Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

" W ell. Now we've only you left to deal with."

The second worst day of Frances' life was the day her sister got married. In a normal life, Cordelia's wedding would have taken the top slot without competition, but the day that Grace had been abducted and killed would forever hold that place in Frances' personal history.

Not that Frances was jealous of Cordelia's marriage. For all that her sister had always been a bit self-absorbed, Cordelia was clearly thrilled with her new husband, and Frances was happy for her, if not entirely certain why Cordelia wanted to be married to a preening peacock of a man, for all that he was rich and highly placed in Society. Besides, the cake served at the wedding breakfast was uncommonly good, and Frances did have a bit of a sweet tooth.

No, like the first worst day of her life, Frances hadn't known that day was destined to be her second worst until the very end. She'd thought everything was going just fine until, after her sister had tearfully decamped for her new home, her mother turned on her with an assessing frown and made her unfeeling proclamation.

Frances didn't think her mother had intended to be cruel, but still. Goodness. That had stung a bit.

Frances had always known that she was the least beloved of her five siblings. She knew, in her parents' eyes, that she held little appeal compared to Harry, the heir, Peter, the devoted clergyman, George, whose brilliance in business turned everything he touched to gold, and Cordelia, who shone so brightly as a perfect diamond of the first water that she was practically blinding.

And then there was Frances. She was clever, though not so clever as George; she was pretty enough, though not nearly as beautiful as Cordelia. And she didn't give her parents anything to brag about, not as Harry and Peter had always done.

She was just there. On the end, like a loose thread of an ill-made fabric. Left behind for her parents to "deal with."

Lady Frances Johnson supposed, then, that she should be grateful that what promised to be the third worst day of her life was one she saw coming from a mile off. Small mercies, and all that.

But by the end of the four-hour carriage ride, which her father had spent lecturing her without ceasing, Frances was struggling to cling to any shreds of gratitude she might have once possessed.

"I despise house parties," her father muttered. He'd run out of content for this lecture after about an hour and a quarter and had taken to repeating material. "They are wretched."

I , thought Frances, also hate house parties . This was, she allowed, probably true. She had never been to a house party before this one, but she hated a great number of the things that promised to occur at them.

"It's criminal," he went on sourly, "to be trapped with the same people—in the same house—for days, nay weeks, on end. I am not a bear in a menagerie. I am a marquess and I deserve far better."

Going to the house party , Frances did not say out loud, was your idea, Father.

He was, she knew well by now, working up to his grand finale. He would have to be, after all; they were coming close to Winchester Manor. Frances could see their destination in the distance, a blurry blob growing larger by the minute.

"I shan't do it again, Frances!" her father railed. "Mark me! I shan't! I am too old for this nonsense. I am too old for the kind of…absurdities that people get into while at house parties. It's unbecoming. It's uncouth."

Frances thought it rather uncouth and unbecoming to grow quite so red in the face, or to speak for quite so long without even attempting to dialogue with one's companions, but what did she know? She was just a wallflower.

Besides, saying as much would only cause her father to grow rather redder in the face and would lead to him to speak for just as long, but at a much, much higher volume.

"Do you know what this means, Frances?"

Frances, who did in fact know what this meant, figured that a noncommittal sound was her best response, and acted accordingly.

"It means," her father said, puffing himself up as though he were about to conclude the political speech of the decade, "that you shall find a match at this party, Frances. I don't care what it takes. When we leave Winchester Manor, you will be affianced."

Silently, Frances looked out the window of the carriage. The manor in the distance was closer now, windows glinting in the sun and lush gardens extending out the back. It was a pretty enough estate, and Frances might have even enjoyed staying there, if not for all the people she would no doubt be forced to converse with.

She stifled a sigh. Sighing would only irritate her father further.

Frances knew there was no winning, not in a game where she was a pawn and the rest of her family kings and queens (except her clergyman brother Peter, of course, who had to be a bishop, because Frances was not one to let a good joke pass her by, not even when her entire future was on the line).

But she could attempt to cling to her dignity. And if that wasn't quite a victory, well, it wasn't nothing, either.

And so, she bit her tongue, even though the part of her that liked a sharp wit and a clever quip—the part of her that her parents, despite their best efforts, hadn't quite squashed out of her—longed to retort.

