CHAPTER ONE

Long shadows danced in the firelight as Lord Adam Bentley sat hunched over his desk. His quill moved across the tenancy agreement in front of him, pausing at intervals to mark a particular passage that needed amending.

He rubbed his thumb against the quill’s stem, the tip stained black with ink. Groaning, he straightened his shoulders, trying to dispel the throbbing ache in the small of his back from sitting in the same position too long. As a soft knock sounded at the door, he frowned, his thoughts scattering at the interruption.

“Enter,” he called as his aunt Augusta came into the room. Adam felt the tension in his shoulders return, watching her eyes narrow as she looked about the room.

“Adam, it is near as dark as pitch in here,” she said, closing the door with a flick of her wrist. The floor shuddered beneath his feet as she did so.“Why, if you can see half a foot in front of you, I would be amazed.”

“I have several candles upon my desk, Aunt,” Adam replied, his fingers tightening around the quill as he returned his gaze to his papers. “Granted, it may be darker by the door.”

His aunt tutted under her breath, walking into the room and standing before the fire. The flames sent shimmering light across the fabric ofher deep purple gown, highlighting the grey streaks in her hair. She clasped her hands in front of her and turned just enough to study him from the corner of her eye. Adam’s toes curled inside his shoes as he took in her expression—it was the same one she had worn when he was a child, and he had just misbehaved.

He loved his aunt, but she was the type of woman who would not let a subject drop once she had decided it needed her attention.

He waited as she fidgeted, eventually crossing the room and taking a seat before his desk, staring at him until he looked up. Sighing, Adam lowered his quill and met her eyes.

“Yes, Aunt, how may I help you?”

“Pray, do not adopt that tone with me, my boy. You may be an earl, but I’ve known you since you were the height of my knee.”

“Would it help if I sat cross-legged on the floor, then?” he asked. Her eyes remained narrowed, but there was a hint of a twinkle in them that had not been there before.

“I suppose you understand why I am here,” she muttered.

“Indeed, I am at a loss. However, being interrupted is always a great pleasure. Reading is famously improved by the scattering of one’s thoughts.”

Her fingers flexed in her lap, plucking at a loose thread until she pulled it free and flicked it away across the floor.

“The Christmas season is upon us,” she said as Adam’s stomach rolled unpleasantly at the prospect. He cleared his throat shifting in his seat.

“Mm,” he grunted.

“You need not sound quite so melancholic, Adam. It brings tidings of great joy.”

“Sent by whom?” he muttered, and his aunt tutted again as she looked at the darkness that suddenly seemed to surround them.

“Will you still not permit me to add some holly to this room? The rest of the house is looking very festive.”

“No. Please. No holly. I am content with my fire.”

“You have a fire all year round.”

“And I enjoy it immensely.”

She scoffed. “Do you not think it might lift your spirits and revive your love of the holiday season if you engaged in something other than work for a change?”

Her gaze clouded as Adam’s mood darkened considerably. He could not imagine anything worse than being forced to ‘make merry’ at this time of the year. Nothing had felt festive about Christmas for three long, tortuous years, and that was unlikely to change.

“I beg you, Aunt, I cannot have this conversation again.”

“The Sternwood Christmas party is approaching,” she insisted. “It would be my dearest wish that you attend this year.” Augusta leaned forward in her chair, her icy blue eyes fixing him with an imploring look. “It would be an opportunity for you to engage in some activities outside of your office. Perhaps you will find that you can absorb the enjoyment of the season from others.” She paused as the tension in his shoulder increased. “You may even find someone to your liking at such a gathering. Lady Seraphina Cheswick will be there, and she is a very fine young lady.”

Adam’s fist clenched against the thin stem of his quill; it gave an ominous creak, and he loosened his grip hastily. His aunt’s references to his marital status were becoming a bore and far more insistent than they had once been. Not a single part of him wished to secure a wife from any quarter—and certainly not someone his aunt had decided was worthy.

“I know you hate speaking of it,” Augusta continued, her voice softening as she leaned back in her chair. “Heaven knows I do not wish to upset you. But Anastasia is gone, and I hate to see you so gloomy. She loved Christmas, and she loved you. She would not wish you to spend the season in the shadows.”

Adam averted her gaze, feigning interest in the documents before him, his throat tight as he pondered her request.

“Do you truly wish for the estate to pass to Frederick? That rakish fool is not worthy of a penny of your father’s money.”

Her words were no longer designed to evoke sympathy and concern; they were laced with real fear. Adam risked a glance up at her face, noting the heavy frown that betrayed the import of what she said.

“You will be isolated and alone for the rest of your life, my boy, and you deserve to be happy.”

“Alright!” he snapped, and at her flinch, he lowered his voice and sighed. “Alright,” he repeated more quietly. “I will attend the damned party. Will that do?”

His aunt beamed at him, rising from her chair and walking around the large desk to kiss the top of his head.

“Yes. That will do. You know how grateful I am, and it may not be as terrible as you might assume.”

“You are filling me with confidence.”

She paused her head on one side, staring at the door. “Could I perhaps add a sprig of mistletoe above the threshold?”

