A Cinderella for His Tormented Heart (Preview)

Prologue

The rain had ceased only hours before Hugh Wexford’s carriage turned onto the long, winding drive of Wexford Estate. The gravel was still damp beneath the wheels, and the scent of wet earth clung to the air like a memory that refused to be forgotten. The estate, once a place of laughter and light, now stood in quiet mourning, its windows shuttered and its gardens overgrown. The ivy that crept along the stone walls had thickened in his absence, as though nature itself had sought to reclaim what grief had left untended.

Hugh sat rigidly within the carriage, his gloved hands resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the looming silhouette of the manor house. The journey from London had been long, but he had scarcely noticed the passing countryside. His thoughts had been consumed by the letter he had received upon his return from his time of service in the war. It was a letter that bore the seal of the family solicitor, and the news of his brother’s death. Edward Wexford, Viscount of Wexford, had died four weeks prior. 

The letter had been brief, cold in its delivery, and wholly inadequate in its explanation. A fall, it had said. An accident, late at night. The authorities had attributed it to intoxication. Allegedly, there was an additional suggestion that Edward had frequently consumed enough alcohol to be a danger to himself, so there had been no further investigating into the late viscount’s death. Hugh had read the words again and again, each time feeling the same hollow disbelief. Edward had never been a drunkard. He had been a man of discipline, of principle. Something was wrong.

Beside him sat Lionel Faraday, his closest friend and brother-in-arms from the war. Across from them, Caleb Tolland, Lionel’s and his other dear friend and fellow man of valor, leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his expression unreadable. Both men had insisted on accompanying Hugh to the estate, unwilling to let him face the ghosts of his past alone.

“Are you all right, Hugh?” Caleb asked, breaking a silence that had stretched on for longer than Hugh could recall.

Hugh nodded slowly, trying to erase the letter from the front of his mind.

“Yes,” he said. “I am just eager to see Fredrick.”

Lionel clapped him on the shoulder.

“Are you certain you are ready for such responsibility?” he asked.

Hugh nodded. In truth, he was unsure whether he was ready for anything that would result in his return home. The war had been difficult, and it left him with memories that would likely haunt him for his remaining days. But what lay ahead of him was certainly the most trying task he had ever undergone. 

“I must be,” he said. “There is no one else who can do this.”

The carriage came to a halt before the front steps. Hugh stepped out first, his boots sinking slightly into the damp gravel. He looked up at the house, its facade familiar yet foreign. The windows stared back at him like vacant eyes. He had not seen this place in nearly five years, and it was much different than he had imagined it would be when he enlisted in the military years prior. He had expected to be overjoyed to return to his home, have dinner and brandy with his brother, and make strides to put all the horrors of war behind him. Yet when he stepped onto the ground in front of the steps where his brother allegedly fell drunkenly and accidentally ended his own life, his own feet faltered.

“Easy, Hugh,” Caleb said, putting a supportive arm around Hugh’s shoulders.

Lionel nodded, giving Hugh an encouraging smile as he moved ahead of Hugh, as if preparing to catch him if he should fall.

“It is all right,” he said gently. “We have you.”

Hugh nodded, closing his eyes until he had control of his feet and his emotions again. Then, the men ascended the steps, stopping at the very top.

“I am telling you, there is something not right about this,” Hugh murmured, glancing back down at the bottom of the stairs.

Caleb and Lionel exchanged glances. Hugh was not utterly oblivious to how mad he must have sounded. Yet he was also not wholly convinced that there was not more to the story of Edward’s passing than he had been told. When had Edward ever been so drunk that he had fallen and injured himself? Surely, his brother could not have changed so much in the years he was gone. 

The butler, an older man named Hargrove, opened the door before Hugh could knock. His face was lined with age and sorrow, and he bowed deeply.

“Welcome home, Mr. Wexford,” he said. “The young viscount is upstairs, asleep. I trust your journey was uneventful.”

Hugh nodded, though he felt anything but settled. 

“Thank you, Hargrove,” he said. “I shall see him shortly.”

Lionel and Caleb followed him inside, their boots echoing against the marble floor. The interior of the house was dimly lit, the chandeliers unlit, the curtains drawn. It felt as though the house itself had gone into mourning.

They made their way to the study, a room that had once been Edward’s sanctuary. Hugh paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the doorframe. The scent of tobacco and old paper lingered in the air. The desk was untouched, the chair still angled as though Edward might return at any moment.

Hugh stepped inside and sat down heavily in one of the armchairs. Lionel and Caleb took seats nearby, their silence respectful.

“He never drank,” Hugh said at last, voicing his earlier thoughts. “Not like that. Not enough to fall down a flight of stairs and break his neck.”

