The Duke's Year of Temptation (The Season of Forbidden Desire #1)

Chapter One

Hyde Park, London

Hyde Park on a spring afternoon possessed a peculiar sort of magic during the Season.

Not the grand magic of fairy tales and poetry, nor of enchanted forests and moonlit declarations of love, though Lady Evangeline Everly had spent much of her childhood believing such things possible.

No, this was a distinctly London sort of enchantment: one fashioned from gleaming carriages, elegant ladies in silk walking dresses, polished gentlemen on horseback, and the endless hum of fashionable society putting itself on display.

Along the broad gravel path of the promenade, wheels crunched over pale stones while horses snorted and tossed glossy heads.

The air carried the scents of fresh grass and damp earth mingled with lavender water and expensive perfume.

Somewhere in the distance, a child laughed.

Birds sang overhead from budding trees, their cheerful chorus nearly drowned by conversation and carriage traffic.

Evangeline drew a slow breath of the mild spring air and tilted her face toward the sunlight.

"I had forgotten how lovely Hyde Park can be."

"Lovely?" Daphne repeated sceptically.

Her youngest sister adjusted her bonnet and cast a dramatic glance around them.

"I should call it exhausting. One cannot take three steps without encountering someone determined to inspect one's gown or hair. It’s exhausting."

Rosalind laughed softly beside them.

"You cannot be surprised, sister,” she said. “After all, everyone comes here for precisely that purpose."

And everyone did.

The promenade had become one of the great rituals of London society.

Years earlier, fashionable ladies and gentlemen had begun taking afternoon drives and walks through Hyde Park, turning simple exercise into an elaborate social occasion.

During the Season, attendance became almost mandatory.

One saw and was seen. It was here that alliances were formed, matches arranged, and scandals discovered.

From the outside it looked pretty, but in truth, for those in the marriage game, one could be admired or ruined between one turn of the path and the next.

Evangeline knew her younger sister found the entire performance ridiculous, and she was not entirely wrong.

Ladies strolled arm-in-arm beneath colourful parasols while gentlemen bowed and exchanged greetings. Elegant carriages rolled past in carefully measured procession, displaying family crests and gleaming lacquered panels.

One did not simply visit Hyde Park; one appeared there with the very purpose of finding the perfect match.

Rosalind leaned closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially.

"Shall we play?"

Evangeline smiled.

Ever since childhood, the sisters had found great enjoyment in inventing stories about strangers. It had begun years ago during dull dinners and long carriage rides through Kent, but London had elevated it into an art.

Daphne's eyes brightened. "Oh yes."

She clasped her hands dramatically. "At last. Something fun."

Evangeline laughed. "You speak as though we have been enduring great hardship."

"We have," Daphne said gravely. "Mama spent forty minutes discussing suitable husbands this morning."

Rosalind sighed dreamily. "I should not consider that hardship."

"Of course you would not."

Rosalind ignored her.

"Oh, look."

She nodded discreetly toward a handsome young gentleman riding a chestnut horse several yards ahead.

"He is quite attractive."

Daphne narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Hmm."

"He appears respectable enough," Evangeline observed.

"Too respectable," Daphne declared. “It is clear that he is hiding something.”

They looked at her as she nodded with complete confidence.

"He is secretly a pirate."

Rosalind blinked. "A pirate."

"Certainly."

Daphne gestured toward him. "He spent years sailing dangerous seas, amassed an enormous fortune, and now pretends to be an ordinary gentleman."

Evangeline lifted a brow. "And why would he do that?"

"Because he seeks revenge."

Rosalind looked delighted. "For what?"

Daphne considered. "He was betrayed."

"By whom?" Evangeline asked.

"A woman with magnificent hair."

Rosalind burst into laughter. "That is absurd."

"It is inspired,” Daphne argued.

"It is nonsense,” Rosalind insisted.

"It can be both,” Evangeline cut in.

The sisters continued their tall tale, as Evangeline paused for a moment, watching them with a smile.

Being with her sisters always filled her with a warmth difficult to describe.

Rosalind, with her gentle heart and endless dreams of romance, forever seeing love stories where others saw ordinary conversations.

Daphne, with her sharp tongue and hidden tenderness, who laughed at sentiment while quietly possessing the softest heart among them.

She loved them both so fiercely it almost frightened her.

