Trentingham Manor, the South of England

1677

“Go on.” Rowan Ashcroft, the twelve-year-old Viscount Tremayne, pushed ten-year-old Lady Jewel Chase forward. “They’re leaving soon. You must give it to them now.”

Jewel gripped the colorful glass box tightly, feeling uncharacteristically uncertain. Arthur, the old man who was teaching her how to lead glass, had told her the box was well-made, but suddenly she wasn’t sure she believed him. Though she’d been working with glass for a year now, she’d never given anything to anyone outside her own family.

Her parents and brothers had to say they liked her creations, whether they really did or not. That was what parents and brothers were for.

“What if they don’t like it?”

“They’ll love it,” Rowan said. “Go on.”

She nodded and let him propel her out of the house and onto the wide white portico, where the bride—Rowan’s sister Rose—stood with her groom and some family members. “I have something for you,” Jewel told Rose, holding out the wedding gift.

“It’s beautiful!” Rose exclaimed, her fingers tracing the rosette design on the box’s lid.

“Jewel made it,” Rowan informed them. “Her hands are covered in cuts.”

Jewel rolled her eyes. It was just like Rowan to think wounds and blood were exciting. But the proud look on his face made her blush. It had always been that way when she was around him. There was something about Rowan that made her skin feel too tight.

Love, she’d decided years ago. She’d loved Rowan since she’d first set eyes on him at the tender age of not-quite-six. Of course, she’d had to play a wicked prank on him to get him to pay her any attention—even then, Jewel had known how to impress a boy. Since that day, they’d been as inseparable as possible, considering they lived miles apart. Her Uncle Ford was married to another of Rowan’s sisters, and his home of Lakefield House was right next to Trentingham Manor, so Jewel stayed with her uncle and aunt whenever she could.

When the groom, Mr. Martyn, took the box, Jewel held her breath, waiting for his opinion. As an architect of grand and stately buildings, he doubtless knew something of glasswork.

After a keen examination, Mr. Martyn gave an approving nod. “We’ll treasure it,” he told Jewel gravely.

Though his praise made her heart sing, she paid equal attention to his arm and the way it squeezed Rose around her waist. Jewel wished Rowan would touch her like that. Casual, but affectionate. She often tried to hold his hand, but he always pulled it away. She’d even tried a time or two to kiss him on the lips, though she’d never yet succeeded.

“We shall display it in a place of honor,” Mr. Martyn added.

“Absolutely,” Rose said, pleasure pinkening her cheeks as she gazed up at him.

Jewel felt a little burst of envy—she could hardly wait to grow up and marry Rowan. While she’d watched the wedding ceremony earlier, she’d been imagining herself and Rowan in the bride and groom’s place. She’d known, always, that she was meant to be his. And he hers. Why, they even looked alike, both with raven hair and deep green eyes. Anyone could see they belonged together.

Jewel knew most girls her age didn’t think about getting married. Her cousin Elspeth said boys were worms (always with a look of disgust on her face). But Jewel’s parents often called her…

Precocious, that was the word.

“Thank you so very much,” Rose told her. “I had no idea you worked with glass.”

Jewel hid her scarred hands behind her back. “Mama and my little brother both make jewelry. I got tired of doing the same thing. I was looking at the windows in a church once, and Papa told me how the lead is soldered like some of Mama’s jewelry. I thought I might like to try it.”

Lady Trentingham, mother of Rose and Rowan, plucked the last of the love-knots off her daughter’s wedding gown. She took the glass box from Mr. Martyn, lifted the lid, and dropped the little red bows inside. “It’s over,” she said with a heartfelt sigh.

Rose smiled. “It was a beautiful wedding, Mum.”

Lady Trentingham sighed again. “All three of you girls were in such a rush to marry, I never got to plan a big wedding. I shall have to do so for Rowan. A nice, long betrothal—”

Rose’s laugh interrupted her. “Have you considered that Jewel might want to plan her own wedding? Or Jewel’s mother might—”

“Jewel?” Rowan’s emerald eyes widened in alarm. “I’m not going to marry Jewel!”

He gazed upon Jewel with such horror, she shrank back. Sensing the eyes of all the adults upon her, humiliation made her squirm, even as she felt her heart begin to shrivel.

Mr. Martyn aimed an indulgent smile down at Rowan. “Wait till you’re older—”

“Never!” he roared.

Never? Jewel swallowed hard, then swallowed again, because she couldn’t seem to rid herself of a big lump in her throat. Rowan was still looking at her, the horror on his face made even worse by a stubborn glint in his eye.

Never?

Never.

She wished the Earth would open up and swallow her.

But it didn’t. The ground remained solid, and she was rooted to it, afraid that if she moved or spoke she would burst into tears.

Rowan found her horrifying. He thought she was disgusting.

He probably thought she was a worm, for he’d made the same face as Elspeth.

As the adults’ attention returned to the bride and groom, and Rowan ran off with some cousin of his, Jewel stayed frozen in place. She wondered why he found her so revolting. Was there something wrong with her? There must be, to make him so certain he’d never want to marry her!

Rowan would never marry her: It was incomprehensible, as though she’d suddenly learned the sky wasn’t blue. He’d never hold her hand. He’d never kiss her on the lips.

She wanted to die.

Never was a very long time.