Chapter One

Februrary 1813

Timberely House

Alice Ravenshire poked at her roast potatoes with her fork. Her stomach twisted, but not with hunger. It had been a long time since she had last been hungry—years, perhaps. Probably the last time she had ridden a horse. That always worked up an appetite.

As always, when she thought of all the things she could no longer do, her leg twinged, the stab of pain familiar yet irritating. She reached down to rub her calf, massaging the wasted muscle until the ache subsided somewhat.

“We could hardly have you missing the London Season, dearest,” Aunt Lucinda said to Cousin Harriet. “If there are any items of clothing you’re missing, you know we can always have them made up for you. It would be such a shame for you to miss out.”

Such a shame. Alice stabbed at the potato with her fork, the skin creasing to reveal the steaming, pale flesh inside. Yes, no doubt it would be such a shame for her cossetted cousin to miss out on a single thing her heart desired, while Alice—forgotten, maligned Alice—no longer had access to any of the things she had once adored.

“I know, Mama,” Harriet was saying. “But I don’t want anyone to think me countrified.”

“Of course they won’t,” Aunt Lucinda assured her. “Tell her, Vernon.”

At the head of the table, Vernon grunted, lowering his paper. “No doubt you will do us all justice,” he said as he returned to the newspaper.

“There you are,” Aunt Lucinda smiled.

Alice set down her fork, potato and all. “Perhaps I could also accompany you,” she suggested sweetly.

Aunt Lucinda coughed, her hand traveling to her delicate neckline. “Accompany Harriet? To London?”

“I had a Season once, you know.” Alice jutted out her jaw, her chest aching at the rejection she saw coming, once again. “And while I can attest that it did not go precisely smoothly, I know my way around London well enough, and it would be nice to have a change of scenery.”

“Oh, well.” Aunt Lucinda looked at Uncle Vernon, obviously searching for a way out of this latest predicament. “You know the physician has suggested you rest.”

“The physician has suggested the same thing for the past five years.” Alice struggled to keep her voice even. “And my limp has not improved.”

“And so it would be very difficult for you to travel anywhere,” Aunt Lucinda nodded solemnly. “Consider, it would be even more upsetting for you to be stuck inside there than it is here. At least here you have the benefit of a garden. And you have all the peace and quiet you need.”

“It is you who requires me to have peace and quiet, not me.” Tears stung Alice’s eyes, but she blinked them back. After her accident five years prior, this had been her reality. Her aunt and uncle hadn’t wanted another body in their home, particularly one with such specific needs, but after her parents had died, they’d had no choice but to take her in. Alice wasn’t entirely sure they hadn’t resented it ever since.

Oh, they were kind enough, of course. Her uncle even paid for her treatment out of his own pocket—and fortunately, too, because she had little enough to her name. Her father’s estate had passed to the next male heir, a distant cousin, and she had only received her mother’s dowry, placed on her head in the unlikely event someone might want to marry her.

Privately, she had long ago given up on all her dreams of romance. Once, she’d read books about love and poetry and secretly hoped for her own prince to sweep her off her feet. Now, the idea made her feel queasy—even more so than the potatoes.

“I could at least go riding,” she suggested. “I know it’s possible to fashion special saddles and stirrups that account for only one leg, so my only having one functional foot shouldn’t prove too much of an obstacle.”

Uncle Vernon’s jaw set. In general, he was a rotund, pleasant-faced man, but when it came to this, he looked as stern as any gentleman she had ever encountered. “I won’t hear of it,” he grunted. “Your father may have allowed you to ride about the countryside like a hoyden, but we won’t—”

Aunt Lucinda laid a hand on his arm, halting his tongue, but it was already too late.

Alice pushed her chair back from the table and retrieved her walking stick from where it lay by her side. She despised that she needed it, but worse still, if she attempted to walk any distance without it, she would inevitably fall, and today she could not endure the humiliation.

“I understand,” she muttered, her voice tight. “I am not to be a spectacle. Forgive me; I find myself no longer hungry.”

Abandoning her plate and her family, she hobbled to the door. A footman opened it for her, and she spared him a tight smile before attempting the stairs. One hand on the banister, the other braced against her stick. The smooth, carved wood sat in her armpit, the strain of hoisting herself up an old one now.

When she had first attempted to use it regularly, it had hurt so badly that she had curled up on the sofa and sobbed. But now, she merely set her jaw and continued until she finally reached her bedchamber. There, she found her maid, Jenny, waiting for her.

Jenny had been her maid from when she was a young girl in her parents’ home. After their death, she had followed her mistress to her aunt and uncle’s home and was the closest thing Alice had to a friend.

“That bad?” Jenny asked sympathetically as she poured another bucket of hot water into the tin bath.

“I asked if I could accompany Harriet to London.” Alice lay back on the bed and stared at the darkened canopy. Winter had rushed over the country in one icy breath, and the chill permeated even these thick walls. “They, naturally, refused.”

“Well, they are probably concerned about your health.”

“They are, almost as much as they’re concerned about what people will say about me.”

Jenny said nothing, and Alice closed her eyes against the cold tears that coated them. She rarely cried now, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel the thickness of tears in her throat, or the tightness of them in her chest. Just that crying never achieved anything.

This was her life. Trapped within these four walls, unable to go further than the wall that ran around the kitchen gardens. Limited by the stick she loathed and needed in equal measure.

“There now,” Jenny soothed. “Your bath, Miss.”

Alice sat up, narrowing her eyes at the bath steaming behind the screen before the fire. Only a handful of steps—nine, perhaps. She could make them without her stick.

Jenny stood back. This had become somewhat of a tradition. Alice would attempt it, and Jenny would be there to catch her when, more often than not, she fell.

Today, she was determined not to fall.

“Fetch the newspaper please, Jenny,” she said.

Jenny hesitated. “Are you sure it’s the right—”

“Please, Jenny.”

Her maid bobbed her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

Slowly, painfully, Alice rose from the bed and tested her weight against her twisted leg.

In the carriage accident that had taken her parents’ lives, she had fractured her leg in three places. The bone had punctured the skin. The doctors who attended her at the beginning said she would never walk again, but over the years, she had mastered some level of mobility.

Even so, her bones ached, and sometimes she had nightmares of those Early days: the searing, shattering agony; rough hands forcing shattered bone back into place; leather straps pinning her down; brandy poured between clenched teeth. It was a miracle she hadn’t become addicted to laudanum.

One step. Two.

Her leg ached. Her foot scuffed against the carpet, and she cursed, drawing the colorful word from the stable hands’ vocabulary—from back before the accident, when she had been permitted to ride, and often.

Three steps. Four. Five. Six, seven.

She was going to make it!

Her weight listed to the side, and she reached out a hand for the patterned screen, intending to support herself before the last few steps.

She managed one more, but twisted, and her full weight landed on her injured leg. A muffled shriek left her lips, and she toppled forward, colliding with the screen, which fell against the bath. Water sloshed against the floor.

Alice landed painfully. She lay there for a few moments, trying to get her breathing under control. Pain still burned through her limbs, and she had bruised her ribs from her fall. Tears, pointless and hot, filled her eyes, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.

The door opened and Jenny rushed to her side. “Miss Alice! Let me help you.”

Exhausted, Alice allowed Jenny to wrap her arm around her shoulders and pull her up. Once Alice could support herself against the wall, Jenny righted the screen and helped Alice with her dress, letting it slip from her shoulders and onto the floor. Alice had a series of steps and supports to help her climb into the bath, and once that was achieved, she lay back in the hot water.

Steam billowed all around her. Some of the ache in her leg eased.

“Any announcements?” she murmured wearily, eyes closed. “Read them out to me.”

Jenny perched on a stool beside the bath and began to read all the announcements. When the scandal pages came, the maid read those aloud, too, both keeping abreast of the news and following the fortunes of a certain gentleman.

Alice had never met him in person, but she knew of him. The reckless Duke of Langford and the carriage crash that had changed the course of her life forever and allowed him to walk away unscathed.

Jenny’s low voice read out the announcements—engagements between peers of the realm and daughters of other peers. Deaths. Babies. The words blurred until Jenny stopped with a small gasp.

Alice cracked an eye open. “What is it?”

“The matrimonial alliance between His Grace, the Duke of Langford, and the accomplished Lady Penelope Millington, daughter of the Earl of Rushworth, takes place next week.” Her voice faded. “He’s marrying, Miss.”

Marrying. Marrying?

The Duke of Langford had ruined her life! And now… now, he was going on to marry and do everything she could no longer?

Despair burned away under the fires of her rage. This was unacceptable! She would not allow it!

Alice sat up straight, the water sloshing around her. “Jenny,” she said. “I’m going to need your help.”

“Whatever for, ma’am?”

She gave a grim smile. “We are going to London after all.”

Chapter Two

It transpired that traveling to London without the knowledge of one’s family was more challenging than it seemed. Alice needed a way to sneak out to the nearest village; from there, she would hire a post chaise to take her to London.

But to sneak out, she would need a means of traveling. And for that, the easiest solution was a horse.

While Jenny packed, Alice ventured out into the gardens and bribed the stable boy, bidding him to bring a horse around for her to ride, with one of Harriet’s side saddles equipped. She assured him she would only be going for a small ride around the estate—and she proved to him that she knew her way around horses enough that he believed her. Knowing he would likely get in trouble, she tipped him well and bid him to tell no one of his involvement.

Let her aunt and uncle wonder what had happened. It served them right for keeping her trapped.

Just as she was about to sneak out to ride into the village, however, Harriet knocked on her bedchamber door. Alice stuffed her small carpet bag out of sight and plopped down on the bed.

“Yes?” she asked, a trifle impatiently. Harriet was a sweet enough girl, but she had been well and truly spoiled by the over-indulgence of her mother, and Alice had no real patience with her.

“Which gown do you think I should wear for my presentation to the Queen? I was thinking I ought to wear the rose silk, but Mama thinks I look better in the blue chiffon. What do you think? I think silk is more becoming, and flatters my complexion.”

“If you think that, why ask me?”

“Well, because you have already been presented at Court.” Harriet looked at her as though she was stupid. “Before your accident.”

“Yes, I remember when that was.” It was an effort not to snap at Harriet. She knew the girl meant no harm, but she had never learned tact, and Alice found it wearing. “But so has your mother. If you would rather wear the rose silk, tell her and have the maids make it up. I’m sure you’ll look lovely no matter what you choose.”

“Thank you.” Harriet preened, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder. She was an extremely pretty girl—and able-bodied. Alice always did her best not to envy her, but she remembered what it was like to have the freedom of choice. To attend Court and join London society as one of its newest debutantes.

“Could I borrow your kid gloves?” Harriet asked, abandoning the question of the gown. “The white ones? After all, you won’t be needing them.”

Those kid gloves in particular were safely tucked away in Alice’s carpet bag, but she could hardly admit as much. “I’ll ask Jenny to look for them,” she said vaguely.

“Thank you.” Harriet beamed at her. “You know, I am so terribly sorry that you can’t come with us. Mama says it’s not possible and you would be miserable there, but I would rather we could enter fashionable society together. I’m sure you’ll know who everyone is.”

Not any longer.

“Thank you,” Alice smiled instead, twisting her hands together. “You must be eager to pack everything. I’ll let you get back to it.”

To her relief, Harriet took the hint, not even seeming to notice she was being dismissed in her excitement. “Yes, thank you! Send along the gloves when you find them. I shall write to you often and tell you all about my beaus.”

No doubt Harriet would have wonderful luck in London and find a husband in her first Season. Alice had come close, but no one had proposed, and before her second season could much get underway, the Duke of Langford had stolen her future from her.

Alice watched her door close again, then found her carpet bag and brought it out, leaving it on the bed. She rang once for Jenny, who would come and collect the bag, carrying it to the village. It was only two miles away—an easy distance, Jenny said, and she could easily make an excuse for leaving there.

All Alice needed to do was escape.

She hobbled down the back stairs, leaning heavily on her stick as she made her way to the library doors that led out onto the lawn. There, round the side of the house, stood the stable boy waiting for her.

“Thank you, Barney,” she beamed warmly, handing him a bag of coins. Her leg already ached, but she knew it would all be worth it. “Now, can you pass me up?”

He cupped his hands willingly, and she gripped the side of the mare he’d prepared for her. Even being this close to a horse again brought back all the memories she’d treasured as a girl—the wind in her hair and the power of a cantering horse underneath her.

She inhaled, fighting back nostalgia and tears. She would not allow this to define or overcome her.

With Barney’s help, she struggled onto the horse and adjusted her skirt to cover her legs. With difficulty, she smiled. “Thank you, Barney. Likely, my uncle will be angry with me, but I will not reveal your part in this, so make sure you don’t, either.”

“No, ma’am.”

Feeling guilty about putting him in a difficult predicament, but knowing she had no choice, she picked up the reins and used her good leg to urge the mare into movement. The mare went willingly enough, too placid for Alice’s taste but perfect for this role.

She would get to the village, even if it killed her. And from there, London.

To stop a dastardly Duke’s wedding.

She grimaced grimly. If he thought he could dismiss her and go on with his life, she would show him the scope of his mistake.

And she hoped he would bear the full consequences of his actions for the first time in his selfish, reckless life!

***

Frederick Blackwell, the Duke of Langford, adjusted his cravat in the mirror. The man staring back at him bore no resemblance to his father, and for an extended moment, he wished he could see the old man again just once more. Then he could offer all the apologies he had not adequately made before his father’s death.

Behind him, Thomas Everston, the Earl of Denshire, lounged in a chair with a glass in his hand. “Sherry? You look as though you need it.”

Frederick shook his head. “Hardly seems good manners to turn up to one’s wedding reeking of alcohol.”

“One glass will hardly make you reek.” Denshire braced his elbows on his knees. “You know, it’s not too late to back out now.”

“As though I could do that. Think of the girl’s family.”

Denshire snorted. “She’d recover soon enough. Dullest girl I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, but she’s pretty enough, and from good stock. If you hadn’t offered, there would be a dozen men in your place.”

“But,” Frederick pointed out, allowing his valet to shrug him in his velvet coat, “I did offer.”

“And I hardly know why, old boy.”

Frederick concentrated on the mother-of-pEarl buttons he was doing up his front instead of answering.

They both knew he had no real affection for the girl, but that was not why men of his station married. Love was a commodity few could afford—not even Dukes.

After the accident a few years prior, he had turned London upside down. Gossip had been everywhere. His gaze slid inadvertently to his writing desk, where he still kept some of the scandal sheets written about himself. He was known as the feckless Earl—as he had been before his father died. The world had speculated about him, wondered whether he ought to be considered a murderer for the accident he had caused. People had died, and it transpired to be impossible to simply wipe the stain clean from his soul. For the rest of his life, he supposed, he would be attempting to pay penance.

Lady Penelope was not precisely penance, but it was yet another attempt to show the ton he had changed, turned over a new leaf, and intended to settle down. As Denshire so succinctly put, she was from good stock. It was a reputable marriage. The kind of marriage his father would have liked to see him make.

“You know why,” he said at last. “Besides, I want to do this.”

“You want to repair your reputation,” Denshire began slowly, eyes sharp and piercing. Frederick made the mistake of meeting them in the mirror. “And you think she will erase the past, but—”

“Nothing will erase the past!”

“Then why are you so eager to marry her? There are plenty of other ladies who would gladly have accepted an offer.”

“But none as respectable,” Frederick waved a cavalier hand. “And therein lies her appeal. It is the right thing to do. We both understand the terms of our marriage and the union we will form. Perhaps you do not like her, but—”

“Don’t like her? Dare I say, I’ve had more interesting conversations with Corinthian pillars.”

Frederick scowled.

Admittedly, she had very little propensity for conversation, and did not seem to ever have formed an opinion of her own, but he was not marrying so he could enjoy her opinions. Frankly, it seemed a cruel thing to judge a woman for, when he knew plenty of opinionated young ladies whose opinions were derided.

“You can’t shake me from this,” he declared firmly. “Besides, if you had intended to change my mind, you would have done better than waiting for the wedding day.” He finally turned to face his friend. “How do I look?”

“As though you are making a mistake,” Denshire said wryly, then shook his head and smiled. “But if you are certain you want to do this, then we should make our way to the church before we are late and the gossipmongers can spread more rumors of your unreliability.”

Frederick winced. Although he had done much to repair his reputation over the past few years, shunning all the vices that had led to his accident and turning over a new leaf, he knew better than anyone how quickly that could change. His reputation amongst the ton still hovered on a knife’s edge. It would take very little to push it from one side to the other.

“Come,” he murmured. “If for nothing else but to save my reputation.”

Chapter Three

Alice gripped the newspaper clipping in her hand, smudging the ink in her sweaty palms. She stared out of the window at the passing London streets, so much louder than she remembered.

When she’d first come here, as a girl of nineteen, everything had seemed so… exciting. Her father and mother had supported her curiosity and enthusiasm, allowing her more freedom than she now understood was proper. She had even, on occasion, gone riding in Hyde Park without a chaperone.

The rules were different in London. Ruin was always just around the corner—one misstep and it could find you.

With her leg, every step she took these days was a misstep.

But at least, even after a four-year absence, she was showing her face in London for a cause. So long as she wouldn’t be late.

Opposite her, Jenny sat with her hands on her lap, silently nervous. They’d hired chaise-and-four on the last leg of their journey, which gave them the freedom to arrive at the church directly, a necessity given Alice’s inability to walk far.

She gripped her walking stick as they approached the doors of the church, her heart flip-flopping in her chest. Nerves ran like raw lightning under her skin, and she forced herself to take several deep breaths as they finally came to a stop.

Outside the church, several ladies in beautiful gowns were gathered, empire waists lower than Alice remembered from her older days in London. She had almost enough time to consider that her dress was frightfully out of fashion before Jenny handed her down, and she approached the door of the magnificent building.

Head held high, she drew in a deep breath, then, without further ado, she threw it open with a crash.

The church was small. Dim. Heavy with the scent of old incense. A few ladies and gentlemen sat scattered in the pews, their whispers hushed.

And at the end of the aisle…

He stood.

As though nothing had ever been closer than right in his world.

The man who had stolen her future—bright, innocent, full of promise.

The villain of her life. Frederick Blackwell. The dastardly Duke of Langford.

For a long moment, Alice simply glared at him.

She only had vague memories of him; he had visited briefly while she was recuperating, but she had been so lost after the deaths of her parents that she had barely recalled his appearance. And before then, of course, she had seen him occasionally in society. But they had moved in very different circles.

Now, her mind clear, she was finally at liberty to take him in. He had dark blond hair brushed back from his face, a sharp nose, full lips, and a dimple on his chin as he smiled. He smiled. This was not a man whose back was broken from the guilt of what he had done. If he’d shown remorse, she might have been able to forgive him, but he was so far from remorse as to be happy and moving on.

Resentment rose in her chest, reminding her of her intention. She was going to ruin him one way or another.

“You,” she announced as she lurched her way down the aisle, the wood of her stick biting into her underarm. “How dare you!”

 The smile on his face faded as he turned to look at her. And then—the realization burned when confusion flitted across his face. She had every idea who he was; she had been following his fate for years, scanning newspapers and scandal sheets to discover every last thing she could about him.

And here he was, not only marrying a beautiful lady… but oblivious as to who she was.

He had come to visit her, to offer her a strangled apology. Despite her vague recollections of that time, she still recalled the tangled glory of his dirty blond hair, the pride in his strong features. The moment she stepped into the church, she had recognized him. She could confidently say, she would have recognized him anywhere.

Yet, he had the indecency to appear… confused?

“How could you!” she hissed when she reached the carpeted steps he stood on. He blinked down at her, and she ignored the growing whispers behind her, the outrage on the expression of the reverend. All she could think about was the simmering fury in her veins.

“How could you even consider being happy when you ruined my life the way you did? How could you imagine it was fair to stand here and marry Lady Penelope when you carry the weight of murder on your soul? Where is your penance!”

“Penance?” He choked the word., barely more than a breath, strangled in his throat. “What in God’s name are you…”

Then—suddenly—his hand closed around her wrist.

Before she could pull away, he was moving, dragging her through a side door she hadn’t even seen.

They stumbled into a cramped room that smelled of old paper and candle wax—a place she suspected the reverend used to change into his robes. It was crowded with books, mostly Bibles, stacked in precarious towers, and littered with forgotten pieces of holy paraphernalia.

“You—” she started again, but he released her with a rough gesture.

“Who the devil are you and what are you doing here?” he hissed.

