His forgotten past might shatter her future…
Captain Layton Westbrook has lost everything—his identity, his past, and the life he once knew. Left battered and near death after a violent attack, he awakens in a quiet countryside school, his mind a blank slate. Haunted by fragmented memories and a single vow never to trust again, Layton finds himself drawn to the serene presence of the woman who saved him. But shadows from his past are closing in, and danger may strike before he can uncover the truth.
Lillibet Granger has dedicated her life to Kelston Hall Children’s School, nurturing orphans with the love she never knew. As the illegitimate daughter of a viscount’s sister, her position is precarious, but her compassion and quiet strength have earned her respect. When she finds an injured man on the school grounds, her instincts urge caution, but his vulnerability stirs something deeper. Yet Lilly knows better than to dream of love—a plain, practical woman like her has no place in a hero’s world.
As Layton’s memories begin to surface, so do threats that could destroy everything Lilly holds dear. The future of her beloved school hangs by a thread, and Layton’s hidden identity could be the key to saving it—or the cause of its downfall. In a world where trust is fragile and love demands the ultimate risk, will they defy the odds and seize a second chance at happiness? Or will the secrets they hold tear them apart forever?
Prologue
The outskirts of the sleepy village of Prudhoe, England
Late August 1828—almost midnight
Breath coming in heaving gasps and holding one bruised arm across his throbbing ribs, Captain Layton Westbrook grasped the fencepost with his badly lacerated free hand.
Cursing and grimacing against the lancing pain, he dragged his foot onto the wooden fence’s lowest rail. The effort cost him mightily, and a wave of dizziness threatened to send him to his knees.
Again.
Nearby, an owl’s haunting hoot rent the air.
Almost immediately, the sounds of a not-so-small animal thrashing about in the hedgerow slightly behind and to Layton’s left muted the booming call. Heaven help him should the creature be a female badger returning to her burrow and cubs.
Motionless and holding his breath, Layton strained his ears until the scurrying and crackling in the underbrush abated. Only then did he dare raise his sweaty, blood-caked face and draw in a handful of shallow breaths.
Steady on, old chap.
You have been in worse scrapes.
Though an officer in the army for two decades, except for the explosion that blinded him in one eye, Layton had not. He shoved the memories of that trauma to the back of his mind. This was not the time to reflect on his dead wife’s perfidy.
Right now, concentrating on surviving and evading capture must be his sole focus.
And, of course, getting word to his family that he was alive, if not particularly hale and hearty.
Not a single doubt beset him that the Earl of Highbury’s henchmen still pursued him. The earl could not afford for Layton to escape and tell the world what the blackguard had done.
What Layton did not know, however, was how quickly his abductors had discovered his absence and followed him. Or, if they had been fooled by the false trail to Henshaw he had laid, delaying his flight by several precious minutes.
He prayed his ruse had worked.
Not that he deserved God’s grace, but mayhap the good Lord had deigned to show him favor, just this once.
The thin silvery crescent suspended in the heavens did little to illuminate the night, but at least no clouds blurred the millions of sparkling stars.
Darkness did not bother him.
In fact, he usually found it soothing and peaceful.
This was not one of those times.
As a captain in His Majesty’s Army, Layton had engaged in stealthy nocturnal assignments in blackness darker than the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat and as dangerous as encountering the devil himself.
Compared to those life-threatening adventures, tonight was simply a jaunt to Vauxhall or Covent Garden.
Or so he kept repeating to himself as he had slogged onward toward Hexham.
It was a colossal lie, of course.
No one had ever held him prisoner or tortured him before.
An enormous shadow passed overhead; its great wings outstretched.
The eagle-owl he had heard calling earlier.
With considerable effort, Layton levered his other foot onto the low rail.
A ragged groan tore from his throat as pain radiated throughout his body with the movement.
Besides more than one broken rib, fingers, knuckles, multiple lacerations, and a fractured nose, his foggy brain, blurry vision, and the crushing pain in his head suggested he had sustained a concussion too.
Not before he had given as good as he’d received, by God. If his mouth was not so bloody and battered, his lips chapped and scabbed, he might have summoned a triumphant grin.
His throat dry as ash, he swallowed.
Devil it, he was deuced thirsty.
A fulminating wave of weakness and dizziness cascaded over him.
I cannot do it.
I cannot go on.
Fighting faintness, which could prove deadly should he succumb, he lowered his forehead to the highest rail and, resting his head there, sucked in shallow rasps of cool air.
You must, Layton Alexander Vale Westbrook.
Cassius’s and Beatrice’s lives might well depend on it.
Other Westbrooks’ lives too.
