Prologue
Five Years Ago
The soft, rhythmic breathing of his horse and the faint rustling of hay underfoot provided Tristan with a much-needed escape. The spacious stables of the Barrington estate, a refuge from the constraints of nobility and duty, had always been his sanctuary. Surrounded by the rich, familiar scents of leather and straw, he felt, if only momentarily, liberated from his title.
His fingers brushed through his steed’s mane, the silky strands sliding through his fingers like whispers of a past life—one free from the weight of responsibility.
However, the reverie was soon shattered by the unmistakable echo of approaching footsteps. As they grew louder and more urgent, Tristan’s shoulders stiffened, a subtle display of his mounting anxiety.
Before long, the figure of his younger brother, Nicholas, emerged from the dim walkway of the stables. The usually light-hearted and jovial expression that graced Nicholas’s face was now replaced with one of palpable distress.
“Tristan,” Nicholas’s voice held an edge of frustration, “you can’t keep disappearing like this. Especially not now.”
Tristan met Nicholas’s gaze, attempting to maintain a facade of indifference. “There’s nothing amiss, Nick. I merely sought solace with my horse.”
Nicholas took a deep breath, his hands clenching and unclenching in a futile attempt to contain his mounting irritation. “It’s not just about today. You’ve been absent for far too long. Your Grand Tour, your indulgence with friends—it all took precedence, even as our father’s health deteriorated.”
There it was, the root of Nicholas’s distress laid bare. The two brothers locked eyes, the weight of unspoken words heavy between them.
The air grew heavy with the memories of their father’s last days, and the tangible gap Tristan’s absence had created. The mourning period was still fresh, and the stark absence of their father from the estate was felt in every echoing footstep and every vacant room.
“You were not here,” Nicholas began, his voice choked with emotion, “when Father asked for you. Night after night, he’d ask if there was any word from you, hoping you’d return to be by his side. Do you have any idea how it felt, Tristan, to see the hope fade from his eyes each time I had to tell him you weren’t back yet?”
Tristan swallowed hard, the gravity of Nicholas’s words hitting him like a physical blow. His usually poised and confident demeanour was shattered, replaced by a raw vulnerability. “I… I never meant for it to be like this,” he whispered, his voice quaking with emotion. “I thought… I thought I had more time. I needed space, Nick. Space to think, to find myself. The weight of this title, this legacy—it’s suffocating.”
Nicholas’s gaze softened slightly, but the pain was still evident. “Tristan, we all feel the weight, but avoiding it won’t make it go away. Father carried it, and he did so with grace and strength. He believed you could do the same.”
Tristan ran a hand through his hair, his eyes misting. He hated Nicholas to see him so distraught, and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, how do we know I will live up to his expectations?”
Nicholas sighed, stepping closer to his older brother. “You don’t have to be him, Tristan, but you do have to be here. You have to face the challenges, learn, grow, and lead. That’s what it means to be the Earl of Ellington.”
A heavy silence settled between the two, interrupted only by the distant whinny of a horse. Tristan’s thoughts were a whirlwind of regret, fear, and uncertainty. Amidst the storm, a seed of determination began to take root.
Nicholas took a deep breath, his posture straightening, a sense of purpose washing over him. “Do you recall the tale of our great-grandfather, Colin Barrington? He faced trials that would have broken lesser men, yet he emerged as one of the most influential figures of his time. Our family legacy, Tristan, is built upon such stories of perseverance, grit, and honour.”
Tristan nodded, his gaze fixed on Nicholas, willing himself to draw strength from the tales of their forebears. “Yes, I remember Father mentioning him, but I never heard the entire story.”
A wistful smile played on Nicholas’s lips. “It was decades ago, of course. Nearly a century ago, in fact. England was in turmoil, the Monarchy was restored, and our great-grandfather, Colin, was but a young nobleman, fresh out of Oxford. When most were indulging in the pleasures of the court, Colin chose a different path. He saw the widespread poverty, the injustice, and the disparity that plagued our nation. Rather than turn a blind eye, he invested his fortune, time, and energy into establishing trade routes and partnerships that not only increased the wealth of the Barrington estate but also brought prosperity to countless families across the land.”
