Dear Reader,

I have always wanted to create a grittier version of a fairy tale similar to what the Grimm Brothers explored. I wanted to write a real-life fairy tale that had every possible wrenching emotion in it, but without any of that easy-way-out magic. So I set about creating a very twisted version of Cinderella. Only instead of making the heroine Cinderella, I wanted the hero to be Cinderella. I wanted the prince to be wildly romantic and kind and forever looking for his Princess Charming the way Cinderella had. So I gave him a big heart and, introduced him to a stepmother who never liked him and, in turn, forced him to become a servant of a different sort. I then balanced his hardship by giving him a charming stepsister who absolutely adores him and who sought to protect him at every turn. Instead of a glass slipper, I thought a ruby ring would best unfold my fairy tale.

Now, as much as I adore England and its history, I have always wanted to set a story in beautiful Venice. So I started digging into its fascinating history and uncovered the cicisbeo (also known as Cavalier Servente). For those of you who don’t know what a cicisbeo is, it was a practice in Italy amongst the nobility in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that allowed a married woman to keep a man, whom her husband agreed for her to have during their marriage, for a specified amount of time. It is said Lord Byron himself was a cicisbeo for a period of time to the married Contessa Teresa Gamba Guiccioli and that her husband was known to boast about it. Although scholars will argue as to whether a cicisbeo was also a lover to the married woman he served (some say yes, some say no), the lines blur enough for the story to swing either way. I’ll leave you, dearest reader, to figure out on your own which way I’m swinging.

Much love,

Delilah Marvelle

About the Author

DELILAH MARVELLE loves to write historical romance with scandalous twists she unearths from history itself. She spent her youth studying various languages, reading voraciously and playing the pianoforte. She confesses that here ends the extent of her gentle breeding. She was a naughty child who was forever torturing her parents with countless adventures that they did not deem respectable. Confined to her room on many occasions due to these misadventures, she discovered the quill and its amazing power. Soon, to the dismay of her parents, she rather enjoyed being confined to her room. And so her writing continues. She is a two-time Golden Heart Finalist, an RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice Nominee and a double finalist in the Bookseller’s Best Award. You can visit her at her website at www.DelilahMarvelle.com or visit her blog, which explores the naughtier side of history, at www.DelilahMarvelle.blogspot.com.

Don’t miss the Scandal series!

Prelude to a Scandal May 2012

Once Upon a Scandal June 2012

The Perfect Scandal July 2012

Once Upon a Scandal

Delilah Marvelle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my mother, Urszula,

who planted sweeping romantic notions in my head

long before I really knew what a romantic notion

even was. I miss you and love you and I know that

I will see you again when I get to the other side.

PROLOGUE

A true gentleman will declare himself with a view toward matrimony, whilst a true libertine will declare himself with a view toward scandal. Although a lady may think she can differentiate between who is the gentleman and who is the libertine, at times, it may prove to be impossible.

How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

Bath, England, August 21, 1824

Late afternoon

The Linford country estate

ALTHOUGH JONATHAN Pierce Thatcher, Viscount Remington, was all but nineteen, and therefore in the eyes of society very much a man, a part of his soul had always secretly remained twelve years old. It was the part of his soul that still believed in absurd notions such as courtly love, magic and destiny. Though he knew magic and destiny had no place in the head of a real man as was defined by the real world, for him, magic and destiny were but alternate words for hope, and no one could ever convince him that hope did not exist. For it did.

And right now, in the setting of a sprawling garden in fading bloom and dwindling sunlight, hope ardently whispered to him that his time for love had finally come. It whispered that the young woman in the embroidered, flowing white gown and gathered blond curls who lingered in boredom beside her governess in the shade of her orchid parasol was going to change his life forever. If only he could convince her to change his life forever.

Jonathan refrained from mouthing Lady Victoria’s name in reverence or staring at her through the demure crowd of chattering house guests dividing them. He had almost kissed Grayson’s left boot for inviting him to the Linford house party. Almost.

Being in close quarters with Victoria over these next two weeks was going to ensure she was finally his in both name and heart. He simply needed to be mindful of the fact that the host was none other than her father, the ever brow-creased Earl of Linford, who was all too easily riled into shouting fits whenever anything displeased him. Fortunately, the gruff man liked Jonathan and often boasted that he was but another son.

Aside from his year-long acquaintance with Victoria, something far more unearthly drew him to her. There was an unspoken depth within those jade eyes that went beyond her seventeen years. Even as she spoke to him in that witty, self-assured manner that announced she needed no one and most certainly not him, never once had she duped him. He could tell that deep inside, she was an even greater romantic than him. She simply chose to deny it.

Veering toward his friend Grayson, Jonathan made sure his lips and his words were shielded from the men and women indulging in all the fruit, biscuits and cakes that had been lavishly piled onto silver trays and set upon tables around the garden.

“When should I declare myself?” he ventured. “Before I leave? Or upon my return from Venice?”

Grayson picked up the remaining sliver of Banbury cake from his porcelain plate and shoved it into his mouth. As he heartily chewed, he shook his dark blond head, his eyes darting across the length of the garden toward Victoria. “I would never condone rushing—” he said, in between several chews “—but given your predicament, don’t wait. Based on my cousin’s dowry alone, half of Europe is already lining up at my uncle’s door.”

Jonathan half nodded, his stomach clenching at the thought. “I only hope to God she feels the same.”

Grayson sighed and set his empty plate on the corner of the linen-covered table beside them. “Whatever you do, Remington, don’t be a sop and tell her that you love her.”

Jonathan angled himself and lowered his voice. “And why wouldn’t I? It happens to be what I feel.”

“It doesn’t matter what you feel. Victoria is a Linford of the worst sort. The moment you use the word love, she will call you out for being insincere.”

“Insincere? By telling her—”

“Yes. By telling her. If you haven’t already noticed, she is a lot like her father. Only without all the grumbling and shouting. And can you blame her, after all that has happened in her life? Stars cannot shine when clouds blacken the sky. It has nothing to do with you personally, it is simply the way it is. Which is why I suggest you be subtle over these next two weeks. Don’t overwhelm her with your stupid goose antics or she will run. Regardless of what she does or does not feel.”

Jonathan drew in a breath and let it out, reluctant to listen to anything but what his gut was telling him. And his gut was telling him subtle was not about to win the fair maiden. “Go distract her governess for me, will you? I need to talk to her.”

“Now?” Grayson asked.

“Yes. Now. Go. Do it.”

Grayson leaned toward him and hissed, “I didn’t invite you here to watch you slit your own throat. You need to be subtle. Declaring yourself with my uncle and half of society thirty paces away is not subtle.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “I don’t plan on asking for her hand here and now. All I want is a few moments alone without that damn woman at her elbow. You know what Mrs. Lambert thinks of me. I’m anything but honey on that old crone’s lips.”

“That is because you pose a threat to the commodity she hopes to sell to a duke. And I hate to point out your sad reality, Remington, but you are not a duke. Nor are you a marquis. Or an earl. Or—”

“Enough already.” Jonathan glared at him. “Are you going to do this for me or not?”

“Forget it. I have already done more than enough to ensure each and every single one of your children bears my name. Boys. Girls. It doesn’t matter. They will all be known as Grayson.”

Jonathan stepped closer to emphasize that he was a full head taller and a few inches broader than Grayson. “Considering all the times I took a fist for you, you owe me this and more.”

Grayson snorted. “What the hell do you expect me to do? Rope up Mrs. Lambert and shove her in a cupboard while everyone watches you play Romeo?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I expect you to do. I only have two weeks to extract a promise of matrimony from her. Two weeks. I need every moment I can get.”

Grayson jabbed him beneath the cravat. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Your whole life. Why are you rushing into this, anyway? Hmm? From what I hear, Venetian women send men into spasms that last all day and night. Enjoy a bit of that first, then come back to this.”

Jonathan sighed. This wasn’t about meeting a woman and having a few nights of passion. This was about meeting the woman and having a whole lifetime of passion. “Fifteen minutes.”

Grayson shook his head from side to side. “Why must you always complicate not only your life, but mine? Why?”

“Oh, you think I complicate your life?” Jonathan lowered his voice. “I’m not the one stealing bank notes to pay for women who most likely will end up costing you vials of mercury.”

Grayson puffed up his cheeks and deflated them with a single breath. “I don’t need another father pointing out everything I do wrong.”

Jonathan refrained from smacking him upside the head. “One father would never be enough to rein you in. Hell, six fathers wouldn’t be enough. Just as you don’t approve of my life, Grayson, I don’t approve of yours. Which is why we must agree to disagree. Now, are you going to do this for me or not?”

Grayson sighed and scanned the garden around them. “I will ensure fifteen minutes if you promise not to tell my father about the bank notes.”

Jonathan grinned and elbowed his arm. “Done.”

Grayson elbowed him back. “Stay here. I’ll send Victoria over and occupy Mrs. Lambert for you.”

Jonathan pointed at him. “You are a good friend.”

“A better friend than you will ever be.” Grayson smirked, rounded him and the table, and strode across the lawn.

Jonathan adjusted the cuffs of his morning coat and stepped toward the nearest table laden with silver. Finding a tray that had been emptied of most of its biscuits, he leaned over it and used the polished reflection of the silver platter to see if his black hair was still decent. He brushed back a few unruly strands that had strayed in the wind from his forehead, straightened and stepped back, glancing toward where Grayson had gone.

