Chapter One
Marston Hall, Norfolk, May 1818
JOSIAH WOKE TO thick darkness.
He knew immediately where he was. Sprawled across the
great Chinese bed at Marston Hall. His glorious, extravagant
marriage bed. The king’s gift to his dear friend, Lord Stansfield,
upon the earl’s nuptials. Josiah had expressed suitable gratitude
for the royal generosity, but he couldn’t avoid thinking a
second-hand bed was a rum sort of present for a man supposedly in
the regal favor.
Thick green hangings enclosed him, hangings cut from
robes sewn for a Chinese princess’s wedding. A wedding that had
never taken place. The elaborate scroll accompanying His Majesty’s
gift had laid out the legend as a quaint piece of history. The
princess’s lowborn lover had betrayed her instead of stealing her
away. Cursing all marriages, she’d poisoned herself on the day she
was to marry a powerful warlord.
Or so the story went.
In search of warm, sleepy Isabella, Josiah’s hand
slid across the silk counterpane, feeling the raised patterns of
embroidery under his palm. But he already knew his beloved wasn’t
lying beside him.
By God, he must have been half-seas over before he
tumbled onto the cream cover with its thickly twining peonies and
fragile pagodas. He was still wearing his wedding clothes. He
hadn’t been sober enough to undress. No wonder Isabella had left
him to sleep it off. His darling had a temper. He’d hear about his
excesses soon enough. He deserved to.
He didn’t even remember crawling into bed.
Which, now he thought about it, struck him as rather
odd.
This couldn’t be right. On his wedding day, he’d been
drunk on love, not liquor. And he certainly didn’t recall imbibing
so deep that he’d collapsed insensible.
If only he could remember.
He frowned into the heavy stillness, struggling to
bring events into focus. Most of the day was clear in his mind. But
some…was not.
He’d spent all morning in a lather of wanting
Isabella. He’d been so hungry to have his bride to himself, he’d
dragged her away from the wedding breakfast with scandalous
impetuosity. Lord Fenburgh, her drier-than-dust father, had frowned
disapproval, but Isabella’s black eyes had flared with excitement.
Josiah had won a lusty wife, thank the angels. After weeks of
curtailed encounters, she’d been as eager as he to consummate their
chaste wooing.
He remembered her delicious, husky little moan as
he’d kissed her ravenously, passionately behind one of the man-size
Japanese jars in the hall, barely out of sight of the guests. He
remembered fondling the sweet curve of her breast before towing her
willy-nilly toward the carved oak staircase. She’d scurried to keep
up, running with a rustle of silk skirts and a patter of delicate
heels across tiled flooring. He’d swept his laughing bride into his
arms and carried her up the stairs, golden light spilling over them
from the high mullioned windows.
And then…
Something was badly amiss. He hadn’t been drunk on
his wedding day. His head remained clear and his mouth wasn’t stale
with alcohol. When he married Isabella, he hadn’t needed
intoxicants. He’d been delirious with happiness and itching to
possess his bride. A glass of champagne to toast her bright eyes
and a lifetime of joy to come. That was all.
So why was he lying all alone? And why couldn’t he
remember?
Where the hell was Isabella? She should be here. With
him.
The darkness crushed him. Confusion ebbed and the
truth slammed down like an ax.
Isabella was dead.
Crippling grief thickened his blood like gray sea
ice. His memory remained disturbingly blank about details, but he
knew without question that she was dead.
Of course he knew. They’d been so close in life,
they’d shared a heartbeat.
Isabella was dead. And so was he.
***
“Kiss me, Calista.”
Austerely intellectual Lady Calista Aston giggled
with an extremely unintellectual giddiness and allowed the handsome
young man to tug her from
Marston Hall, Norfolk, May 1818
JOSIAH WOKE TO thick darkness.
He knew immediately where he was. Sprawled across the
great Chinese bed at Marston Hall. His glorious, extravagant
marriage bed. The king’s gift to his dear friend, Lord Stansfield,
upon the earl’s nuptials. Josiah had expressed suitable gratitude
for the royal generosity, but he couldn’t avoid thinking a
second-hand bed was a rum sort of present for a man supposedly in
the regal favor.
Thick green hangings enclosed him, hangings cut from
robes sewn for a Chinese princess’s wedding. A wedding that had
never taken place. The elaborate scroll accompanying His Majesty’s
gift had laid out the legend as a quaint piece of history. The
princess’s lowborn lover had betrayed her instead of stealing her
away. Cursing all marriages, she’d poisoned herself on the day she
was to marry a powerful warlord.
Or so the story went.
In search of warm, sleepy Isabella, Josiah’s hand
slid across the silk counterpane, feeling the raised patterns of
embroidery under his palm. But he already knew his beloved wasn’t
lying beside him.
By God, he must have been half-seas over before he
tumbled onto the cream cover with its thickly twining peonies and
fragile pagodas. He was still wearing his wedding clothes. He
hadn’t been sober enough to undress. No wonder Isabella had left
him to sleep it off. His darling had a temper. He’d hear about his
excesses soon enough. He deserved to.
He didn’t even remember crawling into bed.
Which, now he thought about it, struck him as rather
odd.
This couldn’t be right. On his wedding day, he’d been
drunk on love, not liquor. And he certainly didn’t recall imbibing
so deep that he’d collapsed insensible.
If only he could remember.
He frowned into the heavy stillness, struggling to
bring events into focus. Most of the day was clear in his mind. But
some…was not.
He’d spent all morning in a lather of wanting
Isabella. He’d been so hungry to have his bride to himself, he’d
dragged her away from the wedding breakfast with scandalous
impetuosity. Lord Fenburgh, her drier-than-dust father, had frowned
disapproval, but Isabella’s black eyes had flared with excitement.
Josiah had won a lusty wife, thank the angels. After weeks of
curtailed encounters, she’d been as eager as he to consummate their
chaste wooing.
He remembered her delicious, husky little moan as
he’d kissed her ravenously, passionately behind one of the man-size
Japanese jars in the hall, barely out of sight of the guests. He
remembered fondling the sweet curve of her breast before towing her
willy-nilly toward the carved oak staircase. She’d scurried to keep
up, running with a rustle of silk skirts and a patter of delicate
heels across tiled flooring. He’d swept his laughing bride into his
arms and carried her up the stairs, golden light spilling over them
from the high mullioned windows.
And then…
Something was badly amiss. He hadn’t been drunk on
his wedding day. His head remained clear and his mouth wasn’t stale
with alcohol. When he married Isabella, he hadn’t needed
intoxicants. He’d been delirious with happiness and itching to
possess his bride. A glass of champagne to toast her bright eyes
and a lifetime of joy to come. That was all.
So why was he lying all alone? And why couldn’t he
remember?
Where the hell was Isabella? She should be here. With
him.
The darkness crushed him. Confusion ebbed and the
truth slammed down like an ax.
Isabella was dead.
Crippling grief thickened his blood like gray sea
ice. His memory remained disturbingly blank about details, but he
knew without question that she was dead.
Of course he knew. They’d been so close in life,
they’d shared a heartbeat.
Isabella was dead. And so was he.
***
“Kiss me, Calista.”
Austerely intellectual Lady Calista Aston giggled
with an extremely unintellectual giddiness and allowed the handsome
young man to tug her from
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