Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

The wedding of the Marquess of Falconridge was meant to be the highlight of the season. His bride, Lady Sharon Carter, was not in the house.

To say she had vanished would be dramatic. And the Carters—elegant, composed, vaguely terrifying—didn’t do drama.

But she was, in fact, gone.

She hadn’t eloped (yet). She hadn’t been kidnapped (though her cousin did check the wine cellar). And she hadn’t spontaneously combusted, though her gothic-inclined aunt had not ruled it out.

The groom, Sam Wilson, stood in the front hall of the Carter estate looking like a man who had seen this coming. His coat was immaculate. His cravat was crisp. His smile was tired and ironic. A footman leaned in, sweating. “Missing,” he whispered. “Left a note.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Did she at least take the dress?”

“No, sir.”

He nodded once. “Then she’ll be back.”

Elsewhere, twenty minutes late and not even pretending to apologize, Lord James Barnes arrived.

He dismounted with the air of a man too handsome to be punctual, tossing the reins to a stable boy he didn’t bother confirming actually worked there. The Right Honourable James Barnes, Earl of Ravencourt

James Barnes was a rake, a problem, and a spectacularly well-dressed liability. He was also, as fate would have it, an excellent distraction.

“Is it true?” he asked the nearest footman, who was mid-panic. “The bride’s gone?”

“Please don’t spread it, my lord,” the man begged.

“Too late. I plan to shout it from the terrace.”

“Please don’t.”

James clapped him on the shoulder. “Tell the Marquess I’m here to help. I specialize in locating beautiful women and making situations worse.”

Inside, the atmosphere had curdled.

A string quartet was limping through a minuet like it had just learned its parents were cousins. Someone had dropped a punch bowl with the finality of a royal assassination. And a sugar-hyped cousin had fainted dramatically near the conservatory.

James entered just as Sam looked up.

Their eyes met.

For one taut, breathless moment, time froze—or at least the violinist did, missing three whole beats and a G major.

They hadn’t seen each other in years. Not since Eton, where Viscount Rogers (still alive, somehow, despite his choices) had introduced them, convinced that two sharp minds and sharper jawlines would naturally become friends.

They had not.

Instead, they’d traded fencing bruises, essay trophies, and the affections of other people’s siblings. Sam had once punched James after a regatta. No one brought that up anymore.

Now, a decade later, James Barnes strolled into Sam’s wedding like he was the bride—and maybe a little disappointed not to be.

Sam did not smile.

James did.

“Marquess,” he said, all silk and sin, “how kind of you to throw a wedding in my honour. A bit theatrical, but I admire the commitment.”

Sam turned slowly, hands clasped behind his back like a man calculating how long it would take to legally murder someone in a cravat.

“Lord Barnes. Fashionably late, as always. Did your reputation slow you down?”

James smirked. “Impossible. It travels light.”

“Pity. I was hoping it might bury you.”

“Oh, come now. Let’s not resurrect schoolboy grudges. I barely remember Eton.”

“You remember enough to remain insufferable.”

Before either could escalate to bloodshed or a duel in the rose garden, Lady Natasha Romanoff materialized between them like judgment in red silk.

“Gentlemen,” she said, voice cool as cut glass, “unless one of you has found the bride or plans to become her, I suggest you stop measuring your egos and start being useful.”

Sam blinked. “She’s still—?”

“Missing,” Natasha said flatly. “And if you two peacocks don’t stop strutting, Queen Ramonda will declare martial law and start making arrests by aesthetic offense.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Efficient.”

“Don’t tempt her. She once exiled a duke for spilling her wine.”

Sam exhaled through his nose. “If you’re so eager to insert yourself into disasters, Barnes—try the garden.”

James grinned. “I do enjoy inserting myself.”

Natasha slapped a fan against his chest, hard. “Leave. Before I shove that quip up your ancestry.”

The garden was in chaos. Florists were rearranging rose garlands. A footman had fainted from stress. Somewhere, a cousin was trying to climb a tree in a corset.

James was not helping. He was meandering, not out of duty. Certainly not a concern.

No, James—James, to those cursed to know him—was simply curious. About the scandal. The whispers. And maybe, if he was honest (which he never was), about the woman everyone seemed desperate to marry off before she realized she could outrun them.

And she could.

