Chapter Two
T revor Worthington, fifth Duke of Kenbridge, clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the reins as frustration burned through him. The relentless gossip, the incessant whispers about his late wife, were enough to drive him mad. If he heard her name uttered one more time, he’d be hard-pressed not to throttle the speaker. The weight of betrayal still pressed heavily on his heart, making the already difficult mourning period nearly unbearable. Why couldn’t people just let the past die?
He urged the horse to quicken its pace, wishing he’d opted for his steed rather than the curricle. The stiff formality of the dinner party he’d just left had called for appearances, and against his better judgment, he had attended, thanks to his mother’s insistent prodding. She had been adamant—now that his year of mourning was over, it was time for him to reenter Society. But Trevor had no desire to return to a world that reminded him of everything he’d lost.
The more Trevor thought about his deceased wife, the angrier he became. He didn’t want her ghost haunting his thoughts, didn’t want to dwell on the betrayal that still twisted like a knife in his chest. All he longed for was a normal life, free from the chains of the past. But one thing was certain—he would never trust a woman again.
A cloud drifted over the moon, casting deeper shadows across the road, mirroring the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. Whether it was the night’s creeping darkness or the gloom within his own head, both were equally maddening, and he silently cursed them, wishing they’d vanish as easily as they came.
Trevor slowed his horse as he rounded the bend, easing the reins slightly. He wasn’t about to risk flipping the curricle just because someone at the dinner party had uttered Gwendolyn’s name, stirring his anger. The last thing he needed was to lose control now, despite the storm of emotions raging inside him.
As the clouds parted and moonlight spilled across the road, something caught his eye—a shadow shifting along the edge. His heart lurched. Before he could react, a figure darted out from the darkness and straight into his path. Trevor shouted, yanking hard on the reins, but it was too late. His horse clipped the person, sending them tumbling to the ground.
Cursing under his breath, Trevor brought the horse to an abrupt stop. He leapt from the curricle, heart pounding in his throat, praying he hadn’t killed anyone. He frantically scanned the area, but the figure was nowhere in sight. How could they have vanished? He was certain he’d felt the impact.
Straightening, he scratched his head in confusion, certain the body had to be nearby. Off to the side, the road dipped into a small gully. Trevor crouched low, squinting through the heavy shadows, hoping to find some sign of the mysterious figure.
“Is anyone there?” He waited, and then said, “Please answer me. I need to know if you are all right.”
The moon’s light vanished behind a thick veil of clouds once more, casting everything in near-total darkness. Trevor, moving carefully, slid down the steep hill into the gully, the damp earth making his descent treacherous. His heart pounded, dread building with every step. As he reached the bottom, his foot struck something soft—something that wasn’t moving.
He froze, a surge of panic gripping him. Bending down, he extended a shaking hand, his fingers brushing against the warmth of a body. He recoiled, his breath catching in his throat. Good heavens. It was a girl!
Without wasting another moment, Trevor dropped to his knees beside her, his mind racing. His hands trembled as he gently ran them over her arms and legs, searching for any sign of broken bones, blood, or injury. The girl was so still, her body limp beneath his touch, and a deep sense of responsibility weighed heavily on him. Had he killed her? The thought was unbearable.
His fingers brushed her face, feeling the softness of her skin, then moved downward to her slender neck. He held his breath as he pressed his fingers to her throat, desperate to find a pulse. For a moment, he feared the worst, but then—there it was. A heartbeat. Faint and fragile, but still there. Relief flooded him, though it was quickly replaced by fear. She was alive, but barely.
Hastily, Trevor scooped the girl into his arms, her limp form barely stirring. A soft moan escaped her lips, but she didn’t wake. As he adjusted his grip, his fingers brushed against something warm and sticky on her arm. His heart sank—blood.
Groaning inwardly, he knew he didn’t have much time. She needed a doctor, but his manor was closer than the village. He’d have to get her there and send for his physician immediately.
With careful urgency, he carried her up the slope, his muscles straining as he climbed out of the gully. Once he reached the curricle, he gently laid her on the seat and climbed in beside her. As he urged the horse forward, her fragile body shifted, rolling toward him. He braced her with his arm, trying to keep her steady, though her awkward position made maneuvering difficult. Every bump in the road sent a jolt through his spine, but he kept a firm hold on her, focused on the path ahead.
