Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Cumbria, 1823

Felton wasn't coming.

Lily braced her gloved hand over her stomach and sucked in a sharp breath, scanning the restless crowd before her in the pews of the small chapel.

Her father snapped his pocket watch shut and stuffed it into his maroon brocade vest.

She was a jilted bride.

Again.

"Can you please close the door?" she whispered to her father. She remained frozen, even as her heart drummed relentlessly in her ears. Her fingertips were freezing. Strange, considering it was a warm May day.

He grumbled, crumbling Felton's short missive in his meaty hands.

"Father?"

She couldn't stomach the pitying looks. The clock struck eleven, and she squeezed her eyes closed, willing back the tears.

"What's wrong with you, Lily?" he hissed. He tossed the bridegroom's missive aside. It bounced off the potted fern and rolled onto the stone floor. "What did you say to him? You must have done something."

"Now, Mr. Abrams," Felton's father said, finally shutting the door and providing some privacy in the small foyer. "I saw my son at breakfast only two hours ago, and I… I am quite confused as to why he's not here. There must be a good reason."

Lily wasn't confused.

Felton Lloyd, the Viscount of Harlington, would have made an excellent husband, albeit a boring one at nearly fifteen years her senior. Their marriage would have brought some much-needed security into her world. Just as her first betrothed, William Crainfeld, would have with his mining business. And while marrying the viscount would have stopped the wagging tongues of the ton as to why she was left at the altar the first time around, her being jilted again only added to her biggest problem—her reputation.

No man wished to marry a woman who might as well have been married to studying the stars. Her stepmother had even gone so far as to lock up her telescope to keep her focused on the impending nuptials.

Her father's wide face reddened like a strawberry under the late June sun. "You can't run away from this, Lily. You have ruined us."

Unlikely, considering her father was the second son of an earl and the Abrams were considered a very esteemed family in London. Which was all the more reason the viscount was eager for the match.

Lily vaulted a quick glance between the two older men, then edged backward for the exit.

"Forgive me, I need a… moment."

What she needed was a husband.

Lily spun and hurried outside, ripping off her bonnet and ignoring the shouts behind her as she raced through the fields toward home.

What a fool she had been to trust Felton. There was another way, surely. Her mother had always told her she was excellent at solving problems.

This was simply a temporary challenge. She wiped at her eyes and quickened her pace as she barreled down the well-appointed hallway of her father's Cumbria estate. If only her heeled slippers weren't a shy too big. She wouldn't risk a sprain for the sake of a husband, no matter how deep his pockets were.

Lily had to draw the line somewhere.

Another set of footsteps tagged behind in a perfect echo. Lily held her chin high to the quiet murmurings of the servants who passed and tried their best to fade into the worn silk wall coverings. No one ever knew what to say to Lily when she was always the betrothed and never the bride.

"Perhaps you should head to your room and remove your wedding dress first," her friend Kate's soft voice cautioned from behind.

"No need." Lily stretched onto her tip-toes, reached above the doorframe to her father's office, then clutched the spare key to the door in her palm. She wiggled the key into the keyhole, then shoved her shoulder against the door to counteract the early summer humidity. The door burst open, and she stumbled inside, wiping her palms against her thighs as she righted herself.

Heavens above, her father's office was a jumble of books and stuffed mallards. Where even to begin?

"I fear we are only at the start of this mess." Miss Katherine Bancroft stood in the doorway, radiating the most infuriating sense of calm.

Lily threw her hands onto her hips and huffed away a rogue brunette curl from her eyes. "If I were desperate, I would be running after Felton. We both know what a prize he is, which is why I am here."

Kate bit back a smile and nodded. That wide mouth of hers, the same one the scandal rags loved to gossip about after an unfortunate run-in with England's most notorious rake, finally parted with a soft laugh. "Let us have some tea and maybe take a walk..."

"You don't need to watch over me. I am fine. If anything, I am quite happy I avoided another mistake. He would have bored me to tears talking insistently about his beloved stamp collection. "

"Even so." Kate stepped inside the office and shut the door quietly behind her. The silence ate up the space between them. "He is a cad."

Lily refused to cry. The men in her life didn't deserve her tears. She pressed her lips into a firm line and nodded.

