Winning the Marquess’s Hidden Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

It felt as if the Easter bells had not yet finished chiming before Eleanor found Bellamy Hall in a whirlwind of activity. The serving staff were running to and fro between the parlor and the rest of the house. Some carried ribbons, others soft fabrics, and more still carried tea and light refreshments. Eleanor walked down the stairs and kept to the walls. Much safer than entering the fracas that was happening around her. As she managed to near the door to the parlor, she spotted a welcome sight. Among the servants, she managed to spot a familiar head of auburn hair.

“Molly,” she called out, quickly walking over. 

The maid turned to face her. “Ah, miss,” she said with a slight curtsy.

“Whatever is happening?” Eleanor asked.

“Miss Felicity is preparing for the Season,” Molly explained. “Your mother appears…” Molly weighed her words carefully. “Enthusiastic to have her eldest daughter marry this year.”

Eleanor nodded as she took in the information. Felicity had never been one to shy away from the spotlight, with many a young man offering her their hand to dance at balls, parties, and other such events. It truly was a wonder that Felicity’s gloves were not worn through from the number of hands she had held. Perhaps that was natural when one was the elder, more desirable daughter. Eleanor had no such knowledge. After all, she was rarely asked to dance.

“I see,” Eleanor said gently. “Then am I to understand they will be in the parlor all day?”

“Unfortunately.” Molly nodded before glancing around and leaning close to Eleanor. “I made sure your game was not disturbed.”

“Thank you.” Eleanor smiled as she heard that. As much as she knew she should join in the frivolities or help her elder sister, in truth, she had little interest in such things.

“Of course,” Molly replied. “The window seat is as you left it, even if the room itself shall be more crowded than usual.”

Eleanor nodded.

“You are too good to me,” she said. 

Molly shook her head. “Only as good as you are to me,” Molly replied. 

Eleanor couldn’t help but giggle at her maid’s words. Most maids would be clamoring for their lady’s attention. Molly knew she did not have to fight for it, and so the pair got on well. 

A loud laugh broke the moment, and Eleanor looked at the doors to the parlor. Past one scurrying maid, she could see Felicity standing in the middle of what appeared to be an explosion of fabric. Her older sister’s golden hair had been delicately pinned up on her head, and Eleanor watched her sister examine the gown both with glee and an astute observation, as if expecting perfection from the seamstress. 

Then, the door closed behind the maid. Eleanor had always thought her sister beautiful in the way that paintings were beautiful, something to be admired from a careful distance. There was a precision to Felicity that Eleanor could never quite account for, as though she had been assembled with deliberate attention to what the world found pleasing, and had understood this about herself from a very young age. It was not vanity, exactly. Or perhaps it was, but a vanity so complete and self-assured that it had long since ceased to look like a flaw. Eleanor was never certain whether she envied her sister or simply felt very tired by her.

Lord Bellamy held a baronetcy, Sir Edmund Bellamy, if one was being formal, though few outside London still bothered. The title was modest enough that it gave the family respectability without the weight of expectation that a peerage might carry. Lady Bellamy, born the second daughter of a viscount, had married slightly beneath her station and had spent the two decades since ensuring nobody forgot the gap. Felicity, at four-and-twenty, had her mother’s certainty and her father’s easy charm. Eleanor, at two-and-twenty, had inherited rather less of either.

Eleanor hesitated, unsure if she should enter after all. To her mind, she would just be out of place in their charming and glamorous conversations. She turned as if to leave and felt Molly’s hand on her arm. She glanced at the maid, who gave her a reassuring nod. Eleanor swallowed hard.

“I would just be bothering them,” she murmured to the maid.

“You’re a Bellamy, too,” Molly reminded her. 

Eleanor hesitated…then nodded. She turned to walk into the parlor.

Inside was just as chaotic as Eleanor had expected. Ribbons of varying colors had been draped over the backs of chairs, satin and silk gleaming in the light. There were fashion plates strewn over every table, except where the chessboard sat. Her mother held up a sample of lace and tutted.