Lady Somerville sauntered past with her elderly husband, heading toward the fountain beyond. Her dark eyes lifted and purposefully met Jonathan’s across the distance. She offered a refined nod in passing as a slow smile touched her painted lips, then continued to watch him out of the corner of her eye in a heated, predatory manner that caused Jonathan’s skin to crawl.

He ignored the blatant flirtation. Why was it that only married women found him attractive? Did he have the words Play with me if you are over thirty etched across his forehead? He was almost young enough to be their firstborn, for God’s sake.

Jonathan paused as a slim figure dressed in embroidered white lace and India muslin appeared on the other side of the table he lingered by. His pulse drummed as Victoria angled her parasol against the puffed sleeve on her upper shoulder and quietly perused the silver trays of food.

God love you, Grayson, he thought to himself.

Jonathan drew a reassuring breath, grabbed one of the plates stacked for service and rounded the table toward her. He paused beside her and leaned in, offering up the plate. Though he wanted to convey everything that had ever been buried within him in that one pulsing moment, all he could do was hold out the plate and wait for her gloved hand to take it.

She turned, her full skirts brushing his trouser-clad legs, and lifted her pretty green eyes to his. Jonathan’s stomach flipped as her full, soft-looking pink lips curved into a radiant smile. She edged back, setting a more respectable distance between them, but never once broke their gaze.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word.

He stupidly continued to hold out the plate, while she stood there as if he wasn’t holding anything at all. Though she offered him no conversation aside from the playful glint in her eyes, he knew she was merely embracing the well-practiced role of a lady, with the eyes and ears of society gathered all but strides away.

“The Banbury cake deserves infinite praise,” he offered conversationally, scooting the plate closer to her. “You might want to eat what little is left before I do.”

She lowered her chin, adjusting the parasol on her shoulder, and glanced toward the sliced cakes. She lifted a blond brow. “Do you really intend to be a glutton and eat all four cakes?”

Jonathan let out an awkward laugh, realizing there really were still four Banbury cakes left on the trays. He cleared his throat, gesturing toward the plate he still held. “I was trying to make conversation, is all.”

“Conversation about cake? I see.” She promenaded the length of the table, offering him a taunting smile. “Whatever you do, my lord, don’t comment on the weather next. In the past hour, six people have pointed out that there isn’t a single cloud in the sky. I have been praying for rain ever since to ensure more cultivated conversation.”

He chuckled and lowered his voice. “You needn’t worry about uncultivated conversation here. In truth, I haven’t even noticed the weather at all. Not with you dressed as you are. Might I point out how incredibly beautiful you look in that gown? An angel in her truest form. ‘Tis a pity there aren’t any clouds in that sky for you to sit on.”

She let out a laugh and shook her head. “Why is it, my lord, that you had far more intelligent things to say when I last saw you?”

I wasn’t leaving the country the last time I saw you. He pushed away the thought and focused on being subtle. Subtle, subtle, subtle. “How many more months before your coming out?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

She sighed. “Seven. Mrs. Lambert won’t let me forget it. Nor will my father.”

Seven months. He’d be gone all seven of those months, maybe even eight to ten of those months, depending on how long it took him to settle his stepsister into her new way of life. And then there was his stepmother. He hoped the woman not only stayed in Venice, but died there.

Jonathan met Victoria’s gaze and knew if he waited to declare himself, he’d have to compete against a horde of richer, better titled men. He was only worth two thousand a year. And while that allowed for an excellent living most would envy, it only allowed for one estate. Unlike the five her father owned.

Victoria eyed him expectantly, silently prodding him to do more than just blatantly stare at her.

He wished to God he could just grab her and kiss her and declare himself that way. “I’m leaving for Venice,” he blurted, fingering the plate he still held.

She half nodded, causing her gathered blond curls to sway against her cheeks. “Yes, I know. After the house party. Grayson told me.” A soft sigh escaped her lips. “I wish I could travel. Sadly, Papa is set against my doing any tours.”

Was that delicious yearning in her voice meant for him? Or for the tours? “Might I write to you about my travels?”

Her green eyes brightened. “But of course. Who else will keep me from boredom but you?”

This really wasn’t going anywhere. It was the same old, same old. Everything said, yet nothing said. Subtle simply was not going to win her over, regardless of what Grayson thought. In truth, Grayson’s idea of courting a woman amounted to lifting her skirt and whistling.

Jonathan rounded the table and closed the remaining distance between them feeling as if his fifteen minutes had already dwindled to a mere one. He leaned in, offering her the plate once again, trying not to get too distracted by the alluring scent of soap and lavender drifting toward him.

“Victoria,” he whispered, searching her face, memorizing the arch of those blond brows and how soft her porcelain skin appeared in the fading afternoon light. “Take the plate if you love me.”

Her eyes widened. She edged back and glanced toward those in the distance. With the flick of her wrist, she shielded them from view with her parasol, then leaned in and tsked. “Being more amorous than usual, I see.”

“Forgive me, but there are times when a man has to be.”

“Oh? And what times are those? The end of days?”

“I want assurance of your devotion.”

She giggled. “By offering me a plate?”

By offering you my life. He gestured toward the china still in his hand. “This plate is but a metaphor representing all that I am. Polished. Clean. Able to present, hold and endure whatever you place upon it, whilst allowing you to feast for both substance and pleasure, though surprisingly, it is also incredibly fragile. If dropped, it will shatter and become nothing but a worthless mess. I would say more, but we have an audience and this is about as forward as I can get without altogether grabbing you.”

She stared up at him for an abashed moment and dropped her voice a whole octave. “So by taking the plate I would in fact be taking your heart? Is that what you are informing me of, my lord?”

He drew in a ragged breath. “Yes. Exactly.”

“Ingenious.” She smiled, leaned in and playfully tapped her gloved finger against the painted rim of the plate. “Have it polished and ready for my coming out. I’m certain I can find a place for you somewhere at the table. In the meantime, use this plate to enjoy however many Banbury cakes you can stomach. I should go, before Mrs. Lambert realizes Grayson is a decoy.” She grinned, twirled her parasol once in a form of bravado and breezed past.

Hell. That was neither a yes nor a no.

Jonathan heaved out an exasperated breath and set the plate back onto the table. He turned to watch those delectable, curvy hips sway beneath her flowing, bright-white gown. She and that gown trailed across the length of the green lawn, past men and women wandering out toward the fountain in the distance.

He had two weeks to convince her that his heart beat solely for her. Two weeks. Because if he left England without extracting a promise of matrimony from those lips, he knew he’d return only to find her married to some lucky bastard and his heart would forever bleed in regret of what could have been.

SCANDAL ONE

A lady should never make promises to a gentleman without the consent of a guardian. It will only lead to a most compromising situation.

How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

Two weeks later, after midnight

The Linford country estate

THE SHARP crack of thunder startled Lady Victoria Jane Emerson from slumber. Her eyes fluttered open. Rain drummed against the large, latticed windows, echoing in the quiet darkness of a room she did not recognize.

She groaned. She was at the estate.

Oh, how she wished her father would let them stay in London. Although she had a genuine fondness for Bath itself, she loathed every inch of their one-hundred-and-thirty-year-old estate. It was a breathing cemetery—and more than enough Linfords had died in it throughout the decades to warrant that thought. In fact, the neighboring hillside beyond the main road was littered with gravestones and crypts of both the esteemed and the blackest of black Linfords. That same hill also harbored her mother, dead now four years past, and her twin brother, dead now almost two years past.

Lightning streaked the night sky, illuminating the massive hearth opposite her bed in a momentary flash of brilliant white. Victoria sank deeper into the warmth of the coverlet and scooted closer toward her dog, formerly her brother’s. But instead of her fingers grazing soft, warm fur, there was nothing but cool linen.

She patted the empty space beside her.

“Flint?” She sat up and threw aside the coverlet. Thunder rumbled, punctuating the horrible realization that he was not amongst the linens.

“Flint?” She scrambled off the bed, noticing the door was slightly ajar. Faint candlelight peeked through the open crevice.

Not again. Whoever would have thought a short-legged terrier could get around so much? She hurried across the room, her nightdress flapping around her, and pulled the door farther open. She edged out into the passageway. The candles in the nearby candelabra were waning, spreading marred shadows across hanging portraits of relatives long gone.

Dread crept up her spine. It was so late, she doubted if any of the servants would be up to assist. Of course, if Flint started barking, everyone, including all twenty of their house guests, would be up in a blink. Then her father would deliver yet another stern lecture about the annoyance of keeping a mongrel who couldn’t even be used for a fox hunt.

“Flint,” she hissed out into the darkness. “Flint!”

There was no answer. Which meant he wasn’t within hearing distance.

Drat him. She huffed out a breath, not wanting to leave her bedchamber, but knew a promise to her brother was a promise. During his last days, Victor had repeatedly insisted she watch over Flint and keep the blighter from harm. Mostly because Flint was a very stupid dog, notorious for chewing everything, and if not properly supervised, he would most likely die. The dim-witted creature was probably ripping something apart at this very moment. Perhaps even her great-grandmama’s tablecloth in the blue drawing room. The one he’d been clamoring to—

She paused, her eyes widening. Oh, no. Her father would have him sent to the taxidermist within the week!

Victoria sprinted to her right and down the corridor, her wool stockings sliding several times against the smooth marble beneath her feet. Skidding, she caught herself against the nearest wall, rounded the dark corner and smacked straight into a massive body.

