The risks have never been more personal—or more dangerous—in this powerful Regency romance, as a resilient viscountess risks everything for the daughter she loves . . . and the duke she can’t forget.
Katherine Wilcox Palmers, the Viscountess of Hampton, has lost custody of the daughter she secretly bore to Jahleel Charles, now the Duke of Torrance. The bitter court ruling was engineered by the duke himself, but now he is gravely ill. If he dies, Katherine, branded a scandalous bigamist by her late husband’s vengeful family, may never see her child again—unless she makes a bold offer . . .
Desperate, Katherine swallows her pride and proposes that she will nurse the Jahleel back to health, serve his every need, and keep up appearances, on one condition: he will secure her a respectable husband to silence society’s gossip. In private, she will be his mistress. . . .
But Jahleel has plans of his own. Pressured to produce an heir, he resolves to marry someone else. The hereditary blood sickness that plagues them both means Katherine can never be his bride again—no matter how fiercely their old passions reignite.
As dangerous forces gather, composed of those who would erase their child from the peerage for her mixed heritage, Jahleel and Katherine must confront the betrayals and deceptions that tore them apart. To protect their daughter, and fight for the future they were denied, they must jeopardize everything. Especially their hearts.
Publisher:
Zebra Books
Print pages:
336
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The carriage lurches forward. The clomping hooves of the six pair smother everything but the squeaks of Lydia’s tummy. The girl raised as the youngest Wilcox sister has learned she possesses no sisters, none at all.
Lies.
Everything was a falsehood. Yet she sits beside a princess, a real one like Princess Charlotte of Wales. The royal carriage of Princess Elizaveta Abramovna Gannibal speeds away from Ground Street toward the Thames.
The approaching river sounds noisy, angrily swirling and spitting froth along the banks. The stopped carriage allows the screams of “Forgive me” to reach the inside.
Face pressed against the glass, Lydia sees the Thames and Katherine. Drenched in the rain, the woman waves her arms and gives chase.
How could sweet Katherine—Katherine who wiped Lydia’s runny nose and mopped Lydia’s fevered forehead and who held her when she ached—cause such pain? How could she lie to Lydia and the duke?
And the duke is dying or is already dead.
Lydia sniffs and holds everything inside. Boy, her tummy hurts worser.
She folds her arms about her middle. Lydia knows that Katherine hates the duke. How could they have been in love once? Why act like they’d never married?
Lydia can’t understand. Katherine was married to Tavis Palmers, the late Lord Hampton. Wasn’t he the duke’s friend? Why would he marry his friend’s wife? How can all this be true?
Katherine catches up and beats on the door. Through the glass, Lydia watches her shriek—more sorries, more forgive mes, more lies about love.
Lydia knows you don’t lie to the ones you love. She turns from the window. The carriage starts moving again.
She casts her gaze to the painting of the girl propped against the opposite bench. “She looks like me except for the eyes.” Lydia dips her head. “Are you sure the duke’s painter didn’t make a mistake? You sure that’s not me? And me being the duke’s daughter … that must be a mistake. Right?”
The princess, with big tears flopping down her cheeks, lifts Lydia’s chin. “Nyet. You do look like my daughter Anya. Anya Andrewovna Charles is my son’s beloved sister. She died years ago. It’s the last portrait of her.”
Lydia’s teeth chatter a little. Not from being cold, but from fear—fear that this terrible dream will end in her new papa’s death. Not fair. “Are you sure, Princess Eliv … Elivet … Grama? Princess Grama—”
The old woman with fine silver hair bends and kisses Lydia’s brow. “I like that. You may call me this.”
“Princess Grama, is the duke truly my father? That my sister … Katherine is my mother?”
“That beastly woman is your mother. Lady Hampton defrauded my son, your father. You are my family, part of Gannibal’s legacy.” She glances out the rear window and tsks through her teeth. “That headstrong Katherine still runs after my carriage, and in the rain, like I’ve wronged her.”