Alice drew herself up to her full height. She had not lost her stick, but she did her best not to lean on it, her weight on her good leg. “You ought to know who I am.”

“Perhaps, but as I do not, I’d hope you’d be so good as to tell me.” His voice was icy.

Alice fell stumped. “My… my name is Alice Ravenshire. Daughter of Lord Brexton.”

“Well then, Miss Ravenshire, I hope you understand the scope of the damage you caused barging in here without an invitation. Do you know who I am?”

His eyes flashed, and she noticed for the first time what a peculiar shade of blue they were—like the sky upon its first awakening, when the dawn light brushed against the horizon, the darkness turning into the softest blue.

When they fixed on her the way they did, however, they were sharp and piercing—nothing soft about them. Her hands misted with sweat as she gripped her stick and held firm.

“I will, of course, be seeking damages.” There was a coldness to his face that she associated with grand men like him, but underneath it, she thought she sensed panic. “Do you know what you could have done?” He paced from one side of the room to the other. “What people will think?”

“What will they think?” she asked, frowning.

“That I ruined you.”

“But… but… you did ruin me.” She gritted her teeth. “You—”

“I can say with utter transparency that you and I have never engaged in—”

“Langford.” A man poked his head through the door. “Rushworth wishes to speak to you.” The man’s gaze flittered curiously over Alice, not even the faintest sense of recognition. Evidently, no one here knew who she was, and she was enough of a woman of the world to understand what they presumably thought. That the Duke had stolen her virtue. Perhaps even given her a child.

The disgust on his face seared itself into her soul. Obviously, the mere thought of being with her—a cripple—repulsed him.

She pressed a hand against her stomach; the rejection from this man, though she had no interest in him, cut deep.

He had no right to find her repulsive when he had put her in this state. If she was a cripple, then it was only because of his making!

“Stay here,” the Duke commanded her, then rushed out of the room. The door closed with a decisive thunk behind him.

***

Frederick’s mind raced as he approached the Earl of Rushworth, standing by the altar with a face of fury. This conversation would not go well.

He racked his brains to think of where he had seen Miss Ravenshire before. Her face, with its high cheekbones and large, almost almond-shaped eyes, held the barest hint of familiarity.

He had not bedded her. He knew that much. Aside from anything, he would have recalled the limp.

Remembering it now, he regretted dragging her away the way he had done. The only thought in his mind had been to minimize the damage to his reputation—damage that had taken place anyway.

“My apologies, sir,” he said to the Earl when he reached him, bowing his head solemnly. “I have not an inkling as to who that lady is, or—”

“We knew your history when you approached me asking for my daughter’s hand.” The Earl’s chest puffed, and with a sinking feeling, Frederick already knew what the answer would be. “We decided, after looking at your behavior for the past few years, to give you a chance. I won’t lie that it would have been a boon for my daughter to be married to a Duke. A Duchess! She would have deserved that.” His beady eyes narrowed. “But she does not deserve this. Now, tell me, in which way did you wrong the girl?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know who she is.” Aside from a name, but the name meant nothing to him. He had met more nobles than he could count ever since he was a boy. Perhaps the name sparked something in his mind, but not anything as certain as a memory. “I promise you, she and I were not involved in any sort of liaison.”

Rushworth sighed, the anger in his face lessening. “If it helps, son, I believe you. I saw the look on your face when she limped toward you. The eyes never lie.” He shook his head. “But you must understand it from my perspective. Penelope is my daughter. And people will talk.”

Frederick knew. People always talked. Even when they did not understand the scope of the subject they gossiped about.

“I cannot in good faith allow her to marry a man who would—intentionally or not—humiliate her on her wedding day. How many more women will there be coming out of the woodwork? What other aspects of your past will return to haunt you? Once you’re married, your problems become my daughters, and your scandals will taint her too.”

Frederick could have argued. Part of him wanted to—the part that still believed a marriage with Penelope would somehow allow him to outlive his past. But his past, in the form of a particularly angry stranger, had caught up to him anyway. And it wouldn’t have been dignified to demand to marry a man’s daughter when he had revoked his permission.

Another scandal to weather. This time, he would be reported to be left at the altar after the unknown woman assaulted him. A woman, moreover, with a limp. Regardless of the truth, or even what the Earl believed, people would think she was his mistress, abandoned and neglected now he was marrying. A mistress with a limp, wearing a hideous dress years out of fashion. Evidently poor.

He sighed, pinching his nose. “I understand,” he murmured, retrieving what remained of his dignity. There was nothing more to be done but accept the situation with as much grace as he could muster. “I can’t say I’m anything but disappointed, but I understand your decision.”

“I am sorry, my boy.”

Frederick nodded.

The church felt stifling, and he turned around to find the woman who had ruined this chance he had at carving himself some peace—only to find the door to the vestry was open.

The woman had gone.

How she’d disappeared through the crowd so quickly with her stick, he didn’t know. She barely seemed as though she could walk without assistance.

Thomas approached. “Out the back,” he mouthed, his face creased with sympathy. “The reverend isn’t happy about it, but he’s giving us a respectable way out of here. Come on, man. Quickly now. You can’t stop them talking about you, but at least you can stop them doing it to your face.”

“The girl…” Frederick’s voice was low, tight.

“She’s gone. I don’t know where, and frankly, I don’t care.”

His jaw flexed. “I’ll find her,” he snarled, following Thomas through the dim church and out into the garden beyond. The space was small, cold, bordered by nothing more than a few leafless shrubs.

His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. “I will have my revenge, Denshire. Even if it’s the last damned thing I ever do.”

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 20th of June

Prologue

St. John’s Wood, London.

1801

Peeking her head out of one of the few backdoors of her aunt and uncle’s substantial home in St. John’s Wood, young Evelina Frampton took her chance, hiked up her skirts, and dashed across the lawn and into the woods.

This fraction of time, between her pianoforte tutor’s arrival and her French lessons, between her aunt’s daily naps and the nursemaid’s jaunts to town, was the only part of her day she could see him—Ash. The mysterious, mute boy who lived in the woods.

Mud splattered on her petticoat as she ran over the wet lawn, but she did not stop; she had to see him. Dashing in further, ducking into the forest, ignoring the rough twigs, roots, and rocks under her thin kid soles, she neared the tall oak she had climbed many times.

“Oh, Ash,” she murmured, peering through the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. “I hope you will come along this eve.”

Folding her skirts, Ellie sat against the rough bark of a tree, pulling up the tall grass beside her and braiding them into a thick strand to pass the time. Her eyes occasionally darted up to look for Ash.

Ash was not his real name, but rather a moniker for she did not know his true name. She named him Ash for the color of his hair, a strange pale blond that middled the bright flaxen hair many people had, and the mysterious platinum shade some women were naturally gifted with.

The almost imperceivable crunch of twigs under shoes had Ellie looking up to find the mute boy arriving in the distance; his worn boots were tucked into his faded trousers, while his shirt was untucked and loosened at the collar. His pale hair was a beacon that drew her eyes in the low light.

Her heart leaped. “You came!”

He nodded, his lips taking on the slightest curve before he gently lowered to sit beside her. When he drew his knees up, she noticed a faded bruise on his cheek.

“Oh, Ash,” she sighed sympathetically, getting to her knees and reaching out to touch his bruised skin—but wavering before her fingertips landed. “Are you hurt again?”

Nodding, Ash leaned his face into her touch, and she grazed the sallow skin. Months ago, when she had first met him, he had looked at her as if she were a wild doe, unwilling to come near her.

In the days—and months— that followed, he’d be willing to come to her side, especially when she bemoaned the many lessons she was forced to endure every day.

“How did this happen?” she asked, pushing back his hair from his ear as the bruise had receded up to his temple.

He did not say a word, as per usual.

Ash wasn’t that much older than her—at her best estimate, she assumed he was ten-and-four, or possibly a year older, to her ten years.

“Are you in pain?” She tried her best not to press too hard on the bruised skin.

He shook his head.  

“I have a balm at home that might fade the ugly bruise,” she murmured. “I can go and get it if you wa—”

Ash shook his head forcibly and fixed his fingers around her wrist—wordlessly telling her to stay put. The callouses on his palms and fingertips told her he worked to get by. Every lord’s son had hands as soft as suede.

For every one thing she knew of Ash, there were a dozen things she remained in the dark about.   

Weeks ago, when she had carried a basket of food to share, he’d loved the plain oat cakes but hated the ones with currants. He chose the fresh fruits over the pudding and ate the meat pies with gusto. The little drams of spices and wine she’d stolen away had been accepted… only after she’d taken a sip.

“All right, all right, I’ll stay,” Ellie assured. “I still want to get you that balm, though.”

She leaned her head onto his shoulder, “I do wish I could see you more than these times we sneak out to see each other. Well, I sneak out, I do not know if you need to slip away from your folks. Er… I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

Twisting her head, she asked, “Do you have folks? I have this feeling that you might be all alone. Are you all alone?”

He swallowed tightly, then nodded.

Pained, Ellie hugged him. “I am so sorry. I do wish there was a median of having overbearing guardians like my aunt and uncle, and you not having anyone. Every child should have that, shouldn’t they?”

His arm came up and wrapped around her shoulder, sparking butterflies into a storm under her breastbone. Ash scarcely showed emotion, and him hugging her made her blurt, “I think I love you.”

He pulled away, but only so far as to meet her eyes and search them. Before she lost her nerve, Ellie added, “I care for you a lot, Ash, and e-even if I don’t know your real name, I want us to get married when we are older. Wouldn’t—would you like that too?”

After a heart-pounding, almost maddening moment, Ash nodded, and relief made Ellie’s head light.

“I think—” She slumped to the ground again and looked around for something, anything to use and commemorate the moment, and her eyes drifted to the strands of grass she’d braided. Grabbing them, she fashioned them into rings. “I think we should get married, now.”

His brows shot up, and she went red. “Er… like a promise marriage, to, well, be married later on.”

Ash shook his head, his expression wry. Heat crept up her cheek as she got to her knees and held out the rings. “Take one.”

As he hesitantly accepted it in his palm, she added hers and covered his hands with hers. “I, Evelina Frampton, do promise to marry Ash when I am twenty years old. I promise to be his loving wife, and he promises to be my loving husband, and we will live happy and content for the rest of our lives.”

She took his hand and slid the ring onto his fourth finger, while after a moment, he did the same to her.

“There is—” she felt her face flame, “—is usually a kiss at this part.”

Ash’s head canted to the side, his lips curling into a smirk, and before she lost her nerve, Ellie leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“There,” she mumbled. “We are married… or promised to marry at least.”

A male shout suddenly cut through the trees.

“Evelina Rosalind Frampton! Where are you?”

Ellie’s head snapped to the left at the sound of her uncle, Patrick Langford’s, furious voice. Frightened at his tone, Ellie found herself frozen in place, unsure of what to do.

Should I run or stay right here?

Snapping to the left and right, she felt her heart plummet to her feet; her uncle would not take it lightly to know she had not only skipped her lessons, but to find her alone with a boy would surely push him into a rage. It went against all the propriety teachings she had been taught.

“Evelina!” Her uncle yelled once again.

Instead of pushing herself away from Ash, she pressed herself closer, seeking comfort and perhaps hiding away from the impending fallout. Ash’s arm wrapped around her as she heard twigs and leaves snapping under her uncle’s boots.

Ash made to stand and was taking her with him when her uncle trampled through the underbrush and roared, “Evelina! Are you out of your mind!”

She trembled and turned horrified eyes to Ash, but he did not move; he was as terrified as she was. Her uncle grabbed her right shoulder and dragged her away; in a panic, she reached with her left hand for Ash. He grabbed at her but only managed to come away with the leaf ring on her finger.

Patrick snarled. “Get away from her, you disgusting runt! Unhand her!” Her uncle hauled her away, bristling anger sparking in his eyes, “Get away from here, you cur. If I see you again, I will have you in prison.”

“No, Uncle,” Evelina tried to stop him. “Stop! Please—Ash-”

“And you,” he pulled her through the forest. “You are never to be out of my sight, or to see him again, you hear me!”

As he dragged her through a large copse of trees, the last glimpse Ellie had of Ash, was him clenching his hand over the makeshift ring.

***

Across town…

Pocketing his pay of a half crown and pennies, Dorian turned to the dark streets and headed back; the half-moon was a sickle above him in the dark sky.

He ran a hand through his dark, soot-covered hair and, with the broom flung over his shoulder, began trudging through the dark alleys of London, set on heading home.

 A cold wind buffeted his back as he turned a corner, and he sensed them.

To their credit, the footpads were light on their feet, but Dorian was lighter and faster. When he was sure the robbers were set on him, he burst into a run, and using his detailed memory of the streets in Covent Garden, darted into an alley where it forced the men to attack him single file.

An ugly mug with a horrid scar down his face leered from the darkness. “We got ye, boy.”

Dorian held up both hands, one still holding the stick of the broom, “Are you going to kill me for three silvers?”

“It’s enough to buy a jug of blue ruin,” the first man replied while two more faces loomed over his shoulder.

He tugged a wicked, jagged knife from the band of his tattered trousers and brandished it. It glittered with malice. “Now, hand it over.”

Pausing, Dorian considered his reply—then decided not to reply at all. Quick as a snake, he shot out a hand, and grabbing the hand holding the knife, Dorian yanked and twisted the arm so far that the man’s elbow almost popped broken, and he fell to his knees screaming.

A movement behind him had him ducking under an overhand punch before spinning to face the next attack, and dropping quickly, swept the man’s legs out from under him.

Grabbing the discarded knife, Dorian wielded it to defend himself and inflict as little pain as possible, but when it was clear they would kill him, the need for survival spurred Dorian forward.

 He jumped back when the second man swung a machete in a wide arc, and the jagged point caught the edge of Dorian’s thin coat. Pain lanced up his nerves and blood stained a long line down his arm, but he hardly felt it as the vital energy pulsing through his body blocked the pain.

The third man wavered and, gazing at his two accomplices, shook his head once, then twice, before turning tail and darting away.

Through the ringing in his ears, Dorian sucked in a breath and clutched at his arm, wincing.

A figure separated from the shadows.

A huge man, bearded and menacing, made a beckoning movement. “Ye’ll need stitches with that, lad.”

Paralyzed, Dorian snapped, “Who are you?”

“I go by… Sterling,” the man muttered. “And you are a strong one, aren’t ye? Any other lily-livered lump would have dropped his coins and run, but not you.  Unlike the others, you are willfully daft. But… also courageous. You don’t last long in this world if you aren’t.”

Straightening, Dorian asked, “Last… in what?”

“The job I am about to offer you,” Sterling said darkly. “One that will change your life. See, boy, I sense something in you, something dark and scalding, rippling to break free. You fought those men without the faintest to save your own skin.”

“You are wrong,” Dorian growled, “I did it solely for that.”

“Oh, look at that,” Sterling laughed oddly. “You have a heart. You could have easily killed two of them, but you didn’t. All the more reason why I want to take you under my wing. Even with that foolish moral code, you would do better than the cold-hearted blackguards who litter these streets like rats.”

Dorian furrowed his brows. “What do you want from me?”

“Right now? Only to get you stitched up. But after that, I am giving you the chance to reap all they have stolen from you,” Sterling replied. “If you stand by me, you become a name they shall whisper of in darkness. You will survive, and one day, you will make them all pay.”

The offer felt too good to be true, but thinking of his father in a cot, barely surviving on a dram of laudanum, and only when Dorian could afford it, instead of the full care he should be getting, rankled him. Not to mention knowing his thieving uncle was out there flaunting stolen wealth.

Dorian promised inwardly to get justice for himself and his father.

He squared his shoulders. “When do I start?”

“Let’s get you stitched up and then we can talk,” Sterling murmured. “I’d imagine you’d want to take care of your old man too.”

Frowning, Dorian asked, “How do you know about that?”

“This is your first lesson, boy,” Sterling chuckled, “When you aim to be the lord of the streets, you’d best know everyone in them.”

***

The weak rays of dawn led Dorian down the overgrown lane and took him to a small cottage, seemingly abandoned, as its garden was overgrown and there were no signs of inhabitation. Some bushes had grown so mighty that their roots protruded into the path, so he stepped onto the stretch of lawn and walked as silently as a cat.

Pushing at the door, he stopped in the kitchen to rest the fruit down, then went to the back room and found his father still abed. The man, barely three-and-fifty, looked near death’s door.

The pale, peppery spots on his cheeks, his thinning hair, and deep lines down his face, all made the fearsome, imperious Duke of Wolfthorne a far cry from who he once was.

“Father,” Dorian said quietly as he stoked the fire. “Are you awake?”

No sign came from the older man, but his chest rose and fell evenly, telling Dorian that he was alive.

Lips pressed tight, he left the room and went to the kitchen to warm up the last of the stew on the fire pit. He did not want to leave his father before he ate something, but Dorian needed to work that night.

For the last year since his father had lost his fortune and station—stolen, it was stolen, Dorian reminded himself—he’d hired himself out to be one of the sweep’s ‘apprentices’ as a climbing boy and had begun to live a nightmare of coal and dust.

He’d cleaned stinking, suffocating stacks from dusk until dawn; but studiously refused to do what the other sweeps did; leave windows cracked so they could crawl back in and snag candlesticks and silverware to pawn for half-pennies and a bob.

He’d proven himself to be fast and clever, letting his work speak for itself while standing aside as the other sweeps got hauled in by the constables.

“Father,” Dorian said, carrying the bowl back into the room. “Please, wake. I need to tell you something important.”

Weakly, Barnabas Beaumont forced his eyes open, “Who—who are you?”

Holding back a grimace, Dorian viciously hated the confusion and lunacy that plagued his father at times. He waited until the haze faded and recognition settled in his father’s eyes.

“Son,” Barnabas’s voice was weak. “I did not see you for a moment there.”

“I know, Father,” Dorian said, while coming closer to rest the bowl on the table. Reaching under the man’s back, he gently eased him up to sit on the headboard. “You need to eat something, but I need to tell you, I may have found a way out of here and for you to get the care you need.”

His father gaped at him. “What? How? What do you mean?”

“I found a patron who is going to take me under his wing,” Dorian said, knowing he could not divulge the truth that he would be working for a crime lord in the underworld. “He is going to pay and give you the medicine and proper food you need to heal.”

Barnabas accepted the bowl and tried to feed himself, but his fingers were not steady. It was painful watching the once powerful man struggle to do something so simple. Eventually, Dorian took over, spooned him the broth, helped him to the washroom, and then dressed him in travelling clothes.

“Who is this man?” His father croaked.

“The Viscount of Carrington,” Dorian replied, looking over his shoulder as two men stepped into the room. “These men are going to take you to a house with a nursemaid, and you’ll be cared for there.”

Barnabas’s eyes misted over as he turned to Dorian. “I am so sorry I failed you, my son. You should not have to go through such lengths for me.”

“You have not failed me, nor will you ever fail me,” Dorian said, as he stepped away from the men to help his father to the carriage. “Believe me, Papa, I will retrieve everything we have lost, and then some.”

I will survive. One day, I’ll be strong. Then I’ll make all who stole from us pay.

Chapter One

Ten Years Later

“Yesterday, I saw my cousin marry, and I thought to myself, well done, old girl, you are officially on the shelf,” Lady Victoria Rothwell, the daughter of Marquess Templeton, added a dash of milk to her tea and laughed.

“You’re only four-and-twenty!” Evelina gawked at her friend.

“In the ton, that makes me a spinster.” Victoria lifted a slender shoulder. “It matters not, my dear. I am quite comfortable being a spinster.”

“You could have married any of the last seasons,” Ellie giggled. “I am sure every bachelor was tripping over their heels to marry the Diamond of the First Water.”

Tucking a strand of her silver-blonde hair behind an ear of classically sculpted features, Victoria’s beauty drew lords from all over the continent and even overseas. Despite the early hour—and Victoria’s propensity to read through all hours of the night— no shadows rested under her eyes; her skin glowed with the health of the well-rested.

“They were.” Victoria rolled her dark blue eyes. “But some of them were just a touch too eager. They claim to love the arts, but when I ask the simplest question on the Bard, they splutter and stutter with excuses. How difficult is it truly to know the origin of the quote, ‘love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues, pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues’?”

Picking up a blackberry tart, Evelina shook her head, “I don’t think men read The Merry Wives of Windsor.”

“They should,” Victoria shrugged.

“Your brother doesn’t even know that, no matter how many operas you drag him to.”

“My brother is a troglodyte.”

Laughing, Ellie asked, “Where is dear Benedict this evening?”

