Chapter 1

Cornwall, late 1700s

"Lord Hawthorn wishes to speak with you."

The surly voice of Lady Ethel Hawthorn rose above the snorts and whinnies from inside the Hawthorn Manor stable. Avaline glanced up from Luna's hoof resting on the stablemaster's thigh and locked eyes with her stepmother.

Dressed in a feather-trimmed cap and a high-waisted muslin gown the color of peach, Lady Hawthorn strode across the shingly courtyard toward her waiting coach.

Luna's nostrils flared, and she tossed her mane, trying to break out of the stablemaster's hold as Lady Hawthorn approached. Avaline stroked a hand down her favorite horse's velvety muzzle, savoring her warm and musky scent.

"It's all right, sweet girl," she whispered. "Nobody is going to hurt you." Avaline returned to the stablemaster crouching below Luna's shoulder and followed how he traced his hand down the swollen foot of the horse. "Thank you, Lady Hawthorn. I'll be in as soon as I've taken care of Luna."

"I believe he expressed a certain impatience, though I can't fathom what business he would have with you that requires such urgency." Lady Hawthorn's voice hardened, and Avaline pictured her stepmother's lips tightening into thin lines of displeasure like countless times before. "The poor man just got back from London. Besides, we have servants to take care of our horses."

With a tender motion, the stablemaster lowered the mare's foot to the ground and stood. His old joints cracked as he reached his full height just below Avaline's chin. Cedar brown eyes framed with bushy eyebrows peered out from beneath the brim of his flat cap. "That's awright, Miss Avaline," he rasped with the Scottish accent her stepmother had forbidden inside the stone walls of Hawthorn Manor. "I'll whisk this lady dry and pit a cold wrap on her cloot. Wee tendon sprain, that's aw. A few days rest, and she'll be braw."

"Thank you, Muir. I appreciate it." Avaline pushed away a few strands of hair tickling her cheek. "I'll be back to check on her as soon as possible."

With a stroke along Luna's snow-white flank, Avaline let Muir lead the limping four-year-old Andalusian into the stable. A gust of morning breeze coaxed another few strands of hair to dance around her face.

"I insist you tell Mrs. Wright to tame that wild haystack of yours," her stepmother commented with a sideways glance at Avaline's hair. "You look like something the cat dragged in. It isn't becoming of Lord Hawthorn's daughter."

"I'm sorry," Avaline said, unsure whether her unruly hair or her morning ride with Luna irked her stepmother the most. "I was riding along the beach–"

"Lord knows for what reason." A shudder shook Lady Hawthorn's bony shoulders, making the feather embellishing her hat quiver. "And I should hope you would put yourself above addressing the servants by their given names."

"Yes, Lady Hawthorn."

Her stepmother's cold eyes glided over Avaline, from her unconfined hair to her skirt's muddy hem. She refrained from chastising Avaline further, but by the look in her eyes, Avaline would pay the price for being Lord Hawthorn's out-of-wedlock child as soon as they were alone.

"Well, what can one expect?" Her stepmother turned and extended her hand to the butler to help her into the phaeton. "After all, you're one of them."

Avaline's chest tightened beneath the heart-shaped locket hanging around her neck.

Every night, when she was alone in her chambers, she opened the tiny pendant embellished with ivy leaves and looked at the blurred portrait of her mother.

Every night, she wondered how life would have been if her mother had survived childbirth. Every night, her heart filled with a sense of loss and melancholy because of a woman she had never known but who remained such a big part of her.

Avaline forced back the retort twirling on the tip of her tongue. Defiance would only make matters worse. Almost twenty years under the same roof as Lady Ethel Hawthorn had taught her so.

"By the way, Lord Chesterfield will dine with us tonight." Her stepmother arranged her skirts on the crimson velvet seat and snatched the lace parasol the butler offered her. "I will feign a cause for your absence."

"Of course, Lady Hawthorn."

Avaline schooled her expression. The evening's special guest meant Avaline would have the privilege to do as she pleased. While her half-sisters Mary and Sarah sat stiff as poles through a three-hour meal, Avaline could eat with the staff in the kitchen and then engross herself in a book in the library.

"Mr. Gordon!" Ethel Hawthorn's sharp voice cut through the rustling of green oak leaves in the soft spring breeze. Lord Hawthorn's coachman cowered on the carriage seat. "I will not have Lady Sutton waiting."

