The Rake's Black Sheep
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Chapter One
“Does this attract the appropriate attention?”
Lady Anne Tremaine murmured to herself, her thoughts already spinning away with her, as she brushed her fingertips over the emerald, silk gown her mother had insisted she wear that evening. She turned in her bedroom mirror, her eyes flicking over herself in harsh evaluation. Did the corset hug her frame tight enough? Did the skirt fall right? Were the sleeves too billowed around her arms?
The questions tore her confidence to shreds with its continued, endless cycle of doubt.
Anne smoothed along the neckline, her mouth pressed into a hard line, and straightened her shoulders back. Stand firm, Anne. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, just as much as it had in her ears during the week leading up to tonight. The authoritative voice of the Countess of Tresingdale. Smile—no, not like that. That smile is a grimace. Be soft, be polite. Be intriguing. You wish to entice a suitor, not make him think that you are wincing at him.
Anne fought the urge to sigh. Her mother, Lady Margaret Tremaine, was not a hard woman, but her social ambitions for Anne as her youngest daughter, were high.
Your sisters have secured suitable matches, her mother had told her two days ago over breakfast, as though Anne needed the reminder. I only wish the same for you, my darling.
Every night this past week, Anne had fallen into a fitful sleep, attending a new ball in every dream, faceless suitors, all of them asking if they were the right one. Earls, Viscounts, Marquesses. They all blurred in her dreams until Anne woke with a gasp, exhausted, as if she had already attended ten balls.
Now, the night had arrived, and her breath hastened. Anxiety knotted deep in her stomach as she pressed a hand to her navel, as if she might quell the nerves with some pressure.
You must find a suitable match, Anne’s mother reminded her, over and over. Over tea in the sun room, over toast at the breakfast table, and over promenading through Hyde Park, as gentlemen walked around, tipping their hats at every young lady they passed.
“I must find a suitable match,” Anne murmured to herself, nodding.
Behind Anne, pinning her hair with a flowered jewel to match the dress, Anne’s lady’s maid, Hannah, finished her hair. She peered at Anne in the mirror.
“And you will, milady,” she said quietly. “I’m sure of it.”
Anne smiled softly at Hannah, though her eyes barely lingered now on her reflection. Instead, they strayed to the face-down leather-bound journal atop her vanity. It was nestled in amongst jewels and necklaces, rings and bracelets, and ribbons. It contained every secret she had: that a deeper passion than ballrooms and suitors lay within Anne’s heart. That passion was astronomy. In it, she had diagrams of most constellations, and had tried to recently read her fate in the stars by the light of the moon, hoping to find the answers to her problems within them.
So far, it had yielded very little, but brought enough comfort that had gotten Anne through the pressuring week.
Hannah stepped back. “You’re ready, milady.”
“Thank you,” Anne answered absently. Her mind was already far away, thinking of returning home after the ball. Trying to anticipate what might happen. Trying to imagine a suitor—more than one, perhaps, turning up tomorrow to pay her a visit.
Her eyes caught her astronomical book once more, and a curling warmth settled in her. Mayhap my fate might yet still be written in the stars.
Pulling away from her mirror, her ambitions emboldened, Anne retreated downstairs to the vestibule where her mother awaited along with her sister, Celeste, who was only eighteen months older than Anne herself, and was the perfect image of a pretty, ton lady. Behind them, Anne’s father, Lord William Tremaine, the Earl of Tresingdale, looked over them all proudly.
“Celeste, darling, you look positively beautiful.” Anne watched patiently as her mother fawned over Celeste, her hands hovering over Celeste’s perfectly pinned curls. They were a shade lighter than Anne’s own hair, which was often too unruly to stay in its pins for very long. Celeste’s eyes sparkled blue beneath the candle lights, contrasting prettily with her brown hair. Eyes from our mother, Anne thought, while she herself had gotten her brown eyes from their father.
The eyes of a woman who asks too many troublesome questions, one dance partner had told Anne during her last Season before he promptly made his excuses to leave the dance floor.
Celeste was, in every way, stunning.
“I do hope we will meet with Lord Theodore again,” Anne’s mother was saying excitedly. “There is still much to discuss regarding your wedding! Oh, my darling, it shall be the highlight of the Season. The entire ton shall be there, no?”
“Mother,” Celeste groaned, but a smile already tugged on her lips. “Let us focus on Anne’s own matches tonight!”
Finally, Anne was invited into their conversation as Celeste reached out her hands to pull her closer. She squeezed Anne’s hands encouragingly.
“Tonight, I declare it,” Celeste said, loud enough to cut off their mother’s protests, “that the youngest Tremaine sister shall find her future husband.”
Anne tried to smile, tried not to scoff, and she only squeezed Celeste’s hands right back and nodded. “The stars might just have arranged a lovely fate for me tonight.”
“The stars,” Margaret muttered, shaking her head. She turned to Anne, cupping her face in both affectionate and stern lecturing. “The stars have little to do with any of your life, Anne. Take heed of what Lord Simon said to you last Season about your comments about such things. You must not exhaust your suitors with such talk.”
“Yes, Mama,” Anne murmured dutifully.
“Find a suitable match,” her mother reminded her of her usual words. “Marry well, and rise in the ton’s ranks alongside your sisters.”
“Yes, Mama,” she repeated, nodding.
“You are in charge of your own fate.” Margaret met Anne’s eyes, the disciplined words sparking a look that sent shivers into Anne. She did not fear her mother; she feared the woman her mother became when she was faced with the ton’s own pressure. Anne knew her mother was peppered with enough questions at every event, questioning why her youngest daughter had already been through two failed Seasons when the two eldest girls had been so successful.
Anne knew the rumors and what people gossiped. She was a bound spinster before her chances ever even ran out.
“I am in charge of my own fate,” Anne repeated back to her mother, when Margaret’s attention did not leave her. She nodded for extra measure, and mustered a smile.
“Good.” Margaret drew away, her face brightening once more as she turned back to Celeste. “My dear, you shall dance endlessly with Lord Theodore tonight, I just know it! This dress is ever so fine, an excellent choice.”
And, despite Anne’s own dress having been chosen by her mother, she felt like a little, foolish girl again, awaiting her compliment that was overlooked in the face of two older sisters to compliment. Her spirits dropped as she prepared to leave with her family.
The compliments Mama gives Celeste are nothing to do with me, she reminded herself, as her father offered his arm, smiling at her. She is not insulting me by praising Celeste.
So, then, why did it feel as though her mother only attempted to highlight Anne’s shortcomings by bolstering her sister’s own fortunes?
***
“Lord Alistair, we must hasten your preparations if you are to arrive on time.”
Alistair Hartfield looked up at his valet in disinterest before he sighed. “And as I mentioned only minutes ago, I shall call for you when I require you.”
Tobias, the young valet who was relatively new, had recently joined his small staff in his apartment on Gatesworth Square. It overlooked the opera house several streets down, and Alistair enjoyed those views far more than that of glittering ton ballrooms.
“I understand, my lord, but that was actually an hour ago, so we must—”
“Tobias.”
Alistair gave him a wince of a smile, his brows knitting together in a softer plea to be left alone for a moment longer.
Tobias stopped short and bowed. “My lord.”
He retreated from Alistair’s chamber, muttering that Alistair had opted not to light a single candle in the room. But how could he when the stars were already emerging in the dark, evening sky above him? Behind the square structure of the opera house, a blanket of stars already hung themselves alongside the pale moon, and Alistair smiled, his eyes mapping out each one.
