Pretending to Be Her Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

The drawing room at Hartwell Manor glowed with the warm light of a dozen beeswax candles, their flames reflected in the polished surfaces of mahogany furniture and gleaming silver. Annabel Hartwell stood near the pianoforte, a glass of untouched ratafia in her hand, observing the aftermath of yet another dinner party her mother had orchestrated with precision and grace.

The evening had progressed exactly as such evenings always did in Sussex. The ladies had withdrawn after dinner, leaving the gentlemen to their port and politics, and now both parties had reunited in the drawing room for the requisite hour of genteel conversation. Mrs. Pemberton held court near the fireplace, regaling Annabel’s mother with tales of her eldest daughter’s recent betrothal to a baronet. Lady Thornton examined the new hangings with an expression that suggested she found them either wanting or enviable, though Annabel could never quite determine which. The gentlemen clustered near the windows, their voices a low rumble punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.

Annabel had perfected the art of appearing engaged while remaining comfortably distant. She smiled at appropriate moments, nodded when required, and allowed the conversations to wash over her like water upon stone. It was a skill born of necessity, developed over years of such gatherings where the primary topic of discourse always circled back to the matrimonial prospects of every young lady present.

“Miss Hartwell.”

The voice at her elbow startled her from her reverie. Annabel turned to find Hugh Merrick standing closer than propriety strictly allowed, his pale eyes fixed upon her with an intensity that caused her stomach to flutter with disquiet.

“Mr. Merrick,” she acknowledged, taking a measured step backward. “I trust you are enjoying the evening?”

“I should enjoy it considerably more if you would grant me a moment of private speech.” His voice was low and urgent. “I have been endeavoring to secure such an opportunity all evening.”

Annabel glanced about the drawing room, gauging the notice of the other guests. Her mother remained occupied with Mrs. Pemberton, and Julia stood near the pianoforte, turning over sheet music with an expression of studied concentration that Annabel recognized as melancholy. No one appeared particularly interested in her exchange with Mr. Merrick, but neither were they situated with sufficient privacy for intimate conversation.

“We are conversing now, sir,” Annabel said carefully. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

Mr. Merrick’s jaw tightened. “You know very well what I wish to discuss. Annabel—Miss Hartwell—I have been patient. More than patient. For two years I have made my intentions abundantly clear, and yet you continue to turn aside every advance I make.”

“Mr. Merrick—”

“Hugh,” he interrupted. “You have known me since we were children. Surely such formality is unnecessary between persons of our long acquaintance.”

Annabel took another small step backward, her shoulders pressing against the cool wall. “Mr. Merrick,” she repeated with firm resolve, “if you believe our long acquaintance entitles you to familiarity I do not encourage, then you mistake the nature of our friendship.”

Color rose in his face, and for a moment she witnessed hurt flash across his countenance before pride replaced it. “Friendship,” he said with some bitterness. “Is that all these years have signified to you? I have been constant in my affection, Annabel. I have made my regard known to your father. He has given his blessing. Your mother does not object. What more do you require of me?”

“I require nothing,” Annabel said quietly, “for I have no desire to marry. Not you, not any gentleman. I have been quite clear upon this matter.”

“You say that now,” Mr. Merrick said, his voice assuming a harder edge, “but you are twenty-three, Annabel. How many more Seasons do you imagine you possess before the invitations cease coming? Before younger, prettier girls eclipse you entirely?” He leaned closer, and Annabel detected the scent of port upon his breath. “I am offering you security, respectability, a comfortable home. I am asking you to be my wife, not my…” He stopped himself. “You should be grateful for such an offer.”

The word grateful struck her with the force of a blow. Annabel straightened, meeting his gaze with the full measure of her indignation. “Grateful?” she repeated, her voice cold and precise. “You believe I should be grateful for the opportunity to surrender my independence, my passions, my very self, in exchange for the dubious privilege of managing your household and bearing your children?”

“That is what women do,” Mr. Merrick said, frustration evident in every aspect of his bearing. “That is the nature of marriage. Your romantic notions, this preoccupation with your music, it is unseemly for a woman of your station. You will rue this obstinacy one day, Annabel. Mark my words. When you are older and alone, without protection or consequence, you will wish you had accepted my suit while you had the chance.”

Before Annabel could formulate a response that would not occasion a scene, her mother’s voice cut through the tension with the precision of a conductor’s baton.

“Annabel, my dear. Julia. Mrs. Pemberton has expressed a wish that you favor us with a performance. Would you be so obliging?”

Annabel had never been more grateful for her mother’s impeccable timing. She turned from Mr. Merrick without another word, moving toward the pianoforte where Julia already sat, arranging the sheet music they had practiced earlier that week.

