Chapter 1
One
Those eyes.
Catherine lost sight of the gray eyes in question as Lord Daventry bowed over her hand. He touched the very tips of her gloved fingers, and a thrill raced up her arm to the crown of her head.
James Cavendish, Marquess of Daventry. Of course, she knew his reputation. He was said to be inebriated at all times. She had even seen him stagger across a ballroom once or twice, but had they ever been introduced?
No. She would have remembered.
More than a hint of the boyish still lingered about him. Slim and tall. Thick waves of golden-brown hair begging her fingers to lace into the tousled curls. A jaw with such clean, almost translucent skin that either he could not yet sport a beard or his valet was the best barber in London.
And those soft, gorgeous, gray eyes, crinkling at the corners when he laughed. And he seemed to laugh frequently.
The thrill that had traveled from her fingers to her head was coursing downwards through her chest, joining a glow in her belly and spreading lower to her nether regions.
Stop it, Kate. You’re a mother, a widow. You’re no mooning girl, willing to pull up your skirts for the first set of handsome eyes you see. For a reckless, feckless, young rake. That part of your life is finished, thank goodness. No one will have that power over you, ever again. No one, not ever.
Lord Daventry straightened from his bow and looked down at her with those very seductive eyes.
“A prodigious pleasure, Mrs. Lovelock. As usual, the radiant Lady Huxley only attracts the most beautiful ladies to her ball. Like moths—nay, butterflies—to a flame, what?” His voice was a light tenor, teasing and melodious.
Lady Huxley playfully struck Daventry’s shoulder with her fan and moved away to tend to her other guests. The young man swayed, tottered, and Catherine almost put a hand out to steady him, but he recovered his equilibrium on his own.
“Upsidaisy,” he said and laughed.
Had James—Lord Daventry—asked Lady Huxley for the introduction?
Possibly. Over the last four years, many lords and landed gentlemen had asked to meet Catherine Lovelock, and she had no illusions about why.
She and her daughters were welcome at balls like this one because of the Lovelock banking fortune.
Her husband’s death had left her one of the richest women in England, and her daughters likewise possessed enormous dowries.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Perhaps James had asked to meet Catherine because he had designs on one of her still-unmarried daughters? How infuriating. A dissipated libertine like Daventry had no business going after her daughters. Not when she wanted him for herself.
You desire him, don’t you, Kate? So much so that you’re jealous of your own daughters. You’re as unbalanced as he is. Unbalanced, unhinged, and undone.
“I must agree with Lord Daventry. There is an astonishing array of beauty on display in the ballroom tonight, but you outshine all the other ladies, Mrs. Lovelock.” This was from James’ friend who stood next to him. “And I would be honored if you would be my partner for the next dance.”
The friend’s name was—Catherine searched her memory—Thomas Drake. The Right Honorable Earl Drake. Very tall, like James. But with wide shoulders and a broad chest, a head of raven black hair, and ordinary blue eyes shadowed by dark rings belying fatigue, some worry nagging at him.
“Thank you, my lord,” Catherine said and curtsied. “I am very pleased to accept your invitation.”
Why, why, why did it have to be Lord Drake and not the beautiful James who took her arm and led her to the center of the ballroom? And why, with an acquaintanceship lasting no more than half a minute, had she had come to think of Lord Daventry as James?
Utter foolishness.
Catherine smiled and curtsied as the music began.
Her disappointment in her partner would not be apparent to any onlookers.
Her years on stage at the Theatre-Royal, Drury Lane had made her a mistress of dissimulation.
She appeared just as she should—a respectable widow, flattered but not overwhelmed to be dancing with a young lord.
As they began the first figure of the dance, Catherine nodded and spoke to Lord Drake about the weather, the company, the beauty of the Elgin marbles. Finally, near the end of the dance, she felt she could query the earl and not betray her very real curiosity.
“Have you and Lord Daventry been friends for a long time, my lord?” she asked as Thomas Drake took her hand to walk down the row of fellow dancers.
“Oh, yes, since we were boys. His father and my father were quite good friends.”
Catherine recalled her Debrett’s. James was heir apparent to the Duke of Middlewich. With a bevy of sisters, he was the duke’s only living son.
But the earl appeared much older to her than James.
“You are of an age, then?” she asked as she passed under his arm.
Thomas thought. “Yes, I’m just thirty years of age, so Jamie is twenty-eight now.”
Not James, but Jamie.
Jamie.
And twenty-eight. Older than she had thought, but still far too young.
Far too young. Far too silly. Far too drunk.
And she was far, far, far too attracted to him. She could already hear the alarums sounding in her head.
