Chapter One

“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner…You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

Isolde let out a long, slow breath, cheeks puffing out. She hastily read to the end of the chapter, sparing a few moments to reread a passage or two to ascertain that what she’d read was correct, then closed the book.

Well. Well.

There was a reason that this newest novel, intriguingly entitled First Impressions, or as some were now calling it, Pride and Prejudice, was causing such a stir. No wonder the esteemed author kept her identity a careful secret.

Isolde, for her part, was thrilled. Why should the brilliant, charming, and fascinating Elizabeth Bennet accept the – admittedly wealthy – hand of Mr. Darcy, who said that she wasn’t beautiful enough to tempt him? Isolde had chafed more over that insult than the fictional Miss Bennet had herself, she thought.

The book was only halfway through, too! Isolde knew already, though, that it would end with Elizabeth Bennet marrying someone. Mr. Darcy intrigued her more than the rest, despite his boorishness. Stories always ended with the heroine either happily married or tragically dead. At least Mr. Darcy was simply an awkward man, instead of a rake all ripe for reforming. She hated those books. Isolde had torn Pamela in two towards the end, full of rage for the awful man the poor titular Pamela had married. What a silly girl.

She leaned back with a sigh, tucking her feet up under her. The afternoon was wearing on, and still there was no sign of the guest they had hoped for. Isolde’s spot in the window seat afforded a decent view down the drive. The Belford townhouse was in the centre of London, although one would never have thought it to look at the lush gardens and long, winding drive, well-raked by diligent gardeners every day. They were working now, picking their way through the undergrowth, inspecting the waxy, perfect blooms coming up through the earth.

I hate gardening, Isolde thought miserably.

The Season was just starting, and until it got into full swing, there wouldn’t be much to do in town. For her part, Isolde preferred to stay at home and read. There were so many books to read, and more novels being produced every day. Pride and Prejudice was one of her favourites so far, and Elizabeth Bennet easily a favourite heroine. Isolde’s book club were all going to love her. She would certainly suggest that the circulating library stock more of that author’s books.

The rumble of carriage wheels on gravel jerked her out of her reverie, and Isolde blinked, leaning forward. A hired hackney cab, its dull black sides splattered with mud, was making its way up the drive. A familiar face peered out through the window, and Isolde gave a strangled shriek.

Leaping to her feet – Pride and Prejudice slid off her knee and landed with a thump on the carpet, but she hardly noticed – Isolde went racing out of the library, skidding along the carpeted hallway outside.

“He’s home! He’s home!” she shouted to no one in particular, then leapt down the stairs, fully intending to rush out and greet her brother.

Not your brother, needled a voice at the back of her mind, making her smile falter.

But then she was outside, and James was right there, handing up a handful of coins to the cab driver, flashing that white-toothed grin that was even more remarkable now that his skin was so well-tanned.

He turned to smile at her, and Isolde threw herself at him.

“Steady on, steady on, little sister!” James laughed, catching his balance. He wrapped his arms around Isolde, lifting her full off the ground and swinging her around. “It’s good to see you again, I can tell you that.”

He put her down, and Isolde wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

“We were starting to think you weren’t coming. You were meant to be home three days ago.”

He winced. “Indeed, I encountered a series of misfortunes during my travels – carriages with splintered wheels, inclement weather, and the like. Yet, I have arrived at last, and I eagerly anticipate being warmly attended to. I bear gifts, of course – a gentleman cannot embark on a Grand Tour without returning with tokens of appreciation, can he?”

“I place no importance on gifts, especially now that you have returned. Do come in, do come in. Mama and Papa are out, so I shall have you to myself for a few hours.”

Towing him by the hand, Isolde gestured for the footmen to collect James’ things, and pulled him into the cool darkness of the hallway.

James, never one for measured silences, chatted incessantly as he stripped out of his heavy travelling coat, hat, and gloves. The butler smiled benevolently as he waited to receive the items.

“If I may say so,” old Sinclair intoned when a pause came, “we below stairs are all very glad to see you returned safely, Lord James.”

James beamed. “And I am most pleased to return, Sinclair. Please convey my fondest regards to all.”

The butler bowed and melted away. He barely spared a glance for Isolde. The older servants, the butler and housekeeper, both seemed to treat her a little strangely. Distantly, perhaps, compared to the way they treated James.

