Chapter One
London,
February 1816
“Must we go, Aunt?” Miranda, the sole daughter of Duke Rochdale asked, gazing dispassionately out the window as the carriage trundled to Westminster.
“Yes,” Lady Louisa Blakely said stiffly, her fan fluttering. A thin, silver-haired woman, the jet beads on the dowager’s turban quivered the more she fanned herself. “I saw through your chicanery earlier, doing anything and everything to stay away.”
“I truly was ill!”
“No, you were not,” her aunt cut in. “Between feigning a headache, a stomachache, claiming your good dresses were musty, then trying to say you could not attend as the hero in the book you were reading died a horrible death, and you must mourn him, I have become wise to your trickery.”
“He did,” Miranda grumbled, folding her arms.
“Unfortunate fictional deaths aside, this ball is essential,” her aunt added. “This is your fourth season, Miranda, and while I know you would rather be at home, reading over one of your botany journals, tinkering with seeds and soil, or that confounded ambition of yours to write a book…
You must marry. At two and twenty, you are nearing the dreaded Shelf. It matters not if you are a duke’s daughter. All young women of good lineage need a husband.”
“I agree,” Miranda replied placidly. “But not a husband who cares not for me, but more for getting into my father’s coffers. Unsurprisingly, all of the lords who offered marriage were fortune hunters and ne’er-do-wells in the guise of level headed lords.”
While speaking, she felt the carriage turn off into the long stretch of private road to St James’s Park, heading towards Carlton House, the Regent’s home.
“Nevertheless, there must be a lord in Town that is suitable,” the motions of Aunt Louisa’s fans sped up as she tutted. “And this Season will be the one you must marry. And I must make sure it is so, for it is what my sister wanted for you.”
Desperate to change the subject, Miranda asked, “Where is Sam this evening? I thought he would be traveling with us.”
“My son will be attending tonight,” Aunt Louisa replied. “He explained that he would be handling some business in town, but vowed to attend soon after he was finished. He, unlike you, is one that is not hard-pressed to do what must be done. I—”
The carriage lurched to the side, the jarring shift shunting Lady Louisa to the other side of the carriage and she barely slapped a hand on the wall to stop herself from crashing into it. Even though Miranda was seated in the corner, the sudden tip had her flailing, fearing the carriage would end up on its side—but luckily it didn’t. It was only slanted.
“Dear God,” Aunt Louisa gasped while rightening herself and fixing the fichu at her neck. “What on earth happened?”
Shifting the window screen, Miranda gazed out and grimaced. “The wheel is in a pothole, Aunt. I cannot see clearly because of the mist and gloom, but it seems to be a very narrow ditch.”
“Oh dear. We need to get to the Ball,” Louisa huffed. “Wilbur needs to get us back on the road.” Sticking her head around the window, she called out, “Wilbur, don’t just sit there, do something! It is of utmost importance we attend this ball post-haste.”
“I will try, my lady,” a voice came from the front, shortly followed by the snap of a whip.
The crack on the horse’s back made Miranda jump and her heart sank. “Must he do that to the grays?”
“God said, let man have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the heavens, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth,” Aunt Louisa quoted Genesis. “They’re horses, Miranda.”
Miranda’s rebuttal was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit down; she and her aunt had had this argument dozens of times before, and it had never worked out in her favor.
“If you say so, Aunt,” she mumbled under her breath instead. “…Except they’re living things like you and me.”
Her aunt ignored her and called to Wilbur once more, and the man lashed the horses harder. The carriage lurched once but eventually settled back into the rut.
Uneasy, Miranda wondered if there was any way she could call for help, or if there was anyone around to help. She knew she could not act on the first idea but did not feel easy if Wilbur left to find help, leaving only one footman with them.
Gazing out the window, she began to wonder what to do—when a shadowed form appeared through the mist. The man was tall, and from the form, looked to be wearing a Great Hat and billowing coat. Her pounding heart did not settle as she knew it was easy for blackguards to imitate gentlemen.
As he reached closer, she saw the jacket under the coat had swallowtails, fit for a formal dinner. He approached Wilbur, and though his voice was low and rumbling, she heard him say, “Sirrah, I implore you, do not whip the horses. I will help you get out of the rut. Hold fast, the wheel will be an easy fix.”
She gripped the window as the strange man went off to the bushes and returned with a stout stick. He neared her window and as he tipped his hat up and crouched, she saw a flash of vivid, almost icy blue eyes, the strong slant of his cheekbones, and the chiseled jut of his jaw.
He’s handsome, but have I ever seen him before?
“What is the coachman doing?” Louisa huffed, her dark eyes narrowing.
