A Sonata for the Wounded Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

In the beautifully quaint seaside town of Girton Bay, Lady Emma Thornton walked through the Wednesday morning market. At her side, Miss Lydia Markham had an arm linked through Emma’s, her murmurings guiding her.

Do watch your step there. Ah, no, do not step there—there is a pebble. There is a bird overhead, its plumage the loveliest shade of blue. Shall I describe it for you?

Emma bit her lip as shadows danced over her dark vision, trying to find where people were before her governess had to tell her. The market was always busy in the eleventh hour of the morning, and although Lydia often protested that they ought to browse and shop when the crowds died down, Emma insisted on being part of the flow of people at its busiest.

If she could not see anybody around her then she at least wished to feel, to hear, and to know that when fabric brushed the back of her hand, she was both involved in the bustle of the day, and safe.

“I must admit, I still do not understand why you insist on venturing here at the busiest of times,” Lydia grumbled once again. Emma could hear the jingle of Dash’s leash that Lydia held in her other hand. Dash was Emma’s spaniel, her companion who never required a great deal of her except love, which she gave in abundance.

“Why not?” Emma countered. “I am a lady of the ton, as anybody else. Wednesday mornings are my one day a week wherein I get to simply be part of this crowd. To walk, and pretend like I am one of them, too.”

To pretend as though the other six days are not spent in the most isolating darkness. She did not always admit that part out loud.

“Besides,” she continued quickly before Lydia could protest. “Perhaps I like the challenge. I like hearing everything, even if I cannot see it. Sometimes it is scarier to walk in the emptier darkness than the busier one.”

She wouldn’t see the expression on her companion’s face, but she had long known Lydia’s ways since before her sight was lost. There would be a displeased set to her mouth, not one of annoyance, not truly, but one of resignation. Lydia would know she could not alter Emma’s thoughts or preferences, even if she thought there was a simpler way for Emma’s life.

It was a harmless intent, but Emma had a hard enough navigating her own self at times, figuring out what worked for her and what didn’t.

Gently, she added, “I f it gets too much I assure you I will let you know.”

She heard her companion’s sigh of relief as Lydia tightened her hold on Emma. “Please do, for I do not want Lady Thornton to pester me again if you slip from my sight.”

Emma giggled, avoiding a larger stone on the floor that the tip of her shoe caught. By now, the pathway was known to her. She could count her steps through the market, stop at any point, and know where she was. That was, if the stalls did not change their order. Mercifully, they had not.

“My grandmother is harmless,” she laughed as they continued their stroll. “She is very protective, as you are.”

“Yes, but she will have my head if anything happens to you.”

A sour pang crawled through Emma’s stomach. “The worst has already happened, no? I do not think anything could get a great deal worse.”

There was a beat of silence. Emma hated silences outdoors, and if it wasn’t for her companion’s grip on her elbow, assuring and comforting, then she would have wondered if the other woman had walked off. She feared that one day, if nobody kept ahold of her, they could simply leave. It had been done before, and the fear was hard to shake.

But Dash yapped, breaking the tension. Emma turned back to the direction of the noise.

“Let us shop further,” she said quickly. “Mr. Mercer puts out the good strawberries on Wednesday mornings, and I wish to have Seacroft’s cook make a pie with them for dinner.”

“Emma,” Lydia said, her voice tinged with pity. But it was not pity Emma wanted. It was simple acceptance. She understood Lydia’s responsibility for her care, yes, but Lydia could never understand Emma’s own predicament. When she was alone in her room, imagining the view outside of her window, pretending to trace the gull’s wingspan as they soared past, that was when she knew the crush of loneliness. Terrible things had happened, and they would never, ever, get better.

So, she made the most of her weekly trips to the market for they let her be different.

“It is fine,” Emma told her governess. “Truly. Nothing has happened. I am safe, you are safe, and we are simply enjoying a stroll. Perhaps we should bring back some blueberries. My grandmother loves them.”

She urged Lydia on, focusing away from the tension and on what she could hear. In her mind’s eye, she held a paintbrush to her canvas and swept the landscape from memory. Girton Bay was renowned for its fishing ventures, she had heard the cry of workers returning from a successful catch that very morning. The scene was vivid in her mind. Thick bundles of rope would be thrown, hitting the docks with a hard, wet thwack. Cages would release fish, and boats would be moored, waiting for the next chance to venture out into the sea beyond the bay.

Narrow streets lined the way down from the coastal residences. Seacroft Manor overlooked the bay, standing proud among the quaint fisherman’s cottages. Everything was colorful, and it made Emma’s chest ache to recall the blues and greens and yellows of the village, the painted doors and the rainbow-colored flowers adorning roofs and windows.

