A Possessive Kiss : A Regency Historical Romance

Book 9: Captivating Kisses

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance; Regency romance; independent women; Regency Historical Romance; Alexa Aston; Captivating Kisses; England 1800s; former spy

Synopsis

A spy who has become a shopkeeper. A lady more interested in painting than marriage. A possessive kiss which changes everything between them . . .

Major David Rochester was more valuable to the crown as a spy than a soldier, and he has spent seven years living a dangerous existence. When he is given the opportunity by none other than Wellington himself to leave the army and return his wounded friend to England, David leaps at the chance for a quieter life. As an earl’s second son, David must earn his living and chooses to use the proceeds from the sale of his commission to open a shop in a small village, where he adds a second floor which becomes a bookshop.

The fiercely independent Lady Justina Fulton comes from a family where love matches are common. She has never been interested in marriage for herself, though, preferring to focus on painting landscapes of the Lake District, her home. Fortunately, she has the love and support of her large family and is not forced to conform to Polite Society’s expectations.

When Justina crosses paths with David, she finds herself drawn to him in a way she never thought possible. His kisses ignite a fire she never knew existed within her, and yet David is in no position to take on a wife, barely eking out a living for himself. Justina begins to question what she wants from life, wrestling with her growing feelings for the humble shopkeeper and her desire to make her mark in the London art world.

Will Justina fight for love and manage to remain true to her art, or will the pressures of the ton keep her apart from David forever?

Find the answer in bestselling author Alexa Aston’s A Possessive Kiss, the ninth book in Captivating Kisses.

Each book in Captivating Kisses is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order.

Captivating Kisses:
Book #1: An Unexpected Kiss
Book #2: An Impulsive Kiss
Book #3: An Innocent Kiss
Book #4: An Unforeseen Kiss
Book #5: An Enchanting Kiss
Book #6: An Urgent Kiss
Book #7: An Unforgettable Kiss
Book #8: A Promising Kiss
Book #9: A Possessive Kiss
Book #10: An Irresistible Kiss

Release date: August 6, 2026

Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

Print pages: 251

Sample

PROLOGUE

Sheridale, Cumberland—September 1804

 

She came to him again, bringing him comfort. And even though he knew it was a dream, he pleaded, “Don’t go.”

Her sad smile hurt his heart. “I must, David. But know that I am always with you. Watching over you. Protecting you.”

She turned and walked away into the mist, the ache now deep, swallowing him whole.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, the images in the dream—of his mother—dissipating. It seemed he only really remembered what she looked like in these infrequent dreams. They seemed to come to him when he was on the cusp of change in his life. At least he had the miniature she had painted of herself and given to him shortly before her death.

He lay in bed, reluctant to rise and break the connection he still felt with her. He would be leaving the house she had come to as a young bride, fresh from Paris. His father had met Angelique Delacroix on his Grand Tour and was smitten with her from the start. After spending as much time as he could with her in Paris, he had moved on in his travels, telling her he’d be back at the end of his tour, leaving her with money and telling her to create a beautiful wardrobe for herself—because she would be a fine lady in England.

Maman had been a seamstress, and she had used the funds given to her to purchase bolts of material from the modiste she worked for. By the time her lover returned, almost two years later, she had an elegant wardrobe of gowns. They wed in Paris, and he brought her home as his wife. He had begged her not to reveal to anyone her humble beginnings, always sticking to the falsehood that she was the daughter of a comte he had met during his travels. It did not matter. Papa became the Earl of Sheridan within a month of his return from the continent. After that, no one questioned him about anything, least of all his beautiful, kind, intelligent countess.

Maman had been beloved by their tenants at Sheridale. She was quick with her needle, making clothing for babes and cooing over them. She had given birth to Claude, her first son and heir apparent to the earldom after only a year of marriage.