The transformation in Annabel’s disposition was instantaneous. The tightness in her chest loosened as she settled upon the bench beside her sister. Her fingers found their familiar positions above the ivory keys, and for a moment, the drawing room and all its occupants faded into insignificance.

“Are you quite well?” Julia whispered, her blue eyes searching Annabel’s countenance with concern. “Mr. Merrick appeared rather agitated in his discourse.”

“I am perfectly well,” Annabel murmured in return. “What shall we perform?”

“The Mozart we practiced,” Julia suggested. “Unless you would prefer something else?”

Annabel shook her head, arranging her skirts and positioning her hands with proper form. “Mozart is perfect.”

The room had fallen quiet in anticipation. This was the moment Annabel lived for, the instant before the music began, when possibility hung suspended in the air like the first star of evening. She glanced at Julia, who tipped her head in readiness, and then Annabel’s fingers descended upon the keys.

The pianoforte responded with the clear, crystalline notes of Mozart’s Das Veilchen, and Annabel felt the familiar transcendence that always accompanied her playing. The instrument was not separate from her person but an extension of her very soul, speaking truths she could never articulate in words. Her fingers danced across the keys with practiced precision, each note perfectly placed, each phrase shaped with the manner of artistry that derived from years of devoted study.

Then, Julia’s voice joined the pianoforte, pure and sweet, transforming the drawing room into something resembling magic. Julia sang of the violet who loved a shepherdess, the delicate German lyrics floating above Annabel’s accompaniment like silk ribbons upon a summer breeze. The sisters had performed together countless times, yet the harmony between them never failed to move Annabel. They were two halves of a whole in these moments, Annabel’s passion channeled through her instrument, Julia’s sentiment expressed through her voice.

The guests had fallen utterly silent. Even Mrs. Pemberton, who customarily maintained a steady stream of commentary during performances, sat motionless, her attention fixed upon the young ladies at the pianoforte. Annabel permitted herself a brief glance about the room and observed genuine appreciation upon most countenances, though Mr. Merrick stood near the window, his expression inscrutable.

As the final notes faded into silence, the drawing room erupted in enthusiastic applause. Annabel’s mother wore an expression of unmistakable pride, though something melancholy lingered in her hazel eyes, the same shade as Annabel’s own.

“Magnificent!” Mr. Pemberton declared, raising his glass. “The Misses Hartwell are a credit to the county. I daresay London has never heard finer talent.”

“You are too kind, sir,” Annabel said, rising from the bench with Julia. They curtsied in unison, accepting the praise that flowed from every corner of the room.

“Another, I beg you!” Lady Thornton insisted. “Surely you will not deprive us of additional entertainment.”

But Annabel’s mother intervened with her characteristic grace. “The girls have favored us beautifully this evening, but I fear we must allow them some respite. The hour grows late.”

It was a dismissal wrapped in maternal solicitude, and Annabel seized the opportunity with relief. She and Julia made their farewells, accepting kisses upon the cheek from the ladies and bows from the gentlemen. Mr. Merrick attempted to catch Annabel’s eye as she passed, but she kept her gaze carefully averted.

The corridor outside the drawing room felt blissfully cool and quiet after the warmth and noise within. Annabel leaned against the wall for a moment, closing her eyes and permitting herself to simply breathe.

“That was dreadful,” Julia said softly, linking her arm through Annabel’s. “What did Mr. Merrick say to distress you so?”

“The usual sentiments,” Annabel replied as they began ascending the stairs toward their bedchambers. “Expressed with less courtesy than is his wont.”

Julia made a sympathetic sound. “He offered for you again?”

“In his fashion. More of a lecture upon my failings than a proper proposal.” Annabel paused upon the landing, regarding her sister’s delicate profile. “He said I should be grateful for his suit, that I shall die alone and full of regret if I do not accept him.”

“What utter nonsense,” Julia said with uncharacteristic vehemence. “You are worth a dozen Hugh Merricks. More.”

They reached Annabel’s chamber, and Julia followed her within without requesting permission, settling herself upon the window seat while Annabel began removing her jewelry. The room was Annabel’s sanctuary, shelves lined with books, sheet music scattered across the writing desk, and the small pianoforte in the corner that had been her sixteenth birthday gift from her mother.

“I wish Arthur had been present tonight,” Julia said quietly, her earlier fire evaporating into melancholy. “He writes such lovely letters, but it is not the same. I miss him terribly, Annabel.”

Annabel sat beside her sister, taking her hand. “I know you do, dearest.”

“Father received him yesterday,” Julia continued, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Arthur called specifically to speak with him regarding our understanding. Father refused to even entertain the discussion. He said…” Her voice wavered slightly. “He said he would not countenance the notion of my marriage until you were properly settled.”

Annabel’s chest tightened with guilt. This was the cage she found herself inhabiting, her own resistance to matrimony becoming the bars that imprisoned her sister’s happiness. “Julia.”

