She’s totally unsuitable...

...to be his duchess!

Part of The Beauchamp Heirs: Dominic Beauchamp, Lord Avon, is a powerful duke’s heir and it’s his duty to marry well. His bride must have impeccable breeding, manners and grace. But can anyone meet his exacting standards? Certainly not the irrepressible Liberty Lovejoy, who’s been thrust into society after years of being a provincial nobody. She’s too bold, too bubbly...so why is she the only lady he’s thinking about?

JANICE PRESTON grew up in Wembley, North London, with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. In the past she has worked as a farmer, a police call-handler and a university administrator. She now lives in the West Midlands, with her husband and two cats, and has a part-time job as a weight management counsellor—vainly trying to control her own weight despite her love of chocolate!

Also by Janice Preston

His Convenient Highland Wedding

The Beauchamp Betrothals miniseries

Cinderella and the Duke

Scandal and Miss Markham

Lady Cecily and the Mysterious Mr Gray

The Beauchamp Heirs miniseries

Lady Olivia and the Infamous Rake

Daring to Love the Duke’s Heir

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Daring to Love the Duke’s Heir

Janice Preston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08913-5

DARING TO LOVE THE DUKE’S HEIR

© 2019 Janice Preston

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To Lynn.

Thank you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
March 1817

Raindrops rattled on the roof of the carriage that carried Miss Liberty Lovejoy and her sister Hope through the dark, slick streets of a rain-drenched London.

‘Liberty. I beg you...please do not do this. Gideon will never forgive you.’

Liberty wrenched her attention from the passing streets and resolutely swallowed down her own burgeoning doubt. She didn’t want to do this, but she had to. Someone must save Gideon from himself.

‘I have to do something, Hope. Gideon is running amok and it is all the fault of Lord Alexander Beauchamp. Gideon will be grateful to me for saving him from the results of his own folly. Eventually.’

‘Well, I do not think you are fair to embroil me without warning,’ said Hope tartly. ‘You said we were going to Hookham’s. I would never have agreed to accompany you if I knew you intended to visit Alexander’s father, of all people. He is a duke, Liberty. People like us do not just call upon a duke.’

Hope’s reaction did not surprise Liberty—she had given up expecting support from either of her sisters when there was any unpleasantness to deal with. They had been so young when their parents had died within days of one another and they had come to rely on Liberty and her twin brother, Gideon—just nineteen at the time—to take charge. Uncle Eustace was worse than useless...far too selfish to stir himself, even though he had been appointed their guardian. It was no wonder her entire family took Liberty for granted.

‘If you are afraid to come in, you may remain in the carriage while I speak to the Duke. I cannot afford the luxury of fear.’ Oh, but how she wished she could order Bilk, their coachman, to turn the carriage around and drive back to their rented London house. ‘It is my responsibility as the eldest—’

‘You are the eldest by a mere five minutes, Liberty Louisa Lovejoy, and Gideon now happens to be an earl.’

‘His conduct is more reminiscent of an overgrown schoolboy than a peer of the realm,’ retorted Liberty.

Since Liberty’s twin brother had unexpectedly acceded to the Earldom of Wendover last autumn his behaviour had grown increasingly exasperating. Was it really asking too much of him to help her to secure their sisters’ futures instead of careening around town and frittering his newfound prosperity on wine, cards and horses and in the pursuit of females who were no better than they should be? Besides, she missed Gideon and how they had worked together to ensure the survival of their family.

‘Well, I would say that being an earl makes him senior to you, do you not? Do not forget we are all reliant on his goodwill now if we do not wish to be banished back to Eversham with Uncle Eustace. I think it is very generous of Gideon to fund a Season for all three of us at the same time.’

Liberty clenched her jaw. If Hope only knew how much persuasion it had taken for Gideon to agree to his sisters coming to London in the first place...left to himself, she had no doubt her twin would have been content for his sisters to remain hidden away at Eversham for ever while he lived the high life to which he now felt entitled.

She stared out of the window, seeing neither the grey streets they passed nor the people hurrying along beneath their umbrellas, wrapped in coats and cloaks against the dreadful dark, cold and wet weather that had assailed the entire country for the past year. If it were not for Hope and Verity she would much prefer to still be at home, running the house for Uncle Eustace—her late mother’s unmarried brother who had always made his home with the Lovejoys—and living in quiet obscurity.

But Hope and Verity, at one-and-twenty and nineteen respectively, deserved a chance to better themselves in life. After their parents’ deaths there had been neither opportunity nor funds for the younger Lovejoy sisters to even dream of a come out, not until the unexpected death of a distant cousin and his two sons in a house fire and Gideon’s sudden preferment.

‘And do not forget what Mrs Mount said.’ Hope’s words broke into Liberty’s train of thought. ‘It is bad etiquette to call on your social superiors before they have left their card with you.’

Mrs Mount was the lady they had hired as duenna during their sojourn in London. The daughter of a viscount and now the widow of the younger son of an earl, she had many acquaintances within the ton and was thus perfectly placed to help steer the Lovejoy girls through the mysteries of polite society. Well, perfectly placed if Liberty chose to follow her advice. Which, in this instance, she did not.

‘It is a certainty that the Duke of Cheriton is never likely to leave his card for us,’ said Liberty, ‘so I do not see that I have any choice if I am to persuade him to control his son’s wild behaviour.’

‘I cannot believe that a duke will take kindly to a country squire’s daughter lecturing him on how he should control his son. Libby—it is not too late. Please, let us go home and I promise I will help you talk some sense into Gideon.’

‘But we have tried that, Hope, many times, and he ignores us. I fear his new status has gone to his head and that he will never be the same again.’

She was not even certain she much liked the man her twin had become. He had become secretive and thoughtless, and the closeness that had bound the two of them together throughout their childhood now felt as though it hung by the most fragile of threads.

It breaks my heart, this distance between us.

Liberty slid one gloved hand inside her woollen cloak and pressed it to her upper chest, rubbing in a soothing, circular motion, but the familiar hollow ache remained, as it had for the five years since her childhood sweetheart, Bernard, died.

Being back in London had resurrected those dreadful memories and, with them, the guilt. If only she hadn’t been so selfish by accepting the offer from her wealthy godmother to sponsor her through a London Season. If only she had stayed at home, Bernard and her parents might still be alive. At the very least she would have been able to say goodbye to her husband-to-be. A knot of disquiet had taken root in her stomach since their arrival in London...a nagging reminder of her selfishness and her failure.

Well, she would not fail Gideon, or the girls. And if it meant calling on a duke unannounced, then so be it.

In an unexpected gesture, Hope clasped Liberty’s hand.

‘You cannot protect all of us all the time, Liberty. Gideon is a grown man. I know you miss the old Gideon, but he will come to his senses, you’ll see.’

‘But what if he does not? What if I sit by and do nothing and he ends up destroying himself? And that’s quite apart from the damage his wild behaviour will do to you and Verity.’

Their background would be hurdle enough without Gideon casting a deeper shadow over them. Papa had been a gentleman, but Mama had been the daughter of a coal merchant—that whiff of trade would be a difficult barrier to overcome, according to Mrs Mount.

The carriage rocked to a halt.

‘This must be it,’ Hope said, her voice awed. ‘Goodness!’

Liberty was momentarily distracted as thunder growled in the distance, a stark reminder of the most terrible day in her life—the day she had learned that not only both her beloved parents, but also Bernard, had succumbed to the outbreak of cholera that swept through their village while Liberty had been enjoying dress fittings in London in preparation for her debut. She had not even glimpsed the inside of a ballroom before receiving that urgent summons to return home.

She thrust down the memory that still had the power to bring hot, stinging tears to her eyes and peered through the rain that streamed down the window. She gulped. This was Beauchamp House? It was huge. Magnificent. Intimidating. It was not a house, but a mansion. Stretching for five wide bays, it would swallow several houses such as their modest rented abode in Green Street. A new surge of doubt as to her plan swept over Liberty, but she had come this far and she wouldn’t allow herself to back away now. She gathered her courage, flung open the carriage door, grabbed her oilskin umbrella and, opening it, thrust it out of the door into the deluge. Lightning flickered and she braced herself for the next rumble of thunder. Was the storm getting closer? There were several seconds before the sound reached her ears—it sounded more distant than before and she released her pent-up breath. She gave herself no time for further qualms. Bilk handed her down and she hurried up the steps to the imposing front door of Beauchamp House, which remained firmly shut.

