Chapter One
The man was as insufferable as they come.
Lady Annabelle Swanley glowered at the former Marquess of Knoxley, now the Duke of Redwyck.
All she had done was accidentally spill a glass of water over his nether regions.
Accidentally. Had that truly warranted the withering death glare he’d cast her before all the guests of her best friend’s lake party?
The man was in mourning, for saints’ sake.
For the past six months, whenever their paths had crossed, which was, fortunately, rare, he’d worn all black.
The perfect shade to match his heart. So why did he have to choose yesterday of all days to wear beige trousers?
She couldn’t hold back a snort.
Everyone always whispered about his questionable character, but she simply couldn’t understand what exactly was so blazingly questionable.
Sure, a few rumors about him being a rake circled, but nothing extreme.
And he seemed to be easing out of his black mourning shades after six months, and he certainly didn’t look all that torn up.
But the way whispers circled him might have one believing the man to be a mythical monster.
Annabelle rolled her eyes.
“Stop,” Alyssia, the Duchess of Winterbourne and her best friend, said, chuckling. “At this rate your scowl might set him on fire.” She nudged Annabelle. “Or his trousers.”
“Urgh. How many times must I tell you that was an accident?” Annabelle muttered, shifting on the bench beside the lake as they watched the Dukes of Winterbourne and Redwyck attempt to fish with more confidence than skill.
“Are you sure?” Alyssia asked.
Annabelle cast her friend a dark look. “What do you mean am I sure? Of course I am sure!”
A scoff. “Lady doth protest too much and all that.”
“I am not protesting,” Annabelle denied. “I’m lamenting. There’s a difference.”
“Perhaps.” Alyssia shrugged. “But lamenting can still be considered a form of protesting.”
Honestly. “There is no complaining to you.”
A bright smile lit Alyssia’s face. “Love does that to a person.”
Right. Just take Crane and Rosilee, too. Had they all been starved of touch? Speaking of which, “Where are Rosilee and Crane?”
“Oh, Rosilee wished to explore the surrounding area.”
Ah. Well, at least there was one less overly affectionate couple all too happy to show their love anywhere and at any time. Annabelle’s lip curled in distaste, muttering, “What about those without love and peace? You know, sometimes a person simply wants to complain for the sake of complaint.”
“Well sure, but you’d never been one to complain before you met Knox.”
“Nonsense! I complain about Lance all the time!”
Alyssia arched her brow. “He’s your brother. He doesn’t count.”
“He counts,” Annabelle gritted out. “And why are you calling Redwyck ‘Knox?’ Did he not shed that title?”
“Title, yes. The name his friends know him by, no.”
“Fine, sure, but why are you calling him Knox? Should you not be on my side?”
Alyssia blinked at her. “I am always on your side.”
“That’s good, then.” Her gaze found him again, just in time to watch him cast the line back into the water.
He moved with an unthinking confidence—shirtsleeves rolled, forearms taut as he flicked his wrist, the line arcing cleanly before cutting the lake’s surface.
There was nothing ostentatious about the movements, and yet that, somehow, most infuriatingly, was the problem.
He commanded attention. Her attention. With nary an attempt to do so.
At the same time, the man also had a way of making her feel foolish.
Not by anything he said, mind you. He usually said very little to her, but the way he would often stare at her made her forever feel like a silly little girl.
A detestable feeling.
How many times had he arched a brow at her since they’d met?
She’d endured enough raised brows from her brother.
She had no desire to invite them from another man as well.
In fact, in the past, she’d declined courtships of gentlemen for this very reason.
And yet with him . . . How annoying. Why did she have to find the man so blazingly attractive?
So much so that she wanted to pinch his brow every time the thing lifted rather than sending him to Hades?
Her eyes narrowed on the scoundrel.
If Alyssia had thought to mention that he would be present, Annabelle might have reconsidered joining such a small gathering of friends for the week. Now, she’d either have to avoid the man or annoy him in equal measure to vent. And avoidance, she suspected, would prove far more difficult.
Heh.
He deserved every ounce of annoyance coming his way.
*
She was as maddening as could be.