“Do not apologize,” Julia said quickly, pressing Annabel’s hand. “This is not your doing. It is Father’s antiquated notions and society’s ridiculous strictures. You should not be compelled to marry simply to secure my happiness.”

“But I am the impediment,” Annabel said. “If I would simply accept one of my suitors…”

“Do you wish to accept one of them?” Julia asked, turning to face her directly. “Do you desire to marry Hugh Merrick? Or Lord Pemberton’s nephew, or that insufferable Mr. Winters who cannot utter three words without mentioning his annual income?”

Despite herself, Annabel smiled. “No.”

“Then you should not,” Julia declared with firm conviction. “I will not have you sacrifice yourself upon the altar of my contentment. Arthur and I will find a way forward. We must simply exercise patience.”

Annabel wished to believe her, but patience seemed poor comfort when Julia’s eyes were shadowed with such evident sorrow. “You should retire,” she said gently. “It has been a long evening, and you must be fatigued.”

Julia rose, then paused at the door, a mischievous glint entering her expression. “You know,” she said, “Mr. Merrick is not entirely mistaken about one matter.”

“Indeed?” Annabel asked with caution.

“You did look particularly striking this evening. That shade of green becomes you exceedingly well. If you insist upon refusing every gentleman in Sussex, you might at least do them the courtesy of appearing less captivating while you do so.” She laughed at Annabel’s expression and slipped out before her sister could formulate a response.

Alone at last, Annabel moved to the window, gazing out over the darkened gardens of Hartwell Manor. Somewhere in the distance, she could discern the faint sounds of carriages departing, guests returning to their own homes and their own lives.

Mr. Merrick’s words echoed in her mind: You will rue this one day.

But as Annabel stood in her sanctuary, surrounded by the music and books she held dear, she could not imagine regretting the preservation of her liberty. What she could imagine—what sometimes kept her wakeful during the small hours—was the alternative. A life resembling her mother’s, replete with silent resentment and abandoned dreams. A marriage of duty rather than partnership. A slow suffocation of everything that rendered herself.

No. Whatever the future held, whatever price she might pay for her obstinacy, Annabel could not, and would not, surrender to such a fate.

She turned from the window and began preparing for her bed, the melody of Mozart still singing softly in her thoughts.

Chapter Two

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the breakfast room at Hartwell Manor, illuminating the silver service and casting geometric patterns across the damask tablecloth. Annabel descended the stairs with a sense of trepidation that had become habitual whenever she anticipated her father’s presence at breakfast. The events of the previous evening—Mr. Merrick’s improper presumptions and thinly veiled threats—had left her sleep troubled and her spirits decidedly low.

She paused at the threshold of the breakfast room, observing the scene within before entering. Her father, Mr. Edmund Hartwell, sat at the head of the table with his newspaper spread before him, though his attention appeared fixed on something beyond the printed page. Her mother, Margaret, presided at the opposite end, pouring tea with her customary grace, while Julia sat between them, pushing eggs about her plate with evident disinterest.

“Good morning,” Annabel said, entering with what she hoped was appropriate cheerfulness.

Her father lowered his newspaper immediately, his watchful eyes fixing upon her with unsettling intensity. “Annabel. At last. We have been awaiting your appearance.”

“I apologize if I am tardy,” Annabel said, settling into her usual chair and accepting the plate of coddled eggs and toast that the footman presented. “I did not realize you required my presence at a particular hour.”

“Every hour is a particular hour when matters of consequence must be discussed,” her father said, folding his newspaper with deliberate precision. “I had the pleasure of speaking with young Merrick as he departed last evening. He informs me that you have still not given him a definitive answer regarding his suit.”

Annabel’s fingers tightened around her fork. She had known this conversation was inevitable, yet she had hoped for at least the duration of breakfast before engaging in such combat. “Mr. Merrick is premature in his expectations. I have given him an answer; he simply refuses to accept it.”

“An answer,” her father repeated, his tone growing sharp. “You mean a refusal. The third such refusal you have issued to perfectly acceptable gentlemen in as many months.”

“Edmund, perhaps this discussion might wait until after breakfast,” her mother interjected quietly, though her expression suggested she held little hope of success.

“It has waited quite long enough, Margaret said he replied, not unkindly but with firm resolve. He returned his attention to Annabel. “You are twenty-three years old, the eldest daughter of a family of considerable means and respectable connections. Yet you persist in this foolish resistance to matrimony as though it were some medieval torture rather than the natural course for a woman of your station.”

“I do not view marriage as torture, Father,” Annabel said, maintaining her composure though her appetite had fled entirely. “I simply do not wish to enter into such a union with a gentleman I do not love or respect.”