“Oh, not at all. This will not do if we are to secure Felicity’s future and the future of this house. It will not do for even the lace to be out of place,” she said, waving the sample at one of several dress makers in the room. “This is cotton lace, and I am sure I specified Chantilly lace.”

“With due respect,” the dressmaker started. “Chantilly lace is rather costly. I did not wish to put undue financial burden—”

The dressmaker froze as Lady Bellamy rounded on her.

“That is not your decision to make,” Lady Bellamy said with the same sharp smile that Felicity had inherited. “Is that not right, my dear?”

All eyes turned toward Lord Bellamy, who was sitting on one of the couches, a pile of silk and chiffon having taken up most of the space, so he was pressed against the armrest. He looked up from his open book and sighed slightly.

“Correct, my darling,” he replied. “There is no expense that we should be sparing right now. Each shilling we spend will come back to us tenfold, all being well,” he added, before returning to the book in his hands. 

Eleanor internally grimaced. She knew her father did not know what he had just agreed to. As much as he was the man of the house, he left such things up to Lady Bellamy. Her father was a man who had married well and knew it. He gave Lady Bellamy latitude in domestic matters with the cheerful ease of someone who had long since decided that harmony was worth more than authority. 

It was not weakness, Eleanor thought, it was a calculated peace. He chose his battles, and the question of Chantilly versus cotton lace was not one he intended to fight. 

He turned his page, and Eleanor watched him with a fondness she rarely voiced. 

Her mother was an engaged socialite, determined to give Felicity the best of everything to secure her place with a wealthy match. It was both Felicity’s pride and, in Eleanor’s eyes, her curse.

“Thank you, Papa,” Felicity said, turning to see herself better in the mirror. “I enjoy this silhouette, but the fabric is not nearly as eye-catching nor as delicate as I would have liked.”

“Well then, we can change the fabric to a different color. We have some lovely reds and pinks—” the poor dressmaker started.

“I want purple,” Felicity said. “A lovely violet or amethyst.”

“Oh, you would look beautiful in those colors,” Lady Bellamy cooed. 

Eleanor watched the dressmaker purse her lips. Purples, while fashionable, were costly.
“I think our deep reds might suit you more. What about a nice puce or—”

“Puce?” Felicity asked, as if the dressmaker had said something disgusting. “No, never.”

“Or we have a cherry red, that color is always in fashion,” the dressmaker said hurriedly. Eleanor watched Felicity’s hands scrunch the fabric at her sides.

“Puce would look lovely on you, dear,” Lord Bellamy said, turning the page of his book.

“I am not wearing puce!” Felicity argued.

“Dear, let us be calm,” Lady Bellamy said, stroking Felicity’s back. She then turned back to the dressmaker. “We will see your purple fabrics.”

Eleanor watched as the dressmaker reluctantly turned toward a bag of sample fabrics. She settled at her window seat and watched them as Felicity and their mother cooed over the purple fabrics, debating the best choice among the different shades. To Eleanor, the differences were so subtle that she could scarcely tell the difference.

Her eyes moved down to the chessboard in front of her. The game had been in progress since the night before, one she had been playing with her father before her mother had taken his attention. The gentle spring sunlight made the pieces almost glitter.

The scent of beeswax from the freshly polished floors drifted through the room, mingling with the faint sweetness of the cut flowers her mother had arranged on the mantelpiece. Eleanor curled her feet beneath her on the window seat, the worn velvet soft beneath her palms, and felt the sun lay itself across her shoulders like a hand placed there in kindness. It was the closest thing to being held that she expected she would know for some time.

She was not unhappy. At least, that is what she told herself often enough that she had nearly stopped noticing she did so.

Once, she had been perhaps seventeen, standing at the edge of a ballroom in a gown that did not quite fit, and a young man had looked at her from across the room. Looked, and then looked away. It had lasted perhaps three seconds. She had thought about it for three weeks. Not with longing, exactly. More with the quiet bewilderment of someone who has been handed something and had it taken back before they could determine what it was.