Further into the bay, beyond the market, was a small, commercial district. Establishments ran along a small labyrinth of narrow roads, unknowable to a tourist or a visiting nobleman for the summer. But to Emma, who was well-practiced in her steps through Girton Bay, she knew the roads well.

A mere five minutes down the road she would approach the haberdashery shop. It was named Madame Giselle’s Plumes, quite aptly, really. Then there was the Talbot Inn, where fishermen crammed into booths and ordered ale to cheer their catches and successful sales to the local vendors. There was the thermal bathhouse, which Girton Bay was not entirely renowned for, but it had seen its fair share of ailed nobility escaping there for a while, basking in the healing qualities. . Emma herself had not been. It was one thing to pick her way along the market road, but another to sink into the thermal waters and know where the bottom was without her sight.

The two women approached the fruit stall first, owned by Mr. Mercer and his wife. Emma wrapped her fingers around the wooden frame of the counter. Above her, the canvas blew against the top of her bonnet.

“Good morning, Lady Emma,” Mr. Mercer greeted. “Miss Lydia. It is a lovely day, is it not?”

“Indeed, it is,” Emma said. “If I did not know my way here already then the scent of your most

delicious fruit would have guided me without a doubt. Do you have any strawberries available today?”

“As always, we do,” the fruit vendor told her, and she knew by the tone of his voice he would be smiling brightly at her. “I have ones the size of your palm, my lady.”

“I shall take a pound. And some of your best blueberries as well.”

“And raspberries,” Lydia added on. “I shall pay extra, of course.”

“There’s no need.” Mr. Mercer was dismissive, chuckling. “The two of you, plus Seacroft Manor’s cook, keeps me in business plenty.” It was a lovely tale, of course, one Emma did not believe, but she didn’t like to believe she got pity allowances. Her grandmother’s finances more than secured her and Lydia’s market day adventures.

There was a rustle of bags, an exchange of coins, and Emma reached out to find her governess’s hand clasped around the neck of a brown, paper bag. “Thank you. Have a lovely day, Mr. Mercer.”

“And you, Lady Emma.”

They set back off, with Dash moving past Emma’s feet as if to soothe her that he was right there. She reached out to Lydia, searching for the fruit bag. The woman who was her friend, companion and distant cousin all in one, laughed and opened the bag further.

“You cannot wait?” she teased.

“What is the point in waiting?” Emma giggled, plucking a strawberry that wasn’t the size of her palm, but was large regardless. She bit into it, making a pleased noise at how the juice immediately dripped from the fruit. The sweetness burst over her tongue as she polished it off before cleaning her hands on her handkerchief.

The two of them, and Dash, ventured deeper into the market, and finally they came to the door of Madame Giselle’s Plumes. Emma required some lace for an old dress she wanted to have remade. The bell above the door chimed their entrance once they had leashed Dash outside safely, where Lydia could keep an eye on him. Inside, the shadows Emma could see were less dense than outside but still indicated several figures around the haberdashery.

Lydia leaned in to quietly murmur, “Lady Charlotte Bittlewood is here.”

“Ah, how pleasant.” She forced a tight smile to her face, wary of who might see it, but hoping she appeared polite if she was seen. Lydia guided her over to the familiar rack of lace, where Emma let her fingers drape over the fabric. It was rough beneath her fingertips while she waited patiently for Lydia to narrate what she touched.

“That one is blue,” Lydia told her, keeping her voice low, as if she wished to spare Emma any embarrassment over having her lace chosen for her. “It will match well with your eyes.”

I cannot remember my own eye color, Emma didn’t say, but her stomach gave a nauseous, sad dip at the thought. At the fact she couldn’t even recall if it was a deeper blue or an icier shade. What did they look like now? Desperately, she wanted to say, tell me what shade they are, but she couldn’t. Not so publicly. Not where anybody could hear the vulnerability that would crack her voice.

There were different shades of blue, but Lydia didn’t offer more information about the color, and Emma did not blame her for it.

“Pink,” she commented when Emma touched another piece. The gown she wanted to touch up was a pale purple, almost lavender, according to her grandmother. The shade the sky streaks when a storm approaches alongside sundown.

“Is there any white?” Emma asked, picking her way over the fabric as if she could feel the colors. Frustration bubbled up inside of her, her fist clenching around the lace. She blinked harder, as if that would chase away the darkness, but it didn’t. Nothing ever would.

“Yes,” Lydia said cheerfully, unaware of Emma’s irritation. There was a ruffle of movement, and then material was brought to her. “Does it feel nice?”

Emma nodded, hoping her cousin was looking. The haberdashery was a large, wooden space that smelled comforting, as though Madame Giselle put pockets of fragrances in the corners of the shop. She’d been in enough times to know where things were. Bolts of fabric lined every wall, satin and silk to one side, lace and mesh on another, with rougher, heavier collections shut away in the back of the shop for the colder months.