“Katherine’s getting wet. She could catch cold.”
Shaking her head, Princess Grama huffs. “Child, precious one, Jahleel Andrewovich Charles, the Duke of Torrance is all you are to be concerned about. You’re Lady Lydia Jahleelovna Charles.”
“More new names?” Lydia groans and glances at the painting, the silver dress, the emerald tiara. “The duke must get well to teach me all our names.”
New Grama, Princess Grama, lifts Lydia’s chin. The princess’s hand smells of rich spices and oil. “My son has more faith than most. Instead of returning to St. Petersburg after burying that ne’er-do-well fool, Lord Hampton, he kept himself attached to London and those Wilcox sisters. It must mean he’ll stay for you.”
It has been three years since the duke came for Tavis, the man who spent all the Wilcoxes’ money. Lydia wasn’t supposed to listen to grown folks’ business, but she couldn’t help overhearing things. The Wilcoxes are loud.
She shivered. “My Duke, My Papa Duke became my best friend. He hasn’t left us since.”
“My Jasha won’t leave, not without saying goodbye.”
Another name? Goodbye?
But Lydia likes Jasha. It makes the tall duke sound small like her. “I want him to stay, Princess Grama. He never lied to me.”
“No. He would not. You must not have fear. I know he wants to see you. His letters tell me of the great love he has for his Lidochka.” Princess Grama’s arms surround Lydia. “You must walk into Anya House and expect to see your father alive.”
Yes. Lydia will only believe all the lies exposed today if the duke says so. Then he will say what happens next. There has to be a miracle today. Her Papa Duke must live.
22 Ground Street
London, England
I am guilty, guilty as sin.
Standing outside, in the rain, weeping so hard, I watch my daughter be taken away. The cambric muslin of my sleeves sticks to me. It’s the only thing holding my heart inside my chest. At Blackfriars Bridge, I want to shout that Lydia Wilcox—now known as Lady Lydia Jahleelovna Charles—is the Duke of Torrance’s daughter but she’s mine, too. How can I begin to make amends?
The documents fisted in my hand announce that the Princess Elizaveta, Jahleel’s mother, has every right to take possession of my child and legal custody of my daughter. What recourse does a liar, a villainous mother, have?
But Lydia needs to be with her father. The duke—my first love, Jahleel Charles—is dying. Why must he pay for my lies with his life? My fault—I followed the rules, all of them, since returning home and escaping the scandal I created with Jahleel in St. Petersburg.
The noisy Thames—the great river that divides London from my family—roars and wafts rotten egg smells. It mirrors my judgment. Moments ago, the Duke of Torrance’s barrister, Lord Ashbrook, came into my house and said the unthinkable: “The Court of Chancery, or what’s left of it, has voted this morning to confirm unanimously the marriage of my client, Jahleel Andrewovich Charles, the Duke of Torrance, and Katherine Charles, and upholds its validity to the time of the birth of their twins.”
The documents are true.
Lydia and the stillborn son Jahleel, named Andrew, shared my womb. My lively daughter, so beautiful and tiny, became a lie upon birth. My family told everyone Lydia was my sister to protect the Wilcoxes from scandal. I’m the eldest. I was supposed to protect everyone. My sins won’t relent.
I am the villain.
The overcast gray clouds spit on me like taunting specters. I grab the lace shawl of fine Brussels needlepoint wrapping my shoulders, trying to hold myself together. The rain becomes furious. Pelted, I want to let go. The Thames calls to me. It says wash and be cleaned. It’s another falsehood.
I let something beautiful—a miracle—become a lie. Lydia Wilcox is my daughter. I’ve been forced to keep her birth a secret every day of my child’s life. Hidden away, she suckled at my bosom. Mine. She was small and pink, gulping the milk meant for two babies.
