A Baronet to Set her Free (Preview)

Chapter One

Mary sat at her desk, mind drifting. It was summertime, and the view beyond the windows of the drawing-room at Stonyford, her family home, was tranquil. The distant clouds that showed over the hills threatened a downpour later. She dipped her pen in the inkwell, feeling alert despite the sleepy summer weather.

Do I dare do this?

She blushed, as if she’d spoken the thought aloud, and tucked a strand of black hair back from her brow where it had come loose. It was a daring plan, and yet it felt right. Her life—at least, her recent past—up until this moment had not been something she regarded with much enthusiasm. The summer ahead promised balls and salons, but none of them would be fun with Lord Faulkner in attendance. The thought made her feel ill.

He was so cold, so disinterested that it made her feel valueless.

She blinked her green eyes. She had to do something, and it was Harriet who had brought the idea to her attention, after all.

She dipped her pen again.

Her mind was full of images of the man she wrote to as she spelled his name. James, the son of a local baron, had been a childhood friend—he lived with his family at Bramall Hall, the finest house for miles around. He had been away fighting battles on the Continent for the last six years—she had last seen him at sixteen, when he had joined the troops. She had been thirteen, and she had been hesitant at the sight of the young, uniformed man, thinking that the stern, crisp outfit was at odds with his gentle face.

She sighed, wondering what he looked like now.

Harriet had told her that James was back at Bramall. She had no idea how her cousin had found out, but then Harriet had a quiet nature, one that was considering and observant. She was naturally shy and tended to hang back from society rather than plunge into it, and she said little, rather watched and drew thoughtful conclusions.

And she had told Mary that James was back at Bramall again.

She dipped the pen again, the scrape of the it across the paper the only sound in the still room. She had, earlier in the afternoon, arranged a bowl of roses on the table—the scent was sweet in the air, a delicious summer aroma. She hoped her father had noticed that she’d tried to practice at least one ladylike pursuit—namely flower-arranging—although he was far from fussy. As the daughter of a wealthy merchant, her father wished her to learn all the skills fine ladies learned. Since his knighthood last year, he had wished that even more, and so Mary sought to please him by riding, singing, and sketching. 

A frown creased her heart-shaped face, thoughts of James distracting her as she wrote. She imagined him as he might look now. He’d had a soft, gentle face at sixteen, with wide brown eyes and hair of a honey brown colour. He had been a slightly awkward boy, but she supposed he must still be passingly good-looking, if in a smooth, oval-faced, and slightly uneasy way. She smiled at the thought.

He had been her fiercest childhood ally.

She considered what to say and continued with the letter, surprised at how easy it was to write to James, whom she had not seen for eight years. Yesterday, at the afternoon tea, she had not talked to anyone who had set her at ease the way he did.

And, she thought, reaching for the sealing wax, Lord Faulkner certainly never did.

She leaned back, looking over to the panelled wall of the drawing-room. Lord Faulkner didn’t have a chance at connecting with anyone the way James had done, awkward and owlish though he might have been. Lord Faulkner was utterly cold.

She blew on the ink to dry it. She knew there was a box of sand she could scatter to dry the ink, but she hesitated to do it because then grit would get all over the desk, and Mrs. Heathridge, their housekeeper, had just cleaned. She also didn’t like the feeling of the grit between her fingers.

She read over the letter again. Maybe it’s a trifle too friendly, she thought. 

It hadn’t been her intention to make it so friendly, but her delight at hearing of his return had flooded her heart, combined with the excitement she felt at the thought of seeing him. The letter was still drying, and she left it on the table, looking up as her maid, Becky, came into the room. She smiled to see her. Becky grinned back.

“Miss,” she said. “I brought up a bowl of water for the flowers for your bedroom. But I think it has a crack, because when I put it down, it leaked all over the table.” Her lighthearted expression was replaced with a hesitant frown. “Will you come and see?”

Mary nodded and followed her upstairs.

“It’s not any trouble,” she said to Becky kindly when she saw the water on the little table in the corner of her bedroom. “If you just get some rags up here to dry it, then it will be as new.”