But the truth was, Layton had already failed Cassius.
Pain scoured him.
A dagger impaling his heart could not have hurt worse.
He had promised his youngest brother that he would return for him and Beatrice after leaving them in the forest glen to seek help at Hefferwickshire House—their familial home and the duchy’s grand country estate.
That had been two—no—three days ago.
He scrunched his forehead.
Or had it been four?
Layton honestly did not know.
Everything had become a blur.
With his mind befuddled from the beatings he had endured, as well as lack of food and water, he could not recall the passage of time with any certainty.
One thing he did know, however, beyond any doubt.
The peer responsible for his abduction had no qualms about killing anyone who stood in his way, including the Earl of Highbury’s niece, Beatrice Fairfax.
Not in the habit of praying, Layton sent up a silent plea for divine intervention, nevertheless.
God, help me.
Please let Cassius and Beatrice be safe.
Four tries and as many tumbles later, amidst a bevy of curses that would have caused a seasoned sailor to blush crimson, he finally flopped onto his back in the foggy meadow on the other side.
Staring at the twinkling stars in the jet-black sky, Layton fought to remain conscious, each breath lancing him with burning pain.
The chilly ground permeated his clothing, and a shiver shook him.
Wounded and utterly spent, he could not continue much farther.
How much distance had he put between himself and the men the mad-as-a-hatter, Earl of Highbury, had hired to abduct him?
Layton guessed he had traveled three, mayhap, four miles.
Not bloody far enough to be safe.
A horse would have been most welcome, but there had been no sign of his gray bay gelding. Likely, the animal had been sold. Besides, Layton was not positive he could have saddled or mounted a horse.
Even with his arms wrapped around his torso for support, his broken ribs made running impossible. He could only manage a rapid, faltering walk. He hoped anyone glimpsing him through the vapor rising from the meadow would have mistaken him for a drunken tippler, stumbling his way home.
Eyes squeezed shut and grinding his teeth together against the agony coursing through every pore in his body, Layton rolled over, pushed to his knees, and then used the sturdy fence to pull himself upright.
More rustling sounded from the hedgerow, and a chorus of field crickets chirping to attract mates filled the air.
Sagging against the structure, he squinted at the misty meadow.
Just a little farther.
Enough to ensure he had eluded his captors.
Before dawn’s glow lit the sky, Layton hoped to find a place to rest and seek help in Hexham.
In the distance, several manor houses dotted the horizon, their grand chimneys lined up like proud, shadowy sentinels against the midnight sky. Surely amongst the residents, someone knew of his father, the powerful Duke of Latham.
One mention of his adopted father’s name, and Layton was confident aid would be forthcoming swiftly. Especially if he hinted at a generous reward for discretion and speed.
Hunched over, a fresh trickle of blood oozing down his forehead into his one good eye, Layton stumbled forward, forcing his legs into a clumsy trot. He had only traveled a few yards before he tripped over a grass-covered rock and crashed to the ground, striking his injured head.
Sweet Jesus.
Nausea swirled in his belly, and he released a ragged moan.
It was too much.
His mind and spirit were willing, but his broken body had forsaken him.
The burbling of a nearby brook soothed his tortured soul.
I am sorry, Cassius.
Blackness and despair enshrouded Layton as he sank into oblivion.
One
A cozy bedchamber in Kelston Hall Children’s Home
On the outskirts of the Village of Prudhoe
Middle of September 1828—early morning
Lavender?
With the sluggishness of an opium addict, the man slowly roused from his slumber and twitched his nostrils, while allowing his eyes to remain shut. He ached in places he did not know could hurt.
Severe beatings tended to do that.
He furrowed his forehead.
I have been beaten.
Peculiar, he remembered being pummeled, but not who had thrashed him or where the pounding had occurred. For that matter, what he could recall about anything would scarcely fill a thimble.
His memory was as empty as his hollow stomach gnawing at his spine.
To still the panic rearing its gargoyle head at that horrific revelation, he focused on the familiar, comforting scent that had stirred him from sleep.
Yes, definitely lavender.
Still groggy, and with his eyes closed, he sniffed.
Hmm.
A slightly earthy scent also lingered, as did a pungent, medicinal aroma with a hint of sweetness and spice.
Poultices, salves, or tinctures?
To treat his injuries?
Bloody irregular.
What went on here?
Senses not yet fully attune, eyelids weighted closed, and limbs leaden, he inhaled deeply.
Other, lighter, more pleasing aromas teased his nose.
He sniffed again.
Lemon? Wildflowers? Sunshine?
Sunshine?
What the devil?
Have I gone mad?
Where the sodding blazes am I?