Miranda, however, had her eyes on the stranger. She spotted the ink black of his coat that merged with his overlong hair but could not see much more than that. She knew he was jostling the stick, but where…
He finally pulled away. “Try now.”
Her aunt jerked, “Who is that man?”
“I don’t kn—” The carriage jerked once, twice… and then miraculously, it pulled free. Whatever that man had done, worked. “—know who he is.”
She opened the window, hoping to see the man and thank him—but he was gone, vanished into the mist and shadow. She blinked; had he been there at all?
Settling back in her seat, she made to remember the handsome man’s eyes, his coat, and the cut of his jacket. If the man was attending a party, and if he was on this road, chances were he was heading to the Regent’s ball. Hopefully, she would find him there and thank him.
The carriage hurried on and Miranda kept an eye on the road for the strange man but did not see him, and so eventually sagged against the seat until the carriage turned to enter a stately drive.
She shuffled closer to the carriage window to gain a new vantage as the wheels crunched over granite gravel. After a few minutes, a wide-open space appeared. Flat, immaculate lawns rolled in all directions from an enormous, gray brick home.
Double wings disappeared behind the main hall, and while it was dark, the gas lamps spotted Corinthian columns of a large foyer—its elaborateness stunned her. The home was obviously used not only for entertainment, but for impressing dignitaries as well.
She gazed at the façade as the carriage came to a gentle stop in front of arched double mahogany doors. The footman, alighting from the driver’s seat, let the steps down and she exited. Then he extended his hand to assist her aunt.
While smoothing her gown, her aunt handed the invitations over and after checking, the man led them inside. Every bit of glimmering marble, metal, and mirror showed the Prince Regent’s extravagance and his propensity to indulge in the finest things available.
“There is Earl Westport,” her aunt nodded subtly to the gentleman, “Rumor has it that he gained a windfall investing in the merchant ships.”
“He is also a hardened rakehell,” Miranda took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter while glancing around the room; there was no sign of the man who had come to their aid. “No, thank you. I would rather not deal with such heartache.”
“Allegedly.”
She spotted a few of the lords’ gazes resting on her and she wondered if it was because of the off-white gown she wore or if—as on every occasion that she stepped into public—it was because she was a duke’s daughter.
“I trust the Prince Regent to have invited the crème-de-la-crème of the ton,” Louisa said, her fan making a reappearance. “Surely there must be an interested and venerable suitor here.”
If the other four seasons have proven right, there will be, but their eyes will be on my dowry, not me.
Instead of meeting the gazes of the lords who beheld her, she tried to find the man with the cutting blue eyes—but he was not here.
Oddly, her heart sank with disappointment.
Ladies and gentlemen in the latest fashions paraded around, jewels flashing as they waded around the lobby’s vast hallways, while the staff, their liveries crisp and attractive, rushed to and fro with refreshments.
The butler cleared his throat, “We’ll be entering the ballroom shortly.”
While the ladies and lords descended to the ballroom, Miranda paid little attention to the names being called, in favor of looking at faces.
When it was her turn, she descended the stairs and heard the butler announce, “Presenting, the Lady Miranda Wakefield, daughter of Duke Rochdale, and her aunt, Lady Blakely.”
She stepped down to allow the others behind her, finally giving up on seeing the strange man again, and fixed her mind instead on how to navigate the slew of lords that she knew would approach her.
“Presenting, His Grace, the Duke of Redbourne, Dorian Greaves, and his sister, Lady Evelyn Greaves,” the butler announced.
Mildly curious, she turned to the landing—and the glass in her hand nearly slipped from her grip.
It was him!
The man who had rescued her carriage.
Tall and broad-shouldered, the duke’s dark hair and arresting features struck a chord inside her. His fierce blue eyes were like shards of sapphire under slashing brows, and sculpted cheekbones hinted at an exotic influence in his lineage. The candles and gas lamps kissed the chiseled contours of his face, the firm lines adding to his masculine attractiveness.
His expression was unreadable, but a tiny knit to his brows still stayed.
With a knot in the middle of her throat, she admired the silver-gray waistcoat and charcoal trousers fitted superbly to his virile form. A sapphire stick pin winked in the folds of his cravat, as glittering as his eyes.
She peeled her eyes from his form to look at the lady near him; she was petite and short, with soft strawberry blond hair curling down her shoulders, framing green eyes that looked sedate.
“It’s him,” she whispered.
“Lady Miranda,” the hostess, Dowager Applewhite, the most profligate rumormonger of the ton, greeted her. “I am so delighted to see you.”
Fixing her attention back to her surroundings and curtsying, Miranda replied, “As am I, my lady. Is His Royal Highness attending tonight? I would like to pass on my father’s greetings.”
