The Marquess She Could Not Forgive (Lords of Lost Hearts #4)

Prologue

Susanna looked all about her, fully aware that she was doing exactly what every young woman ought not to do when she was in society. She was seeking out one person and one person only, and making it more than apparent that she was doing so.

She could not help it. Every face that turned in the candlelight was wrong — too fair, too narrow, too unfamiliar.

Her gaze swept the assembly with an urgency she could not quite disguise, her gloved fingers twisting together at her waist. One month of acquaintance.

A handful of stolen conversations. And yet her entire evening — her entire week, if she was honest — had been shaped around this single question: would he be here tonight?

“Susanna, might you consider stepping out of the way of your sister? She also needs to be seen, and you have stopped just inside the door of the ballroom.”

A flush crept up Susanna’s neck and bloomed across her cheeks. “My apologies, Mama.”

The Duchess barely acknowledged the words before turning her attention back to Maude.

“There, my darling — stand just so. The light from the chandelier is most becoming from this angle.” She adjusted a curl at Maude’s temple with the precision of a woman arranging flowers for display, her eyes cataloguing her younger daughter’s appearance with undisguised satisfaction.

“You look exquisite. Every gentleman in this room will notice.”

“Thank you, Mama.” Maude lifted her chin and then stepped out in front of Susanna, her skirts rustling against Susanna’s gown as she claimed her position without so much as a glance backward.

Susanna pressed her lips together and moved aside.

She had learned, some time ago, that the space directly beside her mother was not hers.

It belonged to Maude — bright, golden Maude, whose laugh could fill a room and whose confidence drew people the way a flame drew moths.

Susanna did not resent her sister for it.

Not truly. But there were moments, standing in her shadow, when she felt less like a person and more like furniture — present, functional, and entirely unnoticed.

She moved a few steps away, staying within sight of her mother as propriety required. As the daughter of the Duke of Somerset, it behooved her to behave with the utmost decorum at all times, even when no one was watching her do so.

I still cannot see him. Did he not promise me he would be here this evening?

The air was thick with the hum of two hundred conversations layered over each other like voices in a cathedral, the music for the first dance of the evening threading through the crush — a lilting country air played by a string quartet whose efforts were already half-drowned by laughter and the clink of crystal.

Hundreds of beeswax candles blazed from the chandeliers above, casting a warm, honeyed glow across the assembly and making the silk gowns shimmer as ladies moved through the crowd.

The scent of hothouse flowers — roses and gardenias arranged in towering displays along the walls — hung heavy in the heated air, mingling with French perfume and warm skin and candle smoke until the sweetness was almost dizzying.

Susanna could feel the press of the room against her — the brush of strangers’ sleeves, the shifting warmth of so many bodies — and her pulse quickened with something more than the heat.

Her mother was saying something to Maude about the Viscount Hartley’s second son. Susanna did not hear a single word. Her thoughts were fixed solely upon him.

And then, as if somehow he had known she was searching, he appeared.

He emerged from the crowd a short distance away, walking with the quiet certainty that always marked him in a room full of men who postured and preened.

The guests seemed to part for him without quite knowing they were doing so.

He was dressed impeccably — a dark blue coat that sat perfectly across the breadth of his shoulders, his cravat tied in a precise knot at his throat, his dark hair brushed back from a face that was, to Susanna’s eyes, the most handsome in all of London.

His blue eyes had not yet found hers, and she caught her breath, her fingers stilling at her waist as she waited — waited — for the moment when they would.

She took in the strong line of his jaw, the way he held himself with that effortless composure that she suspected was not effortless at all.

Heat curled low in her stomach, and she looked away for a moment, flushing at the intensity of what she felt.

They had been acquainted only a month, but their connection had deepened with a swiftness that both thrilled and terrified her.

Each stolen conversation had drawn her closer.

Each accidental brush of his hand had left her skin tingling for hours afterward.

Then his gaze found hers.

