Prologue
The Wicked Lady
Lady Cecilia Cleveland was everything the daughter of a duke ought to be.
Perhaps she was no diamond, but she was lovely, with hair the colour of ripe barley, skin as perfect as a rose petal, and unusual, slightly catlike eyes of gold.
She was clever without being a bluestocking, amusing but not too amusing, she could listen to men whitter on about hounds or horses or carriages or sport or investments and look as if she were truly fascinated, and everyone liked her.
“Oh, Cilly is the perfect lady.”
“Cilly is such a dear.”
“Oh, we must have Cilly, for she is so very kind.”
These phrases were repeated often, and with real affection, for she was universally liked.
Tonight, that would change.
Cilly looked around at the glittering ballroom. The night was a triumph, both for her sister’s husband, Gideon Bramwell, the man who had designed and built this fabulous space, and for the owners, Mr and Mrs King.
Whilst the hotel was still under construction, Mrs King had conceived the idea of an end of summer ball, to show people just how marvellous the hotel would be and to ensure bookings for the following year were not slow in coming.
Champagne flowed in abundance, the band was in fine form, and the vast space rang with music and laughter and the rhythmic sound of feet as the dancers swept around in a dizzying blur of colour and motion.
The cream of the ton was here tonight, and from everything Cilly had overheard, the hotel would be fully booked in no time.
She was glad, so glad for Hetty, whose husband’s future depended on this success, a future that now looked as solid as the immense marble columns that marched up and down the elegant ballroom.
If only she were not about to become the fly in the ointment.
Yet there was no other choice. It had to be tonight; it had to be now.
In a week’s time, she would return to her father’s home and leave Little Valentine forever.
By the end of the month, she would be the Countess of Crenshaw, her husband a hard-living, hard-drinking man more than twice her age, who lived for hunting and cared nothing for the finer things in life.
No.
Cilly was done with being a good girl. She was done with being biddable and polite and with putting everyone else’s comfort and happiness above her own.
There was no knight in shining armour coming for her, and any girlish dreams she’d had about marrying for love had been cast aside over a decade ago.
Tonight she would take her future into her own hands, and for once she would be selfish, wicked even. She didn’t care.
She had planned everything down to the last detail. She had paid bribes; she had loosened stitches. All she needed now was to act.
Her gaze sought and found a petite, dark-haired serving girl who was weaving through the crowd, a plate bearing delicate little amuse-bouches held aloft, to keep the revellers’ stamina up until suppertime. Lucy met her eyes and nodded. Cilly nodded in return. Well, everything was in order then.
Viscount Rivington was standing alone, drink in hand, his cynical gaze prowling over the guests like a bird of prey searching for dinner.
There was a hard set to his jaw, his blue-grey gaze cold and glittering.
Cilly’s heart did a little skip behind her ribs, and for just a moment her courage faltered.
Was this really what she wanted?
She forced herself to remember the Earl of Crenshaw, his florid face, the heavy jowls that made him look like a mournful hound, and the spittle that collected at the sides of his mouth when he spoke.
She shuddered and put up her chin.
Rivington looked up as she approached. His expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes — curiosity perhaps. He did not know quite what to make of her. Cilly didn’t blame him. She didn’t know herself anymore either.
“My Lady Cecilia,” he said politely, inclining his head. “Your sister must be beside herself. This evening and the hotel will be all anyone can speak of for weeks to come.”
“Indeed, it will,” Cilly agreed placidly, though not for the reasons Lord Rivington supposed. She stood beside him, far too aware of his size, of the width of his shoulders, of his hard, cynical mouth that somehow, she could not stop looking at.
Cilly gave herself a mental shake and reminded herself of her mission. Somehow, she must induce him to dance with her. Even if it meant asking him—
“I’ve not seen you dance this evening.”
Cilly’s head whipped around in surprise. Thank heavens, luck was on her side tonight.
“No, I haven’t,” she admitted, lowering her eyes for a moment before glancing up at him, giving him her most beseeching look from under her lashes. “But I should like to, very much.”
He gazed at her, and her heart thudded hard and fast, for when he looked at her so intently, she felt as if he could see right through her, as if her every secret was exposed to his searching gaze and nothing was safe. He wasn’t safe—that much she knew.
