Cover

Dedication

For my mother. Pianist, teacher, poet, composer. You bring music, love, and laughter to so many.

Prologue

Brandan Delamar had committed a terrible sin.

He didn’t know what he’d done, only that it had been unforgivable in his father’s eyes. The duke looked at him accusingly, as though Brandan should know his trespass. As though the crime had been so heinous that any love a father might have held for his only son had been irretrievably lost.

But what had he done?

Young Brandan sifted through his memories, searching for the reason his father hated him. He’d had a privileged upbringing; coddled by nurses, educated by private tutors, his every wish instantly fulfilled by a regiment of well-trained household staff.

He saw the manor staff more than he saw his own parents, though that wasn’t unusual for the children of high-ranking peers. His parents were the beautiful people he caught a glimpse of when Nurse presented him for inspection in the evening, before the duke and duchess left the house for social engagements.

His father was as tall and majestic as the Alpine mountains Brandan read about in his geography primer, and equally as cold and distant. His mother had cheerful blue eyes and she smelled like the roses in the garden she loved more than anything else in life. Her hair was soft sunshine falling against his cheek as she bent to give him a kiss before bed.

Brandan hadn’t asked to be born into this starring role in life’s pageant. The importance of his station as heir to the Duke of Westbury had been impressed upon him since birth. One day he’d be the duke and when that happened, he’d be the tall and distant mountain. He’d wear a long velvet cloak and a gold sash with gold medals pinned to his breast, have important audiences with the king, and take his seat in the House of Lords to help decide the fate of the empire.

He tried so hard to please his father, excelling at his lessons and besting the other boys in sports. Nothing was good enough. Nothing ever met with any sign of approval.

The message he received from everyone else about his importance, his privilege, and his great responsibility was never the message he received from his father.

What he saw in the duke’s eyes was disgust. He saw that he was flawed, stained, and unlovable. The duke beat the message into him with a cane. With his fists.

With stony, reproachful silence.

“Why does Father hate me?” Brandan mustered the courage to ask his mother when he was twelve years old and considered himself to be a man.

His mother was in the garden at Westbury Abbey, their estate in Hertfordshire, pruning the beloved roses she refused to entrust to the gardener’s care. She lowered her sharp silver secateurs. “Why would you ask something like that?”