1

Blackflint Estate

March , 820

Arabella smiled her brightest smile, and prayed that she wouldn't be sick. Not while the wealthiest and most powerful eyes in England were on her.

The dinner party had been her father's idea. He never missed the opportunity to mix business with, well, anything, and he knew that announcing his daughter's betrothal to no less than a duke would put many a prospective investor in just the spirit to hear his latest scheme.

Lord Edward Denton had amassed his fortune—he was, these days, very rich indeed—from deals with far less savory associates than the ones in attendance tonight. In his youth as heir to a scandalized and impoverished barony, not many in the upper crust were quick to join his endeavors. But now, he could not be more legitimate.

Arabella could almost be proud of his grit, all these years of climbing his way to the highest reaches of society. If only these luminaries knew how underhanded and criminal he truly remained. That was her father: ruthlessly adept and working every angle at once.

Or perhaps they did know he was a liar, and greedy, and untrustworthy, and they simply didn't care, because he turned them a tidy profit ... and because his daughter was about to become a duchess.

Through Arabella, and the growing fleet of cargo ships he'd accumulated in the past years, Lord Denton was going to get absolutely everything he dreamed of. Entree into any room in England. Connections on three continents. And who could have predicted that his mouse of a daughter, whose existence he'd barely acknowledged with anything but irritation for over two decades, would deliver his dream?

Arabella did not wish to marry a duke. She did not wish to marry at all. And she wished to marry Nicholas Alberle, Duke of Blackflint, least of all.

Sitting beside the man throughout dinner had been like sitting beside a stone. A monument to the cold and unknowable.

Well, he moved, he talked, just ... not to her, and always in that smooth, cool tone. He'd been absorbed in conversation with the men at the table, only looking in her general direction when absolutely necessary.

And what she saw in his face when he did look at her was ... nothing. A polite curtain drawn over all thought and feeling. If he had feelings. He met her eyes with a disconcerting, unreadable placidity.

It probably didn't help that he had but one of his own—eyes. Rumors varied widely as to how he had lost the other: duel, drunken rampage, set upon by cutthroats. He wore a black silk eyepatch, tied around his head with thin black ribbon. A raised white ladder of a scar trailed from beneath the patch like a vicious tear down his cheek, where it stopped a few inches from the corner of his mouth.

This is how Arabella knew for certain that her father did not love her. No man who cared could serve her up to the Beast of Blackflint.

True, there was an elegance to the duke. His manners were impeccable. His clothes—all shades of charcoal and night—were simpler than the fashion all around him and spoke of a man who did not care to show off. But one could see how finely chosen and tailored it all was. And all that darkness set off the salting of silver at the temples of his near-black hair to striking effect. Though that only served to remind Arabella that at his advanced age—seven and thirty years to her two and twenty—they were bound to have nothing in common.

And even if there was something they shared, how could she possibly find it when he showed her nothing?

She watched from under her lashes as the Duke of Blackflint conversed with an earl seated nearby. He never raised his voice, never rushed.

That was true power, Arabella supposed. To speak quietly in any room and always be heard.

She watched him lift his wineglass to his lips. His hand was strong but careful around the delicate glass in a way that gave her a strange feeling.

She'd been hearing the stories for years, whispered by giddy friends.

That he'd financially ruined scores of enemies.

That he'd murdered his first wife.

That a married marchioness had fallen so in love with him that when he coldly broke off the affair, she took to her bed for a year .

That the husband of another conquest called him out—and he shot not only the man, but also his second.

That his skin under his fine clothes was as destroyed with scars as his left cheek.

The Beast of Blackflint was a monster out of a fairy tale.

Arabella thought ruefully of her younger self. How excessively silly she'd been. All the cautionary stories about the duke had worked a perverse effect on her mind. She knew she should be repulsed. But instead, she found the man hopelessly intriguing. Foolish, she knew, even at fifteen—but what harm in watching a gentleman at a ball from afar? Or fantasizing about what it might be like to speak with him? Dance with him? Walk in a garden ... and be kissed by him?

It would never happen in life. Fantasies were just that.

What an idiot I was.

The Duke of Blackflint first spoke to Arabella on a summer day seven years ago. He'd come to discuss business with her father—a proposal he'd turned down, leaving Denton in a foul mood for weeks.

She'd been sitting under a tree with her sketchpad. By then, she went nowhere without it. That day, she was drawing the house, idly. She'd drawn it a thousand times. When she felt the hair on her neck prickle. A shadow fell over the page.