David came along four years later and quickly became the apple of his mother’s eye. Where Claude bristled at every comment and was impatient with his family and servants, David was calm, ruffled by nothing. Academics came easy to him, while his older brother struggled. Claude had gone off to school, only to come home after that first year, saying he was too sickly to be away from home. True, Claude had had a childhood fever which had kept him abed for months when he was five years of age, but David knew his brother simply did not like being told what to do, even at the age of eight. From that time on, a series of tutors had come to Sheridale in order to educate Claude.

David’s childhood was far different. He had gone away to school and succeeded at everything he tried. He excelled at maths. Wrote poetry in a beautiful hand. Gobbled up languages with ease. Maman had always spoken to him in French and then changed to Spanish. He was fluent in both and thanks to his time at school, he now spoke Italian, Portuguese, and German, as well.

He would leave Sheridale today, ready to continue his education, taking the mail coach to Oxford. David wondered if Papa would even notice his younger son had gone away to university. Maman had lost several babes after David’s birth. When he was ten and two, she had died in childbirth, the babe stuck within her. The midwife had said Maman had lost too much blood to save her, but there was a chance for the child, and so Papa had reluctantly agreed to have the babe cut from her. The cord had been wrapped about the little girl’s neck, strangling her. Ever since losing the pair, Papa wandered the halls, hopeless as a ghost, locking himself in his study for most of the day and night, even taking his meals there.

Claude acted in his father’s stead, slowly assuming the authority of the earldom, freely spending money he said would be his inheritance. Unfortunately, Claude did nothing for their tenants. David could not wait to leave. Over the years, he had never been close to Claude. His brother had grown more haughty and arrogant, belittling his younger brother every chance he got. Claude was drunk with power, and David wanted nothing to do with him. He had asked his father to purchase a military commission for him after he completed university, and he would enter the army, as many second sons in a family did. Papa had promised to do so, already setting aside the funds with his solicitor. That would keep David permanently gone from Sheridale.

He finally rose, thinking this would be the final time he would set foot here. Once his father was gone, he could not see having any type of relationship with the new Earl of Sheridan. He washed and dressed and went downstairs, asking a footman to bring his trunk and place it in the wagon. David had already asked their head groom to drive him into Wypen so that he might catch the mail coach.

His last meal at Sheridale was taken alone, since Claude rarely rose before noon and Papa usually ate on his own. Leaving the table, he went to say goodbye to Cook. She had come from France, and he enjoyed speaking in French with her.

After their conversation, with several kisses and hugs thrown in for good measure, David went to his father’s study and tapped softly on the door, hearing, “Come.”

Entering the room, he saw Papa sitting behind his desk, his hands folded in his lap, a faraway look in his eyes.

“I have come to say goodbye, Papa.”

The earl looked at him blankly. “Where are you going?”

“To university. Remember, I was accepted at Oxford?”

Papa nodded absently. “Yes, of course.” Then his gaze met his son’s. “You know your mother would be so incredibly proud of you, David.”

He touched his hand to his heart. “I know. She is always with me. I carry her here.”

On the inside of his coat pocket, next to his heart, always rested a small miniature Angelique Rochester had painted of herself. She had given it to him for his birthday. She was gone only a few months after that, and he had taken to carrying the miniature with him every day.

“That is good. You will do well at university, David. What do you plan to do afterward?”

He frowned. “I am to go into the army, Papa. You have set aside the funds for my commission.”

“Oh, yes. I recall saying that. You will thrive in whatever comes to your life. I can see you rising through the ranks of the army now. Becoming the general who defeats Bonaparte.”

England had declared war on France only last year in May. It would have wounded his mother deeply to know the two countries she loved waged war against one another. Then again, France had changed radically in the time since Maman had been gone from Paris.

Feeling a bit awkward now, he said, “I just wanted to come and say farewell to you, Papa.”

Surprisingly, his father rose and stepped from behind the desk, enfolding David in a tight embrace. He could not recall the last time his father had done so. He supposed he had been a small boy.

David left his father and found all the servants lined up in the foyer, ready to tell him goodbye. Their butler stepped forward.

“I know I speak for all of us, Mr. David, when I tell you how much you will be missed. We wish the best for you at university.”