Without quite thinking, his fingers brushed against a small, wooden box on his writing desk. As soon as his fingertips met the varnished wood, Alistair swallowed, finding his throat closing painfully. He kept his eyes on the stars for another moment longer before he braved the wave of memories that hit him at the sight of the box.
“Happy birthday, Mother,” he said quietly, to the dimness of his room. His eyes lingered on his mother’s favorite star—Arcturus. She had told him that the name meant guardian of the bear. His heart tightened as he finally looked at the box.
“My boy,” his mother had whispered, presenting him with the box on her last birthday. Her birthday and the day of her death. “Whenever you feel alone, simply look towards the stars, and know that I will be your guardian. No matter where I am, no matter how far away I may be, I will be just like the stars. Every night, I shall watch over you. My son, my Alistair. The stars will write your dreams every night, I promise, for I shall be the hand that guides their ink.”
Only sixteen years old, Alistair had been fascinated with her tale and promise. But, unfortunately, sixteen years old had been an age enough to understand his mother would be in Heaven because she would no longer be with him.
“Here.” She had given him the wooden box.
“Mama, it is your birthday, not mine,” he had insisted.
“I have a joint gift for us,” she had whispered in her bedchambers, urging him to open the box. Nestled inside, on a bed of silk, had been a pocket watch with his name engraved on it. Alistair had gasped, watching her reach for her own next to her on the beside table.
Katherine Hartfield.
Marcus Hartfield.
Alistair Hartfield. The stars will guide your way home.
He clenched the pocket watch now, thinking of his mother’s pale face, the sweat beaded on her forehead, yet it had brightened as he had assessed her gift with so much attention, carefully thumbing over the engraving, as he now did, in a chamber far from where he had grown up with his mother, father, and brother. Although Marcus, Alistair’s brother, had received a matching watch, too, the gift had felt so personal to Alistair himself, for his held the extra line of words.
Later that night, despite death hanging a shroud over Katherine’s shoulders, she had huddled Alistair close, murmuring to him. “Here, I shall teach you one last constellation pattern, as I have taught you many others.”
“Mama, you are weak,” Alistair had insisted, but she had shaken her head, insisting.
“Bring me our star map, my little star.”
And so he had, and, together, his slender fingers alongside her curled, withering ones from her illness, they mapped the constellation of her birthday, and his own: the Virgo constellation.
He recalled her last words to him. Never let go of your love for the stars, my son. They will always remind you to live brightly.
His eyes returning to the window, Alistair thumbed the watch into his tailcoat pocket, trying to find comfort in his mother’s words from twelve years before. On instinct, he searched for the Virgo constellation, but it had been something she had told him was best seen in the countryside, where the fields gave a clear, unrestricted view of the sky. Katherine had always hated London for its crowds and smoke, and he rather thought the same. Still, he had sight of some stars, and they lifted his spirits as he let the Arcturus settle him.
Slowly, Alistair got to his feet. Twelve years ago, his beloved mother had passed away, and, alone in his apartment, Alistair felt more isolated in his grief than ever before. He was hardly in the mood for a ball, yet he knew he had to go. That had been his father’s conditions.
You may live independently in that place you wish to call a home, as long as you perform as the perfect gentleman, Alistair. I shall endure no less. Should you find yourself misbehaving, you will further find yourself without such a place to return to, and I will call you back to the townhouse.
Bitterness and anger curled tightly around Alistair’s heart, so he knew he had no choice but to attend the ball.
“Tobias,” he called out, his voice sharp, as he closed his fist around his watch. “Let us finish the preparations, and have my carriage hailed.”
Scarcely a half-hour later, Alistair’s carriage pulled up outside the Weston estate, where the windows glowed with the light of the ball inside, and every door opened in a clear welcome. Outside, footmen bowed and guided guests up the stairs. Alistair winced at the sight of it all. His carriage door opened, and he stepped out into the din of excited chatter as women in ballgowns and men in their tailcoats surrounded him.
The carriages pulled away, making room for even more guests.
However, as soon as he made one step towards the townhouse, a voice to his left made him glance. The call was not aimed at him, as a man walked past with a curt nod at Alistair, greeting another guest, but in the space behind that man, avoidably there now that Alistair’s attention had been caught, was Alistair’s brother and his father.
Dressed in a deep, rich burgundy tailcoat, Marcus Hartfield looked every inch the heir to the Harenwood dukedom that he was. Behind him, Cedric Hartfield, the Duke of Harenwood, did not look as though he grieved the anniversary of his wife’s death as well as her birthday. Instead, he was bright-eyed, with a firm but proud smile, as he clapped Marcus on the shoulder.
Still, the men’s eyes met, and Alistair cleared his throat, reminded of his obligation to his father to be the perfect nobleman.
“Father,” he greeted, inclining his head. “Brother.”
“Alistair,” Marcus greeted in return. Three years older than him, Marcus radiated their father’s features in the way of his auburn hair and maintained beard, while Alistair had gotten their mother’s dark, wavy hair that he wore to his shoulders, and green eyes, like she had possessed. They had always sparkled in wonder and intelligence, but according to Alistair’s father, Alistair’s only sparkled with trouble. “It is good to see you attending tonight. After the stories that came from last Season, I had rather thought you would steer clear. Remind me, was it the champagne glasses, or the candelabra that you broke?”
Alistair’s irritation flared, shame driving through him at the recollection. “It was a candelabra,” he answered tersely. “And I paid for the replacement before dawn appeared the following day.”
“How positively scandalous.” The new, feminine voice came from Marcus’s wife, as she moved further into the gathering of people, having greeted others around her. Her hand slipped into the crook of Marcus’s arm, and Alistair pointedly looked away from it—from, as well, the glint of her ring. His eyes met the curious, blue ones of Lady Isabella Hartfield, and he felt his chest tighten. “Alistair.”
“Lord Alistair,” he corrected. “For we are all but strangers now, are we not?”
“Do not be so dour, Alistair,” Isabella giggled, as though she had not caused him years of grief and pain. “We are in-laws, not strangers.”
I would prefer to be a stranger to you than your in-law.
Behind her, Alistair’s father and brother began to speak of an estate meeting happening the following morning. How could they act so normal when today, of all days, was a day for the world to stop and recall the brightness that had been Katherine Hartfield? At least, Alistair wished the world would stop for such a thing.
Isabella batted her eyelashes at Alistair, only making his pain deepen. He stepped back, biting down on his accusatory words at all three of them. Betrayal upon betrayal upon betrayal.
“I will see you inside,” he said, his voice clipped. “Enjoy the evening.”
None of them seemed to care that it was the late Duchess’s birthday or that it was the same day she had died twelve years ago, and that it should have been honored, mentioned, perhaps even a dinner held in celebration of her life with a toast raised high. For once, he wished to have shared his grief. Instead, he stalked inside, nodding at his hosts, before he went on and entered the ballroom.
***
“Look,” Celeste gasped, her face close to the carriage window right as they pulled up outside their eldest sister’s townhouse. “It is the Duke of Harenwood! Look, there is His Grace, with Lord and Lady Fernwood. Our sister truly has the best-attended balls of the ton.”
Anne could not help her scoff.
Celeste turned to frown at her as the carriage stopped. “What?”
“It is hardly the best-attended when we all attend the same balls,” she muttered. “His Grace attends every social event.”
“Indeed,” Celeste answered, but her attention was already fixed on the trio outside. “Oh, to be like the Marchioness of Fernwood. She is ever so elegant. Look how she commands her ladies before she enters the ballroom. They all but flock to her.”
