Chapter One
Sinclair Manor, Richmond, London, February 1817
“Let me put this simply for you, Lady Townsend, for the gravity of your predicament cannot be overstated. If we do not find some way to unravel your cousin’s plots, he will rip your son from you, and we will be unable to stop him.”
Josephine stared down at her hands, fingers fanned out motionlessly in her lap. Her attention had been only half fixed on her solicitor’s voice; the other half had been spent trying to stop herself from crying.
The Countess of Townsend was not the sort of woman prone to bouts of hysterics. At six-and-twenty, Josephine had seen more of life than some men in the winters of their existence. She had married and loved earnestly. She had mothered a son—the one bright spot in an otherwise dark sea of misfortune. She had buried a mother, a father, and now a husband.
She would be damned if her accursed cousin took Edward from her too.
Josephine drew in a fortifying breath, tearing her gaze from her nervous hands and fixing it upon Mr. Cartwright. She could sense Rowena stirring beside her, squirming in her seat. The uptick in her other cousin’s breath did not go unnoticed. At a mere twenty years old, she was far too perceptive for her own good. Rowena likely feared that Josephine would dig her own grave with words, and for good reason. Rowena had witnessed firsthand the strength of her cousin’s spirit. Josephine’s love for her son, if left unchecked, would burn everything in its path.
“Your honesty is appreciated, Mr. Cartwright,” said Josephine, holding herself straight. She glanced around the late earl’s study, finding her resolve in the family portrait above the fireplace. “I am not blind to Reginald’s ambition. My cousin has been a wretch from the moment he was born, taking what he desires for himself with tricks and violence.”
A sad smile worked her lips as she called to mind her earliest memories of Reginald. They were not terribly different in age, but Reginald had always treated Josephine with all the disdain of an older, disapproving brother. Before Josephine’s first Season, there had been mention in the family of a potential match between the cousins. Josephine, seeing Reginald for who he truly was, had rightfully balked at the idea. She wondered whether this had been the match to light his hatred for her, deciding then to take by force what he believed himself to be owed by right—in this case, the fortune that Josephine’s father had entailed to her and now his nephew, bound to little Edward by law and blood.
“What a terrible hobble,” Rowena murmured, chewing on her thumbnail. Her blue eyes were kept low, flitting back and forth. “A terrible, terrible hobble…”
“Tell me then,” Josephine commanded, directing her order at the family’s solicitor. “What is dear Reginald claiming this time? Am I to be smeared again for a fleeting glance at a gentleman, as I was two years ago? Hmm? Am I a tyrant, a puppeteer, feigning love for my son so as merely to command my late husband’s and father’s earldoms, such was the case the year before that?” Josephine shook her head and scoffed, making a sound that was unladylike but warranted. “Reginald has quite the imagination. I will give him that, at least. He has brought before me a veritable catalog of crimes, each one more laughable than the last. I dare say that if he spent less time at his drafting board of chicanery and more time in good society, we would not be suffering this problem. His boredom and his loneliness are the primary drivers of this feud, and we all know it.”
Her rant came to an end with a sigh. Mr. Cartwright’s tired, watery eyes almost bulged out of his skull. Of all his clients, Lady Townsend was by far the one who most kept him on his toes. If not for the generous salary she provided, Mr. Cartwright may have found himself another widow to defend. Of course, Mr. Cartwright was not the villain he wished to be, knowing even as he contemplated them that such thoughts were mere fantasy. His heart was too good for the profession, something that his mother had always said before he had thrown himself into law all those decades ago. The late Mrs. Cartwright was long dead and buried, but he knew she would be laughing in her grave, knowing that she had been right.
As it stood, there could be no escaping the Sinclair-Standish feud now. He was too invested, likely to die before the feud was resolved anyway. Casting out Reginald Standish would be Mr. Cartwright’s final gift to the late Earl of Townsend, whom he had served faithfully since his ascension, and who had been as decent a gentleman as ever there was.