She lifted the brass knocker—so highly polished it gleamed even in the unnatural yellowish-grey afternoon light—and let it fall. Then she waited, irritation clambering over any nerves she felt at facing such a powerful nobleman. What was taking so long? ‘Where—?’

‘Might I be of assistance?’

She whipped around. A carriage was drawing away from the front of the house, presumably after depositing this man...her darting gaze settled on his face, half-shielded by his own umbrella, and she gasped, her stomach clenching with anger. She held fast to her courage and straightened her spine even though her knees quaked. This close, she was only too conscious of Lord Alexander Beauchamp’s daunting presence—his height and the width of his shoulders spoke of a powerful man.

‘I have come to speak to your father about your behaviour.’

He stiffened, his dark brows slashed into a forbidding frown. ‘I beg your pardon?’

As she opened her mouth, he held up his hand, palm forward, effectively silencing her. ‘Apart from the fact that you and I have never met, madam, I regret to inform you that the Duke is not in residence.’ He brushed past her to the door.

‘We may indeed never have met, my lord, but I know who you are.’ Liberty set her jaw. She’d recognise Lord Alexander Beauchamp anywhere, even though she’d only ever glimpsed him in the distance as he gaily led her brother astray. ‘The knocker is on the door.’ She summoned her very haughtiest tone. ‘That means the family is in residence.’

‘A member of the family, maybe, but that member is not my father. Now, if you will excuse me? You might relish being out in such weather, but I can assure you I do not.’ The door began to open. ‘I suggest you put your grievance into writing. If you have it delivered here it will be forwarded on to my father for his attention, you have my word.’

The word of a rackety rakehell!

The door opened fully to reveal a liveried footman.

‘Sorry, milord,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I was downstairs when I heard the knock.’

‘No need for apologies, William. This—’ Liberty stiffened, detecting the faint curl of his upper lip as His Lordship looked her up and down ‘—person wished to speak to my father. I have advised her to write to him.’

He handed his dripping umbrella to the servant and strode into the hall. Despair spread its tentacles through Liberty, squeezing her lungs. Coming here to confront the Duke had been a risk, but at least she would have had an opportunity to use her powers of persuasion. A letter could be all too easily dismissed. It was true she had never met Alexander, but perhaps if he knew who she was...? If she could appeal to his better nature...?

‘Lord Alexander! Please!’ She tried to dodge around the footman, who foiled her attempts using His Lordship’s still-open umbrella. ‘Wait, I beg of you.’

Once she succeeded in knocking aside that umbrella, she could see His Lordship had stopped and now faced her, a look of weary resignation on his face. Encouraged, she discarded her own umbrella on the doorstep and rushed towards him, darting around the still-protesting footman.

‘Please. May we talk? I am Gideon’s sister.’

His brows snapped together, forming once again a dark slash across his forehead. ‘Gideon? Who is Gideon?’

‘Lord Wendover.’

‘You have my sympathy.’

Liberty bridled. ‘If you think so little of him, why do you spend so much time together?’

He looked beyond her. ‘William—take the lady’s coat and bonnet, if you please. Ask Mrs Himley to send wine and cakes to the drawing room, and find a maid to sit with us—’ He looked Liberty up and down before fixing his gaze on her face. The chill in his light-coloured eyes sent a shiver through her. ‘For propriety’s sake,’ he continued. ‘You might have no compunction about calling upon your social superiors not only uninvited but also unchaperoned, madam, but a man cannot be too careful.’

The nerve of him! ‘My sister is in the carriage outside,’ said Liberty, shedding her dripping cloak. ‘She was too afraid to come in and speak to your father.’

‘Too afraid or too sensible? I suspect the latter. Perhaps you would be wise to pay more attention to your sister’s instincts.’ His bored tone sent Liberty’s temper soaring. ‘Invite her to join us, William, if you please. She cannot wait outside. But I shall still require a maid,’ he called after the departing footman.

He eyed Liberty again, from head to toe, and she squirmed inside. She had donned her best Pomona-green bombazine afternoon dress for this visit to the Duke, but His Lordship’s impassive inspection made her feel as though she was dressed in rags. It was not the height of fashion—she had been unable to reconcile herself to wasting money on new gowns when she had a trunk full of barely worn dresses and accessories from five years ago—but it was respectable.

‘One cannot be too careful.’

He means for himself! He is not concerned with my reputation, only that I might try to entrap him!

Liberty squared her shoulders and elevated her chin. ‘The drawing room, sir?’ She was proud of the haughty tone she achieved.

Utterly unruffled, he strolled to a nearby door and opened it. ‘This way, ma’am.’ His tone conveyed bored amusement.

She swept through, head high. How dare he treat her as though she were of no consequence? Although, she had to admit it was humiliation that spurred her rage. Undoubtedly, to a duke’s son, she was inconsequential. He followed her inside the elegantly furnished room with its vermilion-painted walls above white-painted wainscoting, its high ceiling with elaborately moulded cornice and three tall windows dressed with delicately sprigged floor-length curtains.

‘You are suffering under a misapprehension.’

She started at the voice behind her. She halted her inspection of the room and turned to find him closer than she anticipated. Nerves fluttered deep in her belly as she got her first good look at his pale silvery-grey eyes and the utter confidence they conveyed. And why should they not? Not only was he the son of one of the most powerful Dukes in the land but he was sinfully, classically handsome with a straight nose, sharp cheekbones and a beautifully sculpted mouth above a determined chin. Those silvery eyes of his seemed to penetrate deep inside her and yet they were as opaque as a silver coin, revealing no hint of his thoughts.

She stepped back, dragging her gaze from his. His beautifully tied cravat—how Gideon would appreciate such skill in his valet!—sported a simple gold pin in the shape of a whip and his olive-green superfine coat hugged wide shoulders and well-muscled arms. Beneath that form-fitting coat he sported a grey-and-white-striped waistcoat that did nothing to hide the heavy muscles of his chest. Her eyes travelled further, skimming the powerful thighs encased in cream breeches. He had the look of a Corinthian...the name given to gentlemen who enjoyed and excelled at physical sports such as riding, boxing and fencing, according to Gideon.

The face of a Greek God, the body of a warrior and a duke’s son. How could one man have so many advantages in life? Her gaze snapped back to his face, the sight of those powerful thighs imprinted on her brain. He was watching her. By the quirk of his lips, her perusal of his person amused him. Mortified at being caught studying him as a sculptor might study his subject, Liberty swallowed and then sucked in a deep breath. That did nothing to calm her nerves. Male and spicy, his scent filled her and those butterflies in her belly fluttered even more.

She forced a scowl to her face. This was Lord Alexander Beauchamp: the devil who was leading Gideon astray. She tilted her chin and looked down her nose at him, but the look that satisfactorily quelled the most persistent of tradesmen dunning for payment made no impression on His Lordship, judging by the arrogant lift of his eyebrows.

‘Misapprehension, my lord?’

‘Indeed.’

His deep cultured tones penetrated all the way inside her, stirring yet more fluttery sensations as she felt the full force of his attention.

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed, the action somehow mocking. ‘Avon, at your service. Miss...?’

His words jerked her from her irritation. ‘What did you say? Who is Avon?’

‘Alexander is my brother. My younger brother. I am the Marquess of Avon, hence Lord Avon.’ His head tilted. ‘Do you require an explanation of courtesy titles? I understand you and your brother were not raised in aristocratic circles.’

Liberty’s face burned. Mrs Mount had warned them that their background would swiftly become common knowledge in the ton. No doubt His Lordship also knew her grandfather was a coal merchant. Without volition, her chin rose even higher than before.

‘I am not ignorant of such matters, sir. If Gideon ever has a son, he will take Gideon’s next highest title, Viscount Haxby, as a courtesy title to use as his own until Gideon’s death, when he will become the Earl of Wendover.’

‘I am relieved you have learned something since your brother was elevated to the peerage. The fundamental etiquette of introductions appears to have passed you by, however. It is customary to introduce oneself in return.’

Infuriated that he was right, her face scorched even hotter. Lord Avon might resemble one of the marble statues she had admired at the British Museum last week, but he was as patronising and pompous as any man she had ever had the misfortune to meet.

