SHE WAS TOLD TO SIT QUIETLY AND LET HER SISTER SHINE — THE DUKE ONLY EVER LOOKED AT HER

Lady Agatha’s nails dug sharply into her youngest daughter’s wrist. “Stay by the pillars. Let Rosamund shine.” Josephine obeyed, shrinking into her faded gown. Yet, when the notoriously elusive Duke of Roxbury crossed the crowded ballroom, he bypassed the golden sister entirely. He walked straight toward the girl in the shadows.

The spring of 1814 descended upon London with a ruthless brilliance. It was a season of victory, of foreign dignitaries flooding the streets, and of desperate mothers circling the marriage mart like hawks over a fresh kill. In the cramped, overly perfumed drawing room of a townhouse on Half Moon Street, the Hawthorne family was preparing for war.

Lord Henry Hawthorne, a man whose fondness for the gaming tables at White’s had vastly outpaced his ancestral wealth, sat by the hearth nursing a glass of cheap brandy. But it was his wife, Lady Agatha, who commanded the room. She was a woman of terrifying ambition, her entire existence whittled down to a single, razor-sharp point. Marrying off her eldest daughter, Rosamund, to a title.

Rosamund Hawthorne was undeniably a masterpiece. With hair the color of spun sunlight, eyes like cornflowers, and a laugh that had been practiced to sound like silver bells, she was the undisputed diamond of the season. She had been groomed for a coronet since she was in the cradle. Every penny the family could scrape together.

Every groat saved from the butcher’s bill, every loan taken from unforgiving money lenders, was poured into Rosamond’s wardrobe. And then there was Josephine, 3 years younger. Josephine was the family’s afterthought. If Rosamond was the sun, blinding and demanding of worship, Josephine was a quiet, shadowed corner. She possessed hair of a dark, unremarkable chestnut, and eyes that were too large, too observant, a deep, storm cloud gray that made society matrons uncomfortable.

Where Rosamond fluttered, Josephine read. Where Rosamond giggled, Josephine analyzed. For this, Lady Agatha had deemed her youngest daughter an unmarketable liability. “You are too sharp, Josephine.” her mother would snap, snatching a volume of Wollstonecraft from her hands. “Men do not want a wife who thinks.

They want a wife who smiles. Since you cannot master the latter, you will ensure you do not distract from your sister. You will sit quietly. You will let Rosamond shine.” It was a decree Josephine had lived under for her entire 19 years. She was the unpaid lady’s maid, the unacknowledged tutor. When a wealthy viscount had come calling the previous week, mesmerized by Rosamond’s beauty, it was Josephine who had sat hidden in the adjacent parlor, quickly whispering the correct historical references to her sister through a crack in the door, so Rosamond

could appear well-read. Tonight, however, the stakes were higher than a mere viscount. Tonight was the masquerade ball held at the Earl of Harrington’s estate. And a leviathan had entered the waters of Mayfair. Nathaniel Fitzroy, the Duke of Roxbury. I was 29, formidably wealthy, and notoriously cynical. Having spent the last 5 years on the continent, acting as a diplomat and intelligence gatherer for the crown, the Duke had returned to England with a reputation for a lethal temper, and an intolerance for fools.

He was the most coveted prize of the decade, yet he despised the ton. Whispers in the drawing rooms claimed he had once walked out of a ball midway through a waltz because his partner’s conversation was about as stimulating as a wet sponge. “Hold still, Rosamund,” Lady Agatha commanded, aggressively adjusting the neckline of her eldest daughter’s gown.

The dress was a triumph of Parisian silk, a shimmering ivory confection that cost more than the Hawthorne family’s annual income. “The Duke is known to be discerning. He will not tolerate a blushing idiot. Remember the poetry we rehearsed.” “I remember, Mama,” Rosamund sighed, adjusting a curl in the mirror.

“Byron. Something about the sea. And you, Josephine?” Lady Agatha turned, her eyes narrow narrowing as they fell upon her youngest. Josephine stood near the door, clad in a pale ash blue gown that had been altered three times since her debut 2 years ago. The fabric was tired, the cut dreadfully out of fashion.

