Tame A Rake Duke [Preview]

Independent and fearless, Rosalind faces love's greatest challenge. Can she surrender her heart without losing herself?

Lady Rosalind Harrington isn’t your average Regency debutante: with a fiery wit and an independent streak that blazes bright, she’s the very last person the ton expected to secure a brilliant match.

Alexander Fitzwilliam, Duke of Somerton, is a man ruled by duty and haunted by secrets from his past. Though his family appears illustrious, there’s more than one skeleton in the closet that threatens to bring the dynasty crumbling down.

When fate brings these two together, will their match burn even brighter? Or will their past and present overwhelm and extinguish them both?

Chapter 1

Lady Rosalind's emerald eyes darted between her sisters; their father's announcement still hung in the air like a gathering storm cloud. Amelia, the eldest daughter of the house and ever the picture of grace and composure, sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, but Rosalind could see the tension in her fingers.

Isabella, on the other hand, seemed to shrink into herself, her delicate features etched with worry as she nibbled on her lower lip.

The silence in the drawing room was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. Rosalind's mind raced as she tried to make sense of her father's words.

A courtship with the Duke of Somerton? Rosalind thought incredulously. It was unthinkable. The man was a notorious rake, known for his scandalous affairs and cold demeanour.

Rosalind's admittedly fiery spirit bubbled to the surface, and she turned to face her father, her voice cutting through the heavy stillness. "Father, how can you possibly consider this? The Duke is hardly a suitable match for any of us. His reputation precedes him, and I cannot fathom why you would want to subject one of your daughters to such a fate."

Rosalind knew better as soon as she spoke: Lord Matthew Harrington, Baron of Highmore, was not a man given to jesting. Lord Harrington's eyes narrowed. With steel in his voice, he replied, "Rosalind, you will mind your tone. The Duke is a man of great influence and wealth, a Peer of the Realm; a match with him would secure our family's future. It is not your place to question my decisions."

Rosalind bit back a retort, her cheeks flushing with indignation. She glanced at Amelia, hoping to find an ally in her sister's calm reasoning, but Amelia's gaze was fixed on the floor, her expression unreadable. Lady Amelia Harrington had long ago mastered the art of looking serene in the face of conflict and trial. It was a skill that eluded Rosalind, who constantly found herself being chided for "making faces out loud."

Isabella's soft voice broke the tension, barely above a whisper. "Father, must one of us truly marry the Duke? Surely there must be another way..." Her gentle voice trailed off into silence.

Lord Matthew's features softened slightly as he regarded his youngest daughter. Though she was a young lady, she still held the position of baby of the family, and Lord Matthew was always a soft touch with her.

"Isabella, my dear, I understand your reservations, but this is a matter of great importance. The Duke has expressed his interest, and it is our duty to consider his proposal." He paused, an inscrutable look passing over his face. "Our family is in a precarious situation."

Rosalind's heart clenched as she watched Isabella's eyes fill with tears. She knew her sister's gentle spirit was ill-suited for the harsh realities of a loveless marriage, to say nothing of the pressures of marrying to save her sisters. Amelia, too, seemed to be struggling with the weight of their father's words; even her normally placid expression was troubled.

Rising from her seat, Rosalind took a deep breath and faced her father, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. "Father, I beg you to reconsider. We are not mere pawns to be traded for social standing. We deserve a chance at happiness, at a love that is true and pure." Despite her boldness, she was trembling within herself—it was against the natural order of her world to speak out so against one's father. Moreover, it was a radical idea she voiced, one completely out of sync with most of society.

Lord Harrington's gaze hardened, his voice taking on a sharp edge. "Rosalind, you forget yourself. It is not your place to dictate the future of this family. One of you will marry the Duke, and that is the end of it. I will hear no more of this rebellious talk," he said with finality.

Rosalind's heart sank as her father's words echoed in the drawing room. She watched as Lord Harrington paced before them, his voice and face unyielding.

"The Duke's intention to choose one of you as his bride is an opportunity that should not be missed," he declared, his eyes sweeping over his daughters. "This alliance could secure our family's future and elevate our standing in society." He paused again, and fixed Rosalind with his grey-blue eyes. "Would you really deny your sisters the chance at security?"

Rosalind exchanged a glance with Amelia, but her face was once again carefully blank. If Rosalind didn't know better, she would think that Amelia had placidly accepted her father's directive. Isabella, seated beside them, seemed to shrink further into herself, her delicate hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Lord Harrington began to pace before the fireplace, his tone growing more insistent. "I am well aware of the rumours that have been circulating about the Duke's morals, but I assure you, they are nothing more than false and unfair accusations. His decision to find a duchess is a clear attempt to prove society wrong and demonstrate his commitment to his title and responsibilities."

Rosalind felt a flicker of anger at her father's dismissal of the rumours. How could he be so willing to overlook the Duke's questionable reputation for the sake of social advancement? she wondered. Something about her father's insistence prickled in her brain, but she could not articulate why.

"Our family has had a long-standing alliance with the Duke's," Lord Matthew reminded them, lowering his voice slightly. "I have known him since he was a boy, and I trust in his character. He is a man of honour and integrity, despite what some may say. It's nothing more than petty jealousy–the usual sickness of the ton."

