The Secret Heir to Her Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

The Ellis townhouse ballroom was just as busy as Margaret Pembroke had known it would be, the large wooden floors barely visible past the ladies in dresses and gentlemen in perfectly polished Hessians. 

“Now then,” her mother, the Countess of Fairebrook, hissed in her ear. “Remember to smile. Margaret, do not look so morose. Do you want Anne to inherit your bad habits?”

Margaret hitched her smile back in place. Anne, her younger sister, looked at everything with wide eyes. The vases filled with hothouse flowers, the exquisite paintings across the ceiling, and the archways painted to look like marble. 

Painted, mind you. Margaret had already ascertained that they were not true marble. They did not have marble’s smooth coolness. Still, they were a statement and added to the grandiosity of the room. 

“And if a gentleman asks you to dance?” her mother continued. “What do you say?”

Margaret sighed internally. “I will tell them I would be honoured to.”

“Precisely.”

Anne glanced up at her. At eighteen, this was her first season, and she had already conceived a romantic notion of how the season would go. Margaret knew because her sister had confessed them all to her the previous night, along with her hopes that a certain Lord Caldwell might offer for her. 

She had not yet been exposed to the machinations of Polite Society—she had not discovered what happened when the gilding tarnished.

Then again, if she was fortunate, perhaps she never would. 

“Where is the Duchess of Edgecombe?” her mother asked, snapping open her fan and using it to stir warm air at her flushed neck. “We should approach her. Perhaps you will even win her favour. That is if you could do such a thing …”

Margaret ignored her mother’s tirade. A painting on one wall caught her attention. Past the pastel muslins and silks that filled the ballroom, the landscape burst from the wall in an explosion of colour. The vibrancy provided a point of interest in a room that Margaret already found dull.

“Look!” her mother said. “There is the Duke of Carenwood. We should—”

Margaret steered Anne closer to the painting. As they approached, she found the landscape still more prepossessing. The bright colours did not mute the details; rather, they allowed for greater detail. The scene was of a field of wildflowers, with a lady draped against the trunk of a tree. She held a lily in her hands, observing it with a face filled with emotion. Despite the beauty of the field behind her, it was the lady’s expression that held Margaret’s attention—as though she had experienced some great tragedy, and the depths of it lay still in her eyes. 

Anne followed her gaze. “Oh,” she said. “What a pretty painting. But she looks too mournful. I think the artist ought to have given her a smile. When she is holding a lily of all things! Such a beautiful flower.”

Margaret opened her mouth to explain that the flower symbolized grief and that perhaps the painting told a far greater story than her sister had seen, but they were stopped by Alexander Ellis, Viscount Caldwell. His mother, Lady Caldwell, was the host of the ball, and the viscount himself had established himself as Anne’s avid suitor. 

Well, it was fitting that her sister, at least, would have a handsome, titled, and well-bred suitor. 

“Ladies,” he said, bowing, and turning hazel eyes to Anne almost immediately. “I’m so glad to see you here. It was the greatest wish of my heart that you could come.”

Margaret allowed her gaze to return to the painting and the look of subtle devastation across the girl’s face. She, no doubt, would see past the veneer of society’s surface, past the silks and smiles. Sometimes Margaret felt as though they were all players in a grand, superficial performance. 

If that was so, she had been cast as an extra—perhaps in her sister’s story. 

“Oh, Lord Caldwell.” Anne blushed, looking at her pretty slippers. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“A pleasure,” Margaret repeated for pleasantry’s sake. Lord Caldwell had made plenty of visits to their small townhouse to call upon Anne, and she would not want to risk doing anything that might put her sister’s happiness at risk. 

“I wondered—well, Miss Anne, I was wondering if you might be so good as to dance the next with me.”

“Oh!” A delightful smile crossed Anne’s face. “I would be delighted to, sir.”

“Excellent.” Lord Caldwell glanced at Margaret, a line pulling between his brows. He was a handsome man, she supposed, with soft blond hair and hazel eyes. And her sister thought him utterly irresistible. 