She picked up a pawn. The ivory was cool and smooth between her fingers.

She wondered, sometimes, not about love in the way Felicity spoke of it, in terms of gowns and invitations and the precise cut of a man’s coat, but about what it might feel like to be known. To sit across a table from someone who was not a chess piece or a maid or a sister who occasionally forgot she existed, and to feel the particular warmth of being seen clearly, and not found wanting.

She put the piece back on the board. Outside, the bluebells swayed.

It was a foolish thing to want. She was practical enough to know that.

She took a breath and shook her head, her mind already moving back to the board in front of her.

Pawn to Queen’s Fourth.

Knight to Queen’s Second.

Knight to Queen’s Second.

Bishop to Queen’s Knight’s Second.

She slowly moved the pieces around, playing out the game on her own. The only interruptions to her peace were her mother’s and Felicity’s voices as they looked over the fabrics and debated which dress to try on next. Her mind settled into the steady rhythm of moving the pieces around as the sunlight from the window warmed her.

Bishop to Queen’s Bishop’s Second.

Rook to King’s Square.

Eleanor leaned back in her seat as she studied the board. She was glad she was not playing against her father right now. The board was in a difficult state for her to pick through. Glancing outside, she could see the primroses, ramsons, and bluebells in bloom over the Surrey hillsides. The hypnotic waving of the plants as they were buffeted by the breeze gave her a moment to consider everything. Then, she looked back at the board.

Pawn to Queen’s Rook’s Fourth.

Bishop to King’s Bishop’s Square.

Bishop to—

“We shall have a discussion when Eleanor is here,” her father said. 

Her attention was taken away from the pieces as he said her name.

“I am here,” she said.

Her family all turned to face her, almost startled that she was already in the room.

“Excellent.” Her father nodded, clearing his throat to mask his surprise. “Come, sit…” he glanced around at the piles of fabric. “Find a place to sit with us.”

Eleanor obliged, placing the bishop to Queen’s Fourth before moving some of the fabric around. She handed one pile to the dressmaker, who gave her a grateful nod as she sat.

“Now, we have some important news to share with you both,” Lord Bellamy said, and Lady Bellamy’s eyes widened with glee. 

Felicity raised a curious eyebrow, still standing as the dressmaker came behind her to pin the dress to fit her better. “The Fairleigh family—”

“The Marquess of Ravensford?” Felicity asked.

“Exactly,” Lord Bellamy said with a nod. “Well, they are seeking an advantageous alliance,” he said, before looking up at Felicity. “My dear, I believe that you are their intended bride. I have taken the liberty of writing to the Marquess of Ravensford,” Lord Bellamy continued, with the careful tone of a man who has already committed to something and is only now informing the room. “I expect a reply within the fortnight.”

Felicity gasped and ran to their father, wrapping her arms around him. The dressmaker grimaced as she nearly poked Felicity with a pin.

“Oh, father, this is such wonderful news!” she cried out.

“That it is,” he replied, patting her back. “You have done so well, my dear. Your beauty has truly captured his attention, and it is such a wonderful asset that you have done well to cultivate.”

“I agree,” Lady Bellamy said. 

Eleanor noticed how her mother’s shoulders relaxed. “The security of a good match will do our whole family well.”

Felicity nodded.

“It will indeed!” She giggled. “Oh, I am ever so glad that I can do this for our family.”

“And for yourself,” Lord Bellamy replied as Felicity pulled back.

“Yes,” she replied eagerly. Her eyes slid over to Eleanor. “Do you believe that Lord Ravensford will find my beauty sufficient?”

Eleanor’s heart ached at the tone of insecurity in her elder sister’s voice.

“Of course, you are extraordinarily beautiful.” Eleanor nodded, reaching out to pat Felicity’s shoulder. 