She screeched as large, bare hands steadied her by grabbing hold of her shoulders. The earthy scent of allspice lulled her senses. She blinked and gawked straight at the expanse of a linen shirt hanging open, revealing a lean, muscled chest with curling black hairs. She scrambled out of his grasp, well aware who she’d find towering before her: Viscount Remington.

“Either I’m too tall for you, Victoria dearest, or you’re too short for me. Which do you suppose it is?” He braced an arm against the wall beside them, preventing her passage, and leaned toward her, the tips of his slightly overgrown black hair sweeping into enchanting blue eyes.

The casual repositioning of his body caused his already unfastened shirt to gape open further, revealing not only his muscled chest, but also a portion of his lean stomach.

Victoria pressed her lips together, knowing she shouldn’t judge him, considering she herself was in a state of undress, coiffed in a single braid and garbed in a ruffled nightdress without a robe. It wasn’t the least bit respectable to remain in his presence, but the sparse light from the candles shifting across those handsome features whispered for her to stay.

She had always liked Remington. More than liked him, actually. He knew how to make her feel … happy. Even when she wasn’t feeling particularly so.

He grinned, a dimple appearing on his shaven left cheek. “I must still be sleeping. I was just thinking about you. And now here you are.”

She refrained from snorting. “Considering how many female guests have been shamelessly fawning over you ever since you stepped into this house, I doubt you’ve really had time to think at all.”

He chuckled. “Jealous, I see.”

“Jealous? Oh, no. I was only jealous of the Parisian fashions they all wore.”

He feigned a wince. “You belong in a garden with the rest of the statues made of stone.”

She grinned. “Maybe I do. So. Did you enjoy your stay here with me and Papa?”

He sighed and eyed her. “No. Not really. I kept hoping for more time with you, but that annoying governess of yours was forever getting in the way. Do you know that I gave that woman a respectable missive to pass along to you this morn, and she up and ripped it in half, claiming you were already spoken for by some Lord Moreland? Grayson denies it, but I won’t know peace until I hear it from you. Who is this Moreland and how long have you known him?”

She cringed and shook her head. “Lord Moreland is a family friend. Nothing more. Mrs. Lambert was merely being protective, as always. She has very lofty expectations for me. So lofty, in fact, that she claims I have no reason to settle for anything less than a duke. Since every duke I’ve ever met is over fifty, I dare say I may never marry at all.”

Amused blue eyes searched her face. “We most certainly cannot have that. Would you be willing to settle for a mere viscount instead? I am worth two thousand a year, have an estate in West Sussex and am available for matrimony whenever you are.”

A more blatant display of flirtation she’d never endured. Whilst she secretly relished the banter they always shared, for he was dashing and divine, she knew the games men played. He wouldn’t be the first man to flatter her for the sake of progressing his own interests. Nor the last.

She gestured toward his bared chest. “I confess I could never wed a man who wanders about my home with his shirt slung open like a pirate. I beg your forgiveness, Captain Blue Eyes, but we are not at sea, and I am not your mermaid.”

He pushed away from the wall and straightened to his full height of six feet, towering impressively over her measly five. Pulling his shirt closed with one hand, he eyed her as if genuinely offended. “I happen to be the greatest gentleman you will ever have the pleasure of knowing.”

Why did all men seem to think women were witless? She rolled her eyes. “If you will excuse me, I have far more important matters to tend to.”

“Oh, is that so?” He scooted closer, the heat of his skin scandalously drifting toward her. “I hope you weren’t heading into the kitchen to swipe any of Mrs. Davidson’s Banbury cakes, because I just came from there and I’ve already finished every last crumb.” She giggled. “What is it with you and Banbury cakes?”

He shrugged. “As you know, I leave for Venice on the morrow, and from what I am told, there won’t be anything to eat but citrus, soup and macaroni. So I have been indulging more than usual.” He quirked a dark brow. “Why are you wandering about? Hmm? Should I be concerned?”

Victoria stepped back and primly set her chin, trying to demonstrate that although she was in a nightdress, she was still very respectable. “I was merely looking for my dog. Flint.”

“Ah. Your dog.” His long fingers fastened the lone ivory button below his throat. “Well, Captain Blue Eyes is more than willing to assist in any manner you see fit.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I—” Another crack of thunder made Victoria jump, causing her to scramble toward him. She inhaled a deep, steadying breath, and eyed the darkness around them. “It is unnervingly dark, my lord. And with you being the graybeard, I humbly ask you to lead the way.”

“Graybeard?” He chortled. “Since when? Now cease this my lord nonsense and call me Remington. We know each other well enough.”

Mrs. Lambert had warned her about this. How men tried to lower all the barriers of civility before physically pouncing. Victoria shoved her blond braid over her shoulder, wishing she hadn’t left her nightcap in the bedchamber. “I prefer to keep things civil and would appreciate it if you did, too.”

“Civil?” He stared at her for a long, pulsing moment. “Are you informing me, Victoria, that there is absolutely nothing more between you and I aside from superficial civility?”

She was not going to play this game at the expense of her own reputation. Despite the fact that she liked him more than she’d ever liked any man, he was going to have to wait in line like the rest of them. “Nothing can exist between us, my lord, until my coming out. Surely, you—being the greatest gentleman I will ever have the pleasure of knowing—can understand.”

He shifted his jaw, still observing her intently, and half nodded. Stepping back and away, he smoothed the front of his shirt, ensuring the open slit was not visible. “I should probably go find that dog of yours,” he muttered. “It’s not as if I’m going to get any sleep tonight.” He turned and strode down the length of the corridor toward the great stairwell leading to the ground level of the home.

Victoria blinked, then glanced down the large corridor. Lurking shadows shifted malevolently toward her, just beyond the reach of candlelight and tall, curtained windows. She swallowed, sensing something lingering, and refrained from shuddering.

She scrambled down the corridor toward the great stairwell, her breaths escaping in uneven pants. Her hand skimmed the length of the wood railing as she descended. She paused on the last stair. Upon hearing Remington’s echoing steps, she rounded a darkened corner to her left and bustled after him.

Slowing, she shuffled closely behind his large frame, following him through the library, to the dome room, to the blue drawing room and then to the tapestry room. All the while, they repeatedly whistled and clapped, calling out Flint’s name. For some reason, Flint still did not answer, which meant he couldn’t be in the house. Stupid though he was, he always answered.

What if one of the servants had let him out and forgot to bring him back in? On a night such as this, he’d either drown or get eaten by a fox. A fox who hadn’t feasted in days. Her stomach clenched. What a horrible guardian she was turning out to be. She couldn’t even keep her own brother’s dog out of harm’s way.

Seized with worry, she rushed past Remington, stumbling around furniture, and dashed toward the north entrance hall. Unbolting the oversize oak doors, she flung them open and sprinted out into the night. She darted past the glass lanterns illuminating the vined entryway and past the limestone portico.

She stumbled on the gravel path and winced as rocks bit into her stockinged feet. The weather was unseasonably cold, and a lashing gust of freezing wind and heavy rain assaulted her as she squinted to see beyond the blinding darkness before her. She wandered farther out into the vast lawn beyond the carriage pathway, the rain drenching her nightdress, face and hair within moments.

“Flint!” she shouted above the whirling wind as a torrent of rain continued to whip at her, pricking her skin like the tips of needles. “Flint! Where—”

She froze, sucking in an astonished breath as her feet sank deep into thick, icy mud, suctioning her to the ground. Her night simply couldn’t get any worse, could it?

“Victoria!” A reprimanding male voice caused her to jump. “What the devil are you doing?”

Then again, maybe it could.

Victoria jerked toward Remington, the lanterns beyond dimly outlining his tall, lean frame in the descending torrent of rain. His dark, wet hair was plastered to his forehead and neck, whilst that billowy linen shirt of his was no longer billowy. It had turned sheer and clung to his lean, muscled arms and wide chest.

Her own nightdress, which only boasted a chemise beneath, was also beginning to stick to the length of her body. Though she didn’t have the sort of sizable breasts most females her age toted, she had more than enough to make her cheeks burn.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You ought to go inside. You’re getting wet.”

“We are both getting wet.” He gestured toward the open doors beneath the portico. “Come. The blighter is probably hiding somewhere in the house.”

She squinted against the rain slathering her face. “No. He never hides and he always answers whenever I call. Which means he has to be somewhere outside.”

Remington closed the distance between them. “I doubt he will even be able to hear us over all of this wind and rain. Now come. Come inside. I was hoping you and I could talk.”

What a rum pot. Talk? At this time of night?

Victoria turned away, cupped the sides of her mouth and yelled out against the wind, “Flint! Where are you?”

“We are getting soaked to the bone.”

“You really ought to cease pointing out what is already obvious.” She paused, sucked in a large breath and then shouted as loudly as she possibly could, “Flint!” More rain and wind pummeled her as an agonizing chill overtook her limbs.

“Victoria, please. This is ridiculous. He’s a dog. He has fur to protect him against the elements. You, on the other hand—”

“Flint! Fliiiint!” Panic edged into her strained voice and her limbs began to quake. Where was he? Why wasn’t he responding? Flint never wandered far from the house. Not ever.

She spun in every direction, wondering which way she should go, but found that the night, wind and rain were blending together too much, making it impossible to see.

“Victoria.” Remington grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “I promise to assist you in finding him in the morning. Now come.”

She flung his arm away and stumbled forward, toward the direction of the open field. Her stockings were now sliding down her legs, being sucked in by the mud around her. “No. I cannot leave him out here all night. I cannot! He is anything but good at taking care of himself.”