Emma’s heel touched a dress form stand behind her, and she moved away. She knew Madame Giselle always had four dress styles on display. Sometimes it was nothing more than a simple showcase of pattern and color and fabric, but other times a newly designed dress would be displayed, painting the perfect picture of a young debutante’s dream ballgown.

As Emma moved deeper into the shop, she did the unthinkable. She bumped into someone. Her mouth dropped in a gasp, shame lancing through her as she stumbled back, lost for a moment with no hold. Lydia would have still been looking at fabric, and Emma had to tamper down her upset and frustration again. She was entitled to look as well, beyond simply being Emma’s companion.

“Lady Emma.” The bright voice was one she recognized but could not place. The speaker didn’t offer her name immediately, as most did. “Do watch where you—oh. My apologies.”

Emma tried to smile through hearing the slip-up, and bit back a retort. “My cousin is with me. I apologize; I should have been more aware.”

“It is no matter,” the woman muttered. Emma hovered, her hands nervously reaching for something, anything, to feel grounded but she was too far from bolts of fabric, and she could hardly reach out to the woman she spoke to for support. But momentarily, Lydia finally caught up, her breath fast as she apologized profusely.

“I got caught up, Emma,” she said. “I am so sorry, it won’t happen again, I—” She broke off. “Ah, Lady Charlotte.” She leaned close to Emma. “It is Lady Charlotte Bittlewood.”

Ah, that was why the voice was familiar. Lady Charlotte was a dark-haired pretty lady, the eldest daughter, and second child of the well-respected Bittlewoods. They were a local family, one Emma herself had grown up in the distant circle of.

“Lady Charlotte, it is lovely to see you again,” Emma said, wincing at the natural greeting. “Forgive me, I did not realize it was you.”

“Well, one would think my voice is notable enough.” Displeasure curled in her voice, and it was different than Lydia’s. A kind that said Emma had inconvenienced her. Shame dipped through her. “Regardless, it is no matter. Although Miss. Lydia should keep a closer eye on you, no?”

“Indeed,” Lydia quickly said.

Emma wanted to protest that it was not necessary, but she felt as though there was a blow landing upon her when she realized that it was necessary. It was precisely why she did not really venture out here alone. She bit her lip, staying quietly.

“My apologies once more, Lady Charlotte.” Lydia cleared her throat delicately. “What brings you to the haberdashery today?”

“I am choosing new material for a ballgown,” she announced, her voice lifting. “The summer is long and vast, and the parties shall be endless. I, for one, cannot wait. I have rather high hopes for this upcoming Season. There are many handsome lords and suitors around in Girton Bay, and my brother assures me I will undoubtedly catch the attention of one, if not several. You do know Lord Bittlewood, yes?”

Emma did not know who the question was directed at, but she nodded regardless, her good mood sinking that bit further. She had long refused her grandmother’s offer of buying her new ballgowns. There was little point in spending the money when they would hang, unused, in her closet. She would not attend Seasons, nor would she be courted, so what use was there for new dresses?

“Oh, Heavens, how insensitive of me!” Lady Charlotte uttered, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It is so very sad and unfortunate that you, Lady Emma, cannot enjoy such things anymore. Have you ever even attended a ball?”

The question came out quite mockingly, and Emma always wished to see the best in others, but she could not help needing to bite her lip against an angry retort.

“You must be aware I have not.”

“One wonders why you are shopping here.” Again, her voice was sugar-sweet, and Emma could not see her expression, but she found herself glad for it. The condescension was bad enough to hear without seeing it, too.

“I am sure a ballroom would welcome Lady Emma as readily as any lady of the ton.” Lydia’s response was firm and no-nonsense. Her arm linked through Emma’s in silent solidarity. But it was too late; Emma’s thoughts— carefully ironed into something good and pleasant had already slipped away from her

Bitterness coated her tongue as she thought about how she would never have that normalcy. She could pretend, and she could stroll through the market on a Wednesday, and tell herself it was enough, but she would never have what Lady Charlotte had. Endless social events and ballgowns, the rush of preparation for a courtship. Her silence was heavy.

“I do not really know what fabric to choose,” Lady Charlotte said. “How fortunate of you to have somebody to choose for you, Lady Emma.” Again, the slight struck her. “Although, I cannot help but wonder if people think it rude that you touch so much of their wares without purchasing. Heavens, I do not wish to be callous, but I would not like to buy material that had been trampled all over with clumsy fingers.”

“I think we ought to leave,” Emma whispered, her voice tight and her chest pained with the way she swallowed back a snapping comment. It would not do well to cause a scene. She simply had to put her head down and accept.

“As do I,” Lydia sighed.

“Have a good day, Lady Charlotte,” Emma said, turning toward the door, her lace forgotten, as she and Lydia left the shop.

