Prologue
The Curse
Wraithmoor Abbey, Manhattan, New York City
Emma
The dense fog reeked of death this morning. It was so thick, she could barely see the stone steps in front of her as she climbed the winding staircase to reach the top of the grand estate.
The mansion was built on hallowed grounds, atop the ruins of an old abbey that was burned to cinders years ago. Locals rumored the land was haunted by the ghosts of those buried here, who were exhumed and moved to other places of eternal rest before the great Anderson family rebuilt on top of it.
It was bad luck, they said.
She never believed the superstitions. But now, as the sorrow in her chest threatened to cleave her in half as she reached her destination, a place that once brought her joy but now only held a lifetime of regrets, she couldn’t help but wonder if the superstitions were true.
She walked toward the edge of the rooftop and glanced around, secretly wishing he were here. That he would stop her.
But there was nothing other than the eerie silence and the occasional cry of the black crows hovering nearby, her companions paying solemn tribute to her before she took to the skies—her final flight.
She brushed past the skeletons of wilted flowers, long laid to rest after a dreary autumn, and past the dark vines twined around a veranda, the lush green appearing black in the gloominess of early dawn.
Gripping the railing at the edge of the rooftop, she slowly climbed over the ledge to the tiny sliver of stone separating this life and the next.
“Do you love me, Silas?” she whispered.
“Always, now and forever, this lifetime and all the lifetimes thereafter,” he murmured, his intense gray eyes filled with warmth as he pulled her close and sealed his lips with hers.
It didn’t matter they were forbidden. It didn’t matter she was putting everything at risk by being with him, a man far above her station. A man who could ruin her.
They were tempting fate, but it felt like destiny.
A sob wrenched from her throat. Lies. They were all lies.
Clutching her last missive to him to her chest, she teetered on the edge and stared at the rose garden far below. Her eyes skated over the murder of crows standing silently by, over the new hedges the groundskeeper put in several months ago, which had now grown at least a foot taller.
Her favorite place.
A place where she would meet with him after the house went to bed, where they would stare into the dark nights, admiring the millions of stars glittering amid the inky backdrop.
He would take her hand then, far away from the prying eyes of his wife, a woman he told her he despised but was forced to marry because his family believed a duke needed legitimate heirs to be from a lady of good bloodline.
Not a lowly servant of the household.
Someone like her.
It was the way things were done—they were both trapped in their stations, unable to escape.
But nonetheless, her life irrevocably changed the first time their eyes met in the estate’s library. She was picking a book for her new employer, his wife, to read the next day, only to find him there, flipping through a thick volume by the roaring fire.
He never minded her status. He was curious what she had chosen.
The curiosity burgeoned into a discussion on philosophy, which became nightly meetings where he’d tease her as she read her romantic novels after her chores were done.
He’d flash her smiles she’d never seen him wear before, his hand grazing hers when they passed each other in the halls.
“I never knew love until I met you,” he whispered in her ear months later.
He’d take her in his arms and press his lips to hers as they danced under the sliver of ghostly moonlight in the rose garden.
The night chill pierced her flimsy work garments of gray wool, but every inch of her was on fire, her heart alight for the man in front of her, who, in those stolen moments, appeared to be giving her the world.
They moved to the haunting rhythms of nature, the foreboding night wind howling and the falling leaves rustling from the trees nearby, as if begging them to stop before it was too late.
But naively, they ignored the ominous signs. He’d murmur instead, “Emma, my love, my all.”
Her heart fluttered a dying beat at the memories—the warmth in his charcoal gaze, the gentleness of his fingers trailing over her cheek, the slight quirk of his lips, dimples showing.
“Silas.”
She closed her eyes and remembered how she melted into his embrace.
His lips took hers and plundered everything away from her—her heart, her soul, her mind.
They would spend endless hours in the gardens, forgoing sleep, coming together as man and woman, not as a duke and his servant, obliterating a thousand lines they were forbidden to cross.
He used to say he was a duke, and he could do anything.
One day, they would be free to be together.
But that was a lie too.
And now, she paid the ultimate price.