Felicity pulled away and scoffed. “How would you know?” she murmured. “Nobody looks at the second sister.”

Eleanor’s chest felt a crushing pain, and she pulled her hand back. Her mother and father, oblivious to the slight, were deep in conversations about meetings and when they could host the marquess. Eleanor took a soft breath and leaned back in her seat. This was not her place to meddle. She was, of course, no match for her sister. Where Felicity shone in the spotlight with her charming appearance, Eleanor’s comparatively muddy appearance, with her brown hair and gray eyes, left her at society’s sidelines. It was not as if she minded entirely. This had been the way since she debuted. Even before then, relatives and friends had always doted on Felicity, sometimes forgetting Eleanor.

This is my place, she would tell herself. It was a comfortable place. Not as in how furnishings or beds were comfortable, but as worn stone that had been warmed in the sun and molded to the shape that she took as she sat on it. At least she got peace as opposed to the chaos that seemed to constantly swirl around her sister.

“Eleanor,” Felicity’s sweet voice came. Eleanor looked up. “Be a dear and move out of the way of the dressmaker?”

Eleanor looked at the apologetic dressmaker who had an armful of fabric and nodded.

“Of course—”

Felicity grabbed her wrist, acting as if helping her sister to stand, but the grip was much too tight.

“Do not interfere,” Felicity hissed in Eleanor’s ear. “This is my one chance. Do not insert yourself where you do not belong.”

Eleanor stepped back. Felicity was smiling gently at her. Their mother was looking at more fabric, and their father was attempting to read his book again.

“I understand,” she said before walking to the back of the room again. 

Felicity grinned and turned back to the mirror. “We should visit him soon,” Felicity said. “He lives in Town, no?”

“He does indeed.” Lady Bellamy beamed. “Although I believe he has various properties.”

“He has inherited several,” Lord Bellamy said, not looking up from his book.

“Oh, to be in Town for this Season would be marvelous!” Felicity said with a dreamy sigh.

“I am sure the marquess can find a way to get you any invitation to any event you should wish,” Lord Bellamy said.

“Really?” Felicity asked with an eager gasp.

“Really.” Lady Bellamy nodded. “Now come, come. We must choose the shade of purple that will suit you best.”

Eleanor watched them as she sat back down at the chessboard. She looked down at the game again, her mind swimming with thoughts about Felicity’s potential match. In truth, she would not mind her sister being married. The home would be quieter without her…

She picked up the black pawn and examined it for a moment before placing it on Queen’s Bishop’s Third.

“I am going for a walk,” she said absentmindedly, standing up. 

Nobody responded verbally as she walked out the door. She stood in the hallway, now clear of servants, many of them now on their afternoon rest.

“Felicity,” she heard her mother say. “Make sure that this marriage happens. We must secure our place in society,” her mother continued, followed by the sound of rustling fabric. “Or else all this lace and cloth will be for nothing.”

There was a gentle pause.

“I understand, Mother,” Felicity said.

Eleanor stood for a moment. She was more aware than her parents knew of the realities of their circumstances and Felicity’s expensive taste.

She sighed and walked up toward the library, needing space from the chaos. The hallway was cooler than the parlor and quieter. Her footsteps were soft on the runner as she climbed, one hand trailing the banister. From below, she could still hear her mother’s voice, decisive, bright, entirely certain of itself. She wondered, not for the first time, what that certainty must feel like from the inside. Perhaps, though, it was also a part of Felicity’s curse. After all, she had to join in with the act of confidence. For, if she did not succeed…

They might all suffer.

Chapter Two

Gray clouds hovered over Ravensford Park. Despite the rest of England agreeing that spring had sprung, the Fairleigh estate and its inhabitants would firmly disagree. The violets and celandines were refusing to blossom. The wind felt bitter on one’s cheeks. The weeping willows over the pond seemed to bow a little deeper.

