Chapter 1

May 1816

"Sister...are you sure about this?" Sidney hissed as he stood on the top step of the mansion on Duchess Street in London. His heart was thudding, and he felt terrified. The scars on his hands were stretched over his clenched fists and he winced at the pain in them. They still hurt in the early morning chill, and the breeze was brisk and cold.

Amy, her hazel eyes widening, shot him an impatient glance.

"Yes. Quite sure. It's an art gallery, Sidney! You'll love it."

Sidney made a sour face. He was sure his younger sister was intentionally ignoring his real concerns. She could not fail to understand how terrified he felt of what people would say or do when they saw him. He had been out of society for a year, allowing his wounds to heal as much as they were going to. Now, for the first time, he'd listened to her entreaties and had agreed to be dragged to this place to view an art collection.

He glanced sideways, trying to avoid spotting his reflection in the window opposite. The image of his face in the looking glass in his bedroom haunted him still. No fancy cravat or gold cufflink was going to draw people's attention away from that hideous scarring. He knew that. All he could pray was that nobody screamed outright.

He gazed down at his hands, bitterness and sorrow mixing to make a lump in his throat. He had wanted to wear his riding-gloves, but that had felt too eccentric, even to him, and so he had left them off, and he curled his hand into a fist, trying to hide the worst of the scars.

"Henry?" his sister called, turning around. Sidney glanced sideways, catching sight of Henry, the Earl of Barrydale. He was newly married to Amy, after a courtship that had lasted only a few months before the two of them declared themselves blissfully in love. Sidney felt his lip lifting in a smile at the thought.

"Yes, my sweetling?"

Sidney felt his smile deepen and he looked away. Henry was a dear fellow—chestnut-haired, with a rather fuller face than Sidney had, and dimples that showed when he smiled. Sidney and Henry had met one another at Cambridge, where Sidney had read Classics. They had liked each other a great deal, and Sidney was delighted that Henry and his sister had found such instant warmth.

"I was wondering if we should stand over there?" Amy asked. "You're sure this is where we go in?" They were standing in front of a door that was resolutely shut.

"It seems to be the only entrance, my dearest," Henry assured her. He consulted a pocket-watch in an elaborate filigreed case. "It is not quite nine of the clock, my dear. They will open at any moment now."

"Oh. Grand," Amy replied. She gazed smilingly at Sidney. He coughed, feeling awkward, as he always did when anyone gazed at him too long.

"Not too long, old chap," Henry assured him. His lively, russet-brown eyes lit up. He was one of the few people Sidney had agreed to see following his accident, and he was glad he had. Henry, like his family, ignored the scars utterly. In their presence, it was possible to forget, at least sometimes, that they existed.

He took a deep breath, his stomach tying itself in painful knots. He had no idea what to expect and the tension was making him feel ill.

"It's nine o' clock," Amy murmured, as the church bells began to peal for the hour. Henry looked around.

"I'm certain this is the right place."

Sidney glanced down, his heart thudding. His hands sweated and his teeth clenched as he made an effort to ignore his pounding heart. He could not do it.

"Ah! Look, my dear. See?" Henry declared, as a man in a liveried uniform came over and unlocked the door. Sidney, who was standing at the front of the group, looked away, trying not to notice the man's widening gaze.

"Your Grace, my lord? My lady?" the man addressed them, his voice a mixture of surprise and respect. "Do you wish to gain entry?"

"We do," Amy spoke instantly.

"Well, then. Step inside," the liveried youth invited them. "The entire gallery is open for viewing."

They nodded their thanks and Sidney hesitated before stepping in through the door. He swallowed hard, his heart racing. He glanced over at Amy, but she was not even slightly nervous. If anything, her expectant look suggested she was already weary of standing around outside and wished he would hurry up and go indoors.

Sidney stepped in, not letting himself think about it. He felt Amy follow, then Henry, and then it was too late to run, because he was already inside.