Margaret’s mother returned, dismissing his concern that dancing with Anne would leave her alone. “Margaret,” her mother scolded. “Smile. Your father has been speaking with the Duke of Carenwood and his son, the marquess, and they are both coming this way. Smile, dearest. Do not offer him your usual frown.”

“That is just my face, Mama.” Margaret gave Anne a little push. Go, she said silently with her eyes. Enjoy yourself with your beau. 

The dancing master announced the next dance, and Anne sent an apologetic glance at her as Lord Caldwell led her away. 

Margaret fixed another polite smile on her face as her father arrived with the duke and marquess in tow. The duke had come by his title recently after the former duke had passed tragically away. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties, silver streaking through his hair. His face seemed to Margaret a trifle hard, the lines around his mouth uncompromising and his eyes cold. By contrast, his son appeared in his late twenties with reddish brown hair and an eager smile. 

“Ah, here we are,” her father, the Earl of Fairebrook said. “My wife, Lady Fairebrook, and my daughter, Lady Margaret.”

Margaret dipped into a polite curtsy. Already, she knew how the conversation would go. The duke would ask her some polite sop of a question, which she would be expected to latch onto as though it were manna from the gods. Then, she would be expected to either stand in silence or engage in genteel flirtation with his son, depending on if the marquess might be interested in her. 

“A pleasure, of course,” the duke said, those cold eyes passing over her. He smiled, but the expression did nothing to aid the lack of warmth in his expression. “This is my son, the Marquess of Tenbury.”

“Lord Tenbury,” Margaret murmured, dipping her head to him. 

“Lady Margaret,” the young man said, the warmth in his gaze not remotely artificial. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Her smile already felt tight. “Likewise.”

“Your beauty is resplendent. I can hardly believe your hand has not already been solicited for the next dance.”

Ah, so flirting it was. How predictable. And he could say nothing of worth. Not praising her mind, not endeavouring to know her. No—he thought her value lay in her appearance, and he made no attempt to look deeper. 

“Thank you, My Lord,” she said, glancing at the painting once more. Such exquisite detail, and such fine craftmanship. The painter understood grief, and he understood how bright the world could be, and how utterly pointless that colour seemed when one could not feel it. She wished she had got close enough to see who the artist had been. Someone who not only understood the technicality behind holding a brush and mixing colours—who did not only understand proportions and composition—but who understood the human condition so completely. 

“No doubt London is very overwhelming for you,” she registered Lord Tenbury saying, leaning in closer, as though imparting some great wisdom. “Especially when one is used to the country. But you can be assured that I will smooth the way for you wherever possible.”

Margaret blinked at him. “This is my second season, Lord Tenbury.”

“Such crowds, too, can be overwhelming,” he said, ignoring her. “I’m not surprised you have no desire to dance. But oftentimes standing and conversing are better, are they not? I certainly find them preferable when such adornment is before me.”

Already bored, she found her attention wandering, but his last words struck her, hitting a chord of irritation. 

“Adornment?” she heard herself saying. 

“Well, yes, Lady Margaret. Your beauty is a jewel in a crown.”

What a tired metaphor, she thought. 

“And my mind?” she enquired. “What say you to my mind?”

“Your mind?” He frowned, looking a little uncomfortable. “No man can look at a lady and see her mind.”

Nor does he have any wish to. 

She smiled blandly at him, relieved to find that he did not require any further contribution to the conversation; he had enough to say for the both of them and likely preferred it when she did not interrupt with something as troubling as her opinions. 

Heaven forbid a lady to have opinions. 

At least Anne was having fun, she thought as she glimpsed her sister’s shining face opposite Lord Cadwell’s smiling one. That was worth something. 

When she got home, she vowed to write about the evening’s festivities in her journal—then forget about the attentions of a man who so clearly wanted nothing more than a trophy to lead around on his arm.

