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Prologue
The church bells tolled, their mournful chime rippling through the damp autumn air. A grey sky hung heavy over the Earl of Silverton’s estate, casting a pall over the gathered mourners. The towering spires of St. Bartholomew’s, their stark lines softened by tendrils of ivy, seemed to echo the weight of grief that permeated the day. Mourners filled the pews inside the church, their heads bowed in respect, their hands clutching embroidered handkerchiefs. Some whispered prayers, others stared blankly at the flickering candles on the altar.
Sebastian Montague stood at the front, rigid in his mourning attire. His tall frame—usually quite commanding—seemed burdened by the weight of his new title, Earl of Silverton. He stood still, seemingly unaware of the voices around him. His amber eyes, so often alight with charm, were shadowed with exhaustion and sorrow. The familiar faces in the congregation blurred together: distant relatives, friends of his late father, and a sprinkling of opportunists eager to curry favour with the estate’s new master. Their murmured condolences, offered during the procession, had felt hollow, rote phrases repeated out of obligation rather than genuine sympathy.
Beside him, his mother dabbed her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief, her small figure trembling beneath the veil that obscured her pale face. She had hardly spoken since her husband’s passing, her grief manifesting in silent tears and the occasional anguished sigh. Sebastian had done his best to support her, but her dependence weighed heavily on him. At only twenty-four, he felt woefully unprepared to fill his father’s shoes, to shoulder the expectations of the title and the estate.
“Forever more …”
The service ended with a sombre hymn, the choir’s voices reverberating through the vaulted ceilings. As the final notes faded, the pallbearers rose, carrying the earl’s casket down the aisle. The crowd followed in a hushed procession to the family crypt, where the Montague lineage lay beneath cold stone. Sebastian was quiet as he watched his father’s casket lowered into the ground.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. He had held himself together through the service and procession, but standing here now, watching the finality of it all, he felt an ache so sharp it threatened to undo him. The murmurs of those around him seemed distant, the condolences meaningless noise. When someone clapped a hand on his shoulder—David Balfour, his oldest friend—Sebastian managed a small nod, but the effort was monumental.
He needed to get away.
When the last mourner had departed, leaving only the echoes of their footsteps, Sebastian slipped away from the crypt and made his way to the orchard. The old Montague estate stretched out before him, the stately house standing sentinel against the horizon, its stone façade softened by the muted light. The orchard, tucked behind a low stone wall, was one of the few places still feeling unspoiled by grief.
The apple trees, their branches nearly bare now, were scattered across the sloping land, the last stubborn fruit clinging to gnarled limbs. The air was heavy with the scent of damp bark and the faint sweetness of overripe apples rotting on the ground. Sebastian leaned against a weathered tree trunk, closing his eyes and taking a long breath.
“Sebastian?”
Soft but laced with concern, the voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to see Valerie Balfour approaching, a plate balanced in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. The sight of her, a bright spark against the dreary backdrop of the day, was both unexpected and welcome. Sebastian’s lips curled in an almost-smile. Of course, he thought, Valerie would manage to sneak away from her chaperone at a time like this.
Her wavy black hair was pulled into a loose braid, though several strands had escaped to frame her face. Her dark blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, their colour stark against her pale complexion. At nineteen, she possessed a vivacity that made her stand out in any room, but today, she moved with quiet grace, her usual energy tempered by the occasion’s solemnity.
“You didn’t eat anything at the reception,” she said simply, holding out the plate.
Sebastian gave her a weak smile, his lips barely curving. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“Well, you are now,” she replied, her tone light but firm. “Grieving or not, you can’t survive on empty words and stale air.”
Her attempt at humour was subtle, but it worked. Sebastian’s lips twitched into a faint smile, the first flicker of light in a day otherwise steeped in shadows. He accepted the plate, though he didn’t take a bite, and Valerie set the glass of wine on the ground beside him before folding her arms.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Valerie glanced at the trees, her expression thoughtful. “I always liked it here,” she murmured. “It’s quiet but not lonely. I used to come here with David when we were younger, remember? We’d pick the biggest apples and eat so many we’d feel sick afterwards.”
Sebastian chuckled softly, the sound startling even to him. “And then you’d hide the cores in my coat pockets so the servants wouldn’t scold you.”
Valerie grinned, her teeth flashing against her pale skin. “I was resourceful.”
The brief levity dissipated, replaced by a companionable silence. Valerie stepped closer, placing a hand on Sebastian’s arm. Her touch was warm, grounding him in the present. “I’m sorry, Sebastian,” she said softly, her voice steady but tinged with emotion. “He was a good man.”
Sebastian nodded, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “He was,” he managed, his voice hoarse.
