Prologue

Prologue

If Philip was determined not to become a recluse, a masked ball was precisely what he needed.

It was a blessing and a curse that his hair was the way that it was; a deep auburn, shoulder length, rendering him unmistakably the Duke of Creighton. One look from any member of the ton and it would be evident who he was, and once upon a time he might have enjoyed it. But that time had been and gone, and he wanted more than anything to be unremarkable.

As he fixed his mask in his carriage, his fingertips traced the leathery skin of his cheek. It would have been preferable to him to wear a mask permanently, but his hair aided him in that respect on other occasions.

He shook himself gently, reminding himself that he was the same gentleman that had attended such parties before, and there was no need to be fearful for any reason. He was well-liked, and had been missed a great deal during his absence in society, or so he had been told.

“I would recognize that hair anywhere!” A bright voice came as he approached the front door.

He could not see terribly well in the dark, but there was no mistaking her voice.

“Lady Smythe,” Philip smiled, bowing to his hostess. “How have you been?”

“I ought to ask you that very same question,” she replied gently. “You poor thing, you must have been through such a terrible ordeal.”

“I am perfectly well,” he promised. “And it is my sincere hope that the accident will not be the talk of the ball. All discussions should pertain to you, the lady that has thrown this spectacular event.”

“It is nothing, only a little something to celebrate the beginning of this year’s season. There are many young ladies in attendance tonight. Perhaps it might do you well to speak with a few?”

“I am sworn off ladies,” Philip laughed emptily. “I believe you know why.”

“I do,” Lady Smythe sighed. “Though, if you were to ask my opinion, I would tell you never allow that girl to make you see yourself differently. You are a good man, Your Grace.”

“I try to be,” he nodded. “In any case, it is not a priority of mine for the moment. I only hope to finish recovering, before I reenter society completely.”

“Certainly. Now, I ought to greet my other guests, even if I would love to spend the evening talking to you, and you alone. Enjoy your evening.”

“I aim to,” he smiled.

At least he had an ally there. As he entered the ballroom, the light became brighter, and he was met with one of the most beautiful ballrooms that he had ever seen. Paintings adorned the walls, there were flowers on every pillar, and everything was in some shade of gold or other. It was opulent, perfect, and Philip felt as though he did not quite belong anymore. A scarred gentleman did not fit amid such beauty.

As if on cue, that was when he saw her; the beauty that he could no longer claim.

Ophelia Sutton had not been his choice of a wife. He did not know her at all, but his father was a good friend of her father, and so a deal was made the week she was born. Philip had not minded this; it was not unheard of, after all, though he had wished that he had been told about the matter years ago, rather than it being a brief mention in his father’s will.

Even so, there were worse ladies to be tied together to in marriage, and as much as he did not wish to admit it, he had truly fallen for her during their time together. She was a young lady of many talents, and she was known for her beauty. Her hair was deep brown, and her eyes were the color of brandy. What more could a gentleman want than to look into his wife’s eyes and see his favorite drink?

A wife that wouldn’t leave after he was in a horrific accident , one might suppose. In sickness and in health was how a marriage was supposed to be, and Philip was at least grateful to discover that she had no such intentions before the wedding.

That did not, however, make it any easier to see her fluttering around other gentlemen, batting her eyelashes demurely at them while sweeping her fan across her bosom. She was free to find any man she pleased, and it was evident that that was what she was going to do, whether he was there to see it or not.

Philip wasn’t quick to feel anger, or jealousy, and certainly not hatred, but in that moment, it was all he could feel. Ophelia had a right to flirt with whom she chose, now that they were no longer betrothed, but it did not make it any less painful.

It was supposed to be his reintroduction to society, but Philip no longer wished to be there at all. He could not endure watching the lady he once loved, all season, getting everything that she wanted. Not after destroying him the way she had. There would be no proving himself to be above it all, because he was not. He was hurt, and he wanted to leave.

The cold night air felt good against his skin, but it did not aid in calming his breathing. His clothing felt tight, even though it fit him perfectly, and he felt as though he might collapse at any moment. It did not help that he was once more in darkness, and so he was stumbling away from the household in a vain attempt to locate his carriage. He gave in, making his way back and leaning against a wall, looking at the stars.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Philip shirked from the voice, even though it had been a calm one. He turned to where it had come from, only to see a small figure in pale blue, her skin even paler. She turned to him just as he jolted, and quickly took his hands in hers, quietening him.