Kate, steadfast and even-tempered, waited her out. She looked divine in a simple green dress. Her reputation couldn't withstand anything other than modesty after last year's scandal.

"I know it is around here somewhere," Lily mumbled, more to herself. She couldn't stand around and be subject to anymore pitying stares. "Father always has Williams bring it here instead of the breakfast table, so he can spare himself from his daughters' company."

"Bring what?"

Lily waved off her friend, concentrating on the stacks of papers piled around her father's massive desk. It was more fitting of a king than a man who sat back and squandered his daughters' dowries on hunting expeditions and an exorbitant habit for taxidermy. She shuffled through papers madly, chucking one pile to the floor as she moved on to another.

"Maybe I can help look for… wait, what are you searching for?"

Kate unpinned the sea-green bonnet from atop her black hair, then removed her gloves and set them aside on a carved stool by the door.

"No," Lily said without thinking, "there is no need for help. I have the situation well in hand."

She scowled. The puffed sleeves of her yellow gown were scratchy. She had endured several long and tortuous visits with the modiste for the dress. Not to mention the rest of her trousseau.

What would become of that now?

She snickered to herself, moving aside an empty teacup as she remembered all the fine fripperies that had been bought for her husband's viewing. The silks and ribbons and garters, much more decorative than functional. She had been excited to have a wardrobe her husband would love. Like a fool, she wished only to make him happy. Now, she had trunks packed at her childhood home, ready to leave for a bridal tour that would never be and new clothes she dared not wear.

And she had so wished to travel to Venice, finally.

Kate creeped into the middle of the room as papers rained down around her tall frame. She quietly crossed her arms and tapped her slipper, waiting.

"I don't want to rush this search. It's only that I am sure the others will catch up. You are an excellent sprinter, however."

Lily paused, laughed, then swiped up another armful of papers, unlodging the inkwell from its home in the process.

"Oh, drat." She dove to the floor, wincing when the sound of ribbons tearing from her dress echoed in the heavy silence as she clutched the ink safely in her hands. She exhaled and rolled to her back as the dust motes danced in the sun shining down through the window.

When she was much younger, and Mama was still alive, she remembered studying the atlas in this very spot with father's magnifying glass.

Perhaps she was being a bit overzealous in her search.

Except…

"Hazzah!" Lily rolled to her side and stretched her hand under the tattered velvet armchair. "I found it!"

"I'm not sure how you could find anything with the way you have torn?—"

"Nonsense. I said I would find it, and I have." Lily snatched the folded newspaper from underneath the chair along with a stray bottle of scotch. She rose to her elbows, then to her hands, trying to gain enough balance to stand, but the frills on her dress had the advantage, and she fought to gain balance.

Kate rushed over to help her up, bracing her legs wide, so the dress wouldn't claim them both and drag them down to the dusty carpet underfoot. "Your stepmother outdid herself with this monstrosity. There are enough frills here that Felton would have been searching for weeks on how to undress you."

Lily would have liked that, perhaps. She'd had two men propose to her, and neither had even dared to steal a kiss. Was it so wrong to wish to share passion with a man? Was she truly so repulsive?

"No matter." She turned abruptly, snapping open the newsprint with a dramatic flair. "I won't be wearing it again."

A fine, lady-like hand folded over the top of the newsprint. Lily was met with Kate's striking gray eyes. "You should wait for a note. Perhaps his nerves took hold of him. The chapel was quite packed."

" Quite ." Lily swallowed back that nervous feeling that had been clawing at her all morning. She folded the paper down and clutched it to her middle.

The crowded chapel was a fact she had not been able to forget, nor probably ever would. What a fool, what a beautiful fool she had been, waiting for Felton to arrive. All eyes had been upon her, and all she could do was stare at the stone floor of the chapel and beg her father to help.

"What am I saying?" Kate said, smoothing out Lily's hair. "The man is an arse for treating you as he did this morning,and I hope he is run over by a carriage."

Lily chuckled, focusing on the freckles smattered across her friend's cheekbones instead of making eye contact. She would not cry. "Or becomes infected with a terrible disease."

