The carriage made the turn that Persephone remembered well from her arrival that morning. The woods suddenly gave way to a clearing. In the midst of the clearing was a thick, embattled stone wall, at least ten feet high with an enormous iron gate. Behind the fortified wall lay a castle, the kind children saw in fairy-tale picture books: towers with heraldic flags ruffling in the cool breeze, turrets and arrow-slits now filled in with stained-glass windows.
Once inside the outer wall, they continued past the stables and kitchen gardens. They pulled further in under the arching gateway of the inner wall and past the formal gardens.
And I am now mistress of all this,
Persephone thought in astonishment. Her amazement gave way quickly to apprehension as the open landau came to a stop directly in front of the home that was now her own.
“Fourteenth or fifteenth century,” Papa had said that morning as Persephone and her sisters had stared, openmouthed, at the towering walls. Persephone hadn’t really heard Papa’s explanation of how he’d determined the castle’s age. She had simply stared, as she was doing just then.
The castle’s four outer towers loomed large over her, connected to each other and the keep—the central wing—of the castle by narrow passageways elevated several stories above the ground, supported by stone arches. It was intimidating, daunting, and far more than she’d bargained for.
A footman in red and gold livery, the same colors seen in the flags, met the carriage and let down the step. The duke stepped down first, turning slightly back toward her. He kept the scarred half of his face turned the other way, Persephone noticed.
The duke extended his hand to her. With a nervous glance at the row of pristinely turned-out servants and another at the overwhelming residence spread out before her, Persephone swallowed back her apprehension and placed her hand, noticing it shook a little, in the duke’s. He helped her down, never looking at her but keeping his face turned away.
This is never going to work,
Persephone said to herself. She’d never been mistress of anything but her family home, and it wouldn’t have even remotely filled a single story of any of the castle towers. She was not cut out for the life she’d just thrust upon herself.
The duke slipped her arm through his and walked, all dignity and aristocratic assurance, toward the castle. Persephone looked up at him, hoping for some tiny show of reassurance. She saw his eyes flick toward her briefly before settling straight ahead.
“‘Adam’ will be fine,” the Duke said, still looking ahead. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Persephone.”
Not exactly a fairy-tale beginning, but it was all she had.
Chapter Four
“What did you do to Jones?” Harry asked, watching the coward’s head-hanging retreat from the book room.
“I fired him,” Adam said.
“Again?”
Adam didn’t answer but kept his eyes firmly fixed on the roaring fire from his preferred armchair nearby.
“How many times have you fired the poor man?” Harry dropped into the chair opposite Adam’s. He always made himself perfectly at home in Adam’s book room, a presumption that drove Adam absolutely crazy.
Adam shrugged. “Six. Seven. And every time he sulks away like a lily-livered coward.”
“You didn’t pull a pistol on him this time, did you?”
“I have never pulled a pistol on Josiah Jones,” Adam insisted curtly. Harry looked doubtful. “I may have held an épée to his throat once or twice, but he was never in any real danger.”
“Did
he
know that?” Harry asked with a raise of his eyebrow.
“The man may have been operating under a false assumption.” Adam leaned his head back casually, crossing his booted feet where they rested on a footstool. “Can’t imagine why.”
“Perhaps it has something to do with your less-than-pristine reputation, Adam. Rumor has it you’ve run through a few men in your time.”
“Rumor has it I’ve done quite a few things.” Adam rolled his eyes.
“Fought a duel on the floor of the House of Lords, for example,” Harry said.
“Ridiculous.”
“Shot the pistol out of a man’s hands in a duel, without so much as winging him,” Harry continued.
Adam nodded. “Twice.”
“Bested Gentleman Jackson.”
Adam smiled at the memory.
That
had been extremely gratifying.
“Bloodied Poisenby’s nose at a ball.” Harry was smiling. He’d been there for that now-famous occurrence.
“
Broke
his nose,” Adam amended.
“Walked out of Lords in the middle of a speech by Addington.”
“The man was being obtuse,” Adam said.
“He was the prime minister,” Harry pointed out.
Adam just shrugged. The papers had spoken of little else for several weeks after his abrupt departure from the House of Lords that day. But he’d made his point.
“And you wonder why Jones thinks the worst whenever you’re angry with him,” Harry said with an ironic twist to his mouth.