The dance was over, and Sir Francis Ffoulkes was at her side, reminding her she had promised to partner him in the quadrille. Thomas Drake bowed and thanked her for the dance as Sir Francis’ arm guided Catherine to a new place on the ballroom floor.
She mustn’t agonize. Having a fancy for a man was revitalizing. Even a fleeting fancy for a frivolous young man like James. She was still a woman, after all. She wasn’t dead to feeling.
But—she used her most severe voice on herself—neither Fancy nor its more wicked cousin Obsession had a place in guiding her behavior. She had made that mistake in the past and never would again. She was stronger now and had a tight grip on the leash of her lust demon.
An unassailable grip.
As she turned in a full circle, she glimpsed James, tall and slender in his tailcoat and breeches, running his fingers through his gold-brown hair, leaning against the wall with an insouciant slouch. He seemed to be looking directly at her.
Her knees weakened, and she stumbled. Sir Francis had to steady her.
Bloody blazes. She was in serious trouble if James could elicit this kind of reaction in a ballroom.
Very serious trouble.
James studied Mrs. Catherine Lovelock as she danced with Thomas.
After several minutes, he made himself turn away and search for a face amongst the throng in the ballroom.
There was a man he was looking for, a man with whom he meant to ingratiate himself, and the man should be here.
But his eyes kept coming back to the dainty blonde dancing with his friend.
James had no one to blame but himself. This situation was the result of his own lunatic idea. He was the one who had urged Thomas to woo Mrs. Lovelock. Thomas was in dire need of funds, and James had proposed marrying a rich widow as the solution to Thomas’ problems.
But he never would have suggested Mrs. Lovelock to Thomas if he had known.
Known what, exactly? Known that, upon meeting her, he would feel he already knew her. That quick uplift of the chin. That intelligent gaze roaming over him. That quirk of the brows. That sparkle.
She reminded him so much of . . . what?
The vague memory itched at him. Itched at the back of his brain, even as he felt the front of his groin also take notice.
Because she was more than familiar. She was perfection, breathtaking perfection. And that was not hyperbole. He had felt the air leave his lungs as he bowed to her. And then a true pink blush had tinted her face, her neck, the top of her bosom, and his brains had gone giddy.
That bosom. Generous and round and lush.
Even though her husband had died some time ago, Catherine still wore the lavender of half mourning, but the current fashion meant even a modest widow’s ball gown displayed a good bit of the top of a woman’s breasts, especially when a man stood above her.
And Catherine was tiny, so all men stood taller than she did.
James clenched his hands into fists and scowled at the thought of other men, including his friend Thomas, gazing down at Catherine’s chest.
No, no, no, no. All wrong.
He relaxed his brow and forced himself to grin. He was well-known for his even temper, his good nature, being amenable to anything and everything. There was no place in his life for a possessive passion for a woman he had just met. Was he going mad?
Catherine looked up at Thomas and smiled.
Some men were lucky in how they had been made. Well-favored men like Thomas just seemed more masculine than the ordinary fellow. Given how James’ own sisters simpered and flirted with the broad-shouldered earl, Thomas was clearly desirable to women. And would likely be so to Mrs. Lovelock.
But James should not begrudge Thomas his charm and good looks. His friend was facing a grave financial crisis and had nothing else to trade on, except maybe his title.
Besides, it was other men who had the kind of luck James envied.
Those fortunate second and third and fourth sons who had been allowed—nay, encouraged—to fight in the now-ended wars against Napoleon.
Although his father could have easily bought him a hundred commissions, James had not been allowed to go to war.
While others had met adventure and gained glory, James had been safeguarded in the name of the bloodline of the Duchy of Middlewich.
But regretting his own disappointments and ogling Catherine Lovelock would yield him nothing tonight. He must find his man.
James turned his head to scan the crush once more, only to lock eyes with the Marchioness of Painswick.
She was making her way towards him, her hips swaying, her dark hair in an impressive arrangement on top of her head.
James leered as he bowed over her hand and asked for a dance after the midnight supper.
She arched an eyebrow, appraised him from head to toe, sniffed, and acquiesced.
He did not fail to see the frankly salacious smile behind her fan as she sauntered away.
It mirrored his.
James accepted a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray. He must keep his wits about him, yet he must be seen drinking. Just a sip, then. And a bit of a stagger as he leaned up against the wall as if for support.
Now the dance was ending, and the breathtaking woman-he-knew-but-couldn’t-recall-how curtsied. His friend Thomas bowed as another man walked up to Mrs. Lovelock and took her elbow.
It was the very man for whom James had been searching all night. His quarry, Sir Francis Ffoulkes.