Chapter One

Thorneshire Estate, London Countryside, 1811

She stared at him with betrayal in her eyes. That was the first thing he noticed. Not the blood running from her eyes, staining her cheeks and lips red. Not the way she shivered, her wet hair plastered to her neck as if she had been dunked into a pool of water. Not the manner in which her hands flexed at her sides—open and close, open and close, open and close.

It was the raw pain of hurt that shone in those once-beautiful eyes that tore him to shreds.

"You did this," Violet said. "You did not save me."

"I tried to." His words would not reach her. Even as they echoed around him, he could tell she heard nothing.

Her hands closed again. She was in her nightgown, he realized suddenly, the same thing she had been in when she'd passed away. And they were…they were in that room again.

"You should have been there," she said softly. Not soft enough though to keep from slicing through him. "You should have stopped this from happening."

"Violet—"

"No!" Her screech sent him careening to the other side of the room.

"Violet, please!"

"You should have helped me!" she wailed. "You should have—"

Calum shot upright, heaving. Sweat clung to his skin, his heart racing. Another night enduring the same dream. This time, it had taken every strength he possessed to force himself out of it.

Her presence lingered though, as it always did. Night after night, she visited him. And each time, he either suffered through the guilt and pain or forced himself awake when it became too much. Either way, his days were destined to be long and lonesome.

He raked his fingers through his damp hair, trying to calm his breathing. At least he'd slept through the night this time. Most times, he woke in the middle of the night with no hope of resting again. Sunlight peaked through his heavy drapes and the sight was enough to darken his mood. If he had any strength he would pull the drapes fully closed and stew in the darkness.

Violet's pained eyes flashed in his mind again. Calum pulled himself out of the bed, staggering over to the chamber pot. Every step he took filled him with the familiar wave of anger.

Violet was right. He should have been there. If he had been fast enough, if only he hadn't allowed her to leave his side, she would still be here. It was his fault.

With a roar of frustration, he picked up the chamber pot and threw it across the room. The resounding crash gave him a small bit of satisfaction, it wasn't enough though to distract him from the gaping hole in the middle of his chest.

The door burst open and a stocky man with graying hair raced in, panting. His valet, never too far at this hour of the day, looked terrified. "Your Grace? Your Grace!"

"Stop the shouting," Calum grumbled. "I'm right here."

Relief and worry washed over the valet's face the moment he spotted Calum standing near the far corner of the room. He took a tentative step in Calum's direction. "Are you all right, Your Grace? I heard a loud crash and—"

"I am fine." He stared at the mess he'd caused at the other end of the room. "Leave me be."

"But, Your Grace—"

"I said, leave me be!" Calum roared. He whirled on the man, feeling another bite of satisfaction when the concern on his face melted into true fear. "I have no patience for your pity nor do I wish to be in the presence of a bumbling man who can hardly get his words out! Do not let me repeat myself!"

His valet nodded hastily and scrambled out of the room, leaving Calum alone again. Just the way he liked it. He didn't need anyone's empathy when he could hardly muster up any for himself. If he could spend his days alone in his manor, lurking in the darkness with nothing but whiskey as company, it would be a fitting punishment.

But the Duke of Thorneshire had duties. Duties he was content to ignore until they became pressing.

He dressed alone, dragging himself through the motions. He had little urge to leave his chambers but being here only brought back memories of that day with a vengeance. So the next best thing would be to drink his sorrows away until he could remember nothing at all.

Without his valet's help, it took him nearly an hour to don suitable clothing for the day. By the time he was ready to leave his chambers, none of his anger had abated. He marched down the hallway, heading in the direction of his study where he could lock himself away without a soul to bother him.

He had no such luck. The first soul that happened upon him came in the form of kind eyes and homely features.

"Good morning, Your Grace," Mrs. Dawson greeted with a slight curtsy.

Calum forced his scowl into submission. Something about the way she looked at him made him think he didn't do a very good job. "Good morning, Mrs. Dawson."

"How did you sleep?" she asked like she always did. Every day for the past five years now.

"Good," he responded, like he always would even though they both knew that he was lying.

They delved into brief seconds of silence that spoke far too loudly. Calum knew what Mrs. Dawson was thinking. She'd been the manor's housekeeper since he was an infant and understood him far better than he would like. He didn't have to say that he was still in mourning. And she didn't have to say that she prayed day and night for him to be better one day. He didn't like the pity in her eyes any more than he liked it in anyone else's, but Mrs. Dawson was the only servant in the manor he wouldn't dare shout at.

After a long while, she said, "Your breakfast is ready in your study, Your Grace. Should I open the drapes?"

"No." He stalked by her and she fell in step with him, just slightly behind. Calum gritted his teeth.

"It is a lovely morning," she insisted. "Perhaps it shall brighten your mood."

Calum stopped to look at her, barely holding back his scowl.

"Or perhaps it shall not," she said calmly. She clasped her hands in front of her. "I hope you enjoy your meal and your morning nonetheless."

They both knew that was impossible. Calum hadn't enjoyed a single thing since the day Violet died.