“Thank you, Edwards,” he said, gazing about the foyer. “My thanks to all of you. You have been more than servants to me. You cared for me after Maman passed, taking on the role of wise uncles and aunts—and even friends. You have my heartfelt gratitude.”

“What is this?” a voice harshly asked.

David glanced up and found Claude at the top of the stairs. “I am leaving for Oxford. The servants merely gathered to say their goodbyes to me.”

“Leave! Now!” roared his brother, and the staff went scurrying in different directions.

Claude marched down the stairs as if already he owned Sheridale, coming to stand before David.

“I have waited for this day. I do not want you in this house again. When your term ends, stay in Oxford. I know you are to enter the military after you complete university. I will see that Jaffrey purchases the commission for you. Do not ever darken the doors of Sheridale again.”

“You are not yet the earl, Claude,” he said, his voice firm and steady. “This is my home until Papa is gone.”

Claude laughed harshly. “Haven’t you noticed? Papa has been gone for years. His spirit died when our mother and her latest attempt at having a brat died.”

Rage filled David at the ugly words, but he knew Claude goaded him. He refused to lose his temper.

“I am leaving. Take care of Papa.”

He went through the front door and climbed into the wagon.

“Drive,” he ordered, wishing he could scream. He hated that his last memories of Sheridale had ended on a sour note. At least his goodbyes at Norwood yesterday had gone well. David had ridden over to say goodbye to Henry Davenport, his closest friend who was a year younger, as well as the Duke of Norville and Lady Elinor, Henry’s younger sister, who had just turned ten. They felt more like his family than his own, the duke having taught David to hunt and swim, alongside his son. They were the ones he would truly miss.

He already had his mail coach ticket in hand and bid the groom return to Sheridale instead of waiting with him. Twenty minutes later, the vehicle came through Wypen and stopped, and David loaded his trunk atop it. While he hated abandoning Papa, David had to live his own life.

And two weeks later, everything changed.

***

“Mr. Rochester, please stay. Dismissed,” Mr. Keller said brusquely.

David remained in his seat as the other half-dozen students left the room. He wondered why the tutor wished to speak with him privately.

Keller came and took a seat next to him. “I have already spoken to a few others on staff. We are all quite impressed by you, Mr. Rochester. It is rare we find someone who grasps mathematical concepts as easily as you do, much less one who has also mastered several languages and writes beautiful poetry.”

The tutor handed David a page, and he recognized a poem he had written last week. Together, they went over it for the next several minutes, Keller praising various aspects, from the meter and structure to particular word choices David had made.

“I look forward to spending the next few years with you, Mr. Rochester. You may go.”

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

He left, stepping from the building and inhaling the clean, cool air of late September as he sauntered back to his rented rooms. When he arrived, he was shocked to find Jaffrey lingering outside his building.

“Mr. Jaffrey. What brings you to Oxford?” he asked the family solicitor.

“Might we have a word inside, Mr. Rochester?”

Though the older man was trying to keep his face blank, David felt his gut tighten, and he prepared for the worst.

Inside the rooms he shared with a fellow student, he asked again, “Why are you here?”

“Bad news should be shared quickly, and that is what I do now. Lord Sheridan is gone. He shot himself.”

David sucked in a quick breath, the room swirling about him. “Dead?” he croaked.

“The coroner gave a favorable ruling, since your father was an earl. The butler testified that Lord Sheridan was cleaning one of his hunting rifles, and it accidentally went off. At the inquest, the coroner declared death by misadventure.”

“So that it would not be marked a suicide,” he said quietly. “Papa could not have been buried next to Maman otherwise.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Jaffrey confirmed. “A suicide cannot lie in hallowed ground. This verdict makes the most sense. I only share with you what truly happened in order for you to prepare yourself when you hear the inevitable gossip.”

“When will the funeral be held?” he asked, trying to get used to the idea that his father was gone.

