Brahmsboro was overflowing with mirth and jubilation. The Marchioness had outdone herself for the annual New Year's Ball. Even the Dowager Duchess had made an appearance—however brief it was. Ezekiel's London estate was draped in the silk and shimmer of aristocratic gowns and jewels, and the marbled halls echoed with decadent melodies.

Vaughan had not seen his wife all day; she had disappeared early in the morning and remained hidden well into the evening. He had inquired with Zeke and some of the staff, all of whom answered that the young Duchess had been with the Marchioness when they last saw her.

He hadn't been certain whether she would make an appearance at the party. Customs insisted that she maintain a dark wardrobe and expected that she would be poor company. Zora would not be in attendance, nor would their mother come. However, the Duke should have anticipated that his wife would not conform to such arbitrary rules, nor would she allow additional rumors about her person to develop, especially in her absence.

She emerged from his peripheral vision to wholly captivate his sight and thoughts. Wrapped in layers of richly colored chiffon and velvet, Lecia Cantington meant to saunter past her husband. Her hair was pinned so simply atop her head, her neckline and shoulders exposed to be admired. Perhaps she intended to be scandalous, but in all of her elegance it was impossible to find impropriety.

The Duke swiftly caught her by the hand to keep her from disappearing once more. Busy with helping his aunt or not, she could certainly find time to have at least one dance with her husband.

"I have missed you all day," he said to her. Vaughan felt a shiver in his bones as their eyes met in the midst of celebrating strangers.

"I'm sure," she dismissed him. His hold increased when she tried to slip away.

"What is it, cariad?" he asked. "You don't have to stay all night. If it's too much—"

"No," she clipped, subtly twisting her way out of his grip.

"Lecia," he insisted, gently taking her by the arm this time. "If you're feeling unwell—"

"I'm feeling quite well," she snapped. "I was enjoying the party just fine."

Taken aback by her reproach for him, Vaughan stood aghast as she muttered, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm in need of some fresh air."

As quickly as she had appeared, she had dissolved into the crowd once more. He took a moment to recover from the rejection before pursuing her. After reeling through the sea of guests, Vaughan surfaced to find that he had lost his wife again. He spun himself around to look for her, but he already felt it in his heart that she was beyond his reach.

The merriment of the ball—despite its growing influence—was not powerful enough to mask the chill leaking from a door to the gardens. Ajar, the Duke knew it had been how Lecia escaped. Relieved, he calmly approached the exit. The winter had been uncharacteristically cold and the Eve of 1886 was no exception. His concern returned instantaneously when he slipped outside and found that his wife was still evading him. The January garden was covered in a blanket of frost, and the sliver of moon did not offer the same warmth as its daily counterpart. Vaughan's breath came out as visible puffs, and he was quite thoroughly frozen. So disturbed by Lecia's absence, he would have already retched from his worry were it not for his determination to bring her inside.

Panic wanted to set in. It was so bloody cold, and she'd hardly been dressed warmly. He couldn't think what to do. Should he march out to find her? Run back inside for a lamp first? Enlist the entire party to help search? Luckily, as Vaughan struggled to decide, he spotted Ezekiel through the window. The Duke rushed inside to capture his cousin just as he broke from the wave of guests.

Ezekiel was grinning, and met the other man with a twinkling, "I was just coming to find you."

"Lecia went out," Vaughan hurried to say, trying his best to keep from dragging Zeke across the floor. The Marquis followed his friend back outside, his expression telling that he had already seen that the Duchess was not properly cloaked for the frigid temperature.

"You go find her," Ezekiel ordered. His cousin was useless in the moment. "I'll get the guests moved; they'll want to be out front to see the fireworks soon anyhow and at least they'll be dressed for it. I'll come back when I can, and I can make sure the hearth is lit in your room and a maid is available if you're in need of a bath to be drawn."

"Thank you," Vaughan choked. He patted Zeke on the shoulder before turning on his heel and tearing out into the night.