“Thank you, miss,” her maid said and hurried off.

Mary looked around the room. She was fond of her bed-chamber, which had been redecorated once in her whole life. When she was sixteen, her father had remodeled it, having flocked silk wallpaper in white with a lily pattern installed. Her father was a figure in the silk trade, and Mary appreciated the touch, as she did the soft eiderdown and the fine wardrobe. They all reflected her father’s generous, open heart, which had also made him befriend Lord Faulkner.

Lord Faulkner was the son of the former viscount, and it was for that reason that her father had thought to arrange a betrothal between them when they were just children. When she was a little girl, she hadn’t understood.

Now that she was twenty, she understood absolutely what it meant—and there was nothing at all she could do about it.

Mary looked out of her bedroom window, wishing she could find some way to solve that one considerable problem.

Still lost in thought, she walked silently down the soft carpet and into the drawing-room. When she got there, she jumped. Her father was there, at her desk.

“Sweetling,” he said. He stood at the desk, his slightly round form lit from the window. He looked up and held out his arms to embrace her. She hugged him, cheeks flushing.

“Sorry, Papa,” she said, aware that he had seen what she had written to James. “I just heard that the baron’s son is here at Bramall again, and I was excited to write to him. I hope you think that is not unreasonable?”

He smiled. “Daughter, I would not dream to venture an opinion on your correspondence. In my opinion, it is a fond letter, but good. I would just advise caution, my dear. You know James is not unattached, and the nature of the lady is such that she might be upset by a friendly letter, even from a friend.”

“I suppose.” Mary tilted her head. She knew James was betrothed—the lady to whom he was to marry was Miss Claudine Greenford, the sister of Baron Yeaton. The family estate was not particularly close to their own, half a day’s ride, at least. She knew little of the woman in question.

“I just thought I ought to inform you,” her father said. 

“Thank you, Papa,” Mary said, her brow creasing.

She loved her father, and if he advised against something, she would prefer not to neglect it. He was clever and he knew how to appeal to others—after all, as a merchant who traded silk brought in from the East. he had to maintain good relations with people from different worlds. He managed it solely because of his affable manner, and she could learn from him. If he thought the letter’s tone was wrong, she ought to change it.

She sat down, frowning.

“I might go for a walk later,” her father continued. “I thought a good stroll would be pleasant for me. I’ll go up to the stream. If you’d like to come…?”

“I would like to,” Mary agreed quickly. “But I have a tea arrangement this afternoon. If you think I should come, then of course, we could both join you.” 

She was planning to have tea with Harriet, but if Papa needed someone to walk with him—sometimes he got a pain in his foot, one the doctor thought was arthritis, and he preferred to have someone with him in case he might need someone to help him. He shook his head.

“Oh, daughter. You’re kind. But I won’t go far. I’ll ask Hadley to come if I need help,” he said. Hadley was the gardener, and close enough to the family to be almost counted among them. 

“Thank you, Papa,” Mary said in reply.

She talked with him until he decided to go out for his walk before the downpour arrived. When she had a moment, she read over the letter again.

Was it too friendly?

She folded it up—the ink being dry—and set it to one side. She didn’t know if she’d send it.

“Miss Alverham?” the butler, Mr. Linleigh, came in while she was considering the roses and wondering if she could ask for another lesson in flower arranging to improve her skills. She looked up, heart thumping.

“Yes, Mr. Linleigh?” She hoped he was here to announce her guest.

“Your cousin, Miss Elway, is in the hallway, my lady. Shall I show her in?”

“Please!” Mary said instantly. “I would be delighted. And set tea out for us, please?”

“Immediately,” Mr. Linleigh confirmed, giving her a warm look. Mary looked at him warmly as well. She hurried to the door as Harriet arrived.

“Dear cousin!”

“Mary! How grand.”

Harriet embraced her. Her friend smelled of roses, as she always did. She had a cream-colored dress on, the fabrication of finest muslin. It was not ornately decorated, but the cut was flattering. Harriet, the daughter of a prosperous merchant too, was shyer than her cousin, but she had a sense of elegance as good as any lady, and better than many.

