The Perfect Fiance (Matchmaking - Bianca Blythe - Copy

THE PERFECT FIANCÉ Bianca Blythe

The Perfect Fiancé Copyright © 2016

Contents Blurb Acknowledgements Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight How to Capture a Duke About the Author

Blurb The Perfect Fiancé is a short prequel novella to Bianca Blythe’s Matchmaking for Wallflowers series. It contains 15,000 words. *** Rosamund Amberly is overjoyed. And soon, she’s certain, she’ll start feeling the emotion.

Rosamund prides herself on her matchmaking skills. After meeting Marcus Worthing, Earl of Somerville and her older sister’s childhood best friend, she knows she’s found the perfect fiancé . . . for her reclusive sister. Unfortunately, she’s spending far too much time thinking about the man. *** Bonus: Includes the first chapter of How to Capture a Duke which starts at the 80% point.

Acknowledgements Thank you so much to my wonderful editor, Allison Wright. My cover artist is the amazing Angela Waters.

Chapter One August 1814 Yorkshire Marcus Worthing, Earl of Somerville, marched into the woods that bordered Sir Seymour’s home, undeterred by the constant, cold breeze and the conviction that the gust was

shaping his hair in a fashion London’s dandies would declare most undignified. His feet slipped in a thick sludge of mud, coating his Hessians with something rather less proper than the polish his valet slathered on early every morning. Not that he cared. Right now the rain had ceased, and he’d jaunted from his host’s manor house, attired in the only pair of buckskin breeches he possessed that he wouldn’t mind seeing destroyed should another downpour occur. Wet wildflowers clung to his Hessians,

speckling them all manner of improper colors, and a musky scent pervaded him. Light glistened from the trees, the effect amplified by the generous sheen of rainwater that still clung to the bark and leaves. The grass, when it was visible in the thicket, remained a deep green shade, one that could only be achieved by a steady, months-long downpour. Everyone had warned him that of all the ideas he’d ever had, the very worst was visiting Yorkshire. They’d all said the intelligence he possessed that had caused his book on zoology to be lauded by Oxford’s most persnickety

intellectuals did not extend to holiday planning. Obviously they were all wrong. But then, the ton tended toward inaccuracy. A quiet retreat. Something to clear his mind from the matchmaking mamas who roamed London’s ballrooms with more vigor than their military-trained husbands. That was all he’d desired. And he’d found it. His lips stretched up again. Bang. A shot fired through the countryside, and the sound thundered in his ears. The thought of quiet was what had

sustained him to travel in the jostling carriage over the narrow, muddy lanes Northerners called roads, and had spurred him to reject crimson-sealed invitations to manor houses located in tamed areas. Bang. Bang. Bang. He tightened his hand around the basket he’d crammed with a blanket and scientific articles. This was not quiet. This was not even remotely peaceful. Marcus inhaled and forced his shoulders to relax. After all, this was local color. A sound to be savored. He

wouldn’t hear this back in Grosvenor Square. Indeed, the fact that bullets were blaring about here was only a sign of the pleasant change of pace from the constant magnificence of London’s best ballrooms. Really, it was an ideal holiday. Truly. Shots exploded through the wilderness and pheasants thudded to the ground, as if testing Galileo’s experiment on gravity. Except even the greatest proponent of Sir Seymour, Marcus’s host and the self-designated most important person in

all Yorkshire, could not attribute the baronet with scientific inclinations, much less a desire to duplicate scientific experiments that stemmed from the continent. Marcus headed deeper into the wooded area that encircled the estate, lest his host invite him to take part in the man’s macabre hobby. Marcus’s feet padded over the deep moss, and his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows cast from the tall trees. This couldn’t vary more from the manicured lawns of Hyde Park, which rumbled with the sounds of trotting horses and giggling chits.

Stillness pervaded this place. Sunbeams fanned through the leaves and the forest glittered. He spread his blanket over the ground and settled down. Marcus wasn’t here for festivities or hunting, Scotch reels or lengthy teas. He craved nature and quiet. And by George, he’d found it. He let out a sigh, the lengthy, blissful kind London’s rogues would disapprove of. A twig crunched in the distance, and he scrutinized the sound. An animal. Probably. After all, that’s

what they had outside London. They couldn’t just have people with charming, outrageous dialects. Something flitted between the trees. A figure in a gray dress strode over the mossy ground, unperturbed by the jagged rocks and gnarled tree roots that impeded her path. Crimson curls fell from her bun. Lord. Perhaps it was a poacher. Yorkshire’s remoteness lessened in appeal, and Marcus shifted his legs. He resisted the urge to confront her. The penalty for poaching was hanging, and despite the splendor of Sir

Seymour’s estate, he didn’t want to sentence a person to death for grabbing a few foxes from it. If there were any foxes. Estates culled predators before the hunting season, all the better to ensure sufficient pheasants for the aristocrats to shoot. And he doubted his host wanted to share his catch with anyone. He removed a pair of binoculars and cast his gaze upward. Perhaps he might see an interesting bird. A spotted flycatcher, or perhaps even a black grouse. Another twig snapped, and another

woman flitted between the Wyche elms and sycamores. Lord, he may as well have attempted to work in the center of Piccadilly Circus. This chit wore a green dress, not that the color succeeded in camouflaging her. She flickered her glance between the trees, and if the notion weren’t absurd, he’d almost think she were following the other woman. But such actions were for spies, not — Bang. Sir Seymour’s gun fired again. That blasted baronet.

Lord, no one should be around now. Not with Sir Seymour’s vigorous gunfire. He knew the direction of the baronet’s shooting, but not everyone would. Marcus prided himself on his concentration, but his overwhelming emotion now had nothing to do with the categorization of species. Marcus returned his gaze to the chit. No doubt the onslaught of bullets would have deterred her from her path. And yet—she continued to stride toward the clearing, despite the fact that

a casual bullet might collide into her, were she to venture farther. Marcus’s nostrils flared, and he hollered. “I say.” His voice boomed, and he cursed the rough edge. Not that it mattered. The woman’s stride didn’t waver, and he scrambled up. He shouted again, bellowing like some hackney driver forcing his coach through a torrent of swiftly moving curricles and phaetons. This time the woman’s eyes widened. “Halt,” he thundered.

The woman hastened in the very direction he was warning her against. Perhaps madness was indeed common in Yorkshire. “Halt,” he repeated. She scampered away, and her chignon collapsed into a cascade of long, bronze locks. He swallowed hard. She was headed straight in the direction of the gunshots. He followed her, and his feet pounded over the soil, crushing the grass and wildflowers. “Wait,” he called. The words failed to dissuade her,

and the woman’s steps quickened. She seemed to have no fear as she wound her way through the narrow groupings of trees. Bang. Bang. Bang. Shots fired from the baronet’s estate. They were approaching the shooting range. No way would he permit this woman to risk her life. Sir Seymour tended to speak ill of people roaming his estate. The man had a fierce temper, and right now he had a gun in his hand. Blast. Sweat prickled the back of Marcus’s

neck, and he scuttled after the stranger, thanking the athletic inclination that had compelled him to continue his racketball and cricket playing even after he had left Oxford. His muscles burned. The woman had a head start on him, and clearly she possessed superior knowledge of the area. Was she an off-duty governess? A lady’s maid? The answer didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was making certain he reached her in time. Finally he gained on her, and he was conscious of a forest-green dress and

bronze curls. Bang. Bang. His host continued to fire shots. Marcus cursed and leaped after the woman. His body soared, and he stretched out his arms as if he might actually fly. In truth, he did succeed in stopping her relentless pace, and he did attempt to steady them both. Yet the force of his weight and the unevenness of the ground were a ruinous combination. Marcus toppled, clutching the stranger as they both slammed against

the ground, the wildflowers serving as an imperfect cushion. Galileo could have predicted the outcome, likely with a smirk over his wizened face. Pain seared him, but then a delicious vanilla scent pierced his consciousness, and silky locks fell against him. An outraged cry interrupted his musing, and the figure scrambled up. Marcus clutched her ankle, stopping her before she might decide to continue her path into the unspeakable danger. “Do not move.” “Get your beastly hand off me.” The woman’s voice came out in pants.

Something heaved in the pit of his stomach. The woman thought him a threat. He was frightening her. But this was about protection. “Sir Seymour—you must know—the baronet at Elm Hall is shooting.” Her head tilted, and he allowed himself to exhale. Good. Even the most eccentric local couldn’t escape knowing Sir Seymour. “He won’t be happy that there’s an intruder,” Marcus continued. She stilled. “He’s hunting,” Marcus said. She blinked.

“With a weapon,” he added. Her lips twitched. “Pheasants, I believe.” “You know—” “Tis the season. I suppose you are informing me,” she continued, “that he has chosen a cannon as his weapon.” “I—” Marcus’s stomach twisted, and he scratched the back of his neck. Dark eyes sparkled. “You don’t spend much time in the country, do you?” He shook his head. “You should ask Sir Seymour to demonstrate the distance achieved by his bullets.”

Oh. She shrugged. “Perhaps men in possession of aristocratic accents are not acquainted with the limited capabilities of guns.” Marcus was rarely mistaken, but he sensed he’d succeeded in adding to those infrequent occurrences. Somehow the thought of his foolishness being discovered by this woman seemed particularly rankling. “Sir Seymour was shooting in the direction of the forest.” “I didn’t know pheasants had taken to wandering instead of flying.” “It would be a healthier pastime for

them,” Marcus muttered. He’d envisioned being thanked just about now. Lauded. Praised. Perhaps promised that she would name her first-born after him. Not—laughed at. Normally he only reserved this amount of irritation for particularly trying problems of biology. He fought to keep his expression placid. His heart hadn’t stopped its frantic beating, and he was conscious that his hair clung to his brow in a manner more befitting an athlete than an earl. “You were trying to rescue me?” Her alto voice was far too melodic to

despise. “Of course I bloody was.” She gasped, and he clamped his lips firmly together. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly appropriate to curse before a lady. No matter what activities she adopted. “Forgive my language.” She stared at him for a moment more, and then a smile played over her face. “You were trying to rescue me.” “Yes.” “Mostly people desire my help.” He blinked, and her lips arched up farther. A strange urge to categorize their

exact shade of dusty rose overcame Marcus. His face warmed. “Perhaps I was overhasty in my assessment of the danger. Forgive my—impulsivity.” She shook her head, still smiling. “You were heroic.” “Oh.” No one had ever uttered that word to describe him before. They’d called him handsome and well-bred. Intelligent was a term frequently ascribed to him, though clearly the people who’d extolled him thus had never foreseen his behavior here. No one had called him heroic

before. His eyes flared, and he scrutinized her. The woman’s skin was more tanned than the ladies’ of the ton, and her hair tumbled down into soft curls. Long, dark eyelashes flickered over warm brown eyes. She stiffened. “I—I should return,” she said. He nodded. “Wait—What’s your name?” She tilted her head. “Rosamund Amberly.” Warmth spread from his neck to his cheeks. “You’re Sir Seymour’s niece.”