Tristan listened intently, absorbing every detail. “I remember Father mentioning the Barrington Trade Company, but I never realized the scope of our great grandfather’s work.”
Nicholas continued, his voice filled with pride. “He faced immense challenges—piracy on the high seas, corrupt officials, even betrayal from those he considered allies. He never wavered. Once, one of his largest ships, the ‘Maiden’s Voyage’, was taken captive by pirates. He didn’t resort to violence. Instead, he negotiated, leveraging his vast network of contacts, ensuring not only the return of his ship and its cargo but also forging a truce that led to safer trade routes for all English merchants.”
“He wasn’t just a shrewd businessman,” Nicholas emphasized. “He cared deeply for his people. Under his guidance, the Barrington estate became a haven for the needy, with educational initiatives and employment opportunities. His legacy wasn’t just wealth, Tristan. It was hope.”
There was a long pause as Tristan took a moment to digest the weight of the story. “And yet,” he began slowly, “while I’m in awe of our great grandfather’s achievements, it only amplifies my fears. How can I, with all my flaws and insecurities, ever hope to match the greatness of our ancestors? The shoes of our esteemed forebears appear immeasurably magnanimous to step into.
Nicholas stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be our great grandfather or our father. You only need to be the best version of yourself. Their legacy isn’t about mirroring their every accomplishment, but about carrying forward their values, their integrity, and their commitment to duty.”
Nicholas’s gaze never wavered from Tristan’s. The stillness of the stables, punctuated only by the soft shuffle of horses, seemed to magnify the weight of their conversation. For a moment, neither spoke, each lost in his own thoughts.
It was Tristan who finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “Nick, what if… what if I falter? What if the choices I make lead to ruin?”
Nicholas’s expression was a mix of exasperation and concern. “Every leader faces doubts, Tristan. Every decision carries a weight. You’ve been trained, prepared for this since you were a child. Father didn’t raise a weakling.”
Tristan’s fingers clenched, the knuckles white against the backdrop of his gloved hand. “It’s not about training. It’s… It’s the weight of expectation. Every glance, every whisper in those grand halls seems to be measuring me against him, against our ancestors. It feels as if I’m forever in their shadows.”
Nicholas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you think Father didn’t feel the same? Or Grandfather? Every Barrington has felt the weight of the generations before him. Yet they all rose to the occasion. You must as well.”
“I’m trying,” Tristan admitted, his voice catching slightly. “There are moments, fleeting though they may be, when I wish… when I wish I could be anywhere but here. A simple man with simple concerns.”
Nicholas’s eyes flared with a rare anger. “You cannot afford such fantasies, Tristan! There are hundreds of people, our people, who depend on the choices you make. They don’t have the luxury to dream of other lives. Neither do you.”
Swallowing hard, Tristan straightened, attempting to mask his vulnerability with a veneer of poise. “I understand my responsibilities, Nicholas. I don’t need constant reminders.”
The tension between the brothers was palpable, the air charged with a mix of frustration and concern.
Nicholas winced, visibly trying to rein in his emotions. “Behold, Tristan, I comprehend the arduousness of your situation. I discern the burdensome load you bear, the uncertainties that haunt you. You must apprehend my fervent endeavours to spur you forth. The moment you show weakness, even for a second, there are those in the shadows waiting to exploit it.”
A heavy silence settled between them before Tristan whispered, “I just want to be enough, Nick. For our legacy, for our people, and yes, for myself.”
Nicholas’s hard facade softened slightly. “You are enough; but you need to believe it. Not just in the stillness of the stables, but in the cacophony of the ballrooms, the council chambers, and the courtyards…”
As Tristan hastily unhooked his horse’s saddle, the urgency of his movements betrayed the tumult of emotions coursing through him. With a swift motion, he mounted the stallion, eager to put distance between himself and the raw intensity of his conversation with Nicholas.