Rosalind wanted to protest, to argue that if the Duke's past actions spoke louder than any assurances of his character, then where did the speculation about him come from? She bit her words back, knowing that her father would not take kindly to further opposition. She clamped her teeth together tightly to keep herself from arguing.

Lord Harrington's gaze swept over his daughters once more, his expression growing stern. "I must admonish you girls for your romantic notions. The idea of love and fairytale scenarios has no place in the reality of our world. You should feel honoured by the Duke's interest, and recognise the opportunity that has been presented to you."

Rosalind's heart clenched at her father's words. She knew well enough that one of the watchwords for a young lady was supposed to be "duty", but that particular lesson paled for Rosalind in the face of notions of love and friendship.

"I expect you all to put aside your childish fantasies and approach this matter with the gravity it deserves," Lord Harrington concluded, his tone leaving no room for argument. Rosalind's mind raced, considering the implications of the Duke's impending arrival and the potential impact on her life and future.

"Father, surely you cannot expect us to make such a life-altering decision so quickly. How much time do we have to...prepare ourselves?" she asked carefully.

Lord Harrington sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "There is no time for deliberation, Rosalind. The Duke of Somerton, Alexander Fitzwilliam, is paying us the compliment of a visit this afternoon. You and your sisters must be prepared to receive him and make a favourable impression."

The room fell silent again; Lord Harrington may as well have dropped a mortar shell in their midst for all the impact his words had. Rosalind exchanged glances with her sisters, seeing the disbelief and apprehension etched on their faces. The urgency of the situation heightened the tension, and Rosalind felt her heart pounding in her chest.

"This afternoon, Father?" Amelia repeated, her tone a little disbelieving. "That's hardly enough warning to prepare a proper reception! Have the servants been warned? And we must have time to ready ourselves as well, we've not had a hairdresser call on us for weeks, and..." She continued in this manner, fretting about the duties of a hostess.

Rosalind's own worries drowned out her older sister's concerns. Her mind raced, considering the implications of the Duke's impending arrival.

What kind of man is he, truly? Could the rumours of his scandalous behaviour be trusted, or were they merely the product of idle gossip? What sort of life could one hope to build with such a man, should the rumours prove true? Angry, but refusing to provoke her father further, she turned her head away sharply, her gaze fixing on the front windows of the parlour they were gathered in. The cheery yellow walls seemed a cruelly ironic contrast to their dark moods.

Chapter 2

As the Duke's gilded and crested carriage pulled to a stop before the Harringtons' fashionable townhouse, Rosalind felt a knot of apprehension tighten in her stomach. She glanced at her sisters. Amelia, ever the picture of poise, stood tall and regal, her golden curls perfectly framing her face. Isabella, on the other hand, seemed to be doing her level best to simply disappear into the ground, her eyes fixed on her feet.

All three sisters had been carefully coiffed, powdered, and dressed in the most flattering day dresses they owned. The high waists of their muslin and printed cotton dresses were accentuated with ribbons in colours that flattered their complexions: purple for Rosalind, delicate pink for Amelia, and cornflower blue for Isabella.

The three sisters and their father were assembled on the tiny patch of grass on one side of the short path from the street to the townhouse's front door. Opposite them, the servants were likewise assembled, standing in a neat line to greet the Duke, aprons and collars stiffly starched. To see them, no one would ever guess that despite their serene appearances, the house had been in a chaotic furore over last-minute preparations. Secretly, Rosalind suspected that her father would likely get an earful from the housekeeper on the subject.

A footman hustled forward and opened the carriage door, the Duke's crest gleaming in the sun as he did so. Everyone assembled seemed to collectively hold their breath as the Duke emerged, one hand steadying his dove-grey top hat.

Rosalind's breath caught in her throat as she took in his imposing figure, his dark hair and piercing eyes giving him an air of authority and power. He moved with a confident grace, his exquisitely tailored marine blue jacket accentuating his broad shoulders and lean frame.

Lord Harrington stepped forward, a broad smile on his face as he greeted the Duke. "Your Grace, welcome to Harrington Manor. It is an honour to have you here." The assembled crowd all bowed and curtseyed in unison as the Duke descended the carriage steps and accepted Lord Harrington's proffered hand.

The Duke inclined his head, his gaze sweeping over the assembled family. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Harrington. I have heard so much about the...charms of your daughters that I am delighted to finally meet them."

Rosalind felt a flicker of annoyance; though the Duke's words were polite enough, there was a twist of irony in his tone that set her teeth on edge. Rosalind was quite sure that she and her sisters were more than mere objects to be admired and appraised. Though a little untoward for a lady to do so, she met his gaze defiantly, determined not to be cowed by his presence or the expectations placed upon her. There was something of a challenge on her face, fairly daring the Duke to note her.

Lord Harrington began the formal introductions, starting with Amelia. "Your Grace, may I present my eldest daughter, Lady Amelia Harrington. She is a young lady of many accomplishments, an ornament wherever she goes."

Rosalind scoffed inwardly, unable to completely resist rolling her eyes. Why didn't Father simply erect an auction stage and be done with it? she thought snidely.