She stiffened her spine and again looked down her nose. ‘I am Miss Liberty Lovejoy.’

Chapter Two

Dominic bit back the sudden urge to laugh. Liberty Lovejoy? What parent would saddle their daughter with such a name? They had no choice over surname, to be sure—he was well aware Lovejoy was the family name of the Earls of Wendover—but what was wrong with naming their daughter Jane or Mary? Liberty Lovejoy—she sounded like some kind of actress. Or worse.

Still...he controlled his amusement and bowed. ‘And to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Miss Lovejoy?’

He found himself scrutinised by a pair of intelligent, almond-shaped eyes. They were extraordinary and he found himself being drawn into their depths. They were the dark blue of the summer sky at midnight, with golden flecks in the irises and fringed with thick golden-brown lashes. Tawny brows drew together in a frown and her lips, soft pink and lush, compressed. He waited for her reply, controlling his visceral reaction to Miss Liberty Lovejoy. He was well practised in that art—his position as heir to a wealthy dukedom as well as his honour as a gentleman meant he simply did not indulge in idle flirtations.

‘Your brother is tempting my brother into entirely inappropriate and wild behaviour and I came here to dem—beg your father to stop your brother from leading Gideon astray.’

Her velvety eyes glowed with fervour and he didn’t doubt her genuine concern. His heart sank at the news that Alex might be falling back into his old, wild ways. He had already heard tales circulating about the newly ennobled Lord Wendover and his readiness to sample every entertainment available to a young, wealthy man about town, but Alex’s name hadn’t arisen in connection with them. The last he had heard, Alex was living at Foxbourne Manor in Berkshire and making a success of his horse breeding and training establishment—gaining a reputation for providing high-quality riding and carriage horses.

‘Please be seated, Miss Lovejoy.’ Dominic indicated a chair by the fireplace.

With a swish of her skirts, she settled on the sofa. Mentally, he shrugged. He would allow her that small victory. He studied his visitor as he strolled across to sit by her side—his scrutiny, his pace and his choice of seat specifically intended to ruffle her feathers. A man had to have some fun, after all.

Her gown looked new, but was outmoded by a few years, with its high neck and ruff of triple lace, and he couldn’t help but notice how beautifully it clung to her curves. His pulse kicked, but Dominic controlled his surge of desire for this voluptuous woman. He prided himself on his self-control. In every area of his life. He sat, half-facing her, noting the crease of a frown between her tawny eyebrows and the tension in the lines around her mouth.

‘I trust you have no objection to my sitting next to you?’

He allowed one corner of his mouth to quirk up and was rewarded by Liberty’s subtle but unmistakable shift along the sofa, increasing the distance between them. The faint scent of roses drifted into his awareness—the scent of his late mother, remembered from his childhood—and all thought of teasing Miss Liberty Lovejoy vanished, swamped by a swirl of memories.

His mother had been on his mind more and more lately—ever since he had decided that this was the Season he would choose a wife. It was time to marry. Time to produce an heir. Time to fulfil the vow he had made all those years ago after his mother had died. He straightened, rolling his shoulders back. The sooner he addressed Miss Lovejoy’s concerns, the sooner he could get on with compiling a list of candidates suitable for his bride.

‘Tell me why you believe Alexander to be in any way responsible for your own brother’s behaviour,’ he said. ‘Is he not his own man?’

She drew in a sharp breath but, before she could reply, William appeared in the open doorway.

‘Miss Hope Lovejoy, milord,’ he said.

Dominic stood. A young lady bearing a familial resemblance to Liberty Lovejoy entered the room, her cheeks blooming a becoming shade of pink. Out of habit, Dominic registered her appearance with one sweeping glance. Pretty. Golden-haired. Delicate features. Taller than her sister, with a trim figure, enhanced by the latest fashions. He couldn’t resist glancing once again at Liberty and making comparisons. No. He wasn’t mistaken. It would appear Liberty was a woman prepared to make personal sacrifices to ensure her younger sibling enjoyed every advantage. Was it that same trait that had driven her to come here and confront his father? That took some courage. His opinion of Liberty Lovejoy rose. Just a notch.

He bowed to Hope and directed his most charming smile at her, fully aware it would further vex the still-smouldering Liberty. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lovejoy.’

Hope would prove popular with the gentlemen of the ton, he had no doubt. And she was fully aware of the effect of her beauty upon members of the opposite sex, he realised, as she rewarded him with a coquettish smile and a swift, appraising glance through her long lashes. A poorly stifled hmmph from Liberty reached Dominic’s ears, stirring another urge to laugh which he manfully resisted.

‘I am Avon. Please be seated.’ He gestured to the place on the sofa he had recently vacated. ‘Your sister and I were about to discuss the reason for this visit. Ah, Betty, Thomas, thank you.’ A maid had come in with a dish of macaroons, followed by another footman carrying a tray bearing a bottle of Madeira and three glasses. ‘Please be good enough to pour the wine, Thomas. Betty—will you sit by the window once you have served our visitors? You may remain until our visitors leave. Thank you.’

Liberty glowered at him, clearly irritated by the implication that her motives for this visit might differ from her stated reason. But, from a young age, Dominic had known his duty was to choose a suitable, well-brought-up lady as his future Duchess and it was now second nature to avoid any risk of getting trapped into an unsuitable alliance through carelessness.

Hope had now settled next to Liberty on the sofa and so Dominic moved to stand by the fireplace while he waited for the wine to be served.

‘So. To continue with the reason for your visit, Miss Lovejoy—you lay the blame for your brother’s wayward behaviour at the door of my brother?’

She raised her gaze from the contemplation of her glass. ‘Yes.’ She bit delicately into a macaroon.

Dominic frowned at her brusque reply.

‘Why?’ Two could play at that game.

The pink tip of her tongue as it rescued stray crumbs from her lips did strange things to Dominic’s pulse rate. Irritated, he willed his body under control. Simple lust—not difficult for a man like him to resist. Yet he could not tear his gaze from her mouth as she chewed in a leisurely fashion, her fine tawny brows drawn together in a frown of concentration.

‘Gideon has never been on the town before,’ she said eventually. ‘He is a...a...greenhead, I think is the word. He is being led astray by your brother, who appears intent on introducing him to every vice known to man.’

I sincerely hope not. Reading the earnestness of Liberty’s expression, Dominic doubted she had the first idea of the full extent of the vices available in London to eager young bucks with money to burn. But he trusted Alex not to return to his past reckless behaviour. Didn’t he? He made a mental note to check up on his brother’s activities. If he felt Alex was in danger of sliding back into his old, wild ways, he would nip that in the bud before their father and stepmother came up to town.

‘I am sure Alex is simply helping your brother to find his feet in town,’ he said. ‘I fail to understand why you feel he needs your protection. What would he say if he knew you had come here to speak to my father?’

Liberty’s cheeks bloomed red. ‘He would object, of course.’

She was honest, at least. His opinion lifted another degree.

‘Then you will do well to allow him to determine his own path. No man would take kindly to his sister trying to control him. I presume you are older than him?’

‘We are twins but, yes, I am the elder.’

‘Twins? No wonder he objects to your interference. Heed my advice, Miss Lovejoy, and allow your brother to be his own man.’

Her lips parted as she inhaled. Her breasts rose, drawing Dominic’s gaze like a lodestone. His pulse quickened and his cravat suddenly felt too tight. The room too warm. He swallowed down his reaction even as he acknowledged that Liberty Lovejoy’s natural, curvaceous femininity was more attractive to him than any of the painstakingly elegant ladies of the ton. He could never act upon such attraction, however—as the sister of an earl and a lady, she was off limits other than for marriage. And she was definitely not marriageable material. Not for him.

He had sworn at his mother’s death, when he was eight years old, that he would do his duty and make her proud of him.

Never forget, Avon—you will be the Duke one day. You must never bring your heritage into disrepute. Make me proud, my Son.

He’d spent his life striving to fulfil her expectations. He had never felt good enough for her while she was alive—other than that one hint of affection he had glimpsed from her, on the day she died—but now, this Season, he would finally prove to her that he was worthy. Besides, it was what was expected of a man in his position, and he owed his father that much, too. His bride must be perfect in every way: bloodlines, upbringing, behaviour.