“Tristan!” Nicholas shouted, his voice laced with a mix of exasperation and concern. “Where are you going?”
Tristan didn’t respond. The pounding hooves and the rush of wind seemed to drown out everything else. He raced towards the city, drawn not by its bustling life but by the sheer need to be away from the estate, away from the heavy weight of his legacy.
After a few miles, he slowed the horse to a trot, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. He was on the outskirts of London, the vibrant heart of the city beckoning him, its nightlife promising oblivion and escape. As the tempting lights grew closer, doubt began to gnaw at him. Was he running away? Was this what a responsible Earl would do? This was exactly what Nicholas had criticized him for.
His reverie was interrupted by the rapid approach of another horse. Glancing over his shoulder, he recognized the familiar figure of Nicholas, galloping hard to catch up with him.
Tristan sighed, slowing his pace further, allowing Nicholas to draw alongside him. The brothers rode in silence for a few minutes, the tension between them palpable.
Finally, Nicholas broke the silence, his voice gentle. “I ought not to have pressed you so vigorously.”
Tristan shook his head, his jaw tight. “It’s not your words, Nicholas. It’s the truth in them. I feel trapped, suffocated by this… this mantle I’m expected to wear.”
Nicholas looked at him earnestly. “You’re not alone in this, Tristan. You have me, you have our family. And while the weight of our legacy is indeed heavy, you don’t have to shoulder it alone.”
Tristan laughed bitterly, “Yet every time I falter, every time I show a hint of vulnerability, I’m reminded of my inadequacy. It gives the sensation that I am constantly treading upon a delicate thread.”
Nicholas sighed, “I understand your frustrations, truly, I do. Running away, seeking solace in the city’s distractions, is not the answer though.”
Tristan looked toward the city lights, their allure dimming slightly. “I just… I just need some air, some space to think.”
With a soft sigh, Nicholas conceded. “All right,” he said, voice tired. “Come home when you’re ready.”
With that, he turned to depart, his horse’s hooves rhythmically beating against the ground as he receded into the distance. Tristan was once again left in solitude.
Chapter One
The dimly lit study was filled with the scent of leather and aged paper. Sitting behind his imposing mahogany desk, Tristan rubbed his temples in a vain attempt to soothe the pounding headache that served as a constant reminder of the previous night’s excesses. The hazy memories were a whirlwind of cards, dice, laughter, and the intoxicating blend of adrenaline and drink.
His favoured club, the Gentlemen’s Club, was one of the few places in London where he felt genuinely free. Tucked away in a discreet corner of the city, it was frequented by men of his ilk—nobles who sought refuge from the prying eyes of society. Men who, like him, wore their rogue status like a badge of honour.
Lord Geoffrey, Tristan’s partner in many a mischief, had been beside him the previous night, their laughter echoing through the club as they threw caution—and often, sense—to the wind. The two of them shared a unique bond, a camaraderie that had seen them through many adventures and misadventures alike.
“Another round, Tristan?” Geoffrey had asked, the glint in his eyes betraying the challenge. As always, Tristan had accepted, pushing the stakes higher, the thrill of the gamble drowning out the incessant whispers of doubt and pain that lurked in the recesses of his mind.
As he leaned back in his chair, Tristan’s thoughts wandered to the numerous mistresses he’d wooed over the years. Each relationship had been marked by passion and extravagance, with Tristan gifting them jewels, dresses, and trinkets that became the talk of London. Yet, none of them had truly captured his heart. They were distractions, fleeting moments of pleasure and escape.
The velvet-lined box in his desk drawer held tokens of those past liaisons—a sparkling diamond necklace given to Lady Isabella, a delicate pearl tiara for Miss Clara, and countless other trinkets, each a testament to Tristan’s generosity and his desire to drown his sorrows in the comforts of companionship.
Yet, with every new scandal, every whispered rumour, the rift between him and his brother Nicholas only widened. Nicholas, ever the dutiful sibling, viewed Tristan’s dalliances and reckless behaviour with disdain, often reminding him of the honour and responsibility that came with their title.