Amelia, however, curtsied deeply, her movements fluid and practised. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace," she said, her voice soft and demure. "Welcome to Harrington House."

The Duke took Amelia's fingers, bowing over them so closely that Rosalind thought for a moment that he would drop a kiss on them. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Amelia. I have heard much about your beauty and accomplishments from many green-eyed ladies of the ton."

Amelia blushed accordingly and demurred again, exactly as was expected of her. The Duke, for his part, seemed bemused and pleased by the response.

Rosalind watched the exchange, her stomach churning with unease. She knew that Amelia was the most likely choice to become the Duchess, given her impeccable manners and poised demeanour, but the thought, of her sister being trapped in a marriage, with a man of questionable intent, no matter what her father said, made Rosalind chafe.

Rosalind found herself studying the Duke, trying to discern the man beneath the polished exterior. There was an air of arrogance about him, a sense of entitlement that set her teeth on edge. She wondered what kind of husband he would make, and whether he would treat his wife with the respect and kindness she deserved.

Despite her reservations, Rosalind knew that she had to play her part in this charade. She curtsied gracefully when her turn came, meeting the Duke's gaze with a cool politeness. "Your Grace," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil raging within her.

The Duke's eyes lingered on her for a moment, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths. "Lady Rosalind," he replied coolly, "I have heard much about your wit and spirit. I look forward to becoming better acquainted."

Rosalind felt a shiver run down her spine at his words, unsure whether to be flattered or unnerved by his attention. She knew that the coming days would be a test of her resolve, as she navigated the treacherous waters of courtship and societal expectations, to say nothing of her father's expectation.

For now, all she could do was smile and nod, playing the role of the dutiful daughter, her face not feeling like her own as she kept a cheery expression plastered on. The Duke was ushered into the drawing room where tea was waiting, Amelia playing the part of consummate hostess.

As they filed into the house, Rosalind managed to catch her sisters' eyes in turn, and found that, though outwardly determined or serene, there was an undeniable tension in their bearing.

Rosalind trailed along after Amelia and the Duke, her heart still pounding from the initial introduction. As they traversed the corridors of Harrington House, the Duke's attention was drawn to the paintings adorning the walls. His eyes widened with appreciation as he took in the intricate brushstrokes and vibrant colours.

"These paintings are exquisite," the Duke remarked, his gaze lingering on a particularly striking landscape. The subject was simple enough, a humble watermill on a brackish pond, but the sky above was a riot of colours alive with wind and clouds. "Who is the artist behind these masterpieces?"

Rosalind seized the opportunity to speak up, her voice filled with pride. "They are the creations of my younger sister, Isabella. She has an incredible talent for capturing the beauty of the world around us."

The Duke turned to Isabella, who blushed under his scrutiny. "And in oils, no less? I thought young ladies were confined to dabbling in watercolours." Rosalind opened her mouth, ready to argue with him, but Amelia put a hand on her arm, silencing her. "You have a remarkable gift, Lady Isabella. Your paintings are truly breathtaking," the Duke said with a degree of sincerity that he had hitherto not shown.

Isabella mumbled a quiet thank you, her eyes downcast as she shied away from the attention. Rosalind felt a pang of protectiveness for her younger sister, knowing how uncomfortable she was in the spotlight.

Amelia, clearly recognising Isabella's discomfort as well, gently encouraged everyone into the drawing room where tea was laid out. An assortment of cakes and dainty little sandwiches were arranged on trays, which were ferried about the room by a pair of footmen.

When the sisters were all settled with teacups in hand, the Duke cast a cool, appraising eye over them, settling on Rosalind. "I don't recall seeing you at many social events this season, Lady Rosalind," he commented, his tone casual, but his eyes challenging.

Rosalind met his gaze, her green eyes sparkling with a mix of defiance and curiosity. "I find my time is better used on other pursuits," she replied evenly.

The Duke raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her response. "And what pursuits might those be, Lady Rosalind?"

Rosalind hesitated for a moment, weighing her words carefully. She knew that her opinions were not always in line with the expectations of society, but she refused to hide her true self. If the Duke wished to make a match, then it was only fair that he knew her character precisely.

"I am fascinated by the ideas of progress and change, Your Grace. I believe that women have the potential to contribute so much more to society than what is currently expected of us." She paused, fixing her gaze on the sugar bowl, which the Duke was reaching for. "I've recently been taken with the debate on the morality of sugar, for instance."

"Sugar?" the Duke repeated, his hand hesitating.

"Sugar," Rosalind confirmed. "There are some who find it to be a great evil, being the product of slave labour, a sign of the worst sort of decadence." She sipped her tea, her eyes finding the Duke's over the rim of her cup.

"Rosalind," Lord Harrington said into the silence that followed, his voice a warning.

The Duke arched a brow aristocratically, amused by her bold statement. Deliberately, while maintaining direct eye contact with Rosalind, he dumped another spoonful of sugar into his teacup and stirred it slowly, and the sound of the spoon on china made Rosalind grit her teeth.

"That is a rather unconventional view, Lady Rosalind. Do you not believe that concerning yourself with such things is detrimental to a woman's role to be a dutiful wife and mother?"