“Harriet,” Mary said fondly. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s grand to see you, cousin,” Harriet repeated. “Oh! And Mr. Linleigh brought the tea.” She glanced over as the butler wheeled in the tea trolley. “Good. I am hungry.”

Mary smiled to herself, pleased to see her cousin. She went to the tea table, where Mr. Linleigh was putting out the tea set—he had chosen a Meissen-ware set decorated with yellow roses. He poured them each a cupful and discreetly withdrew.

“How do you fare?” Mary asked Harriet, who lifted a shoulder.

“Well, thank you,” she said. “We attended a ball at Lady Alton’s house yesterday. I wished you had been there, cousin.” 

Lady Alton’s estate was half a day’s ride from Stonyford House, and not as close as Harriet was. Mary would likely have been there, had they lived closer. She passed her friend the milk jug and tilted her head thoughtfully.

“I would have liked to be there,” she said. She would have enjoyed a party with Harriet. It would be even better, she thought, since Lord Faulkner’s lodging was sufficiently far from Alton that he was unlikely to be there. Balls were only enjoyable when he was absent.

“Well, I am sure she will hold another ball. Mayhap you can come and stay with Aunt? Then we could both attend.” Her aunt, Lady Elwood, lived closer to Harriet’s father than to Alton Manor, but if they both stayed there, it would be an easier distance for them both.

“That would be nice,” Mary agreed. She was fond of Aunt, who was a distant relative of them both—not really an aunt, but a sort of cousin. Harriet knew her much better than Mary did, who had visited there only when she went to see her friend.

“The countryside is surprisingly busy,” Harriet said, referring to the balls and parties being held. With the prosperous weaving houses not too far from the estates, there were many wealthy households nearby—and many noble ones. 

It would be possible, Mary thought, to attend a ball or salon every day—or almost. She nodded. 

“I do find so few truly enjoyable balls, though,” Harriet said.

Mary inclined her head. Harriet was not the sort of person to converse lightly. If she was talking to you, it meant she felt connected to you in some way. She didn’t approach strangers and strike up a conversation, and nor did she talk just for the sake of talking.

There were few balls where Harriet made friends, simply because there were few people with whom she could talk about all her many and varied interests and share insights.

Mary smiled at her. “I think there’s a party at Lady Aldridge’s manor tomorrow,” she said. “I am sure you also received an invitation?”

Harriet nodded. “I did! Will you go?”

“I wasn’t sure, but since you have an invitation, it would be much more pleasant. Perhaps we could both attend? I will speak to Papa.”

“That would be grand,” Harriet said meaningfully.

Mary and she talked for longer, and it occurred to Mary that Harriet’s opinion was needed.

She went to the desk and showed her the letter. She hadn’t sealed it yet and Harriet read it through, smiling.

“I think it’s a lovely letter, Mary,” she said warmly. “Really.”

“You do?” Mary hadn’t realised how her father’s words had influenced her, even though she was determined not to let them. She looked at her cousin in surprise. “You think I should post it?”

“Yes,” Harriet said. “James is a dear friend. All you have done is tell him that. I see no reason why you shouldn’t tell him.”

“You are right,” Mary said. She felt reassured. She had always been fond of James, and why was it wrong to tell him that? Yes, she might be betrothed, as was he, but that didn’t mean that friendships were disallowed. 

She folded the letter again.

“I’ll just call on Mr. Linleigh,” she said, and, reaching for her seal-ring to seal it—it was the family’s seal, which showed a rose on a quartered background—she went to pull the bell to summon him.

Chapter Two

James sat at the table. He was sipping his drink—it was lemonade, and he was glad, because if he’d been sipping anything stronger, he’d be lightheaded by now. He was trying his best to distract himself from what was going on.

“And I spoke with Lord Yeaton, and he said exactly what I thought. We should use the big coach, so that all the guests can go up to his manor for the evening celebration.” His mother was speaking.

