Prologue
The Duke of Kingham—King to those in his coterie—had never considered himself the type of chap who would run into a burning building to save anyone or anything. Unless, of course, the burning building in question had been his town house and that which needed saving his favorite waistcoat.
And yet, incredibly, and in blatant contrast to his proud lifelong history of coldhearted selfishness, he had ventured into a flame-ridden orphanage of his own accord to save his friend’s sister.
He had indeed carried Lady Verity Saunders in his arms through the hellish blaze and smoke one week ago.
It was nothing short of a miracle that she was sitting before him, dressed in pale purple silk, her mahogany hair unbound around her shoulders in deference to the blow she’d received to the head and the tresses that had been singed by flames.
She was ethereally lovely, possessed of a singular pale-blue gaze that she shared with her brother, the Duke of Riverdale, and she was staring at King just now as if he were a god descended to walk among mere mortals.
A man could grow accustomed to being looked upon thus.
Admittedly, he liked it far too much. Because Lady Verity was decidedly forbidden to him.
Not only was she the unmarried and innocent sister of his good chum Riverdale, she was also madly in love with her betrothed, a man who had died some ten years before.
And yet, Lady Verity remained ever true to her Lord Leopold, the gold locket at her throat a perennial testament to her love for him.
She never took the necklace off, not even at balls, and she had been dressing in mourning weeds ever since.
Which was what made her purple day gown rather odd, now that he thought upon it. It was the first time he recalled seeing her in a dress that wasn’t black. Perhaps her fortune in remaining among the living had proven a call to alter her toilette.
“I have already told everyone our happy news,” she said, smiling.
They were taking tea together at Lady Verity’s request. King had reckoned she wished to thank him for pulling her from the burning wreckage of the Children’s Foundling Hospital the week before.
But something had been distinctly different about her demeanor from the moment he’d walked through the door at Riverdale’s town house.
“Happy news?” he repeated, thoroughly confused.
“That we are engaged to be married,” she said brightly.
King’s teacup slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor. Tea soaked into the Axminster. Porcelain chipped and flew in various directions.
“That we are to be married?” he repeated, thinking that he must have misheard her.
There was no understanding between them.
He liked Lady Verity, it was true, but as a friend.
As the innocent sister of his chum. As a lady with a sparkling disposition and a kind heart, who looked after urchins and sang them silly songs and nearly killed herself in a burning building trying to save them.
“Yes, of course. Shall I ring for a maid to sweep up that teacup?”
“I…er…no.” He raked his fingers through his hair, an old habit he had thought he had overcome for the way it left his locks in disarray.
Apparently, being informed of his impending nuptials had that effect upon him.
He stood, bemused to discover that his tea had splashed his trousers, and bent to retrieve the fragments of his former cup.
“Allow me to help you, then,” she suggested.
“That won’t be nece—”
She was already at his side, her lavender silk pooling on the Axminster, before he could complete his protest. She smelled like roses and bergamot, and she was near enough that he could detect flecks of gray in her eyes.
“—ssary,” he finished lamely.
“Two pairs of hands are better than one,” Lady Verity chirped.
She was unfailingly cheerful, a quality that repelled and intrigued King in equal measure.
They made short work of the broken teacup, whilst he used a serviette to sop up the worst of the tea stain. Fortunately, the Axminster was forgiving; there was no outward sign of his lack of decorum.
His mind whirled as they completed the task, and he waited until they were once again seated to question her as delicately as possible.
He had no wish to cause Lady Verity distress.
Riverdale had warned him that the doctor had said the blow to her head had been severe and that she would need to keep from being overset as she recovered.
“What do you recall of the fire, Lady Verity?” he asked gently.
“Not much, I’m afraid. I suppose that is a mercy. I understand it was quite awful. I do know you came to my rescue, of course. I shall never be able to thank you enough.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said, for he disliked playing the hero.
He wasn’t one.
Nor would he ever be.
If anything, King was a villain. A heartless, conscienceless rogue. A man whose past could blot out the good that had been done by Lady Verity with startling ease.
“I can think of scarcely anything other than you,” she said. “This last week without you felt like an eternity. Do you think we might hasten our wedding day? After everything that’s happened, I don’t want to wait to be together.”
That was when it hit him, the truth of the astounding situation in which he suddenly found himself.
The blow she had taken to the head had somehow addled Lady Verity’s mind.
She had confused him with her dead betrothed, the man to whom she had been so devoted that she had never carried on with her own life after his death.
Everything made sense, from the way she looked at King, to the tenderness in her voice.
And King was suddenly faced with an impossible choice.
Did he dare to explain the truth to Lady Verity and risk harming her slowly recovering mind?
Or did he proceed with the lie? Did he take this beautiful do-gooder who was so innocent and kind and make her his? Did he bask in her virtuousness and greedily claim all the love she had for another as his own?
The wickedness within him was tempted. Something shifted, like the mechanisms of a lock falling into place. What would be the harm in playing along with her, at least until her memory was fully restored? Or, if she never remembered at all…
He held Lady Verity’s gaze. “How soon do you wish to wed, my dear?”