“He’ll recover.”
“I hate to even ask,” Harry prefaced.
“Then don’t,” Adam answered.
Harry, as usual, ignored him. “Why did you let the man go this time?”
“He has apparently lost his mind.”
“How so?”
“Why are you so deuced curious?”
“You provide me with constant puzzles,” Harry answered. “What, precisely, has caused you to question your man of business’s mental capacity?”
“He gave me some advice—”
“Ah.” Harry shook his head.
“—that proved remarkably stupid,” Adam finished.
“As stupid as sitting up in one’s book room with one’s friend on one’s wedding night?” An ironic twinkle lit Harry’s eyes. “Because that, Adam, is a level of idiocy far and above ordinary stupidity.”
Adam clamped his jaw shut. He would spend his wedding night wherever he chose. “I stood through the wedding, endured the wedding breakfast, and spent an interminable dinner with my flock of new sisters-in-law.”
“Did they stare at you?” Harry asked, unaffected by the cold glare Adam skewered him with. “It would be understandable, you know. Not having been warned.”
“I ought to have written, then?” Adam didn’t hold back the sarcasm in his tone. “I suppose I should have included a postscript with the proposal. ‘By the way, I have a mutilated face that you will be forced to see day in and day out for the rest of your life. Hope that’s not a problem.’”
“Perhaps not those precise words.” Harry had the audacity to sound on the verge of laughing. “I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘I should mention that I am often cranky and will probably bite your head off at every little thing. And it would be best if you came to Falstone a day or so ahead of time so you can get a good look at me before making any of this irrevocable.’ That would have been a good idea, you know.”
“Should I have posed for a miniature, do you think?”
Harry nodded. “Full right profile. And you should have made a list of all the rumors circulating about you, indicating those that were true, those that were exaggerations of the truth, those which were untrue but plausible, and those which were completely absurd.”
Adam allowed his lips to turn up ever so slightly. “There are few rumors that would be considered completely absurd.”
“She ought to have known that ahead of time.” Harry sounded almost scolding. “’Twould have been only fair.”
“She wasn’t exactly forthcoming, either, I will have you know.”
“Forgot to mention something important?” Harry asked. “Like another husband, perhaps? A third limb?”
“Her name is Persephone.” Adam gave the revelation all the emphasis it deserved. Much to his satisfaction, Harry looked taken aback. “A man ought to know a thing like that about his future wife. Persephone
Iphigenia
. What a bloody ridiculous thing to name a child.”
“So you are spending your wedding night in a chair in your book room because your new wife’s parents had a rather classical taste in names?” Harry shook his head in disbelief. “I’m beginning to think Addington isn’t the only obtuse gentleman in England.”
Adam didn’t care for the insinuation. “My pistols are kept in this room, you know.”
“Do I look worried?” was the flippant response.
Harry never was appropriately subdued by Adam’s threats. Infuriating man.
“I had a chance to speak briefly with your new bride, Adam. She was delightful. Perhaps a little quiet, but that is to be expected considering the upheaval in her life lately. I’ll confess I had expected someone rather long in the tooth, rather long in the face, in all honesty.”
“So did I,” Adam grumbled.
“But she’s a fetching thing,” Harry continued. “Young and quite pretty—” Harry stopped abruptly. He gave Adam a searching look. Adam glared back, daring Harry to make some philosophical remark or assessment. Harry, as always, did just that. “You expected someone desperate and ugly and undesirable. Instead, your bride turned out to be a vast deal more than passable.” Harry shook his head. “Not quite what you bargained for, I’d guess.”
Adam turned his gaze to the fire and kept his jaw firmly clamped. He would not honor that assessment with a response. His marriage was no one’s business but his own.
“So, because she is young and fine looking and appears to be good natured, the poor girl is upstairs, alone, probably wondering what she’s done wrong, and you are down here brooding. Adam, you are completely bacon-brained.”
“I should call you out for that.”
“Do,” Harry answered. “But not tonight. I’m tired.” Harry rose to his feet. “Call me out tomorrow, would you? I’ll most likely pick pistols, by the way. I’d like to see that shoot-the-weapon-out-of-my-hand trick I’ve heard so much about.”
“I ought to lock you in the dungeon,” Adam muttered as Harry made to leave.
