Prologue
London
1854
The pain came swift and hard.
Ettie Trewlove gasped, pressed a hand to her swollen belly, and dropped the ladle filled with soup. It hit the scarred oak table, splattering her eldest as he held his bowl out toward her. It wasn’t the first contraction to hit her. They’d been coming all day, but this one was definitely the sharpest, and she felt the wetness rolling down her legs. “Mick, go fetch Mrs. Winters. Quickly now.”
The lad who’d been delivered to her in the dead of night fourteen years earlier didn’t hesitate to dash out the door to search for the midwife. Her other darlings—three boys and a girl—stared at her with large eyes as round as saucers. She gave them a reassuring smile. “You’re going to have to fill your own bowls. Have your dinner in the garden. Stay there until I come for you.”
Slowly she made her way to her small bedchamber. As she began unbuttoning her bodice, she became aware of the quiet footsteps. Glancing over her shoulder, she beamed encouragingly at her daughter. “Off with you now, Gillie. Do as you were told.”
“I’m stayin’.” Her lips pressed in a mulish expression, she marched over to the wardrobe. It had been nearly thirteen years since, wrapped only in a blanket, she’d been left in a wicker basket on Ettie’s stoop. But then all of her children had been brought to her door, one way or another. Gillie took out a nightdress and held it toward her.
Ettie sighed with resignation because her daughter was the most stubborn of the lot. “Until Mrs. Winters gets here.”
By the time Mick returned, breathless and flushed, she was in her nightdress, tucked into bed, having suffered through two more contractions without screaming, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold her tongue.
“She’s off deliverin’ another babe,” Mick announced with such solemnity he might as well have pronounced the midwife dead.
“Well, then.” Ettie tossed back the covers. “I’d best boil some water.”
“We’ll do it.” The stoic set of Gillie’s mouth didn’t hide the fear in her eyes.
“I can handle it, love.”
“Just tell us wot to do, Mum.”
And so she did. And four hours later, within her arms, she cradled the most beautiful babe upon whom she’d ever set eyes. Skimming her fingers lightly over the dark hair, with sorrow, she reminisced briefly about the two babes she’d given her husband, and the sweet joy they’d brought with their arrival. But then Michael had died, and shortly thereafter, so had her little ones. She’d begun taking in by-blows as a way to earn a few coins. Now she had one of her own.
“Wot ye goin’ to name ’er?” Gillie asked.
“Fancy. Because one day she will not live in the squalor her mum did. But she will marry a fancy man, live in a fancy house, and enjoy a fancy life.” She smiled warmly at the five children surrounding her. “You’ll all have fancy lives.”
Chapter 1
London
1873
A man’s life was bookended by two events: the day he was born and the day he went toes up. Interspersed throughout were other critical moments, but for the Earl of Rosemont, only three were of any consequence: the day he wed, the night his wife died, and the morning she rose from the grave to wreak havoc on his life.
Sitting at the desk in his library, opening the newspaper his butler had dutifully ironed, he once more read the letter that had ruined his appetite at breakfast three days earlier.
To the noble ladies of London:
It is with unheralded sorrow tempered by a great deal of hope that I pen this letter. The very fact that you, gentle ladies, are reading it today signals that it has been one year exactly since my passing. We all know gentlemen seldom observe the full mourning period of two years while women always have the more dedicated hearts and adhere more fervently to Society’s strictures.
I, for one, am glad we allow such leniency toward men as I want my darling Rosemont to be saddened and without the comfort of a woman for as short a time as possible. To that end, dear ladies, I call upon you to hasten the close of his period of sorrow and bring forth his smile.
For you see, it was his smile that first drew me toward him.
It was ever so slow in coming, but when it did arrive, it fairly took my breath and softened the countenance of a man whose pride sometimes has the better of him. He is not an easy man to love and yet love him I did for I saw a side to him that few witnessed.
He has brushed my hair, rubbed my feet, and not only read me poetry with animated passion but written it as well. Ah, dear ladies, his voice is a soothing baritone, his features most comely, and his shoulder incredibly comforting when I required a haven to absorb my tears. His eye never wandered... well, except toward sweet shops. He does so enjoy his lemon balls.
In spite of my flaws, he remained the most loyal and steadfast of husbands. Win his heart and find yourself falling into a lifetime of happiness.
