Prologue #2
“His Grace is ever so dashing,” a second lady replied on a sigh. “I would give my eyeteeth to gain his notice.”
Ah. Two ladies were speaking on the other side of the curtain, their voices traveling along the wall to Matt.
“I hear the duke is a determined bachelor,” the first said.
“Pity. The title of Duchess of Grayburn would go splendidly with my complexion.”
Both women laughed.
“He has a younger brother,” the first said. “Lord Matthias.”
Matt’s heart triple-thumped in his ribcage.
“The tall, dark gentleman who accompanies His Grace?”
“Yes.” A pause. “He is handsome enough.”
“Handsome? Please. He is missing the entirety of one arm below the elbow,” the second lady said on a scoff.
“And have you noticed his staring? He gawps and studies and rarely blinks. It is rather unnerving. Son of a duke or not, I couldn’t bear such close gazing on a daily basis. It would curdle my tea.”
“That is true.”
“Besides, I overheard Mrs. Whitecomb say that he didn’t lose his arm in battle like a valiant gentleman.
” Her voice dropped to an appalled whisper.
“Lord Matthias was born with the defect. Mrs. Whitecomb said such a deformity is a sign of the devil himself. Something evil entered the Kinsey bloodline at his birth.”
The second lady gasped. “How ghastly!”
“Indeed. And who knows if such a deformity would extend to his children. No, Lord Matthias is not worth having . . . even as a duke’s son.”
A terrible ringing started in Matt’s ears.
The ladies said nothing he didn’t already know. From earliest memory, servants and tradespeople and clergy—even his own mother before her death—had called him hell spawn or demon blood. At least the ladies were saying these words behind his back and not to his face directly.
But tonight, as he contemplated change and bravery, the words cut deep.
His eyes drifted across to Miss Moulton once more. She was laughing at something one of the gentlemen said.
A sign of the devil.
Not worth having.
Matt had never spoken to Miss Moulton, yet it felt as if the cruel words dropped from her lips. Despite her loveliness and appearance of kindness, Matt didn’t know if Miss Moulton truly possessed those characteristics. Logic dictated she was likely more akin to the whispering curtain ladies.
Memories rose . . . the entirety of his existence defined by the one thing he could not control.
His mother looking away, lip curled in distaste, as Nurse changed his soiled shirt, his missing arm exposed. “Cover that . . . odiousness.”
A tutor making him memorize Richard III’s lines from Shakespeare, recounting the evil blight of the king’s hunched back—
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up.
Nurse flinching away from his hand as he reached to be held. “Unnatural children are not to be touched.”
An entire life spent believing that if Matt could just be quiet enough—good enough, clever enough—others might consider him of worth. And that if he were obedient enough, if he prayed enough, God Almighty might allow him to wake with a whole arm.
At least his parents hadn’t cast him off, despite Nurse telling him regularly that they should have.
It was not uncommon for aristocratic families to send abominations—children born with deformities or other aberrations—to be raised elsewhere.
Anything to avoid tainting a family with the appearance of divine disfavor.
As the whispering ladies noted, Matthias was visual proof that God did not view the Kinsey line with approbation.
Nothing Matt said or did would ever change that simple fact.
He was “rudely stamped,” as Shakespeare had put it.
Matthias had begun the evening intent on Change. But, as ever, Change arrived with a swipe of claws, opening old wounds. Reminding him, yet again, that any other means of losing his arm—accident, battle, illness—would have been preferable to simply being born without one.
Standing at the edge of the ballroom, Matt faced the harsh reality—
He hadn’t the courage to speak with Miss Moulton, not even with Gray’s threats looming. He committed her wide smile and expressive face to memory before looking away.
His gaze drifted to Gray, moving easily through the crowd, drawing greetings and curtsies as he passed. Always belonging, his brother. Never experiencing the sting of being forced to the edge of Life. Never feeling so very awkward and unsure.
Gray would be furious if Matt left the ball without speaking to anyone, much less a lady. That was a certainty.
And yet, Matt couldn’t bring himself to care.
Turning, he strode purposefully toward the door, taking his solitary arm and countless unmet desires out of the ballroom and into the dark night.
Several hours later, Matt climbed the front steps of Grayburn House, the family estate in London.
He had walked home, a meandering path through the lively streets of Mayfair. Gray was going to be angry. No sense in taking the ducal carriage and ensuring it.
Matt’s heart sank lower with each step, as if weighted with river stones. He tried, with only minimal success, not to resent Gray and his easy glide through mortality.
Particularly, as Matt sensed a scolding in the offing.
The scolding was confirmed as he handed his coat, hat, and walking stick to the butler.
“His Grace has requested your presence in his study, my lord,” the man intoned.
Of course.
Gray was nothing if not predictable.
Briefly, Matt contemplated turning around and disappearing again into the London night. But he knew from long experience that would solve nothing.
Perhaps, he could bring the matter of Miss Moulton up with Gray. His brother might have a helpful suggestion or two. At the very least, requesting help might ameliorate Gray’s anger.
Sighing, Matt climbed the stairs to Gray’s study. A flicker of light shone from under the door.
“Come,” Gray called to Matt’s polite knock.
Stepping through the doorway, Matt found Gray standing behind his desk, staring grimly at something across the room.
Frowning, Matt followed Gray’s gaze and froze on a sibilant hiss.
A figure stood before the fireplace . . . familiar and yet not.
This, Matt thought, this is true change. The sort that upends the very path of one’s existence . . . both mine and Gray’s.
Nothing will ever again be the same.