"Something much more wicked than the plague, I think. Anything less wouldn't be sufficient."

"No..." Lily swallowed and shifted her feet. The heeled slippers were not only impractical but uncomfortable. She glanced at her empty ring finger as she brought the newspaper back up into view. "Well, disease or carriage accident notwithstanding, I am not holding my breath to be rescued. I have a solution to this mess."

Kate pursed her lips, sidestepping Lily to make her way to the sofa. Lily had always been quite envious of her friend. Kate was her opposite in most things: tall where Lily was short, cheery where Lily was introspective, self-assured where Lily was prone to falter.

That was why she must carry on with the plan. After the disaster of her wedding morning, Lily must not falter. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of causing her downfall in society. She did not want the pity or speculation as to why she had lost yet another bridegroom. She certainly did not warrant the gossip that was sure to start.

"My dearest Lilybell," Kate hedged. "Your plans?—"

"I know, I know. But if you would hear me out."

With a graceful flick of her wrist, Kate sat on the sofa, or rather the sofa cushion nearly swallowed her up after years of far too much of use. "Go ahead."

Lily's heart thrummed in her chest as she thumbed through the newsprint until she found the inky column that held her future. "Here." She smacked her hand against the inky words. Newton had famously stated two objects in motion would attract. Surely, the same went for the marriage market.

"Come closer." Kate fanned her hands impatiently for Lily to approach.

She stumbled as she attempted to traverse the narrow, cleared path between the desk, ottoman, and chair, so Kate stood up and snatched the paper out of her hand.

"Sit," she ordered, waving at the ottoman.

Lily was happy to be off her feet, but her nerves, on the other hand, were unhappy. Everything depended on this idea, and more importantly, it hinged on Kate believing Lily was capable of such a task.

" Wanted by an esteemed gentleman just beginning housekeeping ," Kate started, clearing her throat for dramatic effect, " a refined lady between eighteen and twenty-four years of age, with a proper education, and a fortune not less than five thousand pounds... "

Kate dropped the newsprint to her lap, her mouth agape. "You cannot mean?—"

"Oh, yes," Lily said with a wide grin. "If I cannot attract a husband, then I shall fetch one who needs me."

The rooster's crow was worse than the boatswain's whistle .

Rafe groaned, grabbing his pillow and stuffing it over his head before burying himself down into the old, musty bed mattress at Cliffstone Manor. The bed frame wobbled, knocking against the small bedside table. He heard the whisky he had poured only hours before sloshing over the chipped glass's edge and spilling onto the threadbare and decrepit carpet.

"Damn it, Pete!"

Pete, the rooster, that is.

There were perks to spending years away at sea. At twenty-nine, he had spent nearly eighteen of

those years on a ship.

But then again, he wished to be back in London rather than at the crumbling estate his older brother Henry had recently inherited unexpectedly from their father's cousin.

Henry was now Earl Devlin, and Rafe was a naval lieutenant currently without a ship. Rafe's bad behavior had landed him here, on the Isle of Wight, in the least exciting spot on Earth. Of that, he was certain.

Which probably accounted for why he felt as if he were losing his mind. He was cut adrift, each day more or less the same, holding on to some faint glimmer of a boyhood dream. That promise. But it was growing dimmer, and he wasn't sure if he saw a future for himself. But that often came after a night of drinking. A habit he had tried to avoid for the past few months after being tossed in the gaol one time too many in London.

But one could never strive for utter perfection.

Rafe sat up, drained the last bit of whisky from the glass, and glanced toward the opened letter on the table.

There were whispers Rafe was to be promoted to captain and not a moment too soon. But the letter he received from his friend Liam Hawkins yesterday was a far more interesting proposition. One that would change life as he knew it.

Which was precisely why he broke out whisky and cigars last evening and read the majority of The Mysteries of Udolpho.

He folded the letter up and tucked it away before dressing. He would sleep in another lifetime; he was far too used to being up for sunrise on the ship.

The sun was finally in the sky as he rounded the bend on the gravel walk toward the Chapmans' cottage. Their cat, Tulip, followed close on his heels, chirping as though Rafe was late for the visit.