Valerie’s hand lingered on his arm, her touch offering comfort. When he finally looked at her, the sincerity in her gaze nearly undid him. He noticed then how the soft autumn light caught the violet undertones in her eyes, how the softness of her smile seemed so at odds with the grim day. A strange sensation stirred within him, something unfamiliar and disconcerting.
He shifted slightly, breaking the contact. “You’ve always known how to make someone feel better, Val,” he said, carefully brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.
She batted his hand away with mock indignation, laughing softly. “Someone has to keep you grounded, My Lord,” she teased.
Her words, light-hearted as they were, lingered. As Valerie turned to leave, the scent of lavender and apples trailing after her, Sebastian remained rooted in place. The spark he’d felt at her touch nagged at him, unsettling in its intensity. Shaking his head, he brushed the thought away, attributing it to the emotional upheaval of the day.
But even as he tried to dismiss it, her presence stayed with him, a still warmth amid the cold emptiness of his grief.
***
Three days after the funeral, Sebastian found himself at the Balfour estate, the scent of rain-dampened earth hanging in the air. He’d come seeking a distraction from the endless tide of estate business, the kind of solace only the presence of an old friend could offer.
The sound of voices and clinking dishes carried faintly from within as Sebastian handed the reins of his horse to a groom and made his way to the front door.
He half expected Valerie to be the first to greet him. It had always been her way—bounding out the door, her wild curls escaping their confines, and her infectious energy pulling him into her orbit before he could dismount. But as he entered the house, the usual whirlwind of Valerie’s presence was conspicuously absent.
“Silverton!” David Balfour’s voice rang out from the drawing room. Moments later, his tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged, a half-finished glass of brandy in hand. “You look like a man in desperate need of a drink.”
Sebastian gave a weary smile. “I might take you up on that.”
David led him inside, the fire casting a warm glow over the room. They settled into chairs by the hearth, their conversation drifting from shared memories of Sebastian’s father to estate matters and, eventually, to lighter topics.
“Where’s Valerie?” Sebastian asked casually, glancing towards the hallway. “Usually, she’s here to pester me before I’ve even set foot in the house.”
David’s expression flickered with something unreadable before he sipped his drink. “She’s gone to London.”
Sebastian blinked, the words taking a moment to settle. “London?”
“She left the morning after the funeral,” David said. “My parents insisted. They’d been planning her season for months, and they thought the timing would keep her busy—keep her mind off things, you know?”
Sebastian frowned, the words unsettling him. Valerie hadn’t mentioned anything about leaving. “Why didn’t she say goodbye?”
David’s gaze turned thoughtful. “She wanted to. But she thought you had enough that troubled you without one more farewell to worry about.”
The explanation left a bitter taste in Sebastian’s mouth, though he couldn’t argue with its logic. Still, the absence of her laughter and sharp wit felt like an unexpected void.
“She left you this,” David said, reaching into a nearby drawer and pulling out an envelope. The creamy paper was sealed with lavender wax, the edges slightly crumpled as if it had been handled too often. “She told me to give it to you when you stopped by.”
Sebastian took the letter, his fingers brushing over the seal. Her handwriting on the front was unmistakable—bold, yet undeniably graceful, just like her.
He hesitated, the weight of the envelope heavier than it had any right to be. “Thank you,” he said, tucking it into his coat pocket.
David raised his glass in a toast. “To Valerie’s London adventure. God help the city.”
Sebastian managed a chuckle, though it felt forced. He stayed for another hour, exchanging stories with David, but his mind kept wandering back to the letter, the sense of loss deepening with every passing minute.
Later that evening, back at Silverton House, Sebastian sat alone in the study. The fire crackled softly, its warmth unable to fully chase away the chill that seemed to cling to him since the funeral. The letter sat on the desk before him, the lavender wax seal catching the firelight.
With a sigh, he broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Dearest Sebastian,
By the time you read this, I will be on my way to London, enduring the first of what I’m sure will be many lectures on comportment from my dear aunt. I can hear her voice now: “Elbows in, back straight, smile—but not too much!” Pray for me, won’t you?
I wanted to say goodbye properly, but I couldn’t bear to add to the weight you’re already carrying. I know you, Sebastian. You would have felt obligated to say something reassuring, and then you’d worry about whether it was enough. I spared you the trouble. Consider this my farewell—and a reminder not to frown so much. It does not become you.
Somerset will survive without me, though I imagine it will be much quieter. You’ll probably enjoy the peace, but don’t let it turn you into one of those solemn, brooding earls we read about in books. You were always better at laughter than melancholy, even if you don’t believe it.