“Sadly, his highness has been called away tonight, but I will be glad to pass them on for you,” the lady replied, then looked over her shoulder, a bright smile on her face while her tone dropped to fawning. “Your Grace, so lovely to see you. May I introduce Lady Miranda Wakefield, daughter of—”
“Duke Rochdale,” the duke murmured, “I heard.”
Miranda’s skin prickled as the duke’s gaze roved over her; his icy, intense eyes seemed to undo her layer by layer. Palpitations gripped her heart. No one had ever looked at her this way before, had ever made her feel this… bare.
Shaking off the troubled sensation, she tipped her head back to meet his gaze as he dwarfed her by nearly a foot. Carefully, she curtsied. “Your Grace.”
He inclined his head. “My lady. I hope you arrived without any more trouble.”
“We did,” she replied, ignoring the way the Dowager’s eyes flitted between her and the duke. “Thank you for coming to our timely need.”
Looking over her shoulder, he stated, “Your aunt is approaching.”
Turning, Miranda prayed her aunt would not do anything to embarrass her and hoped she would not say anything to make it look as if she and the duke had interacted before the worst gossip in Town.
“Your Grace,” her aunt curtsied.
“My lady,” he bowed.
When she held out her hand, the duke took it and kissed the translucent, veined skin above her large pearl ring. Miranda caught the moment her aunt’s face twisted and her heart pounded in panic.
“Aunt—”
“Your hands,” Aunt Louisa said, her brows furrowing. “Why are they so callused? God forbid, please tell me you are not… employed!”
God in heaven.
Miranda suddenly prayed the floor would open up right then and swallow her whole.
Chapter Two
Unfazed by the lady’s inappropriate comment, Dorian let the insult roll over him like water on a duck’s back. He explained, “I fence, my lady.”
“Oh.” Relief washed over the lady’s face, the jet beads on her turban quivering as she nodded at something he’d said. “My apologies, Your Grace. I did not mean any disrespect.”
No, I am sure you only meant that the thought of a noble working with his hands is as disgraceful as a harlot becoming a lady.
The younger Miss was red to the tips of her ears, temptingly so. The coral silk evening gown she wore hugged her curves and complemented her softly coiffed auburn hair. The firm, rounded tops of her breasts seemed to quiver in embarrassment… or relief?
He did not know, nor did he care that much; he was not there to attend to little Misses or their fawning aunts—all he needed was to find a suitable match for Evelyn.
As the newest—and most elusive—duke in London, he knew that dozens of ladies had their hats set on him; if only he was marriage-minded. If fate dictated so, he would happily settle for a marriage of convenience where the lady stayed out of his way and he out of hers.
“Please, excuse me,” he bowed, unwilling to stay in a conversation that did not profit him much.
She is likely just as conceited and classist as her aunt.
“Your Grace, please—” she stopped him three long paces away. Her lips were pressed tight, painful horror spreading across her face.
Objectively, he could admire her as a beautiful woman, softly rounded cheeks tapered to a piquant little chin, wide moss-green eyes, and a delicate bone structure. Her lips, rosy and full, parted on a breath, and he noted the bottom one had an inviting divot at its center.
“—before you go, I must apologize for my aunt,” she let out a breath. “She is very… opinionated. I hope you do not think she meant to insult you.”
“A lot has been said of me over the years,” Dorian murmured, genially sliding one hand into his pocket “But the calluses on my hands are nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I am sure they aren’t,” Miranda replied tightly. “I have always held it that the most disgraceful thing one can do is to rule by proxy.”
“Have you now…” Dorian said evenly, absently curious to find out what she meant. “And have you ever stepped foot inside parliament?”
She blinked. “Well, no, but… it is simply judicious.”
“And what about outside of parliament, hm?” he asked, his tone slightly mocking. “Do you expect a lord to labor with the common folk?”
Flustered, Lady Miranda replied, “Erm, why not? It could set a precedent.”
“It could start a scandal,” he retorted, suddenly finding himself dually amused and irritated by her ingenuousness. “You are very idealistic, my lady. And naïve.”
She lifted her chin, “I don’t see why having hope for the better is naïve.”
“In this Town, it is,” he finished. “Please excuse me.”
Again, she stopped him, “But wouldn’t you like to have a spirited conversation.”
“I would,” he muttered, and hope birthed anew in her visage—only to get crushed when he added, “But not with a spoiled little Miss wearing rose-tinted spectacles while viewing the world. Now, I must get back to my sister.”
Striding away, he searched the room with one sweep of his eyes and spotted Evelyn speaking to two ladies, twins by the look of it. He ground his teeth, hoping these women wouldn’t be pandering to her to get to him.