“Much like his lady.” He stepped back toward her. “Please forgive this necessity.” Large, warm hands grabbed her firmly by the waist, then yanked her straight up into the air, pulling her feet out of the mud and out of her stockings altogether, leaving them stuck in the ground.

Victoria gasped as she was effortlessly pitched up and over his hard shoulder like a sack of barley, her bare feet dangling out before him, her arms and long braid dangling behind him with her bum in the air. His grip dug into her hips and the night bounced with each large step he took back to the portico.

“What are you doing?!” she shouted, smacking his hard backside hidden beneath his soaked shirt. She froze, realizing she shouldn’t even be touching any part of him, and certainly not his backside. She twisted against his shoulder. “My stockings! I … This isn’t respectable! I am still in my nightdress!”

“So I have noticed,” he drawled as he kept toting her back toward the house.

She collapsed against him, plotting her escape.

Stepping in through the doorway, Remington finally plopped her down onto the marble floor of the large foyer. She slipped and stumbled against the water pooling beneath her cold, bare feet.

He slammed the doors and bolted them with quick sweeps, flinging water everywhere. He turned and fell back against the doors. Blowing out a breath, he paused and glared down at her, his rugged face glistening from the water that continued to dribble down from his matted hair. “You do realize your father, not to mention your cousin, would have held me accountable for whatever happened to you out there?”

As if she cared. “I am not abandoning Flint on a night like this.” She scrambled around him, trying to get to the doors, but he set his back against both knobs.

She pushed at his massive, wet body.

“I am not moving,” he gruffly announced.

“Step aside.”

“No.”

“Step. Aside.”

“No. You are not going back out into that rain.”

She shoved at his body again, trying to get him to move away from the knobs, but her feet kept sliding against the smooth marble. Annoyed to no end, she gritted her teeth, fisted her hand and punched his shoulder.

He seized her upper arms, his hard grip pinching her skin beneath the sleeves of her nightdress, and fiercely spun her around, yanking her back against himself so she couldn’t hit him again. He leaned over her, his broad chest and arms locking her against his chest. Icy water cascaded down onto her neck and arms from his drenched clothing. She stiffened, her eyes widening, realizing she was officially at his command.

He leaned farther down, bending her far forward and in turn, keeping her in place with his weight. “Cease being an impertinent child,” he demanded, his warm breath heating the side of her chilled cheek. “He’ll be fine. You, on the hand, won’t be if you get any more drenched.”

She trembled within his arms, the cold seeping deeper into her skin. “He is all I have left of Victor. And if that makes me a child, so be it. Now let me go. Let me go!”

Remington released her, allowing them both to straighten. Turning her toward him, he grasped her shoulders, pulling her close. The few waning candles in the sconces of the entrance hall dimly illuminated his rain-moistened face. He rubbed her shoulders. “Forgive me. Grayson has often told me how close you and your brother were.”

She looked away, refusing to give in to emotions that were pointless to feel. It wouldn’t change the fact that her brother was gone, having succumbed to smallpox after a servant had exposed him to it. Sometimes she wondered why it hadn’t been her.

Remington’s fingers pressed into her shoulder blades, silently assuring her that she was not alone. Not wanting or needing his pity, she pushed away his heavy arms and swiped away droplets of water running down the sides of her face and chin.

“Victoria.”

She glanced toward him. “What is it now?”

“I … leave for Venice tomorrow.”

She sighed, unable to hide her own disappointment knowing she wouldn’t see him until her coming out. “Yes. I know.”

“I may not return in time for your debut. Which is why I was hoping you could …” He winced.

She stared up at him, dreading whatever he had in mind. “You were hoping I could what?”

He shrugged and glanced away. “I … wanted to give you something, is all. Something that would—”

“You had better not be asking me for a kiss, Remington. Because you won’t get it.”

He cleared his throat and shook his head before setting his broad shoulders. “No. I … in truth, I wanted to give you something that will help bring Flint back.”

She sighed. “A whistle won’t be of any use. That dog hates whistles.”

“It’s not a whistle.” He drew closer, his wet hair glistening as black as night, and dug into his soaked trouser pocket. He held up a dainty, gold-and-ruby ring by the tips of his fingers. “Here. Take this.”

Sometimes, men were utterly useless, weren’t they? “I do believe my intelligence is being insulted. How is a ring supposed to bring my dog back?”

He let out a gruff laugh and grabbed up her chilled hand, forcing it open. Holding the ring up between them, he set it against her palm and pressed her hand tightly closed. Water from the sleeve of his shirt dribbled onto her hand, raising more gooseflesh on her already cold skin.

He lowered his voice. “My mother gave this to me shortly before she passed eight years ago. She and I were very close. From what I am told, a Gypsy gifted it to her. All you need know is that the worth of this ring will prove itself to you in time. Believe in its magic, and I assure you, all will come to pass. I am giving it to you so you can wish for anything you might ever want or need whilst I am away.”

Victoria opened her hand and blinked down at the ring. She glanced up at him. “Surely, you jest.”

“I do not.”

“You are a man of nineteen. You don’t actually believe in real magic, do you?”

“Age should never exempt one from hope. Which is what defines true magic.” He tapped at her hand, still holding her gaze. “Place the ring on your finger, whisper to the stone whatever it is you most desire and it will come to pass. I promise.”

She snorted. “Are you trying to melt butter in a wig? There are no magic rings in this world.”

He lowered his chin and drew closer. His hand reached out and brushed her cheek, his warmth making her cool skin tingle. “How do you know there aren’t?” he murmured, staring at her lips. “Have you whispered your most intimate desires to every single ring that exists in this world?”

“Well, no, I …” She froze, fully aware that he was inching in closer. His dark head lowered as he tilted his face toward her own.

She gasped, scrambling out of his reach, and stumbled, her bare feet sliding across the cold marble floor. She didn’t want or need her father to catch her being irresponsible. Not when her coming out was only seven months away.

She bustled toward the dim, sweeping stairwell, and chanted to herself that she needed to leave. Her hand, which still held his ring, trembled, though not from the cold.

“Victoria. Please. Don’t leave. Not yet. I need this moment between us to last. It may be as many as ten months before I see you again.” There was a tender huskiness in his voice that made her melt with yearning. It was a yearning she didn’t think she’d ever feel for anyone. Or want to feel for anyone. Not after the losses she’d endured.

Though she did pause, her pride insisted she not turn, lest she give in to the pathetic yearning she felt by flinging herself at him like a squirrel into a pile of nuts.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t go about seducing women, if that is what you think I am doing. Ask Grayson. My father was a true gentleman to his very last breath, and since his passing, I have honored his legacy. So much so, in fact, that I haven’t even allowed myself to kiss anyone.”

She spun back toward him and met his gaze across the short distance between them. “You’ve never kissed a woman? At your age?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already kissed some lucky bastard, or I will hang myself for admitting what I just did.”

She bit back a laugh, realizing how serious he was. She shook her head, her wet braid clinging to her shoulder. “Of course I haven’t kissed anyone.”

“Good. Because I am not one to share with others.”

Her fingers tightened around the ring he’d given her, the sides of the stone digging into her palm. “I wouldn’t worry about others. I’m not even allowed to be alone in the presence of a man who isn’t a relative. You know that. Even this would be considered very …”

He closed the distance between them. “Very what?”

“Improper.”

His dark brows came together. “Genuine intentions could never be improper. I swear upon my honor that I have never once pursued a woman the way I am pursuing you. But this … you … us … it is meant to be. I can feel it.”

“You can feel it?” she drawled. “Oh, dear. That cannot be good. You may require leeches.”

He glared at her. “I am being quite serious.”

She giggled. “Yes. A bit too serious, I see.”

“Victoria.” He lowered his voice, leaning toward her. “I am not being insincere. I am merely conveying what I feel. What I have always felt. Destiny has been whispering your name to me ever since our eyes met. I cannot let this go. I cannot let you go. To do so would be to walk away from everything I feel.”

Victoria gawked up at him. It was as if he really did believe in all the silly things that existed in storybooks. Silly things like magic rings and destined courtly love meant to conquer all. Why, she hadn’t believed in such nonsense since she was … thirteen, when her mother died and shattered not only her father’s life, but her own. And when Victor had died … the last of whatever true happiness she’d known had died, too. Love could conquer quite a bit, that she knew, but it couldn’t conquer death. Which was why she wasn’t about to let it conquer her.

“How can destiny be whispering anything to you?” she challenged. “You don’t even know anything about me, aside from all of our superficial banter.”

“I know quite a bit about you.”

“You do not.”

“My dear, I have exhausted myself with all the inquiries I’ve made about you. I believe I know more about you than I know about myself.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“That is exactly so.”

“Then tell me. When and where was I born?”

He tilted his head and pushed away her wet braid from her shoulder. Her heart fluttered from the touch and she felt herself leaning toward him.

“I need more of a challenge than that, Victoria.”

“So you don’t know.”

“I do know.”

She jabbed his wet chest. “Then answer it.”

He caught her hand with his, keeping it from poking him. He smiled and lifted it to his mouth.

Full, warm lips brushed against her chilled skin, sending tingles of heat darting through her entire body. Wild tingles that made her breath and her pulse catch.

Meeting her gaze, he rubbed his fingers against her hand and indulgently replied, “Both you and Victor were born on the ninth of April in the year eighteen hundred and seven in the east wing of this house. You came first and your brother second. Whilst you thrived at birth, Victor was very frail. Though physicians did not expect him to live, he did, and as a result, your parents were always very protective of him. In time, however, you became far more protective and mothered Victor to annoyance.”

