Chapter One

Hugh, Present Day

The countryside air was refreshing as Hugh stepped out of his hothouse, looking at the expansive, rolling countryside beyond the grounds of Westendale Manor. Nearby, a host of birds tweeted their early afternoon song, and he turned to find their flutter of wings in the trees as he closed the door to the hothouse and strode away.

Each step took him further away from his sanctuary and towards Westendale Manor, and his mood grew fouler at the thought, as it always did, of being trapped within those oppressive walls. His gaze flicked over the east wing. It had long since been repaired but he still felt a roll of nausea whenever he looked at it for too long.

His ever-present scowl twisted as he strolled across the manicured lawn. Springtime bloomed around him but he ignored it all, wishing he was back in his hothouse already.

There is solace to be found among the plants , he thought to himself. At least they do not look at me in horror .

The sunlight made him squint further, and the sun’s heat prickled the back of his neck, but he paid it no mind. He cared only for the sun and what it would do for the orchid he’d begun nurturing in the late winter, into early spring, ready for the sun to help it bloom to life. Each petal he had caressed was velvety, and it was the only time he did not have to worry about being watched. When he was in his hothouse, it was simply him and the petals and the scent of mint, herbs, and ferns, rising up. The flowers spoke in a language of color and beauty. He did not need words, and that was why he had begun to covet his hothouse so thoroughly years ago. No servants were required in there, for he enjoyed doing everything himself. His grandfather had rarely ventured out to the gardens, and Hugh was left to his solace and his rare plants.

As soon as he passed the entrance of the manor, where the glass walls did little to shield him from the sun but still offered a semblance of cool air, he felt the tightness in his chest return. But as soon as he adjusted to the absence of his peace, he was stopped by a woman—one of the very few who still met his gaze – his housekeeper. He did not speak to her, the words thickly clogged in his throat. He nodded at her instead.

“Your Grace.” She inclined her head respectfully. “Lady Eleanor awaits you in the drawing room. She is expecting your cooperation to have tea with her.”

He gave her another curt nod and went to stride past her but she murmured, “Oh, Your Grace? You might wish to change your gloves.”

Hugh glanced down at the gardening gloves he had been wearing, as if he truly was very reluctant to let his time in the hothouse be over. Slipping them off, he put them in her outstretched hand.

“I shall see that they will be there for your next use,” she assured him.

He walked on past her, through the hallway, ignoring the paintings surrounding him. Disapproval somehow had been painted in the eyes of the former Dukes—all passing down the Westendale title. They bore into him as he passed by each one.

I know I disappoint you , he thought sourly. But what choice did I have ?

The door to the drawing room was quickly opened by a footman who nodded at him, and he walked in, immediately spying Lady Eleanor, his aunt.

“Your Grace!” she greeted, rising as he entered. “I woke up this morning thinking that it has been a while since we last had tea together. I wished to steal you away from those plants you love so much. Would you humour an old lady?”

She sat primly on the edge of her chair as did he, and she smiled brightly at him. You are not old , he thought.

“The housekeeper informed me that I would find it quite difficult to persuade you to leave that hothouse, but I did instruct her to make the attempt,” Lady Eleanor said as she picked up the teapot to pour them both a cup of tea. He eyed the sandwiches and delicate dessert treats that had been set out. “But it appears you were already done for the day, were you not? It is a beautiful day. As much as I love your passion for botany that I believe I myself ignited in you, it is good to get some sun on your face.”

Hugh gave a grunt of response and picked up his cup, swallowing the scalding liquid in one mouthful. He did not wince as it went down his throat. Eleanor, as well as Mrs. Simmons, was one of two ladies who looked at him properly. Who actually saw him beyond a burned, scarred face, and she did not falter in her regards of him today.

“Do tell me of your latest botanical experiments, dearest nephew.” She settled back in her chair, smiling cheerfully. The duke eyed his aunt silently. She knew full well that he did not speak, and even if he did, it would certainly not be to the extent of explaining his experiments. She kept chattering, filling in the blanks of his silence. Hugh’s mind strayed on the peculiar plant he was currently nurturing. It had a strange lilac look to it at the very center of the veins on the leaf.