It made sense now, of course, and the knowledge burned in Isolde’s chest like a trapped fire. The family portrait loomed large in the Great Hall, above the spot where James stood, fixing his thick mouse-brown hair in the mirror.

In the portrait, the resemblances were clear. James had his mother’s eyes – flinty grey, large and clear and fringed by black eyelashes, with firm brows set over them. He had his father’s mousy hair – which was likely to thin in later years, but for now was thick and strong – and his father’s sharp jaw and aquiline nose.

And then there was Isolde.

The painting had been done six years ago, when Isolde had just turned seventeen. She had a round face, a roses-and-cream complexion which, while fashionable, did not match the olive skin of her father and brother. Her hair was blonde, refused to curl, and she had blue eyes, downturned at the corners.

Pretty, yes, but the family resemblance was never marked.

“I found a painting of her, you know,” Isolde said, gaze drifting past her brother. “In the attic. I didn’t take it down, but I know it’s there.”

James followed her gaze and frowned. “You mean, a painting of Dorothy?”

“Hush! Somebody might hear.”

He sighed. “People know that Mama had a sister, Izzy.”

“Yes, but they don’t know…” she swallowed the words. “They don’t know the rest of it.”

“And they never will,” he said, reassuringly. She wished she could believe him.

“Come, let’s go to the library. I want to talk to you about something.”

“This place hasn’t changed a bit,” James remarked, running his finger along the spines of a row of books. “You have, though. You’re prettier than ever.”

Isolde snorted. “Oh, please. I’m three and twenty. This will be my fourth Season, and people are only ever interested in the young debutantes. Believe me, that suits me fine.”

James narrowed his eyes. “You’re a Belford, remember. You’re Lady Isolde Belford, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Belbrooke. Remember that.”

“I can hardly forget it,” she muttered, picking at her dress.

“I think you are forgetting it, though.” Crossing the room, James sank down beside her, reaching out to take her hand. “Now, what did you want to tell me?”

Isolde bit her lip hard. She felt silly baby tears pricking at her eyes and blinked furiously. Elizabeth Bennet would never cry. Pamela would, though, and look at what happened to her.

“I had an argument with Mama, about a month ago,” she admitted at last. “A bad one. It’s about the Season. She says that she and Papa have had quite enough of my dilly-dallying, and it’s high time I was settled. She said that this will be my last Season, and if I know what’s good for me, I’ll choose a nice man to marry. There will be consequences if not.”

“Consequences? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. She may be harbouring any number of thoughts, I expect.”

“You read entirely too many novels. They shall merely send you to the countryside, where you may dwell in tranquil repose among your books.”

“I like London. I like my friends, and my books, and my circulating library – which is a revolutionary idea, by the way – and I don’t want to go. All the men in town are purely awful.”

“They can’t all be awful,” James pointed out. “I’m here now.”

“Yes, but that’s different. They’re all rakes or dead bores. There’s nothing in between.” She paused, tilting her head. “Except for the old men who want a third or fourth wife, and don’t realise how ridiculous they look pursuing the young women. Ugh, that’s who I’m going to marry, isn’t it? Some lecherous old man with about ten children who will all hate me on sight. Oh, James, what am I going to do?”

She dropped her head into her hands, and James slung an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close.

“There, there, you poor dear. I shall speak with Mama and Papa and ascertain what course of action may be taken.” In the meantime, why not take their advice seriously? We both know Mama can be brusque, but she has your best interests at heart. Ladies do get married, you know. Why not do this Season properly? You always seem a little… well, a little distracted. Not really looking for somebody to marry. What about if we change that? I’ll be there, and we can choose someone together.”

Isolde shook her head drearily. “I don’t want to get married.”

A flash of annoyance clouded James’ handsome face. “Don’t be silly. Of course you do. I’m ready to get married. Perhaps we can look for spouses together.”

She sighed. “It’s different for you. You’ll be the Duke of Belbrooke one day. You just finished the most marvellous tour. Do you have any idea how envious I was, perusing the accounts of your adventures in the letters you dispatched home? It felt like a form of torment. I have no desire to be wed, and at the conclusion of it all, I find myself… I am...” she trailed off, face colouring.