“I shall cast it into the fire should you do so,” he replied, a fleeting smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

She sighed and squeezed her fingers around his shoulder. “Light some more candles then. You will go blind before you are five and thirty at this rate.”

She kissed the top of his head once more, a little longer than before, as her hand lingered on his shoulder in an affectionate gesture of support, and then she left him to the gloom.

Adam watched her go, his head beginning to pound with a headache.

Leaning back in his chair, he stared into the flames of the fire, contemplating all she had said, a familiar numbness creeping through his muscles at the prospect of yet another Christmas without his family.

His fingers involuntarily twitched toward the top drawer of his desk, and after a few thoughtful moments, he opened it and drew out the picture of his mother. Her face stared back at him from the gilded frame, more radiant every time he held it. Adam gently ran a finger over it, his thoughts scattering again; his mind filled with Anastasia.

By the time he had thought to have a portrait of his late wife painted it was far too late. The disease that had finally claimed her had stripped all the life and colour from her cheeks. He remembered her as vividly now as ever, but the large portrait in the gallery did not do her justice. He wished he could have commissioned another version of her, one he could have kept with him always.

Rubbing a hand over his forehead, he rose from his chair and stretched. His back clicked violently as he glanced at the clock. He had been working for five hours without a pause, and his body ached damnably.

Standing beside his desk, he was motionless for a few minutes, his gaze fixed on his mother’s face. The late Countess of Bellebrook had been a sensible, gentle-hearted womanwho doted onhim. The memory of her final days still caused a desperate jolt of pain in his chest, and he took a deep breath to banish it.

Even speaking of consumption made him shudder. Any time it was brought up in conversation, he would excuse himself or attempt to rapidly change the subject. He supposed, in some ways, he should be grateful. His mother had been spared the agonies many experienced with that disease, but to him, at just sixteen, he sometimes wondered if he would have preferred a longer farewell.

One morning, the hacking cough she had experienced rattled through the house with morbid regularity. Then, when he had gone in to visit her that afternoon, she was gone. It had broken his heart, and the blasted holly about her bed had forever bound his hatred for the Christmas season ever since.

And then, blissfully, Anastasia had revived it.

Her enthusiasm for all things festive was unquenchable and, ultimately, impossible to ignore. His love for his wife had driven away the sadness he had felt every time Christmas came around each year, and she began to instil in himnew happiness. Their whirlwind courtship had been a joyful, magical time during which the burdens of his life had been cast aside in place of love.

At Christmas, they always sang carols at the piano in Bellebrook Manor, his baritone mixing with her soprano, her laughter echoing through the corridors like a beautiful bell.

But then her voice had faded.

The lung fever that had taken hold of her after only three years of marriage had been rampant and vicious. Adam had grown to hate it more than anything else in his life.

He had been determined to save Anastasia, refusing to watch another woman he loved fade away without a fight. He had spoken to over thirty doctors in the course of the following year. They had tried everything to help her—bleeding, poultices, leeches—and every tonic imaginable.

Some remedies had even seemed to work for a little while, but Anastasia grew steadily weaker and had been bedridden for the final few months of her life. Adam now regretted the madness that had taken hold of him. He had travelled the country to find a cure, taking him away from Anastasia when he should have been at her side.

Only when their physician finally told him the grave truth did he realise the dreadful reality of all that he had wasted and the life he had lost. He had held her hand from that day onwards, and she had clung on for another two months before that dreadful rattling breathing had finally faded entirely.

Her death had almost broken him again, a horrible mixture of the pain of his mother’s passing now inextricably mixed with Anastasia’s too. Only his estate and his work had saved him, and he was disinclined to change that when he brought him such comfort.

He rarely left his office before the evening, and when he wasn’t travelling to see his tenants, he would beat his desk before the lark.

Adam poked at the fire, noting the ink stains all over his hands—he would have to wash before supper. He returned the poker to the stand, holding out his hands before him and examining them. They seemed suddenly old in the firelight, withered by grief, as though he were an elderly man himself. But then he looked again, and they had returned to normal. At two and thirty, he should hardly have felt as late on in years as he did.

Adam rubbed his hand over his face again, angry with himself for allowing his aunt to strongarm him into attending the Sternwood party. She would undoubtedly throw him at every eligible woman available and embarrass him horribly.

Adam grunted irritably and headed to his room to clean the ink from his fingers. He was hungry and out of sorts—perhaps some food and a change in company might improve that a little.

***

After supper, Adam sat in his study with his cousin, Lord Lionel Spencer.

Lionel was every bit the gentleman Adam was not. Although they shared the same blue-green eyes and chiselled features, Lionel was all affable positivity, while Adam was melancholy and withdrawn. His maternal cousin exuded warmth from every pore and was incredibly kind. He had been a steady force for good in Adam’s life and Adam was grateful to call him his closest friend.

They sat before the fire in Adam’s study, Lionel having arrived for supper and remained long into the night as was his wont.

Adam glanced at him over the rim of his brandy glass. Lionel was looking particularly handsome these days. He was five years younger than Adam, but they had been thick as thieves since they were children. His longer-than-fashionable dark hair was swept back from his face, high cheekbones reflecting the firelight.