She tore her eyes away from the garden. The morning light had barely penetrated the swollen, smothering clouds.
A storm was coming fast, based on the severe winds and the darkened skies.
She should alert the rest of the staff so they could begin preparations, as the manor was still in an active state of construction.
The streetlamps were unlit, but there was an eerie calm, as if she had already crossed the threshold to another world.
This wouldn’t be her job anymore.
She wouldn’t be here to see the storm.
The vaporous mist hid the terrifying heights from the rooftop to the grounds four stories down. It surrounded the abbey like a thick blanket, enticing her to take the leap into her eternal slumber.
“Silas,” she choked out, her fingers tightening on the letter he’d no doubt find on her later.
His name was carried away by a chilly breeze.
Tears slipped down her cheeks and her other hand cradled the small bump on her lower belly, the one she couldn’t hide anymore, the bump signaling her adultery, her shame for the world to see.
Perhaps, if she’d never fallen in love with him or if he’d done what he had promised and taken her away from there much sooner, his wife wouldn’t have shoved her against the vanity table three nights ago in a fit of anger before dismissing her.
She wouldn’t be bleeding now, knowing the baby had departed the world before her.
Perhaps it was best for everything to end this way. After all, what a scandal this would be for the unblemished Anderson family.
She wetted her lips as she smoothed her hand over her belly, her heart pulverized.
Would it have been a son or a daughter? Would he have had his dark, mesmerizing eyes or her brown hair if he were to have survived? Would she have had dimples just like her father, or would she have had full lips like her?
Would he forgive her, her Silas?
Her heart clenched in throbbing pain as she breathed in more of the cloying stench in the air.
Perhaps he wouldn’t. Or perhaps he wouldn’t care.
After all, he silently stood by as the duchess berated her for her loose morals, for daring to disgrace her, making her the laughingstock of society since the rumors of his affair leaked.
She remembered how his jaw clenched tightly, his eyes not looking at hers even though she pleaded with all of her heart for him to acknowledge her in the daylight—just once, a reassuring glance, a gentle nod, anything to let her know things would turn out all right.
But he didn’t, even though he knew he was the reason for her current state, even though he promised her he would take care of her and their unborn child.
They were lies. A thousand breathtaking lies from a beautiful man.
In the distance, thunder rumbled, the violent sound angry and foreboding.
She hoped Silas would find her when the rain descended.
Her thoughts trailed to last night, before she’d gone to her room to pack her bags, when she’d first felt the painful cramps in her belly.
The elite gathered in the sitting room, eager to have an audience with the duke and the duchess, not caring the title held no merit in America. After all, royalty was royalty, and Silas, a staunch supporter of the Union, had important things to say about the war brimming around the corner.
She stood in the shadows of the second-floor landing, her heart clenched when the duke met his duchess at the bottom of the stairs. He stood tall and proud, his dark navy waistcoat, the one she once told him was her favorite, molded to his figure like a glove.
Lord Silas Anderson, Duke of Westfield in the British aristocracy, head of one of the most illustrious families in America, was a sight to behold, a man who stole her heart even though he couldn’t protect it.
His glittering eyes had cut away from his duchess and snared on hers, as though he could see her hiding in the shadows.
But of course he could. He had always seen her, even when she was invisible most of her life.
His throat rippled, the previous placid expression on his face quickly slipping away as he dropped the hand he offered to his wife, who looked up at him in confusion, before following his gaze to her.
Her features hardened. “You pathetic whore. I don’t want to see you here a minute longer. Go to the whorehouse where you belong.”
She flinched and shrunk back, her mistress’s words echoing in her mind.
Silas stood at the bottom, unmoving, staring at her. His slate-gray eyes flashed with the same passion she had seen when he met her in the gardens at night, or in the study, or the conservatory. His hands formed into tight fists as they stared silently at each other, a great divide between them.
“You coming, Silas?” the duchess asked from somewhere out of her sight line. “Our guests are waiting.”
He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving hers as he replied in that low, gravelly voice of his, “Yes, my duchess.”
A reminder. For himself or for her, she’d never know.