***

“How she could say such insensitive things, I do not know,” Lydia snapped once they were outside. Emma busied herself with the leash, wanting to do something, not wanting to have to rely on her cousin everything.

“It does not matter,” she insisted. “Let us forget it—”

“She should not be allowed to be let off with such comments—”

“Lydia!” Emma’s frustration snapped out of her, and she cringed immediately. “I am sorry. I just—I wish to forget all of the things she said.”

As I wish to forget that I will not ever wed, nor attend the balls, or have a normal experience as other ladies of my status do. I wish to forget that I am here, and not in London with the rest of the ton, or my brother, or—

Dash’s leash slipped from her fingers, and she cried out, flailing to grasp it once more.

“Dash!” she called out.

“I will go,” Lydia said quickly. “Stay here and listen out for if he returns.”

Before Emma could protest, she heard fast footsteps retreating, and Lydia calling Dash’s name. Moments passed, and Emma gripped the nearest lamppost she had found, only a short few steps from the haberdashery. Moments ticked on, slow and panicked, until Lydia finally returned and took Emma’s arm again.

“He has raced off but surely he cannot have gone far, surely. He knows you—he would return to you.” Lydia sounded terribly hopeful.

But the noises of the market swirled around Emma, and she knew that Dash would be lost to the crowds. With only Lydia able to truly look, she was helpless.

“Dash!” Emma called out. “Me and my distracted thoughts.”

The two tried to follow Dash’s trail, to no avail, and the urge to cry only overwhelmed Emma more. She could not even look after her dog; how was she supposed to accomplish anything at all? She was foolish and clumsy and—

Suddenly, a hand caught her shoulder, and she whirled around, lost, her hands snapping up. She made contact with someone. Someone taller than her, an imposing wall.

“Forgive me!” A male voice said, alarmed, and Emma gasped, snatching her hand back. “I… I was calling out to you, for I believe I have found your dog. He is what you are looking for, is it not? Aside from striking out at strangers.” He paused. “Then again, I did startle you.”

“My… my dog,” she murmured uselessly, for of course somebody else had already done a job for her before she could ever hope to prove herself. She reached forward, hoping to find purchase on Dash’s leash, or his fur, or anything that didn’t leave her stumbling through unmoored darkness.

“Hello? Did you hear me?” he prompted. “He is yours, he is not?”

“Y-yes,” she said quickly. She was too busy trying to lower her gaze, not wanting to be found out, not wanting to be confronted more than she was already being.

Her face burned, shame flooding her. He is not to know, she reminded herself, but anything she could say in her own defense died on her tongue. She adjusted her head, trying to better follow the sound of his voice.

“Here.” If he thrust the leash at her, Emma did not feel it. A helpless noise left her as she caught the loop after several aimless attempts. Finally, the tension in her chest reduced slightly. “You should look after your hound properly in a town like this, especially on such a busy day. Do not let him run loose any longer. He could have bolted in front of a carriage and hurt either himself or any passenger and driver.”

His berating only made her humiliation deepen as remorse flooded her, and she knew she would look rather dim-witted, but for a second, screams rang in her ears, alongside the sliding screech of wood and gold and metal as it hurtled down the road. For a second, she saw the landscape around them perfectly, and then it was tilting, turning over and over itself—and then unending darkness.

Her sight, lost from one, unfortunate carriage accident.

Her parents, lost for good with it.

Emma inhaled sharply, thinking of another fifteen-year-old on the cusp of society with everything at her fingertips, only to lose it in an instant.

Then she blinked, and she was eighteen, and she had nothing but this life now, not even a shell of her former one. It was merely a scrap.

Hiding her embarrassment and silence, Emma busied herself, feeling along the lead so she could bend down to pet Dash. She found his fuzzy ears and murmured to him. He gave a happy yip in return.

“I am sorry,” she mumbled, lifting her head. “To you both. And for the inconvenience of you rescuing Dash.”

“It was no inconvenience,” he answered her.

“Thank you, sir,” Lydia spoke up. “Dash is very important to us.”

“Of course,” he said, and his voice was smoother than what Emma had heard already. “I apologize for my harsh words, Miss, but I do fear your dog should not be running wild around the bay. Only a short distance, and he would have made it to the shoreline.”

“It was reckless of me, I understand,” Emma said, and Lydia cleared her throat, nudging Emma in a way that made her realize she had missed something.

Lydia bent down, her breath brushing Emma’s ear. “He is offering you his hand.”

More humiliation swept through Emma for ignoring the offer. Discreetly, Lydia guided her elbow so she would be able to disguise not knowing where to reach alone, and her fingers slid into the larger, rougher hold of the man. A jolt went through her as he guided her up. She had never known such a gesture except from her father, many years ago. Before that fateful carriage ride. She stood to her feet, guided by him, and warmth brushed her knuckles.

