Chapter One The End is a Beginning

Thirty-years later, Weston Hall, Mayfair

Giving her lady's maid a grin of satisfaction, Helena, Duchess of Weston, watched as two footmen removed an old wooden trunk from the mistress suite and headed for the attic.

"Good riddance," she murmured on a sigh.

A year's worth of widow's weeds were stuffed into that trunk. Clothes she had no intention of ever wearing again. She might have asked that they be burned, but she feared if they were, someone else in the family would die and she would have to have her modiste make new ones.

"I'll see to airing out your other gowns, Your Grace," Stapleton said, dipping a curtsy before she headed to the dressing room. "Have you an entertainment you plan to attend in the next day or so?"

Helena shook her head. "I've absolutely no idea," she replied. "But it better not involve playing cards. I have had my fill of playing cards this past year." Ever since her son, Alfred, Duke of Weston, had returned from his Grand Tour, correspondence addressed to both of them hadn't made it out of the study. Despite a talk with the butler, Pritchard, asking that social correspondence be directed to her instead of Alfred, the only letters delivered to her upstairs salon were those addressed specifically to her.

"But the Season has begun, has it not?" Stapleton asked.

"Indeed," Helena replied. "It seems invitations are being delivered, but... not to me."

For a moment, she imagined Alfred withholding them as a sort of punishment. He was angry with her, but for what, she had no clue. She couldn't help that his father, Harcourt, had died whilst Alfred was in Greece. She couldn't help that none of her letters bearing the news reached him despite having been sent to the hotels where his itinerary said he would be.

Nor could she help the sense of relief she had felt when Harcourt had died. His illness, although not chronic, had lasted less than a fortnight. For a man who claimed he would live forever, he refused to believe his end was near until the very last day.

"You'll have to help him, Helena," he had said, wheezing between every third or fourth word.

"I will," she had assured him.

"I never taught him what he needs to know to—"

"I know," she had interrupted in an attempt to make him save his breath.

"I am sorry I doubted you."

Those words had her reacting in shock, for Harcourt Sheppard, seventh Duke of Weston, had rarely apologized for anything.

Perhaps he misread her expression, for he added, "You were never unfaithful, were you? Never played me for the fool?"

She had inhaled sharply, her dark brows rising. "Of course not," she replied, her shock turning to anger. "How could you think such a thing?"

He answered with a fit of coughing, and when he finally regained his breath, he had said, "I know you always loved another."

Helena remembered straightening, her spine rigid as she considered how he would know such a thing. She had never spoken of her first love. Her only love. She had never put her thoughts of Michael into writing—to him or to anyone else.

"Really?" was all she could think to say. What else could she say? She had no intention of confirming his suspicion if that's all it was, especially if he later recovered from his illness.

"It bothered me after a time," he said, his voice raspy. "Which is why..." He swallowed and seemed to struggle for breath. "Why I haven't bedded you for several years. Why I didn't get another child on you."

Not sure how to respond, Helena merely stared at her husband of seven-and-twenty years in disbelief.

The cur.

How different her life would have been if Michael had been allowed to marry her. Michael had loved her. Kissed her with passion. Touched her in ways Harcourt had never attempted. Pleasured her until she had to beg him to stop.

Made her fall in love with him.

If she had been allowed to marry Michael, she might have had far more than just two children. They might have raised a boisterous brood in a home filled with laughter and love.

Considering what might have been, annoyance with her husband had her overcoming her silence. "And here I thought it was because you hired a mistress."

He visibly winced. "We had a contract."

"We have a contract, which I have not broken," she stated. "I'm not to take a lover until I have delivered an heir and a spare." The first she had managed within a year of their marriage. The second... impossible to have accomplished since Harcourt hadn't seen fit to keeping up his end of the bargain.

"I am sorry," he had said in a whisper.

A moment later, it was apparent he had taken his last breath.

Their only daughter, Amelia, had been standing in the doorway, thankfully unable to hear their last words. Helena was sure she would never forget the girl's mournful wails at realizing her father had died.

Eighteen years old and only a month into her first Season, Amelia was relegated to mourning when she should have been attending balls and soirées, garden parties and the theatre.