At the center of it all was Julian. Now, the man of the household, and with all the calamities that seemed to arise around his family, he had long since learned that his position was to be that of a pillar. Strong, hard, supportive. Even so, sitting in his father’s study that overlooked the main garden, he could feel his composure weakening. Not in the way that a pillar cracks, but in the way that a house creaks as the wood or walls settle at night. There was no peace to be found, just the slumping of shoulders and the sighing of servants behind closed doors.

He could not dwell on this.

He had much to do.

But…The ledger he was meant to read had been open for the better part of an hour. Julian could not have said what was on the page.

He sat in his father’s chair, a thing he had done perhaps twice in his life before and never comfortably, surrounded by the familiar smell of the room: pipe tobacco worked deep into the upholstery. It was a particular blend of Virginia tobacco his father had sworn by. On top of that, there was the faint musty smell of old vellum, and the particular stillness of a place that had once belonged entirely to someone else. The fire had burned low. He had not called to have it tended. There was something almost appropriate about the cold. He had always found it easier to think in the cold. His father had been the same way. Perhaps that, at least, was inherited.

He was still staring at the same column of figures when his solicitor, Mr. Holdham, knocked. The sharp sound brought him back to the present moment.

“Come in,” Julian said, moving his seat to face the door. Mr. Holdham entered. He was an older man with graying hair and a cravat that always seemed tied almost impossibly tight. The kind of man you trust with finances, but would not share a drink with.

“Lord Ravensford, I can only offer my most sincere condolences,” Mr. Holdham said. 

Julian nodded. He had heard the man say some variation of those words many times over the last few weeks. It was the kind of sympathy that one practiced through repetition over many days.

“Thank you,” Julian replied, turning to face him. “Let us move on to other matters.”

“Of course,” Mr. Holdham said. He set his documents on the corner of the desk, accepted the offer of a chair, and proceeded to lay out the full shape of what Julian now inherited. 

“How bad is the situation I find myself in?” Julian asked. As much as his instinct was to cover his ears and run from any form of bad news right now, if he did not take in the full scope of the consequences of his father’s death, it would only cause the estate problems.

“I am glad to say that this is not a ruinous situation,” Mr. Holdham began. 

Julian nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes. However, that relief was crushed. “There is considerably less in the Fairleigh coffers than the ton would believe. The distance between your reputation and your reality cannot be sustained indefinitely.”

Julian nodded and ran a hand down his face. His father had been excellent at finding good faith and taking it as far as it could go. He had built friendships and reputations that Julian had not been able to extend or capitalize on.

“What does that mean for the estate?” he asked, his hand over his eyes.

“Restructuring, for a start,” Mr. Holdham said. “Additionally, tenants will expect reassurances; some of them will want them personally. Especially before the spring rent is due. Then there is the matter of your father’s investment partnerships. They will need to be renegotiated, and one, Lord Foster, is asking that his agreement specifically be renegotiated as soon as possible.”

“Of course he is,” Julian said.

Mr. Holdham nodded.

“There is…” the man started, shifting awkwardly in a way that made Julian’s stomach twist.

“Speak plainly,” he said gruffly.

“Well, there is one other matter. The matter of one…Helena Markham…”

Julian’s heart felt like it had stopped in that moment. Helena. The woman he had adored. The very same woman who had left him recently. Mr. Holdham pointed to one item in the ledgers. The Markhams had, quietly but swiftly, reclaimed Helena’s dowry articles. Julian felt his hands grip the fabric of his breeches. Another quiet finality in his life. There had been no public quarrel, no formal announcement. There had not needed to be. The speed of their withdrawal said everything that society required to know about what the family thought of the Ravensford finances now that the marquessate had changed hands.

Julian’s eyes remained on the page a moment longer than necessary. He became aware, distantly, of the particular cold that had settled into his right shoulder where the window draught caught it, of the faint smell of his father’s tobacco pressed into the chair beneath him, and then, underneath all of it, the sensation of something contracting in his chest. Not breaking. He would not call it that. A tightening, rather. The way leather tightens in cold air.