“You will stay strictly on the periphery,” her mother instructed, voice dripping with ice. “You are not to dance unless a wallflower’s cousin asks out of pity. You will not speak to the Duke. In fact, if he looks in your direction, you will excuse yourself to the retiring room. Am I understood? I will not have your sullen face driving away the greatest opportunity this family has ever had.

“Yes, Mother.” Josephine said, her voice perfectly devoid of emotion. She did not mind the shadows. In truth, she preferred them. The shadows offered a vantage point. From the corners of the ballrooms, Josephine had learned the secrets of London’s elite. She knew which supposedly pious earl was slipping notes to the French soprano, and which grand duchess was quietly selling her family’s jewelry to pay off blackmailers.

She saw everything precisely because no one ever looked at her. But the Duke of Roxbury was an unknown variable. Josephine had read his speeches in the House of Lords. They were brilliant, biting, and steeped in a radical pragmatism that thrilled her. She had often wished she could debate the corn laws with him, a foolish, impossible dream.

“Come along.” Lord Henry grunted, hauling himself from his chair. “The carriage is waiting. Let us go sell my daughter.” “Henry!” Lady Agatha hissed. Josephine followed her family out into the damp London evening, pulling her thin shawl tight across her shoulders. She prepared herself for another night of invisibility, unaware that the rules of her quiet existence were about to be violently shattered.

The Earl of Harrington’s ballroom was a theater of light and sound. 3,000 beeswax candles blazed in crystal chandeliers, illuminating a sea of silk, diamonds, and desperate ambition. The air was thick with the scent of crushed roses and the underlying tension of the marriage mart. As the Hawthornes was announced by the footman, a ripple of murmurs moved through the crowd.

Rosamund, entering like a conquering queen, immediately drew the eyes of half the gentlemen in the room. Lady Agatha’s chest puffed out in triumph. Josephine, adhering to her lifelong training, immediately detached herself from her family. She slipped past a group of gossiping dowagers and found her sanctuary.

A small alcove partially obscured by a massive potted fern and a marble pillar. From here, she had a perfect view of the room without being part of it. For an hour, the ball proceeded as usual. Rosamund danced every set, her laughter ringing out, perfectly pitched and entirely hollow. Josephine sipped a lukewarm glass of lemonade, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd.

Then the atmosphere in the room shifted. It was palpable, like the drop in barometric pressure before a violent thunderstorm. The orchestra seemed to play a little softer. The conversations became a fraction more frantic. Nathaniel Fitzroy, the Duke of Roxbury, had arrived. He stood at the top of the grand staircase, surveying the room with a gaze so dark and calculating it made Josephine shiver in her alcove.

He was not conventionally handsome in the foppish, manicured way of the London dandies. His shoulders were broad, his jaw sharp, and his dark hair was swept back carelessly. He looked like a wolf who had been forced into evening wear. Almost instantly, the room parted as he descended. Mothers shoved their daughters forward.

Lords bowed entirely too low. The Duke moved through them with a terrifying polite indifference. He nodded. He offered brief pleasantries, but his eyes were cold. Across the room, Lady Agatha seized Rosamond’s arm. Her face flushed with manic energy. Josephine watched from the shadows as her mother steered Rosamond directly into the Duke’s path.

Oh, Rosamond, don’t drop the fan. Josephine thought with an inward groan. It was the oldest, most pathetic trick in the book. But Rosamond did. Just as the Duke passed, the ivory fan slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the polished floor. The Duke stopped. He looked down at the fan, then up at Rosamond. Even from her distance, Josephine could see the flash of sheer boredom that crossed his features.

Slowly, reluctantly, he bent and retrieved it. Your Grace, Rosamond breathed, batting her lashes, deploying a smile that usually made men stammer. How exceedingly clumsy of me. I am entirely overwhelmed by the heat of the room. Indeed, the Duke said, his voice carrying a rich, dark timbre that drifted over the heads of the crowd.

He handed the fan back. I suggest you seek a draft, Miss Hawthorne. Good evening. He attempted to step past her. Lady Agatha, panicking, pushed forward. Your grace, my daughter is a great admirer of your work in the Lords. Why, just yesterday, she was quoting Byron to express her her feelings on the naval blockades.

Josephine pinched the bridge of her nose. Byron had absolutely nothing to do with naval blockades. The Duke paused. He looked at Rosamond. His dark eyes stripping away her carefully constructed veneer in a single second. Is that so? Tell me, Miss Hawthorne, which of Byron’s stanzas best addresses the economic ramifications of grain tariffs? Rosamond froze.