“I have no idea,” Victoria shrugged. “My best guess is that he is at the horse track. But we are not here to talk about him. We’re here to talk about you. How are you on the husband-seeking front, Ellie?”

Dusting her finger off, Ellie sighed, “Aunt and Uncle have still banned me from courting for fear that the suitor will learn I have no dowry to offer his family. I am still Harriet’s companion at balls, and while she is allowed to court, I am not. I suppose that is the downside of being an orphan.”

Disheartened, Victoria flattened her lips. “Do they not believe you want to marry for love? How can you find your votre âme sœur if you are not allowed to court?”

“Aunt and Uncle had an arranged marriage,” Ellie replied. “They do not believe in soulmates or love. Their idea of a companionship is debating the merits of roasted pheasant over duck.”

“Sounds more delightful than these men and their blasé flirting,” Victoria replied. “It is still horrible, though. No one deserves to be trapped in a marriage of convenience.”

The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, warming the solarium. Fresh flowers sprouted from vases, and watered ivory silk flowed over the walls. Through the large double doors, the scent of azaleas, tulips, and the cultivated wildflowers in the garden below wafted in.

“It is,” Ellie replied, her face falling with sadness. “I do not want to be sold off or traded as if I am a fattened calf to the butcher, but until I get to the age of majority, I have little say in what I can do.”

“Oh yes, yes, about that,” Victoria’s eyes went bright with excitement. “Your twenty-first birthday is in a week and two days. What shall we do for such a wonderful milestone? Shall we throw a ball, or take a trip to Vauxhall, or—or use my father’s yacht to take a trip to America—”

“What?” Ellie’s mouth dropped. “No, goodness no, Victoria! We cannot do any of those.”

“Why not?” Victoria pouted. “I have always wanted to see New York.”

“I know, but I doubt we’ll see New York in a day,” Ellie replied. “Though I do thank you for the thought.”

Shaking her head, Victoria commiserated, “It is a pity that you shan’t know what it is to feel your heartbeat pound out of your chest, to feel your skin prickle with awareness and your head feel so light.”

“It sounds like you are describing a catalepsy,” Ellie’s lips twitched. “I would rather avoid that, thank you. But you are a bit mistaken, I did feel love once. It was calf-love, I suppose, but I did feel it.”

“Where did he go, by the by?” Victoria asked. “I know you said one day he was with you, and then when your uncle found you, he vanished.”

Shaking her head, Ellie corrected her, “We vanished. Uncle moved us from St John’s Wood to Grosvenor Square, and we never set foot in that part of the countryside again.

“When I asked around, covertly, of course, no one had ever heard of or seen the boy I’d described to them. Ash was gone, too. I think Uncle made sure he was sent away. No, no, I am sure Uncle sent him away.”

Shifting the plates on the table, her friend tutted. “Such a shame. Do you think you would have been the love of his life if you had been allowed to stay?”

“Maybe,” Evelina replied. “But then, how long do first loves last? There are times I do think it was best that we were separated, but at other times, I mourn the fact that the opportunity to find out was stolen from me.”

Reaching over the small round tea table, Victoria held Ellie’s hand tightly. “I, too, wish you had.”

“Thank you.”

“Now,” Victoria’s lips pursed, “Back to the conundrum of what we shall do for your birthday. How does a trip to the pools of Bath sound?”

***

Stepping into the fore room of her uncle’s townhome, Evelina wanted nothing more than a hot cup of tea and to retire to her bed with the latest book from Temple of the Muses in hand.

“Miss,” Mr Radcliffe, the butler, bowed as she stepped into the room, “Your honored aunt and uncle requested to see you in the drawing room.”

Frowning, Evelina undid her coat. “Why?”

“I would not know, Miss,” he said candidly. “I am only told to make you aware that they need to see you as soon as you arrive. The only caveat I am told to give you is that, if you need to change your clothes, you may do so.”

A twist of frustration curled in her chest; what was this about?

It is probably something to do with Harriet, she grimaced inwardly. Maybe they want me to wear a plainer dress this season so the attention will be solely on her.  

“Thank you, Radcliffe,” Evelina replied.

After inspecting her attire, an olive-green walking dress with minimal ornamentation and puff sleeves, she decided it was presentable enough for her difficult-to-please relatives, so she took off up the stairs—but it was only when Radcliffe twisted the handle to the drawing room, a dormant thought sparked in her mind.

Why did they specifically request I change clothes in the first place?

“Lord Carrington, Mr. and Mrs. Langford, Miss Frampton has arrived,” Radcliffe bowed.

Lord Carrington? Who in heavens is that?

Her uncle stood, as did the other gentleman, an older gentleman, perhaps a few years under her uncle’s forty-eight years. Instantly, she recoiled.

It wasn’t only Lord Carrington’s bleached wheat shade of hair, or his cutting icy blue eyes, nor was it the cruel, arrogant curve of his mouth that reminded her of a woodcut of a Greek Demogorgon.

His ink-black jacket and grey trousers were exquisitely tailored, and above his silver-grey waistcoat, his cravat held a perfect knot. He looked like a proper gentleman, but there was something… something serpentine about him.

She curtsied and angled her head low. “My lord.”

Carrington looked to her uncle, “She is as pretty as you said she was.”

Pardon?

The mysterious gentleman resumed his seat, but she didn’t miss the glance he sent her way or the smirk on his face.

What business does he have with our family?

Her uncle beamed, and he motioned for her to sit. She complied with a soft, nervous smile.

“Evelina, dear,” her uncle Patrick began, “I have arranged a marriage for you to Lord Carrington.” He paused, clearing his throat, almost as if expecting her to fall over and kiss his feet in thanks. “The arrangements have already been made, and the date is set for a week and a day from now. It is my hope that you will find happiness with this union.”

Evelina’s jaw fell slack. Her skin burned with humiliation.

“B-but Uncle. Marry? I—I have never met his lordship…” she tried for a smile. But behind her calm façade, Ellie’s breath came in short, shallow gasps, and her fingers gripped her skirts. Her gaze flitted to the gentleman before her, before returning to her uncle.

“Now, I am certain you have questions, dear, but it is already decided. I shall answer everything else in time. Your Aunt and I have already considered this matter significantly, and have decided a stable, arranged marriage is far more favorable to an ill-fated love match,” her uncle said matter-of-factly.

“But uncle—” her eyes flew to her aunt, who sat placidly beside the men. “I am going to have my birthday the very next day.”

“Your… aunt and I would rather you marry before you turn one-and-twenty,” Patrick said diffidently. “I know you admire your friend who is a self-proclaimed Original, and who is swanning to an inglorious life on the shelf, but we do not want that for you. It comes with an underlying sheen of shame that follows you everywhere.”

She could barely control her erratic breathing as she was hit with swift and piercing statements, one after the other.

How can you say it is ill-fated if you have never experienced a love match?

The words bubbled up her throat, but she could not utter a breath of them as years of ingrained propriety halted them from leaving her lips.

The thin strain of hope she had to somehow find love in the ton—or even outside of it—by attending balls, walking into a teahouse, or strolling through Hyde Park, shattered with finality.

 “Mr. Langford,” Lord Carrington began, “Would you and your wife permit me to have a moment alone with Miss Evelina? Leave a maid here in your stead.”

Her uncle shared a look with his wife; the middle-aged, plump woman with braided gray hair pursed her lips before she nodded and pressed her hand to the large opal brooch pinned to her fichu. “I suppose we can allow that.”

While her uncle stayed put, her aunt left to find a maid, and soon enough, a maid, clad in her dark grey uniform, curtsied. “My lord, and Miss Evelina, my name is Tess. I am honored to sit in with you today.”

“Sit at the back and remain quiet,” Sterling ordered her.

With that, Ellie’s uncle and aunt walked out of the drawing room, leaving the two of them alone once more. A heavy silence hung in the air between them before Sterling eventually spoke.

 “I know you must be stunned by this revelation, but dear, marriages of the ton are not for love, they are for upward mobility,” he began.

“My family is gentry,” she corrected him. “And you must know that I am an orphan. The only upward mobility here is you pulling my family into the ton by our marriage. Marrying into the gentry. Why?”

He crossed his legs, “My father fell in love with my mother before I was born, but that affection soon turned to hate. They fought daily, their arguments often turning violent. My mother was a young woman of rank and fortune, which made her too headstrong for her own good. I would prefer not to have a repeat of that.”

Evelina swallowed. “Why have you not married earlier? You seem to be a gentleman of wealth, in your… middle years, why haven’t you already taken a wife?”

“I was too busy building my fortune,” he waved a cavalier hand. “When I was younger, I was expected to marry a young lady of rank, fortune, with respectable connections, but I decided to focus on something more important. Now that I am older, it has become a necessity rather than a choice.”

He does not want a wife; he wants an ornament on his arm.

“What sort of wife do you desire?” she asked.

 “I was going to say conventional. But you are anything but, aren’t you?” He folded his arms. “I do apologize for this sudden change, but I aim to make it up to you. You will have a generous monthly allowance, enough to purchase all the jewels, French bonbons, books, or furs a lady could want. Even a phaeton, if you would like. A yacht, perhaps.”

Her brow lowered. “I don’t want those things.”

His tone was light. “You’ll have whatever you desire to impress your friends, a summer home on the coast, or yearly trips to America. In trade, I’ll use my social cache to bring your relatives into the le bon ton, polish them up and present them to proper society.”

“How do you do that?” her words blurted themselves out.

 “Do what?” His left brow lifted.

“Be so sincerely insincere.”

He threw his head back and laughed, but the humored tone did nothing to settle her frizzing nerves.

“It is a gift of mine—you can say it’s instinctive,” Carrington replied, his lips twitching. “You’ll catch on quickly.”

Ellie felt sickened. She had been traded to afford her family a better life. Was this the reason her aunt had insisted on all those lessons? To use her as a tool to curry favor with the ton. After all, she was an orphan living off their good graces.

Still—to rob me of the chance to find love is beyond cruel.

“All these gifts… in exchange for what?” Evelina asked carefully.

Lord Carrington leaned in, and his smirk sent cold shivers down her spine. “You’ll see.”

“Does my uncle owe you money?” She asked.

“No.”

“Are you in a position to ruin his business?”

“I am, but no, it is not that.”  

“I will not accept this marriage then,” she said flatly.

His eyes glinted with ominous cruelty, and his words echoed the same sentiment. “You may decline, but your uncle will simply find someone else to claim your hand, someone who is not as lenient or allowing as I am, if you indeed believe marriage to me is that unpleasant a prospect.”

“What—or who is worse than an ostentatious rake?” she asked directly.

His eyes trailed over her with a slow passage that made Ellie want to scrub her body with a horse brush and lye. “You do not want to know. Now, you would do best not to displease your relatives.” He turned to the maid. “Go and fetch the uncle.”

Ellie felt her throat tighten as her relatives reentered the room; she could feel her aunt’s expectant look piercing into the side of her neck. Carrington stood, his smile now charming and sincere.

“Miss Evelina and I have come to an accord,” he began. “The marriage will go forward in a week and a day.”

Chapter Two

Resting his arms on the copper-plated railing, Dorian gazed down at his prestigious gambling club, The Labyrinth, with warm pride brimming in his chest. This was what he’d built, this was what he worked toward for ten years—and it was only the beginning.

Young men dressed in black and white elegant evening wear shuffled, flicked, and cut cards with professional flair while the clatters of die echoed as they rolled on the tables. More young men weaved through the crowd with flutes of champagne on their trays.

Dorian’s gaze shifted to the other part of the floor where women and men gambled together. The chandelier light sparkled over jewels glimmering over women’s ears and necks as they hung on their husband’s arms, sipping top-rate champagne.

“Your Grace,” his valet, Roderick Lloyd, bowed while holding Dorian’s jacket and a folio, “Your carriage is ready.”

“Thank you, Lloyd.” Dorian stepped away and accepted the jacket.

I am sure my comments will make smoke billow from Sterling’s ears.

***

“You are doing what?” Sterling asked, his ice blue eyes narrowed with displeasure.

“I said that—”

Sterling slammed his fist on the table, barely masked fury reeking from his pores. “I know what you’ve said, but why now!”

Sitting back in his seat, Dorian finished his words slowly. “I am selling my shares of The Crown.”

“My club,” Sterling said stiffly.

“Yes.”

Your failing club. I do not want to go down with your sinking ship. Not to mention, I’ve just uncovered the missing connection between you and my dastardly uncle. You should be glad I haven’t ripped your head from your shoulders already, old boy.

Over the years, bad blood had started to simmer between Dorian and Sterling. Three years ago, Dorian had outbid Sterling on gaining the last shares for a profitable shipping line that sailed from the East, and Sterling had never let him forget it.

If Dorian were to be honest, the rift had started long before the shares business; it had begun when he’d been twenty years old, after years of working as Sterling’s running boy and spy; as he got older, he’d become an extortionist with a dash of bribery thrown in.

It was at that age he’d broken off from being Sterling’s underling and founded his first bar. It had gone on well; Sterling had no issue with him running a simple ‘blue-ruin’ joint. It was when the club, The Labyrinth, had sprung to life—and outdone Sterling’s club—that the rivalry went into full force.

Lips tight, Sterling pressed, “Now, right after the robbery.”

“I did advise you to change your routes,” Dorian replied. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“Forgive me if the timing seems too… coincidental,” Sterling muttered through gritted teeth. “Half my stock of liquor—”

Watered-down liquor that you serve after the men are drunk.

“—was stolen five days ago, and now you come here seeking my blessing to cut ties. With me,” Sterling’s tone was flat. “The man who made you.”

“You never fail to throw that in my face,” Dorian said calmly, while inside, he seethed. “How are you the same man who said he respected a self-made man, but always endeavors to keep such a man under his thumb?

“Anyhow, this has nothing to do with you being my mentor, this is purely business. Your club is failing, no matter how many discounts you offer and put on fighter nights, your members are leaving by the dozens. I am not in the mood to continue hemorrhaging money, so yes, I am pulling away. It is simply prudent business.”

Besides, now that I know what you truly are and how you managed to destroy my family, I will finally have my justice.

“I am not pulling away entirely, just the club,” Dorian assuaged. “For all our other ventures, I am still a participant.”

Especially since I need to get into the secret club the three of you have built away from me. One of you, or all three of you, know where my thieving uncle is, and I will get it out of you one way or another.

“Are you two starting the fun without us?” came a drawling, pompous voice.

Dorian craned his head to the doorway as the final two members of the club joined the group. Nathan Wellington, Marquess of Salem, and Drake Holt, the Viscount of Portsmouth, strode into the room. Both men, looking as they had just rolled out of separate courtesans’ beds, since Dorian knew Nathan favored redheads and Drake only patronized plump dames.

“Thank you all for coming,” Dorian said. “I do not want to beat around the bush. I am selling my shares to the Crown, and either of you is welcome to bid before I take this to the public.”

 The two men took their seats, and a quick inspection around the table did not reveal any surprised twitches or confusions; then again, he didn’t expect any. These men dealt with quick changes daily. Even without looking at Sterling, Dorian could feel the man’s bristling impatience.

Drake and Nathan shared a look before Drake let out a long grunt, reached into his inner pocket, and plucked out a fifty-pound note, then handed it to Nathan. “You were right.”

Smirking, Nathan pocketed the money, “Two days before I thought he’d announce it too.”

“Wait—” Dorian glanced between the two. “You two took bets on my removing myself from the club?”

“I suspected,” Nathan shrugged. “We know you are one to weather the storm, Beaumont, but when the anchor is slipping and the sails are ripped, you cut ties.”

Lifting the glass of brandy in a mock salute, Dorian laughed, “Why, thank you for your vote of confidence.”

Sterling’s eyes latched on the other two. “What about you two? Are you ready to jump ship as well and abandon your strongman?”

“Give it a rest, Carrington,” Drake sighed while pouring a scotch. “You sound histrionic. No, we’re not parting ways, and neither is Beaumont. He is simply looking out for his best interests, as we all do.”

Sterling muttered, “Capital. What good news on the eve of my wedding.”

Dorian’s head snapped forward. “What? You are getting married?” Since when are you releasing your vice grip on eternal bachelorhood?”

“Consider it a loosening and not a full release,” Sterling said. “I am getting older, and I do not need a wife. It is more for rite of passage than me turning into any sanctimonious, monogamous codswallop.”

“Are you sure?” Nathan asked. “A wave of gents, all of them solid rakehells, have been getting married lately. It’s like a disease and it’s spreading.”

“Not for me,” Dorian shuddered.

“I wouldn’t worry for your health, old chap,” Drake grinned at Dorian. “You are impervious to viruses.”

“Do we get to know the name of this lucky lady?” Nathan asked.

“She’s a Miss, not yet a lady,” Sterling grunted before throwing back his drink. “A real proper one, all buttoned up and the like. I cannot wait for my whores to turn her into a doxy. There is no fun in bedding a gently-bred virgin, I tell you. Her name is Evelina Frampton, by the by, and we’re to wed at St. James’ tomorrow morning at ten.”

Dorian called for his dinner, specifying quail in truffle sauce and roasted garden vegetables with a glass of wine. “And how old is this Miss?” he asked.

“Twenty,” Sterling grunted. “She turns one-and-twenty the day after. Her folks are selling her off for her cousin’s introduction to the ton.”

Cocking a brow, Nathan asked, “And what do you stand to gain from this arrangement? You are not one to give without expecting something in return.”

Sterling cocked a brow. “Why not? I can be philanthropic on occasions.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Dorian snorted as his plate was set before him. “Now, what shall we do about the shares I am selling off. Any takers?”

***

Seated in the waiting room of St. James’ Cathedral, Ellie gripped the edge of her chair, swallowing over the bile constantly surging up her throat.

She felt trapped, and wondered why she had not vociferously told her aunt and uncle she would not be marrying this Sterling fop. The man clearly wanted nothing from her than to prop her into a house like he would do with a clock on the shelf.

“Ellie?” Harriet, her cousin, stuck her head around the door. “May we come in? It is Victoria and me.”

“Of course,” she replied, finally sucking in a stable breath. “You are always welcome.”

At ten-and-eight, Harriet was a petite female. Her thick, glossy plaits of chestnut hair were piled up on her head and stuck through with pins. Her dress, a soft dove grey gown with long sleeves, proper for a wedding, flared out from under her bosom. Victoria was stunning as always, in a peach peignoir with a matching shawl.

Two steps in, Harriet caught onto Ellie’s harried state. “Are you well, Ellie? You look grey and ill.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I am not. I don’t want this marriage, cousin. I don’t want this man. I already know he is not going to be faithful to me, nor will he ever give me the love that I want from a marriage and a real husband. I fear— I fear everything when it comes to him.”

The words had punched themselves out from her chest, and as soon as the deluge was out, the turmoil in her heart eased a little.

“Dear god,” Victoria muttered.

Distressed, Harriet reached out and held Ellie’s clammy hand. Face falling in sorrow, she said, “Have you told mother or father? Surely they will not force you to marry someone you are actively fearful about.”

“They will,” Ellie shook her head. “They will because this is the only way they could have you marry into the aristocracy. You know that. Especially after last year and the disappointment of your debut season. No one gave us a second look when they realized you were gentry, and this is the only way for you to have the happy life you deserve.”

Her cousin’s face twisted with dismay and pure horror. “But not at the expense of your life! No, Ellie, no. I’ll go and talk to mother and father and get them to put this off. I will not let you go on with this.”

“Harriet, dear—”

“Do not try and stop me.” Harriet surged from her seat and rushed out the door.

Taking her place, Victoria added, “This is not right, Ellie. You cannot do this. Is it not enough that your parents were taken from you before you were ready? And now to be married off to a man who will not value you, through no fault of your own?”

“But—” Ellie swallowed, “I am here. And that is my fault, because I’d worked myself up to run away last night, yet was too cowardly to do so…” she sighed. “Though now that I am here, I want to do it more than ever.”

“Then do it!” Victoria encouraged her. “If you want, I can find a way to hide you—”

“No,” Ellie shook her head. “You are the first place they would check. I—I would need to go somewhere else.”

Rummaging in her reticule, Victoria drew a purse thick with coins and paper notes; she stuffed it into Ellie’s hand before adding, “I will go and find your relatives and stall them as long as I can. Your groom is not here yet, you need to go. Now.”

Looking at the purse, Ellie shook her head. “I cannot possibly take this.”

“You can.” Victoria made for the door. “And you will. Now go!” Her friend bolted from the room with purpose. 