“Like a group of seagulls, perhaps.” Anne was once again hit with her sister’s displeased scowl, right as her mother tapped her elbow lightly.
“Anne,” Margaret snapped. “You shall be on your best behaviour tonight. Do not endeavour to display your wit before your suitors.”
“Of course, Mama,” Anne answered. Her life was merely a retinue of nodding and accepting everything she was ordered to do. For once, just once, she wished to attend a social event where she did not have to don a mask. “I am sorry.”
“Let us depart,” Anne’s father announced, nodding at the open carriage door. “Your sister will be most happy to see us in this rather large sea of guests.”
As a family, they departed, and Celeste was already chattering on about how fortunate they were to be the sisters of the lady who held the first ball of the Season, while Anne nodded absently, only half listening. After joining the line of guests, they finally greeted Emily Weston—the recently-married Countess of Estwood, or, as Anne had known her for many years, simply Emily. Yet her mind turned over the impossibility of this being her sister. Although she had been at her sister’s wedding during the previous Season, a beautiful July ceremony, the woman that now stood before her seemed much older simply due to how poised she was.
There was a lift to her chin, a hard politeness to the eyes she shared with Anne. Where they had once been as warm as Anne’s, gentle and encouraging as she told her sisters was to expect for the day they debuted, they were now colder, sterner. How could the girl who had giggled over stealing cream from a bowl when the cook was not looking become this perfectly elegant ton lady? The assured countess who nodded at her guests, and smiled tightly, not genuinely, was not the sister Anne had grown up with.
“Heavens,” Celeste whispered. “I do hope marriage does not stiffen me up like it has our sister.”
Despite herself, Anne giggled, only to earn a hush from their mother. Yet she could not admit to Celeste that she was already beginning her own transformation. That the softer side of her was becoming hardened by the knowledge of her own, impending marriage. That only left Anne, the youngest of the three, whimsical and untethered in comparison.
There was a strike of loneliness within her, and she suddenly mourned for the days before any of them had debuted. Or perhaps when Emily had first entered society, and she had come home from every ball, flush-faced and laughing breathlessly through her endless stories.
Had Anne realized those days would be gone so soon she would have held onto her sisters a little tighter when they bid good night.
Anne’s mother held her arm in a discreet grip, that only tightened the closer they got to Emily and her husband, Jonathan, the Earl of Estwood. The grip said, as it always did: mind your manners, behave, we are a very collected family. It was as if that grip reminded Anne that everybody had already found their place in society except for her. She still spun among it all, burying herself in her love that was seen as most unconventional.
Before they entered, Anne cast one last look up at the stars, silently wishing not to embarrass herself, or her family.
Chapter Two
Inside the ballroom of the Estwood residence, a scene of splendor unraveled. Though Anne’s patience for the occurrences in the ballroom was but limited, she could not deny that its grandeur was ever astonishing to her. The high ceiling boasted three chandeliers that hung over the guests, delicate glass droplets barely clinking.
Ballgowns swirled over the dance floor, and the hum of conversation barely covered the beautiful strings that played from the orchestra area. Women with headpieces, and men in their cravats—all of it was a fine-tuned play, one where everybody knew their role. From the suitors who bowed deeply, offering hands to young ladies to dance, to the matrons who oversaw the gentlemen their daughters were invited to dance by.
Anne herself only searched the room for one person, and that was her friend, Miss Louisa Graeme, the daughter of the Viscount of Yarndale. Louisa was tucked against the far corner, her dark hair falling prettily over her shoulders. Her pale pink dress flattered her figure, and a delicate blush pinkened her cheeks as she watched the couples who danced.
As soon as Anne’s mother was distracted by a dowager countess, Anne slipped away, sneaking beneath the notice of her family so she could make a beeline for Louisa. Sneaking up behind her friend, Anne startled the Viscount’s daughter, giggling at how her friend gave a sharp, surprised cry and whirled to face her.
“Anne Tremaine!” she chastised, yet laughter creased her eyes. “You are terrible!”
“Oh, but it was rather enjoyable to scare you,” Anne answered, grinning. “Something needs to liven up this ball. It is a pretty sight indeed but it is all so amusing. I am sure they play the same melodies at every ball.”
Louisa giggled. “We must be proper!”
“I am,” Anne insisted. “But I can still criticise.”
“Your mother would hate to hear that.”
“My mother is too busy fawning over Celeste and boasting how her other daughter is our host tonight.” Anne’s voice tinged with bitterness. Perhaps that was why she had slipped back into some childish fun, a grasp at the past she was being forced to let go of as the only unmatched daughter of Lord and Lady Tremaine.
Anne’s eyes cast over the crowd near them. There were the usual lords: eligible bachelors who had lost out on the most advantageous match the Season before, all of them trying to guess who the most sought after lady would be. She saw two men whom she recognized as suitors that had visited Celeste last Season before Lord Theodore Ashcroft, an earl’s son, had been the one to gain her hand in marriage.
“Lord Gene is handsome enough,” she murmured to Louisa, nodding at a man with curled, sandy-blond hair across the dance floor. He was busy eyeing up the cake stand at the refreshments table, however.
Louisa pulled a face. “Word around the ton is that he was caught in a compromising way with a lady he was not courting last Season. Lady Melodie, it was, I believe. He tried to marry her, but her father refused, sending his daughter off to live in Paris with relatives. Instead, Lord Gene was forced to come back to the marriage mart.”
“Heavens,” Anne sighed. She had never truly considered how terrible the ordeals might be for the men, too. The ladies were expected to preen and act just so, but what of the suitors who missed out? “It is still a degree easier for them. They are not dubbed spinsters—or whatever the male version may be—when they fail two Seasons.”
At that, Louisa glanced at Anne sympathetically, while Anne tried not to notice the look of pity. Louisa was only just starting her second Season; she had time.
“After your sister stole a great deal of attention last year,” Louisa murmured, her eyes casting around the dance floor, “I imagine you might be highly regarded in the eyes of many suitors this year.”
Anne could only laugh under her breath. “I might not be a wallflower as you are, Louisa, but I am no diamond. Not like Celeste. Not like Emily.”
“Mayhap not a diamond, but a star.” Louisa shared a secretive smile with Anne as Anne’s only confidante of her astronomy love. For Anne to be a star would take a great deal of work, and she did not truly believe she burned so brightly.
Anne began to protest when her mother’s disapproving face rushed into her line of vision. The countess hurried over to Anne, her mouth pinched.
“Anne!” she chided. “Is this where you ran off to? Heavens, you are ten and nine. When will you start behaving like it? You cannot simply leave your family for…” Her eyes flickered over Louisa, and her downturned smile was barely concealed as she muttered, “lesser company.”
Louisa stood straighter, her cheeks coloring further, but said nothing. Shame weighed in Anne’s chest at her mother’s insult to her friend. She was about to protest when her mother’s grip turned almost bruising, as she pulled Anne along, back through the crowd.
“Mama, you must not speak of Louisa—”
Her words were barely out before her mother pushed her in front of none other than Lord Gene, who coughed around a mouthful of cake.
“Lord Gene, you must meet my daughter, Anne Tremaine,” Margaret announced, smiling broadly, as Lord Gene hurried to swallow quick enough to greet her.
Anne could only blink, both embarrassed for him, and for herself. She winced as he bowed deeply, kissing her knuckles.
“Lady Anne,” he murmured. “It is an honour. Your older sister, the Countess of Estwood, is an excellent host tonight.”
“Indeed, she is, my lord,” Anne answered, her voice stiff as she pulled her hand away.