“Why, Tristan?” Nicholas had once asked him, shortly before he had vanished abroad, his voice filled with genuine confusion and concern. “Why this path of self-destruction?”
Tristan could never truly convey the depth of his anguish, the haunting memories that played in an endless loop in his mind, the regrets and conjectures that weighed him down. The clubs, the gambling, the mistresses—they were his coping mechanisms, a way to blur the painful edges of reality, even if just for a while.
However, the stack of invoices piled haphazardly on the far end of his desk served as a stark reminder of the debts he was accruing. Every extravagant night out, every bottle of champagne, every gem-encrusted gift — they all added up. Tristan, ensnared by the allure of distraction, had neglected his financial realities, letting the bills accumulate.
His mind’s feeble attempts to ignore the growing financial burden were thwarted when he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching. Before Tristan could properly process the impending confrontation, the door swung open to reveal the stern figure of Mr. Ainsley.
Mr. Ainsley had been a trusted advisor to the Barrington estate for decades, watching over its finances and ensuring that the legacy remained robust. Today, however, the lines on his face seemed deeper, his expression more severe. He held a leather folio, thick with the most recent financial statements and invoices.
“Lord Ellington,” he began with a formal nod, “I believe we have matters of urgency to discuss.”
Trying to retain some semblance of dignity, Tristan gestured to a chair opposite his desk. “Mr. Ainsley, please have a seat.”
Without wasting any time, Mr. Ainsley opened the folio, spreading out an array of bills across the desk. The luxurious crests of London’s elite establishments stared back at Tristan, each detailing his expenditures, a testament to nights of frivolity and recklessness.
Mr. Ainsley cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. “These, my lord, represent just a fraction of the debts accumulated in the past few months. It is becoming… problematic.”
Tristan’s eyes flitted across the bills, the numbers a blur. He tried to summon some form of defence, but words eluded him. His actions were laid out, bare for scrutiny, and the weight of Mr. Ainsley’s judgment was palpable.
“And these,” Mr. Ainsley continued, pulling out a separate stack, “are invoices from jewellers, boutiques, and perfumeries. I dare say these purchases were not for personal use.”
Feeling the flush rise to his cheeks, Tristan swallowed hard. The truth was evident; these were the indulgences he had showered upon his mistresses.
Attempting to break the building tension, Tristan said, “I am aware of my… indulgences, Mr. Ainsley. Surely the Barrington estate can handle it?”
Mr. Ainsley’s gaze didn’t waver. “An estate’s wealth is not limitless, my lord. With your responsibilities as the Earl, certain expenditures are expected. This…” He waved a hand over the sprawled invoices, “This is jeopardising the very future of the Barrington name.”
Tristan felt the weight of the reality crashing down on him. His escapades, once a source of distraction, now felt like chains binding him to a sinking ship. The gravity of his actions, the consequences they bore not just for him but for the Barrington legacy, gnawed at him. He had to find a way to set things right, but for now, all he could muster was, “What do you suggest we do, Mr. Ainsley?”
A heavy silence settled in the room after Tristan’s question. Mr. Ainsley leaned back in his chair, the soft creak of leather punctuating the stillness. His eyes, usually sharp and businesslike, held a depth of concern that reached beyond the pile of bills on the desk.
“Lord Ellington,” he began, his voice measured, “my concerns are not solely about the estate’s finances. They’re about the legacy—the honour of the Barrington name. Your ancestors built this legacy with hard work, integrity, and dedication. It is a name that commands respect and admiration throughout England.”
Tristan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the weight of his advisor’s words pressing down on him. Ainsley continued, “Your current… escapades, if they were to become the talk of the town, could severely tarnish the reputation your family has built over centuries.”
Tristan’s gaze flitted towards the window, where the Barrington crest—two crossed swords beneath a noble lion—was etched into the glass. It was a constant reminder of the honour and duty he had inherited, but lately, it felt more like a noose around his neck.
