March 1824
Chesterford Estate
“What on earth is taking Everett so long? Must I stand here until he returns from his errands?” roared Ralph, pacing the length of the foyer with increasing impatience. His tone cut through the air like a whip. “Everett, you sloth! Where is my bloody parasol? I’m not about to roast under that godforsaken sun at Jude Park!”
“Uhh—j-just a moment, my lord!” came a panicked reply from upstairs.
The unfortunate object of his fury—one Everett Powell, a lad of seventeen—was scurrying about in a frenzy, utterly terrified of his master. So muddled was he with fear that he failed to notice the parasol lying well within view. Ralph sighed loudly, more in exasperation than genuine rage. The last time he’d used the parasol had likely been a month ago on a visit to the carpenter—no wonder the boy had forgotten where he’d placed it.
“I ought to have dismissed him long ago,” Ralph muttered under his breath. “But no, mother insisted I take him in—because, of course, Mr. Powell was his father.” He raised his voice once more. “Everett! If you do not find it this instant, I shall have you removed from this estate without hesitation! Three... two—”
Before he could finish the countdown, Everett stumbled out of the drawing room, clutching the parasol triumphantly. In his haste to descend the stairs, he tripped and nearly tumbled.
“I—I’ve got it, my lord!” he gasped, still panting but wearing a hopeful smile as he held up the parasol like a trophy.
Ralph narrowed his eyes at him, unimpressed, then turned on his heel and exited the estate.
Jude Park
Wherever he walked, they stared.
Not with admiration, but with the all-too-familiar blend of curiosity and contempt. Petty. Oddity. The ton examined him as though he were a creature to be studied, a strange specimen warranting dissection. Though few dared speak their minds aloud these days, the whispers still trailed him like smoke.
He had held the title of Baron of Chesterford for five years now, since his father succumbed to yellow fever. And while that title came with wealth, land, and an enviable lineage, it did not shield him from judgement—especially from those who fancied themselves arbiters of what a proper man ought to look like.
At six-and-twenty, Ralph was—technically—one of the most eligible bachelors in the ton. But he had no intention of marrying. The idea of enduring the company of shallow debutantes and their simpering mamas repulsed him. His skin, unusually pale from birth, had always been a topic of scandalous speculation. Some called it unnatural, others went further, claiming it signified poor health—or worse.
It amused him bitterly. If a man was too dark, he was deemed unsuitable. Too fair, and he became a laughingstock. Extremes in appearance, it seemed, offended the delicate sensibilities of Society.
The truth was, Ralph had come to loathe the ton long before he’d even debuted. Their hypocrisies, their snide remarks whispered just within earshot—it all fed the furnace of his contempt. The ladies of the haute monde, especially, seemed to take great delight in questioning his virility and mocking his pallor. Just last week, at a ball he was forced to attend by his mother, Countess Egerton had proclaimed—loud enough for everyone to hear—that Ralph’s condition likely rendered him infertile. That was why, she concluded with a simper, he had no intention of marrying.
He had very nearly hurled his wineglass across the ballroom.
But no. That would have been childish—and expensive. The glass probably cost a fortune, and the Countess would have only used the incident as an excuse to buy an entirely new porcelain set and boast about it at Almack’s.
Instead, Ralph had addressed her directly, his voice pitched so that half the ballroom heard him—and half of them pretended not to. The Ewings brothers, who had been beside him, laughed until they noticed the sharp edge in his expression. By the end of the evening, his mother was aghast, and the carriage ride home had been filled with stern lectures about propriety, image, and why one must never speak so plainly in public.
As if he cared.
They already believed him a feeble sort, more ghost than gentleman. Why should he bother pretending otherwise?
And despite his insistence that his complexion was neither an illness nor contagious, the question always returned—Has your health improved, my lord? You look so dreadfully pale.
If one more debutante asked that, he might scream.
There were few in Society he could tolerate. His lifelong friends, Charles and Constantine Ewings—scandalous, wicked creatures that they were—had been by his side since Eton. Then there was his cousin, Tobias Underwood, an incorrigible American rake who seemed to find boundless joy in tormenting him.
The middle and lower classes of Maryweather fared better in his estimation. He rarely socialised with them, but he respected their honesty and their hard work. He held particular admiration for the West African carpenter John Cabana, and the kind Scottish couple, Uncle Artie, the blacksmith and Auntie Helen, the baker. They didn’t whisper behind fans or speculate about his ability to produce an heir. If they were curious about his condition, they asked him directly—like civilised people.
In Maryweather, he was treated as a man. Not a title. Not a curiosity. Not a sickly rumour with a walking stick.
And yet, here he was — on a breezy afternoon, swarming with the ton. Why?
Ah, yes. Because of that infernal rumour—started, no doubt, by bored tongues—that his health had declined so drastically that even the air sickened him. The Ewings brothers had told him of it two days prior with far too much amusement.
Well, what better way to disprove such nonsense than by strolling through the very place said to undo him?
Of course, it wasn’t the air he loathed. It was the bloody sunlight. He’d burn in minutes. His physician, Dr. Patterson, had warned him years ago that he was susceptible to life-threatening illness if exposed too long. “Dancing under the sun” was, in the doctor’s words, “a fool’s errand.” Not that Ralph would ever dream of dancing.
He couldn’t even ride his own horses anymore, not without risking exposure.
The ton greeted him now with syrupy smiles, overly loud compliments, and feigned interest. Those who tried to curry favour were usually redirected—to poor Powell, who nearly fainted every time Ralph did so.
He’d had half a mind to leave Powell behind. But the boy was already holding the infamous parasol—custom-made, sturdy, wide enough to shield half a coach—and Ralph couldn’t be bothered to carry it himself.
