CHAPTER ONE
London, 1878
She’d been born nameless and left in the care of a childless minister and his wife.As far as she knew, her birth was unregistered.She never existed in the eyes of the law.
Aurelia Goldsworthy had chosen her name when she was six years old because she thought it sounded pretty.It was a silly, impractical moniker for a grown-up—wholly inappropriate for a duchess.
Of course, she hadn’t known that she was destined to be a duchess back then.Aurelia had first learned of her fate when she was sixteen.She’d been a student at Cheltenham when the letter arrived explaining that she’d been selected by the Duchess of Brantingham to be the wife of her son, the new duke.
For five years, she’d received a Christmas card from His Grace, as well as a small present on her birthday—last year, it was a silver charm, which she wore on a chain around her neck.This year, it had been a gold ring.A betrothal ring.
Aurelia had come of age and grown tired of waiting.She decided to travel to London and meet the man she was meant to marry.To begin her life, manage her own home, have a family, and make friends.She longed to learn of her parentage, which must have been respectable, as no expense had been spared on her wardrobe or education.
She was perfectly prepared for her arrival in London.Aurelia stepped off the train at Paddington Station with her head held high, determined to grab her destiny by the horns.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she hailed a hansom cab.Aurelia gave directions to the driver and climbed onto the stiff bench seat, trusting that her luggage would follow.She marveled at the crush of traffic, a writhing, teeming mass of wagons and drays, carriages and carts, horses and pedestrians—like a swirling murmuration of starlings on the cobblestones.
Their bustle was spellbinding.
On all sides, tall buildings comprised of offices and residences nearly blocked out the sun.Evergreen wreaths hung on doors.Holly and ivy crowned the lamp posts.Swags of bunting festooned the doorways.
Aurelia admired the Christmas decorations as her cab navigated the streets.London’s ornamentations were far grander than those she’d known in Cheltenham, yet comfortingly familiar.
Everyone came together at Christmas regardless of birth or social standing, of wealth or poverty, to celebrate the festive season.Even her driver wore a sprig of greenery in his buttonhole, and the man’s cheerful smile behind the reins warmed her heart.
He steered the cab along Park Lane, where grand mansions lined the pavements.Their windows—row after row of pristine glass—winked in the afternoon light.Dozens of chimneys heated hundreds of rooms, and the smoke from their hearths drifted over the barren treetops of Hyde Park.
Aurelia sat forward in her seat to take it all in.Beautiful women promenaded with handsomely dressed gentlemen.Nannies pushed perambulators and footmen walked dogs.Fine horses clipped across the cobbled street, destined for exercise in Rotten Row.
She’d read of all these places.In her Gladstone bag, Aurelia carried the Christmas annual edition of‘Belgravia: An Illustrated London Magazine’featuring serialized stories by many popular authors.She’d pored over Debrett’s and exhausted her local library’s resources on London life, the history of the peerage, and anything concerning the Dukes of Brantingham.
She recognized his townhouse before the hansom cab reached the kerb.Brantingham House was the Mayfair home of the Charlton family since the reign of George III.It was a wide, four-storey mansion constructed of white Portland stone.A columned portico sat back from the busy street, separated from the pavements by a gold-tipped wrought-iron railing.
“I’ll drop you here, miss, if you don’t mind.”
The horse pulled to a stop, jangling its traces.Aurelia climbed from the bench, dragging her hand luggage with her.She fished for her purse to pay the fellow, and then turned to face her future home.
Its white façade was spotless despite the soot and dirt of city living.Rows of Corinthian columns gave the house an elegant air, but flower boxes—dormant in winter—lent it an expectant, homely feel, as though there was life behind those granite walls just waiting to be opened up, waiting forher.
Aurelia passed through the gate piers.She climbed the steps toward the door, sheltering beneath the portico as she rang the bell.The day had grown chilly, and she shivered in the shadow of the grand house.
After a moment, the front door creaked open.A butler met her on the threshold, looking down his nose at her.“Yes, miss?”
She smiled her brightest smile, for he would be her first ally in the household.“Good afternoon.I am Miss Goldsworthy here to see the Duke of Brantingham.”
The man said nothing.He gave away nothing.Perhaps he was new and uninformed.After a moment of painful silence, he asked, “May I enquire as to your business with His Grace?”
“I am his fiancée,” Aurelia clarified.“We’ve been betrothed for some time.I did write to inform him of my visit—I wouldn’t have turned up completely unannounced, but as I’ve never received a reply to any of my letters over the years, his lack of response was not out of the ordinary.”When the butler attempted to speak, she silenced him, adding, “I know His Grace is at home, as the Charlton family always spends Christmas in London.”
“Very well, miss.”He stepped aside to show her in.“If you will kindly wait in the hall, I shall determine whether His Grace is free to receive callers.”
At last, some sense from the man!She hauled her Gladstone bags over the threshold and placed them by the door.“Will someone see to my trunks?They should be arriving from Paddington Station at any moment, and I’d hate for them to be left on the kerb.”
“All will be arranged, Miss Goldsworthy,” said the butler, bowing.“His Grace will handle it personally, I am sure.”
Satisfied, Aurelia waited in the entrance hall.It was a luxuriant space designed to impress visitors fortunate enough to gain entry to Brantingham House.Gaslight hissed and flickered from chandeliers overhead, as well as from ormolu candle-sconces upon the walls.Lush, green ferns grew in priceless Chinese pots, their fronds standing nearly as tall as she did.
Her footsteps echoed on the marble floor as she walked the perimeter of the space.A long gallery led to a stairway where gilt-framed artwork hung upon the silk-paneled walls.Aurelia had never seen anything so extravagant, sowealthy.Paintings by Rembrandt, Caravaggio, Turner, and Reynolds were recognizable alongside portraits by artists whose identities she daredn’t guess.