“Evelyn,” he called to her while the two turned. “May I have a word.”
“Sure,” his sister smiled up at him. “But before that, Ladies Eugene and Euphemia, may I introduce you to my brother, Dorian Greaves, Duke of Redbourne.”
As he predicted—and feared—the women turned into simpering piles of panderers in mounds of silk. They curtsied, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”
He bowed, “My ladies.”
“I am dearly honored to be one of the first to meet the most elusive duke in London,” Euphemia smiled seductively. “I think I would make headlines if I were also one of the select few to make a turn around the room with you.”
His brow ticked up, “I am not here to dance, my lady.”
“Such a shame,” her shoulders slumped. “I do hope you change your mind.”
Ladies and light-skirts alike swarmed him, and he took care to avoid being near them, conscious that these rumor rags made fortunes off his supposed exploits and consequences. The only females he avoided the most were the marriage-minded Misses.
“Would you please excuse us.”
The two shared a look before curtsying again and walking off, and as Evelyn made to speak, he lifted a hand, “I know what you were up to, aiming to introduce me to well-intentioned, nice young ladies. But need I remind you, we are here to get you married, not me.”
Evelyn’s eyes lit up suddenly. “Well, on the topic of marriage, I have been thinking about you.”
“Me?” Dorian looked over her shoulder at the woman who seemed to be wearing a whole peacock on top of her head, the perilous tilt of brown and black feathers.
“Yes,” she smiled at a group of ladies passing them. “You do know that you must eventually marry. You are the one to carry on the family name, after all.”
“You can do the same,” he put in while spying a few lords looking his sister’s way.
Spluttering, Evelyn replied, “By immaculate conception?”
Eyeing his sister gravely, he added, “I am fine where I am now, but you are one-and-twenty. I do not want you to face the Shelf, Evie.”
“It is my first Season,” she beamed, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Surely I am not facing spinsterhood anytime soon.”
“Not at all if I have anything to do with it.”
“Can you at least try and enjoy yourself tonight? I have counted no less than twelve ladies looking at you, trying to get your attention.”
“Well, I have no intention of giving it.”
An elegantly dressed man, slender, tall, with blond hair styled perfectly, approached them then. His face was handsome, with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. Clad in shades of gray and silver piping, he bowed.
“Your Grace, I apologize for the impolite interruption. I am Sam Blakely; Marquess of Bigham, and I would be truly grateful if you would allow me the first dance with her ladyship.”
Blakely—now, why did that name sound so familiar?
“You may ask her yourself,” he stepped aside with a flourish.
The man looked like the decent sort but if more grew from this dance, he would have to make sure this man had a spotless reputation, or he would not get within a mile of his sister.
As the strains of a waltz emerged from the orchestra, he spotted Lady Miranda weaving her way through the mirrored ballroom. It did not look like her purpose was to find a dance partner for the floor—but rather, to escape it.
Why?
Snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, he contemplated the situation further. She was a duke’s daughter; she should have suitors lined up a mile long. Why was she looking to escape the room?
While keeping an eye on his sister, dancing her heart away, he unvaryingly allowed his gaze to follow Lady Miranda around the room. Lords stopped to speak with her, Earls, Marquess’—all men of grand stature tried. But while she appeared polite and conversed with them, he did not get the feeling her heart was in it.
Lady Miranda was not one the ton considered as beautiful, with her unabashedly red hair—more than once he had heard people scoff, there is nothing so common as red hair—and generous curves were not the features on current fashion plates. Yet the moment he had laid eyes on her, he’d been struck by a bolt of attraction that disconcerted him.
What would it be like to explore her body, to feel the lush swell of her hips, the dip in her waist and upward, cradling the full curves of her breasts, feeling their sensual weight…
He jerked so hard in his step, the liquor in his glass sloshed to the rim.
“Good god, where did that come from?”
Confusion and anger at himself swept through him and his fingers tightened around the glass. This was certainly not what he had prepared for when attending this ball.
The music swelled and he turned his attention to Evelyn and felt pleased how delighted she looked as the lord spun her on the floor; he had never before seen his sister look as charmed as she seemed then.
Yet his eyes flickered inevitably to Lady Miranda.
Had I been too harsh with the girl? She was only extending her gratitude.
“Dare I believe my eyes,” the familiar tone of his old friend from Eton, Alexander Vere, Marquess of Portland, came from behind him. “Dorian Greaves is out from his self-imposed citadel of stone.”
Snorting, Dorian turned, “You are back from traversing the East, I see.”
“And it was glorious!” Alexander grinned; his copper hair looked burnished under the gas lamps and candles as he swirled his punch. “The Indians have this majestic book of coupling that will make my escapades that much more interesting.”