James didn’t understand. With the best will in the world, he never quite seemed to understand the way Isolde felt. It didn’t seem to matter how much she explained it.

“At the conclusion of it, what?” he pressed, tilting his head. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m afraid they’ll find out,” she hissed, low and quick, glancing furtively at the library door as she did so. It remained modestly closed. Of course, the servants could all be gathered around the keyhole, listening in.

James flinched. “Oh. Well, they won’t. How could they?”

Isolde didn’t answer. For a moment, she was no longer three and twenty years old, in the library with her older brother. She was eighteen, on the cusp of her first Season, frisking downstairs to the parlour with the intention of showing her parents just how well a particular dress looked on her.

***

The mint-coloured silk had been the perfect choice, of course. Isolde hummed to herself, admiring the way her skirts swished around her legs. It was a grown-up dress for a proper adult. Perfect.

It was late, and the lights were mostly out downstairs, aside from a few strategically placed candles. The parlour door was cracked out, warm firelight streaming out into the hallway. She could hear her parents’ voices in there, talking to each other. They usually spent a few hours together each evening before retiring. Isolde was comfortably aware that her parents loved each other, which was rare enough in Society.

Pausing in front of a long mirror in the hall, Isolde inspected herself one last time. The shadows made her look older, her figure a little fuller than her spindly eighteen-year-old frame. She had no gloves on, but one could imagine. Isolde smiled coyly at her reflection.

“Hello, my Lord,” she whispered. “Why yes, I would love to dance.”

And then her father’s voice raised a little higher, making her jump.

“You must be mad, Beatrice. You cannot be suggesting what I think you are suggesting.”

Isolde crept closer to the door, holding her breath. She could hear the sound of pacing, and imagined it was her father, walking up and down, up and down in front of the dying fireplace.

“I’m not saying we tell him right away,” Beatrice’s voice replied. “But Isolde is a pretty girl, and I imagine she will want to marry for love. And why should she not? The gentleman of her choice, whoever he may be, has a right to know the truth.”

“And so we must risk everything? No man would take her once he knew the truth.”

Isolde clapped a hand over her mouth. What secret was this? What was happening?

“Don’t speak of Isolde that way, Richard. It’s unbecoming, and untrue.”

“I am not being cruel,” Richard said, voice lowered. “I care for Isolde, of course I do. But Society simply does not tolerate these things. Secrecy is her only chance at an ordinary life.”

“But a man who truly loves her…”

“That love will wither away as soon as he knows the truth. No gentleman would wed himself to a bastard, no matter how pretty she is, or how wealthy her uncle and aunt might be. Certainly not a bastard who’s spent her life living as the trueborn daughter of a Duke and Duchess.”

This time, Isolde exclaimed aloud, a strangled gasp that was loud in the following silence. There were hurried footsteps, and the door whisked open.

Lord Richard Belford and his wife, Beatrice, stood there. The Duke and Duchess of Belbrooke respectively. They looked guilty, horrified, and angry. For a few moments, nobody spoke.

Isolde felt sure it had to be a joke. At any point, they would break into smiles and laughter, shaking their heads at the look on her face.

They didn’t.

Beatrice spoke first, in the end.

“Oh, my darling girl,” she whispered. “You were never meant to know.”

***

The secret which Isolde was never meant to know was nothing new. In fact, it had probably played out over the country countless times over the centuries.

Beatrice had married well, while her younger sister had eloped with some man or another. He had not married her. Only a year after Beatrice gave birth to their son, James, the disgraced Dorothy Fairwood had arrived on their doorway. Sick, thin, alone, unwed, and pregnant.

She hadn’t lived through the pregnancy. Isolde had wondered, more than once, whether her life would have been different if Dorothy had lived. But she hadn’t, and the duke and duchess had made the decision to take Isolde in as their own.

It was easily done – a few months away, a hint of a pregnancy, then a return with one’s new baby.

But the fact remained that Isolde was not a Belford, and she was not legitimate. No respectable gentleman would marry such a woman.

“I can’t get married, James,” she repeated quietly. “It would be wrong.”

The rumble of carriage wheels sounded outside. The Duke and Duchess must be back. James was glancing over his shoulder, already distracted.

“You must, Isolde. It’s the only way, I’m afraid. You must.”