Lionel exchanged a glance with Caleb before speaking. 

“The authorities were clear, Hugh,” he said softly. “They found bottles in his study. Witnesses said he had been seen stumbling in the days before his death.”

Hugh shook his head. 

“It does not make sense,” he said. “Edward was careful. He was meticulous. If he drank, it was in moderation. Something changed. Something happened. Something is… wrong.”

Caleb leaned forward. 

“Do you think someone drove him to it?” he asked, giving Lionel another worried glance.

Hugh sighed softly.

“I know that something is amiss,” he said. “And I intend to find out.” He paused. “And I also know that I am not mad. I know my brother better than to believe such nonsense. I do not ask that you believe me. I only ask that you trust that I have not taken leave of my senses.”

Lionel sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. 

“You are grieving, Hugh,” he said quietly. “That much is clear. But do not let grief blind you. Sometimes tragedy is merely that, even if it is difficult to accept.”

Hugh looked at his friend, his expression hardening. “I know my brother. I know what he was. And I know what he was not.”

The room fell silent again. Outside, the wind stirred the trees, their branches tapping against the windows like restless fingers. As Hugh sat in the study, the silence pressing in around him, his thoughts returned to the letter that had awaited him upon his arrival in London. The parchment had been folded with precision, the seal unbroken until his own hands had cracked it. The solicitor’s handwriting had been neat, impersonal, and utterly devoid of comfort.

We regret to inform you that Edward Wexford, Viscount of Wexford, died on the twelfth of last month. The cause of death has been ruled accidental, resulting from a fall down the main staircase of Wexford Estate. Witnesses and household staff report signs of intoxication in the days preceding the incident…

Hugh had read those lines beneath the flickering light of a London inn, the ink blurring as his grip tightened. The words had struck him not as a report, but as a betrayal. Edward, who had once lectured Hugh on the dangers of excess, who had kept his household in order with quiet dignity, had been reduced to a cautionary tale in a few short sentences.

He had not wept. He had not been angry. Instead, he had felt a coldness settle over him, a quiet certainty that something was wrong. Edward had been many things, but he had not been a drunkard. Hugh had known him better than that. He knew that his brother was the very soul of caution and strict adherence to maintaining control of himself and his life at all times. The letter had not brought closure. It brought suspicion. Now, seated in the room where Edward had once read his correspondence and balanced his accounts, Hugh felt the weight of absence more heavily than ever. The chair behind the desk remained empty, the inkstand untouched. It was not just grief that filled the room, it was the echo of unfinished business.

After a time, Hugh stood and walked to the fireplace. Above it hung a portrait of Edward and his wife, Rebecca. She had died only days after Edward, her body found in the River Thames. The coroner had ruled it a suicide. Hugh had not been there for either of them. Now, the only one left to return home to, was the most fragile of them all. And Hugh did not know whether he was up to the task of caring for his only remaining relative.

He turned back to his friends. 

“I shall protect Frederick,” he said, praying he could make the words true by speaking them. “He is all that remains of Edward. I shall ensure he does not grow up in the shadow of lies.”

Lionel nodded. “We shall help you,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

Caleb stood up as well. “You have our loyalty, Hugh,” he said warmly. “Always.”

Hugh felt the gratitude, though it was buried beneath layers of sorrow and fear. He walked to the door and opened it, the hallway beyond dim and quiet.

“I shall see Frederick now,” he said.

He climbed the stairs slowly, each step a reminder of the weight he carried. At the top, he turned down the corridor that led to the nursery. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open gently. Frederick lay in bed, his small form curled beneath the covers. His hair was tousled, but his eyes were wide with wakefulness. Hugh approached quietly and sat on the edge of the bed.

The boy stirred at once. Before Hugh could blink, his nephew’s arms were around his neck.

“Uncle Hugh?” he whispered.

Hugh nodded and reached up to smooth the boy’s hair. “Yes, Frederick,” he said softly. “I am here.”

The child’s grip was fierce and desperate, and Hugh held him tightly.

“I missed you,” Frederick said.

Hugh nodded, swallowing. “I missed you as well,” he said. “But I am here now. And I shall not leave you again.”

Frederick pulled back and looked at him, his eyes wide and solemn. 

“Is Papa really gone?” he asked. “And Mama, too?” Had there been hope in the question, Hugh’s heart might have shattered. But there was only the bland interest of someone who already knew the bad news and was simply seeking one final confirmation.

“Yes, he is,” he said. “But they loved you very much. And I shall make sure you are safe from now on. I promise.”

The boy nodded and lay back down, his eyes still on Hugh. “Uncle Hugh,” he said, his eyes falling half-closed. “Were you in the war?”

