Martha Barwood
Regency Romance Author
The Duke's Cursed
Heart
Heart
Chapter One – Chapter Two – Chapter Three
Chapter One
“You have nothing to worry about, milady. You look perfect. A diamond in your own crown.”
The voice of Miss Hawthorne’s lady’s maid, Lily, was comforting but the words did little to soothe her anxieties.
“I hardly am a diamond,” Amelia murmured, smoothing over her dress skirts even after Lily had fussed over them.
“You are a diamond to me, milady.”
Amelia had to allow a small smile for that. “You are very kind, Lily.”
Her thoughts trailed off after that, and she was only left to regard her reflection. Her lip was caught between her teeth as she directed her attention over the pale silver gown she wore, the skirt that fell straight down her legs, and the bodice of a deeper silver that caught the light above when she moved. Silk white gloves adorned her arms, and a pearl drop necklace decorated her neck. Did she look too plain?
We shall have you dazzling from every corner of the room, visible to all, her mother had insisted with a kind smile as she’d cupped Amelia’s face only hours earlier before sending her to be prepared for the ball that night.
Her face was something she winced at. All the jewels and glitter in the world could not cover up her plain face. She was not pretty—at least she did not think so. Her hair hung in their usual loose waves that framed her pale face. The rest of it was artfully pinned back into a low, wide bun.
“Are you nervous, milady?” Lily asked.
“As always,” she sighed, tugging at the fingers of her gloves, her usual nervous habit that her mother tried to soothe out of her. “It is my third season. I cannot disappoint my parents any further. I fear their patience for me to find a match runs thin already.”
The weight of expectation nestled inside her chest, as it often did before any social event. With the Season in full swing, Amelia knew this would likely be her last chance to secure a match. She would not let her family down again, as she had ever since her debut two years ago.
“I am sure you will find a very suitable husband, milady.” Lily gave her a soft, kind smile, and Amelia tried to return it but she could feel how forced hers was. It is not the men that is the problem but me, she thought.
Inhaling deeply, she swept her hand down the bodice and adjusted the sash on the dress nervously. Beneath her hand, her stomach churned, and she wondered if she might fall ill tonight. Perhaps even before she left for the townhouse of Lady Victoria Smith, the host of that night’s ball.
Tonight, all she imagined doing was watching other ladies laugh and flirt, giggling, as they were pulled onto the dance floor, promise glimmering in the suitors’ eyes. All of the ladies—but Amelia. It had happened for every ball since her debut. Back then, she had been excited, her stomach churning for far different reasons. She had excitedly shared thoughts with her mother about the different suitors they knew would be in attendance. The two of them had imagined who might ask Amelia to dance.
She had wanted to dance, had practiced for hours before she debuted. Her dance tutor had been most impressed with her. She recalled attending the modiste for her first ball gown, and how she’d giggled upon entry into that very first ball. Her memories lingered on how the candle lights had glimmered above her in the ballroom of the Hartleys’ townhouse.
By the end of her Season, not engaged or courted, Amelia had been dubbed The Ton’s Wallflower, for she had realized, as weeks passed, that she was not noticed. Amelia was known for her modestly inclined head as reading was her favourite pastime, and her quiet voice for she did not speak a great deal at balls. No matter how much she envisioned her plucking up the courage to speak to the other ladies, she had always grown too reserved.
The flirtatious ladies that had caught the attention of the gentlemen had far set Amelia apart, and she was lost to the background, all but melting into the wall.
Her second Season had passed similarly.
Amelia had little hopes that her third Season would be any different but it had to be.
“There,” Lily said, standing up properly and stepping back. “Are you satisfied? I think you are worthy of being a diamond.”
“I am a wallflower,” Amelia said, her voice hard with sadness and bitterness, though not aimed at her lady’s maid.
“Then perhaps it is time you stepped into the sunlight and blossomed.”
Amelia turned at her mother’s voice. Her brows raised, embarrassed at being overheard with her insecure thoughts. Lily curtsied and left the room, allowing Lady Bernadette Hawthorne to enter and have a moment with Amelia. With her dark hair styled meticulously, and her dress framing her shoulders and folded to accentuate her figure elegantly, she was every inch a baroness, the very example of one. Her chin was high, her eyes kind but assessing, as she regarded Amelia.
“You look beautiful,” the baroness said, giving her a small smile. “As any future baroness or countess should be. Perhaps a duchess, hm?”
Amelia flushed. “We must exercise restraint in our fervour.”
“I believe that is where your problem starts, my darling.” Bernadette fretted over Amelia’s obstinate tresses that never quite appeared to remain in their confining pins. “You must envision yourself as a lady of importance, and then you must carry that mindset to the ballroom. Carry it with you through every interaction. You must use it to… well, start the interaction in the first place.”
She winced, smiling tightly. They both knew Amelia was not the most forthcoming conversationalist.
“I shall try my best, indeed.”
“I am sure.” Her voice rang with resignation, as if already preparing for Amelia’s doubtless disappointment, yet there was still a touch of hope. As if she thought Amelia might, for once, defy her own odds.
Amelia nodded in acknowledgement once more before turning back to the mirror. Should I add another hair adornment? Tiredly, she thought it was best not to, for if she added too many baubles then it would clearly be seen as the attempt to distract from her personality, which it was. So she left it. She did not desire to be regarded as a mere beacon, rather, she longed to be appreciated for her tranquil demeanour and to be cherished for it.
“This is your third Season, dearest,” her mother gently reminded her, as if she needed it. Amelia tensed, nodding again. “You are my eldest daughter, and I am proud of you, no matter what. However, you must try a little harder to secure a husband this time around. Men are not as scary as you think.”
It wasn’t fear that kept her from speaking with gentlemen, though. Amelia merely did not wish to. A husband was required but when all they wanted was to look at the other women who were more forward, more daring with their gestures and movements, Amelia paled horrifically in comparison.
Her throat tightened as she nodded, wishing her mother would stop.
“We shall not let this Season pass like the others,” Bernadette said cheerfully, and although the words were likely meant to comfort Amelia, they sounded somewhat like a threat. However, her focus was quickly thwarted by her sisters entering in a flurry of movement.
