by Cecilia Gray
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Meet Seraphina Belle—the Belle Belle—whose face has launched a legion of metaphorical ships. Since her birth caused her mother’s death, she’s determined to be the perfect daughter. As a dowager duchess at the height of respectability, she is known for turning out perfect matches… until he threatens to ruin her perfect reputation.
Meet Christian Hughes—bastard—not that you’d say it to his face. The famed pugilist has always solved his problems with his fists, which is probably why he’s never gotten over his fascination with Sera. He has always assumed she was out of his reach, until a scandal brings her close—and the only way out of it is together.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2017 by Cecilia Gray
Cover Design and Copyright by Okay Creations
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written consent from the author/publisher.
Published by Gray Life, LLC
READ. LEARN. LIVE. REPEAT.
Praise for Cecilia Gray’s Novels
“Absorbing… refreshing… commendable.” —Kirkus Reviews
“A compelling mix of action, drama and love.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Four Stars!” —San Francisco Book Review
“Gray’s characters are so full of life, hope and dreams, it’s a pleasure to read about them.” —Schenni’s Book Nook
“This series is definitely worth reading.” —A Whisper of Thoughts Reviews
“Cecilia has a talent for instilling warmth and weight into her characters.” —Romancing the Book
“Will have you captivated from beginning to end.” —Can’t Put It Down Reviews
The Couldn’t-Have-Done-It-Without-You Page
To all the authors I’ve loved before—JQ, Kleypas, Foley—you sure know how to make a girl feel like living in a world without the right to vote or vaccinations!
A Disclaimer of Some Urgency
While we hesitate to offend, dear reader, it is incumbent upon us to warn you that the heroine of our story, Miss Seraphina Belle, kisses a man who is not her fiancé and then marries a man who is not the man she has kissed.
Judge harshly. It is your right.
But only after reading the entire story.
Chapter One
The day before Seraphina Belle’s wedding
February 13, 1817
Woodbury, England
The moon hung low in the sky, a lone beacon coaxing Sera Belle outside into the night. She had sent her lady’s maid away an hour ago, insisting she would ready herself for bed. It had been much harder to persuade her four older sisters to leave her be on this night before her wedding. They’d said she was young, that she couldn’t possibly know her own mind at sixteen—to be married to someone twice her age! They had bustled in and out of her room, uninvited but well intentioned.
Alice had come first. She was the eldest, the Bossy Belle, or so she was nicknamed. “Just say the word, Sera. I can bear Father’s wrath. I should be the one, not you, marrying into the Duke of Rivington’s family to placate him.” The unspoken hung between them: that Sera’s beauty was the rope that had tied her hands to this arrangement, and Alice would likely have proven an acceptable replacement for the money-hungry duke, but not for his heir, the intended groom.
Bridget had sat on the edge of the bed, her toes peeking out beneath her white nightgown. “You must feel so nervous. You’re on the precipice of a new adventure!” She was known as the Bookish Belle for a reason. She could imagine any situation as a grand tale to be told, preferably with herself as its heroine.
Charlotte had offered Sera warm milk and biscuits before bed. “An empty stomach is a nervous stomach.” When Sera had declined, she had eaten them in her stead. Her nickname of the Bovine Belle, while unnecessarily unkind, did describe her buxom frame.
Dinah, who was only a year older than Sera, was the most practical, as always. “There’s nothing to be done now. Here, give me a hug. Our last hug as Belle sisters. Tomorrow you will be an Abernathy, future Duchess of Rivington.” The nickname Blasé Belle was apropos for Dinah.
Having finally rid herself of maids and sisters—thank goodness her father had not bothered to make a pre-wedding visit—Sera changed into a simple brown dress with buttons at the wrists. She pulled on a smart cloak with fur trim to shield her against the fading winter chill. It matched her lambskin gloves. The embers from the dying fire still gave off heat, and she was roasting within her ensemble.
But before she could leave, she had to complete the most important task of all: to disguise her hair.
Sera, born Seraphina Belle, was the Belle Belle. She had been called achingly beautiful, ethereally exquisite, and any number of excessive and alliterative things. Last year, when she debuted, it had been declared that after this, there would be no more diamonds in society; the best one could hope for was to be called a pearl.
It was, as Dinah would say, nonsense.
Sera understood and knew and felt that she had a pleasing face. Her nose was pert, her eyes wide and gray (a feature shared by all of her sisters and her father so hardly worth mooning over), her mouth a nice pout, her chin a delicate point, her skin quite luminous and fair.
She knew, however, that had she been born with a different shade of hair, she would not have been fussed over at all. Her sisters’ hair all differed, from Alice’s ebony, to Bridget’s brunette, to Charlotte’s red, to Dinah’s blond.
But Sera had been born with white hair—a soft, luminescent white that defied age and reason. Someone had once likened it to an angel’s wings, and from them on, her reputation had been born and sealed without her consent. Poems had been written of her beauty and bawdy bar songs had been sung about her splendor, and each and every one of them had come down to her damned hair.
