Chapter One
September 11th, 1814
Dorsetshire
Alexander St. Clare, seventh Duke of Vickery, found his father’s diaries by accident. He was working at the massive oak desk in the study, reading through the latest report from the bailiff on his Lincolnshire estate and jotting down notes, when the tip of the quill split.
“Drain the north paddock,” he muttered under his breath, while he opened the top drawer of the desk and searched for a penknife. The penknife was at the very back of the drawer. Alexander groped for it, banged his knuckles against wood—and then the wood yielded and the penknife skittered out of reach, deeper into the desk.
Damn. He’d broken the drawer.
Alexander carefully removed it—and discovered that the drawer wasn’t broken at all; the back was hinged, with a little catch that he must have knocked open.
What the devil?
He got down on his knees and peered into the gaping slot. Was that a secret compartment? In his father’s old oak desk?
He reached in and felt carefully. Yes, a secret compartment. The penknife was in there, and . . . books?
Alexander drew the books out. There were six of them, bound with calfskin. He opened one and saw his father’s handwriting. June 17, 1808. The young people all went riding again this afternoon.
Alexander hastily closed the diary.
He replaced the drawer, stacked the diaries on the farthest corner of the desk, trimmed his quill, and went back to his notes. Drain the north paddock, he wrote, and then stared blindly at the bailiff’s report.
The young people all went riding again this afternoon.
He could see it in his mind’s eye, the four of them cantering along the clifftops: himself and his two best friends, Hubert Cathcart and Oliver Dalrymple, and Oliver’s younger sister, Georgiana.
God, what a painful summer that had been. The summer he’d fallen in love with Georgiana. The summer she’d fallen in love with Hubert.
Alexander gave himself a mental shake. He tried to focus on the bailiff’s report, on the here and now, but that glimpsed diary entry had dislodged a cascade of memories. His mind took him back six years. He remembered how happy Georgiana and Hubert had been, how they’d glowed with joy, and he remembered congratulating them on their betrothal while in a secret and shameful place deep inside himself he’d been hoping the wedding wouldn’t take place.
The wedding hadn’t taken place, and that had been a thousand times worse. Hubert had gone up to Scotland to visit his godfather and had never returned, vanished somewhere on the road between Edinburgh and Perth. Alexander had hoped and prayed for Hubert’s return, he’d got down on his knees in the Thornycombe chapel and begged God for it, but weeks had become months, and then years, and then finally Hubert’s grave had been found, nowhere near Perth or Edinburgh.
Alexander stared down at the bailiff’s report, not seeing the words. Damn it, Hubert, I wish you had come back.
“Your Grace?”
Alexander looked up. A footman stood in the doorway to his study.
“It’s nearly two o’clock, sir.”
Two o’clock. Alexander’s thoughts jerked from Hubert to Georgiana. He put down his quill, took the items the footman handed him—hat, riding crop, gloves—and strode from the study. His mood changed as he ran down the stairs two at a time, shedding grief, letting hope take its place. Two o’clock.
Afternoons had always been his favorite time of the day. When he was a boy he’d spent them with Hubert and Oliver, exploring the long, shingly Dorsetshire beaches, climbing the cliffs, hunting for fossils, fishing and eeling and birdnesting, getting wet, filthy, sunburned.
Now his afternoons were special because of Georgiana.
His horse, Sultan, was saddled and waiting in the stableyard. Alexander suspected that afternoons were Sultan’s favorite time of the day, too. Certainly the horse caught his eagerness, lengthening his stride into a canter as soon as they reached the lane.
Thornycombe Hall to Dalrymple Court was less than a mile. Alexander covered that distance in four minutes. Hedgerows flashed past, birds twittered, the Dorsetshire sun shone down, and then he swung into the avenue and there she was: Georgiana Dalrymple, on her bay mare, waiting for him.
Alexander slowed Sultan to a trot, then a walk, and came up alongside her. A smile broke out on his face, the smile that was only for Georgiana, the one that said, I love you.
They galloped along the clifftops and then let the horses amble. Alexander looked out at the wide vista of sea and sky, and then let his gaze stray to Georgiana. He loved it when she looked like this, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, curling tendrils of hair escaping from beneath the brim of her hat. It made him want to lean over in his saddle and kiss her.
She was no longer the girl he’d fallen in love with; she was a woman, now, more confident than she’d been all those years ago, more assured, but quieter, too—and still, after all this time, the person he wanted to marry. He let his gaze rest on her—the sparkling brown eyes, the soft brown hair—and thought of the things he loved most about her: her quick mind, her thoughtfulness, her sense of humor, the way they could talk so easily, laugh together, be quiet together.
“Vic?” Georgiana said.
That was another thing he loved about her: that she called him Vic. Not Your Grace, not Vickery, but Vic. She sees me as a person, not a duke.
“Vic?” she said a second time.
He knew her almost as well as he knew himself. “You want to gallop again?”
“Yes.”
And so they galloped again, the horses’ hooves thundering, kicking up clods of turf, and when they pulled up Georgiana was flushed and breathless and laughing, and Alexander felt a painful sensation in his chest, a sensation that combined longing and desire and hope.
The horses came up alongside one another, flanks heaving. Georgiana grinned at him, and she looked like the girl she’d been six summers ago, vivid, alive, glowing—except that this time the glow in her eyes was for him.
His knee touched hers briefly and their bodies swayed together and there was a moment when they looked into each other’s eyes, when a frisson shivered over his skin, when Georgiana seemed to hold her breath, when he almost—almost—leaned over and kissed her. And then the horses moved apart and the moment was lost.
They rode slowly back to Dalrymple Court and while they rode Alexander debated his options. It was barely a year since Georgiana had had the strange, prophetic dream that had told her where Hubert’s grave was. Was it too soon to pay his addresses? Should he wait a few more months?
Dalrymple Court came into sight: the tall chimneys, the creamy stone masonry half-covered with ivy, the rose garden. They halted side by side in the lane. “Would you like to come in?” Georgiana asked.
Alexander studied her face. Something in her expression, in her eyes, made him think that she felt the same sensation he did: the longing, the hope.
“Yes,” he said, “I have something I need to discuss with your parents.”
An hour later, Alexander ran up the stairs to his study, whistling under his breath. He tossed aside his hat and riding crop, peeled off his gloves, and paced the room, too exhilarated to sit, treading across the Aubusson carpet, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Lord and Lady Dalrymple had said yes. Now he just had to hope that Georgiana would say yes, too.