“Sister!” Clara Hawthorne cried, her grin wide as she ran to Amelia’s side, hands already reaching to brush over her dress. “Oh, your gown is positively beautiful! I am sure any man in attendance tonight will be most admiring of you in it!” Her eyes sparkled with romantic notion, as they always did. Clara, it seemed, was impervious to Amelia’s disappointment each year, her faith in Amelia’s prospects never, ever wavering.
She still believed in romantic fairy tales, at only ten and five, and Amelia wished fiercely that she had retained such young innocence.
In comparison, her even younger sister, Elizabeth, merely looked over Amelia with a tiny smile. “People notice wallflowers for their quietness, not for their beauty.”
“Elizabeth!” Clara admonished. “Do not say something so blunt!”
“She is right,” Bernadette sighed, as Amelia flushed in embarrassment. “Elizabeth, you should not say such things, whether they are true or not.”
With a cool look that did not belong on the face of a ten and two year old girl, Elizabeth lifted up the latest scandal sheet. “It says right here, though. I am merely quoting.”
“Whatever gossipers wish to say about our sister should not matter to you,” Clara told her, putting her hands on her hips. “We must wish her well, for next it shall be our turn.”
“And let us hope we do not follow by example,” Elizabeth muttered, lifting the sheet once more to indicate that the gossip mentioned as much. Amelia’s heart fell as she smiled at her sisters. Elizabeth did not mean anything nasty by her comments. Over the years, her search for endless knowledge—from a love of books, led by Amelia’s own love of them—had turned her into quite a remarkably smart young girl who saw a lot of things. She had not reached the age, however, of learning that not everything needed an honest commentary.
“You shall be the center of every gossipping circle,” Clara huffed. “And I shall be the diamond of my own Season.”
“I have no doubt,” Amelia said, grateful for the distraction her sisters provided. If anything, it also took her mother’s attention off her for a moment. “You shall both do excellently and far better than I have done so far.”
At that, Bernadette turned back to her. “You merely need to have confidence in yourself, Amelia. You are beautiful.”
“Truly so!” Clara sighed. “I wonder if Lord Kingsley shall ask you for a dance tonight. I have heard he shall be in attendance!”
“Mayhap,” Amelia said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“Perchance you should strike up conversation,” Bernadette told her.
“Mayhap.”
“There shall also be the Duke of Blackthorn,” Clara added, her cheeks flushing. “At least, I am sure there is hope of him attending.”
“He never does,” Elizabeth pointed out. “He is a reclusive man, terribly so.”
“Perhaps he and Amelia should go into a room together and see who speaks first,” Clara suggested, her words innocent but bringing another flush of shame to Amelia’s face.
“Ladies, you must retire to your studies,” Bernadette fussed, shaking her head. “Let Amelia and I depart for the ball. If you require anything, you governess is at your service.”
“As always,” Clara groaned. “She never lets us read in peace! She is always insisting we must be practicing our languages. I do not know how many more times I can assure her that je parle suffisamment bien le français. She must let me read!”
“Can you tell her that in at least two other languages?” Elizabeth grinned in jest.
“All right, you two,” Amelia laughed, “listen to Mama and return to your studies.”
“You must tell me later how your ball goes!” Clara insisted as they went to leave.
Before they did, Elizabeth came over to Amelia and took her hand, squeezing it. “I do hope you know that I believe in you, sister. I see that you are nervous. I am sorry if my comments were unsightly.”
“They were truthful,” Amelia answered, mustering a smile.
Elizabeth nodded, squeezing her hand once more before following Clara out of Amelia’s bedchamber and going to their classroom.
***
Across London, in a townhouse that stood out from the rest for the sheer opulence and size, the Duke of Blackthorn, Graham Randall, scowled at his reflection in the long, oval-shaped mirror in his chambers.
“Shall I take this selection back, Your Grace?” his valet, Robert, asked him. The man’s brow twitched. Nervous, Graham thought. He is nervous of my displeasure of this selection. He has served me for five years and he is still nervous of me.
“No,” Graham answered.
He turned his attention from the scar on his left cheek, shuddering past the memories of how he got it, and looked at the selection of cravats. Silver, gray, a deep blue, a startling red. His stomach rolled. The selection was only a reminder that he had to wear one for that night’s ball, held by his aunt, Lady Victoria Smith.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I can fetch another selection,” Robert reminded him, clearing his throat.
“Just—” Graham growled. “Give me a moment.” He waved off his valet before he turned back to his reflection. As the valet muttered something about shining his boots once more, he hurried out, leaving Graham blessedly alone in his large, dimly-lit chambers. His patience was worn thin, and exhaustion of the mind rested heavily on him.
His jaw clenched at the thought of the ball.
He understood his aunt’s insistence that he attended them but they were irksome, a thousand thorns that pierced Graham right through. He could have feigned illness, if not for his mother’s disapproval and endless fussing—for that was undoubtedly what she would do.
It was foolish; he was two and thirty yet still under his mother’s influence. His mother’s, and his aunt’s, for it was his aunt who held that night’s ball.
He needed to finish getting ready as much as he did not like it, but his gaze could not stop returning to the scar. In his mind, he was already imagining the whispering, the looks. The way mere ladies and lords would dare gossip about him simply for the marring on his face. He jerked as he swore he heard the resounding crack of a pistol. No matter how much it was impossible, because that night had been five years ago, Graham swore his ears rang in the aftermath of the shot.
And then the worst noise, even worse than the pain singing through his face, even worse than the fear of being caught—a body that hit the floor with a sickening thud. A fatal thud. Graham’s jaw tightened even further as he forced himself to look at his hands. To swear they weren’t stained with blood—to know that they were clean, had been clean for five years.
His mouth was clamped shut as he looked at himself. His lips did not utter pleas, as he had that night, begging his dying friend to stay alive, to stay with him, to hold on. The blood had not stopped flowing.
Graham’s neck prickled, as if already lashed with the stares and accusations that had chased him from London’s social events ever since that night. It did not matter that the only man there to judge Graham was himself; he felt the watchful eye of the ton, nonetheless.
He turned his back on the mirror, he went over to the surface where he had set down his tumbler and drank deeply from the brandy he had already prepared. It was a ritual; this drink, right before any event that he was forced to attend. He didn’t know if he drank for courage or to forget and ignore. The liquor slid down his throat in a burning slide, and he winced, drinking another mouthful. Not enough to be obscene or caught by his mother’s keen senses, but just enough to quell everything tossing and turning inside of him.