Or, rather, she held her tongue right up until her father added, tone ominous as thunder, "Or else."

Frances' head whipped back towards her father. "What?" she asked, almost believing her ears had deceived her.

The smile her father shot her was practically a sneer.

"Oh, that got your attention, did it? Well, you can't have imagined that I'd let you carry on with this little tantrum of yours forever, could you?"

It was, Frances felt, staggeringly excessive to call her lack of husband a "tantrum." After all, it wasn't as though she'd been rejecting proposals left and right. And while she perhaps hadn't been actively seeking a husband, as her friend Emily had done prior to her marriage to the Earl of Moore, neither was Frances actively avoiding a husband.

She was just…shy. Rather helplessly so.

For yes, while there was a part of her that enjoyed clever repartee and smart discourse, that part of her tended to hide whenever she was around any but her closest friends. And even that had been a bit challenging of late, as Diana had chosen to marry the terribly imposing Duke of Hawkins and Emily the taciturn Benedict Hoskins. Frances had only just come around to being able to speak directly to Andrew, Diana's husband, and that was after a year of regular interaction and having seen him weep a few masculine tears at the birth of his daughter, Grace.

There was nothing like seeing a man cry over a squalling baby to humanize him, Frances had learned that day.

The upside to her shyness, however, was that Frances could not imagine what her father intended to hold over her with that "or else." What, did he intend to blackmail her with her completely unsurprising proclivity for reading?

She fought and eye roll as she imagined the thundering silence that would greet this revelation. A wallflower, bookish? Quelle scandale .

Still, her father's smugness indicated that he did feel he had leverage in this matter and Frances—damn it!—needed to know.

"Father—" she started cautiously. His smugness grew, taking up physical space in the carriage.

"Oh, do stop it, Frances," her mother interjected, sounding as exhausted as if Frances had been the one railing on for the last several hours. "We're nearly there. Let's gather ourselves."

Suppressing her secret, childish longing to give both her parents a swift kick to the shins, Frances drew in a deep breath and gathered her calm about her. She'd need it if she was going to survive a house party, let alone one where her parents would obsessively matchmake.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the grand front entrance of Winchester Manor. William, the Earl of Winchester, stood ready to greet his guests, a charming smile on his face. The woman on his arm, Frances recalled, was not his wife, but rather his sister, Mary, who was unmarried despite being six and twenty.

As Frances' father helped her mother descent from the carriage, the earl stepped away from his sister to offer Frances his hand with the kind of social ease that Frances could only dream of.

"Lady Frances," he said with a polite bow over her hand before releasing it. He turned to her parents. "Lord Reed, Lady Reed. Thank you so much for joining us for our little gathering. Do allow me to introduce you to my sister, Lady Mary Norton."

Lady Mary was not quite as effortlessly smooth as her brother, but her smile seemed equally genuine as she gave a jaunty nod. "Hullo. Pleased to have you."

The siblings were both dark haired and dark eyed, handsome in a way that made Frances' stomach turn—not because she was attracted to Lord Winchester, for all that he was objectively attractive. But because she could already see the way her parents were gleefully eyeing first the earl and then one another, practically already drafting wedding contracts in their minds.

Frances could not imagine a worse match for herself than one with a man who invited numerous people to his home, some of whom were near strangers, for multiple days on end.

For fun .

If her parents attempted to marry her off to a man like that, she'd no doubt end up grinding her teeth into dust within the year, and then where would she be?

Indeed, she had to forcibly unclench her jaw now so she could respond.

"We're very pleased to have been invited," she said, one of the most blatant lies she'd ever told.

The corner of Lady Mary's mouth twitched, and Frances wondered if her dread was apparent to the other woman.

If the earl noticed the way Frances struggled under the creeping discomfort that was already overtaking her, as it always did when she was in social situations, he was too genteel to comment.

"Of course, of course," he said grandly, offering his arm to Frances' mother. "But let us go inside, shall we? We're still waiting on one or two arrivals, but most of the party has arrived. Would you like to come inside and rest, refresh yourselves after your travels? We're set to gather this evening for dinner, but I know how trying carriage rides can be, so Mary and I have left this afternoon leisurely…"

The earl maneuvered Frances' mother to the house, her father in step beside them, keeping up his polite prattle that both left room for his guests to chime in and left them feeling perfectly at ease if they preferred to remain silent. It was, to Frances, nothing short of a magic trick, as she herself had the opposite effect: she tended to make things awkward and uncomfortable when she spoke and when she held her tongue.