James muttered, “Mama,” under his breath. Beside him, his friend, Orton, watched him nervously.

“I think it would be grand! We should have two celebrations. After all, we’re the two oldest halls in the district. People will expect it.” His mother directed a warm look at Lord Bramall, James’ father.

James looked at his plate. He didn’t know what to say. His mother was discussing the celebration of his nuptials with Miss Greenford, the sister of Lord Yeaton, a local baron. He couldn’t bear it. He was four-and-twenty, and he knew it was the proper thing for him to do as the new heir to the Bramall estate. But he couldn’t contemplate it.

All he could think about was Thomas, his brother, and how he wished that he was here.

Thomas, the former heir to the Bramall landholdings and title, had been killed in a hunting accident a year before. James, who had been at war on the Spanish-Portuguese border at the time, had received the news in a letter. It had taken a year for him to be released from service, and having returned here just a month ago, all he could think about was Thomas and how much his world had changed.

His brother and he had never been particularly close—almost ten years his senior, Thomas had been away at Eton while James was a toddler, and then gone straight to Cambridge. The two of them saw each other only occasionally, at festivals or when they both had a holiday that coincided. 

From the age of sixteen, James had been in the armed forces, and so any further contact with Thomas had been limited by his being away on military duty. But even so, though he had not been close to Thomas, his loss ate away at him. And it had changed his whole world.

He had been the second son, able to pursue whatever he wished, not the heir. Now, as the sudden inheritor of a barony, he had duties to perform.

One of those duties was fulfilling the betrothal that his parents had arranged for him.

He shut his eyes, pain and weariness descending on him.

“Excuse me, Mama. Papa,” he said, pushing back his chair. “I must go upstairs to rest.”

“Oh, James! You have hardly eaten. And what about Lord Mulldon?” She gestured to his friend. Orton’s brown eyes met James’ across the table. His face was a picture of suppressed rage, none of it directed at James. 

“Excuse me, my lady, my lord,” Orton said, pushing back his own chair. When James exited the dining-room, Orton followed him.

James paused on the stairs, hearing his friend’s footsteps. He smiled at Orton, grateful for his presence. Orton had been his friend in the military—they had started their careers at around the same time, though Orton was two years older and had been higher-ranking than James at first. They had been promoted together, attaining the position of captain when they were in Portugal—both in different regiments, but still spending much of their time together.

Orton blew out his cheeks. “Sorry, James,” he said. “I really am sorry.”

James shrugged, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Not your fault, old fellow. Thanks,” he added, gesturing at the stairs they had just walked up. He was too tired, too drained, to say anything more. 

“I don’t know what to say. If I could help you, I would,” Orton said.

James looked at his boots. The stairs were carpeted in a soft, wheat-brown silk rug, and he studied the impression his shoe made, not wanting to have to think. 

“I don’t think there’s much anyone can do,” he said after some time. “I’m the heir. I must do what they tell me.”

Orton shook his head. “I’m a baron, old fellow. I didn’t ever do what my parents told me.”

James felt his lips lift at the edges in amusement. He saw Orton’s eyes twinkle and recalled how much he had missed that lively spirit. He was so grateful Orton had travelled down from his estate in the north to be here when James arrived. He was staying in Bramall house, and without his presence, James was sure he would have had a nervous collapse. 

He was facing a new world, a new role, and a new life that had been imposed on him. He didn’t want any of it. All he wanted was to go back to Portugal, to a world he knew—combat, even in such a hideous and bloodthirsty war, was in many ways much easier than life at the manor house.

“I don’t want to be so down-in-the-mouth,” James said. He had tried so hard to be hopeful, to uplift his parents, who had both been struck hard by Thomas’ passing as well. But all they could focus on were their expectations for him now that he was the heir, and how he must not disappoint them. He thought he was going to go entirely mad.

“You’re not down in the mouth, old chap.” Orton grinned. “Frankly, if I was in your position, I’d be in Ireland.”