Rosalind felt a flare of anger at his words, but she kept her voice steady. "I believe that a woman's role should be whatever she chooses it to be, Your Grace. We are capable of so much more than simply being decorative objects or bearers of children."

The Duke studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "And what do you believe is the true nature of happiness and fulfilment, Lady Rosalind?"

Rosalind met his gaze unflinchingly, her voice filled with conviction. "I believe that happiness and fulfilment come from living a life true to oneself, Your Grace, from pursuing one's passions and making a difference in the world, regardless of the expectations placed upon us by society."

The Duke's lips twitched into a small smile, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and admiration. "You are a devotee of Mary Wollstonecraft then, Lady Rosalind?"

"You know her work?" Rosalind asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. She leaned forward, interested despite herself.

The Duke offered a one-shouldered shrug, all casual composure. "I've read her pamphlets. I must admit, I find your perspective rather refreshing," he said with another bemused tilt to the corners of his mouth.

Rosalind felt a flutter of satisfaction at his words, but she knew that her outspokenness could also be seen as a liability in the eyes of a potential suitor. She glanced at her father, who was watching the exchange with an expression caught between disbelief and apprehension. He cleared his throat pointedly, and Rosalind sullenly sat back again.

"The weather has been abnormally fine lately," Amelia blurted into the awkward silence that followed.

The Duke's gaze, which had still been fixed on Rosalind, slid reluctantly to Amelia. "It has," he agreed flatly.

Rosalind resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the banality of the types of conversation that were considered suitable for young ladies to engage in. She withdrew into herself, becoming a spectator rather than a participant, exactly as was expected of her.

The grand clock in the hall chimed four times, announcing the hour. The Duke stood, preparing to take his leave. He bowed slightly to Lord Matthew. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Harrington. It has been an..." He paused, searching for the correct word. His eyes flicked to Rosalind. "An illuminating afternoon. Your daughters are a credit to you."

Lord Harrington beamed with pride, his chest puffing out slightly at the compliment. "You are most welcome, Your Grace. It has been an honour to have you here."

The Duke's gaze swept over the three sisters as they rose to curtsy and murmur their own polite farewells, lingering on each of them in turn. "Ladies, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I must say, I am thoroughly impressed by your wit, intelligence, and beauty."

Rosalind felt a flicker of unease at his words, unsure whether to be flattered or wary of his attention, unsure of his sincerity. She watched as he took Amelia's fingers, squeezing them gently. "Lady Amelia, you are a most congenial hostess. You would make a fine wife to a lucky man indeed."

Amelia blushed, her eyes downcast as she murmured a quiet thank you. Rosalind's heart clenched at the sight, knowing that her sister's fate hung in the balance. She hated everything about it, knowing that this man had the power to choose her sister's fate.

The Duke turned to Isabella next, and Rosalind tensed up further, worried that he might upset her in some way. To her surprise, his voice softened with admiration. "Lady Isabella, your artistic talents are truly exceptional. I confess I've never seen their like, and I have no doubt that you will be appreciated for them."

Isabella's cheeks flushed with pleasure at the praise, but Rosalind could see the underlying tension in her shoulders. She knew that her younger sister dreaded the thought of being thrust into the spotlight, of being the centre of attention that being such a high-ranking nobleman's wife would entail.

Finally, the Duke's eyes settled on Rosalind, his gaze intense and searching. "Lady Rosalind, your wit and intelligence are as bracingly refreshing as a cold breeze in winter. I have never met a woman quite like you before."

Rosalind met his gaze steadily, refusing to be cowed by his words. "I am honoured by your praise, Your Grace, but I must confess, I am not one to be easily swayed by flattery." From the corner of her eye, she could see her father give a hapless flap of his hands in frustration.

The Duke's lips twitched into a small smile, his eyes glinting with amusement. "I would expect nothing less from you, Lady Rosalind."

With that, the Duke exited the drawing room with Lord Harrington, promising to call again soon.

When the Duke left, the tension seemed to leak from the room. Exhaling through her mouth, Rosalind flopped in a most unladylike manner onto the upholstered settee. She turned to Isabella, and seeing the mix of fear and uncertainty in her eyes, grabbed her hand and encouraged her to sit next to her. "What do you think will happen now?" Isabella whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Amelia shook her head, her face oddly pale and wan. She, too, sat on the settee, wedged between Isabella and the arm, but perched right on the edge as if she would bolt up at a moment's notice. "I don't know, Isabella. But we must be prepared for whatever comes our way."

Rosalind tilted her head at Amelia, something in her oldest sister's manner bothering her. Her mind raced. She knew that the Duke's decision would have far-reaching consequences that would affect all of them.

Rosalind couldn't shake the feeling that their lives were about to change forever. She glanced out the window, catching a glimpse of the small garden behind the house, watching as the sun began to set behind the other London houses, casting a warm glow over the carefully maintained hedges.

 Chapter 3

Rosalind wandered through the lush gardens of Harrington House, her mind heavy with the weight of the Duke's attentions. After his initial visit, he had called on them a number of times, even escorting them about Regent's Park.