A kiss, she realized, with a hard pound of her heart.

“I wish to apologize more sincerely for my harsher words.”

Her heart slowed to a sudden stop, and she inhaled sharply. No man had ever kissed her hand like this, but it had been something she had often dreamed of when she was younger, imagining her debutante ball.

At once, her heart crashed into her stomach, and she knew she needed to pull away.

“We—we must go,” she said quickly, turning her face toward Lydia. “My godmother is due to arrive soon. I should prepare myself.”

Her hand was suddenly let go of, disorienting her, but she found herself quickly embraced by Lydia once more, that guiding hold on her helping.

“I do not wish to keep you from your day,” the man told her. She heard footsteps retreating and she realized how abruptly he walked on.

But she could not think about the man with the beautiful voice, the only thing she had to hold onto. That, and the feel of his hand taking hers. No, she forced herself to put the entire market visit aside as she gripped Dash’s leash a tighter grip, and she and Lydia set back off for Seacroft Manor.

She had already grown tired of the day and could not handle more antics.

Perhaps Lydia was right that she ought to go on a much quieter morning, but Emma had limited freedom as it was. She could not stomach giving up another thing.

Chapter Two

The Talbot Inn was a remarkably lovely seaside tavern, and Lord Nathaniel Harrington, the Duke of Pembroke, walked back toward it, taking the scenic, harbor route. It took him right through the market, along the quay, and then down a narrow country path where he would pick his way back to the tavern.

He had left his horse tied up there, and he knew the beast would be stamping the ground in antsy eagerness to tear across the cliffs of Girton Bay. It was something he did riding Harley most mornings when he stayed on the Harringtons’ country estate. Charlton Manor was set back, several miles out of town, as he preferred. If he had wanted to spend all his time among ladies shopping for ballgowns and men that strutted their wealth, Nathaniel simply would have remained in London.

But he had come back to the country estate with the intent to help his mother support his sister as she came out of her deep mourning.

The fresh seaside air will do Victoria good, the Dowager Duchess, Constance Harrington, had told him upon her arrival, bringing Victoria and her young son, William, with her. At only eight years old, master William Hill had lost his father. It left Victoria, Nathaniel’s sister, widowed, with only her own merits to support William. As soon as Constance had mentioned the two of them visiting Charlton, he knew he had to accept. Besides, it had been some time since he had seen his sister and nephew.

That was where his focus ought to be, but as he walked along the harbor road, his thoughts remained fixed on the young woman whom he had seen out the haberdashery shop. As far it went, it was a lovely store for a small seaside town, nowhere near the glamor of London or Bath’s modistes and dressmakers’, but it was more than enough for the women of the ton who holidayed in Girton Bay. Yet the young lady hadn’t left with anything but a small fruit bag. Usually, those shops saw women leaving with their maids laden with bags, getting themselves equipped for every social event of the summer.

But she’d had nothing, and that struck Nathaniel.

That, and the way she had not looked at him.

Not once, but it was as if she did not know where to look. Intent had been in her face, and she had been listening, but staring off just past him. It had been peculiar, and he didn’t know what to make of it. She had barely spoken a word except to utter her apologies, and he’d had the strangest need to apologize to her. And then there had been the way she had struck him, but he had startled her from behind.

Still, as he walked, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. There had been something elfin about her features, her slight figure tall but lithe, almost like she had daintily stepped right out of a fairytale book. Strands of blonde hair the color of wheat had been tossed around in the breeze coming off the sea, but the rest had been braided back from her face. Again, it was in a manner most unlike other ladies. Her eyes had been the color of cornflowers and there had been a smattering of pale freckles dancing over her cheeks.

Beautiful, he thought.

Regardless, he had returned her lovely, bronze-colored spaniel to her, and she had gone on her way. He didn’t need to concern himself with a damsel in distress. His leg gave a twinge on the right side, and he gritted his teeth against the dull ache as he finally neared the Talbot Inn, finding Harley waiting for him. A black horse with white lower legs and white streaked through his mane, he was a fine, sturdy creature. Nathaniel took a moment to smooth his hand down Harley’s nose before he clambered on, leaving the girl and the morning behind to ride across the heath toward Charlton Manor. Around him, the beach spread out in its splendor. The sand was so golden, almost a glittering blanket over the landscape.

Nathaniel always thought sand appeared smooth-looking, like it would just crush if he pressed his hand too hard against it to break the illusion of softness. In the distance of the bay, the water glimmered. That, he could admit, was beautiful. There was something magical about the sea, he’d always thought. The way a body turned weightless, and how pain was much more managed beneath the surface.