His gaze moved around the wide space. The ceiling soared high overhead, many windows letting light pour in. The floor in the art gallery was laid with polished wooden boards, reflecting a refined elegance befitting the gallery and the room was bare except for a few chairs here and there placed opposite the paintings to allow restful viewing. The only other person in the gallery was a man in the same livery, and Sidney guessed he was a servant of some kind, sent to check on the paintings and straighten them. He could hear voices, though, and he guessed that more people were coming up the stairs to the gallery. He gazed around, feeling the desperate need to escape. His legs burned with the need to run, and his heart thumped, ready for action.

"Ah. Look. Landscapes. That's your interest, eh, Sidney?" He followed Henry's gaze and they all seemed to share his interest, because, without speaking about it, they all drifted over to the landscapes section.

Sidney tilted his head back, staring up. He could hear the murmur of voices behind them, and he knew that other people had, indeed, followed them into the exhibition. He tried to ignore them, but his ears strained for information.

They are talking about me, he thought, horrified, as the people glanced at him and then said something he could not hope to overhear. They are staring at me.

He looked at his hands, ignoring them. They had, indeed, turned to look at him and he gazed at the paintings on the walls, heat surged within him, as wrath suffused his countenance with a deep crimson hue.

"Look at that!" his sister murmured, sounding impressed. Henry was gazing up with her at one of the paintings higher up on the wall. Sidney tilted his head, staring up at the landscape.

The subject was a seascape, though the shore looked desolate, like a desert. The picture was painted in oils, and there was a lot of technical skill on display—the highlights on the waves were intelligently placed, the rendering of the sand skillful. But somehow the whole thing lacked any sense of atmosphere. It was dull and lifeless, a faithful rendering of what the scene looked like, while capturing nothing of what it felt like; or of what the artist felt about it.

I could portray that same scene better, Sidney thought a little crossly. Painting was a hobby of his; one he had always kept largely secret. His mother knew, and Amy and Henry as well, but nobody else. It was not befitting for a duke to paint. Even Sidney himself suspected that creating anything at all might be out-of-keeping with being a gentleman of leisure, and accepting money for the works would be seen as vulgar.

"It seems very deserted, does it not?" Amy murmured.

"It's a lifeless scene. It could have been used to capture real desolation, a haunted, haunting atmosphere. But it's just dust and oil-paint," Sidney said bitterly.

"Oh?" Amy blinked at him in surprise. Shorter than him by a head, her hazel eyes gazed up confusedly.

"Sorry, sister," Sidney said in a quiet voice. "I'm just not feeling very generous with my comments today."

"Oh. Oh, of course," Amy replied. "Look at this one. This is more like it. Lots of grass and plenty of flowers in this one." She was looking at a scene in what was most likely England or Scotland. Lush greens filled the canvas, and here and there little flowers showed in the thick green grass. Sidney breathed in, feeling relieved. He preferred this one. He could almost feel the grass under his feet and smell the dew. This one evoked something. It might not be as good, technically, as the scene above it, but it was burgeoning with life and emotion.

He coughed, about to share his opinion on this one, since it was much more favorable than the opinion he had given earlier, but at that moment three new visitors arrived. They all stared at him in unabashed confusion. One of the young women lifted her hand and whispered something to the others in the party.

Sidney shut his eyes, feeling shame swamp him. If he had not been there with his sister, if he had not promised to spend an hour at the exhibition with Henry and her—against his will, more or less—then he would have run away by then. Shame like the biting of a hundred tiny ants, crawled across his skin. He looked down.

"Ah! Behold these delightful still-lives! They possess a charm that is decidedly more jolly.

I like them," Henry said warmly, seeming to notice his discomfort and trying to distract him.

Sidney glanced over at the still-lives. It was a genre he disliked—something about a scene in which action was implied but failed to take place, worried him. It was dead, like an image of death. Like his father's desk, filled with the familiar objects that ought to be used and moved and yet were not anymore. It made his stomach knot with pain.