James had to laugh. He turned wistful as he wished he could just run away. It was a pleasant prospect. He let himself imagine it for just a moment—getting on his horse and speeding off to the border, crossing into the eastern part of the country and then on and over the straits to Ireland. He would be so much happier there. He would have nothing, and he’d have to figure out some way of earning his living, but that would be enjoyable compared to all this expectation.

“Come on, my friend. Want to go upstairs?” Orton gestured to the drawing-room, and James nodded. He hoped his parents would keep themselves busy in the dining-room—he had excused himself in the middle of the main course, but there was dessert and coffee to follow, and they surely wouldn’t object to his missing it.

“Yes,” he said, somewhat uncertain of what the reaction would be from downstairs. “I’d like that.”

He went to sit down on the chaise-longue. It was velvet covered, and he looked about the room, thinking that he felt so misplaced here. The walls were flocked silk, the floor elegant wood, the furniture either covered in burgundy velvet or delicately spindle-legged, as was the fashion, the briefest cushion of brocade acting as padding.

It was a world he had been part of every summer for as long as he could remember—but Thomas had been part of it too, and everything had been different. He had not been a veteran, he had not been four-and-twenty. He had not been the manor’s heir.

And Thomas had been alive.

He looked over at Orton, who had his feet on a footstool and was leaning back as if it was a summer afternoon and they were on campaign, on some sheltered hillside, sharing a moment of rest. Just his presence reassured James.

“You remember that time at Lisbon?” Orton asked him. “The time we captured that shipment of powder?”

“I do,” James said, frowning. It had been a confusing time—they had become aware of a gunpowder shipment arriving in Lisbon, but the difficulty had been what to do with it. Turn it over to the English and Portuguese army, who could use it, or destroy it so that the French army could not obtain it or use it against them. It had been frustrating and, because they had been handling it together, it had also been funny.

“Remember Sergeant Stilford?”

“Yes!” James said with amusement. “I do.” 

The sergeant in question had wanted to burn the shipment and had been enormously angry with James and Orton—who were both senior to him—for trying to preserve it. When he’d attempted to flout their orders and set it aflame, his gun hadn’t fired—someone had replaced all his bullets with blanks. The rage and confusion on his face when the plan hadn’t worked had made the two of them think back over the incident delightedly for a month. The sergeant’s disobedience had been relayed to their superiors, but, given the delicacy of the situation, the man had merely been transferred away from them and reprimanded. 

“Well, I reckon this is like that.” Orton lifted a shoulder. “Your mother’s got a gun—if in metaphor, not really—that she thinks is loaded, but she can’t really cause us any trouble using it.”

“Mm.” James nodded. He hoped that might be true. 

Like the over-dutiful sergeant, his mother was simply doing what she thought was right. At the same time, she had the power to cause a lot of harm for James if he let her. He just had to hope that Orton was right and that she didn’t have any clout behind her threats and protestations—which she raised just to attempt to make him do what she wanted him to do.

And in this case, it was to honour the agreement with Lord Yeaton.

He just didn’t think he could do it.

Orton looked over at him, eyes sparkling. “Want to take a walk?” he suggested. “Let’s go see what the downpour did to the stream.”

 

“In the middle of the night?”

Orton smiled. “Well, it’s not the most dangerous of our adventures.”

James just leaned back in the chair, feeling weary. He gave Orton a smile. “Why don’t we walk around the pond instead?” 

He looked out of the window. It was not fully dark, but the sky was deep blue, and it would not be more than a few minutes, he guessed, before it would be too dark to see anything at all. If they rode, they would risk the legs of their horses in any ditch or hole obscured by the night.

“Good,” Orton said. He stood, his long, thin form stretching and unfolding from the chair. He was taller than James by half a hand, and James was not short by any means. 

He walked to the door with his friend, not sorry to be outdoors when his parents came up from dinnertime. He tensed.

“They’re already coming up.” He paused in the doorway, hearing someone moving on the stairs, but when he put his head into the hallway he saw the butler, Mr. Glenford, in the stairwell. He let out a sigh of relief.

“Mr. Glenford. My parents are at dinner?” he asked him.