“I see you are in possession of some acumen.” Rosamund smiled, and somehow the mere raising of her lips caused his heartbeat to escalate. “I remember you.” His tongue felt thick in his mouth. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been about four, following him and her older sister about. That had been the last summer his grandparents had been alive, and his father had seen no more need to indulge his mother’s desire to visit the farremoved county of her girlhood after they’d died. He’d thought the time had been a

lifetime ago, but staring into the woman’s amused brown eyes, he wasn’t as convinced. “I’m—” “Marcus Worthing, Earl of Somerville?” A flush darkened the golden hue of her face. “Forgive me. I suppose you must rather enjoy saying that. I remember you too.” “I—” Somehow he struggled more for words in her presence. “You have an admirable sense of duty, my lord.” She smiled. “Though now I must return home.” She gave a cheerful wave and strode back toward a thicket of trees.

His heartbeat remained elevated, and Marcus told himself it was because of the exertion of running over the new terrain. It wasn’t anything about the woman herself. A man who had left the capital to escape the onslaught of females did not go about musing on one woman’s charms.

Chapter Two Rosamund Amberly dashed through the wooded terrain that separated Cloudbridge Castle from her uncle’s estate, grateful when the familiar jagged turrets poked over the tree-lined horizon. Her sister had a secret, and Rosamund had planned to discover it today. No matter. Success would happen

later. Her lips twitched at the memory of the man with the sturdy jaw, wide-set shoulders, and a misguided attempt to save her. Southerners. An idea occurred to her, and she smiled as she neared the castle, slowing her pace. Her sister, Fiona, was in obvious need of a husband, and this childhood friend, with his strange attempts at chivalry, might be the perfect match. One couldn’t look at the man’s chiseled features without comparing him

to a storybook hero. Even Fiona would be intrigued. The butler greeted her at the door. “There’s someone to see you, Miss Amberly. I’ve put him in the drawing room.” Her eyes widened, and for a foolish second her heart lurched. “Thank you, Evans.” Lord Somerville. She smoothed her dress and hair frantically. Had he followed her home? And managed to situate himself in the drawing room?

Impossible. But when Evans opened the door to the drawing room and bent his torso into a slight bow, the lack of a broadshouldered man with rakish dark features peering over Grandmother’s china did send a disappointing pang to her stomach. Instead George Dunbar, a widower with three children, was perched in an armchair, drinking from one of the pinkand-green Staffordshire cups. His hair was slicked back, and Rosamund was certain his cravat was tied in a manner more flamboyant than he tended to favor.

Rosamund’s stomach tightened. She’d done this before. “Ah,” Dunbar squeaked. The teacup rattled in his hand, and he shoved it onto the table and scrambled up. “Your Grandmother was here, but then she desired to rest. Which is—er—good.” “Oh?” She strove to retain a casual tone. Dunbar leaned toward her. “I have a matter of some privacy to discuss.” “Indeed.” She swallowed a sigh and settled into an armchair. Yes, she’d certainly done this before. When George Dunbar flicked his

gaze at the carpet, as if assessing its softness, and tottered downward, Rosamund didn’t hesitate. “The answer is no.” “No?” Dunbar scrunched his forehead, and one knee grazed against the floor. He wobbled on it, the strain showing in deep creases on his brow. “But I haven’t said anything yet.” “Would it help?” Rosamund softened her voice. She’d found that when a man was in the midst of proposing, he tended toward a greater display of emotion than was his habit. “I was about to speak about our

eternal happiness.” If the man had attempted to hide his petulance, he’d failed to do so well. Rosamund smiled. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have stopped you.” After all, she did appreciate when people praised her. Not that they reached for comparisons with the heavens and the hillsides when they described her features, their creativity only hampered by the nature at hand. Such rapturous praise was reserved for other women. Women they didn’t actually contemplate marrying. Women they would have been

too intimidated by to propose to on a whim. Something about Rosamund’s sensible expression reassured even the timidest men. Her warm brown eyes and mousy hair, features that wouldn’t be out of place on a maid, appealed to them. The unfashionable breadth of her hips was seen as a childbearing advantage, and it didn’t matter that her skin tended to freckle and tan at a rate associated with Americans. Men in Yorkshire didn’t travel to London. And if they did, they wouldn’t take their wives. She would be home

with the children, and if they were so inclined, they might explore London’s nighttime offerings on their own, indulging in vices as their wives tended to the hearths at home. So Rosamund often got proposals, and though on occasion she’d pondered whether she should take any of the men up on their hasty offers, she’d read enough books to wonder whether there might be something else in this world. “So we can marry?” Dunbar beamed and lowered his knee firmly to the ground. He rustled in his purse. “For the

children are not really as horrid as the neighbors claim. Really quite tolerable.” “I’m certain they’re charming,” she murmured. “It’s a yes?” She shook her head, and his shoulders slumped a fraction. Perhaps they would reach further downward if he and Rosamund had had the pleasure of exchanging words on another occasion as well. She really did need to have her own season. The offerings in the county were slim, a fact not helped when most of the

men of marriageable age had tromped over to France. There was only one intriguing man here, and she’d reserved him for her older sister, Fiona. Not that she’d told either of them yet. Her lips turned up at the thought, before Dunbar cast her a reproachful glance, and she straightened her lips into something she hoped appeared more respectful. “Er—” Dunbar’s Adam’s apple moved downward. Apparently the man was less accustomed to proposing to women than Rosamund was used to being proposed to.

“Please do rise, Mr. Dunbar.” She gentled her tone. Heavy footsteps pounded in the corridor. The door swung open, and the crystal handle slammed against the wall, rattling the vases that perched on the sideboards. Dunbar scrambled from Grandmother’s red oriental carpet, and his face transformed into a puce color better suited to textiles than skin. “You’re alone! Unchaperoned!” Fiona rushed in, and her gray skirts swished against the furniture. Her auburn

hair was invariably untamed, and this moment was no exception. “I was,” Rosamund said. Dunbar brushed his hands against the creases of his rather unfashionable breeches. “Goodness!” Fiona hastened to the sofa and settled into it. She directed her gaze to him and pursed her lips with an expertise befitting an oft-irritated governess. “It’s fine. Mr. Dunbar did not compromise me.” Rosamund retained a matter-of-fact tone. Dunbar’s eyes shifted, as if contemplating claiming a

moment of passion had occurred, so she would be beholden to him for the rest of her life. She firmed her gaze. “Isn’t that correct?” “Er—yes,” Dunbar said finally, regaining some grasp of ethics. Men had a habit of proposing to her, and Fiona had a habit of entering the drawing room late after a guest was called. Fiona seemed to find something in her own room fascinating, but clearly Rosamund’s status as sole sibling and sole friend was not quite enough to warrant her older sister’s confidence,

nor to explain the mud that appeared on her clothes with startling frequency. “Anyway,” Rosamund said. “I am afraid I cannot marry without my sister marrying first.” “Oh—I see.” Dunbar tilted his head to Fiona, as if pondering whether he should dive forward in her direction, ring still clutched in hand. Rosamund cleared her throat before the man could get any ideas. Fiona might have abandoned her season, confining herself, and by extension her sister, to their estate in Yorkshire, but that did not mean that she should leap to marry

someone who had intended to marry another a mere three minutes previous. Not that Dunbar was completely devoid of merit. He might tend toward awkwardness, but she shouldn’t fault him for that. He was good and kind and had made his late wife a satisfactory husband. “I suppose I should return if your sister does see fit—” Rosamund smiled. “How gracious. But I would not have you wait for me. Not when you are determined to give your three precious daughters a mother.” She smoothed the folds of her dress.

“You might consider calling on Miss Mabel Hedley. You might find it of interest that Miss Hedley has no other sisters. And five brothers.” “Right.” Dunbar straightened, and his eyes gleamed with a determination she was sure was rare for him. “That is most interesting news. Most—er— timely.” Rosamund offered him an understanding smile. “I feel certain that you meant to see her all along.” Certainly Rosamund had noticed the frequency of Miss Hedley’s glances toward Mr. Dunbar in the village church.

The man took his leave, and the door slammed behind him as he made a hasty exit. Fiona frowned. “You take far too much pleasure in that. I wish you would stop using me as an excuse for why you haven’t married.” “The good prospects know better than to propose to me.” “Mm . . . hmm.” “It’s true. And you should marry. Or at least become engaged.” “Nonsense,” Fiona said without hesitation, her speed perhaps honed with

the frequency with which she’d given the answer. “You’ll change your mind,” Rosamund said. “You’ve been reading too many novels.” Rosamund grinned and leaned forward. “Have you read the one about the highwayman yet? I adored it.” “I prefer to occupy myself otherwise.” “Perhaps you might prefer something more intellectual.” Rosamund scrambled for the pamphlet she’d picked up in Harrogate.

She’d been searching for a moment to pass this information on to her older sister. This might not be ideal, but Fiona would benefit from a more strategic approach to finding a match. Rosamund decided to interpret the narrowing of Fiona’s eyes as interest and slid the paper over to her. The pamphlet was rather more creased than she’d cared to admit, the edges rather worn. She’d hidden the pamphlet in many books, all the better to be able to master the concepts. Fiona pursed her lips together, as if Rosamund had given her a personal love

letter from a certain crazed Corsican. Rosamund attempted an innocent shrug, and Fiona returned her glance to the pamphlet, Matchmaking for Wallflowers. “This is manipulative,” Fiona stammered, leafing through the pages of rules and lists of most eligible matches. “I’m sure no marriage could be the least bit happy that had been preceded by such a determined hunt.” Rosamund sighed. She’d worried her sister wouldn’t understand. “You would find it appealing if the Romans had written it down.”

“Worth studying, perhaps. Not worth following.” Fiona scrunched the pamphlet. Rosamund leaped forward to rescue the pages and smoothed down the creases. “You need to read them again. They work. And there’s even a list of promising candidates in the back. The Worthings, for instance. In fact, your childhood friend is visiting Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia.” “So Aunt Lavinia said.” Rosamund clapped her hands together. “Isn’t it most exciting?” “Well, I suppose it might be nice to

see Marcus again…” Rosamund beamed and returned the pages to Fiona. “Babies owe their lives to these rules.” Fiona sighed and stuffed the pamphlet within a book. “Rosamund. Just how many matches have you made?” “Six. And I’m only beginning.” “And you think I should get married?” “I only desire your happiness.” Rosamund shrugged and strode to her writing table. She settled into the chair from which Dunbar had interrupted her and brushed her fingers against a glossy

invitation. “We both know what will happen once Grandmother dies.” Fiona’s smile wobbled, but she raised her chin. “I’m the picture of happiness.” “And now you must excuse yourself?” “Yes,” Fiona said simply. “Perhaps we might call on Aunt Lavinia tomorrow,” Rosamund said hopefully. Fiona gave her a tight smile. “Perhaps.” Rosamund nodded. Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia often bemoaned

Fiona’s negative qualities, possessing no qualms in doing so often, and no desire to confine their criticism to private moments. She would rectify her sister’s loneliness. If Fiona insisted on locking herself away, Rosamund would find a husband for her in Yorkshire. There was no better man than Marcus Worthing, sixth Earl of Somerville, to entice Fiona with. Lord Somerville and her sister needed to fall in love at Cloudbridge Castle, and she would find an excuse to draw him here. Once Fiona and Somerville married,

her sister would be happy again, and everything would be wonderful. After all, the man was perfect—tall, dark and handsome, conforming to every stereotype of a young aristocrat, but with a demeanor so charming one would never fault him for it. Soon he’d realize her sister’s perfection, and Rosamund would be free to seek her own happiness, her own happy ending, her own earl.

