Prologue

      Lord Tierney, known as Rafe to the cousin he regarded across the room, was both thinking of the winter snowstorm brewing outside, whilst all of society began the holiday celebrations with abandon, and recalling that cold and bitter journey down from his northern boarder estates, to reach his cousin, Julian Maine, Duke of Raulston’s side, years ago.

       Though a man known for his brawn and intimidating height, called a wild barbarian by the more polished ton, Rafe felt a shiver run down his spine. He sipped more whiskey, his own brand that he carried in a flask to refill and replace tepid punch and watered down wine at these lavish but poorly feasted London mansions. His moss green eyes peered from too dark skin, a rugged face framed with unfashionably long wine red hair. The Raulston’s got raven locks and gray eyes, the Tierney’s, deep wine red hair and various shades of green or brown eyes.

       He was all the family Julian had now, and vise versa. The Raulston Dukes were bluer in blood, better titled, and five times richer, and the Tierney cousin’s more wild and wooly than their strictly brought up and polished to a high shine, kin. Yet, since that fateful winter, Julian had changed so drastically and so much inward, that the outward man had created his own unique aura of intimidation, hardness, coldness, and commanding presence—which was not so far from the attributes this society attached to Rafe, and his indifference to their customs, opinions, respect or approval. 

      Standing over by a festively decorated mantle, Julian was speaking to the portly, bewigged host, likely preparing to take his leave since Rafe had caught his eye upon entering, to relay he had made all preparations for the journey down to Julian’s estates. He was going to suggest they delay and see how bad the snows and storms were, as soon as he got the chance to speak to his cousin.

      But eyeing him from his relaxed, wide legged stance, at the bottom of the entry stairs, Rafe took in the six foot height and broad shouldered grace of his cousin. Taut and honed, unlike his own pronounced brawn. With nape length, hair, slightly longer in the bangs, having silvered prematurely that winter, matching the hue of his eyes. All that happened then having both burned and frozen Julian inwardly, the aristocratic bones and once polished lines were more sinewy and tight.

      Julian’s smiles were few and wintrier. His still black brows and ebony black lashes worked to either lower and shield his reactions or that brow would arch the merest inch, and have men stuttering to correct whatever it was they started to say that might offend him. Normally something of his personal business, which Julian obviously made clear long ago was off limits to anyone wishing to leave his presence with all their teeth intact.

      Yes, Rafe’s own inward smile was grim. Though he took great pride in being the unpolished kinsmen of the lofty duke. he enjoyed his unpopular, unrefined looks, and outrageous lack of care for their opinions, he had never thought that Julian, whom he had spent some of his boyhood with when their mother’s were alive—would ever gain a rep or have an equally harsh image.

      He knew the boy behind the strictly educated lad then too, and with him, Julian had rode hell for leather, hunted, fished and brawled—as Rafe enjoyed a good many of those too. Nevertheless, to the ton, he had been the epitome of noble son and heir with a mixture of rakehell underneath. Now however, to society here, the Duke of Raulston’s was… distant.

      Again, Rafe of course, knew more than they, and he alone understood why and what had later changed the man. The fates that collided that winter night seemed to erase all that was, and eventually Julian had become on the outside, what he—and the young woman he had saved that night—believed he was.

      Julian finally bowed to his host and made his way across the room. Rafe downed the whiskey and set the crystal glass in a potted plant, which was the closest thing to him, and turned to climb the steps again. From a bewigged servant he collected his own lined greatcoat, putting in on over snug doeskin trousers, high boots and a black shirt—decidedly not fashionable ballroom attire. He had Julian’s in hand when the duke reached him.

      Sliding his arms into it, Julian buttoned the garment over very stark black and…black, his version of adhering to fashion without the dash, and more on the severe side. His neck cloth was a burgundy with ebon pin. He settled on his beaver hat as they nodded to the footmen opening the doors, drawing a scarlet scarf out of the pocket and draping it around the wide collar.

      Not until they stood on the snow-covered sidewalk, the crested coach a few feet away, did Rafe say, “You may want to reconsider and wait out this storm. Morning may see it calmed a bit.”