“I am surprised you have not already lured the daughter of a Maharajah into a seductive web,” Dorian tutted.
“And who says I didn’t? They don’t call me Narcissus reborn for nothing.”
Having won the bloodline lottery, Alexander was considered the pinnacle of female fantasies. He had the face of Narcissus: high cheekbones, squared jaw, full lips, and dancing cerulean eyes.
“Is that so?” Dorian asked, “I thought you were the faux version of Apollo.”
Slamming a hand to his chest, Alexander mock groaned. “You cut me, Sir, you cut me deeply.”
“You’ll survive,” Dorian muttered, his gaze landing on Lady Miranda again.
Coming to his side, Alexander nodded to the lady, “You have your eyes on Lady Miranda, then, eh? You and every lord from London to the coast. You might have your work cut out for you though.”
“I do not have my eyes on her… but for argument’s sake, why is that?”
“This is her fourth Season,” Alexander adjusted his coral-colored cravat. “She has received seven offers for marriage but turned them all down. She nearly married one only to find the man was up to his eyeballs in debt and had two mistresses clamoring for his attention.”
“A very timely discovery,” Dorian murmured. “There is no doubt her dowry would have been spent in days, paying his debts and buying jewels for his mistresses.”
“One more thing,” the marquess nodded again to her. “It is widely known that she will not marry for anything less than true love.”
“I blame Miranda Press,” Dorian snorted. “Notions of true love in a culture of marrying for rank, fortune, reputation, and political connection is beyond belief.”
“It happens,” his friend shrugged. “I do acknowledge your ennui though. I’ve missed it.”
“I have not missed you and your madcap escapades,” Dorian replied.
“You willingly jumped into the Thames at midnight that time,” Alexander grinned. “And you climbed the belfry at Eton just because we dared you that you couldn’t. Admit it, Greaves, under all that indifference, you are no less a madcap yourself.”
“Not anymore,” Dorian said, “Not when I have responsibilities. I have left the carefree boy behind me. Since my treacherous uncle forced me to grow into the man I had to be, I cannot let my old habits creep back in.”
“Is one of those old habits called smiling,” Alexander laughed. “If you frown anymore, your face might get fixed that way. And if you want to dance with Lady Miranda, the best way to go about that is to ask her. You’ve been staring at her long enough.”
A quick glance at his pocket watch showed it to be nearing ten, and there was going to be a very short pause before the next dance.
I do owe her an apology.
“Excuse me,” he said to Alexander while his eyes remained fixed on Miranda. She had lifted her head at the right time to meet his gaze and hold it. Tugging his jacket down, he made his way across the ballroom, holding her gaze as he went.
Her brows were wary as he came to stand in front of her. “From what I have observed, you have been very popular with the gentlemen tonight.”
“I am the prized golden goose on display for hunters near and wide,” she said flatly. “Well, I am afraid their efforts were in vain as my skills in flirtation are altogether abysmal.”
***
What is he doing here?
The twenty-piece orchestra started the waltz, and many ladies and gentlemen who had hovered watching others play, swept onto the dance floor, moving.
“A man’s own manner and character is what most becomes him,” he said calmly.
“Cicero,” she parroted.
“You are well-read, my lady.”
“I suppose it goes with the title of a spoiled young Miss,” she said, lips flickering dryly while pointedly ignoring the pointed stares at them. “All we do is read and hope to amass enough arbitrary quotes that when a gentleman mentions them, we can name the speaker. I have it on good authority that it impresses them.”
“I said little.”
“Pardon?”
“I said little, not young.”
“My mistake,” she replied, “I suppose these rose-tinted spectacles of mine do migrate to my ears.”
A smile crept into his eyes and lurked in the corners of his mouth. He was so beautiful, in a uniquely male way. Tension crackled in the space between them, and she could not deny that his strange, magnetic attraction had been there from the moment they met.
What she did question was if he felt it too.
The man’s face was a placid lake; hardly any emotion broke through to the surface. While her heart hammered in her chest, he looked as if he were watching paint dry.
“I believe a waltz will be announced,” the dratted man said calmly, staring at the room.
She cocked her head. “Is that an invitation to dance, Your Grace? Because it sadly lacks in charm.”
“Charm is not a skill I have honed over the years,” he muttered. “But, as for the dance, I would not mind the honor of being your partner.”
“Why, after asking so matter-of-factly, I feel compelled to oblige.”
He noticed the whispers emanating from a gaggle of ladies posted by a nearby potted palm. Their fans beat the air in titillated synchrony, and when the ten-piece orchestra began to assemble and he extended his hand to hers, their damned fans began to stir up a hurricane.