***

Inside the bedchamber he’d been assigned in the Ellis household, James Carrington stared at the letter clutched in his hand, the seal unbroken. His name was written across the front in his mother’s familiar, elegant script. He opened the seal, unfolding the single page and scanning its contents. 

My dearest James, it read. 

By the time you read these words, you will be stepping back into a world that once turned its back on us. A world I chose to leave behind for my own peace, and, ultimately, for yours. London society, with its glittering artifice and cruel judgements, is a stage where appearances mask truths and whispers carry more weight than integrity. I wish I could be there to protect and shield you, my son, but Italy has become my sanctuary, a place where I have rebuilt a life amidst beauty and genuine appreciation for art—away from the venom of the ton. Know that my spirit is there with you, James. Be observant, be cautious, and trust your instincts. Remember why you are there, and the justice we both seek. But also, my darling boy, allow yourself to see the beauty that may still exist, even in that world. Do not let cynicism blind you to kindness or genuine hearts. 

Go now, James. Be strong, be true to yourself, and know that your mother’s love surrounds you, always. 

With all my love,

Mama

James folded the letter, each movement precise, and tucked it into his inner coat pocket. Music tinkled from below, but where it had once stoked his nerves, now it soothed them. There was beauty to be found in all places, even ones like these. 

After all, Alexander Ellis had offered him a place to stay, offering it before he even had his story. Good people existed in the world, just as surely as the terrible people his family had fled the country to escape.

Now he would find a way of reclaiming his heritage.

He straightened his cravat and let a deep breath steel himself. 

“You are not James Carrington,” he said, donning his disguise as though it was a second skin. “You are William Aldridge, stepping onto a stage, ready to play your part.”

Nothing about his reflection, skin bronzed by the Italian sun and his dark hair streaked through with soft brown, resembled the boy who had left London all those years ago.

He was ready. 

It was time to deceive the ton. 

 

Chapter Two

Margaret skirted the edges of the room, finally having contrived to escape Lord Tenbury’s suffocating conversation. A large vase obscured her from view, and it had the added benefit of positioning her directly below the painting she so admired. 

If she leaned closer, perhaps she would be able to discover who had painted it. 

The air of the ballroom shifted, conversation dying and tension tightening the air. Distracted, Margaret glanced around to find a tall gentleman walking through the ballroom doors. He was tall—tall enough that she could see him even from her vantage point. His skin was unfashionably brown, his hair dark above it, and piercing blue eyes under stern brows. He could not be older than his middle twenties, but something about his face, the way he held himself, gave him the appearance of being older. 

His gaze moved across the room, then landed on the painting directly above her. The focus of his entire being, as though he saw nothing but the painting and thought of nothing too, intrigued her. So few people ever seemed to look around and see. And yet this man, straight-backed, his eyes fierce and sharp, looked as though he did nothing else. 

Barely seeming to notice the gentlemen and ladies around him, he approached the painting. 

That was what intrigued her about him, she realized. He had the same detachment from society that she had—as though he was walking through a dream, not reality. Instead of looking at the bejewelled women like every other gentleman in the room appeared to do, he seemed as drawn to the art as she was. 

The colours. And perhaps, the melancholy in the lady’s expression. 

All around him, though he seemed oblivious, whispers erupted in his wake. 

“Who is that dashing young man?”

“Hush, dearest. That is Mr Aldridge.”

“I haven’t heard of him.”

Margaret glanced across at the gossiping girls. They had their heads together, the feather in one girl’s cap gently brushing the other’s. One appeared older, and she was the one who held up a hand. “Lord Caldwell’s particular friend, I’ve heard. He’s wealthy, but it’s new money.”

“Trade?”

“I don’t know for certain, but where else could it come from? Unless an obscure relative left him something.” She tilted her head, beady eyes fixed on the newcomer. “He doesn’t seem middle class, at least.”

“Intriguing. At least he’s handsome.”

