With a growl, Val swung his leg off his horse, dismounting.

Usually there were just two gawkers peering out the window.

Earlier that afternoon, they’d doubled in number. With two sets of eyes becoming four, as the damned nosy busybodies followed his every move.

Beside him, Lady neighed, loud in his disapproval.

That disapproval, however, was not with the nosy chits, but rather with Val. “Forgive me, sir,” Val said, belatedly stroking the midnight-black mount on his withers as he did at the end of every ride.

Val glared blackly at the household across the street.

He’d some privacy . . . for now.

It wouldn’t prove long-lived.

They’d be back.

Staring.

One would expect that, as a duke, all eyes turned upon him was something he should have grown accustomed to.

It’d certainly been the case.

He’d been one of society’s greatest preoccupations: the whispered-about rake with both one of the oldest, most revered titles and a fortune.

His attraction had only redoubled when he’d become a reformed rake, a young gentleman whose wild ways—and heart—had been tamed by Lady Dinah Astley, the Diamond of the Season.

And then, when she’d been his wife, the ton’s fascination had taken a macabre turn upon the sudden passing of that same lady.

Only, it hadn’t been so very sudden. There’d been piteous moaning that felt like it had gone on forever. And blood. There’d been that, too. Time, however, had existed in a blur on that day, where even with the passage of weeks, months, and then years since the event, he couldn’t recall how precisely long or short each moment had been.

There’d been a sharp, bloodcurdling scream—hers—but then quiet moaning. The faint whimper of desperation and suffering sounds which haunted him still, and always would.

That and a lone crimson stain had blended with the fabric of a red satin, turning the material black.

Val briefly closed his eyes, not to blot out the vision in his mind—that would always remain—but rather from a grief that would not quit.

A soft whining pulled him back from the edge of insanity that always threatened to claim complete control.

Suddenly very eager to return inside and pour himself a healthy brandy to chase away the chill and memories, Val went and gathered up more of the wood he’d cut that morn. Bracing it against his chest, he reached down with his spare hand to pat his faithful dog, Horace.

With a quiet click of his tongue, he urged the creature on.

The four-year-old hound had been a gift from his wife upon their marriage and had been like a child to them.

The child they would have eventually had . . .

Oh, God.

Agony sluiced through him, stopping him in his tracks. Clutching the wood close, he welcomed the sharp bite of pain as, even through his garments, it bit into his flesh.