And Liberty Lovejoy fitted none of those requirements. Not one.

Unsettled and irritated by his visceral reaction to this woman Dominic lowered his gaze to where her hands were gripped together in her lap, her kid gloves stretched taut over her knuckles. He choked back his exasperation. It was not Liberty’s fault he found her so...enticing. Her distress at her brother’s behaviour was tangible and the urge to comfort her took him by surprise. He softened his tone.

‘What your brother is doing is not so very unusual, Miss Lovejoy. Most young men on the town for the first time behave somewhat recklessly. But they soon settle down and I am convinced your brother will, too.’

‘But I must stop him before he squanders his entire inheritance.’

‘Are his debts so very ruinous?’ He would have thought Wendover’s estates were wealthy enough, even after the disaster of last year’s harvest.

Liberty’s lips pursed.

‘I am certain you are right, my lord.’ Hope smiled at Dominic and fluttered her lashes. ‘As you might guess, my sister does have an unfortunate tendency to imagine the worst. We do not know the scale of his debts as Gideon, quite rightly—’ she cast a quelling look at her sister ‘—refuses to discuss—’

‘He is out until all hours and sometimes he does not come home at all.’

The words burst from Miss Lovejoy as she swept her hand through her hair, scattering hairpins and leaving bits of hair the hue of dark honey sticking out sideways from her scalp. Two locks unwound to drape unnoticed over her shoulder.

‘And when he does, he is so...so distant. So secretive.’ Her voice rang with despair. ‘We have always shared everything, but he will not confide in me...the tradesmen haven’t been paid...there is a stack of bills awaiting his attention, yet when I begged him to pay them, all he would say is that he must pay his gambling debts first as a matter of honour. He lost two hundred pounds at hazard last night. Two hundred!’

Her horror at such a loss was clear, but her words convinced Dominic that she was worrying over nothing. Her lack of understanding of the ways of the aristocracy was hardly surprising when she had not been raised in such circles.

‘That does not sound so very bad to me.’

‘Not so very bad? Two hundred pounds?’

He’d intended to reassure her. Instead she was looking at him as though he’d suddenly sprouted a second head.

‘Well, no. The Earldom of Wendover is a wealthy one with properties in Buckinghamshire and Suffolk, if I remember rightly. It can stand a few losses at the gaming tables. I am convinced you are worrying over nothing, Miss Lovejoy. You will see. Your brother will eventually settle down.’

‘But...the tradesmen. Gideon flatly refuses to pay them. He says they can wait. He never used to be so...so careless of other people, but whenever I remonstrate with him, all he will say is that is how everyone in society carries on.’

Dominic shrugged. ‘Many do.’

He did not do that himself. Neither did his father. But he could not deny that many gentlemen considered tradesmen to be at the bottom of the list of debtors to be paid.

‘It is your brother’s prerogative to pay the tradesmen who supply your household as and when he chooses, just as it is the tradesmen’s prerogative to cease supplying such late-paying customers if they choose. In my experience, most tradesmen elect to continue enjoying the patronage of their aristocratic clients for the prestige it brings them.’

‘That is appalling.’

He agreed. It was one of the many habits of the higher echelons of society that he disliked, but he would not admit as much to Miss Liberty Lovejoy as she sat on his father’s sofa passing judgement. She seemed determined to believe the worst of his world, including blaming his brother for her brother’s misbehaviour.

‘Can you not ask your brother to stop encouraging Gideon? Please, my lord.’

Dominic passed one hand around the back of his head, massaging the tight muscles at the top of his neck. ‘Even if I were inclined to speak to him on this, I can assure you Alex would likely do the exact opposite of what I asked of him.’

And, now he came to think of it, that was no doubt the exact reason Gideon was behaving as Miss Lovejoy had described.

‘Perhaps if you trusted your brother to make his own decisions instead of—how did you put it?—remonstrating with him, he would mend his ways that much sooner.’

Liberty surged to her feet.

‘So it is my fault, is it, Lord Avon?’

Dominic didn’t answer, distracted by her curvaceous figure as she paced the room, her skirts swishing. She really was magnificent.

‘If you would do me the courtesy of replying to my point?’

Her voice dripped sarcasm. Furious with himself for ogling her in such an ill-bred manner, Dominic blanked his expression and calmly met her glare. If looks could kill, or even maim, then he would be prostrate on the floor even now. The impulse to prod her further was irresistible. He raised one brow in deliberate provocation.

‘You may have noticed, my dear Miss Lovejoy, that calmness, elegance and poise are three of the qualities most desired in the young ladies of our world. There is a very good reason for that and I would advise you to nurture such traits in your own behaviour.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Only that too much vigour and...er...passion are not the done thing, you know.’

He smiled kindly at her as she continued to look daggers at him.

‘You, sir, are no gentleman.’

‘I am merely trying to give you a hint as to how to go on in society, Miss Lovejoy.’ He folded his arms across his chest, enjoying her chagrin. ‘And, might I add, sarcasm does not become you. Am I correct in assuming that you and your sister will be making your debuts this coming Season?’

Liberty turned to her sister. ‘Come, Hope. We are wasting our time expecting any assistance from His Lordship.’ She glared again at Dominic. ‘I shall write to your father, as you suggested, sir, in the hope that he possesses the conscience you so clearly lack.’

Hectic pink flushed Hope Lovejoy’s cheeks as she shot a furious look at her sister. She stood and smoothed out her skirts, then dipped a curtsy as she smiled apologetically.

‘Do please excuse us for invading your home, Lord Avon,’ she said. ‘Good afternoon.’

Dominic bowed. ‘No apology is necessary. Good afternoon, Miss Hope Lovejoy.’

He then glanced at Liberty and guilt thumped him hard in the chest at the despair that dulled those extraordinary eyes. He stifled a sigh.

‘I shall have a word with Alex and make sure he and Wendover are not getting in too deep, Miss Liberty Lovejoy—’ and her name still made him want to smile ‘—but other than that there is little I can do. Alex will not take kindly to any attempt by me to tell him how to behave.’

Gratitude suffused her features.

‘But I am still convinced you are worrying over nothing,’ he added.

‘I thank you nevertheless, my lord.’

Liberty’s face lit with a more-generous smile than his offer warranted and, before he could stop himself, he found himself responding. He blanked his expression again and crossed to the bell pull. Liberty Lovejoy provoked strange emotions in him—emotions he did not care to examine too closely—but he was reassured by the knowledge their paths would rarely cross. Wendover, as a peer—even a hellraising peer—would find acceptance everywhere, but his sisters, raised in obscurity and with a grandfather in trade, would likely only frequent the fringes of society.

William, thankfully, answered his summons promptly.

‘Please see the ladies out, William.’

He bowed again, avoiding eye contact with either of his visitors, then stood stock still after they had gone, staring unseeingly at the closed door, wondering how one voluptuous, sweet-smelling woman had stirred such unaccustomed feelings within him. He had always kept his emotions under strict control, as behoved his father’s heir. Alex and their younger sister, Olivia—before she had wed four years ago—had always been the lively, mischievous ones of the family, but Dominic had grown up with the weight of expectation on his shoulders. It was his duty to make his father proud, to uphold the family name and to always behave as befitted a future duke.

Also, strangely, he felt compelled to protect his father—a nonsensical-seeming notion when one considered how powerful Father was. But Dominic recalled his mother’s death all too clearly, and how Father had suffered from guilt. Dominic had seen and heard things no eight-year-old boy should ever see and hear and, by shouldering the responsibility of being the perfect son and the perfect heir, he had vowed to shield his father from further distress.

He shook his head, as though he might dislodge those memories and the thoughts they evoked, clicking his tongue in irritation. He swung round to face the room. Betty hovered not five feet from him, having been unable to get past him to the door as he stood there like a mindless idiot, blocking her exit.

He frowned and moved aside, motioning for the maid to leave, his promise to Miss Lovejoy—it had been a promise, had it not?—nipping at him. He would speak to Alex.

‘Betty?’

‘Yes, milord?’

‘Is Lord Alexander currently in residence?’

Dominic did not live at Beauchamp House, preferring the privacy of his own town house when staying in London. He had travelled up to town yesterday from Cheriton Abbey and had merely called at Beauchamp House to warn the staff that his father’s butler, Grantham, would be arriving shortly to prepare the house for the arrival of the Duke and Duchess and to find out what day his sister, Olivia, and his brother-in-law, Hugo, were due to arrive in London.

