Chapter One

London,

February 1816

“Must we go, Aunt?” Miranda, the sole daughter of Duke Rochdale asked, gazing dispassionately out the window as the carriage trundled to Westminster.

“Yes,” Lady Louisa Blakely said stiffly, her fan fluttering. A thin, silver-haired woman, the jet beads on the dowager’s turban quivered the more she fanned herself. “I saw through your chicanery earlier, doing anything and everything to stay away.”

“I truly was ill!”

“No, you were not,” her aunt cut in. “Between feigning a headache, a stomachache, claiming your good dresses were musty, then trying to say you could not attend as the hero in the book you were reading died a horrible death, and you must mourn him, I have become wise to your trickery.”

“He did,” Miranda grumbled, folding her arms.

“Unfortunate fictional deaths aside, this ball is essential,” her aunt added. “This is your fourth season, Miranda, and while I know you would rather be at home, reading over one of your botany journals, tinkering with seeds and soil, or that confounded ambition of yours to write a book…

You must marry. At two and twenty, you are nearing the dreaded Shelf. It matters not if you are a duke’s daughter. All young women of good lineage need a husband.”

“I agree,” Miranda replied placidly. “But not a husband who cares not for me, but more for getting into my father’s coffers. Unsurprisingly, all of the lords who offered marriage were fortune hunters and ne’er-do-wells in the guise of level headed lords.”

While speaking, she felt the carriage turn off into the long stretch of private road to St James’s Park, heading towards Carlton House, the Regent’s home.

“Nevertheless, there must be a lord in Town that is suitable,” the motions of Aunt Louisa’s fans sped up as she tutted. “And this Season will be the one you must marry. And I must make sure it is so, for it is what my sister wanted for you.”

Desperate to change the subject, Miranda asked, “Where is Sam this evening? I thought he would be traveling with us.”

“My son will be attending tonight,” Aunt Louisa replied. “He explained that he would be handling some business in town, but vowed to attend soon after he was finished. He, unlike you, is one that is not hard-pressed to do what must be done. I—”

The carriage lurched to the side, the jarring shift shunting Lady Louisa to the other side of the carriage and she barely slapped a hand on the wall to stop herself from crashing into it. Even though Miranda was seated in the corner, the sudden tip had her flailing, fearing the carriage would end up on its side—but luckily it didn’t. It was only slanted.

“Dear God,” Aunt Louisa gasped while rightening herself and fixing the fichu at her neck. “What on earth happened?”

Shifting the window screen, Miranda gazed out and grimaced. “The wheel is in a pothole, Aunt. I cannot see clearly because of the mist and gloom, but it seems to be a very narrow ditch.”

 “Oh dear. We need to get to the Ball,” Louisa huffed. “Wilbur needs to get us back on the road.” Sticking her head around the window, she called out, “Wilbur, don’t just sit there, do something! It is of utmost importance we attend this ball post-haste.”

“I will try, my lady,” a voice came from the front, shortly followed by the snap of a whip.

The crack on the horse’s back made Miranda jump and her heart sank. “Must he do that to the grays?”

“God said, let man have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the heavens, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth,” Aunt Louisa quoted Genesis. “They’re horses, Miranda.”

Miranda’s rebuttal was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit down; she and her aunt had had this argument dozens of times before, and it had never worked out in her favor.

“If you say so, Aunt,” she mumbled under her breath instead. “…Except they’re living things like you and me.”

Her aunt ignored her and called to Wilbur once more, and the man lashed the horses harder. The carriage lurched once but eventually settled back into the rut.

Uneasy, Miranda wondered if there was any way she could call for help, or if there was anyone around to help. She knew she could not act on the first idea but did not feel easy if Wilbur left to find help, leaving only one footman with them.

Gazing out the window, she began to wonder what to do—when a shadowed form appeared through the mist. The man was tall, and from the form, looked to be wearing a Great Hat and billowing coat. Her pounding heart did not settle as she knew it was easy for blackguards to imitate gentlemen.

As he reached closer, she saw the jacket under the coat had swallowtails, fit for a formal dinner. He approached Wilbur, and though his voice was low and rumbling, she heard him say, “Sirrah, I implore you, do not whip the horses. I will help you get out of the rut. Hold fast, the wheel will be an easy fix.”

She gripped the window as the strange man went off to the bushes and returned with a stout stick. He neared her window and as he tipped his hat up and crouched, she saw a flash of vivid, almost icy blue eyes, the strong slant of his cheekbones, and the chiseled jut of his jaw.

He’s handsome, but have I ever seen him before?

“What is the coachman doing?” Louisa huffed, her dark eyes narrowing.

Miranda, however, had her eyes on the stranger. She spotted the ink black of his coat that merged with his overlong hair but could not see much more than that. She knew he was jostling the stick, but where…

He finally pulled away. “Try now.”

Her aunt jerked, “Who is that man?”

“I don’t kn—” The carriage jerked once, twice… and then miraculously, it pulled free. Whatever that man had done, worked. “—know who he is.”

She opened the window, hoping to see the man and thank him—but he was gone, vanished into the mist and shadow. She blinked; had he been there at all?

Settling back in her seat, she made to remember the handsome man’s eyes, his coat, and the cut of his jacket. If the man was attending a party, and if he was on this road, chances were he was heading to the Regent’s ball. Hopefully, she would find him there and thank him.

The carriage hurried on and Miranda kept an eye on the road for the strange man but did not see him, and so eventually sagged against the seat until the carriage turned to enter a stately drive.

She shuffled closer to the carriage window to gain a new vantage as the wheels crunched over granite gravel. After a few minutes, a wide-open space appeared. Flat, immaculate lawns rolled in all directions from an enormous, gray brick home.

 Double wings disappeared behind the main hall, and while it was dark, the gas lamps spotted Corinthian columns of a large foyer—its elaborateness stunned her. The home was obviously used not only for entertainment, but for impressing dignitaries as well.

She gazed at the façade as the carriage came to a gentle stop in front of arched double mahogany doors. The footman, alighting from the driver’s seat, let the steps down and she exited. Then he extended his hand to assist her aunt.

While smoothing her gown, her aunt handed the invitations over and after checking, the man led them inside. Every bit of glimmering marble, metal, and mirror showed the Prince Regent’s extravagance and his propensity to indulge in the finest things available.

“There is Earl Westport,” her aunt nodded subtly to the gentleman, “Rumor has it that he gained a windfall investing in the merchant ships.”

“He is also a hardened rakehell,” Miranda took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter while glancing around the room; there was no sign of the man who had come to their aid. “No, thank you. I would rather not deal with such heartache.”

“Allegedly.”

She spotted a few of the lords’ gazes resting on her and she wondered if it was because of the off-white gown she wore or if—as on every occasion that she stepped into public—it was because she was a duke’s daughter.

 “I trust the Prince Regent to have invited the crème-de-la-crème of the ton,” Louisa said, her fan making a reappearance. “Surely there must be an interested and venerable suitor here.”

If the other four seasons have proven right, there will be, but their eyes will be on my dowry, not me.

Instead of meeting the gazes of the lords who beheld her, she tried to find the man with the cutting blue eyes—but he was not here.

Oddly, her heart sank with disappointment.

Ladies and gentlemen in the latest fashions paraded around, jewels flashing as they waded around the lobby’s vast hallways, while the staff, their liveries crisp and attractive, rushed to and fro with refreshments.

The butler cleared his throat, “We’ll be entering the ballroom shortly.”

While the ladies and lords descended to the ballroom, Miranda paid little attention to the names being called, in favor of looking at faces.

When it was her turn, she descended the stairs and heard the butler announce, “Presenting, the Lady Miranda Wakefield, daughter of Duke Rochdale, and her aunt, Lady Blakely.”

She stepped down to allow the others behind her, finally giving up on seeing the strange man again, and fixed her mind instead on how to navigate the slew of lords that she knew would approach her.

“Presenting, His Grace, the Duke of Redbourne, Dorian Greaves, and his sister, Lady Evelyn Greaves,” the butler announced.

Mildly curious, she turned to the landing—and the glass in her hand nearly slipped from her grip.

It was him!

The man who had rescued her carriage.

Tall and broad-shouldered, the duke’s dark hair and arresting features struck a chord inside her. His fierce blue eyes were like shards of sapphire under slashing brows, and sculpted cheekbones hinted at an exotic influence in his lineage. The candles and gas lamps kissed the chiseled contours of his face, the firm lines adding to his masculine attractiveness.

His expression was unreadable, but a tiny knit to his brows still stayed.

With a knot in the middle of her throat, she admired the silver-gray waistcoat and charcoal trousers fitted superbly to his virile form. A sapphire stick pin winked in the folds of his cravat, as glittering as his eyes.

She peeled her eyes from his form to look at the lady near him; she was petite and short, with soft strawberry blond hair curling down her shoulders, framing green eyes that looked sedate.

“It’s him,” she whispered.

“Lady Miranda,” the hostess, Dowager Applewhite, the most profligate rumormonger of the ton, greeted her. “I am so delighted to see you.”

Fixing her attention back to her surroundings and curtsying, Miranda replied, “As am I, my lady. Is His Royal Highness attending tonight? I would like to pass on my father’s greetings.”

“Sadly, his highness has been called away tonight, but I will be glad to pass them on for you,” the lady replied, then looked over her shoulder, a bright smile on her face while her tone dropped to fawning. “Your Grace, so lovely to see you. May I introduce Lady Miranda Wakefield, daughter of—”

“Duke Rochdale,” the duke murmured, “I heard.”

Miranda’s skin prickled as the duke’s gaze roved over her; his icy, intense eyes seemed to undo her layer by layer. Palpitations gripped her heart. No one had ever looked at her this way before, had ever made her feel this… bare.

Shaking off the troubled sensation, she tipped her head back to meet his gaze as he dwarfed her by nearly a foot. Carefully, she curtsied. “Your Grace.”

He inclined his head. “My lady. I hope you arrived without any more trouble.”

“We did,” she replied, ignoring the way the Dowager’s eyes flitted between her and the duke. “Thank you for coming to our timely need.”

Looking over her shoulder, he stated, “Your aunt is approaching.”

Turning, Miranda prayed her aunt would not do anything to embarrass her and hoped she would not say anything to make it look as if she and the duke had interacted before the worst gossip in Town.

“Your Grace,” her aunt curtsied.

“My lady,” he bowed.

When she held out her hand, the duke took it and kissed the translucent, veined skin above her large pearl ring. Miranda caught the moment her aunt’s face twisted and her heart pounded in panic.

“Aunt—”

“Your hands,” Aunt Louisa said, her brows furrowing. “Why are they so callused? God forbid, please tell me you are not… employed!”

God in heaven.

Miranda suddenly prayed the floor would open up right then and swallow her whole.

 

Chapter Two

Unfazed by the lady’s inappropriate comment, Dorian let the insult roll over him like water on a duck’s back. He explained, “I fence, my lady.”

“Oh.” Relief washed over the lady’s face, the jet beads on her turban quivering as she nodded at something he’d said. “My apologies, Your Grace. I did not mean any disrespect.”

No, I am sure you only meant that the thought of a noble working with his hands is as disgraceful as a harlot becoming a lady.

The younger Miss was red to the tips of her ears, temptingly so. The coral silk evening gown she wore hugged her curves and complemented her softly coiffed auburn hair. The firm, rounded tops of her breasts seemed to quiver in embarrassment… or relief?

He did not know, nor did he care that much; he was not there to attend to little Misses or their fawning aunts—all he needed was to find a suitable match for Evelyn.

As the newest—and most elusive—duke in London, he knew that dozens of ladies had their hats set on him; if only he was marriage-minded. If fate dictated so, he would happily settle for a marriage of convenience where the lady stayed out of his way and he out of hers.

“Please, excuse me,” he bowed, unwilling to stay in a conversation that did not profit him much.

She is likely just as conceited and classist as her aunt.

“Your Grace, please—” she stopped him three long paces away. Her lips were pressed tight, painful horror spreading across her face.

Objectively, he could admire her as a beautiful woman, softly rounded cheeks tapered to a piquant little chin, wide moss-green eyes, and a delicate bone structure. Her lips, rosy and full, parted on a breath, and he noted the bottom one had an inviting divot at its center.

“—before you go, I must apologize for my aunt,” she let out a breath. “She is very… opinionated. I hope you do not think she meant to insult you.”

“A lot has been said of me over the years,” Dorian murmured, genially sliding one hand into his pocket “But the calluses on my hands are nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I am sure they aren’t,” Miranda replied tightly. “I have always held it that the most disgraceful thing one can do is to rule by proxy.”

“Have you now…” Dorian said evenly, absently curious to find out what she meant. “And have you ever stepped foot inside parliament?”

She blinked. “Well, no, but… it is simply judicious.”

“And what about outside of parliament, hm?” he asked, his tone slightly mocking. “Do you expect a lord to labor with the common folk?”

Flustered, Lady Miranda replied, “Erm, why not? It could set a precedent.”

“It could start a scandal,” he retorted, suddenly finding himself dually amused and irritated by her ingenuousness. “You are very idealistic, my lady. And naïve.”

She lifted her chin, “I don’t see why having hope for the better is naïve.”

“In this Town, it is,” he finished. “Please excuse me.”

Again, she stopped him, “But wouldn’t you like to have a spirited conversation.”

“I would,” he muttered, and hope birthed anew in her visage—only to get crushed when he added, “But not with a spoiled little Miss wearing rose-tinted spectacles while viewing the world. Now, I must get back to my sister.”

 Striding away, he searched the room with one sweep of his eyes and spotted Evelyn speaking to two ladies, twins by the look of it. He ground his teeth, hoping these women wouldn’t be pandering to her to get to him.

“Evelyn,” he called to her while the two turned. “May I have a word.”

“Sure,” his sister smiled up at him. “But before that, Ladies Eugene and Euphemia, may I introduce you to my brother, Dorian Greaves, Duke of Redbourne.”

As he predicted—and feared—the women turned into simpering piles of panderers in mounds of silk. They curtsied, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”

He bowed, “My ladies.”

“I am dearly honored to be one of the first to meet the most elusive duke in London,” Euphemia smiled seductively. “I think I would make headlines if I were also one of the select few to make a turn around the room with you.”

His brow ticked up, “I am not here to dance, my lady.”

“Such a shame,” her shoulders slumped. “I do hope you change your mind.”

Ladies and light-skirts alike swarmed him, and he took care to avoid being near them, conscious that these rumor rags made fortunes off his supposed exploits and consequences. The only females he avoided the most were the marriage-minded Misses.

“Would you please excuse us.”

The two shared a look before curtsying again and walking off, and as Evelyn made to speak, he lifted a hand, “I know what you were up to, aiming to introduce me to well-intentioned, nice young ladies. But need I remind you, we are here to get you married, not me.”

Evelyn’s eyes lit up suddenly. “Well, on the topic of marriage, I have been thinking about you.”

“Me?” Dorian looked over her shoulder at the woman who seemed to be wearing a whole peacock on top of her head, the perilous tilt of brown and black feathers.

“Yes,” she smiled at a group of ladies passing them. “You do know that you must eventually marry. You are the one to carry on the family name, after all.”

“You can do the same,” he put in while spying a few lords looking his sister’s way.

Spluttering, Evelyn replied, “By immaculate conception?”

Eyeing his sister gravely, he added, “I am fine where I am now, but you are one-and-twenty. I do not want you to face the Shelf, Evie.”

“It is my first Season,” she beamed, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Surely I am not facing spinsterhood anytime soon.”

“Not at all if I have anything to do with it.”

“Can you at least try and enjoy yourself tonight? I have counted no less than twelve ladies looking at you, trying to get your attention.”

“Well, I have no intention of giving it.”

An elegantly dressed man, slender, tall, with blond hair styled perfectly, approached them then. His face was handsome, with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. Clad in shades of gray and silver piping, he bowed.

 “Your Grace, I apologize for the impolite interruption. I am Sam Blakely; Marquess of Bigham, and I would be truly grateful if you would allow me the first dance with her ladyship.”

Blakely—now, why did that name sound so familiar?

“You may ask her yourself,” he stepped aside with a flourish.

The man looked like the decent sort but if more grew from this dance, he would have to make sure this man had a spotless reputation, or he would not get within a mile of his sister.

As the strains of a waltz emerged from the orchestra, he spotted Lady Miranda weaving her way through the mirrored ballroom. It did not look like her purpose was to find a dance partner for the floor—but rather, to escape it.

Why?

Snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, he contemplated the situation further. She was a duke’s daughter; she should have suitors lined up a mile long. Why was she looking to escape the room?

While keeping an eye on his sister, dancing her heart away, he unvaryingly allowed his gaze to follow Lady Miranda around the room. Lords stopped to speak with her, Earls, Marquess’—all men of grand stature tried. But while she appeared polite and conversed with them, he did not get the feeling her heart was in it.

Lady Miranda was not one the ton considered as beautiful, with her unabashedly red hair—more than once he had heard people scoff, there is nothing so common as red hair—and generous curves were not the features on current fashion plates. Yet the moment he had laid eyes on her, he’d been struck by a bolt of attraction that disconcerted him.

What would it be like to explore her body, to feel the lush swell of her hips, the dip in her waist and upward, cradling the full curves of her breasts, feeling their sensual weight…

He jerked so hard in his step, the liquor in his glass sloshed to the rim.

“Good god, where did that come from?”

Confusion and anger at himself swept through him and his fingers tightened around the glass. This was certainly not what he had prepared for when attending this ball.

The music swelled and he turned his attention to Evelyn and felt pleased how delighted she looked as the lord spun her on the floor; he had never before seen his sister look as charmed as she seemed then.

Yet his eyes flickered inevitably to Lady Miranda.

Had I been too harsh with the girl? She was only extending her gratitude.

“Dare I believe my eyes,” the familiar tone of his old friend from Eton, Alexander Vere, Marquess of Portland, came from behind him. “Dorian Greaves is out from his self-imposed citadel of stone.”

Snorting, Dorian turned, “You are back from traversing the East, I see.”

“And it was glorious!” Alexander grinned; his copper hair looked burnished under the gas lamps and candles as he swirled his punch. “The Indians have this majestic book of coupling that will make my escapades that much more interesting.”

“I am surprised you have not already lured the daughter of a Maharajah into a seductive web,” Dorian tutted.

“And who says I didn’t? They don’t call me Narcissus reborn for nothing.”

Having won the bloodline lottery, Alexander was considered the pinnacle of female fantasies. He had the face of Narcissus: high cheekbones, squared jaw, full lips, and dancing cerulean eyes.

“Is that so?” Dorian asked, “I thought you were the faux version of Apollo.”

Slamming a hand to his chest, Alexander mock groaned. “You cut me, Sir, you cut me deeply.”

“You’ll survive,” Dorian muttered, his gaze landing on Lady Miranda again.

Coming to his side, Alexander nodded to the lady, “You have your eyes on Lady Miranda, then, eh? You and every lord from London to the coast. You might have your work cut out for you though.”

“I do not have my eyes on her… but for argument’s sake, why is that?”

“This is her fourth Season,” Alexander adjusted his coral-colored cravat. “She has received seven offers for marriage but turned them all down. She nearly married one only to find the man was up to his eyeballs in debt and had two mistresses clamoring for his attention.”

“A very timely discovery,” Dorian murmured. “There is no doubt her dowry would have been spent in days, paying his debts and buying jewels for his mistresses.”

“One more thing,” the marquess nodded again to her. “It is widely known that she will not marry for anything less than true love.”

“I blame Miranda Press,” Dorian snorted. “Notions of true love in a culture of marrying for rank, fortune, reputation, and political connection is beyond belief.”

“It happens,” his friend shrugged. “I do acknowledge your ennui though. I’ve missed it.”

“I have not missed you and your madcap escapades,” Dorian replied.

“You willingly jumped into the Thames at midnight that time,” Alexander grinned. “And you climbed the belfry at Eton just because we dared you that you couldn’t. Admit it, Greaves, under all that indifference, you are no less a madcap yourself.”

“Not anymore,” Dorian said, “Not when I have responsibilities. I have left the carefree boy behind me. Since my treacherous uncle forced me to grow into the man I had to be, I cannot let my old habits creep back in.”

“Is one of those old habits called smiling,” Alexander laughed. “If you frown anymore, your face might get fixed that way. And if you want to dance with Lady Miranda, the best way to go about that is to ask her. You’ve been staring at her long enough.”

A quick glance at his pocket watch showed it to be nearing ten, and there was going to be a very short pause before the next dance.

I do owe her an apology.

“Excuse me,” he said to Alexander while his eyes remained fixed on Miranda. She had lifted her head at the right time to meet his gaze and hold it. Tugging his jacket down, he made his way across the ballroom, holding her gaze as he went.

Her brows were wary as he came to stand in front of her. “From what I have observed, you have been very popular with the gentlemen tonight.”