Chapter Three The sun had evidently exhausted itself after its atypical showing the day before. Dark clouds had retaken their customary positions and were hurtling raindrops from the heavens in full force. Marcus had not ventured further than the library and was once again toiling away. At least he was in theory. Weighty leather tomes adorned with foreboding

gold letters were piled on the nearby table, and he was certain he bore an expression of the utmost concentration on his face, the kind which intimidated most people. Sir Seymour was not most people. The baronet was extrapolating about his wife’s plans to redecorate Cloudbridge Castle after he inherited. Apparently it would be sublime, and Marcus would need to visit. “I should reside there now,” Sir Seymour mused. “But my mother is still alive and is taking care of my two

nieces. I haven’t the heart to force them out.” “Indeed?” Marcus pulled his gaze from an article. “My one weakness is my generosity.” Sir Seymour’s voice boomed and echoed through the ancient rafters above. Marcus’s lips twitched. He rather suspected his host’s reluctance to turn out his mother and nieces stemmed from an awareness that it would result in the neighboring gentry’s condemnation. A hesitant cough interrupted his renewed musing on zoology. Quinn, Sir

Seymour’s butler, hovered over them. “There’s a young lady asking to see you, my lord. She’s in the drawing room.” “A young lady?” Sir Seymour scraped his chair against the wooden floor, and Marcus jerked his head in the baronet’s direction. The baronet puffed out his chest and rose from his seat. “Well, well.” “My lord…” Quinn widened his eyes and his lower lip dropped down, before hastily resuming his customary expression of bland indifference. Well, almost resuming the expression. Quinn shifted his legs. The

man seemed naturally prone to shyness, a fact not alleviated by the bombastic personality of his employer. “Now listen here, Quinn. I hope you’ve kept this all hush, hush.” The baronet poked his head in the mirror and straightened his wig. Quinn’s eyebrows darted up. Sir Seymour lowered his voice to a whisper Marcus hadn’t been aware he’d possessed. “Wouldn’t want the young lady to happen upon my dear wife. Wouldn’t work at all.” Quinn’s face paled. “I’m afraid—” Sir Seymour swung his gaze toward

Marcus. “Pay attention, young man. Juggling is a feat every man must learn. One day you’ll be married too.” Usually Marcus would have retorted that he had no desire to see such a state befall him. Usually he might profess some gratitude that he had a few more years of freedom before he’d take the marital plunge all titled men must make. Usually he might have chuckled at the baronet’s comment, though he’d never seen the need to take on multiple women. But instead an image of bronze hair

and sun-kissed skin flooded his mind, tangling with the sensation of a soft muslin gown. He mused over dark eyes that sparkled and wide lips not afraid to berate him. “Her ladyship is speaking with her now.” Sir Seymour’s mouth gaped, and he seemed to struggle to close it. “By Hades, tell them I’m not here! And that I don’t know that chit! Tell them she must be mad. And—and—” A pained expression descended upon the butler, and the man interrupted Sir

Seymour’s stutters. “The young lady is here to see Lord Somerville.” Sir Seymour blinked. “She asked for him expressly,” Quinn continued, his voice gathering force in the absence of any response from the baronet except shock. Marcus rose. “Right. Right,” Sir Seymour said finally, rubbing his hand through his hair. “That’s much better. I mean—what young lady could there be to see me?” Quinn offered him a tight smile, evidently interpreting Sir Seymour’s question as rhetorical.

Sir Seymour emitted a painful laugh and slurped down the rest of his brandy, averting his eyes from either Quinn or Marcus. Marcus strode toward the door. “Righty-ho,” his host said meekly. “Enjoy.” Marcus lowered his torso into a slight bow, striving to retain a placid expression on his face even as his heart rate quickened. Miss Rosamund Amberly. It might be her! He hoped it was her. Though he considered himself less prone to anxieties over attire than the

dandies in his set, he did allow himself a cursory glance of his reflection in one of the gilded mirrors that lined the baronet’s corridors before following Quinn into the drawing room. His dark hair curled, its unfashionable length attributed to his habit of spending more time in his library than under the watch of hairdressers. His cravat was rumpled, and he smoothed the ivory knot. He wished he’d chosen another claw hammer coat, since this one struggled to contain the broad width of his shoulders. A pleasant alto voice resonated from

the drawing room, and he turned toward the sound. * Goodness, the man was perfect. His lips broadened, and she found herself beaming back. His appearance resembled more that of a professor than one of the foppish men in her Matchmaking for Wallflowers pamphlet, and she was reminded that he was lauded as one of England’s greatest rising scientists. Lord Somerville strolled into the

room and his Hessians clicked against the polished wooden floor. Rosamund observed the instant his dark eyes fell on her and the manner in which his pupils flared. Her stomach tightened as if his very gaze were capable of pulling and twisting every organ in her body. “It’s you,” he murmured, and his rich, baritone voice seemed to cause all her nerve endings to tingle, as if they were arching closer to him. She shook her head. Such things were impossible. Rosamund knew enough about science to appreciate that. Her governess had managed to teach her

some knowledge that extended past the studies of poetry and art which she’d preferred. Attraction was an emotion invented by poets and playwrights. All of Rosamund’s suitors had happily married other women, exchanging her easily for other, equally appropriate women at her encouragement. Matchmaking was about suitability. Her parents hadn’t had a love match. They’d married at the urging of their relatives. And yet no one could doubt their happiness. Practicality had been essential to their romance.

Rosamund was here for Fiona. She mustn’t forget that. No matter what sort of handsome men with chiseled features and roguish grins wandered around the forest. No matter how heroic they acted. No matter how much they resembled the heroes in Rosamund’s favorite books. “You remember her!” Aunt Lavinia clapped her hands. “His lordship’s wisdom is renowned throughout Great Britain.” The earl blinked. “My niece looked quite different as a child,” Aunt Lavinia continued. “Rather

smaller. But of course a man with your intelligence—” Somerville’s lips swung up, but he kept his gaze on her. “I remember.” Rosamund reached for her teacup, hoping that the strange fluttering that raced through her body was not visible to him. “I remember saving you,” he continued, his voice still melodic, the deep sounds still tugging at her heart. “Is that what you called it?” Her lips twitched at the man’s behavior yesterday. No way would Uncle Seymour’s bullets have reached her.

He shook his head solemnly. “Oh I remember,” Aunt Lavinia laughed. Rosamund swiveled her head toward her aunt. Surely Somerville wouldn’t have told Aunt Lavinia about his outrageous, if heroically inspired, behavior. “Don’t you remember?” Aunt Lavinia laughed. “You were about four and had followed your sister into the creek, even though you didn’t know how to swim. Somerville dragged you out and carried you home.” Rosamund tilted her head, and the

lace edges of her collar prickled her neck. Somerville chuckled. His laugh was velvety and warm. “Miss Amberly seems to have succeeded in banishing that memory from her mind. I must confess, I’d forgotten it as well. I believe we were searching for speckled toads. London, I’m afraid, is rather limited in its variety of animals.” “You should get my darling niece to draw one for you,” Aunt Lavinia said. “She is a most talented artist. And she has even learned to swim.” “Indeed?” Somerville’s eyes flared

again, and heat rushed through Rosamund. “Personally I consider swimming to not belong in a lady’s repertoire,” Aunt Lavinia sniffed. “Yet society’s rules are rather laxer here, and her parents had a desire to keep her alive.” “I am most appreciative of her continued presence,” Somerville murmured. “Anyway,” Rosamund hastened to say. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Your book on zoology was most fascinating, and I am certain you are on your way to creating another venerable work.”

Somerville blinked. Aunt Lavinia chuckled. “I suspect the earl is mostly accustomed to being lauded by men.” Heat prickled the back of Rosamund’s neck, but she held her head steady. “You should not underestimate us Yorkshire women.” “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Somerville said. “Why, my sister is most intellectual,” Rosamund said, remembering the person whose skills she should be extolling. “I have no doubt.” Somerville took a seat in an armchair. He crossed his legs,

and Rosamund averted her gaze as his breeches tightened and revealed muscular thighs. Her collar definitely seemed too tight. But of course Somerville would remember Fiona. The two had been closer in age. When Rosamund had been following the others around, needing to be rescued and looked after, Fiona had been an equal. “I am happy we can become better acquainted,” Somerville said, and his lips spread into a wide smile more suited to an angel than a scientist. Rosamund’s heart rate escalated, and

she turned her head away lest she dwell on the pleasing width of the man’s broad shoulders. “I would love to learn more about the area. It’s been so long since I last visited.” She nodded, aware his mother’s family had lived near her, though they had since passed away. “There’s something quite appealing about the Yorkshire accent.” His eyes sparkled, and Rosamund tightened her fingers around Aunt Lavinia’s teacup, as if that might lessen the warmth that

continued to prickle the back of her neck at his every glance. “And now is the perfect time for a break,” he continued, at least seeming oblivious to the effects the velvety sound of his voice had on her. “The poor earl has rather confined himself in the library,” Aunt Lavinia added. “I’m so happy the baronet has been able to provide him with some company.” Somerville nodded, and she wondered just how amiable he found her uncle’s often brusque manner. “I have the fondest memories of

playing with your sister, and I am happy to become acquainted with you as well.” Rosamund was grateful the earl did not muse on his delight that Rosamund had now mastered the art of speaking in full sentences and had not appeared in a grass-stained dress and floppy straw hat. The man was unfailingly polite. Gallant and courteous. He would make a perfect fiancé. For Fiona. Naturally. Not her, definitely not her. She cleared her throat and averted her eyes from her aunt’s far too startled gaze. After all, he’d just spoken

affectionately of his memories of Fiona. Rosamund recalled falling into the pond now. She’d been fond of following her sister and him about, though they’d considered her too little to allow her to join them. “You really should call on Fiona,” she said. He gave a polite nod. “Yes, perhaps when I make more progress on my next book. It would be nice to see her before I depart.” Her mind grasped for an excuse to have him spend time with Fiona. And then she found it. She managed

not to smile, but there was a reason people came to her for matchmaking advice. “I wanted to invite you to take part in a play.” Aunt Lavinia set down her teacup with a clatter. “A play?” Somerville repeated. Rosamund nodded. “Oh yes, indeed. It’s tradition. I so hope you can participate.” “This is news to me,” Aunt Lavinia said. “It’s one of the newer traditions,” Rosamund added. “One must make one’s own entertainment in the countryside,

when one doesn’t have access to London’s festivities.” “I suppose so,” Somerville said slowly. “And the play is most in want of a hero. I do hope you might consider joining us. My sister will be the heroine.” She paused. “I am certain you would be an ideal hero.” “Oh?” Somerville’s cheeks darkened, and this time Rosamund was certain his pupils had enlarged. “There are some people who may find your facial structure appealing.” She shrugged, as if to stress that she

absolutely did not belong in that category. Thank goodness her voice did not quiver. “Indeed?” “Er . . . yes, indeed.” Rosamund plunged her eyelashes downward. No need to linger on the delight her words seemed to have given him. “In that case I will be delighted to offer my services,” Somerville said. “Good.” Rosamund rose. Somerville rose and swooped down into an elegant bow that emphasized his muscular body and the pleasing cuts of his attire. It was all Rosamund could do

to remember to say farewell to her aunt as she hastened from the manor house.