“Love,” her father scoffed, the word emerging with palpable disdain. “What has love to do with marriage? Marriage is a contract, Annabel, a meeting of families, of fortunes, of social standing. Love, if it comes at all, comes after the vows are spoken. Your mother and I,” he gestured vaguely at his wife.

“Are a perfect illustration of matrimonial contentment,” Annabel finished his sentence dryly and immediately regretted her words when she observed her mother flinch.

His face darkened. “You forget yourself, daughter. What your mother and I have is none of your concern. What concerns me—what should concern you—is that your obstinacy is preventing your sister from securing her own happiness.”

Annabel’s gaze flew to Julia, who had gone quite pale, her eyes fixed upon her plate. “Father, please.”

“No,” her father said firmly. “This matter must be addressed directly. Julia, lift your head. This concerns you as well.”

Julia raised her eyes, and Annabel could discern the distress there, though her sister attempted to mask it with a composed expression.

“Mr. Arthur Pennington called upon me yesterday,” he continued, his voice assuming the authoritative tone he employed when rendering judgment. “A capable young man, I grant you, with promising prospects in the law. However, he is not titled. He has no estate. His connections, while respectable, are decidedly middling.”

“Arthur is brilliant,” Julia said quietly, her voice trembling slightly. “He has been invited to join—”

“I am aware of his professional accomplishments,” her father interrupted. “They are irrelevant to the present discussion. I have made my position abundantly clear to both of you. Julia cannot marry, and I will not countenance such a match, until Annabel has fulfilled her duty to this family and secured an advantageous marriage of her own.”

“An advantageous marriage,” Annabel repeated, setting down her fork with careful precision. “You mean a titled marriage.”

“I mean precisely what I say. I am the second son of an earl, Annabel. Through no fault of my own, I shall never inherit the title that should, by rights of intelligence and capability, have been mine. But my daughters have the opportunity to reclaim what this family deserves. A connection to a titled family. A restoration of proper standing.”

Annabel had heard this refrain countless times throughout her life. Her father’s bitterness over his position as a second son, his resentment at being denied the title Earl of Ashford despite his elder brother’s evident inadequacy, colored every decision he made regarding his daughters’ futures.

“So, I am to be bartered like a commodity,” Annabel said, “so that you might have the satisfaction of calling some lord or baronet your son-in-law?”

“That is quite enough,” her father said, his voice cold. “You will not speak to me in such a manner. I have been more than patient with your romantic notions and your devotion to that instrument, but my patience has reached its limit. We depart for London in a fortnight, and you will conduct yourself appropriately during the Season. You will dance with the gentlemen I approve. You will receive callers. And you will, by the conclusion of the Season, have secured a betrothal to a gentleman of title. Is that understood?”

Annabel met her father’s gaze steadily, though her heart raced with mingled anger and desperation. “And if I do not?”

“Then Julia will remain unmarried indefinitely. I will refuse my consent to any match she might make. The choice, Annabel, is entirely yours. Your happiness or your sister’s. I wonder which you will choose.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Annabel could not bring herself to look at Julia, could not bear to witness the hope and fear warring in her sister’s expression. Her mother sat motionless, her teacup suspended halfway to her lips, her face a carefully constructed mask of neutrality.

“Understood,” Annabel said finally, the word emerging like broken glass.

“Excellent,” her father said, his demeanor shifting to something approaching satisfaction. He retrieved his newspaper and snapped it open, signaling the end of the discussion. “Margaret, have you finalized the arrangements for our accommodation in London?”

Her mother set down her teacup with a soft clink of porcelain. “I have, my dear. We shall take the house on Brook Street as usual. I have already begun corresponding with Lady Pemberton regarding the invitations that have arrived. The Season promises to be quite active.”

“As it should be,” he said from behind his newspaper. “This is Julia’s first proper Season. I expect you to ensure she is properly presented.”

“Of course,” her mother replied. Her gaze moved to Julia, and something softened in her expression. “You shall be the belle of every ball, my darling. I have already commissioned three new gowns from Madame Beaumont, and we shall visit her establishment immediately upon our arrival to be fitted for more.”

Julia managed a wan smile. “Thank you, Mama. You are very good.”

“It is no more than you deserve,” her mother said warmly. Then, with studied casualness, she added, “Annabel naturally will require a new wardrobe as well, though perhaps in your case, something slightly more sophisticated, to attract the appropriate level of attention.”

Annabel understood the unspoken message. More elaborate gowns, more fashionable styling, the trappings necessary to attract gentlemen of rank and fortune. “How thoughtful,” she said, unable to entirely mask her irony.

Her mother’s lips thinned slightly, but she continued with determined brightness. “Lady Pemberton writes that several notable families will be in residence this Season. The Duke of Highmere, for instance, though I understand he is in mourning for his uncle, so he may not attend many events. Still, there shall be no shortage of eligible gentlemen. Viscount Ainsley has already expressed particular interest in making Julia’s acquaintance.”

