CHAPTER ONE

I am so nervous I can barely think. Soon, I shall be a real lady of society! If he comes tonight, I don’t know what I shall do…  My heart belongs and will always belong to Henry Linfield. I cannot wait for the opportunity to dance with him tonight. It’s been two years since I have seen him. Will he even recognise me in my new gown? Will he ask for my first dance? Will he ask to walk on the terrace with me under the moonlight? I don’t even really care about coming out this season! Not really, I know I want Mama and father to be proud of me but the idea of being the centre of attention all night is disconcerting. But I’ll put up with it to be with Henry. I would do anything for him.

“Tilly! Tilly, come and play with me!”

Matilda sighed and looked up from her diary, closing the worn leather book on the section she had been re-reading from two years ago. Her younger brother barrelled into the room, a whirl of red hair and long limbs.

“Careful, Barty!” Matilda scolded, catching her seven-year-old brother’s arms to stop him from knocking something over. He was in the middle of a growth spurt, and was prone to not realising the length of his arms.

“Are you writing in your diary?” Barty’s brown eyes fixed on the red leather notebook with eager curiosity. “Can I see?”

“You know you can’t.” Matilda quickly slipped the book into the drawer, deftly locking it with a key she kept around her neck. Ever since her father had gifted her the journal on the night of her first ball two years ago, Barty had been trying his hardest to have a peek into it. “Come on, what shall we play?” Matilda asked him, trying to distract her nosy little brother.

“I have a new set of jacks that Holton gave me.” Barty bit his lip, thinking hard. “Or we could play cricket?”

“Boring,” Matilda teased, rolling her eyes. “What about … polo?”

“Really?” Barty’s eyes lit up and he jumped up and down. “Yes please! Let’s go!”

Matilda took his hand and ran down the stairs, the two of them laughing as they raced along.

“Matilda!”

They stopped in the hallway, turning to see Mrs Bury poking her head out from behind the parlour door. She had served the Duke of Sinclair and the Wynter family for so long and had been Matilda’s only mother figure in the intervening years between her mother’s death and her father’s second marriage. Matilda couldn’t help but responding obediently.

“Yes, Mrs Bury?” she called. “Little Lord Wynter and I are going riding.”

“You are expecting a suitor, remember?” Mrs Bury shook her head. “Honestly, Miss Wynter, you cannot avoid every gentleman your father suggests!”

“She can try, right Tilly?” Barty quipped, grinning up at his big sister as he parroted her usual phrase back to her. Matilda cuffed him gently on the back of the head.

“Hush you,” she said fondly. “But yes, Mrs Bury, you can tell my father that I have a much more pressing engagement with a future Duke, that should make him happy.”

“I imagine it shall make him less happy when he learns the Dukedom in question is his own,” said a lilting, laughing voice in the parlour. Frances appeared, smiling languidly as she leaned against the door frame in a beautiful gown. She was not yet thirty years old and still held onto that beautiful plume of youth, despite mothering a wild girl through her adolescence and now an even wilder son. Matilda had always loved growing up with a beautiful young stepmother, she had always been the envy of all her friends and Frances had been the jewel of society as the young woman who managed to catch the Duke of Sinclair, a man ten years her senior.

Now, as Matilda had reached adulthood, she had lived with Frances as her mother nearly as long as her birth mother and had quickly adjusted to calling her “Mama,” happy in the maternal bond they shared. She couldn’t wish anything to be different — Frances had made her father so happy and their family complete. Yet Matilda couldn’t help but feel the squeezing pressure of expectation for in reality there were only eight years between them. Consequently, Frances had always been a very current example of how to be an ornament to society; her courtship of Matilda’s father was the stuff of legends among débutantes. Though Frances had never been anything but encouraging of Matilda’s journey and the most supportive mother she could be, but Matilda had already been out for two seasons and she knew the truth deep in her heart: she could never achieve the same heights of glory as her Mama. How could she ever compare to the elegant woman who stood before her? So radiant with her hair that matched Barty’s, that same red shine of autumn leaves, and her unique, arresting eyes.

“Like a leopard,” her father used to whisper to Matilda whenever Frances was enraged, and her eyes glowed dangerously. “Like a hunting cat, watch out!”

Frances’ eyes held none of their furious fire now. She looked at her children with an indulgent smile, her arms folded across her chest and her reddish-brown eyebrows raised in amusement. Matilda knew she had room to wiggle in when Frances was wearing that smile.

“Come on, Mama.” Matilda rolled her eyes. “This gentleman is nearly forty!”

“And a Viscount,” Frances grinned, “and one of your father’s close acquaintances …”

“I’m half his age!” Matilda exclaimed.

“Oh, is there something wrong with that?” Frances laughed. “Don’t forget how many years lie between your father and I.”

“Ten,” Barty said promptly. He had been told the tale of his parents’ courtship many times. It was one of his favourite bedtime stories. “And Mama says it is what is inside a person’s heart that counts.”

“I do, indeed.” Frances laughed at her son, reaching forward to pet his head affectionately.

“Yes, well, ten is not twenty,” Matilda rebuked them both. “And I sincerely doubt the viscount is coming to court me on account of what he has heard of my heart.”

“For shame, Miss,” Mrs Bury tutted. “You shouldn’t talk so in front of Milord.”

“Talk about what?” Barty asked, looking between them.

“Oh, so we should lie to Barty should we?” Matilda raised her eyebrows as she stared between her two mother figures. “We should tell him that a gentleman twenty years my senior was enticed to court an eighteen-year-old on account of her personality alone?”

“I doubt it were that,” Barty piped up, wrinkling his nose. “People say you’re odd, Tilly.”

“Barty!” Frances scolded. “Don’t say such things about your sister.”

“I like it,” Barty pulled on Matilda’s arm affectionately. “She’s not silly and boring like other girls, she’s fun and adventurous and ex — ex —,”

Barty’s face was scrunched up as he tried to remember the right word and Matilda laughed, taking pity on her brother.

“I think ‘eccentric’ is the word you are looking for.” She smiled, poking her little brother’s nose. “And that is the word that society uses to describe pretty women who are not married or courting.”

“Is that why the gentleman is coming?” Barty asked his mother, turning to face her. “Because he thinks Tilly is pretty?”

Matilda bit her lip in amusement, raising her eyebrows at Frances who rolled her eyes in frustration and sighed.

“Yes! Lord give me strength.” She threw her hands up and looked up to the heavens as she often did when she was pressed by both of her children at the same time. “It is because she is very pretty, Barty, but also because she has a very prominent title and making a match with a lady of fortune and circumstance is appealing to a man.”

“But it’s not her fortune, it’s mine.” Barty frowned. “That’s what Tilly told me.”

“What?” Frances exclaimed, rounding on Matilda. “What did you tell him?”

“I merely explained that women are property in this world, and when they marry their status is transferred from the father or brother to their husband,” Matilda said innocently, watching in amusement as Mrs Bury crossed herself again and muttered under her breath about the things women should and shouldn’t talk about.

“Which means Tilly belongs to me, because I’m the heir and I’ll be the Duke one day and have all the money and the titles, so I’m keeping her,” Barty said, wrapping his arms around his big sister’s waist. “I decide that she stays here! Forever!”

Matilda grinned and looked up at Frances, who stared down at her son with an open mouth, utterly lost for words. Mrs Bury frowned and shook her head at Matilda as if she was a lost cause.

“Well, since the Master has the final word on the matter …,” Matilda began, slowly taking a step towards the door with Barty, eager to escape into the fresh air. “I think we’ll just …”

“That’s all very well, but Bartholomew is not the master here,” Frances said, recovering quickly and lifting her hand to stop them both from leaving. They both froze. Those amber eyes were beginning to glow dangerously, and Frances had used Barty’s full name. They knew they might both be in trouble now.

“Your father is, and he has arranged this meeting for you. Whilst he is still the Duke of Sinclair and you still live here, you will do as he wishes.”

Matilda felt a soft flare of temper which she tried to choke down. Just the mention of her father’s authority in this matter was enough to make her angry. She tried to hide it, squeezing Barty’s hand tightly and speaking with a curt, clipped tone.

“I am not leaving the property, I am not defying his wishes,” she said, holding Frances’ gaze. “If this man is truly interested in courting me, then he can come and find Barty and I and join us in some polo.”

“Heaven save us,” Mrs Bury exclaimed. “Viscounts do not play polo with ladies!”

“It’s alright, Mrs Bury.” Frances patted their housekeeper’s arm consolingly, shooting Matilda a frustrated look. “Fine, go. But don’t disappear! I don’t think your father will be very forgiving this time if you do.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Matilda breathed, rushing forward to kiss Frances gratefully on the cheek. “We’ll not be long.”

“Thank you, Mama!” Barty chorused, chasing off through the doors. “We’ll be back before the gentleman who wants to buy Matilda from me comes!”

“Lord in Heaven,” Mrs Bury groaned, disappearing back into the parlour as Matilda tried to stifle her giggles. Despite her frown, Matilda saw Frances’ lip quirking involuntarily.

“You know, when I had a son I had no idea that his big sister would be able to be such a corrupting influence on him.” Frances shook her head ruefully. “You are shaping him into a radical.”

“Says the woman who once persuaded my father to withdraw thousands of pounds from sugar because slavery was abhorrent,” Matilda retorted, and Frances chuckled appreciatively.

“You remember that, do you?” Frances sighed as Matilda nodded. “Well, enjoy it for now, my love. Wisdom comes with age, as does propriety.” She nudged Matilda’s side significantly. “Though I doubt you could ever be truly proper in that sense.”

