A/N: After a very long break of posting, I have decided that I have spent far too much time obsessing over this story not to post it.

The story, which you are hopefully reading, is not quite historical fiction, for it is merely set in the Victorian times. Rather, I believe it to be a study of people and... Oh, who am I kidding? I now sound like a book jacket.

A lot of research has gone into this story, and I will continue to do so. I do warn you now: it is highly influenced by the style of writers like Hardy and Dickens. Just a fair warning to all of you. Also, it does deal with what some might consider to be incest. Nothing too bad, in my opinion, but it may still bother some (hence the rating). It will get longer-this is simply the prologue.

I do hope that this is enjoyed by all, or at least, by some. Please, leave a review. I do love feedback!

Enjoy!

Emily

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PROLOGUE:

To dream of her wedding day is an instinct that is automatically found within a woman. She will think of the day with a certain tenderness unique to her sex. She will think of the man and the day and her gown, dreaming of her children and her duties. It is true that for some, the idea of marriage holds little appeal. However, it is generally acknowledged that those are anomalies, and for the most part, a woman will dream and scheme and do whatever it takes to make her dream come true.

Lilly Whittle was no exception to the desire to wed. Certainly, her dreams did not consist of many children, and of a strong husband like many other girls. Still, she expected that she would wed, and she would be happy. Her dreams were not, however, to be realized.

A bride does not think that she will wed in an ill-fitting gown; loose so as to hide the evidence that was forcing her into marriage. A bride expects to be smiling, her pale face marked by a maiden blush, on the day of her wedding. For the sad bride that stood before the village church, no blush crept up her face, no smile graced her lips, and she had no desire to walk the path that would lead to the end of her freedom.

The villagers had wandered over to the church, for such a scandal was bound to arise the attention of others. It is, after all, a well-established fact that people enjoy gossiping about those who have encountered grievous misfortune, and the situation that surrounded the girl and her betrothed was quite a scandal indeed. Upon seeing the banns announced, the people had begun their cruel observation. Whispers echoed around the girl, who subconsciously let her eyes fall to the cobblestone path that led up to the alter. The people had easily guessed the reasons behind the sudden betrothal; after all, the couple certainly was anything but normal, and the circumstances surrounding it could only mean one thing: the girl was, without doubt, with child.

Had anyone been watching from afar, they might have been led to believe that what they viewed was a funeral procession. The family watched the bride with stony eyes, the younger children shuffling their feet, whether from boredom or embarrassment, it could not be said. As for the bride, if not for the gossamer veil that fell over her pale face, one might have thought her a corpse. The groom, a young man of about eighteen, seemed to wish that he were anywhere else. He stared with unwavering somberness at the woman who walked towards him with all the alacrity of a funeral procession.

To say that what was occurring was instigated by some awful force would be a lie. Both bride and groom were, as they well knew, at some fault. After all, it was lust that dictated their actions, and now they were paying for such actions. It is strange, how a single moment of weakness can dictate the direction of one’s life. Yet, such was the sad truth, for there was no denying her fate.

She slowly moved up the cobblestone path, raising her head, and meeting the dark eyes of her betrothed, the eyes of the son of the man her mother had married.

The eyes of her stepbrother, William Devlin.

A/N: Feedback is much adored, as is usual.