Sensing Tristan’s discomfort, Ainsley softened his tone, “My lord, I’ve known you since you were but a child. I’ve watched you grow, and I’ve seen the challenges you’ve faced, especially after the passing of your father. But the path you’re currently on, is not one befitting an Earl, especially not of the Barrington lineage.”
Feeling cornered, Tristan snapped, “What do you propose then, Mr. Ainsley? That I lock myself away and turn a blind eye to the pleasures of the world?”
Ainsley met Tristan’s outburst with a calm resolve. “No, my lord. I merely suggest a course correction. A way to both enjoy the life you’ve been granted and uphold the responsibilities you’ve inherited.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Go on.”
Drawing a deep breath, Ainsley said, “A union, my lord. A marriage to a respectable lady of noble birth. Such an alliance would not only benefit the Barrington estate but also reassure society of your commitment to preserving the family’s honour.”
Tristan flinched as though a sudden blow had struck him. Marriage? The thought was suffocating. Chains of commitment and duty binding him forever, leaving no room for the life of freedom he so desperately craved.
“Marriage?” he echoed, his voice laced with disbelief. “You think shackling myself to a wife will solve everything?”
Mr. Ainsley nodded gravely, “It is not just about solving problems, My Lord. It’s about forging alliances, building bonds, and ensuring the Barrington name continues to thrive. A wife can be a partner, a confidante, and a beacon of stability in these tumultuous times.”
A battle raged within Tristan. The pull of duty against the desire for freedom. The need to protect his family’s legacy against his longing for uninhibited joy.
Ainsley, interpreting Tristan’s silence as contemplation, pressed on, “Consider it, my lord. The right match could bring not just respectability but also happiness.”
The room was once again cloaked in silence, broken only by the ticking of the ornate clock on the mantle. Tristan’s mind raced, grappling with the weight of the decision before him. Would he choose duty over desire? Only time would tell.
As Ainsley’s words hung in the air, Tristan felt a sudden urge to flee, to immerse himself back into the familiar embrace of London’s nightlife. That world, with its shimmering allure, had always been his sanctuary. In those dimly lit clubs, amidst the laughter and clinking glasses, the shadows of his past seemed distant, mere whispers in the wind.
He thought of the beautiful women he’d known, each one offering a brief respite from the burdens he bore. With them, he felt no need to be the stalwart Earl of Ellington; he could just be Tristan, a man with desires and dreams, untethered by duty or expectations. With every sunrise, as the reality of the day encroached, the spectres of his past would return, more haunting than before.
He glanced at Ainsley, noting the concern evident in the older man’s eyes. It wasn’t just about money or reputation. Ainsley genuinely feared for Tristan’s well-being. A realization hit Tristan: he had been spiraling, seeking refuge in fleeting pleasures while ignoring the storm gathering around him.
“Do you ever wonder, Ainsley,” he began, voice trembling slightly, “if one can truly escape their past? Or are we forever chained to the shadows of our mistakes?”
Ainsley regarded him thoughtfully. “Our pasts shape us, my lord, but they do not define us. We all carry our scars, but it is our choices in the present that carve our path forward.”
Tristan sighed, rubbing his temples. “The world seems simpler in those clubs, Ainsley. No responsibilities, no judgments, just the present moment. When morning comes, reality strikes with its unrelenting force.”
Ainsley leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. “That’s the illusion of escapism, my lord. It feels like freedom, but it’s merely a cage of a different kind. One where you’re imprisoned by your own desires, constantly seeking the next distraction.”
Tristan pondered on Ainsley’s words. The man had a point. His escapades, while providing a temporary solace, were slowly consuming him, pulling him further away from his duties and the legacy he was meant to uphold. The Barrington name wasn’t just a title—it was a commitment, a promise to protect and cherish the honour bestowed upon him.
Ainsley, sensing Tristan’s internal struggle, added, “It’s never too late to change course, my lord. The Barrington legacy is strong, and with the right choices, it can flourish for generations to come.”