In that instant, he altered his steps, turning towards her with an immediacy that made her breath falter. His eyes held hers as he crossed the distance between them — blue and intent and certain — and everything else in the ballroom dimmed to nothing.

“My lady.” He bowed, and when he straightened, the edge of his mouth lifted in that half-smile she had come to adore — the one he seemed to save for her alone. He held out one hand. “Might I be so bold as to ask for your dance card?”

“Lord Lancashire.” She curtsied, hoping he could not see the tremor in her hands, and offered him her empty dance card.

Their fingers brushed through the thin barrier of their gloves, and the contact sent a shiver down her spine so sharp she nearly gasped.

She wanted to close the distance between them, to stand so near that she could feel the warmth radiating from him.

To do so would be entirely improper, she knew.

All the same, she longed for it. There had only been a few stolen moments between them thus far — a quiet exchange in a garden, a lingering glance across a supper table, his fingers tracing the edge of her glove one evening when no one else was looking — and every one had been far too brief.

“You look radiant this evening, Lady Susanna,” he murmured, his words low enough that only she could hear them. The warmth in his dark blue eyes made her breath catch.

“Thank you, Lord Lancashire.” She could feel the heat in her cheeks but held his gaze. “I am glad to see you this evening.”

It was a bolder remark than she ought to have made. For a moment, neither of them moved. The music continued, the laughter swelled around them, but they stood in a stillness of their own making, bound by a tension that wrapped itself tight around her chest and would not let go.

“As I am glad to see you,” he said at last. “I wondered if you would dance the waltz with me this evening.” His voice dropped a fraction. “I can think of no other young lady that I desire to take into my arms.”

Her pulse stuttered. “That would bring me the greatest joy,” she answered, truthfully. “I would want no other partner.”

Lancashire’s eyes brightened, and his expression softened into something so open it nearly undid her.

Taking a small step closer, he looked down at her dance card, but rather than write his name, he raised his head and held her gaze.

“Lady Susanna, we have had a few shared moments of late, have we not?”

Susanna glanced instinctively at her mother and sister. The Duchess was deep in animated conversation, one hand resting on Maude’s shoulder in her familiar posture of proud display. Neither of them spared Susanna a glance. A small ache, old and well-worn, pressed against her ribs.

“We have,” she said, turning back to him.

“You must know that I care for you.”

Her lips parted. She swallowed hard, her fingers clasping together so tightly that the seams of her gloves bit into her skin.

Their few shared moments had been nothing improper — he had not sought to steal a kiss or make any declaration.

All the same, the way he had touched her hand, brushed his fingers across her cheek, and murmured words to her that settled deep in her chest had certainly meant something.

Thus far, however, it had all remained unspoken.

Was this the moment that everything changed?

“You are astonished by my revelation, mayhap.” He appeared a little abashed, running one hand through his dark hair in a gesture she was beginning to recognize — he did it whenever he was uncertain, whenever the careful composure cracked.

“Lady Susanna, I want you to know that I am very eager indeed to court you.”

She could not stop the gasp that escaped her. “You — you are?”

He nodded, a slow warmth spreading across his features. “I hope that means you are pleased?”

“I — I am.” She pressed one hand to her bodice, feeling the frantic beat beneath her palm. “It means more to me than you can know.”

His expression grew earnest, and he moved closer still, the world around them falling away until she could hear nothing but his voice and the rapid rushing of her own blood.

“My dear Lady Susanna, my intention is to speak to your father just as soon as I can. I want him to know that my desire is to court you for as short a time as possible before considering engagement.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough with feeling.

“You have captured me in a way that no other lady has ever done. I think only of you. I am eager only for you. I cannot help but long for you whenever we are near.”

Unable to stop herself, Susanna reached out and caught his hand. It lasted only a second — the briefest press of her fingers against his — but the contact sent fire rushing through her, and she saw his eyes flare with the same sudden heat. “I feel the very same way, Lord Lancashire.”

The warmth in his face began to fade, replaced by something more guarded. More careful. Susanna felt it like a chill.