Chapter 1
Mantheria was dressed from her head to toes in unrelieved black.
Her husband, Alexander, the Duke of Glastonbury, was dead.
Although they had been legally separated for eight years, she still mourned his passing.
Her son, Andrew, had barely spoken since the funeral.
He was eleven years old, but he appeared younger with a sullen expression on his face.
Andrew had inherited his father’s dark hair and her bright blue eyes—they were an arresting combination.
Mantheria knew that he would become a handsome young man and steal many hearts like his father had before him.
She only hoped that her son would prove more faithful to his wife.
Her late husband had openly kept a mistress during their brief marriage and then lived with Lady Dutton after their separation.
She sat down on the sofa beside Andrew and bumped her shoulder against his. “You seem rather dour this morning, darling.”
Andrew huffed. “I hate mourning. I can’t do anything.”
He wasn’t wrong. Society’s rules of what was acceptable during mourning, especially for the death of a parent, were strict.
For the next year of his life, Andrew would have to dress in black.
He was not supposed to attend parties or other entertainments.
But eleven-year-old boys were not meant to be somber.
In Mantheria’s London home, Andrew needed to behave as befitted a new duke who had lost his father.
But none of her family followed the rules, and perhaps Andrew might have more fun at one of their houses today.
“What about a visit to Uncle Wick’s? I’m sure your little cousins would be happy to see you.”
Andrew folded his arms across his narrow chest and scowled. “They’re all babies.”
Mantheria’s eldest nephew would have been quite hurt at being considered a “baby.” But the differences between a boy of seven and one of eleven were rather large. Her brother Matthew only had little girls, and her sister Frederica’s son really was a baby.
Sighing, she leaned her head on top of her son’s. “How about we go visit Grandpa Stringham? We can see his tropical birds in the conservatory.”
“I don’t want to see bloody birds!”
Her eyes rose at Andrew’s use of a curse word. He’d never cussed before, and she wondered which member of her family had taught him it. She wanted to have a word with them. “Then what do you want, darling?”
“I want to go and see Cressy.”
Mantheria sucked her cheeks in, feeling hot and cold all over—at the same time.
Andrew’s late father had doted on him, as had his mistress, Lady Cressida Dutton, who had been more like a stepmother to him.
Mantheria’s family and everyone in Society thought that the breakdown of her marriage was Lady Dutton’s fault.
It was not.
The fault had been entirely her own.
Yet Alexander had taken those secrets to his grave. And Mantheria meant for them to stay buried there forever. Which was why she didn’t want Andrew to spend time with “Cressy.”
“I’m afraid it would not be appropriate for you to see Lady Dutton now that your papa has gone to heaven,” Mantheria said carefully. “Remember, the rules of Society keep us safe, and that is why we must follow them.”
Andrew stood up and stomped his foot. “You never let me do anything that I want to do! I want to go home.”
Mantheria was also looking forward to the haven of Avalon Palace, but she couldn’t leave London for at least another week. “You know we must wait and stay in Town until after your Aunt Becca’s engagement party. Don’t you wish to support her?”
“I hate London! And I hate you!” He ran to the door and slammed it closed behind him.
Mantheria got to her feet, but she decided not to follow her son as he stomped up the stairs to the nursery.
Andrew merely needed to let off some steam.
She was certain that he would be his normal self by supper at the very latest. Or as normal as he could be after the loss of a parent.
Grief was like living in a fog. You were unable to see anything or anyone else but your own sorrow, your need to touch and talk to that person only one more time.
Then the crushing guilt of choosing to continue living without them.
She touched the locket at her throat. Mantheria hadn’t been quite the same after she lost Elizabeth. Her better half. Her late identical twin. They had only been ten years old when her sister had contracted scarlet fever. Scarcely a year younger than her son was now.
The last words that she spoke to Mantheria were, “Be good and watch over our little sisters.”
Mantheria had been a wild and mischievous girl, but she’d promised her twin to be good.
So she changed. And she’d done her best to watch over their three little sisters.
She had tried to teach them good manners and how to behave correctly in society.