But his only response was a curt nod before continuing on his way, grateful that she didn't continue to follow him. He hoped to continue his usual practice of wallowing in his pain alone. Later in the morning, Stephen would find him, he knew. And Calum would have to pretend to listen to everything his cousin said even though they both knew that Stephen would be taking care of his ducal matters anyhow.

For now, he was alone.

For now, he could honor Violet's memory by refusing to live.

The food tasted like ash but Calum barreled through it since it had been a day since he'd eaten a proper meal. His hands moved without thinking, falling back into his old practice of eating anything put in front of him. While his mind and heart lacked an appetite for food, his body still yearned for it.

He finished it quickly and was already heading to the sideboard to pour himself his first glass of whiskey, even though it was still morning. The proper hours to drink did not matter to him any longer.

"Your Grace?' Without waiting for a response, the door opened and his butler stepped in.

"What do you want?" Calum snapped, annoyed.

Unlike the other servants, his butler had mastered the art of hiding his expressions. But Calum knew he feared him. "You have a visitor, Your Grace."

"Are you out of your mind? I am in no mood for company. Send them away."

"I told them, Your Grace, but…" He trailed off, a look of uncertainty cracking his usually placid expression.

Calum glowered at him. "But what?"

"But he knows better than to send me away, that's what." A petite lady breezed past the threshold, stopping in the center of the study. She gave Calum a broad smile. "How lovely to see you up, my dear. Have you had breakfast yet?"

Calum sighed. His godmother, Lady Eleanor Gardner of Yulebridge, was not someone his butler could simply send away. Calum could only imagine how terrible such a conversation would go.

He waved a hand, silently sending his butler away. Then he poured himself his drink, knowing that he would need it in order to get through the conversation he was about to have.

"Why are you here, Eleanor?" he asked wearily.

Eleanor regarded him calmly, saying nothing about the drink in his hand, though he knew she wanted to. She waited until he sank into the chair behind his desk before saying, "I came to check on you. It has been a while, hasn't it?"

"I suppose." He hardly paid attention to the passage of time any longer. The days blended together endlessly.

"A week, I believe," she went on. She began to walk back and forth, her hands folded in front of her. Though a widow and sister to his late father, Eleanor looked half her age, with dark hair barely touched with gray and a nearly wrinkle free face. "It has been so long that I nearly forgot that you are a paramour of liquor."

Calum regarded his aunt with thinly veiled annoyance. He was in no mood for her dramatics today. "Is there a reason you've paid me a visit so early?"

"Yes," she answered simply. "But can't I ask you how you are feeling first?"

"Right now? I am a bit irritated."

"That is a pity." Her bottom lip popped out in a pout. "I believe what I am about to say will only irritate you further."

Calum braced himself. That didn't sound good.

She continued to walk back and forth in silence. Calum watched her, sipping his whiskey as he tried to wait it out.

At last, she said, "Very well, I shall simply be direct and speak my mind. I have come to invite you to attend my annual spring ball next week."

"No."

His response came so quickly that she started, blinking at him. "Perhaps you should give it a bit of thought before you answer, Calum."

"There is no need to. I cannot think of anything I would hate more than to attend a ball."

"It is not as bad as you think," she insisted. She finally sat in one of the armchairs facing the desk, looking distressed. "You once enjoyed them, if you can recall."

There were many things Calum once enjoyed. Now he hardly tolerated opening his eyes in the mornings. "I will not be attending the ball, Eleanor."

"Well, I will not be taking no for an answer," she insisted. "Need I remind you that you are the Duke of Thorneshire? You have duties to fulfill and right now, the most important duty is securing the dukedom by producing an heir."

"An heir?" Calum echoed, incredulous. How could she suggest such a thing after what happened five years ago?

She nodded, lips pulled into a tight line of determination. "Yes, an heir." Then she reached across the table to touch his hand gently. "I understand your pain, Calum. I do. Losing someone you love so suddenly takes something from you than cannot easily be recovered."

Calum said nothing, fighting the urge to tell her that no one could possibly understand him. He'd been there when Eleanor's husband died. Since she'd been quite young when she married, and her husband had been a wealthy but elderly viscount, one would think she would be relieved when he finally passed. But Calum knew Eleanor had grown to love her late husband. And the loss of his absence was void not easily filled.

But he died peacefully in his sleep, at an age that would be deemed easy to accept by those who loved him. Violet had been young. They'd just begun their life together. One minute she was there and the next she was gone.

Calum didn't need to say the words, he realized, because Eleanor looked at him as if she knew what he did not speak aloud. Even so, she continued, "Your father would want you to carry on your name, Calum. The Hawthorn legacy and the Thorneshire dukedom cannot end with you."

She just knew to strike him where it hurt. Calum avoided her eyes, finishing the rest of his drink. "It's too soon," he pushed out.

"It's been five years," she countered. "If left to yourself, you will mourn her forever."

"There is nothing wrong with that," he snapped without thinking.

Eleanor didn't draw back. Instead, she curled her fingers around his, eyes softening. "I don't want you to lose who you are by the end of it, Calum. You must remember your duties. And perhaps finding someone to share your company may bring some sunlight to your dark days."