She blinked and yanked her hand out of his. This was far too intimate to be respectful. “Who told you that?”

“Grayson. I had him tell me everything about you. And I do mean everything.”

“Everything?” she echoed.

“Everything.”

“You can’t know everything.”

“Oh, but I can. Ask me another question.”

“I will.” She rolled his ring against the palm of her hand and eyed the end of the wood banister beside them, trying to come up with a question. “Who is my favorite author?”

“Daniel Defoe. The History and Remarkable Life of the Truly Honourable Colonel Jacque is your favorite. And though you’ve tried numerous times to get Grayson to unearth a copy of The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, Grayson knows you are far too young to be exposed to such devious content.”

Her eyes widened. Oh, she most certainly was going to gibbet Grayson for this. “What else did my cousin tell you about me?”

“Things you would probably deny. But things I cannot help but find extremely endearing.” His eyes flicked down toward her lips. He leaned in, hovering close. His breath heated the air between them, the scent of rain and allspice drifting all around her. “I want you to kiss me. I need you to kiss me. Because right now, destiny is telling me that if we do this, our lives will never be the same.”

She drew in a breath.

In her heart, she wanted to believe this romantic sop. She wanted to believe that if she kissed him and allowed herself to submit to whatever he was offering, her entire life would be transformed and all of her doubts about relationships, people, life and death would dissipate into a pile of rose petals she could toss into a fountain. Could a kiss change her entire life like the tip of a fairy wand changing one apple into a whole pie? There was only one way to find out.

“Don’t move,” she warned.

“I won’t,” he whispered.

Victoria eyed the quiet darkness of the foyer around them. Knowing she was probably going to regret it in one way or another, she raised herself onto the tips of her bare toes, hooked a hand behind his strong neck and yanked him down toward her. She pressed her lips against his surprisingly warm and soft mouth.

Lean, muscled arms slid around her and molded her closer against the length of his rain-soaked body. Everything swayed and spun. It was incredible.

Ever so slowly, their pressed lips parted in unison. After a moment of awkward hesitation, their tongues touched. Her pulse leapt. The faint taste of sweet, spiced cake made her realize Remington had in fact been in the kitchen eating Mrs. Davidson’s Banbury cakes.

His hot, wet tongue slid against her own as he deepened their kiss. All of her melted into a tingling disarray as she pressed herself against him, wanting and needing to be near him. Remington groaned against her mouth, his large hands drifting toward the back of her waist and skimming her entire backside through her wet nightdress.

She gasped, realizing she was allowing too much, and broke their kiss, pushing herself out of his arms. That was not what she had expected. It had only made her realize she was capable of feeling so much more than she’d ever imagined, and in turn, losing so much more. “There.” She tried to sound indifferent, even though her heart pounded and her throat tightened. “Is destiny well pleased?”

His hands dropped heavily to his sides, but his eyes remained closed. “Destiny wants you to do it again.”

She let out a nervous laugh and stepped back. “I think not. My father would send me away to Scotland if he caught us doing this. And then what? We would never see each other again.”

He opened his eyes and stared at her, his chest rising and falling heavily, emphasizing how wet his shirt was and how incredibly attractive both he and his chest were. “So you want to see me again? Why?”

Her cheeks burned. “Well … I … like you. I have always liked you. You know that.”

“Like?” His voice was gruff. “I like Banbury cakes, but I’m not going to take them to the altar and give them my name and my children. I want to know. What do you really feel for me, Victoria? Tell me. Aside from like? That kiss told me you are well beyond like.”

She blinked up at him, realizing she had placed herself in a very awkward situation. He was trying to extract promises. Mrs. Lambert was going to have a fit. “You cannot expect a lady to divulge what she feels.”

“If you and Mrs. Lambert think my intentions are villainous, then neither of you know a thing about me.” He searched her face in the shadows, the silence of the house interrupted by the steady rush of rain outside. “Are you going to place my mother’s ring on your finger? Or are you going to deny what it is I know you feel?”

Kissing him had been a horrid mistake, because now he seemed to think she was in love with him. Young though she was, she understood how attachments caused one’s fingers to slide off the ledge of reality. Her own father’s grip had slipped years ago. “I will keep your ring on my finger this one night, to assure you of my fondness, and will return it to you in the morning before you leave. But that is all I am willing to offer.”

“No. I am asking you to keep it on your finger until I return from Venice.”

“Keeping it would insinuate far too much and I am not in a position to be granting you or any man favors. Now, please. Don’t tell anyone about this. Not even Grayson.”

He raised a forefinger and tapped it gently against his lips. “I will tell no one. I am and will forever be your protector from this night forth.” He lowered his finger, never once breaking their gaze. It was as if he were silently announcing to her that she was now his. All his.

She swallowed. “If you really seek to pursue this, Remington—”

“I do. Believe me, I do. By God, I have been—”

“Then I suggest you prove your worth in seven months. Not a day sooner. Good night.” Feeling her damp skin tingle beneath the continued heat of his gaze, she quickly turned and scampered up the stairs.

Odd though it was, she couldn’t even remember how she got back to her room. With trembling hands, she bolted her bedchamber door, stripped off her damp clothing and put on a dry chemise and nightdress. Burying herself within the linens and coverlet of her bed, she turned on her side and fingered the ring in her hand.

She drew in a shaky breath and let it out, praying that if Flint was indeed outside, he had found shelter for the night. Heaven forbid that whilst she had been indulging in an incredible kiss with an incredible man, Flint had drowned.

Bringing the ring to her lips, she whispered against the polished ruby, “I beg of you to prove yourself by returning Flint to my side.”

She held her breath and blinked, expecting something to happen. When nothing did—and why would it?—she slid the ring onto her finger, wanting and needing to believe in real pixie magic. The way she used to before loss had destroyed whatever was left of her family, her happiness and her heart.

Late morning, the library

VICTORIA SAT, staring vacantly at her hand which lay across the unopened book resting upon her lap. Remington’s ruby ring shimmered as she tilted her hand back and forth. Although her father had abandoned the last of his remaining house guests to assist Remington in finding Flint out in the surrounding fields, they had been gone all morning. It did not bode well.

“You are supposed to be reading,” Mrs. Lambert ordered with artificial patience from where she sat in a cane chair opposite Victoria. “Regardless of Flint’s absence, you have responsibilities that cannot be swept aside. One must exude staid refinement even during the most trying of times.”

“Yes, Mrs. Lambert.” Exude staid refinement, indeed. There was far more to life than putting on superficial airs. Her dog was missing, possibly dead, and she wasn’t even supposed to care?

Victoria huffed out a breath and grudgingly paged open the red leather-bound book, How To Avoid A Scandal.

“Ladies do not huff out breaths.” Mrs. Lambert’s brown eyes pinned her with an agitated stare.

“Yes, Mrs. Lambert.” Setting her chin, Victoria held her open book up with the refined poise expected of her. She didn’t understand why she was being forced to tolerate the teachings of an etiquette book in preparation for her coming out, which was still a whole seven months away. Not seven days away.

She read the very first page:

Whether or not a lady possesses excellent character, astounding wealth, esteemed rank, or is simply a mere Miss with nothing more than a face and a figure to recommend her to the world, society will still demand the same of each and every woman: perfection. If this appears too daunting, this author can assure you it most certainly is. Society is a ruthless creature expecting perfection in everything a woman does, yet it rarely applies those same expectations toward men. This manipulated form of prejudice creates an unfortunate imbalance that allows men to deviate in ways that put women at a disadvantage. This disadvantage is what ultimately compelled me to offer an array of words in an attempt to rescue and retain a sensibility in a woman. There is only one reason as to why a lady should read this book, and that is to prevent her from becoming a flapping fish upon a hook.

Victoria wrinkled her nose. Why did she suddenly feel intimidated by the very idea of being a woman?

Several male voices floated down the corridor, followed by heavy booted steps thudding in her direction.

A high-pitched bark echoed within the house.

Victoria’s heart leapt. She slapped her book shut, setting it on the arm of her chair, and jumped to her feet in disbelief. “Flint?”

Mrs. Lambert closed her own book and sighed.

Standing in the doorway of the library, wearing a wool greatcoat, was Remington. His silken black hair was windblown and scattered and his boots well muddied as he gripped a very wide-eyed, mud-matted and exasperated Flint. Flint barked again, excitedly squirming his tiny, tawny furred body in an effort to be released.

Remington’s bright-blue eyes met hers. “I found him in an overturned barrel on the other side of the field. Do you still want him? Or shall I toss him back outside?”

Victoria grinned, but otherwise couldn’t move. She was simply too mesmerized by Remington to even think. He really was divine. In so many ways.

Her father, somewhat out of breath, staggered in behind Remington, his lopsided cravat unraveling. He shook his unkempt blond-gray head, stern dark green eyes flicking toward her. “You need to ensure the servants don’t let that dog out again without a leash. I’m tired of tending to your responsibilities at every turn. If you can’t oversee the needs of one goddamn dog, then you can’t keep him.”

Her grin faded. Since the passing of her mother, there were times she barely recognized him anymore.

“There is no need for such harsh words, my lord. She is undeserving of them.” Remington quickly bent and set Flint onto the floor.

Flint sprinted toward her, his nails clicking against the wood floors as he dripped and flung mud. Mrs. Lambert squeaked in protest and scrambled back toward the chair she’d risen from, gathering her morning skirts to keep them away.