Hugh nodded slowly. That was a violent subject for a boy so young, especially one who had suffered so much loss in such a short time. But he could not bring himself to lie to the child. If he could do nothing else for his nephew, he would always be as honest as possible.

“Yes, Frederick,” he said. “I was.”

The boy turned onto his side, propping his head on one hand. 

“Did you have a sword?” he asked.

Hugh chuckled. He had had far more than a sword, and it was not as impressive as Frederick’s young voice made it seem. But the innocent reverence with which the boy had asked the question rendered Hugh unable to force away a smile.

“I did,” he said. “Though most of the time, I carried a rifle.”

Frederick’s brow furrowed in thought. 

“Did you fight the French?” he asked.

Hugh nodded, surprised. “Yes,” he said. “That was the war we were in. Did your father tell you that was who we were fighting?”

The boy nodded. “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “Did you win?”

Hugh hesitated, then offered a gentle answer. “We did, in the end,” he said. “But it was not like the stories in books. It was very hard. Many men did not come home.”

Frederick was quiet for a moment. “Were you scared?” he asked softly after a long pause.

Hugh looked at the boy, his heart tightening. “Yes,” he said. “Everyone was. But we did what we had to do.”

Frederick reached out and took Hugh’s hand. “I am glad you came home,” he said with a sweet, warm smile.

Hugh squeezed the boy’s fingers gently. “So am I,” he said. Though I have never felt more lost, or less myself, he added silently, hiding his brooding behind a gentle smile.

Frederick, utterly unaware of his uncle’s lamentation, grinned. “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?” he asked as a yawn cut short his words.

Hugh nodded, rubbing the boy’s back gently. “Of course,” he said.

He sat on the bed, watching as Frederick’s eyes slowly closed one last time. The boy’s breathing evened out, and soon he was asleep. Hugh remained there for a long time, his thoughts heavy. He had returned to a house of sorrow, to a family broken by tragedy. But he would not let the past remain buried. He would uncover the truth, no matter the cost. And he would protect Frederick, come what may.

Chapter One

The kitchen at Atherleigh Estate was dimly lit, the morning sun struggling to pierce the soot-streaked windows. A thin mist clung to the panes, blurring the view of the garden beyond, where frost still lingered on the hedgerows. Matilda Trevelyan stood at the basin with her sleeves rolled to the elbows and her hands submerged in lukewarm water that had long since lost its warmth. The scent of lye and damp linen filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of yesterday’s roast that still clung to the hearth.

She scrubbed the porcelain dish, her movements methodical and meditative. The rhythm of her work was the only constant she knew. The clatter of pans, the hiss of boiling water, and the creak of the floorboards above were the sounds of her world. She had learned to find solace in them, even as they reminded her of the life she had been denied. She was the daughter of a nobleman who only remembered her existence when he had another chore for her. But it was not the lack of refined upbringing she lamented most. It was the lack of affection and being treated like a blight to her father.

Mrs. Crale entered the kitchen with her usual briskness, her boots tapping against the flagstone floor, pulling Matilda from her thoughts. The housekeeper’s apron bore the marks of a morning already well spent, though her expression spoke of uncomfortable news. She paused at the threshold, her eyes narrowing as she took in Matilda’s pale face and the tension in her shoulders.

“Matilda,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “His Lordship wishes to speak with you. In his study.”

Matilda turned, her hands still wet, the dish forgotten. She met Mrs. Crale’s gaze, and the older woman gave a slight shake of her head. It was not a summons to be taken lightly.

With a slow, deep breath, Matilda nodded.

“I see,” she said, drying her hands on her apron. She did not ask why. She had long since learned that questions only led to reprimands when she took too long trying to understand his summons rather than rushing to answer them.

Mrs. Crale stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I do not like the look in his eye this morning,” she said, almost whispering. “Be cautious.”

Matilda nodded, her heart already beginning to race. “Thank you,” she said, whispering back. “I should go before he sees fit to search for me himself.”

She removed her apron and smoothed her skirts, which were plain and serviceable, the fabric worn thin at the seams. Her hair was neatly braided, though a few strands had escaped during the morning’s work. She tucked them behind her ears and straightened her posture. The walk to the study felt longer than usual. The corridors of Atherleigh were lined with portraits of ancestors whose stern faces seemed to follow her as she passed. The scent of beeswax and old paper lingered in the air, and the silence felt suffocating. She paused outside the study door, her hand hovering above the brass handle.