Rubbing his eyebrows to ward off his coming megrim, Mr. Cartwright debated how best to phrase Lord Warrington’s latest threat. Nothing he could say would appease the countess. Better to come directly out with it and deal with the consequences later. Josephine was of the same opinion, knowing that whatever the solicitor had to say would not avail her anyway. Reginald’s claims had become more ludicrous as the years passed. Mr. Cartwright’s anxiety meant his latest attack was likely to be the bloodiest of all, and Josephine braced herself for the worst.
“Your cousin, Lord Warrington, has made the claim that you are unfit to mother his nephew, the young Earl of Townsend. The baron believes that it is in the best interest of his nephew to see him removed from your care and placed into his own.” Mr. Cartwright’s neck bobbed, the skin loose like a chicken’s wattle. “His own solicitor has delivered to me a list of new reasons to back this decision, the most damming of which…” He paused, wincing and pressing his eyes shut as though he had just received a blow.
“Go on,” Josephine urged, leaning forward in her seat. Her countenance was unreadable, but her heart was thumping hard in her breast. Rowena placed a hand on her cousin’s knee, pressing her fingers in just hard enough to keep Josephine from exploding in anger.
“Baron Warrington suggests that your prolonged mourning of your husband makes you unfit to rear a son. The word hysteria was thrown about, as it is wont to be. It was quoted directly to me that you ‘more suited to an asylum than a schoolroom,’ and that ‘the young earl has ingested milk curdled by grief.’”
Mr. Cartwright composed himself, having said the worst of it. He leaned forward on the desk that had once served the Earl of Townsend, letting out a shaky breath. The mahogany was cold to the touch, turned to ice from the cool breeze of the nearby open window. London thrummed with activity outside, oblivious to the family tragedy happening indoors. They would know soon enough if Reginald and his ton cronies had anything to say about it. As soon as Mr. Cartwright left Sinclair Manor, the baron could begin putting into motion the next steps of his plan.
Josephine allowed the accusations to wash over her, complimenting Reginald on his poetry once her surprise had faded. She rolled her eyes heavenward, immediately looking to poke holes in her cousin’s fabricated stories. Rowena beat her to the chase, releasing her hold on her leg and shooting out of her seat. It squeaked against the hardwood floors and was stopped from falling over only by Josephine’s quick reflexes. Rowena’s cheeks were flushed bright pink in outrage, her lower lip quivering with her anger. It was unlike Rowena to allow her emotions to overwhelm her, but Josephine supposed her own recent tragedies had changed her relationship with propriety. The man Rowena loved had jilted her in favor of another, only one month gone. What good was a stiff upper lip when all hope and love was lost?
“What evidence could Reginald possibly claim to have?” Rowena exclaimed, waving her hands in the air. “The man has not set foot in Sinclair Manor in five years! Well before Philip’s death! Well before Edward was old enough to show any evidence of Josephine’s influence over him!”
“Rowena, please…” Josephine cautioned, hating how upset Reginald’s scheming was making their cousin. Rowena had suffered enough as it was without having to shoulder Josephine’s own burdens as well. “We know full well that anything Reginald says is untrue. He has no need for evidence when the utterance of a lie is enough to cast doubt on my parenting. We need only to prove him wrong in due time, as we have done before—as we will no doubt have to do again!”
“Right though you are, my lady, the baron’s accusations are not quite so easy to disprove as once they may have been,” Mr. Cartwright interjected. He hated what must be said, feeling two feet tall before the countess and Miss Standish. “In this case, he would use your singlehood against you as proof that your grief commands your actions, still to this day.” He gestured around them at the earl’s study, which had not changed one inch since his death in 1815. “He would point to Sinclair Manor and call it a perverse shrine, trapping the essence of the earl within its walls and poisoning the minds of those who live within. He would look at your lack of socialization and blame your own lifestyle on any flaws that might be perceived in the young earl’s character, such as his timidity.”
