Chapter 1
Chapter One
Gregor
“Do you think fortune shines upon you this eve, my lord?”
I smile and toss back my hair that is often inclined to fall over my eyes.
“Nay, Your Highness. Fortune has never smiled upon me, as everyone present knows all too well.” I glance around the table at the Lords present, all of whom mirror my grin.
The bastard son of a Marquess, I learned long ago to make sport of myself before others could seize the opportunity.
The Crown Prince and Heir Apparent chuckles softly at my observation.
Indeed, it is due to my close friendship with Prince James that I am afforded such luxuries—to sit in the private saloon and play cards with the proper lords of the Beau Monde.
A soft hum of conversation permeates the room, accompanied by the occasional clink of crystal as footmen fill glasses with port or brandy.
I lift my own glass in a salute to the prince, and my dear friend. “To your health, Your Highness.”
“Hear, hear!” Baron Sumtner calls, lifting his own glass.
Lord Carlisle is forced to do likewise—not that he holds the heir apparent in any less regard than we do.
He simply dislikes the favor I share with the Prince, and in truth, he would rather start the trend than be made to follow it.
But to his misfortune, he seems to always be a step behind the rest, which leaves his face sour, to say nothing of his disposition.
I do not need the candlelight or the gilt-edged mirrors to tell me that.
Baron Sumtner tosses the beverage back neatly. It is his fourth of the evening, but no one can accuse the Baron of not holding his drink well. He enjoys amusement, and if his dancing eyes are anything to go by, he thinks this game will be quite the diversion.
“Shall we have another round of Whist?”
“It shall be the fifth of the evening, my lord, and I fear my partner’s judgement leaves something to be desired,” Lord Carlisle remarks drily.
I grab my heart with dramatic flair, my smile growing. “I shall treasure your criticism as dearly as the coins upon the table—both weigh heavily.”
Lord Carlisle grimaces, while the other lords watching the game, and indeed, the Prince himself, indulge in soft chuckles.
“Perhaps this ought to be the last hand. Would that meet with your approval, my lord?” the Prince inquires.
“Very well, Your Highness.” Lord Carlisle waves a gloved hand, indicating we should begin.
Baron Sumtner has the honor of dealing the next hand, and does so deftly, cards flying across the green baize until all are dealt.
I tap my cards on the table, considering the Prince. He seems to be of good cheer this evening—perhaps more so than I have observed in a long time. Mayhap this is the best chance I will get.
I do not wish to offend James, nor create a scandal, but I also know if I am to take a risk, I surely will never get a better opportunity. I study each of the players in turn, wondering if I dare.
“You seem troubled, my friend,” the Prince remarks without looking up from his cards. “Might I inquire as to the reason?”
“You might indeed, Your Majesty. I was only thinking that I am most curious to see whether Fortune favors a more spirited stake.”
This captures His Majesty’s attention, as I had hoped.
His eyes slide over to me with a gleam that is both curious and mischievous.
I know him quite well, and as such, I suspected I might be able to intrigue him with such a suggestion.
But to obtain what I am after, I must proceed with the utmost caution, lest my plan go awry.
“Perhaps. I am most curious to hear your proposal.”
“What scheme is afoot?” Lord Carlisle mutters.
The Prince’s gaze remains fixed on me, though he says, “Pray, let us hear from you, Greyonyx.”
I inhale slowly, trying to appear unflappable, while in truth, my heart is galloping fast enough to disturb my perfectly tied cravat. I can ill afford a single misstep. “It is no secret that the late Duke of Fairwynd had no male progeny.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel the tension in the room swell.
There is not a single sound—not so much as a murmur, or the clinking of a coin—as every man present, those at our table, the ones merely observing and awaiting their turn, indeed, even the footman, seems to hold his breath.
The topic of the late Duke’s estate—and, of greater consequence, his title—has been discussed in every drawing room, every hallway, indeed, even in church, for a fortnight.
The Prince lifts a dark brow. “It is as you say. In fact, he has no family to speak of.”
My hand tightens on my cards, though I try not to draw attention to it. I am not the only gentleman interested in what His Highness may say. If I read the company rightly, there is more than a man or two present who would like the title for himself.