The two girls tittered, and Margaret rolled her eyes, looking away. Always so predictable, their gossip. First, they looked at a man’s wealth, his social standing, and then his appearance. Weighing him against their internal scale of value—if he passed, he was deemed a worthy recipient of their charms. If not, they shunned him, smiles turning cold and their conversation drying up like a prune. 

None, Margaret knew, depended on the quality of a gentleman’s character or education. The only thing that mattered about him, just as it mattered for ladies, was wealth, breeding, and superficial attractiveness. 

Then there was the gossip. Speculation and superficial judgements were the lifeblood of society. Already, she wearied of it. 

“There you are!” Her mother took her arm, fingers digging in painfully. “Must you hide away in this fashion?”

“I was merely admiring the painting.”

Her mother spared it not one glance. “And stop pulling such faces, dear. It is unbecoming.” 

Margaret pulled her arm from her mother’s grip. “And what of the way the ton reacted to that gentleman? Is it becoming for the entire ballroom to be reduced to whispers and assumptions about a man who has not so much as properly entered the room? They have not met him, and yet they judge him without knowing him.”

Her mother’s brows rose in silent reprimand. “Society has its conventions, Margaret, dear. It is best to observe them if you want to be accepted.”

Margaret didn’t know how much she cared about acceptance. If acceptance meant becoming one of them, a many-headed Hydra waiting for its moment to strike, then she would rather live the rest of her life on its outskirts. At least then, she could content herself with knowing she had not given in to the worst of society’s foibles. 

Still, she knew further argument was futile, so she bit back her retort. A familiar smile settled over her face, demure and placid. Another mask she had been forced to wear around her family so they would stop engaging her in conversations that had no productive output. But the spark of rebellion in her chest remained undimmed. 

***

James ignored the tight knot of anxiety in his chest. He passed the painting that had initially captured his interest—the quiet devastation in the girl’s face and the fragile way she held the lily resonated within him, an emotion as familiar as breathing, captured and displayed for the world to see. 

All around him, whispers rippled across the room, an undercurrent to the music that started up once again. His mother’s warnings resounded in his mind. She supported him in his quest for the truth but knowing her worry only ignited his own.

This was an elaborate charade. A deception that could rock the ton to its core if discovered. And as he made his way to where Alexander stood, he began to wonder whether all this was worth it. Yes, he would discover the truth—but at what cost? 

As he caught sight of his friend’s blond head, he straightened his shoulders. No, now was not the time for fear. He had to think of what he had lost. When Alexander had written to him with news of the late duke’s sudden demise and the rumours of James’s own death, James had known he could not let the matter lie. 

He would reclaim the truth. 

“William,” Alexander said upon seeing him. No one else would have noticed the slight hesitation, the moment when Alexander reminded himself of which name to use. Here, James was not James; he was William Aldridge, a new member of society.

“Lady Caldwell,” James said, bowing to Alexander’s mother, Juliet Ellis. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“Of course.” She beckoned him further from the light and festivities, her movements casual. “Come. How have you found the evening so far?”

“Rumours abound,” he said grimly. 

“Well, of course. Everyone will be curious about a newcomer, especially if he is said to be wealthy.”

“You’ll take the shine off me,” Alexander said with an easy smile. 

James raised his brows. “Last I heard, you had your eyes on the younger Pembroke girl.”

“Ah, she’s a jewel, isn’t she? I would introduce you, but I wouldn’t want her to change her mind so soon about me when our courtship is so new.” He clapped James on the shoulder, eyes twinkling. “And she would only be more captivated by you when the truth comes out.”

“If,” James said. 

“It will. We’ll make sure of it. Now you’re here, we can start making investigations. And we can expose the truth for what it is.”

“Keep your voices down,” Lady Caldwell said, glancing around. “You have our support, of course, William, but you must be careful about it.” She squeezed his arm in a motherly way. “I am glad you’re here.”