‘No, milord.’

‘Ask downstairs if anyone knows where he is staying in London, will you please?’

Betty nodded and then scurried past him out of the room.

Chapter Three

That glimpse of kindness in Lord Avon just before they left almost changed Liberty’s impression of His Lordship. Almost, but not quite. That one final concession was simply not enough to wipe out the many black marks against him, and Liberty, crotchety and restless after that interview, was in no mood to forgive. She clambered into the carriage behind Hope and sat down before knocking on the roof with her umbrella as a signal to Bilk to drive on. As soon as the carriage was in motion, Hope swivelled on the bench to face Liberty.

‘I was never more embarrassed,’ she said. ‘Do you never stop to think of the consequences of your actions on me and Verity? Lord Avon is the most eligible bachelor in the ton and Mrs Mount had grand hopes that one of us might catch his eye. She told me the family estates in Devonshire are vast, but now you have ruined our chances because you will never listen to anybody. You always think you know best. Oh! To think! I might have been a duchess.’

‘A marchioness, Hope. Lord Avon’s father is very much alive and well. And do please stop dramatising everything. That man would never seriously consider either you or Verity as suitable...he was utterly contemptuous about us not being raised with the expectations of moving in high society.’

‘But we have our looks on our side. Why, Lord Redbridge called me an Incomparable the other day! And, oh, Liberty! Isn’t Lord Avon the most handsome, well-set figure of a man you have ever seen?’

‘Hmmph. A person might think that, if she cared for the Corinthian type, but he is also arrogant, haughty, conceited—’

Words failed her but, next to her, Hope unexpectedly giggled.

‘He has made you cross, hasn’t he, Liberty? Do you not realise all those words have the same meaning?’

Liberty pursed her lips. ‘Unfeeling. Rude. Superior—’

‘Superior means the same again,’ crowed Hope.

‘Well, we can’t all have a way with words like you, Hope.’

Now Hope was relieved of the necessity to earn a little money by teaching in the local school, she either had her head buried in a novel, or was madly scribbling poetry and plays, while Verity was rarely seen without a sketchbook in her hands.

They were happy to leave the practicalities of running the family to Liberty—a responsibility she had taken on after their parents died, having promised her dying mother that she would look after the family and keep them safe.

‘Well, it matters not what your opinion of His Lordship may be, Libby, for I am very certain he would not consider you as marriageable after the way you spoke to him.’

‘I said no more than the situation warranted.’ Liberty turned aside and stared pointedly through the window as she continued her diatribe against Lord Avon inside her head.

How dare he look down on us? Just because we weren’t raised in the lap of luxury it does not mean we are worth less as people.

She glanced down at her gown. Admittedly, it was not today’s fashion, but it had hardly been worn, and surely it was wasteful not to make use of the gowns made for her five years ago.

At least His Precious Lordship can’t fault Hope—her gown is the very latest fashion!

The carriage pulled up outside the Green Street town house they currently called home. Lord Avon might have tried to divert her by claiming the Wendover estates could stand such losses as two hundred pounds a night—even thinking of such a loss made Liberty feel quite faint—but Gideon’s inheritance did not even include a house in London and his country house needed complete rebuilding, which would cost a fortune, so she was right to worry about money. Someone had to. She’d wager Lord Avon had never had to worry about money, with a father who was a wealthy duke. They were clearly so vastly rich and so elevated on the social scale that ordinary people’s fears simply did not register with them.

Hope jumped from the carriage and scurried to the door, leaving Liberty to follow. As she shrugged out of her pelisse and handed it to Ethel, their housemaid, Hope’s tones of outrage floated down the stairs.

‘And, would you believe, she dragged me to the house of none other than the Duke of Cheriton to confront him about his son’s behaviour.’

Liberty sighed.

‘Thank you, Ethel. Has Miss Hope ordered a tea tray?’

‘Yes, miss.’

Liberty trod up the stairs, reluctance to face her sisters and Mrs Mount slowing her steps. Of course they would all three disapprove of what she had done, but what choice did she have?

She had kept to her word to Mama, working hard to help keep their small family estate solvent. Gideon—who had inherited the estate from Papa—had left university and thrown himself into the life of a country squire and farmer. He’d never complained. She’d thought he was content enough.

Gideon and she...they had been a true partnership through those hard years. But then, last year, summer had never materialised and harvests had failed the length and breadth of the country, leaving many in hardship and the poorest starving. Gideon had become morose and withdrawn, worrying about the survival of their family home. And then had come the most unexpected news of all. Lord Wendover and his entire family—distant family members they had never even met, so obscure was the connection—had perished, leaving Gideon as the nearest male relation and thus the new Earl of Wendover.

Gideon had changed. It had been as though he had been incarcerated in a prison, and freedom had taken him and turned him from a hard-working, considerate brother into...a stranger. That familiar hollow ache filled Liberty’s chest and she rubbed at it absentmindedly, tears burning behind her eyes. Her beloved brother. The other half of her. Her twin. They’d always shared a close bond but now...she feared he was lost to her for good.

What does Lord Avon know? Supercilious, over-privileged, condescending... He seemed to think this behaviour was normal. Well, Liberty knew Gideon as well as she knew herself and this was as far from normal for him as it was possible to be. It had to be the influence of Avon’s wicked brother.

Head high, she walked into the drawing room and a deathly silence. Before she had taken a seat by the fire, however, all three occupants spoke at once.

Hope, accusing. ‘I told them what you did.’

Mrs Mount, regretful. ‘My dear—how could you possibly think that a wise course? If only you had sought my advice. You know how important it is for you all to get vouchers for Almack’s—this sort of transgression will do nothing to help your cause.’

Verity, condemning. ‘Isn’t that just like you, Liberty—charging in without a thought as to how your actions will reflect upon the rest of us?’

Liberty sat down and arranged her skirts, then folded her hands in her lap.

‘If you have all quite finished—I did what I thought needed to be done and I shall not apologise for it.’

She sensed the others exchanging glances, but she kept her attention on the flickering flames and concentrated on keeping any tell-tale tears at bay as she hoped Lord Avon would not spread the story of her visit far and wide. She had taken a risk, but she was growing desperate and she felt so alone. Where else could she turn for help? Even Godmama was gone now, having passed away last year. The alternative was to ignore Gideon’s ever-wilder behaviour and simply pray he would come to his senses. Well, that approach might have been Mama and Papa’s solution were they still alive—they had always put their total faith in God and the Bible—but Liberty had long ago stopped trusting in Divine intervention. Where had God been when first Bernard, then Papa, then Mama had all succumbed to the cholera, even though Liberty had spent the entire journey home from London in desperate prayer? Nowhere, that was where.

No. It had been worth the risk to visit the Duke, even though only his arrogant son had been in residence. Lord Avon had given his word to speak to Alexander, although his warning that his brother would be unlikely to pay any heed rang in her ears, reviving her feeling of utter hopelessness.

Ethel brought in the tea tray and Verity poured the cups and handed them round. Liberty accepted hers and sipped, relishing the slide of the hot tea as it soothed her paper-dry throat.

‘What did the Duke say?’ Mrs Mount’s tentative enquiry broke into Liberty’s circling thoughts.

‘Ah.’ Liberty placed her half-drunk cup carefully in its saucer. ‘He is not in residence. We did, however, speak to his son, Lord Avon. Lord Alexander’s older brother. Do you know him?’

‘Yes, of course, although not as well as his father. He and I are of an age, you know—such a tragedy, his first wife dying like that...but there! That’s all in the past now. Avon, now...he is a very different man to his brother—very serious and correct. And he is the most eligible bachelor in the ton.’ Her reproving look scoured Liberty. ‘I did harbour hopes he might develop a tendre for one of your sisters, but that is now a lost cause. Avon’s behaviour is very proper. Beyond reproach. I dare say he was shocked at a young lady having the temerity to call upon him without prior introduction and unchaperoned to boot.’

Liberty shrugged. ‘Firstly, I was not unchaperoned. Hope was there and there was a maid in the room, too. And secondly, I should not care to even hazard a guess as to His Lordship’s thoughts.’