She would get nowhere with it uncovered. Not that she had to get very far. Just far enough for one treat, one night, so she could discover what it was like to be someone else entirely.
She bound her hair back in a tightly coiled bun and wrapped a brown scarf over it, then flipped up the hood of her cloak for good measure. She had broken out in a sweat beneath her coast so she hurried away from the fire and pressed her ear to the door. It was late—extremely so—but she had heard her future husband carousing with his brothers. She would rather not encounter them on her way out, so she waited for the sound of their return to their rooms, which she was sure to ascertain, since her room was the closest to the staircase, and they must pass her floor to reach their own.
But after ten minutes, then twenty, they did not come.
She couldn’t very well waste her last hours as a woman with her own free will that she could exert as she chose, within the confines of her room at Woodbury Hall. No, she meant to go out and that was that.
Sera slipped from the room and closed the door behind her. Her feet were whisper-soft as she padded down the stairs. She couldn’t approach the grand front entrance to Woodbury Hall, nor even glance upon the brass and gilt doors without drawing the notice of the butler or his assistant. She had to chance using the back entrance through the kitchen.
She held her breath, her heart fluttering in her chest, as she scampered across the flagstones, past the fire, past the servants’ dining table, past the larder, and out the door and down the next set of stairs. The cold air pinched her cheeks. She heaved
a sigh of relief. Pebbles crunched beneath her feet, as loud as cymbals to her own ears, though likely no more worrisome than the wind rustling through the trees.
Movement caught her eye—a figure staggering around the pond on the property. She recognized Tom’s brother and worried he would pitch forward into the water. Even if it meant her discovery, she could not leave until she was assured of his safety. He wended his way left, then right, coming troublingly close to the shoreline, before turning around in a half-circle as if to make a beeline toward the woods.
She realized her hands were shaking, not from the chill, but from something else. Fear? Excitement? Fear would be more merited. With every step she took, another obstacle appeared to slow her progress. What if another person appeared as she ran down the long and winding drive from Woodbury to the main road? What if someone in town recognized her? What if a cloud passed over the moon and she lost her way and froze to death on the side of the road?
These uncertainties were still nothing in the face of the greatest certainty of all: that tomorrow she would marry Tom Abernathy, heir to the Duke of Rivington, fulfilling an arrangement made by their mutual fathers when she had barely turned twelve. Her life, which had never truly been her own, but at least had been endured in the company of her sisters, would become a lonely affair. She would accept this fate with a martyrlike resolve, the stuff of those books Bridget always read—after granting herself one lone adventure.
Thoughts of elusive adventure kept her marching forward. It was less than an hour’s walk to the village, half that if she moved quickly. Her family had been coming to Woodbury for years, and on their first trip, before arrangements had been finalized and their visits included staying within the Hall, they had procured accomodations in a small inn off the main square with a sign that creaked on its hinges whenever the wind blew.
It was a respectable establishment—the duke would not have allowed for anything else. She remembered how she and Bridget had stolen out of their rooms the first night and spied on the proceedings on the main floor below, their faces pressed between the open slats of the landing. People came and went for hours, late into the night, primarily visitors eager to make their way from London to Bath, those who had too late a start or who had overestimated their coachman’s ability to navigate at night. Bridget had left after an hour with a disappointed pout that more wasn’t happening, but that was precisely what fascinated Sera.
It all seemed so normal. So enjoyable. There was conversation and laughter and such ease—she’d even watched in fascination as one married couple shared a kiss, oblivious to all around them. Simple pleasures that she had never had, would never have. Until tonight.
She came up on the town quickly, and despite the late hour, there were still people out and about, likely due to the preparations for her wedding tomorrow and the bright moon in the sky. A few strolled the dirt road, looking into closed merchant shops. A lamp blazed in the milliner’s shop and the baker’s, too, both of whom would have to work all night to fulfill the orders for tomorrow’s event.
She heard the familiar creak of the sign before she saw it, and it brought a kick to her step. She flew through the doors, expecting to see a cozy scene much like the one she had seen in the past. Instead, the moment she entered, she saw the back of a man—broad-shouldered and muscled—just as he ducked. The chair that had been bound for his head missed him entirely and came straight at her face.
If there was to be one assumed benefit from having a nickname like Homicide Hughes—no matter how undeserved, given Christian Hughes was too skilled a fighter to ever kill anyone in any of his bouts—it should be that he would be safe from the random taunts of complete strangers. In fact, Christian had found reality to provide exactly the opposite experience.
Ever since the moniker had made its way through society, the number of taproom brawls he found himself engaged in was on a precipitously fast rise. Most nights all he had to do was wander into an establishment for a brave young buck to discover him. The provocation and needling began soon after.
As a man with nothing to prove, Christian often went about his business, enduring the teasing. Often the young buck in question was from a good family, and possibly even titled, while he, for all the company he kept, was a bastard.
