He pushed through his door, missing the table when he tossed his keys. He pulled off his boots, dancing around the small sitting room tugging off each. The room was spinning too fast. He hardly had the upper hand in undressing.

It wasn’t fair, really.

He tossed his boots by the door, then staggered a step to grab his keys, catching sight of the letter that had been shoved under his door. He lifted it, feeling everything tilt out of focus.

Fine, next time he wouldn’t have so much to drink.

What a strange feeling to receive from holding a piece of stationery.

But he knew this was different by the seal on the back—elaborate and red. One that left him searching for a reason why he would receive a letter such as this.

His hands trembled as he opened the letter, and he read it once, feeling the floor give out beneath him. He sank down to the rug and clutched the letter in his hand.

His father’s cousin had passed, leaving Henry an earldom and a crumbling family seat on the Isle of Wight.

And he was needed immediately for a meeting to discuss the transition.

Damn it all.

Henry leaned his head against the wall, clutching the letter and remembering the bloodstained handkerchief tucked away in his jacket pocket embroidered with a simple B.

Barbara, Beatrice, Bridget…

He hadn’t even asked if she were married. Though he ventured she wouldn’t have shared a kiss with him if she were.

And now, his world had, in fact, turned upside down.

He was the Earl Devlin, no longer Henry Davies.

Henry Davies, once hailing from Wales, now had inherited Cliffstone Manor on the Isle of Wight. He hadn’t visited before. Hadn’t a clue what life was like there. Or what the house was like—only described as “in a state of disrepair.” Or how he would be as an earl.

But once again, he wasn’t given a choice.

As the eldest, this was his duty.

And if he had done anything successfully in his thirty-one years, it was to uphold his duty.

There was no allowance for daydreams, beautiful masked strangers, and heated kisses. No drunken nights with friends when he was tasked with turning everything around. Henry would return to work and devote himself to where he was needed wholeheartedly.

No matter how perfect his evening was.

It might as well have been a dream.

That glimpse of what life could be would have to wait. He would need to treasure his brief time with his beautiful stranger and meet up with her in June if not before. His family needed him, and he always answered that call, no matter how difficult.

CHAPTER 3

December 1822

Tilly drew in a breath and started again, her fingers dancing over each key until, from behind, her house tumbled into chaos.

She angrily pounded at the piano until her patience broke, then spun on the bench. “I am trying to practice,” she called out.

Her siblings continued their mischief.

“I am a working professional who needs ten minutes of calm to practice.”

Still, they continued.

She loved them all madly, but some days, she wished to be far, far away from her Brennan brothers and sisters. Her parents were still in Ireland, as her father was too sick to ever make the move. The doctor advised him to stay out of the London air and remain in the Irish countryside near Dublin.

Tilly was the third oldest, her older brother and sister, Patrick and Imogene, were both settled now with families of their own. They both helped Tilly establish herself in London after having Ethan and, along with visiting, helped financially when they could. It was agreed upon that the other siblings would remain with Tilly and help with Ethan as her acting career became more established from playing smaller circuits to larger London theaters.

Nearly twenty-two, and Tilly felt as if she were years older. Her house was full of rowdy children, she worked long hours, and she was trapped in a relationship she wished to escape.

Younger, she had dreamed of more.

But so was life.

She pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders and stood, glancing outside at the dull December day. Oh, how she wished for snow. It never felt like Christmas time otherwise.

“Really, what is all this racket?” she asked.

Then she stepped into the hall.

Tiny bits of paper rained down upon her as her siblings giggled and laughed, merrily singing Christmas carols.

“We’ve decided we need snowflakes,” shouted Maeve from over the railing. Maeve shared the same fiery orange hair as Tilly, though she was much shorter like their mother, and her face was dotted with freckles.

“Loads of ‘em,” Daniel added, popping his head around Maeve. At fourteen, Daniel was losing the rounded facial features of boyhood much too quickly. He made up for it with a head of wild chestnut curls and an impish grin.

The twins, Bridgid and Fiona, twirled down the hallway toward Tilly carrying an armful of ivy sprigs for the windows. “Yes, coming through. It’s time to decorate, Sister.”

“But why is it raining paper in my front hall? And more importantly,” she said, fighting off a smile as Ethan raced down the stairs in a crooked paper crown, “why are you decorating without me?”

The twins, tall and lean like Tilly, fussed with the ivy and red ribbon. Tilly had been so busy, she had only baked oranges and poked them with cloves. She hadn’t done much planning otherwise. She had spent her time at the theater far too much lately.

Ethan threw his arms around her waist.

Tilly sank down, dropping a kiss on top of his curly blond hair. “How are you, love?”

“They won’t stop singing,” he said, pointing to Bridgid and Fiona. They both spun around and stuck out their tongues before breaking into giggles.

She laughed. “Yes, well they do that sometimes.”

“Up here, Ethan,” Daniel called. “I need your help pasting these snowflakes.”