“Could the daughter of Frances Fortescue, the woman who rescued the Duke of Sinclair from a poisoner and survived an attempt on her life, be anything other?” Matilda said fondly, holding Frances’ hand tenderly. She was proud to be Frances’ child. She was proud of everything Frances had done to protect her and her father, even before she was officially a member of the family. Some people had said Frances’ had been inappropriate in her ardent affection for both Matilda and her father. Matilda could only be grateful.

“Oh, my love.” Frances pressed her forehead against Matilda’s and Matilda took a deep breath: the scent of rose and warmth that instantly made her feel at home. “I am proud of your strength of mind, but your father …,”

“I know.” Matilda pulled away, not wanting to talk about her father at that moment. When it came to the subject of her lack of suitor their disagreement was intense. She looked out of the main doors of the house to where Barty was excitedly having their ponies brought up. “Will you defer him for us whilst we play?”

“Of course.” Frances squeezed her hand. “Be safe. Remember —,”

“Not to ride near the lake,” Matilda finished for her, both of them recalling the near tragedy that had occurred when Frances was still Lady Fortescue and had thrown herself into the lake to save Matilda from drowning after falling from her horse. “I never forget. Until later, Mama.”

Matilda kissed her mother’s cheek and pulled away, running down the stairs of the main house to meet her brother and the groom on the gravel courtyard. The groom had two polo sticks slung over his shoulder and Barty was tossing the ball up in the air and catching it. Matilda felt her heart lighten. There was nothing like a ride out in the fresh air to shake away dark thoughts about the future.

“Are you ready to lose, Barty?” She grinned, grabbing her brother around the waist, and helping him mount his pony. The groom handed him the junior polo stick, the same one that she had used when her father had taught her to play.

“I don’t think so!” Barty grinned, spurring his pony and trotting off towards the back lawn, twirling his stick in practice. Matilda let the groom help her mount the older pony, big enough to carry her light frame but not so large as to make it a dangerous game for Barty and his small steed.

“Thank you, James.” Matilda took her own stick and laid it over her shoulders. “I’ll take it from here.”

She clicked her teeth and the pony obeyed. It was not her normal horse; Matilda favoured a bay stallion named Shakespeare, but all horses responded to her well. She had been riding since she was a little girl, and it was her one great love. There was nothing more thrilling to her than cantering away over the countryside, the trees and hedges rolling past her. Every season that passed only made her more sure that society life was never going to be enough to satisfy her. She turned onto the makeshift pitch on the back lawn and saw Barty looking thoughtful as his pony nibbled grass.

“What’s on your mind, Barty?” Matilda asked, letting her pony trot in an easy circle around him.

“Daddy didn’t buy Mama, did he?” Barty frowned intently. “I thought they were in love.”

Matilda cursed her own hubris. She might be jaded from two years out in society, but there was no need Barty should be so disillusioned.

You are corrupting him!

“They are deeply in love,” Matilda said forcefully. “No, he didn’t do that. They would give their lives for one another. They are best friends. Their marriage is a marriage of souls, not only minds.”

“Oh. Good.” Barty looked relieved. “So have you never been in love like they are?”

His question, though gently asked, nearly knocked Matilda off her horse. She had always tried to be honest with her little brother, to tell him the truth even when it was difficult, but this was one thing she could tell no one.

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t think anyone is in love like Mama and Father. Besides,” she stuck her tongue out at Barty and twirled her pogo stick. “Gentlemen are boring and uninteresting.”

“Not all of them, surely?” Barty knocked the ball towards her, clearly more interested in their conversation than the sport. “You liked that boy who used to come and play when I was little.”

Matilda’s throat felt dry.

“What boy?” she asked innocently, knocking the ball back towards Barty with a little more force, hoping to egg him on and change the subject, but he let the ball roll past, barely looking at it.

“That boy!” he said insistently. “He used to visit our house, and we played with him. He was funny. He helped build the tree house in the forest.”

Oh goodness, the tree house.

  She remembered Henry’s smile as he gripped her hand tightly, pulling her up the tree to the platform he and Barty had nailed together. His sister, Althea had been there too. How she had fantasised about kissing him in that tree house!

“I don’t remember.” Matilda nudged the pony forward, chasing the ball half-heartedly. “Are we going to play, or what?”

“Henry!” Barty exclaimed behind her. “That was his name! Henry Linfield! What happened to Henry?”

What had happened indeed. Matilda had her back to her brother and allowed herself to close her eyes briefly, swallowing down her emotions. How quickly she remembered her disappointment when Henry had not appeared at her début, the crippling dismay when she overheard other ladies discussing his notoriety in town. Even at sixteen, she had known that Henry was developing a reputation as a rogue at Oxford, but it hadn’t stopped her heart from breaking. That night, barely holding back tears as she danced with gentleman after gentleman, wishing the whole sorry affair could be over, she had closed herself down. She had never seen Henry again. She had never felt that way about anyone else. Everyone in society might think she was eccentric and adverse to marriage and that was just as well, it was better than them knowing the truth: that her heart was foolishly and irrevocably given to Henry Linfield.

“Nothing happened.” Matilda tried to keep her voice light. “He grew up, that’s all. Now, let’s play some polo!”

CHAPTER TWO

After an hour, Barty was worn out from polo and ready to go back in and find some jam tarts in the kitchen. Matilda wasn’t so easily sated. The mention of Henry’s name had rattled her more than she cared to admit. Riding the young pony on the back lawn had only whetted her appetite for a good ride over the fields with the wind in her hair. The last thing she wanted to do now was to go back into the house and sit politely over tea whilst a viscount made eyes at her. She sighed heavily, dismounting to lead the pony back to the stables.

“What’s the matter, Tilly?” Barty asked, looking at her solemnly as she helped him dismount at the stable.

“Nothing.” Matilda smiled stiffly. “You should go inside and find something to eat.”

“Your suitor will be here soon.” Barty gazed back up to the house. “Shall I tell him to go away? That you’re not allowed to get married?”

“No! I don’t think father would like that.” Matilda smiled and petted her brother’s hair. It was soft and cold under her hand. She wondered at what age he would stop letting her touch him so affectionately. Time was so fleeting. Yet her father was ever more eager to find her a match. When that happened, she would be taken away from Sinclair Manor and lose these precious years watching her brother grow up. She couldn’t help but feel resentful. Suddenly, all of her goodwill about meeting the viscount vanished.

“You go on ahead.” Matilda gave the groom a significant nod as he took the pony’s reigns from her and gave Barty a little push towards the house. “I’ll be right behind.”

“You’re not coming?” Barty watched the groom walk towards Shakespeare’s stall and gasped. “You’re going out? Mama said not to!”

“Don’t you worry about that.” Matilda ruffled his hair and smiled down. “I know you’re hungry. Go on!”

“Alright.” Barty took a hesitant step towards the house, watching as Shakespeare was brought out with a slight longing on his face. Matilda knew that Barty had high hopes for one day riding Shakespeare — he was a feisty stallion with a reddish gold coat and a black mane. He had been a gift for her seventeenth birthday from her father, and the best gift she had ever received, aside from her diary. “Don’t be long?”

“Of course.” Matilda swooped down and gave her brother a kiss. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Barty pretended to scowl, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand as if full of distaste, but Matilda saw the happy blush in his cheeks as he ran away. As he trotted up the steps to the house, Matilda saw her lady’s maid, Betty, running down the stairs towards her. No doubt she had been watching anxiously out of the window, trying to keep an eye on her mistress, clearly on orders from Frances. Matilda sighed and gently rubbed Shakespeare’s nose, enjoying the velvety feel of his nostrils as she took a piece of apple that the groom gave her and fed it to him.

“We’ll have a nice little ride, hey Shakespeare?” she murmured, rubbing her thumb against the white whorl on his forehead. “Maybe we’ll go and call on Julia? That’s a nice ride.”

The horse snorted happily and pressed his nose into her palm. Matilda waited calmly for her flustered maid to arrive.

“Mistress, where are you going?” Betty gasped. “You have a caller coming —,”

“Yes, unfortunately, I have no interest in meeting a viscount today,” Matilda said breezily, watching in amusement as Betty wrung her hands and looked back towards the house. “But do not worry, I am sure I shall be back with enough time to catch the tail-end of his appointment with my father.”

“Oh, Lady Wynter, you cannot be earnest,” Betty groaned, rubbing her forehead. “Do you not remember the last time? Your father was so —,”

“I shall deal with Father when I get home,” Matilda said, quickly mounting Shakespeare. “At least then, I shall be in a better mood for it. Something that several tedious hours making small talk with a man old enough to be my father certainly shall not encourage.”

“The Viscount has an excellent reputation. He is a kind man, and do you not think it is time that you moved on from Lord —?”

“No, Betty.” Matilda gave her maid an intense glare, but Betty wouldn’t back down. She had been Matilda’s lady’s maid since Matilda was fourteen and wasn’t afraid of a little stare.  She stepped forward, gently pulling Matilda’s skirt down to cover her boot.

“I remember the night of your début, my lady,” she said, quietly. “You were so excited. So full of hope. It saddens me to think that you have lost that part of yourself.”

Matilda’s eyes stung suddenly with unshed tears. Betty’s words were touching the deep, sore place of her that still longed for Henry Linfield. Together, the two of them lapsed into silence as the memory of the night of her début rushed between them.

Betty was setting a crown of white roses and pearls into Matilda’s hair. Matilda was fidgeting, tugging at her gloves.

“Don’t worry, my lady.” Betty pressed her hands onto Matilda’s shoulders and caught her eye in the mirror, smiling brightly. “He will be there.”