Victoria dropped to her knees and didn’t care that Flint’s muddy paws climbed up onto the folds of her new lilac gown. She reveled in the cold, muddy kisses that drenched her entire face. “Flint,” she breathed down at him, ruffling the damp, dirty fur around his head. “You aren’t nearly as witless as you lead everyone to believe. You survived a storm all on your own, didn’t you? Yes. Yes, you did. You even found a barrel to hide in. I am so proud of you. And Victor would be, too.”

She squeezed Flint tightly against herself, causing him to yelp. He ducked and scampered back out of the room, no doubt in search of a meal from the kitchen.

Her father sighed and met her gaze pleadingly. “It appears Remington is more of a gentleman than I. I should have never spoken to you with such vile impatience. ‘Tis unforgivable.”

Victoria smiled, feeling at peace with her father once again. “There is no need to apologize, Papa. Flint is my responsibility. Not yours.”

“Good. I am pleased to hear we understand each other. Now go. Carry on with your lessons. I will visit with you once the rest of our guests depart. Perhaps a bit of chess?” Her father smiled, turned and disappeared from the library.

Victoria glanced toward Remington, who continued to linger in the entryway, and rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts. “Thank you.” He always had an amazing way of making everything right.

A grin ruffled his lips, causing his shaven cheek to dimple. “I told you the ring was of merit.”

How could she not adore this man when all he continued to do was try to get her to adore him? Aside from valiantly coming to her defense, he’d also tramped through muddy fields all morning. Not even Grayson, drat him, had been willing to look for Flint, and her father had only gone out into the fields because Remington did.

She glanced over at Mrs. Lambert, who had turned away to gather a set of books for their upcoming lessons. She needed to return the ring. She had kept it on her finger long enough.

Victoria darted across the length of the room, toward Remington. Halting before him, she slid the ring from her finger and held it out with a mud-crusted hand. “I believe the magic lies not in this ring, but in its master. I bid you a glorious journey and promise to write if you promise to return in time for my debut.” She smirked. “I will need someone to vie for me. You may be the only one.”

His grin faded. He observed her for a solemn moment. Glancing toward Mrs. Lambert, he whispered hoarsely, “Put it back on your finger. Please. We are done playing games. I will see you upon my return.”

She blinked up at him. He wasn’t … was he?

He jerked a mud-streaked thumb toward the corridor behind them. “I leave for Portsmouth in an hour and from there to Venice. Grayson knows where I’ll be staying. Retrieve the address from him.” He lowered his voice, his lean face flushing as he now seemed to almost mouth the words, “I will compete for your hand upon my return, let there be no doubt. I only hope you won’t already be spoken for because after last night, I …” He glanced toward Mrs. Lambert and winced. “I should go.” He offered a quick bow of his head, turned and disappeared.

Her eyes widened as she glanced at the ring still pinched between her fingers. He really did intend to vie for her hand. Heavens above. This wasn’t a mere wayside fancy, was it? He really did harbor an affection for her. One she had sensed all along and yet one she had refused to acknowledge for fear it would be a farce and lead to something beyond her control as a respectable lady.

But it had already fallen beyond her control, hadn’t it? She had kissed him. Willingly. She had taken his ring and whispered to it because he told her to. Willingly. Although she had fought her adoration for him since their very first exchange of words, deep inside she knew she couldn’t fight it anymore. She had to assure him that she felt the same. Before he—

She frantically shoved the ring onto her finger and rushed out of the library. Her gown rustled around her slippered feet as she dashed after him down the corridor. “Remington?”

He paused and swung back toward her, his blue eyes capturing hers. “Yes?”

She came to an abrupt halt before him. Lingering, she wrung her hands. “I—”

“Lady Victoria!” Mrs. Lambert shrilled from the library. “Wherever have you gone to now?”

Victoria cringed, knowing she didn’t have much time. “I will write the first letter. I will also ensure Mrs. Davidson sends a few of her Banbury cakes to you in Venice. Would you like that?”

“You honor me.” Grabbing her hand with cool fingers, he brought it to his lips and kissed the ruby she had placed on her fourth finger. “Never part with this ring. It is worth far more than I could ever put into words.”

Her bare hand trembled within his larger one. “It belonged to your mother. Why would you entrust it to me?”

He stared down at her. “If you don’t know why I am entrusting it to you by now, Victoria, I have failed not only as a man, but as a human being.”

Her lips parted. “Are you asking me to—”

“Yes.” He leaned in closer, his hold tightening. “Will you have me? I have been waiting weeks to ask. Weeks. Long before the house party. Please say yes so I might speak to your father at once.”

She stared wordlessly up at him. This was madness. They had only known each other a year and yet … she felt as if she’d always known him.

Mrs. Lambert whisked into the entryway and came to an abrupt halt, causing her pinned gray hair to quiver. She gasped. “Lady Victoria. I demand you step away from Lord Remington at once.”

Victoria defied the command by tightening her grasp on Remington’s large hand. It wasn’t every day a lady was asked to become a wife. But would he return? And if he did, would he still want her once he had seen what the world had to offer? She refused to taint this wondrous moment. As her mother had once said, “One cannot embark upon an adventure without stepping onto a path. And there is no greater adventure than love.” Love. Is that what this was? The sort of love her parents had once shared?

Leaning toward Remington on the tips of her slippered toes, she whispered quickly, “Let our letters determine what will become of us before we tell my father anything more. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Remington bowed his head and rested his warm forehead against hers. “My stepsister is engaged to a British nobleman in Venice, which is why I am even—”

“Lord Remington!” Mrs. Lambert’s slippered heels click, click, clicked against the marble floor as she marched toward them, closing the vast distance between them. “I am without words. Does my presence mean nothing to either of you?”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Lambert.” Remington lifted his forehead from Victoria’s and ever so slowly slid his fingers from hers, as though he were trying to memorize every inch of her hand against his own. He stepped back and offered Victoria a quick bow, setting his hand against the brass buttons of his waistcoat. “I reluctantly depart.”

She smiled. “I reluctantly allow you to depart.”

He smiled, turned and strode away, his greatcoat shifting around his muddy boots and tall frame. When he reached the end of the vast corridor, he paused. Glancing back, he gave her a huge, saucy grin bursting with pride.

Her heart squeezed as she held up a hand in parting, wishing he didn’t have to go to Venice.

Ever so slowly he rounded the corner, his large hand playfully dragging against the length of the wall, as if he were forcing himself to leave. Then he, and his reluctant hand, disappeared.

Victoria let out a breathy sigh and refrained from whirling about the entire corridor like a top.

“Lady Victoria,” Mrs. Lambert chided, coming into full view. “I do believe your current reading is coming at an opportune time. I will expect you to have the entire book read within the week. I will also expect you to memorize and recite twenty different passages. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lambert.”

“You will now follow me.”

“Yes, Mrs. Lambert.” Not caring if the woman noticed, Victoria lifted her hand and admired the mud-streaked ruby ring on her finger as she dutifully breezed back into the library. Was there a connection between Flint’s return and the ring? Not likely. But Remington was a fantastic magician of a different sort. The sort who made a wary soul such as hers give away not only a kiss, but her heart.

SCANDAL TWO

A lady should never engage in secret correspondences. For who is going to supervise all the words being scribed? Rest assured, much can and will go wrong, and much to a lady’s chagrin, there will even be documented proof.

How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

September 15, 1824

MY DEAR Remington,

Grayson is completely beside himself with grief now that you are gone, and has become rather annoying as a result of it. He is forever demanding I play chess with him whenever he visits, and claims I am the only one who can play as well as you. I never realized how close you and he were. It pleases me to no end knowing how fond Grayson is of you and only confirms everything I already know. Though I constantly ask him questions about you, and Grayson pesters me to disclose what it is I feel, I haven’t confessed to anything. Not yet. I am convinced everyone will only dismiss it as calf love if we present this prior to my coming out. And while I have yet to fully understand what it is we share and what it is I am submitting to, I do know I cannot brush this or you aside. As for that adorable little fool you rescued, he is still getting into trouble. During my French lesson, Flint managed to yank down my great-grandmama’s tablecloth in the blue drawing room and shattered what used to be Mama’s favorite antique vase. Papa was livid and threatened to make sausages out of him, even though I know he never would, since Flint is all we have left of Victor. I miss my brother, and think of him often, for he was my dearest friend and the only person I was able to confide everything to. Unlike before, however, I don’t feel quite so haunted. Perhaps it is because I now have new memories to replace the old. I find myself lingering by the staircase where you and I kissed, and do it more often than I should. Even Mrs. Lambert noticed my lingering and asked why I was always loitering about the staircase. It was embarrassing. Please write and tell me everything about Venice.

Ardently awaiting your return,

Victoria

16th October, 1824

MY DARLING Victoria,

I would like to begin my first correspondence by finally confessing how in love with you I really am. I have been in love with you for quite some time. I carry your letter with me in the inner pocket of my coat and pull it out whenever I think about you. Which is often. My stepmother insists I am daft for submitting to you so blindly. Of course, she thinks everything about me is daft. She claims I am terribly naïve when it comes to women, and at nineteen, I suppose I am. But I would rather be naïve than a superficial ingrate like the rest of the men around me. I often wonder why my father remarried at all. My stepmother is so prickly, quick to judge and prefers harsh words over any patience or kindness. Surprisingly, my stepsister, Cornelia, is nothing like her. She is very dedicated to being a good person and loved my father very much, which will forever merit my respect. Indeed, Cornelia is the only reason I continue to strive to please my stepmother at all.