"Of course, milady! I'm sorry, milady."

God forbid her stepmother was late for her weekly exchange of gossip with Lady Sutton.

With a quick whip of his wrist, Mr. Gordon let the reins fly across the backs of the two horses with a crack.

"Make sure you clean yourself up and change your outfit," her stepmother demanded over the grating of wheels on gravel. "Lord Hawthorn should be spared such humiliating dishevelment from his eldest daughter."

Avaline caught a deep breath. She would never fit in, never be good enough for Ethel Hawthorn or her daughters. If Avaline imitated her half-sisters, they scolded and ridiculed her for trying to be something she wasn't. If she showed friendliness to the staff, they reprimanded her for disrespecting her father's position as Earl of Dorset.

Henry Simmons, the butler, shifted from one foot to the other beside her as Lady Hawthorn's equipage disappeared down the ancient beech alley. "Am I mistaken if I assume you were out riding the cliffs this morning, Miss Avaline?"

Despite his anxious stiffness, a smile tugged at the butler's lips.

Avaline flashed him a bright beam. "I love feeling the wind in my hair."

"I know, Miss Avaline. Your mama was the same. Her joy of life was what caught your father's attention." Henry chuckled and gazed toward the distant strip of teal lining the horizon. "I miss your mother so very much."

Avaline rested a hand on Henry's arm. "I do, too, even though I never knew her."

Her mother's cousin cleared his throat. "Well, we don't want to leave Lord Hawthorn waiting, do we?"

Avaline followed Henry up the stone steps to the manor's front door. "How is Geraldine?"

"She is much better, Miss Avaline. She was so spirited after your last visit. Your kindness is much appreciated."

"It was my absolute pleasure. I can't imagine how frustrating it must be for such an active person not to be able to walk for weeks. What an unfortunate accident."

"It was, indeed." Henry held open the main door for her. "But according to Doctor Sullivan, the fracture was clean, and she will be on her feet again in three weeks."

"I'm happy to hear that, Henry. Please send her my most heartfelt greetings. I shall pay another visit soon and bring some more yarn for her knitting projects."

"I will, Miss Avaline, and she will be delighted to see you again. Lord Hawthorn is in the library."

With a tilt of her chin and a slight smile curling her lips, Avaline spurned the door to her chambers with the wash basin and strode directly down the hallway bridging the modern east wing with the old Tudor library.

Tall windows with diamond-shaped panes filtered the sunlight, flooding the golden-framed paintings of the Hawthorn family generations.

Avaline rounded the corner at the far end of the hallway, almost colliding with Mary, the elder of her half-sisters.

"Avaline." Mary conjured a meticulously embroidered handkerchief out of nowhere and wafted it before her nose in a matter of seconds, sending off a plume of cloying jasmine. "You smell like a stable boy." Her mouse-brown ringlets bounced around her jaws when she spoke.

"Have you ever seen the sunrise from the cliffs, Mary?" Avaline asked, knowing Mary hadn't been to the cliffs in her sixteen-year-old life. "Or from the beach?"

Her half-sister took a step back as if Avaline had suggested something vulgar. "Of course I haven't!"

"It is most beautiful, like an enchanted dawn."

"Does my beloved mama know you're presenting yourself to our papa like this?" Midnight blue eyes, the only trait they had in common, traveled Avaline's riding outfit, from the missing hat and rumpled hair, over the creased jacket and down to the well-used riding skirt. Mary wrinkled her upturned nose. "I can't for the life of me understand why my mama must suffer your imprudent notions. You can't go riding alone. You risk smudging our reputation with that wild streak you're harboring."

"Papa has ensured me it is quite fine for a woman to ride alone at the estate."

" Lord Hawthorn ," Mary corrected and straightened her back. Barely five feet tall, she still had a good handful of inches to grow before looking down at Avaline.

"He is my father just as much as yours," Avaline retorted.

They had visited the same argument over a hundred times. Her half-sisters would never accept her station as their like, or rather, they would never accept her .

"Maybe." Mary rested her hand on Avaline's arm—a caring gesture under any other circumstance. "But he doesn't treat you like a daughter, does he? Mama expects Papa to announce my betrothal to Lord Chesterfield tonight. You're five years older than me. Has Papa ever troubled to find you a husband?"

