamed and started to run. There was nothing Sidney could do except to hang on. He gripped onto his horse's flanks with his knees, clung onto the reins with his slippery, sweat-and-rain-soaked fingers, and bit his lip with his teeth, trying to keep a hold on his growing fear.

They clattered down the street. A clap of thunder made his horse rear just as they rode past the vicar's garden. Sidney screamed, desperate to hang on, but this time as his horse crashed down to earth, he bent down, throwing his head forward as another roar sounded overhead.

Sidney yelled in alarm and tumbled forward, plunging off over his horse's head, skidding and sliding along the rocky ground. It was too fast, too impossibly fast, and then all he knew was pain. Searing, impossible pain in his face, in his hands and in his head.

He lay where he was and breathed in sharply. His face was wet, but it was not from the rain. He reached up to touch his cheek. His hand came back covered in blood. He gazed down at his hands for a moment. They were both covered in blood, and as the stinging, searing pain crowded in on him, stealing his senses, he realized what had happened.

In front of him, one of the vicar's glass-filled frames, under which cucumbers and other vegetables grew, lay shattered. Sidney had been thrown straight into the glass. It had shattered into sharp, cruel shards that had sliced into his face and hands.

Sidney lay where he was. His face throbbed and burned, and his hands were a mass of pain. His cloak was heavy with rain and mud, and he was too tired to move. His last thought as he hovered on the edge of consciousness was that at least he had not been blinded.

A soft, velvety nudge made him look up. Quicksilver was standing over him, nudging him with his soft, sensitive nose. Sidney let out a sigh of pain and weariness.

"I know, old chap. You didn't mean it. I'm not dead," he added softly. He squeezed his eyes shut again—the pain was unbearable. But he could not ignore his valiant horse. The poor creature had not meant any harm, and was still waiting there, despite the storm that raged around them. His love for Sidney was even stronger than his fear.

Sidney gazed up. He could not ride his horse in the state in which he found himself. Blood was trickling down his face, running into one eye and he could barely see. His hands were throbbing in agony, too sore and too wounded to contemplate taking the reins.

He gritted his teeth and stood up, trying not to touch anything as he did so. His horse seemed to understand, because Sidney leaned against him and he walked slowly, step by step. Together, they made the slow, agonizing walk through the village.

"Your grace!" a carter yelled. Sidney's head whipped round. The man on the cart had a blond beard and graying blond hair. He was Mr. Aldrich, a fellow who delivered vegetables to the manor. The man's eyes widened in horror as he took in Sidney's appearance.

"Goodness, your grace! Allow me to escort you home at once."

Sidney whispered his thanks and allowed the fellow to help him into the cart. Quicksilver was fastened onto the cart too, walking alongside as they rode their way up the winding path towards London.

An hour later, the blood washed partly clean from his face by the torrential rain, his hair plastered to his skull and his body racked with pain and shivering, Sidney stumbled from the cart and into the townhouse.

"Your grace!" the butler exclaimed when he opened the door. Sidney half-fell in over the threshold. He collapsed in the doorway. Amy's scream rent his ears.

"Sidney! Mama! Fetch the physician! Sidney's bleeding. He's hurt! Fetch him at once."

Sidney lay where he had fallen. Mama and Amy ran to him, exclaiming over him and trying to rub the blood off his face and hands with handkerchiefs.

"He's bleeding so much..." Amy whispered desperately.

"Summon Mrs. Haddon. She should have some clean cloths," Mama's voice instructed. She might have been born to an ancient noble house, but she was practical to an almost ruthless degree. Sidney slumped forward, knowing he was being taken care of.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Haddon, was summoned, and the butler. Sidney felt himself lifted as someone carried him upstairs to his bedroom. He was lying in bed, after Richford, his manservant, helped him to change out of his soaking clothes and into a nightgown, when the physician arrived.

"I can do what I can, your grace," the physician said gravely. "But I do not know if I can restore everything fully."

Sidney winced. He had always been conscious of his looks. Not vain, exactly, but he had known he was good-looking like Father, as Mama always said. He was aware that he drew the eye of the ton towards himself when he was at Almack's, and he was not displeased by it.

"Do what you can," he said grimly.

"I shall, your grace."

Six months later, Sidney stared into the mirror in the hallway near the dining room. Hatred surged in his heart. Not hatred for Doctor Penwick, who had done his best in restoring Sidney to health. But for the hideous, scarred visage he saw in the mirror in front of him.

"God," he whispered. "How can I live with this?"

His smooth skin was bisected in two places by a jagged, pink-edged line. One sliced across his right cheek, and the other down his nose, ending on his upper lip. His nose itself had not been distorted, and for that he was grateful. A third scar sliced sideways, towards his chin, but that one was only a hair's breadth in thickness.

"God," Sidney whispered, staring at his own scarred face. "Help me."

He gazed at his hands, which were likewise lined with scars. He could cover those with gloves. But he could not hide the ones on his face. His own green eyes stared, horrified, back at him.

He looked terrible. How was he going to manage to be Duke, to manage all his duties with a face that would make most women run away from him in fear?

He was going to have to try. He had promised it to his father.