The horse and road, thankfully, cooperated, and soon enough the familiar sight of his manor came into view. Relief washed over him, but he knew the real work was just beginning. He slowed the horse to a stop before carefully lifting the girl once more, cradling her close as he hurried up the steps. Bursting through the door, he shouted for his servants, his voice echoing through the grand foyer.
Within moments, his butler appeared, eyes widening at the sight of the unconscious girl in Trevor’s arms.
“Fetch the physician—immediately,” Trevor ordered Hobbs, his voice firm but tinged with urgency. The butler nodded quickly, disappearing to carry out the command, while Trevor stood there, his heart still racing, silently willing the girl to hold on. Her dirty face held a mixture of smudges, scratches, and blood.
Without another thought, he rushed up the stairs. He carried her to the closest guest room and toward the bed. Mrs. Smythe, the housekeeper, bustled in only seconds behind.
“Oh dear,” she exclaimed, wringing her hands against her middle. “What do we have here, Your Grace?”
“There was an accident. I hit her with the curricle.”
The older servant gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord.”
Trevor gently laid the unconscious girl on the bed, stepping back as Mrs. Smythe pulled down the covers. Now, with better light and a chance to look more closely, the full extent of her condition became painfully clear. She was covered in grime from head to toe, her hair matted and filthy, its color impossible to discern after what must have been weeks, if not longer, without a proper wash. Her skin was layered with dirt, and her clothes—little more than rags—hung loosely from her thin, frail frame.
He shook his head, his heart sinking. A vagabond, clearly, likely an orphan. The gauntness of her face, the way her bones jutted out beneath her skin—she was half starved. A wrenching pain gripped his chest as he gazed at the pitiful figure before him. Poor thing. And to think he’d been the one to run her over. But she was alive, and as long as she breathed, there was hope.
Trevor’s thoughts shifted from guilt to resolve. He could help her, not just by saving her life, but by giving her a chance at something better. He would see to it that she was well fed, cared for, and clothed properly. And once she recovered, he’d find her a position—perhaps as a maid or cook in a decent London household. Anything to ensure she never returned to the streets, never again had to endure the life she had clearly suffered through. He couldn’t bear the thought of her continuing to starve, shivering in tattered clothes for the rest of her days.
“Mrs. Smythe, please clean her up before the doctor arrives.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And take care not to disturb the wound on her shoulder.”
His housekeeper gave a single nod before hurrying out of the room, her short legs moving as fast as they could carry her. Trevor bent over the girl, gently brushing the tangled hair away from her face. His mind whirled with questions. What had brought her to this state? How long had she lived like this? And then a darker thought crossed his mind. Could she be dangerous?
But as he studied her again, taking in her delicate, almost frail features, the idea seemed absurd. She couldn’t possibly be a threat to his household. Her slim arms and legs showed no signs of strength, and whatever life she had led, it clearly hadn’t prepared her for violence or mischief. She looked more like a girl who had been worn down by the harshness of the world than someone capable of harm.
The sticky feeling of blood on his hand and sleeve caught his attention, snapping him from his thoughts. He glanced down, realizing he was still covered in it. While waiting for the physician, he would need to clean himself up. Before he could move, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. Trevor turned just in time to see Mrs. Smythe return, followed by two maids, their arms laden with towels, bandages, and a clean nightdress.
They moved swiftly and efficiently, prepared to tend to the injured girl. Trevor stepped back, grateful for their assistance, though the sight of the blood reminded him of the urgency of the situation.
“I shall leave now that the girl is in good hands.”
“Not to worry, Your Grace,” Mrs. Smythe promised. “We’ll take special care of her.”
Nodding, Trevor let out a long, weary sigh and strode from the room, his mind heavy with frustration. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t gone out tonight. His mother had insisted that the evening’s dinner party was a must-attend event, the perfect way for him to reenter Society after his period of mourning. Dowager duchesses often knew such things, but even she couldn’t have foreseen the streak of bad luck that had shadowed him ever since his ill-fated marriage three years ago.