The fragrant blooms and gentle rustling of leaves did little to soothe her troubled thoughts as she sought solace in the tranquil and familiar gardens of her home. Absently, she reached out and plucked a flower from one of the hedges, tearing the petals from it as she walked, leaving them scattered in her wake.

As she rounded a bend in the path, Rosalind spotted her sisters, Amelia and Isabella, seated on a stone bench beneath a towering oak tree nestled in a corner of the garden. Their faces mirrored the same concern and uncertainty that plagued Rosalind's heart.

"Amelia, Isabella," Rosalind called out, her voice carrying across the garden. "I'm glad I found you both."

Amelia looked up, her golden curls catching the sunlight as she offered a weak smile. "Rosalind, we were just discussing the Duke. It's all so overwhelming, isn't it? The idea that one of us could be a Duchess so soon...married and settled," she said, her voice cracking a little at the end.

Rosalind's brow furrowed in concern, but she nodded, taking a seat beside her sisters. "It is. I can't help but question his intentions, and the thought of being forced into a marriage of convenience fills me with dread."

Isabella's blue eyes widened, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to lose my freedom to paint, Rosalind. The idea of having to abandon my art for the sake of husband and duty... It's all too much." She twisted her hands into the skirt of her calico day dress as she spoke, her knuckles going white.

Rosalind reached out, gently taking Isabella's hand in her own. "I know, Isabella. It's not fair that we're expected to sacrifice our happiness for the sake of societal expectations."

Amelia sighed, her eyes distant and sad. "It's not as if we have much choice, Rosalind. Besides, Father has made it clear that this is an opportunity we cannot refuse, and he's not wrong. We must marry, and marry well, since–since our brother–"

Amelia stopped short, swallowing hard. "There's no one to look after us once Father is gone. We need safety and protection, which the Duke can provide," she said, but it was clear that she was trying to convince herself as well.

Rosalind shook her head, her fiery curls bouncing with the motion, refusing to accept Amelia's words. "We should have a choice, Amelia. We should be able to decide our own futures, to marry for love and companionship, not just for the sake of advantageous alliances."

"But the Duke is a powerful man, Rosalind," Amelia countered, her voice tinged with resignation. "To refuse his proposal could bring shame and scandal upon our family."

Rosalind stood abruptly, pacing the garden path as her frustration mounted. "And what of our own desires, Amelia? Are we to be nothing more than pawns in this game of politics and power?"

Isabella's soft voice broke through the tension. "I don't want to be a pawn, Rosalind, but I also don't want to bring ruin upon our family. How would we live?"

Rosalind turned to face her sisters, her green eyes blazing with determination. "There must be another way, a way to navigate this situation without sacrificing our own happiness and dreams."

Amelia's delicate brow furrowed in thought. "But what can we do, Rosalind? We're bound by the expectations of our society, by the rules that govern our lives as women. We've no experience of the world–what do you want us to do, take in washing?" she asked rhetorically. "The only one of us who has a chance in that regard is Isabella, and even then, how many women are able to live by the brush?"

Isabella's eyes darted back and forth between the sisters, her eyes wide with alarm.

Rosalind's shoulders slumped, the weight of their predicament bearing down upon her. "I don't know, Amelia, but I refuse to accept that we have no say in our own futures."

As the three sisters sat in the garden, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows over the garden as it sank behind the London skyline. The sounds from the streets beyond the walled sanctuary of the garden began to fade with the light. The serenity of the moment stood in stark contrast to the turmoil that raged within their hearts.

"Rosalind, I know this is difficult, but we must think of our family's future," Amelia said softly, her golden curls giving her an angelic aspect as she spoke. "An advantageous match with the Duke could secure our position in society and ensure our continued prosperity. Whichever of us he marries will be able to support the others, and in time, find advantageous matches for them as well."

Rosalind sighed, unable to argue with the truth of her sister's words. She knew Amelia was right, that their duty as daughters of a noble house was to make strategic alliances and uphold the family name. It still seemed too much to ask of them, when they had been raised in a house with so much love to forego it once they were married.

"You don't think we're worthy of love?" she demanded, staring straight into Amelia's eyes.

Isabella, who had been sitting quietly beside them, suddenly spoke up, her voice tinged with melancholy. "Love is nothing more than a dream, a fleeting illusion that only brings pain and disappointment."

Rosalind and Amelia's expressions quickly shifted to ones of surprise and worry, taken aback by the sadness and pessimism in their youngest sister's words. Isabella had always been the most vibrant and creative of the three, her spirit filled with joy and wonder. To hear her speak so despondently was a stark contrast to her usual demeanour.

"Isabella, what makes you say that?" Rosalind asked gently, resuming her seat and reaching out to take her sister's hand in her own. She glanced over Isabella's downturned head to Amelia again. "Has something happened to make you feel this way?" she pried, trying to be delicate, but Isabella shrank in on herself further.

Isabella's eyes filled with tears, her lower lip trembling as she shook her head. "Please, I don't want to talk about it. It's too painful."

Amelia leaned in, her voice soft and soothing. "Is this about your young beau, Isabella?"

Isabella's shoulders trembled as she fought back a sob, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. "I can't... I don't want to discuss it. Please, let's not speak of it anymore," she said with a vehement shake of her head.