She had not been summoned to this room in weeks. Her father usually preferred to pass along her assignments through the servants. The last time she had been summoned had been to receive a scolding for speaking too freely with Prudence in the drawing room. Though Prudence was not his daughter by blood, he treated her far more like a daughter than he ever had Matilda. Her father had made it clear that her presence in the household was to remain discreet, if not entirely invisible, even when it came to her stepsister.

She knocked once, softly.

“Enter,” said the voice from within.

Matilda stepped inside, her gaze immediately drawn to the man seated behind the mahogany desk. Bertram Trevelyan, Earl of Atherleigh, did not look up. He was studying a document with furrowed brows, his fingers tapping against the polished wood. The fire crackling in the grate was the only sound in the room. She exhaled softly in relief when she did not see her stepmother. Eleanora Trevelyan always managed to make bad news or terrible scoldings even worse.

She stood quietly, waiting, knowing better than to speak until he spoke to her. The study was lined with bookshelves; each filled with leather-bound volumes that smelled of dust and age. A globe stood in the corner; its surface faded from years of sunlight. The curtains were drawn, and the only light came from the fire and a single oil lamp on the desk. She stared idly at the carpet at her feet, trying to soothe her racing heart. She did not know if he knew how nervous his summons made her, but she knew he would keep her waiting until he saw fit to deliver her admonishment. What had she done wrong this time? Had she missed a piece of silver when polishing? Had he seen Prudence slipping notes beneath the door to her small, closet-sized quarters?

At last, Bertram set the paper aside and looked up. His eyes were sharp, calculating, and devoid of warmth.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Matilda obeyed, folding her hands in her lap. Her posture was straight, her expression composed, though her heart continued to beat rapidly beneath her bodice.

Bertram studied her for a moment, as though assessing a piece of furniture. 

“I have been thinking about your future,” he said.

She blinked. He never even thought of her in the present moment. What could he mean by her future?

“Yes?” she asked, although there were many other questions she had.

The earl nodded. Clearly, she had given the correct response. However, she was now more nervous than ever. Was he about to send her away? Mrs. Crale had been trying to help her find employment in secret, but she did not know if the housekeeper had had any success. What would become of her if her father turned her out before she could find work?

“I realize that I have not treated you much like a daughter,” he said. Something in his voice was different, certainly nothing like his constant ordering and chastising. Yet she suddenly felt her blood chill to ice in her veins as the earl spoke. “I called you here because that is something I wish to rectify.”

She swallowed. Surely, this was some trick. Her father did not change his views on anything, not even his own family, as she knew perfectly well. She did not understand what he meant, but she knew it could not be anything good.

“I do not understand,” she said, flinching as soon as the words left her lips. That was typically the last thing her father wanted to hear when he spoke to her. However, his smile was far worse than any name calling or voice raising he had ever done.

“You are of an age to marry, daughter,” he said, sounding almost jovial. “And I believe I should afford you that opportunity.”

The statement hung in the air, unexpected and jarring. Matilda blinked, uncertain how to respond.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, barely forcing herself to keep her teeth together.

The Earl raised an eyebrow at her.

“You heard me,” he said, his tone clipped. He took a deep breath, then gave her a tight smile. “It is time that you lived in a manner befitting your station.”

Matilda’s throat tightened. She had never been acknowledged as his daughter in public, nor had he ever spoken of her future beyond the confines of servitude. The sudden shift in tone unsettled her.

“I wish to know more,” she said carefully, wholly uncertain if she did, in fact, want to know more about what her father was meaning to say.

Bertram leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. 

‘You are my daughter,” he said again, sounding more unsettling than he had before. “And any good father wishes to see his daughter married. Particularly to a gentleman of a good status and reasonable wealth, at the very least.”

She nodded slowly, even though she understood less as the Earl spoke.

“But society has never seen me, Father,” she said. “How will you explain the sudden appearance of a daughter?”

The Earl gave her a smug grin.

“You are to be introduced to society as an orphaned cousin from Scotland,” he said. “As far as anyone will know, you are wealthy, well-bred, and in need of a husband. You shall attend a ball in honor of Mr. Hugh Wexford’s return. He is the second son of the late Viscount of Wexford, recently returned from the war. He is untitled, but respectable, particularly in that he is tending the Wexford estate and assisting the current viscount, who is far too young to accept his responsibilities. His brother, the latest Wexford to hold the title of viscount, was an old friend of mine. I believe Mr. Wexford may be persuaded to take an interest in you.”

Matilda stared at him, her mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what he was proposing. “You wish me to deceive him?” she asked. “To deceive everyone?”

Bertram’s expression did not change. “I wish you to do as you are told,” he said. His tone was, to her surprise, not cold and demanding. But his eyes were no different than they were when he was about to sentence her to scrubbing the chamber pots.