“Do you think he will dance with me?” Matilda whispered, blushing terribly in her white muslin gown. It was all she wished for, to have Henry’s face close to hers and his hand in hers as they swirled perfectly in the centre of the dance floor.

“I am certain of it,” Betty giggled. “He is always so friendly toward you! I cannot imagine why he would not.”

 Betty spoke first, interrupting their reminiscing. Matilda both relieved and sad to leave that bitter-sweet memory, and looked down at her maid with glassy eyes.

“If you loved before, you could love again,” Betty whispered encouragingly. “Another gentleman might alight those same feelings in you that Lord Linfield —,”

“No,” Matilda cut her off, swallowing painful tears. She shook her head fiercely. “There is no other.”

“Oh, my lady. You cannot pine forever.” Betty sighed sadly, patting Shakespeare’s neck.

“I can do whatever I wish,” Matilda sniffed, feeling petulant, but Betty was undeterred and shook her head.

“Is that what you wish for your life, my lady?” Betty squeezed Matilda’s hand. “To long for a boy from the past and let your future disappear?”

I don’t want a future without Henry in it, Matilda thought, but it was too close to her heart to speak out loud. Besides, it would sound bizarre to Betty, who only wanted her to be safe and content like her parents did. How could Betty understand that Matilda would rather live alone than marry someone who wasn’t Henry?

“I won’t be long,” Matilda said, blinking away disappointed tears as she clicked her teeth.

“You’re not taking the groom with you?” Betty’s eyes widened. “Again?”

“I am perfectly capable of riding the five miles to Julia’s house alone,” Matilda snapped.

“You are a lady. You should not be riding anywhere unchaperoned, please!” Betty implored her, giving her the same look Mrs Bury did when she did something ‘eccentric.’

“I have been riding alone since I was a child, Betty,” Matilda sighed.

“But you are not a child any longer,” Betty countered. “You know it will enrage your father to know you have left, and left alone. It is most inappropriate for a lady.”

“I am my own person, Betty, I can make my own decisions!” Matilda pressed her heels into Shakespeare’s belly, turning him around to face the rolling fields. She saw Betty’s face, her sad, worried expression and the tightness around Matilda’s heart eased a little. She sighed and reached out for Betty’s hand.

“I do not wish to be rude,” she said softly. “I only wish to be free, Betty. I shall be safe, and you can send a groom to ride back with me, if you must. If you are worried. Just … let me have my ride.”

“Oh, my lady, I know better than to test my mettle against your strong will,” Betty smiled, squeezing her mistress’ hand, and then stepping back. “I shall tell the Duchess where you are. I am sure she can manage your father for a while.”

“If anyone can, it’s Mama,” Matilda smiled, setting Shakespeare into an easy trot towards the gate. “I’ll be back shortly!”

As she set her sights over the hills she let Shakespeare ease into a steady canter as he prepared himself to jump the fence to the field. When he took it with an elegant leap, she closed her eyes for a moment and imagined that she was flying. How nice it would be to be entirely free of all responsibility, to not have to worry about making a match or the future or what it would feel like to walk down the aisle on her wedding day and make promises to a man she didn’t love. The wind whipped through her hair and she unconsciously pulled it free of its bindings, letting her dark tresses stream behind her. She loved the feeling of it, and on a usual day it was enough to lighten her mood, but not today. Today she could not shake the memories of Henry.

“Henry, don’t!” She laughed, raising her arms to cover her face as Henry splashed water at her.

“Come further in, the water’s lovely!” Henry chuckled. He was knee deep in the brook on the Sinclair estate. It was a boiling hot summer’s day and Matilda was fourteen. She and Henry and Althea were playing in the Sinclair woods, but Althea had deferred the option to join them in the cool, rushing water of the stream, saying it was too cold. Matilda was revelling in this surprising moment of solitude in Henry’s company, helplessly giggling as she tucked her skirts around her knees and waded out towards him. Suddenly, her footing slipped away from her and she stumbled, plunged deeper into the water than she anticipated, soaking her gown up to her thighs and splashing water into her face. Henry doubled over in laughter, overjoyed by his prank.

“Henry! You beast!” Matilda cried, floundering to find her feet in the strong water, drenched to her skin. “You knew! How could you do this?”

“In my defence, Tills, it was very funny.” Henry grinned, grasping her by the elbows and pulling her up onto the higher ground he was deceptively stood on. Her gown clung wetly to her legs and she clutched his forearms to steady herself, feeling his warm, suntanned skin under her fingers.

“Don’t call me that,” Matilda had mumbled, her face flushing to be so close to him, her heart pounding furiously. “Don’t call me Tills.”

“Why not?” Henry teased, tugging on her wet hair, and flicking one of her sopping, wet curls into her eyes. “It’s funny. I like it.”

“Should you like it if I called you Linnie?” Matilda asked in mock bravado. “Linnie Lord Linfield?”

“Ha!” Henry threw back his head, laughing uproariously. He was so perfect to look at and Matilda hadn’t been able to stop herself staring. He was sixteen years old, already becoming a man. His blonde hair curled alluring against his forehead, slightly damp from the river. His skin had tanned a glorious gold in the summer sun and his throat was slightly red in a patch at the bottom of his neck, where gold curls of chest hair had begun to grow. His blue eyes sparkled humorously in the golden sunshine.

“You can call me whatever you want, Tills,” he joked, giving her his most charming smile.

Even in memory, Matilda felt like she had been given no choice. She would not have been able to stop herself falling in love with him even if she had tried. She sighed heavily, realizing that in her remembrances she had ridden all the way to Julia’s without a second thought. She reined in Shakespeare and dismounted, just as Julia opened the door and stepped out, smiling to greet her friend.

“Goodness, Matilda, you came here without a groom?” Julia shook her head, as if the whole thing was very funny. “You really have no intention of catching a husband, do you?”

“I find such things rarely interest me.” Matilda ignored the barb and handed Shakespeare’s reigns to a waiting servant.

“Oh, well, then I have some delicious news that I am sure will interest you,” Julia said, her eyes alight with mischief.

“Oh, gossip is it?” Matilda asked wryly. “I hope it is not about me.”

“No, it is not, but it is about a family that once was closely associated with yours,” Julia wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Can you guess?”

“I would rather not,” Matilda sighed, “and I should dearly like some tea, so can you cut to the chase, dear Julia? Who does this gossip concern and why should I care?”

“I cannot answer the second for you, only you know your own interest.” Julia giggled infuriatingly. “But as for the first question, I shall tell you. It is none other than the eldest son of Baron Foley.”

“Baron Foley?” Matilda’s heart cramped painfully. It seemed that wherever she went today, a certain name was destined to follow her. “You mean …?”

“Oh yes,” Julia nodded smugly. “None other than your old friend, Henry Linfield.”

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

      Chapter 1

“You look beautiful, Beatrice!”

“Thank you, Lydia,” Beatrice smiled politely at the Marquess of Loudwater’s eldest daughter, a society woman for whom Beatrice had no love at all. “So do you.”

“Thank you,”

As always, the other woman was pleased with the compliment, and pressed her hands down against her silvery silk gown. Beatrice noted that Lydia’s gown was the height of fashion, but that did not stop the other woman from looking at Beatrice’s gold satin and white lace gown with tremendous envy.

“What an exquisite fabric!” Lydia said, fluttering her huge ostrich fan with glittering eyes. “Did you choose it yourself?”

“No,” Beatrice almost rolled her eyes in frustration, groaning internally. She found this kind of conversation absolutely dire, and yet she had lost count of the amount of them she had endured with ladies like this at various society events.

“Mrs. Klane did,” Beatrice added, looking pointedly at her sister-in-law, Anna, who was barely paying attention to the conversation, her eyes wandering around the room with excitement. Unlike Beatrice, who was yet to meet a ball she actually enjoyed, Anna had been completely starved of balls for the last year and half since she had had given birth to her son, Caleb. This was Anna’s first outing into society since the birth and she was eager to dance with her husband, Silas, who stood nearby, chatting with business associates. Beatrice was happy for her sister’s happiness, but just wished she didn’t have to endure a ball for it to come about.

“Anna?” Beatrice prompted.

“Oh, yes,” Anna glanced at Lydia and then reached out a gloved hand to stroke the sleeve of Beatrice’s dress. “I found it in London. Doesn’t it flatter Beatrice’s skin so beautifully?”

“Completely!” Lydia gushed. “Such a perfect find, Mrs. Klane! You must give me the name of your dressmaker.”

Beatrice tried not to snort derisively as Lydia’s sycophantic remarks to Anna. At Beatrice’s first ball, Lydia had revealed her true colours as a terrible gossip and a manipulator by trying her hand at putting Beatrice down in front of Anna, and Anna had firmly put the fear of God into the young heiress. Now Lydia was sugary sweet towards them all. Beatrice couldn’t stand the falseness of it all, and how could she ever warm to a girl who had taken such delight in her discomfort at their first meeting?

Beatrice was distracted by her thoughts at that moment as a fair-headed young man with a large forehead approached Lydia.

“Lady Lydia, might I claim your hand for the first dance?”

“Oh, how flattering, Baron Clare, but I am unavailable for this set,” Lydia simpered, blushing with pride to be able to turn the young man down. She had her sights set higher, and everyone knew it. At the moment, Lydia’s gaze continually fluttered over to the Earl of Essex.

“But perhaps…my friend? Miss Klane?”

Beatrice saw the way the young baron’s eyebrows raised at her name. Once upon a time this would have been Lydia’s way of needling her, to highlight Beatrice’s comparatively low status beside her own, but since the Klane family had risen so high in society it was a different matter. Now, Beatrice knew that the young man would be considering her fortune, her brother’s desirable business connections, and her sister-in-law’s impressive social influence when he looked her up and down.

