Chapter One
London, England
Buckingham House
It rattled her nerves that, of all things, she, Cecelia Diana Beaufort—Lacy, as she was known to family and friends, the eldest child of the Duke of Somerset—was invited and gently coerced to attend Queen Charlotte’s birthday celebration and ball.
Albeit it was for a good cause—raising funds for the queen’s favorite charity, the Lying-in Hospital for women.
Still, Lacy found the tradition of being presented uncomfortable to say the least, as the evening served primarily to display young aristocratic women on the marriage market as if they were horseflesh to be acquired at an auction.
Her knees shook as she waited in line for her turn to curtsey to her monarch.
Only her aunt, Lady Antoinette Maxwell, Countess of Desmond, could have persuaded her to attend, as it was but a year since her mother’s untimely death, and Lacy had not recovered from the earth-shattering loss.
As for her father, John Beaufort, the duke had retired to his rooms upon her mother’s death with a broken heart and hadn’t emerged since except in a state of utter depression, offering little or no comfort to his daughters.
Lacy, Constance, and Caprice were left to find their own way with nothing but their memories, their broken hearts, and each other.
Her mother’s last words to her repeated in her mind. Take care of your father and your sisters. Remember how much I love you, Lacy. Be brave—a magnificent future awaits you.
Lacy did not believe in a rosy future, but nonetheless, she was here fulfilling her mother’s wishes.
Her mother had always dreamed of sharing this moment with her.
Her anticipation of seeing her first daughter presented formally to Society was something she loved to talk about endlessly.
I can see you now, my darling, taking London by storm.
It’s been years since I’ve been to London. We will have such fun!
Sadly, that would never be. Even though a year had passed since her death, Lacy felt no desire to celebrate her mother’s dream without her.
She had no desire to marry, for that matter.
Her parents had enjoyed such a loving marriage—a rarity, she felt certain.
She didn’t imagine lightning would strike twice, or that she would ever find someone who made her eyes light up the way her mother’s did when her father walked into the room.
Amid the group of hovering chaperones and members of the beau monde, Lacy could see from the corner of her eye her aunt nodding encouragingly.
She resigned herself to enduring an evening of male ogling and strangers appraising her worth.
Well, not really her worth, but her physical appearance, manners, comportment, and, in the final assessment, her wealth.
Lacy’s family was lucky indeed, and whomever she married would be pleased with her dowry.
Self-consciously, she ran her hand over the magnificent blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds, which her mother had bequeathed to her.
It had been her mother’s favorite necklace, and Lacy considered it her lucky talisman and a symbol of her mother’s protection.
If she must marry, she wanted it to be for love and to a man of her own choosing.
If such a man existed, she did not believe he would be among the toffs that frequented balls and other such nonsense events of the London Season.
Her heart ached with the weight of her mother’s absence, and the thought of being on display like a prized possession only added to her distress.
When she reached the front of the line, she curtsied elegantly to the queen. “Your Majesty.”
The monarch, with a touch as light as feathers, lifted her chin so that Lacy found herself staring into the weary eyes of Queen Charlotte.
“My child, what a pleasure to meet you. I remember your mother quite well. A great beauty graced with warmth and confidence. I always enjoyed the occasions when we met, and I am very sorry for your loss. You are fortunate, indeed, to have inherited your late mother’s countenance—and, if my eyes don’t deceive me, her strength of character. ”
Lacy could barely hold back the tears that filled her eyes.
Her heart ached that her mother was not here to see this day.
“Thank you. I miss her wise counsel, madam.” Her voice trembled with the weight of her loss, and her eyes filled with unshed tears, revealing the depth of her grief for the mother who had loved her unconditionally.
“Should you ever be in need, please call on me. We are all sisters in God’s plan.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. Your kind words bring me immense comfort.” The queen was the mother of fifteen children, two of whom had died very young.
She was known to be a truly engaged parent who loved her children immeasurably.