Her beautiful face went blank. I the the sea, your grace? The vast, rolling sea? A few nearby lords stifled snickers. Lady Agatha looked as though she might faint. From her hidden corner behind the fern, Josephine couldn’t help it. It was a terrible, inappropriate reaction, but the sheer absurdity of her sister trying to link romantic poetry to agricultural economics forced a sound from her throat.

It was a soft, dry, unmistakable laugh. Amidst the tense, humiliating silence that had fallen around the Duke, the sound carried. Nathaniel Fitzroy’s head snapped up. His gaze bypassed Rosamond, bypassed the trembling Lady Agatha, and cut straight across the room. He scanned the edges of the ballroom until his eyes locked onto the alcove.

He saw the faded blue dress. He saw the sharp, intelligent, gray eyes. He saw Josephine. For a heartbeat, the world stopped turning. Josephine froze, her breath catching in her throat. She pressed herself backward into the marble pillar, praying for the shadows to swallow her. Sit quietly. Let her shine. But the Duke did not look away.

Instead, a startling, dangerous change came over his face. The crushing boredom vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense focus. To the absolute horror of Lady Agatha and the collective shock of the 300 aristocrats in the room, the Duke of Roxbury stepped around the golden sister. He ignored the murmurs. He ignored the glittering path cleared for him.

He walked deliberately, with predatory grace, toward the dark corner of the ballroom. Josephine’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs as he approached. He towered o- His broad shoulders blocking out the light of the chandeliers, casting them both into an intimate shadow. I am unaware of what is so amusing, he murmured, his voice low, private, and vibrating with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

Perhaps you might enlighten me, madam. Josephine looked up, meeting his terrifying dark eyes. She had been trained to look down, to defer, to disappear. But the sheer arrogance of the man ignited a sudden, reckless spark of rebellion within her. If she was already going to be punished by her mother for this.

She might as well earn it. I apologize, your grace. Josephine said, her voice steady, lacking any of the simpering sweetness her sister possessed. I merely found the juxtaposition humorous. Asking my sister about grain tariffs is rather like asking a swan to do long division. It is not her fault she is built for the water, but it is entirely your fault for expecting her to hold a chalk.

The duke blinked. For a second, he looked genuinely taken aback. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. A slow, devastating smile spread across his face, transforming him from a cold aristocrat into something wildly magnetic. A swan doing long division, he repeated, the amusement clear in his tone. A fair reprimand. You do not flatter me, Miss [clears throat] Hawthorne, she said softly.

Josephine Hawthorne, the sister, he noted. He didn’t sound surprised. He stepped a fraction closer, the scent of sandalwood and cold rain enveloping her. I have been searching for you, Josephine Hawthorne. Josephine’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. Searching for me? That is impossible, your grace. I am entirely unnoticeable.

Are you? He tilted his head, his dark eyes tracing the line of her jaw. Then who was the woman in the gray pelisse, standing in the back of the British Museum 3 days ago, arguing viciously with the curator that the Greek marbles were improperly dated based on the chisel marks. Josephine’s blood ran cold. She had snuck out to the museum.

She thought no one was there. She thought she was invisible. “You were listening.” she whispered. “I was captivated.” he corrected softly. “I have spent three days attending these wretched balls looking for a woman with storm gray eyes who knows more about antiquities than Oxford scholars. And here you are hiding behind a fern while your mother tries to feed me to your sister.

” He extended a gloved hand toward her. “Dance with me, Miss Hawthorne.” “I [clears throat] I cannot.” Josephine breathed. Her eyes darting to where her mother was currently staring at them with an expression of pure unadulterated fury. “I am not supposed to be seen. I was told to sit quietly.” Nathaniel Fitzroy leaned in, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down her spine.

“I am the Duke of Roxbury. I do not care what you were told. I only care about what I see. And right now, Josephine, you are the only woman in this room.” He did not wait for her permission. He took her hand, his strong fingers wrapping securely around hers, and pulled the forgotten sister out of the shadows and directly into the blinding, unforgiving light of the ton.