I should swim, he thought, thinking of his aching right leg and arm as he rode. It always acted up when he rode too hard, too tensed atop his horse. He ought to take a hot bath to ensure his muscles didn’t seize up like they had the last time he preferred to neglect or even acknowledge his physical condition.

Maybe after I greet my sister, he thought.

First he had to get through that unpleasant interaction.

***

Inside Charlton’s dark foyer and main hallway, Nathaniel followed voices into the brightly-lit sunroom. His sister, who had fairer hair like their mother’s, was sitting opposite their mother, still wearing her mourning gown. Soon the black would be retired, and she would emerge back into the ton.

Judging by the look in her eyes, hollowed and vacant, with deep purple circles painted beneath them, she was not at all ready.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted, nodding at them both. “I trust your journey here was well?”

Victoria stood, her hair pulled back into an elegant bun. She was two years older than him, and yet she looked so young, so scared of the world, as she embraced him. For a second, his sister held him tighter than he recalled her hugging him since his accident, and then not since her wedding.

“Victoria,” he said quietly, his voice thick with condolence.

“It is good to see you.” Her voice was hoarse, and her eyes glimmered even as she lifted her chin. “I was speaking to Mama about William.”

She turned to look at her eight-year-old son, a boy who seemed to be the perfect combination of his mother and father. His hair was auburn, and heavy freckles dotted his nose, and although his face still looked his young, childhood age, grief had weathered the poor boy, too. Yet he bore a pleasant smile as he turned at the mention of his name.

“Good afternoon, Uncle Nathaniel.” He stood up from where he had been sitting at the window, brown eyes fixed on the sea beyond. He had seemed lost in thought, but that dazed look was gone now as he held out his hand to Nathaniel to shake.

“Master Hill,” he greeted. “Welcome to Charlton Manor. Perhaps later I can have you shown around. Would you like that?”

William nodded, but there was no excitement in his eyes, and something still tugged at the corners of his mouth even as he kept that polite smile. He turned to sit back down, and Nathaniel slowly took his own chair, nodding at his mother. She had aged gracefully, with a bit of gray-now streaking through her fair, dark blonde hair. It seemed she was the only one in the tense room that didn’t have a faraway look in her eye.

“Well,” his mother said. “Now that you are here, Nathaniel, we may continue our discussion. Victoria?” His mother, Constane, nodded at Victoria. Nathaniel beckoned one of the maids to bring him a drink with a flick of his fingers, nodding at her in thanks.

“Should we not… exchange pleasantries first, Mama?” Victoria asked, glancing between their mother and Nathaniel himself. Heavens, she looked exhausted. What had these last several months been like for her? “It has been some time since I have visited my brother.”

“Indeed,” Nathaniel agreed.

“Yes, but we can do all of that over dinner tonight. It is early afternoon, and the sun wanes, dear. As I told you last week in my letter, life goes on. We must lift our chins and stride onward as though we were not bested by any hurdle.”

Nathaniel flinched. “Mother.”

“I am right,” she said. She wasn’t a harsh woman but somebody whom Nathaniel’s father had described as well-intentioned but stubborn. Constance had been the epitome of a duchess, beautiful and crystal-like, untouched by scandal throughout her life. Her only hardship had come in the form of losing her duke several years ago and helping Nathaniel take his rightful place. “I did not want to reemerge into the ton after losing Victor, yet I had to. For the good of you both, if nothing else. As I thought of you both, you must think of William. He is without a father. Do not have him go without guidance, either.”

“I would never dream of such a thing,” Victoria sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple, as if a migraine was coming upon her. “I am worried about him.”

“As you were saying.” Constance waved her on, and Nathaniel sipped at the brandy he was given, listening for whatever the issue was about to be.

Victoria let out another heavy sigh. “I have stewards, of course, in London. Finley’s townhouse—our townhouse—is well-staffed, and has not changed since his death, but I am alone there mostly. He lacks a father figure now, and he lacks an uncle due to me not being able to travel. But most importantly he lacks friends. Girton Bay is not a place where he can make many, I do not think. While the country air will be good for him, I worry about his loneliness.”

Their voices were hushed as if it might help the young boy remain oblivious, but William’s eyes remained on the sea regardless. He looked far too haunted for an eight-year-old, and Nathaniel recognized the look. He had seen it in his own face in the mirror plenty of times.

“I am sure there are children around,” Nathaniel told his sister. “What about in London? He can write to some—”

Victoria was already shaking her head. “He had some there—has, I mean. But ever since Finley’s death he has shrunken into himself. He has withdrawn from any conversation; dinner is a silent affair of me attempting to reach him, to ask him about things. He is not misbehaving but simply… quiet. It is eerie.” Her eyes were glassy again, and she turned her face away. “Sometimes I feel as though I lost my husband and my son in one fell swoop. My Finley died on the battlefield, but a large part of William went with him.”

