Prologue

London 1816

Lady Gloria waited until her maid was out of the room and safely down the hall before she pulled open the drawer in her dressing table and took out her diary.

The existence of this diary was her secret. Even Gloria’s sister, Ariella, now Lady Croydon after her marriage to the dashing Earl of Croydon, did not know about it. If Ariella had known, she would have demanded to read it, and then teased her younger sister mercilessly over its contents.

The diary was not a journal of wishes and unrestrained feelings. What would be the purpose of such a dreadful thing? It was a highly practical strategic plan for the achievement of the singular aim of Gloria’s young life, which was, it almost need not be said, to take her place in society as a respectable lady of the Ton by marrying a duke. An earl was also acceptable, but less desirable.

At nineteen-years-old, Gloria Green was a diamond of the first water. This assessment did not spring from vulgar arrogance. Her large and expressive eyes were sparkling and sea-colored, her golden hair was bright and silken, and her figure was enviable.

She was not conceited, but merely practical. The daughter of an earl must be an ideal beauty, as well as modest, graceful, and possess an unimpeachable sense of duty. For what other reason would she have been born? And born a beauty? She was not a pretty adventuress, like her sister. A married sister who now thought to advise her on matters of courtship and marriage. A sister who begged her to wait for true love.

Gloria allowed herself an indelicate snort. True love. As if it was a real thing, like a title or lands. What was true love anyway? Could it be touched? Or captured? Or held in one’s hand?

No. True love was an illusion that would fade away as surely as melting snow in spring. Leaving behind nothing but regret for not wisely planning for the achievement of the singular aim of one’s life.

At that thought, she listened a moment for Macy’s light-footed return. Satisfied that her lady’s maid was not close by, Gloria opened her diary to the most recent, and after tonight, final entry. She smiled to herself at the sight of all the lovely, inky numbers. At last, she had a perfect score in every category of the Nine Virtues of a Lady. Gloria had entitled the diary herself, reasoning that a strong plan with a good title would be taken more seriously by her younger self, than something such as Marriage Wishes of a Goosecap Girl: Or True Love is Real!

Long before her debut this Season, Gloria had applied herself diligently to the cultivation of the nine virtues, scoring herself in: beauty, figure, elegance, wit, sense, grace, expression, sensibility, and principles.

She judged herself critically but impartially and worked hard on the areas where she required improvement. The hardest to achieve were sensibility and wit. It was difficult to imagine different ways to appear clever when the task before her was so serious. As for sensibility, with its ungovernable feelings, it did not come naturally to her. She was not without emotion, certainly not, she was human after all, but if she loved or loathed something, she kept those feelings to herself.

Nine Virtues of a Lady was not the only secret in this diary. Turned over and turned upside down it became a different book entirely. After all, a virtuous, accomplished lady made up only half of a good match. Without assessing the gentleman, Gloria’s plan to achieve her life’s aim was incomplete, and a half-baked plan was no plan at all.

Nine Qualities of a Gentleman naturally contained different categories to Nine Virtues of a Lady. If a gentleman possessed all nine qualities, he would then be critically and impartially judged and scored (as Gloria herself had been) to determine if he would make a suitable husband. The qualities were: title, wealth, breeding, honor, reputation, elegance in dress and manners, choice of acquaintance, impeccable behavior in any situation, and appearance. The gentleman need only be healthy and pleasing-looking. Handsomeness was not a requirement and often, it seemed to Gloria, proved to be troublesome.

Since the Season began Gloria had scored and rejected numerous suitors. Only one possessed all nine qualities and scored a perfect ten in every category. That gentleman was the heir of the Duke of Crampton. As the wife of Lord Crampton, Gloria would take her place in society as a respectable lady of the Ton, and in doing so achieve the singular aim of her life.

A few minor details would have to be taken care of first. For starters, Lord Crampton would have to propose.

With that in mind, Gloria soberly twirled round in the room to judge how the movement of her fashionable bell-shaped skirt would appear on the dance floor. If only Mama had agreed to the considerable expense of acquiring a looking glass large enough to reflect her image from head to toe. She sighed.