“Lady Anne is my youngest, Lord Gene,” Margaret continued, orchestrating their interaction, while Anne simply wished for the sky to open up and snatch her where she stood. “I understand you are seeking a dance with her tonight.”
The words were clear pushing, and Anne could only take in Lord Gene’s wide eyes as he looked around, as though trying to see who was watching them. How could he be embarrassed to be speaking with her when he himself had been involved in a scandal?
Anne spoke without quite realizing. “How was your courtship with Lady Melodie, my lord? Should I expect ours to be different? Only, if my reputation is to be ruined, as was hers, I—” She cried out as she was pulled along by her mother, meeting her glaring eyes.
“I warned you against trying to display your wit, Anne,” her mother hissed.
Anne tried to tug away, only to be held tighter. “Mama, he is not a good choice at all!”
“Well, as it stands, you have no choices to even consider them being good or bad.”
“You marry Celeste and Emily off to good suitors, only to introduce me to a man who has a history of ruining reputations?”
“Do not challenge me, Anne,” Margaret sighed, her eyes squeezing closed for a moment. “You must find a match. You know how important this is and—ah, Lord Simon! How good it is to speak with you again. You recall my daughter, Lady Anne.”
Before Anne could even muster a smile, Lord Simon cleared his throat before muttering about needing to speak with his father, and hurried off. Beneath her mother’s glare, Anne was introduced to five more suitors, all of their names and faces blurring, endlessly enduring either their excuses to leave quickly, or their all-too-keen eyes when they realized that Anne was an Earl’s daughter.
More and more gentlemen swam in and out of her focus, her attention waning. Many names filled her dance card quite without proper knowledge, but her mother’s smile grew approvingly at each new man. Assurances that Anne has grown up well since the last Season, no more of those frivolities people speak about- were given, and the men seemed placated.
Anne could only flush in further shame. Those frivolities were her true passions, her love for the world and the stars and science, and how it all worked together to create one, spinning planet that she was forced to be on- only to marry.
Why? She could not help but wonder. Why, in the face of such celestial bodies, such incredible developments and scientific wonders, was her only purpose to be a wife and produce heirs?
The thoughts soured in her stomach—and only did more so when she saw a familiar face coming through the crowd. Thick, light brown hair was pulled back from Lord Nathaniel Marston’s face as he approached her, his eyes roving the room around him, as if he assessed who might be watching.
Do not approach me, Anne thought. Heavens, pray do not approach me.
“Lord Marston!” Margaret called out, spotting Nathaniel as he came closer. “Come over here and join us!” Without any discretion, Anne was tugged from the attention of another lord, and pulled towards Lord Marston. He met them halfway between the distance.
“Lady Tremaine,” he greeted, bowing deeply. “It is an honour to meet with you once again. I was not so successful in securing Lady Celeste’s hand, yet the time I spent with her is still a fond memory.”
“Indeed,” Margaret all but gushed. “Although, despite my daughter’s successful betrothal, you must recall my youngest daughter, Lady Anne.”
Lord Marston’s eyes alighted on Anne, sparking. “I do indeed.” He swooped his hand down to grasp hers, bringing her knuckles to his lips. She blinked as he pressed a chaste kiss to her skin. Her stomach did a strange flip, but not one of endearment or adoration—rather, one of dread. Of wondering if she was facing a viper or a lion. Either could be utterly deadly.
“Lord Marston,” Anne greeted, curtseying when she saw her mother’s sharp, reminding glare. “How lovely to see you tonight.”
“And even lovelier still if you will do me the honour of your first dance, Lady Anne,” he said, cocking his head as if in question. “I could not help but notice your dance card is full yet no man has been the first to take your hand.”
Anne mustered a smile, wondering how she could get out of the dance, but her mother only urged her on, smiling brightly.
“Of course, Anne would love to dance with you, Lord Marston,” she insisted with over dramatic
enthusiasm. “I am sure she is honoured to be asked.” Her mother shot her a warning glare, and Anne immediately nodded.
“Y-yes, Lord Marston,” she said quickly. “I would truly be honoured.”
“Then allow me, Lady Anne.”
He was cordial and polite enough, yet she disliked how he looked at her as he led her onto the dance floor in time for the musicians to strike up another tune. It wasn’t too slow, but one of a gradual build, and the waltz began as more couples took to the floor.
“Lord and Lady Tremaine were rather impressed with me last Season,” Lord Marston said as he led her through the opening steps. “Surely you recall my presence upon visiting Lady Celeste.”
“Indeed, I do,” Anne murmured, though she wished she did not. Why would I want a suitor who has only returned after failing to court my sister? “You are the Viscount of Cardale, yes?”
“I am pleased you remember,” he said, smirking. “After all, why would you not? My countryside is most impressive. Honestly, I have spoken with a duke from a neighbouring village who has complimented the size of my country home. He says it is more befitting a marquess.”
“Oh, how lovely,” Anne said politely, but she was only half listening.
“Of course, I then have my Cheltenham residence, my townhouses in Bath, as well as here in London. Were you aware I also have holdings in Yorkshire, my lady?”
“I did not.”
“Ah, well now you do. It has been a recent development for a business venture. See, I have secured the most excellent partnership with an Earl further North. Together, we have entered the world of breeding racehorses. He has a connection with a duke, and he has provided funding in exchange for having a stake in the venture. I am sure it will be most lucrative with time.”
“I am sure,” Anne murmured dutifully.
“Of course, there is also my business that I partake in Europe. Did you know only a month ago I made the treacherous journey to the Caribbean? What a marvelous place. People say it is even more golden in the summer, although I must admit, the gold I seek is not that of beaches but—” He cut himself off and smiled as if bashful but Anne saw through his act. “Well, coin.”
I am not surprised, Anne thought.
“Nevertheless,” Lord Marston continued, “it all serves me better to provide a financial future for my wife.” His grip on her became tight, her hand almost squeezed to painful lengths in his grip. “You understand, do you not, Lady Anne?”
The question was loaded, and Anne found herself nodding out of anxiety of delaying a response. “Of course.” She looked at him, with his brown hair lighter than hers, and a few strands having come loose from the tie to hold it back. He was much older than her, but she told herself that he was handsome enough. The lies were a comfort to face anything that came from him dancing with her, for when she looked, she could see how pleased her mother and father looked.
“I like how you speak, Lady Anne,” Lord Marston said. “You agree with my words. Many men have whispered that you spoke over them, or interrupted with foolish thoughts that a lady should not have. I am glad your mother has curbed such behaviour out of you.”
That sparked pure ire through Anne as she pulled away, her grip falling from his. He recognized that there was a fire in her, but it was merely banked in that moment, and Lord Marston grasped her tighter, his mouth pressing into a firm line.
“I see I might be wrong yet,” he said harshly. “Nevertheless, it is not behaviour that will be tolerated in the Cardale residence.”
Anne’s blood froze. How could he speak as though she was already planned to be a part of his life? She only glared back defiantly at Lord Marston as he all but pulled her around the dance floor for the remaining part of their dance.
***
“No matter how many balls I attend, I will never grow accustomed, I think.”
Alistair turned towards his friend, listening to Captain Michael Langford, his companion since their days at Cambridge, whom he had observed depart for the navy some years ago, only to resign his commission with honour after sustaining an injury during London’s previous Season.
Michael shook his head, sipping from his champagne. “Heavens, I mean, look at it all. Such grandeur. How many chandeliers does one ballroom need?”
