Chapter Two

“Will you be home in time to tuck us into bed, Papa?”

As he gazed into the earnest green eyes of his youngest daughter (by a grand total of five minutes), Abel, the Duke of Dorchester, felt an all-too familiar twinge of guilt.

There was guilt over the loss of his beloved Catherine, of course. She’d given him two beautiful, healthy children…and then she had left him to raise their daughters by himself. As if he knew the first thing about childrearing. As if he was prepared to shoulder the burden of parenthood alone. As if he was ready to live a life without her in it.

He was still angry with her for that. Angry that she’d granted him this unbelievable gift and then left before they could enjoy it together as they were supposed to. Which only invoked more feelings of guilt, for how could you be angry with someone that was dead? Catherine had not wanted to leave this earth. She’d not gone willingly. But after the girls were born and she kept bleeding, there was nothing that could be done. Nothing that could save her. Nothing that could bring her back…and he’d tried everything.

Except moving on.

Too soon, the twins would be seven. Seven, when just last week they’d learned to crawl! Time was a damned thief that had already taken too much from him. He wouldn’t let it take any more. Anne and Amelia needed a mother. He needed a wife. The dukedom needed a duchess. So tonight, at the Yuletide Ball, he was going to find one. A woman that was principled and organized. A woman that was kind and gentle. A woman that understood he was not seeking a love match, but rather a marriage born of reason and practicality.

“Not this evening, my dear. Nanny will tuck you in.” He brushed Amelia’s pale blonde curls to the side before he placed a soft kiss upon her smooth, warm forehead. Then he did the same to her sister, who laid right beside her, blankets tucked up to her round little chin. The girls had their own beds in the large nursery, but they preferred to sleep next to each other. Especially when their father was going out for the night.

“Will Nanny read us a story?” Anne asked.

Abel nodded. “Of course.”

“Will she bring us a glass of milk before we fall asleep?” Amelia wanted to know.

“If you ask nicely.” Here, his voice turned firm as he tapped their noses with the tip of his finger. “Behave yourselves. I don’t want to return only to hear that you’ve set frogs loose in the hallway again.”

Anne’s lower lip jutted. “It was only four frogs,” she said.

“Four too many, as far as I am concerned.” He straightened. “I love you, girls.”

“We love you, Papa,” they chorused in unison.

Abel’s heart constricted. Did they know, he wondered? How precious they were to him. Perhaps he ought to remain at home. To stay close, in case they found a monster lurking under their bed. There would be other holiday balls. None as grand or prestigious as this one, but it was the height of the Christmas Season. The desk in his study was littered with invitations. He had plenty of opportunities to find a wife. He didn’t have to go tonight. In fact, the more that he thought about it–

“No.” Arms crossed, lips pursed, Miss Ester Hathaway–otherwise known as Nanny–stood firmly in the middle of his path when he quietly closed the nursery door behind him and prepared to return to his own bedchamber. “You’re going, and that’s that. The carriage is already here.”

Abel’s dark brows drew together above the hawkish bridge of his nose. “I haven’t said I wasn’t,” he said defensively.

“It’s written on your face, isn’t it?” A brown curl, heavily threaded with gray, slipped out from Ester’s mobcap as she shook her head from side to side.

Further into her sixth decade than she cared to admit, she was one of a surprisingly few number of women that could say she’d seen the Duke of Dorchester naked. Granted, he’d been a babe at the time. The cutest she’d ever cared for, save his daughters. But it seemed reasonable to her that once you had seen the buttocks of a man, even if that man did grow up to become a powerful duke, you were allowed to speak your mind. “That’s the same expression you wore when you suddenly fell ill right before the Glenmoore Ball.”

“Something in the food–”

“And what about the play you were supposed to attend with Lady Farthing?”

“Last minute business–”

“And the dinner party at Lord Hatfield’s manor?”

“Ah…” He racked his brain, searching for one of the dozens of excuses he’d used to bow out of social engagements over the last five years. “I believe the snow–”

“It’s time, Your Grace.” Once, very long ago, Ester would have gathered him into her arms and squeezed her love into him. Now that he towered over her, the best she could manage was to squeeze his hands. “Our Catherine, may God rest her soul, would want you to be happy. I want you to be happy. The girls want you to be happy. They’re growing up, and it will be easier for them if they have a mother by their side. Not someone to replace the one they lost. No one could replace Catherine. But to stand next to where she stood.”