The orchestra struck the opening chords of a scandalous Viennese waltz, a dance that required an intimacy rarely seen outside the shadowed corners of illicit affairs. The sudden silence in the Earl of Harrington’s ballroom was absolute, save for the collective sharp intake of breath from 300 aristocrats. The Duke of Roxbury had bypassed the season’s undisputed diamond to pull her completely unheralded, shabbily dressed younger sister onto the polished mahogany floor.

Josephine’s heart thudded wildly against her ribs, echoing the heavy rhythmic thrum of the cellos. She felt the blistering weight of a thousand eyes upon her, but none burned as fiercely as the dark, assessing gaze of Nathaniel Fitzroy. His hand rested firmly on the narrow curve of her waist, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin, outdated ash blue silk of her bodice.

He pulled her flush against him, deliberately ignoring the customary, respectable distance dictated by Mayfair’s stringent societal rules. “You are trembling, Miss Hawthorne,” Nathaniel observed, his voice a low, rumbling murmur that vibrated beneath the swelling music. “Do I frighten you?” “You terrify me, Your Grace,” Josephine answered honestly, her gaze fixed securely on the intricate gold embroidery adorning his midnight blue lapel.

She dared not look at her mother, knowing Lady Agatha’s fury would be apocalyptic. “I am unaccustomed to the light. I am even less accustomed to being used as a weapon to insult my family.” Nathaniel’s fingers tightened slightly, a possessive, grounding pressure. “You flatter yourself with conspiracies, Josephine.

I did not ask you to dance to spite your mother, though her apoplectic expression is a rather delightful secondary benefit. I asked you to dance because you are the only person I have encountered since returning from Vienna who possesses a functioning intellect. He swept her effortlessly across the floor, spinning her past a group of gaping dowagers.

Now tell me, why do you insist that Lord Elgin’s removal of the Parthenon sculptures was a preservation effort rather than an act of cultural vandalism? Lord Castle Rae vehemently disagrees with your assessment, and he is the foreign secretary. Josephine’s head snapped up, her storm gray eyes widening in sheer disbelief.

The sheer audacity of the man initiating a geopolitical and archaeological debate in the middle of a scandalous waltz. The lingering panic evaporated, replaced instantly by the familiar blazing fire of academic passion. Lord Castle Rae Arch is a brilliant diplomat, but his understanding of ancient masonry is catastrophically lacking.

Josephine fired back, her voice steadying as she found her footing both in the dance and the debate. The Ottoman Empire was systematically grinding down the marble statues to burn for lime to make mortar. Bruce, Lord Elgin, may have been heavy-handed, but had he not intervened, the chiseling would have completely eradicated the remaining freezes.

The vandalism was already occurring, your grace. Elgin merely interrupted it. A genuine, startling laugh erupted from the Duke’s chest, a rich, resonant sound that caused several nearby debutantes to momentarily forget their choreography. He looked at her not as a conquest, nor as a political pawn, but as an absolute equal.

It was an intoxicating, dangerously addictive sensation. “Brilliant.” Nathaniel whispered, his dark eyes blazing with an intensity that made Josephine’s breath catch. “You are utterly brilliant. Hidden away in the dark, gathering dust while your family parades a peacock.” The music swelled to its dramatic crescendo, and Nathaniel spun her one final time before the final chord echoed through the cavernous hall.

As they separated, bowing and curtsying according to form, the crushing reality of the ballroom rushed back in. The disapproving whispers hit Josephine like a physical blow. She saw Lady Agatha marching across the floor, her face flushed a mottled, furious crimson, flanked by a visibly sweating Lord Henry.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Hawthorne.” Nathaniel said loudly, ensuring the approaching vultures heard every syllable. “It was the most illuminating conversation I have had in a decade.” Before Josephine could offer a proper reply, Lady Agatha’s gloved fingers dug viciously into her upper arm, her nails biting through the thin fabric.

“We are leaving.” her mother hissed, her voice a toxic, venomous whisper, entirely at odds with the forced, terrified smile plastered across her face for the benefit of the watching ton. “You have disgraced us, you wretched, unnatural girl.” The carriage ride back to Half Moon Street was agonizingly silent, thick with a tension so heavy, it felt suffocating.