Sloppy raindrops slide down my forehead. My chignon swells, the water tangling my tight curls. I don’t know what to do. How can I make things right for Lydia and the man I’ve wronged?
The river is not the answer. Facing the consequences and bearing the brunt of scandal is my due.
I trudge back toward the house. One can see the proud, nail-driven pine boards even in the rain. My father, Cesar Wilcox, built this home and loved it as he did the coal company he started. All would be lost if not for the duke. I pray he survives. He must be well for Lydia. I pray my daughter—our daughter—sees Jahleel smile. He has a nice one, especially when he’s not guarded or looking for strategy.
Generous to the point of spoiling me—that was the man and the marriage I ruined when I ran from him. Now, I will see the public face of the duke—the sneer his enemies know. He will punish me. But he’s already done the worst. He’s taken Lydia.
Something mewls. It seems to come from the side of the house. The screech draws me from my stupor. I stumble toward the sound. Branches are down in the small courtyard. The noise persists. Could it be the old stray cat I feed outside the coal office?
Never wanting more responsibility than I already bear, I will have no pet, no indoor cat for me. Yet I hear the cries. I can’t ignore pain.
I keep searching and find it—a limb has come down, its leaves trapping a kitten like a cage. The creature mewls, scratching at the trap that’s befallen her. I look into her dark eyes and see myself. “You want to be free? Me too.”
As carefully as possible, I lift the heavy limb, dragging it away. The kitten doesn’t move. Is she hurt? Leaning down, I try to pick her up. Maybe she will come and lick my palm like I’m good—not a woman who’s made one too many mistakes.
The kitten stares at me. Is she judging me? I deserve judgment. When the Duke of Torrance, Jahleel Charles, reappeared in my life—settled, steady, without malice—I should’ve confessed.
Thunder crackles overhead. My conscience shakes me to the bone. Jahleel has ruined every peer in the original Court of Chancery that tried to deny him his rights. Those evil men wished to defraud him of the legacy owed to him by blood and by his father. Jahleel made all his enemies suffer.
What will he do to the woman who denied him his child?
“You’re safe, little one.” I whisper these words to the frail kitten in my hands. The rain bears down, but I try to protect her in my scarf.
“Katherine? Katherine, where are you?”
That’s my sister, Georgina. She’s stopped hiding. The arrival of the princess and the king’s top barrister frightened her. She ran upstairs and probably hid under the bed where our dray driver for Wilcox Coal recovers. His sons are set to return from military service, and we don’t want him to be alone.
“Katherine. There you are.” She stands ten paces away under a parasol, whose poor shape barely keeps her dry. The ends of her curly, curly hair drip. The expression on her olive-brown countenance says two things: sorry, and I did something.
“Georgie, what did you do?”
“Don’t be mad, but I sent a note to Anya House,” she says. “I told them we were coming.”
I wish she’d stopped with sorry.
“Katherine? Did you hear me? You’re scaring me.” She comes closer and puts the pitiful parasol over the two of us. “You could catch cold and d—”
“Die? Like the father of my child? Jahleel Charles might already be dead. My child is heading to Anya House to see a corpse. She will hate me more.”
“The duke is not dead. Come, let’s go inside, then off to Anya House. You’ve been out here a long time. I thought you went with them, or maybe to the coal office.”
“The coal office? I just lost my daughter, and you think I went to do work?”
When Georgina shrugs, I realize that’s what they all think: that Papa’s company, Wilcox Coal, means more than anything to me. “My daughter’s gone. Lydia will hate me for keeping her away from her father.”
My sister puts an arm around me. “Let’s go inside, and we’ll take care of your new friend.”
Georgina strokes the kitten’s patchy fur, brown and orange and white. “Inside with the both of you. We’ll change and go to Anya House. We must go for Lydia and the duke.”
“Scarlett’s probably there. And my daughter has a new grandmother. They don’t need us. And they will throw me out if Jahleel …”
My sister begins to tear up. “The duke is well. He has to be. He’s too young to die.”