Nathaniel’s chest tightened painfully at his sister’s sorrow. He could barely collect his own thoughts most days, could barely be the man he once was, so he understood grief. He understood how it felt to lose oneself. To lose a version that everybody preferred. That he himself preferred.

“Victoria,” he said softly. “How about—”

She shook her head again. “I have tried everything.”

“I told you the answer.” There was impatience snapping in Constance’s voice as she steered the conversation’s control back to herself. “Send him away to school. He will return to you polite, well-mannered, and a golden example of a future Marquess.”

“Mama, I am not sending my boy away! He is eight years old. I will not have this argument again.”

“We will until you realize that it is perfectly normal for young boys to be sent away to school. I did it with Nathaniel.”

“You had Papa,” Victoria countered. “I will have nobody, and I will be in an empty townhouse with ghosts. Is that what you wish?”

“Victoria.” Their mother’s voice turned softer. “Do not speak of superstitious things and simply focus on what is best for your child. A year ago, you lost your Finley to that frightful battle, and I understand the grief you are carrying, but you are coming out of your deep mourning. That must be a wide commitment that spans to your child’s care, too.”

But Victoria was adamant, and Nathaniel could see the strength in her that they had both gotten from their mother. Her words echoed in the room, speaking of the war against Napoleon Bonaparte.

“No, Mama,” his sister insisted. “You did what you thought was best for Nathaniel, and I will do what I deem best for William. I would like him to have a governess. I simply want your advice for how I can keep him occupied while we are here. And do chase your speech of war from the room. I do not want William hearing about it.”

“Your husband had a hero’s death,” Constance said, still gently-toned but her words cut Victoria’s grief shroud. As her brother, Nathaniel could see when she was close to crumbling beyond composure. “Let that be noble enough to overshadow anything—”

“Perhaps I can help,” Nathaniel quickly cut in. “What does he like to do with his time?”

Victoria laughed, a sad, exasperated noise. “He likes to climb! He would rather muddy his breeches than smooth out a wrinkle. And do not get me started on the wildlife he chases after. There is a canal near the Bowington country estate, and I was constantly chasing him from it when he went searching for frogs. I imagine the beach will surrender a thousand creatures for him to get sandy searching for.”

“He should be reading and writing,” their mother muttered. “Do you not encourage him, Victoria?”

“Of course I do, Mama, but he is most like his father in these ways. He is a wild spirit, and Finley told me as much when we named him William—a strong-willed warrior, Finley said, and he hoped that we indeed would have such a son on our hands. Now I am the lady chasing after her little warrior.”

Despite the sadness in her voice, the fondness in her eyes when she looked at her son was rather overwhelming, and Nathaniel had to look away. He had not been raised with such care in the same way. Neither of them had. His mother’s strict, iron fist had always been a tight, hard rule in their household, and his father had been similar. Not as stoic but still very insistent on how they ought to be. Proper, poised, and collected at all times, no matter what.

“Some warriors must be tempered, and others must not,” Victoria added. “For now, I chase after him.”

“Then it is settled,” he announced. “We shall find William a governess and I am sure Girton Bay has plenty to offer a young, explorative boy. Perhaps, if by the end of this visit, he is not feeling in better spirits school can be considered. But for now, I do not see why he cannot enjoy his visit here.”

Victoria met his eyes, nodding her gratitude. “Thank you, Nathaniel. I think I might take him for a walk along the beach front. Is it far?”

Before he could admit he did not know, not truly, their mother answered. “A short walk is all it takes. There is a bridlepath right down to the beach you can walk alongside.”

“Excellent. In that case, we shall go, and I will be back before dinner. Nathaniel, we shall catch up with one another shortly, yes?”

“Indeed.” He nodded curtly, his hands behind his back as he stood up to see them out of the sunroom. His nephew went silently, walking solemnly alongside his mother, but as soon as he was outside, Nathaniel watched him tear off through the long grass of the heath. There was no laughter, though. No calls of joy or a shout of happiness. It was merely a boy trying to outrun grief and find some solace in the ribbon of wind that tugged him on and on.

***

“London must have been terribly constraining for him,” Nathaniel mused, stood at the window. “A lot of social calls that Victoria likely had to take and then make. All the condolences he must have received. The sudden loss of his father, talk of school… it can be disconcerting for a young boy. Mother, you ought to go easier on them both, you know.”

His mother only made a dismissive noise as she came to stand next to him, her ever-lifted chin at an angle of pride. “I did not go easy on either of you, and you have both done me proud. Grief is hard, I know, but it can swallow a young lady whole. Victoria is too young for that to happen to her. Society will welcome her. True, as a widow, but it is your job to ensure she has a smooth reentry.”

“I am hardly the man of the ton, Mother.”