With Alfred away on his Grand Tour and no man of business to see to the dukedom, Helena had simply stepped into her late husband's study and did what she could to see to it invoices were paid and household accounts were maintained. She handled correspondence and kept in contact with the foremen of the farms and the mines.

Six months after Weston's death, when life at Weston Hall had settled into a new routine, Alfred returned from the Mediterranean.

At first, Helena had felt sorry for her son. Harcourt had done nothing to prepare him for the job of running a dukedom. Had done nothing to apprise him of the political requirements of the position. Had done nothing when it came to documenting banking information or informing him of existing contracts.

Despite her offers to help, Alfred sequestered himself in the study, as if he was hiding from the world. Insisting she could see to some of the business on his behalf, Helena was stunned when he not only rebuffed her offers, but his manner towards her abruptly changed. He would accept no offers of help. No recommendations and certainly no advice.

Especially from her.

Helena was forced to allow him to find out on his own what it would take to be the Duke of Weston.

Now that she had endured his cold manner and days on end of little or no conversation, his words always terse, she had decided enough was enough. Alfred could not be allowed to continue to treat her as he had been doing.

Her patience at an end, Helena, Duchess of Weston, stood on the threshold of the Weston Hall study and cleared her throat.

Loudly.

Alfred lifted his head and regarded her as if he hadn't known she had been standing there for several minutes. "What is it, Mother?" he asked.

She crossed her arms and scoffed. "You tell me. Pritchard said you wished to see me."

His dark brows furrowing for a moment, Alfred appeared momentarily flummoxed. "There was something," he murmured before finally shaking his head. "I can't remember what it was, though."

Helena narrowed her eyes. "Can't remember? Or won't?" She allowed her anger to sound in her words.

The way he looked at her had her giving a start. She was sure she saw tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

Inhaling softly, she blinked and then hurried to join him behind the desk. She took his head between her hands and kissed the top of his head. "I do not know what is wrong between us, but it must end," she whispered.

She hoped she might feel the tenseness in his body lessen. The rigidness of his spine give way to a slump. Instead, he merely knocked one of her hands away. "Leave me be, Mother. I have work to do," he said.

Given his cold response, Helena stepped back. Although she was tempted to scold him, she instead took her leave of the study and slowly climbed the stairs to the parlor.

Her cup of tea had long ago grown cold, but it certainly wasn't as cold as her son had become since his return from his Grand Tour. She poured a new cup and settled into a chair near the fireplace.

"What do you suppose happened to Alfred?"

Unaware her daughter had come into the parlor behind her, Helena nearly spilled her tea. "I wish I knew," she replied. "Will you join me?"

Amelia shook her head. "I wish to go to Hatchard's this afternoon to shop for another book or two," she replied. Although she would have preferred shopping at the Temple of the Muses, the older bookshop had burned down three years prior. "I was headed upstairs to change clothes, but I couldn't help but overhear Alfred's last remark to you. He's become so cross."

"Indeed," Helena replied. "And I've absolutely no idea why. He won't tell me what's wrong."

"Do you think it has something to do with Father? With the dukedom?"

Helena gave her daughter an assessing glance. As much as she was worried about her son, she had concerns about Amelia as well. The girl was frequently off to the bookshop or her new friend's house. She was always accompanied by her lady's maid, of course, but her absences from Weston Hall were becoming more frequent of late. She had a thought Amelia might have discovered gambling. It would be easy for her to place a friendly wager over a hand of cards.

"Are you going to play cards?"

Amelia gave a start. "At the bookshop? No, of course not," she replied. "Today is the day of the week the new books are put out for sale."

Helena nodded, remembering it was Tuesday. "Very good. Do be careful, and have the groom join you in the shop. You could be kidnapped—"

"Mother."

"—and your brother doesn't need another problem on his plate right now."

At hearing this last, Amelia swallowed another word of protest. "Yes, Mother."

The young lady hurried from the parlor, Helena sighing when she was once again alone.

This would be her last day spending an afternoon alone in Weston Hall, though. Now that she was out of mourning, she would be paying calls starting the very next day.

And attending an entertainment or two if any invitations made it past her son.