Rosalind and Amelia exchanged another worried glance. Rosalind could see the same concern and tender feeling for their youngest sister on Amelia's face that was in her own heart. Rosalind knew from experience that pushing Isabella to open up would only cause her more distress, so she respected her wishes and changed the subject tactfully.

"What about your dreams for the future, Amelia?" Rosalind asked, hoping to steer the conversation in a more positive direction. "I know you've always had a passion for helping others, for making a difference in the world."

Amelia smiled softly, her eyes distant as she contemplated Rosalind's question. "I've always dreamed of establishing a charity, of using our family's resources to help those less fortunate. I suppose that should I marry the Duke, I would be well-placed to do that now."

Rosalind smiled a little sadly–Amelia had always been the most kind-hearted of the three, so it was no surprise that she was already imagining how to turn her prospective new position into a force for good.

The unspoken truth in Amelia's words was that this would all be subject to the whims of her husband. Amelia was good and dutiful, but Rosalind didn't doubt that even she would begin to chafe under the yoke of duty.

"And what of you, Rosalind?" Amelia asked, turning her attention to her fiery-haired sister. "Have you any hope for the future?"

With a sigh, her words coming slowly at first as if the idea were forming as she was saying it, she replied, "I want to be free, Amelia. Free to make my own choices, to follow my own path, but I fear that freedom may be nothing more than a distant dream, a luxury we cannot afford as daughters of the ton."

Chapter 4

Rosalind's mind wandered to the countless sacrifices her own mother had made, the compromises she had endured for the sake of her family's standing.

Lady Harrington had been a bright and vibrant beauty in her youth, but that vivacity had faded with each passing year.

She remembered the sadness that had often lingered in her mother's eyes, the wistful sighs that had escaped her lips when she thought no one was watching.

Rosalind had never known what her mother had wanted of life; by the time she was old enough to ask such a thing, Lady Harrington was deep in the throes of the fever that would eventually claim her life.

Is this to be my fate as well? To live a life of quiet desperation, forever bound by the chains of duty and obligation? Rosalind wondered bitterly, her eyes fixed on the garden gate without really seeing it. Some part of her longed to stand up and run out the gate, out into the London street beyond, to try and live what life she could by herself, for herself.

As these thoughts swirled through her mind, Rosalind felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She started a little and looked up to see Amelia and Isabella watching her with concern.

"Rosalind, I know this is difficult," Amelia said softly, her voice filled with compassion. "But we're here for each other, no matter what happens. None of us has to do this on her own."

Isabella nodded, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "We'll face this together, Rosalind. As sisters, united in our love and support for one another."

Rosalind felt a wave of emotion wash over her, the love and solidarity of her sisters filling her with a sense of strength and determination. She knew that the road ahead would be difficult, that there would be challenges and sacrifices to be made. But with Amelia and Isabella by her side, she felt a glimmer of hope that they could weather any storm, that they could find a way to navigate the treacherous waters of society and emerge stronger and more united than ever before.

As the three sisters sat in the garden, Rosalind laid her hand on Isabella's and squeezed it. Amelia, in turn, placed her hand overtop theirs, and all of their fingers wove together in solidarity. Whatever the future held, whatever compromises they might be forced to make, they would face it together, drawing strength from their unbreakable bond and their unwavering love for one another.

The sound of the gong rang out from the house, announcing that it was time to dress for dinner and bringing them all back to reality sharply. Amelia withdrew her hand, standing suddenly. Rosalind, her eyebrows raised in surprise, looked up at Amelia.

"We've been too long in the garden," Amelia said flatly, her face a careful mask of blankness. "It's time we go in." Though she spoke simply and truly, there was a weight to her words, as if she weren't simply discussing their need to prepare for dinner. There was a grim set to her mouth, all trace of the gentle hope that had been there just moments before gone.

Rosalind's brow furrowed with concern as she watched Amelia's face, searching for any clue as to what had caused this sudden shift in mood. She reached out, gently placing a hand on her sister's arm. "Amelia, what's wrong?"

Amelia didn't respond. Instead, she abruptly pulled away from Rosalind's touch, her arm sliding from Rosalind's hand. She turned and fled into the house, the light sprigged cotton robing of her dress fluttering behind her as she did so. Her hurried footsteps echoed on the stone path, growing fainter as she disappeared into the house.

Rosalind exchanged a worried glance with Isabella, who had been quietly observing the exchange. Without a word, the two sisters set off in pursuit of Amelia, crashing through the fashionable French doors at the back of the house in a manner that would have made a number of society matrons purse their lips in disapproval.

Rosalind caught a glimpse of Amelia's light pink silk shoes and airy cotton dress disappearing up the stairs to her apartments. She quickened her steps, grabbing the bannister and swinging herself up onto the stairs as if she were a boy.

Her heart pounded in her ears as she followed the sound of her sister's footsteps up the grand staircase and down the hallway that led to all of their rooms.

Isabella kept pace with Rosalind, her blue eyes round and worried. "What do you think happened?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft thud of their slippers on the plush rug that lined the hallway.

Rosalind shook her head, her brow creased with worry. "I don't know, but we need to find out. Amelia's not one to run off like this."