Josephine rankled at the solicitor’s list of accusations, feeling condemned with every new item he announced. Reginald’s attacks had never had this effect on her before, likely because there had been nothing truthful within them. These new claims were different, grounded in reality, and twisting the truth in such a way that they would be difficult to outright deny. Josephine had not wanted to move forward since Philip’s death. She had not wanted to erase his memory from their home, from their bed. Did wanting to preserve what little remained of her husband make her a villain? Did Edward suffer in her grief, and only she was blind to see it? She could not, would not, believe those things to be true. Her devotion to her husband was hurting no one, least of all her son, who should remember the face of his father for as long as was possible to him.
“He would say these things, or he has?” Josephine asked through gritted teeth, seeking clarification. “Are you speaking out of conjecture, Mr. Cartwright, or are you repeating an already determined list of Reginald’s grievances?”
“I will send a copy of the document to you directly,” Mr. Cartwright confirmed, nodding sadly. “This is the sort of evidence they would bring before the courts.”
“He has made it so that the facts do not matter so much as opinion,” Josephine murmured, bringing her fingers to her mouth in thought. She almost wanted to laugh in despair, having never thought that Reginald would be capable of being quite so clever. “We are trapped from all angles.”
“We are not trapped,” Rowena stressed. She moved around the back of Josephine’s chair, placing her hands on her shoulders. The air around Josephine was suffused with her cousin’s heady perfume, rose and oud, momentarily distracting her from the futility of the fight ahead of them. “There must be a way to smother even these accusations, to take the power from them. Mr. Cartwright, you must have ideas!”
The solicitor pressed his lips together, leaving the cousins in quiet agony. Rowena leaned down over Josephine, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head in the proceeding silence.
“There are some things we might do,” Mr. Cartwright declared uneasily, taking a step back. He crossed his arms over his chest, pacing the length of the desk slowly.
Josephine tapped Rowena’s hand and rose to a stand, anchoring herself firmly on her husband’s desk. Her solicitor had planted a seed of light in her chest. While she was cautious about nurturing it too soon, she knew she had to foster hope for Edward’s sake, if nothing else. Whatever Mr. Cartwright would suggest she would do, if it meant protecting her son from Reginald.
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Rowena said, clenching her fists at her sides.
“If Baron Warrington would make the case that you are yet shackled to your grief, then you must strive to live differently, at least until the hearing is passed.” Mr. Cartwright released the breath he had been holding, shrugging his shoulders. “In changing your lifestyle, we might—and this I must stress to you or else do you a disservice—we might be able to undeniably demonstrate your stability to the courts.”
“For instance…” Rowena supplied, already coming up with solutions in her mind while Josephine stood in quiet observation. “Reginald claims that you have disconnected yourself from society, but we could easily amend this by participating in the Season.” She clapped her hands together, having thought of something new, and startling the other two. “We could redecorate your home, putting some of Philip’s effects away where others cannot see them, tabula rasa.”
“We are on the right path,” the solicitor agreed, gladdened to see Miss Standish already primed to fight their injustice.
While Josephine nodded along, she was not nearly as eager to play Reginald’s games. The thought of living any differently made her feel sick, and she took solace only in the fact that the change did not have to be permanent. She knew that Philip would not mind being tucked away in the attic for a few months if this was what it took to save their son. With Rowena so eager to help, the battle would be easily won. Neither of the women could have imagined, however, what next would come out of Mr. Cartwright’s mouth.
“There is, of course, a solution which would eclipse all doubt, definitely…” he suggested, taking a wary step back.
The tone of his voice was laced with regret, and Josephine shivered in response. Rowena seemed more inclined to listen, eagerly asking the solicitor to continue.
“Baron Warrington believes, in part, that it is your womanhood which makes you unequal to the task of raising your son. This…” He rolled his hand in the air. “This hysteria of which he speaks is a symptom of your female nature. Now, I cannot claim to hold such beliefs myself, having known a mother who was firmer than my father, and in some ways, aye, more masculine and inclined to rational thought—”
“All this to say?” Josephine interrupted, having no need for such padding.
