The spring rains had finally relented over London, leaving behind streets of polished cobblestones that mirrored the pale blue sky above. Carriages rumbled past with measured dignity, their iron wheels striking sparks against the wet ground as they carried the city's elite to morning calls and dress fittings in preparation for the new season. At the corner of Grosvenor Square, a particularly grand vehicle pulled to a halt before one of the finest townhouses in Mayfair its black lacquered body gleaming, its silver fittings catching the light, and its crest emblazoned on the door: a golden hawk perched atop a field of deep blue.
Lord Marcus Aurelia, Fifth Duke of Dawnfield, stepped down from the carriage with the effortless grace that had defined him even as a boy. At thirty-two years of age, he had lost none of the striking good looks that had once made him the most sought-after bachelor in the ton, though time and circumstance had etched new lines around his grey-blue eyes and set his broad shoulders with a weight that had not been there when he had left England eight years prior. His dark brown hair was cut close at the sides, with a slight wave falling across his forehead a style that had been fashionable when he had departed, but which now seemed almost deliberately out of step with the elaborate coiffures worn by the younger gentlemen of society.
"Your Grace," his valet, Hawkins, murmured as he descended behind him, carrying a leather satchel heavy with correspondence. "Shall I have the house opened at once? The staff have been making preparations these past fortnight, but there is much to be done still."
Marcus ran a hand over the stone facade of the townhouse, feeling its cool surface beneath his gloved fingers. Eight years. Eight years since he had last stood in this spot, since he had last called this place home. "Let them take their time, Hawkins," he said, his voice low and carrying the faint lilt of the continent that still clung to his speech despite his best efforts. "I have been too long away to rush back into the life I left behind."
The door swung open before Hawkins could respond, revealing Mrs. Pemberton, the housekeeper a stout woman with silver hair pulled into a severe bun, whose eyes immediately filled with tears at the sight of him.
"Your Grace," she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. "We had almost dared not hope you would return."
Marcus stepped into the familiar hallway, the scent of beeswax and lavender wrapping around him like a blanket. Portraits of his ancestors lined the walls stern-faced men and beautiful women who had held the title of Duke and Duchess of Dawnfield before him. His mother's portrait hung above the staircase, her gentle eyes looking down at him as they had done when he was a small boy, running through these halls with his younger siblings at his heels.
"I told you I would come back, Mrs. Pemberton," he said, reaching out to pat her shoulder. "How fare my brothers and sisters?"
"All well, Your Grace. Lord Julian is in Cornwall, overseeing the mining operations. Lord Alexander remains at Silverthorne Abbey though I believe he plans to come up to London for the season. The ladies are at Aurelia House with the Dowager Duchess. They speak of you often, sir."
"And my mother?"
"Her ladyship's health has improved these past year, praise be. She spends most of her days in the gardens, tending to the roses you planted before you left."
Marcus felt a tightness in his chest at the thought. The roses. He had spent weeks carefully selecting each variety, working alongside the gardeners to ensure they would thrive in the London soil. He had done it for her, after his father's death a small gesture to bring some beauty back into her life when the world had seemed so dark.
"I shall call upon her tomorrow," he said, moving toward the drawing room. "First, I need to see to some correspondence. Hawkins, bring my satchel to the study. Mrs. Pemberton, please have the kitchens prepare whatever is easiest I have no appetite for anything elaborate."
As he made his way through the house, every room brought back a flood of memories. The drawing room where he had danced with his first partner at his coming-out ball. The library where his father had taught him to read Latin and Greek. The morning room where his sisters had spent hours practicing their needlework, chattering excitedly about the latest suitors. So much had changed since then. So much had been lost.
In the study, he sank into the leather chair behind his father's massive desk and gestured for Hawkins to place the satchel before him. The first letter he pulled out was sealed with green wax the color of the Whitmore family crest. His jaw tightened as he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
My Lord Duke,
I trust this letter finds you well upon your return to England. It has been many years since we last spoke, but I believe you will wish to know of certain developments concerning my daughter, Eloise. As you are no doubt aware, the season is about to begin, and we are preparing to present her to society. I would be honored if you would grace us with your presence at our ball on the twentieth an event I am sure will be the talk of the ton.