Emboldened but nervous, Ellie stuck the coins into the pocket of the coat she had worn to the church and slid it on. As she turned to the door, a door slid open—behind her. She spun on her heel as a man strode into the room, his form covered by a thick cloak and his eyes shielded by a mask.

“Pardon—” she gasped. “Who are you? W-what are you doing here!”

He had her up against the wall in seconds, the dark glass of the man’s crow mask shielded her attacker’s eyes. “I am getting you out of here. You will not marry that beast of a man.”

She glared while her breath came in short bursts, “That is for me to decide, not you. Who are you! Get your hands off me you—you bounder!”

The man yanked a cloth from his pocket and pressed it to her nose. “We can debate the merits of that sentiment later. For now, we need to go.”

Ellie made the mistake of taking a large breath to scream—but the chemical hit her lungs and brain in seconds. The world went hazy around her, and she slumped—before she knew it, all was black.

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 28th of May

Chapter One

April 1813

New Montrose Hall

Duncan Montrose, seventh Earl of Eastwick, cleared his throat as he glanced up from the letter in his hands.

He peered over the rim of his spectacles at his eldest daughter, Emmeline, seated primly across the breakfast table. The morning sun, slanting through the tall windows, caught the streaks of silver threaded through his iron-grey hair. His eyes were pale hazel, matching those of his daughter.

Emmeline, known by all in the family simply as Emma, raised an eyebrow as she bit into her toast.

“I have some… news, which is rather thrilling,” Duncan began, holding up the parchment. “This letter reaches me from Redmane Manor, from the Duke of Redmane himself. It contains invitations for the entire family to a ball he is hosting in a week.”

Emma almost choked on her bite. She recovered quickly, of course, lifting her teacup to conceal the betraying flush that had crept up her neck. “That is indeed exciting, Papa,” she murmured behind the porcelain rim. “I imagine the girls will require new dresses for the occasion too.”

Duncan’s brows drew together in thought. “Ever practical, Emma. Yes, they will want something new to attend a Ducal ball. Though I do not know what is wrong with what they have.”

Emma offered him a beatific smile. “Nor I. They have many adorable dresses. But, you know how Rosie and Josie are.”

The door to the breakfast room burst open then, and Charles entered, his head immersed in the pages of a London gossip sheet. Close on his heels came his younger sister Rosaline—known to all as Rosie—craning her neck to peer over his shoulder.

“Have you seen this bit about the Duchess of Sussex, Charlie? Well, I’m not the least surprised, given all the nonsense surrounding the Earl of Somerset,” Rosie said in a thrilled and scandalized whisper.

Charles gave a solemn nod. “A disgruntled lady’s maid, formerly employed by the Duchess, is given credit for the story.”

“But so sloppy in its writing. I could do so much better.”

A heavy scoff came from the head of the table. “A female journalist, my dear? Over my dead body, and I should say all of the editors in London too. It is a man’s job.”

“Then I shall content myself with becoming an author. Though I should like to write about scandal and intrigue,” Rosie mused, hand pressed delicately to her heart as she gazed dreamily into the middle distance.

They sat, Charles still immersed in the paper, Rosie pointing to paragraphs and phrases she thought particularly worthy or unworthy.

“Enough of that literary effluent. I will not have it at the breakfast table,” Duncan grumbled, “we have news if the two of you would care to listen?”

“How dearly exciting! And what news is that, Papa?” Josephine, known simply as Josie, effused, as she entered at the precise moment to hear their father’s words.

“Yes, do tell, Papa,” Rosie added before her sister had finished speaking.

The four children shared red hair and brown eyes of various shades. Emma was closest in color to their father, while Charles was the darkest.

While Rosie and Josie were pretty, that prettiness had matured into grace and true beauty in Emma. She resembled a woman who appeared in a portrait on the wall behind Emma’s seat. It depicted a radiant matriarch with crimson hair standing by a proud, handsome man in the uniform of the Royal Navy. The man was Duncan, and the woman was his late wife and mother to the four children.

“Is it that you have finally relented and purchased a townhouse for us in London?” Josie exclaimed in excitement.

“Do not be silly, Josie. Property is far too expensive at the moment,” Charles answered in their father’s stead. “I am sure Papa refers to the bloodstock we have in the stables. It is in dire need of replenishment. There is a stallion in Cheshire that would be an excellent sire. I could write to my friend—”

“If I may be allowed to speak at my breakfast table,” Duncan interjected irritably. “We are all invited to the Duke of Redmane’s ball at Redmane Manor. To be held next Saturday. No, I have no intention of buying a townhouse in London. And no, I shall not seek to breed the next Ascot champion either!”

He held up the letter, which bore the seal of the Dukes of Redmane, a tower atop a hill.

Charles and Rosie looked suspiciously at Emma.

Josie furrowed her brows. “That is quite short notice, is it not, father? One week?”

“Oh, you are so obsessed with etiquette, Josie,” Rosie groused.

“And you are too little concerned with it, Rosie. There is more to life than the gossip columns.”

“The girls shall require new dresses, Father,” Charles said, effecting a severe tone that all knew was not his true nature.

“Emma and I have just been discussing that very matter. That will be… arranged, I am sure,” Duncan acknowledged, his deep voice effortlessly calm and reassuring. The same voice he had used in his youth to bellow orders across the deck of a Royal Navy frigate. As he spoke, he was looking down the middle of the table, past the mismatched tea service and the silver-plated tray that concealed a patch in the tablecloth, to Emma.

She smiled, meeting Rosie’s suddenly anxious eyes.

“Of course there shall be new gowns, Rosie. You would not be attending the ball of a Duke without a new dress. Do not worry. On a related note, Papa, I shall be going into Nettlebed today and could visit with Mrs. Spinnaker, the seamstress, and her daughter. I can ask her to call on us.”

A meaning to her words passed between father and daughter that was lost on the others. Rosie bleated excitedly about being measured for a new dress, but Josie seemed lost in her thoughts. Emma wondered what could be tarnishing the bright, silvery shine of an invitation from a Duke.

“Redmane has quite the reputation, you know,” Charles murmured, picking up his teacup and sipping, “something of an eccentric.”

“He has not hosted a ball since he became Duke, though his father was at the heart of the county set,” Rosie nodded soberly.

“He was a fine man and well respected by all,” Duncan deduced, “perhaps his son has taken his time to emerge from Geoffrey’s considerable shadow.”

“How can one be expected to maintain a social calendar if such events are announced without appropriate notice?” Josie wondered aloud.

“I am sure that the entire county will wish to cancel any conflicting appointments in favor of this one,” Emma reassured her.

Including Sir Thomas Donovan, she thought, the man who had Josie’s heart in his keeping. She did not say his name aloud, though.

“Yes, I suppose you are right, Emma. For example, I had been invited to afternoon tea at Brimley Park with Mrs. Donovan and her friends,” Josie said, coloring at the mention of the Donovan name.

“I am sure a family as prominent in the county as Sir Thomas will be invited,” Emma smiled.

The sisters exchanged a look. Emma tried to convey her calm reassurance, and Josie smiled nervously.

“Well, I, for one, am surprised at you all. I thought this would be the best news we have had for a long time. Attending a Ducal ball and a man who has the ear of the Regent, too, if the rumors are to be believed. And here you all are, finding reasons to be nervous. Your mother would be dancing a jig at such news.”

That brought a wave of genuine laughter to all. Emma smiled as she pictured her mother, fiery-haired and green-eyed, fierce in anger and even fiercer in joy. She was a woman who danced with servants and walked barefoot in the park, a commoner who had captured the heart of an Earl.

“Mama would not be at home to worry about social calendars,” Rosie shrugged.

“Nor to obtaining a new dress,” Josie replied.

“Or the reputation of her host,” Charles put in.

“Mama would be concerned only for the dancing and that we all enjoyed ourselves,” Emma finished, feeling the familiar twinge of sadness at the thought of her late mother, Catherine. There was a brief moment of quiet as all remembered her momentarily.

Duncan broke the silence with a loud throat clearing, blinking repeatedly.

“That should be most helpful, Emma. We should be glad to receive a visit from Mrs. Spinnaker. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking care of her daughter while she tends to your sisters?”

“Of course, Papa.”

Fortunately, Emma possessed a bookish nature and an aptitude for children, while the town seamstress wished to ensure her daughter received an education. The two needs had dovetailed when the Montrose family could not afford to pay for fine tailoring.

“Where is your brooch, Emma?” Charles suddenly asked around a mouthful of toast.

Emma’s hand instinctively went to the place above her heart, where she had become accustomed to wearing the brooch her mother had left her.

“Brooch?” she asked innocently.

“You know—the one with the jade stone and the ivory backing. You always wear it,” Charles added, half an eye on an item in the gossip rag that Rosie was pointing out to him.

“I must have forgotten it this morning,” Emma said brightly, “I will have Elsie fetch it down.”

“Wherever did you find it?” Josie asked, curious. “It looked so old and worn.”

“I believe I found it in Mr. Gannet’s curio shop in Nettlebed,” Emma said lightly, “I was quite taken by it. It was only a few pennies.”

Duncan looked away. Rising from the table, he went to stand by the window, gazing out at the gardens.

“My, my,” he muttered, clasping his hands behind his back. “The rhododendrons are rather spectacular this year. I always dread the end of summer. The beds look so… empty without them.”

Emma’s eyes followed him, her smile slipping at the edges.

He knew.

She understood and wished the subject had not come up. Duncan knew where the brooch came from and how much it meant to Emma. He also knew that her brother meant more to her than any piece of jewelry.

“Well then,” she declared with a practiced brightness, “I suppose I must begin readying myself. There is suddenly quite a great deal to do before next Saturday.”

Her siblings nodded in distracted unison, and she slipped from the breakfast room.

From there, her feet carried her to the sanctuary of her chambers. She had dressed for a morning in the house with a book and would need to change before she went out in the trap.

When she reached her rooms, Elsie Potter was replacing her bed sheets. Younger than Emma’s twenty-three years by one year, Elsie looked older. She had black hair tied back tightly and a long face with coal-black eyes.

“Change of plans, Elsie. I shall need to redress and shall be taking the trap into town,” Emma announced as she entered.

“Very good, my lady. The gray is clean. May I ask what has prompted the change?”

Emma perched on the edge of the stripped bed, letting her shoulders slump and her head drop. A few times in Montrose Hall, she felt she could let the facade fall. The facade of being the lady of the house, always calm and collected, always in control of herself and circumstances. Elsie was the one person who saw her as she was.

“We have received an invitation to attend a ball held by the… Duke of Redmane. Papa thinks it is wonderful as he hopes to find husbands for the three of us. Josie is afraid that he will not accept her handsome but untitled knight, and Rosie worries about the state of her wardrobe.”

“And Charles?”

“Who knows these days? He noticed that my mother’s brooch was missing but did not seem to guess what I had done with it,” Emma sighed wearily.

“And has not questioned where you came by the money to pay his latest gambling debts?” she uttered with the disapproval only a servant to Emma would have the leeway to give. Emma did not care for hierarchies, preferring that her ladies’ maid should also be her confidante and friend.

Emma fell back on her bed. “Charles is a good man, albeit immature at times.”

“Is our errand into town related to this invitation?” Elsie asked.

“It is. I must speak to Mrs. Spinnaker about Margaret’s further tuition. And ask for my payment to be in dresses for Rosie and Josie,” Emma murmured, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling.

“And yourself?”

“I have dresses aplenty.”

Elsie moved to the wardrobe and picked out Emma’s gray and white walking dress. She then stood aside to allow Emma to see directly into the wardrobe, revealing how sparse the dresses were hung within.

“I often find myself wondering how this wooden contraption has not fallen apart under the weight of your imagination, my lady…” the maid began with an arched brow.

She kept a straight face, as did Emma. Elsie’s smile broke through first. Emma snorted, throwing herself back onto her bed with arms spread.

“I do not need new dresses. I do not require any attention. I am content as a spinster,” Emma sighed happily.

Elsie strolled over with the walking dress and sat beside her mistress. “The true question is… did our little ploy result in this invitation?”

Emma shot up. Heat flaring in her cheeks, she cupped her face in her hands.

“By the heavens, I thought you would never ask! I hoped letting a few rumors spread that I was courting the Duke of Redmane would frighten away any potential suitors. Now, the very man I never expected to meet invites me and my family to a ball. Goodness gracious, Elsie! How did this happen? I did not expect this result!”

“Nor I, my lady. And it was I who planted some of those rumors for you in town. Who would have thought it would reach his ears?”

“Who, indeed?” Emma mused aloud. “Perhaps the rumor hasn’t reached him, and this is all coincidence. I doubt I will even see him when we are there. Doubtless, there will be many guests and many ladies of far greater status and beauty than I.”

Chapter Two

May 1813

The Redmane Grand Ball

“It is magnificent, is it not?” Rosie exclaimed in a whisper for Emma’s ears alone.

“Quite,” Emma replied faintly.

“Ah, the spoils of aristocracy!” came the amused boom of Charles as he appeared behind them, striding into the Great Hall with greater confidence.

He swept past them with the air of a man escorting three princesses into court, all charm and practiced poise. Josie, on the other hand, was still attempting to look serene and graceful, despite the nervous way she kept smoothing the skirts of her brand-new gown—pale blue silk that matched Rosie’s to the stitch. The poor girl looked less like a swan gliding into society and more like a lamb on the verge of bolting.

Charles offered Rosie his arm with a showman’s flourish. Emma took Josie’s, squeezing it gently.

“You look perfectly radiant, Josie. I daresay, you shall be the belle of the ball. And if Sir Thomas has any eyes at all, he’ll see it too.”

Josie startled, her brows lifting, and then her cheeks lit with color—rising from throat to temple. Her lips curved in a guilty smile.

“I did not think you knew,” she said quietly.

“My darling Josie, I have noticed how you studiously avoid mentioning his name while finding reasons to talk about his family. And how any conversation that touches on the Donovan’s seems to leave you feeling… oh my… the heat.”

Emma fanned herself. Josie giggled.

“Sister, you are terrible! Does Papa know, do you think? He would disapprove of a husband without a title.”

“Papa is blissfully unawares. Charles and Rosie see everything of the ton but nothing of the family. Your secret is safe with me. Don’t worry, I shall help you find a way to win Papa over.”

Josie bounced on her toes gleefully. “I have corresponded with him, and he has also been invited! I have promised him the first dance tonight…”

“And the second, third, fourth, and fifth?” Emma teased.  

“I shall take as many as I dare! But enough about me,” she said, elbowing Emma gently. “What of you? Is there a handsome beau that you have your eye on?”

Emma’s gaze swept across the splendidly dressed ladies and gentlemen that thronged the Great Hall. She sobered, taking in their glittering decorations and ostentatious displays of wealth. Could there be any from that crowd that she could someday consider a husband?

She doubted it.

The thought of a husband—of love—was one she had long buried beneath the weight of memory. The scar she bore, hidden from the world and most especially from herself, was a cruel reminder of the price of a gentleman’s unchecked desire. It made warmth difficult. Made trust a fragile, vanishing thing.

“Truthfully?” she said at last. “No. I do not care for all this gold and glitter. It is… froth without substance.”

“You sound as though you seek to marry a farmer!” Josie snorted before catching herself and flushing.

Emma giggled at her sister’s blunder. “Mayhaps that would suit me best. A practical man who is wed to his land.”

Her sheepish sister grinned. “If Papa objects to a knight of the realm, then he would have apoplexy at the thought of a son-in-law wedded to his fields.”

“Precisely. Therefore, I shall be content to remain unattached and help Papa run the estates and wrangle you three miscreants.”

Ahead, she could see their father conversing with a man his age in a militia officer’s uniform. Two young men stood beside the older, bearing similar looks and both in red and white tailcoats. Duncan looked around; his eyes alighted on Rosie and Charles, then Emma and Josie.

He beckoned all four. Emma swallowed.

“Josie dear, I believe Papa wishes to parade us before his friends and their eligible sons. I have no desire to make small talk just now, do you?”

Josie’s eyes darted to the uniformed trio, then back to Emma. Her grimace spoke volumes.

“I should rather converse with Sir Thomas about the merits of rose gardens than feign being besotted by some young officer merely because he sports a commission and a title.”

“Then let us seek out your gallant knight and lose ourselves in this crowd as we do,” Emma whispered conspiratorially. She tugged Josie’s hand, drawing her into the tide of satin and lace, giggling as they went.

“Emma! Papa will be in a taking!” Josie exclaimed.

“Let him,” Emma said gaily.

They slipped through the sea of silk and perfume, heads ducked, until they nearly collided with a man dressed in a perfectly cut coat of forest green. He was tall and lithe, with hair that gleamed pale gold in the candlelight and eyes the precise shade of spring grass after a storm. He swept an elaborate courtly bow, to which Josie clapped her hands in delight.

“Lady Josephine, what an unexpected delight to see you here,” Sir Thomas Donovan greeted.

He took Josie’s hand and kissed it tenderly before turning to Emma.

Emma gently disengaged from her sister, offering her gloved hand to be kissed, and then stepped aside. “A pleasure to see you again, Sir Thomas. I must dash, though; I am rather thirsty and in search of punch. May I entrust my sister to your care?”

Josie blushed, smiling demurely as Sir Thomas gaped for a moment. Then, he recovered himself with a broad and hearty grin.

“Why, of course, Lady Emmeline. I shall protect her with my life.”

Emma gave a bow of the head and promptly slipped back into the crowd. Seeing her sister in the company of a man she adored was rather gratifying. Another matter she added to her ever-growing list of familial chores was persuading her father to allow his daughter to marry a man without rank.

She made her way to the edge of the gathered crowd of guests, feeling relieved when she could step between two marble columns and be somewhat hidden from view.

A portrait hung on the wall behind her depicting a tall, dark-haired man with a stern, handsome face. It was too brutal and cruel to be genuinely attractive, but the features held an exotic appeal. She recognized Redmane Manor in the backdrop and wondered if she were looking at a portrait of either the current or one of the former Dukes. The style of the clothing, suggestive of fashions twenty years old, made her think that if it was not the current Duke, it could not be that of any other but his immediate predecessor.

The eyes of the man were icy blue and seemed to root Emma, gazing out of the painting as though it were in some way alive. She forced herself to look away, shuddering at the intensity of that painted gaze. The artist had certainly been talented enough to capture such charisma. Emma hoped it was not the current Duke, the Duke to whom she had linked herself by whispered rumors.

She did not wish to come face to face with those icy blue eyes.

A living man caught her eye then, though not for the reasons that her sister had hoped. It was the figure of Charles, who was striding swiftly around the fringes of the crowd, headed for a door in a corner of the Great Hall.

Emma frowned as she watched him go, casting frightened glances over his shoulder as he went. She moved in his direction, wondering what had her brother thusly apprehensive. She was even more afraid that she might know. Indeed, his debts should have been discharged this time. The brooch had been worth more than any of her siblings thought simply due to its three-hundred-year antiquity.

She reached the door through which Charles had disappeared and followed him. Ahead, she caught him vanishing around the corner of a corridor paneled in dark wood.

“Charles? Come back! Whatever is the matter?” she whispered urgently.

But either he did not hear or chose to ignore her.

She picked up her skirts and scurried after him. By the time she reached the corner, he was out of sight, but a door in the corridor ahead was swinging shut. She hurried to it and opened it into a dark room lit only by a shaft of light from a door opposite. The figure of a man was briefly outlined before that door was closed too.

Emma started gingerly across the dark room but stumbled over a stool, crashing to the floor clumsily. She clutched at a bruised shin and returned to her feet, backing into a chair and stumbling again. Her heel snagged at the edge of a poorly placed rug, and she fell down heavily on the floor with a thump.

Charles, she groused viciously, teeth clenched. When I get my hands on you…

She had been so caught up in trying to follow Charles that she had not heard the footsteps approaching the door through which her brother had disappeared. When the sound of the door opening reached her, she assumed he had heard her and returned.

“Charles! What are you about? Please come and help me up. I am on the floor because of you!” Emma grumbled, looking towards the figure of a man who stood silhouetted in the doorway.

She then realized that it was not Charles at all.

The man who stood, rendered faceless by the light behind him, was taller and broader than Emma’s wayward brother. His coat was black, but not mourning-black—black like ink still wet, fitted like armor. His waistcoat was patterned, faintly, like scales. Yet his cravat, beyond all reason—the color of flame.

For a moment, he stood unmoving and silent. Then, he flashed into the room, momentarily lost to the darkness.

True terror curled in Emma’s chest.