As he entered his chambers, he gave his valet instructions to prepare a bath. Wearily, Trevor sank into a cushioned chair, running his fingers through his hair and closing his eyes. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical—it was a deep, gnawing weariness that seemed to settle into his bones. He couldn’t keep the girl here, no matter how much he pitied her. She was young, probably just past adolescence, but far too young to fit into any role in his household. He had no position for someone like her, and keeping her here would only complicate things further.
Yet, despite his rational mind insisting he should send her away, a nagging guilt tugged at him. He couldn’t shake the image of her frail body, half starved and bleeding, lying helpless in the road. What had her life been like for her to end up in such a state? As he sat there, the weight of responsibility pressed down on him, harder than ever.
Thomson, his ever-efficient valet, rushed through the door with buckets of steaming water, two more servants trailing behind, carrying additional loads. Trevor began to undress, trying to push away the haunting memories of Gwendolyn that always seemed to resurface at the worst times. The ache of betrayal throbbed in his head like a dull, relentless drumbeat. If only he could forget her—forget the past that had left him so scarred. Gwendolyn’s actions had altered him, darkening his once-optimistic outlook and leaving behind only cynicism and mistrust.
Perhaps that isn’t entirely a bad thing, he thought bitterly. After all, women could not be trusted, and learning that lesson early was a hard-earned advantage. It would serve him well in the future, preventing further heartbreak.
Trevor hurried through his bath, scrubbing quickly as if he could wash away not only the grime but the unwelcome thoughts of Gwen. He needed to focus on the present—on the life he was determined to rebuild. His new life, free of past mistakes, started today. Yet, in one disastrous evening, he had nearly ruined it by running over a girl, leaving her on the brink of death.
A heaviness settled in his chest as he recalled her pale face and fragile frame. She could still die, he realized, and the weight of that thought made his heart sink. What should have been a fresh start now felt tainted by guilt and uncertainty.
Thomson had already laid out fresh clothes for Trevor, making it easy for him to dress quickly. Once he’d pulled on his crisp shirt and trousers, he ran a comb through his damp hair, smoothing it into place. Without wasting any more time, he strode out of his chambers and hurried back to the guest room, his mind fixed on the injured girl.
As he approached the door, Mrs. Smythe and the maids were just stepping out, their arms filled with bloodied towels and soiled garments. They paused briefly to nod respectfully as Trevor approached, their expressions a mix of concern and quiet efficiency. Trevor’s heart quickened as he stepped past them, hoping for a sign that the girl’s condition had stabilized.
“How is she?” he asked, stepping inside the room.
“She’s still unconscious, Your Grace.” Mrs. Smythe frowned. “Poor woman has scrapes and bruises all over her.”
Trevor blinked in surprise. “Woman? She’s not a young miss?”
“No, Your Grace. I’d say she was at least in her early twenties, perhaps a mite younger.”
“But she’s so tiny.”
“That she is. She’s nothing but skin and bones. We’ll need to fatten her up, I’d say.”
He nodded. “My thoughts exactly. As soon as the doctor has checked her over, I want some soup brought up. Will you see to that, Mrs. Smythe?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” She kept silent as the other maids brushed past them before the older woman leaned in closer to him. “I think you should also know, the woman has scars on her back.”
He narrowed his gaze on the housekeeper, and then to the woman lying on the bed. “Scars, you say?”
Her voice lowered. “Yes. Like she’s been… whipped.”
His stomach churned. “Someone whipped her? As small as she is?”
“That’s what I’m thinking, yes. And they are not new scars, either.”
“If I get my hands on whoever did that…”
Anger simmered within Trevor as he approached the bed, directed not at the unconscious woman but at the unknown person responsible for her injuries. Yet, the moment he laid eyes on her, his breath caught. The girl he’d brought home earlier had transformed, as if by magic, into a striking woman. The maids had washed away the grime, revealing long waves of blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders, still damp from the bath, resting against the soft curves of her fully grown figure. Her pale face, now clean, contrasted starkly with the thick, dark lashes that swept over her high cheekbones, casting delicate shadows across her face.
She was quite beautiful. He had to admit it, though the realization unsettled him. This woman, with her tattered clothes and air of mystery, was no one he knew. She belonged to a world far removed from his—someone of a class he wouldn’t have associated with under normal circumstances. Yet here she was, lying in his home, her vulnerability and beauty impossible to ignore.