Brent Madden, formerly the Marquess of Knoxley, newly the Duke of Redwyck, and still Knox to those who knew him best, could practically feel Lady Annabelle’s scrutiny, her disapproval of him.
Absurdly, unhelpfully, his mind supplied him with the image of her lips instead, softly arched and far too prone to curving with morbid amusement at his expense.
His hands tightened on the fishing rod.
How such softness could coexist with such an aptitude for vexation, he could not begin to understand.
The chit had a disconcerting knack for unsettling him merely by looking as though she expected him to fall short.
No words required. An astonishing feat. No woman had ever managed to rattle him like her.
Beside him, Bishop adjusted his own line, entirely untroubled.
That annoyed Knox even more.
“Why the devil did you invite me here?” he muttered.
A gathering of close friends. Very well.
They were close friends. Yet every last one of them was paired, save for himself and Lady Annabelle.
Knox refused to read into that last little detail that his friend might have poorly tried his hand at matchmaking.
“I don’t recall sending you an invitation.”
Knox sneered at Bishop. Since when had he ever received a formal one? “You mentioned your little gathering with remarkable enthusiasm.”
Bishop chuckled. “You know Lady Annabelle and my wife are close friends. You should have foreseen this would have been the outcome.”
“I can’t foresee anything when it comes to that chit, Winterbourne.”
His friend scoffed, then said, “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” Knox challenged. “Won’t change your title.”
Bishop directed an arched brow at him. “You’re right. Redwyck.”
Christ.
“Fine.” Who was he to judge? Knox studied at his friend with sly interest. “Marriage seems to be treating you exceedingly well. You’ve even put on weight.”
“Don’t talk bloody nonsense.”
Knox chuckled. “Fine, I’ll keep the comments about your waistline to myself.”
Bishop cast him a sidelong glance. “What about you? Are your affairs sorted?”
Knox clenched his jaw. “Not much for me to sort. My dearly departed blackguard father did leave quite a headache for my man of affairs, though.”
“Could have been worse,” Bishop pointed out.
Most certainly. “I suppose I should be grateful that he only left our ledgers in disarray and not our accounts themselves.” The wretched excuse for a man loved money above all things.
Though perhaps stronger than that was his loathing for his only son.
He hated him so much he’d found another wife and set about producing a new heir, no doubt hoping something dreadful would befall his firstborn.
Knox inwardly sneered.
Instead, he’d sired four daughters.
A cruel irony.
Well, one couldn’t say he hadn’t tried. Knox wouldn’t be surprised if in the end he’d fallen ill from sheer anger.
“I highly recommend finding a wife,” Bishop said. “Marriage does wonders for a man’s heart.”
Even a cynical one?
Knox forced himself not to glance over at Lady Annabelle, yet her pretty, heart-shaped face still filled the space in his mind.
Those perfectly bowed lips. He could easily imagine them brushing over his, even though he should not want her mouth anywhere near him.
She was also sharp, unrepentant, and entirely too observant—the sort of woman who made a man aware of every shortcoming he preferred to ignore.
“I don’t need a wife.” He fixed Bishop with a suspicious look. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve become much more cunning with age. You are aware a certain minx and I are the only ones here unwed.”
Bishop chuckled. “So it’s my fault you’re a bachelor?”
Knox snorted. “Regardless, matchmaking doesn’t become you.”
“You give me far too much credit.”
“Do I?” Knox wasn’t so sure. “Content men are always eager to improve others.”
Bishop laughed outright. “Careful, my friend. That sounds suspiciously like envy.”
Heh. Envy? Knox had never felt that emotion in his life. Envy was coveting another man’s possession. A useless frivolity. He took what he wanted, and in doing so avoided the particular humiliation of longing for things he might never receive.
He snuck a glance at Lady Annabelle.
Their eyes met.
Bloody hell. The unexpected force of the collision left him unaccountably off balance. There was nothing noticeable in her expression. Only a cool, assessing alertness that made his heart pound in a way he did not care to scrutinize.
A true knack, indeed.
He turned back to the lake, jaw setting.
No, envy had never troubled him. Her lips on his were an entirely different matter.