Tristan looked up, meeting Ainsley’s gaze. “You believe a marriage is the answer?”
Ainsley nodded, “A marriage, but not just any marriage. One built on mutual respect and understanding. A union where both parties share common goals and aspirations. It could be the foundation upon which you rebuild.”
Tristan leaned back in his chair, lost in thought. The road ahead was daunting, filled with challenges and uncertainties. For the first time in a long while, there was a glimmer of hope, a possibility of redemption.
Ainsley stood up, collecting his folio. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, my lord. Remember, the future is forged by the choices we make today.”
With those parting words, Ainsley left the room, leaving Tristan to grapple with the weight of his decisions and the path that lay before him.
Chapter Two
Lady Viola Penrose tried to maintain a calm demeanour as Mabel gently styled her golden hair into an elegant updo. The dim light of the candles flickered, casting shadows that danced across the ornate walls of her bedchamber. The room, with its soft silks and rich draperies, should have been a sanctuary for Viola. Yet, each reflection in the looking glass seemed to bring with it memories she yearned to forget.
“I think a touch of the rose water would be suitable for today, milady,” Mabel suggested, breaking the heavy silence that hung in the air. Viola nodded, still lost in the depths of her own reflection.
Her face, which once held the vivacious glow of youth, now bore subtle traces of sorrow and disillusionment. There was a haunting quality to her blue eyes, telling tales of dreams crushed and trust shattered. At the heart of her pain lay the bitter memories of Edward and Clarissa, the Duke and Duchess of Silvermont.
The Duke of Silvermont had come into her life like a whirlwind, sweeping her off her feet with his charming ways and promises of undying love. They had been the envy of the ton, their engagement celebrated by everyone who knew them. The Duchess of Silvermont – then Lady Clarissa, her confidante, had been there through it all, offering words of encouragement and sharing in Viola’s happiness.
Yet, all it took was a single Season to turn Viola’s world upside down. The news of Edward breaking off their engagement had been unexpected, a harsh blow that left her reeling. The subsequent revelation that he had wed Clarissa, her closest friend, was a betrayal that cut deep, tarnishing Viola’s belief in love and loyalty.
Mabel, sensing Viola’s sombre mood, attempted to lift her spirits. “The Marquess of Linden is hosting afternoon tea tomorrow afternoon. It is an open invitation; perhaps it would do you good to attend.”
Viola turned her gaze from the mirror to meet Mabel’s concerned eyes. “Thank you, Mabel,” she replied, her voice soft. “I’m not sure I’m ready to face the whispers more than absolutely necessary.”
Mabel, ever the loyal companion, gently clasped Viola’s hands. “The ton has a short memory, milady. You are Lady Viola Penrose, the daughter of a Marquess. You’ve faced challenges before, and you’ve always risen above them. This too shall pass.”
Viola took a deep breath, trying to find solace in Mabel’s words. She knew her maid was right. Hiding away wouldn’t change the past, nor would it heal her wounds. The prospect of facing society again, with all its judgments and speculations, was daunting.
“Do you truly believe that, Mabel?” she whispered, hope flickering in her eyes.
Mabel nodded resolutely. “With all my heart, milady. The world awaits you, and I have no doubt that you will dazzle it once more.”
The soft warmth of Molly’s furry body nudging against her ankles pulled Viola from the depths of her thoughts. Looking down, she found those loving, chocolate-brown eyes gazing up at her. It was impossible not to smile at the unwavering affection her faithful companion always displayed. Leaning down, she planted a soft kiss on Molly’s head, whispering words of affection. “Oh, Molly,” she sighed, “If only the world were as simple and loving as you.”
Molly, with her usual canine wisdom, merely wagged her tail and nestled closer, her contented sigh mirroring Viola’s feelings of momentary peace.
That sense of tranquility, however, was short-lived. The anticipation of the evening’s event hung heavily in the air, making Viola’s stomach flutter with a mix of excitement and dread. As the family prepared to depart, the familiar sounds of the carriage being readied echoed through the Penrose estate.