It hadn't gotten any colder, but it certainly felt as though it had. Frenzied, the Duke examined his surroundings, hoping to find even a small clue as to where Lecia might have gone. Brahmsboro's garden was enclosed, he recalled. The frosted hedges and flowery graves were still rather vast, but after a number of unwanted guests had evaded the guards and mutilated a prized rose bush, Carlotta Shevington had insisted that her husband put up a fence. So, in 1779, Zebadiah Shevington—Fourth Marquis of Brahmsboro—had the enclosure constructed.

Vaughan followed the fence line, intermittently calling out his wife's name. She had to be freezing by now, perhaps even unresponsive, but he wasn't sure what else he could do. He hoped that her instinct to survive would overcome her desire to run away from him. Although, perhaps—no, he thought, she wouldn't.

By the time he found her, she was an apparition merely made visible by the tactile existence of her gown. She had lied down on a stone garden bench, tucked away in a labyrinth of molted shrubbery, her hooded eyes to the foggy stars above. Shallow breaths floated through her discolored lips, the only sign of life the Duke could observe. Her body had given up; not a single shiver was left in any muscle.

When Vaughan scraped the icy statue of his wife from her resting place, he enveloped her in his arms and beneath his jacket. He held as much of her against the heat of his own frame as was manageable, but even then he could not feel a pulse. The fireworks exploded overhead, the booming and crackling noisemakers emphasizing the erratic beating in his own chest, and the twinkling lights flickered across Lecia's hollow, placid cheeks.

For as often as he had considered his own death, Fychan Cantington had never fathomed the possibility of his wife's. Lecia was as radiant as she was resilient, an eternal goddess—an enchantress. Yet, as he raced to infuse warmth back into her bones, he was filled with the very real fear that she could die. The reenactment of carrying her limp likeness was distasteful in a way that did not offend him, but the thought of ever having to do it again broke his heart.

As promised, a fire had been started in their room. Immediately, Vaughan lay Lecia on the bed and shrugged off his coat. He removed his wet shoes while pulling off her damp dress and chemise.

"Cachu," he swore. She had been appallingly underdressed to even stand close to a window.

Vaughan tore the bed's heavy blanket free from neatly tucked corners and swaddled Lecia in it, then he lifted her against him and collapsed their bodies on the floor before the crackling hearth. She was still unconscious as he adjusted her in his lap, cradling her head on his shoulder and heart in his arms. His own heat left him, yet sweat beaded on his forehead from the fire's warmth.

Slowly, Lecia's breathing increased. Vaughan must have dozed off, but a whispered groan startled him awake. The Duchess' color had returned, and she was damp with sweat of her own. Gently, the Duke lowered her from his lap and reached to test her feet and hands; both extremities were not returned to a normal temperature, but they were surely warmed than they had been. Luckily, frost hadn't settled anywhere on her body.

With a rough thumb, Vaughan wiped the dew from Lecia's face; she shuddered beneath his touch.

"What were you thinking?" he murmured. Vaughan abandoned his one-sided conversation, distracted by the willowy tributaries that flowed just beneath the surface of Lecia's pearlescent skin. They spread down her neck, and across her chest. Would that he could navigate this love of his as easily as he could trace the flow of her blood.

The next morning, the Duchess was unconscious with fever. A physician came and went, a diagnosis and a plan doled out in simple form. She would be fine with rest and tea and time.

"What is happening?" Vaughan sighed.

"Grief defies logic," Ezekiel offered. They sat in the Marquis' study, a decanter shared between them. The speckled dog, Pepper, raised an eyebrow at the Duke from his master's lap; Harry was curled up in bed beside Lecia two floors above them. "How long were you yourself inconsolable?"

"But I was alone," Vaughan protested. His cousin grunted in disagreement. "You know what I mean," he amended. "I did not have quite the same family to get me through."

"I would guess that even if you had, you would not have behaved any differently. Even still, you might ask her what she needs. Grieving or not, there is more to this insanity than loss alone."

"When did you become so wise?" the Duke asked.

"Without you to keep me immature," Ezekiel laughed.

Thanks to everyone who has commented recently! I've been working so much and I didn't get the chance to thank you all individually. Also, my apologies for the long wait! I said I wanted to finish this story by August, and I'm definitely going to try. I only plan on a few more chapters, like 4(?), so it's definitely winding down now. Thanks again for all of the support!