      Beside him, Julian had extracted heavier gloves too from his coat pocket, having peeled off the white formal ones. He looked up at the sky where thick flakes were falling so dense and fast his caped coat was already covered. “She’s summoned me. I’ll go.”

      His deep tones would seem unemotional to most, but Rafe knew that inflection meant just the opposite. He was not surprised Julian would not be delayed.

      They proceeded to the coach. Once inside, the viscount nodded slightly, “Fine by me. I’ll take the coach on northward and collect you after the holiday—assuming you intend to return to London once Christmas is over?”

      “Yes. I’ll be returning….as always.”

      They lifted the flaps after lighting cheroots, each bracing a boot on the opposite seat for the short ride to the townhouse. Rafe was six foot and four, Julian six feet and long legged, but the roomy coach and cushioned seats wasn’t all that uncomfortable.

      Through the smoke, Rafe tried to discern Julian’s remote expression, wondering if he shouldn’t find an excuse to stay at Netherland House, the duke’s main seat, just in case? Even though his own steward and people were awaiting him, his business as well as the holiday traditions needing seen to. Decidedly not his forte.

      Even as he let this oddly protective thought drift through his mind—odd because Julian was four years his senior and able to take care of himself, Rafe realized that when it came to Lady Bryana Ostburg Maine—legally Duchess of Raulston—or rather Bry, as he thought of her, the intricacies of the relationship the two had was beyond him to meddle with. He had done so one time, and even now, he was not so sure that he had not made matters worse.

      The coach stopped at the Raulston mansion. Footmen came out to open the doors and let down the steps. They exited and after greeting the butler, handing over their coats, Julian said to him, “If all is packed, we’ll leave in an hour. I need to collect some papers from the study and speak to the staff.”

      Rafe nodded and signaled a young man, Roby, who had come from his own estates with him. They went above to collect the last of his own things for the trip and then he awaited Julian in the front parlor, his thoughts too mixed to worry about how much work was waiting at home—and how much dread he had contemplating overcrowded Inns, bad roads and bad food to get there. It was propitious he was of the rugged Tierney stock, because he would likely end up riding ahead of the coach rather than cooling his heels in tedium if the storms were worse—and they likely were northward. He was less vexed with the possible rough going in a winter storm, than he was about Julian and this summons from Lady Bry. It was a damnable thing, what fate and choices, their own bitterness had done to them.

* * * *

      In the study, Julian sat at the desk putting the last of the papers in a satchel and then packing his seal and wax into a small handled trunk. He opened a lower drawer, collected the bank drafts, and placed them inside, then paused, carrying a folded and stiff sheet to the top of the desk, regarding it in his long fingers under the glow of a lamp he had lit.

      He did not need to unfold the parish record, the official copy of the license to know every word. He had other papers with both names on it, and a sealed copy sat in the safe at Netherland House along with Bryana’s divorce papers—that document he had paid a fortune for, and young and reckless Lord Stephan Montgomery had signed.

      Thankfully, the earl’s father, a powerful Marquis and magistrate had also kept it concealed, as well as cooperating with Julian on getting it done as quickly and privately as possible.

       It paid to have wealth and old family ties, to have some powerful people obligated to you, and Julian’s father and James Montgomery had, before their deaths, strong ties both politically and personally. So that no more than speculation remained on the whole affair five years later. It also helped that one of the Montgomery uncles was a Bishop, and their church influence was as solid as their ties to the crown. Divorce was easier for the non titled than the titled, and a discreet divorce was even more difficult unless one had money for bribes, friends in high places, and a father too who saw the light.

      Julian put the paper back into the drawer and stood, setting both satchels on the desktop. As he turned down the wick and snuffed the lamp, he could see the tall windows lining the study, and from lamplight, street level, watch the pouring white snow flakes obscure the world beyond.

      Letting his hand fall to the desktop, he was transfixed a moment by the white blur, his aquiline face still as stone when the past pushed its way forward. For the first time in many, many years, allowing his mind to go back to the night he had met a young woman who would forever change his life…