“All this to say…” the solicitor echoed. “That a better solution is available to you. If a man’s influence is what is lacking most in this house, then there are manifold ways of securing one.”
Josephine did not have to ask to know what he meant. Tilting her head back in disgust, she sucked in a quick breath and pushed her chair back. Her mind was a war of thoughts, but she would not allow her emotions to overcome her.
“If you are implying that I might seek a husband,” she began, steeling herself, “then I would ask that you push the foolish notion from your mind immediately.”
“My lady—”
“I have fought too long and too hard to be free of the male influence,” Josephine continued, not allowing herself to be interrupted. Rowena watched on uneasily, taking a few steps back toward the door. “I had known nothing but suffering before Philip, suffering borne from men, and I am old enough to understand that he was the exception to the rule, not the other way around.”
Balling her fists, she bit the insides of her cheeks to stop from screaming, outraged even at the mere thought of taking another husband. Mr. Cartwright may have been right in what he suggested, but Josephine refused to debase herself by seeking sanctuary in the arms of another man.
Pushing past Rowena, she moved to open the door. Someone had been standing on the other side to eavesdrop, and they were just quick enough to avoid a blow from the door opening. Thinking that the spy had been a maid, Josephine paid no mind to the softness of the retreating footfall—which could have belonged only to a child, and one alone lived at Sinclair Manor. Releasing the door handle, she corrected her expression and turned once more to Mr. Cartwright.
“We will convene again later this week, or at your earliest convenience,” she declared. “I am sorry, Mr. Cartwright, but a man is the beast who looks to ruin me. A man cannot be the one to save me.”
Chapter Two
“God’s teeth, man! Anyone would think you have somewhere else to be. Let me guess. Is there a ferry departing for France? A coach up to the Highlands? Nay—a scandalous assignation for which you cannot be late? Given that it is you of whom we are speaking, that simply cannot be! Then, I must ask—hell and damnation, Andrew, what the deuce is your rush?”
A laugh slipped from Andrew’s throat as he cast a glance back at David. His friend was riding ten feet behind him, incapable of meeting Andrew’s pace. David’s face was red from his effort, his shoulders slumped forward in defeat. Andrew held back from commenting that David might be able to ride faster if he was not so focused on speaking, but he did not want to deter him from launching another barb his way. David’s overzealous conversation was, as always, a decent distraction from all the other thoughts that plagued Andrew.
With that in mind, Andrew slowed his thoroughbred from a gallop to a canter, allowing David the time to catch up with him before they reached the thoroughfare down to Mayfair.
The morning was quiet, which was Andrew’s preference. Few riders frequented the untamed park to the east of Kensington. Its isolated location and difficult walking paths made it unfavorable for the young ladies of the ton, providing young gentleman riders with little reason to ride so far out of their way.
For his part, Andrew had been riding these paths for as long as he could remember, long before he had any real understanding of the world. His father, the Duke of Radbourne before him, had been possessed of a similar temperament to Andrew, and despite his high station, he’d preferred his own company and the gentle embrace of nature to the theatrics of their contemporaries at their lavish parties.
“I shall refrain from commenting on your little fantasy. I assure you that aside from our sessions this morning, there is nothing driving me in my ride but the rewards of decent exercise. A little hard riding would be good for your heart, too,” Andrew suggested, smiling as David’s horse sidled up beside his own. He sensed that mischief was brewing, however, when David arched a brow. He released the reins for a moment, clapping the marquess on the shoulder. “I meant nothing by that, of course.”
“Ah, you mean the mention of my heart? Dratted Corinthian that you are!” David gave a burst of sarcastic laughter, spurring his horse on a little faster as though to tease Andrew—in truth, he was hoping to assuage his fears about the state of his emotions. “I would not make the mistake of believing as much, old chap. If anything, you are far too cautious in that regard. She is four years gone, after all. I will not fall from my horse to hear you say her name—nor will I throw myself under it for that same reason.”