There had been a time when she believed the three of them would remain exactly as they were now. Walking arm-in-arm through gardens, whispering beneath blankets long after midnight, laughing over absurdities no one else would understand. But girls did not remain girls forever.

Rosalind was nineteen and entering the world with all the hopeful anticipation of a heroine stepping into the first pages of a novel.

Gentlemen had already begun to notice her.

Evangeline had caught more than one lingering glance at recent musicales and assemblies, though Rosalind seemed blissfully unaware.

Daphne, despite being only seventeen, possessed a beauty and spark impossible to ignore. Heaven help whichever gentleman eventually fancied himself equal to her. He would require patience, courage, and perhaps divine intervention.

Soon enough, there would be courtships and engagements, then marriages and households of their own. They would fill those households with children and start entirely different lives.

Such things were natural. They were happy things.

Weren't they?

Yet sometimes, a quiet ache settled inside her when she imagined it.

The three of them had become something stronger than sisters in the twelve years since Papa's death.

They had become a little world unto themselves, holding one another together while Mama worried over bills and appearances and burdens she tried not to show.

Evangeline wanted Rosalind to find the sort of love she dreamed of. She wanted Daphne to find someone clever enough to make her laugh and kind enough to deserve her.

She wanted all of it for them.

But she found herself wishing, selfishly perhaps, that time might slow its relentless march for just a little while longer.

Just then, a magnificent carriage rolled slowly along the drive, black lacquer gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Daphne leaned close. "Now there is someone interesting."

Evangeline smiled. "Very well,” she said as she studied the passing carriage. "And who might its occupants be?"

Daphne's eyes narrowed. "Hmm."

"Newlyweds," Rosalind suggested.

"No," Daphne said, shaking her head. "Spies."

"Spies?" Rosalind repeated.

"French spies," she continued. "Here to determine which absurd London fashions English ladies will embrace next."

Rosalind laughed, and Evangeline joined in too, the sound lifting into the warm afternoon air. But suddenly, a tickle brushed against Evangeline's nose.

She frowned and lifted a hand. "Oh, dear."

Daphne glanced toward her. "What is it?"

"The pollen, I believe."

The trees lining the promenade had begun to bloom in earnest, and pale yellow dust had settled over nearly everything. Evangeline had escaped most of spring without complaint, but apparently nature had finally decided to wage war against her.

She reached into the small reticule hanging from her wrist and withdrew a white linen handkerchief embroidered with tiny blue flowers at the corners. It had been a gift from Rosalind two birthdays ago.

"You are not about to sneeze upon some unfortunate gentleman, are you?" Daphne asked suspiciously.

"I shall endeavour to preserve society from such a horror."

Rosalind laughed.

At precisely that moment, as Evangeline lifted the handkerchief toward her face, a sudden gust of wind swept across the promenade.

"Oh!"

The linen slipped from her fingers, and for one dreadful instant she watched helplessly as it danced through the air, carried by the breeze like a taunting white bird.

Directly into the path of an approaching rider.

Her stomach dropped as the horse reared, its rider pulling sharply on the reins as gasps sounded around them.

The large black stallion settled quickly under skilled control, stamping once against the gravel.

Whispers spread through the crowd with peculiar swiftness.

"That’s the Duke of Blackwood."

Despite herself, Evangeline found herself quite unable to look away.

The Duke sat his horse with effortless authority, broad shoulders filling the dark coat he wore. Everything about him seemed large, the width of his chest, the powerful line of his frame, the sheer force of his presence.

Black suits him, Evangeline thought.

Not merely because he wore it, but because he seemed carved from shadows and storm clouds.

Dark brown hair brushed his collar beneath his hat, touched by the breeze. His face was striking in a severe sort of way—the strong line of his jaw, the straight nose, the hard mouth.

And then she saw the scar. It ran from his left temple down across his cheek toward his jaw, pale against sun-bronzed skin.

Society had not exaggerated it, but neither had they spoken of it correctly. Because, in truth, she had expected something monstrous or frightening. Instead, it was neither.

Before she could stop herself, pity stirred. Not pity for the scar itself, but for the loneliness she suddenly thought she saw in his face.

"I heard he was injured during the war," Rosalind murmured.

"And that he scarcely leaves his estate," Daphne added. "I heard Lady Pembroke say he attends almost no social gatherings."

Rosalind nodded eagerly. "They say he is cold and severe."

"And impossible to love," Daphne finished quietly.

Evangeline's eyes remained on the Duke.