Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Two Years Later

Marjorie waited in the carriage as the crowd filed into the auditorium. Like any true wallflower, she didn't love crowds. But it was more than that.

Percy was reading this evening.

The viscount was suddenly a sensation. All of London was abuzz about his gothic novel. Marjorie couldn't bring herself to read it. Thinking of all the time they spent discussing ideas and themes, when ultimately, he vanished on her. She had allowed him into her room one more time. This time, losing her virtue in the process, then her betrothed.

At first, the excuses seemed logical enough. He was busy with the estate. He wanted to focus so they could be married. But then his letters stopped, and her attention toward securing his began to reek of desperation, and she hated it.

Very well. She was now a bitter, ruined woman. And perhaps it was a bit self-serving, but she couldn't fight her curiosity any longer. It had been eight long months since they had last seen one another. And it was awkward at that. She had been forced to go shopping with her mother on Bond Street, and Percy had caught her bonnet, which had accidentally blown off her head. He hadn't even looked her in the eyes when he returned it.

Marjorie clenched her fists, spotting her dear friend Lady Georgiana waiting outside of the auditorium, nervously searching the crowd for her with dark chestnut eyes.

Gray clouds hung low in the September sky, threatening a shower at any moment. With a deep sigh, she finally slipped out of the carriage and crossed the busy street, happy to see at least one friendly face.

"Georgie, it's so nice to see you. Thank you for coming."

"Of course, Marjorie."

Lady Georgiana, much like Marjorie, enjoyed the written word and hated crowds. Her friend was painfully soft-spoken and just as meek. And where Marjorie often sought refuge from her parents and their ridiculous parties, Georgie sought to escape her father and older brother. Both men had a terrible reputation in London as of late, and it was well-known their estate was in shambles. Georgie quietly mused to Marjorie that she would be pleased to be made a spinster at their hands if it didn't mean remaining with them until she landed in a workhouse.

Marjorie slipped her hand through her friend's arm, sensing her unease, and steered her into the crowded building. The space fell into an excited hush, as if filled with busy worker bees, waiting for the queen.

Suddenly, the viscount was the prodigal son of London. Everyone adored him, and the idea that they were ever to be married was nothing more than sweet-whispered nothings.

She was firmly a wallflower with no chance of ever catching the eye of another. And while it hurt to admit it, she longed for love. It was ironic, considering a woman in her circumstance didn't need a man. She made a living by her pen.

Or had.

Her last novel, released three months prior, was the first to fail to reach any sort of acclaim. She knew she could do better. And now she must if she were ever to compete with the viscount. Unlike him, she wasn't able to do public appearances. She relied on reviews and readers recommending her work to others. She was forced to hide behind a male name.

She swallowed and averted her eyes as she made her way inside, quickly nodding her hellos to anyone who addressed her. The tips of her fingers were strikingly cold as she entered, setting eyes on the viscount laughing with a group of his friends.

"What a turn out," Georgie whispered beside her. "I knew Percy wrote, but I had no idea his talent would warrant this." She waved her hand around, then snapped it to her side to hide the large rip by her thumb. "I've been meaning to mend that."

"I might have a pair for you. To lend you, I mean…" Marjorie was careful never to imply Georgie needed anything. As kind and sweet as she was, she was also prideful and saw it as her position within the household to care for her older brother and her father, the Marquess of Quintrell, after her mother passed away five years earlier.

Her heart fluttered in her chest like it always had when he was near. Annoying as it was now.

Once he had chased her, begging for a kiss. Once, she had given in to temptation and shared her bed with him. It was such an intimate knowing to suddenly find yourself strangers.

He quickly cut her with a sweeping glance before continuing his conversation. Barely even a pause. Nothing.

The man she had foolishly loved for nearly three years. Even when he had disappeared after their night together, she hadn't relinquished hope.

Then she spotted her sitting in the front row. Miss Ellen Somerset, preening and gossiping with the other debutantes.

Hope died the moment Marjorie read the gossip rags to discover the newly celebrated viscount was courting the diamond of the Season. There was no way she could compete with the likes of Ellen.