That’s the unfairness of sickness: it afflicts everyone—children, adults, even newborns. “I’m terrible and terrified. How will I live with the pain I’ve caused them?”
“Stop it, Katherine.” Georgina, who has the voice of an angel, sounds like a barking dog. “Just stop.”
Both the kitten and I rear our heads up.
“The duke is strong. You know the Duke of Torrance is a fighter. We have lived in fear of some scandal since you returned from St. Petersburg. It all must stop now.”
She doesn’t know. “Georgie, the duke is fighting the sickness that tormented and killed our mother. There’s no cure.”
Tears flood her face. “No. Not true.” She shakes her head like I’ve lied.
This time, I wish I had. “Georgie, you remember what it did to Mama? She struggled, bled so many veins. Remember how weak she was before …”
My sister wraps me and the kitten in her arms and holds me until we both stop crying.
Hiding under the parasol, I feel Georgina’s understanding. I confess, “The man I thought I’d divorced after our whirlwind courtship has the blood sickness. My haste in believing him to be horrid—a man with many mistresses, a man that lies to seduce women—has robbed him of years of knowing Lydia as his daughter. He may never hear Lydia call him Papa. He won’t see me telling them both how sorry I am. I am sorry, Georgie. I am.”
As I blubber and blather on about how I’ve been a coward and a fool, Georgina spins me around and tows me forward. “Inside with you, Katherine.” Her voice sounds low and forceful like she’s imitating our father. Cesar Wilcox was a formidable man. Always wise, unlike me.
“We will dry off, Katherine. Then, we’ll reason and make a plan about what to do. And we need to start praying that the duke survives. Hopefully, we’ll get a response from Anya House before the hour’s up.”
A response? Hour’s up? “You’re asking permission for us to go see the duke?” I swat at another big droplet that’s rolled down my nose. “We practically live there. And Jahleel has instructed his footman always to let me in, no matter the time.”
“Oh.” Her glare burns through my forehead. “You can depend on his actions now?”
“Yes, I was wrong, Georgie. Please say I told you so. Say you warned me to confess all, that I could’ve fixed everything but kept hesitating.”
Shaking her head, my sister holds me tighter. She lends her voice and hums a hymn to me and the kitty: “Right in front of our house, Katherine. It’s only two steps. Then we are inside the house.”
“Say you warned me, Georgie. Gloat. Everything would have been different if I had listened.”
She pushes on my back. Her fingers thread through my shawl to my damp dress, pressing the cold wetness against my skin. “Katherine, you’re scaring me.”
“If I could, I’d turn back time. I would, Georgie. If I could find a way. I’d take back all the ways that I hurt them.” Then I would’ve stayed, stayed in St. Petersburg like Jahleel, tzar commanded.
“Just a little further.” Georgina tosses the emerald-colored silk umbrella over my head and into the house. “Why keep fighting me?”
“Mama didn’t allow animals in the house. Their fur could make her ill.”
“You’re the mistress here. We, the Wilcox sisters, make the rules.” She pushes. “This is our house. You and the kitten go now.”
Then she shoves.
Wham. I’m inside, but Georgina knocked the breath out of me.
My sister shuts the door. “Besides, I asked Scarlett. Mother was the one who didn’t like pets. If that scrawny thing can comfort you, it’s staying.”
The little kitten snuggles against my chest. Her spotted fur looks like a patched blanket next to my bodice. “Where’s your mama, cat? Doesn’t she have rules for you about being out? What about being respectable?”
“Katherine,” Georgina says, “you can’t take leave of your senses, not now.” She shoves me into the living room near the fireplace. In a blink, she runs upstairs, returns with a blanket, and tosses it onto my shoulders.
The kitten mewls loudly. I stroke her little head. “I think this little thing hurt her leg.” I feel her limb. Though it’s solid, the kitty screeches. I pull her deeper under the blanket. “Maybe a sprain?”