Lady Mary lingered a step, then looped her arm through Frances' with a casual familiarity that, somehow, put Frances at ease.

"Forgive me for being so forward, but I'm terribly pleased to have you in particular, Lady Frances," the older woman said with a smile. She had freckles on her nose and a highly unfashionable golden tint to her complexion that suggested time in the sun without a bonnet. It suited her. "My brother has mostly invited his set—I believe he has had business dealings with your father?—which has left unmarried women a bit thin on the ground. I have thus nominated you as my especial friend for this party."

Lady Mary reminded Frances a bit of her friend Diana Young, which made the smile spring to her lips naturally.

"That sounds very pleasant," she said.

"I shall do my very best to live up to that promise," Lady Mary said with a wink. "But do feel free to shoo me away if I become bothersome. I am known as quite the eccentric spinster—" She sounded simply delighted by this descriptor. "—but I understand that not everyone prefers such an association."

Several dry retorts popped into Frances' head. I hadn't heard that spinsterhood was contagious. Is it like an influenza? Or, Do tell me how I can achieve this marvelous ‘spinsterhood' of which you speak!

But for all that Lady Mary reminded Frances of Diana, she wasn't Diana, and so Frances could not shove aside her shyness enough to joke, not yet.

Instead, she gave another small smile. "I very much look forward to an association with you, Lady Mary."

This, it seemed, was sufficient for Lady Mary. "Splendid," she said warmly. "Now, Amelia here—" She nodded to an approaching maid. "—will show you to your room, and—oh, excuse me, Lord Oackley!"

The two women drew up short as a man exited a parlor off the foyer, coming close enough to Frances and Lady Mary that their paths threatened to collide. Frances, who did not do well with new and unexpected social interactions at the best of times, let alone when she was already in the midst of another new social interaction, ran quickly through the requisite niceties in her head.

He would introduce himself; she would introduce herself in turn and say it was nice to meet him, then gesture to her parents and explain how they knew Lord Winchester and came to be at the party and?—

Wait. She already knew this man.

"Frances?" he said.

For perhaps the first time in her life, Frances felt grateful for her shyness, for it was only that ingrained social reticence that prevented her from speaking his Christian name, as well.

Evan. Evan Miller. The Marquess of Oackley.

And Grace's brother.

She bobbed into a curtsey, lowering her eyes. Frances could only assume that whatever person had decided it was humble and demure for young ladies to glance downward when greeting a gentleman was as afflicted by shyness as Frances. The floor had never judged her or made her flustered. And this floor was quite nice, white marble shot through with darker patches. How pleasant.

Sadly, there was a point when looking at the floor crossed from demure to downright odd, and Frances was hurtling towards that moment. She risked a peek at Lady Mary first, as a bit of a trial, and found her looking intrigued and amused.

Drat , Frances thought.

Still, there was nothing else for it. She looked up at Eva— Lord Oackley .

"I take it the two of you are already acquainted?" Lady Mary probed gently.

There were three categories of people, per Frances' estimation. Those she liked (Diana, Emily, little Gracie, and, begrudgingly, her friends' husbands), those she tolerated by necessity (her family), and those she avoided. As Evan Miller was in the third such category, she'd had little to do with him, even when Grace was alive.

She'd known, however, in an abstract sort of way, that he was handsome. One glance now told her that he'd grown even more handsome in the intervening years.

"We do," Lord Oackley confirmed. "Lady Frances—" Oh, so it was Lady Frances now, was it? "—was friends with my, ah, sister."

The briefest flicker of pain crossed his expression at the reference to Grace. Lady Mary ignored it out of tact; Frances ignored it because doing otherwise would have required a sensible sentence.

And she could not have managed such a sentence because, when Lord Oackley mentioned Grace, there was one infinitesimal instant where his gaze and Frances' met and they were, she was certain of it, in perfect harmony with one another, a moment of unity brought on by mutual pain and grief.

Frances felt, therefore, that it was sufficiently impressive that she managed to say, "Good to see you again, my lord."

