Chapter 1
LITTLELADYLYDIA—
A NEWWORLD
June 30, 1817
London, England
“Wait!
“Stop, please!
“Sorry! Lydia, I love—”
The carriage lurches forward. The clomping hooves of the six pair smother everything but the squeaks of Lydia’s tummy. The girl raised as the youngest Wilcox sister has learned she possesses no sisters, none at all.
Lies.
Everything was a falsehood. Yet she sits beside a princess, a real one like Princess Charlotte of Wales. The royal carriage of Princess Elizaveta Abramovna Gannibal speeds away from Ground Street toward the Thames.
The approaching river sounds noisy, angrily swirling and spitting froth along the banks. The stopped carriage allows the screams of “Forgive me” to reach the inside.
Face pressed against the glass, Lydia sees the Thames and Katherine. Drenched in the rain, the woman waves her arms and gives chase.
How could sweet Katherine—Katherine who wiped Lydia’srunny nose and mopped Lydia’s fevered forehead and who held her when she ached—cause such pain? How could she lie to Lydia and the duke?
And the duke is dying or is already dead.
Lydia sniffs and holds everything inside. Boy, her tummy hurtsworser.
She folds her arms about her middle. Lydia knows that Katherine hates the duke. How could they have been in love once? Why act like they’d never married?
Lydia can’t understand. Katherine was married to Tavis Palmers, the late Lord Hampton. Wasn’t he the duke’s friend? Why would he marry his friend’s wife? How can all this be true?
Katherine catches up and beats on the door. Through the glass, Lydia watches her shriek—more sorries, more forgive mes, more lies about love.
Lydia knows you don’t lie to the ones you love. She turns from the window. The carriage starts moving again.
She casts her gaze to the painting of the girl propped against the opposite bench. “She looks like me except for the eyes.” Lydia dips her head. “Are you sure the duke’s painter didn’t make a mistake? You sure that’s not me? And me being the duke’s daughter … that must be a mistake. Right?”
The princess, with big tears flopping down her cheeks, lifts Lydia’s chin. “Nyet. You do look like my daughter Anya. Anya Andrewovna Charles is my son’s beloved sister. She died years ago. It’s the last portrait of her.”
Lydia’s teeth chatter a little. Not from being cold, but from fear—fear that this terrible dream will end in her new papa’s death. Not fair. “Are you sure, Princess Eliv … Elivet … Grama? Princess Grama—”
The old woman with fine silver hair bends and kisses Lydia’s brow. “I like that. You may call me this.”
“Princess Grama, is the duke truly my father? That my sister … Katherine is my mother?”
“That beastly womanisyour mother. Lady Hampton defraudedmy son, your father. You are my family, part of Gannibal’s legacy.” She glances out the rear window andtsks through her teeth. “That headstrong Katherine still runs after my carriage, and in the rain, like I’ve wronged her.”
“Katherine’s getting wet. She could catch cold.”
Shaking her head, Princess Grama huffs. “Child, precious one, Jahleel Andrewovich Charles, the Duke of Torrance is all you are to be concerned about. You’re Lady Lydia Jahleelovna Charles.”
“More new names?” Lydia groans and glances at the painting, the silver dress, the emerald tiara. “The duke must get well to teach me all our names.”
New Grama, Princess Grama, lifts Lydia’s chin. The princess’s hand smells of rich spices and oil. “My son has more faith than most. Instead of returning to St. Petersburg after burying that ne’er-do-well fool, Lord Hampton, he kept himself attached to London and those Wilcox sisters. It must mean he’ll stay for you.”