Chapter Four “He agreed,” Rosamund said, settling into a chair in the drawing room. “Mmm . . . hm,” Fiona murmured, not lifting her head from her book, The Wild and Wondrous Romans. Truly, her sister and the earl were exceptionally well suited. Even if love never struck them for some unfathomable

reason, it wouldn’t matter, for they’d always be working. Now she just needed to convince Fiona to be the heroine in the play. “Lord Somerville,” Rosamund said. “Your childhood friend.” Fiona raised her head. “Marcus? What did he agree to?” Rosamund inhaled. “How would you like to be in a play?” “No, thank you.” Fiona laughed and scribbled something with her quill. Rosamund succeeded in retaining a smile. “I would love to put one on. Other people do it.”

She may never have attended the season, and she may not have traveled farther than Harrogate, but everyone adored the theatre. Though she had never actually been invited to a party at a country home, she did know that putting on plays was a frequent practice. There was no reason in the world why she might not do the same thing. “I am most in need of a heroine,” Rosamund continued, and Fiona gazed up. “You are very good at memorization, and I—I would find it most enjoyable to design the sets.” “Right.” Fiona straightened. “I

suppose if you truly desire—” “I think Somerville would make a very suitable emperor. Or Roman god.” Fiona blinked. “Those dark features. Quite appropriate for Olympus.” Fiona raised her eyebrows. “Rather Mediterranean,” Rosamund stammered. She didn’t like Somerville in such a manner. She must remember that. Fiona shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since he was ten.” No need to explain to Fiona that Somerville would be Fiona’s future

husband and that she would see very much of him in the future. News like that had a tendency to make a woman nervous. “When he learned you would play the heroine, he seemed quite pleased at the opportunity of playing the hero.” “That can’t be true.” Fiona tilted her head. “Though we were once very good friends.” “Wonderful,” Rosamund squeaked, recalling the earl’s flush and obvious pleasure earlier today. “Tomorrow we’ll start putting on the theatrical show.” In the meantime, she had a play to

choose, a set to build, and costumes to make. She smiled. She enjoyed being busy, but she’d never been so grateful for an opportunity to occupy herself. * The following day, rain pattered against the stained-glass windows and gusts of wind tore leaves down with such force that Rosamund wondered whether Somerville would decide to postpone his visit. She’d spent the day painting. Her sister had informed her that the only

accurate attire for Roman gods would be togas, and in the end they’d chosen a medieval play with which they would have less chance of scandalizing Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia. A knock sounded on the door, and Evans cleared his throat. “Lord Somerville is here.” Rosamund set down her sewing and her gaze flickered to her hands. Dabs of paint speckled her fingers, and she’d chosen one of her plainest frocks. She shook her head. Never mind how she looked. The earl hadn’t come to see her.

The man strode into the room. Columns of gold buttons glimmered from his woolen jacket, emphasizing the width of his chest. He was all Corinthian, and his cheeks were as pink as if he’d stepped from the racket court. He headed for her, and she just had time to note his height, and the way he managed to loom above her, before he dipped into a bow. Goodness, her sister was a fortunate woman. A ridiculous urge to trace the elaborate curves of his snowy-white cravat overcame her, and warmth rushed

to her cheeks. Rosamund started her curtsy a second too late, and her heart continued to hammer. Well, his opinion of her was largely irrelevant. She was the younger sister, the sister-in-law to be, the person whom Fiona and the earl might discuss together for the rest of their lives. “Hello.” He beamed at her. His eyes were warm, brown mixed with gold flecks, and Rosamund had to fight the urge to smile back into them. Goodness, she hadn’t imagined the velvety sound of his voice. Not at all. Underestimated it if anything. A shiver

coursed through her body, and she darted her hand to her chest as if to check if it was still beating. “I’ll find my sister.” His eyes flickered with uncertainty, and her cheeks heated. “Forgive me. Do take a seat, my lord. I’ll get Cook to prepare some tea and sweets. Or do you prefer chocolate?” For whatever reason, she found herself babbling in his presence. She turned abruptly. Cook could prepare everything; this man deserved it all. Her sister would be a lucky woman, once she and Somerville realized their supreme suitability.

Fiona entered the room, dropping into an appropriately-timed curtsy. Somerville gave her a deep bow, and something in Rosamund’s heart panged. Her older sister seemed at ease with him, perhaps a fact generated by all the time they’d spent playing together in the mud. Rosamund gripped onto her armrests. She’d never toppled from a chair before, but in the presence of Lord Somerville’s courtship of her sister, the barriers seemed of some use. “How are you, Miss Amberly?” The earl’s voice continued to be warm and courteous.

Fiona dipped her head, and the two were soon having a passionate discussion of the weather and the possibility of procuring more snow than the year previous. The farmers had noted a profusion of red berries nestled in the hedges, something which tended to be followed by a profusion of snow. Fiona and Somerville determined that it would be best to wait to see what happened and mused about the merits of tracking the link between the red berries and snow, and how they might best accomplish the necessary measurements and calculations.

Rosamund had been wrong. If the two married, they would never want for conversation. Fiona’s and Somerville’s banter didn’t manage to fill her with quite as much happiness as she’d anticipated. Rosamund’s chest tightened, and she strove to remind herself that this was exactly what she’d desired. No matter. This was about Fiona, not herself. Not that the conversation seemed particularly romantic. Somerville was recounting his skills in catching frogs as a child, and Fiona was remarking on her

past habit of stuffing them in her hat, all the better to startle her aunt and uncle. “Now tell me about this play.” Somerville directed his attention to Rosamund. “Did you write it?” She smiled. “I’m no writer. Really— Fiona is the gifted one of us.” And it was true. Fiona had excelled in the lessons their governess had assigned, memorizing details with little effort. Rosamund had preferred running about outside, exploring every valley, striving to copy the curve of every flower with her watercolors. “We’ve chosen one of Loretta Van

Lochen’s plays,” Fiona said. “Ah,” Somerville said. “I must confess an unfamiliarity with that scribe.” Rosamund recounted the plot, the oft-tragic tale of a beautiful young Frenchwoman. “Rather like The Mysteries of Udolpho.” “We’ve shortened the cast,” Fiona said. “In addition,” Rosamund said, “the story is not set in the Apennines and Pyrenees. It is set entirely in the Alps.” Somerville nodded gravely. “Then it

is quite different indeed.” Rosamund’s lips twitched. “I would not have needed to use as much white paint, were it set elsewhere.” Somerville’s gaze dropped to her still-stained hands. Fiona smiled. “My sister is an excellent artist.” “Your aunt mentioned,” Somerville said. Rosamund shrugged. “I am grateful to live in Yorkshire. The Dales are beautiful.” Fiona laughed. “Rosamund finds beauty in everything. Even insects and

reptiles.” “Indeed?” “The variety of colors and the novel forms are intriguing,” Rosamund said, conscious that her skin likely verged on a pink shade. Somerville smiled. “I’ve never heard a lady say that before. I agree completely.” “You’ve rather made a name of yourself for your study of species,” Fiona said. “Perhaps.” Somerville’s gaze continued to rest on Rosamund. “You are fortunate to live in this area.”

“Oh, I do adore it,” Rosamund replied. “You are not in a rush to visit London?” Her smile wobbled. She had dreamed of life in the large city. Perhaps she might visit after her sister married. Fiona had cut her own season short, and she did not speak highly of the city. “I must confess to some curiosity, but I am content with my family.” Marcus nodded solemnly. “That is admirable. You are fortunate to be so close to them. I have always had a

fondness for your sister and grandmother.” She nodded, and a lump in her throat thickened. “I must show you some of her work.” Fiona clapped her hands. “My sister is skilled with oils as well as watercolors. I was quite impressed with her portrait of me.” “I would be delighted to see that.” Somerville brightened as they departed the room. Rosamund followed them into the corridor, observing as Fiona showed Somerville various paintings.

Fiona gestured to her. “Come, dear.” Rosamund joined them, though Somerville’s eyes did not turn to her. They remained fixed on her sister’s portrait, and the earl appeared fascinated. His gaze seemed to roam over each curve of Fiona’s face. “How beautiful.” “You’ve done her hair remarkably well.” Finally, Somerville turned to her, and even though his cheeks were flushed from seeing Fiona in all her finery, Rosamund still shivered. “Th-thank you,” she stammered. “The detail on these curls. It must

have been quite difficult.” Somerville returned his glance to the painting. “And the dress. It appears almost satin-like. Her skin is luminous. You’ve captured her freckles too. So very marvelous.” Rosamund reminded herself that this was just what she’d longed for. “My sister is most beautiful.” Somerville’s eyes roamed the crisscrossings of oil paint. “Yes, indeed.” Rosamund swallowed hard. Fiona had laughed and jested with Somerville today, even if Rosamund hadn’t convinced her sister she should

abandon her half-mourning clothes. That would happen later. The main thing was that her sister was happy. “Shall we begin practicing?” Fiona asked. “Certainly.” Somerville smiled. This was everything Rosamund had hoped for, but somehow the happiness she should have felt, the happiness she knew she must be experiencing, was not as pleasant as she’d envisioned.

Chapter Five Marcus prided himself on knowing his mind. It was what had sustained him while studying science, even when his peers threw themselves into frequenting gaming halls and indulging in all manner of vices. He knew two things, each fact as clear as the rules of mathematics: 1.) He abhorred acting and dreaded

the eventual performance before the sisters’ relatives. 2.) He was determined to marry Miss Rosamund Amberly. They’d spent every day together, laughing and chatting. Rosamund would paint, and Marcus and Fiona would rehearse their lines. Sometimes the sisters would ply him with questions about his scientific research. Both seemed genuinely interested in his studies of animals, and he’d convinced Rosamund to show him her sketchbook, which was every bit as wondrous as he’d imagined.