"Miss Merryweather, are your parents accompanying you this evening?" an elderly gentleman asked. She shook her head, too upset to speak just then. Instead, she waved behind her, motioning to her lady's maid following close behind. "And Lady Georg?—"

"Very well. Have a seat. The viscount is about to begin."

In the countryside, she might run wild, but in London she still strived to be perceived as palatable. Wallflower or not, she still had a desire to be married one day.

"Thank you. Lady Georgiana was kind enough to attend with me," she said, softer than she would have liked. She didn't care to be talked over or barked at. And she couldn't in good conscience allow him to dismiss her friend so easily.

"It's fine," Georgie whispered, her cheeks now matching the strawberry-blonde locks pulled harshly beneath a short silk bonnet of faded ink blue.

Georgie grabbed a program and sat, tugging on Marjorie's hand until she was seated. She promptly removed her fan from her reticule to hide behind as Percy made his way to the podium.

"Good evening," the older gentleman said with a smile. "What an honor. What an honor, indeed. Please have a seat."

Another man, shorter and nearly bald, stood next and introduced the viscount. Marjorie only rolled her eyes three times before he returned and opened his novel.

He cleared his throat, flashing a quick glance in her direction. She felt a blush burn her cheeks and pulled her attention away.

"I'll be reading tonight from my novel, The Cursed Bride of Hollow Hill . In this chapter, the dastardly villain has kidnapped the heroine, but they are set upon by some highwaymen, and… Well, I don't wish to ruin it for anyone. I will only say… nothing is as it seems."

Percy stood before everyone, calm and confident, and his voice was perfectly steady, as though he had practiced for months.

But that didn't account for the way Marjorie's stomach twisted, or the sour taste in her mouth, or the way she could finish his sentences before he finished.

No, she wasn't a minder reader, though that might be more believable.

Marjorie had set the manuscript aside two years prior, frustrated with a needling plot point, and fell in love with her current novel.

Set aside, on her desk.

She dropped her fan, certain she might either scream or faint. But her body remained frozen, sitting as she should as she listened to the viscount read her book to a large, hungry crowd.

Her words claimed as his in front of all of London.

Percy had stolen her manuscript. All her work, now his.

And while she sat there, struck, and the world whirled around her, he couldn't find it within himself to even acknowledge her.

No, no, no.

"Marjorie?"

Georgie's concern rang in her ears, but she couldn't speak. Couldn't…

"Marjorie, dear, are you quite sure you are well?"

No, she was certain she was struck mad because as she glared at him from her seat, she vowed she would have her revenge, but first she needed help.

There was no time to waste. She left the next morning for the country.

* * *

Fluent in five languages. Versed well in the classics. And particularly excellent at grasping mathematical concepts. The education befitting of a duke, certainly.

Alfie excelled at each discipline. But that didn't explain why he couldn't turn the handle to his bedchamber to exit to the hallway.

He stood there, shoulders slumped, scratching the dark scruff on his jaw. Puzzled.

It was only the hallway to his childhood home. He knew what lay beyond. There were no surprises lurking. There was no one else in residence beyond his valet and the rest of the house staff. But he couldn't find it within himself to turn that knob.

He dragged in a breath, feeling the icy dread creep up his spine as his heart began drumming in his ears.

Every. Time.

He released the doorknob and spun, collapsing against the door, then sliding to the floor into a heap. He clutched his head and rocked, waiting for the worst of it to subside. Certain he was going mad.

Imagine that—the new Duke of Abinger deemed unfit to take on the title and all the responsibilities. He couldn't hide away forever.

Over a year since he had returned. A year since he had left to find his younger brother, who had been declared missing after fighting the French. And what had Alfie succeeded at? He discovered his brother's body at Waterloo. Was then himself severely injured in a carriage accident and finally returned to bury his father. All in four short months.

And since then, that doorknob stood between him and the rest of England.

Damn it.

His hand shook as he bent in half, breathing in and out, trying his best to stay present. But even after all this time, it was never easy.

There had been so much blood. And the noise. Christ, the noise.