Her gown for the night’s all-important ball was a delicate white gauze worn over a pale blue satin slip. In the modiste’s shop, Gloria’s lady’s maid Macy had advocated for blue rather than the popular maiden’s blush pink to call his lordship to her mistress’ ethereal beauty.

Gloria twirled once more to cast a final critical eye at the trimmings on the gown as they followed her graceful imitation of a dance. The crape and satin rolio at the very bottom were surmounted by a wreath of white roses and topped at last with ivory satin draperies. Her hair, again at Macy’s suggestion, was parted on her forehead and arranged low on the sides, with the back brought up high into a swirl of delicate plaits held in place by a head-dress of French rose sprigs.

Gloria allowed herself a flush of pride at her exemplary lady’s maid. If Lord Crampton did not propose at the ball that night, she would give this gown, after she had grown tired of it, of course, to Macy as a token of her appreciation.

She looked away from the dress and returned her diary to its hiding place.

Lord Crampton had been courting Gloria for a month and tonight he would propose. She was certain of it. Her plan would work. Love had nothing to do with it.

Chapter 1

Lord Nigel Dunley, Viscount Burham, entered the ballroom like he bloody damn well owned it.

The thrill of the hunt shot through his veins like an electric current. Nothing in life came close to the anticipatory pleasures of hunting for a new mistress. Brand new desires to discover and explore. Fresh expressions of ecstasy. New levels of experience. New breasts. New legs. New mouth. New laugh. New scent.

Along the wall, near the corridor that led to the garden, stood a golden-haired goddess and her older female companion.

Oh, yes. That one.

The fierce determination in the chit’s expression was palpable even at this distance. A woman who knew what she wanted, made the best bed partner.  He could already imagine her beneath him. Or riding him. Yes, this one would want to control her own pleasure. He almost laughed at his own good fortune.

He would have to catch her eye to disengage her from her watchful guardian. Once he had her attention, he would cross the room and claim her. Almost imperceptibly, the young lady searched amongst the dancers for something. Or someone, more likely. No matter. He would be that someone tonight. For several nights after, too.

Finally, her crystalline gaze met his. An electric jolt of a different sort stunned him.

He knew the lady in question, and not in the way he would have liked. She was Croydon’s wife’s younger sister, Lady Gloria Green. He had sought her out at his cousin’s wedding ball a year ago, after spotting her beauty from afar, but she had dismissed him as if he were nothing but a chawbacon.

That was something of an overstatement of what had occurred. She had treated him with nothing more than icy disinterest. Still, his bruised ego had taken time to recover.

Lady Gloria’s eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed pink. She must have recognized him as well. He grinned, holding her ice-fire gaze, and crossed the ballroom floor.

Let the game begin.

***

The ball, as was to be expected, was a crush. They had only just arrived and squeezed through the other guests, so Gloria was not too disappointed she had not yet spotted Lord Crampton. It would not do to appear too eager. She must always appear modest. She should dance at least twice with other gentlemen before accepting his lordship’s invitation.

“You are looking very well tonight, Gloria,” her mother Countess Watford said from her side.

“Thank you, Mama,” Gloria responded prettily.

“Your maid has outdone herself with your hair,” her mother said.

“She has, hasn’t she?” Gloria smiled, pleased with the praise.

“Lord Crampton will be enchanted,” her mother whispered.

I hope he will be.

She searched the ballroom for his elegant figure.

“Ah,” her mother said, “there is Croydon’s handsome cousin, Lord Burham. I wonder if Ariella and Croydon knew he would be here.”

Gloria could not answer. Burham’s eyes met hers and she felt something. Some strange heat. A sort of tightening in her chest. Or a longing. For what, she was not sure. He grinned that absurdly confident, charming grin of his and crossed the room. Her mother did not notice.

“Excuse me for a minute, my dear. I must go speak to the Countess Somerfield,” she said, already leaving Gloria’s side. “You will be all right on your own for a minute?”

“Of course.” Her mother went in search of the Countess.