Rosamund was perfect, completely and utterly. In his dreams they would wander the Dales together. Perhaps sometimes they would venture to the Moors. And since the war had finally ended, they might even travel to the continent. He would work on categorizing the various species, and she would draw. Unfortunately, recently it was becoming dashed difficult to find the chit. Most days the women’s grandmother chaperoned when he rehearsed his lines with the elder Miss Amberly. The only thing that made

Rosamund’s absence bearable was that she did not then need to witness him transforming into a stammering mess in her presence as his affection had grown. Certainly when she’d last attended, Rosamund had seemed to find his acting most unpleasant. Even the scene in which he’d rescued Fiona, delivering a lengthy soliloquy on her character’s beauty and charm, had seemed only to cause Rosamund’s face to pale and spur her to abandon the make-shift stage. Marcus sighed. And yet, despite the woman’s obvious dislike of his acting abilities

and likely regret of asking him to perform the lead, every moment they’d spent together only confirmed the extent of his emotions toward her. She’d produced the most marvelous paintings: craggy, snow-covered peaks sparkling beneath a macabre sky; rolling meadows abounding with pastel-colored flowers and beams of golden light; rainy forests comprised of a reduced palette of gray shades, nonetheless beautiful; intricate paintings of the dark castle interior from which he would rescue Angélique, the heroine. He’d devoted rather less time to

researching species than he’d planned on, he’d humiliated himself more than he ever had, and yet, despite it all, he’d never felt more alive. Stepping into Cloudbridge Castle filled him with delight, and when he recited the poetic lines lauding the play’s heroine, it was Rosamund whom he imagined saying them to. He’d resolved to make his intentions clear today. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, not when he might be experiencing a joyful betrothal and an even more joyful marriage. Marcus found Rosamund on the

balcony. She’d placed an easel before her, and her brow was furrowed as she gazed before her, paintbrush in hand. The sky had erupted into a sea of colors. The long clouds were as blue as waves, but the rosy color that surrounded them, highlighting each ruffle, was bright pink, a shade more pretty and perfect than anything Marcus had ever seen. “Rosamund.” She swung her head toward him, shock showing in her eyes. He sighed. “Miss Amberly.” He’d long called her Rosamund in

his mind, had called her that as a child, but she was accustomed to more formality with him now. He despised that. He couldn’t wait until they were betrothed. She had to say yes. Had to. Rosamund’s lips parted and her white teeth pressed against her bottom lip. Marcus was struck by the succulence of that crimson lip, just as he was struck by the faint color on her high cheekbones and the amusing manner in which her nose arched up. Her full chest moved in a pleasing manner, and Marcus darted his gaze away.

The sudden warmth on the back of his neck and face indicated his own skin might be every bit as rosy as the clouds. And he didn’t have the excuse of blaming a glowing sun. “It’s beautiful,” he said, the words too weak for all the emotion he now felt. She smiled. “Yes.” He beamed. Of course she would understand. Fiona was right: Rosamund saw beauty in everything. Her life seemed dedicated to making all around her happy. She was patient with everyone, even Sir Seymour and his wife.

“My sister is inside,” Rosamund said. “I know.” He strode nearer her, noticing the manner in which the sunlight flickered over the nape of her neck. The rosy pink on the clouds turned to a more sophisticated lavender as the sun darted farther toward the horizon. “Oh.” Her voice wobbled. “I was enjoying the view,” Marcus said. Rosamund nodded. “How do you like Yorkshire?” “It’s wonderful,” his voice rumbled. “And that sky is prettier than any ocean.”

“Oh?” “I traveled to America once with my half-brother, but this is prettier than the Atlantic.” He turned to her. “I’ve grown to admire you very much. You see the beauty in things. You show it to others.” “How did you find the ocean?” Her voice sounded an octave higher than normal, and her cheeks pinkened. He smiled. “There is some pleasure in not being at sea, and in enjoying a world that doesn’t tip and dip without a moment’s notice.” He swallowed hard. The answer was one he was practiced in giving to

the oft-simpering ladies who gathered the courage to speak with him after sufficient encouraging looks from their marriage-minded mamas. When he spoke with Rosamund, he was conscious of a strange swelling of his tongue and heat in his collar that could not be attributed to the late summer air, and he realized that this world too was dipping and swirling with a greater force than any he had experienced on any boat, in any storm. He gripped the stone railing of the balcony. His eyes focused on the dark

green Dales, but it was not the curve of their jagged peaks he was thinking of. “I would like to marry,” he said, surprised how quickly the words fell from his mouth. He tilted his head toward her, worried at her response. Instead her lips turned upward into a smile, and warmth spread through him, unfurling through every vein and nerve. “Have a family,” he continued. “I would like that as well,” she said finally. Lord, she was so calm. So magnificent.

“My darling.” His voice roughened. He didn’t have a ring yet. That could wait. He would give her one. The best. She deserved it all. Soon she would be his future countess. He grasped her hands and pulled her from her seat. Her eyes widened, and he only had a moment to see how the warm brown color deepened before he leaned his face toward hers. His lips sought hers, tasting sweetness and softness and all things sublime. Finally, Rosamund broke their kiss, and his heart pounded, waiting for her sweet soprano voice to speak.

Instead pain seared his cheek as if someone had slapped him. Confusion filled him, and he swung his eyes open. It had to be her. The slap had to have come from her. Even though the thought was ridiculous. Because—they had just become engaged. He loved her. Adored her. But there was no French soldier staring at him, ranting about roast beef, which for some reason was one of the insults they seemed proudest of issuing. Only Rosamund. Her eyes were wide and her breaths rapid, but it wasn’t desire that flickered

over her face. Ice traveled through his spine and each muscle stiffened. He moved backward, and his feet felt large and stiff, as if he were trying to maneuver blocks of lead. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He peered at her again, but there was no sign of affection from his intended future wife. “You kissed me,” she said. “Yes.” They had been, after all, engaged. Hadn’t they been? “But what of my sister?”

Rosamund’s voice shook. “Fiona?” He blinked. “You can’t just go around kissing women. You can’t speak of families and futures and then kiss women.” “But—” “Poor Fiona.” A deep flush darkened Rosamund’s cheeks. “I thought—” “What could you possibly think? What excuse could you possibly have?” Marcus drew in a painful breath. The world lacked the wonder he’d ascribed to it.

* The kiss had burned her lips, seared her soul, swept her to heavenly heights —and then she’d remembered. A breeze ruffled Marcus’s hair and fluttered her gown, but the gust may as well have been a tornado. Her heart struggled in her chest, knowing only that it needed to beat forcefully, but unsure of the rhythm. She fought the urge to slide her hand over Marcus’s woolen coat and pull him back toward her. She’d been swept up into a moment

of unfathomable bliss. Her body had rejoiced at the closeness with Marcus, memorized the strokes of his tongue and the firm fingers that had clutched her toward him. Those hands were nowhere near her now. They were clasped at Marcus’s side, and his eyes—Lord, the eyes that had only just been sparkling at her— were cold. “My sister’s inside. My grandmother, and—” She stumbled on her words. Her tongue was thick, and her heart hadn’t halted its furious hammering.

“Oh.” The stony expression on his face shifted. “You’re worried about being improper.” “I—” “Because everything is different now.” He inhaled, and added, “My darling.” She blinked. The words were ones she’d been afraid to dream of, and part of her wanted to succumb to the urge to return Marcus’s smile. But this wasn’t the plan. She’d had a plan. A good one. One that would make her sister happy. “You’re not—” He tilted his head. “Not?”

She slumped her shoulders. “You’re supposed to be intelligent.” “And I’m not?” “You kissed me!” Rosamund stammered. “Of course not.” “And kissing you excludes all intelligence?” Somerville’s voice softened. She pulled away. “My sister.” “She does not need to be present at this moment.” “But she should know!” “That you make me burn?” His breath was hot against her ear, and her neck warmed. Energy spread through

her, and she had a crazy desire to loop her arms around his neck and never open the door to the rest of the world again. Rosamund swallowed hard. “You are to marry my sister.” “Nonsense, my darling.” The tender word sliced through her. “I’m not—that.” His eyes widened. “I’m nothing to you,” Rosamund continued. “Nothing at all.” “I just proposed. You accepted— didn’t you?” His voice wobbled, and his face, the one that radiated calm and strength flickered uncertainty.

She swooped her eyelashes down, and her heartbeat quickened. She couldn’t—she couldn’t look at the man when he told her that. Had he been proposing when he’d spoken of building a future family? Perhaps. “I—I didn’t know that.” His lips twitched, and Lord, even though she abhorred him right now for breaking her sister’s heart, as he inevitably would, warmth still managed to trickle through her. Marriage. “What do you say, Rosamund?” He grasped her hands in his. Though he

fixed a smile on her, his hands trembled, the slight wobble managing to lurch her heart. “Make me the happiest man in the world.” The temptation to accept, to fling herself into his arms, ratcheted through her body. This man was everything. “I love you, Rosamund,” Marcus continued. Her chest constricted. He loved her? She’d idealized him when she was a child, and she adored his company. She respected him. Admired him. But love— that was something that would be

reserved for her future husband. That was something he should be reserving for Fiona. Her tongue arched as if to say the words. His eyes beseeched her, and the urge to reassure him strengthened. And yet—she thought of Fiona, memorizing lines and rehearsing. Her sister had always been there for her, strong and caring even after their parents had died in a carriage accident. Perhaps Fiona didn’t seem smitten, perhaps she didn’t seem to mind whether she married or not, but someday Grandmother would die, someday Fiona would have no

options, and even if Fiona didn’t seem to care about her future happiness, Rosamund did. She could never take the man reserved for Fiona. “I can never marry you.” “But—” “You were meant for my sister.” “I don’t understand.” His voice was hoarse. “That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’ve been rehearsing.” “I’m here because you invited me.” “Of course. You’re perfect!” His cheeks pinkened, and she

hastened to add, “For my sister!” “I see.” Marcus’s face shifted from confusion to stoniness. The man who stood before her was a stranger. “Then everything was a farce. I misunderstood. Forgive me.” Her chest tightened. “But you were best friends. She’ll make you happy, and —” The plan had been good. Perfect. “I will return to London immediately.” His features stiffened and his voice was again formal, more suited for relaying facts on distinctions

between species than to speaking to a silly girl like herself. He departed the balcony, and Rosamund’s heart lurched. She picked up her paintbrush, but the rose and lavender stripes that had billowed over the sky had disappeared. The gray sky darkened, and an icy wind swept against her.

Chapter Six Marcus stormed through the adjoining hallway and corridor. China rattled, bouncing in the glass cabinets, and the ancient castle floorboards creaked beneath him. He’d thought Rosamund returned his affections. It had all been nonsense. Fancies from an overactive imagination he should have quelled.

He steeled his jaw. Rosamund was as scheming as any lady of the ton. She was— “Good evening, Marcus,” Fiona chirped. He didn’t halt his pace. Politeness could be for another time. Or— preferably, never. He didn’t have to stay in Yorkshire. He could claim some massively important engagement and be off to London at once. “Marcus Harold Ignatius Lesley Worthing.” Fiona’s crisp voice followed him.