This night, however, he had found himself unable to keep quiet. The drunken boy had laid a blow at the feet of the Belles. While he was not personally acquainted with nor had yet he met any of the young ladies, they were soon to become family to his best friends in the world. Which made them family enough for him.
He had not meekly drunk his beer—his third of the night, since he’d begun in pre-wedding celebrations with the Abernathys. Which was why, when the boy saw fit to throw a chair at him, instead of grabbing the chair in midair and smashing it back over his head and causing him grievous injury, Christian ducked.
Christian glanced over his shoulder as the chair flew above. Merely instinct. He was in front of the door, after all, and not a table. So he did not expect to see the young woman in a fur-trimmed cloak standing behind him. Did not expect that by ducking, he had set the chair on a direct course for her face. Which, he had to admit in the brief glimpse he had, was exquisite.
Horror churned in the pit of his stomach in that instant before an inevitable collision. A sick, twisted feeling that he was responsible. If only he’d just caught the chair. Or allowed it to strike his shoulders. Lord knew he’d accepted worse physical burdens in his many years as a fighter.
He tried to react, but was awkwardly turned and unable to spin to the rear in time to intercept. A loud growl of “No!” emanated from his lips just as the chair reached the woman—and she turned sideways to avoid it. She was a slight thing, a small target when turned sideways, and while she missed the brunt of the blow, one of the legs of the chair still managed to clip her shoulder and send her to the floor, clutching at the sore spot.
Absolute, stunned silence penetrated the dining room of the establishment. Chatter ceased, as did the clinks of cutlery. Not even a chair squeaked. It was as if the entire establishment had held its breath for the moment of impact. But a few seconds later, sound and chaos returned to the room.
Christian whipped his head around, fists clenched, but the coward who had thrown the chair had wisely made himself scarce. No matter, he preferred to attend to the injured party. He knelt beside her. “May I?” he asked.
The lady—and from her clothes, she was—shook her head. She traveled alone, but had an air about her that spoke of class or at least wealth.
“Shall I send for the physician?”
“No!” Her shout was so emphatic it cut clear through the room.
He held up his hands in defense and backed away. “My apologies… Miss… or…?”
Her lips pursed, she cocked her head and squinted, her eyes the gray of misty mornings. “Yes, Miss—” She coughed and covered her mouth. “My pardon. Mrs… Plain. Mrs. Plain.”
She seemed far too young to be married. Was she one of the Suffolk Plains? “Your shoulder, Mrs. Plain. You should consider applying ice to it, followed by heat within the hour, to avoid any bruising.”
“Are you a physician?” she asked.
He shook his head. “But I’ve been in enough fights to know more about being hit than the average physician.”
“You seem proud. You must have won the fights.”
He blushed, although he didn’t know why. “Please have a seat. I’ll fetch ice.” He didn’t even have to summon it. Before he’d taken a step, a towel full of chipped ice was thrust into his hands from someone from the kitchen. When he returned, he found Mrs. Plain sitting at a round table with three empty chairs. He sat in one and pressed the ice to her shoulder.
She was a slight thing. Married? Could it be possible? She stared down at the table, bewildered. He had seen this before. The after-effects of a fight. The stunned look. Most men couldn’t handle—
A giggle bubbled from the woman.
He lowered his
arm and the ice, puzzled.
She met his gaze. Her gray eyes were full of mirth, the corners crinkled. She laughed again. “I’ve been in a fight.”
Perhaps she’d gone a little mad from it.
“Me!” She pressed her hands to her chest, gleeful. “A fight! A real taproom brawl.”
Christian pressed his fingers to her temples. “Does this hurt?” He pulled back her hood. Her hair was covered in a brown scarf. He made a move to remove it, but her palms clasped the backs of his hands as she shook her head.
So she didn’t want to remove her scarf.
He nodded that he understood and she lowered her hands and let him massage her scalp. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
Her mouth opened in a small O as he pressed his fingers into her head, the back of her neck. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s quite the opposite, actually.”
“I want to make sure you haven’t hurt your head,” he said. “I didn’t see a strike, but…” It was best not to admit to someone when you believed they might have lost their faculties. “It’s best to be safe.”
“Safe,” she whispered with a sigh. A determined glint entered her eye and she shoved away his hands. “No. I will not be safe. Not tonight.” She rose to her full height. Barely to his shoulder if he chanced to stand, but somehow he imagined she felt twice as tall. Pulling her hood back over her head, she marched out of the tavern, into the night.
Chapter Two
If her sisters could see her now, they wouldn’t believe it. If her father could see her now, she would be in so much trouble. If her fiancé’s father could see her now… well, she would likely be dead; that old boot had no sense of humor. But if her mother could see her, Sera did not know what she would think. Her mother had died a few minutes after birthing her. A fact that she was never allowed to forget, especially because her mother’s death—and the words she had uttered shortly beforehand indicating that she wanted her daughters to marry dukes—had charted the course of her family for the past sixteen years.