Georgina paces and glares at me. “So you’re going to mother a stray and pretend you’re just the kitty’s aunt?”
She covers her mouth and offers that skittish ready-to-run look.
“Well done,” I say. “You spoke your mind. And Georgie, I deserve the slight. Jahleel may die. I want to close my eyes and remember when everything was perfect … and then it wasn’t.”
“When was that, sister?” Georgina rubs her temples. “When you married the duke? Or when you somehow unmarried him? Or are you saying things were perfect when you wed Tavis Palmers?”
Tavis was Jahleel’s best friend. He and his family told me lies. I believed them. “Tavis nearly destroyed our father’s coal company. When news of this scandal hits the papers … the Palmerses will curse at me. I will be an even bigger disgrace in their eyes.”
My sister nods at this, but then says, “Being the Duchess of Torrance wasn’t important enough, but being a mere viscountess with a gambling husband was a triumph?” She shakes her head. “You gave up being a duchess to be impoverished? Why?”
“There’s more to it, Georgie.”
“Then tell me, Katherine. The duke’s kindness saved Wilcox Coal. It saved us. What has prejudiced you against him so badly?”
There’s no way to respond without making things worse.
Anya House
London, England
There are noises all around, but nothing’s distinct. My robe feels sticky, sweaty, but I keep trudging forward. I near the steps, the grand staircase of Anya House. If I go down these treads in my own power, everything will be good.
The twenty-two steps have become a thousand. Too steep. I clutch the missing rail. Can’t go down. I back away.
The world seems too hot, very bothersome. “A bath, Mr. Steele …”
I blink. A lone figure stands near a window. She’s draped in gray with ash-colored ribbons.
No strangers are allowed up here. I settle down and try to breathe. A new wave of pain pushes against my ribs like a spear. To calm, I again focus on the woman at the window.
Scarlett? Is that my friend? No, Scarlett Wilcox Carew would never wear this color, nor the long train that floats to the floor. The stranger’s quite regal. Silent and regal. A tune plays. Is that the noble “God Save the King”?
“Anya? Is it you, my sister? I’ve missed you.”
But she died of this sickness, years ago. She died before I battled and won my father’s title. She suffered before I had the money and access to London’s best physicians and scientists. “Anya, am I lost, too?”
No one answers.
A shiver cuts through me. The woman in my bedchamber is not my sister.
“Show yourself. I command it.” Hopefully, this ghost doesn’t know that a duke lacks the power of a tzar in London. Must find a way to change this.
The proud stubborn posture, the curve of her hips gives the woman away. “Katherine. Tell me. Why haunt me?”
She turns and walks me back to my bed. Her footfalls are almost silent.
Her black eyes with specks of gold draw close. Her hand sweeps my countenance, closing my eyes like a good dead soul.
“Say something. Lie and tell me how sorrowful you are, Lady Hampton. You’re only sorry I discovered the truth!”
No response.
But there’s a smile on her lips, lips that fall upon mine. Soft and tentative at first, the kiss becomes demanding.
I taste her—bitter and sweet—and she sucks all the air from my lungs. This is a rusalka, the mermaid-like creature that’s come to steal my soul.
It’s appropriate for Death to appear as Katherine. She’s the original thief of the life I should’ve had.
Yet I yield and wrap my arms around temptation. If I die to her, it will be memorable. So I gamble for her passion, for every last breath.
Our kisses pass away. She slips from me. “Fight. Fight to live for something that’s not me.”
“Da. I have something. My daughter. She needs me.”
The rusalka sings more of her song. It’s seductive. My soul shivers. My skin sweats.
“Live and not die. Know you were never loved. Katherine’s too proud, too prejudiced by lies. Surrender.”
The rusalka, the Katia ghost, wraps her arms about me and strangles me.
Whatever great sin caused Katherine to loath me, I must know. “Send me the answer.”
