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