behave in the ways other women of his acquaintance usually did. She was so different from Sylvia, the first love in his life and, he had vowed, the last …
Sylvia had been what his peers called a diamond of the first water—or at least her beauty was. Adrian had been in London with his brother John during her season, and they both attended the first great ball.
Sylvia Clairmont was the daughter of a minor baron, and Adrian had been warned that her family was looking for a major alliance for her, in both title arid wealth. But that fact had little meaning for him as they danced, and she looked up with teasing blue eyes and an invitation on her lips.
Adrian had always been successful with women, with almost everyone, in fact, except his father. Even as a boy, he’d charmed the cook and maids into extra favors with a smile that one neighboring girl told him put the sun to shame.
It was a smile that he had retained, despite some very bitter years. He used it to cover disappointments and losses, and even bewilderment. It had, in fact, become almost automatic, a tool, and seldom did the smile stretch to his eyes, and never now to the heart.
But then, at nineteen, when he had seen Sylvia, his heart had responded, and he’d wanted her as he had wanted few other things in his life. His only other obsession was Ridgely, and he knew, by then, he would never have it, as he had never had his father’s love. That had all been reserved for John, and even with his brother it had been sparingly given.
Adrian had fallen in love, totally, blindly in love with Sylvia. He was attending Cambridge, but made it back to London at every opportunity. He knew he was only one of many admirers, but she allowed him to believe he was the one she wanted. They would disappear into the gardens, behind some sheltering tree, and she allowed him liberties that led him more and more to believe that he was the chosen one, fortune or not.
And it was not as if he didn’t have prospects. He had an inheritance from his grandfather, and if he wasn’t completely sure as to what he would do after Cambridge, he had friends aplenty and many opportunities to make his fortune.
It came, then, as an abrupt shock when Sylvia announced her engagement to a marquess nearly three times her age. She quickly assured Adrian, however, that she would continue to be available to him.
For Adrian, who had suffered through a marriage of convenience between his mother and father, the disillusionment was immense. He remembered the terrible arguments between his parents, and the violence directed toward his brother and himself. When there wasn’t anger, there was coldness, a chill that froze everyone around the Cabot family. He used to escape to the glades of Ridgely, to the bank of the river that wandered merrily through the property, to the small houses of the tenants who, though poor, had more love in their dwellings than he had in his. And they had cared more for the boy, and the man he was, than his family had.
Despite the discord in his family, however, Adrian had always loved the heartbeat of Ridgely. He felt its life when he looked at the grand portraits of his ancestors, as he traveled halls that had been trod hundreds of years earlier. He explored the underground dungeons and wondered how it must have felt to be confined in their inky blackness, as his family’s enemies had been, even one of their own blood during the Wars of the Roses. He had studied the history and read the personal journals, and knew more about its people than his father or brother. Yet he had no claim to it, and he could only watch his father’s mismanagement and realize his brother’s disinterest, even hatred of the place.
And Sylvia had wanted him to do the same with her … to lose the whole and accept leftover crumbs.
Bitterness, and a sense of hopelessness, had gnawed at him. He’d left Cambridge and started drinking and inhabiting gambling clubs, where he recklessly lost his
Sylvia had been what his peers called a diamond of the first water—or at least her beauty was. Adrian had been in London with his brother John during her season, and they both attended the first great ball.
Sylvia Clairmont was the daughter of a minor baron, and Adrian had been warned that her family was looking for a major alliance for her, in both title arid wealth. But that fact had little meaning for him as they danced, and she looked up with teasing blue eyes and an invitation on her lips.
Adrian had always been successful with women, with almost everyone, in fact, except his father. Even as a boy, he’d charmed the cook and maids into extra favors with a smile that one neighboring girl told him put the sun to shame.
It was a smile that he had retained, despite some very bitter years. He used it to cover disappointments and losses, and even bewilderment. It had, in fact, become almost automatic, a tool, and seldom did the smile stretch to his eyes, and never now to the heart.
But then, at nineteen, when he had seen Sylvia, his heart had responded, and he’d wanted her as he had wanted few other things in his life. His only other obsession was Ridgely, and he knew, by then, he would never have it, as he had never had his father’s love. That had all been reserved for John, and even with his brother it had been sparingly given.
Adrian had fallen in love, totally, blindly in love with Sylvia. He was attending Cambridge, but made it back to London at every opportunity. He knew he was only one of many admirers, but she allowed him to believe he was the one she wanted. They would disappear into the gardens, behind some sheltering tree, and she allowed him liberties that led him more and more to believe that he was the chosen one, fortune or not.
And it was not as if he didn’t have prospects. He had an inheritance from his grandfather, and if he wasn’t completely sure as to what he would do after Cambridge, he had friends aplenty and many opportunities to make his fortune.
It came, then, as an abrupt shock when Sylvia announced her engagement to a marquess nearly three times her age. She quickly assured Adrian, however, that she would continue to be available to him.
For Adrian, who had suffered through a marriage of convenience between his mother and father, the disillusionment was immense. He remembered the terrible arguments between his parents, and the violence directed toward his brother and himself. When there wasn’t anger, there was coldness, a chill that froze everyone around the Cabot family. He used to escape to the glades of Ridgely, to the bank of the river that wandered merrily through the property, to the small houses of the tenants who, though poor, had more love in their dwellings than he had in his. And they had cared more for the boy, and the man he was, than his family had.
Despite the discord in his family, however, Adrian had always loved the heartbeat of Ridgely. He felt its life when he looked at the grand portraits of his ancestors, as he traveled halls that had been trod hundreds of years earlier. He explored the underground dungeons and wondered how it must have felt to be confined in their inky blackness, as his family’s enemies had been, even one of their own blood during the Wars of the Roses. He had studied the history and read the personal journals, and knew more about its people than his father or brother. Yet he had no claim to it, and he could only watch his father’s mismanagement and realize his brother’s disinterest, even hatred of the place.
And Sylvia had wanted him to do the same with her … to lose the whole and accept leftover crumbs.
Bitterness, and a sense of hopelessness, had gnawed at him. He’d left Cambridge and started drinking and inhabiting gambling clubs, where he recklessly lost his
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