“I am the prized golden goose on display for hunters near and wide,” she said flatly. “Well, I am afraid their efforts were in vain as my skills in flirtation are altogether abysmal.”

***

What is he doing here?

The twenty-piece orchestra started the waltz, and many ladies and gentlemen who had hovered watching others play, swept onto the dance floor, moving.

“A man’s own manner and character is what most becomes him,” he said calmly.

“Cicero,” she parroted.

“You are well-read, my lady.”

“I suppose it goes with the title of a spoiled young Miss,” she said, lips flickering dryly while pointedly ignoring the pointed stares at them. “All we do is read and hope to amass enough arbitrary quotes that when a gentleman mentions them, we can name the speaker. I have it on good authority that it impresses them.”

“I said little.”

“Pardon?”

“I said little, not young.”

“My mistake,” she replied, “I suppose these rose-tinted spectacles of mine do migrate to my ears.”

A smile crept into his eyes and lurked in the corners of his mouth. He was so beautiful, in a uniquely male way. Tension crackled in the space between them, and she could not deny that his strange, magnetic attraction had been there from the moment they met.

What she did question was if he felt it too.

The man’s face was a placid lake; hardly any emotion broke through to the surface. While her heart hammered in her chest, he looked as if he were watching paint dry.

“I believe a waltz will be announced,” the dratted man said calmly, staring at the room.

She cocked her head. “Is that an invitation to dance, Your Grace? Because it sadly lacks in charm.”

“Charm is not a skill I have honed over the years,” he muttered. “But, as for the dance, I would not mind the honor of being your partner.”

“Why, after asking so matter-of-factly, I feel compelled to oblige.”

He noticed the whispers emanating from a gaggle of ladies posted by a nearby potted palm. Their fans beat the air in titillated synchrony, and when the ten-piece orchestra began to assemble and he extended his hand to hers, their damned fans began to stir up a hurricane.

Closing over the top of her hand, his touch had an engrossing warmth, one that made her grow still. The heat of his palm seeped through her satin gloves—the sensation sent off quivers inside her belly.

When the flutes spurred to life, he led flawlessly, and she followed with equal grace. Their bodies swayed together in perfect synchrony, but the space between them was as rigid as the unease she saw in his eyes.

“You do not dance much, do you?” she asked.

“No,” he replied. “I am not one to socialize much either.”

“Why? Not one to entertain silly little misses, I presume?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Forgive me for those ill-considered words. I was not being as judicious as I should be when I said them.”

“You were not taught to think before you speak?”

“I was, but you must understand, I am not here for myself,” the duke replied, spinning them. “This is for my sister and her happiness.”

“She seemed pretty fine when she danced with my cousin,” Miranda chimed. “Matter of fact, I think they are two couples away from us.”

His head snapped to the side, then back to her. “I wondered why I recognized that name.”

“It is my aunt’s married name.”

“Relax.”

“I am,” she snapped.

“If this is you being relaxed, I wonder what you are like when you are tense.”

She clamped her lips together and danced. He moved well, light on his feet, the hand on her back warm and steady. “I am trying to right my wrong here, please give me some acknowledgment for it.”

“I acknowledge it,” Miranda replied. “But I do not accept your apology, not yet anyhow.”

His gaze dropped to half-mast. “And why is that?”

“I feel as if you are being sincerely insincere,” she answered. “Probably just a way to appease my silly little—”

“For God’s sake, stop with that, will you,” his freezing accent cut her off, eyes flashing. The sudden surge of emotion inside them made her heart lurch into her throat.  “I had thought you a woman of sound mind; clearly I was wrong.”

“Was your purpose for dancing with me to insult me twice, Your Grace?” Luckily, the music drew to a close on those words. “Because if that is the case, you have succeeded.”

Not even pausing to curtsy, she walked away, chin raised, and left the glowering man standing alone on the dance floor. She didn’t care that this caustic cut would be the talk of the town by morning; with a man like Duke Rochdale, it was best to keep going and never look back.

 

Chapter Three

A headache was brewing at Dorian’s temple as he tried to read that morning’s edition of The Times. His aunt, Lady Agatha Bakeforth, Viscountess of Surrey, clad in the morning robe was chattering with Evelyn about the ball last night…and all he could think of was the infuriating Lady Miranda.

His fingers flexed on the thin sheet; he wanted to shake her for being so stubborn, so… so maddening.

“If you grip that paper any harder, you will surely rip it in two,” Agatha said calmly. “Is anything troubling you, dear nephew?”

“No,” he declared surlily.

“Hm.” His aunt tucked a stray curl of her silvering hair behind an ear before plucking up her Gazette. “Would it happen to be because of this, Reclusive Duke Redbourne humbled by Lady Miranda. Every jaw in the Prince Regent’s home met the floor when the lady walked away from him with nary a glance back. Many are wondering—this concerned citizen who witnessed the incident included—if the two have a past that the general public is unaware of.

I am convinced that he broke her heart, Lady A—says.

No, no, no. Lady P—scoffs. The good lady sees the duke for who he is, a degenerate profligate who has no business approaching a pure, sweet soul.

No one knows who Duke Rochdale is as the man had made it a point to be private to the point of mysterious. Should I read more?”

“I would rather you did not,” Dorian scowled while reaching for his coffee. “Everything about last night was… not good.”

“Curious minds do want to know,” Evelyn dipped her knife in the tub of peach preserves. “What did happen?”

 “A misunderstanding,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, that says it all,” Aunt Agatha murmured. “I would wager half my prize horse at Tattersalls that you made an untoward comment to the poor girl, and she took it to heart.”

The mouthful of drink Dorian had almost surged to his nose. Fortunately, he managed to swallow it down, even though it rested on top of an unsettled stomach. He did not like how easily—and accurately—his aunt had read the situation.

“Can we please drop this train of conversation?” he asked.

“I suppose,” his aunt inclined her head. “But be aware, this will come up another time. Anyhow, dear, can you tell me about your time with this Marquess Bigham.”

“Ah, Samuel,” Evelyn sighed dreamily. “He is a bright, handsome man, and I absolutely adore him.”

“You met him for an hour last night,” Dorian turned a page with more force than needed. “I would advise you to meet other just as bright and handsome gentlemen before you set your mind on the former.”

“And I might agree to that if you would try to stop looking like a hulking troglodyte and scaring half of the possible lords from approaching me,” Evelyn commented. “Poor Sam told me he had to pray to God to get the courage to speak to you. Do you know how thunderous your face is at times?”

His head snapped up, brows lowering. “I do not.”

“Look in the mirror,” his aunt put in. “You are doing it now.”

Glancing at the mirrored backdrop on the sideboard, Dorian ground his teeth—once again, she was right. His face was thunderous, brows lowered and jaw tight.

“I have a responsibility to make sure no unworthy candidate asks for your hand, and if they are scared off by my face, they are clearly not worthy enough.” 

“And what about you?” Agatha asked. “This Season should be about you too. You do know that you are expected to marry soon. I do not know where this distaste of marriage and commitment comes from, because I know your father and mother showed you a faithful, loving marriage for as long as they were alive. It is sad that they were taken from you before their time, but the sentiment remains.”

“The foundation they laid is not the matter here,” Dorian folded the paper and waved it. “I simply do not need to pander to the narrative that I must marry as soon as possible.”

“Are you…” his aunt paused; her delicate brows lowered. “Are you somehow perturbed that these ladies might learn how you went about to rebuild your estate and home? Are you worried they might shun you?”

“Why would I be?” Dorian asked, “If they are ashamed that I rebuilt my fortune breaking bricks and hammering nails, it speaks that I made the wrong choice in entertaining them.”

“What your uncle did—”

“Made it fair enough for me to banish him to Ireland,” he cut in. “He deserved more, but I left him with some dignity. Which, sad to say, is still more than the ladies of the ton who are all taught to sit around all day doing nothing but looking beautiful, and do not understand or appreciate hard work.”

The closest secret he kept to himself was when he had inherited his father’s estate and found it run into a rut—he’d taken a broken title and forged it back into gold, lifting himself back up out of the ashes. Born into privilege but sunk into poverty, he had a pointed view on those who flitted away their time as if every ticking moment meant nothing.

“Some men, too,” Evelyn remarked.

“Dandies do not matter to me,” he shrugged. “I will be hard-pressed to find a possible wife who is not turned away by my calluses and scars. The smell of an occupation makes them break out in hives while they leisurely play croquet or whatever ridiculous pursuits they filled their time with.”

“Is it possible you misread Lady Miranda?” Evelyn asked.

“I am sure I have not,” he replied. “I know the caliber of women when I meet them.”

“Meaning?”

“I made an unfortunate comment about her being spoiled, and when I tried to apologize for it, she didn’t take kindly to it.”

“Pardon me,” a footman said from the doorway, making them all turn to the man, his face fully eclipsed by a massive bouquet of white roses. “Lady Evelyn, this gift has been received for you from a Marquess Bigham.”

“Oh my,” Agatha blinked, taken aback. “Where do we place such a massive arrangement?”

“In my room, of course!” Evelyn beamed brightly while taking the card. “She walks in beauty, like the night

    Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

    Meet in her aspect and her eyes

Thus mellow’d to that tender light

    Which heaven to gaudy day denies. Oh, my heart, he knows Lord Byron.”

“The rats scurrying down the dark alleys of Town know Byron,” Dorian muttered. For want of something to keep his hands occupied, he reached for the newspaper and turned to a part on business even though he had read it all earlier.

He didn’t much mind how his sister and aunt shared another look. Agatha tutted, “Good gracious, he is a wet blanket this morning.”

“I wonder why,” Evelyn asked airily. “Methinks it could be a very brave lady who decided to snub him on the most visible stage in London. The house of handsome Prince Regent.”

“And it is clear he is not interested in apologizing for whatever harebrained comment he’d said,” Agatha nodded.

“Will you two stop talking over me as if I am not two feet away from you?” Dorian asked, eyes narrowed.

“Methinks he should apologize, to save face if anything,” Agatha nodded sagely. “I do know of Lady Miranda and with her brilliance and idealism, I am sure she said something to rub his practicality and pessimism the wrong way.”

While unhappy that the conversation had circled around to Lady Miranda, Dorian also felt that he was losing ground in an uphill battle he had not even initiated. “Is there anything I can do to get you two conspirators to stop needling me?”

“Find the lady and apologize to her, truly this time,” Agatha replied.

“And what guarantee do you have that she will accept this time?” he asked.

“That is for you to find out, isn’t it?” Evelyn smiled brightly.

***

The knock on the drawing-room door had Miranda looking up from the embroidery on her lap. Sam was peeking in, his blond hair flopping into an eye. “I am sorry to interrupt you, but would you care to share tea with me?”

“Sure, Sam. I’d love to, just give me a moment,” she finished the knot and then stuck her needle into a pincushion. As she made to stand, her toe nudged her prim long-haired Persian Cat named Duchess who meowed, unhappy at being moved.

“I’m sorry, Duchess,” she petted the cat before heading off to join Sam.

The tearoom was elegantly appointed, with buttermilk damask covering the walls and an Aegean blue Aubusson upon the floor. The furnishings were upholstered in soft white suede.

“Where is Aunt?” she asked while taking a seat at the oval tea table.

“You know Mother does not wake up until after noon,” Sam replied while uncovering the tiered cart beside the table that held several covered dishes, as he seated himself beside her. “I requested a simple repast, one that we could serve ourselves. I hope you do not mind.”

“I like this very much. It is ever so cozy.” She smiled at him. “And that smells delicious. Is that Cook’s meat pies?”

“Yes, it is,” Sam called a maid forward who made their tea and coffee. “How are you doing?”

Suddenly suspicious, Miranda narrowed her eyes, “We came home at two in the morning from the ball and I would assume I am doing just as well as you. What have you heard?”

She watched his hands, which were long and well-suited for playing the pianoforte—which he excelled at in times he needed away from his legislative duties—as he reached for a paper.

“Last night was a touch…” he unfolded the paper, “…unprecedented, I suppose is the best word. All of Town is aflutter with the snub you leveled at Duke Rochdale last night.”

Rolling her eyes, she took her cup after thanking the maid, “That man is unbearable.”

“Do you want to hear what is now being said about you?” Sam asked.

“I would rather not, but I am afraid that I will not be able to escape it, so go ahead,” she sighed while tipping another splash of cream in her tea. “I have a slimming diet, but it depends on what they say. If they hint at us being in love, I might have to console myself with one of Cook’s blackberry tarts.”

“Rumors abound of Duke Redbourne and his unforgettable dance with Lady Miranda and some are aflutter with reasons why he was so unsubtly snubbed.”

Lady P—asserts the two are in love and states clearly, it is obvious to see. Lady S— suggests that His Grace failed to earn Lady Miranda’s good graces, stating that the good lady is smart, a very brilliant, well-read woman who sees the Duke as he is, a profligate womanizer and a disgrace. Lord F—recounts outright, the lady is simply bitter at being passed over for someone who is not the hoyden tomboy we know her to be.”

Sighing, Miranda sat her cup to the side and reached for two tarts. “I do hate how accurately I have anticipated the ton’s response.”

Setting the paper aside, Sam asked, “Had you met Duke Redbourne before last night?”

“No, but he has justified to me why I have never met him before,” she replied. “A boorish man,” she shivered in displeasure. “Troglodyte. You seem to know more about him than I do.”

“Actually.” Sam’s mouth twisted in regret. “Not much, I’m afraid. The lads and I knew about him but we do not know him. He is a very private man. I have never seen him out and about, not at Whites, or Brooks, or Boodles. I have not spotted him at Almacks, Vauxhall, or even Tattersalls.”

Her brows dipped. “Did he appear out of nowhere then?”

“I do know he took over his father’s station at seven and ten, but was at Oxford at the time. That was fourteen years ago,” Sam said. “But his uncle held regency over his fortune and estate until he got to the age of majority. From then on, he… seemed to vanish from the public eye.”

“Oh,” she blinked. “That is strange. Fourteen years ago, when he was ten-and-seven. That means he is one-and-thirty now.”

“Yes,” Sam replied. “And I can see the question brewing in your mind. No one knows why he is not married.”

Shaking her head, Miranda asked, “What about you and His Grace’s sister?”

Sam’s face changed. “I sent her a bouquet this morning, and I hope that when we do meet again, we’ll be able to hold a deeper conversation than what we had at the ball. She is a sweet, lovely soul.”

“Are you sure she is his sister?” Miranda asked dryly. “There is nothing sweet about her brother and I cannot see that as a family trait. Maybe she was switched at birth?”

“I think you two would like each other,” Sam mused, then offered, “I plan on asking the gentlelady for a visit, and if I do get the honor, would you like to come and meet her?”

Meaning I might come across her troglodyte brother.

“I’ll consider it,” she replied, noting when he plucked the timepiece from his lapel pocket. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“With Lord Harcourt,” Sam replied. “He needs help organizing his hunting party later this month.”

“I see,” Miranda nodded. “Better be off then.”

As he stood, a footman hurried inside, “My lady, Misses Horatia Greene and Lady Letitia Croyner are here for you—”

“Oh, just let us in. This is important, nigh on crucial, vital, critical, all the alternative expressions!” one of the aforementioned ladies barged into the tearoom, her male-inspired riding habit, epaulets and all, complimenting her blond hair and bright brown eyes.

Miranda, used to her friend’s flair for the dramatic, shook her head. “Is your puppy finding lost treasures in your backyard again?”

“Yes, but that is for another time,” Horatia plunked herself into a seat. “This is about Duke Redbourne and the seventeen reasons you should stay away from him!”

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 23rd of November

Prologue

December 1796

Windermere Castle

Julian laid his un-gloved hands on the windowsill. The moonlight spilling through the glass made the pale skin appear even whiter. Like the hands of an alabaster statue. Inhuman.

He frowned, remembering his brother’s words from days before, after his return from long months at sea.

“There are no such things as curses, Jule. I have traveled the world and I have seen a lot of strange things. But never have I seen an actual, real-life curse. Not once.”

Dark hair falling across a pale forehead. The aquiline nose that was common to the male line of the Barrington family. Bright blue eyes, alive with intelligence and humor. Julian could recall his brother’s face as he had spoken those words. Spoken to the terrified little boy who believed himself cursed, never to be able to touch another human being. Samuel had taken the gloves and pressed Julian’s bare hands to his cheeks. Nothing had happened. Julian had waited for the curse to strike Samuel down. Instead, his brother only smiled at him, that familiar roguish grin that always heralded adventure.

“Father told me that I was cursed,” Julian had said in a small, wondering voice, “why did he tell me that?”

Samuel had frowned, looking out of the window with a troubled expression.

“Father is… not a well man. You know that. He never has been for as long as I have known him. I think it preys on him, weighs him down. And it makes him think strange thoughts. You must not judge him for it, Jule. He does not mean it.”

Julian had not dared to walk about the halls of Windermere Castle without his gloves. The first victim of the curse, according to his father, had been Julian’s mother, who had died giving birth to him. Died from the first touch of her infant son’s hands.

There had been others.

Rather than risk the ire of his father, Julian had continued to wear the black, leather gloves that he had worn since he was a small child. But alone, here in his turret room, high above the castle and isolated from its other residents, none could be touched by him or by the curse.

Could Samuel have been correct? Was the curse no more than the rambling notions of an unsound mind? Julian wished he could believe it. But then he had touched his brother and nothing had befallen him.

A wail rising from somewhere below in the castle turned Julian’s insides to ice. He jumped from the window seat, indecisive. He was not permitted to leave his high tower room during the night.

But then the wail came again.

It was his father and it was the sound of a man being torn by grief. Julian’s heart pounded in his chest. Samuel, his older brother, the heir to the Dukedom of Windermere had defied the curse. Julian prayed that the curse had not taken its revenge.

Not wanting to know the source of that keening grief but unable to stay away, Julian crept to the door of his bedchamber. His father had left strict instructions that the door be locked and the servants followed these orders without question. But Samuel had scoffed, taking away the key when he left Julian hours before.

Feeling a sense of liberty, Julian turned the handle and opened the door. It creaked, frighteningly loud.

He peered out and down the benighted spiral stair that would lead him to the rest of the castle. He knew its steps well enough that he could traverse them with his eyes closed. The deep gloom of night was no bar to him.

With the nimbleness of a mountain goat, he skipped down the smooth, stone steps. Bare feet felt for the depressions in the middle of each step, worn over time. They stepped over the step whose mortar had worn away and which wobbled precariously when any weight was applied. Then he was standing on the long patterned rug that covered the floor of the hallway at the bottom of the staircase. It was a deep blue, but in the dark, it might as well have been black.

At his next step, his small foot struck something hard and cool, sending a small glass bottle skittering across the floor. Startled, he bent to pick it up, squinting at the faded label in the dim light. “Monk… monkey…shoo,” he tried to read. The rest had been smudged away, leaving the word incomplete. Confused, he frowned, wondering what it could mean. But then the wail came again, louder this time, and Julian quickly set the bottle down.

He scurried along the carpet to the end of the hallway where another, broader staircase led down further. He flitted along hallways, drawing nearer to the sound of the wailing. The haunting sound certainly was coming from his father.

Finally, he came to a halt. A long hallway stretched before him, seeming longer than it did by the light of day. Not that the light of day was ever allowed to intrude into the rooms and passageways of Theydon Mount Castle. Halfway along that hallway, Julian knew, was his brother’s room. The door was open and a cluster of servants stood around it. Their faces were creased with concern and anguish. Some of them held candles in holders, carefully shielding the light with their hands lest it spill into the room beyond.

Licking his lips, Julian crept along the hallway. He steered clear of the servants, sticking to the wall of the hallway until he stood opposite the doorway.

“My son! My only dear son!” Harold Barrington’s cracked and broken voice cried out.

The words stabbed at Julian, second son of the Barrington family. He stamped firmly on the pain, knowing it to be his lot.

His birth had removed his mother from the world, and now… his touch had removed his brother.

The servants saw the nine-year-old boy, pale and ghostlike, standing near them. Without a word, they parted until Julian had a clear view of the room beyond.

Harold Barrington was thin and pale, his wraithlike pallor even more pronounced than his son. He was fully dressed, his phobia of daylight rendering him a creature of the night. His hair was white and hung to his shoulders. His fingers were the fleshless talons of a skeleton. His eyes were red-rimmed, emphasizing the colorless irises. Harold Barrington was the denizen of Barrow, long buried and hidden from the clean, bright light of the sun.

But it was the form over which Harold Barrington wept that captured Julian’s eye and held it.

Samuel Barrington lay atop his bedclothes, fully dressed and with wide-staring eyes. His face was contorted into a grimace of agony and there was no sign of breath from his lips. No movement of his chest, no blinking of his eyes.

Samuel Barrington, Julian’s elder brother, was dead.