The burn of the brandy tugged him away from his thoughts, darkly lost in the memories of that night. But as he set down his glass, his hand shook, and he caught his reflection’s gaze again. He winced, seeing the bare vulnerability there. Graham quickly schooled his expression into his usual scowl.
The walls went back up, stone by stone, and Graham was safe once again inside them.
His dukedom was important, and it required more of him than he felt able to give but that was simply his life. He could not run nor escape from it in any way. Ideally, he should not have sent the valet away but he had needed the moment away from prying eyes.
The last moment, it seemed, as a shadow fell over the doorway.
“They say a man without his cravat is man going nowhere at all. And if that is true, I believe it causes a bit of a problem as you are intended to be going somewhere tonight.”
Graham turned, arching a brow at Lord Owen Radcliffe, his closest friend, who walked into his room.
“I did wait in the study for a while,” Owen continued, pretending to check a pocket watch. “However, I found myself quite ennui-ridden. Pray tell why are you not attired?”
“I am.”
Owen eyed his collar with suspicion. “It appears… not so.”
Graham scowled. “I am almost done. I did not like the selection of cravats.”
“Fastidious,” Owen jested but Graham only scowled deeper. “Heavens, do you intend to scare away all of your marriage prospects with that scowl? It is not your most dashing expression, if that is what you are aiming for.”
“I do not wish for marriage prospects,” he retorted sharply but he could not hide his amusement with the casual charm of his friend. He was so unaffected by Graham’s moods. They had been friends for a long time, after all. He was far used to the scowls and sharp tones.
Owen flashed a grin at him as if he noticed the hint of amusement. Nobody else would think to look any deeper than the defenses Graham threw up to protect himself but Owen always did. Owen knew he was much more than his reclusive state and scarred face and haunting past.
“Robert,” he called out sharply, knowing his valet would not have gone far. “Come back in here.”
Moments later, he was fully prepared, dressed, and had picked the silver cravat. Something about it called to him, and Robert had it tied meticulously. Graham and Owen descended down the grand staircase in Blackthorn House. Waiting in the foyer was his mother and sister, both of them smiling at him hesitantly, as if they were unsure of his mood.
A pang of guilt hit him, and he realized all over again how much he was expected to uphold his duties, insecurities aside.
“Mother,” Graham said, nodding at the Dowager Duchess, Felicity Randall. He turned to Lady Daphne. “Sister. You are both looking beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you!” Daphne gushed, beaming. “It is my second Season, after all. I must give a very good impression if I am to find a match.”
Graham frowned at her. “You are the sister of a duke. The daughter of the late Duke of Blackthorn. Any eligible gentleman attending tonight will be most fortunate to have you as their dance partner.”
Daphne blushed, smiling. “Are you excited, brother?”
“No,” he answered, no longer having the focus on her so his words were more clipped.
“Oh, but you must be!” she exclaimed. Her blonde curls bounced with excitement, and the pink spread over her cheeks, paired with the wide look in her sparkling blue eyes, made her look younger than her nineteen years. Nobody would ever guess they were siblings, as she took after their mother. Graham, often seen as the visual mark of the family, took after his late grandfather. “It will be ever so wonderful! Aunt Victoria always has splendid balls organised.”
“Enjoying a ball is wholly impossible,” he told her dryly.
His mother cleared her throat, stepping forward. Her blue eyes softened as she beheld him. “You look very handsome, Graham. Your father would be proud.”
“My father would advise me to retreat posthaste and make my escape with all due speed.”
“Your father knew the importance of finding your duchess,” she reminded him gently. “I do hope that is on your mind tonight.”
He only sighed, avoiding the question. Felicity clasped his jacket before smoothing out a wrinkle he knew was not there, but it was her motherly way that caught him off-guard. He blinked, his sourness softening with her own expression. He swallowed back his guilt before moving away from her.
“Well, then,” he said, gesturing for the door. “Shall we?”
Chapter Two
Lady Victoria had decorated Smith Manor in lavish colors of lavender and cream, the theme spilling out from flowers in vases, through petals lining the staircase to the house, to the emblem of the Smith name painted on the stone floor in the entrance hall.
Through the hallway, more decorated Grecian columns led the way down another hallway, to the open ballroom doors. Music spilled out, a gentle symphony of violins and cellos, and a lively flute that coaxed Amelia’s attention despite her nerves.
Stood atop the entry dais, Amelia looked down into the ballroom, her mother beside her.
“I am nervous,” she whispered to her father, Edward, Baron of Hawthorne.
“Do not show it, and you shall be fine.” His voice was firm yet comforting.
But Amelia had already spotted a secluded corner in the far right of the ballroom, not too far from the open doors that led onto a terrace, and the garden beyond. The room came alive in swirls of color, for guests were not obliged to honor the theme. Lady Victoria’s balls were notorious for rule-breaking.
Amelia was in silver, yet blended in easily. It was not that she did not want to be noticed; it was more that she was never quite noticed, not in the face of other prettier, louder, more forward ladies. So to attempt to sway attention from them to herself was rather laughable. She did not want to look foolish.
Yet, as she descended her way into the ballroom, she thought that there had to be one quiet gentleman whom would stand with her in any corner of a ball, not wanting the attention of the ton on them at all moments.
Her eyes were wide. Lady Victoria had truly outdone herself for tonight’s ball.
“It seems that every time Lady Victoria hosts, she goes all out and exceeds expectations,” her father observed, as if reading her thoughts. Yet he, too, looked around, admiring their surroundings. Behind them, Bernadette walked, no doubt thinking of how she might include some of their opulent surroundings into her next ball.
“It seems so,” Amelia answered. She knew her father was giving her a chance to find small talk to discuss with suitors. He did this every time. He picked one topic, and Amelia knew it was a helping hand of what to use to incite conversation. It was clever but unnecessary. Amelia continued to disappoint.
Around her, prominent members of the ton danced, drank, gossiped, and watched others with keen, narrowed gazes. Nobody looked at Amelia herself yet she felt the weight of the impending stares as people passed her when she cowered away, as if questioning why. It was strange—they questioned why she hid but nobody ever welcomed her closer.
“Amelia,” her father murmured, as she tightened her grip on his arm, “I know it has been… difficult for you to find a match. However, this is your third Season. I do hope you are planning to find new, impressive ways to secure a husband.”