“Why?” she asked before she could hold her tongue.

Her father gave her another warning look before correcting his expression once more.

“You come from nobility, Matilda,” he said. “You have proven to be an asset to our family through your life. I believe you have earned the right to marry and become an asset to a husband who can care for you and provide for you for the rest of your days.”

Matilda’s voice trembled, though she fought to keep it steady. 

“You have never spoken of me as family before,” she said.

Bertram turned, his gaze cold. “Your mother was a mistake,” he said. “She came to me in a moment of indulgence that cost me dearly.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “But that does not mean that either of us should continue paying the price for such a mistake. I wish to do right by you, even though you were an unplanned addition to my once perfect life.”

She looked down at her hands, the knuckles white from tension. A part of her had always hoped, foolishly, that he might one day see her as more than a burden. That hope now laid almost within her grasp. But there was something amiss about her father. Why would he suddenly be so kind to her after twenty years of mistreatment? She did not know where her mistrust stemmed from. She only knew that though she wanted to believe that her father cared for her, if only a little, something twisted in her stomach each time she tried to allow the thought to form.

“I do not know what to say,” she said softly.

The earl smiled again, and Matilda could not help thinking how pained he looked with the effort. She had seen him smile before, but never at her. His smiles, particularly the affectionate ones, had always been reserved for Prudence and his wife.

“Perhaps a word of gratitude would suffice here,” he said. To anyone else, he might have seemed jovial. To her, however, the words teetered on the verge of a challenge.

She thought of Mrs. Crale, of Prudence and the quiet moments of kindness that had sustained her. She thought of the life she might have had if her mother had lived. She thought about the life she currently had, serving those who should be her peers as though she was no part of nobility. Even if her father was insincere in his intentions, perhaps this would be a chance to leave behind servitude forever.

She looked up, meeting Bertram’s gaze. “Very well,” she said with a small smile. “I shall do as you ask.”

He nodded, satisfied. “You certainly will,” he said. “You shall be fitted for a gown for the ball. Prudence will assist you. The ball is in three days.”

Matilda rose, her legs unsteady. “May I go?” she asked. “That is, I should get started on my gown right away.”

Her father waved a hand dismissively. “Of course,” he said. “You are relieved of your duties indefinitely. Mrs. Crale can reassign your chores. This ball and this meeting are important. They are to be your only concern until further notice.”

She nodded, turning and leaving the study. The corridor felt colder than before, and the portraits were more judgmental. She reached the kitchen and found Mrs. Crale waiting, her expression tight with concern.

“What did he say?” the housekeeper asked.

Matilda sat down heavily on the bench, her hands trembling. “He wishes me to marry,” she said numbly.

Mrs. Crale’s eyes widened. “Marry?” she asked, stunned. “Whom?”

Matilda closed her eyes. The details had almost been lost on her in her shocked state.

“Hugh Wexford is the gentleman he mentioned,” he said. “He is the second son of a late viscount, and the caregiver of the family’s viscount who father says is too young to serve as such. He has returned from the war. There is to be a ball hosted in his honor.”

Mrs. Crale sat beside her, her voice low. “And you are to be introduced as the daughter no one has met?” she asked, sounding as dubious as Matilda had felt when she first received the news.

Matilda shook her head, briefly explaining what her father’s deceptive plan was.

The older woman shook her head. “This is madness,” she whispered, clearly fearing being overheard by her master himself.

Matilda looked at her, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “It is an escape,” she said softly, trying to convince herself.

Mrs. Crale took her hand and held it tightly. “I fear it is a trap, dear,” she said.

Matilda did not disagree. But she also knew that remaining in Atherleigh, under Bertram’s rule, was no life at all. It was an odd thing for her father to allow her, even if under false pretenses. But could it be that he felt guilty for keeping her as an invisible prisoner her entire life? Was he truly offering her a way out of the life she had barely tolerated through all her twenty years as an act of kindness, even if it was his only one?

Chapter Two

The Trevelyan estate loomed ahead, its windows blazing with light, its gravel drive crowded with carriages and liveried footmen. Hugh Wexford sat stiffly in his seat, jaw clenched, as the coach rolled to a stop. He did not want to come. Balls were for celebration, and he had nothing to celebrate. Beside him, Lionel adjusted his cuffs with all the ease of a man newly accustomed to attention. The barony, which he was awarded for his meritorious service alongside Hugh and Caleb, suited him, at least in appearance. His coat was finer, his boots polished to a looking glass’s shine, and the Trevelyan invitation had arrived with a flourish once his new title was made public.

“You look as though you are about to storm the ballroom,” Lionel said, glancing at Hugh. “Not dance in it.”