The moment the heavy oak door of their townhouse slammed shut behind them, the storm broke. Lady Agatha struck Josephine across the cheek, the sharp crack echoing off the foyer’s peeling wallpaper. “You deceitful, scheming little viper!” Lady Agatha screamed, pushing Josephine hard against the banister. Rosamond stood weeping in the corner, mourning the loss of a dukedom she felt entitled to by birthright.

“I told you to stay out of sight. You deliberately threw yourself at him. You sabotaged your sister’s only chance.” “I did nothing, Mother.” Josephine said, her voice shaking, but her spine remaining completely rigid. She tasted a faint metallic tang of blood inside her cheek, but refused to raise her hand to the stinging flesh.

“He sought me out.” “Because you flaunted your unnatural masculine oddities!” Her mother spat, pacing the floorboards like a caged predator. “Men like the Duke do not marry blue-stocking shadows. They toy with them. You have made us a laughingstock. Go to your room. You are not to leave it until I secure a respectable arrangement for Rosamond.

You will take all your meals in the dark, exactly where you belong.” For three excruciating days, Josephine was locked in her small, drafty bedchamber at the top of the house. Her books were confiscated. Her only company was the occasional pigeon landing on the soot-stained window sill. Downstairs, however, Lady Agatha’s desperation was mutating into a venomous, reckless ambition.

If the Duke of Roxbury possessed a weakness for Josephine, Lady Agatha rationalized, then that weakness could be weaponized to secure the family’s fortune. She retreated to her writing desk, dipping her favorite quill into a pot of thick black ink, and began to carefully execute a flawless forgery of her youngest daughter’s handwriting.

“Your Grace, my family has forbidden me from attending Lord Liverpool’s Garden Gala tomorrow evening. I am utterly devastated that I cannot share another waltz with you. However, I have managed a brief escape. If you truly meant the kind words you spoke, please meet me in the dark conservatory at midnight. I shall be wearing a heavy velvet cloak to remain unseen.

Do not speak a word until we are safely hidden among the orchids. Yours in desperate anticipation, Josephine Hawthorne.” Lady Agatha smiled a terrible, cold smile, carefully folding the thick vellum. It was a perfect The Duke would enter the dark conservatory expecting the rebellious younger sister. Instead, he would find Rosamund draped in the cloak, ready to throw herself into his arms exactly as witnesses hired by Lord Henry would accidentally stumble upon the intimate scene.

The Duke’s reputation would demand a marriage. A compromised sister was just as good as a wooed one. The evening of Lord Liverpool’s Gala arrived with a heavy, oppressive fog rolling off the Thames, swallowing the gas lamps of Mayfair. Inside the Prime Minister’s lavish residence, the elite of British society drank champagne and debated the ongoing tensions in the Americas.

Downstairs, in the humid, dimly lit expanse of the glass conservatory, Rosamund shivered beneath a heavy velvet cloak, clutching her trembling hands together. She had been instructed to cry the moment the Duke arrived, to claim she had been frightened by the dark, and to fall directly against his chest.

Across town, in the cavernous, leather-scented library of Roxbury House, Nathaniel Fitzroy sat behind a massive mahogany desk, staring at the perfumed letter his footman had delivered an hour prior. The firelight danced across his sharp features, highlighting a cynical, predatory smirk. He ran his thumb over the wax seal.

To an ordinary gentleman blinded by lust or ego, the letter might have been a convincing [clears throat] lure. But Nathaniel Fitzroy was not an ordinary gentleman. He was the Crown’s former premier intelligence agent in Vienna. He analyzed the letter, not with a lover’s heart, but with a spy’s meticulous scrutiny.

The penmanship was indeed a striking imitation of the frantic, cramped handwriting he had observed in Josephine’s notebook at the British Museum. But the prose was a catastrophic failure. “Devastated that I cannot share another waltz,” Nathaniel mused, tossing the letter onto the desk with a snort of derision.

Josephine Hawthorne did not care about frivolous dances. If she were truly reaching out to him, she would have lamented missing a debate on foreign policy or demanded to know if he had read the latest translations of Homer. Furthermore, Josephine would never write yours in desperate anticipation. She possessed far too much dignity, far too much quiet, steel-forged pride.

The Duke stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floorboards. The realization of what this letter actually represented washed over him, turning his blood to ice. It was a crude, desperate ambush. And if the Hawthorne family was deploying such ruthless tactics, it meant Josephine was not simply hiding. She was being punished.