She recalled the slide of his gaze over her figure—for a split second she had seen desire flare, before he masked his expression. The thought sent a quiver of heat chasing across her skin.

‘Hope,’ said Mrs Mount reprovingly, ‘is not an adequate chaperon for you, nor you for her. And so the visit was a waste of time and a risk not worth taking?’

‘Not entirely. He did offer to speak to his brother, but he did not give us much hope that Lord Alexander will pay him any heed.’

‘Is the Duke coming to town? If anyone can control Lord Alexander, it will be him.’

‘Lord Avon did not say. Maybe...should I speak to Lord Alexander myself?’

‘Nooo!’ three voices chorused.

Mrs Mount shushed Liberty’s sisters with a wave of her hand before fixing Liberty with a stern look. ‘You have done what you can, my dear. I really think you must allow Gideon to come to his senses in his own time. And he will. I am sure of it. In the meantime, we should concentrate on the upcoming Season and finding you three girls suitable husbands. Once you are married off and have families of your own, you will have more important matters to occupy your thoughts.’ Her grey eyes raked Liberty. ‘Are you certain I cannot persuade you to have a new gown or two made, my dear? That one does look sadly outmoded.’

‘Mrs Mount is right, Liberty,’ said Hope. ‘Verity and I have had so much and you’ve barely spent a penny on yourself. You deserve something nice. Surely you can bring yourself to order one gown?’

Liberty recognised Hope’s peace offering—their family squabbles never lasted long, thank goodness. She recalled Lord Avon’s initial perusal of her. Despite Gideon’s assurance that he could ‘stand the blunt’, as he put it, Liberty had been unable to bring herself to squander even more money on herself. Now, however, she found herself eager to prove to His High-and-Mighty Lordship that the Lovejoys could be respectable.

‘Very well. One evening gown,’ she conceded. ‘But not to catch a husband. I have told you. I shall never marry. Bernard was my one and only love and I shall remain true to his memory.’

The words were automatically spoken. When Bernard died, she had sworn never to look at another man, never to contemplate marriage. But over the past year she had come to accept the truth. She was lonely. Even with her entire family around her, she was lonely.

That hollow, aching feeling invaded her again and she rubbed absently at her upper chest.

But she was still afraid to admit her change of heart out loud...afraid to fully acknowledge that she dreamed of finding someone to love who would love her in return...afraid that no man could ever take Bernard’s place. It was safer to keep that daydream locked inside. That way she would not have to face anyone’s pity if she failed to meet such a man. That way, she could keep her pride.

‘Still hiding behind the sainted Bernard, Sis? Isn’t it time you looked to the future instead of forever harking back to the past?’

That careless drawl shot Liberty to her feet. ‘Gideon!’ She rushed to him and grabbed his upper arms, scanning him quickly: his drawn, pale features; the dark shadows beneath his eyes; the dishevelled evening clothes. The lingering smell of alcohol and...she wrinkled her nose...cheap perfume and—there was no other word for it—bodies. Activities she did not wish to think of. She released her brother and stepped back.

‘You have been out all night.’

He quirked a brow and a faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘I have indeed.’

‘You need a bath.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘So I do. And I have sent word for water to be heated. Not that it is polite for you to mention such a matter.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing, Liberty. You are not my keeper.’ He moved past her. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Mount. Hope. Verity. I trust you are all well?’

All three returned his smile and his greeting but, before he left, Hope—after a sympathetic smile at Liberty—said, ‘We do miss you when you stay out so very much, Gideon. Will you dine with us tonight? We have no invitations.’

In truth, invitations for the Lovejoy ladies to attend evening events were still a rarity. Mrs Mount had reassured the girls that the Season had barely begun and that once Easter was over many more families would come to town and the invitations would, hopefully, start to arrive. Currently only one invitation adorned their mantelpiece—to a rout at the home of Sir Gerald and Lady Trent, Sir Gerald being a cousin of Mrs Mount.

‘Can’t. Sorry.’ Gideon turned to the door. ‘A bath and a couple of hours’ shut-eye, then I’m off to the theatre.’

‘We could go with you,’ said Liberty. ‘We could hire a box.’

His look of dismay clawed at her, leaving her feeling raw and, somehow, exposed. ‘I’m not going to the theatre with my sisters. Good God! Where’s the fun in sitting in a box when I could be down in the pit where all the fun is? Tell you what, Sis—if you’re that keen on seeing Mary the Maid of the Inn, I’ll reserve a box for you another night. Just tell me when you want to go. You’ve got Mrs M. to chaperon you and you’ll soon have beaux flocking around you if it’s male company you’re pining for.’

With that, Gideon marched out of the room, leaving the three sisters—and Mrs Mount—looking at one another in despair.

‘I still say it’s just the novelty of it all that has turned his head,’ said Mrs Mount in a faint voice as the sound reached them of him bounding up the stairs. ‘Surely he will come to his senses?’

Liberty did not reply. She returned to her chair and stared at the fire, her mind awash with ideas as plans spiralled to the surface and then sank again as her common sense scuppered them. Finally, realising she was getting nowhere, she went to consult Mrs Taylor about dinner that evening. It went against the grain but, somehow, she must control her penchant for taking action and trust that Lord Avon would be true to his word and do something to curb his own brother’s wild ways.

Chapter Four

The next day was dry but cold after the thunderstorm and Dominic, following a sparring session with Gentleman John Jackson in his saloon on Bond Street, strolled to White’s for a glass of wine and a bite to eat. On arrival, he picked up The Times and appropriated a quiet table in the corner of the morning room, hoping the open newspaper would discourage anyone from joining him. He had important matters to attend to this Season, like selecting a wife—a well-bred young lady with the poise and the correct upbringing suitable for a marchioness, a society hostess and, one day, a duchess. His purpose in coming up to town in advance of the rest of the family was to make a decision about his bride-to-be and here was as good a place to plan his strategy as any.

After being served, he drank a little wine, took one bite of the cold beef and horseradish sandwich and then settled back into the chair, holding the paper but not actually reading. He’d written a list of names last night. Seven in all. He wasn’t interested in a bride straight out of the schoolroom—his Marchioness would already have some town polish with, preferably, at least two Seasons behind her. The highest families were in no hurry to marry off their daughters—they took their time and selected the very best husbands, usually with a view to allying with a powerful family. A huge dowry wasn’t a prerequisite for his perfect bride; he was more concerned with their breeding and background as well as their conduct. These were essential qualities for a lady who would, at some time in the future, occupy the role of Duchess of Cheriton and give birth to the Eighth Duke.

Seven names were too many...he must cut his list to three or four ladies, then he could concentrate on making his final choice, but discreetly; it would not do to raise expectations in the ladies themselves or in society in general. He was under no illusion, imagining himself so perfect that any female would swoon at his feet. It was not conceit, but realism...any one of the ladies on his list would jump at the chance of marrying into the Beauchamps, one of the most powerful families in the land.

He lay down the paper, hooked one hand around the back of his neck and rubbed, sighing. He would be happy when it was all over and he could get on with his life. In his mind’s eye he saw his future stretching ahead of him, and he felt...nothing. No excitement. No anticipation.

Unbidden, Liberty Lovejoy crept into his thoughts and he dismissed her with a silent oath. Wasn’t it bad enough she had invaded his dreams last night...erotic, enchanting dreams that had him waking bathed in sweat and in a state of solid arousal? A woman such as Liberty Lovejoy had no place in his future—to marry well was his duty and his destiny, as it had been Father’s. Dominic was fortunate that he had not been obliged to wed at eighteen as Father had done, when his own father was in failing health and worrying over the future of the Dukedom. Father had put aside any personal inclination by doing his duty and marrying Dominic’s mother, the daughter of a marquess and the granddaughter of a duke. The current Duchess—his stepmother, Rosalind—might be the daughter of a soldier and the granddaughter of a silversmith, but that did not affect the aristocratic lineage of the Dukes of Cheriton.

At least Dominic was six and twenty and had some experience of life, but sometimes—although he would never admit as much, not to anyone—the responsibility lay heavy on his shoulders. Almost without conscious thought, he withdrew the list of names from his pocket, unfolded it and read the names. If he could cross off three names, that would make—

‘Mind if I join you, old chap?’