“They already have been,” Jaffrey said crisply. “The new Lord Sheridan did not wish to wait. He said a quick burial would end gossip and prevent further talk, magnifying the scandal into more than it was. In truth, the earl was a grieving man, one who never recovered from his wife’s untimely death. I hope he has found peace.”

David sighed. “Thank you for coming in person to tell me, Mr. Jaffrey. That was most kind of you.”

The solicitor winced. “I am afraid that is not the only bad news I bear, Mr. Rochester.”

When Jaffrey hesitated, David said, “Keep to your own advice and tell me. Now.”

“While your fees for university this term are paid for, the new Lord Sheridan is not interested in continuing that arrangement.” The solicitor shook his head. “He seems to loathe you, Mr. Rochester. His hatred of you is . . . unnatural, in my opinion.”

“That is because while Maman loved Claude, with all his faults, she adored me. He could not stand that he was not first in her heart.” He paused. “My brother has always been a spoiled brat, even if he is an adult now. And since he holds the purse strings, I suppose I will not be able to finish university.”

That hurt him deeply, which David knew was the point of his brother not providing the means for him to complete his university education.

Sighing, he said, “I was to go into the army after my time at Oxford. Papa set aside funds for that. Are they still available?”

“Yes. Lord Sheridan may not touch them. Monies to purchase your commission were designated in the will.”

“Would you purchase my commission for me now, Mr. Jaffrey?”

“Surely, you wish to finish out this term, Mr. Rochester. It would be wasteful not to do so.”

Sadly, he shook his head. “The idea of higher education no longer appeals to me,” he lied, knowing it was better he got on with his life. “England needs all the good men she can get now, both as officers and soldiers. This Bonaparte problem is not going away anytime soon. I might as well do my part for the cause. How soon can you arrange things?”

Jaffrey considered it. “A week. Possibly less. I will leave Oxford tomorrow to make the arrangements.”

“I will go with you. I see no need to stay longer.”

They made plans to meet tomorrow morning, and David wrote several letters. Some were to the tutors he had known only briefly, explaining that his father had passed away and that his circumstances had changed, telling them he was leaving school for the army. The others were to Henry and the duke, letting them know where he would be going and that he would write once his training had been completed and he knew where he would be assigned on the continent.

With a heavy heart, he went and posted the letters. He would have enjoyed his years at university, but he had always been destined for the army as a second son. He would merely start his military career sooner than he had expected.

Two months later, his training done, David reported for his first assignment.

Not as a soldier—but a spy.

 

 

CHAPTER 1

Traywick Manor—March 1811

 

Lady Justina Fulton nervously paced the drawing room, awaiting Dr. Roberts’ arrival.

“Pacing will not bring Dr. Roberts any sooner,” Tray said. “Come and sit.”

She did as her brother suggested, taking a seat next to him on the settee. He slipped an arm about her, and she drew comfort from his warmth.

“What if Mama dies?” she asked.

“Dr. Roberts will not let that happen,” Tray said firmly.

She snorted. “He is merely mortal. He is not God.” Pausing, Justina wiped away a tear. “I am sorry. I do not wish to be short-tempered with you.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I know, Jus. I am as worried as you are.”

She looked up at him. “You have not called me Jus since we were children.”

Smiling, he softly said, “I know.”

That was when her gut told her Mama would not survive this dreaded lung fever.

Her mother was the rock of not only their family but of the three families which consisted of ten cousins. While her Aunt Charlotte liked to think that she was in charge of everyone, all the cousins turned to their Aunt Agnes when they needed advice. Comfort. Or even a jolly laugh. Justina had always been secretly pleased that her mother was the most popular person in their large, extended family. She was nurturing and witty and had been an absolutely perfect mother.

When Mama had first fallen ill a month ago, she had mentioned being fatigued. That, coupled with a troublesome cough, had seemed to diminish her appetite. Justina had wanted to send for Dr. Roberts, but Mama had put off calling the physician, saying that she would be fine in a few days. Instead of improving after a week, she had become worse overnight. She suffered from chills, causing her fever to soar one night, frightening both Justina and Tray. Mama begged not to send for the doctor in the middle of the night, saying they could instead send a message in the morning.