His heart rattled against his chest, and he wasn't sure now if he was crying or screaming—or if those were memories as well—when suddenly a gust of wind licked the side of his face, and he snapped to attention.

A figure crawled through the window, hooking a leg over the ledge before pulling themselves through. After the accident, his long limbs weren't as fast. He was all gangly and awkward, like he was back in Eton again, but that didn't stop Alfie from reaching beside him and hurling a book across the room at the figure.

"Ouch, Alfie!"

Of course. He hadn't seen her in three years, but Marjorie Merryweather was still well on her way to seeing him to an early grave. He forced himself up and strode across his room, where he stood above the figure of his neighbor, the girl next door, collapsed on the floor, rubbing her head.

"There are doors for a reason."

Even though he wished to bend down and examine her head, he remained still.

"Yes, but the butler told me you weren't accepting visitors. Seeing as I need?—"

"A letter then."

She sat up and frowned. "You haven't replied to that stack." Marjorie pointed to the enormous stack of letters gathered in a bin on his desk. "Too much to do?"

Well, it wasn't as though he needed to explain himself to her. So, he wouldn't.

"Did I hurt you?" He clenched his fists at his side to stop himself from touching her as he slowly inhaled. Alfie wasn't sure he was quite himself yet. He didn't trust himself to be around her. He couldn't live with himself if he hurt her. "I apologize."

Marjorie was tall and slender, with large dark brown eyes and brunette hair. She had always considered herself plain. Alfie had long considered her to be the most beautiful woman in the world. But alas, she had kept the desires of her heart a close secret. And his parents made it clear he was never to pursue a relationship with any Merryweather, having a strong distaste for the acting family.

She reached out for his hand, and he hesitated before turning his palm over for her to grab. He pretended as if he didn't notice it trembling. And he could tell she did as well. He hated her a little for it.

Three years .

He pressed his lips together, careful to mask his surprise.

She grimaced as he helped to haul her to her feet. She sprang forward, nearly colliding with him, and without thinking, he reached behind her and steadied her with his free hand at her waist.

"Hello, Alfie," she said, blinking up at him.

Deep brown eyes, dark and full of mysteries. They were hard to miss when she wore her favorite color—peacock teal.

He might have been in hell since they last saw each other but hearing her voice? Smelling her perfume? After she left, he would be a man punished all over again. He was holding the one woman in England his parents had forbidden him to court.

The only woman he had ever loved.

"Hello, Marjorie." He was careful not to smile, or maybe he was too distracted. He couldn't help but fall into her kind eyes then, wishing to kiss her.

Christ, how he had dreamt of it all these years.

Instead, she broke out of her reverie and laughed, shaking her head from side to side before stepping out of his touch.

"I forgot I'm mad at you."

"How? I haven't seen you."

"Precisely." She clasped her hands behind her back and turned to survey his room. "The butler told me you aren't accepting visitors. When I pressed, he admitted you haven't left your rooms."

Well, that would be a discussion for later.

"Did you know my mother was away? Or have you grown brave?"

She scoffed, sitting down on the chaise drenched in morning sunshine. "I'm not afraid of your mother."

He snickered at her eye roll. They both knew she was terrified of the formidable duchess. The woman had made it her mission in life to keep Alfie away from Marjorie once she discovered their budding friendship.

No Merryweather will ever become duchess , she had coldly declared.

But Alfie was duke now, and if he could find it within himself to leave these damn rooms, he might have a word or two with his mother regarding who he could or could not marry.

Alfie shuffled forward and grabbed the teapot off the silver tray resting on the brocade ottoman. He poured her a cup of tea and added a pinch of sugar, just like she preferred, and handed it to Marjorie.

The light washed over her, and he noticed her eyes were swollen.

"Have you been crying?"

"Are you going to continue ignoring my questions?"

"What questions?"

She looked down at her teacup as if to hide the smile at the corner of her lips. He loved these small moments between them, the ones suggesting there was a private jest between them. A shared intimacy.

He didn't want her here. Not really. Definitely not when he was out of sorts.

"Why are you here?" he asked instead of answering. "In my rooms, alone. That is risky, even for you."

"Don't send me away. I need your help, Alfie."