Chapter One
It is a truth rarely spoken aloud, yet universally acknowledged, that a lady’s life is immeasurably complicated by who she allows to hold her hand.
Not in public, of course—that would be ruin—but in private, where the touch lingers a moment too long, or where a perfectly respectable glove is slipped off in reckless abandon.
Such trivialities, some may say, but here lies the rub: a single gesture may chart the course of one’s entire fortune, be it to bliss…
or chaos. And so, dear reader, if your heart must be stolen, in the very least ensure it is by someone you would not mind joining you in the scandal.
~ The Handbook on Seduction and Matters of the Heart
A whole year has passed, Charlene thought.
Three hundred sixty-five days. Twelve months.
She pushed the handbook away. Such a long time.
Charlene perched on the edge of her bed, the muslin of her morning gown clinging uncomfortably to her damp skin.
The scent of flowers still clung faintly to her from the bath she had taken earlier, though it did little to wash away the grime she felt on her very soul.
It was one of those moments—those moments when her hands trembled as she laced her fingers together in her lap, her gaze cast downward, staring at nothing in particular.
She hadn’t even lit the lamps, and the morning light filtering through the drawn curtains was subdued, painting the room in shades of shadow.
How fitting, she thought, that even the sun seemed reluctant to touch her now.
A year since she’d been almost ruined. Almost because she’d not been caught. Ruined because she still felt ruined.
And it had been with a man she had considered her friend at the time.
That was the problem.
However, if a tree fell noisily and nobody heard, the tree fell nonetheless.
Perhaps her “ruination” wasn’t evident in the eyes of society, but what did that matter when she thought of herself as damaged?
Every part of her body felt ruined, especially her heart.
Even a year later, she couldn’t wash away the shame—not only of losing David as a suitor but also of losing Adam as her friend. The latter stung the most.
In his year of grief, I haven’t caught as much as a glimpse of him.
Her breath hitched as memories surged forward unbidden: David’s laughter, the insolence in his eyes, the way he’d carelessly…
she squeezed her eyes shut, her nails digging into her palms. No.
She couldn’t think of it. Not anymore. She needed to move on.
But the sharp ache in her chest reminded her that the truth would not be so easily banished.
And worst of all, that nightmare had been witnessed—not by some faceless stranger, but by him.
Adam. The gravity of her shame pulled at her so forcefully that she felt as though she might sink through the floor and disappear entirely.
He’d helped her, but she hadn’t even been able to face him in a whole year.
He’s a Cross and they’re all the same, were they not?
Same faces.
Same blood.
Yes, she shouldn’t forget that.
But still, on the one hand, she was relieved it had been him who walked in when David had… well… On the other hand, it was even worse because of all the people in her life, she cherished how her friends saw her.
He’s not my friend anymore.
Urgh! She didn’t want to even think about it!
The soft rap of knuckles against her door startled her, and she froze. “Char?” A nickname only her friends and family used. This time, it came from her brother’s voice, quiet but insistent.
“I’m not awake,” she called back. Her voice cracked on the last word, and she pressed her hands to her face to smother the sound. Maybe, if she stayed silent, he’d go away.
But the door creaked open just slightly, enough for her older brother Waylon’s pale face to appear. His brows knit together as he spoke in low, measured words. “I wanted to tell you that Rotheworth, the new duke, I mean, has taken his seat in the House of Lords today. His mourning has ended.”
Charlene’s hands dropped into her lap, her heart sinking like the air had been pushed from her lungs. “Oh,” she managed, her voice faint. “I see.” It doesn’t concern me anymore… “I’m sorry I can’t be—” but she didn’t finish, for she swallowed a tear and looked up at her brother.
Waylon stepped inside, his long frame taut with something less than pity but far closer to frustration.
“I know. Well, as are we. David Cross might have had Father’s blessing, but the betrothal contract had not been signed yet, nor had it been announced, so if we don’t go, it will be well.
Fortunately, the new duke cleared that up after that night…
and none of us have spoken to the Cross family. ”
Charlene stiffened. She hadn’t told Waylon or her father everything that had happened, though they did know something had. Something that had turned her into a sobbing mess on Adam’s arm that night.