“I just took the sweet course in, sir,” the butler said lightly. His brow creased. “A note came for you. Should I take it to the study?” He gestured with it.

James shrugged. “I’ll take it up there in a moment, Glenford,” he said. “I’ll be going in before bedtime anyway.” He put the letter in his pocket. 

He walked down the stairs to the entrance-foyer and then out into the garden. It was dusk, the shade under the trees dark blue. He walked slowly to the new water-garden—he referred to it as new, but really, it had been there for the last decade—and he sat down on a bench, looking up to hear footsteps on the path.

Orton sat down beside him.

“You know,” his friend said, stretching his legs out towards the ornamental water feature that stood surrounded by an octagon-shaped pond. “I reckon it’s stopped raining for the moment.” James tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. It was clear overhead, the sky darkening to evening. He fancied there was starlight up there, but it wasn’t like the summer sky in Portugal. There, the stars had seemed huge and sparkling, like a diamond necklace against velvet. He had stared up sometimes, awed by their hugeness and light.

“Mm,” he agreed.

They sat without talking for a while, the sounds of the garden calm and peaceful. Water sang where it dappled the pond and somewhere, insects called. It was easily the most peaceful he’d felt since returning home.

James tried to find calm. He hadn’t had a chance to stop and think—it felt that way, at any rate—since he’d returned to the countryside. He’d had to learn how to check the accounts, a tiring procedure of learning from the family’s solicitor about all the different investments they had and properties they owned, and had to attend events and learn how to be the heir to the estate. Then, there were daily duties—things he had never realised Thomas did, like checking the accounts and managing the estate and all the tenant farmers and cottagers who lived on it. 

He hadn’t had a moment to think about anything besides his duties and the loss his family had endured.

Now, just for a moment, he could sit down and watch the rippling water.

He stared at it, feeling calm. Orton was watching it too, he noticed, as his friend shifted on the seat.

“Shall we go somewhere else?” Orton asked. “There’s something biting me.”

“Mosquito,” James said with some amusement. He recalled how they had been plagued by the pests when they were in the military.

Orton made a face.

They stood, heading back toward the house. James hoped his parents had gone to the drawing-room, in which case he would just go to bed. He didn’t want to confront them until he’d gathered his thoughts. He knew he was being hurtful, but he didn’t know what else to do.

He walked back along the path.

“You’re going up to the study?”

James frowned. He’d forgotten he’d said he’d go up there later, and when Orton asked, he recalled something else as well. He got the letter—it had become a little crumpled from where he sat on the bench—and he straightened it out. 

The seal was unusual, and Orton commented on it.

“That’s a nice badge.”

James shrugged. “I suppose.” The seal showed a rose on a quartered ground. He considered opening it. Something about it gave him pause, and if it was just a business correspondence, he could look over it again later. He slipped his finger under the flap to open it.

He let his eyes move down it.

“Mary!”

Orton frowned. “A lady?”

James made a face. “Yes, Orton. Such things are not solely the product of fevered imaginings. They exist on this planet.”

Orton laughed. “Yes, sir.”

They chuckled. James stood quietly for a moment, still looking at the letter, and found himself recalling Mary and wondering what she looked like. She was his childhood friend, and he had last seen her when he was sixteen and she was… twelve? He recalled a girl with soft cheeks, a head of glossy black hair, and confused green eyes. He smiled to himself.

She was a sweet little girl, he thought—and her personality was soft and gentle, too. If a little truculent when it came to sharing things like sweets. 

“It’s Mary Alverham. Daughter of Sir Bradford.”

“The merchant?” Orton raised a brow. Even though he did not come from this area of the countryside, he had still heard of the man; that was clear. As one of the best-known importers of luxury goods—including silk—from the Far East—he was very rich. That fact didn’t help Sir Bradford all that much in society, where the ton was not swayed even by excessive amounts of money. As a merchant, Mary’s father was a tradesman, making him no more impressive to them than any of the hundreds of traders in London. But since his knighthood, even the peers who had scorned him had to at least accept his presence at balls and parties in London.

