Her Bridegroom List (Rakes & Rebels: The St. Briac Family #5)

Prologue

Lord Jasper Hartcliffe, widely known as Hart the Heartless, reclined against a pillar in the magnificent ballroom of Riven Court. Under hooded lids, he surveyed the throng of glittering guests and closed his fingers around a small, folded note.

The hostess of this predictably dull Spring Ball, Susanna, Countess of Riven, had pressed the paper into his hand just minutes before.

Hart’s blood pulsed as he thought of her brazen invitation to rendezvous with her at two o’clock in the morning.

I yearn for you. I will be waiting in the bedchamber at the top of the stairs.

Although the ball would be winding down by then, Susanna’s overbearing husband would still be occupied in the library, deep in his usual game of whist. Lord Riven cared far more for cards than the ample charms of his countess.

Still, Hart mused, it would be mad to cuckold the man under his own roof.

Wouldn’t it? The edges of his hard mouth flickered as he considered this.

“Scanning the crowd for your next conquest, I surmise,” a voice murmured just behind Hart’s left shoulder.

No need to look back, for the speaker was his brother, Austell, 9th Duke of Caversham.

“Envious, Your Grace?” Hart taunted lightly.

“Envious?” Austell repeated, pausing for effect. “Far from it.”

“Ah.” This finally drew a brief glance from Hart. “That’s right, you are still besotted with your duchess. Or is it simply that we agree that all of these young beauties are as monotonous as an array of porcelain dolls with painted smiles?”

This was one reason Hart rarely attended formal gatherings among the haut ton.

He could not be bothered to play their tedious social games, especially because they usually involved yet another insipid female in her first Season, angling for a titled husband.

In truth, he’d really come tonight to see how his brother was getting on.

“Even if I were not devoted to Margaret,” replied Austell, “I would have the good sense to realize that, at one-and-thirty, you and I are too old for this sort of marriage mart.”

Too old? Hart narrowed his eyes. “Speak for yourself.” The jest was rapier-sharp, for they were fraternal twins, sharing a birthday and yet opposites in both looks and personality.

“I may be older by a few minutes, but hard living has left its mark on you,” Austell persisted, gesturing toward the silver hairs glinting liberally throughout Hart’s dark locks.

“And it’s not only your age…” He seemed to consider whether to go on, but put up his chin and finished, “You are an infamous libertine. No respectable mama who loves her daughter would dream of handing her over to the likes of you.”

“That’s just as well.” Hart lifted a dark brow. “I have no interest in respectable females.”

If Austell hadn’t been born just minutes ahead of him, Hart would have been the one to assume the dukedom when their father died two years ago.

Ever since Papa had brought the fraternal twin brothers, on their fifth birthday, into the drawing room and announced that Austell was first born and thus would one day be the duke, Hart had felt a bittersweet mixture of rejection and relief.

Thank God he’d come to realize that, in truth, he was the fortunate one. Each morning, he awoke to a surge of freedom that his tradition-bound brother would never know. He could do as he damned well pleased, with no concern for society’s censure.

He turned now and met Austell’s soft brown gaze, the opposite of his own crisp midnight-blue eyes.

In a nearby mirrored wall, Hart glimpsed their reflections.

He was tall, lean, some said imposing, with chiseled features and cropped black hair heavily salted with silver.

Austell was slighter, paler, his chestnut curls thinning.

No wonder people were doubtful upon hearing that they were twins.

“Clearly, you do not envy me my debauched libertine’s existence.” Hart endeavored to keep the cynical edge from his voice as he added, “And why would you? You have achieved your life’s dreams. You’re a duke, after all, and you are smitten with your duchess.”

His brother looked oddly nervous, even as he nodded. “You’re quite right, of course. I am terribly fortunate.”

What lingered in the air, unspoken, was the reality that Austell and Margaret had yet to produce an heir after five years of marriage. And Hart suspected something more lurked behind his brother’s tense expression. Did he really want to learn what it was? God, no.

Hart glanced away before reluctantly asking, “Have you found that investment you were seeking?”

“I believe so! In the shipping sector!” Austell’s eyes were a bit too bright. “You have no doubt heard there are brilliant new steamships being built, driven by propellers rather than paddle wheels.” Austell’s voice rose with excitement. “Iron and steel replacing wood.”