The door to the small stone cottage wrenched open, shaking the ivy by the trembling thick red sashes. A robin flew out and settled into the apple tree in the front garden. A short elderly woman, twisted from age, stood in the doorway and grabbed his hand.

"Oh, it's a lovely morning now that you're here." She adjusted her cap, her smile frail but warm. "Come in now, come in. Have a seat, Mr. Davies."

"What a warm welcome, Mrs. Chapman. A lovely day indeed."

"Och, now." The elderly woman turned around, a blush heavy on her creased cheeks. She swatted him playfully before leading him into the small kitchen area of the three-room cottage in the village.

The last earl had dragged the entire Cliffstone estate into near ruin, running up bad debts and neglecting tenants' needs. It was a nightmare to untangle. Luckily, Henry considered combing over ledgers and re-establishing lines of credit among pleasurable activities. He rarely ventured into the village, however, so those duties fell upon Rafe for the time being.

Mr. Chapman shuffled forward, clasping a pie plate. Rafe admired how the man's hair always looked as if he had storm clouds on his head, with wild tufts of white and gray raging about over dark, fluffy eyebrows. "Mr. Davies, so good of you to come."

"How are you feeling today, sir?"

"Well, I couldn't sleep a wink from the cough. Woke up early this morning and decided to try my hand at gooseberry pie. Have a slice, won't you?"

Rafe's stomach growled.

"That would be kind. Thank you." He sat down at the table and cleared away a stack of books for the incoming pie plate.

"I told him it was too early to bake. Told him gooseberry pie was a shame when the rhubarb came in like a wild flush in the garden this spring."

"Husbands," Rafe said, volleying between the bickering married couple. "What would we men do without you lovely women?"

"Starve," the old woman answered with a wheezing laugh. Even Mr. Chapman chuckled. "You wait," Mrs. Chapman warned. "One day you're going to lose that handsome heart of yours, Mr. Davies, and you'll find yourself a bride who turns your world upside down."

"I'm married to the sea, Mrs. Chapman."

After eighteen years in the Royal Navy, Rafe knew more about brothels than love. And he was fine with that. Rafe didn't wish for a bride any more than he wished for a piece of the gooseberry pie when Mr. Chapman cut into it. He nearly gagged when the runny, gold green interior of the pie oozed onto the plate.

"Hmm, not sure it took." Mr. Chapman's sloped shoulders rounded forward in defeat. "Should have stuck with strawberry."

"I think it admirable to learn to bake at your age." Rafe reached for the offered plate and forced a grin. He never wished not to be eating more in his life, unless it were kippers. Then he would detest those more.

"Must keep young, my boy. This body of mine is wearing out, but I'm stubborn and won't go without a fight, and my brain is still in it."

"As it should be."

Rafe smiled, so utterly charmed by the kind couple who embraced his efforts to help in the village. Others didn't trust him yet, and perhaps they shouldn't. He almost always let everyone down. And besides, he didn't plan to stay on. He and his brother were barely speaking any longer after London. And he would need to decide on his next posting soon.

"Now, where is my patient?" Rafe asked around a mouthful of revolting gooseberry pie.

Mrs. Chapman clapped her hands together. "Oh, he's eating it, darling. See. You made a wonderful pie."

Rafe forced down a bite, then stood, welcome for the distraction as Tulip brushed against his legs .

"Go on now," Mrs. Chapman said, leading him to the back room. "She's doing so well."

He poked his head into the small room, struck with gratitude and something else… that same ringing hollowness that had followed him around lately. He set eyes on the mother goat, recovering from being struck by a wagon, and her two nursing kids.

Mr. Chapman stood behind him, beaming. "Well done, Mr. Davies. Our Carol is well on the mend, and these two kids will be back to health in no time."

They never asked where he had acquired the skill of stitching up wounds, and it was best they didn't. But there was a reason the floors were painted red in the officer's quarters on a ship. He had seen too many bleed out after cannon fire ricocheted in the air, and men screaming while enemy fire pierced the hull and expelled deadly splinters through the air.

He'd never forget those screams, or the blood staining his hands, or the way his body plowed forward through the chaos to make meaning of a shambolic existence.

Rafe nodded, proud to have helped but wishing more than anything to disappear for a while.