Prologue

I t was ironic, almost humorously and tragically so, that while the world made grave distinctions between a duke and a marquess, a marquess and an earl, an earl and a viscount, and a viscount and a baron—the younger sons born to such peers of the realm had rather similarly unglamorous fates. No matter the splendor of one's upbringing or the diverse trappings that might embellish one's father's name, the only true differences in the lives of younger sons hinged upon two things: the generosity of one's eldest brother and, in somewhat related territory, how keenly one might wish for the untimely demise of said brother.

For all of his two and thirty years on earth, Frederick Arthur Colin Roy Griffith St. John had never truly entertained the thought of ever becoming the Duke of Burgess. His brother was five years his senior and blessed with both a healthy constitution and a hale and hearty young son. His father, while not quite the sportsman, had never shared most of the ailments common to those of his generation. One harsh bout of pneumonia, however, rendered more severe by an unforgiving winter, had ended his father's earthly sojourn with alarming efficacy—and, surprising everyone, taken the lives of his eldest son and only grandson along with it.

It was a twist of fate that inspired plenty of envy, both stated and implied, particularly from Frederick's more ambitious contemporaries. It was a rather public secret that fellow younger sons, and even the odd nephew or cousin, rather resented the fact that it was upon Frederick, and not them, that fortune had chosen to smile thus.

But Frederick himself did not care much for the turn of events at all. He loved his father, brother, and nephew, and had no desire whatsoever to witness their demise. He never expected to be a duke and most certainly never wanted to be one. Shy and scholarly at heart, he harbored little affection for prestige and heraldry.

He had been content—content with his books and his writings, content with the simple cottage his formal but charitable brother had allotted to him. The dukedom came with its honors. But it carried with it a frighteningly hefty number of duties as well.

No longer could Frederick live the quiet life of a dedicated scholar, a willing recluse in the English countryside surrounding himself with the beauty of knowledge and learning. Now he had Parliament. Now he had tenants. Now he had an estate, or three, to run.

And perhaps most frightening of all, now he needed to find himself a wife.

To the rest of the world, the man Rose remembered with a deep and abiding fondness was known only as Viscount Shallingsworth—or, at most, the Viscount Shallingsworth who had married the jewel of the London Season once upon a time, only to end up siring four daughters, and no heir. To the rest of the world, the intrigue of the viscountcy passing from a quiet, scholarly man to a remote, even quieter distant cousin lasted for perhaps a week or two at the most.

But for Rose Nottingham, he had been Papa.

The stories of how an abruptly weakened heart had sent the nobleman to the next life unexpectedly early were not just stories to her. They were not just sordid tales and empty gossip that people passed from tongue to tongue with a sad shake of the head, their momentary sympathies lasting only as long as their tea stayed warm. For Rose, the loss of Papa had been keen, sudden, and cruel.

It happened the year she was supposed to finally have her debut after her two older sisters had finished theirs. It was the year Rose was expected to enjoy the London Season as a fresh-faced debutante while whispering silly, cynical remarks about the people around her for Papa's ears alone. It was the year when Rose's long-time observations of the ton would be placed in actual application while her father sired her about Town.

Rose might always have been the most intuitive one amongst her sisters, but that intuition had served her little good when it came to being prepared for the tremendous loss of her dearest parent on the eve of her London bow.

The loss, of course, came with its own set of financial ramifications. They were not entirely destitute after Papa's demise. Heather and Violet, being the devoted sisters that they were, shared their pin money as generously as could be expected with Mama, Rose, and Brooke. The new Lord Shallingsworth, being still preoccupied with finishing his tour abroad, had granted them permission to continue using Nottingham House in London for two more years.

But things changed. Half the servants were asked to find positions elsewhere. Rose and Brooke now shared a room, a maid, and a dressing room to lessen the house's running costs. Mama looked somber in black, her face frowning more often than not. Gone was the society matron who attended each event in the heights of fashion. In her place sat a humbler, more soft-spoken version of Mama. And it was almost as if Rose had lost both of her parents in one fell swoop.

She didn't begrudge the year of full mourning. It would likely require a good decade more than that for her to ever truly come to terms with the permanency of the loss. And it was the least they could do to honor a man who had influenced each of them so greatly.

And if the change in their circumstances meant that Rose would never be as eligible as her older sisters had been—if a later, more modest coming out meant that she would be counted amongst the wallflowers and spinsters from her very first ball—then there was nothing Rose could truly do about it.

She would try her best to be at least a moderate social success, the sort of woman people liked to befriend even if they never wished to be allied in marriage. That would simply have to be enough.