I’ll write soon, of course. Someone must make sure you don’t become a hermit surrounded by ledgers and tenant disputes. Please mind yourself, for you matter.
Yours,
Valerie
Sebastian read the letter twice, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself. Valerie’s voice leapt off the page, so vivid and alive that it was as if she were sitting across from him. Her humour, wit, and irrepressible spirit— were all there, filling the quiet study with a warmth he hadn’t realized he needed.
And yet, beneath the smile her words brought to his lips, there was a deeper ache. He could see her now in his mind’s eye—her wild curls bouncing as she laughed, the sparkle in her dark blue eyes when she teased him. He thought of how she’d comforted him in the orchard after the funeral, her touch light but steady, her presence like a tether pulling him back from the edge of despair.
For the first time since that day, he allowed himself to linger on the memory of that spark, the fleeting, inexplicable awareness he’d felt when her hand rested on his arm. It had startled him then, and even now, the thought of it unsettled him. Valerie was his best friend’s younger sister. He’d known her all her life. She was …
He shook his head, brushing the thought away as quickly as it had come. It was strange, that was all. A moment of confusion, born of grief and exhaustion. It meant nothing.
And yet, as he folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the desk drawer, the feeling lingered, a quiet hum at the back of his mind.
Chapter One
A year had passed since Valerie Balfour had left the quiet familiarity of Somerset behind. The change was meant to transform her—to refine her rustic tendencies, tame her untamed spirit, and shape her into a model of poise and grace. Yet as she perched uncomfortably on a gilt-edged chair in her aunt’s drawing room, trying to remember whether it was proper to tilt her teacup at precisely forty-five degrees or hold it level, she felt as out of place as ever.
The drawing room was a confection of pastels and ostentation. Pale pink drapes framed the windows, their embroidered edges whispering of expense, while delicate porcelain figurines lined the shelves, all perfectly positioned as if daring her to upset their harmony. Valerie, dressed in an elegant but constricting gown of light lavender, struggled to keep her posture straight, her corset biting into her ribs as she sat across from her aunt, Lady Harriet Balfour.
Lady Harriet’s sharp gaze, as precise as the embroidery needle she wielded, swept over Valerie disapprovingly. “Do sit properly, Valerie,” she chided, not unkindly but with the weary tone of someone who had said it a thousand times. “A gentleman’s regard can falter at the smallest hint of carelessness.”
Valerie bit back a sigh and adjusted her posture, balancing the teacup in her gloved hand. “Yes, Aunt Harriet,” she murmured, her tone dutiful but devoid of enthusiasm.
Lady Harriet’s reply was a murmured, “Good girl,” before she returned to her embroidery, her movements swift and practiced.
The cloying sweetness of the room’s lilac-scented air mingled with the heavy weight of expectation, making Valerie feel stifled. Every day since her arrival in London had been like this: an endless parade of lessons, fittings, and carefully orchestrated encounters designed to polish her into the perfect debutante. It wasn’t enough that she had learned the correct way to curtsey or the appropriate volume for her laughter. No, there was always something more—how to fan oneself at a ball to convey interest without impropriety and engage a gentleman in conversation without appearing too eager or indifferent.
At times, she wondered if there was anything left of her that hadn’t been sanded down or smoothed over.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a footman carrying a silver tray of freshly baked biscuits. The scent of butter and sugar wafted through the room, momentarily cutting through the oppressive lilac. Valerie reached for one eagerly, earning a sharp glance from Lady Harriet.
“Not so quickly, my dear. Elegance is the art of restraint,” her aunt said.
Valerie withdrew her hand with a forced smile, waiting for Lady Harriet to take one before delicately selecting the smallest biscuit on the tray. She nibbled at it half-heartedly, her thoughts wandering as the tedium of the moment stretched on.
The muffled sound of voices in the hall drew her attention. Moments later, a maid entered, curtseying as she announced, “Miss Delilah Rosenthal is here to see you, Miss Balfour.”
Valerie’s mood lifted immediately. “Thank you, Anna. Please show her in.”
Lady Harriet raised an arched brow but said nothing, her silence speaking volumes. Valerie knew her aunt disapproved of Delilah, a young woman whose shy demeanour and sharp wit had yet to secure her a husband despite three seasons in London. But Delilah was the sole bright spot in Valerie’s otherwise dull social calendar, and for that, she would tolerate even her aunt’s silent disapproval.
Delilah entered the room hesitantly, her slim frame draped in a pale green gown that complemented her auburn curls. Her green eyes widened slightly as she took in the room’s opulence, but she quickly schooled her expression into polite neutrality.
“Delilah, you’ve come to save me from my own boredom,” Valerie greeted her warmly, rising to her feet.