Hurriedly, Dominic folded the list and shoved it back into his pocket. He looked up into the bright blue inquisitive gaze of Lord Redbridge and inwardly cursed. Of all men, it had to be Redbridge. One of Alex’s friends, he was an inveterate gossip and Dominic could only hope he hadn’t deciphered any of the names on his list. He smiled and gestured to the chair next to his, then reached for his sandwich and bit into it. His leisurely luncheon was about to change into a hurried repast.

Redbridge had no qualms in admitting he had recognised at least two of the names on that sheet of paper and proceeded to not only tease Dominic about its existence, but also badger him about the other names.

‘There must have been half a dozen on there at least, Avon.’ His eyes were alive with curiosity. ‘You can tell me, you know. Soul of discretion and all that. It’d do you good to talk about it. Alex is always sayin’ you’re too buttoned up for your own good.’

Dominic knocked back what remained of his wine and stood up. ‘Your imagination is running amok, as usual, Redbridge. Now, if you will excuse me...?’

Redbridge didn’t take the hint. He stood, too, and exited the coffee room by Dominic’s side. ‘Are you thinking of getting leg-shackled then? Oh, my life—the ladies will be in a flutter! There’ll be neither time nor attention for the rest of us poor sods once the word gets out...it’ll all be about Lord Avon and his list!’

He nudged Dominic with a sharp elbow and grinned hugely. Dominic stifled the urge to grab his neckcloth and slowly choke the wretch. Instead, he halted and turned to face his companion. They were close to the front door of the club by now and Dominic was damned if he’d put up with the man’s inane chatter all the way to his front door.

‘I’ll bid you good afternoon here, Redbridge. And I will repeat what I have already said—your conjecture over that list is entirely wrong. My sister arrives in town today and she asked me to list any ladies I can think of who came out in the past two Seasons, as she will not have made their acquaintance. The truth is as mundane as that. And if—’ he thrust his face close to Redbridge’s ‘—I happen to hear any rumours to the contrary, I shall know precisely whose door to knock upon. Are we clear?’

Redbridge’s mouth drooped. ‘Perfectly.’

Dominic pivoted on his heel and strode for the door, anger driving him to reach home in record time. He barged through the front door of his leased town house, his temper frayed and his nerves on edge. He knew better than to believe Redbridge would keep such a juicy morsel to himself. Half the ton thrived on gossip and this, he knew, would be avidly passed from mouth to mouth. He would have to tread very carefully indeed not to reveal any preference for any of the many eligible ladies in town, but at least there were now two names he could cross off his list—the two Redbridge had read. Dominic would avoid those two as he would avoid a rabid dog and concentrate his efforts on the remaining five.

‘Brailsford?’

‘My lord?’

His man, who fulfilled the roles of valet, butler and footman in his bachelor household, appeared like magic from the kitchen stairs.

‘Send word to the mews for my curricle to be ready for three-thirty. I intend to drive in the Park.’

‘Will you require Ted to accompany you, sir?’

‘Yes.’ He would need a groom up behind if any of the five ladies were in the Park: to hold the horses if he got out to walk or to add propriety if he took one into his curricle to drive her around the Park. He felt heavy...his heart a leaden weight in his chest. But this was his duty; his destiny. And he would not allow himself to shirk it.

* * *

At three-forty, Dominic steered his matched bays into the Park and sent them along the carriageway at a smart trot. Ted perched behind him on the back of the curricle, ready to take charge of Beau and Buck if needs be. As Dominic drove, he scanned the walkers they passed and the small knots of people who had gathered to exchange the latest on-dits. The Season was not fully underway and wouldn’t be until after Easter, but many families were already in town to attend to essential dress fittings and other preparations. He eased his horses back to a walk as he spied Lady Caroline Warnock in a stationery barouche, next to her mother, the Marchioness of Druffield. A couple they had been talking to had just walked away as Dominic drew his curricle alongside and raised his hat.

‘Good afternoon, ladies.’

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

Lady Druffield honoured him with a regal smile as her daughter bowed her head, her own smile gentle and gracious.

‘Good afternoon, Lord Avon,’ Caroline said. ‘A pleasant afternoon for a drive, is it not?’

‘Very pleasant, following yesterday’s thunderstorm.’

A delicate shudder passed through Caroline. ‘I do not care for the loud bangs or the lightning.’

Lady Druffield patted Caroline’s hand. ‘Such things are bound to play havoc with your sensibilities, my dear. As they would with any lady.’

Unbidden, yet again, an image of Liberty Lovejoy surfaced. She had not been undone by a mere thunderstorm. He could not imagine Lady Caroline standing under a dripping umbrella, nor dodging around a determined footman. He bit back a smile at the memory and he couldn’t resist a gentle challenge.

‘But there is something delightfully elemental about a good storm, is there not?’

He raised an eyebrow at Caroline, whose serene expression did not waver.

‘Of course, my lord. You are so right—a good storm can be most exciting.’

Lady Druffield nodded in approval at her daughter’s response, but impatience already plagued Dominic. He was so easily bored by this sort of dance with words...talking about nothing...being polite and mannerly...and females who hung upon and agreed with every word he uttered. But it was the game they all played, him included. And it was not Caroline’s fault—she had been raised to be the perfect lady and that was what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

‘It is an age since we last met, sir,’ Caroline said. ‘Was it at...?’

She hesitated, her head tipped to one side, a smile hovering around her lips and her fine brows arched. Dominic complied readily with her hint...it would be unladylike for Caroline to admit she recalled their last meeting but he, as a gentleman, was expected to remember the exact place and circumstances.

‘It was at Lord Silverdale’s house party in February, if memory serves me correctly, my lady.’

‘Ah, yes, indeed.’ Caroline settled her dark brown gaze on his face.

‘I am delighted to renew our acquaintance,’ said Dominic.

Caroline smiled and her lashes swept low as she cast her gaze to her lap, where her hands rested in tranquil repose. ‘As am I.’

He might as well begin his campaign. ‘Would you care to take a turn around the Park in my curricle, Lady Caroline? With your mother’s permission, of course.’

Another gracious smile. Not once had she revealed her teeth. Nor had any of those smiles reached her eyes. He wondered if she might show a little more life out of earshot of Lady Druffield. Dominic directed his most charming smile at that lady.

‘But of course. It will be perfectly proper with the groom up behind, Caroline. And I can trust His Lordship to remain in the Park...he will take every care of you, I make no doubt.’

Dominic tied off the reins while Ted ran to the horses’ heads, enabling Dominic to climb from the curricle and assist Lady Caroline from the barouche and into his curricle. Then he leapt aboard.

‘I will deliver her back to you safe and sound, my lady.’ He gave Beau and Buck the office to proceed and they set off at a trot, the vehicle dipping as Ted sprang up behind.

The first person Dominic saw was Liberty Lovejoy. From the direction of her purposeful stride he could only surmise she had been heading straight for him, presumably with the intention of interrupting him despite the fact he was already engaged in conversation. He did not slow his horses. He had nothing to tell her, in any case, because—and guilt coiled in his gut—he had been putting off his promise to speak to Alex. He hadn’t forgotten it—he hadn’t been able to forget it because, since she had erupted precipitously into his life yesterday, he had been quite unable to banish Miss Liberty Lovejoy from his mind.

Liberty’s accusing gaze pierced him as the curricle drew level with her and she raised her hand, as though to stop them. Dominic tipped his hat to her, but did not slow. There was nothing to say and he did not want to say it in front of Caroline.

‘That lady looked as though she wanted to speak with you,’ said Caroline, looking over her shoulder at Liberty. ‘I do not believe I have made her acquaintance...is she someone?’

Someone. Dominic held back his snort. What did that even mean? Well, he knew what it meant, but it did not stop him disliking that too widely held presumption that only ‘their’ sort of people were anyone.

‘She is the new Earl of Wendover’s sister.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Those three words were sufficient to convey Caroline’s opinion. ‘Mama warned me to be wary of his sisters. She said they are not really our sort of people. How do you know her?’

‘I do not know her.’ Officially, her visit to Beauchamp House had never taken place and Dominic had never met either Liberty or her sister. Their transgression of the rules would not become common knowledge through him. ‘I know her identity because my brother is friendly with Wendover.’

‘I see.’ Caroline folded her hands on her lap. ‘I wonder what she wanted to speak to you about.’