Alistair sniggered under his breath even as he surveyed the ballroom. It was true; there were few places the light did not reach, but he much preferred the darkness. It was easier to see the stars that way. The chandeliers did a fine job of glimmering like the night sky, but it would never compare to the true thing. His eyes strayed to the terrace doors on the other side of the ballroom, and the allure to simply slip away, the second, unimportant son of the Duke of Harenwood, was so tempting.
He sighed, swigging his own drink. “The scandal sheets say that this Season’s line of ladies shine so
brightly, and it makes one wonder that, if it is so true, the chandeliers are not needed.”
Michael snorted at his comment. “I did not take you for a man of gossip.”
“Gossip? No. Information to keep my mind tidy. I can tell a rumour from the truth.”
“You have far too much time on your hands, Alistair,” Michael teased, nodding at Alistair’s brother.
“I see, though, that Marcus is doing well being every inch the perfect heir.”
“As always,” Alistair muttered, downing the remainder of his glass and reached for two new glasses, handing one to Michael, who only blinked at being given a fresh drink when he had half a glass still remaining of his first. After a pause, Alistair took his own, and Michael’s second drink. He had a feeling he would need it, especially with how he saw Lady Isabella hanging off his brother’s arm. He watched them as he downed one glass.
“Easy, Alistair,” Michael warned. “Your father told you not to—”
“Make a spectacle of myself,” he finished in a hard voice. “I am aware, but I do not see how I can get
through the evening without something to help.” His eyes fell on the necklace delicately placed around Lady Isabella’s neck, and his stomach tightened uncomfortably. It was his mother’s diamond necklace, given to her by his father upon an anniversary of their marriage. It was the first gift the duke had given her out of genuine affection rather than obligation, after years of companionship which had softened their convenient arrangement into something more tender.
Although, by Cedric’s complete apathy tonight, nobody would have known he cared for his deceased wife.
And to see that beloved necklace decorating the woman who had broken Alistair’s heart, the woman who had betrayed him so severely—to know that Marcus had been given the necklace to give to her, that their father had truly favored his perfect, firstborn heir…
The bitterness rose in Alistair’s throat and he chased it down with more champagne.
Does she know? Alistair thought to himself. Does she know it is the anniversary of my mother’s birthday and her death? Does she know the insult she causes by wearing that necklace, on today of all days?
“I… I do not think I can handle being here tonight,” Alistair muttered, turning to go, but Michael caught his elbow. “Please, Michael. I have shown my face, and that is enough. Tonight… it is not a night I can endure the ton.” His voice was tight with distress, and his chest only tightened as he imagined his mother standing beside his father, across the ballroom. She would laugh with him, sneak him out to the terrace to ask him what constellations he saw, to ask why his heart ached so terribly for a love he had not had for years.
For a moment, he swore he felt the presence of Katherine Hartfield, a brush on his shoulder, a gentle whisper on his heart.
“One hour more,” Michael proposed, pulling the champagne glass from Alistair’s vice-like grip.
“You cannot ask that of me.” He was losing his control over his composure. How could everyone simply stand there, smiling, laughing—how could his father and brother speak about business as though nothing was wrong at all? It was all boiled into a hard ball of hatred within him. Somehow, it all felt like a calculated insult, one he was supposed to be thrown by.
Which was why the fortunate glance of Lady Isabella in his direction made him snap back into himself, made the loose ends of his thoughts tie back into propriety, and he reminded himself that he was well. He was fine. He had gone through twelve years of grieving his mother while isolated. His father and brother had covered up their grief, dealt with it however they needed to, while Alistair, alone and unimportant, the spare, drowned in it some nights. Only the stars had continued to be there for him, unfalteringly appearing every night.
Straightening, Alistair composed himself, piece by piece—only to be distracted by more movement of another lady coming towards him.
“Oh, Heavens, do not look now, but Lady Diana Huntington is approaching,” Michael sniggered, nodding at the lady who Alistair had already noticed. Her lavender gown was beautiful, as was she, if not for the permanent, sorrowful look on her face. She had been widowed a couple of years back, from what he could recall.
“Goodness,” Alistair muttered.
“If you were not such a rake, and made people so curious as to what you do up in that bachelor house of yours, all alone, then perhaps you would escape her notice,” Michael pointed out with a smirk. “Of course a widow seeking more financial support and a life would be inclined to approach you.”
“Pray, conceal me,” Alistair said quickly, sharply turning, pretending to speak to someone else. “Tell her I am meeting with my father, or something. Just…” He trailed off in a fluster, not wanting to draw more attention to himself, not wanting to deal with anybody at all, and he quickly walked away.
It was not to the exit of the ballroom towards the hallway of the Weston residence like he had planned before, but the open, terrace doors he had been gazing at since arriving.
Alistair made a sharp beeline for the fresh air, avoiding both Lady Isabella and Lady Diana, and as soon as he emerged onto the mercifully empty terrace, he breathed a little easier. The cool, spring night air filled his lungs, and Alistair let out a breath, trying to release the knots of tension that the ball had created in the first place.
He truly had never wanted to come here, and he did not understand his father’s demand for Alistair to show his face at all of these events to uphold the Harenwood name if none of his family bothered with him.
Turning his gaze skyward, Alistair smiled, finding the Virgo constellation. Not only that, but he sought Orion’s belt, and the Ursa Major. All the shapes formed in the sky, hidden languages his mother had taught him to learn. Slowly, Alistair eased out there, leaning against the terrace railing. Soon, the sound of the ballroom behind him began to ebb away, no longer suffocating him.
***
“Ah, Lady Diana, I do believe Lord Alistair went to speak with his father,” Captain Michael Langford said, wincing at the lady with the sad, disbelieving gaze. He did not believe she truly grieved the elderly gentleman who had given her such fortune to be blessed with following his death. As terrible as it was, Michael was inclined to think that she used her grief as a way to approach others, to use sympathy as a tether to strike up a new match.
He had seen plenty of wives lose husbands in the navy, only to move on mere weeks later. The ton was a social game, one he had not missed, and many ladies were well-versed in how to play—and win.
“Ah,” Lady Diana said. “A shame, truly. I was hoping he would want to grant me the honour of being my first dance of the night.” Her sad smile spread into something more of a smirk, and Michael suddenly found himself thinking of his own excuses to leave. “You know, I have heard of Alistair being called a rake, but whether I am the only lady he dances with tonight, or one of many, I do not mind one bit. In fact, one might say it is a challenge to meet. The young widow might garner the attention of one of the ton’s notorious rakes, no?”
“I am afraid I am unable to answer that, my lady,” Michael told her, smiling tightly. “In fact, do excuse me. I shall find him.”
He did not move to find Alistair, for he knew full well his friend had retreated to the terrace for some fresh air, and while Michael sympathized with him, knowing what day it was, he also knew they all had to play their roles correctly, no matter how much it weighed on them.
Approaching the refreshments table, he shook his head, sighing. There was a platter of plum cake, and Michael wasted no time in serving himself a slice. As he did, he noticed a young lady, her dark hair attempting to slip over her shoulders, reach for a slice of honey cake.
He caught her eye, and offered a small smile.
Her eyes widened as she set down the silver cake slice quickly, making to leave.
“I—I would suggest the plum cake,” he said quickly, not wanting to scare her off. She hesitated, turning back to him. Her eyes darted down towards his own plate, and he shrugged, taking a large bite of his plum cake.
“The honey cake is rather delicious,” she said. “Have you tried it?”
“No, but Heavens, I shall before the night is over. I have missed such delicacies.”
“Missed it?”