James nodded as she slipped away through the crowd to do her duty as host. “I should thank you again for writing to me,” he said again to Alexander. “You have been a true friend these years.”

“Nonsense. You would do the same for me, and it’s not right that the new Duke of Carenwood is here, flaunting his son and claiming power when your family had to flee to Italy.”

James nodded, glancing around the crowd. He had already noticed the duke with his court of ladies and gentlemen around him. And, of course, his son, the Marquess of Tenbury.

“I would never have suspected anything,” Alexander continued, “except for the fact that I heard you had died in Italy. And, my friend, I think I might have a better idea of its truth than anyone else.”

“And I would have the best idea of all,” James said wryly. 

Alexander laughed. “You would indeed. Now go. Speak with everyone you can and let yourself be known as Mr William Aldridge. Make the most of the ball—and most of all, make sure no one suspects you.”

“I will do my best.”

Alexander grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “I have the utmost faith in you. Together, we will come to the truth.”

Together. James shook his friend’s hand before shouldering his way through the crowd to the refreshments table. There, when pouring himself a lemonade, he happened to look up and see a lady staring at the same painting he had noticed before. She held herself gracefully but with a hint of reserve, as though she prepared to be barraged from all sides and had shields to maintain. Still, there was open fascination in her expression as she stared at the painting. Her hair gleamed like honey in the candlelight, and before he knew precisely what he was doing, he crossed the room to stand beside her. 

“Exquisite details,” he said. “And the colours are remarkable.”

She glanced at him, and he noticed that her eyes were a charming hazel, flecks of green showing through the brown. “They are,” she said after a moment. “That is what I noticed first, the colours, but then I was drawn to it more by—”

“Her expression,” he finished. 

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Because that’s what I noticed, too. It seems as though she is mourning something—and see the way she holds that lily? As though it is the most precious thing in the world and yet a symbol of her grief. She is surrounded by such beauty, and yet she looks at us with sorrow. Isn’t that the way, sometimes?” He looked at the lady beside him to find she watched him with unabashed interest. “When you are grieving, you can’t notice the beauty around you. But everyone else can.” He nodded at the painting. “And look at the brushwork. I can only imagine the time this would have taken.”

“I imagine a long time. Do you know who painted it?”

“I looked for a signature, but I couldn’t find one. There must be one somewhere, but it’s hung a little too high to see for certain.” He considered. In Italy, he had seen so much art, and coming back to England, he had felt as though there was a dearth of good art. Yet here there was something—and no one but this lady by his side seemed to notice. 

“Its composition is excellent, of course,” she said musingly, “and the use of colour is truly spectacular. But I think the thing that strikes me is the understanding of the human condition that the artist understands.”

“Precisely. Technical brilliance is nothing without the soul to go with it. One can craft a poem using perfect meter and rhyme, but without the words to touch our hearts, how can it be considered art?”

Her smile brightened. “Exactly,” she said, and he was struck once more by the passion in her voice. “That is what makes art, isn’t it? That ability to reach out and touch people, provoking emotion from them. And look at all these perfectly executed flowers here. The detail, the colour—notice the way she is dressed in black and the lily she holds is white, and everything about her is filled with colour.”

“The contrast is remarkable.”

“Think of all it represents.” The lady’s cheeks flushed as she turned fully to him, smiling widely. “The world is in colour, but she is not. The separation there. Even her eyes are brown, not the blue of the sky, or the green of the earth. And her hair, dark again.” 

“But even that colour contrasts richly against the black of her dress.”

“Have you ever considered how difficult it must be to paint black?” the lady asked. “It is not true black, is it? You can see the fold of her sleeves here, the shine of her dress, the light and the shadow, even upon a dress clearly intended to be black. Here, the shades are of blue; here they are of grey.”

He looked at her in admiration. “You’re quite right. I don’t believe I’ve ever considered the complexities of painting something so very simple.”