“Yes, Father,” she answered, not because she was but because he needed to hear that.
“I love you dearly but you understand what I might be forced to do should you fail to secure a
match by the end of summer.”
“I understand.” The thought of her father having no choice but to marry her off to an older gentleman who was too old to be a desired flavor of husband, yet wealthy enough to secure a desperate lady’s future, speared Amelia through painfully. Her chest tightened as they moved deeper into the ballroom.
Finally, the eyes flicked her way, and the whispers picked up.
“I wonder what wall dear Miss Hawthorne shall plaster herself to this time,” one lady giggled, a young daughter of an earl. Amelia fought the urge to scowl at her.
“Perhaps she might find a way to climb the walls and escape into the ceiling for true concealment,” her friend muttered, both of them gasping as if they shocked each other for the audacity.
“Mayhap neither of you shall find husbands with such ugly speech in your mouths,” Baron Hawthorne countered, surprising Amelia. “If you can manage to stop gossiping, you may find extra time to secure a dance partner.”
Both ladies could not close their mouths enough. Amelia’s father pulled her away quickly.
“Father, you shall now become the subject of their gossip,” Amelia said, surprised.
“As long as they leave my daughter alone, I am content.”
His voice was firm.
Soon, they were among those waiting to be chosen for dance partners or watching the fortunate girls who had already been picked for the current song. Amelia’s dance card hung on her wrist, a weight that dragged her down, as empty as it would remain for the night.
“Darling,” Bernadette murmured, coming up to Edward’s side. “How about you and I get a refreshment? We shall leave Amelia to be approached.”
Her eyes shined with hope as she glanced at Amelia, who only averted her gaze. Her father nodded, leading Bernadette away with one last glance at Amelia. She forced a smile, determined to be confident as she stood alone in a sea of pretty, confident ladies. This was a place she did not fit in yet she tried hard to mold her pieces to do so. Society had given her a space she was out of shape to fit into—she had tried to force herself into such a thing but she was still endeavoring.
However, as much as she knew she should be confident alone, she felt a wave of relief wash over her when she spied her best friend, Lady Eleanor Fairfax. The two had been inseparable since childhood, and she could not help herself from rushing over to her. Although friends, Eleanor loved dancing, and often found a way to fill up her dance card. However, whenever she attempted to get the suitors’ friends to dance with Amelia as well, they politely avoided her and excused themselves.
“Eleanor,” she greeted, sighing with relief. “It is good to see you.”
“Where there is a dance floor there shall be a lady named Eleanor.” A grin flashed on her face. “At least that is what my cousin wrote several years ago. It remains true, I suppose.”
“Indeed, it does. You belong on a floor to dance the night away on.”
“As do you.” Eleanor looked at her knowingly. “Have you seen the Countess of Eastward tonight? She has… well, one can only describe it as a monstrosity on her head. It is like a peacock and a swan, all in one. You cannot miss her.”
Amelia laughed, her gaze sweeping the floor. She ought to be the last lady giving into gossip but Lady Eastward was a miserable old lady who often chided the younger ladies over absolutely nothing.
Soon, she found her, and stifled a giggle.
“She wishes to be noticed, of course,” Eleanor said, ever aware of the ton’s shifting perceptions. “For she wishes to host the next ball, so she must have everybody looking at her, wondering what her own home will be like when decorated.”
“I can only imagine,” Amelia muttered. Her nerves eased as she lightened up, laughing with her friend, despite the press of the crowd around her, and the announcer calling for the next dance. She lingered where she was, not daring to even look up in hope that she might be noticed.
“I have heard that many young lords are entering the marriage mart tonight. New faces, new names to learn. It is exciting. I can only hope I have the honour of one asking me to dance.”
“Many ask you to dance,” Amelia countered. “They learn of your proficiency and wish to know for themselves.”
“You honour me,” Eleanor laughed. “I will only dance if you are also invited by one of their friends.”
“You attempt such tactics every time, dear friend. You cannot keep trying to win a hopeless fight.”
“I shall never stop.” The promise warmed Amelia’s heart, knowing that at least one person was not on the verge of assuming disappointment from her, or giving up on her.
As Eleanor began to tell her the names of the usual lords in attendance, Amelia couldn’t help noticing two ladies that lingered several feet away, fans snapped out to cover their mouths. Lady Cassandra Kensington, and Lady Beatrice Ashworth, two of the most gossiping young ladies of the ton. To Amelia, they were the worst ladies when it came to her own gossip—the very ladies that caught the eye of a suitor first, sending Amelia further into the background.
“I have heard rumours that the Duke of Blackthorn shall be in attendance tonight,” Cassandra said, her voice low behind her fan. “It is not such a common occurrence for him to be here.”
“I do wonder how he shall dress,” Beatrice gushed. “Do you think he will keep to his aunt’s theme?”
“Heavens knows. He barely abides to anything the ton expects of him. However, I will change that upon making a good first impression. When I am Duchess of Blackthorn, I shall reacquaint him properly with the ton and its expectations.”
Beatrice gasps. “Cassandra, you must not speak so! You cannot get involved with him in such ways. There is a reason he stays away from society.”
“I am well aware.”
“He is beastly, the ton says. Why would you, as beautiful as you are, subject yourself to such a thing?”
“Because as beastly as he is, he is wealthy,” Cassandra replied smugly. Her fan waved frantically. “It is all about status and wealth, is it not? And I will have my duchy.”
Beatrice gazed at her as if in awe of the ambition she spoke of. Cassandra looked pleased with herself, her smile almost a smirk, as she looked around the room.
“The only duchess Cassandra will be is the Duchess of Downright Snobbery,” Eleanor whispered, glaring at the other girl. She sighed, but Amelia couldn’t help looking towards the direction Cassandra had suddenly focused on.
The Duke of Blackthorn entered the ballroom, and all eyes swung to him.
The music did not stop yet something stilled in Amelia as she looked at him, even as Lady Victoria went to embrace and greet him, along with two other women at each side of him. Amelia knew that Elizabeth would know but she herself did not. Yet she could not help herself looking at him—at his dark hair that hung in soft waves around his face, and eyes that were of the deepest coffee brown. He looked intensely out at the sea of faces that looked at him.