Burham never took his eyes from Gloria as he moved through the room. Gloria felt like he was a stalking tiger. The strange heat and longing spread through her as though wildfire. She found herself unable to move or look away, despite her rational mind telling her that she should. The opening lines of William Blake’s poem rang in her head.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Fearful symmetry indeed. Luckily, before any foolish notions could truly take hold of her, a widow rumored to be having an affair with Burham appeared out of nowhere and took his arm.

Lord Burham winked at Gloria. Winked at her! Then led his mistress in the direction of the refreshment table.

Gloria exhaled sharply through her nose. This was precisely the trouble with excessive handsomeness in men and was precisely why she had no liking for marrying such a man. That thick dark hair and those star-bright blue eyes made it impossible to think clearly. Despite her years of planning for this moment, for this night, Gloria had nearly forgotten herself because of a burning blue-eyed tiger. Or was it she who was burning?

She exhaled again and glanced about for her mother or her sister, wafting her cheeks surreptitiously to try to calm that sudden heat. Lord Crampton was still nowhere to be seen. For that she was grateful. Lord Burham had vexed her grievously and she wanted to be in a good mood for Lord Crampton.

To calm herself Gloria silently ranked Lord Burham according to her Nine Qualities of a Gentleman.

Title: Viscount only. Not acceptable. Score: 3

Wealth: Unknown, but she had not heard anything shockingly bad. Score: 5

Breeding: She could not think anything ill of her sister’s husband’s family. Score: 5

Honor: He winked at her! With another woman on his arm! Score: 2

Reputation: He was rumored to have more lovers than Gloria had gloves. Score: 1

Elegance in dress and manners: She must be impartial. He dressed beautifully. Score: 9

Choice of acquaintance: His mistress accompanied him to a ball. Score: 3

Impeccable behavior in any situation: Possessed a mistress and winked at another lady! Score: 1

Appearance: Healthy and pleasing to be sure, but troublingly handsome. Score: 7

Total score: 36. Out of 90. A startlingly poor show indeed. Lord Nigel Dunley, Viscount Burham, would not make a suitable husband.

There, she thought, feeling calm and focused once more. She had nothing to fear from the blue-eyed tiger. She was no fool, and she would not allow herself to be devoured.

“There must be something dangerously wrong with the world when a woman as beautiful as you stand alone at a ball.”

There was no need to turn around to identify the owner of that husky, low voice scorching a path of sparks along Gloria’s bare shoulders. She waited, staring straight ahead as if completely unaffected by his midnight voice.

Undeterred by her refusal to turn round, not that it surprised her, Lord Burham walked around to face her.

He is even more handsome up close.

Somehow, she had forgotten that fact since she had spoken with him at Ariella’s wedding.

“Will you dance, Lady Gloria?” he asked.

The rogue! He knows I must accept.

He grinned mischievously, proving he knew and extended his hand toward her. That wretched heat fluttered through her again. She breathed calmly, ensuring there was no evidence of that heat in her face.

“Of course, Lord Burham,” she said in a disinterested voice. “I should be delighted.”

***

Deuced if she has not grown more beautiful since I saw her last.

The music began. Lady Gloria smiled politely, then bowed, and performed the first steps. Already she was adopting that icy manner she had held in their last meaning, her reserved countenance. It frustrated Nigel. Most women blushed in his presence at his attentions, or lowered their eyes demurely, but not Lady Gloria. She appeared unaffected by him.

“Shall I compliment the skill of your dancing?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?” she replied, her eyes flashing. He grinned at her as they clasped hands and spun around.

“If I remember correctly from your sister’s wedding,” he said, “your devotion to the rules of propriety is quite severe.” He released her hands and circled her. “I only wish to be certain to steer the conversation through the channels you deem appropriate.” She circled him, keeping her eyes away from his face.

“I was not aware we were engaged in conversation, my lord,” she said, her voice cool. He took her hands in his.

“Oh?” he said, with a note of surprise as they spun around again.

“Not strictly a conversation, no,” she said. “For you were the one doing all the talking.”

He grinned at her. There was some fire beneath all that icy reserve, it just took a little careful conversation to bring it out from her.