“I would be most happy to,” Baron Clare bowed before her. “If you are available, Miss Klane?”

“Sadly she is not,” Anna stepped in, smiling gently at the Baron. Beatrice knew from experience that Anna considered the first dance of the night an indicator of intent. She would never allow Beatrice to stand up with a callow young baron that she and Silas were not sure of. With Silas’s reputation and history, they were very careful about who they entertained as possible suitors for Anna. Also, Anna would not permit Beatrice to take a partner who Lydia had rejected, simply out of spite.

“But thank you, Baron Clare,” Anna turned to Lydia, “and thank you, Lady Lydia, for being so considerate, but we would not want to take away from your opportunities. Do not be held back from a turn with the Baron on our account.”

“Of course,” Lydia smiled, clearly trying not to look put out that Anna had turned a situation where Beatrice was forced to take her cast offs into a situation where Lydia was cornered into doing the same. “I should be delighted, Baron Clare.”

He smiled, clearly relieved not to be coming away empty handed, and took Lydia’s hand. Lydia accepted it, but managed to glare some daggers over her shoulder at Anna as they walked away. Anna simply smiled sweetly and waved. Beatrice knew that her sister might look all sweetness and innocence, but she never forgot those who had wronged her family.

Beatrice noticed the way the assembled ladies and gentlemen watched the pair move towards the dance floor with interest. Every ball was the same. Beatrice sometimes felt as if she was the entertainment at these events, as though her only reason for being there was so the married ladies could provide commentary on who might be setting their sights at her this evening.

“He is a nice boy,” Anna sighed, fluttering her fan in front of her mouth to hide her words. “But though he is handsome and sweet, Silas tells me he has a gambling problem.”

Beatrice nodded, trusting Anna’s word. If anyone knew the financial status of every man in the city, it was her brother.

“You have an alternate in mind?” Beatrice asked, knowing Anna never attended a ball without a plan of how to use the occasion to advance her sister’s position in society.

“Indeed,” Anna smiled. “A viscount, no less.”

Beatrice wished she could feel more excited, but the notion of dancing with another pampered gentleman of the Ton only filled her with dread. Anna had begun a conversation with Lydia’s mother about eligible gentlemen, and just the thought of it made Beatrice’s blood run cold. She feigned interest, nodding to imply she was listening, but actually let her mind wander.

To distract herself, Beatrice looked around the room. Unconsciously, her eyes immediately sought out her brother. He was talking quietly with a small group of gentlemen with an ease that she knew he would never have been able to achieve before he was married. Anna had changed him in all the best ways. Still, their courtship had not been without its difficulties. Even now, nearly two years after it had happened, Beatrice felt a tightness in her stomach when she recalled the dreadful trauma of Anna’s kidnap at the hands of one of Silas’ old business partners.

Even though both Anna and Silas had recovered and moved on, Beatrice had struggled. In crowds like this, she found herself repeatedly seeking out the faces of those she loved, checking they were still here and well. Anna, Silas, and Silas’s right-hand man, Giovanni. It was how she reassured herself nothing bad would happen.

Across the crowded sea of gentleman in fine coats and ladies in soft silks and floating organza, through the whirling couples dancing in the centre of the wide polished floor, Beatrice saw her brother standing off to the side, as he often was at social events, near the doorway. Silas caught her gaze and jerked his head for her to join him.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Beatrice said, dropping into a curtsey.  She ignored Anna’s raised eyebrows at being left alone with Lydia, and walked to join Silas on the edge of his group.

“Are you well?” Silas asked quietly, linking her arm with his.

“I am,” Beatrice felt herself relaxing in her brother’s close presence. The warmth of his body next to hers gave her energy and strength.

“Fending off the suitors?” Silas nodded at the young Baron Clare as he stood talking quietly with Lydia by the windows. “Must I challenge that young rogue to a duel?”

“No!” Beatrice laughed softly, enjoying her brother’s ever predictable over-protectiveness. When everything in her current world was designed to remind her that she was a lady, soon to be a wife, she enjoyed this aspect of their relationship that still allowed her to feel like a young girl. “He was perfectly nice, but Anna sent him on his way. She has plans to introduce me to the—”

“—Viscount Milton, I remember,” Silas interrupted, nodding. “He’d be a good match for you.”

“I have not met him yet,” Beatrice quietly reminded him. It was a matter of small tension between the two siblings. Silas had only seen a picture of Anna before accepting her as a bride, and they’d only met once prior to their wedding. Silas sometimes forgot how rarefied their match was—that a couple brought together under the strangest of circumstances had found the deepest love and appreciation for one another.

“You will tonight,” Silas said diffidently, as if it were nothing to be worried about.

“I shall not marry a man I barely know, Silas,” Beatrice reminded him softly, trying not to get irritated.

“No one suggests you should,” he said in a placating tone, but Beatrice knew he didn’t really understand. He thought the way forward was to find a man she could imagine being comfortable with, a man she could consider knowing intimately. He never considered that the man might already be in her life.

“Where is Gio?” Beatrice asked.

“Over there,” Silas smiled ruefully as he looked at his right-hand man and best friend, gesturing to the other corner of the room. Beatrice’s stomach contracted slightly as she looked at Giovanni Amante, the man that she had secretly lusted after since her adolescence.

“It seems that the ladies here tonight are quite taken with his Italian charms,” Silas shook his head, laughing quietly. “It’s like Anna always says: Giovanni is a charmer!”

“Indeed,” Beatrice swallowed hard, trying not sound sour as she watched Giovanni laugh with a group of ladies simpering around him. As Silas’s bodyguard and right-hand man, he often had to blend in well with high society even though both he and Silas had grown up on the streets of London and Venice, respectively.

Beatrice had been hidden from most of their exploits throughout her childhood as they moved around the continent, running from their past. Silas was nine years her senior, and by the time Giovanni came into their lives Silas was twenty years old and had already accumulated a fearsome reputation. Giovanni was a seventeen-year-old bare-knuckle boxer who Silas had met when they were staying Lyon. Beatrice was only eleven at the time, but she remembered Silas bringing Giovanni home. She had stared at him, this dark, swarthy boy with his broad shoulders, sweet, heart-shaped face, chestnut brown hair and leafy green eyes. Those eyes had been full of hurt and anger and ambition.

“Ciao,”  he had said, smiling at her with such softness and sweetness, before winking roguishly. “I’m Giovanni. What’s your name, bella?”

She had been speechless, her dark eyes round as saucers as she gaped like a fish up at this young Italian who made butterflies take root inside her for the first time. He had been the most beautiful boy she had ever seen and he had only become more handsome as he had grown into a man. At twenty-seven, his soft jaw line had grown chiselled and strong, his soft hair had darkened and his eyes had lost some of their openness, becoming more seductive for the secrets they held. He had also kept that same Italian magnetism; throughout her adolescence Beatrice had been left in a giggling mess by those beguiling winks and smiles that had only become more intense and smooth over time. Tonight, that side of Giovanni was out in full force.

Clearly, Beatrice wasn’t the only one who found him beautiful. She watched, irritated, as the ladies around him laughed giddily, testing out Italian phrases under his instruction. It was a favourite tactic of his to captivate the ladies, one he had grown up practising on Beatrice. She’d blushed and stammered whilst his sensual lips sounded out the Italian words for “good morning.” She knew this routine well. Her brother was right, Giovanni had always been charming, but it was only when he had truly become a man that his flirtatiousness had begun to irritate her. Just as Beatrice was now firmly a debutante—a flower of society—Giovanni had cemented himself in the role of ladies man. She couldn’t help it—his teasing ways made her envious of the women who caught the twinkle in his eye, the slow rise of his exotic smile. Beatrice drank a little wine and turned away, noticing that Anna had slipped away from Lydia’s mother.

“Goodness, that woman has plans for her daughter!” Anna huffed, flapping her crimson fan. It was a perfect match for her crimson dress with golden beading. Silas had bought it for her as a special gift for her first ball. Silas looked at his wife with a radiant smile, the kind of smile Beatrice had rarely seen in their childhood together.

“Did you not enjoy Lady Loudwater’s company?” Silas laughed, slipping his arm around his wife’s waist with an ease that made Beatrice’s heart ache. How she yearned for that same ease with her future partner.

Anna shook her head, golden curls shining. “What are we speaking of?”

“We’re enjoying Giovanni’s performance,” Silas smiled, nodding towards his friend.

“Oh?” Anna slipped away from her husband’s side to link arms with Beatrice. She was instantly comforted by her sister-in-law’s strong, kind presence by her side, even if looking at Giovanni flirt was uncomfortable for her. She could see him now, brazenly allowing a blonde lady with silky hair to lay her hand on his arm with an arresting smile that made Beatrice feel like she had been punched in the gut.

“Are you alright, dear?” Anna asked, squeezing her arm. “You look a little flushed.”

“I am well,” Beatrice worried that her thoughts of Giovanni were beginning to show in her own face. Self-consciously she fluttered her white feather fan that was trimmed with gold leaf.

“Here he comes,” Silas grinned into his cup. “He looks a little flushed too, I must say.”

Beatrice jerked her head up in time to see Giovanni walking towards them, striding easily across the ballroom as if he were a duke, and not some Italian orphan picked up on the streets. He smiled as he approached them, puffing out his cheeks slightly and shaking his head.