He nodded. “I was a captain in the navy—oh, but where are my manners?” He set down his plate, taking her hand as she set down her own. “Captain Michael Langford, my lady.” Michael bowed, not quite pressing a kiss to her knuckles, but motioning it, before releasing her hand.
“A captain?” she whispered, her eyes widening. “I am Miss Louisa Graeme, daughter of the Viscount of Yarndale.”
“Yarndale,” Michael mused, nodding. “Indeed, I have been there. A lovely place. I believe it boasts many lakes and trails to walk along and I am also certain that we have been previously introduced, though it was some time ago, and you may not recall it.”
At that, Miss Graeme’s eyes lit up as she nodded. “Yes, indeed, I think I remember! As for Yarndale…. our family also has a bloodhound, and my father walks him through the many trails. My mother tends to fuss about our country estate, as she much prefers the townhouse, and the ton’s scene.”
“And yourself?” Michael found himself asking, unsure why this girl’s eyes captivated him so. They were full of wonder, of small excitement, as if she wished to be more excited than she was, but held herself back.
“I prefer the countryside,” Louisa told him. “It is far more free. Plus, Mama tells me I should not eat so much cake at the balls, so I like to think that my walks through the woodlands around our estate and the lakes nearby help my… well, my overindulgence.”
“If your mama is present tonight then I shall tell her myself that I see it as an honour to share a conversation over a slice of cake. Although, I do find the plum very heavy, and I think a dance ought to help me relieve some of that feeling.” He cleared his throat, looking at her. “May I… Well—ah, excuse me, for it has been some time since I have done this, but may I have the honour of sharing your next dance set, Miss Graeme?”
Her eyes widened, and her mouth moved without omitting any words. She glanced down at the cake on her plate, and Michael laughed.
“I shall gladly wait until you have indulged,” he told her.
“It is not that,” she said quickly. “It is more that… well, you are a captain.”
“Indeed.”
“I am sure there is an earl’s daughter, or perhaps even a marquess’s daughter, who should take your arm onto the dance floor.” There was a curl of shame in her eyes as she spoke, and she lowered her focus to the refreshment table.
Michael only frowned. “No, I do not believe there is, for the only lady who has caught my attention tonight is right before me, and she is most worthy of being my dance partner. I am unversed in the ton’s scene after being isolated in the navy, so I only ask you do me the grace of forgiveness if I am inept.”
“I fear I might be more inept,” Miss Graeme giggled, and Michael thought he would like to hear more of that sound.
As they finished their cakes, he crooked his arm, and she gripped his inner elbow, allowing him to lead her to the floor. For the first time in a very long time, Michael felt a flutter of butterflies in his stomach, and wondered at it, as he and Miss Graeme prepared to enter the next dance.
***
When Anne’s dance set with Lord Marston was finally, mercifully over, her skin was positively crawling, and her palms sweated. Around them, guests were already leaving the dance floor, as more entered. Anne caught sight of Louisa being led onto the floor by a tall man who wore several badges on his jacket.
Heavens, she thought, impressed. Louisa’s blush had deepened, but a smile lingered on her face, and Anne found herself both jealous and happy for her friend.
“We shall dance another set,” Lord Marston announced, but Anne pulled away quickly.
“No!” she said quickly, and he immediately frowned at her. “I—I only mean to say that my legs ache, and I wish to collect more energy before I am honoured to dance again with you.” In truth, she did not wish for more than one set to be danced with him in case anybody struck up gossip, or saw the two of them as romantically involved.
More guests filed around them as she moved further back from Lord Marston, who looked rather furious. “I shall return,” she told him, knowing it would do no good if she had already made him angry, but Anne could not stand one more moment on that ballroom, and turned on her heel. Hannah was nowhere to be found, but Anne already knew Hannah was often given leave to stand with the other lady’s maids, and would still keep an eye on her from afar.
It was a risk to slip out unchaperoned, but Anne was willing to take it if only to escape her mother, and her retinue of suitors for Anne to speak with, as well as Lord Marston. Backing away, Anne felt the night’s breeze kiss the back of her neck, and she moved further and further towards that kiss, until she found herself out on the terrace. In the initial darkness, she did not realize she was not alone—not until a shoe scuffed on the floor, as if the other person had heard her approach, and wished to let her know she was not alone.
Her eyes landed on a man with a strong jawline, his gaze fixed upwards, on the stars that glittered above them. The mere sight of that made Anne’s chest loosen from its anxious, dreading knots. There was something in the face of the man, and although she could see his profile only, his eyes were shining with what appeared to be unshed tears.
There was something so vulnerable about how he appeared that it softened something in her.
Anne’s words came free without her quite thinking about them. “The head of the Cygnus is not usually so bright,” she commented, her eyes flicking up to the constellation she always picked out in a starry sky. It was her most beloved one, a bird in flight, its wings outstretched.
At her comment, the man’s head turned in her direction, surprise in green eyes that caught the light of the ballroom. “Indeed, it is not. They say that if it shines brighter than usual then there is some worldly discovery on the horizon. Perhaps we may catch wind of it.” Thick brows pulled together, and Anne tried not to notice how handsome this stranger was. “You… you know of astronomy?”
“Know of is lightly describing it, but yes,” Anne said, flushing. She couldn’t help her own frown at him. “That does not bother a gentleman such as yourself?”
“Ah.” He laughed under his breath. “And what sort of gentleman might I be?”
“Well, I do not know, but I do not have enough hands to count how many men here tonight would scoff at such a comment and tell me to stop thinking so loudly.”
“Then they are ignorant, for who should stop speaking about the stars.” There was such a wonder to his voice as he turned back. “And if a woman at the ball should know the Cygnus and sees knowing of astronomy as a light description of her knowledge, then I wish to speak more with her. Mayhap she might be one of the two people I wish to speak to at all tonight.”
“I imagine the other one is a lady waiting for you on the dance floor of my sister’s ballroom.”
He shook his head, that playful smile still gracing his lips. “More so it is my closest friend, Captain Michael Langford. I believe that is him, dancing with the dark-haired young lady.”
Anne turned, realizing the man whom Louisa had been dancing with would be this man’s friend. She returned her gaze back to the man, who was still watching the stars.
“The Cygnus has always been my favourite constellation,” she told him. “A bird in flight, or an arrow flying true. That has always been the debate, I believe. I wish to think of it as a bird, perhaps one freed from a terrible cage, and it finally flies free, into the night sky where it shall forever have somewhere to explore. No longer clipped or cramped into a space that does not fit it correctly.”
“Then I envy the Cygnus.”
The murmur came softly, so quiet that Anne almost missed it, but her racing heart did not. How could she be so fortunate to stumble upon a man who would indulge her—not only let her speak, but also converse with her?
He sighed, speaking on. “Do you see the Arcturus?” He moved closer to her, lifting his hand so his finger could point in the direction, but Anne did not need it.
“The guardian of the bear,” she said, nodding. “It was one of the first stars I found myself.”
The man looked at her sharply. “Mine too. It has become a favourite of mine.”
For a moment, Anne could not look away. His green eyes almost reflected the stars themselves, and she found her breath coming quite faintly for a different reason than it had with Lord Marston. He had instilled pure anxiety, yet there was something about this man that comforted her.
“Why do you hide out here, and not trying to woo the other ladies onto the dance floor like every other man?” she found herself asking.
He only laughed, the sound hard and bitter, contrasting with his earlier, softly amused one. “The stars are kinder company,” he told her. “And the constellations are much more interesting. There are many myths that each one is a facade for a god from another culture. Did you know that?”