Another man stood at Samuel’s bedside, also in his nightclothes. He had dark hair and a lean face with a hawk-like nose and deep-set eyes. Julian knew who he was, a friend of Samuel and a physician. That lean face was tight with grief and resolve. He was drawing a sheet up to cover Samuel’s face but Harold was resisting him.

“Your Grace… Samuel is gone. There is nothing more to be done but to give him some dignity,” murmured the doctor.

“To hell with your dignity, Hakesmere! To hell with it! He is my son!” Harold cried out.

“Was your son, Your Grace…” Doctor Hakesmere began tentatively.

“Get out!” Harold raged, “Begone from my house. You were my son’s friend, not mine!”

As he spoke, he pointed to the door, and that drew his eyes to Julian who had crept forward. Julian blinked back tears of disbelief and self-recrimination. Why could he not have resisted Samuel’s removal of his gloves? Why couldn’t he have run from his brother to keep him safe from his hideous curse? It was only when his father’s eyes fell upon him that Julian remembered that he was not wearing his gloves. They were in his garret room atop the windowsill.

“You!” Harold hissed, finger trembling.

Doctor Hakesmere looked towards the newcomer with a frown. When he saw Julian, a look of compassion stole across his face. He started around the bed towards Julian but Harold was faster. He leaped to his feet and strode towards Julian, still pointing.

“Where are your gloves, boy!” he demanded.

“Samuel took them off,” Julian whispered without thinking, “they are in my room.”

Harold stopped, mouth falling open and eyes blazing with malevolence.

“Samuel removed them? You touched him with your bare hands?”

“Your Grace, what is this nonsense about gloves…” Doctor Hakesmere began.

“It is the curse of the Barrington’s as embodied by the devil you see before you! It is due to him that my darling wife was taken from me. And now he has taken my son!”

Doctor Hakesmere directed a questioning look at Harold.

“I understood that your wife died in childbirth? One can hardly blame…”

Harold darted forward and seized Julian by the arms. His claw-like fingers pinched painfully and he propelled Julian from the room.

“He is dead because of you! The heir to Windermere, the son who would do so much honor to the Barrington name. The paragon of gentlemen. Dead! I have told you before. I have warned you! This is deliberate insubordination. Why did you do it?!”

“Your Grace! I must protest! This child…” Doctor Hakesmere followed Harold and Julian from the room but neither of the two surviving Barrington’s looked at him.

Julian found his full attention held by his father’s wide, staring eyes. Spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth and the whites of his eyes were visible all the way around. Julian felt the stone of the wall suddenly pressing into his back. Beside him was a window. His father reached for the metal latch and wrenched it open. Cold air immediately leached into the hallway, making the candle lights flicker. Harold’s mad eyes darted to the window, then back to Julian.

“I will be rid of you once and for all,” he breathed, and shoved Julian by the shoulder towards the cold black rectangle that let out into the night.

A maid suddenly cried out as the breeze made the flame of her candle waver, briefly touching her hand. She dropped it and the carpet immediately caught light. The sudden flare of light made Harold scream, throwing up both hands across his face. Doctor Hakesmere darted forward and seized Julian, hauling him away down the hallway.

“Best get you out of your father’s sight, young man, until he has calmed some,” Hakesmere said in a firm but gentle tone.

Julian allowed himself to be guided away but kept his arms firmly crossed and hands tucked under his arms. He would not risk any further deaths.

Eventually, he risked a glance over his shoulder. The servants were frantically trying to stamp out the fire while Harold Barrington, Duke of Windermere and father to Samuel and Julian, cowered against the wall, arms covering his head, trying to block out the agonizing light.

Then the doctor ushered him around a corner of the hallway and into a room. It was quiet and dark, the air cool. Julian was guided to a chaise longue where he sat staring at the oakwood floor.

“What happened to my brother?” Julian asked plaintively.

His voice wavered and tears blurred his vision. Fear gripped him. Fear that the doctor would confirm his father’s view. Would confirm the curse and condemn Julian to a lonely life.

“I do not know. He was struck down without warning. From the look on his face, I would say that it was a problem with his heart,” Hakesmere said. “Samuel and I traveled much of the world together and I have seen him defy death on more than one occasion. But we are all mortal and susceptible to disease.”

Julian shook his head. He had wanted the physician to tell him that Samuel had died of some natural cause. But he could not. The answer was clear to Julian. After all, his father was an expert on matters arcane and occult.

The library from which Julian was forbidden, but had sneaked into in the dead of night, was a place of dark books and relics. Harold Barrington knew of curses and he had warned Julian what would happen to anyone that Julian touched with his bare hands. He scrubbed the tears from his eyes, hardening his heart against the grief. Carefully, he stepped away from the doctor, who watched him with a face alive with concern. Julian shook his head.

“It is the curse.”

The doctor snorted. “There is no such thing, boy.”

Julian shook his head wordlessly, seeing the truth, even if this man of science could not. The answer was simple, clear to his immature mind. He was cursed. Tainted. And must be kept away from people. He turned and ran from the room.

Chapter One

Twenty Years Later

Theydon Mere

“This is foolish. I must be mad. Walking a lonely road at night. Whatever am I doing?”

Ester whispered the words under her breath, trying to alleviate the loneliness by talking to herself. She knew the risk she was taking.

The road was lonely and the moon, obscured by scudding clouds, rendered the landscape inky black.

So far from London and so close to the looming expanse of Epping Forest, there was always the possibility of highwaymen. Such men took advantage of the traffic on roads leading into and out of the capital with the proximity of dense woodland into which they could disappear.

Beneath her cloak, which hooded her and covered her dress down to the ground, she clutched at her leather satchel with both hands. With each step she took along the road, that bag threatened to clink, betraying its metallic contents.

This was the dowry that had been realized by her father for the marriage to the Earl of Handbridge that had seemed certain. Certain until a friend of Lord Kenneth Lowe of Handbridge had committed an act that left Ester’s reputation in tatters.

Her mind shied away from the memory of that night. Of Simon Thompson, Viscount Kingsley’s handsome smile morphing into a leer. His hands suddenly insistent, touching her in a way that only a husband should. The memory sent a shudder through her that had nothing to do with the wind that whispered under the hood of her cloak to stir her long, golden-red hair.

She pushed the memory away, striding along the road briskly, attempting to outdistance it. Only her sister knew that she was out of doors on this night. Helen was maintaining the illusion for their parent’s sake that Ester was in her room, suffering a touch of mal de tete. Her dearest Helen—and the reason Ester was walking this dark road, skirting the trackless forest. To protect her sister and ensure she could secure for herself a fine match, a husband who would do her honor. That would not happen if Viscount Kingsley made good on his threats.

Her fist tightened on the edges of her cloak. In a pocket she had sown inside the cloak, she carried a knife. It was a simple tool, acquired from an ironmonger in London, with a sharp point and equally dangerous edge. Its hilt was bound with leather and it had a guard of simple iron, to protect the hand of the wielder according to the ironmonger. He had been curious as to why a lady should wish to purchase such a brutally simple implement. It wasn’t a kitchen knife or a piece of cutlery. It was a dagger and it had one function. Ester did not know if she could use it for that purpose. But as Viscount Kingsley’s sneering face loomed in her mind, anger was sparked within her. It almost overwhelmed the fear. He had no right to her body and no right to her family’s wealth. Could she stab him on this lonely road? With even the moon blinded to the deed by the clouds.

Ahead, a brief appearance of that silent witness illuminated a body of water. It was a lake, bounded by the road on one side and the dark mass of Epping Forest on the other. The road was elevated above the water, looking down a gentle slope to a fringe of weeping willows that draped their long fingers into the mirrored surface.

Ester’s breath came quicker now, her pulse increasing. She was close now. Somewhere down there was a jetty and an old boathouse, long abandoned and neglected. She kept walking, searching the dark shoreline for the spot of the rendezvous. A chill ran down her spine. Perhaps she was at the wrong place. Perhaps the directions, given to her in Viscount Kingsley’s letter, had been misinterpreted. She could spend all night searching for the boathouse and he would think that she had refused his demands. What then for Helen and the rest of her family? What then when Viscount Kingsley spread the news of the scandal?

There was some relief when she saw the dark, square shape of a building a few hundred yards ahead. A long structure stretched out from it into the water, the jetty. And at the end of that jetty, the unmistakable shape of a man.

Ester swallowed, forcing herself to continue walking. Clouds veiled the moon once more and the man was swallowed up by the greater darkness of the lake before him. Her steps sounded loud to her, surely loud enough to carry to that silent sentinel. Would it be Kingsley himself? Or an underling there to carry out his master’s orders.

Finally, she reached a set of stone steps that had been set into the earth bank. She began to descend, the boathouse now directly opposite her. When she reached the bottom, she almost screamed when a figure stepped out from around the corner of the building. Her hands tightened on the dagger in its secret pocket and she came to a halt.

“You would be Miss Ester Fairchild?” said the man in a cultured voice.

Cultured, but not the voice of the Viscount Kingsley. That voice she would never forget. It haunted her nightmares.

“Yes, who are you?” she said.

“My name is not important. I am here on the orders of his lordship, the Viscount of Kingsley,” the man stated, coldly.

An underling then.

“And there, I trust you hide the promissory note for your father’s bank?” the man asked, pointing to her hands.

Ester clutched the satchel of coins tighter. That money had been taken out by her father from his bank in Chester to be paid as her dowry. When Kenneth had terminated their engagement, the money had remained in her father’s study. Long ago, he had entrusted the combination to his formidable, cast iron safe to Ester, his eldest daughter and most trusted confidante. Ester blinked back tears as she remembered the look in his eyes as he had locked that money away again. He did not blame her, not openly, but his eyes were damning. Even if he believed that she had not willingly compromised herself with the Viscount Kingsley.

“No,” she said, quietly.

“No?” the man queried.

He shifted, then took a couple of steps closer to her. Close enough to smell the brandy on his breath. He had clearly imbibed as he had waited for her, reinforcing himself against the winter cold.

“I have an amount in coins. Guineas,” Ester began, “it is all I could get.”

“You were told to bring a note, signed by your father, that would be accepted at his bank in the city,” the man muttered harshly.

“I…I…” Ester stammered.

“My master told me that you would prevaricate and attempt to wriggle off the hook. The transaction is simple. You must pay.”

He took a threatening step toward her and Ester backed away. In a flash of moonlight, she saw his face. There was a smile on it, cruel and thin.

He took another deliberate step forward. Revulsion and fear flooded her. The lap of the water against the shore faded, as did the cold wind that ruffled its surface.

Instead, she was in the long gallery of Kendrick Priory, ancestral home of the Fairchild family. The soft, golden light of candles was reflected from fine pieces of silver and bronze that stood on pedestals along the hallway. Long, burgundy drapes covered the windows and a carpet of red and gold softened the sound of footfalls. It softened the sound of Viscount Kingsley’s footfalls. She felt, once again, the hand upon her bare shoulder, turning her. Saw his leer and then his lips. Felt those lips fastening upon her throat, biting, tongue licking her skin. She screamed, shrinking away but held fast by cruel hands. She lashed out but her blows were ineffectual. She was pushed up against a wall, dislodging a painting that hung there so that it crashed to the ground. Kingsley laughed and struck her across the face with an open hand, knocking her to the floor.

Ester found herself screaming at the night, the dagger that she had drawn knocked from her hand, and a blow from an open hand knocking her to the ground. The emissary of the Viscount Kingsley stood over her, hand raised. Her anger flowed out of her, replaced by shame.

Defeat once again.

Kingsley had defeated her, only prevented from fulfilling his desires by the arrival of others, drawn by the commotion. By then, Kingsley had hauled her to her feet by the shoulders and pressed her against the wall. To them, the scene had been that of a respected gentleman enjoying a dalliance with a female of less respectable virtue. To them, she had been the one expected to feel shame. They had not seen him strike her.

She cowered against the boathouse as the man tore her cloak wide and seized the satchel. His hands lingered, finding her arms for a moment before he tore the bag away. Then he was looking down at her, breathing hard.

“My master will be angry that you have defied him. I will have to endure that anger. I will be blamed. I should have compensation,” he grated.

Ester heard the satchel drop to the floor. She had covered her face with her hands, fearing another blow. Now she looked up between her fingers and saw him step closer, unbuttoning the long overcoat he wore, then tossing it aside. He gave an exaggerated shiver.

“It is a cold night… is it not? No matter. You shall warm me up. And no one will ever know…”

Then, a sound reached them both on the wind. The thud of hooves on the hard-packed earth of the road. The man looked back over his shoulder and growled in his throat. Then he grabbed the overcoat and satchel, and ran.

Ester remained where she was, wishing for the ground to open beneath her and swallow her. The memory of the assault that had driven her family out of their ancestral Cheshire home had overwhelmed her. The knife had come to her hand and she had struck out with it blindly. And been easily disarmed before being beaten to the ground. Her brave fight had lasted a heartbeat and had been defeated with contempt. Just as Kingsley had once broken her resistance without effort.

She felt worthless, shamed, degraded. The rider had probably been a highwayman. Her earlier fear was gone. Such a rogue would doubtless take the opportunity to defile her if he saw her there but she could not summon the will to move. The idea terrified her, but an exhaustion now flooded her.

How long had it been since the event that had turned her world upside down? Six months? Nine? Since her family had been forced to leave Cheshire to escape the accusing stares and malicious gossip. Since they had been forced to rent a house here on the outskirts of London from a gentleman of this county, leaving their home empty. All to escape the scandal. In all that time, she had blamed herself, had gone over and over her actions. Why had she chosen to leave the ballroom and walk alone? Had she given Kingsley any indication, as they had danced earlier in the evening, that she was receptive to his lust? Was anything of what the gossips now said, true? She could not admit to her father that Kingsley now wanted money in exchange for his silence. In exchange for not poisoning the well of the London ton against her family. Against Helen, who at the tender age of nineteen, had hoped for her debut and hoped for a husband.

That secret was an intolerable burden. Its weight was pressing her into the damp soil beneath her. She could not bear it any longer.

With supreme effort, she got to her feet.

She followed the line of the boathouse, turning the corner that Kingsley’s lackey had emerged from, and felt the boards of the jetty beneath her feet. The sound of the hooves had stopped but she was barely aware of it.

She walked faster now, until she was running, holding her skirts up.

Then the jetty was ending and she was leaping out from the edge, as far into the dark mere as she could propel herself. The cold embrace of the water welcomed her. Cold seized her. Darkness enveloped her.

Chapter Two

“You know this road better than I do, old friend. You’ve come this way since you were first old enough to carry me on your back, and I, old enough to ride.”

Julian allowed his chestnut stallion, Rufus, to trot at his own pace. He kept up a low, whispered, one-way conversation with the animal as they went.

The night was dark, but Rufus knew the Chigwell road as well as his own stable. Master and mount had indeed ridden this way almost every night since Rufus was old enough to carry Julian on his back.

The cold wind ruffled Julian’s long, black hair, tossing it out behind him like a mane. He lifted his face to its cold touch, closing his eyes for a moment. In the greater darkness of his sudden blindness, he could hear the distant call of an owl, the yip of a fox, and the soft splash of an otter slipping into the water of the mere to his left.

He smiled.

There was no judgment in nature. No staring and whispered conversations as he passed. No hurtful monikers behind his back. He knew that the people of Theydon village called him the Phantom and, in some cases, the Ghoul. Julian smiled mirthlessly. Perhaps the nicknames were apposite.

He unconsciously flexed his gloved hands against the reins.

Those hands would make a ghost of any person he touched. Of any living thing. He would not inflict that on any person, though he loved plants and animals more than people anyway. He had never had the courage to test the efficacy of the curse against other living things. Neither the courage nor the stomach.

He patted Rufus’ neck and the horse tossed its head, giving a soft snort which Julian knew was a sound of pleasure. Rufus was used to his master’s nocturnal wakefulness and always appeared restive and frolicsome in his stall while Julian’s other beasts were lowering their heads to sleep. He smiled, a thin smile that lacked the depth of true happiness. Life was lonely and dark for a man who shunned society and preferred the disguise of the night. The sun was stark and revealing. Better to be a phantom in the night.

A shriek opened his eyes.

He frowned.

It had been a female sound, and it came from ahead, its origin swamped by shadow. Halting Rufus, he waited for a moment, closing his eyes once more.

Another scream and the unmistakable sound of a blow being struck. A man’s grunt and the sound of a body falling.

These roads were stiff with brigands and highwaymen. Julian carried a brace of loaded pistols, secured to Rufus’ saddle strap for just such an eventuality. Digging in his heels, he urged Rufus forward, trusting the horse’s experience to avoid pitfalls. Fifty yards ahead was the old boathouse. The sound had come from there. Julian urged more speed from Rufus, knowing that the road between here and there was flat and even. When a man appeared at the side of the road, climbing the embankment up from the boathouse, he almost ended up beneath Rufus’ hooves.

The stallion was well-trained enough not to rear as the sudden danger presented itself. Instead, he turned without bidding by Julian, and presented a hefty shoulder to the potential threat. Julian heard a man cry out, and the twin sounds of a body rolling down the short embankment and the unexpected noise of clinking metal. Spilling coin, perhaps? Convinced that he had just interrupted a highwayman about his work, Julian reached down to draw a pistol, cocking it, and turned Rufus so that there was an uninterrupted field of fire down to where the man had rolled.

“I am armed and ready to fire!” he called into the night, “surrender!”

Running footsteps came from below, heading along the lakeshore. Julian’s sharp, dark-accustomed eyes made out the shape of a man, running hard along the shoreline. He didn’t bother firing but instead looked around, turning Rufus slowly in case the robber had any confederates nearby.

There was no other sound.

Keeping the pistol cocked, Julian relaxed. He swung from the saddle in a swift, easy motion and began to lead Rufus down the slope by the reins. Before long, his boot hit something hard, producing a metallic clink.

Relinquishing the reins, Julian reached down and found the straps of a leather satchel. Reaching one gloved hand inside, he found it to be full of coins, as expected. Julian slung the bag over his shoulder. It would have to be presented to the nearest magistrate or justice of the peace to be returned to its rightful owner or owners. That was not his business, however. Crammond could take care of it.

Another sound reached him, bringing the pistol up into readiness once more. A break in the clouds provided brief illumination. Julian saw another figure moving along the side of the boathouse, some twenty yards away. It moved unsteadily but not stealthily, turned the corner, and began walking along the old jetty. He heard footsteps on the wooden walkway clearly. Perhaps a hidden ally of the robber was making their way to a boat.

Julian was about to call out to the figure when a gust of wind disturbed the hood of the cloak the figure wore. In a shaft of moonlight, he saw long, curling locks and a pale face in profile. It was a woman. Suddenly, she was running. The last few yards of the jetty were swallowed by quick strides before she launched herself into the water.

Julian stood for a moment in shocked disbelief. A woman in cloak and dress would not last long in deep water, even at the warmest time of year. Her garments would become sodden and would drag her to the bottom in short order. But this was late January and the water several degrees colder than the air, which itself was cold enough to raise a shiver. The shock of such frigid water would steal the breath from her lungs.

Julian dropped the pistol and grabbed Rufus’ reins. Knowing that time was of the essence, he put one foot in the stirrup and urged Rufus forward, aware the horse could cover the required distance faster than Julian could run. He clung precariously as Rufus leaped across the ground to the boathouse.

As it loomed over him, Julian dove clear. Rickety wood clattered beneath his boots as he sprinted along the jetty, discarding his overcoat as he ran, followed by his coat and vest. Ahead was a spreading circle of ripples where the woman had entered the water and disappeared. The bottom of the lake was an underwater cliff edge, dropping away steeply. It was the reason the boathouse had been built in that location long ago, providing pleasure boating to the lords of Theydon Mount.

That was when the Earls of Theydon had ruled over these lands. That title was now defunct and the estate shrunken by death duties and taxes. Only the castle, hidden in the depths of Epping Forest, remained. Theydon Mount, now the property of the Barrington family as represented by Julian. A home many miles from the home he had inherited and could not bring himself to live in.

He didn’t stop to remove his boots but leaped from the edge of the jetty, hands outstretched and feet together. He hit the water like an arrow, scything through the icy blackness towards the spot where he had last seen the ripples.

Opening his eyes did little, the water was inky.

Instead, he quested outward with his fingers, stretching and reaching all around. But the gloves were an impedance, they hampered his ability to feel anything in the water. Impatiently, he stripped them away with his teeth, holding them clenched between them. It was dangerous, but the woman would die anyway if he could not find her. When his lungs felt about to burst, something brushed his fingertips, hair, or fabric. Julian kicked directly upward and broke the surface, sucking in a lungful of air and then upturning himself and diving downwards. In the darkness, the distance seemed to stretch until he wondered if he were about to reach the bottom. Then, something curled around his fingers again. Hair, unmistakably.