“No, but you could be. If you only heeded—”

“Mother.” He let out a groan as he turned to face her, his gaze narrowing. “I escape from London, so I do not have to be lectured about these matters. Do not chase me from the countryside, too.” He was only half teasing her, and she looked back coolly at him.

“I will discuss these matters, and I will lecture you for as long as it takes to sink in. It is high time you got married, and you know it. You should take a wife, Nathaniel, and have your duchess.”

Heavens, he thought. The concept of finding the Duchess of Pembroke in a flood of women all clambering at a chance for a title like that, swooning over every marquess and duke, hoping for a high rank of their own, made him feel uneasy.

He sighed heavily, turning away from her and back toward the window’s view again. “You pushing me does not make me want to do it more, you know.

“You are my son, your father’s heir.” She always knew how to get him, and Nathaniel tensed. A thought flickered through his mind: who would want a shell of a man like me? A man who carries his past like a jacket he can never take off, not even when it stifles him, not even when he wakes in the middle of the night clutching his body in pain. “You must take a wife. Why not spend the next Season in London looking for a bride?”

“As opposed to making business connections as I wish?”

“As opposed to brooding in the country estate,” she said, snappish. “If London is not where you think you will find her then so be it. But even simply look around here. Girton Bay’s society is smaller, of course, but we all know one another. Half of the population have residences in bigger cities. I am sure you will know many of the ladies already. In fact, I plan to host an array of events over the summer. Soirees, supper parties. Who knows, I might just organize a ball so I can watch my son dance with his future wife, whoever she may be.”

Nathaniel did not know what to say to dismiss her, so he simply said nothing.

But his mother reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. He barely felt it, and that frustrated him. He had barely felt his sister’s arms around him before, and the weakness spasmed through his muscles.

“It will make your mother most happy to see you happy, Nathaniel,” she told him gently, but firmly, before she drew away.

He halted her a moment later. “I am not ready to marry, Mother.”

Her footsteps on the carpet scuffed as she stopped her retreat from the sunroom. “Sometimes life does not wait for you to be ready. Victoria certainly was not ready to bid her future with Finley goodbye, and I was certainly not prepared when I lost your father, either. I was not ready for another child when I was told I carried you. But life… it does not wait, and sometimes that can bring a pleasant surprise. Lady Charlotte Bittlewood is in Girton Bay, I do believe. She would make a most suitable bride, and she has continued to grow up well.”

That was all she said, letting the suggestion linger as she left the room. The smell of her perfume that he had known since his childhood lingered, though, and he swallowed past the guilt that speared him. The guilt of not doing what was required or expected. The guilt of feeling like his lack of readiness to marry only made him fail at his duty.

But he truly was not ready. He could barely keep himself composed most days, at war with his body and his past. How could he ever put another woman in the direct path of enduring that with him through marriage?

He pushed Lady Charlotte from his mind forcefully. His mother had struck low with the suggestion, even if he understood why she had suggested it. He had not been the one to walk away from their acquaintance several years ago. She had been the one to leave him behind, moving onto more able men. Men who could provide all she wished to have.

Even being a duke was not enough for Nathaniel to remain in her sights.

His stomach clenched at the whirlwind of thoughts. Lady Charlotte’s mother was friends with his own mother, and he knew that should Constance wish the two of them to cross paths then he knew it would happen. The Bittlewoods were known throughout Girton Bay, London, and beyond; a family of quality with incredible wealth, connections, and influence. Perhaps it rivaled even that of the Harrington name, for Nathaniel had almost squandered his father’s gleaming reputation.

Shutting off his dour thoughts, Nathaniel left the drawing room, careful to avoid his mother’s private wing where he knew she would have retreated. He half considered that hot bath he’d thought of earlier, but instead, he pushed himself. He would not succumb to the weakness battering his muscles.

No, he would fight back, for he could do little else. He whistled for his two bloodhounds, Georgie and Albert, and the two dogs came trotting behind him. He led them through the house and out toward the bridle path. The beach was far off in the distance again, and he thought that he could make out the top of his sister’s head, but he was not sure. She seemed awfully far away.

He reached to stroke Georgie on the head, but his hand missed the settling on nothing but air, and he snarled in frustration at himself before whistling for the hounds to hasten. Soon, he was jogging alongside them, not caring about the attire he wore. He needed to prove that his body was not useless, that he could still have control over himself.

And all the while, he thought of the lady from the market with the lost dog, and how she herself hadn’t been able to find her dog’s head at first to pet him. Peculiar, Nathaniel thought. Very peculiar. Casting a look out over the bay, he wondered where she had come from, for he had not seen her before.

Was she a city tourist, not used to the surprising pace of a small-town market, or was she a resident, and if so, why had she seemed so very lost?

He couldn’t help but wonder if he would see her again.