When she turned, she gasped.

Him.

How strange to be so close to the dark figure who had so fascinated her. Her flustered heart skipped a heart.

Her gasp caused the duke to step back with an ironic little bow. "Did not mean to frighten," he said, in a voice tinged with cold. As if to say, how disappointing that you shrink back in horror. What a child you are.

She wanted to protest—it wasn't the eyepatch, wasn't the scarring. It was the legend, and her fanciful imagination, and also, in this moment ... everything about him. His size, his broad-shouldered, lean solidity, his watchfulness. He exuded the lazy grace of a predatory animal. Of course she'd gasped.

"Good day," he said, all politeness. And walked away.

She realized she'd been holding her breath, and let it go.

She'd seen him only from afar since then, at the theater or other public events. She found herself staring, but that was nothing odd. Everyone was curious about the enigmatic duke.

When, this past year, he began to visit her father more frequently, he walked past her with barely a glance. He never tried to speak with her.

But then came the day her father smiled at her over breakfast. And said he had very good news indeed. Her stomach dipped. Because she had a feeling she'd been—no sense mincing words— sold .

Perhaps that was unfair. Marriage was marriage. Families used women to make alliances, to secure funds and land and loyalty. Why would hers be any different?

The duke had come that very afternoon. Asked her to take the air with him in the garden. She'd worn her finest day dress, blue to match her eyes. Her maid had perfected the curls in her upswept, blond hair and pinched her cheeks to rosiness. She wore her late mother's diamond teardrop pendant.

And the duke barely looked at her.

He wasn't rude, precisely. In fact, he was solicitous, even charming as they walked, commenting on the fine weather.

"I think you may be aware of the reason I've asked for your time today," he'd finally said, in that smooth, low voice.

She nodded, swallowed, threw him a smile she hoped didn't look nervous.

"I am in need of a duchess. It is past time to see to my succession," he said.

They didn't know one another. Sentimentality would have been ridiculous. And yet, she felt a pang of disappointment at the practicality of his tone.

"Your every need would be seen to. Your allowance would be generous. Certain events would require our attendance, but outside of those and the requirements of children, I would not impose upon you in any way."

He said it all so politely. Even the way he said requirements of children spoke volumes. He was telling her he would only visit her bed as necessary, and require no other companionship.

But before Arabella could contemplate what this might look like, he said the thing that dashed her hopes.

"You would live with me, at my estate a few miles outside the city, until such time as you fell pregnant," he said. "The children are to be born and raised in the countryside. My estate is very private. I know you enjoy painting, and that landscape is rich with appropriate subjects for a lady's work. Your father tells me you are disinterested in the whirl of society, that you are a quiet and introspective person. I believe life there would suit."

He'd said a lot. She realized her mouth was slightly open, and shut it.

"What a generous offer," she finally said. "I am surprised to hear you've thought of my little hobby of sketching and would bother to mention it."

He looked at her with an expression she couldn't read at all. It was penetrating, and somehow searching.

But his voice when he spoke was cool and detached. "I want my duchess to be contented."

Something passed between them then. For a moment, Arabella thought she could read a complicated emotion in his features—some mix of nostalgia and regret.

"May I . . . ask a question, Your Grace?" she asked.

"Of course."

"Do you not wish for a love match?"

Whatever hint of feeling she thought she saw in the duke, that door slammed shut. His face went neutral. His deep green eye as devoid of warmth as the patch over the other.

"I do not," he said. "And my marriage will not be that. Something for you to consider."

Arabella did not want to marry a man made of ice.

And more than that, she did not want to live out her years caring for babies in luxurious exile. She had dreams for herself, impractical and inappropriate dreams that she nonetheless could not shake. They involved painting, yes—but not the frivolous things ladies in the countryside were free to paint.

In fact, the moment she'd heard him utter the phrase appropriate subjects, she knew: he would never let her be what she wanted to be.

But her father had brokered this. Whatever the details of their deal, a number of ships, a complicated import/export deal, and vast potential profit were involved. The bride's wishes were the least important aspect of the endeavor.

This was the purpose for which she was born. Blackflint had proposed as though it were possible that she would refuse him. It was not possible. Her father would kill her.

She took a deep breath, smiled the warmest smile in her arsenal, and nodded demurely. "I would be honored to be your wife, Your Grace."