Blast. He swung his head toward her, not knowing when they would next meet. “What?” “Surely you’re not escaping when we have the performance tonight?” Fiona laughed, and he tried to echo her sound. No need for everyone to know his pain. Fiona’s face sobered. Clearly his laugh had sounded bitter. Perhaps he hadn’t honed his ability in mimicking carefreeness. The play tended toward melodrama, and he’d

focused his little acting skills on expressing sorrow and anger rather than calmness. “Marcus.” Fiona’s voice softened and emanated kindness. Which didn’t make the situation better. Lord, she knew. He shifted his legs and pondered that he’d failed to give them sufficient credit for their ability to lift him up consistently for his lifetime. “She said no?” Fiona asked. He nodded and then steeled his jaw, because he really, really didn’t need to

contemplate the memory of Rosamund’s refusal. They were supposed to be happy now. Celebrating. He was supposed to be twirling her about the castle as they planned their lives. No sound of giggles and ecstatic exclamation filled the corridor; only an uncomfortable stillness pervaded. “I’m sorry, Marcus.” The words were simple, but they both knew nothing could alleviate his pain. His nostrils flared. The faint scent of lavender that permeated the room, the preferred fragrance of Mrs. Amberly,

had conjured up a home-life he’d never had, one he’d desired to possess. Some things were not to be. Unfortunately, happiness seemed reserved for others. “It seems Miss Rosamund Amberly’s interest in me was purely platonic. Please—please apologize again for me, for my ungentlemanly behavior.” Those seconds of bliss had seemed to last a lifetime, and now they seemed to have been a lifetime ago. The only thing he knew was that he loved Rosamund. That fact hadn’t been concocted, even if he hadn’t planned on

loving anyone yet. At some point in his thirties he’d imagined he would succumb to a matchmaking mama and marry some debutante from a satisfactory family who would prove to be an equally enthusiastic mother to his future heir and spares. He certainly hadn’t planned on feeling any of this. Rosamund was the youngest child of a now-dead county squire. She would be reliant on her uncle once her grandmother passed away. The ton would say she should be overjoyed at the prospect of marrying him. He hadn’t

contemplated that she would reject his proposal. Moreover, she’d easily confessed that she’d attempted to manipulate his affection, matching him with her sister, as if unaware of any wrongdoing. “I’m leaving,” he said. “Please give my greetings to your Grandmother.” He didn’t mention Rosamund. Her name was too painful to utter again. “I’m sure there must have been some misunderstanding.” “Your sister was clear that the only misunderstanding was on my part.” “Perhaps if you stay—”

“No.” Fiona fiddled with her brooch and her face transformed into an expression of uncharacteristic uncertainty. Finally, she inhaled. “Perhaps you won’t stay for my sister, but might you stay for me?” “Why?” He tilted his head, scrutinizing Fiona. Lord, was she going to suggest herself as suitable wife material? They were childhood friends, for goodness’ sake. He was still unaccustomed to not seeing her with muddied attire. Though perhaps—perhaps Rosamund was right. Perhaps Fiona

would be a suitable wife for him. They conversed easily, and she’d confided in him that she was working on an interesting project of her own. She would understand his commitment to zoology, and he would be supportive of her work. There was a certain attractiveness in her auburn hair and green eyes. Her intelligence and kindness made her more than suitable to be a wife and mother. Except she wasn’t Rosamund. He didn’t simply want to marry a friend, even a good one. He desired Rosamund,

and marriage to her sister was unthinkable. He braced himself for what Fiona would say. “It’s just…” Fiona tossed her head, and an auburn lock fell from her chignon. “I’m so fond of acting.” His shoulders slumped with relief, and he tilted his head. “Your fondness for complaining about the pastime would suggest otherwise.” “I would hate to not do the performance after so much work.” Marcus sighed. They had worked hard. And he was fond of Fiona, even if

his appreciation did not extend to a desire to marry her. “If you feel my presence will not shock your sister…” “Please,” Fiona repeated. “Stay a few more hours. We have guests arriving for the performance.” The prospect of delaying his departure seemed more tempting than it should have. Sir Seymour would be suspicious if he left too hastily. Marcus had some sense of decorum. And worst of all, the prospect of seeing Rosamund, even after she’d shattered his dreams, still enticed him. “Fine.” “Thank you!” Fiona clapped her

hands together. “But I will return back to Sir Seymour’s now to prepare for my departure, which will be directly after the performance.”

Chapter Seven Marcus’s footsteps crunched over the cobblestones and his voice murmured below. Likely he was asking the groom for his horse, but her heart still flitted in her chest, the velvety sound of his tenor affecting her improperly. She’d never see him again. Had she been too quick to reject him? She shook her head.

Fiona came first. Always. Now she had to tell her sister that her childhood friend, the man she’d been laughing with, would return to London. She hadn’t told Fiona of the plan, but the affinity between the two was apparent. If Fiona had ever hoped for Percival—and she couldn’t have been immune to his many charms—she would be devastated. And Rosamund would be the cause of her sister’s distress. Fiona stepped through the door. “We need to speak, my dear.” “Yes,” Rosamund stammered. “Lord Somerville. He’s not what I thought.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. Rosamund swallowed hard. “He doesn’t want to marry you.” Fiona’s eyes widened, and Rosamund hated to see the shock reflected in them. This must be terrible for her poor sister. “I’m sorry.” The words could be no consolation for Fiona. Rosamund understood that. Fiona blinked. “I have no desire to marry him either.” “You don’t?” “No,” Fiona repeated. “Now come inside.”

“But he’s—” “Perfect?” Fiona’s eyebrows arched upward, and heat flooded Rosamund’s cheeks, the night air not cool enough. “But—” Rosamund followed her sister into the drawing room. The floorboards creaked beneath her everquickening strides. Energy coursed through her, but there was nowhere she could go, nothing she could do to rectify this. She’d rejected him for Fiona’s sake. But Fiona lacked the signs of heartbrokenness Rosamund was certain she should have. She scrutinized her

sister for symptoms of irreparable distress. “Do you feel quite well?” “I’m always the epitome of good health.” “Right.” Rosamund pressed a clammy hand over her brow. “But you must adore him. How could you not?” “Were you trying to match Marcus and me together?” Fiona asked, her voice stern. “P-perhaps.” “But I have no desire for a husband. Besides, he was my childhood best friend.” Fiona’s nose crinkled. Rosamund dropped onto a chair and

slumped against the decorative gilded back, no matter that her governess had told her that proper ladies sat straight. “Grandmother will die, and then we’ll both need to leave, and—” Rosamund swallowed. “You would be happy with him.” “Marcus is a good man,” Fiona said. “But the mere fact that we can converse easily is not enough to indicate love.” “Oh.” Rosamund flickered her eyes down. “You are far too stubborn,” Fiona said. “I’ve told you before that I possess

no desire to marry. You cannot feign ignorance.” Rosamund frowned. “I thought you didn’t mean it.” “You thought you knew me better than I did myself.” Fiona frowned. “You should have been considering your own desires.” “But I want to help you!” “And everyone else.” Fiona tilted her head. “You are very sweet. But I am content with my books, my research—” “What research?” Rosamund interrupted. “You never share anything with me.”

“I’m an archaeologist,” Fiona stammered. “I think there’s a Roman palace buried underneath the apple orchard. I’ve been finding the most intriguing things—it’s thrilling.” “You should have told me.” Fiona sighed. “I wanted to be sure. And—maybe I wanted something that would be just my own.” “Oh.” “I am content here,” Fiona said. “I want to stay as long as I can. This is my life, and that is my choice.” Rosamund rubbed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Then you’re really

not in love with Marcus?” She knew the answer. Had known it all along, but had been too stubborn to see it. “I think you made a mistake, my dear.” Rosamund occupied herself with blinking, hoping her sister did not notice the uncharacteristically furious manner. “You need to speak with him,” Fiona said. Tears stung Rosamund’s eyes. She couldn’t speak with him again. There would be no more lengthy afternoons with him and Fiona. There would be no

more discussions of the flora and fauna prevalent in the Dales. There would be no more—Marcus. “He’s returning to London.” This time she couldn’t mask the sob that soared in her throat from sounding, and she grabbed her handkerchief. The lace edges and embroidered birds seemed impossibly indulgent. “Not without doing the performance.” Rosamund dabbed the tears that slid down her cheeks. “He said he would return to London immediately.” “And he will return later tonight,”

Fiona said, her voice more serious. “He’s doing this as a favor. I convinced him of my deep desire to act.” “Oh.” Rosamund flickered her eyes downward. Perhaps Marcus would be there, but that didn’t mean that they would be able to speak. What could she say? That she regretted her refusal? Rosamund may never have had a formal entry into society, but she was well aware that propriety had certain rules even she could not break. Fiona tilted her head. “I do confess, that after further thought, I may not be

feeling as well as I said.” * Branches scraped the sides of the coach, as if seeking to halt Marcus’s journey to Cloudbridge Castle. No good would come of returning to the site of his greatest disappointment. If only Fiona hadn’t been intent on performing. Sir Seymour and Lady Amberly sat opposite him, clothed in finery befitting a visit to Almack’s. Even their son, Cecil, a man near Marcus’s age, had

been dragged from London. Marcus suspected that Cecil’s mother would be favorable to a match between her son and one of the sisters, if her non-stop laudations of the sisters’ beauty and charisma was any indication. Even Sir Seymour refrained from his more sarcastic comments. “A private performance,” Sir Seymour said merrily. “Witnessing an earl acting. Who else has had that pleasure?” “No one,” Marcus said. Thankfully. He still abhorred the thought of acting.

“Ah, I suppose not,” Sir Seymour said. “Cecil, you are witnessing a great honor. Most actors are not noblemen. Think of the performance you will witness! Even the king himself would be jealous of us.” “There will never be another occasion,” Marcus said. When Sir Seymour beamed, he added, “I would not want your expectations to be overly high, as flattered as I am. I assure you I have no talent—” “No talent? You are an aristocrat. Have no fear. I will share the story of your acting debut with all the members

of the ton.” Sir Seymour’s eyelids flickered down and his lips stretched into a wide smile. “They will be consumed with the most utterly agonizing envy.” “You overestimate my strengths.” “What nonsense,” Sir Seymour said. “I’m sure you even know your lines!” “Naturally.” “It’s a pity you are not acting with Rosamund. She always struck me as the more sensible Amberly sister,” Sir Seymour said. “Though they are both not without charms,” his wife said hastily, directing

a gaze at Cecil. Marcus glanced at his hosts’ son, wondering whether he might be the future husband of one of the sisters. The man seemed entirely uninterested, and Marcus found his shoulders inexplicably relaxing. “Miss Rosamund Amberly was deeply involved in the set design process,” Marcus said. “Set design?” Sir Seymour’s burly eyebrows soared upward. “Well, well. I’m sure that’s not proper. Watercolors are a much more feminine occupation.” “Perhaps she used watercolors,”

Lady Amberly said. “Did she?” “Oil paint,” Marcus said. “Most impressive.” “I must warn her of the importance of maintaining her femininity,” Sir Seymour said. “Oil paints are a much more masculine pursuit. The thicker brush might lead to muscles.” Marcus blinked. “I much admire her skill.” “Indeed,” Sir Seymour said as the carriage slowed. “I suppose even aristocrats must be allowed their eccentricities. I am of course quite

familiar with the mysterious ways of the ton.” “I am most looking forward to the performance,” Cecil said, his gaze lingering on Marcus. “Loretta Van Lochen’s plays are always so romantic.” Marcus flashed him a tight smile, desperately wishing he would not be spending the next two hours asserting amorous affections. He inhaled. Marcus would do the performance, satisfy Fiona’s newfound passion for acting, and then he would leave for London, returning to the place where men did not shoot in the open,

trees were carefully planted and maintained, and young ladies did not go flitting about, confusing his heart. The carriage halted, and Marcus stepped from the coach onto the cobblestones. Cold wind swept around him and the first fallen leaves swirled around his legs. The medieval towers soared into the inky sky, and Marcus squared his shoulders as he entered the castle. Candles flickered from cast-iron sconces and shadows swerved and darted over the stone walls, as if realizing the festivity of the occasion. A

golden hue imbued the once familiar objects. “My dear Lord Somerville.” Mrs. Amberly stretched her hands to him, her skin crinkling around her eyes. “My granddaughters tell me you are returning to London tonight.” “Indeed.” “I was unaware that the work of a zoologist was so demanding. But I hope you will be back to see us soon.” “I’m sure he will.” Sir Seymour slapped Marcus on the back. “One doesn’t visit Yorkshire without falling in love with everything in it.”