Julian reacted instantly, clenching his fingers around the hair and, once again, kicking for the surface. The woman did not seem to be supporting herself or helping him. She was a dead weight. Julian broke the surface and hauled with both hands on the thick hair. When the woman’s head joined him in the air, he began to kick for the shore. The gloves had slipped from his teeth in the swim up from the depths but he could not waste time looking for them. The woman was unconscious, not coughing or struggling. Not breathing.

He swam past the rotting piles of the jetty until his boots kicked against the shale of the lake bottom in the shallows. Still holding her by the hair, Julian hauled the woman up onto the shore, clear of the lapping water.

Then he fell to his knees beside her and put his ear to her mouth.

Nothing.

Next, he listened for a heartbeat.

Nothing.

He had pressed his hands against her chest before realizing what he was doing, pressing down hard to expel the water that he knew must be choking her lungs. It fountained from her mouth aided by her.

He needed to inject air into her, give her body something to work with. He pinched her nose, then pressed his lips to hers while pulling her mouth open by the chin. Then he blew into her as hard as he could. Another compression of the chest. Another breath into her lungs. Julian was not thinking of the touch of his bare, lethal hands against her pale, cold face. Or against the soft suppleness of her chest. He thought only of the need to revive her. She was clearly a victim of a robber, though what she had been doing out here, alone, he could not fathom. Alone and with a bag of coins. Unless she was an associate of the highwayman, a lure for unsuspecting riders.

Coughing.

Julian sat back as the woman’s eyes opened and she began to cough. Her long hair would reach almost to her waist, he supposed. In the harsh whiteness of the occasional moonlight, he could not tell its color. It looked dark. Which made her skin almost luminescent. She was slender and tall, judging by the length of her body, with a button nose and a well-proportioned face. A beautiful face in fact. Astonishingly beautiful.

Julian felt a pang of regret. A stab of unrequited desire. A woman as beautiful as this was meant for other men. For husbands who would be able to touch and caress her. He could not.

Then the enormity of what he had done struck him. He raised his hands to his face, seeing their nakedness for the first time. The woman was struggling to sit up now, seeing him for the first time too. She was weak but was trying to push herself away from him, feet scrambling at the ground in her urgency. He raised his hands placatingly.

“You have nothing to fear from me. I am the… I am  Julian,” he stopped himself from using his title, the Duke of Windermere. Too many in these parts knew that name and feared it. “I heard you enter the water and went in after you.”

“Julian?” the woman said in the accent of the north, “there was another man…”

“A highwayman I assume. I drove him off. He is probably still running.”

The woman put a hand to her face as though it pained her. Julian wondered if she had been struck.

“A satchel…my dowry…I was to…” the woman began.

Julian saw the faint rising up to claim her. Her words faltered and her eyes rolled up in her head.

Without thinking, he darted forward on hands and knees to catch her. Her head lolled back against his arm. Her body was soft but icy cold. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to hold her to him. The feel of a female body was one he had not experienced before. How could he when touching another person was prohibited?

“I saved you, but have condemned you with my own thoughtlessness,” he whispered, “…forgive me, my beautiful lady.”

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 29th of October!

Chapter One

Rothwell, West Yorkshire

March 1817

 

The lamp light was burning low in the modest dressmaker shop, the night’s flickering shadow growing with encroaching inches upon the table. However, Bridget’s eyes were fixed on the tiny, almost invisible stitching of white silk threat on white satin cloth.

The lady who had ordered this gown was Lady Ruth, or as she was locally monikered, Lady Ruthless, and she lived up to her name—so Bridget could not afford to produce something lackluster.

“Just a few more stitches and the hem will be done,” she whispered.

The window rattled with the night wind, and the sudden shock of cold made her shiver, but she tugged her shawl tight around her shoulders and sunk the needle through the cloth.

The nights in Rothwell were calm ones, even in the changeling spring nights. At a huffing of breath, a lock of her brown hair fluttered away from her eyes as she pulled the last stitch into place, tied the knot off, and then slumped into the chair in relief.

Her heavy eyes ached, her fingers stiff with hours of needlework but her heart was light knowing the dress was finally done. Gently, she stood and wrapped the dress in a garment bag and hung it under the screen before preparing to leave the shop.

It was on the underside of nine when she slid the key into the lock and turned the bolt, wrapped her shawl tight, and hurried down the streets, lamp in hand, her heart thumping at the empty road before her.

The tap of her worn half-boots on the cobblestone rang out like gunshots in the silence as she hurried. It would not be too long now, as her godmother’s cottage was just three streets beyond, but with no one around and the imposing silence hemming in on her, it felt like an eternity away.

I should have stayed at the shop and pretended to arrive early tomorrow morning instead of taking this dangerous chance.

Her hand slipped to her pocket where a pair of her sharp shears pressed cold on her skin and she fixed her fingers around it as she kept her head bowed, her face shielded by the brim of her bonnet. A cloud passed from the moon and the silvery rays fell over the battened-up windows of the many shops and dining establishments that lined the pleasant square.

In the backdrop were rolling rural hills and sprawling earthenware factories that had sprouted up there and in the nearby towns.

“Two more streets to go,” she whispered and quickened her steps—only to hear a rough masculine shout from the alley mouth head.

Terror thundered in her chest and she gripped the shears tightly, as her feet felt nailed to the ground.

Turn around.

Turn around.

Run…

“Do we have to do this, gents?” a deep voice slurred in drunkenness. “Surely, we can resolve this another way without violence?”

Against all common sense, she edged closer to the mouth of the head. A horrid stench came from the pile of garbage packed further in the back, but she saw two men, clad in dark clothes, one had greasy, overlong hair, with a jagged mark that bisected the man’s face into two menacing halves. The other had a cap on and was barefoot.

“Aye, we do want to do this, guv,” one of them snarled. “A certain Lord Harcourt has paid us handsomely to inflict… violence.”

Once again, the clouds moved from the moon and when the rays dropped on the man—her breastbone held her breath hostage.

Clad in his dark dinner jacket and matching breeches, the white of his shirt, waistcoat, and cravat stood out like a beacon.

What is a gentleman doing out here? In the middle of nowhere?

“I doubt you want to do that…” the lord said, staggering a little.

His square face and dimpled chin were chiseled and strong, jawline flinty and sharp, and his skin glinted tan in contrast to his snowy cravat. With how he carried himself, he could only come from centuries of blue-blooded stock.

“…especially in front of a lady,” he ended.

Spinning on their heels, the two men rounded toward Bridget, and the sight of the wicked knife in their hands had her blood going cold. She stepped away— and screamed.

The lord, losing all signs of drunkenness, attacked, landing two efficient blows to both blackguards, sending them crumpling to the wet cobblestone, unconscious.

With his boots, he kicked the knives away, then stepped over them, moving closer to Bridget. Fearful, she stepped back and turned to run— but he grabbed her arm and stopped her. Senseless with terror, she tried to yank her arm away, but his grip was ironclad.

“Stop, Miss,” he muttered, “Please don’t run. I won’t hurt you. I give you my word, I will not lay a finger on you.”

Still terrified, Bridget swallowed and after a tense moment, nodded silently. He dropped his hold on her arm but gripped both her shoulders instead. Even though he had let her go, the feel of his fingers still lingered, as if branded by an invisible iron.

Sweat trickled beneath tight stays as she stared up at him. His strapping arms held restrained power as he caged her, and her heart beat a rapid staccato as his heavy-lidded eyes perused her. Mute, Bridget’s eyes traced the crimson scar that pulled taut along the right side of his face, from cheekbone to chin.

“Did…” her voice was frail, “did those men do that to you?”

“Do what to—” he paused, then slipped his hand down to her wrist, only to bring it to his face and slide her forefinger over the scar. “This? No, they didn’t do that. I have been carrying this a long time before they tried to duplicate it though.”

“Who— who were those men?”

“Cutthroats.” He looked over his shoulder to the men, a wry tick of his lips. “Probably hired by a jealous fiancé of a woman I’ve dallied with or a vengeful father seeking equalization for wronging his pure child. Either way, they have not succeeded.”

Dallied? Heavens! He’s a rakehell!

“I see,” a shudder racked through her as she pulled away. “I must go. It’s late and I… please.”

Still, his hold did not lessen. “If it was not for you, those men might have gotten the advantage over me…” His smoldering gaze seemed to penetrate her innermost being and his thumb stroked along her jaw, her chin, “Thank you.”

Is he going to kiss me? Surely not…”

“What could I do to repay you?”

“You needn’t,” she assured him. “I am happy to have helped but, I—I really need to get home.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Coin? A jewel perhaps?”

“I am sure, my— my lord,” she stammered. “You needn’t give me anything.”

“But I think… I do,” he replied, his voice a low timbre,  both thumbs framing her cheekbones. “Indulge me for a moment.”

He lowered his head toward hers, and instinctively, her eyes fluttered closed. The first touch of his lips melted away the last vestiges of reason.

The strange lord did not apply any pressure, just a gentle coaxing that unspooled the tight knot under her breastbone. He tipped her face up a little, and when his tongue coasted over the seam of her lips, she tilted her head back for more.

He thrust deep into her mouth, and she opened to him—the taste of him hit her like wallop, rich coffee, dark whisky, and a bite of icy gin. He tasted of sin and temptation. A needful moan broke from her lips, and he soothed it away with his tongue.

Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, she registered that her first kiss was unlike anything she could have imagined. He tasted her as if he owned her, and his unapologetic possession sent a strange, singing sweetness through her blood.

Disoriented, she realized the tips of her breasts turned taut and throbbing. Liquid heat pooled between her thigh at the glimmer in his hazel eyes, under slashing brows. He caressed the nape of her neck… and then he was gone. A blast of cold air had her blinking in shock.

“Sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You taste of sweet… innocence.”

What could she say to that?

“Go home, little one,” he whispered in her ear. “But know this, the Beast of Brookhaven is forever in your debt. How far are you going?”

“Not— not far, only two streets away,” she admitted breathlessly.

“Hurry on now,” he smiled. “And you needn’t take such a strong grip on those shears in your pocket. You will be safe.”

Starlight and strains of fog swirling around her wrapped the dreamlike state she was in that much tighter. With the lamp high, she found her godmother’s door, the cheerful pop of yellow among the plain dull wood with ivy climbing the stone part of the walls. Surrounded by overgrown hedgerows and rose bushes, the cottage had a peaceful, tumbledown charm.

At the door, she paused to look over her shoulder. Nothing came from the shadows, but the back of her neck prickled as if unseen eyes were lingering on her. As she unlatched the door and stepped in, she turned and closed it, still without a single form emerging from the gloom.

Pressing her forehead on the cool wood, she sucked in a breath. Had that truly happened or had it been some sort of feverish dream? Touching her forehead, she felt no abnormal heat. No fever.

The cottage was neat as a pin, and walking past the modest parlor, which served dual purposes as dining and sitting room, she headed up a narrow staircase. Upstairs, where a thin wall separated the two sleeping quarters—and beyond both was a bathing room—she found her cot, rested the lamp down on the end table, and her knees gave out from under her.

Looking down at her trembling hands, she could still feel the sliver of scar under her forefinger and the heat of his palm around her wrist. She glanced at the window and down at the blooming hedgerows and vegetable garden—hoping and praying that the presence she had felt at the door had belonged to someone. But nothing, no one emerged from the darkness.

Her heart sank.

Still, even though disappointment reigned—the mysterious lord had been right. She had been safe coming home.

Maybe it hadn’t been a dream after all.

 

***

Four Days Later

 

“For Christ’s sake, Arlington,” a surly Colin Lightholder, Baron of Thornbury, huffed, nearly spilling his brandy, “Have you heard a word I have said all night?”

“You have eleven tenants who have mystically forgotten to pay their taxes, your prized phaeton has a broken wheel, the country house in Leeds that you have hoped to stage a hunting party is now infested with termites.

“Your parents are still hounding you to marry and this time they are set on making a match with the utterly repulsive Lady Carrington who does not speak a word of French and continues to ride astride like the tomboy we know she is—not to mention your new ball suits that are still not ready for the upcoming season,” William Hartwell, the Duke of Arlington, drawled, refraining from brushing a finger down his scar. “In that order, I believe.”

“Wiseacre,” Colin grunted.

“How did you manage to hear all that when it is clear your mind is ten leagues away,” Andrew Pembroke, the Viscount of Sutton, said knowingly.

Sipping his brandy, William gave his oldest friend a slanted look, “Must you always bear my true emotions to the rest of the world?”

“When it is clear that you are brooding over something, yes,” Andrew replied, utterly immune to William’s glares. Leaning in, he demanded, “What is troubling you?”

Before he answered, William pressed his lips tight and thought back to that night in the alley. First, he condemned himself for getting into that mix. In the name of discretion, he had taken pains—discreet hackney and all that—to warm a forlorn young widow’s bed in the countryside but had allowed his discretion to slip on the reverse journey.

Of course, someone had taken the opportunity to corner him and pay him his just desserts. What rubbed him the wrong way was that… they might have succeeded too if a young lady hadn’t materialized, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Five nights ago, I went to see Lady Madeline—”

Variations of aggrieved groans rose from the table; it was clear that neither of the two were in favor of William’s liaisons with the notorious widow, but William ignored them all—again, “However, on the way back, two henchmen from Lord Harcourt’s slums, poised as hackney drivers, managed to accost me.”

This time, the cries of grief became ones of outrage.

“Good God man,” Andrew shook his head. “How did that happen? Were you drunk?”

“Against all reason, I had one foot over the line, yes, but believe me, I got starkly sober very soon,” William toyed with the rim of his glass, sliding a long forefinger around its crystal edge. “They had almost gotten me until an unlikely aide came my way. A woman. Her scream made my training unfurl and I soon dispatched them to the ground, perhaps with a broken bone or two.”

“Ah,” Colin lifted his drink. “Good man. Do you know who this woman is?”

“No clue,” he shrugged. “But I kissed her and saw her home, in secret.”

“Oh, good god,” Andrew sighed, then waved to a waiter to refill his glass. When it was topped off, he took a mouthful and asked, “So you came from one rendezvous, almost got murdered and then kissed a strange woman and followed her to her home?”

“Yes.”

“And may I assume your distraction is because your mind is lingering on that woman?” Andrew pressed.

“Partly,” William nodded.

He remembered the moment the young Miss had entered the alley, how her skin glowed like porcelain in the moonlight, her small, neat features and uncommonly large doe eyes had possessed a delicate charm. She put him in mind of a painting of Daphne escaping Apollo.

The other two men shared a look before Colin asked, “Are we the only ones seeing the sticking pin in this matter? Clearly, you want to see this woman again and you know where she lives. Why not go and see her?”

“Because she is innocent and I do not dally with innocent misses,” William’s words dropped like a judge’s gavel on its stone.

It was true. The young woman was the epitome of virtue. After his romp with Lady Madeline, he had not bothered tying his cravat, so his throat was bare above his collar and the faint musk of sex clung to his skin.

The young Miss had not picked up on the post-coital clues. In hindsight, he probably should not have kissed her when it was clear the young innocent miss did not know what carnal pleasure was. The moment his lips had touched hers was when he’d known that she’d never been kissed either.

A naïf in the best sense. I didn’t think women like those still existed.

It was why he had stopped the intimate embrace— well mostly because of her innocence, but secondly because the men were starting to wake— and in contrast to her purity, he’d suddenly felt… foul.

“I swear you might have forgotten the ordinary social graces,” Andrew sighed. “What is wrong with making a simple friendship?”

William’s hand tightened around the glass, but his face was still impassive. His mind flew back to the simple cottage the young woman had slipped inside and knew that even such a simple act would never be simple enough. What if word got out that the Duke of Arlington, the Beast of Brookhaven Castle, was friends with a peasant woman?

He could easily explain this to the two—but it felt like too much work, so he simply said, “No.”

It was enough that William was already under scrutiny as his title of Duke was simply that, a title, and until his uncle released his inheritance and lands, he had little power to work with.

He expected the two to contest his decision and push him to either reveal who the lady was or where she lived so they could intervene themselves, but Colin and Anthony only looked at each other.

“He is tempted, yes?”

“Very much.”

“How long will it take him to cave under the temptation?” Colin pressed.

“Ooh, a wager,” Andrew said giddily. “I give him two weeks, a hundred pounds.”

“Two hundred says three,” Colin replied.

Annoyed, William had the urge to swat at them as he would do a buzzing insect. “You will both fail.”

“No, I don’t think we will,” Andrew sat back in his seat, one arm slung around the back of the padded leather armchair. “Do you know why?”

“Please, enlighten me,” William narrowed his eyes.

“You’ve already gotten a taste of something you have never had before,” Andrew smirked. “You’ll go back to devour it, and nothing, not even your most laudable assertion of not following the temptation of innocent misses, will keep you from it, old boy.”

Instead of answering, William took a long, measured drink and then decisively turned the conversation to a safer topic, not because he didn’t have the mindset to debate with them on how wrong they were… but because secretly, he feared they might be right.

What would he do if he found that young woman again? Leave her be… or tempt her like the snake did with Eve?

Did it matter? Why was he even concerned for her? He had other problems to work through, first and foremost. He looked down at the paper on the table and the next name on the list, the third debt he needed to pay, Viscount Tollerman.

With a frustrated growl, he tossed back the rest of his brandy and got back to work.

 

Chapter Two

Three Weeks Later

Arm in arm with Lady Eleanor Pembroke, one of her two dearest friends, Bridget stepped carefully down the garden path while gazing at the scattering of tiny white gazebos with enhanced unease.

These get-togethers were her nemesis and while they reminded her that she was, in fact, a member of the ton, the daughter of a viscount, she never felt like one.

Well, not since Father passed away, brother went to war, and I came to live with Godmother Lydia.

At three-and-twenty, and on the teetering cups of spinsterhood, wearing white felt like a fallacy. Until she was certifiably unmarriageable, there was nothing else to wear, well, not unless she wanted to draw the disproving glares from matrons and unkind rumors.

She longed for a day when she was married and would not be obligated to wear debutante pastels and whites but did not see a suitor materializing from the air anytime soon.

Wish upon a star.

Having lived a modest life for the past two years, the opulence of the other ladies with silk dresses at the height of fashion and a fortune in jewelry at their throats and ears contrasted with her simplicity and made her feel self-conscious, but she refused to allow herself to fall into the woes of once-upon-a-time.

It was horrid to be the exception, drawing eyes and stares and whispers, but, “C’est la vie,” she whispered to herself.

“Did you say something, dear?” Lady Eleanor, or Ellie, as Bridget called her in private, asked, twisting her head a little.

“Not to you,” Bridget gave a soft smile. “I grow anxious when I am around other ladies, especially with the ones we used to know.”

Young lords, most dressed in warm tan breeches and bright waistcoats, were on the lawns, chatting with each other with flutes of champagne in hand, and Bridget trained her gaze away, for God forbid that one of them might mistake her simply appreciative look for something else.

“Lady Bridget,” a feminine voice called. “What an unexpected delight to see you.”

She knew that voice. The owner of that voice never liked her.

“Lady Rebecca,” Bridget forced a smile, then curtsied. “Or should I say Marchioness Savory. How do you do, my lady? May I compliment you on your gown? It is beautiful.”

The marchioness was indeed ravishing in a light blue waist-tight gown with a delightful revealing décolletage. White satin elbow-length gloves encased her slender arms, and her dark blue half-boots gleamed bright.

Lady Rebecca’s bright green eyes slid over Bridget’s form, her gaze polite. But gleeful superiority rested in the depths at seeing the soft white muslin day gown with a subtly embroidered hem and flattering neckline.

“So are you,” the lady replied, her nose tilted, her laugh trilling, gloved hand swirling her champagne. “In debutante white? I am deeply surprised. Out of all of us, you were the one we expected to have found your Prince Charming by now, ruling half a continent.”

“I decided to reprioritize,” Bridget replied calmly. “Marriage is wonderful, I know, but perhaps it is not the be-all and end-all. Well, for some.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lady Rebecca’s lips curved after sipping her drink. “Marital life is lovely. You were always the bookish sort, so I suppose you do find another happiness in facts and figures.”

“Is that Lady Bookish.” Another one of her tormentors, Lady Ophelia. approached, her deep purple gown gathered beneath her faultless bosom, while diamonds glittered at her ears and throat. On her arm was a tall, handsome blond man with the face of Narcissus. “Oh, pardon me, I mean Lady Bridget?”

Straightening her back and notching her chin up, Bridget smiled, “Lady Ophelia, pleased to see you again.”

“Not as much as I am to see you,” the countess smirked. “You disappeared from Town for what, two years?”

“Three,” Bridget replied, noticing that Lady Rebecca had made herself scarce.  

“My mistake, three,” Lady Ophelia replied. “We all thought you had done like the Grimm Brothers and their Snow White, how you had wandered off into the forest and became friends with the fawns and hares.”

“I did for a while,” Bridget smiled derisively. “The monarch of the forest, a stag named Titan, sends his regards.”

