Chapter One
Mayfair, London, 1815
Oliver Harrington, 4thEarl of Knox, sipped his brandy and contemplated the finely crafted dining room table before him, the length of which seemed to stretch on forever. Sixteen high-backed, buttoned leather chairs stood at attention around the mahogany masterpiece, waiting in vain to be filled. It struck Oliver as absurd. Such a stately piece, laden with ostentatious dishes and attended by two footmen, all for one man.Preposterous.
He would laugh if he were still capable of doing so. But fate had been a cruel master and had stolen all his joy. First, it had robbed him of his ability to sire children, then it had snatched the love of his life from his arms, and today, he’d received word that it had eliminated his heir.
He hadn’t known the young man in question—a distant cousin he’d put off locating for years when he’d still clung to the hope of one day siring his own son and heir. But when his darling had died after a sudden and unexpected illness, that dream had ended. At the time, he’d barely been able to muster the strength to get out of bed, let alone locate the man whowould take what should have belonged to the son he’d never have. That was two years ago—two years of his lawyers pressing him to act—even though he was only five and thirty and hardly at death’s door. But solicitors were persistent buggers, and they’d become relentless after he swore never to remarry, so he’d finally acquiesced and permitted the search to start. It had taken longer than expected to locate the man next in line to inherit his title and estate—apparently, the young man was somewhat of a roamer and had been on the continent for quite some time. But they’d finally managed to pin him down and deliver the good news. Only a few days later, tragedy struck.
My Lord,
It is with great regret that we inform you that shortly after locating your sixth cousin and heir, Mathew James Harrington, we received news that the gentleman is deceased. Mr. Harrington was involved in a fatal carriage collision in Nottingham earlier this week. The local magistrate has confirmed the identity of the deceased. As such, we will continue our search for whomever is next in line to inherit your title and estate.
Yours sincerely,
Huxley and Bailey
Solicitors at Law
Oliver sighed. The poor gentleman had only just discovered that he would one day inherit the esteemed title of earl. He’d hardly had the time to savor the news before his life had prematurely ended. Alas, it seemed that any unlucky soul attached to Oliver met with an early demise. Perhaps, he should put off searching for the next in line until after his death. Let the poor sod—whomever he was—live in peace. The lawyers could locate the chap when Oliver was gone and no longer posed athreat—and since he was still a relatively young man himself, that could be years away. This was not a problem that needed to be dealt with now. It was time to call off the legal dogs.
Oliver glanced at his plate. The succulent beef, delicate potatoes, and sauteed vegetables had grown cold. But that did not matter. He had little appetite. He closed his eyes and imagined an earlier, happier time. He saw his beautiful Beatrice sitting beside him as she used to—her brunette curls coiled atop her head, her dark, soulful eyes gazing into his, and her dazzling smile brightening the room. Guests filled the seats at their table, chatting and laughing as they ate, drank, and suffused his and Beatrice’s home with merriment. How happy they’d been. How wonderful life had been then.
At first, the ton had frowned upon Oliver’s choice of bride. Beatrice had been the widow of a successful merchant, and he, an earl, had been expected to marry within the peerage. Despite expectations, Oliver had followed his heart and married for love. And he’d made the right choice. Beatrice had won over the ton, spreading light and laughter wherever she went, despite what she had suffered.
Beatrice had not only lost a husband, but she’d also lost the babe she’d once cherished, and Oliver had wanted nothing more than to give her a new family. But a babe never came to them. Beatrice had not been to blame. She’d conceived and given birth to a healthy babe once before. The problem had lain with him. Perhaps, he’d been thrown from his horse too many times as a boy, or mayhap he’d injured himself climbing a tree. Possibly, there was no rational explanation. Perhaps, he’d simply been born impaired.
Month after month, for years on end, he’d witnessed his wife’s disappointment and suffering each time blood stained her sheets. But she’d been an eternal optimist and remained convinced they would one day conceive. After all, her husbandwas as virile as any healthy young man. There was a time that even Oliver believed, but as the years passed, and Beatrice’s womb remained empty, he lost all hope, and his failure weighed heavily on his shoulders. He’d wanted to be the perfect husband, but how could he have achieved that when he was an imperfect man?
It was selfish of me to marry you. I am flawed.
You are perfection. You are all I desire. All I need. You are enough,she’d say, and make love to him with a fervor that reassured him and solidified their bond. Nothing else had mattered. They’d had each other. They’d had all they needed to be happy.
He opened his eyes to the stark emptiness and cold silence of the room, and a searing pain filled his chest.
Don’t mourn me forever. Promise me, you’ll be happy.Those were her last words to him as she lay on her deathbed. And he’d not even been able to fulfill his final promise to her.
The ache in his chest spread like a burning flame, scorching his throat, face, ears, and eyes.
“Enough!” He slammed his fist onto the table and stood up.
“My lord?” An alarmed footman rushed forward.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Oliver said, more to himself than the footman.
“I’m sorry. What do you mean, my lord?”
“The silence. I can’t take the silence.”
“Shall I arrange for music while you dine, my lord?”
“No!” Oliver barked. “Order my horse and carriage to be readied. I’m going out.”
“Yes, my lord.” The footman bowed and hurried out of the dining room.
Ten minutes later, Oliver strode out his front door toward his awaiting carriage.
“Where to, my lordship?” The driver asked.