“My granddaughters will certainly miss you,” Mrs. Amberly said. Marcus’s smile tightened. He wished that were true. Neither Rosamund nor Fiona were about. Clearly they were eager for his absence. He’d been far too forward. She hadn’t anticipated his proposal at all because the thought of marrying him was something so removed from her dreams. He’d acted impulsively when he’d first seen her, trying to rescue her. But he wasn’t her hero. He hadn’t been then, and he certainly wasn’t now. The servants had set out punch and

refreshments. Sir Seymour’s family charged in the direction of the cook’s temptations and mingled with other guests. Marcus’s chest constricted. He’d been so focused on Rosamund that he’d forgotten he’d be spending the next hours humiliating himself before an audience of the local gentry. Never mind. Marcus marched into the adjoining room reserved as a dressing room for him. The hero of the play was a knight, so he slid on chainmail and shiny armor. He shoved his helmet over his head, destroying his coiffure. A crimson plume

draped from his helmet and beaconed the absurdity of his attire. He paced the room, and the uncomfortable metal plates clanged with his every move. There was a reason armor belonged to the past, along with other ridiculous notions such as chivalry, colossal churches, and constant battle. Two hours. That’s how long the play would take, and then he would return to London and live the normal sort of life that did not entail adorning himself in ridiculous materials and pretending to be a romantic hero, when everyone knew that sort of person existed only in

medieval songs. Marriage was something manufactured, arranged by women’s mothers and sisters. He strove to tell himself it would be good to return to London. At least there he understood the rules. “The performance, my lord.” Evans interrupted his musings. “Miss Amberly is on stage?” “Everyone is waiting.” Marcus blinked. The man hadn’t answered his question. He hadn’t seen Fiona all night. She’d better be ready. The sooner he finished this bloody thing, the sooner he could return.

Blasted butlers and their overlydeveloped sense of decorum. Marcus headed through the door, managing to only cringe slightly as the armor clanged and the outrageouslysized plume brushed against the ceiling’s wooden beams. The whole first act centered on him rescuing Angélique, Fiona’s character, from the crumbling castle the unseen villain had trapped her in. With a sigh he picked up a lance and charged onto the stage, conscious of the audience observing him. He refused to ponder the beauty of

the painted backdrops. He refused to ponder anything about Rosamund. “Is that a damsel I spy in that crumbling castle?” He lowered his lance and shielded a hand over his brow, repeating the words he’d rehearsed. The words were stilted, and his throat dried. He craned his neck in the direction of the wooden castle Rosamund had had the servants build for the occasion. “I spy some scar—” He’d meant to say scarlet hair. That was the phrase he’d rehearsed for the past weeks. He hadn’t forgotten the

words. Fiona had added them specifically, changing them from the raven hair the original script mentioned. But the locks that spilled from the window were most certainly not scarlet. They were bronze-colored, and a familiar urge to delve his fingers in their silky strands overwhelmed him. It couldn’t be. Perhaps Fiona had put on a wig. “I spy some hair,” he said. Sir Seymour cleared his throat. So far the audience seemed underwhelmed. His metal boots thudded over the stage and he retained his focus on that

hair. Definitely not scarlet or crimson or any of the other colors Fiona’s hair tended to be, the exact shade varying with the precise amount of light and shadows. It was Rosamund. On stage with him. Before absolutely everyone. What in heavens was she trying to do? He didn’t want to see her. She’d declined his proposal, and if Fiona hadn’t wanted to act, he would be safely on his way to London. Where clearly he should be now. The thought of spending

any time in her company was intolerable, much less two hours. His nostrils flared, and his nails scraped against his palms. “What on earth are you doing?” he bellowed.

Chapter Eight He was a fortress. A furious, gleaming fortress. One that clanked and creaked and thundered toward her. His visor slammed down, and he stopped to tear it off and hurl it off the stage. The bang echoed through the medieval room, abetted by the low timber beams, and Rosamund froze. This had not been one of Fiona’s

better ideas. She swallowed hard. They needed to talk. And unfortunately, speaking now before everyone was the only way. “What are you doing?” He roared. “I’m Angélique,” she squeaked. He scrunched his eyebrows into a scowl. “Sweet, innocent Angélique?” His words were sarcastic, and she shot a glance at the audience. Smiles stretched on their placid faces, and she struggled to square her shoulders. “Tis I.” He glowered, and the urge to flee

rocketed through her. The dark edges of the stage tempted her, and she fought the desire to switch roles with her sister again. But this was her chance. Her only chance. Even if all her relatives and all her neighbors were observing, mistakenly believing that her nerves derived from her abhorrence of acting and not from the fact that her future happiness was at risk. “This was a mist—” “You’re supposed to be rescuing me,” she prompted. He stiffened, and his eyes narrowed.

“You can’t be serious.” The audience rustled in the armchairs the servants had laid out in rows, likely impatient with their whispers. Rosamund raised her voice. “Woe is me. This is a tragic tale.” The audience members leaned forward. “An entirely new version,” Sir Seymour said, his resounding voice easily carrying the several feet from his seat to the stage. “Most intriguing.” Marcus lowered his voice. “Fiona is indisposed?”

“Y-yes.” Rosamund inhaled. “And I am in need of a hero.” “That seems unlike you.” His voice was still stiff, still formal. “Perhaps,” she said brightly, “you can be my hero!” Sir Seymour chuckled. “He’s wearing the right attire.” Rosamund thought she heard Aunt Lavinia hushing him. “Perhaps the damsel would prefer to remain in her castle,” Marcus said. “Do you want me to remain?” Rosamund asked. Marcus’s eyes flickered in

confusion. “Perhaps there is another lady I might rescue instead?” “Another!” Sir Seymour laughed and he cupped his hand to his mouth. “You don’t need to juggle here, your lordship! You’re acting. Rescue the lady.” This time Rosamund was certain Aunt Lavinia was silencing him. Marcus’s face was still stiff, and Rosamund’s chest constricted. The plan had been ridiculous, a last attempt before he fled Yorkshire, never to be seen again. She’d already given him her answer, and why would anything

change now? The man seemed to despise her. She strove to retain a pleasant smile for her relatives, even as Marcus’s eyes clouded, even if the warmth that had once existed there seemed forever extinguished. But the act of raising her lips seemed an impossible task, and she suddenly felt a great compassion for Atlas and his task of holding the world up. “Sir!” She cried, and she scrambled from the makeshift castle. “You—you are my knight.” Marcus widened his eyes.

“My knight—and no one else’s,” she hastened to add. “I would not want you to be anyone else’s knight.” The audience must be puzzled now, but Rosamund didn’t care. Her only concern was Marcus. “I am perhaps being forward,” she said. “But I wanted to assure you that I —I would be deeply desirous of you to stay longer.” “Not too much longer,” Sir Seymour huffed. “Isn’t the villain supposed to show up soon?” Marcus’s eyes softened. He narrowed the gap between them, and his

gaze swept over her. The faint scent of cotton and pine needles wafted over her. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to inhale. Perhaps this was the end. Perhaps this was the closest they’d ever be together. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked furiously. “I—I made a mistake.” “Rosamund,” Marcus murmured. “Angélique,” Sir Seymour corrected. “Shh… This isn’t a Christmas pantomime,” Aunt Lavinia’s crisp voice said from the audience. “His lordship is allowed to forget his lines.” “Ah, yes,” Sir Seymour said. “Even

earls cannot be perfect.” A warm palm cupped her face, and a hand stroked her cheeks. Her heart ratcheted her in her chest. “I made a horrible mistake. You are everything wonderful. And marriage to you would be everything splendid.” “Because you must marry someone?” Marcus asked. “A matchmaker would understand that.” Rosamund shook her head. “I—I love you.” “Truly?” His voice softened. “Truly,” Rosamund murmured. Marcus’s lips stretched into a wide

smile. “Forgive me.” “You?” “I was too hasty with my proposal.” Rosamund blinked. “I missed something,” Sir Seymour hollered from the audience. Marcus flicked a hand away and smiled as he gazed down at her. “I’m a scientist. When I find the right answer—and you, my dear, are definitely the right answer—I’m far too happy. But I understand that you might still want to get to know me more. And, my dear, I can go slowly for you. If you’re the least bit interested. I would

like to court you. I can be a turtle, a snail —” “A caterpillar?” Rosamund’s lips twitched for the first time. “I—” “They tend toward slowness, judging from their leisurely crawling on the cobblestones every spring.” “Right.” Marcus grinned. He was smiling and perhaps, just perhaps, everything would be alright. “You don’t need to transform yourself, Marcus,” she said. “Even though I’ve heard that caterpillars

transform themselves into the most wondrous butterflies.” “What do you want?” His voice sobered. “You.” Her voice was breathy. “I didn’t really want you to marry my sister.” “Sister?” Sir Seymour bellowed. “I think you must have skipped an act.” “Hush…” Aunt Lavinia murmured. “They’re not supposed to skip acts,” Sir Seymour muttered. “He said he knew his lines.” Rosamund sighed. She kept her voice low, but she didn’t care if

everyone else heard. Marcus had to understand. “I just wanted you both to be happy, and I—I was so unhappy at the thought that I liked you more than I should.” “You did?” “I did. I do, I—” She swallowed hard. “My darling.” This time he swept her in his arms. The steel plates of his ridiculous armor pressed against her, but the only sensation she felt was joy. Marcus smiled and he pulled her closer to him. “You despise acting.” She shrugged. “I don’t despise you.”

His lips twitched. “I don’t despise you either.” “You were planning on leaving right after the performance, and—and I wanted to see you again. I wanted to explain everything to you. But I at least wanted to see you again.” “My darling.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers. Their kiss deepened, moving from tenderness to something fiery and scintillating and — Sir Seymour cleared his throat loudly. Very loudly. “I think the others are expecting a

play,” Rosamund said. “Shall we proceed?” Rosamund’s cheeks warmed, and she glanced toward the audience. “I’m afraid I don’t know all the lines.” He laughed. “Do you think the guests can satisfy themselves with an engagement party instead of watching a play?” “Marcus!” She looped her arms around his neck. “Will you make me the happiest man in the world? Will you marry me?” “I will.” There was no hesitation this time.