“You dance most gracefully, my lady,” he smiled at her, seeing she flicked her eyes to his face now, but still held that reserved expression.

“And now, you repeat yourself.”

“Not precisely,” he smirked, tilting his head to the side. “The first time I was requesting your permission to pay you a compliment.”

“Hmm,” she answered. “And yet, you still did not wait for it.”

Minx!

He took her right hand, raising it with his above their heads. Her left hand rested at his waist felt more erotic somehow than any other woman’s hand had before. He felt it in different, much more urgent places. Yet, she appeared to be unaffected by him, her expression indifferent.

Perhaps I am losing my touch?

That could not be. He had had dozens of women – if not more – comely, glorious, willing women since he had last seen Lady Gloria. She turned away from him and wove in and out of the other dancers. She did not look at him at all. He mirrored her movements, never taking his eyes from her.

No woman had ever remained so unmoved by his charm before her. He had seen resistance in the past, but within minutes after a few charming words, they would smile at him, signaling their relent. It was not arrogance to say so, it was a fact. In truth, he had not thought of Lady Gloria at all since they had last met.

That is not quite the case. I am telling myself a small lie.

For a few weeks after his cousin’s wedding to Lady Gloria’s sister, he was consumed with the idea of her. Then he had forgotten about her.

An unpleasant notion whispered in the back of his head. Were those weeks of longing due to his unsatisfied infatuation with her considerable beauty and physical charms? Acceptable. Ordinary. To be expected after no accomplishment of his desires and nothing for him to worry over. Or was he mooning about her for weeks because she had rejected him, and he felt that loss keenly? Felt the loss of her. Specifically, her.

That would be utterly unacceptable.

He had sworn long ago to never marry or to allow his heart to become tangled up in affection or something worse, such as love. He would keep that vow. His life depended on it.

They spun around again. This time, despite his gloves, he felt her tremble when he placed his hand at her waist just above the curve of her hip. She closed her eyes. A splash of pink on her cheeks spread down her throat to her breasts that swelled enticingly in her gown as she drew in a long slow breath.

So, she is not unmoved after all. Neither is she cold.

She was just deeply reserved and probably quite proud, but she was not unmoved.

She opened her eyes. Nigel unleashed his most devastating grin. When she barely stopped a sigh from escaping her lush mouth, he felt a rush of pleasure.

Perhaps there is something here yet, Lady Gloria.

***

Lord Burham is nothing but a rogue and a scoundrel.

Gloria could not stop her mind from whirring, thinking about his appalling behavior. He brought his dowdy, older mistress to a ball, yet winked at her. He received a thirty-six out of ninety on his qualities of a gentleman score. He had been with many, maybe hundreds of lovers. He was also only a viscount, yet she was dancing with him.

She would be the wife of the heir to a dukedom before the Season was over. Someday she would be a duchess. She had her heart set on such a prospect. If Burham smiled at her like that again, she would have to ignore it.

“Perhaps the safest topic of conversation would be the weather,” he said, his gorgeous voice rich with mock seriousness. “It has been uncommonly typical for this time of year; would you agree?”

She knew he was trying to provoke some sort of reaction from her, but he would not succeed.

“Yes,” she replied, arching her eyebrows to him in defiance.

He laughed and then his hot strong hand made a place for itself just above her hip in the dance. Gloria closed her eyes for a second and let that beautiful, strange heat wash over her once more. When the dance ended, she would find Lord Crampton. She would stop thinking of Lord Burham’s hand on her hip.

They moved through the remaining figures and steps without speaking. Gloria congratulated herself on maintaining her cool demeanor in the presence of the blue-eyed tiger, partly because she kept her eyes away from his face as much as possible.

On the last long, sweet note of the music, she bowed then gazed directly at him.

“I thank you, Lord Burham,” she spoke with reserve, grateful for the coolness of her voice despite the heat and how quickly her heart was beating.

He grinned again.

The scoundrel. No matter. I will not be devoured by you.

“Shall I escort you to the refreshment table?” he asked, offering his arm to her.

“Thank you, no,” she shook her head. “I must find my mother.”