Hart knew a pang of relief that he had no ties to the family fortune. Austell wanted the title and all that went with it, and he was damned welcome to it.

Yet it was disorienting to realize that Austell had actually replaced their shrewd father overseeing the vast holdings of Caversham Castle.

The old duke had been conservative with the estate funds, avoiding risk.

However, two years into Austell’s dukedom, Hart suspected that his brother might be running up debts, and not the sort that came about from improvements to the estates.

When Hart had last visited Hartcliffe House in London, the duke, after a few brandies, had very casually inquired if Hart knew of any splendid investments.

“You are acquainted with a lot of those cits, aren’t you?” Austell had pressed. “The vulgar fellows who are building railroads and factories?”

“I have an aversion to vulgar fellows,” Hart had replied drily, sidestepping the question. In the next moment, his sister-in-law, Margaret, had appeared in the doorway, ending the awkward conversation.

Now, Hart suppressed a sigh. “I hope the new steamships make you very rich.”

“Yes, I believe they are bound to do so,” Austell replied. “Very rich.”

Sensing the gray cloud that continued to hover over his brother, Hart wished he could walk away and leave him to it.

This was what Austell had dreamed of his entire life: the dukedom, the estates, the title, an exalted position in Society.

Hart hoped His Grace could simply occupy himself taking care of it all, as their father had done, and Hart could continue to go off and seek his own forms of pleasure.

Across the ballroom, illuminated by an array of new gas-lit, crystal chandeliers, elegantly clad guests were taking their places for the next dance.

Hart turned his head as the musicians began to play Chopin’s latest waltz, an appealingly lively piece.

His gaze followed the pairs of dancers as they dipped and turned, stopping abruptly on one arresting female.

“Who is that beauty with old Lord Fulham? I’ve never seen her before.”

Austell craned his neck and blinked. “Never seen her? Why, that’s Emeline St. Briac.

They call her the Exquisite.” He paused, then added, “Her father’s a pirate, you know.

One of those notorious corsairs from St. Malo.

Retired now, but rich as Croesus.” He paused for a long moment, staring at the girl.

“She’s enchanting, but they say she goes against the current. ”

“Does she indeed?” Intrigued, Hart leaned negligently against the pillar but continued to follow the movements of the spirited brunette.

Radiant in a simple, elegant gown of amethyst silk, her ebony locks smoothed into a chignon at the base of her neck and decorated with a single white English rose, the girl was enchanting.

She was nothing like the others, with their schooled, polite expressions.

On the contrary, her countenance displayed her thoughts and feelings for all to see, whether she realized it or not.

The chit didn’t want to be here anymore than he did.

“She is on the husband hunt?” Hart wondered in an offhand tone.

“More like the other way round! By Jupiter, man, you have been absent from polite society longer than I realized.”

“It would seem that I am sadly ignorant.”

“Emeline St. Briac came out nearly two years ago,” Austell reported. “Margaret says she’s had many excellent offers and turned them all down for one reason or another. It’s rumored that she means to run out the clock so her papa will surrender and allow her to go off and live independently.”

“How very…unexpected,” Hart murmured. “What do you think she means to do?”

His brother snorted. “Search for fossils, or so they say.”

Fossils! Hart decided he could not have heard Austell correctly. However, before he could question him further, Margaret, Duchess of Caversham, motioned from across the room with a subtle movement of her silk fan.

“I must go. My bride beckons.” Austell straightened his cuffs.

Hart looked at him. “I’m leaving for Italy next week.”

“Are you indeed! You only appeared tonight to say goodbye?”

Discovering his glass on a nearby side table, Hart drank down the champagne and nodded. “I wanted to see you before I go. I mean, in case you should need me for any reason.”

“And what if I did?”

He had a point. “We are brothers, after all…”

Austell gave him a half-smile as he turned to go. “So we are.”

A moment later, the clock struck two. The note in Hart’s pocket seemed to catch fire, urging him on to the forbidden assignation with his hostess, Lady Riven.

It was mad. Licentious. Reckless!

Just the sort of thing Hart badly needed to feel alive.

Lord Fulham was looming so close to Emeline, she caught a whiff of his breath, a mixture of cigar and port. She would have been annoyed if not for his air of menace.