Avaline yanked her arm away, and a heavy emptiness filled her chest. Mary was right. She would never get married, be blessed with a family, or raise children. Thanks to her stepmother, she had known as much since she was old enough to understand marriage.

Not wanting Mary to see the moisture welling in her eyes, she ignored her sister's gleeful grin and brushed past her without answering.

No decent man would ever enter into wedlock with the illegitimate daughter of an earl, not to mention one with a baseborn mother. Avaline's future was already laid down; she could become a governess or continue living as a spinster. Life didn't have much more to offer her.

The familiar scent of books met her in the corridor, tranquilizing her upset, and by the time she rapped her knuckles on the oakwood doors of the library, she had summoned her spirit again.

"Come in."

A dash of excitement rushed through her at her father's deep baritone voice. Apart from a brief encounter late last night when he had returned from London, Avaline hadn't seen her father for more than six weeks.

His obligations as lord kept him away from Hawthorn Manor much of the time, a time during which Avaline remained at the mercy of Ethel Hawthorn and her hawkish daughters.

Unable to hold back the smile pulling at her lips, she used her body to push open the heavy doors and entered her favorite room.

"There you are, my love." Lord Hawthorn removed his glasses and rose from his chair behind a desk covered in papers, inkstands, quills, wax sticks, and books.

"Papa!" Avaline threw herself into his open arms. "It's so good to have you back again."

He smelled of cigars, fresh linen, and the lavender soap Mrs. Simmons always made—the warm, comforting fragrance uniquely her father's.

"It is good to be back, Avaline." He stroked a hand over her hair and kissed her forehead. "Have you been out riding again?" His eyes wandered down to her boots, and the lines spreading from the corners of his eyes deepened.

"You know how much I love to see the sun rise from the cliffs. Today, under the clear skies, the ocean remained almost undisturbed. An exceptionally lovely morning."

"I know, my love, I know." A deep laughter rumbled in Lord Hawthorn's chest. "You have always been true to yourself and gone your ways from the day I found you stowed away in this room, reading a book instead of doing your homework."

She had been seven years old when her father had discovered her in the library. With shaky hands, she had held out the book she was reading, expecting to be punished for her disobedience like her stepmother had warned her. But much to her surprise, her father had laughed and told her with a wink that it would be their little secret.

"Let us have a seat, my darling." Lord Hawthorn sat down in one of the emerald velvet chairs in front of the fireplace and handed her a parcel wrapped in the finest silk. "I brought you a little something from London."

"A gift? Papa, you shouldn't have."

"Of course, I should. I wanted you to have something nice."

Avaline removed the wrapping, careful not to tear the delicate paper, and unveiled a newly published poetry collection. "Oh, Papa." She caressed her hand over the smooth leather. "You found it!"

"After exploring three different booksellers."

"Thank you so much!" She fanned the pages of the book. "I can't wait to read it."

"It is my absolute pleasure." Her father's chuckle embraced her in the safety and warmth of a parent's love. "How have you fared during these weeks in my absence?"

"I have been well, thank you. I'm in good spirits and health. I have spent quite some time with Geraldine. She had a most unfortunate accident as she slid in the barn and broke her leg…"

"How very unfortunate."

"…and I have been training Luna like Muir instructed. He believes she will become a decent racing horse once her injury heals properly."

"I'm delighted to hear that you are faring well. Please give my regards to Geraldine. I'll visit her as soon as I can. Now, I'd like to discuss something with you, dearest."

The hint of significance in her father's voice caught Avaline's attention, and a prickle surged along her spine. She gauged the thick silvery hair caressing his shoulders, the fine lines spreading from the corners of his eyes, and the smooth-shaven jaw, looking for something amiss. Nearing fifty-five, her father was still in good health, but visiting London always carried the risk of accidents and infectious diseases.

"Is everything all right?" The wrapping creased as she let the poetry collection rest in her lap.

"Yes, most certainly." He walked over to the writing desk and pulled a letter from one of the drawers. "Most certainly all right." He returned to his chair, his eyes gliding over her features. "Avaline, I know life hasn't treated you fairly. I wish things were different. Your mama… I loved your mama. God bless her poor soul. I was devastated for a long time after she passed. I still miss her, and seeing so much of her in you warms my heart. You have the same streak of stubbornness that ran in her veins and drove her into my arms."