“I did not,” she answered honestly. “I like… I like the scientific discoveries of astronomy to make-believe.”
“Make-believe,” he echoed, shaking his head as he smiled at her. “It is mere speculation.”
“I am sure that it is more than that,” she said quickly, her face flushing at how they spoke. “Does that… comfort you?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “But mostly, I wonder if stars are mere blankets for souls that have departed this world. That perhaps Heaven might be nothing but an endless ocean of starry, nighttime skies, so our departed ones may forever look down upon us and guide us.”
Who is this man to have such a beautiful view on both death and the sky above us? Anne could scarcely breathe, afraid of ruining the moment.
But the man only changed the angle of the conversation, and sighed. “Besides, it is my brother who has done the wooing, as you say. He is the one with the title that ladies fawn over, even though he was married some years ago. I am merely a…” He frowned. “Well, among my close friend—”
“The captain,” she interjected.
“Indeed, the captain. Among him, I have a joke that I am the spare. The second son.”
“To whom, might I ask?”
In the darkened terrace, she heard more than saw his empty laugh. “I fear you may run from this terrace should you know. How about we speak of who you are instead?”
“I fear the same,” Anne told him, thinking of every suitor who had glanced around in embarrassment at speaking with her, or Lord Marston calling her behaviors curbed.
“Perhaps we may simply back away from one another before your reputation is ruined by speaking with a rake, and mine is spoken of even further than it already is. Though, if your only fault is speaking of the stars, then I am unsure of what your better qualities are, for that seems a wonderful thing to do.”
A rake.
A rake, and a second son—one who grieved, if his words were anything to go by.
There were plenty of second sons in the ton, but few matched the description she could see. A rake who already had a reputation. Scandal sheets that Emily had once fawned over before being wed to the Earl of Estwood flashed through her mind.
Suddenly, a name came to her. Marcus Harenwood, the son of the Duke of Harenwood—the heir.
So that could make this man…
“Lord Alistair Harenwood,” she whispered. If he was surprised that she pieced his identity together so quickly, he did not show it.
“And you say this is your sister’s ballroom, making her the Countess of Estwood,” he countered. “Which, in turn, would make you either Lady Celeste or Lady Anne, although I do believe Lady Anne was a highly-rumoured young lady during the last Season. Am I correct?”
Caught off-guard by his own knowledge, Anne could only blink as an assured smirk crossed the lord’s face.
“I believe I am,” he murmured, stepping closer to her, as Anne took a step back to counter it. How could a man who understood the stars, who felt so deeply, be the very same rake that the ton dubbed a bachelor who did not know responsibility if it hit him square in the jaw?
“I believe you are,” she whispered.
“So, Lady Anne, whose favourite constellation is the Cygnus, what other knowledge of astronomy did you scare off your suitors last Season with? Surprise me, for I will not baulk at such intelligence.”
Heavens.
Her face flushed, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “I…”
“Lady Anne!” The call came from Hannah, who burst onto the terrace behind her. Anne whirled, her eyes widening at the interruption. Reality knocked into her with all the force of a gust of wind. Anyone could have emerged and found her out there with Lord Alistair. She backed away further, and watched something flicker over the lord’s face—something like resentment, perhaps, annoyance at them being interrupted.
And if a woman at the ball should know… of astronomy… perhaps she might be one of the two people I wish to speak to at all tonight.
But why would a rake feel so isolated at a ball where there were plenty of women to choose from?
“Lady Anne,” Hannah whispered fervently, jolting her from her thoughts once more. Hannah’s eyes went to Lord Alistair, frowning, before settling back on Anne with panic and urgency in them. “Your mama is looking for you. Please, I must get you back inside.”
Dazed and shocked at her own risks, Anne nodded, and let herself be ushered back into the ballroom, but as she did, she glanced over her shoulder at the man who suddenly seemed rather alone, standing in the shadows, with only the stars he wished to keep as company.
Chapter Two
“Dinner is served,” a butler called out across the ballroom an hour after Anne was hastily pulled back to her mother’s side.
Ever since she had left the terrace, her interaction with Lord Alistair kept to herself, her mother had spoken endlessly about Anne’s social failures—from her escaping Lord Marston, when she should have told him he was welcome to have more than one set of dances, to shunning another well-liked lord. There were countless other incidents in between, but Anne let them all sail over her head. Her mind still lingered on the duke’s second son outside.
Throughout that hour, she could not stop feeling his gaze on her, and every time she looked, he would glance away before falling back into conversation with his friend, Captain Langford.
However, her focus on Lord Alistair broke when Lord Marston appeared in her line of vision, his smile too wide, unsettling, as he offered her his arm.
“Lady Anne.” He inclined his head in greeting, his eyes moving over her shoulder, as if to ensure her parents watched him. “You seemed to have escaped my grasp earlier. How could we have been parted?” He gave her a cock of his head as if truly confused.
Anne could only laugh nervously and shrug. “I cannot imagine why.”
“Then allow us not to part now, and for me to lead you to the dining room.”
Anne glanced at her parents, who nodded approvingly. Her mother’s discreet wave of her hand to encourage Anne on only made her stomach tighten with anxiety. How could they not see her distress? Was her smile truly so convincing? It truly did not feel so.
Before Anne could answer, she found herself already being led out of the ballroom, and to the dining hall across the hallway.
“I do not believe I finished telling you of my connections for my upcoming business ventures,” Lord Marston said, and Anne made a noise of distracted interest, as he launched into another tirade of explanations. Where was his passion for what he did? He spoke of his ventures so carefully, so clinically, nothing more than a way to make money. Nothing more than to boast and add to his plethora of investments and notoriety as a viscount.
It did not match that of Lord Alistair, who had spoken so passionately, so painfully passionately in fact, of the stars. His words had been unguarded, unexpected for a rake, as if the thought of him feeling so deeply about the celestial world above them, was so strange. Anne tried to find him in the mass of guests that filed into where an amazing dinner was set up, but could not.
Sat next to Lord Marston, Anne felt trapped. Celeste sat between their mother and father a few seats down, separated from Lord Theodore, yet the two men had already launched into conversation about how wedding arrangements were going. Overhearing Celeste’s joy, and Lord Theodore’s genuine adoration for her, only made Anne wish to shrink further into her seat.
“Lady Anne, may I introduce my mother, Dowager Viscountess of Cardale, Lady Agatha Marston.”
Anne turned to look at the stern-faced older woman next to her, her smile already fixed in place, but it fell when she was faced with Lady Marston’s displeasure. The lined-faced woman sneered at her dress.
“Emerald green,” she noted, huffing. “Last Season’s colour.”
“My mama picked it out for me,” Anne countered gently, her shoulders curling at the scrutiny. “Is it not to your taste, Lady Marston?”
I should not care, Anne thought, yet, stuck between the two of them, she craved some sort of validation. Some inkling that not everything she had done tonight was wrong.
“Your mama is Lady Tremaine?”
“Indeed, Lady Marston.”
“Hmm.” Lady Agatha nodded slowly. “Well, then, I suppose I shall hold my tongue.”
Next to her, Lord Marston snickered. “Mother, let us not pretend as though you ever hold your—”
“Shush, now, boy.”
Anne froze in between them, caught between the amusing smirk Lord Marston gave his own mother, as though her reprimand did not faze him, and the curled lip of the dowager viscountess. As the first course was served once guests found their seats, Anne was subject to the complaints of Lady Agatha, who seemed to enjoy criticizing everything.
“Heavens, these tablecloths! Does our host not understand taste?”
