Prologue
Levi Northam, Marquess of Stanton, went against his mother’s wishes and did not attend any balls during the Season.
She would be angry with him when she returned, but she, his father, the Duke, and his father’s dearest friends from his time at Oxford had been on a tour of America, enjoying time in New York City, and she would not be aware that he had done little to advance the cause of his marriage.
By design.
Levi had decided years ago that he would never marry, nor would he sire a child. He had a younger brother, Edward, and there was no reason for the task to fall to him.
His brother was not as broken as he was. He would be better suited to it.
While he had not pursued marriage, he had been dedicated to the pursuit of his own pleasure.
And when he stumbled out of Madame Lissanne’s brothel in the early hours of the morning, the lamplight flickering across the cobbled streets, he felt satisfied with that indeed.
He returned to his townhouse in London, determined to sleep off his excess—the better to indulge in even more of it on the morrow—but was awakened before dawn by a pounding on his door.
‘I am not to be disturbed,’ he said.
But the knocking was persistent—even more so than the pounding in his head. He threw off the bedclothes and went to the door—stark naked.
He jerked it open and was met with the cold gaze, not of his valet, but of his father’s solicitor.
He held out his hand, a slip of paper folded, held tightly between his fingertips. Levi did not take it.
‘Get dressed, Your Grace.’ And that was all it took. For the world to fall out from beneath his feet.
For this was not a mistake. No slip of the tongue.
‘My father?’
‘The ship…it was lost in a storm. Only two souls survived.’
Not his father. Or he would not be ‘Your Grace’.
The usage of the title he had never truly wanted told him that his father was dead, without the words ever needing to be spoken.
He looked down at the missive, and hated that his hands were trembling.
If you have received this, something grave has happened.
But I would be remiss in not making my wishes clear before embarking on a journey such as this.
If tragedy occurs on this voyage, it is my deepest wish that you all care for one another.
Do not allow each other to fall upon hardship—most especially the March girls, as they are at the mercy of their distant male cousin to provide for them, and their father fears he will not.
You have the title now. You must ensure that your sister and brother marry well and are safe from scandal.
You will help each other, guide each other where we cannot.
He stared at the letter in shocked silence, while the reality pressed in around him. He had gone to bed a marquess, with no concern for his future.
He had woken up a duke.
His mouth firmed into a hard line.
There was no time for grief.
There was too much to be done.