Delilah smiled faintly, her gaze flicking to Lady Harriet before returning to Valerie. “I thought you might need rescuing,” she said with a conspiratorial undertone that made Valerie’s lips twitch.
Valerie turned to her aunt. “May we take tea in the garden, Aunt Harriet? The air in here is rather … stifling.”
Lady Harriet’s pursed her lips, but she nodded. “Very well. But do not dawdle. You have a fitting this afternoon.”
“Of course,” Valerie said, already ushering Delilah towards the door.
The garden was a far cry from the perfectly curated chaos of the drawing room. Roses climbed trellises in bursts of red and white, their fragrance mingling with the fresh scent of earth and grass. A stone fountain gurgled quietly in the centre, its sound soothing as Valerie led Delilah to a bench shaded by a sprawling oak tree.
“Every time I step into that room, I feel as though I’m being measured for a portrait—one where they’ll paint me over entirely,” Valerie complained as she sank onto the bench, the relief of fresh air loosening the tension in her shoulders.
Delilah joined her, smoothing the folds of her skirt. “If they did, I imagine the artist would be overwhelmed by the sheer force of your personality,” she said with a teasing smile.
Valerie laughed softly, genuinely. “I don’t think my aunt would appreciate that sentiment. She’s determined to mould me into something … proper.”
Delilah’s expression grew thoughtful. “She means well, I suppose. But it must be exhausting, always trying to be what others expect.”
“It is,” Valerie admitted. She leaned back, gazing up at the dappled sunlight filtering through the oak’s leaves. “London has its charms, but I miss Somerset. The quiet, the freedom … I even miss the blackberry bushes.”
Delilah tilted her head. “You’ll return eventually, won’t you? Surely, your aunt can’t keep you here forever.”
Valerie hesitated, her mind flicking to the endless fittings and introductions that filled her days. “I suppose. But not before she’s ensured I’ve met every eligible bachelor within a hundred-mile radius.”
Delilah chuckled. “And have you found any worth keeping?”
“Not unless you count the Duke of Ember,” Valerie said dryly, her nose wrinkling.
Delilah’s eyebrows rose. “Ember? He’s … striking.”
“And entirely insufferable,” Valerie added. “Every conversation feels like it has to be weighed and measured for its worth. I swear, I could mention a preference for strawberries, and he’d produce a bushel within the hour, expecting my eternal gratitude.”
Delilah smirked. “Perhaps he simply enjoys the challenge.”
“Or he’s used to getting what he wants,” Valerie replied, her tone edged with irritation. “I’d rather spend the rest of my days as a spinster than endure a life with someone like him.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, birdsong filling the space between them. Valerie closed her eyes briefly, savouring the reprieve.
“I don’t belong here, Delilah,” she murmured. “I’m trying, but it doesn’t feel like enough.”
Delilah reached out, her hand resting lightly on Valerie’s arm. “You’re more than sufficient precisely as you are. Please do not allow this place to persuade you that you are not.”
Valerie turned to her friend, her smile faint but genuine. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The two women sat there for a while longer, the garden offering a momentary escape from the rigid expectations waiting just beyond its borders.
The peace, of course, could not last long–in fact, it was mere hours later the very same night when the sound of laughter and music filled the Balfour ballroom once more. Guests moved fluidly across the polished floor, their voices a melody of compliments and gossip. Valerie stood near the edge of the room, a polite smile fixed on her lips as she listened to the effusive praise of Lady Williston, a woman whose affection for embellishment extended to both her gowns and her anecdotes.
“My dear, that gown is simply divine,” Lady Williston cooed, her bejewelled hand fluttering towards Valerie’s sleeve. “Is it a Worth creation? It must be. The draping is exquisite.”
“Thank you, Lady Williston,” Valerie replied with practiced grace, resisting the urge to tug at the neckline of her pale green dress. It was beautiful, yes, but she could feel the weight of its expectations pressing against her shoulders. “My aunt has impeccable taste.”
“Impeccable indeed,” the older woman said with a knowing smile. “And your manners—such poise! Why, I remember when you first arrived in London! You have come a long way indeed, Miss Balfour.”
Valerie nodded, murmuring a polite reply while her mind wandered. Lady Williston’s words, though intended as a compliment, only underscored Valerie’s unease. She had adapted, yes. She had learned to curtsey with precision, laugh at the right volume, and converse easily about topics that held no real interest to her. But it felt like a performance she was increasingly weary of maintaining.