“Chesterford!” came a booming voice. Ralph groaned inwardly.
Tobias Underwood.
Of course.
“Underwood,” he replied curtly with a nod.
Tobias grinned, as irritatingly cheerful as ever. “Is there a storm coming? I never thought I’d see the day you’d go for a promenade. Should we alert the physicians? I thought the air might kill you.”
Ralph shot him a withering look. “If you’ve come only to vex me, cousin, kindly walk off a cliff. Preferably with your uncultured manner intact.”
Tobias clutched his chest in mock agony. “Ah! A dagger to the heart. Truly, you wound me. Still, I must ask—why drag poor Everett out here to parade that outrageous parasol like it’s your waistcoat?”
“The parasols made for ladies are absurdly small,” Ralph snapped. “More like decorative hats than anything useful. And don’t get me started on those diabolical feathered bonnets. I’d pay good coin to meet the modiste responsible for those monstrosities.”
Tobias roared with laughter, and even Powell dared to stifle a chuckle.
Ralph, despite himself, allowed a small smirk to touch the corner of his mouth.
“Brutal as always, Chesterford. Even as an American, I’m well aware of how rude you are to the ladies about their fashion,” Tobias drawled.
Ralph scoffed, lifting his chin arrogantly. “As if I care. Those ladies never cease to amaze me with their banal questions and tedious conversation. And as for the promenade—what better way to snub the ton than by making a public spectacle of it?”
Tobias chuckled and shook his head. “Classic Lord Chesterford. You’d better stop before you drive the entire ton away—especially the ladies. Isn’t marriage your sacred English duty? You need an heir, a healthy male one at that. Or so my aunt is always saying. Thankfully, I’m not a nobleman.”
At that, Ralph scowled. “Yes, Underwood, we all envy your so-called freedom. Kindly refrain from flaunting it in my face—and don’t remind me about marriage. Mother delivers that lecture daily; I don’t need it repeated by you.”
He sighed before continuing with more weight in his voice. “Besides, you’re the last person I care to hear marriage advice from.”
Tobias raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning. Ralph shook his head with a bitter smile.
“I’ve no desire to marry—least of all someone who can’t abide my condition.”
Tobias’s smile turned mischievous. “To be fair, cousin, you’re prettier than most ladies. That porcelain skin—fairer than snow—smooth as silk. If you were a woman, I’d have married you myself.”
“Shut up!” Ralph snapped, indignant. “Now you’re insulting me.”
Tobias burst into laughter, loud and unrepentant. Ralph groaned. “You truly live to vex me, don’t you? Those are not compliments.”
“Oh, come now, Chesterford. You’re both handsome and beautiful—an unusual combination, yes—but if only your personality weren’t so ton-repellent. You should embrace your condition. I’m certain there’s a woman out there who’ll love you for exactly who you are.”
That sent Ralph into surprised laughter.
“Laugh if you must,” Tobias said, still grinning. “I mean it.”
“That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard—and from you, Tobias, a professional rake.”
“Hey, I know women better than you do. I’ve had experience. Honestly, I’m only saying this for your mother’s sake. Consider marriage—at least. You’re the last Chesterford. Do you want the name to die with you?”
“I have you,” Ralph replied coolly. “You could father a son, and I’d gladly pass along the title and wealth to him.”
“Blast it, man! What did your poor mother do to deserve such a heartless suggestion?”
“I’m being practical.”
Tobias threw up his hands. “This is one of those moments I absolutely dislike you, cousin. Let’s hope it never comes to that. I rather enjoy my life as a peasant. And if I do have a son, I don’t want him turning into some dandified English lord.”
“Oh hush—Chesterfords are not dandies.”
“Says the only living Chesterford who owns custom-made parasols.”
“That’s a compliment. Thank you.”
Tobias swore under his breath. “Fine! Have it your way. You’re impossible to advise, you stubborn mule,” he muttered, turning to leave. With an exaggerated bow, he strode off, causing Ralph to laugh hysterically.
“A stubborn mule? You can do better than that, cousin!” Ralph called after him, still amused.
“Hey! You're coming to dinner, aren’t you?”
Tobias ignored him.
Ralph’s laughter slowly faded, and a thoughtful frown settled on his face. Tobias, infuriating as he was, had a point. Other than his mother, Ralph was the last of the Chesterfords. It had always been a small family. His father was an only child, and his mother—though she had a younger sister—had suffered several miscarriages before and after Ralph’s birth. Her sister had married an American socialite and now lived abroad, raising Tobias and his two sisters, Teressa and Tabitha.
The Chesterford line had always been peculiar. Ralph's condition made that even more apparent.
His father had blond hair and blue eyes; his mother, brown hair and green eyes. Everyone expected Ralph to be a blend of the two—perhaps a fair-haired, green-eyed boy. But no. Ralph was born with skin so pale he resembled a corpse struck by frostbite, hair the color of white-gold, and eyes of a cold, glacial grey.
It had caused an uproar. His grandparents—especially on his father's side—accused his mother of infidelity, swearing Ralph must be the product of another man. But his father, the former Baron, had defended his wife with unwavering certainty. It was one of many reasons Ralph held such immense respect for him, and that respect had only deepened when Ralph recently learned the full story.
Despite the scandal, Ralph had grown into his looks. He bore his father’s strong nose and chiseled jaw, his mother’s elegant cheekbones and expressive mouth. He was tall—his build and posture unmistakably Chesterford—and his voice deep and commanding.
Still, his appearance baffled even the physicians. One theorized it was a rare genetic condition—a recessive inheritance from both sides of the family. Not a disease, merely an anomaly. And truly, Ralph had grown up healthy, sharp-minded, and physically strong.
It should never have been a problem—until he entered society.
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