He nodded and bowed. For a moment, Gloria thought he might kiss her hand. Not that she wished for that. Certainly not! She was merely looking forward to refusing him. Her heart fluttered too wildly. She felt her cheeks grow warm and bit her lower lip in consternation. That regrettable little habit of lip-biting – she had thought she had mastered it, in her effort for perfect manners.

“Are you certain you do not wish for some refreshment?” His eyes were warm with concern. “The punch is passable, I am told.” He leaned conspiratorially closer and winked again.

How dare he!?

Gloria’s determination to extricate herself from him returned tenfold.

“Thank you, my lord,” she spoke with clarity, “but I must decline your kind offer. My mother will worry herself if I am away from her for too long.” Gloria curtsied then left him in the ballroom to search for the safety of Lord Crampton.

***

The night was not going the way Nigel expected. He had performed several dances with pretty women, whose names and faces he had immediately forgotten, his mind much more on the figure of just one woman in the ballroom.

Lady Gloria’s indescribably lush expression when his hand had been at her hip during their dance, not to mention her breasts rising and falling in that delicate gown, had taken up residence in his imagination and would not let go. Like an intoxication after an indulgence of fine brandy.

The only cure then was hair of the dog.

He would see her once more, dance with her, then flirt outrageously until he had released her from his thoughts or won her to his bed. He had to do one or the other, he could not bear to be in such torment from her.

Prowling the edges of the ballroom and hunting the corridors did nothing to flush her out of his mind.

Perhaps she has left for home already. Is that a good thing?

He did not know. Bloody hell he should just go to the club and drown his sorrows there. Not sorrows, he chastised himself. Frustrations. Perfectly acceptably rakish frustrations.

God damnit. I need to remove the woman from my mind.

Searching the floor one last time, despite his vow to quit the ball, he spotted Countess Watford with an anxious look on her face. For a dark instant, he prayed a clumsy oaf had spilled punch all over her perfect daughter. Shaking off that unkind thought, he remembered Lady Gloria’s insistence that she find her mother after their dance. Why then did the Countess appear to be distressed? He went to inquire.

“My lady,” he bowed politely. “Are you enjoying the ball?”

“I am,” despite her words, she still appeared uneasy. “I was.” She glanced nervously about the room.

“Is something amiss?” he asked, his concern beginning to grow.

“No. I do not think so,” she attempted a straight countenance with some difficulty. “It is just…”

He waited. The older woman really seemed quite vexed. He felt guilty again about the spilled punch thought. She leaned closer. Her expression was pleasant and friendly, though it masked a voice laced with worry.

“Do you have any idea where Lady Gloria might be?” she asked. “More, much more, than twenty minutes have passed since I have seen her or known of her whereabouts. It is not like her to disappear without telling me of her intentions. Her behavior has always been irreproachable. So proper.”

Indeed, it has.

“Would you like me to look for her?” He was glad to offer his help, especially as Lady Gloria’s disappearance did not sit well with the woman that he thought she was either.

Countess Watford answered him with an anxious gaze but said nothing.

“I will be the soul of discretion, my lady,” he said, guessing her fear for Lady Gloria’s reputation of a rake, even one who was related to her family, making it known he was searching for the missing lady after midnight. “You have my word.”

Countess Watford exhaled and offered a shaky smile. “I thank you, my lord, for your assistance and your discretion.”

He nodded, then went off to search for her daughter.

Chapter 2

No golden-haired beauty appeared in that infernal cloud of white netting and blue silk flitting about the ballroom.

To the garden then. If Lady Gloria was not dancing or at the refreshment table, perhaps she was taking the air. The room was hot, and she had appeared to be warm earlier, so he strode out to the garden in search of her.

Avoiding stumbling into couples who did not require a third member for their activities proved to be more difficult than Nigel would have imagined, despite being a participant in such greenery couplings on more than one occasion. Nonetheless, he searched every moonlit path and bench and alcove for a head of pale gold hair.

Still, Lady Gloria was nowhere to be found.

