Prologue

PROLOGUE

July 1801 Sowerby House West London, England

He must get out of here.

Simon Fancourt curled his fists around the gilded chair arms, their touch cool against his damp palms. Music pounded in his ears. Mother's shrill, operatic voice echoed from the marble floor to the intricate ceiling, raking across his nerves and rippling throughout the seats of empty-minded guests.

Beside him, the girl fidgeted.

No, not the girl.

His future wife.

The words burned a trail to his stomach, as he glanced at Georgina Whitmore's profile.

Her cheeks were rose-flushed, likely from the heat of the overcrowded drawing room, and though her blue eyes focused on the pianoforte, they held no true spark of interest. She breezed her face with an ivory fan. Blond curls danced. She smelled of jasmine, a scent that reminded him of summer carriage rides, dull musicales…and utter meaninglessness.

She knew nothing about life.

Maybe he didn't either.

But at least he wanted to. At least he was not so wrapped about society's finger that his entire existence was devoted to following pointless rules, indulging in insincere banter, and squealing over the next ball invitation.

He had no right to judge. He was guiltier than anyone in this room. Because while they were all content with such a destiny, he was not.

And he was succumbing to it anyway.

Perhaps sensing those thoughts, Father's gaze rushed to Simon from across the room. His mouth was tight. Fervency still flamed his eyes, as if to shout again the words he'd thundered earlier.

As if Simon could forget.

As if he could ever forget.

Rushing to his feet, he ignored the jar of surprise from Miss Whitmore and the curious glances from other guests. Even Mother raised a brow at him mid-song.

He weaved his way through the chairs, took the door to the anteroom, then ran the remaining distance to the red-carpeted stairs. His heartbeat throbbed at every footfall. "For the last time, Simon, you shall listen to me. If you were your brother, if you were the eldest, then perhaps I would grant you more leniency—"

"Son."

At the piercing voice, Simon froze halfway up the stairs. He turned, fists curled. "Sir."

Father glowered up at him, sweat beading his face. "You will join the church. You will become a clergyman, as I have asked, and you will fulfill the marriage that has been arranged for you. It is not only your duty; it is your only choice."

"And if I refuse?" Injustice clamped at his chest, restricting his breathing.

"You cannot."

"Father—"

"Enough!" His hand swiped the air, as if one quick motion could put an end to the irrational ridiculousness of his seventeen-year-old son.

But it was not ridiculousness.

Nor irrational.

Heaven forgive him, but he could not back down now. Not again. Not on this. "I must have my word, Father, and you must listen to me."

"I must do nothing. We have quite said everything there is to be said."

" You have said as much. Not I." Simon descended three stairs, clenched the oiled banister in a death grip. "I do not wish to dishonor you."

"Then stop playing the fool and listen to reason, for once in your life. Can you not see that I am only trying to assist you? Responsibilities must be met. You can no more run from yours than I can run from mine—"

"I wish to run from nothing."

"Then why must you always plague me this way? Pray, what do you want? What is it, in your strange and ridiculous mind, that you fathom life must give you?"

"Something more." Another step. He told himself to hold back, to bite his tongue, but the words rushed out anyway. "I wish to do something more than read sermons from behind a pulpit and play battledore in the lawn and drink tea in the afternoons. I could not bear it. No more than I could bear marrying Miss Whitmore."

"She is a handsome, prosperous girl."

"Who is shallow and absurd."

"You do not know her well enough to accuse her of anything. One would think her beauty would be enough to—"

"Beauty is the mind, not the face." Another step lower, then another, until he reached the bottom. He stood facing Father, hot blood rushing to his face. "I know you cannot understand this. Indeed, I scarcely understand it myself. But I cannot go on like this. I do not know where I must go, but I must go somewhere and I must do something ." He looked down at his hands, stretched his fingers. "Something I can touch…that has purpose. Something I can build or tear down or…" The sentence lingered because he had no more words for what pulsed in the depths of his soul.

The depths he had never unearthed to anyone.

Until now.

Father's brows came together again. The way they always did when he was baffled, yet this time it was more. Not anger. Not even disapproval. Mayhap hurt. "You are your own man, Simon." He looked away, scratched his cheek, opened his mouth as if he wished to say more.

Instead, he started away.

"Father—"

"I hope you find whatever it is you seek, Son." At the doorway to the anteroom, he glanced back with moisture in his expression. "But I shall be here when you do not."

He would not say goodbye. Perhaps that was the coward within him. Perhaps a call of wisdom. Whatever the case, he knew what they would say.

Mother would look aghast and call him a nonsensical child.

Nicholas, his elder brother, would laugh.

Father would say again what he'd already said.

And his future wife…

Stuffing another shirtsleeves into his knapsack, he breathed in the warm night air rushing from the window. He latched the bag shut. He did not have qualms about leaving anything or anyone. After all, had he not been on the outcrops of them all since he was a child?

While they had danced and made merry, he had taken to himself here in his bedchamber. With his empty canvases and paints, he had put into picture what he could not put into words.

He glanced at them now.

A reflection of his life stared back at him from the endless framed paintings on the walls. A small boy, dejected within the shadows, hiding behind a window drapery in a thronged ballroom. A musty stable room, with contented horseflesh and gleaming leather, objects of interest to a peeking child. The tree outside Sowerby House courtyard. The gold-colored pony. The pristine banisters he was forbidden to slide down.

All memories that drew him back into an existence that lacked significance and purpose.

Shrugging on his coat, slinging his knapsack over his shoulder, he marched for the door. He paused, however, as a sound from the window called to him.

Mother's musicale must be over. Only now did he notice the absence of echoing sonatas.

Leaning to the open window, he glanced down to the courtyard below. Moonlight cast the world into shades of silvery blue. Horses shifted, carriage doors opened and closed, footmen climbed to their drivers' perches and secured their reins.

His eyes found the Whitmore phaeton. Two young gentlemen must have escorted Miss Whitmore out of doors, for they lingered at each of her elbows, necks craned toward her, seemingly relishing the laugh she rewarded them.

Simon slammed the window shut. No, he had no qualms. He was finished with yielding to senseless rules. He was finished with society circles and gossipmongers. He was finished with arranged marriages and well-respected positions and painful monotony.

Tonight, he would escape.

He was running indeed, but not away as Father had accused. He was running to the unknown, to the things he could not paint, to the words he could not say—the chance to accomplish something of worth.

He did not know what. Nor where.

But he would not cease searching until he did.