"I think I'll go over there," he suggested. "There are portraits and also some studies of animals." He went over to the other wall, where a few portraits of various people were hung. One of them struck him at once—a young woman looked out, her big dark eyes wide, her lips set in a slightly uplifted line that seemed as though she had been caught in the instant before she grinned. It was a beautiful painting, one that evoked a sense of joy in him. Portraiture was a genre that he found interesting. Capturing the likeness of a person was, in his mind at least, not too different from the likeness of a scene. In both cases, it was what the subject evoked in the artist that was actually painting.

Nothing is truly seen, he thought distantly as he gazed at the beautiful painting of the woman. It is only perceived. Does anything really, objectively, exist at all?

He was so deep in thought that he did not notice someone standing beside him until he had taken a step and heard a sharp yell. He jumped back, alarmed, realizing that he had bumped right into someone. He let out a small, shocked sound and turned in alarm.

A young woman stood there. She was average height, with blonde hair and big, startled blue eyes that gazed up at him.

"Pray excuse me," he said with haste. "I did not perceive your presence."

***

His heart stopped as she gazed up at him. She was a little taller than Amy and he stared at her for a moment, unsure of what to say. Where Amy's face was rounded and dimpled, this woman had a slim face, with delicate bones; a long oval in shape. Her brows were pale and arched and her skin was like porcelain. He noticed all that, but what he noticed the most was her eyes. Wide, framed with pale lashes, they were the exact blue of the morning skyline. They were bright and sparkled and they called to his weary, saddened soul.

"It's all well," she murmured. She smiled, the corner of her mouth lifting in a brief, amused grin. "I understand being deep in thought at an exhibition."

"I..." Sidney stammered. Her smile, those pale lips parting just briefly to show white teeth in a gentle grin, was the most mesmerizing thing he'd seen ever. "Yes. It is understandable."

"Are you fond of portraits?" the young woman asked him.

"Yes," Sidney managed to say. He blushed red. He felt foolish. He had walked into her, and now he could barely speak without stammering. The heat of the blush spread down into his neck.

"Me, too," she agreed.

They stood side by side as he gazed up at the paintings. She was wearing a pale cream-colored gown in muslin, the sleeves delicate puffs of gauze, her hair arranged in ringlets about her face and drawn back in a chignon. The low neck of the gown was filled in with a chemisette and she appeared, quite frankly, exquisite.

Sidney stared at the canvases hung high overhead. His pulse raced. He was standing close to her and the strangest thing of all was that she wasn't frightened of how he looked—or if she was, she had not run away, not yet at any rate.

Sidney gazed around the room. He wished that he could see a mirror somewhere. Her complete lack of response to his scars made him think, just for a second, that they had somehow been rendered invisible.

Mayhap she currently hasn't noticed, he thought quickly. Mayhap she will notice in a moment and then she'll run away and call the town Watchmen.

He gazed up at the portraits, holding his breath lest she take fright and run. He did not want to hurry away. He had been afraid to confront the other visitors and preferred to weave his way as swiftly as possible around the exhibition. After all, he was only doing it for Amy, and she could not ask that he do more. With this woman standing close his fear disappeared, and he felt curious instead.

Why is it that she cannot see the scars? Perhaps her eyesight is bad.

He looked up at the portraits, heart thudding as he tried to decide whether or not to risk saying something to her.

"What think you of this?" he asked, his voice harsh in the silence of the room. The woman turned and looked up at the painting he was staring at.

"That one is very impressive. It seems as though it radiates something; a sense of warmth," she murmured.

"Yes!" Sidney exclaimed, amazed that she noticed exactly what he did. He lifted his hand to his mouth, a flush creeping into his cheeks. He need not bring any more attention to himself than the cruel stares he was already receiving. "It does. That was my exact thought."

