Prologue
The Honorable Heathcliff Marston, eldest son of the Viscount Kilpatrick, had quite a perfect childhood. With parents who held a true affection for each other, he was born into a life that was the product of a real love match. It was rare as hen’s teeth in society, but being young, he didn’t have the experience to realize what a boon it was to have parents who actually loved each other, not just tolerated each other’s company. He had the luck to be the son of an Englishman, and the misfortune, as some would say, to have a Scottish mother. It was because of his mother’s estate near Edinburgh that his father elected to keep his family in Scotland, and travel to London for the Season.
Even as a lad, Heathcliff adored the wilds of Scotland and abhorred the visits to the city of London. When he turned of age and took his education at Eton, he carried a reasonably large resentment toward his father for the first few weeks until he met Lucas Mayfield, the heir to the earldom of Heightfield.
It was friendship at first fight.
And a fight it was.
Lucas had always had a biting way with words, and Heathcliff had the temper of his Scottish mother, so the combination was volatile, and often troublesome for those around.
Ramsey Scott, the Marquess of Sterling, eventually joined their circle of friends, adding a bit of gravity to their otherwise unruly bunch. He was often the voice of reason, the restrainer of fists, and the only one without a bloodied nose or knuckle. In short, he was the buffer between the two.
It was those friends who stood by him at his mother’s funeral, silently offering their support when words wouldn’t suffice.
And damn, he wished he would have listened to them and stayed in London rather than travel home the summer of 1809. He had endeavored to be home to be a comfort to his heartbroken father. It was a worthy cause, but it had become abruptly sidetracked when he reacquainted himself with the daughter of a local squire, Margot Reynoldford.
He remembered her from his childhood, but she was a child no longer. Flowing chestnut hair, hazel eyes, and an easy smile, Heathcliff had fallen hard and quick for her charms.
He’d spent most of his summer in pursuit of her affection, which she gave readily. Expectation was thick in the air as whispers surrounded their courtship. It was nearly the end of July when Heathcliff notified his father of his impending engagement to Margot.
Never once had he expected anything but an acceptance of his offer, never once expecting his father to do anything but congratulate him on finding his own love match. He was shocked when his father advised against the match.
Heathcliff tried to convince his father it was a love match. Heathcliff adored her, worshiping her every smile as if it were the sunrise and sunset of his life. Surely his father could understand! He had enjoyed his own affectionate relationship with his wife; surely he would want one for his only son? When his father explained his hesitancy, Heathcliff ended the argument abruptly by stating that his father was simply heartbroken, not wanting anyone to experience joy because he no longer could. It had been a low blow, one that would echo in later fights with his father on the same subject.
Heathcliff stormed from the study, chose his own path and proposed that evening to Margot.
They were married as soon as the banns could be read, neglecting even to invite his closest friends, pride and folly whispering that they might not approve of the match. Even when he knew it was his own misgivings that had begun to surface.
Eager to please his bride, Heathcliff had thrown his whole heart into the marriage, deferring to her wants and wishes, however outlandish they seemed. He simply delighted in her smile, feeling as though it were the rising sun in his life.
Only to find out she had her own rising sun.
It wasn’t even six months into the marriage when his world shattered. He’d come back from Edinburgh earlier than arranged, expecting to surprise his wife with a beautiful music box from Italy, a gift he had ordered months before.
He’d sprinted up the stairs, only to find his wife astride another man, in his bed. The music box met a swift end when he hurled it across the room, alerting the lovers of his presence. The sound of it smashing against the wall echoed in his thoughts.
She didn’t even have the good grace to pretend shame.
He’d stormed off, knowing if he stayed there would be blood on his hands. A divorce was the only option. He wouldn’t share his wife with another, nor would he be fool enough to pretend it could work to look the other way.
That was when she confessed to being with child.
If betrayal were a coffin, that revelation was the last nail in his heart.
Because she wasn’t sure who was the father.
Which only meant it may, or may not, be his child.
Did he dare risk abandoning his own son or daughter? He couldn’t, wouldn’t risk it—regardless of the mother’s sins, the child was innocent of them.
So, he sent Margot away to his estate in the Scottish Highlands, and waited.
Heartbroken and bitter, his father was the only voice of reason to reinforce his decision not to put away his wife in divorce. As a reminder of the heartbreak, he ordered a replica of the music box he had bought for Margot.
May he never forget.
The child was stillborn, and Margot followed shortly after.