“Pardon, sir…!”

The scent of amber and musk reached her first.

Then came the sound of flint and steel.

The hiss of a flame, and a lamp flared to life.

His features shimmered into view. Cut from the same stone as ancient warriors. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips neither too full nor thin, and eyes the hue of pale silver-blue. His hair was fair, almost flaxen, the sort of gold that rarely caught sunlight without glowing.

“I do not know of your Charles,” came a rumble, a slow timbre like the first pour of brandy into a crystal glass, “but I feel compelled to apologize on his behalf.”

Emma blinked, cheeks tinged pink despite herself. There was something in his presence that made the room seem smaller, the shadows deeper.

He extended a gloved hand. Emma’s gaze flicked to it for a heartbeat—the finest kid leather—before her fingers reluctantly curled into the expensive material. With barely a twitch of his arm, she was hauled to her feet.

Emma brushed at her skirts in want of something to do. “Erm… thank you, kind sir. I think it rather careless of the owner to leave the rooms so dark. I might have sprained an ankle,” she chuckled nervously.

“A reasonable complaint, Miss…?”

“Lady. Lady Emmeline Montrose,” Emma corrected, raising her chin with polite dignity.

“Emmeline?” He let the intimate sound stew in the silence. “A rather… unusual name.”

“I am generally referred to by the shorter variant, Emma,” she hastened to say.

He inclined his head with courtly grace. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance then, Lady Emma. And who is this Charles, I wonder?”

Emma sighed in exasperation. “My deviant brother. I wished to speak with him, but he did not seem in the mood for conversation.”

The stranger pursed his lips in thought and had Emma’s eyes lingering there. “I seem to recall a young man heading towards the gardens in a hurry. Hair the color of yours. Perhaps a few years older than yourself?”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “Yes, that would be Charles. The gardens, you say? Thank you, kind sir. I will see if I can catch him up.”

“Allow me to escort you then, madam,” he offered smoothly. “This house is something of a labyrinth. New wings bolted onto old bones without any sensible design. I find myself getting lost rather easily.”

Emma faltered, caught between caution and something far more dangerous. “Thank you… kindly,” she said at last.

She felt a curious thrill at the offer to remain in the stranger’s company.

The man was older than her, perhaps in his early thirties. His visage had Emma’s heart thundering in her chest and set butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She chastised herself for being so taken by a man’s looks like some fawning debutante, but could not help it.

The moment she laid her hand upon his steely arm, a jolt of awareness sparked through her fingers. His coat did little to conceal the hardened muscle beneath, and she found herself, to her horror, nearly breathless.

As they stepped into the softer glow of the corridor sconces, Emma chanced another glance at him—this time catching the lines of his profile in sharper relief than the lamplight had allowed.

His eyes were sapphire blue, as bright as a panther. He was taller than her but did not appear spindly in the way that many tall men did. He might have been the descendant of giants—his body had such Herculean proportions.

Emma’s gaze dipped—traitorously—to the broad stretch of his chest beneath the fine cut of his gold-threaded brocade coat. There was nothing delicate about his form. He bore the build of an ancient warrior, the kind immortalized in marble, shoulders that strained subtly against the seams, arms that seemed born to carry—not letters or gloves—but battleaxes. Or, she thought with a shameful shiver, women.

He could lift her, she was certain, and never break stride.

It was only after they had walked fifty yards or so that she became aware that she was silent, lost in reveries of naked torsos and strong arms.

“Your pardon, sir,” she said abruptly, voice higher than intended, “but I do not believe I caught your name.”

He halted. Emma froze. It took a second longer than she would have cared to admit before she realized it was as they had reached their destination. A set of wide double doors were thrust open with effortless ease. Beyond was a broad paved area decorated with iron tables and chairs. A vast expanse of lawn lay beyond that, lit by flickering torches.

He turned to her, smiled enigmatically, and bowed.

“Damien Fitzgerald, thirteenth Duke of Redmane, at your service, Lady Emma. I do hope you locate your brother and return to the Great Hall before the dances commence.”

Emma’s face paled. Suddenly, everything became crystal clear. Where she had seen that face before. The painting!

And then the rest of his words sank in, drawing her back to the moment with the subtle shock of cold water.

“Why is that?” was all she could whisper.  

“Because I believe I am owed your first evening dance.”

Chapter Three

Emma watched the Duke depart, as though he had taken the ground from beneath her feet with him.

I wanted to be ignored, and now I will share the first dance with the Duke himself, she thought ruefully. Why single me out? Heavens, was it because of that silly rumor?

It did not make sense to her. If the Duke had heard the rumors and wished to quash them, then surely distance would be the wiser course. Polite disregard. Chilly civility. Not… not a waltz.

To dance with her—publicly, no less—was to stoke the fire until it roared.

One part of her, the irrational part, longed to storm after him and demand an explanation. Another part quailed at the very notion. And a third, more shamefully persistent part, simply wished to be near him again. Foolish girl. She would be, regardless.

“Oh, what a tangled web… I will not be rendered a mindless fool by a handsome physique!” she snapped at herself.

The reason for her roaming Redmane Manor came back to her then.

Charles…

She looked out over the torchlit lawn. There was no sign of him.

Then, a sound reached her, almost like a muffled cry of surprise. Emma stepped out the door, across the paving, and onto the lawn. The sound of low voices came, and she changed direction and headed towards them. A hedge bordered the lawn with arches cut into it. She caught a hint of shadowed movement beside one of those arches.

Then Charles appeared. His hair was ruffled, and he was glancing over his shoulder.

“Charles, whatever are you doing out here?” Emma chided.

Her brother jumped, whirling around.

“Emma? Good heavens, do not startle me like that—you have taken years off my life!”

Just then, two shadowed figures stepped through one of the arches. Charles spun again, backing away from them slowly.

“Charlie, we still have matters to discuss,” said the first.

“Important matters,” echoed the second.

Their voices sounded similar, and as they stepped into the torchlight, Emma realized that they looked similar too—eerily similar, in fact.

“Isaac, Jacob…” Charles grimaced, “I believe our discussion has concluded. I have made my position perfectly clear.”

Isaac and Jacob had short, curling hair, the same color as the Duke. They had aspects of his hard, angular face too, but softened around the edges. Emma wondered if these men were related to him. They were rounder facially, but there was indeed a resemblance.

“You have,” said one of the men, his words laced with careful civility, “and yet, we find ourselves in rather vehement disagreement.”

“Quite so,” the other chimed in. “And we feel this matter deserves further exploration. In private.”

Charles stiffened but remained silent.

“We daresay it is in your best interests, old boy,” coaxed the first.

That one acknowledged Emma first and bowed courteously.

“By your resemblance and charming diminutive, I would wager you are Lady Emmeline Montrose?” he inquired with feigned curiosity.

“She is and does not need to make your acquaintance, Jacob,” Charles cut in, stepping before his sister.

“I can speak for myself, Charles,” Emma told him firmly.

“I am Jacob Fitzgerald, and this is my brother Isaac,” Jacob flashed a toothy grin.

Isaac bowed deeply.

“Relatives of the Duke?” Emma asked.

“Cousins,” Isaac replied smoothly. “Our father was brother to the late Duke.”

“Charlie boy,” Jacob said again, his tone light as air, “we really ought to speak further.”

Charles raised his chin, looking down at the twins. “I do not think there is anything further to discuss,” he declared with finality.

The twins exchanged looks and sneered at each other. The hairs at the nape of Emma’s neck prickled unpleasantly at those sneers. They took their leave without further discussion, and Emma rounded on her brother.

“Charles. What was that all about? Have you offended these two gentlemen in some way?”

“No, it is nothing, sister. I can assure you. Please do not worry. As you saw, the matter is taken care of,” Charles assuaged.

“What matter? They seemed very keen to speak to you. Almost threatening…”

Was he indebted to them? She thought she had solved his financial woes.

Dear Lord, please do not let him embroil himself more. I do not have the means to dig him out of another hole!

Emma did not want to voice her thoughts or ask the question aloud. Charles was the eldest of the Montrose siblings yet behaved as the youngest—impulsive and juvenile.

“I can assure you that Jacob and Isaac are not in the least threatening. They are not their cousin,” Charles laughed nervously, “and you will not hear from them again after tonight. I promise it,” he added, hoping to sound reassuring.

By Emma’s estimation and brief encounter with their cousin, that would make them the merriest dandies in all of the land—much less threatening.

It was quickly becoming apparent to Emma that no resolution would be reached here, hovering about on the lawn. She glanced back towards the glittering gold of Redmane Manor’s windows.

“I suppose we ought to head in before the dancing begins,” Charles said with an easy shrug. “I have promised to ask Felicia Middleton’s hand for the first dance. Lovely girl, that one. And her father has coffers deep enough to fund a war.”

He grinned, and it was the grin of a boyish rogue. Indeed not the heir to an Earldom.

“And what of you, Emma?” he added, offering his arm.

Emma accepted it almost absently, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow as they began to make their way back across the green.

“Have you allowed anyone to ask you to dance? I do hope so. I do not like to see you on the periphery at these events.”

“It is where I am most comfortable, Charles,” Emma reminded him gently as her mind wandered, “and no, I have not allowed anyone to ask me to dance…”

It was not a lie. Not precisely.

She had not allowed the Duke to ask her—he had simply declared his intention.

She wished she could spend the evening anonymous in the background. The idea of a man putting his hand to her waist, to where that horrible scar marred her…

To be in the arms of any man was terrifying, but the Duke, in particular, even more so.

He was handsome, undeniably so—his features all striking angles and that untamed sort of strength one might expect from a warrior carved into marble. The thought of him, of that formidable physique cloaked in such precise elegance, sent a ripple of heat coursing down her spine.

And yet, with the thrill came the inevitable echo.

The scar.

The memory.

The shame that clung to her like a second skin.

“Why ever not, Emma?” Charles asked suddenly. “I have seen the gossips. When half the ballroom believes you are being courted by the Duke of Redmane, you may as well take advantage of your new status and bag yourself a husband!”

“Charles, please do stop speaking in such cant. It is so vulgar,” Emma complained, “and if anything, these rumors poison the well. The Duke is a fearsome man, is he not?”

Charles looked at her oddly before nodding.

“He is. By reputation, he certainly is. If one did not care to be bothered by suitors, then I suppose rumors of the kind doing the rounds,” he emphasized the cant, “would deter most men. Almost as if one had arranged it that way…”

Emma forced an innocent laugh. “If I wished to stir up gossip of any kind, I should ask you and Rosie how to proceed. Personally, I don’t have… the foggiest!”

Charles blinked, then barked a laugh.

“I knew I would break you down, dear sister! It is the way of our generation not to be stifled by our oh-so-formal language.”

Emma chuckled, happy to see her brother laughing so genuinely and hoping she could trust him that his encounter with the Fitzgerald twins was not a presage of troubles to come.

They reentered the house and made their way back to the Great Hall. Returning to the magnificent ballroom, Emma saw that the crowd had cleared and that people were now selecting partners for the first dance.

Charles took his leave and approached a pretty young woman with large dark eyes and a pale, delicate complexion. She blushed as he approached and swept a courtly bow. Emma drifted back, seeking a place comfortably out of sight and out of mind from the gathered guests.

As she did, the sound of a gong struck the room. It reverberated around the space, and silence followed in its wake.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen!” a servant announced, “I am honored to present your host this evening, His Grace, the Duke of Redmane!”

A rippling gasp swept through the Duke’s guests as a pair of ornately decorated doors were opened, and the Duke strode into the room. Emma realized that when he spoke to her, he had not yet made himself known to his guests.

She could not help but stare.

He strode down the middle of the hall, fair hair falling from his temples almost to his shoulders. It gave him the appearance of a barbarian prince. A savage Northman from the ancient annals of England’s past. Her pulse fluttered.

Not more than when the Duke’s eyes swept past every woman in the room until they landed on… Emma.

From that moment, they did not deviate.

Emma realized that he had been searching the crowd for her. Everyone must have come to the same conclusion: men and women, heads turned to observe the object of the Duke’s attention.

Oh, Lord. Make me invisible. Open the earth and swallow me up…

Feeling all those eyes on her, it was almost as though they could see through her clothes to the scar that blemished her. But she could not look away from those deep sapphire pearls.

Emma knew that it was expected of her to look away, to be demure.

But she could not. Would not.

The Duke had made her the center of everyone’s attention, and she would wilt under that attention.

When he reached her at last, he extended his hand with slow, deliberate grace.

“Lady Emma, would you do me the honor of the first dance?”

There was the faintest curve to his lips. Amusement flickered there—as though he saw through her poise, understood that she would not feign coyness, and found her defiance charming.

Emma held his gaze, letting the silence stretch until it shimmered between them like a taut ribbon. She could deny him—watch that charming smile flicker, just slightly, and perhaps silence the gossip that had been so carefully cultivated.

But she had sown those rumors herself.

And far more dangerously… she did not want to refuse him.

She inclined her head with practiced poise. “Of course, Your Grace. The honor is all mine.”

She slipped her fingers into his—warm, familiar, utterly assured—and let him guide her onto the dance floor. Around them, the orchestra struck up. Emma felt the weight of every watching eye—but none of it seemed to matter.

Not when his hand settled at the small of her back.

That single point of contact might as well have been a brand, sending heat spiraling through her corseted frame. His other hand clasped hers in a hold that was neither loose nor indecent, but suggested, quite boldly, that she belonged precisely where he had placed her. He drew her closer and she gasped.

A breathless inch of space separated them.

The music soared, and without warning, they moved.

The Duke glided with the grace of a man born to command ballrooms and battlefields alike—fluid, effortless, maddeningly composed. Emma, in contrast, felt every inch the mere mortal beside him. Her feet, ordinarily so nimble, now seemed reluctant participants. But by some miracle—or sheer force of will—she did not falter.

The room spun by in a glittering blur, all chandeliers and jewels and fluttering fans, but none of it touched her. The sweeping strains of the waltz lifted them into a world all their own, suspended in a silken bubble where only they existed.

“You dance well,” the Duke intoned, his breath brushing her ear like the ghost of a kiss.

Emma ducked her head coyly. “As do you, Your Grace.”    

A beat passed. Then, his voice dropped lower. “—Given that I was made to understand you rarely danced.”

Emma’s gaze shot up to meet his.  

Whom have you been talking to form that opinion? I have tried my hardest not to be noticed by anyone.

“Is that so…?” Emma replied coolly. “I am not sure where you have taken your information, but I am pleased to say, you have been misinformed.”

“Mm.” The sound was noncommittal. “It has also been observed that you seem to avoid courtship rather… actively. Which is curious.”

Emma lifted her chin. “Curious how, Your Grace?”

“Curious—” he snarled abruptly, gaze sharpening like a blade catching light, “because women in your position tend to be surrounded by prospects. But curiously, you are not.”

The ill-conceived compliment landed like a match in dry straw. She opened her mouth to reply, but he pressed on.

“And curious-er still,” he drew her closer, visage contorting from a barbarian prince to barbarian tyrant, “is how the very idea of you being courted—by me, no less—has made such quick work of the local gossip circuit.”

Each word landed with the precision of an arrow. It suddenly became quite clear to Emma why he had earned such a formidable reputation. Without the hint of a warning, he spun her, a fluid motion that left her head reeling. Before she could regain her balance, he slammed her into the hard wall of his chest.

A faint tremor passed through her, though she did not let it reach her face. “Do I take you put stock in idle gossip, Your Grace?”

He smiled, but it no longer reached his eyes. “Not often. But I am more inclined to listen when the story spreads with such vehemence—almost as though encouraged.”

The implication was unmistakable. Emma’s stomach twisted, though her expression remained carefully neutral.

“I have spread no rumors if that is what you mean to say, Your Grace,” she defended, each word deliberate. Another technical truth. It was Elsie who had done the spreading. “And I do not concern myself with what others choose to say. If there are whispers, they began without me.”

And yet, she could feel the heat rising at the nape of her neck—because she had wanted the whispers. Just not like this.

He studied her then—not idly, not like a man indulging curiosity, but with the clinical focus of someone trained to find fault in steel.

“Then allow me to regale you, Lady Emmeline,” he said at last, voice dark with purpose. “You and I have been romantically linked in London’s more… enterprising gossip sheets. It would appear we are secretly in a passionate affair. With such secrecy, that even I had not been made aware.

“If I were, in fact, pursuing a courtship, such talk might be inconvenient. As it stands, I am not. But my name, Lady Emmeline Montrose, is not a toy to be passed around for amusement—or gain. Not without consequences.”

Emma saw the fury ignite in his visage and experienced a delicious thrill of fear. It was delicious because her entire body reverberated at his proximity.

“Consequences, Your Grace?” she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “That sounds very much like a threat.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly, not unlike a predator observing its prey.  

“I would not be so crass as to threaten a woman,” the Duke returned curtly, “but I do believe in consequences. Whether said consequences align with your original intentions… remains to be seen.”

Emma’s back stiffened. “Pardon?”

Whatever did he mean by such a cryptic remark?

Before she could prod further, the dance concluded, and the Duke bowed, precisely and without flourish. She curtsied awkwardly in response.

Then he offered his arm.

She took it feebly, and he led her across the room to where her father stood, a glass of claret in hand.

“Montrose,” the Duke greeted sternly.

“Your Grace!” Duncan exclaimed, the glass swishing to the brim as he spun to regard the pair.

Around them, the room began to stir once more. Instruments tuned for the second dance, the crowd swelled like a tide. Musicians changed sheets, partners exchanged places. As guests flitted back to the middle of the floor, the Duke, Emma, and Duncan were left in a private space.

And the Duke did not wait for ceremony.

“I have something to share,” he said, voice grave. “Until now, we have kept it close, but the time has come for it to be known.”

Duncan blinked, his gaze shifting uncertainly between the pair. “Yes… of course, Your Grace. Please, do tell.”

The Duke twisted, just slightly, toward Emma. His hand still rested atop hers where it lay on his bicep—possessive without pressure.

“As you must have read in the papers, for the past months, your daughter has held my heart in her keeping. Today, I am pleased to announce, I intend to finally take her as my wife.” 

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 24th of April

Chapter One

Stafford Ball, Surrey.

1813

A gently bred young lady of the ton had but one great expectation thrust upon her delicate shoulders and that was to marry well.

To marry, simply would not be enough.

One would have to find a most suitable match who was compatible with one’s wealth and social status, never mind if they would have driven each other out of their minds within a fortnight from their nuptials.

From the time she made her bow, Lady Evangeline Astor—or Evie, as she was known to her friends and family—had never questioned this, although she did find it quite amusing for young débutantes to treat the search for a husband as a quest akin to the search for the Holy Grail.

“Miss Annalise Covington has spilled her drink on her gown,” Lady Catherine Wilshire, one of Evie’s friends, sighed with sham solemnity. “Such a perfectly beautiful gown, too. A pity, really.”

At her words, Lady Alexandra Hadley giggled, hiding a mischievous, knowing smile with her fan. “And I suppose that was Lord Rowley who was solicitous enough to be of assistance.” She paused with a meaningful look and added, “That would make her the fourth for tonight.”

“Truly, she is getting far too bold,” Evie said with a shake of her head. “What if her Mama should find out?”

“Well, it is so very hard to tell when distinguishing faces is already an arduous enough task,” Cathy remarked. “Mark my words—Lady Covington will be none the wiser for it as long as they return before anyone notices.”

Indeed, her friend had a point—in a masquerade ball such as the one they were attending, it was so very hard to tell who was who. To add to one’s dilemma, some of the guests even purposefully altered their voices to seem like someone else entirely. It was enough to drive anyone insane.

“Well, if she does find out, Lord Rowley is considered quite a catch,” Alexandra added. “I think she would be more pleased than anything.”

Cathy smiled. “I heard they will be attending the Summer Festival together. Perhaps an announcement will be made soon.”

In that case, Lady Covington truly would not object to her daughter ‘spilling’ wine upon her dress again. If Lord Rowley had already expressed his intentions, then the dance of courtship could merely be considered as simply going through the motions.

“What about you, Evie? Will your Earl be in attendance this time?”

Evie felt a warmth creep up her cheeks at the mention of the Earl of Ripley. It was tradition for most of the women of the Astor family to have their marriages arranged. It had been the same thing for her mother and her grandmother before her. Besides, her brother knew her best. Surely, he would not have chosen a gentleman whose temperament would clash with hers.

Or so I hope, Evie prayed silently.

“He… has made no mention of it,” she murmured hesitantly, shifting her gaze just a little so she would not see the pitying looks her friends gave her.