The two tittered. “Oh how delightful,” Ophelia said, twisting to look at the man on her arm. “Pardon my oversight. Lady Bridget, my husband, Septimus Hargrove, the Earl of Rookerly.

“My dearest, Lady Bridget is a girl I knew from finishing school, you see. She lived in the library as much as we lived in the dorms. Alongside Lady Eleanor Pembroke and Miss Josephine,” Lady Ophelia added. “Lady Bridget’s bosom friends.”

So subtle, Ophelia, making me look perpetually girlish in your husbands’ eyes. By the end of this party, I expect to be ostracized in full. I will be a pariah by dawn.

“My lord.” She curtsied and heard Josie and Ellie echo the same beside her.

“My ladies.” The older man, with streaks of grey at his temples, bowed. “I do like to see when old friends stay together. Were the two of you…”

“Goodness, no,” Ophelia laughed, showing her perfectly white, even teeth. Her smile edged into a smirk, “We were more acquaintances than friends, dearest.”

“I concur,” Lady Rebecca reappeared, husband in tow, a tall man with blond hair, high cheekbones, squared jaw, full lips. He looked like a prince.

Unbidden, her mind flew to the dark stranger who had kissed her on those desolate streets weeks ago, the seductive power she had tasted in his lips.

Swallowing, she forced her thoughts away from that man. In any case, she did not need to marry a lord—or be entangled with one—that was a rakehell. The best choice was someone handsome, titled, with a good head on his shoulders, a profitable business or territory, and without a speck darkening his name.

“Ladies Bridget, Josephine, and Eleanor,” the marchioness smiled, “May I introduce my husband, Charles Westport, Marquess Savory.”

After exchanging introductions, Bridget was desperate to find a way out when the Marchioness asked, “My lord, do I recall you saying you had three unattached friends who might appreciate some companionship this afternoon? Maybe we could even find Lady Bridget a beau, hmm?”

Oh, how she wished for a mask to conceal her violent, mortified blush. Tilting her head up, Bridget fought for the word—but found none, because the acrid humiliation burned up her throat. Did she truly look that hopeless?

Being in the public eye put her on edge. When she was on edge, Bridget tended to shut down and shrink away. That drew withering looks and sudden walls of silence, feeding the cycle of her anxiety.

Thankfully, Eleanor found the words Bridget could not, and quite civilly declined the invitation. “As much as we would appreciate company,” she began, “the three of us have not seen each other for a long while and thought to use the time to reconnect. Perhaps the lords might join us later on?”

Thin brows arched in surprise at the blunt refusal but Lady Eleanor took it with grace. “Of course. Please, enjoy the rest of the afternoon. And from an insider, please try the blackberry tarts with your tea, they are utterly scrumptious.”

“We surely will,” Josephine replied with a grimace. “Please, excuse us.”

“Such a pleasure to see you, ladies, but especially Lady Bridget. We really should visit more often now that you are in Town and we are moving in similar circles.”

Similar, but not the same circles. Bridget swallowed the reply like she would do broken glass.  I do not belong here anymore.

“Of course,” she said, the lie heavy on her heart. “We shall surely see each other again.”

A ripple ran up the back of her neck, and she turned, trying to catch the spy who was studying her—but found no one. Her eyes lifted to the walls of the grand mansion behind her, her eyes floating to the wide bow window in the dark gray brick—again, no one was there.

I should not have come here.

Swallowing over her remorse, she turned to her friends and forced a smile. “Perhaps we should seek out the hostess, Viscountess Tollerman.”

***

Stepping away from the window, William took a sip of his rich brandy to moisten his throat. What were the odds that he would come across the same lady he had assured himself he would never cross paths with again?

A day ago, he would have said nonexistent, but now, fate was toying with him. But then again, he never believed fate had his best interests at heart.

“What is my debt down to now, Tollerman?” He asked.

“One thousand and seventy pounds,” the viscount replied. “Down from seven thousand, Your Grace.”

Sticking a hand into his pocket, William considered his options. He could sell another useless portrait… or he could do a night in the Underground Ring.

He took another sip. Selling a portrait would earn him a quarter of that sum, but then… one night in the boxing ring would earn him the full sum with the prize money and the bets rolling in for the Masked Marauder—his alter persona.

It was utterly ironic; a gentleman of the Ton was not one to get his hands dirty. They earned their funds by old wealth, investments, and for those lords who were financially ruined, marrying a rich heiress. They did not lift a finger; God forbid they operate a shop and they certainly did not pummel others for money.

Pugilism is not savagery, young man, its art, it is control, it is discipline. A man must master himself before he can master others.

The sage words of his old mentor, Mr. Buchanon, from Gentleman Jackson’s, a boxer of seventeen years came back to him. He felt guilty turning the one thing he prized as a gift into a tool to earn money quickly, but what needed to be done, had to be done.

It is either do a quick turn or wallow in debt for years to come. I have only so many paintings of sour-faced hounds to sell.

“I shall pay that debt off by the following sennight,” William promised.

With an exasperated sigh, Tollerman stood and rounded the table. Though in his late forties, he was ruthlessly fit, his silver-grey waistcoat hugging his trim torso, his dark trousers fitted perfectly. His light hair, dark brows, and unlined face gave him an oddly ageless aspect.

“For the last time, you needn’t pay it off at once,” Tollerman pinned William with a steady gaze. “There is no deadline, Arlington.”

“Perhaps not for you, old chap, but certainly for me,” William replied, finding a seat and resting the glass at the end of the table. “I have a limited amount of time to prove myself to my uncle who is watching me dance like a puppet, toeing the line of being the perfect Duke.”

“How much time do you have?” the older man asked.

“Up until this Season ends,” William replied, stretching out a leg and rubbing a tense knot in the back of his neck. The cravat felt like it was cutting off his hair. “I know you are acquainted with the… dissolute life I used to live?”

“I have heard rumors, yes,” the Viscount said.

 William gave him a tight smile. “Not the best reputation for a duke, is it?”

“When I was nine-and-twenty, nothing on earth could have kept me in the house,” Tollerman shrugged. “Hunting parties, masquerade balls, racing at the tracks, Rotten Row, you name it, I was probably the ringleader. We all make questionable choices, Arlington, just do not let those choices define your future.”

Reaching for his drink, William chose not to say anything to that. If only his younger self, a dissolute, hellhound debauchee, had once thought to stop; stop from gambling, stop from jumping into the next lady’s bed, stop from drinking himself into the wheelbarrows, William knew he wouldn’t be doing half the things he needed to do now.

“Is gaining a wife anywhere in those plans of yours?” Tollerman asked.

“Yes, but I’ll cross that bridge when I meet it,” William stood and reached for his jacket. “I shall let myself out, old friend. Please, go and enjoy the delightful soiree your wife has put on.”

Reclining in his chair, Tollerman twiddled a pen. “You won’t be joining us?”

“With no disrespect to your dear wife, I might corrode if I am forced to drink tea and make inane chatter with other gentlemen and gentlewomen,” William replied with a wry smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

With a curt nod, he descended the stairs and headed to the carriage gate, but after sending for his carriage, turned to the nearest back porch and stepped under the shade.

Women in light pastels paraded the walks, twirling parasols and the men accompanying them. It felt all so… domestic. Jaded, William could only compare the men in the bright waistcoats and colored cravats to strutting peacocks trying to sway the hens to their roosts.

The courting game was so tedious—meet a lady, make an offer of marriage, choke down dry watercress sandwiches, two waltzes at maximum every night, publish the banns, and swan off to live a humdrum life of domesticated purgatory.

A cold shudder ran through him at the very thought of seeing himself scheduling intimate appointments with his wife. No true gentlemen fulfilled their real desires inside their wives’ bedchambers. Instead, they did what was perceptually expected of them and then found the sort of woman who would embrace their baser needs somewhere else.

Glancing over the mass, he tried to find the little nymph in white and found her standing near a water fountain, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else but there.

What is a simple seamstress doing in a ladies’ soirée?

As if summoned by his stare, the little miss turned and met his gaze, and her eyes rounded. He held the gaze for a long moment, allowing a slow, tantalizing smirk to curve his lips as she grew even pinker.

If he had a mind, seducing the impetuous little goddess would be a simple matter. Almost too easy… but no, he had to keep his focus on his responsibilities.

After allowing his eyes to appreciatively trail over her from head to toe, he gave her a slow nod, then headed back the way he’d come. Outside, under the gentle sunlight and cool wind, he paused on the step of the carriage.

“Home, Your Grace?”

“Not this time, Percy,” William replied, his decision made on the fight. “Take me to Spitalfields. I need to speak to a man about a horse.”

 

Chapter Three

Bridget was having trouble breathing, and not just due to the strip of linen binding her bosoms beneath her dress. Perspiration pricked along her hairline at the sight of the same man whose face—and touch—haunted her dreams at night.

The feel of his muscular arms as he caged her; the memory of how her heart had beat a rapid staccato as his heavy-lidded eyes latched onto hers, and the crimson scar pulled taut along the right side of his face.

He is here, that rogue who kissed me is here.

She felt mortified at how easily he had awakened a hidden unknown emotion inside of her. After the moment he had taken—or rather stolen—her first kiss, she’d had… urges. What could another kiss from him feel like? A touch maybe? She may be virginal but was not a featherbrain.

“Bridget? Dear?” Ellie’s concerned voice cut through the shocked haze in Bridget’s mind. “Have you seen a phantasm?”

“No.” She turned, trying to ignore the thudding in her ears from her heightened awareness of everything around her. “I just feel… unwelcome. It’s clear that I don’t belong here, and Lady Ophelia, or should I say, Lady Obnoxious’ smug superiority set my teeth on edge.”

“Let’s ignore them,” Josie said quietly, as she led them to an empty gazebo near an artificial, ornamental pond.

All around the sprawling gardens of Tollerman Manor, butterflies floated, dipping to perch on plants with sweet pollen while ducks and ducklings splashed on the water’s surface, and sunshine rendered the still part of the pond into faceted prisms. Everything seemed more vibrant, more alive. A warm breeze caressed her skin, and she breathed in the scent of clipped hedges, lavender, and spring roses.

For a moment, her eyes rested on the faded posts of the gazebo, before trailing to the tall stone wall that protected the garden and manor house from prying eyes beyond it.

“…not sure if he will be a good husband?”

Snaping at attention to Eleanor’s words, Bridget sequestered her thoughts about the Beast of Brookhaven aside for another day. Blinking with embarrassment at her thoughts, she asked, “Pardon?”

“Lord Weatherly,” Eleanor replied, dropping another square of sugar into her delicate cup. “My latest suitor. He is a decade and a half older than I am, but mama says he is a staid choice. Not once has he ever been implicated in a scandal or had any illegitimate children.”

“Plus, his investments have made him very rich,” Josie added. “He sounds like a true gentleman in every sense of the word.”

Ellie did not look as eager or happy as Bridget thought she would be. A suitor was a wonderful thing to have… not that she had any experience. Why did her friend look so hesitant?

“So what is troubling you, Ellie?” she asked quietly.

“Rumor has it that the man is as predictable as vanilla trifle after Sunday dinner,” Eleanor sighed, gazing into the depths of her tea. “I know I should not complain about such a thing, there are many ladies without a suitor—” her eyes flicked apologetically to Bridget “—but is it too much to ask for a little spontaneity in a man?”

“Maybe you can teach him spontaneity,” Josie offered. “I know they say you cannot teach an old dog new tricks but maybe you can inspire him to change a little?”

“If we marry, that is,” Ellie replied.

“And if you do not, you are still young,” Bridget added. “With two or possibly three seasons ahead of you. If this is not what you want, what is the harm in looking for another?”

“It’s not that I…” Ellie shook her head, “I feel as if I am explaining this so, so wrong. I don’t want to give up on what could be a good match, but I fear exchanging a good match for the joie de vivre I do have.”

“Then what are you…?” Bridget did not know what to ask.

  “I do not think it will be a love match, but if it is a marriage of convenience based on mutual respect and shared goals, I shan’t complain. I just don’t want to be bored out of my mind in a monotone routine,” Ellie explained.

Looking away, Bridget bit her lip. In her heart of hearts, the girl inside her believed in true love, the triumph of good over evil, and fairy tale endings, but as she grew older, her mind was changing to that of a realist.

She leaned her elbows on the table and grasped Ellie’s hand, her friend’s heart-shaped face twisting with indecision. “You’re beautiful, generous, and caring. Any sane man will see that and cater to it.”

“I agree,” Josie affirmed. “And I think you need to speak to him, tell him what you would like in your courtship and marriage, and go on from there. If he does say he will try to accommodate your wishes, watch and see if he does. Actions do trump words, dear.”

Going back to her cooling tea, Bridget sipped before plucking a warm blackberry tart from the tiered tray and nibbling on it.

“What about you, Bridget?” Ellie asked. “How are you on the marriage front?”

“For now, I prize my independence,” she said. “I do hope to go home soon, however. My brother has not sent word about the estate and no matter how many times I write to him, I get nothing back. It’s been two years and I have saved enough to return home.”

“Oh,” Josie nodded. “I assume when you return to your old station, it will be easier for you to find a fitting match.”

“Speaking of matches,” Bridget teased Josephine, “you’re one to talk. You turned down two proposals this year!”

“For the first, he proposed a marriage based on mutual respect and shared goals and was happy I am the sort of woman who keeps to herself, but He doesn’t believe in love, and told me in no uncertain terms that falling in love with him would be to my detriment,” Josephine said.

“As for the second suitor, Mother found out literally a day after the proposal, that the man was buried in debt. He hid it carefully, but apparently, a lord spotted a known gambling debt owner banging on his door, and now, it’s all over Town.”

“Goodness,” Eleanor pressed a hand to her breasts. “Thank heavens you escaped the clutches of that fortune hunter.”

Once again, her mind flew to the mysterious man who had kissed her and she fit her hands around the cup. Unsure of what to do, if she should confess what happened to her friends or keep it to herself, Bridget pulled a corner of her lips between her teeth.

What to do…what to do…

“Bridget, dear, that Ceylon tea, though fine and so gentle on the mouth as it may be, can hardly be worthy of such studious observation,” Eleanor remarked. “Would you care to discuss what is holding your attention and is clearly bothering you?”

Bridget’s eyes darted to her friend’s face. “It’s… nothing much… well, I- I don’t know if it is nothing, to be honest. What do you know, if anything, about this Beast of Brookhaven?”

Her two friends shared a look before Ellie pronounced, “He is the worst rakehell in London, or should I say, was. Years ago, every scandal sheet had his name splashed across it, alleging that he had relations with this woman or the other.”

 “I too have read about him in the scandal sheets,” Josephine added with a gasp. “They say he is wicked and unprincipled, a ravenous wolf in lord’s clothing.”

“I’ve read one, mind just one, that described him as less than a lecherous hellhound but a handsome and masterful lover, and blessed with godlike looks, wealth, and charm. He was said to cause a female frenzy wherever he went.”

“Where-where do these scandal rags get that knowledge from?” Bridget felt her head start to spin.

After setting her cup down, Josie added, “One of the most lucrative scandal rags even claimed to have interviewed a few of his past lovers, but kept these women named as ‘legitimate anonymous sources,’. One of the women said his stamina is unparalleled and his tastes are diabolical.”

Her stomach twisted. Was that why he had said she tasted of innocence? Was he one of those men who demanded unspeakable things from his women?

Bridget knew it was not wise for her to know, but she asked anyway. “Diabolical how?”

“Fantasies that would shock the senses,” Ellie said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Some say he likes his women bare and bound, blindfolded and at his mercy.”

“It matters not,” Josie waved her slender hand. “He is cursed with ennui, my dear. Even if a woman succeeds in attracting his notice, they will not hold it for long.

“If the scandal sheets are to be believed, his affairs are short-lived and too numerous to count. Some even equate them to be incendiary, flaming hot for a long while before they burn to ash, and he moves to another without a look behind him.”

Swallowing, Bridget could sum up what she knew of this Beast in three words: arrogant, seducer, and disreputable, characteristics that any virtuous lady would take pains to avoid— but the kiss still lingered in her mind.

“Oh,” she mumbled.

Once again, her friends shared another look, and this time Josephine asked, “Why did you ask, Bridget?”

“Erm… I overheard a lady speaking about him when she and her mother came to the seamstress shop.” The lie felt heavy on her tongue as she knew neither of her friends would take it well when she admitted to the titillating encounter that night. “I wondered about it.”

“Hm,” Eleanor gently lifted her cup. “We shall all pretend you are not lying to us, but we will wait until you are ready to tell us what really happened.”

She blushed to the roots of her hair and turned away. “I am not.”

“Sure, dear,” Ellie patted her hand. “Sure, you aren’t.”

***

The unintrusive hackney William had hired to carry him into the depths of the Spitalfields clattered down the streets. As they got deeper into the town, shuttered storefronts lined both sides of the street, and people and horses jostled along the cobblestone.

They arrived at a street wedged in between two buildings in Petticoat Lane, the two-story building sandwiched between a bakeshop and a gin store. Wrapping on the roof, he waited until the carriage stopped and hopped out, pulled the rim of his hat down to shield his eyes, and headed to the steps.

Bypassing the front door, he took the side staircase and headed to the door around the side before rapping on the peeling door, hoping Silas Gilliam, a middle man in the boxing industry, was home and not tousled up in a gutter somewhere.

“Or nursing an injury in a hospital,” he muttered.

On the fifth knock, the door opened. Silas’ lean boxer-honed frame filled the doorway. His hair was scruffy and his jaw stubbly with the beginnings of a night beard, and his fine lawn shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing the corded column of his throat, while the robe he wore only gave a glimpse of the edge of his trousers. His large, masculine feet were bare.

 “What are you doing here?” the middleman asked. “Well, I shouldn’t ask that. I bloody well know why you’re here, but the answer is no.”

“I endeavor to change your mind,” William said affably. “Are you going to let me loaf on your doorstep like a wretched urchin or will you let me in so we can discuss it?”

Grunting, Ambrose stood aside, and William stepped in, doffing his hat and tugging off his great coat. As ragged as the outside was, the inside was the opposite; the furnishings were rich wood and pelt with wingchairs of leather, with cigar smoke curling in the air.

“You aren’t in the middle of a rendezvous, are you?” William asked, looking around for female paraphernalia. “If you are in the middle of—”

“Do you think I’d answer the door if I had some youthful chit lounging around?” Silas scoffed as he went to a cupboard and liberated a bottle of Tobermory whisky. “A glass?”

“Just one, thank you,” William gazed at a portrait. “More than that and I am a danger to myself.”

Shame clamped William’s insides when he thought back to two years ago, when he had woken up half naked on the floor of a whorehouse, covered in his rancid sick and up to his neck in debt.

His drinking and gambling had spiraled out of control, his rakehell ways had found him jumping from one bed to another, in the abyss of ignominy.

 He thanked the Gods that his father had not been around to witness his ultimate disgrace; he’d wagered the Brookhaven Castle—his papa’s legacy—on a round of hazard.

By a stroke of luck, he had won.

When it came to personal virtues, William could claim only one: he had the ability to see his own faults clearly, well, without the haze of liquor covering his mind.

A glass plunked on the bookshelf beside him and William took it, then sipped. “The Circuit is approaching, where all the prizefighters will compete for a hundred thousand pounds. I need you to get me in.”

 “I know you’re good, Your Grace. As the Masked Marauder, you have trumped a lot of n’er-do-well competitors, but those were silly boys doing silly things for shillings and half-pennies. This race is for the big boys, respectfully, Arlington,” Silas replied.

“See, how this works is you put in your bid, and the powers that be choose you. Sixteen of the seeds are chosen from all over England. In their respective areas, eight advance to the semis, and four rough it out for the first spot against the reigning champion.”

The Circuit Matches, a play on the Circuit Court, the highest-level administrative division of His Majesty’s Courts, was an open secret in the rounds of pugilism. The tournament had no set date or year but when it came around, all the best prizefighters in the realm endeavored to win it.

Hundreds of thousands of pounds traded hands at a single match, and the winner gained not only the prize money, but a share of the bets as well.

Slamming the glass on the table, William turned. “I can handle it. What I need from you is to arrange the matches I need to qualify.”

“No offense.” Silas threw back his drink. “But unless you have been living in a corner of Gentleman Jackson for the past three months to half a year, you are not ready.”

William was getting irritated. “Do me a favor and shelve the condescension and judgment, old boy. I do not need to prove to you that I am ready, I am telling you to prepare the match. I will take care of the rest myself.”

“No,” Silas repeated.

“Well, then I have wasted my time here,” William shrugged and moved to get his jacket and hat. “But mark my words, when I do win, you’ll rue the day you lost a five-thousand gratuity.”

“The prize money is a hundred thousand pounds,” Silas narrowed his eyes. “And five thousand is all you would hand me?”