Closing over the top of her hand, his touch had an engrossing warmth, one that made her grow still. The heat of his palm seeped through her satin gloves—the sensation sent off quivers inside her belly.
When the flutes spurred to life, he led flawlessly, and she followed with equal grace. Their bodies swayed together in perfect synchrony, but the space between them was as rigid as the unease she saw in his eyes.
“You do not dance much, do you?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “I am not one to socialize much either.”
“Why? Not one to entertain silly little misses, I presume?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Forgive me for those ill-considered words. I was not being as judicious as I should be when I said them.”
“You were not taught to think before you speak?”
“I was, but you must understand, I am not here for myself,” the duke replied, spinning them. “This is for my sister and her happiness.”
“She seemed pretty fine when she danced with my cousin,” Miranda chimed. “Matter of fact, I think they are two couples away from us.”
His head snapped to the side, then back to her. “I wondered why I recognized that name.”
“It is my aunt’s married name.”
“Relax.”
“I am,” she snapped.
“If this is you being relaxed, I wonder what you are like when you are tense.”
She clamped her lips together and danced. He moved well, light on his feet, the hand on her back warm and steady. “I am trying to right my wrong here, please give me some acknowledgment for it.”
“I acknowledge it,” Miranda replied. “But I do not accept your apology, not yet anyhow.”
His gaze dropped to half-mast. “And why is that?”
“I feel as if you are being sincerely insincere,” she answered. “Probably just a way to appease my silly little—”
“For God’s sake, stop with that, will you,” his freezing accent cut her off, eyes flashing. The sudden surge of emotion inside them made her heart lurch into her throat. “I had thought you a woman of sound mind; clearly I was wrong.”
“Was your purpose for dancing with me to insult me twice, Your Grace?” Luckily, the music drew to a close on those words. “Because if that is the case, you have succeeded.”
Not even pausing to curtsy, she walked away, chin raised, and left the glowering man standing alone on the dance floor. She didn’t care that this caustic cut would be the talk of the town by morning; with a man like Duke Rochdale, it was best to keep going and never look back.
Chapter Three
A headache was brewing at Dorian’s temple as he tried to read that morning’s edition of The Times. His aunt, Lady Agatha Bakeforth, Viscountess of Surrey, clad in the morning robe was chattering with Evelyn about the ball last night…and all he could think of was the infuriating Lady Miranda.
His fingers flexed on the thin sheet; he wanted to shake her for being so stubborn, so… so maddening.
“If you grip that paper any harder, you will surely rip it in two,” Agatha said calmly. “Is anything troubling you, dear nephew?”
“No,” he declared surlily.
“Hm.” His aunt tucked a stray curl of her silvering hair behind an ear before plucking up her Gazette. “Would it happen to be because of this, Reclusive Duke Redbourne humbled by Lady Miranda. Every jaw in the Prince Regent’s home met the floor when the lady walked away from him with nary a glance back. Many are wondering—this concerned citizen who witnessed the incident included—if the two have a past that the general public is unaware of.
I am convinced that he broke her heart, Lady A—says.
No, no, no. Lady P—scoffs. The good lady sees the duke for who he is, a degenerate profligate who has no business approaching a pure, sweet soul.
No one knows who Duke Rochdale is as the man had made it a point to be private to the point of mysterious. Should I read more?”
“I would rather you did not,” Dorian scowled while reaching for his coffee. “Everything about last night was… not good.”
“Curious minds do want to know,” Evelyn dipped her knife in the tub of peach preserves. “What did happen?”
“A misunderstanding,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, that says it all,” Aunt Agatha murmured. “I would wager half my prize horse at Tattersalls that you made an untoward comment to the poor girl, and she took it to heart.”
The mouthful of drink Dorian had almost surged to his nose. Fortunately, he managed to swallow it down, even though it rested on top of an unsettled stomach. He did not like how easily—and accurately—his aunt had read the situation.
“Can we please drop this train of conversation?” he asked.
“I suppose,” his aunt inclined her head. “But be aware, this will come up another time. Anyhow, dear, can you tell me about your time with this Marquess Bigham.”
“Ah, Samuel,” Evelyn sighed dreamily. “He is a bright, handsome man, and I absolutely adore him.”
“You met him for an hour last night,” Dorian turned a page with more force than needed. “I would advise you to meet other just as bright and handsome gentlemen before you set your mind on the former.”
“And I might agree to that if you would try to stop looking like a hulking troglodyte and scaring half of the possible lords from approaching me,” Evelyn commented. “Poor Sam told me he had to pray to God to get the courage to speak to you. Do you know how thunderous your face is at times?”