Avaline had heard the story several times; how her mother had felt so cheated when the elder Lord Hawthorn had decided she was too young to become his cook that she had marched up to the manor, demanded to be let in, and made a goose pie wowing the old lord to the extent that people in the village still talked about it. She had earned the position as cook and the elder Lord Hawthorn's respect—but not his consent to wed his sole heir.

"In you, I see the same love for people and animals and care for those less blessed." Lord Hawthorn sighed, glancing at the envelope in his hands. "I wish I could offer you more, Avaline. You deserve more from life."

For the second time in less than half an hour, the locket around her neck weighed against her chest. "I'm fine. I have everything I could wish for here at Hawthorn Manor."

A shadow dragged over her father's eyes. "You don't have everything, my dear. Even though I insisted you bear my name, you don't have the same prospects or opportunities to marry and have a family as Mary and Sarah."

A tingling spread through her chest. Was he tired of her? Horrified by the thought of her spending the rest of her life at the manor while her half-sisters entered decent marriages? "I could work as a governess–"

"Absolutely not! My daughter will not work as a governess as long as breath is left in me. I have something here that might interest you." He gave the letter a slight tug. "Lord Ashcroft's youngest son, Lord Francis, has asked for your hand in matrimony."

It took a moment before Avaline grasped the whole meaning of her father's words.

A proposal?

Her heartbeat picked up. "Lord Francis Ashcroft?"

"I have a limited acquaintance with Lord Francis from the admiralty, but he has a spotless reputation, and he even earned a medal from King George for unearthing illicit trading of British weapons to the French Navy." Her father held out the letter to her. "I already made him an offer, but he knows the decision rests in your hands."

Lord Francis Ashcroft has asked me to marry him. To marry him!

Lord Francis Ashcroft.

A vague image of a venerable Lord Ashcroft, the Marquess of Lansdowne, flickered before her eyes, but she had no memory of any sons. The blurry image dissolved and gave way to a clear picture of laughing children running around her feet. Warm feelings stirred deep inside her.

Marriage.

There must be a mistake. No son of a lord would ever think of marrying a bastard daughter, a servant's child.

"Now, Lord Francis is older than you. He is forty-two years of age, but he is in good health."

Avaline nodded. "Does… does he know who I am?"

Don't expect anything. Expectations only lead to disappointment, you know that.

"He knows your background, but it doesn't matter to him. There is something you should know, though."

Here it was, whatever made Lord Ashcroft's son settle for an out-of-wedlock bride of partly common birth.

"He is Lord Ashcroft's third son, and he is not likely to inherit the marquessate. His two elder brothers have both sired heirs."

Avaline nodded. "Of course."

She didn't need riches, fashionable carriages, or gorgeous dresses. She had grown up with those indulgences and knew they didn't bring happiness. A husband and children, on the other hand…

"There is one more thing." Her father's mild voice jerked her out of what had until now been nothing but a far-fetched fantasy. "Lord Francis is the Governor of Barbados."

Avaline's heart pitted. "Ba-Barbados?"

Her hand curled around the letter, crinkling the paper between her fingers.

Conversations she had picked up over the years had painted a picture of white beaches, turquoise waters, and a scorching sun.

And of sugar plantations, slaves, and diseases.

Barbados. So far from home she might never see her father again. Or Luna. Or any of her friends or family working at Hawthorn Manor.

"Lord Francis has a respected position in the colonies. He will be able to offer you a good life in Barbados as the governor's wife, away from the stiff confines of our society here in England. I shall miss you deeply if you decide to say yes. I admit that part of me wants you to stay with me, but you deserve this opportunity. Whatever you choose, I only beg you to follow your heart. Always follow your heart, Avaline."

A life away from subtle judgments and not-so-subtle whispers.

A husband. Children.

Avaline dragged in a trembling breath.

Lord Francis's proposal was perhaps the only opportunity she would ever get and much more than she could have hoped for.

Barbados.

"You will have the same amenities and enjoy the same services as here, though on a smaller scale. I hope you will take some time to consider Lord Francis's proposal. If you don't want to accept his offer, you will always have a home at Hawthorn Manor."

A flutter ran through her belly. "I accept Lord Francis's offer."