He was proud of its cultivation but he did not feel the need to express that to his aunt.

He poured another cup of tea, sipping this one. Lady Eleanor brushed back an errant curl. She shared her dark hair with her sister, Hugh’s late mother, and it almost hurt to look at the similar mannerisms. The years he’d been alive without his parents had surpassed the years he’d had them, so time had dampened many of his memories, but he always remembered how she brushed stray hairs back into her bun with a warm smile, elegant and graceful, always.

His heart lurched, and he looked away.

“I must admit I did not only ask you to tea to talk about botany,” Lady Eleanor confessed moments later. He paid her no mind, still sipping his tea. He loved his aunt dearly, as much as his reclusive heart allowed, but he truly wished for solitude. “We have received an invitation from our neighbours, Lord and Lady Hartley.”

Hugh’s head snapped up, his gaze alighting on his aunt. They narrowed as he corrected her, finding his voice. She always did manage to get him to break his silence.

“ You have received an invitation,” he amended. “As you well know, I have no interests in social events.”

His voice came out harsh, a sharp slice of a rejection, and his aunt’s smile faltered.

“Come now, nephew,” she said softly. “Surely you understand that, as a Duke, you have duties. I know you did not ask for it, nor even particularly like it, but it is important to maintain your social connections. Not just with the Ton but with the people in your dukedom. They should see you, Your Grace. They should know you do not wish to live your life reclusively in this manor.”

He shook his head, his temper flaring. He never quite could keep it down—especially since his grandfather had shown him that being angry was acceptable, for he had acted that way himself very often. Their only difference was that Hugh’s was internal, whereas his grandfather’s had spiraled outwards.

He glanced at his aunt. Did she really expect him to attend such an event?

Setting his teacup down, it slammed down against the saucer, and the delicate china quivered. He heard his aunt’s sharp inhale as silence descended over both of them. The tea was the color of bark, and he stared into it to avoid the hurt in his aunt’s gaze. But he could not—he outright refused —to attend any societal event. He despised the expectations put upon him in his role. But one look at the way Lady Eleanor drew herself smaller at his frustrated silence had guilt spiraling through him. She is simply another person I disappoint. Except she can voice herself, and I have to hear that as well as see it in her face.

Beneath that, though, there was fear. Genuine fear of what would happen if he gave into her request.

He stood to his feet, pacing the length of the drawing room by the window, shaking his head. He could not face the outside world, he simply couldn’t . He hid himself away for a reason. For he had tried, endlessly, but the people of the Ton were ruthless and cruel, and he was fearful and monstrous.

His aunt’s eyes tracked him. He was a caged animal to be watched, and he hated it. All they ever do is watch. Eyes on me everywhere .

But despite her worry over his anger, he looked back at her and saw determination. She would do everything in her power to have him attend, and he could not allow it.

“Hugh,” she said, her voice a firm but quiet tone. “Perhaps it shall be good for you to attend. It shall be a small step to you rejoining society. I am saddened to watch you spend your years behind these walls.”

A growl built in his throat. I do that for a perfectly good reason . Clenching his jaw, Hugh’s step was faltered as he caught his vague reflection in the window. The tightened muscles in his face made his scar starkly stand out. Red edges of faded, folded scars, from where he had been stitched and healed. He closed his eyes, and a spearing, phantom flame cut across his face.

The clock chimed in the drawing room, and he startled, opening his eyes but not before he turned away from the window.

“I have… I have been away from my work for too long,” he told his aunt. “Please excuse me.”

He stalked to the door and left her behind, ignoring her look of disappointment. Yet it was not a surprise, he supposed. And she would not be surprised at his behavior, for she expected this of him, and somehow that made him feel more wretched.

He retreated down the hallway, up the stairs, and into his study, where he slammed the door shut and exhaled deeply. Hugh buried his face in his hands, yet upon encountering the disfigured flesh, he recoiled in horror and withdrew

How could he ever leave his manor?