And she felt, moreover, that it was lucky that she spoke before she looked beyond Lord Oackley, for her throat closed and her mouth grew dry in the next instance, when she caught her parents looking at her with a mad, avaricious gleam in their eyes.

Well, well, well. Little Frances Miller had grown up.

Evan knew he should not be thinking this.

For one thing, he was sitting at a dinner table, and there was something particularly uncouth about thinking salacious thoughts when at the dinner table, surrounded by other members of the ton .

For another, Frances— Lady Frances, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time that afternoon—had been Grace's friend. And looking at her, no longer a carrot-headed schoolgirl but a young woman who had grown into the pleasing rosy blush of her hair, reminded him that while Frances had gotten older, Grace never would.

And that knife wound never healed and likely never would, not when he couldn't seem to stop himself prodding at it every bloody day of his life.

And third, he should not be thinking such thoughts about Lady Frances Miller because, for all that she had gotten older and considerably more beautiful (he hated himself for noticing), she had not gotten less…

Well, reticent was perhaps a polite term for it.

The more accurate description, as George, Viscount Hounton, chatted amiably at her, was that she looked like she wanted to cast up her accounts, faint, or vanish into the floor.

Perhaps some combination of the three.

And if Lady Frances was alarmed by Hounton, who was possibly the most easygoing fellow Evan had ever met…

Well. She'd not be able to withstand Evan's particular tastes.

Still, it all reinforced one immutable truth: he should not be looking at her.

The problem was, if he didn't look at Lady Frances, his other option was to look at Lady Reed.

And Lady Reed looked back at him in a way he recognized all too well.

"My goodness," she said, her words clearly intending to draw his attention, even as she pretended to be merely observing for her own sake.

With an inward sigh, Evan glanced in the older woman's direction.

"It feels so strange to be dining at such an early hour, but that's country hours for you. Tell me, my lord—" She gave Evan what he assumed was meant to be a guileless smile. "—do you spend more time in the country, or in Town?"

"In Town," he confirmed. And then, to save her the indignity of prying it out of him, he added, "My family's country seat is my father's; my marquisate is a courtesy title. I have a small house in Hertfordshire, but it is not the primary property, so I remain in London most of the year."

Lady Reed let her eyes grow wide as if she was only just now remembering that Evan was heir to a dukedom.

"Oh, yes , that is right, isn't it? Well." She flapped a hand. "I'm certain a young gentleman like yourself has no need for a grand house of his own, not yet. Though I'm certain that a bride would make your country home seem ever so much more appealing. These things do so need a woman's touch, don't you agree?"

Lord deliver him from matchmaking mamas, he thought with something akin to desperation. Evan knew, truly, that he had been born with an enormous amount of privilege by the mere circumstances of his birth and he strove not to let such a gift be taken for granted.

But sometimes he really felt he'd give it all back if only it could guarantee that he never had to keep a straight face while a middle-aged matron tried to sell him on her daughter's potential "womanly touches."

He gave Lady Reed a noncommittal smile. "So it is said," he offered mildly. He didn't want to make a scene, not at Winchester's table, of all places. His friend did so enjoy entertaining and got rather tetchy when parties went awry. It was only the first dinner. Evan needed to keep his cool.

For all that he'd been schooled from birth in the art of courtly politeness, however, Evan had never quite mastered the art of keeping his irritation from his expression. He turned away before Lady Reed could see the grimace that threatened the corners of his mouth.

Except that was no better, because turning from Lady Reed meant that he was facing her daughter. Hounton was evidently on the end of asking her some kind of question—no doubt kindly meant, knowing the man—that had caused Lady Frances' face to blush scarlet.

The words were out of Evan's mouth before he could think better of them.

"Houton, man, you're monopolizing the lady." Bollocks. He could practically feel Lady Reed vibrating with excitement over the possibly that Evan was jealous of Frances' attention on the other man. He hastily added, "And she yours, if you'll forgive me saying it, Lady Frances." He gave her a practiced, charming grin. "I've not seen you in an age, Hounton. Tell me, how are your stables looking? You had two new foals last year, didn't you?"

Hounton, who was enamored with his horses just to the limit of it being endearing rather than odious, beamed.