“I do believe he looked right at me,” Cassandra boasted to Beatrice. She looked around, as if waiting for somebody else to notice the attention. Her gaze caught on Amelia, who flushed at being caught looking at the duke. Cassandra huffed a laugh, flicking her hair over her shoulder, before looking back to the duke.
Amelia could not help but notice how stiff the duke looked as he spoke with his aunt. A sense of fear washed over Amelia, unable to sense what caprivated her about him. Perhaps it was how dismissive he was of his surroundings, or how imposing he was with his broad shoulders and tall height. Those eyes were filled with displeasure, as if he disliked being at the ball and was not afraid to show it. Yet curiosity also gripped her for all those very same reasons.
“It is a shame he is tainted by that ghastly scar,” Cassandra whispered behind her fan, and Amelia looked over, surprised. Indeed, there, she beheld it shimmering in the light. “It has been, I daresay, five years since the fateful duel in which he was embroiled. A most lamentable affair.”
“I am surprised he even shows his face in society,” Beatrice scoffed. “Everybody knows the truth. Surely he knows that. It is precisely why I warn you away from him.”
“Wealth is wealth,” Cassandra snapped.
Amelia averted her staring from the duke, wondering if there was more to him, to that night of the duel she recalled him being involved in, than society knew.
“Lady Eleanor,” a voice spoke up, and both she and Amelia turned, curious. A young lord looked at her with hopeful eyes. “I am no Duke of Blackthorn but I am the heir to some very extensive, impressive land in the eastern countryside. May I take your hand for the next dance?”
Eleanor glanced, unsure, at Amelia, but she only nodded. Simply because she was the wallflower nobody noticed did not mean Eleanor should spend the balls in misery. Eleanor left with the lord, and Amelia was left, unsure, alone.
Her mother’s gaze fixed on her from across the room, a silent warning of trying to apply herself to tonight’s potential matching. Secure a dance, she could almost hear the beg. Secure anything. A mere conversation. Something to be recalled by tomorrow when suitors make their visits.
But even if Amelia hovered, looking at young lords with shy hopefulness, they never looked her way. She was ignored, pushed further into the background. The only person to break her silent reverie was a servant, offering her a glass of lemonade. She accepted, sipping to busy herself, but the lemonade did little to settle her nerves.
A sea of dancers painted grace before her, yet Amelia was a floating, lone island in the sky, having no place in a vast ocean.
***
Graham abhorred ballrooms.
They were too big, too tall, too crowded. He could barely see sharply for the blur that became the skirts of women, all sporting different springtime shades. He felt almost dizzy with how constantly the crowd moved. He was the highest rank of them all yet he had never felt so out of place.
“Your Grace, you must attend Rowden House!” one lady gushed, all but shoving her daughter at him. “Georgina often tends to the most lovely rosebushes. Heavens knows, I advise her to leave it to the gardeners but she simply has the best creative eye. She is ever so talented.”
He looked over them, took in the mother’s desperately hopeful look, and the daughter’s embarrassed wince. “I do not like roses. Excuse me.”
He pushed past them, hearing Owen laugh behind him.
“You do know how to reject them, do you not? It is actually rather impressive. If I could see the visual manifestation of their hearts, the poor organs would be scattered all over this floor. Broken, red glass.”
“Stop it,” he muttered. “I am not breaking hearts. I am removing myself from the picture before hearts are even stirred.”
“Oh, I am sure you are stirring several things tonight.” He winked and clasped Graham on the back. Graham stiffened as Owen steered him deeper into the ballroom. He had escaped his mother for now, at least. Still, the stares followed him until he felt as though he did not walk through people but merely a wall full of large, ogling eyes.
Would he ever feel free of this?
“They judge me,” he muttered, “and I despise being here.”
“You need a glass of wine, my friend.”
Owen remarked as he hastily withdrew, making his way toward the refreshments table. While he was gone, Graham took a moment to linger in an emptier space of the ballroom. He noticed how two girls watched him with wide, curious eyes. Yet there was a determined set to one lady’s face. He knew that look—the ambitious look of a girl who thought she was already worthy of his attention. There was something smug about her that he did not like.
Next to her, the other lady looked at Owen as he retreated, and Owen felt somewhat ensnared, part of a concocted plan, cunning ladies wanting to be the next Duchess of Blackthorn. He turned away from them. They whispered behind their fans, and he tuned them out in time for Owen to return, pressing a glass into his hand. It cooled the heat spreading beneath his shirt collar, the warmth making him somewhat disorientated.
“Your Grace,” another voice called. He only shot them a dark look before walking away, outright ignoring the next countess or baroness wanting to throw her daughter at him.
“Graham!” Owen called, laughing.
“Do not follow me,” he muttered. After a moment, he added, “please, Owen.”
It was the addition that had his friend dropping the humor and merely nodding. As he walked through the ballroom, he was accosted by debutantes, all flashing their smiles, snapping their fans. Their mothers hovered, throwing facts at him—how many instruments they played, their proficiency with foreign languages, the dances they could perform. He ignored every single one, pushing through the crowd. His nerves were frayed, and each new voice grated on them even further.
“Beastly, indeed,” he heard, as the next whispers picked up. He tensed, thoughts darkening. How the same society could, in one moment, push their daughters in his path, and in the next tear him down verbally, both loving his status yet disliking him, was something he could not endure.
He was tired of the ton’s behavior, their gossip and way of watching like he was a caged animal. His knuckles were white around his wine glass, and his eyes scanned over the top of heads. There. He noticed the open doors that led out to the terrace. For a moment, surely he could find some fresh air in which to breathe. To reapply his armor, thoroughly pierced by the women in attendance.
“Duke of Blackthorn!” One man called. “I must introduce you to my—”
“No,” he snapped. “You must leave me be! All of you—you must leave me be.”
His growl of frustration was uncontrolled but he didn’t linger to see the reactions. He merely strode to the garden, beset by a desperate unease that clawed at his very composure. Heavens, he thought. I need to get out of here.
Everybody scattered out of the way.
It was only his own need to escape that stopped him from seeing the young woman who scurried through the crowd.
***
“Cassandra, no,” Beatrice whispered as Amelia lingered near the girls, their faces flush from dancing. “Do not approach His Grace! Why, look at the expression on his face. Lady Harold just said what a foul mood he is in. He all but pushed her daughter out of the way!”