He vaguely recalled running, gasping for air—pain riddling his body and head—and finally collapsing in a meadow after escaping.
Wait…
An imprecise image flitted across his beleaguered mind and then floated away before he could grasp hold and bring it into full focus.
An impression remained, nonetheless.
Someone had abducted him.
But who?
Why?
Again, he could vaguely recall the event, but not the details surrounding the incident.
With considerable effort, he fought the cumbersome cobwebs and wet wool besieging his mind, and mustering every ounce of determination he possessed, he groped his way to full wakefulness.
Wrinkling his nose again and drawing in a deep breath, while simultaneously creasing his forehead, he forced the millstones from his eyelids.
His senses told him dawn drew near.
They also screamed he was not alone.
Alarm throttled through his veins.
A soft sound beside his bed made him bolt upright, ready to defend himself once more.
An agonized gasp rushed past his dry lips as searing, molten fire speared his skull straight into his brain while scorching rapiers impaled his ribs.
Holy Mother of God!
Breath hissed from between clenched teeth as another groan ripped from his throat while he clutched his throbbing head, fighting to stay conscious.
He barely registered the bandages circling his head, ribs, and hands.
Nausea ripped through his stomach and throttled up his throat as a wave of excruciating pain threatened to cleave his head from his neck.
By God, he would welcome decapitation if it meant an end to the agony.
Desperate to tamp down the bile tapping against his teeth, he made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
I am going to be sick.
In the dim pre-dawn light, a form in flowing white swiftly rose from beside his bed, sending a cloud of feminine fragrance wafting past his face.
Oh, God.
His tormented stomach could not stand anymore.
He gagged. Then gagged again.
“Oh, dear.” She touched his shoulder, the pressure gentle and comforting. “You poor thing. I shall fetch a basin.”
Even with the pain-induced haze assaulting him, he registered several details in the muted half-light.
Woman.
Average height.
English.
Middle to late thirties.
Educated speech.
A moment later, she produced a porcelain washbasin, and to his utter humiliation, he heaved his guts out as she held it before him. Not that there was much in his empty-as-a-miser’s-charity-box stomach.
When he finally stopped retching, he collapsed back onto the pillows, mortified and weak.
The pale pinks, oranges, and purples peeking through the lace curtains announced dawn’s imminent arrival.
“Queasiness is to be expected with a head wound, especially when one has a concussion.” She spoke matter-of-factly, her tone low and modulated, kind but not patronizing. “It shall pass in time, although I know at present that is not much comfort to you.”
Bloody right.
It is not.
The stranger turned from him and after placing the basin on a nearby commode, slipped on her wrapper, tying it at her waist. With practiced efficiency, she set about lighting a lamp.
Squinting, he blinked as the soft golden glow filled the unremarkable room, revealing the small chamber’s door standing open.
Glancing downward, he registered the white nightshirt covering his torso.
I sleep nude.
The ruffled nightshirt was not his.
Not only did he sleep naked, but he would never wear anything with as much lace as this garment sported.
How could he recall that insignificant tidbit but nothing else?
One hand resting on the wrought iron, her head cocked slightly, the woman stood at the foot of the bed and studied him. Those intelligent dark brown eyes beneath winged brows several shades darker than her plaited hair probed him, pausing for a half-second on his damaged eye.
Ah, another morsel that he recalled.
He had lost vision in one eye.
Resisting the urge to touch his face to ensure the black leather patch hid the cloudy orb, he forced himself to take a mental inventory of his surroundings.
Already having concluded he wore another’s rather hideous nightshirt—what man in his right mind would choose to wear such a ridiculous thing?—he noted the bandages artfully wrapped around his knuckles. He had also felt a dressing on his head when he’d clutched it earlier, and the vice-like pressure on his ribs suggested bindings encased his torso as well.
He lay in a narrow bed covered with a colorful quilt that appeared to have been constructed from a variety of fabrics with no apparent pattern. The other furniture comprised a straight-back chair upon which lay a once-green, rather flat, square velvet cushion, a small scuffed secretary, and the commode, upon which the plain white pitcher and basin sat.
Next to the bed, a small table acted as a nightstand. A wardrobe situated beside the door, along with two slightly crooked, dried-and-faded framed floral arrangements hanging on the same wall as the window, completed the simple décor.
Not stark, per se, but not opulent by any stretch of the imagination either.
A hazy vision of an elaborate black-and-white-tiled marble entry skittered across his memory before evaporating as swiftly as a droplet of water upon a roaring fire.
He pointed his attention to the floor.
No rugs covered the clean, plain wood, but a pile of blankets and a pillow lay between his bed and the wall.
She slept there.
Why?
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