“Would you prefer nothing?” William asked, a brow lifted. “Because if I go to another, you will lose it all.”

Scowling, Silas said, “If you do this, if I arrange all of it, you will do everything to make sure you get to the top. You must train from dawn to dusk, cut out all the rich food you lords eat every day—incorporate some healthier options.”

“I see.”

“No wine, no sherry, God forbid Blue Ruin, and if you must drink, brandy and cordials. I know you toffs love the stuff but limit your intake of coffee too, and no liquid or powder enhancements if you get my meaning,” Silas continued. “As for sparring partners, I can arrange those as well, and if you need them to keep it quiet—”

“I do.”

“—I will arrange that as well,” Silas added. “When the matches come about, I will have a bottle man, a knee man, and a physician lined up. They, too, will need a cut of the profits.”

“From the grand matches,” William negotiated. “Not the matches that lead up to it. I actually need that blunt.”

“But what if you lose?” Silas grunted. “We’d come out with nothing.”

“Alas, there is the crux. I won’t lose,” William replied with a wide grin, thinking back to how long and hard he had been training his entire life. Taking his hat, he fixed it onto his head. “Send notice for my acceptance and the first match as soon as you can arrange it. I will be ready and waiting.”

***

The carriage trundled through the wrought iron gates of Brookhaven Castle while William was running down a mental list of things he had set out to accomplish that day, and felt satiated knowing he had completed them all.

Alighting from the carriage, he sent the driver off with a good night and headed inside to be met by his valet, Oliver Lane, an impeccable man who had served William’s father before him.

“How are things this fine evening, Lane?” William chimed while handing off his hat and coat.

“You have a visitor, Your Grace,” Lane replied. “Of the female disposition. A Lady Rosalind, I believe.”

Although careful with his words, William could tell by his manservant’s tone alone that he disapproved—and he did have a point; Rosa was a gentlewoman who plied her body as currency for favors.

“And where is she located presently?” he asked.

“In your study,” Lane replied. “With a bottle of wine as her companion.”

“I see…” William nodded as he headed to the grand staircase. “Please see to it that we will not be disturbed, this might take a while.”

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the of September

Chapter One

June 1815

Cartwright Hall

Life as a spinster was generally not as bad as the rest of the ton made it out to be.

Certainly, an enlightened male relative was necessary to provide a roof over one’s head, but compared to a married Lady of Quality, Phoebe Townsend decided that spinsterhood certainly afforded her far more privileges than if she had a husband who lorded himself over her by virtue of his being born male.

Besides, she could hardly feel any difference in her life from before she had been declared off the marriage market, for better or for worse. It was simply a matter of finding similar like-minded individuals with whom she could comfortably associate with, and the so-called Spinsters’ Club afforded her that rather nicely.

“It is rather pitiful how he has not chosen to marry,” Miss Cartwright shook her head with a rueful smile. “With a face like that, he could send the whole of London abuzz!”

“Not to mention that he is currently a Marquess and heir to one of the finest estates in all of England!” Miss Bradbury added. “The Duke of Cheshire has been ill for so long that it is only a matter of time before…”

It was rude to speculate on the imminent demise of a person, of course, so she did not finish her sentence. However, it was understood by everyone in the Club that the Duke of Cheshire had been on his deathbed for quite some time and his son, the Marquess of Wentworth, Lord Charles Montgomery, still had no intention of fulfilling his obligations to his line and finding a wife to sire him an heir.

“But he is so dreadfully handsome!” Miss Cartwright sighed dreamily. “It is such a waste of his heavenly looks, to be sure!”

Phoebe barely looked up from her diary as the other ladies around her continued to gossip about their favorite gentleman—the infamous Lord Charles Montgomery, the Marquess of Wentworth. Every Wednesday, without fail, their conversations would turn towards the Marquess, and they would sigh over his dashing good looks.

I daresay Lord Wentworth would not be so pleased to find himself the object of the fantasies of a gaggle of spinsters, she thought to herself, as she made another note in her diary.

It was one thing to have swathes of eligible young ladies falling over themselves for a gentleman, and an entirely different thing for him to be secretly fawned over by a bunch of women who Society has collectively deemed wholly unsuitable for marriage.

“It is always the handsome ones who hide the darkest secrets,” she heard Miss Adeline Thomas scoff. “He hardly ever leaves his estate, and he never accepts callers. That should be enough to tell you all that there is more to Lord Wentworth than just his looks.”

“But that hardly means he is engaged in something nefarious,” Miss Bradbury shuddered. “Perhaps he just prefers to keep to himself most of the time…”

All the other members of the Club would generally agree that a gentleman had the privilege to be selective of the company he indulged in. After all, a good number of them did prefer to stay away from social affairs too. 

But Miss Thomas had the most unfortunate character trait of one who never wanted to be told she was wrong. Before she had been declared a spinster by her beleaguered papa and hapless mama, she had been called a veritable termagant behind her back for her querulous nature.

“Of course, they would never say that out loud,” she told them all with a tone of derision. “After all, what villain would trumpet his misdeeds for all the world to hear? Mark my words—Lord Wentworth has probably murdered countless people and buried them in Wentworth Park!”

The idea of literal corpses becoming fertilizer for the vast and tangled gardens of Wentworth Park was so laughable that Phoebe had to pause from her scribbling to look up at her companions with a sigh.

“I certainly doubt the veracity of that particular claim,” she told them.

As one, their gazes all swiveled back to her, most of them confused and hopeful.

Miss Thomas regarded her with an icy glare. “And how would you know? Have you been to Wentworth Park?”

“Of course not,” she replied with an amiable smile at the quarrelsome lady. “But Townsend House is just near to Wentworth Park and one can clearly see the Marquess from my window if he ever deigned to go out and bury somebody in his own gardens. Besides,” she told the rest of the group, “if he is going about and murdering as much as Miss Thomas claims, then he certainly is not very punctual about it.”

She saw the twin spots of pink that colored Miss Thomas’s cheeks, but she felt that she must speak out of turn to defend the honor and reputation of a gentleman who was not himself present to stand up for himself in the face of such lies.

“What do you mean he is not at all punctual about it?” Miss Cartwright dared to ask, her eyes lit up with curiosity.

“Well, contrary to popular opinion, he does come out of his house,” Phoebe explained. “But it is always at around six in the evening and then, he proceeds to go about the rest of the estate…”

Miss Bradbury frowned. “Go about the rest of the estate doing what exactly?”

“Why, he inspects it, of course. Every inch of it, from what I could see.”

“But Wentworth Park is quite large! It would take him hours to accomplish such a task.”

Phoebe smiled at them. “Precisely. Now, if someone were to go about doing all that day after day, that would leave only the daytime hours for him to go about murdering people and that is hardly ideal unless one were to become a prolific killer in broad daylight.”

The other ladies let out horrified giggles, for although as dark and horrific the idea of murder was, it was also quite ridiculous to engage in such an act in broad daylight, with most of the world being wide awake to witness the act.

A murmur of agreement rose from amongst the other ladies as Miss Thomas bristled in annoyance from her seat. Phoebe even saw her throw a glare her way, but she just shrugged it all off. She was pretty much accustomed to Miss Thomas and her attitude by then and a glare was not really the worst she had received from the other spinster, all things considered.

“My, you certainly have Lord Wentworth all figured out,” Miss Thomas remarked in a saccharine tone. “A pity that he has not noticed you, then. In fact, the only attentions you have ever received was from—who was that again? Oh, Lord Edwin Oakley.”

At the mention of that name, Phoebe immediately stiffened, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her pen.

Of course, Miss Thomas would bring out the Baron of Scunthorpe, which was a sore topic for Phoebe. He was the one thing that could reduce her to silence—and not in a good way.

Instead of flinging back a scathing retort, she looked down at the scrawled notes in her diary, her lowered eyes making out the name Charles written frequently amongst its pages.

Miss Thomas might hurl her vitriol at her, but Phoebe knew the truth—that Lord Wentworth was not the monster she made him out to be and she would not allow her to malign such a misunderstood man.

Before anyone could say anything else, Miss Cartwright let out a nervous laugh.

“Well, this was a rather, ah, lively discussion,” she smiled at her guests. “But it is getting rather late now so we might have to adjourn this meeting and meet again, say, the same time next week?’

There was a murmur of agreement amongst the group and Phoebe inwardly let out a sigh of relief. Fortunately, things between her and Miss Thomas did not have to escalate unnecessarily.

She quickly packed up her things into her little satchel, when she recalled that she had promised her younger sister, Daphne, that she had to be back home earlier. She quickly said her goodbyes to the rest of the group, pointedly ignoring the smirk that Miss Thomas casually threw her way.

“Will you be here the same time next week, dear?” Miss Cartwright asked her with hopeful eyes. 

“Of course, Miss Cartwright,” Phoebe replied with a quick smile.

“Do take care on your way back,” her host told her with a gentle hand on her arm. 

Phoebe gave her a slight nod as she hurried out the door, her satchel swinging from her arm, its contents jostling from within. She put a hand on her bonnet to keep it from flying away as she quickly made her way into the carriage waiting for her.

“Back to Townsend Manor, please,” she told the coach. “And please hurry.”

“Right away, Miss Phoebe!” the coachman replied, and with a snap of the reins, they were off.

Oh, I do hope that I am not too late or Daphne will never forgive me!

If she had not been caught in a small argument with Miss Thomas, she might have been better able to keep track of the time and excused herself from the meeting earlier.

Well, at least I have made it clear that I do not live next door to a brutal murderer, she thought with a relieved sigh.

She did, however, feel more than a little incensed when Lord Edwin was brought up in the conversation. Miss Thomas certainly had no qualms about being rude and offensive for as long as she could have the upper hand in an argument!

As she looked out the window apprehensively, Phoebe could not help but let out a sigh once more.

Chapter Two

June 1815 

Townsend Manor

Phoebe knew herself to be a rather tolerant person in that she found herself to be more accepting of a person’s idiosyncrasies than most of the ton were willing to be. She also was not one to nurse a grudge. However, she found that she was still rather piqued when she arrived at Townsend Manor.

Perhaps piqued was not even the right word, for she was still in a dark mood, when a flurry of pale pink muslin nearly crashed into her from the door.

“You have arrived! Oh! I was so worried that you had forgotten about me!”

She found herself being wrapped in a frenzied hug and for a brief moment, she wondered if this was how she was going to die—smothered by muslin and still stewing with a significant amount of resentment towards Miss Thomas.

But Phoebe still wanted to enjoy a great deal of what life had to offer, so she managed a small smile as she gingerly extricated herself from her youngest sister’s exuberance.

“Daphne, you are already a young lady,” she gently reminded her sister. “Perhaps you should refrain from barreling at those who have just crossed the front door.”

She saw a faint, pretty blush adorn the younger girl—no, woman’s—cheeks as her sister appeared properly chastised for her behavior. That was soon followed by a more childish pout and Phoebe smiled a little more ruefully at the sight.

Perhaps she is not as grown up as she likes to think herself, she thought as she took off her bonnet and gloves.

“I had thought you had forgotten about me,” Daphne repeated, the complaint clear in her voice. “You promised you would be home by four.”

The eldest daughter of the Townsend household nodded slightly. “Of course, I did, but the meeting dragged on for far longer than I would have liked.”

It could have ended much sooner, if Miss Thomas kept her tongue in check, she added in her mind.

“Well, no matter!” Daphne declared as she dragged her older sister upstairs to her rooms. “You must help me—I am in a right state wondering what to wear for dinner tomorrow.”

“I hardly think the approval of a spinster should accomplish your goals.”

“Spinster or not, you have attended three Seasons. Your experience is, at this point, most invaluable, Fi.”

Phoebe smiled to herself as Daphne continued to drag her upstairs. Indeed, she had made her bow and attended all of three Seasons, but she did not have much to show for it. As far as the ton were concerned, it had all ended with dismal results for she had no husband to show for herself.

There was one suitor, but the mere thought of him had her glowering once more—something that Daphne managed to catch.

“You do seem like you are in a less than stellar mood today,” she remarked softly as they stood just outside the door to her bedchamber. “Perhaps I should not have dragged you so needlessly—”

“Oh, dearest, that is hardly your fault!” Phoebe cried as she hugged her sister. “It is just that…well…” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Miss Thomas brought up the subject of the Baron of Scunthorpe earlier at the meeting…”

Phoebe knew she needed not expound further on the matter when she saw the realization dawning on her younger sister’s face.

“Well, that was rather rude of her!” Daphne huffed as she pushed the door open. “And I have heard of this Miss Thomas—she sounds like a dreadful character, really.”

“Who is a dreadful character, Daphne dear?” a voice queried.

Phoebe peered inside the room to find the third Townsend sister seated on the couch with a book on her lap. Minerva looked back at her like a curious little owl, her head tilted slightly as she regarded her two sisters from the doorway.

“Miss Thomas!” Daphne bit out. “She just mentioned that…that…unwelcome presence during their meeting!”

Phoebe let out a small smile as her youngest sister expressed an extreme indignation for what she had experienced at the meeting with Miss Thomas.

Sisters are truly a loyal and ferocious bunch.

Well, her sisters, at least, for she knew a great many amongst the ton who turned against their own.

“No!” Minerva breathed out. “She did not!”

Phoebe could tell that her second sister truly had strong feelings on her behalf also, for she had set aside her book as she stood up suddenly.

“The sheer audacity!” Minerva remarked.

“I know, right? It is no wonder that most people I know have shunned her.” Daphne let out a delicate shudder. “Even her poor mama has had to contend with her misdeeds for it appears she had made a great number of foes before.”

Phoebe looked at her two younger sisters, who appeared to have worked themselves up into a fit of righteous indignation on her behalf. The earlier resentment that she felt towards Miss Thomas and her reminder of the Baron started to dissipate and she smiled a little bit more as she laid a hand on Daphne’s shoulder.

“Come now. Let us shelf that matter,” she coaxed her. “You have a dinner to attend tomorrow, I believe? Why, we must make sure that you are simply the most radiant creature that Lord Brunswick has ever laid his eyes on!”

Daphne blushed a vivid rosy hue as she cast down her gaze shyly. “You know that nothing is settled yet between us. I just wanted to make a good impression…”

“And you shall, of course!” Minerva declared loyally. “After all, where else can he find such a beautiful and talented young lady in all of London?”

“Stop it, Minerva! You know that is not true!”

Phoebe reached out into the wardrobe and pulled out a dress of pale blue silk shot through with delicate golden embroidery. “This one should bring out the color of your eyes wonderfully, dearest. And it looks so elegant, does it not?”

“Yes, but I think you also look pretty in that pale rose dress from Madame Chagnon,” Minerva pointed out with a shrug. “But what do I know about dresses, really?”

Daphne pulled out the dress that her second sister was referring to and held it up in front of her with an appreciative look.

“Actually, it does look charming, Minerva,” she agreed. She hurried over to the mirror and smiled. “Your suggestion has merit.”

Phoebe watched as her sister shyly ducked her head and mumbled under her breath that she was glad she could help.

“Actually, I think that the blue would be better for another event,” she agreed. “It is rather elegant, but it might come off as a little… well, unapproachable.”

Minerva nodded. “Perhaps for a ball where you need to shock them all!”

The sisters burst into giggles as they all piled onto the plush sofa, the dresses they had chosen carefully put aside.

“You know, this almost feels like that time when we were children and we went through Mama’s wardrobe,” Daphne remarked wistfully.

Minerva snorted. “As I recall, Mama was not so pleased with us at that time. We had to go without pudding for a week!”

“No pudding for a week is the absolute worst!”

They happily chatted amongst themselves, indulging in the occasional fit of giggles and lighthearted banter that was the hallmark of their sisterly affection, when Phoebe’s eyes landed upon the clock on her sister’s mantelpiece. She nearly shot out of her seat when she saw that it was already six in the evening.

“I should go now!” she said, hastily collecting her things.

Daphne sat up with a frown. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Nothing much. I—I just recalled that I have something else to do.” She shot her youngest sister an apologetic smile and added, “You will look absolutely beautiful tomorrow, Daph, and Lord Brunswick should feel honored to have you as his guest.”

She noted the shy blush that bloomed on her sister’s face, but she said nothing of it as she hurried back to her own rooms. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, she casually tossed her satchel onto the sofa and hurried over to the windows that faced Wentworth Park.

At six, he always goes out to make a round around Wentworth Park, she thought to herself. Always. Without fail.

This, Phoebe knew, for she had been observing the Marquess of Wentworth for some time already. At first, she would make notes of it in her journal, but over time, she had come to know his routines by heart.

Around this time, the curtains all over Wentworth Park would be shuttered close nearly in unison. She had earlier noticed that they were so thick that hardly any light passed through them, so much so that it would seem as if the whole house was plunged into darkness simultaneously. It was almost as if its mysterious owner wished to give off the impression that there was no one in the entire residence.

Or maybe, he just does not appreciate the rest of the public minding his business…

Perhaps if he believed he had a neighbor like Miss Thomas, who only thought of him as a rampant murderer, Phoebe could certainly understand why he would not be so inclined to share his activities with the rest of the public.

However, a few minutes had passed and there was still no sign of the Marquess. In addition to that, she noted that several curtains had also remained open, when they should have been shuttered close already.

Now, that is strange, she mused to herself. Where could His Lordship be at this time? He is always punctual.

For many months already, she could count on him to come out for his evening jaunt to the point that she had come to think of it as some sort of tacit secret between them both. For him to deviate from his usual routine felt almost as if he had let her down in some way.

Where could he be? Phoebe thought to herself with a frown. Surely, he is not involved in something nefarious as Miss Thomas claims!

A lot of people deviate from their rituals frequently. Phoebe herself was not a creature of habit, so why should she expect the Marquess of Wentworth to stick to such a rigid routine?

Still, she felt it was rather unsettling to not see his familiar figure garbed all in black heading out to check the perimeters of his estate with a lantern in hand. It was not just disappointment—she truly felt a certain degree of concern for the mysterious Lord and his rather predictable habits.

I wonder what could have held him up, she thought to herself, sighing as she sat at the window seat. She propped her face up with her hand and stared out at Wentworth Park and the windows with their curtains still hanging open.

Chapter Three

Phoebe twirled the wand disinterestedly as a sleek, black cat jumped up at the feather attached to its end with its claws outstretched. It let out an indignant yowl as the wand flicked just out of reach.

“It feels rather unsettling, does it not, Whiteson?” she mused distractedly. “Just when I thought I had him all figured out, he does something truly unexpected and now, I do not know what to make of it. Or if I should make anything of it at all.”

She let out a soft sigh as she flicked the wand again, much to the cat’s consternation. Eventually, her lack of focus caused her to allow the wand to droop, and Whiteson, who had been waiting for the perfect opportunity like the skilled predator that he was, immediately pounced upon that feathered stick with a triumphant cry.

“You know what they say about cats and spinsters,” a soft voice intruded her thoughts.

She looked up to find Minerva walking towards her with a small smile. “Daph is already in her bedchamber.”

“That is quite unusual. One would think that she would be unable to sit still from the excitement of having dinner with Lord Brunswick tomorrow.”

“Oh.” The smile on Minerva’s face looked slightly devious. “Mama told her that she needed to get a lot of sleep in order to look her absolute best tomorrow.”

Phoebe let out a short laugh and shook her head at her sister. “Mama certainly has her ways. What about you? Why are you still up at this hour?”

“I saw you out in the gardens and I wondered if you might like some company… well, after what was said to you earlier.”

“I… have almost forgotten about it entirely.”

It was the truth, strangely. As incensed as she had been at Miss Thomas and her sharp tongue, she had almost forgotten her earlier resentment when she first noted their neighbor deviating from his usual routine. She still found it so unsettling that she barely touched her dinner and there was still half of her pudding left, which Minerva had then happily claimed for herself.

“That is good, I suppose,” her sister remarked. “From all accounts, Miss Thomas does seem to enjoy offending a lot of people, so you are in good company.”

“Not all company is good, you know.”

“Oh, I know all too well. You forget how I prefer books to people, Fi.”

Phoebe nodded listlessly as she stared out in the direction of Wentworth Park—and those few windows that still remained open. If the Marquess was up to something vile, then he most certainly was not going to leave the windows open for all the world to see, was he?

“Well, in that case, I should return to my book,” Minerva smiled at her. “I had Mary make me a cup of warm milk earlier and I would not want it to be cold by the time I got back.”

“Yes,” Phoebe muttered in reply. “Meanwhile, I think I’ll stay out here a while longer to keep Whiteson company.”

She heard Minerva murmur an acknowledgement and Phoebe was vaguely aware of the gentle pat on her shoulder before her sister walked back into the house and back to her book. 

As the second oldest of the three sisters, Minerva was of age to make her bow, but she had begged their parents to delay her coming out by another year, which was a great contrast to Daphne, who seemed to have prepared for her own entrance to Society ever since she was born.