“I do not care,” Cassandra said, shaking off Beatrice’s warning hand. “This is the perfect time. He deserves a lady here who will not have a mama throwing herself at him. My mother trusts me to handle my own affairs tonight. She knows I will speak well with the suitors. I shall do my utmost to uplift His Grace’s spirits.”
Determined, Cassandra walked away from Beatrice, weaving through the crowd. Amelia withdrew from it all. Lords, dukes, ladies—it was all nonsensical, and her head grew light from the heat of the ballroom. The lemonade sat heavily in her stomach, her glass long handed off to a servant.
There was the terrace only a short distance away. It would provide with some sort of relative calm, and Amelia knew it was where she needed to be. Her eyes downcast, she hurriedly set off in that direction. Yet she did not see the figure approaching her until it was too late—until he was upon her. Her balance left her entirely as she flailed back, her ankle giving way beneath her.
But before she could fall to the floor, a strong arm reached out to catch her.
Then her gaze lifted to that of the man who caught her. Eyes that were of the darkest brown—eyes that looked pinched in curiosity, as the Duke of Blackthorn gazed right back at her.
All thoughts fled her mind, proper etiquette fleeing her, and the music and those around her faded away into nothing.
Chapter Three
Graham did not know what came over him.
Not when he collided with the woman whom he had not seen, and not when he had reached out to grasp her before she fell. And certainly not when he did not immediately let go of her but instead let himself be caught in her gaze.
Why? he thought.
Was it because, as she looked up at him, still supported by his arm, she only appeared curious and as enticed as him? There was no smugness, no desperation, no demand. Only a confused sort of wonder. Her body was soft against his, her warmth seeping into him, entirely different from the heat of the room. Together, they were still, trapped in a spell that had everything else around him fading out.
The music, the stares, the whispers—this woman’s hazel eyes made it all go away.
Only against her warm body did he realize how cold his isolation had been all these years.
Stirring in him, he recognized a feeling he had long buried. Something that looked like interest—that felt like… wanting. He had not felt like this in years, and he almost traced down the woman’s arm in curious exploration. But he could not let her go, still frozen and startled by being caught so off-guard.
He felt his frown soften as he gazed at her.
He cleared his throat.
And only when he pulled back did he notice that she wore a silver dress—one that almost matched the shade of his cravat perfectly.
“I am sorry for colliding with you,” he said, his voice hoarse. When had he last apologized to anyone? “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she whispered, her voice timid, soft. “I am perfectly well.”
Hurriedly, he pulled her upright, and the spell broke. The sound of a waltz rushed back to him, and he felt the burn of a hundred stares into his back. He ignored them all.
“I was on my way to the garden,” the lady confessed.
“As was I,” he answered, “yet all I can think of now is to ask you for a dance.”
The woman blinked, her mouth parting. “I… Me, Your Grace? You wish to dance with… me?”
Why was that so confusing. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes. You. May I?”
He offered his hand after removing it from her arm.
The woman took it, still looking confused.
***
Amelia was still entirely confused as to why the Duke of Blackthorn of all men would notice her—and how fate had guided their feet towards one another, only to end in a collision right before their intended garden destination.
And now… now he wished to dance with her.
Nobody ever wished to dance with her.
Amelia couldn’t bring herself to meet her mother’s gaze, knowing it would reflect her own shock. She could not bring herself to glance at Cassandra, whom she perceived in her periphery, fearing that her countenance would betray an overwhelming jealousy. She dreaded the thought that such envy would be mirrored on the faces of every debutante surrounding her.
Instead, she only let the duke lead her onto the dance floor, her heart racing, and her mind whirling. Why me? she thought, and yet she could not stop the warmth through her chest. Would she be out of practice? Would people look and point at her?
Would Amelia be clumsy with two Seasons where her opportunities to dance had diminished progressively?
Yet as soon as she looked back at the duke, whose own brow twitched with uncertainty, she wondered if he was also having the same thoughts, and that settled her, somewhat. That someone so notorious and angrily confident as him might worry, as well.
After all, he had worn a look of intense displeasure upon arriving that night. It had, however, now been replaced by something softer.
The waltz began anew, and other couples dared not enter the floor yet, not as the duke took his first—and perhaps only—dance partner of the night. And how had it somehow been Amelia, the wallflower?
Clara will be beside herself when I tell her, Amelia thought.
All eyes were upon them, and she felt each gaze like a thousand needles. As if she were a delicate flower, overrun with thorns. As if she was a pin cushion—a very overcrowded pin cushion. The duke’s hand went to her waist, and Amelia flushed. A flutter went through her stomach, a menagerie of butterflies, at his touch. It had been so long since a gentleman had taken her in a dance so gently.
“I do hope we will not crash into one another during our dance,” she found herself saying.
“I am sure I can lead us well enough.”
His answer was curt but his voice wasn’t as gruff as she had overheard it being earlier. Rumors said he had a tongue sharper than a blade, and yet he spoke to her much softer. Why? Was it his own guilt for walking into her?
They began to move, starting with a grand sweep of the floor, as Amelia ran through the count of the dance, one, two, three, together. One, two, three, together. One, two, three, turn. Over and over, the waltz built around them, and she could not help but wonder how a man with such a fearsome reputation, and sharpness about him could dance so gracefully.
Words left her tongue the longer they danced, for she could only look into the duke’s eyes. He gazed back at her, something akin to her own wonder reflected in them. It made her nervous; it made her stomach flutter with anxiety that felt more giddy than nauseous. Her fears from when she first saw him melted with each step they took, crossing the expanse of the dance floor.
“What are you looking at?” he asked her, his voice slightly guarded.
I am wondering who the man is behind the mask of the Beastly Duke, she thought. Out loud, she answered, “your eyes remind me of the rich hue of coffee brewed in a quaint tearoom, like Delia’s Tearoom.”
She was not quite sure why she said it; her throat closed up as soon as she spoke, and she coughed lightly.
“Do you enjoy it there?” he asked, amused.
“Very much,” she said. “She makes very divine fruit sponge cake. Have you visited recently?”
“No,” he answered quietly. “I have not visited much of anywhere as of late.”
“I see.”
They lapsed back into silence, and yet it did not feel uncomfortable. Amelia did not feel as though she had to scramble for something to say. It hit her all over again how she was finally dancing at a ball—and with a duke, no less.
Heavens.