“I think the simplicity is where true complexity lies. When you know something is difficult, it’s not a surprise to think it might have been challenging. But when something looks simple, often it is secretly far more difficult to achieve.”

“I do believe you’re right.” The orchestra struck up for the next dance, and although James knew he should walk away from this intriguing girl with such swirling thoughts in her eyes and such articulation about a subject he adored, he couldn’t. Instead, he extended a hand. “My name is Mr Aldridge,” he said, extending a hand. “I should very much like to dance with you if you would give me the honour?”

She glanced up at him, and for a moment he wondered if she would refuse him. After all, he was not one of the titled gentlemen who prowled the room looking for another lady to flirt with. But then she smiled, the expression melting across her face and burning brighter than the rising sun. 

“I am Lady Margaret,” she said, “and I would be delighted to.” She placed her hand in his, and he thought he felt her fingers tremble as he closed his around them. A blush sprung to her cheeks, the colour only adding to her beauty. A surprising warmth radiated through her gloves, and he led her out to the assembling couples. The dance master announced a waltz, and Lady Margaret stepped in closer. He placed a hand on her waist. 

“I must admit, this is a delightful welcome to London,” he said as he twirled her around the room. She matched him, step for step. “I had not expected such an in-depth discussion about art.”

“Few people do, I suppose.”

“At least here,” he agreed, and then before he could say anything that might reveal his true identity, he said, “Is this your first Season?”

“No, not at all. This is my second. My sister, Anne”—she nodded across the ballroom to where Alexander twirled a young lady around the room—“is enjoying her first Season, and she is enjoying considerable success.”

A flicker of warmth spread through James’s chest at the sight of his friend’s happy smile. At least one of them was finding what was promised by the ton—a connection with someone who would bring about his happiness. “Lord Caldwell is a good man,” he said. 

“Do you know him?”

“We were friends at school,” he said, keeping the details brief. “And if that is your sister, then you must be the Earl of Fairebrook’s eldest daughter?”

“I am.” She smiled, but the expression twisted. “I doubt you have heard much about me.”

“Only a little.”

She tilted her head as she looked at him curiously. “Unflattering reports?”

“Not at all. Why do you say so?”

She laughed, but the sound lacked humour. “I think I am a disappointment.”

He studied her for a moment. She danced with grace and clearly had an informed mind. She was beautiful, in an understated way that made him think of a flower opening its petals to the gaze of the moon. Nothing about her spoke to him of being a disappointment. “In what way?” he asked. “I see no reason for it.”

“Ah, that is because you engaged with me in our earlier conversation. But most …” She hesitated. “Forgive me, I should probably not say these things to you. We barely know one another.”

Curiosity itched under his skin. “Then why not pretend we are good friends? I have rarely found such enjoyment in speaking to a young lady such as yourself. There—is that confession enough to inspire yours?”

To his delight and relief, she laughed. “Very well, sir. Most young gentlemen have nothing interesting to say to me, and they have no interest in hearing me speak, either. I’m a disappointment to my mother because I have no liking for ballrooms and dancing.”

“You agreed to dance with me,” he teased. 

“I did. You have yet to prove to me that it’s a mistake.”

“Ah, but there is still time?”

“There is always time,” she said, amusement in her luminous eyes, but a little seriousness, too. She hadn’t fully decided to trust him. A shame, but understandable. He knew how it felt to be surrounded by people and to feel as though none could bear the weight of his secrets. 

“Tell me, are you enjoying this ballroom and this dance?”

“I am enjoying this dance,” she said cautiously. 

“So far.”

“Precisely.” A smile touched her lips, and he flattened his hand on her back, drawing her slightly closer. Her eyes widened slightly, but she made no effort to pull back. A slight blush tinged her cheeks. “You make it easy to confide in you.”

“I’m very glad. What else do you have to say? A cutting observation on our fellows, perhaps?”

She laughed. “You tease, but I suspect you would find me shocking if I were to be truly honest.”