Voices from the hallway snapped him from his thoughts. Stepping toward the door, Trevor peeked into the corridor to see Hobbs, his butler, leading the way for a familiar figure. Relief washed over him as he recognized the physician. Finally, someone who could help.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Trevor told him.
An older man, Doctor Bryers’s white hair thinned on his head, showing more spots of baldness than not. His spectacles perched on a long, straight nose as he opened his black medical bag. “Your servant tells me there was an accident.”
“Indeed there was, doctor. I hit her with my curricle as I traveled home this evening. She’s still alive but has a faint heartbeat.”
Doctor Bryers walked to the bed. “Mrs. Smythe? I shall need your assistance while I check her.” He glanced at Trevor. “Your Grace, would you be so kind as to wait outside?”
“Certainly.” Trevor left the room and shut the door behind him.
For the next hour, he paced the length of the maroon carpet in the hallway, his impatience mounting with every step. He hadn’t felt this restless since the births of his son and daughter—or rather, he corrected himself bitterly, Gwen’s son and daughter. The nagging uncertainty over their parentage weighed heavily on him, as it had ever since that fateful discovery. He still didn’t know if the twins were truly his.
A groan escaped him as he rubbed his forehead, trying to banish the painful memory. Time would reveal the truth soon enough. Worthingtons were known for their dark hair, striking blue eyes, and tall stature—traits that ran through his family for generations. Even his mother towered over most of her childhood friends. But the twins… Their gray eyes and lighter hair unsettled him, never quite fitting the mold he expected. And then there was Gwen’s lover, a man with unmistakable red hair. If the children shared that trait, it would confirm his worst fears.
The thought gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He would find out the truth soon enough, but until then, the doubt hung over him like a dark cloud, just as it had for years.
The bedroom door creaked open, bringing Trevor from his thoughts. Mrs. Smythe motioned him to enter. He hurried to the doctor, anxious to hear how the injured woman fared.
Doctor Bryers rolled down his shirt sleeves. “She’s most fortunate, Your Grace. I could not find any broken bones. She has a large wound on her shoulder, which I assume came from the impact of the horse slamming into her or when she hit the ground. She has a sizable goose egg on her head, which will disappear within time, as well as the scratches received from the fall.” He shrugged on his overcoat before meeting Trevor’s stare. “Until she awakens, I will not be able to tell if she received any internal injuries.”
“Internal?”
“Mainly head trauma.” He scratched his chin. “Please send for me when she comes to, and I shall check her again.”
“Certainly, doctor.”
“I request you not move her for a few days to give her time to heal. She will be stiff and sore from the accident and will have a few bruises.”
Trevor nodded. “I shall keep her here as long as necessary.”
The doctor patted his shoulder. “You are a good man, Your Grace. This woman fell into the right hands.”
Trevor wanted to believe anyone would have acted the same way and shown similar concern, but he didn’t speak his mind in front of the doctor. He managed a small smile and shook the older man’s hand.
“Thank you again for your hastiness into this matter.”
“You are most welcome, Your Grace. I’m only pleased to be of assistance.”
“Would you like Mrs. Smythe to get you a cup of tea and biscuits before you leave?”
“Thank you, but no. I was on my way to another call before I came. If you will excuse me.”
“Of course.”
As Hobbs escorted the doctor down the stairs, Trevor turned back toward the bed, his gaze settling on the woman lying still as death, though her chest rose and fell with steady, gentle breaths. The doctor had suggested she stay at the manor to recover, but Trevor couldn’t help but wonder if her fate would be any better under his roof. After all, he seemed cursed when it came to women—they always seemed to die in his presence.
The thought gnawed at him. If this woman didn’t pull through, it would be yet another cruel reminder of the tragedy that seemed to follow him. He could almost feel the weight of it bearing down on him, that inescapable belief that his very presence brought death. Gwendolyn’s passing still haunted him, even if the truth was far more complicated than he allowed himself to admit.
It was simple—he had killed his wife, even if not by his own hand. And if this young woman didn’t survive, it would only confirm what he feared most: that his fate was sealed, cursed to bring death to those who came too close.