“There’s a lot of call for the Italian parlour tricks tonight!” Giovanni laughed, joining them easily. Beatrice felt the subtle shift in their little unit of four as they stood together—now she felt safe, complete. All the people she cared most for were with her and safe. That was all that mattered to her.

“It’s always a winner, pulling out the Italian,” Silas said sarcastically, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Especially with ladies.”

“Indeed,” Giovanni laughed, toasting Silas with his own glass.

“You must not be struggling for dance partners tonight,” Anna said, smiling playfully at Giovanni.

“Sadly, no,” Giovanni shook his head, that handsome smile breaking over his face. “But I have managed to save a dance for Beatrice.”

Beatrice flushed and felt a flare of desire at the idea of dancing with Giovanni. She tried to look as if it was a matter of complete indifference to her.

“Of course, at least until my designated partner appears. Is it alright, Anna?”

Beatrice didn’t want to seem too eager, nor did she want to step on Anna’s plans.

“Yes, of course. We shall join you.” Anna turned to her husband, smiling. “Shall we all dance together, my dear?”

“I would enjoy that.” Silas smiled fondly at his wife. “It has been a while.”

Beatrice half wished that it was not a quartet dance as they took their places in a square, smiling at one another. She wondered how it would feel to dance a more intimate partner dance with Giovanni. He grinned at her playfully as they bowed and curtsied to one another, and Beatrice felt a thrilling mix of annoyance and excitement.

“So who is your lucky partner for this evening, bella?”

Beatrice’s mind snagged a little on the familiar nickname from her childhood and felt herself blush. Giovanni could always be relied on to make her feel special, though tonight she resented it a little.

“Viscount Milton,” Beatrice said, trying to keep her voice light. “You’ll not be short for partners either, I imagine.”

“I imagine not,” Giovanni laughed, the carefree sound making Beatrice smile. “Though none of them will be as delightful of you, Beatrice.”

Beatrice felt Giovanni squeeze her hand softly before letting it go, turning around to face Anna as Beatrice faced Silas. Beatrice wondered if she had imagined it.

“Are you well?” Silas asked. “You look flushed again.”

“I’m fine,” Beatrice snapped, trying not to draw attention to how flustered and strange Giovanni’s words and touch made her. Luckily, she didn’t need to speak to him for the rest of the dance, only coming back to stand opposite him as the dance ended. Still, it was as if his touch was burned into her hand. She noticed the way Giovanni was already winking at a girl standing nearby. Did he ever stop flirting? Before Beatrice could open her mouth to tell him to stop gawping like a youth, Anna had grabbed her arm.

“The viscount!” Anna hissed, her eyes darting through the clapping dancers. Beatrice turned to watch him approach. So did Giovanni.

“Ah, the viscount,” Giovanni spoke softly. His smile was broad but there was hesitation behind his eyes. He was staring at the incoming viscount with considerable suspicion—she knew that Giovanni was always cautious when new people were admitted into their close circle. For a moment, she thought she saw a slightly possessive glance flit across his face and her stomach lurched, but then it was gone. Just like that brief squeeze of the hand she thought she’d imagined, it was over, and he was backing away, eyes already fixed on that blonde woman. Maybe he did not care whom she danced with, or whom she married, especially with so many elegant ladies to simper over him. The thought made Beatrice feel hollow inside.

“Viscount Milton, allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Beatrice Klane,” Anna was saying, pulling Beatrice’s eyes away from the dark back of Giovanni’s head.

“I am charmed to make your acquaintance,” Lord Milton bowed low before Beatrice, with all the elegance of a man with incredibly high breeding.

“As am I,” Beatrice replied, curtseying respectfully. She recalled a time when she had first come out into society and the idea of curtseying before a viscount would have filled her with dread and uncertainty. Now it was second nature. She had lost count of the many curtsies, introductions, and first dances she had undertaken since coming out. They all blurred into one. The faces of eligible men, young and old, blending together, none of them shining so brightly as Giovanni’s. Yet Lord Milton was especially handsome.

He was the physical opposite of Giovanni—tall and willowy, with a soft, gentlemanly face, pale Saxon skin and reddish-golden hair. His eyes were pale blue but they twinkled with generous humour, and his smile was soft and seductive. Beatrice could see why Anna had selected him as a potential suitor.

“Might I have this dance, Miss Klane?” The Viscount asked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice could see Giovanni laughing with some gentlemen. A rather stunning red-headed woman had joined the group and was looking at him in fascination. Beatrice swallowed her envy and smiled at Lord Milton.

“I should like that,” she said, slipping her hand into his elbow and stepping towards the dance floor.

Chapter 2

“Who is that gentleman?” Giovanni asked Silas quietly, carefully watching Beatrice and Anna from afar. Beatrice was glowing. Beatrice was blessed with creamy, pale skin, but dark hair and eyes that were set off deliciously against the frosty white and warm gold of her gown. Giovanni knew it was a gown designed to make her look both alluring and tempting—Anna had chosen it so that Beatrice would look as appealing as possible to potential suitors, and it was clearly working. Wherever Giovanni looked around the room, gentlemen’s eyes were darting over towards Silas Klane’s sister as she smiled and laughed with her equally beautiful sister-in-law and the gentleman standing with her.

“Viscount Milton,” Silas answered, sipping his wine and watching his wife coordinate an introduction.

“What sort of man is he?” Giovanni asked, assessing the viscount carefully. To Giovanni, he looked like every other well-bred society gentleman—if perhaps particularly good looking—but Giovanni could see the way Beatrice smiled at him generously. It lit a flame of jealousy inside him. He wished he could look away, but she was too delightful to deny himself.

“A good man, by all reports,” Silas said. “Anna has done some careful research into his family, and she knows his mother relatively well.”

“And Mrs. Klane thinks he would be a good match for Beatrice?” Giovanni asked, trying not to sound awkward. He had known Beatrice for ten years, had been like another brother to her, but he had never really spoken to Silas about her prospects. No matter how close he and Silas were, no matter that Giovanni loved Silas as his own blood, the intricacies and politics of Beatrice’s marriage was something Giovanni had never been included in.

“He is wealthy, he has a proud lineage and title, he is young with a good reputation, no debts or vices to speak of,” Silas listed, each point making Giovanni feel resentful towards this dashing young suitor. “He would make a good husband for my sister.”

“If she likes him,” Giovanni added quietly, instantly regretting it. Silas had always been focused on how important it was for Beatrice’s future for her to marry a man of wealth, but sometimes he could be dismissive of Beatrice’s desire to marry a man she liked.

“Yes, of course,” Silas nodded. “But he is very well-liked. There is no reason why she shouldn’t.”

Giovanni loved his friend, would die in his service and fight his battles for him, but he couldn’t help but sometimes feel frustrated by his obsession with social standing. Giovanni understood, of course, that Silas had struggled brutally to achieve his status as the dreaded Lucifer of London. Silas believed that by marrying into a noble household, his sister would be finally and totally protected from any of the scrutiny that was attached to him. But it made Silas single-minded—he sometimes couldn’t see how high the standard was that he set for Beatrice.

“Beatrice is naturally guarded, Lucifer,” Giovanni said, cautiously trying to broach the topic. “She struggles to…to reveal her heart even to those in her family.”

“I know that,” Silas’s words were very soft, so he would not be overheard. “Especially after what happened to Anna.”

“Indeed,” Giovanni answered quietly, the two of them remembering together the terror and pain of Anna’s kidnapping two years prior. Giovanni knew that Silas still lived with the fear that something like that could happen again, but to Beatrice, or—God forbid—to his young son. Giovanni also felt that fear, but rather than  want to push Beatrice towards an attachment to someone wealthy who might protect her, Giovanni’s instinct was to hold Beatrice close, to protect her himself. The idea of her leaving Silas’s home and estate made him nervous. He just wished that Silas would feel the same. He tried to speak his thoughts again.

“With that in mind, should she not… be attached to someone she knows? Someone she trusts implicitly?”

“Gio, I would never bring someone into the family I did not trust,” Silas said quickly, reaching out to grasp Giovanni’s shoulder briefly. “I would never let anyone get close to us who I didn’t think would keep our secrets safe.”

On the one hand, Giovanni was glad that Silas didn’t suspect that his concern had more to do with wanting to keep Beatrice near to him, rather than protecting their old secrets. On the other, he was concerned that Silas had considered this so carefully already. How far had Silas and Anna discussed this match? Was this young viscount already preparing a proposal?

“And you think Lord Milton might be that man?” Giovanni asked, his mouth dry. “You’ve decided that he is appropriate?”

“I think he could be,” Silas said cautiously. Giovanni took a sliver of hope from his words. So Silas was not entirely sure of this man. Nothing was set in stone.

“You are not sure?” Giovanni asked, hoping to confirm his thoughts.

“I will be,” Silas said confidently, dashing Giovanni’s small hopes. “In time. Beatrice needs time to grow to know him, to be comfortable with him. I should never want my sister to marry a man she was not comfortable with. That much is a requirement.”

But you do not require her to love him, Giovanni thought to himself. He could not say it aloud. Even though Giovanni and Silas had always been able to be honest with one another—Giovanni had never held back from serving Silas some honest truths when it was necessary—this was one thing that he would never be able to share with Silas. His feelings towards Beatrice needed to be buried deep down inside. Silas had saved his life; Giovanni owed him everything. He would never jeopardize the family he had made here in England with the Klane’s. Besides, having Beatrice in his life, even if she only thought of him as a second brother, was better than nothing.

“Here comes my wife,” Silas said softly, “it seems Beatrice must like him at least a little.”