His head snapped up, brows lowering. “I do not.”
“Look in the mirror,” his aunt put in. “You are doing it now.”
Glancing at the mirrored backdrop on the sideboard, Dorian ground his teeth—once again, she was right. His face was thunderous, brows lowered and jaw tight.
“I have a responsibility to make sure no unworthy candidate asks for your hand, and if they are scared off by my face, they are clearly not worthy enough.”
“And what about you?” Agatha asked. “This Season should be about you too. You do know that you are expected to marry soon. I do not know where this distaste of marriage and commitment comes from, because I know your father and mother showed you a faithful, loving marriage for as long as they were alive. It is sad that they were taken from you before their time, but the sentiment remains.”
“The foundation they laid is not the matter here,” Dorian folded the paper and waved it. “I simply do not need to pander to the narrative that I must marry as soon as possible.”
“Are you…” his aunt paused; her delicate brows lowered. “Are you somehow perturbed that these ladies might learn how you went about to rebuild your estate and home? Are you worried they might shun you?”
“Why would I be?” Dorian asked, “If they are ashamed that I rebuilt my fortune breaking bricks and hammering nails, it speaks that I made the wrong choice in entertaining them.”
“What your uncle did—”
“Made it fair enough for me to banish him to Ireland,” he cut in. “He deserved more, but I left him with some dignity. Which, sad to say, is still more than the ladies of the ton who are all taught to sit around all day doing nothing but looking beautiful, and do not understand or appreciate hard work.”
The closest secret he kept to himself was when he had inherited his father’s estate and found it run into a rut—he’d taken a broken title and forged it back into gold, lifting himself back up out of the ashes. Born into privilege but sunk into poverty, he had a pointed view on those who flitted away their time as if every ticking moment meant nothing.
“Some men, too,” Evelyn remarked.
“Dandies do not matter to me,” he shrugged. “I will be hard-pressed to find a possible wife who is not turned away by my calluses and scars. The smell of an occupation makes them break out in hives while they leisurely play croquet or whatever ridiculous pursuits they filled their time with.”
“Is it possible you misread Lady Miranda?” Evelyn asked.
“I am sure I have not,” he replied. “I know the caliber of women when I meet them.”
“Meaning?”
“I made an unfortunate comment about her being spoiled, and when I tried to apologize for it, she didn’t take kindly to it.”
“Pardon me,” a footman said from the doorway, making them all turn to the man, his face fully eclipsed by a massive bouquet of white roses. “Lady Evelyn, this gift has been received for you from a Marquess Bigham.”
“Oh my,” Agatha blinked, taken aback. “Where do we place such a massive arrangement?”
“In my room, of course!” Evelyn beamed brightly while taking the card. “She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. Oh, my heart, he knows Lord Byron.”
“The rats scurrying down the dark alleys of Town know Byron,” Dorian muttered. For want of something to keep his hands occupied, he reached for the newspaper and turned to a part on business even though he had read it all earlier.
He didn’t much mind how his sister and aunt shared another look. Agatha tutted, “Good gracious, he is a wet blanket this morning.”
“I wonder why,” Evelyn asked airily. “Methinks it could be a very brave lady who decided to snub him on the most visible stage in London. The house of handsome Prince Regent.”
“And it is clear he is not interested in apologizing for whatever harebrained comment he’d said,” Agatha nodded.
“Will you two stop talking over me as if I am not two feet away from you?” Dorian asked, eyes narrowed.
“Methinks he should apologize, to save face if anything,” Agatha nodded sagely. “I do know of Lady Miranda and with her brilliance and idealism, I am sure she said something to rub his practicality and pessimism the wrong way.”
While unhappy that the conversation had circled around to Lady Miranda, Dorian also felt that he was losing ground in an uphill battle he had not even initiated. “Is there anything I can do to get you two conspirators to stop needling me?”
“Find the lady and apologize to her, truly this time,” Agatha replied.
“And what guarantee do you have that she will accept this time?” he asked.
“That is for you to find out, isn’t it?” Evelyn smiled brightly.
***
The knock on the drawing-room door had Miranda looking up from the embroidery on her lap. Sam was peeking in, his blond hair flopping into an eye. “I am sorry to interrupt you, but would you care to share tea with me?”
“Sure, Sam. I’d love to, just give me a moment,” she finished the knot and then stuck her needle into a pincushion. As she made to stand, her toe nudged her prim long-haired Persian Cat named Duchess who meowed, unhappy at being moved.
“I’m sorry, Duchess,” she petted the cat before heading off to join Sam.
The tearoom was elegantly appointed, with buttermilk damask covering the walls and an Aegean blue Aubusson upon the floor. The furnishings were upholstered in soft white suede.
