Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Stonhurst Estate

Cumbria

1825

Yesterday she thought herself lost forever in the bleak, gray days of late winter.

Charlotte tipped her face up to the rare appearance of sun in chilly late February, smiling to herself. Soon, spring would be upon her, and she would have made it through the hardest part of the year.

She grabbed the mist bottle from high on the shelf in the conservatory and carefully sprayed her growing collection of rare plants. Mr. Browning had arranged for another shipment of the prized specimens. Soon, her hobby would rival that of Lady Cranbourne’s obsession.

“Would you care for some tea, Your Grace?” Mr. Fitzwilliam asked from beside the bubbling fountain behind her.

Charlotte spun around and fell back against the workbench. “Is it time already? I apologize, I… ”

She shook her head, brushing off her hands and frowning at the dirt wedged beneath her nails. It wasn’t as if she didn’t enjoy her gardening. It was what others would think that bothered her. A duchess would never dirty her hands.

Montague Fitzwilliam, twenty and eight, and looking particularly handsome, shrugged. “It’s only I thought you might enjoy a break.”

A break?

There was no break for the Honey Duchess. That’s what the gossip rags liked to refer to her as, and even after eight years of being married, the not-so-polite whispers continued in drawing rooms across London.

There was no break because no matter where she turned, she ran into his ghost.

Eight years a wife, and her husband couldn’t stand being in the same room as her. She hadn’t seen him in almost two years. Even then, it was only for a brief visit that ended with him storming out of Stonehurst after spending more time meeting with the land steward than with her.

That was the day Lily had met Lieutenant Rafe Davies, and the last day she had seen her husband. Lily and Rafe later married that autumn. Kate, thrown into a scandal with London’s most notorious rake the year prior, left Charlotte soon after for Scotland, where she met and wed Laird Gabriel MacInnes.

And Charlotte remained.

Stuck.

“Are you sure you are well?” Monty asked. His dark brow was pinched as he stuffed his hands into his pockets of his fine riding attire. He was the eldest son and heir to a mining fortune.

“Yes, of course.” Charlotte pulled on a smile, even as her heart quieted. It was splendid to feel the sun sink into her skin, warming her up. She had been cold for far too long.

And today was her wedding anniversary.

She pushed off the workbench and fussed with her hair. “Yes, tea would be perfect. Where are the others?”

“Changing, we just returned from a ride. Nate was nearly thrown from his horse. That wall by the river on the west side of the property should be seen to immediately. It’s crumbling and spreading far too wide for it to be safely jumped.”

What a terrible hostess she was.

Stonehurst was far too big for her to be the only one in residence. With Kate leaving, Charlotte had agreed to host several house parties for Lord Nathaniel, Ian’s younger brother.

At least he acknowledged her.

“Charlotte, I speak only out of kindness when I ask this, please, will you smile?”

She touched her face, the warm burn of an embarrassed blush biting her cheeks. “I thought I was…”

With a sigh, Monty stretched and ruffled a hand through his bronze hair. “Nate is worried.”

“Worried about what?” She stepped ahead of him and strode into the grand house. The echo of her footsteps thudded against her chest. She hated the emptiness here.

Despised it.

“Nathaniel has never been worried about a thing in his life. That’s how he wishes to keep it, no doubt. I will see to tea, and then we can all play cards or something. Mrs. Grimsby and her daughter enjoy playing.”

“I can’t stand Lavina,” he groaned.

She smirked, stopping at the foot of the grand staircase in the foyer which soared overhead, all white and reserved. “Lavina would make an excellent wife. She’s young and spirited, and she would challenge you.”

He reached out and grabbed her hand, frowning at the cut marring her knuckles.

“It’s only a scrape.”

“Trust me when I say I have no desire to marry Miss Lavina Grimsby.” He slowly brought his eyes to meet hers. “You are also young, Your Grace. Lest you forget it.”

She pulled her hand back, panic fluttering in her chest. “Yes, and I am married. ”

“Leave him, let there be a scandal. I will marry you. I will marry you this very instant if only?—”

Charlotte worried over her bottom lip, guilt spiraling inside of her. She loved Monty as a friend. He was kind, and she was lonely. But it was all far too complicated. Even at twenty and nine, she knew it wouldn’t be as simple as seeking a divorce from the duke.