As Lady Williston moved on to another unsuspecting guest, Valerie let her smile fade and glanced across the room. Her aunt and uncle stood near the centre of the gathering, chatting amiably with a cluster of prominent socialites. Lady Harriet’s sharp eyes caught Valerie’s, and with the smallest tilt of her head, she beckoned her niece to join them.
Valerie sighed softly, smoothing the folds of her skirt as she approached.
“Ah, there you are,” Lady Harriet said as Valerie reached their side. “Valerie, I believe you’ve met the Duke of Ember.”
And there he was.
The Duke of Ember was impeccably dressed, his midnight-black coat and deep crimson waistcoat perfectly tailored. He cut an imposing figure, his tall frame commanding attention even in a crowded room. His dark eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto Valerie with an intensity that made her chest tighten.
“Miss Balfour,” Ember said smoothly, bowing slightly. “A pleasure to see you again. You’re looking particularly radiant this evening.”
Valerie curtsied, her movements precise but devoid of enthusiasm. “Your Grace,” she replied, her voice even. “Thank you for your kind words.”
The duke flashed her a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Kind, but entirely truthful,” he said, his tone suggesting he was accustomed to his words being taken as fact.
Lady Harriet beamed, clearly pleased by the exchange. “Valerie has been the picture of charm this season,” she said proudly. “It’s no wonder she has attracted such esteemed attention.”
Valerie bit back a sharp retort, knowing it would do no good. Instead, she turned her attention to Ember, determined to maintain the façade of polite conversation. “I hope you’re enjoying the evening, Your Grace,” she said.
“The evening has improved significantly since I arrived here,” Ember replied, his piercing gaze fixed on her.
Valerie forced a smile, though his words unsettled her. There was a weight to his compliments, a sense that they were not merely words but claims, as though he already considered her his.
Ember continued speaking, weaving stories of his estate and his exploits in Parliament with practised ease. Valerie listened politely, nodding and interjecting where appropriate, though her mind was elsewhere. She could feel her uncle’s approving gaze on her, the unspoken expectation that she would reciprocate the duke’s attentions.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Ember was by her side at every turn, his presence stifling. When the guests began to leave, he lingered near the door, bowing over her hand as he bid her goodnight.
“Until next time, Miss Balfour,” he said, his voice low and deliberate.
Valerie nodded, her polite smile unwavering even as her stomach churned.
The next morning, a footman delivered a package to the Balfour residence. Inside was a delicate bracelet, its gold links adorned with small rubies glittering like embers. Valerie stared at the piece, her chest tightening with unease.
The accompanying note was written in the duke’s elegant hand:
A small token to brighten your morning, as you have brightened so many of mine.
Her aunt’s delighted exclamation broke the silence.
“Valerie, it’s exquisite!” Lady Harriet said, lifting the bracelet from its box. “The duke is most attentive.”
“He’s overstepping,” Valerie replied sharply, regretting her words the moment her aunt’s expression tightened.
“Don’t be ungrateful,” Lady Harriet said, her tone clipped. “The Duke of Ember is a highly respectable suitor. Many young women would give anything for his attention.”
“Perhaps they would, but I hardly share their enthusiasm,” Valerie said, her voice firm.
Her uncle, who had been reading the morning paper, lowered it with a frown. “Valerie, I hope you’re not being foolish. The duke is an excellent match. You’d do well to consider the opportunity seriously.”
Valerie’s hands curled into fists beneath the table. “Is that what I am looking for? An opportunity?”
Lady Harriet sighed. “You’re being overly difficult, my dear. The duke’s attentions are a compliment to your character and beauty. You’d be wise not to dismiss them so lightly.”
“I’m not dismissing them without consideration,” Valerie said, rising from her seat. “I’m dismissing them because they make me feel stifled … and caged.”
Her aunt and uncle exchanged a glance, their disapproval palpable. But Valerie didn’t care. The duke’s gifts, his uninvited presence, his heavy gaze—they were chains she refused to wear.
That afternoon, Valerie retreated to the garden, the crisp autumn air cooling the heat of her anger. As she walked among the roses, her thoughts turned to Somerset. She missed the untamed beauty of the countryside, the freedom to roam without being measured against a set of rigid expectations. Most of all, she missed the sense of belonging, the feeling that she could simply exist without pretence.
She couldn’t stay in London. Not like this.
The decision settled in her mind with startling clarity. She would return to Somerset. She would leave behind the suffocating ballrooms, the endless fittings, and the duke’s looming presence.
And she would find herself again.
OFFER: A BRAND NEW SERIES AND 2 FREEBIES FOR YOU!
Grab my new series, "Regency Hearts Entwined", and get 2 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!
Hello my dears, I really hope you enjoyed this small surprise! I am looking forward to reading your wonderful comments. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! 💖