By morning, a sharp pain had developed on one side, and Mama said it hurt to breathe. Tray had ridden into Kidsgrove to fetch Dr. Roberts, and the doctor had come at once. Once he had examined Mama, he had called Justina and Tray into the room at Mama’s request and shared his diagnosis of lung fever. Dr. Roberts said that it caused chest pain when a person breathed and especially hurt when a cough occurred.

Dr. Roberts thought they had caught it early, and suggested applying a linseed poultice covered with oiled silk, binding it tightly to Mama’s torso, the poultice resting on her right side. He also prescribed Dover’s powder, to be taken in tea, saying it would induce sweating and then keep the fever at bay. He also said that Mama was to eat broth and eggs and drink milk and alcohol, brandy, in particular.

They had seen little to no improvement. The cough grew worse, with phlegm that was tinged a greenish-yellow at first, then turning bloody. Mama’s fever and chills continued, the fever so high at times that she grew delirious. She ate little to nothing, which led to more fatigue. Now, her lips and fingertips had turned blue, which is why they had sent for Dr. Roberts. He usually called every afternoon, but Justina had insisted he come this morning.

The door to the drawing room opened, and Larsen appeared. Instead of announcing the physician’s arrival, the butler told them Hillman was here and needed to see Lord Traywick at once.

“Send him in,” Tray said.

Their steward entered the room, crossing it and coming to stand before them. Justina liked Mr. Hillman. She had learned a great deal from him, as all three of the Fulton children followed the steward about in the years after their father and brother Lucius were killed in a horrific carriage accident. Tray, known as Hadrian, then, had inherited his father's title at the tender age of ten. Immediately, her brother wanted to learn everything about how their country estate ran, and Justina and their sister Verina shadowed—and learned—as Tray himself followed Hillman about.

“Forgive me if I am interrupting, my lord,” the steward said. “But it’s Demeter.”

“Has her labor started?” asked Tray.

“Yes, her water broke three hours ago.” Hillman paused. “No foal has appeared. Demeter is in distress. I sent for the veterinarian, and he is with her now. I thought you would wish to know, however.”

Justina knew from having sat with horses that a mare would usually give birth a quarter-hour to a half-hour after her water sac broke. She would then expel the placenta sometime during the next three hours after birth occurred. Alarm filled her.

“Go, Tray,” she urged. “I will meet with Dr. Roberts.”

He hesitated. “Are you certain?”

“I will share everything he tells me,” she promised. “Mama loves Demeter. Go and see to her care.”

Reluctantly, her brother rose. “I will be back as soon as I can.”

Once Tray left, Justina returned to her pacing. Less than five minutes later, Larsen was back, announcing Dr. Roberts’ presence.

“Send him in at once,” she instructed, collecting herself in order to greet the physician.

He came to her, and she offered him a seat, asking, “What does this latest symptom mean, Dr. Roberts? We have done all that you have asked, and Mama is still seeing no improvement.”

“I will not dance around the issue, Lady Justina,” he said, sympathy in his eyes. “Lady Traywick is very ill. With her lips and fingernails turning blue, this is a terrible sign.”

“Will we lose her?” she asked, her voice breaking on the last word.

“I am afraid that will be the case,” he said gently.

Tears welled in her eyes. “Are you certain there is no more we can do?”

“Comfort her,” he responded. “It is time to use opium for her pain.”

While the Dover’s powder had traces of opium within it, Justina knew how serious Mama’s condition was now that Dr. Roberts was recommending opium.

“She is in pain,” he said. “You know that yourself. She has told me that each breath is as if she is being stabbed in her chest. She has eaten next to nothing for weeks.” He paused. “It is time to say your final goodbyes, my lady. I fear Lady Traywick does not have long.”

“I understand.” She slipped a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “Will you come see her now?”

“I will.”

“And will you tell her what you have just shared with me?”

“She deserves to know. Many physicians lie to their patients. I will not do that to Lady Traywick.”