He never made anything easy for her, anyway.

“Monty, you will make someone the perfect husband someday. Maybe even to Lavina.” She raced up a few steps, then paused, spinning around to address the man who smiled at her from the bottom step, casually leaning against the large, ornate balustrade as if she hadn’t just rejected him again. “Please give me a few moments, and I will meet you for tea in the drawing room.”

“You deserve love, Charlotte. Do you know that?”

Love .

What a charming concept. She believed in it once. Her parents had married for love.

And once, she fancied herself in love with Ian.

But the Duke of Dandridge loved nothing. She knew that now.

“Ho, Charlotte!” Lord Nathaniel burst through the front door, tossing his arms up. “I am alive, and it’s a beautiful day. What do you say to a game of whist? I’m liking my odds.”

She laughed to herself. Nathaniel was the second son through and through.

“You believe every day is a good day.”

His friends bustled in through the door behind him, pushing one another and laughing. Then silence descended as she attempted to hide the smile pulling at her lips.

“Tea will be ready in a few minutes, everyone. I will join you shortly in the drawing room. I will see if Miss Kemp and her chaperone Mrs. Vessey are interested as well, but only if you promise to be on your best behavior.”

“Aren’t we always, Lottie?” Lord Nathaniel asked, throwing his hands to his hips .

Like the sun, her husband’s brother had the same magical quality of allowing her to feel… something .

Monty remained fixed on the stairs, his face a playful mask, but his intentions were still burning in his hazel eyes.

“I believe you are still foxed from last evening, Nathaniel,” Charlotte playfully teased. “I wouldn’t consider that your best behavior.”

“For him it is,” Lord Webb jested, elbowing his friend.

“I am not sure how I have been stuck with you lot,” she quipped.

But Charlotte knew Nathaniel hated seeing her alone. He never said as much, but it wasn’t hard for her to recognize the rogue appeared when she needed him most. If she had something to be fixed in Stonehurst or a problem with the estate, he swept in and took over.

Perhaps being here allowed him to hide away from London as well, but she knew that wasn’t the entire reason.

Charlotte, the pitiful, lonely duchess.

That had been the fourth time Monty had asked her to marry him in as many months. The first time, he had asked earnestly, nearly begging her to do so. And each time since, she felt he asked only out of habit.

“Behave,” she chastised once more, then tossed her arms up in the air and ascended the stairs to her room, shaking her head as the men continued yelling and laughing downstairs.

At least the house wasn’t empty.

At least she wasn’t stuck with the damning silence.

Even though she wished she were alone.

Never had she been so lonely in her life.

She pushed through the door to her room and leaned against it. The room was dripping in green silk and elaborately woven French tapestries. She had amassed a beautiful collection of French chairs to scatter about the room for seating as well as several oil paintings from Flemish masters.

It had been her room, but it never felt like home. It never felt like a refuge when she returned each day, alone, wondering if he would ever come back for her. If they were ever to have a proper start to their marriage .

Charlotte only felt shame here.

But she wouldn’t any longer.

Eight years was far too long to allow her life to be governed by a man who didn’t wish to know her.

She pushed off the door and searched her wardrobe, grabbing a few dresses and a dressing gown. The rest could be moved later, but there was no better time than today to move where she wished in this house. She refused to hold space for someone who was never a sure thing.

Her bedroom was never a refuge. It only served as a reminder that she must remain and wait, as if she were a dog doing her master’s bidding.

With her arms full, Charlotte strode through her dressing room and opened the hidden door connecting the two bedrooms.

It had been eight years since she had stepped into this room. A shiver chased up her spine.

Eight years since her wedding night.

Charlotte slowly padded across the large room with towering ceilings painted with bucolic scenery and stopped at the forest green damask chaise at the foot of the large bed. Perhaps it was a trick of design, but the bed had an invisible weight to it thanks to the ivory curtains hanging over each of the four mahogany posts. A bed made for a king.

She had never met the duke’s father, but if he were anything like the man she married, she had no doubt he had an ego to justify the large monstrosity. It was like a throne, a declaration.

And since the duke had left without a word, she felt it only right that she claimed this room now. It was her dominion until he agreed to a divorce. It would be a hostile negotiation if ever she grew confident enough to confront him.

Or, more importantly, he stayed in one place long enough for her to discuss ending their marriage.