“Not on purpose, I am sure, though your stance certainly leaves something to be desired,” Andrew joked in return. “You treat Blackwing like a hobbyhorse, and I should not be surprised to see her cast you off in disgust.”
Andrew’s smile faded as he considered David’s situation. The men rarely spoke of their troubles—this, too, was Andrew’s preference—but he was not oblivious to the shock that David had suffered when Francine had passed in the laboring bed. He may not have voiced as much, but the marquess was much different to the rake Andrew had once known him to be. His young daughter, Olivia, had changed him for the better, despite all the tragedy that had been wrought in getting her to him.
“Hold up a moment,” David said, raising a hand back at Andrew. He led his horse into a walk, stopping at the crest of the hill they had been riding. “Look at that view,” he breathed in strangled awe, completely unaware of Andrew’s sympathetic ruminations.
Andrew followed after him, turning Mercury in such a way as to get a better view. The whole of London seemed to stretch out before the two men, eager to be admired. They could see from Mayfair all the way to Greenwich, with an innumerable amount of genteel neighborhoods in between, all curling along the Thames before bleeding into the horizon. Pillars of twirling smoke rose from the industrial quadrant, reaching high into the sky and disappearing into the white clouds above. Pausing, Andrew listened for the sounds of industry below, but he could hear nothing but the whistling song of the wind as it passed through the park.
“The city of debauchery and rot,” David commented, somewhat sarcastically and somewhat seriously. “I might gag if I look any longer.”
Unlike Andrew’s Londoner family, David’s clan held their seat deep in the countryside of the West Midlands. He had been in London for almost twenty years, but the town had always struggled to entice him like it did other gentlemen. His mind was full with unspoken dreams of retiring from London for good and taking Olivia to the country, but he didn’t have the courage to do it while she was still so young, and while Francine’s memory was still alive and kicking in their London townhouse.
“Well, it certainly can’t compare to, say, Florance or Angers,” Andrew said, scowling as he considered the view. “But London has a charm of its own. From this distance, it almost seems peaceful, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps if you keep saying that, you will come to believe your lies in time.” David laughed under his breath, slapping his hand on his knee to encourage them back into their ride. “Lor! If I had all the same freedoms as you, I would not spend a moment more in England. When you last left for Italy,” he continued, by which point they had started riding again, “I was halfway convinced that we would never see you again. Imagine my surprise when you turned back up right before Michaelmas!”
“That last trip was hardly conducted for pleasure,” Andrew corrected, not needing to mention that he had gone to Rome to bury his father. David understood, providing him a sympathetic smile. “It was inevitable that I return to England eventually, to care for Mother if nothing else.”
“Her Grace would laugh at that! I know it for fact,” David declared. “The woman is made of steel—made of sterner stuff than the both of us men. She would sooner see the back of you if it meant that you were happy.”
Silence stretched on between them, and David grew concerned. Andrew was quiet at the best of times, but his suggestion seemed to have stirred something more within him, something which, too often, went unuttered between them.
David was right in his assumption. The comment had given Andrew pause. The duke slowed his pace somewhat, staring up at the canopy of branches overhead while Mercury led him in the ride, going at her desired pace. It was not often that Andrew considered his happiness, thinking that it was second to many other things in life, such as health and duty. At any rate, he was not sad. He had thought, perhaps erroneously, that such a state of emotion meant that he was happy. He didn’t want to consider the alternative, shrugging his doubt off in the same way one removed a coat.
The men bridged the silence eventually, completing their ride in the good humor with which it had begun. They rode down to the gates of the park, then raced through London to attend some of the first Parliamentary sessions of the new year.
