Page 1

Colchester, England

September 1802

Standing in the apple orchard, a short walking distance from the village of Colchester and All Saint’s Priory—his father’s parish—James Brentwood gazed overhead. Ribbons of sunlight threaded through the thick, verdant foliage heavily laden with crisp, crimson fruit.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled the familiar scents from his childhood: rich, warm earth, ripe apples, freshly cut hay, and an occasional whiff of honeysuckle drifting by on the capricious fall breeze.

Nearby, industrious bees hummed as they went about their work, and songbirds trilled while flitting from branch to branch. In the distance, his sister’s chickens cackled, and a horse neighed in the adjacent pasture. He missed the peace and freshness of the English countryside when in London.

Before letting his mind wander once more, he cast a puzzled glance down the dusty, rutted lane. Regine was several minutes late. Unusual for her. Typically, she was as eager for their clandestine meetings as he, and she often beat him to their rendezvous.

Regine. Just thinking of his beloved tightened James’s chest as overwhelming emotion tunneled through his veins. God, how he loved her. Since she’d been a toddler and he a young lad, he’d adored the raven-haired beauty with eyes so blue, they put the summer sky to shame.

If not for her father’s recent and unexpected death, he would’ve asked for her hand in marriage this visit even though two years of his solicitor’s training remained. He’d have to bide his time a jot longer, blast it all.

Scratching his temple, he grinned with unchecked happiness. Regine had agreed to become his wife over a year ago. They kept the agreement a secret but often spoke of their future residing together in London—him a successful solicitor and she, the mother of his four—no five—children.

Neither aspired to wealth or position nor coveted possessions. Each only needed the other, and they would be happy and content for the rest of their lives. Or so they’d vowed between passionate kisses and promises of eternal love.

Tomorrow, he’d return to London, but he’d savor these last few hours with Regine before bidding her farewell—after tasting her sweet mouth and breathing in her apple and spices fragrance one final time. Finances wouldn’t permit him to return for at least a fortnight, and he craved memories to savor until her lush form was wrapped in his embrace once more.

At last, he heard muffled footsteps approaching, and he turned, excitement and expectation vying for supremacy. At eighteen, Regine Edenshaw was a vision, even in her somber, black gown. Her unbound silky, ebony hair swayed as she walked, her eyes downcast and neck bent as if deep in thought.

She was his. His. Or would be as soon as her mourning period ended. James would have to harness his impatience for a few more months before asking Mrs. Edenshaw for her daughter’s hand. Pray God Regine’s mother wouldn’t require them to wait an entire year to wed as mourning protocol dictated.

Regine stopped a few feet away and reluctantly brought her gaze up to meet his.

His heart stalled at the intense sorrow and regret pooled in her eyes. Eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

Her lips parted, but no words came forth.

“Darling, what is it?” He moved to gather her into his arms, to soothe away whatever had distressed her, but she shook her head and held a palm up to ward him off. Torment ravaged her delicate features.

Alarm took root, spiraling outward from James’s stomach and sending a chill washing over him. By God, if someone had dared to harm her.

“Sweetheart?” He brushed a fingertip across her satiny cheek. “What has you so distressed? Tell me.” Somehow, he’d make whatever troubled her right—anything to put a smile on her bowed mouth and erase the sadness shadowing her azure eyes.

“James…” Shoulders slumping, she clamped her lower lip between her teeth, and her lashes fluttered downward to caress her pale cheeks.

His trepidation kicked up several notches, and dread engulfed him. The instinct that made him a damn good solicitor fairly shrieked. He wasn’t going to like what she said. Not at all.

“James,” she murmured again, her voice a mere thread of sound—a soft, spine-tingling entreaty in the now eerily silent orchard. Then she opened her mouth, gulped in a deep breath, and thrust her chin upward as if bracing herself.

Against what, for God’s sake?

He swept the area with a swift, apprehensive glance, before settling his attention uneasily upon her once more. Something akin to terror knotted in his throat at the defeat and devastation he detected in her startlingly blue eyes. It stripped the air from his lungs and squeezed his heart in a ruthless, unyielding vise.

“I…” she drew in a ragged breath. “I am to be married,” she finally said in a rush, dropping her focus to her hands, repeatedly wadding her black skirts.

What? Married? No. No. You’re mine. Mine! My dearest, most precious love.

“Pardon?” he whispered stupidly, his lips stiff and voice gravelly with disbelief and pain. “Married?” He shook his head. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. But he had. Her tense posture and waxen pallor revealed the truth.

“To who?” Or was it whom? What the hell did it matter? His thoughts raced, pell-mell, around his befuddled mind, all ability to reason calmly having flown. You cannot marry another. You cannot! You said you’d be my wife.

“To the Duke of Heartwaite,” she replied, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

A bloody duke? He fisted his hands until the nails cut deeply into his palms.