The only young ladies interested in him were those interested in his money. They had no idea who he was—what he dreamed of, how he longed for someone to ravish at night and care for by day.
The moon had once again disappeared behind the wispy threads of cloud by the time Graham reached his home, a light drizzle beginning to fall on the grey streets of Mayfair. He pulled his key from his pocket as he considered his friends’ requests at the club; perhaps heshouldvisit the country for a hunt, or at the very least agree to Everett’s invitation to breakfast. He never knew what young debutantes might be waiting for him at such breakfasts, but he thought, perhaps, it was time to start looking for someone to make a life with.
His mother would be devastated if he didn’t marry before she passed.
He had a family to take care of.
Even if he believed, deep in his heart, that unrequited love would be better than no love at all.
“Your Grace, is that you? The Duke of Hertfordshire?”
Graham turned, his fists clenched in case there was someone encroaching on his property. Yet all he found was a simple serving boy, holding his cap in his hands, twisting it in anxious knots. “I am he,” Graham murmured with a frown. “Who wants to know?”
The boy gulped, unable to meet Graham’s gaze. “My name is Arthur Miller, Your Grace,” he said, his northern brogue strong. “I work for your mother, Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Hertfordshire.”
“I don’t recognize you.”
“I was just recently hired on,” the boy said, then gestured over his shoulder at two horses with a simple carriage hitched behind them. “Spent the whole night on the road, Your Grace.”
Graham’s heart dropped into his gut; he had feared the news would come for months, but he still wasn’t ready for it. Certain he was about to hear of his dear mother’s death, he steadied himself against the railings by the steps to his home.
“And what is this regarding?” Graham asked.
“There’s… there’s been a terrible accident, Your Grace, the boy murmured.
“My mother?”
“No,” the boy gulped. “Your sister, Lady Mary. She’s… she’s dead.”
Mary?
Dead?
Graham tried to stop his knees from buckling, but it was no use; he was forced to brace himself against the stairs as dark spots flitted across his vision. The boy reached forward to grasp his elbow, but Graham waved him away to stand once again at his full height.
“How?” Graham asked, his voice a whisper.
“She was out riding with Lord Bragg and Lady Sedgwick, and fell from her horse,” the servant said. “There was nothing to be done. When they got her back to the house, she was already gone from a blow to the head.”
Graham closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself—but images of Mary instantly flooded his mind, drowning him in painful memories. She had been so youthful, so vibrant the last time he’d seen her six months ago at Christmas. With her chestnut curls and good nature, he’d been certain she would make a splash on this Season’s marriage market.
And now she was gone. Gone, just like his late father.
His mother must be devastated, now that it was only the two of them left.
“Ready the horses,” Graham said. “We ride tonight.”
“Where to?” the boy asked. “It’s past midnight.”
“They can rest when we return home,” Graham murmured. “We’re going back to Hertfordshire.”
CHAPTERTWO
Lady Bridget Sedgwick woke with a scream.
Her heart raced as she scrambled in the bedsheets, clutching her white lace nightgown around her and staring out at the pouring rain on the moors. Lightning flashed, and Bridget was certain she saw the specter of her dead friend, riding her horse over the hills.
She didn’t know what to do—not since Mary had died.