Prologue
If Philip was determined not to become a recluse, a masked ball was precisely what he needed.
It was a blessing and a curse that his hair was the way that it was; a deep auburn, shoulder length, rendering him unmistakably the Duke of Creighton. One look from any member of the ton and it would be evident who he was, and once upon a time he might have enjoyed it. But that time had been and gone, and he wanted more than anything to be unremarkable.
As he fixed his mask in his carriage, his fingertips traced the leathery skin of his cheek. It would have been preferable to him to wear a mask permanently, but his hair aided him in that respect on other occasions.
He shook himself gently, reminding himself that he was the same gentleman that had attended such parties before, and there was no need to be fearful for any reason. He was well-liked, and had been missed a great deal during his absence in society, or so he had been told.
“I would recognize that hair anywhere!” A bright voice came as he approached the front door.
He could not see terribly well in the dark, but there was no mistaking her voice.
“Lady Smythe,” Philip smiled, bowing to his hostess. “How have you been?”
“I ought to ask you that very same question,” she replied gently. “You poor thing, you must have been through such a terrible ordeal.”
“I am perfectly well,” he promised. “And it is my sincere hope that the accident will not be the talk of the ball. All discussions should pertain to you, the lady that has thrown this spectacular event.”
“It is nothing, only a little something to celebrate the beginning of this year’s season. There are many young ladies in attendance tonight. Perhaps it might do you well to speak with a few?”
“I am sworn off ladies,” Philip laughed emptily. “I believe you know why.”
“I do,” Lady Smythe sighed. “Though, if you were to ask my opinion, I would tell you never allow that girl to make you see yourself differently. You are a good man, Your Grace.”
“I try to be,” he nodded. “In any case, it is not a priority of mine for the moment. I only hope to finish recovering, before I reenter society completely.”
“Certainly. Now, I ought to greet my other guests, even if I would love to spend the evening talking to you, and you alone. Enjoy your evening.”
“I aim to,” he smiled.
At least he had an ally there. As he entered the ballroom, the light became brighter, and he was met with one of the most beautiful ballrooms that he had ever seen. Paintings adorned the walls, there were flowers on every pillar, and everything was in some shade of gold or other. It was opulent, perfect, and Philip felt as though he did not quite belong anymore. A scarred gentleman did not fit amid such beauty.
As if on cue, that was when he saw her; the beauty that he could no longer claim.
Ophelia Sutton had not been his choice of a wife. He did not know her at all, but his father was a good friend of her father, and so a deal was made the week she was born. Philip had not minded this; it was not unheard of, after all, though he had wished that he had been told about the matter years ago, rather than it being a brief mention in his father’s will.
Even so, there were worse ladies to be tied together to in marriage, and as much as he did not wish to admit it, he had truly fallen for her during their time together. She was a young lady of many talents, and she was known for her beauty. Her hairwas deep brown, and her eyes were the color of brandy. What more could a gentleman want than to look into his wife’s eyes and see his favorite drink?
A wife that wouldn’t leave after he was in a horrific accident, one might suppose. In sickness and in health was how a marriage was supposed to be, and Philip was at least grateful to discover that she had no such intentions before the wedding.
That did not, however, make it any easier to see her fluttering around other gentlemen, batting her eyelashes demurely at them while sweeping her fan across her bosom. She was free to find any man she pleased, and it was evident that that was what she was going to do, whether he was there to see it or not.
Philip wasn’t quick to feel anger, or jealousy, and certainly not hatred, but in that moment, it was all he could feel. Ophelia had a right to flirt with whom she chose, now that they were no longer betrothed, but it did not make it any less painful.
It was supposed to be his reintroduction to society, but Philip no longer wished to be there at all. He could not endure watching the lady he once loved, all season, getting everything that she wanted. Not after destroying him the way she had. There would be no proving himself to be above it all, because he was not. He was hurt, and he wanted to leave.
The cold night air felt good against his skin, but it did not aid in calming his breathing. His clothing felt tight, even though itfit him perfectly, and he felt as though he might collapse at any moment. It did not help that he was once more in darkness, and so he was stumbling away from the household in a vain attempt to locate his carriage. He gave in, making his way back and leaning against a wall, looking at the stars.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
Philip shirked from the voice, even though it had been a calm one. He turned to where it had come from, only to see a small figure in pale blue, her skin even paler. She turned to him just as he jolted, and quickly took his hands in hers, quietening him.
“It’s all right,” she said gently. “Follow me.”
And perhaps it was, because as he was utterly disoriented, he did so. Soon enough, she had guided him to a bench a short way from the rest of the party, and the two were sitting together, one of his hands not leaving one of hers.
She slid her other hand around his back in circles, gently rubbing it. It was soothing him a lot, as was her voice.