As they approached Amelia's door, Rosalind raised her hand to knock, but hesitated. She could hear the muffled sound of sobbing from within, and her heart squeezed at the thought of her sister in such distress. Without preamble, Rosalind entered Amelia's bedchamber. The sight that greeted her made her stop short: Amelia, careful and quiet, sat on her bed, her usually pristine appearance marred by the tears that streamed down her face. In her trembling hands, she clutched a letter, the paper crumpling under the force of her grip.

Rosalind approached her sister with gentle steps, the slow creaking of the wooden floor the only sound other than Amelia's quiet sobs. She sat down beside Amelia, the mattress dipping under her weight, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. The warmth of her touch seemed to break through Amelia's anguish, and she leaned into Rosalind's embrace, her body shaking with silent sobs.

Isabella followed close behind, her own mien one of concern; she stood before them for a moment, wringing her hands with worry, unsure what to do before finding a chair. She took a seat nearby, her hands folded in her lap as she watched her sisters with wide, troubled eyes.

"Amelia, my dear," Rosalind murmured, her voice tender and soothing as she stroked Amelia's back gently. "What troubles you so? This is most unlike you – let us help."

Amelia drew in a shuddering breath, her grip on the letter loosening slightly. She turned to face Rosalind, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy from crying. "It's...it's this letter," she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion. "From...from him."

Rosalind watched as Amelia's hands trembled, the letter she held fluttering like a trapped bird. Her sister's voice quivered, each word a struggle against the tide of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. "I.. I have been keeping a secret from you both," Amelia began, her eyes fixed on the crumpled paper in her grasp. "A secret that I have carried in my heart for months now."

Rosalind drew back a little, holding Amelia at arm's length. She'd never have guessed that Amelia harboured some secret in her heart – Amelia had ever been the perfect daughter, the one to which all other girls of the ton aspired to be like. More importantly, she had never seen Amelia so distraught, so consumed by a pain that seemed to radiate from her very soul. Rosalind searched Amelia's face for meaning.

"It's – there's a...a young man," Amelia whispered, her voice barely audible over the hitch in her breath. "A...a soldier I have been corresponding with."

"Amelia!" Rosalind breathed, half in shock and half in admiration. "You've been writing to a man?"

"It's not like that," Amelia sniffed, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief she fished out of her pocket. "I met his sister first. She was involved with helping me to set up that new school in Manchester–you know, the one for the factory workers? Her brother was there that day, and then... We would go for walks and talk, the three of us, and then he had to go back to the front," she said, her eyes filling with fresh tears. "She writes to me, and encloses Thomas' letters to me in her own for the look of it."

"Does Father know?" Isabella asked, her voice low in case they were overheard.

Amelia gave Isabella a baleful look that answered that question. "I'd always hoped–he'd made promises, you see, and...and now..."

Rosalind's eyes widened, a flicker of understanding dawning in their emerald depths. She had always noted that Amelia was always eager for the arrival of the postbag, but had never suspected she had a secret suitor.

"I love him," Amelia confessed, the words tumbling from her lips like a dam had burst. "With all my heart, with every fibre of my being. We have shared our dreams, our hopes for a future together after the war."

Tears spilled down Amelia's cheeks, leaving glistening trails in their wake. Rosalind reached out, her hand finding her sister's and squeezing gently, a silent offer of support and understanding. "But now..." Amelia's voice broke, a sob tearing from her throat. "Now, with the Duke's proposal, with the prospect of being chosen as his bride... I fear that all those dreams will be shattered."

Rosalind's heart ached for her sister, for the pain that seemed to consume her. She glanced at Isabella, saw the same sorrow on her younger sister's face.

"Oh, Amelia," Rosalind murmured, her own voice thick with emotion. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

Amelia nodded, her grip on the letter tightening. "This... this is his latest letter," she whispered, her fingers tracing the words as if they were a lifeline. "He writes of the battles he has fought, the sacrifices he has made, but always, always, he speaks of his love for me, of the life we will build together."

Rosalind felt a lump form in her throat, a knot of emotion that threatened to choke her. She herself didn't know the power of love, but she had seen the way it could consume and transform, the way it could make even the darkest of days seem bright. A small, secret part of her had always longed for a love like that, but it seemed such a triviality in the face of her larger concerns.

Isabella scooted the chair closer, her small hand resting on Amelia's knee. "We are here for you, sister," she said softly, her voice filled with a gravitas beyond her years that made both sisters stare at her. "No matter what happens, no matter what the future may hold, we will stand by your side."

Amelia's lips trembled, a watery smile breaking through the tears. "Thank you," she whispered, her gaze moving from one sister to the other. "I don't know what I would do without you both."

As Rosalind listened to Amelia's heartfelt confession, a wave of emotion washed over her. There was no doubting the depth of her sister's love for Thomas; it was palpable in every word, every tear that fell from her eyes. It had to be serious by virtue of the fact that Amelia had kept it a secret for so long. Rosalind's heart ached for Amelia, for the injustice of a world that would seek to tear apart two hearts so deeply entwined.

A fierce protectiveness surged through Rosalind, a determination to shield her sister from the cruel machinations of society.