Justina accompanied him upstairs. Bessie, Mama’s lady’s maid, sat by the bedside. She rose and excused herself, but Mama weakly said, “Stay.”

Bessie retreated to a corner as Dr. Roberts went to stand on one side of the bed and Justina on the other. Mama’s face was flushed with fever and she coughed, wincing as she did so. Justina wished she could ease her mother’s suffering.

“I cannot seem to . . . catch my breath. Every breath is filled with pain. My heart is beating wildly. Am I . . . dying?” Mama asked pointedly.

Without hesitation, Dr. Roberts replied, “Yes, my lady. I am afraid that is the case. We have done all we can for you.”

Another coughing spell hit, Mama’s too-thin body racked by it. Justina held a handkerchief to her mother’s lips, and the bloody mucus covered it within seconds.

“I am going to give you a tincture of laudanum,” Dr. Roberts explained. “It will greatly ease your suffering. It will also dull your senses. You will sleep much of the time.”

“Until I am gone,” Mama said flatly. She shook her head. “Thank you for all you have done, Doctor.”

Dr. Roberts explained to Justina and Bessie how much laudanum to use and suggested putting it in weak tea for Mama to drink.

“Go and ask Cook for tea now, Bessie,” Justina instructed, and the servant left the room.

Dr. Roberts looked back to the bed. “I am sorry I could not save you, my lady. You are highly thought of in this community. It will be a great loss for everyone.”

Mama coughed solidly for a minute and then swallowed. “Thank you for your frankness. Not many doctors would be so open, especially with a woman.”

“You deserve to know your fate, Lady Traywick.” He hesitated. “I encourage you to say your goodbyes now to your children. Once you start taking the opium, it will be difficult to speak and think clearly.”

Mama tried to thank him again, but the coughing started up and he bid her goodbye. Justina walked him to the door of the bedchamber.

“Thank you for everything you have done for Mama,” she said earnestly. “And for letting us know to say our last goodbyes.”

“Send for me if you need anything, my lady.”

“I will.”

Returning to her mother, Justina perched on the bed. She fluffed her mother’s pillows some before wetting the cloth in the basin of water sitting at the bedside. She placed it against her mother’s fevered brow.

Mama gazed up, her eyes glazed. “I am sorry I cannot take you to town . . . for the Season. I so looked forward to seeing you . . . in your ballgowns.”

She had never been interested in having a Season, unlike her sister Verina, who had eagerly looked forward to making her come-out. Verina had wed the Duke of Reddington, and she and Matthew now had Marcus, who had turned a year old last month. Justina had written to her sister of their mother’s illness. Verina had replied promptly, asking if she should come to Traywick Manor. After discussing it with her brother, Tray had told Justina to tell Verina no. That if Mama grew stronger, she would come to town for the Season to see family. If Mama did not improve, Verina could travel from London to Cumberland to see Mama.

Now, she would have to write to her sister and let her know Mama would not be with them much longer. She hoped Verina would not regret staying at home and missing these final days with Mama.

“You know I am unlike Verina, Mama. She lived to make her debut into Polite Society.”

Justina had been old enough last year to make her come-out. While she had gone to town with Mama and Tray to see all her cousins and their children, she had chosen to pass on a Season. Verina and a few of her other cousins had talked to her, and Justina had agreed to make her come-out this Season, not expecting anything to come of it because she was not that interested in marriage. Her art held far more importance to her than finding a husband.

Taking her mother’s hand, she added, “But I would have proudly worn my ballgowns for you to see.”

Her mother’s breathing grew labored, and they ceased their conversation. Bessie arrived with the tea, and Justina added the laudanum into it, stirring carefully.

“Go to the stables, Bessie. Have Lord Traywick return to the house at once.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I know you are hurting, Mama. Let us put off drinking all of this until Tray comes.”

She gave her mother a sip and then another one, and that seemed to ease her. Justina bathed her mother’s face in the cool water and then her limbs, talking all the while of different things. Favorite foods they both enjoyed. How Marcus had learned to crawl and was starting to walk. The latest landscape Justina worked on.