The next eldest, Frederica, had ignored most of her well-meaning advice.
The middle sister, Helen, had steadfastly refused any suggestions.
And her youngest sister, Becca, had heeded much of what Mantheria told her, including watching her waistline.
Mantheria had thought that she was helping her sister fit into Society.
Only to discover days after her husband’s funeral that Becca resented her assistance.
That she even felt wounded by it. Which was the last thing that Mantheria wanted.
She had only wished to fulfill her promise to her dying sister, and she had failed miserably—on both counts.
She rubbed her chest with a shaky hand. Mantheria was not good.
And her attempts to watch over her sisters had led to nothing but regret.
She had apologized profusely to Becca, and her sister had forgiven her, at Alexander’s deathbed request. Mantheria regretted her relationship with her late husband most of all, and in the end, he had once again rescued her from her own folly.
Yet another secret she hoped to bury with Alexander.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Her butler opened the door and bowed to her. “Lord Sunderland is here to see you. Are you at home?”
Sunny.
Mantheria could use a little sunshine right now. Her clothes and her thoughts were dark. And she felt weak and numb. “Yes. Please send him in, McDowell.”
Her butler bowed once more before leaving the room.
Mantheria got to her feet and smoothed out the wrinkles in her black dotted gown.
She was standing when Sunny entered the room.
One pleasant thing about being a widow was that she no longer required a chaperone.
Her butler closed the door behind him, and she was alone with her old friend and childhood love.
He strode toward her with his hands outstretched. She eagerly met him and felt comforted when he squeezed her fingers tightly. “My poor friend. What a miserable time this must have been for you. I nearly brought you flowers, but it appears that you already have all the blooms from Covent Garden.”
Mantheria laughed—something she would have thought impossible only moments before.
But glancing over her shoulder at all of the flower offerings that covered every table in the room, she had to admit that Sunny had a point.
She gave his hands one last squeeze before releasing them and gesturing to the flowers on the closest table.
“Oh, Sunny, if you’d read the cards that came with them, you would have laughed yourself to stitches.
They all start with condolences on the loss of my late husband, next they compliment my great beauty, and finally they declare their interest in courting me.
” She snorted. “As if I would rush to wed again after making a complete muddle of my first marriage.”
The expression on Sunny’s face was rather queer, and he rubbed his coat pocket where his quizzing glass usually was stowed. “Just so.”
Furrowing her brow, Mantheria was certain that her dear friend didn’t understand how funny and foolish the men who gave her flowers were. “Lord Exum even sent a poem. Shall I read it to you?”
Sunny’s smile returned, and he said brightly, “I think I might die of curiosity if you don’t.”
Her own lips twitched upward. This was the friend that she needed during this difficult time. She picked up the card from the much-indebted Lord Exum and read:
A dark shadow has crossed your lovely face.
Your husband is gone, but I could take his place.
A woman of your beauty should not be alone.
I would be pleased to call you my own.
Mantheria chuckled again. “Isn’t it positively dreadful?”
Her old friend smirked back at her. “Nonsense. It’s a poetic masterpiece. I am shocked that it didn’t move you to tears.”
“It did,” she assured him. “Tears of laughter, that is.”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “The vultures are already circling you, my dear. I am sorrier than I can say, for the loss of your son’s father and the thoughtless behavior of my fellow peers.”
“Truly, I feel all the better for seeing you. Won’t you sit down?”
Sunny sat down beside her on the sofa, almost as close to her as Andrew had been.
Usually, a guest would not share the same seat, but since they were such old friends, it didn’t matter.
He gently took her hand in his and held it lightly on his knee.
Mantheria blinked in surprise but reassured herself that her friend was merely attempting to comfort her.
And even though most of her misery was her fault, she was grateful for his support.
“How is Andrew?”
Mantheria breathed in and out deeply, her heart beating irregularly. “Adjusting. He says very little and hasn’t cried since the night his father died. I know that he is mourning deeply, and I wish I could help him more, but he only lashes out at me.”
“Where is he now?”