“It’s all right,” she said gently. “Follow me.”

And perhaps it was, because as he was utterly disoriented, he did so. Soon enough, she had guided him to a bench a short way from the rest of the party, and the two were sitting together, one of his hands not leaving one of hers.

She slid her other hand around his back in circles, gently rubbing it. It was soothing him a lot, as was her voice.

“It was quite hectic today,” she smirked. “My sister is to debut in the next two years, early for a young lady, and so she has been quite adamant that she needs to accompany me to events. I would personally love that, but our father refuses. He says that she must wait her turn.”

She giggled as she said it, clearly holding a lot of affection for her sister.

“And it is strange,” she continued. “Because I would have thought that our father might have been honest about the matter; we do not have the money for it, but he protected her feelings. I suppose I am grateful for that. I am also grateful for our beloved Winston, our dog, for he adores Elizabeth and is the entire reason she is happy to stay home.”

“Stay home,” he echoed. “That is perhaps what I should have done.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“It is simply that I… well, this used to be the sort of thing that I excelled at, and now I would much rather be home. I never would have thought that I would be like this.”

“People change as they grow,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I, for one, see no harm in preferring to be at home, especially if one has a particularly lovely one.”

“I do, indeed, but it is also the privacy that I long for.”

He wanted to silence himself, but speaking with her was so easy that he could not make himself stop.

“And you are well within your rights to want that. I do not know if you have been told that before.”

“I have not. There is, instead, the expectation for me to perform for the masses, which I used to be good at it, but I cannot bring myself to do it any longer.”

“Then you need not do so. You cannot be forced to do anything, not unless you consent to it, and then that is hardly forced, is it?”

Philip noticed that whatever she had done had worked well; he was far calmer now. As he turned to thank her, he at last took note of what she looked like thanks to a lantern she had brought.

She had lowered her mask to place her hand on his back, revealing blue-black hair that had seemingly been forced into place, striking pale blue eyes, fair skin with many beauty spots on her face and reddish-pink bow-shaped lips. She looked almost doll-like, and with her lips parted and her eyes searching she only emphasized that.

She had perhaps the kindest eyes that he had ever seen, and remarkably she looked exactly like the sort of lady he might have danced with to the waltz that he could hear, had their circumstances been different.

He froze. He could hear the musicians, meaning that they were suspiciously close to the ballroom, and therefore the other guests in attendance. Now, when he looked at the young lady, he could not stand her; he knew what she had been trying to do. Everyone knew who he was, with or without the mask, and whether she had helped him or not she must have known what she was doing.

He was angry with her, angry with all women, for how they treated him as if he were his title and nothing more, tempting scandal if it meant the chance of being a duchess. It was too much to bear.

“How dare you?” he thundered. “Is it in your plans to accost a man in a fragile state?”

“What?” The young lady asked, mouth open. “Sir, I can assure you that I would never—”

“I do not care to hear it. All you young ladies are the same. I hope that whatever man you set your cap to next sees your intentions as I have.”

He did not give her a chance to respond, instead snatching the lantern she was using and stumbling away. He wanted to look menacing, or at least strong, and he hoped that he had achieved that evening through his struggle. He marched to his carriage, boarded it, and immediately set for home, swearing off women entirely, more so than he thought he had.

Even so, he couldn’t help but think of her. She was almost like a sparrow, and she certainly did not appear deceitful. Then again, he had been fooled by a lady’s looks before, and he refused to fall for it again. He would not forget her face for a long time, he knew that much, and he was grateful for that in some respects.

At least he would not fall for any other lady trying the same thing any time soon, and he had that mysterious young lady to thank for that. He also should have thanked her for helping him, he quickly realized, but perhaps if she did not have such questionable motives he might have done so.

He was confused that night, but in spite of it all one thing remained perfectly clear. He would not be seen in society for a very, very long time indeed. It was for the best after all; he did not want to hear the whispers, and he knew that eventually it would all die down. Soon enough, Lady Ophelia would marry another poor soul, and he could declare that he had no intentions to marry and would be left well alone.

Sighing, he slammed a bottle of brandy on his desk. He knew it would never happen; such things never did in London.