All three sisters were different in their own way, but Lord and Lady Townsend regarded them all with equal affection and a bit more tolerance than most parents in the ton afforded their children. It was how Minerva managed to hold off on making her bow and why Phoebe had never been forced into marriage herself.

At five-and-twenty, she had at least another year before she could safely declare herself off the marriage mart, but her parents still said nothing when she announced that she was effectively putting herself on the shelf, as it were. Even then, she was not scorned for choosing the life of a spinster and her father even guaranteed that she would always have a roof over her head.

Other parents would not have been as tolerant.

Now, she mostly spent her days either helping her sisters or attending the weekly meetings in Cartwright Hall. However, what she was most fond of was watching the Marquess of Wentworth go about his daily activities like clockwork.

She could not fathom how a man could impose such a rigid schedule upon himself, and while she started observing him due to a great deal of fascination for the existence he chose to lead, she had truly come to admire the man in a way.

Of course, it certainly helped matters that he was sinfully handsome with a physique that would have rivaled that of Michelangelo’s David.

She flushed as she thought of his broad-shouldered frame and those long, muscular legs of his as he stoically made his rounds about Wentworth Park.

Until tonight, of course, when he failed to show up.

Her thoughts were disrupted by an indignant meow, followed by the sound of a slight scuffle as the feathered wand that Whiteson had been playing with tumbled to the ground. The feline let out a huffy purr before dashing off through the hedges and into the darkness—straight into Wentworth Park!

“Whiteson, no!” Phoebe cried out in alarm.

Although the cat certainly looked better than it did before it wandered up to the gardens of Townsend House, she doubted Whiteson would be considered a welcome guest in Wentworth Park. With her heart pounding loudly in her chest, she dashed through the hedges after the stubborn feline and climbed over the wall that divided the two properties.

Her feet landed on the grassy yard of Wentworth Park with a soft thud, but still, Whiteson was nowhere to be found. She gritted her teeth as she began to call for the cat softly. Under the cover of darkness, it would be much more difficult to find the black cat, except by its glowing green eyes.

You better be grateful after all the trouble you have put me through, she groused internally as she continued her search for him.

A soft breeze blew through the yard, rattling a few bare branches and sending a handful of fallen leaves flying her way. Phoebe squinted and covered her face to protect it when she noticed a small trapdoor lying open several yards away from her.

Whiteson must have gone in there, that silly cat!

She let out a frustrated sigh as she headed over to the trapdoor. A wooden staircase disappeared down into the depths and Phoebe could not resist the shudder that ran through her.

What is this place? 

She called again for the cat, but an answer never came, so she gritted her teeth and began to descend the staircase. Her first step was met with a loud creak and she froze immediately, looking around to see if somebody had heard her. She was now officially trespassing on the property of the Marquess of Wentworth, and if he found her… well, she doubted he would be impressed at all, to put it mildly. 

“Whiteson!” she called out again in a soft hiss. “Where are you, you silly little feline?”

Upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, she felt her feet step into something wet. She immediately recoiled, her eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the darkness and the paltry light from a handful of lamps that seemed to be on the last dregs of their viability.

Seconds later, the scene before her broke through the hazy gloom of the cellar. Two rows of barred cells flanked her on both sides. From the closest one to her left, she saw a handcuff attached to the wall and a straw pallet that appeared to be infested with mold. From beneath the straw pallet, a mouse emerged, scurrying close to her feet, and she bit her fist to silence her shriek. 

She had heard the rumors about the mysterious Marquess, but she had never thought he would have an actual torture chamber on his own property—or what seemed like one, anyway. It was certainly not something one would show to the guests when giving them a tour of the estate and she even doubted most of his staff knew of its existence, considering it appeared like it had not been cleaned in ages.

“I should leave,” Phoebe whispered to herself, her voice barely rising above the dampness in the still air of the cellar. 

Her heart began pounding fiercely, a rapid drumbeat that echoed the tremors racing through her limbs. She shook her head, trying to dispel the eerie sense of being watched in the darkness, and made to turn back towards the safety of Townsend House. But just as she spun toward the stairs and made to flee, she collided into something hard. Fists of steel hooked around her elbow, and Phoebe very nearly screamed.  

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?” a deep and angry voice rumbled from the shadows.  

Phoebe gasped and looked up, only to find the livid features of the Marquess of Wentworth. His dark brows were snapped together, his eyes a piercing, icy blue. His lips were pressed into a cold line as he awaited her reply.

“I-I am Phoebe Townsend, my Lord,” she stammered. “From Townsend House next door. I-I w-was looking for my cat—he ran over here, you see. He probably discovered th-that and there were a l-lot of m-mice in there and he thought—”

Phoebe clamped her mouth in horror when she realized that she had just tried to justify breaking and entering into the man’s property by implying that he had a rodent problem!

She hung her head in remorse. “I apologize—that was completely out of turn for me to say—” 

Although from all the scurrying and squeaking I have been hearing, this must be a veritable feast for a stray cat like Whiteson!

She watched as his dark brows relaxed into a more neutral position, although his eyes still looked like chips of ice. His fists fell away from her arms and Phoebe shuddered as she ran her hands over her skin there, hoping they would not leave bruises in the morning.

“You… are a woman,” he muttered matter-of-factly. 

“Yes, yes,” she nodded emphatically. “That I am… my Lord.”

She heard him snort under his breath and wondered if he doubted the veracity of that claim too. After all, she was rather tall for a member of the feminine population. So tall, in fact, that she towered over almost all the other young ladies in every ballroom she had ever attended. 

Yet, she still barely reached his chin and she still had to tilt her head back to watch him glower at her.

“Well then, you may leave,” he finally bit out. “And do not come poking your nose where it does not belong, young girl. Understood?”

Young girl?

“Truly?” she breathed out in relief instead. “Oh, thank you so much, my Lord! And you can rest assured that I will not tell a single soul what I have seen!”

As I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them that the Marquess of Wentworth had a literal torture chamber on his property! I would sound just like Miss Thomas! 

Lord Wentworth looked at her as if he doubted these words, too, but he silently stepped aside and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs.

“I trust you can find your way back home,” he told her in a curt tone.

Phoebe nodded again. She seemed to be nodding an awful lot tonight.

“Of course, my Lord. I am not a total simpleton, you know,” she blurted. 

Once again, she caught him muttering something under his breath and she wondered what he could have been saying.

She made her way up the rickety stairs and then paused at the very top to turn back and look at him, fidgeting uneasily when he continued to glare at her.

“I, ah, just wanted to ask that if you see Whiteson, please do not hurt him,” she began. “He is a black cat, you see, but he has the sweetest temper, although he is rather mischievous. Do not worry, though,” she added, shaking her hands before her. “I assure you that he can help you get rid of the, er…pests on  your lands. He is quite useful in other ways, you know.”

Now, what did I just say? Did I just imply he had a rodent problem once more?

She felt the heat creep up her cheeks when he did not even deign to reply, so Phoebe did what she thought was best—she whirled around, and clutching at her skirts, began to run back towards Townsend House. She did not turn back or slow down until she had managed to climb over the wall and was safe in her own garden once more.

***

Charles had never before had a more awkward interaction with a female of his species, and he certainly had many of them before Miss Phoebe Townsend crashed into him moments ago.

He had initially thought her to be an intruder—and she certainly was that, though not the kind that he had been expecting, to be truthful. 

For one, she was rather clumsy. He must have seen her stumble over the stairs at least three times going up and it was not a very lengthy staircase. On the contrary, it was rather short, one that could be breached with but a few steps.

Spies and assassins moved with far more grace than Miss Phoebe Townsend did.

And another thing, she simply talked too much. One could even say that she rambled on and on about her damned cat and how he must have found the mice on his property rather tempting, for about nineteen words too long. 

A woman who tried to kill him once had also tried to distract him, but she had been much more seductive than… awkward.

Of course, there was the off chance that she could have been lying about everything. It could all have just been an act that she had put on so that he would lower his guard and she could find the perfect opportunity to strike…

Just then, he heard a soft purr and felt something rub sinuously against his leg, rumbling in contentment as it did so. Surprised, Charles looked down to find a black cat happily rubbing its body against his ankle.

“Apparently, she was telling the truth,” he muttered. “And you must be Whiteson.”

The cat let out a meow in the affirmative.

“Your mistress was not the most creative at naming you.”

This time, it let out an indignant scoff and Charles sighed.

“Very well, you may help yourself to some mice,” he relented. “But do not finish them all off. You have to leave some to maintain the ambiance of the room.”

He gingerly shook the cat off his leg and walked back up and out of the trapdoor. He waited for the cat—Whiteson—to make its way out, before closing it behind him. This time, however, he made sure to lock it.

He would not risk the likes of Miss Phoebe Townsend inadvertently stumbling upon his secrets once again.

In fact, it would be more prudent to keep an eye on the young miss for a while. Heaven only knew what sort of troubles she might get into…

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 19th of August!

Chapter One

1815

Thornhill Castle

“Now you can open your eyes.”

Upon opening her eyes, Cecilia felt as though she had stepped back through time.

The hall through which she walked, arm in arm with Arthur, was of brooding dark stone. A vaulted ceiling was supported by massive timbers. Windows set to either side of the hall were tall and arched—they looked as though they belonged in a cathedral! The floor was of naked stone, though highly polished, and despite the finish, it bore the scars and scratches of its centuries of use.

“This is… remarkable. I cannot imagine living in such a place…” Cecilia gasped.

Her long auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders in bouncing curls. She shared the same brown eyes and small, straight nose as her brother, and both possessed dimples in their cheeks when smiling—so deep, it wasn’t difficult to tell they were siblings.

Arthur nodded. “Neither can I. In all the times I have visited Lionel here, I cannot picture Thornhill Castle as anything other than cold, brooding, and possibly haunted.”

He grinned and Cecilia returned the smile. “How exciting. I would love to share a house with a phantom.”

“But not the bloodless seventh Duke who walks the passageways of the east wing,” Arthur noted, grimacing in the manner of a gargoyle. “They say his throat was cut and when he was found, he was as white as snow. Now, he remains there, prepared to push unwary visitors down the tower stairs.”

Cecilia shuddered, though she knew her brother was exaggerating.

“I don’t see how an insubstantial wraith could push anyone down anything,” she said.

“By the force of sheer fright,” Arthur pointed out.

Cecilia playfully slapped his shoulder.

“Stop trying to frighten me, Artie. I am sure that this house is not nearly as frightening as its age makes it appear. It is… atmospheric, however.”

“Very,” Arthur agreed.

The babble of voices reached them from the far end of the hallway. A carved wooden screen divided the room at that point. It was painted to depict a grandiose scene from Teutonic mythology. A door was set into the screen, and as it opened, the sound of the other gathered guests grew in volume. A man stepped through the door and Cecilia immediately felt her heartbeat hasten.

“Ah, there you are, Penrose! Come and join us. Have you shown your sister around this moldering pile of stone I call home?” he uttered.

He was tall and broad-shouldered with short-cropped black hair. The darkness of his hair made his skin seem pale and emphasized his emerald, green eyes. His handsome features were completed by a Roman nose and full lips above a strong jaw. The man exuded strength and power. When those green eyes met her own, Cecilia found her breath quickening. She did not want to look away and found herself reminded of dark fairytales concerning seductive vampires. There was a physicality to him that made her acutely aware of her own body. By comparison to the muscle that seemed to make his clothing tight, her own curving hips and bosom felt soft. Under those broad hands, she would be helpless, to be manipulated as he saw fit. She wetted her lips and forced a breathless smile as he approached them.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of being introduced. I am the Duke of Thornhill, Lionel Grisham.”

He did not smile. Nothing disturbed the marble stillness of his pale face. It was the visage from the mind of a Renaissance master artisan. There was the capacity for cruelty there and the potential for an implacable enemy. But, she fancied, there was also a vulnerability in the softness of his full lips.

“Thornhill,” Arthur suddenly hastened to say, “may I introduce my younger sister, Cecilia.”

Cecilia remembered to curtsy and put out her gloved hand. She felt Lionel’s lips brush her fingertips and experienced a moment of wild fantasy in which she imagined that kiss without the material of the gloves in between,

“My pleasure, Cecilia. Please call me Lionel, as your brother is wont to do,” Lionel added, releasing her hand.

She regretted the end of that touch but at the same time was glad. She knew that Lionel was engaged to be married, and would have been disappointed had he shown any sign of being one of those men who did not respect the sanctity of marriage. Or respect the woman to whom they were betrothed. She considered her parents to have been the perfect examples of marriage, devoted to each other and their children. Her father’s brother, Rupert, was the opposite. A rogue who chose his wife for her money and his mistresses for their youth and beauty. Cecilia had little experience with men, having only just reached her debut this year. No suitors had yet come forward. Or at least none that had passed Arthur’s ferocious protectiveness. He took seriously his responsibilities for his younger sister in the absence of their father and mother.

“That is most gracious of you, Lionel. I should be glad to,” Cecilia replied with a happy smile.

Arthur grinned but Lionel remained stony-faced.

“He never cracks a smile if he can help it,” Arthur stage-whispered to Cecilia.

Lionel’s eyebrows raised a fraction and he inclined his head.

“You only think so, Penrose, because you’ve never said anything humorous in my hearing.”

“Touche,” Arthur replied.

“I was just saying to Arthur how remarkable this house is, Lionel,” Cecilia said, her voice soft and inviting, “would it be imposing to ask for a tour and perhaps something of its history?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “My sister has an inordinate interest in such dreary subjects as history and literature, I’m afraid. Give me sport and a mug of ale over a book any day.

Lionel’s mouth twitched at the corner and his eyes narrowed. “I remember from our days at Westlands. Your love of sport saw you whipped far more often than I.”

“Worth every stroke,” Arthur grinned, “books are for librarians.”

 Cecilia giggled softly. “I have never heard those stories! I suppose that is why you insisted I learn fencing, brother. To be entirely truthful, Lionel, my brother’s insistence on these lessons meant I had heard quite a bit about you even before our acquaintance.”

Lionel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a spark of intrigue lighting in his eyes. “You? Fencing?”

“Oh, indeed,” Cecilia replied, her gaze holding his a moment longer than necessary. “Arthur mentioned more than once that his skills were sharpened under your tutelage, if I’m correct?”

Lionel chuckled, stepping slightly closer to her, the space between them becoming tantalizingly small. “I had no idea. Perhaps one day we might spar together. I would love to see if your brother’s teachings did my lessons justice.”

Arthur groaned good-naturedly, breaking the moment. “Enough of that. When are we to start the hunt, Lionel? My patience wanes.”

“Soon enough, old boy. We await one more guest, a friend of Arabella’s. And as for the tour, Miss Sinclair, I will ask my man, Blackwood, to show you around the castle and give you an account of its history. He has served my family since birth and knows more about Thornhill than any man living.”

Cecilia found herself smiling brightly, touched at the consideration Lionel was taking. She knew that while the men who had been invited to Thornhill were hunting, the women would be gathered in a drawing room and would talk over tea. She had little aptitude for the kind of gossip that was the primary discourse in those gatherings, remembering hours of tedium as a young girl, sitting beside her mother and listening to the conversations going back and forth. Afterward, her mother would translate the seemingly innocuous comments, stripping away the surface meaning to expose petty squabbles and sniping. The prospect of exploring such a dramatic residence as Thornhill Castle was much more appealing to her.

“I should be delighted, Lionel. Thank you very much.”

Lionel actually smiled, and it transformed his face. The austere expression was gone and a joyous life seemed to appear like a blossoming sunrise. His green eyes, previously the hardest emerald, became the light shade of grass, soft and comfortable. Cecilia, always quick to smile by nature, found herself mirroring his expression while lost in the verdant depths of his eyes. A moment stretched into eternity and then Arthur cleared his throat. Cecilia jumped and Lionel blinked, turning away hurriedly.

“Yes, well, I shall lay that on for you. Come through and meet the company, both of you. No one you haven’t met before, Penrose. Several people for your brother to introduce you to, Cecilia… I mean, Miss Sinclair. Yes, come through, come through.”

He was talking in a breathless rush and hurrying away. Cecilia found herself blushing with such fury, she could feel the heat of her cheeks. Arthur looked from one to the other with a raised eyebrow and a quizzical expression. He offered his arm to Cecilia, who gave him a wide-eyed stare above lips compressed to a white line. It told him she would tolerate no teasing. Duke Lionel Grisham of Thornhill was a man engaged to be married. There would be no flirtation and the moment that had just passed between them was a mere trifle. Hardly worth commenting on. So she wouldn’t. And neither would her maddeningly mischievous brother. Or there would be consequences.

“Shall I give you a moment to dispel those scarlet cheeks, dear sister?” he smirked.

“You will not,” Cecilia said with as much dignity as she could muster.

Lionel was a man happily promised to another. Doubtless Arabella Wycliff was a famed beauty and a woman of accomplishment and rank. Cecilia Sinclair, orphan and ward of her brother, the Earl of Penrose, would be no competition. Even that thought increased the heat in her cheeks. The very thought that there could be any question of competition with herself as the victor in particular. Nonsense. But she could not forget the frisson she had felt when looking into Lionel’s eyes. The quake that had begun somewhere deep within her at the proximity of such masculinity. His height and the breadth of both chest and shoulders made her breathless to think of.

She smoothed the cream skirt of her new dress, bought for her by Arthur from London for her birthday the month before. Its bodice was a pale green that complimented her brown eyes and bronze hair. Wearing it made Cecilia feel beautiful. It was the finest gown she had ever worn and it gave her a thrill to know that Lionel had seen her in it, that he had seen her at her best. Once again, Cecilia berated herself for a foolish fantasy that could never come to be. Best to forget Arthur’s handsome and enigmatic friend.

Lionel stood at the door in the screen that led to the part of the Great Hall in which his other guests were mingling and talking. As Cecilia and Arthur reached him, there came a raised voice from the far end of the hall. Cecilia happened to be looking at Lionel as the voice rang out and saw his expression change. Green eyes narrowed and his chin lifted. There was tension in the muscles of his neck and jaw and a hand at his side clenched into a fist. Arthur turned and Cecilia saw the tightness in his features. Arthur was a happy, smiling man but now there was almost an expression of open hostility on his face. She looked for the cause of this sudden tension.

Approaching across the hall was a man with black hair, curling close to his scalp and short. His skin was pale and his body slender. As he approached, she saw that he had pale blue eyes and something of a resemblance to Lionel. But while the Duke was powerful and strong, this man was lean and whip-like. On his arm was a beautiful woman. She had golden hair and was tall, moving with grace and deliberation. Her lips possessed a pout that made them seem full and luscious but her blue eyes were cold. Cecilia was left with the impression that her beauty was the product of a great deal of work rather than something bestowed by nature.

“Your Grace!” the slender man said, looking at Lionel, “I do so apologize for my tardiness. But look who I bumped into as I arrived!”

“Lord Thorpe. Welcome,” Lionel replied stiffly.

The blonde woman left Thorpe’s side and crossed to Lionel, kissing his cheek and taking his arm.

“Cecilia, may I introduce my fiancée, Arabella Wycliff. Arabella, this is Cecilia Sinclair, sister to Lord Penrose, whom you already know.”

Icy blue eyes swept over Cecilia and rosebud lips smiled. Cecilia was left feeling that she had been weighed and measured by those eyes.

“Miss Sinclair. How nice to meet you,” she spoke.

“My Lady,” Cecilia replied politely.

“And may I introduce Lord Gordon Locke, Viscount of Thorpe,” Lionel continued.

The dark-haired man took Cecilia’s hand without invitation and pressed his lips to it. His blue eyes met hers and he smiled. She returned the smile politely, not liking the presumption he had shown.

“I had not expected to meet such a beautiful stranger. I thought I knew all of His Grace’s society,” Thorpe grinned, “where have you been hiding yourself?”

Arthur cleared his throat and removed Cecilia’s hand from Thorpe’s grip, placing it upon his arm.

“Shall we go through, Sister?”

Cecilia caught the brief flash of a mocking smile on the face of Lord Thorpe at Arthur’s intervention. Then those blue eyes were on hers again. His stare was direct but did not have the effect upon her that Lionel’s had. Cheeks cold and not remotely blushing, Cecilia smiled politely, looking from Lord Thorpe to Arabella.

“It was a pleasure to meet you both.”

As Arthur led her away, Lord Thorpe called out, “I am so looking forward to this hunt, Penrose. Perhaps I will show His Grace and yourself the marksmanship I learned in service of King and country.”

Cecilia looked questioningly at Arthur as they stepped through the screen. Lionel closed the door behind them and she heard him speak to Lord Thorpe, though she could not hear what was said. The room beyond was softened by the addition of plush furniture, rugs, and wall hangings to disguise the bare stone of the hall. A fire roared in an impressive stone fireplace and men and women stood about or sat, talking, eating, and drinking.

“What was that all about?” Cecilia asked in a quiet voice.