A wet towel slaps my hot forehead. “Your Grace? It’s Scarlett. Mr. Carew is here and your daughter. Your mother, too. Keep fighting.”
My daughter. My Lidochka. I will fight for her, for my daughter’s love. This bed can’t become my deathbed.
Light flickers about my face. Sunlight? Candles? Flame?
The ticking of a pocket watch vibrates. My ear alerts me to shuffling along the thick rya covering the floor near my bed.
I bat my lids, which feel heavy, like a jade chess piece. My will to open them recedes.
A voice calls to me.
Is it Katherine again?
“Let’s go back to St. Petersburg. I miss it. Maybe we go before the weather turns bad.”
Linen sheets rustle.
Is it too much to voice an apology?
My Lydia? I hear her.
Flesh of my flesh. Bone of my bone. Nothing that is mine shall be taken from me again.
“Katherine, if you’ve come to take her, let it be over my dead body. You kept me from her life enough.”
The ghostly figure keeps away. I let her be. What is mine, truly mine, stays.
I shift, and the shadow does, too. Am I a pawn on a chessboard? When I try to run, attempt to fill my lungs without pain, my opponent counters. I hear “Check.” Katherine kept me in check. She keeps me in pain.
My chest depresses. It feels as if a rib will pierce my skin.
Can’t break free from this sickness or the notion of our perfect love. Can’t die a fool.
“Papa Duke. He moved. He’s waking.”
Lydia’s little voice reaches my ear. My little darling, my dorogaya is here. She called me Papa, Papa Duke. My eyes leak. My child, my Lidochka, are you happy to be my daughter? Reach for me.
My arm won’t lift to her. My mother must take care of my girl. Let her see … “St. Petersburg.”
But Mamen’ka, don’t frighten my child. The princess frightens me sometimes. Her strict adherence to protocol deserves a militaristic salute, but my arm won’t move. It feels bound in ropes.
Boots pound.
Is that Scarlett? My friend, do you still wear your father’s boots? Mr. Wilcox, I met him once, the day Katherine married lousy Tavis Palmers.
Can’t believe my good friend betrayed me. He knew how I felt but fed her lies that she refused to release.
Why won’t she believe in me? And how does a dead man still have her in his thoughts?
Something shifts.
Warm tea drips down my throat. Scarlett’s remedies. She’s another wonderfully scary female.
At least she’s not reading more of Pride and Prejudice. Scarlett doesn’t appreciate Darcy. He seems perfectly reasonable in his thinking. Elizabeth is scandal-prone, and the gossiping family is beneath him. Why does acknowledging the truth make him the d’yavol?
For Darcy’s honesty, Elizabeth marked him as a scoundrel. Scandal is not just horrible for women, but for anyone it befalls.
Could that be why Katherine hates me? Does she think I do not hold her family in esteem? My choice in St. Petersburg was correct. My enemies would have made her Wilcox family a target. Watch how the wolves surround her now that the truth is out.
I have to get up to protect them, the family I found at Tavis’s deathbed. They are mine.
“Your Grace.” That definitely is Scarlett’s voice. “My sisters are coming. Katherine will want to see you. Will you see her?”
Movement.
My heart beats faster. I recognize the footfalls as much as I feel the pain crushing my diaphragm, stealing my breath.
Dread, true dread, fills what little space is left in my chest.
The villain bows to me. “Jahleel, old boy? Ready to die?”
Dressed in the same sheet I wrapped his dead body, my former best friend, Katherine’s deceased husband, stands beside me. If Tavis Palmers is here, I must be dead or very close to it.
He claps. The thudding echoes. “Have you figured out everything? I wager you have.”
“Why don’t you have a saintly robe?”
Tavis shrugs. “I died in poverty. That’s a crime. I deserve sackcloth but got stuck with this. You could’ve helped me out one last time. A decent robe for ete. . .
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