"I did, indeed, Oackley, thank you for remembering! And they're coming along marvelously, if I do say so myself. Not yet ready for racing, of course, but I'm hopeful for next year…"

Evan let the chatter fade into the background as he glanced back at Lady Frances, who was looking down at her lap, an unmistakable expression of relief on her face. He'd saved her. Evan felt a surge of pride…and clung to that feeling with both hands.

Protectiveness. That was fine. He could work with protectiveness. After all, he'd helped Emily Rutley—now the Countess of Moore—when tongues were wagging about her engagement to Benedict, now her husband. He'd not thought twice about that. He'd done it because Emily had been Grace's friend, and he would have protected his sister from wayward gossip, given the chance...

So, yes. He was well within his rights to look out for Lady Frances. Grace would have wanted as much, no doubt.

Evan thus felt very pleased with himself for precisely sixteen seconds, which was how long it took before Lady Reed spoke again.

"Are you a fan of riding, then, my lord?" Evan gritted his teeth against the obvious way that Lady Reed directed this question only at him, ignoring Hounton entirely. "Frances, you must go out riding with his lordship."

Lady Frances mumbled something in the direction of her lap.

Evan decided this was a good moment to willfully misunderstand.

"Yes, Hounton, I'm sure plenty of the ladies here would enjoy your talents as a guide," he said merrily. Hounton, for all that he was easygoing, was not an idiot; a glint of humor flashed in his eye as he caught on to what Evan was about.

"I should be delighted, Oackley. How good of you to think of me."

This also got a flickering glance from Lady Frances. Evan could not tell if her eyes were blue or green, then chastised himself for wondering.

"Oh, well," Lady Reed fumbled. Then she squared her shoulders and soldiered on. "Would you not also be delighted, Lord Oackley? Certainly, a man like yourself would enjoy a turnabout in the fresh air. And you could not protest the company, could you?"

Evan wanted to gnash his teeth. She was trying to trap him, corner him until he had no choice but to agree but to spend time with her daughter.

His temper, alas, got a bit the better of him.

"I am capable of a great many things, my lady," he said, tone dripping sarcasm. "I'm sure I could protest, if I put my mind to it."

There. It was a censure, and a clear one, but one that was sufficiently shrouded in wit as to be not entirely rude.

When he risked a glance at Lady Frances, he was pleased to see that she looked as irritated as he did. Good for her. She could no doubt do to stand up to her mother a bit more. He wouldn't always be around to protect her.

Except…

As their eyes held, he realized that her irritation was not due to Lady Reed's transparent matchmaking attempts.

No, Lady Frances was annoyed with him .

"I rather think," she said, her voice icy even though it was nervous, "that with such a capacity, you could put your mind to finding a more polite answer, too."

Her cheeks burned bright but this time, blessedly, Evan didn't notice.

Because he was coming to a terrible, gutting realization.

Lady Frances didn't need his protection—not from Hounton and not from her mother. No, this whole coy, shy act of hers was clearly just that—an act.

He felt a sneer crossing his lips as he processed all this.

She was just like the rest of them. Just like all the other simpering flowers of the ton , pretending to get what they wanted.

God, how Grace would have hated that.

And that was the worst part—that this woman, whom his sister had counted amongst her dearest friends, had become someone that Grace would disdain. It was like the stab of a knife, or the cleaving of an axe, that feeling of losing one more connection he had to his beloved sister.

Because if Lady Frances could be someone who lied and schemed to get what she wanted, then Grace couldn't have known the true Frances.

And that left him with one less thread to hold on to.

"I do beg your pardon, Lady Frances," he said, not bothering to hide the scorn in his voice. "I had assumed you competent enough to hunt for suitors on your own. I consider myself corrected; thank you for the information."

Her cheeks burned brighter. Hounton, who had clearly overheard, looked embarrassed.

"It seems we both held mistaken assumptions," she said lowly. "For I had thought you worthy of your family name. I see now that I, too, was wrong."

Rage roared in his ears. Lady Frances wasn't talking about his lineage or the ducal name behind him.

She meant Grace. She dared to throw his sister's memory back in his face?

He was temporarily lost for words. And by the time he could even consider gathering a retort, a rebuttal, anything ? —

Lady Frances had already turned away from him. And she resolutely refused to look at him for the rest of the evening.