He had kissed Helena Markham’s hand in a garden in October, and she had looked up at him with an expression he had spent six months believing was particular to him alone. He understood now that it was not. Or perhaps it had been, once, and simply had not remained so.

He set the ledger down on the desk. Picked it up again. Read the same column of figures for the fourth time without seeing them.

He was becoming practiced at that.

“I dare say that will cause some social, ah, backstepping,” Mr. Holdham said, holding out a letter. “But, all hope is not lost. I believe this arrived for you just this morning.”

Julian nodded and looked at the letter. The stationery was practical; the envelope was slightly softer than the most basic counterpart, but not of the same quality as the stationery Julian was used to handling. The seal appeared to be that of one Lord Bellamy. Julian took his letter opener and sliced it open.

My lord,

Permit me to offer, in the first instance, my most sincere condolences upon the passing of your father. The late marquess was a man of considerable distinction, and his loss will be felt not only by those who knew him personally but by all who value integrity in public life. I hope that you and your household are afforded some measure of peace in this period of mourning.

It is with some delicacy that I write to you at such a time, and I trust you will understand that it is only the warmth of my regard for your family’s name that compels me to do so at all. I have long held the Ravensford title in the highest esteem, and it is precisely that esteem which prompts this correspondence.

I have the good fortune of being father to two daughters of marriageable age, the elder of whom, Miss Felicity Bellamy, is, I am told on very reliable authority, considered among the finest young women to grace this Season. She is accomplished, well-regarded, and possessed of a temperament I believe would reflect most admirably upon any household fortunate enough to receive her.

I do not write to press the matter unduly. I write only to suggest that, should you find yourself disposed toward the consideration of an alliance of mutual benefit to both our families, I would welcome the opportunity to make a more formal introduction at your earliest convenience.

I remain, as ever, at your lordship’s service,

Lord Bellamy

Bellamy Hall, Surrey

Julian read it through twice. The way it was phrased set his hackles up, but it was hard to say if that was the fault of the letter or Julian’s grief.

He was in the process of formulating a politely discouraging reply when the door opened, and Captain Thomas Langford came in.

Thomas had been moving through the house with the comfortable ease of a man who had spent his boyhood in it, asking after nothing and assuming nothing, present in whatever way seemed most useful. He crossed the study now without ceremony, glanced at Julian’s face, and then leaned over his shoulder to read the letter.

Mr. Holdham, having known both men long enough to know when he was not needed in their silent conversations, stood to leave.

“Do consider what we have discussed, and what a…Friendly relationship with other nobility could do for the estate,” Mr. Holdham said as he left.

“Of course,” Julian said just as the door swung shut behind Mr. Holdham.

There was a silence.

“Bellamy,” Thomas said.

“So it appears,” Julian replied.

“He has two daughters.” Thomas straightened. “The elder is, what, twenty-three? Twenty-four?”

“I couldn’t say.” Julian refolded the letter. “I’ve no intention of finding out.”

Thomas moved to the mantel and stood with his arms folded, watching Julian return to the ledger. Julian tried to force himself to concentrate on it, but both men could see that it was not working.

“I believe I can see steam coming from your ears,” Thomas teased.

“Can a man not read in peace?” Julian asked. 

Thomas snorted gently in response. The moment stretched on between them, and the more Julian tried to force his mind to focus on the numbers in front of him, the more aware he became that Thomas had not left.

“You’re going to say something,” Julian finally said, without looking up.

“I’m considering it,” Thomas replied. A pause. “Helena Markham returned your letters before the ink on your father’s obituary was dry.”

Julian said nothing. He felt his jaw clench at the reminder.

“She did not write. She did not call. She sent them back in a parcel, I’m told, as though returning borrowed books.” Thomas’s voice was even, but there was something underneath it. “And now, Lord Bellamy writes to you, mere days after the funeral, with a letter that reads like a property assessment dressed in mourning clothes. And you’re sitting there trying to decide whether the polite response is a firm no or a very firm no, instead of asking the question that actually matters.”