Tray arrived and came to the bed, sitting upon the mattress and taking Mama’s free hand.

“My children,” Mama said, her eyes still glassy, her face bright red. She coughed again, and Justina held the cloth to her mouth. It grew bloody.

“Tell him,” Mama prodded.

Turning to her brother, Justina said, “Dr. Roberts said there is no more to be done for Mama. He has given her laudanum to take.” She swallowed. “Once Mama begins ingesting it, she will get some relief, but she will sleep a good deal of the time. She may not be able to converse much with us.”

“Say your goodbyes to me, my precious boy,” Mama urged.

Tray’s eyes filled with tears. “You know how much I love you, Mama. I hope that one day I will find a wife and love her as much as Papa loved you.”

Justina’s throat grew thick with unshed tears. While her two aunts and uncles had been in conventional, arranged marriages, eight of the ten cousins who had wed had made love matches. Only Tray and she were the final cousins not yet wed.

“We loved well,” Mama agreed. “I only wish I could have had . . . more time with George.” She paused, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. “He would be so proud of you, Tray. You are a wonderful earl.” She glanced to Justina. “And he would have been filled with pride seeing your art, my sweet girl.”

Mama winced, clutching her chest, her body again violently shaken with her coughing fit. Justina watched, biting her lip, hurt filling her because she could not make Mama whole again.

When the coughing spell subsided, Mama ordered, “Give me the laudanum.”

She picked up the teacup, holding it to her mother’s lips. Mama drank all of it and closed her eyes for several minutes. Just when Justina thought Mama had fallen asleep, her eyes opened.

“This may be . . . the last time we talk. I love you both—and Verina—with all my heart. Take care of your sister. It will hurt her . . . not being here with me. But she has Matthew. Marcus. And to my beloved . . . nieces and nephews. Give . . . my love . . . to them all.”

“We will, Mama,” they said in unison.

“No black,” she said, her voice stronger than it had been in weeks. “No . . . mourning. You are living. Do not . . . stop. Because I am gone.”

They continued sitting next to Mama, holding her hand. The laudanum quieted her. Her lips and fingers were still blue, but Justina knew the opium would not change that.

“Did Dr. Roberts say how long she has?” Tray finally asked.

“No. Just that the laudanum will comfort her.”

He glanced at Mama. “She seems to be at peace.”

“She does.”

They continued sitting with her, talking over old times between them. Mama had been different from most parents of the ton, actively involved in raising her children, and they recalled little things. Going for walks as Mama pointed out various flowers in the gardens. How she taught them to ride. Playing with them in the nursery, down on the floor, moving about blocks or tin soldiers.

“I want to be like that with my own children,” Tray confided. “I have seen our cousins and sister wed for love, and it is something I want for myself. Mama and Papa were so happy together. I want that life for myself.”

“I may become the doting aunt as she was,” Justina said. “Marriage has never really appealed to me. I like children. I really have enjoyed going to town the past few Seasons and being with not only our cousins, but all their children, too.”

Tray smiled. “We have Ariadne to thank for that. And Julian.”

It had been her cousin Ariadne’s idea for them to bring their children to town. In a time where members of Polite Society abandoned children to their nursemaids, governesses, and tutors while they went to town for the months of the Season, Ariadne had insisted that she and her husband would never do that. Julian had agreed, and so they had brought their firstborn, Penelope, with them to town for the Season when Penelope was but a babe. The other cousins had agreed to the pact, and now their houses were filled with children as the cousins visited one another during the Season. Ariadne and Julian accepted a handful of invitations to social affairs, but the majority of their time in town was spent with their own children and their extended family. The bonds between the cousins—and now the children of those cousins—grew stronger each year, thanks to the unique idea Ariadne had proposed.

The room grew dim as the light faded, and Justina realized her hand was cold. She glanced down, seeing it wrapped around her mother’s, and then looked to her brother.

“Tray, I think Mama is gone.”