She knew all too well the weight of expectation, the suffocating pressure to conform to the roles and duties prescribed by their station, but in that moment, as she sat there with Amelia and Isabella, their hearts laid bare, Rosalind felt a resolve growing within her.

She would not let Amelia's dreams be shattered, would not let her sister's chance at true happiness be sacrificed on the altar of duty and obligation.

Even if it meant making a difficult choice, even if it meant putting her own desires aside, Rosalind knew that she would do whatever it took to protect Amelia's love.

They both had far, far more to lose than she, and she would not see them throw away their chances at happiness. She'd always been too strong, too indomitable–this is what she'd been given such robustness, such spirit for, to weather what they could not.

"Amelia," Rosalind said softly, her voice filled with a quiet strength, "I cannot begin to imagine the pain you must be feeling, the fear of losing something so precious. But know this: we will find a way. We will fight for your happiness, for the future you and Thomas have dreamed of together."

Amelia's eyes met Rosalind's, a flicker of hope amidst the despair. "But how?" she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion. "How can we possibly stand against the Duke, against the expectations of our father and society?"

Rosalind's lips curved into a small, determined smile. "We will find a way," she repeated, her words a promise, a vow. "Together, we are stronger than any force that would seek to tear us apart. I will not rest until you and Thomas can be together, until your love can flourish freely, without fear or constraint."

Isabella nodded, her own eyes shining with a fierce loyalty. "We are with you, Amelia," she said, her hand squeezing her sister's knee. "Always and forever. We will weather this storm together, as we always have."

After a tense dinner, in which the three sisters sullenly pushed food about their plates and their father mostly sighed, they decided to forgo the usual after-dinner socialising in the parlour. Everyone retreated to their respective rooms and the house fell silent, save for the occasional sound of a servant still moving about.

Unbeknownst to them, Rosalind remained awake, her mind racing with the next steps she would need to take. She knew that time was of the essence, that she would need to act quickly and decisively if she were to secure her sisters' happiness.

With a determined set to her jaw, Rosalind rose from her bed, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

Relying only on the silvery moonlight that filtered in through the window, Rosalind made her way to her dressing room. Quickly, she slipped back into her stays and donned a redingote with some difficulty, as she didn't want to ring for her maid to help her.

With sharp, careless movements, she coiled her braid up at the back of her head and jammed pins into it.

Cautiously, she cracked open the door to her bedchamber and peered out, ensuring the hallway was abandoned, and slipped out.

She moved silently through the darkened halls of the manor, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpets beneath her feet. Carrying her boots in one hand so that her steps would be lighter, Rosalind glided down the stairs and through the ground floor of the house. She paused at the entrance to the servants' area downstairs, ears straining as she listened. From below, the sounds of kitchen maids and hallboys still at work filtered up.

Careful now, she thought to herself. With the greatest care possible, she put her foot on the first stair, which felt obliged to let out a great squeak that sounded as loud as a gunshot in the silent house. Rosalind grimaced, willing everyone to stay abed–she could not afford to get caught now.

The moment passed, and Rosalind quickly rushed down the stairs, lifting one of the maid's cloaks from a hook by the back door as she went. She paused long enough outside to slip her boots on and drew the hood up over her distinctive hair.

Her heart pounded with a mixture of fear and determination. The cool night air caressed her face, sending a shiver down her spine as she made her way to the stables. Her footsteps clicked quietly on the paving stones of the mews as she scurried along. The moon cast a soft glow over the grounds, illuminating her path as she moved with purpose and resolve.

Upon reaching the stables, Rosalind quickly located her favourite horse, a beautiful mare with a sleek, dark coat. With swift, practised movements, she saddled the horse, her hands trembling slightly as she tightened the girth and adjusted the stirrups.

The familiar scent of hay and horse filled her nostrils, a comforting reminder of the countless hours she had spent riding, the one place she might find solace and freedom.

Uncharacteristically for a young lady, she was a dab hand at saddling her own horse, refusing to have this practical skill denied to her.

Once the horse was tacked, Rosalind tried to heave at the stable door, but it was stuck firm. She grunted and tried again, but to no avail.

"Move, blast you," she said through gritted teeth, pulling at it again.

"I thought ladies didn't know how to curse," a voice said from behind her. Rosalind nearly jumped clean out of her boots, whipping around to find Joe, one of the grooms watching her.

"You gave me such a start!" she said, holding a hand to her pounding heart. "Here, help me with this," she said, jerking her head toward the door.

Joe hesitated, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "I don't know, milady, it...it seems wrong," he said.

Rosalind sighed. I do not have time for this, she thought. "You've never objected to helping me sneak out before," she pointed out.

"No, milady, but that weren't in the middle o' the night," he argued, which was too sensible for Rosalind to argue with.

"Fine," Rosalind said, "I'll give you two shillings this time."

"Right away, milady!" Joe hurried forward and leaned against the door, which immediately slid open. Rosalind gave him a baleful look as she passed by, which he smiled at cheerfully.

As she prepared to mount her horse, Rosalind paused for a moment, casting a final glance back at the house. The imposing structure loomed behind her, its windows dark and silent, a testament to the slumbering inhabitants within.