Prologue

November, 1818

Lord Ethan Warburton, the newly named Marquess of Aimsbury, had come into his title somewhat unexpectedly. The previous Marquess had been a distant cousin. Courtesy of a bevy of female children in the other lines of the family and a few tragedies that had taken the lives of male members, he found himself in a situation he had never imagined—claiming his ancestral home, Aimswood Hall.

“It’s a fine house,” Regina said.

Ethan nodded to his sister. It was a fine house. He didn’t add a verbal agreement and she did not expect one from him. They got on precisely because she understood him so well. Taciturn by nature, if words were superfluous, he simply did not use them. In that case, a nod sufficed to express his agreement with her assessment.

“How is the roof?” she asked.

“It’ll need repairs,” he answered.

“Well, let’s go in and take a look at it. As you do not have a wife, I shall happily take over any redecorating that you may deem necessary— or that I deem necessary for you,” she added with a smile. “You’d live in a crate if it were left up to you.”

Very likely. He liked his comforts as well as any man, but he also felt constrained by them from time to time. Being outdoors helped him with that. In his previous occupation, managing shipments for a large company, he’d often been out walking the docks and climbing aboard ships to oversee precious cargo personally. Now, he’d be riding the length and breadth of the estate each day. Once he learned to ride, of course. He’d never had need in London and had never really anticipated leaving the city.

The sound of wheels on the gravel lane leading to the house prompted him to turn. It was a small gig and perched on the seat were two women, one younger and one older.

“Hello there,” the older woman called out. “I’m Mrs. Whitlow, your neighbor!”

“At least the locals are friendly,” Regina muttered under her breath.

But Ethan wasn’t really looking at her, or at the self identified Mrs. Whitlow. His gaze was fixed securely on the young woman who rode beside her. With a hint of blonde hair peeking from beneath a bonnet that could best be described as serviceable, she should not have been so compelling. And yet, he could not look away from her. The soft loveliness of her features was pretty enough, but it was the warmth in her gaze, the kindness he immediately sensed in her—those were the things that made her beautiful.

“Welcome to Ambleside,” Mrs. Whitlow continued as she pulled the curricle to a final stop. “While Miss Mulberry and I were out and about to distribute alms to the poor, we wished to stop and welcome you both.”

“Thank you,” Regina said, stepping forward. “My brother, Lord Ethan Warburton, is the new Marquess of Aimsbury, of course. And I am Mrs. Regina Cavender.”

Mrs. Whitlow laughed. “Oh, good heavens. I thought at first you were the marchioness! I take it there is no marchioness?”

Ethan felt compelled to answer. “Not as of yet. Though I daresay that will change.”

Regina stiffened beside him and he could feel her shocked gaze on him. He’d never spoken of marriage before. He’d certainly never intended to seek it. And all of that had changed with one single glance at a beautiful young woman with kind eyes and an easy smile.

“Ah, well, Miss Mulberry, you’ve missed your chance! If you hadn’t gotten yourself betrothed already to Mr. Cranford, you’d be in the running for a title! I daresay she’s the prettiest young lady in the county. Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”

Ethan was quiet for too long, taking in the overwhelming disappointment he felt at Mrs. Whitlow’s words. Betrothed.

Regina elbowed him sharply, and he looked up to see Mrs. Whitlow waiting expectantly for an answer. But it was Miss Mulberry herself who saved him.

“Mrs. Whitlow, leave the man be. His lordship has clearly only just arrived and is tired from his journey—and very likely preoccupied with planning his next steps in this new environment. It’s hardly the time for you to go fishing for compliments on my behalf!”

He would have thanked her for that, but couldn’t form the words. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth the only thing that would fall out of it would be a plea for her to throw off her current betrothed and accept him as her husband. It would see him in bedlam of a certain.

“Thank you, Miss Mulberry. Indeed, my brother and I are both quite tired from the journey. We will visit you both once things have settled a bit,” Mrs. Cavender stated.