Hugh scoffed. “I would rather storm it,” he said. “And I have no plans to dance. I do not wish to spend the evening celebrating while I still mourn Edward.”

Lionel chuckled. “You agreed to come,” he said. “And it is being hosted in your honor, after all.”

Hugh nodded. “I agreed because Bertram Trevelyan was Edward’s business partner,” he said. “Caleb says they were close. I want to know why.” He paused. “And I asked no one to host any party for me. Many men go off to war. Why do they not deserve such grandeur instead of me?”

Lionel shook his head. “I am sure that Lord Atherleigh means well,” he said. “Perhaps he feels that it will also serve to celebrate Edward’s memory.”

Hugh sneered. “His memory would be better served if the earl would tell me why Edward would suddenly begin drinking to excess,” he said.

Lionel’s smile faded. “You think Lord Atherleigh knows something?” he asked.

Hugh shrugged. “I think that if anyone knows why Edward would suddenly start drinking, it would be him,” he said. “They were supposedly rather close while I was away.”

The footman opened the door, and Lionel stepped out first, greeting the Trevelyan butler with a stiff nod that betrayed the newness to his station. Hugh followed, his expression grim. Inside, the ballroom glittered with chandeliers and polished marble. Hugh searched the crowd with a hard gaze. These people had come to dance, gossip, drink champagne, and pretend the world was orderly. It was a society that cared so little about one of their own that they hardly seemed to notice Edward’s absence, and they were certainly willing to believe the story that Edward died because of a drunken fall. 

Edward had not been a drunk. Hugh had seen his brother at his worst with spirits only once in their lives. He was never careless, and he was certainly never a danger to himself. If Edward started drinking to excess suddenly, something had to have happened. Something had changed. And Edward’s relationship with Lord Atherleigh was the biggest lead Hugh had right then. He would find out what the earl could tell him about his brother’s final weeks. And if there were untruths, as he wholly believed, he would expose them and repair Edward’s reputation.

“Try not to scowl at everyone,” Lionel said, interrupting the brooding. “You will frighten the debutantes.”

Hugh chuckled, though it was largely humorless. “I am not here for them,” he said dryly.

Lionel sighed, giving Hugh a light pat on the back. “I cannot imagine what you are going through,” he said. “However, I do wish to see a smile on your face sooner rather than later. If you can find any measure of pleasure in this evening, I encourage you to do so. Especially since this is meant to be your celebration.”

Hugh did not answer. His gaze had landed on Bertram Trevelyan standing near the orchestra with a glass of wine in hand and a smile that looked carved from marble. Beside him stood a woman who Hugh presumed to be his wife, Lady Eleanora Trevelyan, her gown a masterpiece of silver embroidery, her posture regal but snide.

When they noticed Hugh’s and Lionel’s arrival, Lord and Lady Atherleigh approached with the precision of practiced hosts.

“Mr. Wexford,” the earl said, extending a hand. “We are delighted that you could attend. Allow me to introduce my wife, Eleanora, Countess of Atherleigh.”

Hugh took the earl’s hand as the countess curtsied, noting the firm grip and calculating eyes. 

“Delighted,” he said blandly, gesturing to Lionel beside him. “This is my dear friend, Baron Lionel Faraday. Thank you for such a kind gesture. I admit I was rather surprised to learn that a party was being hosted in honor of my return.”

The earl and countess bowed and curtsied, respectively, but offered nothing more in the way of a greeting other than a shared, knowing look with one another. Hugh thought the pair was rather rude, but Lionel gave him the smallest shake of his head. 

“You are a renowned hero of war, Mr. Wexford,” the earl said smoothly. “It would have been in terribly poor taste to not ensure that you received a proper welcoming celebration. And as I am sure you are aware, I was very fond of your brother. His death was a tragedy.”

At the mention of Edward, Hugh’s heart fiercely pounded into his ribs. “Yes,” he said. “Particularly the way in which he allegedly died.”

The earl nodded, the expression of sympathy on his face as perfectly arranged as an affectation. “It came as a surprise to many,” he said, shaking his head slowly. 

Eleanora offered a faint smile. “It is good to see the Wexford name represented again,” she said, swiftly redirecting the subject.

Hugh straightened his shoulders. Her words sounded as disingenuous as her husband’s face appeared. Hugh wanted to think that he was merely being peevish about Edward. But he could not shake the feeling that the hosts of the lavish party were being insincere. 

“I will represent my nephew in all public matters until he is of age to claim his title,” he said.

The earl nodded, his eyes seeming to flash oddly for the briefest of moments. “Of course,” he said. “The young viscount. I hope he is well.”

Hugh nodded warily. “He is adjusting,” he said.