“Fetch my coat,” Nathaniel barked at his waiting valet, his voice cracking like a whip through the silent house. “And ready my carriage. We are not going to Lord Liverpool’s.” Back at Half Moon Street, the townhouse was completely silent. Lord Henry was out gambling, and Lady Agatha was pacing the floor at the Liverpool gala, waiting for her hired witnesses to spring the trap.

Only a skeleton crew of servants remained. Josephine sat by her window, staring out at the impenetrable London fog, resigning herself to a life of quiet obsolescence. She imagined the Duke dancing at the gala, engaging another bright mind, having entirely forgotten the strange girl in the faded dress.

Suddenly, a heavy, thunderous pounding echoed from the front door downstairs. It was not the polite knock of a gentleman caller. It was the violent, demanding strike of a siege. Josephine rushed to her locked door, pressing her ear against the wood. She heard the startled cry of the elderly butler, the loud crash of the front door swinging violently inward, and then heavy, purposeful boots taking the stairs two at a time.

“Where is she?” A dark, terrifyingly familiar voice roared through the hallway. Josephine’s breath caught. Keys jingled frantically outside her door. The lock clicked, and the door was thrown open. Nathaniel Fitzroy stood in the threshold, looking entirely demonic. His dark hair was windblown, his cravat slightly untied, and his eyes burned with a ferocious, unrestrained fury.

When his gaze landed on Josephine, standing pale and trembling by the window, the murderous anger instantly drained from his posture, replaced by a profound, shuddering relief. He crossed the room in three long strides, closing the distance between them. Before Josephine could utter a single word of protest, he reached out, his large hands gently cupping her face.

He noted the faint, fading bruise on her cheek, and his jaw locked into a rigid line of barely contained violence. “They struck you,” he whispered, the absolute deadliness in his tone making the air in the room drop 10°. “It is nothing, Your Grace,” Josephine stammered, entirely overwhelmed by his sudden, commanding presence in her sanctuary.

“Why are you here? You should be at Lord Liverpool’s.” “Your mother attempted to lure me into a trap at the gala, Nathaniel interrupted, his thumb gently brushing across her uninjured cheekbone. A poorly forged note, a dark conservatory, a desperate bid for a compromised reputation. She underestimated my intellect, and she severely underestimated my absolute lack of mercy when it comes to things that belong to me.

Josephine’s eyes widened, her heart hammering frantically. “Belong to you?” Nathaniel dropped his hands from her face and reached into the inner pocket of his greatcoat. He produced a thick parchment document bearing the heavy red wax seal of the Archbishop of Canterbury. “A special license,” Nathaniel stated, his dark eyes locking onto her storm gray ones with unwavering intensity.

“Procured this very morning. I do not play games, Josephine. I do not court, and I do not tolerate the tedious machinations of the ton. I saw you. I recognized a mind that mirrors my own, a spirit forged in the same fire. You have lived your entire life in the shadows, instructed to let a lesser light shine.

” He stepped closer, invading her space, completely enveloping her senses. “Marry me tonight,” the duke commanded softly, though it sounded entirely like a plea. “Let me pull you out of this wretched dark. Let me show London exactly what a true diamond looks like when placed in its proper setting. Come with me, Josephine.

” Josephine looked at the special license, then up into the fierce, brilliant eyes of the man who saw past every disguise, past every shadow, straight into the core of her soul. She thought of her mother’s cruelty, of the forced servitude, of the endless silencing. Slowly, an uncharacteristic brilliant smile broke across Josephine’s face.

She reached out, placing her small ungloved hand firmly into the waiting palm of the Duke of Roxburghe. “I believe,” Josephine said, her voice ringing with newfound unbreakable confidence, “that the conservatory orchids will be dreadfully disappointed to miss you. Let us go.” Nathaniel’s answering smile was triumphant.

He wrapped his coat firmly around her shoulders, shielding her from the cold, and led his fiercely intelligent bride down the stairs, out of the rotting townhouse, and into a future entirely illuminated by her own brilliant, undeniable light. Did the Duke’s brilliant rescue of Josephine make your heart race? If you were captivated by this tale of a hidden wallflower triumphing over her cruel family to win the love of London’s most formidable lord, please leave a like.

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