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Then she’d stirred from her deep sorrow, her desire to have her son properly wed the first thing to reawaken her interest in life—and she desperately wanted to see him wed to her best friend’s daughter. A dutiful son who was still mourning not only the loss of his father, but the even more recent loss of his closest friend, Grafton had cut ties with his mistress and acquiesced to his mother’s desire to see him wed to Lady Annabelle.

He’d courted her, proposed, and she’d accepted.

And whenever Grafton and Delilah were in the same room, the entire ton could feel the pain of their thwarted love. Well, the entire ton except Grafton’s mother and Lady Annabelle’s family, who somehow were completely blind to the situation, possibly willfully. Mei had never been able to figure out if Lady Annabelle had somehow not realized that her fiancé was desperately in love with another woman or if she’d resigned herself to the fact and was determined to turn a blind eye as long as she became a duchess.

“He does seem fond of her,” Mei remarked as Grafton greeted the others, and Lady Annabelle prettily curtsied and exchanged a few words with Tiffany.

“He does. I have no reason to dislike her.” Astrid tilted her head, studying the pair. “I do feel sorry for her. It’s just…”

“Delilah.”

“Delilah,” Astrid confirmed with a sigh. The Baroness of Ashfield had been friends with Astrid while she and Grafton were lovers, and that friendship had not ended when their liaison did. “She says she does not mind, and of course, I should get to know my fellow soon-to-be duchess… It feels all wrong, though. He should have married Delilah.”

“Even if it meant losing his mother?” By all accounts, reading between the lines because no one would be so uncouth as to say so plainly, his mother had been wasting away on the brink of despair, and Grafton had been perilously close to losing both of his parents tragically.

Astrid hesitated and then shook her head. “He should never have had to make the choice.”

“I do not disagree, but here we are.” And the current Duchess of Grafton was looking very well, if a touch frail. From the way she clung to Lady Annabelle, she was clearly enamored of her future daughter-in-law, and Lady Annabelle was very solicitous of her.

If not for Delilah, she and Grafton might indeed be an ideal pairing.

Perhaps that would eventually soften the blow… for all of them.

Lady MarcyAnne Turner and her mother, the Marchioness of Reading, were the next to arrive. Lady MarcyAnne was the most petite of the potentials, a true pocket Venus; she did not even reach the duke’s shoulder. Her dark black hair was set dramatically against a sky-blue gown that brought out the streak of grey near her temple, a streak her mother shared, although her mother’s dark hair had more than just a streak in it now. Apparently, it was a shared family trait and one which had the ton very divided on whether it was a feature or a detractor of Lady MarcyAnne’s beauty.

Like the two previous arrivals, there was nothing standout about Lady MarcyAnne’s interaction with the duke. Mei tapped her fingers on the rail impatiently as the lady and her mother swept up the stairs, following the housekeeper to their rooms. She was growing tired of standing and waiting, though at least she had Astrid for company.

But she lost that as well on the next arrival.

A young woman, pale and thin, though some of the paleness might be due to the unrelieved black she was wearing, entered with naught but a maid for company. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and the moment she stepped through the door, both dukes audibly gasped.

“Isabella,” Astrid whispered, and then she was gone from Mei’s side in a flash, running down the hall toward the stairs to the foyer. It could have felt like abandonment, but Mei was far too curious at her first sight of Lady Isabella Steward, daughter of the Marquess of Newbury, grieving fiancée of the now deceased Duke of Northumberland.

Mei frankly stared, drinking in her first glimpse of the woman who should have married the most tragic of the ton’s Tragic Dukes.

9

Sebastian

Most of the guests must have left London at about the same time because they were arriving one after another in a row. Sebastian was very relieved he’d taken the time to wash up before becoming part of the receiving line. The sharp eyes of his potential brides, as well as their mothers’, were a bit daunting. He had the title, but looking the part was just as important.

Still. He could not help but sneak peeks up at the balcony where he’d spotted Miss Hu earlier. Wondering what she was thinking. What her impressions were. If she thought he’d cleaned up well enough.

He’d noticed when Lady Astrid joined her. Felt the weight of both of their gazes. It was not until Lady Isabella’s arrival that he was able to focus on someone entirely other than Miss Hu, and that was partly due to the shock of seeing Lady Isabella again.

When all their fathers had died in that hunting lodge fire, Sinclair Seymour had become the new Duke of Northumberland, one of eight Tragic Dukes. He was the only one of the new dukes ready and engaged to be married, a love match to Lady Isabella Stewart, daughter of the Marquess of Newbury. The rest of them had assumed they were young enough that they did not need to rush to marry and beget heirs.

It was Sinclair’s untimely death at sea, less than a year after the deaths of their fathers, that had made them all realize otherwise. At his wake, they’d agreed to hasten their efforts to be married and ensure their ducal lines. None of them was particularly fond of the new Northumberland, Sinclair’s cousin William. They’d ended up thinking about their own current heirs, and that’s why so many of them were now stepping up to the altar, one by one.

Youth had not saved Sinclair.

This was the first time that he’d seen Lady Isabella since Sinclair’s funeral. It hurt, to be honest. She was still dressed in mourning attire, though she had technically come to the end of her full mourning period, as she was not actually his widow. She’d lost weight since Sinclair’s funeral. Her cheekbones had always been praised, but now they looked sharp enough to cut the air, her cheeks almost gaunt from being hollowed out.

She reminded him a bit of Zachary’s mother, and the thought chilled the very marrow of his bones.

“Isabella, you came.” Tiffany rushed forward, eschewing good manners, with her hands outstretched.

A ghost of a smile touched Isabella’s lips, though it did not reach her hazel eyes, which appeared darker and more soulful than Sebastian remembered them. He and Gregory followed Tiffany, though more slowly. He was glad Zachary and Lady Annabelle had already left the foyer. As Sinclair’s closest friend before his passing, other than Isabella, Zachery had suffered the most from his loss. He knew Isabella had been invited this weekend and that she’d accepted the invitation, but none of them had been certain she would actually come.