Of all men to notice her, it was the man rumored to be beastly.
So why did he look at her so kindly?
***
On the outskirts of the crowd watching the dance floor, where the Duke of Blackthorn and Amelia danced, Lady Eleanor, the daughter of the Earl of Fairfax, was approached by a man with loose, blonde curls. He looked angelic yet the broad curl of his smirk gave his confidence away, as if a hint of a mischievous gentleman lurked beneath a more refined mask. “Lady Eleanor,” called one of the matrons that Eleanor was acquainted to, as she approached with a knowing smile. “Allow me to introduce you to Lord Owen Radcliffe, a most accomplished dancer.”
“My lady, you are stood alone,” he said.
“I am,” she answered smartly.
“Is it by choice? Say only the word and I shall walk away to leave you in peace. But only know that I shall look from afar, forever wondering how the pretty young lady might have danced. How gracefully she may have taken to the floor and—”
“My lord,” she interrupted, “are you going to wax very forward poetry all night, or will you ask me to dance?”
He blinked, stumped. “I—yes. Indeed, I am. May I have this dance, Lady…”, he stuttered as his confusion was overwhelming.
“Eleanor,” she told him. “Lady Eleanor Fairfax.”
“Well, then, Lady Eleanor, will you do Lord Owen Radcliffe the honour of being his first dance partner of the night?”
“I shall,” she answered coyly. She was timid with her friends but there was something about that twinkle in Lord Owen’s eyes that made her want to come alive a little more. His hand reaching for hers, he took her to the dance floor, his attention never once lifting from her. Usually, she kept very collected when dancing but she found herself blushing beneath his regard.
“Do you dance as well as you profess poetry?” she asked.
“I believe you are about to find out.”
With that, he took her and glided her across the floor effortlessly. He was a very admirable dancer, full of grace and impeccable timing, as he guided their steps to match the rhythm of the orchestra. She whirled around Amelia and the duke yet did not tear her gaze from Lord Owen and those soft, green eyes, the broad grin, and his curls.
“You are a lovely dancer,” he told her. “Your skill is exceptional.”
Eleanor turned shy at that. “You are very capable as well, my lord.”
He continued to turn her about the floor, his tailcoat lifting with the gentle spins.
“My first learned dance was the waltz,” he told her. “I found it very elegant, although the only lady I had to practice with, aside from my tutor, was my mother. I believe it must have been amusing for her to have her young son lead her around the entrance hall at our estate.”
Eleanor laughed softly. “I can only imagine. I do appreciate the beauty and steadiness of a waltz. However, I confess I have a passion for a country dance. It is ever so lively, and I feel as though it often brings out the best of a person’s personality.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “And the quadrille?”
“It is fine enough but I find it tedious. I wish to feel something deeper. I believe a waltz allows for such things.”
Lord Owen paused, his steps faltering for a moment. “We shall see, shall we not, Lady Eleanor?”
The way he said her name, as if it was a delicate thing on his tongue, made her flush with warmth.
“We shall,” she answered.
As they danced, Lord Owen’s gaze lifted to the room around them. “I believe Lady Victoria continues to outdo herself with tonight’s decoration. She is a fine host. If I am honest, her balls are the highlight of my social calendar. Something scandalous always happens. An unwanted guest, a courtship that is the headline of all gossip sheets, an argument, a brawl, even. I believe she rather encourages it for the gossip and renown of her events.”
Eleanor loosened a laugh. “I do not disbelieve such a notion. She rather enjoys the attention. However, did you see the Countess of Eastward tonight? If her headwear is an insight to how her summer ball shall look then I fear for our eyes.”
Lord Owen laughed, loud and clear. He looked surprised at the burst of amusement and composed himself quickly. “I wonder if she shall have live peacocks roaming the ballroom.”
“Or a gathering of swans poised to dance,” Eleanor teased.
“Perhaps they will peck that scowl off my friend’s face.” He nodded over to the Duke of Blackthorn, but frowned.
“It appears my friend, Miss Amelia, has already done that.”
“She is indeed a swan,” Lord Owen appraised. “So perhaps I am not so far off.”
Eleanor felt a stab of longing go through her, riveted by their conversation. Most men boasted; Lord Owen, contrary to her expectations, did not. “Do you like swans, Lord Owen?”
“No,” he answered. “Not particularly.”
She beamed, and wondered if he had made the connection she had hoped. “Well, then, let us find a bird you are fond of.”
He looked back at her, his brow raising. “Let us indeed, although I believe I will not have to look very far at all.”
Her breath came fast. “Will you be attending the summer assembly, Lord Owen?”
“I shall. Although, I do hope the Rochdale brothers do not brawl again. It was rather awful last year. They cracked a very expensive bust.”
“And injured themselves!” Eleanor exclaimed, laughing.
Lord Owen managed to shrug even as he danced her around the curve of the floor. “That was their own choice.” A smile played on his lips. “I hope to see you there, Lady Eleanor.”
As he swept her down the last length of the floor as the song neared it’s end, Eleanor could not help noticing Cassandra and Beatrice watching. Both girls’ gazes were aimed at the floor. Beatrice’s eyes were piercing through Eleanor and Owen, jealousy flaring brightly in them, and tightening the corners of her mouth.
Similarly, Cassandra glared at the duke and Amelia. As Eleanor passed, she heard the hiss of, “how could a woman like her capture the attention of a duke? Miss Hawthorne is nothing but a plain, insignificant scrap of weeds from the garden.”
Her voice faded out as Owen took her further away. Beatrice’s white-knuckled hold on her fan left a knot in Eleanor’s stomach that was quickly undone when Lord Owen bowed to her, their dance finishing. He kissed her knuckles.
“Until the summer ball, then, my lady.”
***
The waltz drew to a close, and as the final notes faded away, Graham found himself strangely reluctant for it to conclude. Yet, to request a second dance would be to provoke a sentiment he was unprepared to confront.
“I did not ask your name,” he murmured as he stepped back. “And though it is considered improper to dance before we have been properly introduced, the unfortunate incident we encountered, coupled with my rank as a Duke, shall not give rise to any scandal.”
“Oh,” she said, blushing, not having thought of that matter. “Amelia. Miss Hawthorne, that is. My father is Baron Edward Hawthorne.”