I do not shrink from meeting Prince James’s gaze, as many would.
Some for the mere fact that he is the heir apparent.
Others cannot bear to gaze upon him due to the scars marring half of an otherwise comely face—marks he has borne since birth.
Even his eyes, though both blue, reflect the difference.
One is the light blue of a robin’s egg, while the other is dark, and always stormy, no matter the Prince’s mood.
“You have started the conversation, Greyonyx. Do not leave us to puzzle out this intrigue ourselves. What is it you propose?”
I choose my tone with the utmost care, respectful but firm when I say, “I propose you give it to me.”
Someone gasps, but I do not turn my head. I cannot afford to miss a single blink the Prince might make.
“Blackthorne finds you impertinent,” His Majesty remarks, his lips curving in amusement.
“Your Royal Highness misreads me,” Lord Blackthorne objects. “My attention is fixed solely upon the game.”
A polite, though bold falsehood. I ignore it. I have no desire to engage with anyone else. The Prince is watching me with a slight furrow upon his brow, tilting his head the side. “I never knew you to be interested in joining the ranks of the Beau Monde. Pray, what has brought this on?”
“A lady,” Lord Carlisle declares. “Where Greyonyx is concerned, it is always a lady.”
His majesty’s gaze shines with mirth and his mouth quirks. “Indeed. Is that the case?”
A slight incline of my head confirms Lord Carlisle’s claim. I fear the Prince will dismiss me, but his smile only widens.
“Which lady, if I may inquire?”
I clear my throat and glance at my other companions before I answer.
I know they will find me far too bold, for she is high-born and from the most noble of families.
That is not the reason I must have her. In truth, I could scarcely name the reason even if pressed.
Only that upon my first glimpse of her, I found myself captivated by her beauty.
Besotted in a way that feels like obsession.
I have done all I can to remedy the situation—going to great lengths to place myself in her path whenever possible.
I even had a brief liaison with an actress who bears a slight resemblance to her.
But rather than riding me of the enchantment, it only served to increase my desire for the lady herself.
And due to her noble parentage, there is but one thing left for me to be free of the passion that plagues me. I must marry her.
“I do think he means to leave us in suspense!” Prince James chuckles jovially. There is nothing he loves more than a good intrigue.
I clear my throat and return my thoughts to the task at hand. “Forgive me, Your Highness, I did not mean to. It is the Lady Denham’s hand I seek.”
The Prince’s eyebrow arches again, higher this time. “Truly?”
Lord Blackthorne seems to be on the verge of a bawdy laugh which miraculously transforms into a cough. Lord Carlisle is avoiding our gazes altogether and has become rather fascinated with a wall scroll, it seems.
“Truly,” I echo with a grin of my own. “You do not find her to be the most agreeable of all ladies?”
My friend regards me for a moment with an expression I cannot read, despite my best efforts. “She has many charms, it is undeniable. And you think a title is all you shall need to win her?”
“As to that, I fear I cannot say, but it makes my suit far more appealing than I am at present, does it not?”
James throws his head back and laughs. Many join in, but still, I only look to the Prince. It is he alone that decides my fate. “It is… a most uncommon wager.”
I freeze, my mind racing nearly as fast as my heart.
His agreeing to my plan is my only hope.
The Lady Freya has entranced me from the moment I first saw her, but it is certain I can never have her.
And yet, the more time that passes, the more besotted I am.
The mere thought of her causes my blood to run hot.
The mention of her name awakens my shaft in my breeches.
It is bewitchment, to be sure, and these long months that I have tried to be rid of it, I have found no cure.
Not in a generous measure of spirits, not in the company of a willing lady.
None make me forget her breathtaking allure—or her ensnaring eyes that I have only glimpsed from afar.
If I cannot be rid of the lady’s hold on me, there is only one thing left: I must have her as my wife.
“I confess, I find myself at a loss. What say you, my lords?” The Prince puts the question to the lords assembled.
As I feel their speculative gazes upon me, my shoulders tense, though careful practice has taught me how to keep my expression composed.
A storm of emotion is brewing—indignation and amusement alike swelling around me, thickening the air.
I can feel the pulse of it, and I hold myself still, waiting to see how the wind will turn.