Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
LONDON, FEbrUARY 1816
“ M ust we go, Aunt?” Miranda, the sole daughter of Duke Rochdale asked, gazing dispassionately out the window as the carriage trundled to Westminster.
“Yes,” Lady Louisa Blakely said stiffly, her fan fluttering. A thin, silver-haired woman, the jet beads on the dowager’s turban quivered the more she fanned herself. “I saw through your chicanery earlier, doing anything and everything to stay away.”
“I truly was ill!”
“No, you were not,” her aunt cut in. “Between feigning a headache, a stomachache, claiming your good dresses were musty, then trying to say you could not attend as the hero in the book you were reading died a horrible death, and you must mourn him, I have become wise to your trickery.”
“He did,” Miranda grumbled, folding her arms.
“Unfortunate fictional deaths aside, this ball is essential,” her aunt added. “This is your fourth season, Miranda, and while I know you would rather be at home, reading over one of your botany journals, tinkering with seeds and soil, or that confounded ambition of yours to write a book...
You must marry. At two and twenty, you are nearing the dreaded Shelf. It matters not if you are a duke’s daughter. All young women of good lineage need a husband.”
“I agree,” Miranda replied placidly. “But not a husband who cares not for me, but more for getting into my father’s coffers. Unsurprisingly, all of the lords who offered marriage were fortune hunters and ne’er-do-wells in the guise of level headed lords.”
While speaking, she felt the carriage turn off into the long stretch of private road to St James’s Park, heading towards Carlton House, the Regent’s home.
“Nevertheless, there must be a lord in Town that is suitable,” the motions of Aunt Louisa’s fans sped up as she tutted. “And this Season will be the one you must marry. And I must make sure it is so, for it is what my sister wanted for you.”
Desperate to change the subject, Miranda asked, “Where is Sam this evening? I thought he would be traveling with us.”
“My son will be attending tonight,” Aunt Louisa replied. “He explained that he would be handling some business in town, but vowed to attend soon after he was finished. He, unlike you, is one that is not hard-pressed to do what must be done. I—”
The carriage lurched to the side, the jarring shift shunting Lady Louisa to the other side of the carriage and she barely slapped a hand on the wall to stop herself from crashing into it. Even though Miranda was seated in the corner, the sudden tip had her flailing, fearing the carriage would end up on its side—but luckily it didn’t. It was only slanted.
“Dear God,” Aunt Louisa gasped while rightening herself and fixing the fichu at her neck. “What on earth happened?”
Shifting the window screen, Miranda gazed out and grimaced. “The wheel is in a pothole, Aunt. I cannot see clearly because of the mist and gloom, but it seems to be a very narrow ditch.”
“Oh dear. We need to get to the Ball,” Louisa huffed. “Wilbur needs to get us back on the road.” Sticking her head around the window, she called out, “Wilbur, don’t just sit there, do something! It is of utmost importance we attend this ball post-haste.”
“I will try, my lady,” a voice came from the front, shortly followed by the snap of a whip.
The crack on the horse’s back made Miranda jump and her heart sank. “Must he do that to the grays?”
“God said, let man have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the heavens, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth,” Aunt Louisa quoted Genesis. “They’re horses , Miranda.”
Miranda’s rebuttal was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit down; she and her aunt had had this argument dozens of times before, and it had never worked out in her favor.
“If you say so, Aunt,” she mumbled under her breath instead. “…Except they’re living things like you and me.”
Her aunt ignored her and called to Wilbur once more, and the man lashed the horses harder. The carriage lurched once but eventually settled back into the rut.
Uneasy, Miranda wondered if there was any way she could call for help, or if there was anyone around to help. She knew she could not act on the first idea but did not feel easy if Wilbur left to find help, leaving only one footman with them.
Gazing out the window, she began to wonder what to do—when a shadowed form appeared through the mist. The man was tall, and from the form, looked to be wearing a Great Hat and billowing coat. Her pounding heart did not settle as she knew it was easy for blackguards to imitate gentlemen.
As he reached closer, she saw the jacket under the coat had swallowtails, fit for a formal dinner. He approached Wilbur, and though his voice was low and rumbling, she heard him say, “Sirrah, I implore you, do not whip the horses. I will help you get out of the rut. Hold fast, the wheel will be an easy fix.”
She gripped the window as the strange man went off to the bushes and returned with a stout stick. He neared her window and as he tipped his hat up and crouched, she saw a flash of vivid, almost icy blue eyes, the strong slant of his cheekbones, and the chiseled jut of his jaw.
He’s handsome, but have I ever seen him before?
“What is the coachman doing?” Louisa huffed, her dark eyes narrowing.
Miranda, however, had her eyes on the stranger. She spotted the ink black of his coat that merged with his overlong hair but could not see much more than that. She knew he was jostling the stick, but where…
He finally pulled away. “Try now.”
Her aunt jerked, “Who is that man?”
“I don’t kn—” The carriage jerked once, twice… and then miraculously, it pulled free. Whatever that man had done, worked. “—know who he is.”
She opened the window, hoping to see the man and thank him—but he was gone, vanished into the mist and shadow. She blinked; had he been there at all?
Settling back in her seat, she made to remember the handsome man’s eyes, his coat, and the cut of his jacket. If the man was attending a party, and if he was on this road, chances were he was heading to the Regent’s ball. Hopefully, she would find him there and thank him.
The carriage hurried on and Miranda kept an eye on the road for the strange man but did not see him, and so eventually sagged against the seat until the carriage turned to enter a stately drive.
