London, April 1824
Henry Livingstone, the Marquess of Heartford, couldn’t breathe. The smoke felt as thick as mud to his needy lungs. Every inhale induced a hard cough, threatening to dispel the contents of his stomach. The pain in his hands was nearly unbearable, but he couldn’t stop digging. He had to reach Amelia; she was his sister after all. He had failed her in every other aspect as a brother. He couldn’t fail her in this.
Henry couldn’t let her die in a brutal fire, alone. So, he urged his tired, weary body to move faster, dig harder, but nothing was helping him achieve his goal of saving her.
The ceiling fell around him, falling on his right shoulder and causing him to scream out in pain. Henry never stopped digging, pushing through it. The heat of each rock that passed through his aching flesh scorched his palms and the back of his hands.
“Henry, help me!” Amelia’s voice was agony to his ears, causing him to move as fast as his pained hands and body would allow him.
“Amelia! I’m coming!” he yelled, frantically digging with every ounce of strength he had.
“Henry,” she called out for him, her voice fading away in the chaos of the fire and smoke.
His hands moved faster, grasping debris and throwing it out of his way. Henry was a man possessed, determined to reach her. She was his sister, his flesh and blood.
He had to save her.
He was suffocating. Nothing would bring him relief from the heavy cloud of smoke. He struggled not to run and abandon her like so many others had in her life—their father, her mother, her other brother, and himself. Henry wouldn’t leave her in this burning home to perish. Amelia deserved to live, Emily needed her mother, he needed his sister. Henry wanted more time with her. They had just become acquainted with each other … and now, he would lose her.
“Heartford, it’s blocked!” Karrington grabbed at him, trying to halt his movements, but Henry wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.
Strong arms grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to pull him away, but he fought with all of his strength.
“No! I can’t leave her!” He rushed back to his task of clearing the main stairway, but then was suddenly wrenched away by Karrington.
He struggled against his friend as the townhome began to quake and debris fell all around them. He had to save his sister, he owed her that much.
“Henry!” Amelia yelled as she appeared. Her pale hands reached for him. Her eyes were dark and haunting as she stared into the very depths of his soul.
Grief and agony filled him. He fought against the vice-like grip of his friend who dragged him away kicking and screaming. Henry tried to stand on his feet, but he couldn’t.
The cool breeze outside the kitchen door slightly relieved the suffocation in his lungs. His body craved the comfort the fresh air would give him, but he couldn’t leave her. Damn it, he wouldn’t. He fought with all his power against Karrington’s steel-like hold. Suddenly, Amelia vanished and, in her place, stood a brown-haired beauty—Julia St. John.
“Henry, come back to me. Come back.”
Henry bolted upright, his heart beating wildly in his chest, his night clothes soaked through with sweat. He panted for air, deliriously looking around at his surroundings.
It wasn’t real. It was just a dream.
Air rushed out of his lungs, his mind clearing of the debilitating dream. He repeated the mantra from the past three years over and over in his mind.It’s not real.It’s not real.
He covered his face with his hands. He had thought he’d mastered the dream after all this time, but still, it frequented his mind. It was as if his subconscious knew that he had returned to London.
Bending over, he stared at his hands and they were the hands of a stranger. The skin of his fingers was disfigured and burned. He hated the very sight of his own flesh. The shriveled, scarred skin was a visual reminder of his failure to save his sister. Shame rose in his throat like bile, the taste permeating his mouth. His only comfort was that the rest of his injuries were hidden away where no one could see the proof of his humiliation. His right shoulder and arm were slightly marred with burns from the fire, from the day that changed his life forever.
Over the years, Henry found the situation that led to his sister’s death rather ironic. Amelia was the baseborn daughter of Henry’s father and the Duchess of St. Clara. Because Amelia loathed the way she was treated, it shocked Henry that she had conceived an illegitimate child by his childhood friend, the Earl of Windchester. In response, his former wife and her lover had kidnapped Amelia and Lady Olivia St. John, now the Duchess of Karrington. The wretched fiends had left them to perish in the fire along with Amelia’s sleeping infant daughter, Emily. It was an absolute miracle that Lady Olivia and little Emily escaped with their lives.
Henry sighed, his body feeling heavy with grief and pain. The memories of the fire were as fresh as morning dew. Amelia’s death was his fault. The fact that she’d never see her daughter again weighed heavily on his soul, like he was a general who had led his soldiers to their doom.
Three years ago, Henry didn’t have a care in the world. He was young, handsome, rich, and marrying the lady of his dreams, until that one single day altered his life irrevocably.
She had nearly been his, and God did he love her. When he closed his eyes, he could feel their innocent kisses grow into passionate fervor. She turned him into a green boy with just a look.
Bloody hell, he adored their time together, whispering like they had a great secret to share, and the stolen kisses in the St. John’s parlor. He loved her imperfections. She was often blunt, never cared for propriety, and was breathtakingly beautiful. The loveliest woman he had ever set his eyes upon.
Julia St. John.
Until the day of the fire, he had it all.