That he sincerely doubted. There was no brightening his days. He was destined to mourn Violet for as long as he lived, giving up pieces of himself if that was what it took to atone for his sins.

But he didn't dare to voice such morose thoughts to his aunt. He knew she worried about him enough already.

"Just attend the ball," she urged again. "That is all I ask. And then we can take it from there."

Calum heaved a sigh. She was right. Even though he hated to admit it, he would be doing a disservice to his late father if he let their name die with him. The duties he had been running from all this time were finally catching up to him.

"Just the ball then," he conceded at last.

Eleanor's face lit up with pleasure. "Marvelous! You shall not regret it, I assure you."

Calum sincerely doubted that. He said nothing though as he stood to get his next drink. This time, he brought the decanter back to the desk, ignoring Eleanor's look of disapproval.

Even though she'd succeeded in what she had come here to do, Eleanor did not seem to be in any urgency to leave. Calum sat back and listened as she talked about trivial nonsense like conversations she'd had with her friends or upcoming events she was excited about. He knew what she was trying to do—filling the emptiness with lively chatter. Perhaps she hoped that he would not feel too lonely. Calum left her be and at one point, he fell so deeply into his thoughts that he hardly heard a word she said.

After a while, there was a knock on the door. "Calum?" came Stephen's low baritone.

"Oh, Stephen, come!" Eleanor responded before Calum got the chance.

Stephen slipped into the room bearing the account books in one hand. He pushed his spectacles up his nose, looking mildly surprised at Eleanor's presence. "Aunt Eleanor, I am surprised to see you here."

"Yes, well, I had something important to speak with Calum about," she explained, rising. "But I shall take my leave now. I see that you two are about to talk about more important things than my silly gossip."

It occurred to Calum that he should walk her to the front door. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, the way he was raised by his upright parents. But he stayed seated, like the heavy hand of lingering sorrow was keeping him in his seat.

Eleanor flashed Calum a smile that was laced with her own sorrow. He could only imagine how difficult it was for her to see him this way, but he didn't allow himself to linger on it. This was who he was now. A shell of his former self without Violet.

Stephen straightened as Eleanor drew closer. "Allow me to—"

"Don't you worry," she said, laying a hand on his chest as she went by. "I am confident in my ability to navigate my way out. Don't forget I have been wandering these hallways far before you boys were born."

Stephen was polite enough to offer up a laugh for that. Calum was not. Thankfully, his aunt did not stay any longer, leaving him alone with his cousin.

He sighed heavily. He supposed his lonely morning was not going to be as lonely as he hoped.

Stephen turned to him and Calum didn't have to look at his face to know he wore a quizzical expression. "What was that about?"

Calum heaved another sigh. "Eleanor thought it fit to invite me to her upcoming spring ball."

"Ball?" Stephen sounded incredulous. He drew nearer, sinking into the same armchair Eleanor had just vacated. "Why would she do that?"

"She believes that it is time for me to bear an heir." Saying it aloud sounded like a betrayal. How could he even think about tying himself to another lady?

"Hm." Stephen said nothing and they lapsed into silence as he laid out the account books. Calum ignored him. He knew what that sound meant. Either he disapproved of the idea or was waiting for the right moment to voice his opinion. He hoped it was the former—that way, Stephen would keep it to himself.

So Calum felt a bite of surprise when Stephen said, "I do not think that is a good idea."

Calum frowned a little. "You do not?"

Stephen shook his head, pushing his spectacles back up his nose. Calum couldn't understand why he didn't buy a smaller pair since those were clearly too big. Or had his face just gotten slimmer? Stephen had always been quite lanky with slim features, from the slant of his nose to the jut of his chin to his bony limbs.

"Allow me to be precise," Stephen said, which was odd since he was nothing but precise. "What I mean to say is that such a thing makes me a bit trepidant. Reemerging in society amongst the gossip that spreads like wildfire about you may only harm your reputation further rather than aid it."

Calum's frown only deepened at that. "Not that it matters to me but I do not care about my reputation. You know that."

"I know." Stephen regarded him evenly. "But such gossip hinges on your late wife's name. Whispers will begin once more regarding her mysterious death."

"There was nothing mysterious about it," Calum pushed through gritted teeth. This conversation was quickly going into territory that he could not handle. "She died of natural causes", he said, even though in his mind he could feel that the cause of her death was inexplicable.

"I know that," Stephen stated calmly. "But the ton cares not about the truth. Only about what sounds more interesting."

"Enough," Calum snapped. "I do not want to talk about this."

"Very well. But consider my words, cousin. I only speak in your best interest."

Calum didn't grace that with a response and Stephen didn't seem to care about receiving one. Ever the diligent one, he began the task of reviewing the account books, clearly unperturbed by Calum's lack of interest in what he was doing. Calum would not have been able to participate even if he wanted to. Not when the only thing he could think about was Violet. Her memory, her death. They warred together in his head, driving him to drink more.

They were both right. Deep down, he knew it. If he dared to step out into society, rumors will rise once more about how his wife died. If he continued to hide away in his manor, he may lose the chance to bear an heir and pass on his name.

Calum finished his drink and poured himself another. All of a sudden, the full decanter of whiskey didn't seem nearly enough.