Giovanni turned to watch Anna detaching from Beatrice and her suitor as the music for dancing started up. Giovanni’s hand clenched around his brandy glass as he looked at Beatrice’s hand holding onto Lord Milton’s arm. It seemed the entire room was watching the young eligible couple moving forward to take their place at the head of the dancers. Giovanni noticed the twitching fans of the older women, the envious eyes of the young lords and ladies.

“She’s accepted him for two dances,” Anna said breathlessly, quickly slipping her arm into Silas’s, flushing a sweet pink that matched the crimson of her gown. “Two dances! That must be a good sign!”

“Indeed it must,” Silas responded, patting his wife’s hand at his elbow. Giovanni’s heart clenched at this impossibly intimate and sweet gesture between two people who loved one another dearly. It was that kind of familiarity with a partner than he longed for; a lover with whom he could share the passion of his body and the minutiae of his life. Watching Silas find it with Anna had been both encouraging and revealing; now he knew true love was possible. Now he couldn’t settle for less.

“Must it not, Gio?” Silas asked, smiling at his friend.

“I think it must,” Giovanni said, though the words stuck in his throat.

“Oh, she is the belle of the ball!” Anna sighed, her eyes following her sister appreciatively. “I am so glad I persuaded her to wear that dress. It is perfect on her.”

“Indeed, you have done very well with her, my love,” Silas said. Anna had been in charge of steering Beatrice’s entrance into society since she and Silas had wed. It was a good thing, too, for Silas and Giovanni would not have had a clue between them. Anna, with her excellent background and connections, had certainly aided the Klane family’s advancement in the Ton.

“Oh, it is all Beatrice’s doing,” Anna said, flapping her fan but smiling happily. “Even though she dislikes society, she has persisted with it, and has been rewarded indeed—despite a bumpy start. Why, she has more suitors than I did when I first came out.”

“Oh, I can only imagine,” Silas teased, rolling his eyes at Giovanni. It was a long-standing joke that while Anna had been a jewel of society, she had married beneath her in accepting Silas. What might have caused resentment and bitterness had blossomed into deep love and the advancement of both their families for the better. “I’m sure your dance card was positively overflowing, my love.”

“Stop it, Silas!” Anna swatted her husband playfully with her fan, her eyes drawn back to Beatrice again. “Oh, she dances so elegantly. And look how eagerly they prepare for the second,” she whispered.

Anna was not wrong, Giovanni noticed. Beatrice was laughing gently with her partner as they applauded the musicians at the finish of the dance. She looked to be enjoying herself. The notion stung Giovanni, and he sipped his wine, trying to distract himself by smiling flirtatiously at a red-headed woman who had been quite forward with him earlier. Her blushes and fluttering eyelids were little consolation when Beatrice was in his line of sight, glowing like a summer flower.

“I can simply not get used to all these gentlemen watching my baby sister with such fascination,” Silas sighed heavily. “It’s always terribly odd, isn’t it Gio?”

Giovanni nodded without thinking. It was odd for Gio, but not in the way that Silas meant. When he saw Beatrice, it was hard for him not to see her as she was at home, as she had always been before she came out into society. When he closed his eyes he could still see her with her hair loose and flowing in the wind, a laughing smile on her face as she ran across the grounds at Fallenbrook, chasing after Silas’ dogs. For Giovanni, Beatrice had always been all playfulness and lightness, an oasis of uncomplicated, innocent joy that he had always been thoroughly charmed by. He had always had a soft spot in his heart for Silas’s young sister, had always enjoyed the sweet flirtation they had shared together, her wholesome blushes. It was only since she had come out into society that those feelings of tenderness had deepened into something else. Yet now, unlike Silas, it was impossible for him to look at her without seeing the elegant young woman that everyone else in the room saw.

Beatrice was the most beautiful lady in the room. The characteristic playfulness and acerbic disdain that Giovanni knew Beatrice carried for the façades of society were carefully tucked away behind a tidy veneer of ladylike softness and propriety. Her wild, flowing hair was tamed into a stylish arrangement—piled on her head, with curls falling elegantly across her brow and behind her ears to reveal the long tapering of her white, alabaster neck. She was glowing. One might be fooled, Giovanni thought, into thinking it was merely a trick of the gold thread sewn into the white satin of her gown, or the sparkling diamonds at her throat or in her earrings, but it wasn’t. She was stunning. She always had been, but now everyone could see it.

“Her dancing has greatly improved,” Anna commented in a whisper. The music was slower this time, more reflective, and a quieter hush had briefly fallen over the room as everyone watched, mesmerized by the elegant, circling couples.

Beatrice and the viscount were at the top of the line of dancers, directly in front of Giovanni. He tried his best not to look at Beatrice, not to admire the soft shine of pale skin and the beautiful outline of her body, not to catch her eye in any way, but he failed. Beatrice’s eyes were like the catch of a fishing hook, and as he attempted brush his gaze casually past her, his own eyes snagged on them. For a moment, he was sure there was a spark of recognition, that his Beatrice—the girl beneath the glitter and finery that he knew so well and cared for so deeply—was staring back at him and seeing his true self underneath. It was as if she knew that those hidden compliments, the secret squeeze of her hand in the dance, was all concealing the deep attraction he felt for her. She could feel it; he knew it in his bones.

Then it was gone. In the blink of an eye she had turned away, the dance had finished and the dancers were once again applauding the musicians. It was like he had imagined it.

She didn’t see me, Giovanni thought to himself, automatically clapping along with the others. He turned and took a long sip of wine, trying to calm himself down. It didn’t happen.

“Well,” Silas muttered beside him. “That’s a turn up for the books.”

“Oh my!” Anna gasped. “That’s a very good sign!”

Giovanni turned back, following their gazes back to the couple on the dance floor. His stomach lurched as he watched them leaving, arm in arm, walking towards the relative privacy of the terrace, undoubtedly for a more intimate conversation.

Not on my watch, Giovanni thought, setting his wine glass back down.

“I shall go to work, Lucifer,” he said quietly, using his position as the family bodyguard as a welcome cover for following the couple.

“Thank you, Gio,” Silas said, smiling trustingly. He had no idea that inside Giovanni’s heart was a flame of anger and envy that was beginning to burn with even more fury. “Give them plenty of room.”

“Of course,” Giovanni said. Then he turned and made his way towards the terrace with the intention of doing no such thing.

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter One

Charity loved feeling the wind in her air as her horse picked up more speed. This time of the morning, when the air was nicely cooler than the rest of the day, was perfect for going riding. Or, in her case, racing. She and her sister loved to do this every morning, providing the weather was good. Their parents thought they were mad, that someone was going to break their neck.

Charity didn’t care. It was a chance to get out and be free. The Cambridgeshire countryside was beautiful in the summer, and she spent as much time enjoying it as possible.

She reached the edge of the trees—where they had agreed to stop—and slowed her horse, Twilight, to a stop. Then she turned to look for Miriam. Her sister was not far behind, but she was looking flustered as she drew up beside Charity.

“What’s going on?” Miriam leaned over to look down at her horse’s front leg. “I think you must have knobbed my horse.”

Charity burst out laughing. “Why do you say that?”

“I always win. Every day, I win this race.” Miriam straightened up and frowned. “What have you done to Spring River?”

That was typical of Miriam. She was very competitive, always had to be first. Charity had the same streak, but she wasn’t as zealous as Miriam. As the younger sister, Miriam felt like she had something to prove. Charity had no idea what Miriam had to prove; she was the prettier and more popular of the two. She did better in social settings than Charity ever did—she could keep a conversation and she always knew what to say. Nevertheless, from the way Miriam told it, she couldn’t do anything right.

She was the perfect Society lady, and yet she thought she would never live up to standard. When she wasn’t trying to be better than Charity, that is.

“Maybe Spring River isn’t up to it today.” Charity stroked Twilight’s neck. “This is the fourth day in a row we’ve been out racing, and she’s probably worn out.”

“If that’s the case, why isn’t Twilight worn out?”

“Because she knows how to pace herself. She’s wiser.”

Miriam harrumphed and then straightened up. “Whatever it is, I hope she gets better shortly. I hate losing.”

“You hate losing at anything.” Charity nudged Twilight into a gentle walk. “Get Hodgins to check her over when we get back. I’m sure things are fine. I want to enjoy this morning, not have you sulking.”

“Apologies, Charity.” Miriam moved her horse to fall into step with her sister’s. “I guess I’m a little…on edge right now.”

“That’s an understatement. After all, you have a big occasion coming up.”

In less than two weeks, on the last day of March, Miriam was turning eighteen. She would be becoming a woman, and that means she would be ready for her first London Season next month. Miriam was excited, but also very nervous. As a perfectionist, it was no surprise. Charity could understand the nerves; if you said the wrong thing or wore the wrong dress , you ended up causing a scandal. It was unfair, but that was Society all over. Everyone had to follow the same unspoken rules. To Charity, that just made it boring. She didn’t want to be on edge all the time with their strict ideas of what was proper and what was not.

How was she supposed to show who she was when they wouldn’t allow her outside of the confines? If she had been able to do that, maybe she would be married by now. Her father, Viscount Chilston, was upset that she hadn’t received a proposal in her first Season. Now that she was into her second, there was more pressure.

Charity hated pressure.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be eighteen soon.” Miriam shook her head. “It feels so strange.”

“It always feels strange when you enter the next stage in your life.”

“And going to London as well. That part I am scared about.”

“Why? You’ve been to London before.” They reached a fork in the road, and Charity took the path towards the river. “You were there when I had my coming out last year.”

“But I went to London as a family in support of you, not as a debutant. I didn’t have the extra pressure of trying to find a husband. I know Father’s going to make sure I find someone this Season. That I should be married by this time next year.”