To stand next to where she stood.

But that’s where he wanted to stand, Abel thought irrationally. Beside the woman he’d fallen in love with when they were little more than children themselves growing up on neighboring estates. For him, there had never been anyone but Catherine. When she was sixteen and he was eighteen, it seemed only natural that he ask for her hand. They’d married in the spring, and had enjoyed three years of each other’s quiet, comfortable company before the unimaginable happened. He had mourned her ever since. Every minute at first, then every hour. Every day. Every month. The passage of time had dulled the grief to an ache instead of a sharp, stabbing pain, but even now he missed her. Or maybe…if he were being completely honest…he missed the idea of her. Of having a wife. A companion. An ear to confide in. A pillow beside his own.

Was there a replacement out there?

An identical replica he could find if only he went looking?

No.

As loathe as he was to admit it, there wasn’t another woman like Catherine. There wasn’t another love like Catherine. Their bond had been forged in adolescence and innocence. Now he was a man full grown. A man with two little girls depending on him and a heart hardened by loss. If he were to meet Catherine in this moment…if he were to meet Catherine in this moment, he doubted that she’d want anything to do with him. Or at least this version of him. This cold, aloof, withdrawn shell of the happy, carefree duke that he’d once been.

“The carriage is ready?” he asked with a last, regretful look down the hall at his bedchamber. He’d have much preferred a book and a brandy than a ballroom, but Ester was right. His excuses had run thin. Whether he was ready or not, it was finally time to find another duchess.

Ester nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then I suppose I’d better go.”

* * * *

The shutters, Lillian noted as she let herself be carried along in the sea of perfumed bodies fighting to get through the massive front doors of Foxhaven House, were blue.

And the domed ceilings were gold.

A harpist garbed in winter white greeted the guests in the front hall, her fingertips moving elegantly across taut strings of sinew. Tables heavy with food and drink lined the walls while servants circulated through the crowd carrying flutes of champagne. Wreaths adorned with scarlet ribbon decorated the windows and garland hung from the mantles above crackling fireplaces, filling the air with the crisp scent of evergreen. Woodland animals carved from ice and wearing regal crowns of red berries were scattered throughout the front hall and adjoining parlor, inviting guests to walk around and explore as everyone waited for the ballroom to open and the dancing to commence.

Accepting a flute of champagne and withdrawing to the nearest corner, Lillian wrapped her fingers tightly around the crystal stem as she drew on every acting skill in her possession not to openly gape at the almost otherworldly display of wealth and grandeur surrounding her.

She’d known the Yuletide Ball was for the elite. The powerful. The rich. But this…this went beyond her wildest imaginings and she could only hope no one looked too closely at her dress, as the garment paled in comparison to the gorgeous gowns adorning the ton’s most renowned duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses. While she, the daughter of a lowly baron without so much as a ‘lady’ to proceed her first name, held an ill-gained invitation in the folds of a theater costume .

The pit in her belly told her this was a terrible mistake. If she hadn’t been able to pull a benefactor from amidst her father’s–admittedly small–pool of acquaintances, what had made her believe, even for a second, that she could find a financial savior in this ocean of opulence? These aristocrats in their pristine cravats and glittering diamonds wouldn’t give a damn about the Lisbon Theater. Why, they’d probably cheer its demise if a gentleman’s club or a modiste shop took its place.

She wasn’t going to find rescue tonight. This was a den of dragons guarding their treasure, not a field of knights prepared to dash into battle to save the weary princess. But since she was already here…

“To hell with it.”

Throwing her head back, Lillian drained her champagne in one swallow and blindly plucked a second flute off a passing tray before plunging recklessly into the crowd. She was an actress, after all. A chameleon adept at playing different parts. Which was why, for this evening, she wasn’t a business owner teetering on the brink of ruin. No. Under the glow of a thousand candles, she was…she was a woman of mystery. The heiress of a grand fortune. The unknown daughter of a duke whose mother had run away with her when she was young. Now the duke was dead, and she’d returned to claim what was rightfully hers…but only if she married before Christmas Eve, or all would go to her terrible cousin!

Oh, yes.

She quite liked that.

And the best part?

She could make up her lines as she went.