“Sir, it is good of you to ask me, but I cannot possibly stand up with you for another waltz,” Emeline said firmly. “My slippers have begun to pinch.”

“Can’t hear a word over the din in this room,” came his shouted reply. He caught her arm and began to lead her toward the doorway. “Do come this way for just a moment.”

Should she try to wrest her arm from his?

Emeline looked around and saw that no one was paying the least bit of attention to them.

Fulham, with his thick graying side-whiskers, was a powerful, respected figure in Parliament, after all, and heir to a fortune.

No one would challenge him. Newly widowed at forty, he was sought after on the marriage mart in spite of his age.

When they came into the wide, dimly lit corridor, Emeline saw that they were completely alone. Her heart kicked up, even as she scolded herself for being frightened of this man. Of any man!

He was smiling down at her. No, leering. Emeline tried to free her arm, but he held her fast and attempted to force her against the wall.

“I must ask that you release me, sir,” she said.

“Ask away.” Fulham leaned closer, staring at her mouth.

Emeline’s palms began to sweat. “Let me go.”

“You cannot have any notion how desirable you are, my sweet.” He came closer, and she glimpsed the bulge in his trousers.

“You must be mad. Do you imagine I am some doxie that you can accost at will?” She attempted to twist free, and Lord Fulham scowled.

“You’ve been teasing every gentleman in London for the past two Seasons, my girl. It seems that you are begging to be taught a good lesson!”

Even as he spoke, Emeline reached with her free hand to lift her gown and petticoats. Fulham glanced down in confusion just as she brought one knee up and struck, hard, at his groin. Eyes protruding, he emitted a howl of pain, grabbed himself with both hands, and staggered back.

Without a second glance, Emeline turned and sped away.

Down the corridor, up the broad staircase, past a startled young footman on the landing.

From the top step, she spied a closed door.

There was no time to think about the risks of her actions.

Grasping the brass knob, Emeline twisted and pushed it open.

To her immense relief, she found herself in a silent, darkened room.

Alone.

Heart pounding in her ears, she closed herself inside. Surely Fulham must be following her. She felt for a key in the lock, to no avail. Hide! She felt her way across the room, moving through a sea of inky darkness, until she encountered a waist-high obstacle.

A bed! Just as Emeline was wondering if she might conceal herself under it, a low, male voice spoke.

“I’d begun to think you were not coming.”

She froze and stopped breathing. Was this real?

The voice was husky, seductive, tinged with amusement.

To Emeline’s surprise, her primal self took notice.

Good sense told her to go the other way, that this stranger was probably worse than Fulham, yet she felt paralyzed.

From the shadows, powerful arms reached out to enfold her, lifting her up onto the high bed.

“We are very bad,” he murmured. His hands, strong and warm, lightly caressed her bare arms, grazed the curves of her breasts that swelled above her silk bodice, and she knew a shock of pleasure.

Emeline felt drugged as the stranger drew her down on the bed. Dimly, she made out a sculpted face, saw the glimmer of his eyes as he bent over her.

“It’s been too long.” His mouth scorched a trail along the tender line of her throat, her neck. “Sweet. God, so sweet.”

Emeline felt herself tremble helplessly.

This was utter madness! Madness on a grand scale.

Just as she was about to speak, to protest, the stranger began to kiss her.

She’d been kissed before, but this was something completely different…

He used the tip of his tongue to coax her lips to part for him.

He tasted her slowly as if she were the most delicious morsel in the world, and she felt compelled to brush his questing tongue with her own.

A tantalizing heat spread over her entire body, a kind of wanting, and her nipples ached.

Her hands fluttered, not daring to touch his broad, bare chest, to feel his heartbeat.

A moan rose in her throat.

At that, the stranger drew back in the shadows. He was staring at her as moonlight stole between the bed draperies. His face remained in dark silhouette above her, but Emeline realized that he doubtless could see now that she was the wrong woman.

“What the devil…?”

Emeline’s face flamed. “Unhand me, sir,” she managed to croak in tones of mortified outrage. Scrambling off the bed, she made for the door.

Just as she turned the knob, a low laugh reached her ears. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” taunted the stranger.

This is the last straw, she vowed. If I never come near another man, it will be too soon!