She shuffled closer to the carriage window to gain a new vantage as the wheels crunched over granite gravel. After a few minutes, a wide-open space appeared. Flat, immaculate lawns rolled in all directions from an enormous, gray brick home.
Double wings disappeared behind the main hall, and while it was dark, the gas lamps spotted Corinthian columns of a large foyer—its elaborateness stunned her. The home was obviously used not only for entertainment, but for impressing dignitaries as well.
She gazed at the facade as the carriage came to a gentle stop in front of arched double mahogany doors. The footman, alighting from the driver’s seat, let the steps down and she exited. Then he extended his hand to assist her aunt.
While smoothing her gown, her aunt handed the invitations over and after checking, the man led them inside. Every bit of glimmering marble, metal, and mirror showed the Prince Regent’s extravagance and his propensity to indulge in the finest things available.
“There is Earl Westport,” her aunt nodded subtly to the gentleman, “Rumor has it that he gained a windfall investing in the merchant ships.”
“He is also a hardened rakehell,” Miranda took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter while glancing around the room; there was no sign of the man who had come to their aid. “No, thank you. I would rather not deal with such heartache.”
“ Allegedly. ”
She spotted a few of the lords' gazes resting on her and she wondered if it was because of the off-white gown she wore or if—as on every occasion that she stepped into public—it was because she was a duke’s daughter.
“I trust the Prince Regent to have invited the crème-de-la-crème of the ton,” Louisa said, her fan making a reappearance. “Surely there must be an interested and venerable suitor here.”
If the other four seasons have proven right, there will be, but their eyes will be on my dowry, not me.
Instead of meeting the gazes of the lords who beheld her, she tried to find the man with the cutting blue eyes—but he was not here.
Oddly, her heart sank with disappointment.
Ladies and gentlemen in the latest fashions paraded around, jewels flashing as they waded around the lobby’s vast hallways, while the staff, their liveries crisp and attractive, rushed to and fro with refreshments.
The butler cleared his throat, “We’ll be entering the ballroom shortly.”
While the ladies and lords descended to the ballroom, Miranda paid little attention to the names being called, in favor of looking at faces.
When it was her turn, she descended the stairs and heard the butler announce, “Presenting, the Lady Miranda Wakefield, daughter of Duke Rochdale, and her aunt, Lady Blakely.”
She stepped down to allow the others behind her, finally giving up on seeing the strange man again, and fixed her mind instead on how to navigate the slew of lords that she knew would approach her.
“Presenting, His Grace, the Duke of Redbourne, Dorian Greaves, and his sister, Lady Evelyn Greaves,” the butler announced.
Mildly curious, she turned to the landing—and the glass in her hand nearly slipped from her grip.
It was him!
The man who had rescued her carriage.
Tall and broad-shouldered, the duke’s dark hair and arresting features struck a chord inside her. His fierce blue eyes were like shards of sapphire under slashing brows, and sculpted cheekbones hinted at an exotic influence in his lineage. The candles and gas lamps kissed the chiseled contours of his face, the firm lines adding to his masculine attractiveness.
His expression was unreadable, but a tiny knit to his brows still stayed.
With a knot in the middle of her throat, she admired the silver-gray waistcoat and charcoal trousers fitted superbly to his virile form. A sapphire stick pin winked in the folds of his cravat, as glittering as his eyes.
She peeled her eyes from his form to look at the lady near him; she was petite and short, with soft strawberry blond hair curling down her shoulders, framing green eyes that looked sedate.
“It’s him,” she whispered.
“Lady Miranda,” the hostess, Dowager Applewhite, the most profligate rumormonger of the ton, greeted her. “I am so delighted to see you.”
Fixing her attention back to her surroundings and curtsying, Miranda replied, “As am I, my lady. Is His Royal Highness attending tonight? I would like to pass on my father’s greetings.”
“Sadly, his highness has been called away tonight, but I will be glad to pass them on for you,” the lady replied, then looked over her shoulder, a bright smile on her face while her tone dropped to fawning. “Your Grace, so lovely to see you. May I introduce Lady Miranda Wakefield, daughter of—”
“Duke Rochdale,” the duke murmured, “I heard.”
Miranda’s skin prickled as the duke’s gaze roved over her; his icy, intense eyes seemed to undo her layer by layer. Palpitations gripped her heart. No one had ever looked at her this way before, had ever made her feel this… bare.
Shaking off the troubled sensation, she tipped her head back to meet his gaze as he dwarfed her by nearly a foot. Carefully, she curtsied. “Your Grace.”
He inclined his head. “My lady. I hope you arrived without any more trouble.”
“We did,” she replied, ignoring the way the Dowager’s eyes flitted between her and the duke. “Thank you for coming to our timely need.”
Looking over her shoulder, he stated, “Your aunt is approaching.”
Turning, Miranda prayed her aunt would not do anything to embarrass her and hoped she would not say anything to make it look as if she and the duke had interacted before the worst gossip in Town.
“Your Grace,” her aunt curtsied.
“My lady,” he bowed.
When she held out her hand, the duke took it and kissed the translucent, veined skin above her large pearl ring. Miranda caught the moment her aunt’s face twisted and her heart pounded in panic.
“Aunt—”
“Your hands,” Aunt Louisa said, her brows furrowing. “Why are they so callused? God forbid, please tell me you are not… employed!”
God in heaven.
Miranda suddenly prayed the floor would open up right then and swallow her whole.