***
In the plush confines of the family carriage, her sister Helena, with her youthful enthusiasm and innocence, could barely contain her excitement. Her hazel eyes sparkled with anticipation. “Just think of it, Viola!” she exclaimed. “Lady Harriet’s balls are the stuff of legends. There will be so many new faces and, oh, the gowns!”
Viola couldn’t help but be drawn into her sister’s infectious energy. “I do hope you have a splendid evening, Helena. I must admit, the allure of seeing some fresh faces is intriguing.”
Their mother, a dignified woman with graying hair neatly coiled at the nape of her neck, gave a knowing smile. “Indeed, it might do both of you some good. Perhaps, Lady Harriet might have some interesting guests tonight.”
Their father, a tall, imposing figure with a comforting presence, chimed in with a twinkle in his eye, “Now, now, let’s not start matchmaking just yet. The evening is young.”
Helena giggled, “Father! All I wish for is a dance with an intriguing gentleman. Perhaps two!”
The carriage ride was filled with light-hearted banter, the Penrose family sharing their hopes and anticipations for the evening. The conversation soothed Viola, helping to calm her frayed nerves.
Upon arriving at Lady Harriet’s grand mansion, they were immediately swept up in the opulence and grandeur of the event. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow that shimmered across the room. The music, performed by a skilled quartet, filled the air with sweet melodies, enticing guests onto the dance floor.
As they entered, Helena was immediately whisked away by a young gentleman keen on claiming the first dance. Viola, while attempting to remain discreet, couldn’t help but notice the curious glances thrown her way, whispers hidden behind embroidered fans. It was clear that the events of the last Season were still fresh on many minds.
Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself of Mabel’s words. She would face the evening with grace and poise. With her parents by her side, and the support of her sister, she felt a renewed sense of determination.
Lady Harriet, draped in a sapphire gown that complemented her sharp features, extended her hand graciously towards the Penroses. “Lady Viola! It’s a pleasure to have you grace my humble home,” she exclaimed, her tone genuinely warm. Her husband, Sir Thomas, stood by her side, his burly stature contrasting with his gentle demeanour.
“Thank you, Lady Harriet,” Viola responded, forcing a smile. She felt a shiver down her spine, an unsettling feeling she couldn’t place.
As they stepped into the grand ballroom, the vast space seemed to pulse with life. Laughter and chatter filled the room, mingling with the melodic strains of the quartet. The golden glow from the chandeliers reflected off mirrored walls, making the room shimmer and sparkle. It was an atmosphere that should have been enchanting. And yet, Viola felt a heavy weight pressing on her chest.
Scanning the crowd, her heart missed a beat when her eyes locked onto two familiar faces. The Duke of Silvermont, looking dapper in his evening attire, was deep in conversation with a group of gentlemen. Beside him stood the Duchess of Silvermont, her face illuminated by the bright glow of the chandeliers. She was laughing at something Edward whispered in her ear, the unmistakable glint of a new bride evident in her eyes.
A sharp pang of betrayal gripped Viola. Each whisper, each shared laugh, felt like a piercing reminder of her own heartbreak. As if sensing her gaze, Edward’s eyes flickered in her direction, their depths unreadable. The brief moment of eye contact was enough to make Viola’s skin crawl.
However, just as the weight of the past threatened to suffocate her, a gentle touch on her arm drew her out of her reverie. Turning, she found herself face to face with Lady Evelyn. A close acquaintance from numerous social events, Lady Evelyn’s radiant beauty was matched only by her wit and charm.
“Lady Viola!” Lady Evelyn exclaimed with genuine warmth. “Pray tell, it has indeed been an extended duration since our last encounter.. How have you been faring? “
Viola took a moment to compose herself, grateful for Lady Evelyn’s timely intervention. “Lady Evelyn, what a pleasant surprise. I must say, it’s a relief to see a familiar face.”