“You should,” Harry agreed, walking to the door. “No point having a dungeon if no one is ever consigned to suffer in it.”
“Pack your things and take yourself off at first light.” Adam’s demand emerged half-hearted.
“Am I supposed to walk out of here stooped and defeated now?” Harry turned back to face Adam from his position at the threshold. “I don’t think I would play that role nearly as well as Jones.”
“Don’t mock me.”
Harry smiled. “‘Night, Adam.”
“‘Night.”
Presumptuous lout.
“And Adam?”
“What?” he snapped.
“Give the poor girl a chance,” Harry said. “Ain’t her fault you ended up with every man’s idea of a perfect wife. She could probably even manage to be a nag if you asked her.”
So Adam threw a book at him.
Harry’s laughter echoed in the empty corridor as he made his way toward the room he always occupied when he visited.
“I don’t know why I keep inviting him back,” Adam mumbled.
Harry had an annoying habit of interfering in Adam’s life. He never found Adam remotely off-putting and always laughed off every threat Adam made against his person. Furthermore, he was precisely the sort of gentleman Adam generally avoided: easy in society, handsome, self-assured. If he’d been an idiot into the bargain, Adam would have despised him. As it was, Adam wasn’t entirely sure why he
didn’t
dislike him.
He’d hit a nerve that night, however. Adam found himself thinking of Persephone—
ridiculous name.
She probably was wondering where Adam was. Though, more likely than not, she would be grateful to be spared the sight of him. He certainly had no intention of inflicting himself on her.
Adam pulled himself up out of his chair. He was tired, he had to admit. And spending the night sleeping in his chair, as comfortable as it was, did not appeal to him. He walked quietly from the book room, up a flight of stairs, passing tapestries and arms and tables holding mementos passed down by generations of Boyces.
He dismissed his valet on the spot, preferring to divest himself of his wedding clothes on his own. He was finding the attire almost suffocating at the moment.
Jones ought to have known better, he thought for the hundredth time that day. Adam had been very specific in his requirements. Someone who needed his money. Someone with no other prospects. Someone who would be grateful for even a hideous husband.
Jones had chosen Persephone Iphigenia Lancaster.
Adam muttered a curse. So much for thwarting Mr. Gordon Hewitt. A young, pretty wife would want nothing to do with Adam.
Adam’s eyes wandered, of their own volition, to the door connecting his bedchamber with the new duchess’s.
It sounds like I’m accusing you of a crime.
Adam nearly smiled at the memory of her words. He’d known immediately what she’d meant: killed her. The name did sound that way, though no one had ever said so before.
She was intelligent, on top of it all. Intelligent and witty and beautiful. And they were stuck with each other.
Chapter Five
“I do not want to go!”
Persephone recognized Artemis’s anguished voice, and her heart hurt at the sound. She turned toward the enormous wooden doors of Falstone Castle, where Athena was attempting to strong-arm their youngest sister into stepping outside and into the waiting carriage.
“Let me speak with her.” Persephone took Athena’s place beside Artemis. She took the girl’s tiny, eight-year-old hand in hers. “Let’s walk for a minute or two.”
Artemis nodded, and Persephone led her down the stone steps to the gravel drive. Papa seemed to understand and told the driver to wait for a bit. Persephone and Artemis stepped off the drive and onto the grass that surrounded the closest of the formal gardens. When they were far enough from the carriage to not be seen, Persephone knelt on the ground, heedless of the damage she was no doubt doing to one of the dresses provided for her by her husband, and faced Artemis directly.
“Oh, my dear girl.” She touched Artemis’s face. “You’re crying.”
“He cannot make you stay here!” Artemis threw her arms around Persephone’s neck.
By “he,” Artemis certainly meant Adam. It must have been unfathomable to such a young child to have a sister, who had been more of a mother to her, leave their family home for good. A painful lump seemed to suddenly form in Persephone’s throat. She hugged the girl back, squeezing perhaps tighter than she ought to have.
“No one is making me stay here, dearest.” Persephone forced her voice to not waver or break. “Falstone Castle is my home now. But I shall send you letters, perhaps with a guinea under the seal.” The bribe didn’t loosen Artemis’s embrace. “And you and I shall visit back and forth. You could come here and we could explore the castle together.”