His smile faded, and he looked at Mama. “You are right. My hand is cold because she is. She passed as we spoke of old, happy times.”

“She would have liked that,” Justina said softly. “I hope she heard what we said and knew how loved she was by all.”

Tray stood and kissed Mama’s brow. Justina did the same, her tears freely flowing. Then her brother came and wrapped her in his arms.

“No mourning,” he reminded her. “Mama mentioned that on more than one occasion.”

“Then we will only wear black to the funeral. To show our respect. After that, we will honor her wishes.” She hesitated. “Tray, I do not feel I can go to the Season this year. I do not wish to make my come-out. Mama may not have wanted us to wear mourning colors, but I will be grieving, all the same.”

“Will you come to town to visit with our cousins?”

“Perhaps for a bit. Especially to spend time with Verina, Matthew, and Marcus. But I cannot dance in ballrooms. Not with Mama having left us just now.”

“I agree. You and I will go to town for a bit. Just to see the others. Then we will return to Traywick Manor.” He glanced down at the bed. “I suppose we have much to do now. Letters to write. A funeral to plan.”

“I will write the letters to the family,” she volunteered. “You deal with the funeral arrangements.”

Justina went and penned her letters. The first was to Verina. She knew Mama’s death would hit her sister hard. It was good that she had Matthew and little Marcus to comfort her. The next three would go to Surrey, where Ariadne and Julian, Lucy and Judson, and Dru and Perry lived closely together. Then to Val and Eden in Kent, where Justina also included a letter for Aunt Alice, who had been her mother’s closest friend and would take Mama’s death badly.

The next letters written went to Tia and Hugo, who lived near Verina, and Con and Rowena, where she enclosed another letter for Aunt Charlotte, who lived in the dower house at Marleyfield.

The last letter went to her cousin Lia. Lia and Rupert lived on the estate adjacent to Traywick Manor, and Justina had grown closest to Lia because of her proximity. Lia and Rupert had twins, Edward and Mary, who were two-and-a-half years old, and Lia had given birth to Damaris almost five months ago. Her cousin would be someone Justina could lean upon in the coming days and weeks, when the grief would hit her the hardest.

Her letters written, she took them downstairs, leaving them in the basket for Larsen to post. The letter to Lia and Rupert would be hand-delivered since they were so close, and Justina expected a visit from her cousin tomorrow morning after she received the news. She went to the parlor, where Papa and Lucius had been laid out all those years ago. Although she had only been four years of age when they had died, she recalled coming to the parlor and telling them goodbye since she and Verina had not been allowed to attend the funeral.

As she suspected, Mama had already been bathed and dressed in her favorite gown, a powder blue. Bessie sat next to the body, along with a footman.

Bessie shot to her feet. “Lady Justina!”

She came and took the maid’s hand. “Thank you for all your years of service to Mama, Bessie.” She smiled. “And you dressed her in the gown she liked most of all.”

“Her ladyship always did look her best in blue,” Bessie said, wiping her eyes.

“Come. You need to get some rest. The next days will be busy ones. The footman will stay with Mama.”

She led the servant from the parlor. Knowing how Bessie might be worried, she said, “I hope that you will consider staying on. You are such a part of our family. Perhaps you might wish to become my lady’s maid?”

Although Justina had no interest in hair or clothes, Bessie had helped her with both the last few years, at Mama’s request.

“You truly mean it, my lady?”

“Of course, Bessie. While I can never live up to Mama’s sense of style and grace, I know I will be well cared for in your hands.”

Bessie kissed Justina’s hand. “I’m so grateful, my lady. Thank you.”

The maid accompanied Justina to her room, helping her to dress in her night rail and brushing out Justina’s hair, placing it in a single braid. Bessie left, and Justina felt an emptiness inside her, wondering if it would always be there. She imagined this was how Mama had felt all those years, loving and losing her beloved husband and son.

“I will keep you in my heart, Mama,” she said aloud. “And I promise to care for the house just as you taught me how to do.”

Justina curled up in bed—and cried herself to sleep.