“Then I should be honoured to oblige you.”
They waited until the dance ended and the band struck up again.
“A waltz.” He glanced down at her, a query in his eyes. “Do you waltz, my lady? It is still considered rather shocking, I understand. I would not wish to cause you any… discomfort.”
Cilly almost snorted. The provoking devil delighted in making her uncomfortable and did so whenever possible.
“I believe I am up to the challenge, my lord. My brother Hart taught both Hetty and me, so I shall not step on your toes.”
Rivington inclined his head and held out his arm. Cilly took it and allowed him to lead her out onto the floor. Everything was going just as she had planned so far.
The music swelled, and Rivington swept her into the dance.
Cilly’s breath caught. She had believed she knew what to expect, for she had danced the waltz on several occasions, not only with Hart, but with many handsome young men, all of whom had fallen madly in love with her dowry and her father’s title.
It had not felt like this.
Rivington did not dance like those polite young men.
For one thing, he held her too close, far closer than he ought, and the way he moved, the way he made her move—Cilly’s breath caught as he spun her around and around until she was light-headed with the mad joy of it.
Her skirts whipped around both their legs, the cool silk sliding against her thighs in a manner that seemed somehow decadent and naughty.
She was flying, a strange sense of freedom sweeping over her, as if the shackles of propriety were being loosened.
It was as if she was suddenly untethered, so free she might float up into the dark night sky and be lost forever.
She wanted to laugh—she wanted to cry—she never wanted it to end.
Inevitably it did, and the swoon Cilly had planned to fake was not required, for her knees trembled and she clung to Rivington, whose hold on her tightened.
His cold eyes gazed down at her.
“Lady Cecilia? Are you well?”
“I—I feel a little faint,” she admitted, not having to try very hard to sound weak and fragile. “Might—might you take me for a breath of fresh air?”
“I’ll fetch your sister,” he said at once, but Cilly clutched at his sleeve, refusing to release him.
“Oh. Oh, no. Please… don’t spoil her evening. I only need a breath of air. The doors over there are open onto the terrace. Just take me to them. We can stay in sight of the room.”
He stared at her, and Cilly stopped breathing. Everything depended on his agreeing to this.
“Very well.”
Cilly flashed him a grateful smile, leaning on his arm heavily as he guided her to the doors. She was aware of his gaze flicking left and right, watching to see if they were observed. Cilly very much hoped that Lucy was observing them and would act at the appropriate moment.
Rivington led her onto the terrace but stopped just outside the doors.
“Better?” he asked curtly.
Cilly nodded, and then gasped, sucking in great gulps of air.
She let go of his arm, rushing across the terrace to the balustrade as if she intended to cast up her accounts.
Keeping her back to him, she moved quickly, tugging at the bodice of her dress, ripping the seams she had resewn with loose stitches so they would part with ease.
Putting her hand to her head, she said faintly, “Oh… oh, I believe I shall—”
She allowed herself to crumple, putting her entire faith in the fact that Lord Rivington was a gentleman at heart, and not the black-hearted scoundrel he was purported to be.
Strong arms swept her up, and Cilly locked her arms about his neck, gazing up at him. Good God, but he was handsome. Up close, his eyes were thickly lashed, his cheeks sculpted, and that wicked, cynical mouth that she had spent far too long considering was right there.
“I’m so very sorry,” she whispered. His eyes widened, and guilt and regret bloomed in her heart. If only things were different, if only this was not a scene she had created to force his hand but a romantic moment they shared. But that was never going to happen.
She pressed her mouth to his.
Rivington jolted in shock, and she almost laughed, wondering if he had ever been accosted by a spinster before.
As she pressed herself close, she slid one hand into his hair, mussing the perfect, thick waves.
With her free hand she reached up, pulling pins from her coiffure, and praying Lucy was doing her part, wondering aloud just who Viscount Rivington was seducing out on the terrace.
Right on cue, she heard a gasp, shuffling feet as people surged outside, and exclamations of shock.
Cilly pushed out of Rivington’s arms, her hand to her mouth, staring up at him in shock, and then turned, allowing the crowd to see her gown all in disorder as if she’d been ravished, her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and let them draw their own, inevitable conclusions.