“Where is Aunt?” she asked while taking a seat at the oval tea table.
“You know Mother does not wake up until after noon,” Sam replied while uncovering the tiered cart beside the table that held several covered dishes, as he seated himself beside her. “I requested a simple repast, one that we could serve ourselves. I hope you do not mind.”
“I like this very much. It is ever so cozy.” She smiled at him. “And that smells delicious. Is that Cook’s meat pies?”
“Yes, it is,” Sam called a maid forward who made their tea and coffee. “How are you doing?”
Suddenly suspicious, Miranda narrowed her eyes, “We came home at two in the morning from the ball and I would assume I am doing just as well as you. What have you heard?”
She watched his hands, which were long and well-suited for playing the pianoforte—which he excelled at in times he needed away from his legislative duties—as he reached for a paper.
“Last night was a touch…” he unfolded the paper, “…unprecedented, I suppose is the best word. All of Town is aflutter with the snub you leveled at Duke Rochdale last night.”
Rolling her eyes, she took her cup after thanking the maid, “That man is unbearable.”
“Do you want to hear what is now being said about you?” Sam asked.
“I would rather not, but I am afraid that I will not be able to escape it, so go ahead,” she sighed while tipping another splash of cream in her tea. “I have a slimming diet, but it depends on what they say. If they hint at us being in love, I might have to console myself with one of Cook’s blackberry tarts.”
“Rumors abound of Duke Redbourne and his unforgettable dance with Lady Miranda and some are aflutter with reasons why he was so unsubtly snubbed.”
Lady P—asserts the two are in love and states clearly, it is obvious to see. Lady S— suggests that His Grace failed to earn Lady Miranda’s good graces, stating that the good lady is smart, a very brilliant, well-read woman who sees the Duke as he is, a profligate womanizer and a disgrace. Lord F—recounts outright, the lady is simply bitter at being passed over for someone who is not the hoyden tomboy we know her to be.”
Sighing, Miranda sat her cup to the side and reached for two tarts. “I do hate how accurately I have anticipated the ton’s response.”
Setting the paper aside, Sam asked, “Had you met Duke Redbourne before last night?”
“No, but he has justified to me why I have never met him before,” she replied. “A boorish man,” she shivered in displeasure. “Troglodyte. You seem to know more about him than I do.”
“Actually.” Sam’s mouth twisted in regret. “Not much, I’m afraid. The lads and I knew about him but we do not know him. He is a very private man. I have never seen him out and about, not at Whites, or Brooks, or Boodles. I have not spotted him at Almacks, Vauxhall, or even Tattersalls.”
Her brows dipped. “Did he appear out of nowhere then?”
“I do know he took over his father’s station at seven and ten, but was at Oxford at the time. That was fourteen years ago,” Sam said. “But his uncle held regency over his fortune and estate until he got to the age of majority. From then on, he… seemed to vanish from the public eye.”
“Oh,” she blinked. “That is strange. Fourteen years ago, when he was ten-and-seven. That means he is one-and-thirty now.”
“Yes,” Sam replied. “And I can see the question brewing in your mind. No one knows why he is not married.”
Shaking her head, Miranda asked, “What about you and His Grace’s sister?”
Sam’s face changed. “I sent her a bouquet this morning, and I hope that when we do meet again, we’ll be able to hold a deeper conversation than what we had at the ball. She is a sweet, lovely soul.”
“Are you sure she is his sister?” Miranda asked dryly. “There is nothing sweet about her brother and I cannot see that as a family trait. Maybe she was switched at birth?”
“I think you two would like each other,” Sam mused, then offered, “I plan on asking the gentlelady for a visit, and if I do get the honor, would you like to come and meet her?”
Meaning I might come across her troglodyte brother.
“I’ll consider it,” she replied, noting when he plucked the timepiece from his lapel pocket. “Do you have somewhere to go?”
“With Lord Harcourt,” Sam replied. “He needs help organizing his hunting party later this month.”
“I see,” Miranda nodded. “Better be off then.”
As he stood, a footman hurried inside, “My lady, Misses Horatia Greene and Lady Letitia Croyner are here for you—”
“Oh, just let us in. This is important, nigh on crucial, vital, critical, all the alternative expressions!” one of the aforementioned ladies barged into the tearoom, her male-inspired riding habit, epaulets and all, complimenting her blond hair and bright brown eyes.
Miranda, used to her friend’s flair for the dramatic, shook her head. “Is your puppy finding lost treasures in your backyard again?”
“Yes, but that is for another time,” Horatia plunked herself into a seat. “This is about Duke Redbourne and the seventeen reasons you should stay away from him!”
Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 23rd of November