At the far wall of the garden, James stopped. Two stockinged legs—long and unapologetically bare—dangled from the top of a stone wall. Then came a boot. Then a string of creative profanity.

Yes, she dropped, no, she fell.  More accurately: flailed, yelped, landed in a heap of tulle, and promptly threw a fistful of pebbles at him.

James caught one.

“Are you a maniac,” he asked, “or just in a hurry to die unmarried?”

The woman blinked up at him. Blond, breathless, and still glorious. Absolutely furious.

“Are you one of the groomsmen?”

“I’m… a man. And I’ve groomed.”

“Close enough.” She waved him forward. “Help me up. I need to disappear before someone notices my veil is still inside.”

He offered a hand. She took it. Their eyes locked. Something sharp passed between them.

“You’re Lady Sharon Carter,” he said, realization dawning. "I danced with you during the Debutant Ball."

She groaned. “I was hoping to avoid recognition.”

“You’re missing your wedding.”

“I’m missing a trauma. The music. The stares. Four hundred people breathing down my neck like I’m a prized pheasant in lace—”

Her voice cracked. Then—to his horror—she started crying.“I hate parties,” she gasped. “I hate being told I’m luminous when I can’t breathe through my stays!”

James froze. No flirty comeback. No rake-ish wink. Just quiet.  “We could simply not have a wedding.” He said gently.

She sniffled. “You mean elope?”

“I meant cancel. But sure. Add crimes.”

She looked at him. Then she stood. “Fine. You marry him.”

He blinked. “...Come again?”

“You marry Sam! You’re charming, dangerously attractive, and you look at him like you want to bite him. He likes men, you know.”

“I—what?”

She threw her hands up. “How are you the only person in that estate who hasn’t noticed?”

“Well, forgive me. I was distracted by your legs and the incoming rocks.”

She threw another pebble. “You’d look good in tulle.”

“I’d stab someone in tulle.”

“That’s half the fun!”

They stood there, breathing hard. “You’re insane,” he said.

“And you’re enabling me,” she shot back. “You’re sitting in the dirt with a crying woman who just offered to pass off her fiancé like a library book.”

“Short-term or long-term lending?”

“Stop flirting with my breakdown!”

“Then stop having such an attractive one.”

She laughed wildly. “I don’t want this,” she said. “Not the dress. Not the speeches. Not the theatre. I love Sam. I do. But I feel like I’m wrapped in velvet and auctioned.”

“You could still leave.”

“And be branded a coward? A silly girl with cold feet and too many books?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Let them talk,” he said. “You’re more than their bloody ballroom expectations.”

She studied him. Her hands were trembling. Her gaze wasn’t. “He’s kind,” she said. “And he loves me.”

James smiled, softly this time. “Anyone with eyes can see that.”

She gave a breath of laughter. “You’re a surprisingly sentimental rake.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to ruin.”

He brushed a curl from her cheek. “There. Now you’re nearly fit for judgment.”

The foyer was still chaotic. Silk, fans, and gossip. The smell of disappointment and sugared almonds. Sam stood in the center like a statue carved out of stress. Too perfect. Too calm. Except for the way his jaw twitched.

Then he saw her.

His breath caught. “You’re well?” he asked. It was his first question, instead yelled at her. How could you not fall in love with him?

She nodded, then she kissed him. Not for the crowd. Not for the tradition. Just for them. Behind a column, James watched. His smile, so usually bulletproof, faltered. Something shifted in his face. Dimmed. Bruised.

Because she was everything and Sam—Sam was the kind of man who deserved everything. Not because he was flashy. But because he had the kind of love James had never been taught how to hold.

A soft crunch interrupted. “Why are we watching them kiss?” Lord Walker asked, mid-bite into a roll.

Lemar Hoskins appeared beside him, armed with a plate of buns and pity. “My lord,” he said gently. “Are we emotionally compromised? Or just being weird in public?”

James didn’t answer.

“Beautiful couple,” Lemar said quietly.

James nodded. “Bloody perfect.”

And then, without another word, he turned and walked back into the garden.

Because sometimes, a rake doesn’t steal the bride. Sometimes, he just learns how to walk away.

“It is a rare thing to see a rake suffer in silence. But when love arrives too late, even the loudest hearts must learn to break quietly.”
— Lady Harkness, Whispers & Witchcraft