Chapter 1
“Just one man.”
That was all it would take to set her free, or destroy her completely.
Lady Hyacinth Warren tilted the rim of her wine glass against her lips. Her thoughts lingered, distracting her from the opulent glamour surrounding her.
It was a house party at the Whitmores’. The estate bloomed with laughter and candlelight, men in tailored coats, and women in shimmering gowns.
But Hyacinth had arrived at the party not just for the sake of partying. She was plotting. For the perfect gentleman.
“Hyacinth, what in heaven’s name are you brooding over?” her mother, the Dowager Duchess of Cheverton, whispered beside her, leaning closer as though mere gossip might ruin the fun of the party.
Hyacinth’s mouth curved, lazy and dangerous. “Chaos, of course,” she murmured, her tone dripping with defiance.
The gasp from her mother was instant, then was followed by the predictable words.
“You can’t simply say things like that at a duke’s party,” she whispered, her voice tinged with gentle urgency. “It is simply not proper.”
“Perhaps I am tired of concerning myself with propriety,” Hyacinth muttered glumly.
“While I do enjoy a bit of scandal, darling, I certainly do not wish for any of my children to be in the center of it,” her mother said, wrinkling her nose. “It is a most unfortunate circumstance to be in.”
“You sound as though you were caught in a scandal yourself, Mother,” Hyacinth remarked, regarding her with suspicion.
“No, but I have seen enough in my day to know that it is not at all as romantic as penny-dreadfuls make it seem.”
Her mother’s concerns fell on deaf ears, as Hyacinth had already decided on her intentions for the evening. Her future depended on her escaping the plans her uncle had for her now that he had her in his grasp.
She had meant every word spoken to her mother, but she would not bother to argue. She allowed her gaze to wander across the glittering room until it found the reason why she was in a haste to cause some damage.
Uncle Basil.
He was standing a few yards away. His salt-and-pepper hair gleamed under the light, his expression as stiff as his collar.
When he raised his head and his eyes met hers, she instantly felt his disapproval.
One pointed glance from him was enough to remind her of the talk they’d had earlier that morning.
“A twenty-four-year-old maiden like you should be married, Hyacinth. I only want what’s best for you. What do you think of Lord Maddern? He has a vast fortune.”
And the man in question stood only a few paces from him. Lord Maddern.
With only a glance at him, her stomach turned. That was the man her uncle wished to betroth her to.
Lord Maddern was the sort of man who smiled with his teeth but never his eyes.
He had the air of someone who rehearsed compliments until they sounded sincere.
And the way he preened whenever someone mentioned his estate made her long for a bucket of water to throw on his vanity.
His eyes glinted dangerously in a way that made her skin crawl, and now that he was looking at her again, she shivered.
Marry him?
Her fingers tightened around her glass.
Over my dead body.
The thought irritated her so much that she had to look away. Well, at least before Maddern caught the disgust in her stare.
Turning to look back at her mother, she was glad that the Dowager Duchess had been engaged in a conversation with the Scovells. And that was the perfect time for some ‘adventure.’
Hyacinth moved, letting the swell of music wrap around her as she walked toward the grand windows that overlooked the estate gardens. The night beyond was velvet-dark, a mirror to her racing thoughts.
She took a deep breath.
“You should be socializing, Hyacinth,” Uncle Basil’s voice came from behind her.
She turned, eyeing the room for a possible escape point from this conversation. It would no doubt take a turn, as many of their past conversations had.
“Don’t bother trying to escape me, girl,” he sneered. “It is of no use.”
“I was only looking to go and socialize as you suggested, dear uncle,” she lied.
“You and I both know you are not one to listen to me so easily, dear niece,” he answered coolly. “If you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“You do not have the right to decide my fate,” Hyacinth responded as she had in the past. “Only Alexander can—”
“Your brother gave me that right when he entrusted you and your mother to my care,” he interrupted. “I have suggested the best match for you. Why are you too stubborn to see it?”
“He is much too old for me, Uncle,” she argued. Their argument tired her as quickly as it had before. “And I do not trust him. Surely my opinion matters in this.”
“On the contrary,” he countered. “You do not have a say in it.”
“I will not marry him, Uncle,” Hyacinth stated, squaring her shoulders. “I will never marry him.”
