A Kiss To Remember | Herophine

Prologue - The Betrayal

Hero had to draw up an ottoman and stand on tiptoe to peek out the drawing-room window. He might have had an easier time of it if a plump yellow cat hadn’t been draped bonelessly over his arm. His warm breath fogged a perfect circle on the chill glass. He rubbed it away with his sleeve just in time to see an elegant town coach draw to a halt in the curving drive of the whitewashed manor house. As a bewigged and liveried footman leapt down from the back of the coach and moved to swing the door open, Hero leaned forward until his nose touched the glass.

“I’ve never met a real duke before, Molly,” he whispered, giving the long-suffering tabby who was his constant companion an exciting squeeze.

Ever since his mum and dad had informed him that his great-uncle would be honouring them with a visit Hero had spent every waking moment poring over his storybooks, searching for a picture of a duke. He’d finally settled for an image of his uncle as a cross between Odysseus and King Arthur—kind, brave, and noble with a red velvet mantle draped over his broad shoulders and perhaps even a shiny sword dangling from his waist. Hardin held his breath as the coach door swung open, the sun glinting off the heraldic arms painted on its glossy canvas.

“Hero!” His mother’s voice crackled across his taut nerves, nearly sending him tumbling off the ottoman. Molly sprang out of his arms, seeking refuge behind the curtains.

“Come down from there this instant! It wouldn’t do for your uncle to find you gawking at him like one of the servants.” Deciding it would be ill-advised to remind his mother that they could afford only one servant, Hero jumped down from the ottoman.

“The duke is here, Mum! He’s really here! And he’s riding in a coach drawn by four white horses just like Zeus or Apollo!”

“Or the devil,” she muttered, licking her fingers so she could smooth down the cowlick that always plagued his dark hair. As she brushed several cat hairs from his coat and retied his miniature cravat in a knot so tight it felt like it was choking the life from him, Hero tried not to squirm. He wanted to look his best for the duke. Wanted to make his mum and dad proud. Perhaps if he did, his papa wouldn’t spend so many nights in London and his mother wouldn’t cry herself to sleep every night. Her muffled sobs had woken him more than once in the past week.

“There, now.” She stepped back and tilted her head to study him. “You’re quite the handsome little gentleman.”

Without warning, her pretty face crumpled. She turned away, pressing a handkerchief to her lips. Bewildered and alarmed, Hero took a step toward her.

"Mum? Are you crying?” She waved him away.

“Don’t be silly. I’ve something in my eye. A cinder from the kitchen fire, I suppose, or one of Molly's hairs.”

For the first time in his young life, Hero suspected his mother of lying. Before he could press, the drawing room door swung open. Hero turned, his mother forgotten as his heart began to pound in his ears.

Father stood in the doorway, his blue-veined cheeks as ruddy as his nose. It usually took a winning night at the gaming tables or at least three bottles of port to put that feverish glitter in his eyes.

“Martha. Hero. It is my great honour to present my uncle— Rupert Tiffin, the sixth duke of Deansbrook.”

Impatiently jostling Hero’s father aside, the duke swept into the room, followed by a towering footman. To Hero’s keen disappointment, the duke didn’t wear a dashing red mantle, but a severe black frock coat and knee-breeches stripped of all ornamentation. His shoulders weren’t broad but narrow and hunched, as if in imminent danger of caving in on themselves. A heavy brow shaded his pale eyes and a ragged tonsure of stringy white hair ringed the shiny crown of his head. Hero stared as the man’s long, pinched nose began to twitch. He exploded in a violent sneeze, making them all flinch.