“He’s coming out of mourning and there’s a small gathering for him. Again, we won’t attend, but I didn’t want you to find out from someone else,” Waylon finished, studying her the way one might a fragile piece of porcelain, delicate and on the verge of breaking. Perhaps she was exactly that.
Her throat burned, but she swallowed it down.
A part of her wanted to be there for Adam, but a part of her couldn’t.
He was a Cross. David was a Cross. She just…
couldn’t. “I don’t want you to go.” I don’t want him to glimpse even a sliver of my shame.
Even though no scandal had erupted, the memories hadn’t been erased.
Waylon stepped toward her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure you won’t tell me what happened?”
She shook her head furiously. She’d sworn Adam to silence as well after he had knocked his brother out cold after she’d refused to…
to… argh! This was her secret. And the Crosses’.
She didn’t want anyone else to know. And she most certainly didn’t want to burden her family since the scandal had been spared.
Somehow. Inexplicably so.
“You look serious,” Waylon said, his tone light. He tilted his head, craning to see whether Charlene had been crying again. That was typical for her brother: she must laugh if she’s happy and cry when she’s sad. As if there couldn’t be anything in between.
“It’s nothing,” Charlene replied crisply, though her lips quirked. Her fingers grasped the fabric of her shawl a bit too tightly, betraying her unease. “I am perfectly capable of a quiet moment without complaint.”
“Quiet moments, perhaps. But without complaint? I remain unconvinced.” Waylon grinned, lounging back in an altogether improper manner. “Tell me, then. What truly has stolen away your usual charm? I miss my sister.”
“I’m right here.”
“You used to be everywhere. At balls, banquets, and dinners. You laughed.” Waylon’s voice dropped. “You rarely do now. There’s just that look…”
Charlene’s hand faltered over the shawl, and she set it aside.
She still laughed, she begrudgingly thought.
And attended balls and such. Perhaps there was just something missing.
“You might as well say it plainly, Waylon,” she said, glancing at him.
His teasing softened slightly; he had always been an astute brother when he chose to be.
“All right,” he said, his tone losing some of its prior jest. “I’ve heard little whispers, you know. That you aren’t yourself since that night with the Crosses. That…” He trailed off, hesitant.
“That I long for things I cannot have anymore?” she finished for him, her voice low.
A sudden flush swept up her neck, and she clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
“I’ve read enough of their speculation already.
Shall we add another chapter to my alleged but unproven ruin? ” Her mouth twisted, self-deprecating.
There just hadn’t been the scandal that Charlene had expected.
Deserved even.
And nobody had told her what to do with this second chance… it was a secret scandal.
And yet, secrets had ways of getting out.
“You haven’t ruined your heart,” Waylon said, his brown eyes steady. “The world is unfair. Harsh. But that doesn’t mean you’re finished.”
But my heart feels broken; how can anything else go on?
Her throat tightened. “I want what any woman wants, Waylon. To feel a thrill, a warmth. For love, true love.” Her words faltered, her face burning. “It is a cruel twist of fate to still want it when you know you must never dare reach for it. Not fully.”
Waylon was quiet for a long moment. Then he offered her a gentle smile, low and familiar.
“Only you would make longing seem like a virtue, Charlene. If anyone deserves more than they’ve been given, surely it’s you.
” His statement was equal parts humor and affection, but his look lingered, steady and kind.
Charlene managed a strained smile, but her chest felt hollow.
She could only laugh faintly at his words and turn back to her embroidery, though the thread blurred in her vision, the ache within her far heavier than she dared to voice.
“No matter what happens, Char, no matter what you want to do, I’ll be here.
None of us will turn our backs on you, not even if the truth comes out, whatever that truth may be.
” His tone was firm, unyielding, his hand briefly squeezing hers as if to anchor her to something more solid than her heartbreak.
“I just want to be alone.”
“Very well,” he said softly, turning to slip from the room again. The sound of his boots fading down the hall left Charlene alone with the welcoming and supremely oppressive silence that only broke with the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
Alone.
Utterly alone.