In truth, Evie had seen very little of the Earl himself, although she had heard about him from her brother. The past two times that they had been set to meet had both been canceled, owing to the Earl’s busy schedule. Colin, her brother, certainly thought nothing of this, but inwardly, Evie was beginning to think that perhaps this gentleman who was to be her betrothed was much too busy to do much of anything else. A pitiful existence, one would think, but she had decided to reserve her judgment for when she finally did meet him.

“Well, there is certainly no reason why you cannot properly enjoy your time at the Summer Festival yourself!” Alex declared with a wide grin. “Even those fops from London will be descending on Surrey to join in on the festivities. Perhaps you can try your hand at spilling some juice on your dress too.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” Evie emphatically shook her head. “I cannot possibly!”

“Oh, but of course you can!” Alex laughed. “Come now—we are in a masquerade ball, are we not? No one will ever be able to tell!”

Evie wrinkled her nose at this. “Now, this is how scandals are started—it takes but one foolish idea—”

“—and a heart daring enough to test uncharted waters,” her friend finished firmly.

“I am going to be betrothed soon,” she primly reminded Alex. “It would not do well for me to be gallivanting about with some other gentleman before the betrothal is announced.”

“Well, I do not see the Earl of Ripley anywhere,” Alex scoffed. “And he certainly is taking his own sweet time in getting to know the woman he is bound to marry. Perhaps he requires a little push in the right direction. You know, steer him down the course.”

Cathy, who was ordinarily more reserved than Alex, could not help but agree. “Alex does have a point, Evie,” she said softly. “The Earl has declined to meet you twice already. He might be… ah, persuaded, once he realizes that although the race has already been handed to him, someone might still try to contest him.”

“I seriously doubt that anyone would even bother to,” Evie groaned. “I cannot believe I am hearing this from you, too, Cathy.”

Her brunette friend colored a little. “Well, a little harmless flirtation cannot be all that bad. It is nothing serious. Besides,” she pointed out, “you do not have a partner for the dance contest yet. You cannot keep waiting for when Lord Ripley will arrive for the Summer Festival.”

If he ever will.

The words hung silently over a glum Evie. Her friends certainly had valid points for their argument and she had been dying to join the dance contest since her coming out. Her own mother, the late Countess of Langley, had also joined the contest prior to her own betrothal and won it. If her father had no complaints about it, Evie gathered Colin would not protest overmuch if she joined in.

Besides, she had already agreed to the marriage he had arranged for her without a peep. As long as she adhered to etiquette, Colin should not have any complaints.

He would, however, object to a ‘harmless flirtation’ with another man.

Evie shook her head. “No, Colin would most likely kill me if I dared to be so…so…”

“So what?” a voice asked her teasingly from behind.

She whirled around and found her brother smiling affectionately at her. His blue eyes—so very much like her own—gleamed as he raised a dark eyebrow.

“Ladies,” he turned to Alex and Cathy with a charming smile. “I certainly hope you are not filling my sister’s head with mischief.”

“Oh no! Certainly not!” Cathy squeaked, turning pink in mortification.

Alex, meanwhile, had adopted a look of absolute innocence and even managed to look a little offended at the insinuation. “We would not dream of it, My Lord!”

As her brother teased and charmed her two friends, Evie’s gaze flicked briefly over to his masked companion. He was tall with broad shoulders, his lips devoid of the practiced smile that was common amongst the gentlemen of the ton. When her eyes met his, she saw the corner of his lips lift in a slight smirk and she felt a tingling sensation dance delicately down her spine.

That has never happened before, she thought to herself.

However, it vanished as quickly as she felt it and the next thing she knew, Colin and his friend had turned away from their small group. Evie could not help but feel an odd sense of loss when that strange gentleman walked away.

He did not even introduce himself, she thought ruefully.

“Well, that was certainly entertaining, coming from your brother!” Alex remarked huffily with a slight shake of her head.

Evie blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Why, him reminding us to stick to propriety at all times,” her friend replied with a wry smile. “Considering his reputation as a rake, we should be the ones watching out for the likes of him!”

“Well, first of all, he is not a rake,” Evie pointed out gently.

“Is, too,” Cathy chimed in. “Even my Mama has warned me not to be too comfortable with him.”

“Only because he has friends who follow in such an alignment,” Evie argued. “But Colin would never dare do something so ungentlemanly. I know him.”

“So do half the young ladies of London,” Alex snickered goodnaturedly. “And a quarter of them are absolutely convinced your brother will marry them and make them the next Countess of Langley.”

“Colin is simply… friendly.”

“Why do you think he is so concerned you will fall for the schemes of other rakes?” Cathy asked her.

“Because he knows the way they operate, that is why!” Alex finished for her.

Evie shook her head. “Well, he is far too busy with matters of greater import than to indulge in half the debauchery he is being accused of.”

“As busy as the Earl of Ripley, perhaps?”

“Not this again!” Evie groaned.

“Evie,” Cathy reached out and squeezed her hand with a worried look on her face. “You know that Alex and I would not object so much if we could see that this Earl values you as much as you deserve, but…” she trailed off and bit her lower lip.

“For all we know, he could be indulging in a dalliance before the announcement of your betrothal,” Alex scoffed. “I hardly doubt a gentleman truly could be too busy for a lady. If he wanted to show up, what is stopping him?”

Evie sighed softly. As much as she wanted to contest what her friends were saying, she knew that they were only advising her because they were worried about her impending betrothal to a man she had never once met—and who kept making excuses to avoid meeting her.

“Dearest, this is your one last chance to see more of the world for yourself,” Alex teased her softly. “You know that most arranged marriages leave more to be desired. Would you rather be married having never known the thrill of a little dalliance?”

There was some truth there. Her own parents had not been in love in the way the poets declared, although her mother seemed quite contented in her role as the Countess of Langley. She had always told Evie that her children were the greatest joy in her life, but she never spoke of her marriage.

“That is precisely the kind of statement that can get you into all sorts of trouble!” she pointed out instead.

“I never said that you were going to take it so seriously!” Alex replied defensively. “Just… live a little more, Evie. Feel how it is to have a gentleman express his attraction for you.”

Evie looked down and bit her lower lip. Alex certainly had a way of persuading with words. The young woman was blessed with a tongue of the finest silver and she soon found herself wavering.

In any case, she was hardly going to do anything inappropriate. After all, young ladies all over London had employed the same tactics to win the attentions of suitors since time immemorial. They certainly did not marry all of the men they flirted with, so what harm could a little flirtation do?

When she thought about it… not much, really.

Besides, it would at least get Cathy and Alex off her case and relieve some of their worries for her.

She might even be able to find a partner for the Summer Festival. Was that not a favorable situation overall?

“All right, all right,” she relented with a helpless look. “What would you have me do?”

The mischievous grin on Alex’s face somehow told her that she might be in for more trouble than she initially anticipated.

Her friend leaned in and in a low voice, whispered, “Now, Evie dearest, this is what you must do…”

Chapter Two

“Absolutely not!”

Indignation was clear on her face as both Alex and Cathy pleaded with her to lower her voice, lest she attract the disapproving eyes of those who upheld ladylike etiquette above all that was holy.

Evie glared at Alex, absolutely aghast. “I will not do something so…so…”

“All right, so perhaps that was a little too obvious,” her friend capitulated with a thoughtful look. “And that scheme has been utilized an unprecedented number of times tonight to be hardly noteworthy.” She paused and tapped her chin with a pensive expression. “We might have to be a little more inventive…”

“I am so happy you are pouring so much of your creativity into this undertaking,” Evie groused, while Cathy only tried to stifle a soft laugh. “I do not see the point in ruining a perfectly good gown just for some entertainment. Besides, what am I supposed to wear after I spill the wine on my dress?”

“A good point,” Cathy noted. “It would be quite embarrassing to walk around with a stain on your dress.”

“And my honor!” Evie added in protest.

Alex smirked and raised an eyebrow at her. “So, what do you suggest to do instead?”

“Nothing as childish and cliché, I should hope,” she muttered, shaking her head.

She managed to acquire a glass of wine from one of the passing footmen. The fragrance from the burgundy depths wafted delicately up to her nose. It was a most tantalizing brew, indeed. A pity, however, that she did not mean to enjoy it.

Evie tilted her head back slightly as she downed the wine, drawing a shocked look from Alex and a slightly scandalized one from Cathy. In all the years she had known the two, she had never displayed a proclivity for alcohol, and even as she delicately handed the glass to another passing footman, she felt the warmth rising up to her cheeks.

“Well, that was certainly… unexpected,” Alex muttered in sheer astonishment. “I cannot say that I am unimpressed.”

Evie smiled triumphantly at her friend. “Now that we have dispensed with that, I shall henceforth take my leave of you both.”

“Now, even I am impressed,” Cathy said with a slight shake of her head.

Evie shot her friends a grin over her shoulder before she turned away and headed for one of the doors that led out to the back rooms. A ball usually stretched on for an interminably long time and it was not unusual for young women to require the use of an empty room. Of course, there were also those who used these rooms for something more inappropriate, but she was not one of them, despite what her friends thought she was setting out to do.

She sighed as she made her way to the balcony. Her face was getting uncomfortably hot and a breath of the brisk night air might be enough to cool her down.

It was also fortunately empty, which meant she could make use of it to linger for a few moments and hopefully manage to convince Alex and Cathy that she had managed to tryst with some unfortunate fellow.

Or I could just tell them that I did attempt at it, Evie thought as she lifted her gaze up to the night sky. I would not be lying if I claimed to fail at that endeavor, though…

Unlike all the other young ladies of the ton who set out to find a suitable match for themselves right after they made their bow, she had never had to apply her efforts in that direction. She might not admit it to others, but Evie knew that she was woefully lacking in the art of flirtation, never having the need for it.

In any case, it would be too late to start learning it now, she sighed inwardly to herself.

After the summer, she would wed the Earl of Ripley and there would be no need to learn a skill that was going to go largely unused. It would be much better to apply her efforts to something else, like learning how to better manage a household or throw a grand ball.

She leaned over the railing with a soft exhale. A delicate breeze blew past her, cooling her heated cheeks. When she was alone like this, she could pretend to leave the world and all its foibles behind. She needed not to think about Lord Ripley or her future in an arranged marriage.

Just like this, she could simply be Evie. She could simply exist as herself, without having to fit into some mold or step into a role she did not choose for herself.

But what was it like to truly live for oneself? It seemed like such a thrilling thought, so exhilarating and yet, so dangerously uncertain.

Evie shook her head as if to clear her head of such dangerous thoughts—when she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps from behind her.

Immediately, she stiffened, her heart racing in her chest at the thought of being alone with another.

“Why are you so afraid?” a small voice taunted her in her head. “You are never going to find this much excitement in your life with the Earl, anyway. Why should you not be glad for this opportunity?”

She whirled around, her chin tilted slightly in defiance to face whoever it was that dared to disrupt her peace.

Instead, she was shocked to find a tall man who had forgone the use of a mask, baring his features for all to see him.

And who could blame him, really? If Evie had looked anywhere as handsome as he did as a gentleman, she might have felt the obnoxious compulsion to show off her face everywhere she went.

A square jaw, aquiline nose, and sensuous lips—she could name at least a dozen young ladies in the ballroom who would collapse at the sight of such a face. In the dim light, she could not make out the exact color of his eyes, but his hair was a deep gold. His chin was tilted—not in defiance as hers was, but with the arrogance of a man who knew his place in the world.

She felt her hand grasp at the baluster behind her, her eyes narrowing as their gazes locked. He seemed strangely familiar to her, but she was quite certain she had never seen him before.

Evie had been to more than three Seasons and she knew very well that there were hardly any coincidences in a world as artificial as the one she lived in. Everything was contrived, even when it did not appear so at first glance.

Just who was this man before her and what was he doing out on the balcony at the very moment she sought refuge in it?

***

Julian could not believe his luck.

He had barely managed to get Colin off his back and made his way to the balcony for a breather, when he found that it was already otherwise occupied by a young woman with eyes the color of icy sapphires glittering from behind her ornate mask.

She regarded him with the haughtiness of a queen, looking down at him from her raised chin, when the top of her coif barely reached his shoulder.

He had not thought he would encounter such a beauty outside of London, but he was perfectly fine with being wrong this time.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?” he said in a low, teasing voice, arching his eyebrow as he regarded her with keen interest. When she bristled at his words, he found himself all the more intrigued by this creature before him.

“I could say the same of you,” she returned with icy hauteur. “Who are you and what are you doing here? Did my friends send you after me?”

He smiled at that. “I do not need anyone to tell me what to do, least of all your friends—whoever they are.”

She studied him suspiciously. “So, you came here of your own volition? Nobody persuaded you to do so?”

“Why would I need to be persuaded to seek out the company of a beautiful young lady such as yourself?” Julian laughed lowly.

She looked at him as if she could not believe what he had just said. She did not seem like an impressionable and naive débutante, but she was nowhere near his league when it came to the art of flirtation.

Or it could be that she was simply not interested—a matter that could be remedied with very little effort on his part.

“You, My Lord, are possessed of a silver tongue,” she sighed with a hapless look. “I am afraid that your skills may be better put to use on another poor soul.”

He smirked. “But what if I insist on using it on you?”

She peered at him from beneath her lashes and he nearly reeled back in shock before he caught himself. She did not appear to be aware of it, but that simple glance was a masterpiece in artful seduction, heating his blood without much effort.

How the hell did she do that, Julian wondered to himself. Never before had someone managed to affect him with a simple glance. It was rather unnerving.

“In that case,” she said simply, her voice lowering almost to a purr. “You will find your efforts wasted.”

“We will never know unless I try.” He managed a crooked smile at her.

She let out a slight giggle, covering her mouth with a single gloved hand. “Are you a rake, My Lord?”

“A rake?” he scoffed. “Absolutely not!”

In response, she laughed outright, and he found himself leaning into the sound. In the darkness, it was as if her eyes glowed with mirth as her red lips curved into a bow.

“Not a very good one either,” she added with a slight smile, dealing yet another blow to his bruised ego.

How dare this slip of a girl make fun of him? However, Julian found himself enjoying this strange conversation immensely. It was hardly the exchange of words one expected as a prelude to less innocent dealings, but he found himself very much enticed.

Hooked. Snared. Unable to break free from the spell she must somehow have cast over him.

He stepped forward and she leaned back, her brow scrunching into the most adorable frown he had ever seen.

Frowning? Adorable? Julian thought he might have gone a little mad from being in her presence too long.

“I suggest you take a step back, My Lord,” she warned him.

He simply smiled as he reached out to her. “You… have something on your face.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” he murmured hoarsely, leaning in to brush his fingers over her cheek. The smoothness of her skin, the warmth of it, caused him to take in a sharp breath.

“Did you… manage to wipe it off?” she asked him softly.

He nodded as he placed his hand over hers on the stone railing. She was no longer leaning away from him and he was made intensely aware of just how delightful it was to be in such close proximity to this mysterious beauty.

Her warm breath fanned over his skin, heating his blood to distraction. A light fragrance wafted from her skin and her hair, sending delicate tendrils to wrap around his senses.

His hand trailed from her cheek down to her jaw as his gaze dropped to her lips—softly pink and luscious, they invited him for a taste.

Julian knew that he was playing with fire, but like the proverbial moth, he was inevitably drawn to her light and the scalding heat that flared brightly between them.

His hand slipped to the back of her neck, her gaze searing him as it met his. Vaguely, Julian was aware that he should not be doing this. At least not in the open where anyone may walk in on them and give this nameless beauty a good reason to trap him in matrimony.

He had known many men who had fallen prey to such schemes and vowed that he would never join in their ranks.

However, when his lips touched hers, his mind was soon emptied of all thought and logic. All that mattered to him was the woman in his arms and the fact that her fingers curled into his biceps, her soft lips opening up to his own.

He had seduced a great many women before. Why was he now feeling as if it was him currently adrift in such a stormy sea of passion?

Chapter Three

The first touch of his lips was like a spark to the kindling of her soul. When his lips moved upon hers in a torrid kiss that robbed her of all sense and logic, Evie felt as if she had just burst into flames right there on the balcony.

She was no longer Lady Evangeline Astor of Langley Manor, sister to the present Earl of Langley. No, she was a creature of pure flame and passion and this man—this stranger—was the one who stoked her fires most avidly.

Her very skin tingled, as if it craved even his slightest touch. When his hand wandered further down her back to her derrière, a strange hardness pressing against her belly, she let out a stunned gasp that was swallowed by the fierceness of his kiss.

“So magnificent,” she heard him murmur against her flushed cheek. “And I have not even beheld your face yet.”

Evie’s eyes fluttered close as his hand tugged at the ribbons behind her head that held her mask in place.

“I… I do not think you should do that,” she protested halfheartedly. “This is a masquerade, after all…”

His soft, low laugh trickled into her ears, the sound as rich and decadent as dark velvet.

“I should think that we are well past these trivial rules, my sweet,” he replied, voice dripping with amusement.

Evie had the distinct impression that this man before her was someone who did whatever he wanted and never considered the consequences. Was it recklessness that spurred his actions? Quite possibly.

Arrogance? Most certainly.

She had met enough men to know that those who dared were the ones who were either simply rash with not much thought left to echo in their skulls, or they could be extremely confident of their own capabilities.

Her present companion fit squarely into the latter category.

Moments later, she felt the cool evening breeze on her heated skin as he drew the mask away from her face, revealing her features to his gaze.

She slowly opened her eyes and saw him gazing upon her most intently. His eyes were dark, swirling with a deep hunger that struck a chord within her. It was thrilling in the darkest, most sensual way.

It was also rather jarring.

Evie sucked in a deep breath as the haze of desire dissipated. The spell he seemed to have cast over her lifted.

She shook her head as if to clear the last vestiges of the maze that clouded her thinking.

I must be going out of my mind, she thought to herself with dawning horror. To think that anyone could have walked in on them and raised such a ruckus. The resulting blow to her reputation would be nothing short of disastrous!

“No, no, no…” she groaned. “This is wrong.”

She did not even notice the dark frown that clouded his handsome features as she found the strength to finally push him away.

“What the—!” he burst out in surprise.

She did not even care that he seemed shocked by the sudden shift in her temperament.

He must be a rake, she reminded herself resolutely as she stumbled back into the brightly lit corridor, past the back rooms that she had thought to seek refuge in initially. The night was still young and there were still a few more hours to go before the first guests started to depart. He had more than enough time to find another lady who would willingly succumb to his advances.

And yet, the thought of it somehow incensed her for no good reason at all!

She must have been wearing an expression akin to that of a thundercloud in the middle of a bright, sunny day, for Alex’s brilliant smile immediately turned into one of worry the moment she spied Evie returning.

“Is something amiss, dearest?” she asked her cautiously, keeping her tone quiet so as not to attract the notice of gossips. She ran her keen gaze over Evie and frowned. “Did somebody—”

Evie shook her head vehemently. “No, nothing of that vile sort. I only happened to chance upon someone so dreadful that it has made the entire experience…” She trailed off when her gaze was drawn to a familiar figure walking into the ballroom.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he walked into the room with an air of self-assurance that was hard to imitate. His thick, dirty blond hair gleamed a dull gold under the light of the crystal chandelier. A slight smile curled at his lips as his eyes swept across the ballroom almost impassively.

“Has made the entire experience what, Evie?” Cathy asked her quietly, drawing her attention from the strange man who had made his appearance. Her friend followed the line of her gaze to the newcomer and her lips pressed into a grim line.

Evie merely offered her friend a halfhearted smile. “It has made the entire experience distasteful, that is all,” she managed to say.

“Oh, how simply awful!” Alex shook her head ruefully. “And I had thought a little misadventure might do you more good before your impending engagement.”

“Well, there is really no stopping the inevitable,” Evie sighed. “And it would matter very little whether I indulged in a dalliance before it does happen.”

Provided the Earl of Ripley showed up, of course, a snide voice added in her head. A pity, though, that I never got his name…

“I just hope that this Earl of yours lives up to the expectation your brother has been building up for the better part of the past few years,” Alex remarked dryly. “If I was in your place, I would have never agreed to it.”

Cathy playfully swatted at their friend with her fan. “Perhaps that is why your parents have become more exasperated with you as of late!” she chided, although there was not a single drop of rancor in her tone. “You mustn’t liken Evie to yourself—she is far more reasonable than you ever will be.”

“True,” Alex grinned. “But you both love me anyway.”