Something seemed to crack in the center of her chest. Her heart, presumably.

Arabella had come to this dinner tonight hoping to form a more complete picture of her future husband. To get some sense of who and what he was. To discern whether any softness lay under that precise, cool exterior.

Unfortunately, the duke seemed to be cold all the way through.

And then there was the way people watched him. She was continually reminded that everyone was afraid of the man. It may have fueled her girlish infatuation. But it did not thrill her to consider the reality of marrying such a man.

Thank goodness her friend Grace was in attendance tonight with her parents. Grace, in a mildly overdesigned coppery gown to match her hair and frame her generous endowments, periodically caught Arabella's eye from down the long table, sending mischievous looks in reference to the behavior of other guests. When a gentleman seated near her belched loudly, Grace widened her eyes at Arabella, trying not to laugh.

Then, just as quickly, the mirth fell from Grace's face, and, with a dart of her eyes to Arabella's left, she looked down at her food. Arabella looked to her left—to the duke. And saw him watching Grace with a placid look that somehow managed to convey vast disdain for her childishness.

Arabella looked away. She could not think about it. Her future husband's opinion of her dearest friend. The reality that if he chose, he could control when or if Arabella saw her. He could control everything.

When Arabella stole another glance, the duke was looking elsewhere, and though she could not precisely say that his expression had changed, something in his demeanor had shifted. She followed the line of his gaze to her cousin Philip, who had just knocked over his wineglass and was now making jokes as a servant dashed to clean up. Everyone around him was laughing.

Arabella saw the duke's brow knit. A knowing dawning in his gaze. If he were anyone else, Arabella would say he was watching with compassion. Sadness, even.

Philip, seated beside his eminently poised wife Catherine, had always been the most dashing member of her extended family. Carefree, stylish, whip-quick with a retort, eventual high ambitions in politics. He'd spent most of his thirties adventuring to far-off lands, then writing about it; his ability to tell a gripping tale was legendary.

Arabella had noticed, of late, that Philip was thinner. Tired, and pretending he wasn't. She had asked him if he was well, and he'd scoffed and turned it into a jape. Finally, she'd overheard her father speaking with Philip's father. The doctors had discovered something—Arabella was unclear on the affliction—and at best, Philip would slowly become more disabled. No one else was to know. Philip's pride would not tolerate it. Even his own wife was largely in the dark.

Philip was in fine form tonight, though she imagined he might pay for it later. Absolutely no one at the table would have guessed he was struggling.

Well, except one.

Arabella dared look fully at the duke, now. Trying to understand. Did she have the coldness wrong? Had she misread him?

He turned to her. Fixed her with a patient, neutral gaze. It reminded her of a garden snake. Emotionless. At perfect, cold ease. Until, of course, there was reason to strike.

Whatever she'd seen when he watched Philip, she must have imagined it.

When Arabella excused herself to freshen up, Grace followed. As soon as they were out of earshot of the party, Grace grabbed both Arabella's hands, her eyes round moons.

"He's so cold," Grace whispered. "I hadn't credited the rumors, but I do think he is capable of it—what he did to his wife. Arie, you cannot. He will hurt you. "

"Let us refrain from dramatics," Arabella said tartly, because if she allowed herself to feel what Grace was saying, she'd crumble.

"He doesn't even look at you."

"I haven't given him cause to."

"You are radiantly beautiful, and you are to be his wife. Is there a better reason on earth?"

Arabella laughed, but she did not feel a mote of mirth.

"Arie, I didn't want to say, but I heard from my brother that it's true. Blackflint got the scars in a duel—he had taken a man's wife and misused her. The man called him out ... he killed the man and his second. He ..." Grace stepped closer. "Clara told me he had an affair with her cousin Fanny."

"The one married to the thousand-year-old corpse?"

Grace nodded with a short laugh. "Clara ... saw marks on Fanny. On her wrists, and ... " Grace was utterly serious, now. Pale at the thought. "We must do something."

"What do you suggest?" Arabella asked. "Should I run off into the woods?"

"Of course not, you'd be mad." It seemed to hit her then that her concern was actively unhelpful to Arabella. Grace had no plan, no solution to this problem. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to make it worse. I just wish there was something I could do for you."

"This is our lot. To marry. I shall make the best of it. You know me well," Arabella said, warmly. "I can usually figure things out."

Grace smiled uncertainly, and nodded.

The truth was, Arabella had already figured it out.

Running was exactly what she planned to do.