Her mother had assured him that the young lady’s behavior had always been above reproach. He had no reason to doubt her, as he had been a witness to that impenetrable decorum on more than one occasion. Yet, there were only so many respectable places she could have disappeared to and even fewer respectable reasons to do so. He was beginning to have doubts that she wished to be found at all.

He left the garden to explore the house once more, but the ballroom was still lacking an ethereal beauty dressed in blue. That left only the upper halls, the music room, and the library. Careful to appear to be aimless, Nigel climbed the marble staircase slowly as if bored with the dancing below.

The music room held nothing but a freckled wallflower who seemed offended by his interruption of her private thoughts. She tossed him a surprisingly bold, chiding glare. He wondered briefly what thoughts he had interrupted.

“Forgive me.” He hurried to leave the room.

He had only just closed the door when a terrified scream tore through the air, coming from the direction of the library.

Has someone been injured? Or collapsed from apoplexy? Have thieves invaded the house?

The memory of screaming from long ago pursued him as he ran for the library. Terrible images he had fought hard to bury clambered like rats to the surface of his consciousness. With his heart in his throat, Nigel threw open the library door.

For a dreadful instant, time itself stopped.

In the center of the floor of the library, Lady Gloria fought like a tiger against a drunken beast intent on devouring her. Her hair, torn from its headdress of roses, fell in wildness over her bare shoulders. Her gauzy white gown was ripped in half, dragging on the floor like a broken wing, and nearly exposing her breasts to the room and the drunken monster’s ravenous hands.

Another scream roused Nigel from his shock.

The sloppy, drunken bastard turned and roared at him.

“Get out of here, Burham! This bitch is none of your concern.”

Crampton. The vile heir to the dukedom, and the dissolute member of his club who had punched him in the face not long ago.

“Get out, Burham,” Crampton slurred again. “Or this time when I plant a facer, you will not get up again so easily. If you get up at all.” He renewed his assault on Lady Gloria.

“Leave her alone, Crampton,” Nigel shouted, closing the door behind him to try and protect Lady Gloria’s modesty and slowly stepping closer to Crampton. “You are drunk. Return to the ball. Leave her.” He was nearly close enough to pull the ducal heir off the terrified young woman by now.

Crampton dropped Lady Gloria on the floor at Nigel’s words. Before she could run, he snatched her wrist and held it, fixing her in place on her knees. “Go to the devil, you rank bastard. This piece of torn muslin belongs to me. She is my betrothed. Mine. Mine to do with whatever the hell I desire, whenever the hell I want.” Crampton tried to pull Gloria close to him.

The words filled Nigel with disgust. He knew he himself hardly had the most respectable reputation in the Ton, but every affair he had experienced was consensual. The idea a gentleman would ever force a woman was disgusting to him – the mere notion made him nauseous and spurred him into action, closing the distance between him and Crampton.

Nigel grabbed the lout by the shoulder and turned him so he could punch him in the face with a powerful left hook. It struck painfully, knocking Crampton so far that it forced him to release Lady Gloria and stumble back.

“You will pay for this, you cursed rum touch!” Crampton shouted, coming unsteadily toward him, too drunk and disorientated from the blow to stand straight. “What do you care of this?”

Nigel laughed and stood ready to knock Crampton to the ground again, being careful to step in front of Lady Gloria to block the wretch’s path to her.

“I would rather be eccentric than a vicious no-account bastard like you.” To his words, Crampton’s face blushed purple. He swung at Nigel and missed. Nigel responded by delivering another blow to Crampton’s face.

Groaning, the heir to the Dukedom of Crampton shook his head several times before staggering to the library door, blood seeping from his nose.

“Go to hell!” he wailed on his way out. “To hell with both of you! You’re welcome to the slut, if you will have her now, Viscount Burham.” Swaying, Crampton turned and made an obscene bow. He slammed the door behind him, then immediately and noisily told up his account of the tale in the hallway.

***

Nothing in her life could have prepared Gloria for this moment. Nothing she read or heard or suspected. She stood to her feet, violently shaking in the center of the library. It seemed like it could not be her heart that was thrashing in her chest, for it was thumping so hard. It could be her breath rushing in and out, for she seemed to have no control over it. That could not be her head-dress crushed and ruined on the floor. Her hair was not undone and spilling over her shoulders. Her naked, exposed shoulders.