“Hawthorne?” He pictured the graying man, sat at his favorite table in the gentleman’s club. “A good man indeed.”
“He is most kind,” Miss Hawthorne agreed.
“May I walk you back to Lord and Lady Hawthorne, Miss Hawthorne?”
She nodded, a slightly spike of anxiety freezing her features for a moment before she nodded more surely.
As they walked through the aisle of stares, of the down-turned mouths of distaste or displeasure, Graham could only think of his conflict about the dance. In five years he had not asked a lady to dance. He had lingered on the edges of ballrooms, escaping whenever he could, rudely ignoring everybody who attempted to speak with him, and wallowing in his own dour misery.
Until Miss Hawthorne.
And he could not fathom in his head why she was the exception.
He walked her back to where he saw Lord and Lady Hawthorne stood, their faces both pale.
“Lady Hawthorne.” He bowed. “Thank you for allowing me the honour of dancing with your daughter. Miss Hawthorne is an exceptional dancer.”
There was something akin to shock on the woman’s face before she schooled it into a pleasant, kind smile. “The honour is ours, Your Grace.”
Why is she so shocked? he wondered. It matched up with Amelia’s own confusion. It was as though Amelia dancing was the last thing to be expected. But it was a ball; every young woman wished to dance.
“Your Grace,” Edward greeted, shaking his hand firmly. “It is rare to see you dance. I thought we might only ever converse in the club.”
Graham winced, smiling tightly. “Tonight is full of surprises, it seems.”
And another surprise awaited him as the ballroom doors flew open, and he looked upon instinct as a call went out over the room.
“My beautiful ladies of the ton, and most respectable gentlemen, I have arrived!”
He turned, his stomach dropping at the voice of his cousin, as Lord Percival Randall entered.
“Ah, dearest nephew,” Victoria called out, greeting him, the two immediately drawing attention, as they embraced. “I am so glad you could attend. I thought you would be too busy.”
“Am I so engaged that I must forgo the ball? Do not be so humble!”
Percival moved on from Victoria and set his sights on Graham. His smile turned too wide, teeth flashing in a predatory way. He began to stalk towards him, one brow raised arrogantly. As he went, he smiled charmingly at women, shook hands with gentlemen, and praised everybody’s attire and dancing.
“My lord, I believe we met at the winter assembly! I do mean to have those contracts with you…” Percival said, interacting with more people.
“Countess Eastward, that headwear is positively becoming of you! I do hope to see more in this manner at your summer ball. I am most excited.”
And it continued, on and on, until he finally reached Graham, as if the man had purposefully stalled his journey just to make Graham more on edge. Nothing ruffled him quite like pointed interruptions—especially from Percival.
“Cousin,” Percival greeted when they were finally face-to-face. His voice was smooth, all silk until it revealed the true, sly man beneath. Graham had a thought to usher Amelia out of his cousin’s space.
“Percival.”
“I am ever so surprised, yet delighted, do not get me wrong, that you are out in society. Heavens, I did not think such a day would be seen!” He said it so mockingly that Graham felt himself stiffen. He was about to retort but his attention landed on the Hawthorne family—more so Amelia. “And, I must say, if it was to dance with such a delicate flower like this lady here, I understand why. You must be the Hawthorne’s eldest daughter, for I believe the other two are too young to debut yet.”
“Indeed,” Lord Hawthorne said, shaking Percival’s hand. “Lord Percival, it is good to see you.”
“And you, Lord Hawthorne.”
Graham’s jaw clenched at the attention he had given Amelia. The insincerity in his voice made Graham feel as though he had been doused in oil. Slippery and repugnant, he felt wretched for being in his cousin’s presence.
The softness Amelia had inspired in him was gone, and he was tense, scowling at Percival.
“This is Miss Hawthorne,” he introduced to Percival in a clipped voice, hating that etiquette forced him to introduce the company. “Indeed the eldest daughter. This is her mother, Lady Hawthorne.”
“As beautiful as ever, my lady.” Percival nodded to her.
“Miss Hawthorne, Lady Hawthorne, this is Lord Percival, my cousin.”
“And heir to the Blackthorn dukedom,” Percival countered with a loud laugh.
“There needs not to be one where our generation is concerned,” Graham reminded him. “For I am the duke at present.”
“A childless duke.” Another loud, obnoxious laugh.
“A duke nevertheless.”
“And when there is no child at all?”
“Is this the true place to discuss such matters, cousin?” Graham challenged. “It is rather disrespectful, is it not?”
Percival’s arrogance flickered for a moment as he glanced at the Hawthorne family before clearing his throat. “Regardless, cousin, it is a pleasant surprise to see you. I did rather think you would hole up in that room of yours forever, playing at pretending the world does not exist.”
His words were dry and disdainful, and Graham did not get a chance to answer, for an announcement came over the ballroom.
“Dinner is served in the grand dining hall,” the butler called out. “Pray make your way.”
Percival gave one last look of arrogant confidence, before sauntering off. Up the staircase, he joined with another group of young lords, vacating the ballroom.
Graham turned back to Miss Hawthorne, his smile a wince. For a man who craved his isolation, he found himself inexplicably drawn to her.
“May I escort you to the dining hall, Miss Hawthorne?”
Again, surprise washed over her. She blinked. “Y-yes, you may, Your Grace.”
He offered his arm, once again catching the look that passed between Lord and Lady Hawthorne. Silent questions traded between them, questions he couldn’t figure out and knew it was not polite to ask about.
They walked up the staircase among the mass of guests, and walked the short hallway distance to the dining room. Much to his annoyance, as soon as he entered and sat down next to the Hawthorne family, Percival took a seat opposite him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Daphne with some other young ladies of her status, and his mother sat with the Dowager Countess of Eastward.
“Must you?” Graham bit out as Percival set up his napkin on his lap.
“Oh, dear cousin, I must. For you cannot expect me to pass up the opportunity to converse with my cousin upon his first social outing in years.”
“Indeed not,” one of Percival’s friends said, sitting next to him. “It is indeed fine to see you here tonight, Your Grace.”
“I suddenly find myself wishing it was not that way. How strange.” Graham raised a brow at his cousin, letting him think of the exact reason for his words. Percival only frowned as others filtered into their seats around him.
“Shall we begin?” Percival asked, and Graham had a terrible notion that he did not only mean the meal but this battle of words they seemed to be caught in.