“Then I suggest you either find someone more worthy of your hand, or begin preparing to be a good wife.”
Warning duly given, the man walked away, leaving her to wish that her brother were home to save her from this fate.
Her brother, Alexander, had gone to visit the colonies with his wife, Celia, on what seemed like a profitable business trip. Though she couldn’t help but think it was also a honeymoon for the newlyweds.
While she envied their freedom to travel, she knew Alexander deserved it.
He had taken on the restoration of their family’s fortune and clearing their debts with single-minded focus since he had inherited the title, and with Celia coming into his life, he had been offered a ray of light and relief from the struggles he had never shared with Hyacinth.
Yet, it bothered her. Because their absence meant that she and her mother would be left in Basil’s care. And being under her uncle’s care was as good as getting married to Lord Maddern.
The thought made her chest tighten.
If I don’t act now, I’ll be trapped before the Season ends.
Her fingers brushed against the cool glass windowpane. Somewhere in the room behind her, laughter rose again. She refused to become part of that pattern. Beautiful. Empty. Predictable.
The glass caught her reflection. She saw a young woman. Pale in blue silk, her hair tumbling down in waves instead of the proper chignon her mother had begged her to wear.
She looked like a small rebellion, but it was hers all the same.
The lady in the mirror served as a perfect reminder that no one will decide her fate but her. It made her heart thud restlessly.
When Hyacinth turned away from the window, her uncle was watching her again, silently urging her to approach Lord Maddern. But she smiled at him sweetly, raising her now-empty glass toward him in a mock toast.
His frown appeared.
Good. Let him frown.
Because he would never see what was coming.
Looking away again, Hyacinth let her gaze wander across the crowded room. She found the gentlemen gathered near the hearth.
Her lip curled slightly with displeasure. The men looked much the same—refined, polished, dull. The kind of men who spoke of horses, hunting, and Parliament. That energy that felt too identical.
She needed something different, something refreshing. Something that felt the least bit promising for the dangerous little scheme taking shape in her mind.
There must be someone.
Her eyes swept the length of the grand room, looking for someone reckless enough, someone fascinating enough…
At that moment, a gust of wind from the entrance seized the atmosphere. A servant had just opened the door, announcing a late arrival.
“His Grace, the Duke of Larcher.”
It was instant. It was unpredictable. The way those words rolled through the room like a shift in the weather. The way heads turned. The way conversation paused, then quickened again with the murmur of curiosity.
Even Hyacinth felt it. Against her will. In her chest. The tension that arrived before the man himself.
She looked. She shouldn’t have, but she did. And she almost regretted it, because the sight almost made her forget to breathe.
He was taller than she remembered. The black of his coat framed the hard set of his shoulders, and his dark hair, a little too unruly for propriety, fell just enough to soften him.
But it wasn’t the tailoring that unsettled her. It was the way he moved, like a man with no reason to rush, no reason to pretend.
And then his eyes. Green. Not just green, but the deep shade of a forest after the rain. They swept the room, slow and sharp, and then landed on her.
Maxwell Turney, the Duke of Larcher.
Her brother’s friend. The rake that elicited whispers in every drawing room. The one man she had promised herself never to think about.
But with the dangerous scheme she had in mind, she felt something about that ‘promise’ changing.
The wine on her tongue turned warm, almost bitter at the thought.
No, not him.
But the protest was hollow, soft. The kind of no that trembled too close to yes.
And yet every sensible thought abandoned her at once, leaving only the knowledge that he was, annoyingly, perfect for the role.
He paused on the threshold, surveying the glittering chaos with a kind of lazy amusement that unsettled her. Then, as though he had felt the weight of her stare, his gaze found hers.
Instantly, something arced through the distance that separated them. Heat. Direct.
At that moment, she saw it. The way the corners of his mouth curved into a knowing, dangerous smile that felt like the beginning of trouble. The kind of trouble she dared not name.
The thought made her breath catch.
Damn him.
And damn the way he looked. Too confident. Too smooth. Too certain that the world would bend for him.
Then, he moved. And when he did, it was as if the room parted for him. No command. No effort.
And of course, he was walking straight toward her.
She tried not to watch him approach. But obviously, she failed.
Each step of his was deliberate, measured. She could have sworn she could feel the weight of it in the floorboards.