Prologue
August 1813
The wind no longer seemed to be as warm and welcoming as it had when Eliza first stepped out. Now it was cold and tinged with ice as it attempted to wrap itself around her shoulders.
Miss Eliza Wells, eldest daughter to the Marquess of Whitehaven, shivered violently and wondered, not for the first time, where Avondale had gone.
It was not like him to be tardy, for their meetings were often only a precious few minutes together before Eliza had to return to the house or he to his duties back at his estate. Of course, Lord Avondale often spent time with Eliza’s family, coming to take tea with them or going out riding with Eliza and one of her sisters, but these clandestine meetings were the most wonderful of them all.
It was a time when they held each other’s hands, where whispered promises were given and taken, and where hope began to come to life within her. Avondale had promised her a good many things and, most recently of all, had promised her his love.
A love that she knew she returned. There was no other lingering in her heart, no other that had captured her affections. She felt as though she and Lord Avondale were almost one and the same person, such was their intimacy. They had known one another as children, laughing and running around in Lord Whitehaven’s gardens, until their childish teasing had begun to turn into something more. Now as a lady in her own right, out and free to make her choice of suitor and choice of husband, Eliza knew that there could be no other. Jeremy, Duke of Avondale, was the only gentleman with whom she could share her future. How delightful it was to know that he felt the very same as she.
Of course, Lord Avondale had been more than proper in his attentions to her, although their meetings at the folly were becoming more frequent and their passion less and less hidden. His kisses had been to her hands or to her cheeks and yet Eliza felt herself grow desperate for his lips to land upon hers. He would not do so, however, until he proposed, until their betrothal was made known. Lord Avondale’s respect for her was both obvious and entirely honorable, although his words of love and of affection sent warmth into her very soul.
Twisting her fingers together, Eliza meandered up and down the well-worn path, her stomach tight with tension and mounting concern. Where was Avondale? He was never tardy, and she could not linger out here alone for long. A sudden thought struck her, forcing her to a stop. A small smile began to etch its way across her face, her heart beating with a hope and a delight that she had not experienced before. Mayhap Lord Avondale has every intention of proposing to her this very day. Mayhap he was ensuring that everything he required for such a proposal was at hand. Would there be a bouquet of flowers in his hand as he approached her? Would there be a new light in his eyes as he held her gaze?
Eliza’s hand pressed lightly to her heart, her hopes suddenly flaring to life and chasing her concerns away. They had spent many a minute discussing their future together, had they not? She had known that he wished to propose, had known that there was nothing to stop them from marrying aside from Lord Avondale’s requirement to speak to her father. Mayhap he was doing so now, knowing that she would be waiting for him in the folly and that she would not be at home to see him do so. Her hands clasped together in excitement and she could not prevent herself from whirling around, the cool April breeze no longer seeming to shroud her in cold.
“Eliza.”
Turning, Eliza saw Avondale appear just behind her, coming through the small copse of trees. Her eyes lingered on him, feeling the same rush of affection that always came with his presence. “Avondale,” she breathed, hurrying towards him and surprised that he did not seem eager to rush towards her as he so often had done before.
Perhaps he was anxious about what was to come.
“You are late,” she stated, teasing him as she reached out to take his hands. “I have been here alone, fretting over your tardiness, Avondale.”
Lord Avondale studied her with his bright, blue eyes that so often lingered in her thoughts. She could almost always tell what he was feeling simply by looking into those blue pools, for they could sparkle like the sun on the sea or become as cold and as dull as a dark autumn day.
Now, however, Eliza realized that she could not make out what it was that he felt, for his expression was hard and closed. Her heart began to sink towards her toes, all hope of his proposal going from her at once. This was not the expression of a gentleman seeking to offer his hand in marriage to the lady he loved. This was the expression of a gentleman who had something of great seriousness resting on his shoulders.
“Avondale,” Eliza murmured, reaching up to press one hand lightly against his cheek. “Whatever is wrong?” She studied him carefully, feeling the slight roughness against her hand as she allowed her fingers to brush down his face. He was, to her, the most handsome gentleman in all of England. Lord Avondale was tall, with broad shoulders and a strong back. His blue eyes, square jaw and long, proud nose made him appear quite distinguished, although Eliza knew that it was his character that she considered more than anything else. As a Duke, he had a great deal of responsibility to his name and to his family, and he always did everything with a good deal of consideration first. The way he treated people, including his staff and servants, spoke of a care for others that Eliza sometimes found lacking even in her own self. All in all, she considered, letting her hand fall to her side, Avondale was more than wonderful. She
could not imagine ever being separated from him.
“I am to marry another, Eliza.”
Eliza’s smile fell from her face, shattering at her feet. Her heart seemed to stop entirely, her whole body going cold with fright.
“I am sorry, but it must be so.”
Avondale’s words were cold and hard, his eyes no longer fixed on hers but looking somewhere over her shoulder as though he could not quite bring himself to look at her.
“Avondale,” Eliza whispered, feeling her heart begin to break apart within her chest and wanting to scream aloud with the agony of it. “No, this cannot be.”
“It is,” he stated, firmly, still refusing to look into her eyes. “I am sorry, Eliza.”
She closed her eyes, swaying unsteadily. “You are turning from me, Avondale?” Her eyes opened, seeing the way that he had lowered his head. “Why?”