‘I doubt very much she wanted to speak to me. I am certain you are mistaken.’

‘Yes, of course. That must be it.’

As luck would have it, two of the other ladies whose names were on Dominic’s list—Lady Amelia Carstairs and Lady Georgiana Buckleigh—were promenading that afternoon so, after delivering Caroline back to her mother, he endured two further circuits of the Park. Not one of the three put a foot wrong or spoke a word out of place. He should be thrilled. Any one of them would be the perfect wife for him. There was little to distinguish between them so far and once he had also renewed his acquaintance with Lady Sarah Patcham and Lady Sybilla Gratton, he would decide which one of them to concentrate on. Then, as soon as his father arrived in London, Dominic would make his offer.

* * *

Two days later Liberty stood to one side of the Trents’ crowded salon with Mrs Mount, and plied her fan, sipping from the wine glass in her other hand. Although the weather was chilly the number of people packed into the modestly sized room for the rout party, combined with the heat from dozens of candles, made the room insufferably hot and stuffy. And the tightness of her corset wasn’t helping, she silently admitted. When she had dressed for the rout in the least outmoded of her evening gowns, it had proved a touch too snug across the bosom, and so she had donned her sturdiest corset and ordered Lizzie—the maid she shared with Hope and Verity—to lace it as tightly as she possibly could in order to ease the fit of the dress. Now the disadvantage of that was becoming clear as her breathing grew shallower.

To distract herself from her increasing discomfort, she focused her attention on her sisters—so charming and pretty, their golden hair shining with health—and she watched with pleasure as young gentlemen vied with one another for their attention. They weren’t bad girls, just a little thoughtless at times, and she knew her tendency to take charge made it easy for them to leave any difficult or awkward matters to her.

Gideon, of course, had declined to escort them and his valet, Rudge, had confirmed his master’s intention to visit the Sans Pareil Theatre once again, causing dismay to ripple through Liberty. She feared she knew the attraction of that particular theatre, recalling how Gideon had waxed lyrical over a certain actress called Camilla Trace.

She leaned towards their chaperon.

‘I am hopeful the girls will both attract offers before the Season is out, Mrs Mount.’

‘Dear Hope and Verity...their popularity is unmistakable,’ said Mrs Mount, ‘but I must implore you not to risk a scandal with any more ill-advised visits, Liberty. I saw Lord Avon a few minutes ago and it seemed to me that, when he noticed you, he deliberately avoided this area of the room.’

‘Avon is here?’

Her pulse kicked—surely just at the prospect of finding out if he had kept his promise? She’d spied him only once since her visit to Beauchamp House, in Hyde Park. She’d tried to catch his eye but, although he acknowledged her, he had driven his curricle straight past her.

‘I wonder if he has spoken to his brother yet?’ She craned her neck to try to see over the throng of people, but it was impossible. ‘I shall go and ask—’

‘No!’ Mrs Mount caught hold of Liberty’s hand, restraining her. ‘Did you not hear what I said? Or perhaps you misunderstand the meaning of his action? He turned away when he saw you. You cannot approach him. He is the most eligible bachelor in the ton. Eyes follow him wherever he goes and tongues will always find stories to spread about him. Merely to approach him is unthinkable and if he were to cut you...oh, my dear, the tales would spread like wildfire and they would scorch your sisters’ reputations in the telling. The gossip columns in the newssheets would not spare your blushes—the upstart twin of the new Earl of Wendover making an overt play for the Marquess of Avon...oh, heavens!’ She plied her own fan vigorously to ruddy cheeks. ‘Do you not understand? Your situation renders it even more imperative that your conduct is above reproach.’

Anger smouldered inside Liberty, heating her still further, and she felt as though she had a furnace inside her. She drank more wine and then tugged discreetly at her neckline in a vain attempt to allow some cooling air to reach her skin. Each breath she drew seemed shallower than the one before.

‘But I am not interested in Lord Avon in the way you imply,’ she said. ‘You know I am not. I am concerned only about Gideon and I wish to know if Avon has spoken to his rascally brother yet.’

‘I know, my dear.’ Mrs Mount patted Liberty’s hand without loosening her grip upon it. ‘But you can do nothing about it until he decides to tell you. And he will not do so here—he will no more risk awakening speculation by singling out an unattached female than he would strip off his jacket and cavort about in his shirtsleeves. Proper conduct is everything to His Lordship, particularly this Season, if that rumour is true.’

‘Rumour? What rumour?’ Despite her dire need for fresh air, or a chair to sit on, or both, Liberty was distracted by this titbit.

‘It is said that he has compiled a shortlist of eligible young ladies who meet the standards he has set—breeding, upbringing, ladylike conduct—and that he will make his selection before the end of the Season.’

The hushed awe of Mrs Mount’s words stirred resentment inside Liberty. No wonder Avon was so top-lofty with people hanging upon his every word and treating him like some kind of god.

‘A shortlist? I presume you mean for a wife. Why on earth does he need a shortlist?’

‘Avon’s bride must possess the very best bloodlines, perfect manners and be of exemplary character. Only the best will do for a man in his position and to be the mother of a future duke.’

The suppressed excitement in Mrs Mount’s voice irritated Liberty even more.

‘You make the poor girl sound like a glorified brood mare,’ she muttered.

Really! Had people nothing more to worry about? What about all the poverty in London? Children in rags living on the street while their so-called betters lived in luxury. People like Avon were in a position to help and yet, instead of helping those worse off than him, he put his time and effort into making pathetic lists in order that any bride he might choose was worthy of him.

‘So you do see why it is imperative that you do not put a foot wrong in any further contact with His Lordship, do you not, Liberty?’ Mrs Mount’s anxious enquiry brought Liberty’s attention back to her. ‘Not so much for your sake, but for Hope and for Verity.’

‘You are not suggesting that His Lordship might consider—’

‘It is unlikely, my dear, but...one never can tell what might happen when a pretty girl catches a gentleman’s eye. Avon is expected to look much higher for his bride—at the very least the daughter of an earl—and she will be a young lady who has been properly prepared from childhood for her role as the wife of a peer of the realm. But your sisters, especially dear Verity, are so very pretty—one never knows what might happen. A list may always be added to.’

Mrs Mount’s voice appeared to fade. Goodness, it was so hot. Liberty plied her fan with renewed vigour as she stared at her chaperon’s mouth, concentrating fiercely in order to make out her words.

‘And the lucky young lady of his choice will be a future duchess. It is worth keeping our hopes alive for such high stakes.’

Liberty put a hand to her forehead. The room seemed to sway and she was aware of Mrs Mount staring anxiously at her.

‘Liberty? My dear? Are you quite well? Oh, dear.’ Mrs Mount clutched at Liberty’s arm. ‘Are you sickening for something? Do you need to leave? Only, it would be such a shame...’

Liberty gritted her teeth in a desperate attempt to remain upright. She thrust her empty wine glass at Mrs Mount. ‘I am not sickening for anything. I need air. Watch the girls, will you, Mrs Mount?’ Desperate now to get out of the room, she headed in the direction of the door, weaving in and out of the chattering groups of strangers, until her way was blocked by a tall figure with a pair of wide shoulders in a dark blue swallowtail coat. To either side of those shoulders were people, pressed closely, clearly hanging on every word uttered by the gentleman. Liberty screwed her eyes shut, wafted her fan over her heated skin, sucked desperately at the stale air, then opened her eyes and prepared to negotiate her way around the group, for it was obvious she could not barge through the middle of them. She shuffled sideways until she spied a gap. Perspiration now dampened her forehead and she could feel it gather on her chest and trickle into the valley between her breasts. She frowned, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other as she edged through that gap. She was close to the door now—she could see it above people’s heads—and she blindly aimed for it, desperate now to get away from this crush of people.

‘Well! Of all the—’

‘I say! That was my foot!’

‘I’m sorry.’ The words came on a gasp. ‘I cannot—’ Horror filled her as her knees buckled.

A strong arm encircled her waist from behind. A deep voice barked, ‘Stand aside. She’s swooned.’

She desperately wanted to deny it—she had never swooned in her life—but all she could manage was to turn into that embrace, her head tipping forward until her forehead rested against a solid chest. She breathed in a clean smell of soap and starch, mixed with a pleasing masculine scent.

Then she knew no more.

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