“
He
won’t let me,” Artemis answered petulantly.
“Of course he will, and we will have grand adventures. Perhaps there is a tower room where we could imagine all sorts of wonderful stories, the way we always did at home.”
“Promise?” Artemis asked with a hiccup.
“I promise.”
“Who will take care of me when you’re gone?” Artemis stepped back a little and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Papa will engage a governess for both you and Daphne, I imagine.” Persephone tried to sound encouraging. Papa could afford a governess now, and Persephone hoped he would remember that one was needed. “And a companion for Athena when you are all in Town.”
“Will you visit us there?”
“Of course.”
The slightest rustling sound drew her attention a little behind Artemis. Adam stood there, watching, with a look of contemplation, mingled with the wearied impatience she’d seen on his face most of the day before. Persephone forced herself to concentrate on Artemis, knowing the girl needed reassurance.
“Persephone?” Artemis asked with a sniffle.
“Yes, my dear?”
Artemis reached out and touched Persephone’s cheek, a gesture she’d employed almost from infancy, as if she needed the human contact. “Who will take care of you?”
The lump in her throat increased tenfold, and tears suddenly pricked at her eyes. Persephone pulled Artemis back into the circle of her arms and hugged her once more.
“Will you be happy even though we are gone?” Artemis asked, her head resting against Persephone’s shoulder.
“When have you known me to be
un
happy?” Persephone answered.
That gained her an extra squeeze from her sister. “Then I will be happy, too,” Artemis declared in a voice of determination. She pulled away from Persephone, with a look on her face that was so fierce it was comical. “But if I don’t leave now, I will cry again, and I do not want to cry anymore.”
“Let us promise each other not to cry,” Persephone suggested.
Artemis nodded then bit down on her still-quivering lip.
“I will see you soon,” Persephone said. “Be good for Papa.”
“I will,” Artemis promised.
“I love you, dearest.”
“I love you, too, Persephone,” Artemis answered, a betraying quaver in her voice. “You’re the . . . b-best mama I ever had.”
She wrapped her arms around Persephone’s neck once more before abruptly pulling away and running back to the waiting carriage. Persephone stood and walked slowly back in the same direction. She stood on the edge of the lawn and waved as her family disappeared under the arch of the inner wall. Only after she was certain they were out of sight did Persephone allow a tear to slide down her cheek, followed by another.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to cry,” came a male voice from not very far behind her.
Persephone had all but forgotten about Adam in her distress over Artemis.
“Artemis is crying as well, I guarantee it.” Persephone wiped the two trickles of moisture from her eyes.
“Then why make the promise?” From the sound of Adam’s voice, Persephone would guess he was rolling his eyes, though she didn’t look back at him.
“To lessen her pain,” Persephone replied. “If my sister knew I was crying, it would break her heart.”
“But you know
she
is crying,” Adam pointed out, still remaining behind her. Persephone couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a conversation with someone from that position.
“I know her better than she knows me.”
“Ah, yes. The best mama she ever had.”
Now why had Artemis gone and said that? She could have borne almost anything other than the reminder that she was to be separated from the girl whom she thought of as her own child. Persephone had raised her from the day she was born. They had never been separated.
The enormity of what she’d done by accepting Adam’s proposal suddenly hit her. She’d done this, almost exclusively, for the benefit of her family. But she hadn’t truly understood that in doing so, she would have to let go of them. She was leaving Artemis.
Tears streamed at an alarming rate down her face. “I’ve lost my baby,” she cried in an anguished whisper.
Persephone knew she’d be sobbing in a moment’s time if she didn’t wrest control of her emotions. She could never do that unless she had a moment alone, away from the sight of the now empty archway and carriage drive.
She turned back toward Adam, to offer her excuses, to beg his pardon before fleeing. But he was gone. In her distress she hadn’t heard him go. And he hadn’t said a word before departing.
Her throat constricted against the sob forcing its way out. Desperate not to disgrace herself in front of any of the staff who seemed to constantly be coming and going outside the castle but knowing she’d never get to her room in time—she had difficulty finding it still—Persephone ran as swiftly as her feet would carry her through the break in the hedgerow and into the first of the formal gardens.