Venice is incredible. I now understand why this city is so celebrated. The air is incredibly lush, with scents constantly changing depending upon the winds, and because the city is surrounded by both sea and sky, not a single day appears to be alike. To my disappointment, Venetians do not share the same passion for hunting that we do in England, not even in the plains or the hills, which are considered country. But they do excel in the art of catching birds, which isn’t all that surprising, considering there are more birds in this city than people. In the Laguna around Venice, men crawl into submerged tubs with weapons in hand and shoot everything in sight. The shooting of birds appears to be as popular as keeping them for pets. Whilst many are confined, I visited one palazzo in which all the birds flew about quite freely. Imagine hosting a ball in London whilst birds flap, chirp and deposit droppings on the furniture and guests at every turn. The ton would have a fit. Thus far, I have ridden countless gondolas. Indeed, what a carriage is to London, a gondola is to Venice, and surprising though it may be, there are those who claim to have actually never seen a horse at all. Each day, as I glide along water pathways and watch buildings float by, I think to myself how unfair it is that I am unable to share this city with you. After we marry—and we will—I insist we come to Venice, so that we can fulfill the potential of what seems to be a very romantic city.

At night, it is quiet, and decrepit buildings shine like new in the moonlight. The stars above shimmer, whilst the lit lanterns on the gondolas sway over rustling waters. I wish to share this and more with you. By the by, there is much more to eat here than merely citrus, soup and macaroni. There are melons, chocolate, cod, mussels, and the chefs in every noble home I have visited thus far are all, surprisingly, French. I am beginning to believe that Napoleon, damn him, invaded every country’s kitchen. Despite the food being exceptionally good, I do hope you will still send along those promised Banbury cakes. I miss them. Though not nearly as much as I miss you. I don’t wish to be forward, but every night I stare up at the ceiling of my room and think about you, and wonder what it would be like to have you in my arms and in my bed. This need to be near you is overwhelming.

I am and will forever be yours,

Remington

November 15, 1824

MY DEAR Remington,

I had Mrs. Davidson bake six Banbury cakes for you. You should be receiving them shortly, although I cannot promise they will arrive intact. Let us hope they do. Venice, as you describe it, sounds so divine. You will be happy to hear that Grayson intends on visiting you there in the next few months. I am livid, knowing I am unable to join him. Why is it he can go anywhere he pleases with whomever he pleases, whilst I remain confined in the library with Mrs. Lambert until my coming out? I prefer experiencing the world as opposed to learning about it through texts. What is worse, while I wait for my coming out, I am being forced to read and re-read a certain etiquette book, How To Avoid a Scandal. Although there is a vast amount of valuable advice to be found within its pages, the art of being a true lady, as is defined by this book and, I suppose, society, is rather horrifying to behold. I do believe I shall find myself ostracized for breathing the wrong way.

Now with regard to your bed … Though no one knows of our correspondences, except for Grayson and my lady’s maid, who both sneak your letters in and then sneak my letters out, I was compelled to ask Mrs. Lambert a few questions—questions that came about after I had read what little is stated about matrimonial duties in my etiquette book. Mrs. Lambert refused to answer, and instead forced me to write the words “I am a respectable lady” four hundred and fifty times. As I do not wish to be forced to write “I am a respectable lady” four hundred and fifty more times, I demand you elaborate as to what truly does go on between a man and a woman.

Yours faithfully,

Victoria

December 5, 1824

MY DARLING Victoria,

Where is a gentleman to begin? I should never have mentioned my bed at all. Being a gentleman, I shan’t go into too much detail, just enough to ease your curiosity and save you from further punishment. When I mentioned my bed, I was referring to the art of love. It involves no pretenses and consists of breath, passion and pleasure that in time will lead to the creation of precious life within your womb. There is far, far more than this, I assure you, but I am unwilling to scorch the tip of my quill or this parchment. Simply know that I am looking forward to our wedding night and think about it more often than a gentleman should. As a result of this restlessness within me, I have been distracting myself in many new ways. I travel to the plains often and carve every tree I pass with your name, so even though you are not here, everyone will still know of you. Fortunately, by overseeing the last arrangements for Cornelia’s wedding I have been fairly occupied. She is thrilled, as it is a good match. I now know I shall be returning to England in a little less than two months, shortly after the wedding. I cannot wait to see you and sweep you up into my arms and scandalize everyone. By the by, many thanks. I received all six Banbury cakes. To my distress, all six had become one enormous crumb. After eating what I could salvage, I took the rest to the Piazza San Marco and shared my crumbs with all the birds. They were all rather appreciative, and now, every time I visit the piazza, the birds seem to remember me and ardently flock to me expecting more. I am therefore asking you to send more Banbury cakes for my new Venetian friends. Christmas will be here soon. How odd to know I will not be celebrating it in England.

I am and will forever be yours,

Remington

December 25, 1824

MY DEAR Remington,

A Merry Christmas to you and your family. I confess Christmas is never as merry for me or Papa as it should be. Our Victor died on Christmas morn, now two years past, and so our celebration today was shadowed by his empty chair and untouched setting at the table, which Papa insists we set for Victor the way we always have done for Mama. I could hardly eat having to stare at those two empty settings. I found Papa lingering in the doorway of Mama’s empty bedchamber. It saddened me so, and achingly reminded me of how much he truly loved her. Though I tried to comfort him, he waved me away and preferred not to speak of it. It made me realize how much I have become like him, always waving others away. You would have adored Mama and Victor, and I know they would have adored you. They were very good at giving advice and forever voicing the brighter aspect of everything. Much like you.

Now as for this naughty business involving your bed, I cannot help but believe anything involving you will be divine. Even if it is naughty. Mrs. Davidson will be sending along another six Banbury cakes for your Venetian friends. You should receive them shortly after this letter. I would write more, but I confess I am exhausted after having spent the entire evening crying over Victor. I promise to write much more next time. I also promise to be more cheerful.

Yours faithfully,

Victoria

February 28, 1825

MY DEAR Remington,

I did not write because I have been waiting to hear from you. I realize you are probably very busy with your new life. I can only fathom how tedious it must be to orchestrate a traditional British wedding set in the heart of Venice. I imagine it would be like trying to eat crumpets with macaroni. I confess, though, I am disappointed you did not write even to wish me a merry Christmas. Grayson has informed me you haven’t written anything to him in two months, either. He worries. As do I. Please write and assure us both that you are well.

Yours faithfully,

Victoria

March 2, 1825

MY DARLING Victoria,

Please forgive my lengthy silence. I did not know how to go about writing this letter. In an effort to increase my funds and offer you a better prospect upon my return, I invested far more than I should have into a Venetian venture that has closed its doors due to corruption. As a result of my stupidity, I am ruined. My secretary and bookkeepers are trying to make sense of whatever finances I have. Though they all assisted in placing this investment, one cannot predict where greed hides and festers within seemingly respectable establishments. Although the men responsible for the corruption have been found and named, the money they swindled from me and others is all gone. I hope they hang every last one of them, as I was not the only one affected by their greed. I have been advised to sell my estate and furnishings in West Sussex as well as everything I have here in Venice, lest whatever meager finances I do have disappear. I am overwhelmed by this imposing weight. Cornelia does not blame me, but she does nothing but cry. What is worse, plans for her wedding were terminated after it was made known how ruined we truly are. Aristocracy is so heartless and superficial in its affections. The dowry that was supposed to be allotted to Cornelia has been put toward our debts, though little good it has done. My stepmother is in complete denial. She still goes out and purchases extravagant things we cannot afford and refuses to return them despite my pleas. Creditors have been demanding payments for weeks. Payments I do not have. There is one measure of hope left, which I am considering. I was offered a rare opportunity to financially redeem myself, though it is far beneath my position in life. I would be nothing more than a servant, but it would eliminate my debts and ensure that my stepmother and Cornelia will live comfortably again. This position, however, would require a contract and obligation to stay in Venice for another five years. The thought of not seeing you for a year, yet alone five, is unsettling and agonizing. But what am I to do? Allow my duties toward my family to fall away? I was the one to place this hardship upon them and I must be the one to right it. Their well-being and happiness depends upon it. I wish you were here to advise me, as my thoughts are pulling me in directions I do not wish to go.

Ever yours,

Remington

April 6, 1825

MY DEAR Remington,

Out of desperation, I presented your letter to Papa and begged him to let us marry before my coming out. I regret ever turning to him at all. I have never seen him so unwilling to listen to reason. He overturned every piece of furniture in my room and despite my pleas, retrieved and destroyed all of your letters. It was like watching my own soul burn in the flames of hell. Though he insists I cannot associate with a ruined man, I assure you that nothing, not even my father, will keep us apart. I informed Grayson of everything and begged him to travel to Venice in my stead. He is very grieved and will be leaving within a week. My uncle, kind soul that he is, has graciously gifted a very generous sum for you, which we hope will eliminate all debts. Wait for him to arrive and do not bind yourself to anything that will keep you from returning to England. Until I receive word from you or Grayson, I whisper for your good fortune into your mother’s ring and patiently bide my time.