“It is not like we have any other choice,” Evie sighed in mock resignation.

“Hey!”

The three young ladies burst into a round of giggles as they fluttered their fans and turned their conversations once more to which gentleman was courting which lady, as well as which ones were to most likely meet with success in their most noble pursuits of acquiring a most suitable match before the end of the Season.

As Cathy and Alex traded notes on which gentlemen their mothers would most likely approve of, Evie could not help but wonder if she was missing out by having her brother arrange her marriage for her. Such had been the tradition in their family that she had never even thought to question it.

Based on her observation, most marriages in the ton—no matter how titillating their courtships had been, or how scandalous their dowries—had always been tempered by propriety.

At best, a married couple might live in some semblance of harmony, as her own parents had. There was no grand passion between them—at least, not in the way the books and poets had described it, but they had managed a more peaceful coexistence than most.

At worst, husband and wife would antagonize each other, as if to see which one would be more successful at pushing the other into an early grave. None of them so overt, of course, as it would be considered extremely vulgar to speak of such things outside the privacy of one’s own home.

Evie could only hope that her marriage with the Earl of Ripley would resemble that of her parents more than the latter. However, when she thought of how that stranger had approached her so boldly on the balcony, how he’d held and kissed her as if her very existence burned him, she could not help but long for more of the same.

How thoroughly exasperating, he would continue to affect me so when I know so little of him!

But perhaps, it was better this way—if she had known more about him, it would only make things more complicated and Evie very much liked order in her life. She was not as comfortable with the notion of taking risks as Alex was.

And she most certainly did not need a rake to upend her life and throw everything into chaos!

***

Julian felt his usual smile slipping as his gaze swept over the room once more and he failed to see the young lady he had met on the balcony. Had she already left the ball, then? It was much too early to abscond without drawing too much attention.

“Oh, there you are! We have been looking all over for you!” a boisterous voice exclaimed.

Julian inclined his head slightly to find a man with a most affable smile, his dark brown hair slightly tousled as if he could not have been bothered to run a brush through it prior to leaving his own residence. However, since he was the Viscount of Bastwick, Edmund walked with a certain immunity to whatever the gossips may say of him.

“I see you have found your way to Surrey as well, my friend,” he grinned at Edmund, raising his glass of wine slightly.

The Viscount affected a look of mock horror. “And miss all the entertainment of this Summer’s Festival?” He shook his head in sham disappointment. “I would have thought you knew me better than that.”

Julian smirked. Of course, there was the much-vaunted Summer Festival, when a great crowd would descend upon Surrey to join in on the festivities. Only the most fastidious of the ton would forgo the merriment of such an occasion.

It had also acquired a sort of infamy for gathering the most notorious rakes of London to the countryside.

“How could he ever forget that you would be well in your element?” Colin remarked with a snort. “But do keep away from Evie.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Edmund replied with a casual wave of his hand. “I would never dream of dallying with your sister. Heaven forbid if I should be forced to become in-laws with you.” He shuddered visibly at the thought and Julian let out a slight laugh.

Both men were well aware of Colin’s protectiveness when it came to his younger sister. With that, he firmly crossed off Lady Evangeline Astor—and all the trouble she might bring—off of his list for the summer.

Or anytime in the foreseeable future.

“And keep well away from her friends,” the Earl added with a slight frown. “Evie would never let me hear the end of it if she found out about it.”

The Viscount looked a little aggrieved at the prospect that some young ladies were apparently off-limits, but what was a small handful compared to the crush that would be descending upon the countryside in the next few days? He recovered his good spirits almost immediately.

Julian, however, merely snorted and sipped at his wine. He had already found for himself a far more interesting young lady with whom he might occupy his time in Surrey. The only issue was that he had not the faintest clue who she was.

But with the whole summer ahead of him, it was truly only a matter of time before he came across her once more. By that time, he would have more from her than just a stolen kiss.

Maybe he would have a name to go with it.

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 30th of March

Chapter One

1814

Eleanor Bennett stared at the opulent ballroom, filled with ladies and gentlemen of the ton in various masks and costumes. Behind her, her half-sisters all gathered as Greek muses, giggling amongst themselves. A quartet played a lively Scottish reel, and a set of country dances had formed in the center of the room.

“Do you suppose the Duke of Ravenscroft will be in attendance?” Isabel, her eldest half-sister at twenty, whispered. “Mama said he was certain to be present, but when I spoke with Lady Eliza, she said that although her mother had extended him an invitation, she thought him unlikely to accept.”

Eleanor did her best not to roll her eyes, though it was tempting. The Duke of Ravenscroft had expressed his intention of calling within the next few days, supposedly with the intention of choosing a wife from among the Bennett girls. Of course, although she was the eldest, Eleanor knew she would not be a part of this ‘honored’ ceremony. Ever since her father had died when she was just seven years old, she had been the bane of her stepmother’s life.

She supposed, in a way, she ought to be thankful that her stepmother had kept her fed and clothed, with a roof over her head. Considering that Mrs. Margaret Bennett had no love for Eleanor’s father, and even less for Eleanor herself, anything more would have been foolish to wish for.

Eleanor had a home, and she had the opportunity to accompany her half-sisters to this ball, which looked as though it would be the largest and most elaborate that Eleanor had ever been to.

Given she had few blessings to count, she made sure to count them all now.

Yes, she did not have a particularly flattering dress—the patterned muslin was from Isabel’s season last year, and it suited Isabel’s blonde curls far more than it did Eleanor’s brown tresses—but she was here.

And yes, perhaps she had little likelihood of dancing, but she had her pet mouse in her pocket—an infraction her stepmother would never forgive if she ever knew about it—and would be sure to have some company that way. Besides, the beauty of the ballroom alone made her feel as though she had stepped into Olympus itself.

“I think he will choose me,” Isabel was saying, fluttering her fan at her flushed cheeks. “After all, I am the eldest.”

“Only by a year,” Annabel, her second half-sister, snapped. “And you can’t be certain he won’t find me far more beautiful.”

“With your dark hair?” Isabel snorted. “I’ve heard he prefers blondes.”

“How would you know?” Mirabel, the youngest of them all at seventeen, asked with rounded eyes. Of all her half-sisters, Eleanor found Mirabel’s company the most palatable, and if it had not been for Isabel’s spite, she thought that perhaps the two of them might have been friends. “Have you ever spoken to him?”

“Men do not speak of their conquests to ladies,” Isabel said scornfully. “No, I heard it from Lady Eliza. She told me that a few years ago, when her sister first came out, he courted Lady Lydia.”

Eleanor had heard of Lady Lydia, one of the famed beauties of the ton. She had never spoken to the lady, which was hardly surprising; ladies such as Lydia did not spend time with maligned first daughters of a deceased gentleman.

“What happened?”

“Well, I don’t know the details, but he certainly isn’t married now,” Isabel smirked and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “But I would say that it displays his preference for blonde hair, do you not think?”

“Yes, but Lady Lydia is far more beautiful than you,” Annabel murmured, pursing her lips. “She looks like a doll.”

And you do not.

Isabel slapped her fan against Annabel’s arm. “As though he would be tempted to marry you, with your coarse hair.”

“Now, now, girls,” Margaret, Eleanor’s stepmother, said, coming up behind them like a mother eagle guarding her young. With her hooked nose and sharp eyes, the comparison seemed apt, but where eagles did not have the richest plumage, Margaret wore a gown of rich crimson and a nodding peacock feather in her headpiece. As always when she appeared out, she presented herself at her very best. “That’s no way to treat one another. The Duke shall choose a bride from amongst one of you, and I’m sure it could be any one of you.”

Any one of them, Eleanor thought.

That notion did not sting as much as she had once thought it might. To be sure, she was now three-and-twenty with no prospect of a husband, but she found she had little interest in the Duke. She, too, had heard rumors about the Duke of Ravenscroft—about his rakish ways. It didn’t matter that he was due to pay them a visit to choose a wife from among them. Everyone knew that he only courted a lady for a maximum of seven days before moving on to his next victim. Eleanor hardly knew why Isabel so desperately wanted to be yet another on a long list, or why she thought she should be any better.

Margaret turned piercing eyes on Eleanor, and her brows pinched in a frown. “Why are you just standing there? Fetch me a drink before I perish from this heat.”

“Yes, and for myself,” Isabel put in. “You know my constitution is so frail.”

In Eleanor’s estimation, Isabel had the constitution of an ox. With a robust figure and cheeks often ruddy from the heat and exertion, she seemed about as far from fainting as it was possible to get.

“Hurry,” Annabel said, glancing around the crowded room. “Before a gentleman asks us to dance. You do not need to worry about that.”

“We do not all wish to spend the rest of our lives on the shelf,” Isabel scoffed. 

Mirabel sent her a quiet, pitying look, but said nothing in her defense. As is usual. Eleanor knew better than to hope for Mirabel’s defense.

“At least you are wearing a mask so no one can connect you to us,” Isabel smirked. “I do so hate it when people think we are related, and I must explain that you are so much older and yet still unmarried.”

Annabel snorted. “Only because no one wants her.”

“Now then, girls.” Margaret held out a finger, although her lips twitched. “You must not be cruel to Eleanor. She is aware of her inadequacies already, no doubt. Are you not, Eleanor?”

Sometimes, at times like these, Eleanor dreamed of telling her half-sisters and stepmother what she really thought of them. Their pride, avarice, and selfish disdain for the feelings of others made them positively dislikable, even in the soft, golden lighting of a masquerade ball. Perhaps no gentleman would be inclined to dance with her, in her plain, unfashionable gown, but two minutes’ conversation with her half-sisters would be enough to put any gentleman off the very idea of matrimony.

But if she gave vent to her feelings, they would go out of their way to make her life even more unpleasant—and that was no easy feat. Better she hold her tongue than be consigned to her bedchamber for the next week.

“Yes, Stepmother,” she said. “I’ll find some lemonade.”

“Good.” With a wave of her hand, Margaret dismissed her, and Eleanor slipped into the crowd. Finding the table of refreshments meant pushing her way through the bodies, and by the time she emerged, drinks in hand, she felt as though she’d had quite enough for the evening.

Fortunately, her half-sisters were surrounded by a collection of young men and women, and after delivering the glasses in her hands, Eleanor was able to escape. She patted her pocket, ensuring her mouse, Scrunch, remained still curled up there, unscathed.

At least one of us is safe and protected, she thought, casting her gaze about the busy room. Making herself as small as possible, she prowled around the edge of the room, aiming for the stairs leading to the balcony on the second floor. There, perhaps, she would find some privacy and quiet. But before she made it very far, a face popped up in front of her.

“Hullo!” it chimed. Eleanor blinked, focusing, and a young lady with auburn ringlets and merry blue eyes came into view. She had a round, pretty face and a smile so wide, Eleanor half felt as though it could swallow the floor and everyone on it.

“…Hullo,” Eleanor replied.

“Oh, I am so glad to see another friendly face. Is it not such a large ball? I declare I’ve never been to one like it before.” She waved the elaborate silver mask in her hands. “Are you here as a shepherdess? I love your gown—so simple! Are you having fun? I am, although I’ve only danced two dances, and both times the gentlemen were dreadful bores.” She giggled, and although Eleanor had been looking forward to some quiet, she could not help smiling in return.

“Did you find their conversation lacking?” she asked.

“What conversation? I declare, I have never encountered a gentleman with so little of use to say. The first commented on the size of the ballroom and the number of couples present in the dance, as though I should have any concern for such things. Then, if you please, said nothing else the entire time. And the second gentleman—well, I ought to have known when he said I bore the same name as his favorite hound, that he was going to speak of nothing but hunting. I am convinced that he resents the frosts for chasing all company back to Town.” She took a heaving breath and smiled prettily at Eleanor. “Don’t mind me—Mama always says I talk far too much and ladies should be seen and not heard. But, well, when you think that the alternative is listening to gentlemen speak, I don’t think it’s so very bad after all.”

Eleanor found herself smiling at the other girl, oddly charmed by her excess of words and the freedom with which she spoke. It was so different from the atmosphere at home, and a welcome change. She envied that ease, just as much as she enjoyed seeing it on display.

“I would much rather hear you speak,” she agreed. “Tell me, what was the second gentleman’s favorite hound called?”

The girl laughed, her delight contagious. “Oh, forgive me, I forgot we aren’t acquainted! Mama and I lived in America for many years, and I’ve quite forgotten how reserved you English can be. You see, I saw you and thought that we should be friends, and then I spoke with you and felt as though we were already friends.” She held out her hand. “I am Miss Olivia Ashby, although you can call me Livvy. I do hope you will, because then we will feel like proper friends, and won’t that be delightful!”

Eleanor’s stomach gave a flip. Friends. For the longest time, Isabel and Annabel—and of course Margaret—had prevented her from forming any real friendships. Yet here was this girl, seemingly oblivious to the nastiness that surrounded her.

“Miss Eleanor Bennett,” she said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Lawks, are you one of those Bennett girls?”

“They are my half-sisters.”

“Half-sisters, hmm?” Olivia sharpened her eyes, then smiled. “Well, you don’t seem half so superior as them, if you don’t mind me saying.” She glanced around her. “Oh Lord, my mother is looking for me. If she has found another gentleman for me to dance with, I think I shall be done for. Wish me luck, Miss Eleanor.”

“Ella,” Eleanor corrected, feeling as though she had been spun about in a whirlwind, and not minding the sensation so much.

Olivia beamed. “Oh, we are going to be such good friends!” She kissed the air by Eleanor’s cheek, then melted into the crowd as though she had never been there at all.

A smile lingering on her face, Eleanor worked her way around the room until she found the stairs she had originally been aiming for. Mounting them, she found herself on a small landing that led to a balcony overlooking the ballroom. Large curtains hung from the ceiling, and if she tucked herself away, she thought she might go entirely unnoticed by the rest of the ball at large.

Down below, she caught a flash of red hair and grinned. There was Olivia, led into the latest dance by a tall, spindly gentleman. Eleanor wondered if she was speaking as avidly to him as she had to her, but by the way the girl’s shoulders slumped, she doubted it.

“Well,” she said to Scrunch, stroking his tiny form through the material of his dress. “I suppose it has been an interesting evening so far. And Miss Olivia was nice enough to think I came dressed as a shepherdess.” She tugged the plain mask over her face, concealing her features. “When, in truth, I didn’t come dressed as anything at all.”

Behind her, fresh air blew in from a pair of open doors, and she inhaled, relieved at the easing heat. A cool breeze brushed along her neck, pleasantly refreshing. Yes, this was the perfect place to remain for the duration of the night.

“See, it’s truly not so bad,” she said to Scrunch.

“Did you think it would be?” a deep voice asked from behind her.

Eleanor whirled, taking in the figure standing between her and escape. He was tall, dressed elegantly as, she supposed, King Charles I, a white mask over his face concealing all but his eyes and mouth. She noticed his mouth first, in part because of the way his lips curved into a smile at seeing her, and in part because the candlelight played across the dips and lines as intimately as a lover’s fingers.

She shook herself at the thought.

“Are you alone?” he asked, peering behind her. “Who were you speaking to?”

Instinctively, she cupped a hand over Scrunch in her pocket. “No one. Myself.”

He made no attempt to approach, merely surveyed her through the gloom. Now more than ever, she was glad she’d chosen to keep the mask over her face; it was the only thing standing between her and ruin.

“If you would allow me to pass,” she said, unwilling to approach him. “We should not be seen together.”

“Oh?” His fingers came to toy with the edge of his mask, feathered like a bird, but he made no attempt to remove it. “Because you are a lady and I am a gentleman? Fear not, shepherdess, you are safe with me. I am no wolf, here to prey on unsuspecting young ladies in search of some peace and quiet. In fact, I came here for the same.” He gestured to the other side of the balcony. “Do not feel as though you should leave for my presence. See, I shall remain here and you can remain where you are, and no one down there shall be any the wiser.”

If there was another place she could go where she might find some relief from the crowd, Eleanor would have been tempted to find it, but she could see nowhere else, and with the gentleman out of arm’s reach, she didn’t feel particularly unsafe.

“You had better stay where you are,” she warned.

He gave a mocking smile. “Your virtue is safe with me.”

She gave an unladylike snort, searching for her newfound friend amongst the dancers. It was not her virtue she feared for, but her reputation and her peace. Both, he threatened.

A few minutes passed in silence, during which time she felt his gaze upon her. Determined to ignore her unwelcome companion, she kept her own fixed on the crowd below, but his attention bored into the side of her neck.

“Why are you not dancing?” he asked, one elbow propped insouciantly on the balcony railing.

“No one has yet asked me.”

“I find it unusual that a young lady would wish to be here rather than below.”

She pursed her lips. “You have no idea whether I am young or not.”

“Am I wrong?”

“My sisters would not consider me young,” she said without thinking, then winced.

“Ah, so you have sisters?”

“You can stop attempting to discover my identity, good sir.” She adjusted her mask, ensuring it covered her entire face. “I have no wish to be known by you.”

“No?” His tone warmed, as though he was smiling, but she refused to look at him. If she did, she would no doubt notice his mouth again, and that was not what a proper young lady ought to do. “And why is that?”

“Because you are a shocking flirt.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “And you have come to that conclusion because I am avoiding the ballroom below just as yourself?”

“I am not so much of a greenhorn that I don’t recognize your rakish antics,” she said as primly as she could. “I realize you are attempting to seduce me.”

“Did I not say when I arrived that your virtue would be safe with me?”

“And that, sir, is exactly what a seducer would say.”

“I see. According to you, my character is a sad one. You are wrong, little shepherdess, but let me assure you now. If I had intended to seduce you, I would have succeeded already.”

For the first time, she turned to face him, noticing as she did so how very tall he was. His hair hung to his shoulders, dark in the dim lighting, and a certain gravel in his voice made her shiver. She felt suddenly as though he were a wolf and her a sheep, and although he had promised her safety, an unusual prickle of trepidation came over her… along with excitement. Nothing about him or this encounter ought to make her feel this anticipation in the base of her stomach, and yet she felt warm like never before.

“You think it would be so easy?” she demanded. “You seem very sure of yourself.”

“Why, that’s because I am.”

“You will not find me so readily persuadable.”

“Will I not?” He stepped closer, head tilting as he looked down at her. From this angle, he seemed overly grand, a man playing at being a god—and perhaps she was susceptible, because something inside her quivered at the thought of being so close to him. “You see, seduction is very simple if one knows what he is doing. All a man needs to do is make the object of his admiration feel as though she is the only lady he has ever seen.”

Eleanor folded her arms. “A ridiculous concept. I don’t believe you can do any such thing.”

“Oh, it’s not the work of a moment. Rather, several strung together. Proximity helps. And compliments, aimed at just the right level, tailored to each lady’s particular beauty. You, for example—I would tell you that you hold yourself with rare elegance, and that this mark, here”—he touched the mole near her collarbone, the flash of heat against her skin informing her that he wore no gloves—“is singularly compelling.”

Unsteadied by the sincerity in his voice, and from having a gentleman stand so very close and speak to her so familiarly, Eleanor could not move away. “That—that is all?” she stammered, digging her nails into her folded arms so she would not lose focus. “You must have been seducing weak-minded ladies indeed if that is all it takes to charm them.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps. But let us not forget the efficacy of a well-placed touch.” He reached out and took a curl in his fingers, letting the soft lock slide across his knuckle. She glanced down, watching, hypnotized despite herself. “And then, of course, the anticipation of what is to follow. A lady who has been kissed before may know that a kiss is forthcoming; she might look at me with shy hunger. Yes,” he breathed, tipping her chin up with his other hand. “Just like that, pretty shepherdess. Have you ever been kissed before?”

“N…no,” she whispered.

“Then you are a lucky girl that this is your first.” As he spoke, he bent his head, and as though she were in a dream, she allowed him this freedom, allowed him to slide his fingers through her hair and tilt her chin a little further, so his breath brushed across her lips. And then, after a pause, where she could have fled if she were so inclined—where she ought to have fled—he brought his mouth down to hers.

Chapter Two

A first kiss ought to be maidenly, Eleanor had always thought, although she had rarely given kissing much consideration. After all, until this stranger dressed as a former king, she had never encountered a gentleman so inclined to kiss her.

In fact, thanks to her stepmother, she had rarely encountered a gentleman who gave her a second glance compared to her younger and far better-dressed half-sisters. This was the way of things, and she had largely come to accept her place in the world—fighting it, after all, had never done her any good.

But as the man’s lips pressed against hers, she felt as though the walls around her life fell away. All this time, she had never given kissing any consideration, and yet it could feel like this.