“I doubt you could say anything that would shock me,” he said honestly. “Be forthright, if you can.”

“Very well, then,” she said, and lowered her gaze to his cravat, as though she couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. “I had no interest in presenting to the queen and entering society. The tedium—there is such tedium in presenting oneself to a collection of gentlemen in the hopes that one might propose. As though we are nothing more than cattle presenting our teeth to prospective buyers. I find the entire process designed to humiliate. And so vacuous. I do not think a gentleman has offered me a compliment I can believe in good spirit. And not one has complimented me on anything other than my experience—the colour of my hair, for instance, which I cannot help. Or the shade of my eyes, which I am similarly incapable of changing.”

Captivated, James stared into her face, the spots of red that had appeared in her cheeks from her tirade. While he did find her lovely, the richness of her hair appealing, and the colour of her eyes beautiful, that was not the thing that had first drawn him to her. 

No, it had been the way she had looked at the painting. As though she not only looked but saw. 

“Then allow me to say this: I had yet to meet a mind that sees the same value and meaning in art as I do,” he said. “Until our delightful discourse earlier. No matter your physical beauty, I would not have asked you to dance otherwise.”

A small smile curved her lips. “Careful, Mr Aldridge, or I might suspect you of flattery.”

“Me? Never.”

She laughed then, and he wondered at the ease with which he held this woman in his arms—this stranger. Although he could hardly say he knew her, he felt himself drawn to her. An unspoken connection that transcended the usual ballroom interactions. Her confession about how she disliked the usual motions of finding a husband resonated with him. He, too, disliked the thought of choosing a wife from the ladies sitting, preening, and waiting to be selected. 

Not that he had come here to choose a wife. 

He could not allow for too many distractions. But one dance, he reasoned, would not do too much damage. 

***

Henry Carrington, the Duke of Carenwood, sipped his port as he watched the dancing couples. Lady Margaret had seemed positively standoffish when he had approached earlier, but now she smiled at her partner, her entire face and demeanour softened.

Interesting. And irritating. 

“Why did you not secure a dance with her?” he demanded to his son, Stephen. The boy flinched. 

“I’m sorry, Father. I did my best.”

“Your best was not good enough. Two minutes’ conversation with that man and she agreed to stand up with him.” He sipped again, barely noticing the taste. There was something about the man that made him uncomfortable. A familiarity he could not quite place. Unease prickled inside him. 

Stephen bowed his head. “I apologize, Father. It won’t happen again.”

“Who is that man?”

“I heard him called Mr Aldridge, sir.”

“Hmm.” Henry scowled. “I dislike him. Especially if he has caught Lady Margaret’s eye. They were conversing earlier—do you know about what?”

Stephen’s frown deepened. “I think it was about the painting.”

“The painting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What nonsense.” He clicked his tongue, glancing at the Earl of Fairebrook. To secure the man’s vote in the House of Lords, he would have to forge an alliance between the two families. Given the nature of the bill put forward, the earl was dragging his feet a little. The marriage, and a connection between the families, would be the impetus he needed.

But for that, he needed his son to pull his weight. 

“I am not accustomed to being—” Stephen stuck a finger in his neckcloth, clearly uncomfortable. The fool. Yes, they had not always been a duke and marquess, but power was power, and now they had it, they should act accordingly. 

“Do not fail me,” he snapped. “I need her. And you need to charm her. Do whatever it takes. Flowers, gifts, necklaces, compliments. Take her riding with you. Remind her of everything we can offer. And I will redouble my efforts with her father.” He pursed his lips as he considered, his gaze falling to the Countess of Fairebrook. A shrewish woman, but she would be useful, too. “And his wife. She will make the girl see what’s best for her.”

Marginally reassured, he glanced back at the dancing couples. Mr Aldridge moved with all the confidence of someone who knew how to navigate the waltz—and society at large. That air of quiet confidence set Henry’s nerves on edge.

They would have to act quickly, or they risked losing everything they had worked towards.