“Will Mr. Cavender be joining you?” Mrs. Whitlow asked.

Regina stiffened beside him. “No. No, he will not. He has other interests to pursue right now while I aid my brother in settling into his new home. Good day, ladies.”

Ethan bowed his head slightly to bid adieu to them both and watched as the gig once more pulled away. He stood there, watching until it was out of sight. Then a heavy sigh escaped him.

“Have you been struck dumb by love at first sight?” Regina asked.

From the tone of her voice, it was clear that she was teasing him. But when he answered, it was with complete sincerity. “Yes. Yes, I have. And she is already obligated to another.”

Regina linked her arm through his. “Betrothed is not married, brother. Such arrangements are broken all the time. Perhaps you may yet have a chance to pursue the pretty Miss Mulberry.”

It was unlikely, but he did appreciate his sister’s attempts to give him hope. “We shall see.”

“In the meantime, you will have to dissuade Mrs. Whitlow from her propensity as a matchmaker, lest she get you married off to someone else,” Regina mused.

“How do you know she’s a matchmaker?”

“She’s a meddler, Ethan. Meddlers are always matchmakers. They are part and parcel,” she replied dismissively. “Now, let’s go inspect this behemoth of a house you will be rattling around in alone.”

Solitude had never seemed quite so lonely.

“He was very handsome,” Mrs. Whitlow said.

“He was,” Charlotte agreed.

“I think he was quite taken with you.”

At that, Charlotte laughed. “I do not think so. The man could not even pay me a polite, if insincere, compliment. Not that I needed him to, of course.”

Mrs. Whitlow shook her head. “I think he was simply dumbstruck by you, my dear. Are you absolutely certain you wish to marry Arliss Cranford? Charlotte, the Marchioness of Aimsbury has a rather nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Charlotte couldn’t help but smile. She adored Mrs. Whitlow and her slightly inappropriate teasing. She’d never dream of reneging on her promise to marry Arliss. Perhaps he wasn’t the most exciting man in the world. Perhaps he didn’t have the strong jawline and squared chin possessed by the new Marquess. Nor did he have those dark, enigmatic eyes or the air of vigor and vitality that surrounded the man, or the sweep of dark hair that lent him a rakish air. But Arliss, with his thinning fair hair, myopic gaze and slightly stooped stature was kind. He was reasonable. And he’d asked. When no one else had, Arliss had asked her to be his wife. She was well committed to the idea now.

“I will be very happy to be Mrs. Arliss Cranford,” Charlotte insisted. “I do not need any title beyond that of wife.”

Mrs. Whitlow shook her head. “I was nearly a viscountess in my youth. He was nowhere near as handsomely favored as your marquess, though. Still, the title did make him infinitely more attractive.”

It was a scandalous admission. And Charlotte shouldn’t have encouraged her, but she adored the slightly wicked stories Mrs. Whitlow shared with her—as if she were some sort of sophisticated bosom companion and not a poor, country mouse of a girl who’d likely never travel beyond Northumberland. “Then you must have loved Mr. Whitlow greatly to give up that opportunity.”

“Not at the time,” she admitted. “I did come to love him. My viscount was quite poor, you see. He’d squandered all of his inheritance at the gaming tables and needed to refill the family coffers. I was common, but an heiress of significant fortune… alas, Mr. Whitlow was wealthy enough that I knew he married me for me and not the four thousand pounds per annum that came with the role of husband.”

Charlotte, if nothing else, knew that Arliss had asked for her hand solely on her own merit. She hadn’t a tuppence to her name and everyone knew it. “Is it a great burden to have such wealth? It seems as though it would make life very lonely—never knowing what motivates the people around you.”

Mrs. Whitlow smiled. “You will find out one day, I think. Your future, Charlotte Mulberry, is brighter than you can possibly imagine.”

Mrs. Whitlow was a romantic and given to flights of fancy. There was no world in which Charlotte would be suddenly burdened with great wealth… or where a brooding marquess would be so taken with her he’d forget how to speak, even if only temporarily.