Soft, warm. Her lower belly felt molten as his lips moved, opening her mouth and tilting her head so their kiss perfectly slotted together. He tugged her closer, until their bodies were flush, and her heart pounded in her chest. Her hands moved of their own volition, reaching up to slide into his hair. Long and thick and silky, so unlike her own and yet so similar, too. She had never encountered a man with long hair like this before. Roguish, like a pirate.

At the feel of her hands on him, he made a low sound in the back of his throat, and his tongue flicked across her lower lip. She stifled a gasp. The liquid feeling between her legs deepened into something approaching an ache as he repeated the gesture, then slid his tongue into her mouth. Hot. Wet. So very different from anything she could ever have imagined.

For several more heady seconds—or perhaps they were sunlit days—she lost herself to the intimacy of his touch. The hand at her chin slid down to her jaw, fingertips soft as they skated across her skin; his other hand found her waist, bowing her body against his, holding her steady when she felt as though her knees might buckle.

For years, she had been a stranger to desire. It had never held much of a place in her life. But today, it came upon her with a vengeance, and she—

She was kissing a stranger.

Kissing a stranger on the balcony of a public ball where anyone might see them.

To be sure, she doubted many would recognize her, but if any of her half-sisters were to discover this, they would out her immediately. Her reputation would be ruined. This, she had known when he approached her, so how had she allowed him to take such liberties with her?

“Stop,” she gasped, pushing at his chest. He immediately stepped back, his hold on her loosening as though she had shocked him.

Heavens, she ought to have shocked some sense into herself several minutes prior. The music still lilted around them, the dances below continuing as though nothing had happened, but the heat that coursed lazily through her body said otherwise. Her entire life had fundamentally changed, and she should not have allowed it to.

“How… how dare you,” she hissed, jabbing a finger at him. “You said my virtue would be safe with you!”

He looked down at her, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “And you said you had never before been kissed.”

“I was telling the truth.”

His smile widened. “Then I must have been a better teacher than I could have accounted for.” He gave a flourishing, mocking bow. “You are welcome, my shepherdess.”

“I am not your anything.” Gathering what remained of her dignity and courage, she pushed past him, fleeing back down the stairs and into the bulk of the crowd once more. Her face burned and tears stung her eyes, although she hardly knew why. It was hardly as though she knew his identity or even cared to know. This did not have to go further than a pleasant recollection in her most private moments.

Though she did not look up, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he dwelled in her thoughts for even a moment, she felt his gaze linger on her from the balcony above for the remainder of the night.

***

The next few days passed slowly, syrupy like melted sugar as Eleanor tried not to think of the man at the ball, and succeeded in thinking about little else. The way he had spoken to her, the way he had touched her, and the way he had kissed her.

The way she had allowed him.

No doubt he was precisely the kind of rake she had originally supposed him to be. And she had proven herself to be just like every other girl he had no doubt seduced. For him, it had been another conquest to add to his list, a notch in his belt, but it had been her first kiss.

Her first kiss had been with a man who cared nothing for her, and who did not know so much as her name.

And yet she could not stop thinking about the way it had felt. More than once, she had come back into herself to find she was running her fingers along her bottom lip, tracing the route his tongue had taken.

“Eleanor!”

Eleanor snapped up to find Isabel hanging over her. “Ah! Yes. I’m sorry. What was it you wanted?”

“Are you even listening to me? I need you to find the green ribbons for my hair. The Duke will be here in a matter of minutes, and I am not even remotely ready to receive him! And all you can do is sit there with a dazed look on your face.”

“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said mechanically. “I hadn’t intended to—” She cleared her throat. Enough thinking about the strange man. She would never see him again, anyway. “The green ribbon. Of course.”

“And my slippers,” Annabel cut in with an oily smile. “The silver ones. I must look my best.”

Eleanor glanced at the maids dealing with her half-sisters’ hair and clothes, both their shoulders hunched in case her sisters’ wrath turned on them instead.

Better she take it. After all, it hardly mattered what she wore, seeing as the Duke would not be arriving to look at her. And the maids suffered enough torment at Isabel and Annabel’s hands at the best of times.

“I don’t like the way you’ve done my hair, Betsy,” Isabel huffed, running her fingers through the unruly tumble of blonde curls. “Brush them out and start again. It should be more—” she hesitated, feigning nonchalance, “neat. Pinned higher, perhaps. Like Lady Lydia always wore hers… what did she call it? A Corinthian chignon?”

A knock sounded at the door, and Margaret stepped inside. “Oh, my darlings,” she said effusively, touching the top of both Isabel and Annabel’s heads. “You both look so very beautiful.”

“Eleanor!” Isabel snapped. “The ribbons! And I also require rouge for my cheeks.”

“Nonsense, my darling.” Margaret held up a hand at Eleanor, stilling her. “You don’t need any cosmetic help. Better he see how fresh-faced and beautiful you are. And that goes for you, too, Annabel. I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong impression of your virtue. Young ladies do not need the help of such practices.” She pinched Isabel’s cheeks. “There now. What more could you possibly need?”

Privately, Eleanor didn’t think the Duke would care too much about the virtue of his future bride. At least, perhaps he would when he actually intended on marrying, but she doubted very much this was the case here and now. And certainly not with her half-sisters.

“As for you,” Margaret said, turning disdainfully to Eleanor. “I assume you know the purpose of the Duke’s visit?”

Eleanor ducked her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you know he is arriving intending to marry one of my three girls. The eldest two, most likely. I hardly think it necessary that you put in an appearance, especially given you are past a desirable marriageable age, especially when compared with dear Isabel.”

Three years hardly made all that much of a difference. But as Eleanor had no interest in the Duke or his escapades, she merely shrugged. “As you say.”

“Such an uncouth gesture. You ought to know better than that. Now, go and see to Mirabel to make sure she is presentable. I suspect she harbors some hope that the Duke might glance her way too.” She waved a hand, dismissing Eleanor. Sensing an opportunity for escape, Eleanor curtsied before scurrying for the door, moving to Mirabel’s smaller bedchamber. The younger girl looked up with a wan smile.

“Oh, Ella! I thought it was Mama here again.”

“Just me,” Eleanor smiled secretly. “Would you like me to do your hair?”

“Mama… Mama said I should wear your pearls,” Mirabel said hesitantly.

An unexpected stab of pain choked Eleanor, and she placed a hand against her heart. Her pearls were the only possessions she had of her mother’s—the one thing Margaret could not take away from her. Except, now, she was attempting to do just that. And the only reason Isabel or Annabel hadn’t already demanded it was because they had nicer jewels to their name.

Mirabel chewed on her lip. “I promise to give them back as soon as he leaves.”

“It’s—” Eleanor took a breath. This was nothing new, and she could endure just as she had before. Better, in fact, because she had something none of her half-sisters knew of: a secret. She had the strange man’s kiss lingering on her lips even now, proof that someone at least had thought her worthy of something, no matter how wrong it might have been. “It’s fine,” she finally said, forcing a smile. “I shall go and retrieve them from my room.”

“Thank you.”

As Eleanor fetched the pearls and placed them on her half-sister’s throat, fastening them and stepping back, she forced all unhappy feelings away. Perhaps she had hoped to wear the pearls herself, perhaps even to her own wedding, but that had always been a foolish dream. And, of all her half-sisters, she had rather Mirabel wore them. After all, now there was at least a chance of getting them back.

“Let me help you with your hair,” Eleanor said, knowing it was her duty. The other maids were too preoccupied with the older girls.

A fist pounded on the door just as Eleanor finished pinning Mirabel’s dark curls behind her head. “Come on, Mira!” Annabel called. “The Duke is here! Come downstairs to greet him.”

Eleanor gave Mirabel’s shoulder a reassuring pat. “You go, now. I’ll stay here.”

It was a testament to the usual way of things that Mirabel put up no argument as she hurried excitedly to the door. Once it closed behind her, Eleanor peered out of the window at the street below. There, a carriage was sitting beside their front door, and she saw a man emerge from it, a top hat on his head, obscuring the rest of his body. From this angle, she could see little of him, but she didn’t care, turning away and clicking her tongue. Now, at least, she would have some time to sit and read some romantic stories to Scrunch.

“Right?” she asked, patting the pocket where she kept him.

Her hand encountered air, and her stomach dropped.

No…

Surely she could not have lost Scrunch. If someone else discovered him, there would be hell to pay! They would bring up the cat from the kitchens to find her dear pet and dispose of him. No one would care that he was all the company she had in the world—they did not care about anything she owned, and especially not a mouse.

She had to find him, and quick, before her half-sisters did.

Or worse, the Duke. If he were to find her darling mouse, all would be lost!

Chapter Three

Sebastian Fairmont, the Duke of Ravenscroft, adjusted the pin in his cravat as he stared down the modest facade of the Bennett household. Beside him, the stick of a solicitor he’d brought to accompany him sniffed.

“You cannot delay the inevitable forever, Your Grace,” Mr. Pratt intoned.

Sebastian sighed. “And you are certain I must choose a bride from among these girls?”

“If you wish to access the portion of your inheritance your father locked behind this clause, yes. It must be a daughter from the former Mr. Thomas Bennett. You know your father was particularly close to the man and wished, above all, to someday bind the families.”

Sebastian knew, and it did not improve his mood one jot. If he could have his way, he would have chosen to remain a bachelor forever. Marriage sounded disagreeable, a lifelong contract he could not escape, and its only advantage was granting him access to the fortune he very much needed. Still, he had a plan, despite his father’s and Pratt’s meddling: nothing in the agreement stated he had to remain married to his wife.

“Well then,” he muttered, biting his tongue at all the unpleasant things he could have said. Much as he disliked this beanpole of a man, whose very voice reminded him of dusty schoolbooks he’d spent his education avoiding, this predicament was not entirely his fault. “Ring the bell, and let’s get this over with.”

Mr. Pratt sniffed again, but did as he was bid, and the butler immediately opened the door, welcoming the pair into the house with a jocund smile that made Sebastian feel somewhat queasy. Nothing else about the place eased that initial feeling; the décor could only be described as fussy, and as Mrs. Bennett descended on him doused in headache-inducing perfume, he had an early sense of how the visit would go.

“Your Grace,” she said, sinking into a deep curtsy. “Please, do come this way.” She led the way to the drawing room—also decorated with an inordinate number of frills—and waved a hand at the three young ladies gathered there. “These are my three darling daughters. Miss Isabel, Annabel and Mirabel Bennett.”

All three curtsied. They were, at first glance, not displeasing to the eye, but there was also nothing particularly taking about them. Certainly, he’d had far prettier girls vying for his attention before now.

“Oh, Your Grace,” the eldest said in a nasal voice that grated across his ears. Isabel, he presumed. Any thoughts of her attractiveness went out of his head immediately. “It’s such an honor to welcome you to our household. We do hope you’ll enjoy your time here. My, how handsome you are.” She giggled, whipping out a fan with more aggression than grace, and fanning herself.

“Izzy!” the darker-haired sister beside her said sharply. “Lawks, you cannot tell a gentleman to his face that he is handsome.”

“I hardly see why not, Anna, when it is perfectly true.”

The youngest gave him a toothy smile. Of the three, she seemed the least offensive, but even for London, she seemed a trifle young. Barely out of the schoolroom. “Your Grace,” she lilted, and perhaps he was imagining the youthful lisp, but the sound of it made him perilously close to running from the room. “Please excuse my sisters.”

“Youthful exuberance, I assure you,” Mrs. Bennett laughed nervously, casting the girls a look of such fierce rebuke that all three stilled. The eldest flushed like a tomato.

The fire, lit despite the fact it was May and far too hot for such things, began to smoke.

Heavens. He could not endure this a moment longer.

“This… is Mr. Pratt,” he said slowly, gesturing at his solicitor who loomed over them all like a giant spider. “Allow him to keep you company for a few moments, ladies. I require the washroom.” He glanced at a footman who detached himself from the wall with surprising alacrity.

“Of course, Your Grace. This way.”

Patting Pratt on the shoulder with a grim smile, Sebastian left him to deal with the girls’ crass behavior and ill-timed flirtatiousness. To think that his father wished him to shackle himself to one of those girls. Could this have been a punishment from beyond the grave?

No. At the time of his death, his father had not known what kind of man Sebastian had become. His father could have not known enough to be disappointed.

After spending a moment too long in washing his face in the small washroom, as if an extra splash of water might rinse away his predicament—it did not—he raked a hand through his damp hair and stepped back into the corridor, setting his course for the drawing room.

He never made it.

A blur of movement shot past him—no, into him—knocking against his shoulder with enough force to send him stumbling back. Instinct overrode surprise. His hands found purchase, gripping slim shoulders, steadying the wayward figure before him.

Dark curls framed a face—soft, heart-shaped, with a chin lifted in defiance or determination. The dim light obscured details, but it hardly mattered. His gaze caught on the blue-gray eyes, wide with something between surprise and terror. Then his attention dipped to her mouth.

Soft lips. He knew the shape of them.

After all, he’d had them pressed against his, not all that long ago.

She stared up at him, dawning horror in her face as she, too, came to the same conclusion. In a quick, nervous movement, she clamped a hand against her mouth and stepped back, angling her body from his as though attempting to hide something from him. Perhaps her entire identity.

“So, little shepherdess,” he smirked wolfishly, releasing her shoulders. “We meet again.”

That full mouth of hers fell open with a pop. “Y-your Grace?”

“The very same. But the question is… who are you?”

“I—” She glanced in the direction of the drawing room. “What are you doing here?”

“In this house?” He raised a brow. “Were you not informed of my call?”

“Yes, I—” She flushed and looked away again. She appeared different here, with her face fully revealed. Shyer. The freckles across her nose and cheeks made her appear younger than he suspected she was. “I had expected you to be in the drawing room,” she finished stiffly.

“Ah. As it happens, I was just returning.” He nodded to the door, which was now opening. Mrs. Bennett appeared in the doorway, her face pinched and sour. Once, perhaps, she might have been pretty, but that had long gone now. “Mrs. Bennett!” he said with a pleasant grin. “I’ve just had the fortune of encountering your fourth daughter.”

Mrs. Bennett gave a false smile. “You are mistaken, Your Grace. She is the daughter of my late husband, Miss Eleanor Bennett.”

Miss Eleanor Bennett curtsied, her head bowed low. He wondered briefly if she was worried he would reveal all about their kiss, and he smirked. If she thought he was in the habit of revealing his rendezvous, she was very much mistaken. “Your Grace,” she murmured.

“I believe Miss Eleanor is feeling a little under the weather,” Mrs. Bennett said. “Is that not right, Eleanor?”

“I—” the girl stuttered.

Sebastian looked at her again, the way her hands were clasped in front of her, and the way her shoulders hunched. “Miss Eleanor…” he mused. The name didn’t sound familiar to him, and he thought he knew all the notable young ladies of the ton. “Are you often ill, Miss Bennett? I don’t recall seeing you before.”

She sent him a speaking, blushing glance before looking at her feet once more. “No, Your Grace,” she mumbled.

“Come back inside, Your Grace.” Mrs. Bennett beckoned to the drawing room. “Isabel—my oldest, if you recall—would so like to play something for you on the pianoforte. She is thought to be a rare talent.”

Isabel simpered, and Sebastian knew for certain that a life with this woman would be intolerable. She would constantly be vying for his attention, and she would no doubt irritate him until he provided it.

Unless…

He glanced again at Miss Eleanor, who appeared to be trying to merge with the wallpaper.

An invisible lady.

One who appeared entirely uncomfortable with any attention, and who had escaped a ballroom so she might be alone instead of dancing.

If he had to marry, he would prefer his wife to be someone silent and docile, who would allow him to live his separate life with little interference.

Following Mrs. Bennett’s directions for now, he stepped back inside the drawing room, taking a seat and enduring the mediocre performance offered to him. Miss Eleanor Bennett made no other appearance, and he wondered at that, too. Why she had not been involved, and why she had not been invited to join them even after their introduction.

All the more intriguing.

“Well, Your Grace?” Mrs. Bennett said as her three daughters preened behind her. “Have you made up your mind which of my three daughters you wish to marry?”

Sebastian didn’t so much as blink at the veiled suggestion behind her words, and the less-than-subtle emphasis she placed on three. “You flatter me,” he said, giving her a winning smile. “I hardly know how I could make a choice such as this so soon. Would you be amenable to a promenade tomorrow so I might better acquaint myself with the Bennett girls?” He paused, letting his words settle before adding, “All four of them.”

Irritation flitted across Mrs. Bennett’s face before she replaced the expression with another smile, this one a good deal faker than the last. “Why, of course, Your Grace. Though I don’t see the need for Eleanor to be there. You saw the poor girl yourself. She hardly has any social skills to speak of, and we are not expecting that you will favor her with your hand in marriage when she would be so unsuitable as a wife.”

How ironic that you consider your unfavorable brats as better prospects, he thought grimly, and rose to leave. “I insist. It would hardly be fair of me to exclude any one of the Bennett girls when my father asked me to select a bride from amongst them.” He inclined his head. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Mrs. Bennett dropped into a curtsy. “Until tomorrow, Your Grace.”

***

Sebastian knew how to make himself agreeable—in fact, it was one of the things he had spent the past decade doing—and as he promenaded through Hyde Park with a Bennett girl on either side of him, he went out of his way to charm them.

Each, particularly the two eldest, proved themselves delighted with his attentions, talking over one another in an attempt to secure his praises. The third sister walked beside the second—he could not, for the life of him, remember their names, though it hardly mattered—and Miss Eleanor Bennett followed a few paces behind. That was the position her stepmother had commanded she take, and she hadn’t demurred even for a moment.

Although he outwardly appeared to be flirting heartily with the elder Miss Bennetts, he had his attention fixed on the oldest. Just as he had suspected at the house, she appeared shy, not venturing forth so much as a word, and accepting the muttered criticisms of her stepmother with an air of resignation.

Fascinating.

It was precisely what he had been looking for: a lady who would bow to his every command. One who would inevitably fold and agree to end a marriage between them. Not one of these social climbers by his elbow, seeking to be the wife of a Duke, irrespective of whether they felt desired or accepted.

“What do you think, Your Grace?” Annabel asked, fluttering her eyelashes and glancing up at him with such a cloying expression of adoration that he briefly contemplated throwing himself into the Serpentine to see whether she might show a hint of any true emotion. 

“I think whatever you think must be right,” he instead smiled, and she giggled, accepting his compliment at face value without considering that he had not been listening to a word she had been saying for the past five minutes.

“I don’t know why His Grace required you to be here, but you are not to speak with him unless spoken to,” Mrs. Bennett scolded Miss Eleanor under her breath. “And do not so much as look at him unless absolutely necessary. You must do nothing to put him off marrying one of your half-sisters.”

“Yes, Stepmother.”

“And stop fidgeting. For heaven’s sake, girl, did no one ever teach you any manners?”

Given he’d had his solicitor give her the family’s history, Sebastian knew for a fact that if anyone had been responsible for teaching the girl manners, it would have been the current Mrs. Bennett, who had married Mr. Bennett when Miss Eleanor was just two years of age.

The girl, however, did not mention this fact, and remained mute.

She truly was perfect for his grand plan. So effortlessly cowed, she would be easy to intimidate, and very little trouble. After all, he had more than enough experience in pushing people away. His bride would not be the first; nor would she be the last.

“I believe we’ve promenaded enough for one afternoon,” he said, guiding the two sisters on his arm in a circle, back toward his waiting carriage.

Mrs. Bennett hurried forward, leaving Miss Eleanor behind to follow at a more measured pace. “Have you decided, Your Grace?”

He smiled to himself. It was often said that he delighted in causing mischief and mayhem. Perhaps that was not always true, but today it most certainly was. “I have indeed,” he said. “But I wish to declare myself properly, and not in public, if you please.”

Mrs. Bennett flushed with pleasure, exchanging a speaking look with her eldest daughter. “Of course. Let us hurry and return. Come, Eleanor. Don’t hold us up.”

Sebastian kept up his flow of easy conversation, made harder because of his companions, until they finally reached the Bennetts’ household. Once in the drawing room, he removed his hat and gave them all a benevolent smile.

Now to set the cat among the pigeons.

“As you know,” he began, “my father asked me to find a bride from amongst Mr. Bennett’s daughters, and after some consideration, I believe I know whom it is I would like to marry.” He glanced across their faces until he found Miss Eleanor attempting to sneak from the room. “Miss Eleanor Bennett, there you are. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 18th of February!