“Which question is that?” Julian asked, leaning back in his seat and looking at his friend.

“Whether you’d know the difference.” Thomas glanced at him. “Between a woman who wanted the man and a woman who wanted the title. Given recent evidence.”

The fire shifted in the grate. Julian closed the ledger.

It was not that the thought had not occurred to him. It had, in the small hours of the last several nights, with the particular clarity that exhaustion and silence tend to produce. Helena had been fond of him; he believed that still. But fondness, it turned out, had a floor. It did not survive uncertainty. It did not survive the prospect of economies and reduced Seasons and the slow, undignified work of making a great estate solvent again. Fondness, in the end, had had its limits, and he had not known until now precisely where those limits lay.

He did not want to make that discovery twice.

Thomas pushed off the mantel and came to sit across from him, in the chair Mr. Holdham had vacated.

“What if you invited them here?” he said, in a different tone. “Nothing formal. But it would be seen as a polite response to the letter.”

“Thomas—”

“Let me finish,” his friend said. “Perhaps you do not have to appear as…Yourself.”

“How else would one appear in these circumstances?”

“I dare say you could appear as one strikingly handsome and charming Captain Thomas Langford.” Thomas grinned.

Julian looked at him.

“You’re very little known in that set,” Thomas continued. “Your father did not mix much in those circles, and you’ve been,” a diplomatic pause, “selective, these past few years, about where you’ve shown your face. There are perhaps a dozen people in England who could look at you across a dinner table and say with certainty who you are.”

“You’re suggesting I pretend to be you?”

“And I would pretend to be you,” Thomas said. “After all, I dare say we are of similar height and build, and Clara would happily go along with such a jape if it meant keeping her brother away from another insincere match.”

“While that is a…” Julian weighed his words carefully. “Creative solution, I truly see no reason to go forth with such a plan. In truth, I do not think I could take another insincere match, and I have heard differing stories about Miss Felicity depending on which corner of London I am standing in.”

“Ah, but that is the beauty of the plan!” Thomas laughed. “You would spend your time observing a family whose intentions toward you are, at present, entirely unclear. It would also allow you to see how Miss Felicity really is away from the prying eyes of the ton.” Thomas met his eyes. “If what they want is Ravensford the marquess, they’ll make that evident soon enough. And you’ll have lost nothing but a handful of awkward dinners.”

Julian nodded, still unsure.

“And if they’re genuine?”

“Then you’ll know that too. And you can decide what to do with it,” Thomas replied. “If in the end it all comes to naught, it shows that the Marquess of Ravensford is making an effort to find a bride, and you do not know what that could lead to in the future.”

“I am unsure…” Julian sighed.

“Julian,” Thomas said firmly. “You are desperately unhappy, and nobody could blame you for being so. Please, at least consider this?”

Julian was quiet for a moment. His mind weighed up the pros and cons of such a venture. Of course, his younger sister would not mind the mischief, and it gave him a way of understanding the motives of the Bellamy family. At the same time, his heart was still somewhere in the Markham home…

Then, he thought of a parcel of letters. Returned unopened. On a Tuesday afternoon, perhaps between the writing of two social notes. As if their courtship had mattered less than a morning call.

He wanted to be left alone and be allowed to grieve in peace.

Looking down at the ledgers, though, he was actually aware that the estate demanded stability over his own personal comfort.

“All right,” he said. Thomas’s face lit up.

“Good, good,” he said with a smile. “Let us craft a response together.”

Julian nodded as his friend pulled stationery and a quill close. Julian watched his friend write a polished response, the kind of thing that Julian’s grief-addled mind would not have been capable of at that time. He glanced out the window that overlooked the gardens and the park.

On the horizon, the gray clouds were starting to part, letting shafts of light illuminate the grounds.

He could only hope this was a good omen.