This is not me.

She heard muttered words of disbelief and apology escape her lips as she attempted to gather the torn remains of her gown to cover herself.

The gown. Ruined. She felt tears pouring down her cheeks. Was she weeping? She brushed at the tears, her hands switching between trying to dry her cries, and picked up the torn pieces of her beautiful dress.

Lord Crampton was supposed to propose to her that night. This had not been the plan at all. A quaking sob broke from her chest. She felt her knees give way and lacked the power to stop it.

Strong arms captured her and prevented her from falling. She flinched and tried desperately to escape.

“No!” she screamed pounding her fists against the body threatening to press close to hers. “No. No! I would rather die. You bastard! I’d rather die.”

“Hush,” a voice said soothingly, as the arms released her. “Hush. He is gone. He cannot hurt you now. He’s gone.”

Something of the reality of the moment swam into Gloria’s view and steadied her.

“Lord Burham?” she asked, the blue eyes of the tiger came sharply into view.

“Yes,” he reassured with his hands outstretched toward her, as though he were trying to calm a wild animal. “It is me. Crampton is gone.”

“I thought to marry him.” Gloria clutched the broken pieces of her dress to her chest.

“I know,” Burham said. “Sometimes we are mistaken about someone’s true character. Sometimes a man who seems unimpeachable is nothing of the kind.”

“I thought to marry him,” she sobbed again.

“I know.” Burham kept his hands outstretched, still offering comfort.

She gazed about her. Except for her destroyed headdress on the floor, the elegant room was utterly unchanged by what had happened. Shouldn’t the windows have shattered? Why did everything appear to be the same when nothing would ever be the same again?

Everything I have worked for… is all ruined.

Lord Burham picked up the sad, tattered head-dress and considered it for a moment, turning it over in his broad, gloved hand. He exhaled, then slipped it into the pocket of his coat, reasoning, correctly, that she had no wish to keep it.

That tiny sprig of understanding warmed her, and she felt at last capable of ordering her thoughts.

“Thank you, my lord.” She was surprised and buoyed by the steadiness in her voice. “If I had known his… his intentions when I agreed to meet him in the library…”

“What happened is in no way your fault, Lady Gloria.” His rich voice was vibrant and emphatic when he looked back to her. “The fault lies with Crampton alone.”

She gasped at hearing his name.

“Forgive me,” Burham said. “I’ll not say his name again. You have my word. You are safe now. He will not return.”

She was safe. It was over.

There was nothing to be done about the ruined gown, that was clear as she looked down to her body. She reached up to twist her fallen hair into a knot at the top of her head, but it would not stay. The realization that her appearance was so affected brought fresh tears.

“Shall I find your mother and bring her here?” Lord Burham asked gently.

“Yes, please.” She nodded, still clutching her hair.

“I’ll lock the door as soon as I leave.”

“Wait,” she called after him, suddenly afraid to be alone, even with a locked door. He came near to her again.

“I’ll return before you know it.” His voice was sincere, genuine. It was a part of him she had not seen before, a part of him she did not think existed. “Do not be frightened. It is over. He cannot hurt you again. Your mother will take you home. No one will see or know anything.”

Before she was even aware of what she needed, Gloria fell into Lord Burham’s arms and clung to him. He felt warm, strong, and safe. In a moment she would be brave enough to wait alone in this room, but now, for just a moment, she wanted to feel safe and warm. To remember that there was kindness and decency in the world.

“Hush,” he said, resting his chin on the top of her head. “You are safe now. You have my word, Lady Gloria.”

Her eyes were tightly closed, and her ear was pressed firmly against Lord Burham’s chest. She heard the door opening but could not fit that knowledge into her understanding of this moment. It was too late, anyway. A merry group of maidens and their laughing beaux stood open-mouthed in the doorway.

Gloria’s torn gown and loose hair, all evidence of the violence inflicted upon her, now spelled something totally different as she rested in the arms of an eccentric, wildly handsome, well-known rake.

Her life as she knew it was over.

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