“Ainsley,” he said approvingly. “Viscount Ainsley. Young, titled, and in possession of an estate in Yorkshire. An excellent prospect for Julia, should Annabel fulfill her obligations first.”

Annabel felt her jaw tighten but said nothing. Viscount Ainsley was a notorious fortune-hunter whose estate, she had heard whispered, was mortgaged to the hilt. But her father heard only the title, saw only the viscountcy, and nothing else signified.

“There is also to be an exhibition at the Royal Academy,” her mother continued, consulting a small notebook she produced from beside her plate. “And a performance of Don Giovanni at the King’s Theater. Lady Pemberton has already secured tickets for her party and has invited us to join them. It shall be quite the cultural highlight of the Season.”

Despite herself, Annabel felt a flicker of genuine interest. The Royal Academy exhibitions were always worth attending, and the opportunity to hear Mozart performed at the King’s Theater was not to be dismissed lightly. Perhaps the Season would not be entirely insufferable if she could contrive to attend such events.

An idea began to form in her mind, fragile and daring, but increasingly appealing as she contemplated the strictures that awaited her in London. If she must endure the Season, if she must parade before potential suitors like a mare at Tattersalls, then surely, she deserved some small compensation. Some freedom that was entirely her own, away from her father’s watchful eye and society’s suffocating expectations.

“The Royal Academy exhibition sounds most enriching,” Annabel said carefully. “Might I inquire when it opens?”

“The private viewing is in three weeks,” her mother replied, consulting her notes. “The public exhibition begins the week following. Why do you ask?”

“Mere curiosity,” Annabel said, though her mind was already calculating distances and timing. “I confess I find myself eager for some intellectual stimulation beyond the confines of the ballroom.”

Her father lowered his newspaper to regard her with suspicion. “The purpose of the Season is not intellectual stimulation, Annabel. It is matrimony. I trust you will remember that.”

“Of course, Father,” Annabel said demurely.

She caught Julia’s eye across the table and saw understanding dawn in her sister’s expression. Julia knew that particular tone in Annabel’s voice, the one that suggested she was planning something that would never receive parental approval.

“If there is nothing further,” Annabel said, rising from her chair, “I believe I shall write some correspondence before we begin our preparations for London.”

“Very well,” her mother said. “But do not seclude yourself in your chamber all day, Annabel. Lady Thornton is expected this afternoon, and she will wish to see you.”

Annabel curtsied to her parents and quit the breakfast room with measured steps, though her mind raced ahead to the small advertisement she had read in last week’s Morning Chronicle. A new gallery had opened in Bloomsbury, far from the fashionable areas of Mayfair and St. James’s where the ton congregated. It featured works by lesser-known artists, including several female painters whose names she recognized from her reading. The gallery would be open to the public throughout the Season, offering viewings on weekday mornings when most of society was still asleep or engaged with morning calls.

If she could contrive to visit such an establishment—properly chaperoned by a maid, of course, to maintain propriety—she might steal a few hours of genuine freedom. Time spent appreciating art rather than being evaluated as though she were a painting herself, hung upon a wall for potential buyers to assess and critique.

It was a small rebellion, perhaps even a petty one. But as Annabel climbed the stairs to her chamber, she felt a spark of defiance kindle in her chest. Her father might dictate whom she must dance with and which events she must attend. He might use Julia’s happiness as leverage to force her compliance. But he could not, and would not, control every moment of her existence.

She would go to London. She would endure the Season with whatever grace she could muster. But she would also carve out spaces of her own choosing, moments where she belonged entirely to herself.

It was not freedom, not truly. But it was something. And in the face of her father’s ultimatum, Annabel would grasp at whatever small victories she could claim.

She entered her chamber and moved directly to her writing desk, withdrawing paper and pen. She would need to be clever about this, strategic. A visit to an unfashionable gallery in Bloomsbury would require careful planning and perhaps a small deception.

But as Annabel dipped her pen in ink, a slight smile curved her lips. If her father wished her to enter the marriage market, then she would do so, but on her own terms, with her own secrets held close like talismans against the coming ordeal.

London awaited, and with it, both constraint and possibility in equal measure.

Chapter Three

The card room at White’s was thick with smoke and the low murmur of masculine conversation, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or curse as fortunes changed hands with the turn of a card. Gabriel Blackwood sat at a table near the fire, his cravat loosened and his coat unbuttoned, a glass of brandy within easy reach. He ran one hand through his dark hair, already disheveled from similar gestures throughout the evening, and squinted at the cards in his hand. The suits and numbers blurred slightly, and he blinked hard, trying to bring them into focus through gray eyes that had once been praised as his best feature but now appeared merely bloodshot.

“Your play, Blackwood,” said Lord Ashworth from across the table, his tone edged with impatience.