“Thorpe is a scoundrel with a terrible reputation when it comes to women. It is rumored that he came by his wealth through looting the bodies of the dead in Spain. And a viscountcy followed soon after. A reprehensible man. I had hoped he would not be in attendance and do not like the fact that Arabella arrived in company with him.”

“Whyever not?” Cecilia asked.

Arthur glanced at her and he tapped the side of his nose.

“Best not speak of it. Let us enjoy ourselves and hope that the blackguard does not cause trouble.”

Chapter Two

5 Years Later

Lionel entered the mist-shrouded woods. His footsteps were slow and careful, making no noise among the moist undergrowth, rich with decaying leaves. Mist rendered the trees to dark silhouettes, skeletal figures in the gloom. The sun was not yet to its noon peak and was not yet strong enough to dispel the covering of fog that clung to the shadows of the woods. To his right, Arthur stalked, rifle held ready, eyes keen. To the left, invisible among the shadows were the others of the hunting party. The white stag that had been seen on the Thornhill estate these last few weeks and whose presence had precipitated the calling of the hunt, was somewhere ahead. The ground fell away beneath his feet, a slope that would carry him into an ever-deepening dell. Lionel raised a hand, a signal to Arthur to halt. Closing his eyes, he tried to pinpoint the minute sound that had caught his attention. It came again, the soft sound of movement from ahead and below. Opening his eyes, he looked to Arthur who was watching him. Lionel pointed and Arthur nodded, he had heard it too.

They descended a slope made slippery by soil churned to mud. Tree roots made a precarious staircase for the two hunters. Above them and to the left, a human shape moved among the mist, another hunter but one who had not heard the sound that Lionel and Arthur pursued. He ignored them, if they were not as skilled as he, then their hunt would be in vain. These hunts were as much a competition against his guests as they were against nature. Lionel liked to win at the hunts he organized. He would not begrudge his guests if one of them emerged the victor but would not give up victory out of deference. The only one present whom he would defer to was Arthur, his old comrade from the battlefields of school. A shape appeared from the mist ahead, large, and dark. Too tall to be man or beast. It was a standing stone, and soon, others appeared. They were arranged in a circle at the foot of the dell, moss-covered and dark with damp. A brooding relic of a bygone age. Something moved quickly between the stones. Something taller than a man but moving on four legs. It dashed from left to right and both hunters brought their rifles to their shoulders. But the stag was gone before they could fix it in their sights, hidden by the all-consuming mist.

Nature was contriving to frustrate the human hunters today, conjuring an unseasonable mist to hide their quarry. Lionel relished the challenge. He glanced at Arthur and, from the gleam in his old friend’s eyes, he saw that his own feelings were mirrored. Then Arthur’s eyes widened as they became fixed on something beyond Lionel, over his left shoulder. Thinking that the deer had circled around them, Lionel swung around, raising his rifle to his shoulder. But it was no deer. A man had stepped from behind a standing stone, already with rifle raised. Lionel was close enough to see the face of Lord Thorpe, see the victorious smile as his finger tightened on the trigger. Arthur roared as he shoved Lionel from the back, knocking him to the side. Lionel hit the ground as the rifle held by Thorpe fired. The sound was an explosion in his ears, accompanied by a flash of light and the acrid stench of gunpowder. There was a gurgling groan from behind him and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Looking back, he saw Arthur on his back, unmoving. Lionel screamed, reaching for the rifle he had dropped when Arthur had pushed him aside, saving his life and becoming the victim of the shot that would have killed Lionel—that had been intended for Lionel.

Thorpe had stepped clear of the stone and was drawing a pistol from his belt. Lionel’s hand closed around the rifle, fingers finding the trigger as he jerked it to point towards his attacker. The rifle discharged at the same instant as the pistol Thorpe held. He jerked at the last moment and the shot intended to kill seared along Lionel’s back. Pain enveloped him, followed by the deepest, icy cold blackness.

 

***

 

Lionel lashed out against the foe of his dream but found only empty air. He jerked upright in his bed, panting as though he had run a mile. With one hand, he reached to the scar that ran for three inches to the base of his spine. For a moment he felt the fire of the lead shot that had made the scar. Fired by a man who had killed Lionel’s best friend that night.

A man who was still free.

His left leg ached. The pain was a dull throb that never completely faded and which, from time to time, had to be dulled by poppy juice supplied by an apothecary in London. Still, the pain was better than the terrifying numbness that had engulfed both legs years ago when he had awoken in the dell, at the foot of the standing stones. A white stag had been chewing the bark of an elm when Lionel had jerked into wakefulness. It had looked at him once and then leaped away into the woods. And Lionel had been unable to walk, or even stand. Now, he silently thanked God that he had been spared the life of a cripple, reliant on others for his most basic needs.

False dawn was lighting the windows of his bedchamber and, despite the early hour, Lionel knew that sleep was done for him. The dream did not come every night but when it did, there was no rest for him. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for the complicated structure of flexible willow and leather that stood beside his bed. With practiced ease, he strapped it to his left leg. It attached to his thigh and shin, reaching as far as his ankle. Under his breeches and boots, it was invisible but provided support to that leg that had never fully recovered its strength or full mobility. Lionel’s dancing days were done. He had not attempted to dance since his recovery and would not risk the humiliation of falling. His hair fell about his face, long and wild and he rubbed at the beard that now covered his jaw. Beyond the window, he could see the shadow-shrouded countryside around Thornhill castle. The dark woods which concealed the dell of the standing stones. The dell in which Thorpe had laid his trap, attempting to kill Lionel for reasons he had never admitted.

But, justice had not been served. Arthur was dead, unable to bear witness to events. And Thorpe’s presence at the far end of the hunting line, some five hundred yards from Lionel’s position, had been attested to by the Sir Reginald Cox, Baronet of Laleham. Lionel found himself grinding his teeth, jaw clenched in anger at the injustice that had been done against him. They had escaped justice thus far but he would find a way to take revenge. Except, that had been five years ago and he was no closer to that end. A tap came at the door of his bedchamber and Lionel smiled to himself grimly. Blackwood was almost psychically attuned to his master’s needs.

“Come in, Blackwood,” Lionel said.

The door opened and the butler came in. He was as broad as his master, though shorter. He walked with bowed legs and the slight, listing stride of a man more accustomed to the rolling deck of a ship. The only hair on his head was two thick, black eyebrows above a broken nose and a permanently squinting expression. Immaculately clad in Thornhill livery, he nevertheless resembled a highway brigand.

“Does Your Grace require assistance in dressing this morning?” he asked in a thick west country accent.

“No, Blackwood. I will accomplish that task myself.”

“As I thought, Your Grace. I have therefore brought implements for the shaving of beards and cutting of hair,” he noted.

Lionel rubbed at the beard, several weeks’ worth of growth. “I have not requested grooming.”

“As tonight is the night of the ball, the first Your Grace has hosted in a long time, I decided it was needed,” Blackwood added, putting a basin and towels down on Lionel’s bedside table.

Lionel chuckled, knowing that only a direct order would deter the man from what he saw as his duty. Five years of helping Lionel learn to walk again had reduced the social gulf between them. Lionel stood stiffly and limped to a chair before the window.

“If it must be done, then do it here. I would have a view while you work.”

Blackwood muttered to himself under his breath as he moved his gear to rest on the windowsill. Lionel suppressed a mischievous smile, knowing the move would provoke his manservant, who was by nature morose and fond of complaining.

“Whom have we had responses from to our invitations?” he asked.

Blackwood began reciting a list from memory of those who had accepted the invitations as he began to apply lathered soap to Lionel’s beard. One name, in particular, made Lionel put a hand to his arm to stop him.

“Did you say Sinclair? Cecilia Sinclair?”

“I did at that, Your Grace,” Blackwood replied, removing his arm from Lionel’s grip and recommencing the job of lathering.

“Whom is she to be accompanied by? A husband?”

“No, Your Grace. An uncle and an aunt. The Earl of Hamilton and his wife,” Blackwood corrected, unfolding a straight razor and tilting Lionel’s face to better catch the light.

“I have not seen her for… well, not since that day,” Lionel muttered. 

He did not need to say which day he referred to. All who worked at Thornhill knew that references to that day meant only one thing. The last time any kind of social occasion had been hosted at Thornhill Castle. Until now.

“She is presumably betrothed by now if she is not married.”

“Living with her aunt and uncle says to me it is neither,” Blackwood commented, “unless she married a pauper, that is to say.”

“Well reasoned. It is of no matter regardless. A woman like that could not have remained available for long. God, but she was beautiful. My eyes were full of Arabella at the time but she still struck me.”

Blackwood’s only comment on Lionel’s former betrothed was a snort that almost became a spit until he remembered himself. Instead, Blackwood muttered imprecations about Arabella Wycliff that Lionel was glad he only half heard. Another betrayal. Another injustice unpunished. Lionel put Arabella from his mind. Instead, he thought back to the first time he had met Cecilia Sinclair. He gazed out of the window, no longer aware of Blackwood or the room about him. Even the pain in his leg was lost in the backwoods of his consciousness. He remembered Cecilia’s cascading bronze hair. Her pale, delicate skin and the shimmering dress that seemed to have been made to accentuate her coloring perfectly. That first meeting had momentarily put Arabella from his mind. It had made him extremely uncomfortable when he realized.

The racing heart. The dry mouth and shivering stomach. Those were what the poets said a man and a woman experienced when they felt the kiss of true love. But he had never felt that for the beautiful, perfect Arabella. She had been like a work of art, appreciated but with detachment. Cecilia had been different and Lionel had been wracked with guilt when he understood the nature of his reaction. Those brown eyes. Had they been hazel? With lighter flecks that were almost gold? Was that his imagination, conjuring perfection that no woman could ever live up to?

“A handsome woman, I thought,” Blackwood added, turning Lionel’s head to shave the other side.

Lionel felt his heart thump in his chest. It was ludicrous to experience such excitement for a woman he had met only once, and that, several years ago. But it was true. Cecilia had been beautiful in a way that struck at his core. He remembered well her slender but curving figure. The very epitome of femininity. While he had known that Arthur’s aunt and uncle, the Sinclairs of Hamilton Hall, were invited to the ball, it had simply not occurred to him that they would bring their niece. Or that following the death of her brother, Cecilia would not be resident at Penrose any longer. Suddenly, he found himself looking forward to the event.

Chapter Three

Cecilia watched the approach of Thornhill castle with trepidation. She sat in the carriage belonging to her uncle, the Earl of Hamilton, opposite him and next to her aunt Margaret. She wore diamonds in her mousy brown hair and pearls about her thin, over-long neck. Her dress matched the color of the pearls and the glinting diamonds. Uncle Rupert was resplendent in a waistcoat of red and an overcoat of purple with a ruby in the pin of his scarlet cravat. The carriage was new and from a coachbuilder with royal patronage. By contrast, Cecilia wore no jewels openly. A simple chain around her neck held a heavy signet ring intended for a man. It had belonged to her father and then to her brother. Her aunt and uncle did not know that Arthur’s solicitor had quietly passed it to her when the Penrose estate had passed in its entirety to the Sinclairs of Hamilton. As well as Cecilia. She wore the same dress that had been new the last time she had attended a social event at Thornhill.

Now, however, its luster had faded as a result of repeated laundering. Repairs had been made, not visible but of which Cecilia was very conscious. By contrast with her aunt and uncle, she felt as though she were clothed in rags. The walls approached, ancient and stained by the years. The gates in those walls were of massive, fissured wood bound in black iron. Beyond was an open courtyard and two huge, oaken doors leading to the great hall that she remembered so well. She remembered the last time she had watched the castle approach. Arthur had been her companion then, seeming to enjoy her marveling at the grandeur of his friend’s home. Cecilia felt her dear brother’s loss as a physical wrench. It was as fresh now as it had been when his body had been brought back into the castle, along with the paralyzed form of Lionel Grisham.

“Whatever is the matter, girl!” Margaret snapped, “You are being treated to a ball held at the home of a Duke. You could at least look as if you are grateful.”

“She is not, Margaret. My brother’s family never were,” Rupert muttered lazily, sounding bored, “they were not like us.”

Cecilia felt a flash of anger at the thinly veiled insult to her mother and father. But she knew well enough to keep her lips tightly sealed. Instead of replying to her uncle as she ought, she smiled tightly.

“I was thinking of Arthur,” she finally said.

“Yes. Irresponsible of him to go and get himself killed like that, leaving a burden for us to carry,” Margaret sighed.

“Well, it would seem odd if you were not here given the friendship between your brother and the Duke,” Rupert added, “just you remember your place. Speak when you are spoken to and do not make any social gaffes that might embarrass us.”

“I won’t, uncle,” Cecilia reassured, putting on a show of timidity that didn’t pass her aunt’s cynical eye.

Rupert, though, had already turned away, looking with interest at a couple alighting from a carriage ahead of them.

“I do believe that is the Chertsey Littletons. Do you see what she is wearing, Margaret? And he?” Rupert scoffed, looking the couple up and down.

Margaret smirked, nodding her agreement. Cecilia resolved not to look, not wanting to join in with her aunt and uncle’s shallow sniping. Dwelling on Arthur inevitably made her think of the man whose house this was. The Duke. Lionel Grisham. She wondered what her aunt and uncle would say if they knew he had once given her leave to use his first name. She licked her lips and smoothed her skirts. The man had been a revelation. She had not known that such giants existed. And with such handsome features. He was not a brute, but rather, a god. That idea brought on a blush and Aunt Margaret raised an eyebrow when she saw.

“Do you judge us, child?” she whispered, dangerously.

“Merely stuffy,” Cecilia said quietly, fanning herself with her hand.

“Well, this place will air you out. Never have I set foot in such a drafty pile. Ridiculous that a man should wish to live in such a place. It might have been well for the Middle Ages but we are considerably more civilized now. Quite why the Duke would not adapt the place to the style of the Renaissance, I cannot think.”

“It shows a deplorable lack of taste,” Margaret nodded.

The carriage was coming to a halt and Rupert rapped on the roof with his cane.

“Further forward man!” he roared, “I will not alight behind the Littletons. Take us to the door!”

“We must get rid of the foolish man,” Margaret tutted, “he has no concept of etiquette.”

“He is extremely knowledgeable about horses and an expert driver of a number of conveyances. You could not ask for a finer coachman,” Cecilia put in, unable to hold her tongue.

George, the driver, had a family of four to support and a sweet and gentle nature. Cecilia felt lucky to consider the man and his wife as friends and had spent many happy hours with his family in their little cottage on the Hamilton estate. But the look that her aunt directed at her would have frozen water to ice.

“And what, precisely, would you know about it?” she asked lowly.

Cecilia swallowed her first response and tried to look meek. She lived on the charity of her aunt and uncle, trying to avoid their ire because she depended on them. She had been left with nothing in Arthur’s will, a fact that had shocked her at the time. If Rupert and Margaret decided so, she would be without a home.

“Nothing, Aunt Margaret,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.

“Exactly. We shall fire the man after all and you will know that you are the reason. Dwell on that, young lady.”

Rupert harrumphed his approval as the carriage moved to a position opposite the entrance to the castle. A footman opened the door and Margaret alighted, followed by Rupert. Cecilia followed, smiling her thanks at the young servant. She looked up at George Preston, the driver, who winked at her when her aunt and uncle weren’t looking. He didn’t know that his livelihood was about to be snatched away. Cecilia resolved to help him, somehow. She followed her aunt and uncle through the grand entrance of the castle and into the daunting hall. It was as majestic and awe-inspiring as she remembered. This time the guests were not confined to the partitioned section beyond the painted screen. There looked to be far too many of them. They milled about the hall and a wave of noise flowed from them. Cecilia felt even more under-dressed as she looked around. Rupert and Margaret were greeting another couple, equally as resplendent as themselves. Cecilia quietly moved away, knowing that they would not wish to introduce her or even be associated with her. She allowed the crowd to hide her from them.

That brought a measure of relief but she still felt self-conscious about her dress. There was no one here that she knew. Indeed, most of her friends were not the kind of people who would be invited to soirees such as this. At Hamilton Hall, she lived among the servants and counted them among her most trusted friends. The tenants of the Hamilton estate were also good friends to her and most of them were either farmers or weavers. She tried to avoid attention but felt that eyes were upon her unceasingly.

Finally, she reached the edge of the milling throng of guests. A cool, shadowed alcove appeared and she stepped back into it. It was then that she saw him.

Lionel Grisham…

He was moving through the crowd which parted before him like the waves of the Red Sea. Head and shoulders above most other men at the gathering, he had the same coal-black hair that she remembered. It wasn’t as short as it had been but flowed back to the nape of his neck. It gave him an exotic look, like an Eastern prince or an Indian rajah.

Emerald green eyes stabbed into the throng around him as he greeted his guests. He did not look like a host who was enjoying his ball, but rather that he would prefer to be anywhere else but here. She felt a pang of empathy at that moment. She too would rather be almost anywhere else. Unable to look away from him, she watched him move through the crowd, bending his head to speak to people, greeting them. She became hypnotized by him. His movements were careful and controlled with an underlying sense of power but with grace. As though he had learned through painful practice an awareness of his body that went beyond most people. It was as though he had total control over his musculature. It increased the sense of physical power that had been so attractive to her on their first meeting. As she watched, a man approached him from behind, greeting him and forcing him to turn suddenly.

Cecilia saw a sudden stiffness in the movement and a quickly controlled flinch of pain on his carefully controlled features. Then he was smiling politely, greeting the man, and inclining his head towards him in courteous acknowledgment. Cecilia wondered if she were the only one to have seen the pain that had clearly gripped Lionel at that moment. She wondered at its source. Was he ailing? Or suffering the ill effects of an injury? Did it have something to do with that fateful afternoon when the spring mist had brought about such a terrible accident? Brought about the death of her brother at the hands of the man she now watched. For the longest time, she had tried to forget it, to tell herself that a hunt was a dangerous place and accidents of this sort did happen. It was in God’s hands. But she could not rid herself of the belief that her brother had been killed and this man walked free. Accident or not, if there had been no hunt, then Arthur would still be alive and she would not have spent the last five years living as a servant in the house of her aunt and uncle.

She wanted to be angry with him. Wanted to hate him. But something about him drew her. He was magnetic in his charisma. Looking at him made her heart quicken and her breath release in short gasps. She knew that she was blushing and willed herself to stop. But the sight of him brought only illicit thoughts of what he must look like beneath his clothes. It was a scandalous thought, but it would not be dislodged. His body would be ridged and hard as steel. Muscles like smooth-sided boulders bulging beneath skin, itself covered in a fine layer of dark hair. The body of a barbarian prince, a descendant of the warrior nomads who had terrorized the Romans and scourged the continent of Europe.

Savage and prideful. Fierce and passionate.

Cecilia almost gasped aloud when Lionel’s head turned and their eyes met. For a moment, there was no one else in the room. The echoing babble of conversation faded to silence. The crowd melted into the stone, leaving only Cecilia and Lionel. The space between them became charged. Cecilia felt she could reach out and touch the air, that it must be tangible with the energy that thrummed between them.

Her blush deepened and her eyes widened as he took a step towards her. But another guest stepped in front of him, escorting a matronly lady with silver hair piled atop her head. The contact was broken as Lionel directed his attention to them and began again the charade of greeting and mingling. Cecilia was left with a hot but empty sensation in her stomach. A feeling of loss and of need. She wanted those eyes on her again. Wanted his hands on her. His lips.

“My dear lady, are you quite well?” inquired a voice.

Cecilia looked to see a young man with brown hair combed forward in the popular Roman style. He held a wine glass and a smile of concern and… something else. His gray eyes were direct, never leaving her face.

“I am… feeling somewhat… hot… I mean, it is crowded in here. I feel the need for a breath of fresh air,” Cecilia stammered her reply.

“Then allow me to escort you to a quieter room. There must be a veritable maze of them in this place,” the man replied.

“I am sure I can find my way. I thank you for your concern,” Cecilia replied hurriedly, not wanting to be escorted, simply wanting to be alone.

“Very well. I am Sir Gerald Knightley, by the way, of Brockwill. And you are?”

“Cecilia Sinclair of Penrose,” Cecilia replied, giving the name of her parent’s seat rather than the place where she lived with her aunt and uncle. Hamilton Hall had never truly felt like home.

“Penrose? Indeed. A tragic tale. We really must talk during the course of the evening, about Penrose.”

Cecilia frowned, wondering what this could mean. But the need to escape that room had become overwhelming. She wanted a cooling drink and a breath of fresh air. She wanted to escape the magnetism of Lionel Grisham, to escape the confusion he wrought upon her. The man she reviled for the killing of her brother. The man who made her heart hammer in her chest and her body tingle. She stammered what she hoped was an acceptable goodbye and walked rapidly away, looking for a door that would take her from the great hall and the Duke of Thornhill.

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 25th of July!