I must also speak to you of a matter of great importance, one that concerns an agreement made between our families many years ago. I believe it is time we discussed fulfilling our obligations to one another.
With sincere regards,
Earl of Blackwater
Marcus crumpled the letter in his hand, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. Eloise Whitmore. He had not thought of her in years not since the day he had left England, when she had stood at the edge of the garden at Dawnfield Manor, tears streaming down her face as she had begged him not to go.
"You promised me, Marcus," she had said, her small hands clutching at his coat. "You promised we would marry when you returned."
He had made many promises in those days, promises he had been unable to keep. The war in Europe had changed everything had changed him. He had left as a carefree young man, full of hope and ambition. He had returned as a duke with a heavy crown and a heart that had long since learned to guard itself against pain.
"Your Grace?" Hawkins's voice broke through his thoughts. "There is a gentleman at the door asking to see you. He says his name is Mr. Theodore Finch he is the editor of The London Chronicle."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. The Chronicle was one of the most influential papers in London, known for its coverage of society events and its willingness to print whatever scandal would sell the most copies. "Show him in," he said, smoothing out the crumpled letter and placing it in his desk drawer. "I suppose if I am to return to London life, I had best get used to being the subject of gossip and speculation."
Mr. Finch entered the room a moment later a thin man with wire-rimmed spectacles and a nervous energy that seemed to emanate from every pore. He bowed low, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.
"Your Grace! What an honor to make your acquaintance. I trust your journey from France was pleasant?"
"Mr. Finch," Marcus said, gesturing to a chair. "To what do I owe this visit? I have only just returned to London I had not thought word would have spread so quickly."
The editor settled into the chair, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. "Word travels fast in society circles, Your Grace. Especially when it concerns the return of one of England's most eligible dukes. The readers of The London Chronicle are eager to know what brings you back to England after all these years? Are you here to take up your place in society? To find a bride?"
Marcus leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I have returned to fulfill my duties as Duke of Dawnfield, Mr. Finch. As for a bride that is a matter I have not yet considered."
"Surely not! At your age, with such a title to uphold the ton will be abuzz with speculation. There are dozens of young ladies who would be delighted to become the Duchess of Dawnfield. Lady Eloise Whitmore, for instance I understand her family is planning to present her this season. I believe there was once talk of an understanding between you two."
Marcus's expression hardened. "I do not discuss my personal affairs with journalists, Mr. Finch. Nor do I appreciate having my past dragged up for public consumption. I suggest you focus your attention on matters that concern you."
The editor's eyes gleamed behind his spectacles. "Of course, Your Grace. But I think you will find that in London, everything concerns everyone especially when it comes to the nobility. The season is just beginning, and I have a feeling this will be one of the most interesting we have seen in years. I look forward to reporting on all of your activities."
With another bow, Mr. Finch took his leave, leaving Marcus alone in the study with his thoughts. The season. Lady Eloise. The agreement between their families. He had hoped to take his time adjusting to life in London, to ease his way back into society. But it seemed fate had other plans.
He stood and walked to the window, looking out at Grosvenor Square. Carriages continued to pass by, their occupants dressed in the finest silks and velvets. Servants scurried about with parcels and messages. Children played in the square, their laughter carrying up to his window on the breeze. London had not changed in his absence it was still the same bustling, gossiping, glorious city it had always been.
But he had changed. The war had taught him that life was fragile, that promises could be broken in an instant, that love was a luxury he could not afford. And yet as he stood there looking out at the world he had left behind he felt a flicker of something he had not felt in years. A flicker of hope.
Tomorrow he would call upon his mother. Tomorrow he would face his siblings. And in two weeks' time, he would attend the Whitmore ball and come face to face with the woman he had left behind. The woman he had promised to marry.
He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her hand in his, the scent of roses in her hair, the way her eyes had lit up when she smiled. Eloise. He had tried to forget her. He had tried to move on. But now, as he prepared to reenter the world he had abandoned, he knew that some ghosts could not be left behind so easily.
The Duke of Dawnfield had returned to London. And whether he was ready or not, the season and all that came with it was about to begin....