Gabriel squinted at his cards again. Hearts? Spades? Did it truly signify? He tossed a card onto the table with careless abandon, reaching for his brandy glass even as Ashworth clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“That is the third trick you have lost us,” muttered his partner, a heavyset gentleman whose name Gabriel could not presently recall. “Are you even attending to the game?”

“Attending with perfect clarity,” Gabriel said, though his words emerged slightly slurred. He drained his glass and gestured for a passing attendant to refill it. “Simply experiencing an unfortunate run of cards.”

“An unfortunate run of judgment, more like,” Ashworth said, gathering the trick. “Perhaps you should retire for the evening, Blackwood. You appear somewhat worse for wear.”

“Nonsense,” Gabriel said, though even as he spoke, the room tilted slightly. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. “The night is young yet. Deal the next hand.”

From the corner of his eye, Gabriel observed Stephen Redgrave approaching their table, his expression a mixture of concern and exasperation. Stephen cut an impressive figure even in the crowded card room, tall and lean with fair hair that always seemed perfectly arranged despite the late hour, and sharp blue eyes that missed very little. He was the second son of a baron, which gave him enough consequence to move comfortably in elevated circles without the burden of a title’s expectations. Stephen had been Gabriel’s closest friend since their school days at Eton, and he possessed an uncanny ability to appear precisely when Gabriel least desired his presence, which was to say, whenever Gabriel was engaged in behavior Stephen considered inadvisable.

“Gentlemen,” Stephen said pleasantly, nodding to the others at the table. “Might I beg your indulgence for a moment? I require a word with Mr. Blackwood.”

“By all means,” Ashworth said with evident relief. “We were just suggesting he might benefit from some air.”

Gabriel waved his hand dismissively. “I am perfectly comfortable where I am, Redgrave. Go away.”

“I think not,” Stephen said, his pleasant tone not quite masking the steel beneath. “Come along, Gabriel. Now.”

“I am in the middle of a game.”

“A game you are losing spectacularly,” Stephen retorted. He placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, his grip firm. “How much are you down this evening?”

Gabriel attempted to calculate but found the numbers eluded him. “Not… not very much. A trifling sum.”

“He has lost nearly eighty pounds in the last hour,” Ashworth supplied helpfully. “And that is after losing a hundred earlier in the evening.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened, and Gabriel felt a flicker of shame pierce through the fog of intoxication. Nearly two hundred pounds. For a gentleman of Gabriel’s circumstances—comfortably situated but far from wealthy—such losses were decidedly imprudent. His father’s careful investments provided the family with a respectable income, but Gabriel had responsibilities. His mother depended upon him. His younger siblings required his support. Two hundred pounds represented a significant portion of his quarterly allowance; money that should have been managed with far greater care.

“Gentlemen, I must offer my apologies for my friend’s conduct,” Stephen said, producing a wallet from his coat. “I shall settle his debts for the evening. Please consider him retired from play.”

“Stephen, that is entirely unnecessary,” Gabriel began, attempting to rise from his chair. The room spun violently, and he sat down again with more force than intended.

“It is entirely necessary,” Stephen said, counting out notes with swift efficiency. “Unless you wish to explain to your mother why you have gambled away funds that should support your household.”

The mention of his mother sobered Gabriel slightly. His mother, the former Lady Catherine Blackwood, daughter of a baron and widow of his father who had held a courtesy title as the younger son of the Duke of Highmere, had endured enough sorrow without adding her son’s dissolute behavior to her burdens. His father’s death years ago in India had devastated the family, and while Gabriel’s great-uncle, Lord Ambrose Blackwood, Duke of Highmere, had been generous in his support, Gabriel was acutely aware that he could not rely upon such charity indefinitely. He had responsibilities, dignity to maintain, a family reputation to uphold.

None of which he was presently demonstrating.

“Thank you for the game, gentlemen,” Stephen said, completing his distribution of funds. “Come along, Gabriel. We are leaving.”

Gabriel wanted to protest, wanted to insist upon his independence and his right to conduct himself as he pleased. But the disapproving expressions of his fellow players, combined with the room’s persistent spinning, convinced him that argument was futile. He allowed Stephen to haul him to his feet, leaning more heavily on his friend than he cared to admit.

They navigated through the card room and into the main hall of White’s, where other gentlemen congregated in small groups, discussing politics and business over port and cigars. Gabriel was dimly aware of curious glances following their progress, and he attempted to straighten his posture, to project an image of dignity and control.

He succeeded only in stumbling into a marble column.

“Steady,” Stephen muttered, his grip tightening on Gabriel’s arm. “Good God, man, how much have you had to drink?”

“Not nearly enough,” Gabriel said, though even he could hear the self-pity in his voice. “If I had drunk enough, I should not still be able to think of her.”