The young woman smiled. The effect was breathtaking, making his heart leap. Her cheeks flushed prettily with rose pink and those pale lips were drawn up at the corners, transforming her face. She was beautiful before, but even more when she smiled.

"You are evidently in possession of a good eye for art," she told him.

Sidney blushed. Normally, he would have dismissed a comment like that as being flattery. But what reason did she have to flatter him? He was not known to her. She could have no idea he was a duke, since he was sure he'd never seen her in his life before. And there seemed no other reason she might flatter him.

"Thank you," he said solemnly. "I am pleased you think so. I have always been fond of the pursuit."

"As am I. Though I do not paint," she began to say. He smiled, and for a second, he hesitated, feeling a strong desire to tell her that it was his favorite mode of creation. But just as he decided that he ought to say something else instead, Henry and his sister appeared.

"Pray tell, would you care for a cup of tea, Sidney?" his sister inquired. "There is a delightful tearoom almost directly across the street from here."

Sidney drew in a breath. An art gallery was one thing—there the people attending it had endless other things to stare at. A tearoom too—well, that was too much for one morning.

"Thank you, Amy," he began slowly. "But I think I would prefer not to. I had quite enough for breakfast to keep me on my feet till lunchtime."

He tried to make his tone sound light. Amy grinned.

"Of course, brother. Well, then, when we have all walked through the room once, perhaps we ought to go to the coach. It looks like rain out there and I wish to be at home so that I can practice the piano while it's light enough outside to read the music."

Sidney smiled. "Of course, sister." He would have added that they could depart whenever she desired to, but the thought of the pale-haired young woman made him stop before he could say that. He turned towards her, planning to introduce his sister to her. He realized that he did not know the young lady's name, so he could not make an introduction. She had drifted off towards the paintings, a red-haired young lady gripping her arm firmly.

"I have not yet looked at the paintings of those ruins there," his sister murmured. She glanced over to the door, where one small wall hosted paintings that seemed devoted to landscapes and ruins.

"Yes, quite so," he murmured. He felt a little saddened by the young lady's departure—it had been delightful to talk to her, even so briefly.

Amy turned to Henry, and he said something gentle, making Amy laugh warmly. Then they were already crossing towards the paintings of animals. Sidney looked around, his heart thudding. His mysterious companion had vanished into thin air.

Perhaps it's better that way, he thought harshly to himself as he watched Amy and Henry walking clockwise around the space. Perhaps it was better that her lovely, charming smile could not prey on his mind too much.

He glanced around the room again, but he could not catch sight of her. His heart hurt a little, which surprised him.

You're a fool, he told himself firmly. You said naught more than a few words to her. That does not mean a thing to her, and it should not to you.

He blushed at his own foolishness. The young woman was a visitor just like he was. She was here to see the artefacts and that was all.

Perhaps it is better that you ignore me, he said silently to the image of the young woman he'd just spoken with, which was still seared into his mind. I am not what you seek, not at all.

She was beautiful, but she was also doubtless as concerned with social matters and with acting as the ton dictated she should. Nobody was honest about what they felt in high society. She was doubtless the same—insincere and cold.

He looked around and found a bench in the hallway with a padded cover. He went out and sat down, feeling weary. He had not realized how draining it would be, venturing into society. He was so tense and alert that his energy was being used up too fast.

"You did an excessively good job," Henry's voice reminded Sidney warmly. "You deserve a bit of fun now and again."

Sidney swallowed hard. "I disagree," he managed to say. The idea of his deserving any manner of pleasant thing almost burned him with fear. He was disfigured and horrible and he did not feel as though he deserved anything.

As they rode back in the coach, the image of the young girl's face slipped into his mind, as if it was an answer to his question. He pushed it away. He was scarred, he was hideous, and he had no right to do so much as think of her. His lips set into a hard line, and he stared out of the coach, watching the gray buildings and streets roll past below a gray sky.