Yours faithfully,

Victoria

May 15, 1825

MY DARLING Victoria,

Your devotion to me is humbling and beyond anything I deserve. I could never separate you from your father. Never. The man has already lost a wife and a son; do not bring him more pain by forcing him to lose a daughter. I understand your father’s concerns and, like him, refuse to bind you to a ruined man. You will have nothing if you marry me, and you deserve far, far more. You deserve a man who will be able to oversee your happiness in a way I no longer can. Though my own hand trembles at scribing this, I must release you of your affections. I cannot be selfish in this, even though I desperately want to be. You are eighteen now and have most likely begun your first Season. I beg of you to submit to finding a husband worthy of you. If you love me, Victoria, which I know you do, all I ask is that you honor me for the rest of my days by keeping my mother’s ring on your finger. That way, you and I will forever be wed in spirit. I hope you will understand and forgive me for having already taken the position long before Grayson arrived. My financial circumstances were simply too dire. I hope that you will continue to write as it is all I will have left of you. For although I am releasing you of your affections, I assure you I am not releasing myself of mine.

Ever yours,

Remington

June 28, 1825

REMINGTON,

Despite a successful Season that resulted in eight offers of marriage, I have refused them all. My father threatens to send me to a convent at every turn, but, devoted fool that I am, I keep informing him that no other man will ever love me as much as you. Am I a fool to think that? I am beginning to think I am. Grayson has at long last sent word from Venice and has informed me that you are doing quite well on your own and that you actually had no need for my uncle’s money at all. I am confused as to what position you have taken that would have enabled such a miraculous financial recovery. Was there ever a position? Were you ever in need of funds? Or was it an excuse to rid yourself of your obligations toward me after a better prospect had presented itself? Grayson refuses to elaborate, but I fear you have placed a pretty mask upon the ugly face of deceit. If this position you refer to has caused you to abandon your noble intentions and wed another, I beg of you to inform me of it. If there is no other, and you are merely living beyond your means, live with what is only necessary, and marry me. I do love you, Remington, and ask that you love me by being faithful and truthful. To admit to the love I feel for you in ink whilst offering to abandon my father to be at your side in Venice is the sacrifice I am willing to make for you. What will be your sacrifice?

Victoria

August 1, 1825

VICTORIA,

Your words of love overwhelmed me and filled me with a new hope I had not felt in months. Wretched though it is, I am committed to five years here in Venice. Neither you nor Grayson could ever truly understand the difficulties of poverty and narrow circumstance. Neither you nor Grayson could ever understand how it forces even the best of men to poison everything they believe in merely to ensure the well-being of those they love most. You are a greater fool than I if you think I could ever betray you by wedding or loving another. My soul will forever be yours. No matter what path I take in this life, I will remember all that we have shared and vow, in your honor, never to marry, regardless of what does and does not happen. Though I want to tell you what has become of me and what it is I have committed myself to, I cannot and will not, lest you judge me. I prefer death itself, Victoria, over having you judge me. Due to recent events beyond anything I can control, we cannot associate. Do not even breathe my name. If you oppose me in this, rest assured, I will not reply and will burn every correspondence you send upon its arrival. Understand that I only do this because I love you and seek to protect you and your good name. Live well and without regret and remember you will always be loved by me. Always.

Yours ever,

Remington

September 26, 1825

REMINGTON,

Grayson refuses to inform me of your whereabouts or what has become of you. He claims he has been sworn to secrecy. I worry to no end and despise you and him for betraying me in so cruel a manner. With the Season over, I do nothing but stare at books whose words hold no meaning. At night, I cry, feeling that I have buried yet another person I love. Why would you condemn me to a life without you? Why would you condemn me to never knowing what has become of you? Does pride truly mean more to you than I do? I only wish to understand you, not judge you. Within my soul, I knew this would happen. I knew from the moment I gave in to this stupid passion I felt for you that you would only disappoint me and shred what little remained of my heart. I simply thought that after having endured all the losses I have, I would have been more prepared for the pain you are forcing me to swallow. And yet I am not. This is beyond anything I ever wanted to feel again. At the very least, write and assure me you have not been harmed. I fear for you and the life you have fallen into.

Ever faithfully and always yours, Victoria

DESPITE THIS and fifty-two other letters Victoria sent over the next two years, Remington was true to his word and never replied. Not once. And with each unanswered letter, the love she had once dared to feel for him faded with her disappointment—till soon, she was sure there was no love left at all.

SCANDAL THREE

Always seek to honor thy mother and thy father. For by honoring them, a lady, in turn, honors herself.

How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

April 4, 1829

London, England

A MUFFLED groan startled Victoria out of a dreamless sleep. Flint jumped down from her lap onto the floor, scampering toward her father’s bed, and whimpered. Victoria stumbled up out of the upholstered chair. Gathering her full skirts, she bustled toward the bed, thankful for the few candles still flickering in their sconces.

She lowered herself onto the edge of the feather mattress and slid a trembling hand up the length of her father’s arm, hidden beneath the sleeve of his nightshirt. His arm was bound with linen that had been soaked in narcissus water to assist in healing his lesions.

Victoria swallowed and eyed the linen strips covering his face. “Maladie de Bayle,” the physicians had grimly announced, upon her father’s insistence that she finally know the truth about his illness. Syphilis. It was a secret her father had kept in unspoken shame for years after he had contracted it from a less than reputable establishment.

No amount of arsenic, mercury, guaiac, or jars or tins with salves and powders concocted by quacks could save him now. All she could do was make life bearable for him over these next few months until his body could no longer fight the inevitable.

The earl’s roughened hand grabbed hers, causing her heart to skitter. His bandaged face jerked toward her. “Where is he?”

“Who?” she whispered.

Dark green eyes squinted up at her from beneath the layers of bandages covering everything but his eyes and lips. “Victor. Where is he? I must speak to him. Bring him to me, so I may tell him I am dying.”

Tears burned her eyes as she shakily clasped his hand with both of hers. The physicians had warned her of this. Delusions were but the beginning of what she could expect over these next few months.

She swallowed, trying not to envision her brother’s playful, bright jade eyes. “Victor isn’t here. He … died. But I am here and will continue to be. I vow.”

“No. No, no, no. My son is not dead.” The earl shoved her hands away and fumbled with the linens around him. “Where is he? Why is he not at my side? And who are you? What do you want?”

Victoria bit back a sob and shook her head. “I am your daughter. Papa, ‘tis me. Victoria. Surely you recognize me?”

He squinted up at her, his chest heaving. His brows creased. He shook his head and rasped, “No. Leave.”

Tears stung her eyes and tumbled forth, trickling down her cheeks. She tried to keep her body from trembling as she lowered her lips to her father’s hands and kissed them. “Do not send me away,” she begged. “Please.” She clung to his hand, wishing they could both somehow return to the way things used to be. When she, Mama, Victor and he had all been a family.

Hesitant fingers touched her pinned hair and fingered it. “Victor has your hair,” he murmured in awe. “Flaxen. How very odd. Why do you have his hair?”

“Victor and I were twins,” she whispered. “Surely you remember me, Papa. I am your Victoria.”

He shook his head against the pillows. “No. No, your hair is too long. You are not my Victor. Tell him I will not see anyone but him. Tell him. Now go. Be of use and find him.” He pushed her hands away and shifted against the pillows.

Victoria released another quiet sob and blindly smoothed out the linens around him. Once he died, there would be nothing left of her or her heart. Fortunately, the physicians had assured her he still had at least another six to eight months within him.

The ruby-and-gold ring on her finger glinted within the candlelight. She lifted it to her lips and whispered against the polished ruby the same words she had whispered to it these past many weeks: “Cure him. Please. He does not deserve this. He doesn’t.”

Though she had long since lost faith in the ring’s ability to grant wishes, what else did she have left to believe in? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

All grew quiet and her father’s sleepy, heavy breaths filled the room. Flint, who had been loitering beside the bed, veered back toward the chair by the hearth and hopped onto it. After turning a few times, he settled himself against the cushion and laid his furry head against his paws. He huffed out an exhausted breath through his nostrils and blinked several times, his brown eyes observing her with a sadness that seemed to reflect her own.

Even Flint knew her father was dying.

“Such is life,” she whispered to Flint. “We live, we love, we suffer because we love, we suffer some more because we want to believe there is more to life than suffering, and then we die.”

Flint shifted, closed his eyes and gave way to sleep.

Though Victoria fought to stay awake and watch over her father, her eyes grew heavy and her body weak. She scooted onto the edge of the bed and draped herself beside him, trying not to touch him lest he wake. Closing her eyes, she drifted.

What seemed like a heartbeat later, she squinted against morning sunlight peering in through the open curtains of the window. The chambermaid had forgotten to pull them shut for the night.

Victoria blinked and carefully slid down and out of her father’s bed. She turned back to her father and tilted her head to one side to better observe him. Dust particles floated in the bright rays of light streaming in, illuminating his bandaged face. His exposed lips were parted and his eyes were still closed as his chest peacefully rose up, then down, up then down.

If only she could give him equal peace when his eyes were open. Dearest God. He no longer knew who she was.

Victoria shakily swiped away a long, blond lock that had fallen out from her pinned hair to the side of her face. It would appear the time had indeed come to submit to her father’s last dying wish. That she, Lady Victoria Jane Emerson, be wed before he was unable to attend her wedding.

Her uncle and Grayson had been scrambling to procure her father’s choices in suitors for weeks and would be officially introducing her to all three soon. Though it was not by any means appropriate, considering her father still had months left to live, she knew the sooner she married, the sooner she could become the sort of daughter he deserved. The sort of daughter she’d never been during her debutante years. It was time to admit that the husband she had always wanted and needed no longer existed. And sometimes, though only sometimes, she actually wondered if he had ever existed at all.

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