Stephen’s expression softened slightly, but his tone remained firm. “We shall discuss this outside. Can you walk, or must I carry you like an infant?”

“I can walk,” Gabriel said with as much dignity as he could muster. “I am merely fatigued.”

“You are drunk,” Stephen corrected, steering him toward the door. “Disgracefully, completely drunk. Again.”

The night air struck Gabriel like a physical blow when they emerged onto St. James Street. The cold shocked some clarity into his muddled thoughts, though it also made him acutely aware of how unsteady he truly was. Stephen’s carriage waited nearby, and his friend guided him toward it with the patience of a man dealing with a particularly troublesome child.

“In you go,” Stephen said, practically pushing Gabriel into the carriage. “Your lodgings, I presume?”

Gabriel nodded, collapsing onto the seat with a groan. The carriage lurched into motion, and he closed his eyes against the renewed spinning sensation. Stephen settled opposite him, his arms crossed and his expression grim.

“This is the third night this week,” Stephen said without preamble. “Three nights, Gabriel, that I have either found you drunk or received word that you were making a spectacle of yourself. This cannot continue.”

“I am perfectly in command of my faculties,” Gabriel lied.

“You just lost nearly two hundred pounds at cards and could barely walk unaided,” Stephen countered. “Money you can ill afford to squander. If this is your notion of command, I shudder to contemplate what you consider a loss of control.”

Gabriel opened his eyes to glare at his friend, though the effect was likely diminished by his inability to focus properly. “I do not require a lecture, Redgrave. If I wish to spend my money and my time as I please, that is my prerogative.”

“Your prerogative as what? As a gentleman? As the son of a respected family? Or as a fool?” Stephen leaned forward, his voice dropping but losing none of its intensity. “You are destroying yourself over a woman who was never worthy of you. Lady Cassandra made her choice, Gabriel. She chose a title and wealth over whatever regard she might have held for you. That is a reflection upon her character, not yours.”

The mention of Lady Cassandra’s name sent a fresh wave of pain through Gabriel’s chest. He had loved her—or thought he had. Her beauty, her vivacity, the way she had seemed to truly see him rather than merely his connections or prospects. As the nephew of the Duke of Highmere, Gabriel moved in elevated circles, but he possessed no title himself, no great fortune of his own. He was merely a gentleman of respectable family, dependent upon his father’s modest legacy and his uncle’s occasional generosity.

Lady Cassandra had accepted his attentions, had encouraged his courtship with smiles and flirtations that had convinced him she returned his regard. He had been on the verge of proposing, had been selecting a ring, when the Earl of Westmarch had shown interest in her.

And Lady Cassandra had dropped Gabriel with a swiftness that still stole his breath.

An earl with a title and a considerable fortune had proven far more appealing than a gentleman with merely good connections. Gabriel had been devastated, but he had attempted to accept her decision with grace, to understand that practical considerations often governed matrimonial choices.

But the abruptness of it, the cold calculation in her eyes when she had ended their understanding, had wounded him more deeply than he cared to admit.

“She never loved me,” Gabriel said quietly, the admission painful even through the haze of intoxication. “I was merely a pleasant diversion until a better prospect appeared.”

“Precisely,” Stephen said, his tone gentling slightly. “She is a fortune-hunter of the worst sort, one who masks her mercenary nature with pretty words and prettier smiles. You are well rid of her, Gabriel. But you must let her go. This self-destruction serves no purpose except to give her power over you still.”

“I do not know how,” Gabriel confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “She was the first woman I ever… I thought what we had was real, Stephen. I thought she cared for me. How does one simply cease feeling such things?”

“Time,” Stephen said. “And distance. And ceasing to drown yourself in brandy every evening.” He paused, his expression becoming almost rueful. “I know something of disappointment myself, Gabriel. My own father despairs that I show no interest in the eligible young ladies he parades before me each Season. But the heart wants what it wants, or in my case, refuses to want what it should. We all have our burdens to bear. Yours simply manifests more publicly than mine.”

It was the most personal admission Stephen had ever made about his own circumstances, and it penetrated Gabriel’s fog of self-pity. His friend had his own struggles, his own pressures, yet he managed them without descending into dissolution.

The carriage rolled to a stop outside Gabriel’s lodgings on Jermyn Street, modest bachelor apartments appropriate to his station, comfortable but far from grand. Stephen climbed out first, then offered his hand to help Gabriel descend.

Gabriel’s legs proved less steady than anticipated, and he was grateful for Stephen’s supporting arm as they made their way inside and up the stairs to his apartments. His manservant, Roberts, appeared at the door with an expression of weary resignation that suggested this was not his first experience retrieving his master in such condition.

“Mr. Redgrave,” Roberts said with a slight bow. “Shall I prepare coffee?”