Adam returned his gaze to the fire as Lionel yawned widely and stretched his long legs out toward the flames.

“What vexes you so?” his cousin asked, his head on one side, eyebrows raised in query.

“Mm?” Adam asked, feigning ignorance, though he knew he had been silent at dinner, and both his aunt and cousin had commented upon it.

“Come now, you are not always the most gregarious, but I have not heard you speak two words tonight. What is it? The Christmas soiree cannot be all bad. At least you do not have to host the thing; that would be far more onerous.” Adam didn’t reply, and his cousin looked over at him with concern. “What is it, dear cousin? You are not yourself.”

“Your mother wants me to remarry,” he said, feeling the bile rise in his throat at the thought. “She has not stopped speaking of it for several weeks.” Lionel remained silent, for which Adam was grateful. “I cannot even conceive of it. Anastasia may have been gone for many years, but her loss is still raw. I do not know if I could entertain thoughts of another, let alone be thrust among several eligible ladies at the party.”

“But these are my mother’s wishes, Bentley, not yours. You do not have to do anything you are not comfortable with.”

“I know, but a part of me is also aware that she is right. She has fears of the line passing to Frederick.”

Lionel grimaced. “Heaven help us all.”

Adam chuckled. “Exactly. If I do not remarry, I will never secure an heir, and a future where Frederick inherits is certain. But I cannot imagine opening my heart again. The loss of losing someone you love—it haunts me still.”

“Of course it does,” Lionel said softly with unending patience. “I have not lost anyone close to me, and for that, I am truly grateful. No one who has not lived it can understand it, and you cannot drag yourself out of grief for your aunt’s benefit.”

Adam stared into the flames, swirling the liquid in his glass and trying to gather his thoughts.

“I do sometimes wonder if it is of my choosing,” he muttered, finally voicing the worry that had plagued him for several months.

“What do you mean by that?” Lionel asked, sitting up a little in his chair.

“It is easy to work, to remain hidden from the world. The festive season holds no joy for me, and it is simpler to continue to hate it than try to love it.” Adam shook his head. “Sometimes it feels as though my mind is steering me down a darker path deliberately. That the darkness is more inviting somehow—easier to be in the shadow than face the light.”

“And if it is?”

Adam looked at him, Lionel’s face was all concern. “You do not think I should fight against the feeling?”

Lionel looked back into the flames, his lips thinning as they compressed together. He took a long sip of his brandy and rested it gently against his knee.

“I would not presume to advise either way. You have seen much pain in your life and have lost a great deal. To guard your heart is ingrained within you, and that is not to be criticised.” Lionel placed his glass on the table between them and leaned forward, fixing Adam with a gentle stare. “But all I will say is that you are your own person. You are free to choose what suits your life, not your aunt’s, not your future fortune. You.”

Adam watched his friend’s earnest gaze become more resolute.

“What you say is true,” Lionel continued. “Pulling oneself out of melancholy takes effort, but you must do it at your own pace. I grant you that the party will be dripping with Christmas cheer, and your damnably handsome face will have the ladies swooning all about the place,” Adam scoffed derisively, “but it will be a chance to allow external influence to move you. Other people’s joy—other people’s company—can be a great help when one is downcast. Nothing is certain except that if you remain in your study throughout the season, nothing with change.”

Adam felt warmth spread through his chest at his cousin’s sentiment. Lionel was not advising him so much as reassuring him. It was a relief, having only had his aunt’s derisive and commanding comments over the past few weeks.

“Thank you,” Adam said. “You are right, of course. And you will be at the party. If it is unbearable, I can spend my time beating you at billiards.”

“Hah! Fat chance of that,” Lionel said good-naturedly and then rose, bowing low to the ground and making Adam laugh before he bid him goodnight.

Adam took his time finishing his own brandy and went up to bed, a little lighter in step than he had been earlier that evening. Villiers, his loyal and meticulous valet, nodded in greeting as Adam entered his bed chamber and set about assisting him to undress. The man was quiet and polite but did not speak over much, which Adam appreciated.

His mind was still a mess of conflicting emotions as he climbed into bed. He was uncertain about what was going to happen, and that in itself was unusual. He had organised his life around routine, ensuring that he always knew what the day would bring. The Sternwood party meant uncertainty and unpredictability, and that could spell disaster.

As he sank into the depths of sleep, Anastasia's face swam before him, vivid, loving, and hauntingly beautiful. She was surrounded by the warm glow of Christmas candlelight, a familiar joy in her eyes. He reached for her, looking forward to holding her in his arms again, but as soon as their fingers touched, he awoke with a start.

The night around him was dark and cold, a flurry of snow pattering against the windowpane. His aunt had placed some holly on the mantelpiece above the fire in his room with a tartan ribbon below it, and he scowled at it angrily.

Grief warred with anticipation in his chest. Despite himself, he could not shake the feeling that the party spelled the beginning of something new. No matter how much he dreaded the prospect, it felt like the tides were shifting toward a different future, but it was unclear whether it would be for good or ill.