Charlotte crept around the side of the bed and traced her fingertips over the fine silk coverlet.

Cold .

Like the bed.

Like this house.

Like the duke’s heart.

Ghosts were beneath her fingers, woven into the emerald silk.

If things had happened differently, instead of an empty bed, she could be beneath the sheets with her husband. She could have felt the heat of his skin against hers, the beat of his heart against his chest as he pressed his lips to hers. Her wide hips, the ones her mother chastised her for having, would have carried children by now.

Her dear friends, once Miss Lily Abrams and Miss Katherine Bancroft, now Lily Davies and Katherine MacInnes had found love in the time she had been abandoned by her groom. They had their interests and desires, and Charlotte was left holding the unbearable grief that she would never have a child. Certainly not if her husband couldn’t even tolerate being in the same room as her.

While many women she had grown up with wished to be married well, a fair share had held on to the desire to reach for more. Like Lily with her scientific writings or running the school, or now with Kate helping run an inn and distillery in Scotland alongside her husband.

Charlotte had desired something much simpler. She wished for a family of her own. She wanted to lean forward and smell the top of her baby’s head while she rocked and sang to them, watching as they grew and laughed. She dreamed of flying a kite out by the garden as dogs raced about while her children giggled, and her husband wrapped his arms around her and whispered things best left between her and her heart.

Ghosts .

But that wasn’t entirely accurate because ghosts were echoes of what was. And while it was her only desire in this life, she had never shared even a glimpse of such a future with the duke.

There hadn’t been time.

It had been a quick courtship before their wedding.

And it had ended here, in this very room, that wedding night.

“Your Grace?” A voice called out from her room.

Charlotte jumped to her feet, wiping at her eyes. Eight years ago this very day, the duke had brought her into his room, had undressed her, then left. Leaving her standing alone to shiver in the grand room, dimly illuminated by a crackling fire.

Humiliated as she waited.

Until her lady’s maid had informed her the duke had left for London and helped a stunned Charlotte dress. It wasn’t until the door clicked shut that she fell apart in her bed quietly.

A secret kept between herself and her bedroom. She would never give the duke the satisfaction of knowing he had cut her legs out from beneath her that evening.

Eight years later, and she felt as if she were still stumbling around, desperately trying to orient herself north as the world spun on without her.

“In here,” Charlotte answered.

Her lady’s maid, Susan poked her head in, her hazel eyes blinking hard beneath thick spectacles. “Is everything well? Is there something you need in here, Your Grace?”

Charlotte tucked a stray curl behind her ear and forced a grin. It was a small gesture that was almost natural now. She didn’t wish to be a burden or a bother. No one wanted to truly hear how she felt, anyway.

“No, nothing serious, Susan. I’ve decided to move rooms. This room has a spectacular view of the garden.”

Susan straightened, slipping through the doorway to clutch her hands by her skirts. Beneath thick, ashy brows, her eyes narrowed on Charlotte as if she had gone daft. Perhaps she had.

Or maybe her heart had finally hardened itself, and she discovered a sliver of bravery.

“You wish to move from your room to the duke’s room?”

“Yes.”

Her lady’s maid cleared her throat, the older woman slumping forward slightly. “Do you believe that’s best? What if he…”

“I will answer for it.”

“Excuse me for speaking plainly, Your Grace, but that is precisely what I am afraid of. ”

It was an absurd idea and one which would send the duke into a rage if he ever returned. Imagine, the duke returning to discover he had been turned out of his rooms. His birthright?

He would be livid, though the only tell would be the unwavering sharp way he spoke. With razor-like precision. Intending to cut, and to leave those on the other side of the conversation to bleed. The man was the personification of ice. His almost-black eyes were void of emotion.

“I will sleep there tonight, and tomorrow I can assist in moving my things.”

“No, no need. I will be glad to have everything moved over if you wish.”

Still, Charlotte detected the wavering concern in Susan’s voice.

“It’s not as if I have hired someone to undo his beloved naturalist park in front of the house. I promise…” she stopped herself, sighing. “I will sleep in the duke’s room tonight, but please note it is no longer to be referred to as his bedchamber. I do not care where you move his effects, but they no longer belong in that room.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Susan adjusted her glasses. “On the subject of this evening, it is why I have been sent to find you. Your guests wish to put on a play…”