“Tea would be preferable,” Stephen said, guiding Gabriel toward the bedchamber. “Strong tea, if you please. And perhaps some bread.”

“Very good, sir.”

Gabriel collapsed onto his bed with a groan, throwing one arm across his eyes. The room continued its slow rotation, and he felt vaguely nauseated. “You may go now, Redgrave. Roberts will attend to me.”

“Not until I am satisfied you will not choke on your own sick during the night,” Stephen said bluntly. He began removing Gabriel’s boots with businesslike efficiency. “And not until you promise me this nonsense ends tonight.”

“I promise nothing,” Gabriel muttered.

“Then I shall remain here to ensure your survival,” Stephen said, setting the boots aside and starting on Gabriel’s cravat. “Gabriel, listen to me. I say this as your friend, perhaps your oldest friend. This path you are walking leads nowhere good. You must either find a way to move past Lady Cassandra, or you must find another outlet for whatever pain she has caused you. But you cannot continue as you have been. It will destroy you.”

Gabriel lowered his arm to look at his friend properly. Even through his intoxication, he could perceive the genuine concern in Stephen’s expression. “What would you have me do?” he asked. “Simply pretend I feel nothing? Resume my place in society as though my heart had not been trampled upon?”

“Not pretend,” Stephen said carefully. “But perhaps redirect. You need not forget her immediately, but you might engage with the world again. Attend events. Speak with other people. Allow yourself the possibility that life might offer more than this melancholy.”

“I do not wish to court anyone else,” Gabriel said. “The very notion exhausts me.”

“Then do not court,” Stephen said with a shrug. “Simply exist among the living again. Julian Cavendish mentioned he is hosting a dinner party next week. Attend that. Speak with people. Remind yourself that the world continues despite your heartbreak.”

Gabriel wanted to refuse, wanted to insist that isolation and intoxication were preferable to forcing himself to engage in polite society. But the earnestness in Stephen’s expression, combined with the pounding in his head and the shame of his evening’s behavior, weakened his resistance.

“Perhaps,” he said finally. “I shall consider it.”

“You shall do more than consider it,” Stephen said firmly. “You shall attend, and you shall comport yourself like the gentleman you are rather than a lovesick boy. Do I have your word?”

Gabriel sighed, recognizing that Stephen would not relent until he agreed. “You have my word. I shall attend Julian’s dinner party and behave with appropriate decorum.”

“Excellent,” Stephen said, looking satisfied. “Now, I suggest you sleep off this evening’s indulgence. Roberts will bring you tea, and I shall check on you tomorrow to ensure you have survived the night.”

“Your concern is touching,” Gabriel said dryly, though he felt genuine gratitude beneath the sarcasm.

Stephen paused at the door, looking back with an expression Gabriel could not quite interpret. “You will recover from this, Gabriel. I promise you that. Lady Cassandra was not the only woman in the world, and she certainly was not the only woman capable of making you happy. You simply must allow yourself the possibility of happiness again.”

After Stephen departed, Gabriel lay in the darkness, listening to the distant sounds of London’s night, carriages rattling past, voices calling to one another, the endless pulse of the city. His head ached abominably, and his mouth tasted of brandy and regret.

Stephen’s words echoed in his mind. Allow yourself the possibility of happiness again.

But happiness seemed a foreign concept, something experienced by other people in other lives. Gabriel had thought himself happy with Lady Cassandra, had imagined a future filled with her laughter and presence. The revelation of her true nature had not merely broken his heart, it had shattered his faith in his own judgment, his ability to perceive authenticity from performance.

How could he trust his own feelings again when they had so thoroughly deceived him?

Roberts entered with a tea tray, setting it on the bedside table with practiced quiet. “Shall I help you undress properly, sir?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, thank you, Roberts. This will suffice for tonight.”

“Very good, sir. I shall be in the adjoining room should you require assistance.”

Alone once more, Gabriel forced himself to sit up and pour a cup of tea, though his hands shook slightly with the effort. The hot liquid helped settle his stomach, and he drank two cups in succession, feeling fractionally more human with each swallow.

Tomorrow, he would face the consequences of this evening—the headache, the shame, the whispers among his club fellows about the gentleman who gambled recklessly and drank to excess. He would endure Stephen’s watchful concern and face whatever lecture his uncle might deliver should word of his behavior reach Lord Ambrose’s ears.

And perhaps, eventually, he would find a way to exist in the world again without the constant ache of Lady Cassandra’s betrayal coloring every moment.

But tonight, in the quiet darkness of his chamber, Gabriel allowed himself to mourn what he had lost; not the woman herself, he was beginning to realize, but the dream of love she had represented. The hope that someone might value him for himself rather than for his connections or prospects.

It was that hope, more than Lady Cassandra herself, that he grieved.

And he had no idea how to recover it.