And Sir Bradford did insist on attending all of them—with his beautiful daughter, who was a considerable heiress and well-accepted among the gentry despite her humble origins.

“Yes. Sir Bradford is a merchant. His home is about an hour’s ride from my own. We often used to see one another when I was a child.”

He recalled how his family would call on the Alverhams—being the most prosperous family in the district, the Alverhams were very much a part of the local gentry, and it was not uncommon for his father to call at the house, and for James to join him in the visit. Mama had never managed to say anything deprecatory about the household, though, of course, she was aware of their status as merely gentlefolk, not peers.

“She seems a nice girl,” Orton said. “I remember her too. I think I joined you on a visit there. Maybe once?” He was frowning, trying to remember. He always looked humorous when he frowned—at least James had always found his face when he concentrated rather funny.

“I think so,” James agreed, thinking back to the time in question. He didn’t recall that they’d seen Mary, but he and his father and Orton had ridden to the house once, the singular time James and he had a month off from their military duties. That had been before they left to take part in the war.

“I do remember her. Pretty little girl. Black curls. I wonder what she looks like now?”

“Orton.” James raised a brow. His friend was the sort of man who would ogle any woman he spotted. It was funny, but not where Mary was concerned. James had always considered her his friend and he didn’t like the thought of Orton’s roving eye landing on her.

“Yes, sir,” Orton said.

James looked at him warmly. “You’re a good fellow,” he said, feeling a bit sorry for his harshness. “Do you think she might be at that ball Lady Aldridge is hosting?”

“Mayhap?” Orton said. He raised a brow. “Maybe we should go. Have you an invitation?”

“I have,” James said. He had not intended to go—after all, since Miss Greenford was not going to attend, as her home was too far away to make it practical, he had thought he would take respite from the balls and parties he had to attend. But Mary might well attend, and that made him feel a surprising delight. He had always liked her.

He read over the note again. The tone was friendly, and he felt his mood lift. It had been so long since anyone had treated him with basic friendship. Of course, Orton, his best friend, was with him, and James would never cease to be grateful for his presence. But the thought of another friend—one who lived close, one who had been his peer since his childhood—was a delightful one.

“I think I might attend that ball after all,” James said.

“If I can come with you, so shall I,” Orton said.

James chuckled. “Of course, you can, Orton. It’s an invitation to the family, and you’re part of the family. At least, to me.”

Orton smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “I look forward to the occasion.”

James made an amused sound and unexpectedly shoved him. They ran playfully to the house, Orton threatening to punch him if he caught him, but both chuckling with amusement by the time they reached the terrace.

James leaned on the wall and looked up at the starry sky. He felt as though his spirits had lifted for the first time in a while. And he knew he was pleased by the prospect of seeing his friend, Mary, once more.

---

“A Baronet to Set her Free” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Mary Alverham is the heiress of a wealthy merchant and as such, she is expected to live up to her role by marrying the uncaring and distant Lord Faulker. At the age of twenty-two, she is beginning to have dreams of loving someone deeply and Lord Faulkner is not someone she can trust her feelings to. Fortunately, an old and beloved childhood friend is returning to town from the military and could give Mary what she truly wants.
 
Can Mary experience the romance she’s always longed for with this young man?
 
James, son of the Earl of Bramall, betrothed himself to a woman he doesn’t feel affectionate for, and wonders if this marriage will be his one chance at love. When he comes back home after the devastating loss of his brother, the meeting of an old and trusty acquaintance is a reminder that he can still feel love and affection. Even when his world crumbles around him… Yet, the prospect of their arranged marriages is still posing great challenges ahead.
 
Will they show their true feelings to each other amongst a crowd of obstacles?
 
James and Mary love each other deeply but their families refuse to listen to them. With growing pressure on them both to make a decision, they need to take action. With both of their futures uncertain, will Mary and James break away from their families’ expectations? Will they be able to experience what their hearts want, or will they bid farewell to their seemingly unbreakable bond?

“A Baronet to Set her Free” is a historical romance novel of approximately 90,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!