Andrew, however, continued to mull over David’s words and that view of London, even as he returned home for the evening, many hours later. The sun had set over the town by that point, cloaking London in thick darkness. Andrew paused before a tall window in the primary dining room of Radbourne House, peering into the night with his hands joined behind his back. He rolled back his shoulders, shaking off the stresses of his day in the House of Lords, just as his mother entered the dining room.
He heard her before he saw her. The entrance of Her Grace, Louisa Hamilton, was always preceded by the tapping of a silver-tipped cane. With a familiar clack, clack, clack, she strode into the hall, already sensing that something was amiss from the queer way her son was looking out of the window.
Without calling for him, she was helped into her chair by their butler, an impressive if somewhat stern-faced man by the name of Corbyn, and she took a moment more to observe Andrew.
Even with his back turned to her, Andrew was the picture of his father. He held himself the same way. His hair was the same shade of dark, ashy brown as Barnaby’s had once been, with stormy grey eyes to match. The only difference between them was their preferred level of formality. While Andrew was always dressed for the occasion, a real-life paragon of propriety, her husband had preferred comfort over decorum. Barnaby had often come to the table without his jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pipe hanging from his mouth, with young Andrew trailing in behind him, hands held on his hips and sleeves rolled up too. They would read until the gong sounded—sometimes after it—and delight Louisa with their findings until it was time for Andrew to retire to his bed.
The house had become significantly more quiet since Barnaby’s death a year ago. Louisa swallowed, her throat thick with emotion at the thought, and finally, she turned to call Andrew to the table.
“Forgive me, Mother.” Andrew nodded at Corbyn as his chair was pulled out. “I was lost in thought. You must think me terribly boorish.”
Louisa waved him off, grateful when the soup was served to them. She was always glad to see Andrew eat and eat well. He had been such a sickly babe, and her early maternal worry had never dissipated, forever lodged in her breast, even as she approached her sixties.
“How was your appointment with Doctor Wright?” Andrew asked, spooning soup to his mouth, if only to please his mother. He had already eaten late in the rooms at Parliament, but dinner with his mother was not something to be missed. “Did he mention us driving you up to Harrogate spas again for your hip?”
“Oh, Andrew. You know I despise speaking of my health at the dining table,” she reproached, secretly heartened that her son cared for her so deeply. “I am still alive. For that at least, we must thank the Lord. Tell me instead how you fared this morning. How did the lords of London receive you?”
“They treated me as well as they might condescend to. The effect of my rank, I imagine,” Andrew said, smiling nervously.
While he was fully secure in himself, he had never truly come to terms with his birthright. He treated the dukedom with respect and would have laid down his life for it if asked, but he found it difficult to think of himself as a being of much importance. As far as Andrew was concerned, he was one more cog in the system—determined not to throw everything off course, but nothing more.
“Some of the older lords must have taken a great interest in you,” Louisa said with all the caution that was due to the suggestion. She had been considering Andrew’s new title carefully all afternoon, knowing that the daughtered lords of London would be salivating at the thought of meeting him. A similar excitement stirred in her. “I can picture them warring for your attention.”
“Your vision of Parliament is much more entertaining than the truth.” Andrew had finished half of his soup, and he leaned back in his chair. Corbyn came around immediately with white wine for them, filling Andrew’s glass halfway to the top. Andrew was more than grateful for the drink, given the subject that his mother had chosen to broach. “You should ask me plainly what is whirring around that mind of yours.”
Louisa started, her soup spoon hovering halfway between her bowl and her mouth. She was not sure whether to smile or shake her head, struggling with misplaced pride.
“That sort of behavior does not become a duke,” she said in jest, setting her spoon down. She leaned forward, making sure that Andrew could see the integrity in her gaze. “Alright, my son. I shall speak plainly at your command. There is no better time for us to discuss the future of Radbourne than on this day. You are a newly anointed duke. You are young—”
“Hardly,” Andrew guffawed.