“Mother, our host is Lady Anne’s sister,” Lord Marston commented. “We ought to show respect.”
“Respect would be only hosting a ball when one has the perfect means to do so. All I have seen so far is terrible table settings and slow serving staff. Surely more efficient staff could have been hired tonight.”
“I am sure the Earl and Countess of Estwood have made sure everything is as perfect as they could make it,” Anne replied, feeling terrible for her sister, who had looked forward to her hosting from what their mother had said. But there seemed to be nothing to please the old woman next to Anne.
More courses passed, and Anne found herself more interested in the conversation of others around her rather than what was happening on either side of her, where Lady Agatha was making a show of having Lord Marston recount his impressive achievements last Season—from winning endless croquet, to challenging dukes at chess. They were only his miscellaneous hobbies, apparently.
“Do you play, Lady Anne?” Lord Marston asked, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.
“Oh, I do—”
“Pray, forgive me. I am sure you do not. It is a very complex game. I am sure I can teach you one afternoon. Perhaps it is an excuse for me to call upon you tomorrow.”
Anne stiffened. She did, in fact, know how to play chess, and very well. Hannah often indulged her in a game or two every now and then. Anne rather enjoyed the calculation of the game, the endless ways a game could go, and all the moves she could use to her advantage. There was nothing like an assessment of a chess board by a ferocious opponent.
“Heavens, tomorrow?” Lady Agatha cut in. “Lady Anne, do not look so eager. It is like young women these days do not know how to behave. My, the guidance some ladies of the ton receive is nothing like what I would give my own daughter. I do ensure a young lady will act proper in my company.”
Ice flooded through Anne. Why did her comment feel like such a threat? Mustering a smile, she nodded, even though it was not her who had suggested the visit at all.
But you did not refuse him, either. And how could she?
Her misery sank deeper into her stomach, curdling her food, and soon, Anne found herself unable to eat another bite but forced more morsels past her lips for the sake of the eyes on her.
I must not let them see an inch of my misery, she thought.
***
Alistair was all too aware of Lady Anne, several tables down from him. Many dining tables had been pushed together to form a length-ways one, and the chairs were arranged in two lines accordingly. He was seated next to Michael, who sat next to a dark-haired, young lady. He was already deep in conversation with her, and Alistair found himself stewing in a silence he had not chosen. Opposite him, Marcus and his father chattered away as if Alistair was not there, and it all made his head spin.
Looking down at the wine that had been served as the first course was brought out, he thought about sneaking Michael’s drink as well as his own, but he caught his father looking at him sternly. Somehow, despite not being present in Alistair’s life very often, he still seemed to know what Alistair thought. Namely, that he wanted to drown himself in wine to forget his thoughts.
To forget the bitterness he harbored for his family, and the fact that Michael had asked him to stay, only to ignore him for the company of a lady, and how everybody seemed to be having a rather good time except for Alistair.
He felt foolish, untethered in his grief and loneliness, and wished to make his leave, but he could not. Not with his father’s threat hanging over him that he needed to uphold the Hartfield name. So he drank a normal amount of wine, for now, and he ate his food dutifully, and he forced himself to fall into conversation with another lord on the other side of his family.
He strictly did not look at Lady Isabella, nor his brother, or think about that it should have been him at her side once upon a time.
Overhearing some scandalous remark, he looked further down the table. Two women, one notably younger, were not quite whispering to one another but pretended to, as though they wished to be heard while acting as though they didn’t want to be.
However everybody did, for everybody knew Lady Helena Dailey, and her daughter, Miss Sophie. They were the ton’s gossip-mongers, sufficiently influential to sway which ladies aligned themselves with certain factions amid a public scandal, and oftentimes, individuals doubted whether they collected all their tidings solely for the purpose of publication. They had been at the brunt of accusations many a time yet denied being the actual writers of the scandal sheet.
“Heavens, it is terrible!” Miss Sophie exclaimed. “I could never imagine such a thing.”
“Of course you cannot,” Lady Dailey said smugly. “I would never allow such a thing. Only wayward daughters would elope with men they do not know and so far beneath their station. It a dreadful occurrence.”
“Has anybody heard from her mama upon the matter?” Miss Sophie whispered.
“Nobody has reported anything, not since the girl fled London. Although there are rumours of her being slightly rounder than when she had a dress fitting several weeks ago.”
“Oh, Mama!” Miss Sophie cried, giggling, pretending to be astounded. Alistair knew the pair had likely been discussing the same topic all night with a different audience. Their gossip spread like clockwork, right down the table, until, after several courses, Michael leaned in, and muttered, “Heavens, did you hear about Lord Frederick? I heard he got a poor lady pregnant and fled the city with her. He has done well for himself, no?”
It was said in jest, but Alistair could only think about how anybody of the ton was at the mercy of the two gossipers’ tongues. He hoped he never did anything to cause such a stir from them.
“Indeed, he has,” Alistair muttered, grabbing his wine and draining it. He no longer cared, and he ignored his father’s warning looks. “And good for him escaping this wretched society.”
He ignored Michael’s look of alarm, as well, and everybody else’s, and allowed himself to fall deeper into his own misery.
As soon as the dinner was called to an end, and the gentlemen were invited to go to the billiards room, Alistair declined the invitation, claiming that he needed to rest early for a business meeting the following day.
When he left the Estwood townhouse, he let himself finally, finally, disappear into the dark streets, becoming insignificant beneath the stars. When he was far from the noisy ruckus of the house, the tension in his chest eased, and Alistair could finally breathe again. His feet knew where to guide him even as thoughts tumbled over and over one another, straying to the intelligent, brown eyes that had met his across the terrace.
But then thoughts of his mother clouded his intrigue and curiosity before he could enjoy it, and the grief struck him all over again. He endured it, telling himself just one more moment of endurance, and he could drink it all away, as he did year after year. Nobody would grieve with him, and the loneliness chased him down every street until he came to the Clover, one of his usual gentleman club haunts.
Yet as he tucked his hands in his pockets to duck inside, trying to curl inwards and make himself smaller, his fingers closed around the pocket watch. He had quite forgotten he had taken it with him. He thumbed the engraving, and pulled out the delicate item.
Words drifted to him from earlier in the night, thinking of the lady’s eyes, and how she had watched the sky in a way Alistair had recognized if only from his own expression. I wish to think of it as a bird, perhaps one freed from a terrible cage, and it finally flies free, into the night sky where it shall forever have somewhere to explore. No longer clipped or cramped into a space that does not fit it correctly.
She had been right, and he rather agreed.
Was his mother now like the Cygnus? No longer clipped by her illness, or held back by the ton. No longer caught in being the perfect Duchess, but free, exploring the stars forever? The thought brought a sting of tears to Alistair’s eyes, and he hesitated, not going inside the Clover. Usually, he would go right inside and lose himself in endless brandy, getting intoxicated, dominating gambling tables, and saying anything he pleased without consequences.
But tonight…
Tonight, he could not bring himself to sully his mother’s memory in such a disrespecting way.
Tonight, he turned away from the Clover and he went back to his apartment. It had been so long since he had not stumbled through the door, brandy on his breath muddying his head. Yet, as he walked home alone, eyes straining to the sky above, he swore he heard his mother’s voice. Find your freedom, too, my Cygnus.
And in the wake of that voice, he saw the profile of a young lady who gazed at the stars as if they held the answers she sought.
Let me know your thoughts!
I’m glad that you finished reading the preview of “The Rake’s Black Sheep”. It will be on Amazon very soon!