That was the problem. He would do that. Charity was sure of it. Lord Jonathan Norman, Viscount Chilston, wanted things to be just so. He followed Society to the letter. It was frustrating. At least their mother could talk him out of a few things when they were truly out of his control. Charity was glad about that, or their father would be completely unbearable if left to his own devices.

She loved her father, but hated his single-minded attitude.

“Father thinks far too much. And he’s impatient.”

“And quick to temper if you don’t do as he wants,” Miriam said gloomily. She glanced at her sister. “You know that more than I do.”

“Why?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

Charity groaned. She did not want to be reminded of the argument she and her father had gotten into back in May, when Charity had walked away from a suitor and a potential engagement. She had morals and she was going to stick to them. It didn’t matter what her father thought, or anyone in Society. Charity would not be treated with disrespect.

“I did what he wanted, and it made me look like a fool. I’m not going to do that again.”

“I understand.” Miriam sighed. “But going straight into the first social engagement looking for a husband is terrifying to me.”

Charity leaned over and squeezed her sister’s hand.

“You just need to take a step back, take a deep breath, and see the bigger picture. I’d say use this first Season to enjoy yourself, and then have a look around for a husband next time.”

“If I want one.” Miriam made a face. “After witnessing what happened to you, I’m not sure I do. It doesn’t fill me with joy as it used to.”

Charity winced. “It wasn’t my intention to upset your choices about marriage, Miriam.”

“You didn’t need to. It was Baron Hardwicke, not you, who made me question marriage.” Miriam shook her head. “I don’t want to think about what would happen to me if I ever had to marry a man like him.”

Charity couldn’t fault her for that. Baron Hardwicke was enough for any woman to question their faith in marriage. She had questioned it when she heard rumours about the man flirting with other women when he was meant to be courting her. Apparently, he had four other women he was stringing along. Charity had confronted him about it, and Hardwicke had simply said he was keeping his options open. That had hurt—a lot. Charity had been close to saying that she might have considered a proposal had she been given one. Instead, she had slapped him, called him a cad, and stormed out.

That had been three months ago, and thinking about him still made Charity angry.

“Is the baron still trying to contact you?” Miriam asked. “I keep seeing you put aside letters without opening them before putting them into the fire.”

Charity sighed, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She had forgotten to pin it back this morning, so now it was all over the place.

“I’m afraid so. But when do men ever listen?”

“Very rarely, from what I’ve witnessed with Father.”

“I mean, I’ve said no and asked him to leave me alone so many times. I feel like I’m going around in circles. Why he thinks I will continue to court him after what he said and what I found out is beyond me.”

Miriam frowned. “Maybe Father got hold of him and said that he needed to keep trying with you. That you would give in eventually.”

“Not a chance. I don’t want anything further to do with Baron Hardwicke.”

She would never accept him. If they did marry, she would never be able to stop questioning whether Hardwicke was still seeing all the other women. Would he be keeping his options open if this marriage didn’t work out? Charity would not be made a laughingstock just to keep her father happy. If she was entering matrimony, the least her husband could do was respect and love her without having to look elsewhere.

“Men think they can get away with a lot of things,” she grumbled, tightening her hands a little too much on the reins. She eased up when Twilight started getting fussy and tossing her head. “Including what they do with women. We’re put under great scrutiny, but men? It’s surprising how much freedom they’re given. They…they’re just pains.”

“Except for Father.”

“There are days when I wonder.” Charity tossed her hair over her shoulder. Maybe a few pins wouldn’t have been amiss when riding, now her hair was getting longer. “But he’s a better man than Baron Hardwicke.”

“Agreed.” Miriam tugged at her hair. She had kept it in a simple plait when they went out riding, pretty much what she had when she went to bed. Her sister thought ahead. “I wish there wasn’t so much pressure. We’re still young. I want to enjoy being eighteen for a while.”

“And you will do.” Charity gave her a smile. “As long as you don’t do what I did, you’ll be fine.”

“You got through your first Season all right.”

Charity wasn’t sure about that. It had been hard work trying to live up to expectations and be what Society wanted her to be, but it had felt hollow for her. What was the point of going out there to find a husband and get accepted into Society when you weren’t allowed to be yourself? Her future husband certainly wouldn’t appreciate seeing a picture-perfect lady and then finding out after marriage that his wife was nothing like that. Charity was not a picture-perfect person, and she didn’t want to be. She would take marriage if it came along, but she wasn’t about to be something she wasn’t.

Unfortunately, if she didn’t get a husband within a couple of years, she would end up unmarried. And that meant staying with her parents and living with her father’s disapproval. Charity loved them, but she didn’t want to be a burden.

She was stuck. She wanted freedom, but she wanted a family. And, for the most part, women couldn’t have both.

They were passing by the river now. The Great River Ouse had always fascinated Charity. It was the fifth longest river in the country, stretching from Northamptonshire up to the Wash and the North Sea. Chilston had made sure his daughters knew everything about their land, including the river. It was a beautiful area, and Charity and Miriam had spent many hot summers swimming in the river when they were younger. There were many nooks and secluded spots where you could simply hide away and enjoy the day without worrying about being bothered.

Normally, the current was slow and gentle, but the last week it had been something else. It had been raining for the last couple of nights, so the river had risen and the current was stronger. Charity had seen it on the way home from a dinner with family friends, and it was almost about to overflow onto the street. Now, the river was lower and it was back to its usual, calm flow through the countryside.

The path they took brought them right by the river and a small cove that had been made over time. The river had eroded this part of the earth, leaving it as a bunch of rocks sticking out of the wet sand, water trickling around haphazardly before going back on course. On good days, it was nice for a paddle on the flatter parts, but that was pretty much it.

Charity barely gave it a glance as they started to pass the cove, only to stop and turn back to stare. There was a body—a man—half in the cove. His legs were still in the gentle flow of the river. He was on his front, his head turned to the side. Charity’s heart stopped. Oh, God. Had they found a dead body?

“Charity?” Miriam had stopped just ahead and turned back. “What is it?”

“There’s a body, Miriam.”

“What?” Miriam twisted around in her saddle, and then she gasped. “Oh Lord.”

He didn’t appear to be moving. Charity knew they should run and get help. He could be dead, and she couldn’t cope with dead bodies. But what if he was still alive? He could end up getting carried down the river and further along. She started to dismount.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to get him out of there.”

Charity began to take off her shoes and stockings. Miriam was looking at her like she had gone insane.

“What the…? What if he attacks us?”

“I think him attacking us would be the least of our problems.” Charity put her things aside and shuffled on her seat to the edge of the cove, sliding carefully onto the wet sand. “He might be alive. We need to help him.”

“We do?” Miriam squeaked. “Why us?”

“Because I can’t drag him up on my own.”

Miriam huffed. “I’m not going in there. If he’s alive and won’t hurt us, I’ll come and help, but I’m staying here.”

Charity rolled her eyes. She flinched at the cold water—it was a cooler morning, but she was not prepared for this—and held her skirt up as she made her way slowly towards the body. From an initial glance, it was a man, wearing a shirt and breeches. The shirt was ripped, showing scrapes on his back, and the one hand she could see was also scraped badly. It looked like he had been dragged along the river for some time and must’ve been snagged when he got to the cove.

Hoping that he didn’t jump up at her, Charity crouched down and touched his back. He was cold. No surprise, seeing as he had been in the water. She wouldn’t be able to see if he was alive unless he was on his back.

Oh, great.

Grabbing his arms, Charity heaved and managed to roll him onto his back. And found herself staring at a muscular torso. Everything seemed to be carved like the Greek statues she’d seen at the museums. His shirt was a mess, several buttons missing, and there were bruises all over his chest and stomach. His face was a mess—one eye was swollen and his lip was split. There were bruises on his neck as well.

The man had been beaten. If he was still alive after that it would be nothing short of a miracle.

Aware that she was shaking, Charity pressed a hand to his chest. And breathed a sigh of relief when she felt the beating of his heart.

“He’s alive!” she called. “Help me get him out before he washes away.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Come on, Miriam!”

Chapter Two

Charity could hear her sister mumbling and grumbling as she got her shoes and stockings off and got into the cove. Miriam joined her and they each took an arm. Miriam flinched when she saw his face.

“Ouch. Are all of those bruises from the river?”

“I don’t think so.” They began to haul the man out of the river until his feet were barely in the deeper water. “From the look of it, he’s been beaten. I don’t think he went into the river willingly.”

Miriam stopped pulling and stared at her sister with wide eyes.

“Someone tried to kill him?”

“Or he fell in. Let’s not think about that.” Charity wobbled after another tug and regained her balance. She lowered the arm she had been pulling. “You can let go of him now, Miriam.”

“What? Oh.”

Miriam dropped the man’s arm like it was burning her. Charity flinched as the limp arm bounced on the rocks. More bruises to deal with. Miriam was shaking, looking like she was about to faint. Charity touched her arm.

“Miriam? We’re not far from Mr Trelawney’s. Go to his house and ask if we can borrow his carriage. Then we need a few people here to help get him in.”

“I…are you sure about this, Charity?”

“I’m sure. He’s hurt and unconscious. He could die if he stays out here any longer.”

Charity was not about to leave him out here. They had no idea who he was or if he was a bad person, but he was helpless and anything could happen. Her heart won out in wanting to help. If anything happened, she would take responsibility. She wasn’t about to be heartless and walk away from him now.

“All right.” Miriam hurried to the bank, tripping over in her haste. She clambered onto the bank and grabbed her shoes and stockings, swinging up into the saddle. “I’ll be as quick as I can. Be careful.”

