Chapter 1
Chapter One
The swirling colors of the London ballroom, once a familiar sight, tugged at Richard’s jaded heart while his fingers fiddled with the cuffs of his fitted new coat.
His perch near the refreshment table provided him an all-encompassing view of the sprawling ballroom at Rosamund Hall.
In almost every corner, shy new couples, scheming social climbers, and sighing spinsters took turns fulfilling their usual roles.
The gossips snickered behind their fans.
The shameless flaunted their most unconventional manners.
To the side of the ballroom, near the entrance hall, men of all ages flitted in and out of the card room, alternating between a desire for female company and a need to escape it altogether.
This was the world from which Richard had come, the society for which he, as a gentleman’s son, had been raised. This was the world where he had been destined to thrive.
Yet returning as a soldier, scarred by war, as a man who’d seen death and destruction with his very own eyes, it was difficult to embrace such a life with the same optimism and innocence he’d once harbored.
A passing servant offered him a glass of wine, long over-warmed. He took a glass out of courtesy.
There was some pride to be had in knowing that his and his fellow soldiers’ sacrifices brought about the peace that the people around him now enjoyed.
But did the crowds truly understand the cost of their current comfort?
Did the matron dripping with diamonds or the young buck making a muck at the gaming tables give a care for the challenges of the battlefield?
Richard knew the answer, though he didn’t like it very much.
Not all military men shared his world-weary thoughts, Richard reflected with a sip of his beverage.
Some soldiers returned from narrow escapes on the battlefield determined to indulge in hedonistic living, eager to lap up pleasures they believed they’d been unfairly denied during their years of service.
Richard felt otherwise.
He’d seen the hollowness of it all—of innocent young soldiers dying in fear, of beautiful young women taken in childbed, of passionate fools losing lives or limbs over trifling wagers. The Good Book was right. It truly all felt like vanity of vanities, at times.
“Brooding again, Richard?” A familiar female face appeared beside him.
Richard turned and offered a half-apologetic smile to his cousin. “I take it you find it unbecoming in a gentleman, given your husband’s sanguine nature.”
Sarah St. John laughed as she looped a hand around Richard’s arm. Once upon a time, she might have been the young, little Cousin Sarah mooning over Richard and his then-single brothers, but Sarah Greyson St. John was a blooming society hostess now, bosom friend to many a duchess and countess.
“Percy is a dear, and I am lucky to have him,” she said with obvious adoration for her husband. “You could learn a thing or two from him, you know.”
Richard huffed. He doubted a cousin of a duke who’d led the majority of his life in London would know much of life’s real trials, but he didn’t particularly want to insult his cousin by marriage either.
Percy and Sarah, sheltered and privileged as their lives might have been, much like Richard’s own up until eight years ago, were amongst the few people Richard could count as friends these days.
His three older brothers, and now even little James, had all managed to marry themselves off in the last decade, leaving Richard the last Avington bachelor in London society.
And while such a life, especially in combination with his own monetary rewards as an army colonel, proved the envy of many a young man, Richard found it mostly unremarkable.
Yes, he was single. Yes, he was rich. Unfortunately, he was also unexpectedly lonely.
“Will you come to dinner tomorrow?” Cousin Sarah asked as she tugged him into an impromptu promenade.
Richard followed along the side of the ballroom, noticing with a slight pang of admiration how easily his cousin sent acknowledging nods to various acquaintances every few steps.
The woman was popular indeed. “Lady Beatrice Bradford will be there.”
“Matchmaking again, Sarah?” Richard grumbled. “I thought I would at least be safe from you.”
“What is a married woman to do except to make sure all her loved ones are married as well?” She grinned. “Surely, you haven’t forgotten how beautiful her sister Bellina had been in her prime.”
Richard sighed. The truth was, he barely remembered Bellina Bradford, or her sister, or the scores of other debutantes that had come and gone in the past ten years. His own brothers might have paid better attention, given that they’d managed to marry some of said debutantes.
But Richard had never cared much for the parade of female faces, pretty or otherwise, not anymore. His heart had been stolen once—by one Catherine Pershing—and he’d never quite recovered.
“And it has been eight years, Richard,” said Sarah quietly.
Richard didn’t know to laugh or cry at how easily she’d inferred the direction of his thoughts. He shrugged his shoulders. “For me, she’s as alive as she had been that first time we met.”
“In your memory, perhaps, but not in truth.”
“No, the truth is often much messier than that.”
Sarah frowned, no doubt confused by his cryptic words. Let her wonder. Richard had no plans to burden anyone else with his battlefield memories if he could help it.
“There is no harm in meeting a new woman or two,” Sarah said when they reached the edge of the ballroom. They stood side by side as her husband emerged from the card room, spotted them with a smile, and turned their way.
“If you promise not to communicate any expectations to her family,” Richard acceded reluctantly.
“Of course not. Don’t take me for a fool.”
“Who’s calling my wife a fool?” Percival St. John arrived. He pressed a gentle hand on Sarah’s waist, a touch that she seemed to readily lean into. “Come now, Avington, surely not you.”
Richard smiled briefly and politely. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Good.” Sarah smiled. “Join us tomorrow, please. He is most welcome, is he not, Percy?”
“Most certainly,” said her husband, likely having no idea what he was readily agreeing to.
Richard tried not to frown too harshly. “What is it again?”
“Just a little soirée, very small.”
Did the size of the gathering matter very much? They were all hollow vanities in the end. But his cousins were being kind. Richard truly ought to try to reciprocate. He drew a deep sigh. “Very well. I will come.”