Lady Evelyn’s eyes flickered towards Edward and Clarissa for the briefest of moments before returning to Viola. “Ah, the trials and tribulations of society,” she mused with a wry smile. “Come, let’s not dwell on the past. Have you heard the latest rumour circulating the ton?”
Viola, grateful for the change in topic, raised an eyebrow in intrigue. “Do enlighten me.”
Lady Evelyn leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s said that the Duke of Winchester has returned from his travels abroad with treasures that would put the crown jewels to shame. He’s rumoured to be attending tonight!”
The two women exchanged a knowing glance. While the story was no doubt exaggerated, the allure of such tales made them irresistible conversation fodder.
The ballroom, always a hub of activity, seemed to come alive as the quartet struck up a lively tune. Laughter and conversation hummed in the background, punctuated by the rhythmic sounds of footsteps and swirling gowns on the polished floor. The chandeliers’ shimmering light made couples appear as if they danced amidst the stars.
Viola, however, held herself slightly apart from the festivities. There was a measured grace in her posture, an innate dignity that set her apart. Though many young gentlemen approached her, offering invitations to dance, she politely declined each one. To an onlooker, it might have seemed she was merely observing the joyous scenes before her. Inside, Viola’s heart raced, her emotions a tumultuous sea.
Her attention, despite her best efforts, was repeatedly drawn to the dance floor’s centre. Edward, looking every bit the dashing gentleman, took Clarissa’s hand, leading her into the waltz. The sight was almost too much for Viola to bear. The grace with which they moved, the intimate proximity, and the smiles they shared were all too familiar. For once, in what felt like another lifetime, it had been her in Edward’s embrace, lost in the beauty of the dance and the promise of their shared future.
As the music swelled, Viola could almost feel the Duke’s hand on her back, the warmth of his breath on her neck, and the intoxicating scent of his cologne. Their past waltzes were moments of pure magic, where the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them. It was during those dances that they had whispered sweet nothings, shared dreams of their future, and, on one memorable occasion, Edward had stolen a tender kiss.
The present was a harsh jolt back to reality. The Duke on the dance floor was not the man she had once known and loved. This Duke was a stranger, his smiles and affections now reserved for Clarissa alone. And the Duchess, with her radiant beauty and infectious laughter, seemed to be the perfect partner for him. They appeared so engrossed in each other, so deeply in love, that the world around them might as well have ceased to exist.
Viola’s heart ached with a pain that was both sharp and numbing. A lone tear threatened to spill, but with a swift motion, she dabbed it away with her lace handkerchief.
It was then that Lady Evelyn, ever the observant friend, sidled up to her. “My dear Lady Viola,” she whispered softly, her voice filled with empathy, “you need not subject yourself to this torment.”
Viola took a shaky breath. “I thought I was ready, Lady Evelyn. I thought I could face them. The memories…”
Lady Evelyn squeezed Viola’s hand reassuringly. “Time will heal, dear. For tonight, perhaps it’s best to seek solace elsewhere.”
She took a deep breath, nodding. “Thank you, Lady Evelyn. I feel I need… need some fresh air.”
She was aware of Lady Evelyn watching her fast retreat. Viola’s cheeks burned and her eyes began to water, embarrassingly, which only spurred her on faster.
The coolness of the garden was a stark contrast to the heat of the ballroom, its serenity a salve for Viola’s frayed nerves. She had sought solace in the hushed whispers of the trees and the gentle rustle of the leaves, far away from the eyes that seemed to constantly judge her, especially tonight. The moonlight’s soft glow illuminated her tear-streaked face, lending an ethereal quality to her features.
Sitting on the secluded wrought-iron bench, surrounded by night-blooming jasmine, Viola let the weight of her heartbreak wash over her. Lord Edward and Clarissa’s public display had been a cruel reminder of the dreams she had once harboured for herself. Dreams that now lay shattered at her feet.
So engrossed in her pain, the soft footfalls on the gravel path took a few moments to register. Instinctively, she straightened, wiping away her tears. When she saw who approached, her surprise was evident.
