Regardless, her life would go on.
Chapter1
Wolden House, Leeds, Yorkshire
October1817
Roland Prior had gone too far this time. This was not to be borne.
Charlotte’s racing blood boiled and fueled each step down the first floor’s opulent corridor to Wolden House’s broad main staircase. With each inch traversed she formed her argument. Anticipated Roland’s retorts. Sharpened her rationale.
Normally, arguing with Roland would only make a matter worse. When it came to their infant son, Roland demanded complete control. But mere minutes ago she’d been informed of his intention to send Henry to live with his brother for the next six months while Roland traveled to the Continent. The suggestion that Henry would be better off with his uncle enraged her. How dare Roland keep her son away from her, for any length of time! She knew well the possible ramifications of questioning Roland Prior. But for Henry’s sake, she would fight.
The soles of her soft kid-leather slippers clipped the woodensteps as she descended the staircase. She ignored the sideways glance from the liveried footman and focused her attention on the heavy oak door to her husband’s study at the corridor’s end. She lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles against the door.
No answer ensued.
Annoyance flared. She knocked harder. Sharper.
When a response still did not come, she gripped the brass handle and turned it, steeling herself for a battle.
But when she opened the door and stepped inside, the chamber was empty.
She frowned. A freshly built fire roared in the grate, and papers and letters, along with a half-empty glass of brandy, littered his desk. The heavy aubergine velvet curtains were drawn in the chamber’s two windows, and the fire’s saffron glow reflected off the glass decanters on the side table and the gilded mirror on the opposite wall.
She huffed, disappointed not to be able to give voice that very moment to her frustration. She pivoted to leave, but the toe of a polished black boot on the floor captured her attention.
The sight of it, prostrate and positioned at an odd angle, slowed her blood that just moments ago was racing.
Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
She inched closer, one step at a time, until she could see around the desk’s edge. There, on the Persian rug beneath the window, lay Roland in an unnatural position on his back. Unmoving. One arm was tucked awkwardly behind him. Papers were strewn around him. His icy blue eyes stared, unblinking.
Nausea seized her, and her hand flew to her throat.
She screamed.
The footman she’d encountered just moments prior rushed in and pushed past her.
The next events simultaneously slowed and sped up.
Servants streamed in.
Voices and shapes blurred into a mess of noise and chatter.
The butler brushed past her and dropped to his master’s side.
Someone opened the curtains, flooding the chamber with morning’s harsh, colorless light. An arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her backward. A feminine voice whispered for her to come away, but her feet refused to move.
Roland Prior—formidable, imposing, and polarizing—was dead.
Every element from their three-year marriage flashed before her. The fear. The mistrust. His cold words and violent displays of anger.
She should feel sadness at the loss of life. She should feel grief.
But she perceived only numbness—blinding, debilitating numbness.
Perspiration beaded cold on her brow, and every breath burned, as if the very air she was inhaling had died with Roland. In this single slice of time, it mattered not that no love had existed between husband and wife. The fact that arguments and disagreements had ruled their interactions evaporated into a meaningless void.