He would go to their little soirée and meet Lady Beatrice or whoever else Cousin Sarah wished to shove his way. He would attend all sorts of events all Season long—anything to help him remember his beloved Catherine, and to forget everything else.
The noises of London rumbled around him. Horses neighed while carriages careened. Drivers hollered over vendors crying out to sell their wares. It was the thick of the London Season, and the capital bustled like no other time. But Richard marched on.
One foot after another—he kept his eyes on the pavement. Last night had been another round of nightmares, of waking up with a cry only to realize that the fellow soldiers he saw dying were already dead, of counting the hours until dawn came.
It was another night alone in Avington House, with unfamiliar servants as his sole company. Mother, who used to be so devoted to finding her five sons proper matches, seemed content with the way things were now: four sons married, one son safe from war.
He didn’t miss her hovering. A man used to independence could always do with more of it, rather than less.
Most men in his position would relish the material privileges and the lack of accountability, with no one but his valet caring about his whereabouts.
But even though Richard was two and thirty, not two and fifty, he rather felt more like the latter.
And one didn’t particularly like being alone at two and fifty.
Raised in grand Beniton Hall, and given all the privileges of his birth with months-long sojourns in London, he had grown up accustomed to people. Brothers, schoolmates, ladies, neighbors, cousins, and fellow soldiers had always beset him at every turn.
Now, all of those were either married or dead. Only Richard was neither.
“Avington!” The sudden greeting came with a just as abrupt a clap on his shoulder.
Richard suppressed his instinct to react with a combative stance. The war was over. He had to remember.
He pulled to a stop and turned to see Percival St. John, Cousin Sarah’s affable husband, in the company of the Duke of Burgess and Viscount Rodworth.
It was another trio of friendships that had formed during Richard’s years away—friendships he was welcome to observe and yet not quite invited to share.
“Percy,” Richard greeted with a polite nod. “Your Grace, Lord Rodworth.”
The men all responded with reciprocal civility.
“Why are you lingering at the door?” Percy gestured at the entrance.
Somehow, in the midst of all his pacing, Richard had apparently managed to arrive in front of White’s.
His feet must have remembered what his mind forgot.
“Don’t tell me a grand colonel of His Majesty’s army is afraid of this lion’s den. ”
Percy chuckled. His two friends smiled. Richard tried to share their humor.
Not that Richard was afraid. There was nothing to fear about a gentleman’s club to which he and all his brothers belonged—though he wondered if Edgar and Harold still kept their membership current. Compared to the battlefield, there was nothing terrifying about White’s.
And yet, he found himself hesitant to enter.
“Shall I book us a private parlor?” Lord Rodworth stepped forward.
The viscount, once known to be an ambitious, unbending young nobleman who managed to snag the most beautiful debutante in a generation, seemed much more personable now.
Age softened anyone, Richard mused, on or off the battlefield.
“I have an hour before Burgess and I need to convene with Lord Beckham.”
“I wouldn’t presume to interrupt,” Richard found himself responding.
He didn’t want to talk politics, or betting, or whatever it was these young nobles discussed.
He might have enjoyed being privy to such conversations before.
But somehow, the allure had lessened in the intervening years.
“Although I thank you for the invitation.”
Lord Rodworth nodded. The duke smiled as he nodded as well. He seemed frightfully quiet for a duke.
“Shall you not join us for a game of cards then?” Percy offered, smiling brighter than the other two men combined.
“Cards are—” There was nothing wrong with cards. He liked cards. At least, he possessed no aversion to them. But even that seemed wholly unappealing.
After years sleeping on godforsaken grounds, here he was, back to the comforts of London. And yet, sleep eluded him. And it appeared as if amusement did as well.
Richard sighed. At this rate, he was better off retiring to the estate he’d been gifted for his battlefield heroics. At least, he didn’t need to disappoint anyone else with his reclusive ways there. He fought the urge to tug at his coat. Had gentlemanly trappings always been this restricting?
“Perhaps another day,” he answered instead.
Percy nodded, a small and worried crease to his brow. Lord Rodworth cleared his throat, and Richard nodded at him and the duke before they made their way inside.
“I shall see you at my mother-in-law’s soirée tonight then?” said Percy, before following after his friends.
Oh, yes, the soirée—Richard almost groaned. Why had he thought it a good idea back in the day to harangue his brother Harold while the latter had sorted through a season of grief? Richard barely wanted to get out of bed most days.
Or perhaps he did. Bed was not exactly a comfortable place most nights. He just didn’t have anywhere to go—anywhere, apparently, except the Greysons’ soirée.
“You will,” he promised. Percy nodded, satisfied, and made his parting greetings.
Richard stood where he was, in front of the large white building, for another few minutes before turning back towards Avington House.
If Mother were in London instead of touring Scotland, of all places, she would likely insist that Richard attend the soirée.
It was the least he could do to oblige her—and to distract himself.
With no particular appointment on his schedule, Richard took his time circumventing fashionable London, wandering as far as Hyde Park. As a young boy, it would have been his dream to promenade any of the pretty ladies present around the park. Now, they all looked bland and silly.
Perhaps he really was getting too old.
A flash of white—Catherine’s preferred color—caught his eye as he made to leave the park. Richard paused and looked up.
Across the Serpentine, a young woman stood demurely to the side while a tall, severe-looking matron beside her made introductions to two older men. For a moment, the girl looked almost exactly like Catherine.
Richard shook his head.
He needed sleep—a lot of it.