There was a pause, filled with the hum of strings and the rustle of silk. Then the earl gestured toward two young women approaching from the far end of the room.

“May I introduce my stepdaughter, Miss Prudence Merivale, and our cousin, Miss Matilda Lennox,” he said, suddenly beaming as if the tragedy of losing a business partner and alleged friend had never existed.

Hugh blinked, briefly surprised at how like sisters the two women looked. Both women had blond hair and blue eyes, and they were of an almost identical height and weight. But that was where the similarities ended. Miss Merivale smiled and stood gracefully, her eyes bright with curiosity. Miss Lennox, by contrast, was more reserved and slouched as though trying to shrink herself, her expression composed but not cold. Hugh straightened slightly. They did not match the brittle elegance of their guardians.

“Mr. Wexford,” Miss Merivale said with a curtsy. “It is an honor.”

The warmth in the young lady’s voice was an immediate contrast to the cool indifference in the voices of her parents. It was such a surprise that Hugh smiled.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Merivale,” he said.

Matilda copied her cousin, though her curtsy appeared reluctant and unpracticed.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said. While she sounded as sincere as her cousin, she also seemed nervous. If she had not been introduced to him as a member of a nobleman’s family, Hugh might have thought she was a commoner.

“Likewise, Miss Lennox,” he said, softening at the young woman’s awkwardness.

Just then, the orchestra began strumming notes for a new set. Lionel stepped forward, his smile warm, and his eyes fixed on Miss Prudence Merivale. “Miss Merivale, would you care to dance?” he asked.

The young lady’s eyes sparkled, and Hugh did not miss the way both she and Lionel blushed and grinned broadly as they stared at one another.

“I should be delighted,” she said.

As they moved toward the dance floor, Hugh felt the earl’s gaze shift toward him.

“Matilda has newly arrived from Scotland,” he said. “She is quite accomplished. I am sure she would enjoy a waltz.”

Hugh glanced at Matilda. Her accent had sounded very different from that of Prudence, indeed. However, although it had been some time since Hugh heard a Scottish lady speak, he was certain that there was something a bit strange about the way Matilda spoke. She met his gaze calmly, without expectation. Yet her posture seemed unsure and unpoised, as if she had never attended a single ball in her life.

“I see,” Hugh said, giving the young lady another small smile. He did not want to stare too long, but he could not deny that she was lovely.

The young lady did not speak. The earl, however, gently nudged her toward Hugh.

“She has been a delight since we took her in,” he said eagerly. “Her parents died tragically. She is a recent debutante, and she was thrilled about meeting you.”

Hugh nodded as he understood the game.

“Well, then I must insist on requesting a dance,” he said, offering his arm. He had never been one to enjoy any ball or delight in dancing with a lady, and with Edward’s death haunting him so terribly, that night was no exception. However, as he waited for the young woman to take his arm, he felt a dull stirring of anticipation. He was sure he was simply apprehensive about dancing after so many years. Still, he found that he was restless as he waited for Matilda’s decision.

Matilda accepted his arm with quiet grace, and they joined the dancers. The music swelled, and Hugh placed his hand lightly on her waist, trying to summon his memories of dancing from before he went off to war.

The waltz began with a slow, sweeping rhythm, and Hugh guided Matilda with practiced ease. He had expected a young lady who danced with meticulous precision, if not passion. However, she was about as graceful as a woman who had only ever had dancing described to her. Yet when she took a misstep, she gave a soft laugh, the sound light and unguarded.

“I do apologize,” she said, glancing up at him. “I fear I am not yet accustomed to dancing in such company.”

Hugh smiled—genuinely for the first time since before he received word of Edward’s death. Something about the young lady’s innocent giggling and awkward acceptance of her shortcoming endeared her to him.

“You are managing,” he said.

She shook her head, her pink cheeks the only indication that she was affected by her mistakes. “I shall do better,” she said. “I wish to learn. Especially since dancing will be… is so important for young ladies.”

Her tone was light, but her posture remained tense. Hugh could feel the nervous energy in her movements, the way she hesitated before each turn. Yet she did not complain. She did not chatter. She simply tried. He found that admirable. Most young women of the ton would have filled the silence with idle remarks, or worse, attempts at flattery. Miss Lennox did neither. There was something refreshing in her quiet dignity.

The music swelled, and they moved through the final steps. When the dance ended, Hugh bowed, and Miss Lennox curtsied clumsily.

“Thank you, Mr. Wexford,” she said.

Hugh smiled at her once more, surprised at how much he had enjoyed her company.

“The pleasure was mine, Miss Lennox,” he said sincerely.