“You are three-and-thirty, not one hundred!” Louisa sighed dramatically, feeling her failing hips quirk in outrage. “All this to say that a man in your position might start to think quite seriously about his lineage. A man in your position,” she repeated, “could choose whichever wife he pleased. With the Season just beginning, the whole of London will have turned its gaze on you.”
“That is not a comforting thought,” Andrew murmured, pinching the stem of his wine glass. He dragged it closer, stopping before he lifted it to his mouth. “My decision is the same as it ever was, Mother. My recent change in station does not change the fact that I have no desire to take a wife, especially if she should be from London. You know how I feel about their sort.”
Andrew watched his mother carefully. He had spoken the truth, but she was not likely to enjoy what he had to say. Louisa’s reaction was mild, tempered not only by her love for Andrew, but by her vivid recollection of his past heartbreaks.
“Their sort is your sort, no matter how much you may wish to draw a line between yourself and the ton,” Louisa argued. She reached out, searching for Andrew’s free hand and finding it on the table. “Not every woman will mistreat your heart. Not every woman in the ton is as callous as you believe them to be.” She paused, debating whether or not it was time to utter the name that had brought her son to ruin. “Not every woman is Evelyn Underhill.”
Andrew’s mind flashed with the memory of Evelyn’s face, and he felt his heart leap into his throat. The image of the viscount’s daughter no longer conjured love in him, filling instead all the recesses of his heart with anxiety and dread. Six years had passed since Andrew had mistakenly declared himself for Evelyn, and still Andrew could not stomach the thought of her. She had taught him a set of valuable lessons, chief of all that he was better off alone.
“Must you really speak her name?” he rasped, imbibing a mouthful of wine. It traced an acrid path down his throat.
“I must, if that is what it takes to reawaken you.” Louisa released her son’s hand, turning back to the repast at hand. The footmen came around to clear their places for the next course, granting her enough time to muster the rest of her courage. “You are free to do as you please, of course, but it is a mother’s right to wish for her son’s happiness—and for a grandchild.”
They were both smiling now, though Andrew refused to meet her gaze. He was clear in his duty, having merely hoped to delay the inevitable for as long as he could.
“I would not even know where to begin,” he drawled jokingly.
Louisa beamed, checking her excitement before it could get the better of her. She placed her pale, elegant hands in her lap, feeling for the first time in a year as though her grief was subsiding to something better.
“That is why I still roam this earth,” Louisa replied. “For I know just the place where we might start…”
“A Widow’s Loving Duke” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!
Countess Josephine Sinclair, once the epitome of success, found herself in a dire predicament. Her husband’s passing and her conniving cousin Reginald’s quest for custody of her son threw her into a turbulent legal dispute. In her unwavering determination to safeguard her family, she reluctantly considers her lawyer’s advice to seek a new spouse. Josephine resolves to shield her heart from love’s entanglements though, until fate introduces her to the Duke of Radbourne, a man whose kindness matches his captivating charm.
Could the Duke of Radbourne be the one to jeopardize her family’s future?
After six years of wandering Europe following a painful romance, Alexander Hamilton’s life takes an unexpected twist. His father’s passing compels him to return to England, reuniting with old friends and foes. As the new Duke, he quickly became the object of desire for matchmaking mothers eager to see their daughters wed to him. To protect his freedom, he strikes a peculiar pact with Josephine, but their agreement to navigate the Season together takes a wonderfully unexpected turn when Alexander falls for the vivacious young widow…
Will he manage to follow his heart despite the heartbreak it carries?
In the midst of a challenging new season, Josephine and Alexander must unite to navigate the trials ahead. Yet, their blossoming connection doesn’t go unnoticed. Josephine captures the interest of a mysterious suitor with hidden intentions, while Alexander’s former love seeks to rekindle their old flame in pursuit of a new title. As Josephine and Alexander’s feelings for each other deepen, their individual struggles converge into an intimidating battle. Can their love conquer everything after all, even the biases that threaten to tear them apart?
“A Widow’s Loving Duke” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.
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