Charity watched her sister ride away. Mr Percy Trelawney lived nearby, a friend of their father’s. He was very accommodating to them with everything, so it wouldn’t be too much for him to help them out. Charity was certainly not able to get this man out of the cove and onto her horse on her own.

She shifted around and cast her eyes over the unconscious man. Under the bruises, he was handsome. Very handsome, she noticed. Lean but muscular, he looked like he took care of himself. His black hair was plastered to his head in curls. Every part of his face was perfectly sculpted.

He must have broken a lot of hearts. Charity wouldn’t be surprised.

But who was he? She didn’t recognize him, and she knew everyone in the village. He had to have come from another town or village along the river. Huntingdon, maybe? Or Godmanchester? Charity barely went there, and when she did it was only for short visits. Or maybe he was a visitor who ended up in some sort of trouble. Either way was possible, and considering the problems Huntingdon brought, the latter was more likely.

She could search his pockets. That might give her some clue as to his identity. But anything that might have been on his person would either be soaking wet or lost. Maybe someone didn’t want anyone to know who he was. But it was worth a try.

Charity started to search, but his breeches didn’t have pockets. There was one in his shirt, and it was bulging with fabric. Charity drew it out and realized it was a handkerchief, folded perfectly. There was an ‘F’ stitched into the visible corner. Charity opened it out, and something dropped with a thunk onto the man’s chest. It was a watch, a very fancy gold one. She picked it out and opened it.

Somehow, it was still working. Charity remembered dropping her grandfather’s watch when she was three and it had shattered completely. It seemed some miracle had prevented the stranger’s watch from breaking after being soaked in water and bumping around in the river.

There was a name inscribed into the lid. It was just about visible. Charity squinted.

“Felton. Is that a Christian name or a last name?”

What on earth had happened to him? This Felton man had been through something horrible, yet someone he was still alive. Did he see something he shouldn’t? Or did he do something he shouldn’t?

Either way, Charity knew there were going to be a lot of questions.

*****

“Felton? Felton, can you hear me?”

Who was that? Why did it sound like she was far away? Then he remembered. He had been in the water. It had been freezing. But why had he been in the water? As far as he was aware, he had been on his way home.

Hadn’t he?

Now he was becoming aware of how cold his body was. He was shivering. His clothes stuck to him like a second skin. It felt disgusting. Rocks were poking him in the back, one scraping against his shoulder blade.

And then there was that voice. That beautiful voice, now getting closer. She kept saying a name. Felton. Is that my name? Is that why she keeps calling me that? Does she know me?

He managed to open his eyes. It was difficult when his head was screaming at him, but he managed. And then saw her. She was leaning over him, her brown hair loose about her shoulders. She kept brushing it away from her face and tucking strands behind her ear as she frowned down at him. Then he saw her eyes. They were the most striking blue he had ever seen.

She was beautiful. He had an angel leaning over him, surely. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was firm. No, this was real. He was alive.

Somehow. But he was alive.

He tried to get up, only for her to press more on his shoulder.

“Don’t try and get up. You could have hit your head.” That voice was so soothing, so gentle. “Just lie still.”

Lie still. He felt like he would completely seize up if he stayed still any longer. He licked his lips.

“I…I need to get up.”

Ouch. Even after being in the river, his mouth was dry. His angel shook her head.

“We don’t know if you’ve broken something. You were unconscious in the river, so you could be badly hurt.”

“Broken something?”

He wiggled his toes and lifted his hands. He stared at them as he flexed his fingers. He ached all over, but there was nothing standing out to him as badly hurt.

“I think I’m all right.” He started to get up again, the angel trying to get him to lie down. “I want to sit up. Please.”

She frowned, but she nodded and shifted back. Only to wobble and topple backward. He grabbed her wrist and stopped her fall. She gasped and stared at him with wide eyes. Then he realized what he had done and let go abruptly.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine.” She gave him a slight smile as she adjusted her footing. “My dress is already wet. I don’t think falling over would make any difference.”

She kept her distance as he sat up. His head screamed at him, and it felt like it was splitting open. Every part of his body hurt. How long had he been in the river? It must have slammed him around a lot for him to be in this much pain. His face felt like he had run face first into a rock. Getting slowly into a sitting position, he took a moment to wait for the world to stop tilting and then looked around. The river was brushing against his boots, and he noticed that he and his angel were in a small cove area. It was more rocks and water than sand, but it was like a ledge from the main river.

Which river? He couldn’t even remember. He had no idea where he was. This certainly wasn’t London, he knew that much. London was not this green, nor did the air smell so clean.

“Where…where are we?”

“Hemingford Grey.”

Hemingford Grey. That did not ring a bell.

“Is…is that in Berkshire? Where is it in relation to London?”

“No, it’s Cambridgeshire. We’re about two hours north of London.” She frowned at him. “What happened, Felton?”

Felton. That name again. He stared at her.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

She held something up that flashed in the sunlight. A watch. Something flickered in the back of his head. It looked familiar. Is it a family heirloom? Then it was gone, and his mind was a blank.

“I found this on you. The name ‘Felton’ is inscribed inside, and your handkerchief is monogrammed with an ‘F.’ So, I’m guessing that’s your name.”

Felton. No, no recognition. He tried again, but it still didn’t feel right. But it had to be his name, didn’t it? He wouldn’t be carrying someone else’s watch around with him, would he?

I don’t know anymore.

“I can’t remember anything. I…” He pressed his hands to his head. “I remember pain, and cold, but that’s it.”

“You don’t know who you are?”

She didn’t look convinced. But that’s what he meant. He really couldn’t remember anything. He plucked the watch from her fingers and stared at it, opening it up to look at the inscription. Felton. That had to be his name. Why didn’t it sound right?

Well, this angel could call him whatever she wanted. She had saved him from the river. It was a miracle that he hadn’t drowned. How long had he been in there? He had no idea.

“Maybe you should lie down again.” She shifted closer to him. “Your head could be making sitting up worse. You’re swaying as you sit there.”

“No, I’m not going to lie down.” He turned carefully and inspected dry land. It wasn’t far. “I’m going to get up on the bank. It’s freezing down here.”

She frowned.

“You’re in no position to walk.”

“I’m walking.” He glared at her. “I’m already helpless. Don’t make me feel any worse.”

She looked a little hurt. “That was not my intention, sir.”

He winced. Now he had upset his rescuer. Taking it very slowly, he moved onto his hands and knees and began to get to his feet. The change in elevation made everything tilt again, and he thought he was going to throw up. But it didn’t happen, and everything righted again a moment later. He took it slowly, stepping through the rocks towards the bank. He would be glad to get on softer ground.

His angel hovered close by, not touching him, but seeming reluctant to move away from him. He was grateful about that; while he didn’t think he was going to topple, it was nice to know someone was looking out for him.

Someone clearly hadn’t been looking out for him, if he had ended up in the river. He was still marvelling at the miracle of not drowning.

They got to the bank, and he managed to crawl his way up, slumping onto the grass. That felt better. The grass was softer than the rocks. His back was still complaining like he had been dragged over the rocks. Maybe he had. Maybe that was how he was out of the water.

His angel was still hovering nearby, looking up and down the trail they were on. They were in the woods, the only noise other than the river the birds waking up and going about their day. It had to be early morning or early evening. He didn’t even know what day it was.

His head was hurting from trying to remember.

“What are we going to do now?”

“My sister went to get help.” She didn’t look at him as she looked up and down the path. “Then you’ll come with me to my family home. We’ll get a physician to look at you.”

A physician. That sounded like a good idea. As did lying on a soft bed. He felt like he could sleep for a week—actual sleep, instead of unconsciousness.

How he hadn’t drowned was beyond him.

God, I’m freezing. He couldn’t stop shivering. His angel glanced at him, and her expression softened. Then she went to her horse, which stood placidly at the side of the path. She walked with a confidence that was rather refreshing to see. And that pale blue dress she wore certainly looked good on her. It went well with her complexion. She looked like she had pretty much rolled out of bed and gone riding. A woman who didn’t care much for propriety.

For some reason, he liked that. A woman with confidence was attractive. Wait, where did that come from? Don’t you have more important things to worry about?

She came back with a blanket, draping it around his shoulders.

“Here. It should help keep you warm.”

“Thank you.”

It was soft. And warm. He wrapped it around himself and shuddered with a sigh. That was much better. He couldn’t wait to get out of these wet clothes and into a hot bath. If he could move. Chances were he was going to end up aching all over for days. His head was certainly aching now.

“Do you have any idea why you were in the water?” she asked.

“None at all.” He glanced down at himself. “Although I’m guessing it wasn’t for a swim.”

Did someone throw me in? It did feel like he had been beaten. What on earth had happened? Whatever it was, it had been enough to smash his head hard enough to forget. He pressed a hand to the back of his head, where it hurt the most. It felt like something had broken the skin.

“Is Felton my first name or my last name?” he asked.

His angel sighed. “I have no idea. It could be either.”

That didn’t help. He looked at his other hand, almost as if the answer would turn up there. There was an indentation on his hand. A thick one around his wedding finger. Had he been married? The indentation was too big. A family ring, perhaps? That would have given him an idea of who he was. He looked at his clothes, which were soaking wet but made from good cloth. He had to be a member of the nobility, although what rank, he had no idea.

Maybe someone would miss him. If he was part of the peerage, then someone was going to ask questions when he didn’t turn up again. Wouldn’t they?

He could only hope. Because if nobody raised the alarm, he was on his own. With his angel, of course. At least he had her.

That calmed him more than he expected.

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

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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