He escorted her back to the earl, who stood near the refreshment table, speaking with a magistrate. As they approached, the earl turned and smiled.

“Ah, splendid,” he said. “I trust Matilda was pleasant company for such an esteemed gentleman.”

Hugh nodded. “Miss Lennox was very charming,” he said.

The earl beamed as though Hugh had handed him a fortune.

“She is always charming,” the earl said. “I daresay she shall make a fine wife for one very lucky man.”

Hugh said nothing. After a moment of silence, Miss Lennox silently excused herself, the earl following her with his beaming smile. Hugh thought it did not reach his eyes, but a second later, he nodded to Hugh.

“Matilda has shown such quiet fortitude in the wake of her parents’ death,” he said. “We truly are quite proud of how well she seems to be adjusting. It was even her idea to come tonight, to begin seeking marriage prospects.”

Hugh shifted. He needed to redirect the conversation as quickly as possible. “I wish her the very best of luck,” he said. “I was actually hoping to ask you about something else. You and Edward were close, were you not?”

The earl’s smile faltered for a moment. “Yes,” he said, sounding distracted. “It is tragic that you and your brother both could not have met our dear Matilda.”

Hugh blinked, surprised by the blatant change of subject and disregard for his question. 

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

The earl puffed out his chest like a proud father. “She is a fine young woman,” he said. “Intelligent. Well-mannered. She will soon receive the best tutelage for her dancing. By the next Season ball, she will be the best dancer there.”

Hugh frowned. Why was the earl so determined to lead the conversation back to Miss Lennox?

“I had hoped to discuss Edward with you for a moment,” he said, deciding that a more direct approach was the only way to get his answers.

Bertram waved a hand. “I will do my best,” he said with utter dismissiveness. “However, there is little to say. His death was tragic, and he will be missed by many. I lost a terrific business partner, and in such a shocking way.”

Hugh held the earl’s gaze, knowing he would likely not get another chance to ask his primary question outright. “He was allegedly drinking to excess quite often,” he said bluntly. “Surely you, as a business partner and friend, would know if such a thing were true, and why he might have suddenly resorted to such a way of life.”

The earl stared at Hugh long enough to make him think the earl might answer his question. Then, he frowned, shaking his head at Hugh sadly.

“I am sorry, Mr. Wexford,” he said with mild annoyance. “I am afraid I cannot say much on that matter. Now please, do enjoy your ball. Perhaps even share another dance with Matilda.” 

Hugh clenched his teeth as the earl slipped away from him and disappeared in the crowd. He was sure that what the earl said was not true. Allegedly, few people were as close to Edward in those last days and weeks than Lord Atherleigh. Why would he be so flippant and disinterested in discussing what had happened to Edward?

As Hugh reached the doorway, he nearly collided with the last person he expected to see that evening.

“Hugh,” Percival Kenmore said with frozen politeness.

Hugh stared at his older brother’s lifelong rival, searching the Earl of Kenmore’s face for any emotion.

“Percy,” he said stiffly at Percy’s upturned nose. “How have you been faring?”

Percy adjusted his cuffs brusquely. “I did not expect you to come,” he said curtly.

Hugh scoffed. “It was a party held in honor of my return,” he said. “While I did not welcome such a notion, I could hardly refuse.”

Percy chuckled dryly. “Yes, the war hero,” he said, quite bitterly. “One brother celebrated and the other one dead.”

Hugh nodded, studying him carefully. “How are you doing with the news of Edward?” he asked.

There was a pause, and Hugh dared to hope to see a glimmer of sadness or regret.

“Edward was a fool,” he said.

Hugh sighed. “He was my brother,” Hugh said.

Percy shook his head. “He was your brother, perhaps,” he replied, turning away. “But he was nothing but a thorn in my side. Enjoy your party, sir.”

Hugh watched him go, his thoughts dark. Too late did Hugh realize that he might be pursuing the wrong leads. There might be someone else who knew more about Edward’s affairs in his last days. Someone he had just let walk away with nothing more than an icy word.

As the guests began to depart a short time later, Hugh found Lionel near the entrance, speaking with a footman.

“Well?” Hugh asked. ‘Please tell me you had better luck with Lord Atherleigh than I did.”

Lionel shook his head. “The only thing I gathered is that he is pushing you toward Miss Lennox,” he said. “It would seem that he wishes for you to marry her.”

Hugh sighed. “I assure you that no such thing is even a possibility,” he said.

They stepped outside together, the night air sharp and clean. The stars were bright overhead, and the wind stirred the trees. He was leaving the ball with more questions than he had when he arrived. But he was determined to learn the truth about Edward. And nothing, not even an earl trying to marry off his cousin to Hugh, would stand in his way.