It was also true that she was distressed that, of all her fifteen children, there was only one legitimate heir to the throne: Princess Charlotte, the daughter of the prince regent.
Even after fifty-six years of living in England, the queen’s German accent was still strong, and Lacy wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly the seventy-three-year-old monarch’s words.
As she backed away from the queen, Lacy’s head spun from their interaction, so much so that she failed to notice that everyone’s attention was riveted on her.
Antoinette held her elbow and maneuvered them through the crowd and into the ballroom. Glasses of champagne appeared as if by magic, and Antoinette toasted her on her debut.
“My darling, your mother would have been so happy to see you presented tonight. The queen paid you a great compliment by singling you out. She seemed quite taken with you. What did she say?”
“I scarcely know if I heard correctly. Something to the effect that I should call on her if I’m ever in need.”
Antoinette’s dimples appeared with her smile. “Clara and the queen always shared a simpatico, affectionate regard for each other. I’m glad Her Highness remembered.”
The strains of music drifted across the room.
The prince regent, quite the dandy, took center stage on the dance floor with one of his rumored paramours, the Marchioness Conyngham, a woman most of the ton found ill-bred and patently vulgar.
It was common knowledge that the prince regent couldn’t stand his wife, Caroline of New Brunswick, and sought his pleasures elsewhere.
The Marchioness Elizabeth Conyngham, a whispered-about love interest, was a leading socialite who cared not a fig for what people thought of her.
The gossips often ridiculed the Russian ambassador’s wife, Dorothea Lieven.
But Dorothea’s disparaging pronouncement about Lady Conyngham had spread like a contagion.
“Not an idea in her head…not a word to say for herself…nothing but a hand to accept pearls and diamonds, and an enormous balcony to wear them on.” It was an assessment shared by many of the beau monde, who were always eager to stir up scandal.
Lacy couldn’t help but admire the woman who let nothing hinder her confidence or pursuit of her goals, regardless of societal pressures or censure.
Elizabeth Conyngham, a much-lauded Society hostess, was also a great beauty, exceedingly wealthy, and possessed a witty tongue and intelligence, which Lacy knew was apt to draw jealousy and ill will.
That she’d caught the eye of the future monarch did not improve her position among her peers.
Lacy watched with interest as the portly prince regent, who had a penchant for overeating and drinking, did his best to appear light on his feet on the dance floor.
Suppressing a chuckle at his antics, she covered her mouth with her fan, and it was then that she noticed a man across the dance floor staring at her.
There was amusement in his eyes, as if he could read her thoughts, and she felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment.
His audacity disconcerted her. How dare he!
She glanced at her aunt to see if she had noticed and was relieved to see Antoinette’s head was turned in another direction.
Lacy averted her eyes and looked anywhere but at him.
It wasn’t just his ill-mannered daring that disturbed her.
That he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen added to her dismay.
He filled the room with his presence, and the fact that he stared so brazenly at her made the hair at her nape stand on end.
She could not help but think that he was behaving in an ungentlemanly fashion, causing her such discomfort.
Yet his dark, dangerous gaze never left her, and it caused goosebumps to rise on her arms.
Perhaps she had somehow dirtied her gown, and she glanced down to make sure everything was in order.
After smoothing her hands over the apricot silk, her nervous fingers tidied her hair just in case something was amiss.
Her abundant red mane, an inherited trait from her Irish-born mother, was always escaping her coiffure.
Lacy glared at the toff across the room.
How dare he gaze at her as if she were some naked Aphrodite emerging from the sea?
His inappropriate attention was unseemly, and Lacy struggled not to make a dash for the door.
Unable to avoid his gaze, she was greeted by a rakish grin and a wink, which utterly astonished her.
The irascible rogue was going to tarnish her coming out.
To make matters worse, he took off at a brisk pace, circling the dance floor.
He wouldn’t dare approach me without an introduction, would he? The man is mad!