ChapterOne
"Evil appears as good in the minds of those whom God leads to destruction." - Sophocles’ Antigone
“Less than a mile to go, Horace,” the Duke of Hurtheven gently urged his hired horse further up the path to his friend Ashbey’s seat. The horse neighed in protest but then yielded to the duke’s will. Most things did...eventually.
The duke understood the horse’s reluctance. He, too, was road-weary, with quavering thighs and joints pulsing with pain, and the path he’d chosen—the more direct, but ancient entry—was less easy to navigate than Wisterley Castle’s newer, Repton-designed drive. But a promised visit was a promised visit, especially to his godchildren.
He intended to deliver.
As he advanced through weeds left to wild à la the picturesque, the castle’s stone tower rose menacingly from a Hawthorne hedge. Truth be told, he preferred an aspect with menace, even if the morning’s bright skies rather ruined the effect. A duke going about his business in daylight tended to be noticed, what with the livery and such.
Which was why Hurtheven preferred night. And rain. And any other atmospheric condition that offered a challenge while repelling the masses.
He analyzed the trees for inverted leaves, then tested the air for the slightest breeze.No. Not even a hint of threatening weather. Disappointing, really. Every storm, real or metaphoric, offered yet another chance to test himself against life’s vagaries. Test himself, and win.
Of course.
Two lightning strikes had, in fact, forged his life.
The first, at age nine—a literal, blinding current flashed through his father’s carriage, sparing him, though not, benumbingly, his parents. The second, figurative, this time, at sixteen—the sight of a silver-blond woman stunned him to stillness before rushing onward, sending heart-pounding fervor crackling through his veins.
But his long-subdued emotions had roared back to life only to blister beneath his skin, because, in the same moment, the young lady had been equally and mutually captivated by the man standing to his right—his dear friend Cheverley.
Since then, Hurtheven dared the heavens every possible chance, never content to simply anticipate a third life-altering event.
Playing both Heracles and Eurystheus, he’d chosen “labors” that both strengthened him and sharpened the lessons he prized: Keep your friends close. Keep your secrets closer. And stay closed and coiled—always anticipating the next devastating strike.
Schooling his features, he handed off his hired horse to one of Ashbey’s grooms with a curt nod of thanks. He emerged into the light, wiping the back of his gloved wrist across his sweat-damp forehead. In the distance, dozens of people milled about the gracefully sloping lawn.
Damnation.Ashbey’s annual garden party. How could he have forgotten?
He spotted Ashbey in the distant clearing. Ash’s wife Alicia was by his side, and, with them, the third member of Hurtheven’s school-day triumvirate, Cheverley, now the Duke of Ithwick. Chev’s wife Penelope, though not in view, was doubtless present. Chev hardly went anywhere without Penelope.
Not anymore.
“Nowthere’san interesting expression.”
Penelope’s voice trickled over his skin, sweet as summer rain.
“I’d forgotten about the party.” He turned.
Silhouetted by Ashbey’s Castle and looking as majestic as the mythical Queen of Ithaca whose name she bore, Pen advanced up the pathway, both hands outstretched.
“Ah.” She smiled tenderly. “You know, I had the strangest feeling you were the lone rider I saw making his way up the old castle trail.”
Of course she had. And, of course, she would be the one to greet him—with him smelling of horse and scowling down at Ashbey’s guests, no less.
He recoiled, flexing mud-stiffened gloves. “I’m afraid I’m not in any state?—”
“Never mind that.” She grasped his hands through worn leather. “I may be a duchess, but I’m still a pig farmer’s daughter. Besides”—she brushed a feather-light kiss against his cheek—“it’s been an age. How good to see you!”
“It’s good to seeyou, as well,” he replied. His heart spasmed.
Toogood, so it seemed.
“You didn’t write.” She searched his eyes. “Chev has been worried about you, you know.”
Hehadwritten. He just hadn’tsent—a crucial part of his plan to use his time at the Congress of Vienna to finally and permanently sever the unrequited cord.