She ran quickly, taking turns at random and working her way deeper, behind bushes and hedges, until her lungs and feet would not carry her further. In a small outcropping, surrounded by bushes she imagined would be filled with blooms come spring, she found a small stone seat. Persephone sat, lowered her face into her hands, and did something she hadn’t done since her mother’s death. She wept with such force that she was certain her heart would break with the effort.
* * *
For a moment after she awoke, Persephone had no idea where she was. She forced her eyes open despite the burning. Hedges and plants surrounded the stone seat she was curled upon. And she was chilly.
Flashes of memory bombarded her hazy mind as she pieced together the morning. Her family had left. She had fled to the garden for refuge.
I must have fallen asleep,
Persephone thought to herself. Her joints protested as she uncurled. She was tempted to close her eyes again; they stung and throbbed, as did her head. She had forgotten how miserable one could feel after an elongated bout of tears.
Persephone took a deep breath, wrapping her arms around herself against the slight chill seeping through even her pelisse. She must have been more tired than she realized to have fallen asleep on a stone seat. Of course, she hadn’t slept much of late, especially the night before.
She’d waited up for Adam, it being their wedding night. Hours had passed, and he’d never come. Not even to bid her good night. She’d thought he would, at least, do that.
She’d sat up until the clock in her sitting room had chimed one in the morning. Light had flickered under the door that led to Adam’s bedchamber. Still she’d waited. The light was eventually extinguished, and silence descended on the house. She sat at her window, watching the door. As the clock had struck two, she’d climbed into bed feeling completely rejected and utterly alone.
“You are no quitter, Persephone Iphigenia La— Boyce,” she told herself. “This simply needs time.” Squaring her shoulders, Persephone rose, trying to ignore the pounding in her head. “And no more tears,” she instructed herself.
Persephone had ever been the optimist in her family. Every situation had a glimmer of hope, she’d discovered early in her life. They’d lost Mother but had gained Artemis. The boys had left for the sea but had become strong and sure—more so than they would have had they remained at home. She was married to a perfect stranger who seemed to want nothing to do with her, but . . . but . . . But, she told herself sternly, she had a home to call her own and the hope that he would turn out to be a friend, at least, and perhaps, eventually a good husband.
Rising with what dignity her stiff joints would allow, Persephone shook out her skirts, grimacing at the havoc she’d wreaked on her appearance. She shook her head at herself. “And I wonder why my husband has no interest in my company.” More attention to her appearance, an attempt to be attractive, couldn’t hurt matters.
Persephone moved along the garden trail, her mind clamped onto that train of thought. What else might she do to improve her situation? She couldn’t come to know Adam if they never spoke to one another. Adam certainly hadn’t made any attempts. Persephone had never been terribly bold, but she did know how to hold up her end of a conversation.
After several minutes of walking, and a few wrong turns, Persephone finally reached the garden entrance. She’d been asleep longer than she’d realized. The sky had already dimmed with approaching dusk, and the air had grown colder.
Conscious of her rumpled appearance, Persephone walked up the stone steps to the front door of Falstone Castle. The door opened at her approach.
“Your Grace,” Barton the butler said, his face not revealing even the slightest surprise at her appearance.
“Thank you, Barton,” Persephone answered with a faint smile, too exhausted for enthusiasm.
She crossed the spacious entry hall, still awed by the scale of everything. “I will never fit here,” she thought morosely.
What had happened to the determined duchess she’d momentarily been in the gardens? Weariness, it seemed, had robbed her of her resolve. Her head throbbed with every step she took, her eyes burned anew, and her legs were ready to drop out from under her.
Persephone began to climb the wide stairs, determined to lie down at least for a few minutes. At the first-floor landing, she came face-to-face with Adam’s mother.
“Good eve—” the dowager duchess’s greeting ended abruptly. “Are you feeling well, child?”
“I am a little tired.”
“Of course, you are,” she answered empathetically. “You had a long and tiring day yesterday.”
Persephone nodded.
“Do not fret yourself over dinner, dear,” the dowager instructed. “I shall have a tray sent to your room. You rest.”
“Thank you.” With a wan smile, she stepped past her mother-in-law.
She only had to backtrack once before finding her room. She didn’t even bother ringing for a maid to help her undress but dropped onto her bed fully clothed.
The tears threatened to spill again, but Persephone forced them back. She was done crying. After a night’s rest she would face the future.