They kissed again, and then he took her arm and led her off the stage. The others stood up. “You-you kissed her,” Sir Seymour sputtered. Marcus grinned. “I’m going to marry her.” “In the play?” “Forever.” Marcus squeezed her hand. “You better,” Sir Seymour exclaimed. “Nothing in the world would make me happier,” Marcus declared. Delight darted through her. Her

sister, her grandmother, and everyone she cared for were here. Right now some of them were still surprised, but soon they would recognize, just like she had, that this was real. THE END *** Want to learn about new releases? Sign-up for my mailing list. If you loved the book and want to help the series grow, tell a friend about the book and take the time to leave a review!

How to Capture a Duke

All she had to do was find a fiancé. In four days. In the middle of nowhere. —

One reclusive bluestocking… Fiona Amberly is more intrigued by the Roman ruins near her manor house than she is by balls. When her dying Grandmother worries about Fiona’s future, Fiona stammers that she’s secretly engaged. Soon she finds herself promising that she will introduce her husband-to-be by Christmas. One dutiful duke… Percival Carmichael, new Duke of Alfriston, is in a hurry. He’s off to propose to London’s most eligible debutante. After nearly dying at Waterloo, he’s vowed to spend the rest

of his life living up to the ton’s expectations. One fallen tree… When Fiona tries to warn a passing coach about a tree in the road, the driver mistakes her for a highwaywoman. Evidently he’s not used to seeing women attired in clothes only suitable for archaeology waving knives. After the driver flees, Fiona decides she may as well borrow the handsome passenger… Buy the book on amazon. Chapter One December 1815

Yorkshire Crisp jingles chimed through the cold air, merging with the rhythmic trot of horses, and Fiona Amberly had never been more convinced of her utter abhorrence of Christmas. She poked her head from the archaeological site, brushed a hand smudged with clay through her hair and peered in the direction of the sound. A coach barreled down the slope, pulled by two pairs of prancing white horses, and her throat dried. Red and green plumes perched from the horses’ headgear, an unnecessary nod to the

approaching holiday. The sun glowed over the glossy black surface of the coach, flickering over its vibrantly painted wheels and golden crest. She tightened her fists around the slabs of timber she used to fortify the pit. Only one person had threatened to visit her. Madeline. Fiona hauled herself up and rushed to the road, dragging her dress through more mud. The coach thundered toward her, and she waved both arms above her head. Now was not the time to muse on the ridiculousness of her appearance.

“Halt. Halt.” The coach slowed, and she hastily brushed some dirt from her dress, managing to remove a few specks. “What is it, Miss Amberly?” The driver was sufficiently trained not to openly gawk, but his gaze still darted to her ragged clothes and the pile of excavation materials. Never mind that. Red-headed women with freckles were never destined to possess elegance. “Is Lady Mulbourne inside?” The driver nodded, and Fiona rushed to the door. The question was foolish:

only her cousin would have asked for her coach to be decked out in such finery for a five-mile jaunt. Madeline poked her head through the carriage window, and Fiona hastily brushed a few more specks of soil from her dress. “Happy Christmas,” Madeline chirped. “Er . . . yes.” “You have a remarkable ability to never change.” Fiona shifted her feet, and her boots crunched over dried leaves. “So unconstrained by the pulls of

even the most basic fashion rules.” Madeline’s eyes flickered over her, roaming over every button and pleat with the eagerness of a general scrutinizing a map of enemy territory. “And still in half-mourning, I see.” Fiona stiffened and pulled her hands back. No need for her cousin to comment on the frayed hem of her sleeve as well as her gray dress. “Would you like a ride? I’m on my way to see Grandmother.” Fiona didn’t want a ride. She wanted to work more on the site. Winter was approaching, and if the farmers were

right about their grumblings regarding the shade of the sky, the place would be covered in snow soon. But ever since Fiona had blurted out to Grandmother that she was engaged to the most brilliant man in the world, it was vital that she did not allow Grandmother to be left alone with Madeline. The captain was everything a man should be: handsome and brave, smart and funny, and since the Napoleonic Wars had ended, finally living in England. At least he would be if he existed.

Fiona groaned. Yes, Christmas was firmly relegated to the short list of things she despised. The holiday surpassed dress fittings, empty dance cards, and mushrooms in horribleness. Only Napoleon, carriage accidents, and somber-faced doctors ranked higher on her list of hated things. How on earth had the emperor had the indecency to give up the war before Fiona had had the foresight to invent a death worthy of her dear, valiant, charming fiancé? Fiona glanced at the site. “Let me just rearrange some things.”

Madeline nodded, and Fiona hastily covered the pit, casting a lingering look on the Roman finds. The shards of pottery and coins buried within the clay were so near, and she ached to remain and unearth more, to feel the giddiness and delight that rushed through her with every discovery she made with her trowel. Instead she hurried back to the carriage. A familiar dread tightened her stomach as she climbed the metal steps, but she steeled her jaw and rubbed her hand against her hair, dislodging a lock from her chignon.

“How pleasant to see you,” Madeline said in a too-sweet voice, and a prickly warmth dashed up the back of Fiona’s neck. “I was hoping you might be able to attend my Christmas Ball this year, given that you have never attended before.” Fiona smiled tightly at her one-time friend as she struggled to re-pin the lock of hair. She settled onto the bench and flickered her gaze downward. Telling herself not to dwell on the smudges of dirt scattered on her dress failed to lessen her embarrassment. Disappointing people was a skill she

had acquired in childhood, simply due to the apparent misfortune of her hair color. She’d long ago accustomed herself to her striking inability to fulfil the ton‘s expectations. Her unfashionably curved figure had frustrated her dressmakers during her shortened season and made her conspicuous against the sleek, willowy figures of the other debutantes. “I suppose it must be terribly trying for you to attend a ball, given that you have so little practice in looking pleasant.” Madeline smoothed the golden ringlets that framed her face. Every flourish, formed in the proper

manner, with curling tongs rather than nature’s haphazardness, was immaculate. “Unless perhaps you can grace us with your presence after all?” “I’m afraid it’s impossible,” Fiona said. “Regretfully.” “Oh.” Her cousin’s lips stretched into a straight line. “It is unfortunate you had to travel all this way. I would have thought the postal system would have managed to deliver my regrets,” Fiona continued. Madeline pressed her lips together and swung her gaze to the window and

the view of heavy dark clouds that floated over the jagged Dales. The light from the carriage windows slid over her cousin’s pale blond hair, framing it like a halo, and cast a glow over the glossy silk ruffles of her dress. Somehow her cousin had managed to travel five miles and appear immaculate, and Fiona could scarcely travel a few feet without finding herself in difficulty. Holly and mistletoe dangled from the ceiling of the coach, bright bursts against the staid black walls. Such greenery had been but a mild curiosity to Fiona before

the accident, but now it signified everything dreadful. If Christmas did not exist, her cousin would not be across from her, and Fiona most certainly would not have abandoned perhaps her last chance to visit the archaeological site in order to sit in a closed and jostling coach, striving for an excuse to skip the woman’s ball. “Now do tell me,” Madeline said, “Whatever were you doing standing in a pit in the earth?” “I—” “It’s the sort of thing that gives

Yorkshire women a bad reputation,” Madeline said. “You really must reconsider your habits. It will be trying enough for you to find a husband without acting like the local madwoman.” Fiona squared her shoulders. “How kind of you to worry. Really, it’s wholly unnecessary. And I’m not in the least need of a husband.” If only Grandmother would believe that. Madeline smiled. “You’re always in the habit of saying the most curious things. Most fascinating.” Fiona gave her a wobbly smile and

considered divulging her secret. She pondered the pottery, the Roman coins and helmets, the vases and mosaics she’d found on the border of the apple orchard. She longed to share everything. There were so many brilliant objects. It couldn’t be sheer coincidence. There had to be a Roman palace buried there. Cloudbridge Castle lay on the route toward Hadrian’s Wall, and it was not entirely absurd to think that the Romans may have built a palace on the way. Perhaps the Romans had had a tendency to wander around in togas, but that didn’t

mean they hadn’t enjoyed fine homes as well. The materials she had found were too ornate for a simple station for soldiers of insignificant rank. But her cousin wouldn’t understand. The last person Fiona had told had been Uncle Seymour. She’d wanted his permission to excavate the apple orchard, and he’d exploded at the prospect of cutting any of the trees down on the off chance that some broken cups and plates might be underneath. Though Uncle Seymour visited infrequently, the estate belonged to him, and once Grandmother died, he would move in.

Fiona drew in a breath. Some things were better not dwelled on. And perhaps Madeline was right. Perhaps she should attend the ball. “Will the baron be there?” Fiona tilted her head, thinking of the materials she’d found underneath the apple orchard. Madeline’s husband’s advice in assessing the objects’ value would be invaluable. The baron was a renowned art critic, and his work on the Elysian Marbles was genius. She was sure his favorable assessment had spurred the new British Museum to acquire them.

Unfortunately, he seemed to favor London far more than Yorkshire. “My husband?” Madeline’s voice faltered. “I would like to speak to him about some findings…” “Oh.” Madeline’s long black eyelashes swooped down over her eyes. “Perhaps I might be of some use—” Fiona shook her head. The less people she told about the apple orchard the better. The ones she had told already thought her mad for believing there was a Roman palace buried underneath there. Her cousin was not the type to lend

herself to confidences; she was far too fond of gossip. Right now it was more important that Madeline did not learn of Fiona’s supposed engagement; her cousin was the largest gossip in Yorkshire. Fiona had no inclination to be a laughingstock, and any hope of the credulity and support the baron might give her theory on the Roman palace would be destroyed if he were to discover she’d invented a fiancé. Though she’d long abandoned any aspirations to marry, she couldn’t stand the thought that all her work, all the

carefully collected and recorded artefacts, would lose all significance because their finder was deemed a foolish girl. No one would donate funds so that the rest of the palace might be dug from the ground, and any mosaics, any sculptures, any pottery would remain firmly in the earth to be forgotten. Fiona’s conviction that a Roman palace lay under the apple orchard would be deemed ridiculous, and anyone she told would be reminded in giggling tones that Fiona also had insisted she was betrothed to a wonderful man, when

the man had turned out to be entirely imaginary. The coach pulled in before Cloudbridge Castle, and Fiona exhaled. Gray stones blended into the harsh gray sky above, as the castle thrust its jagged turrets, defenses from a former age, into the sky. In another age her ancestors would have warred against the neighboring aristocrats; now they were supposed to be friends, simply for their shared status. Her cousin exited the coach and glided toward the butler, padding her lace boots over the cobblestones. Fiona

lifted her gray dress and proceeded. The coarse wool prickled her fingers, and she stumbled on a worn cobble. “Madeline.” Grandmother’s astonished voice rang out from the open door of the castle, and Fiona quickened her pace. Murmurings sounded. Fiona couldn’t decipher her cousin’s doubtlessly refined answer. Madeline’s delicate soprano voice never carried, a fact her cousin had exploited once she discovered she could make snide comments about everyone, assured that

only her seat companion would be able to hear. Fiona entered to discover Grandmother leading Madeline toward the Great Hall. So much for any hope of speaking with Grandmother alone. Fiona followed them, her dress swishing against the antiques cramming the narrow hallway. “I was just telling Fiona that I was so hoping you might grace us with your presence at this year’s annual Christmas ball.” Grandmother laughed as they settled into the velvety armchairs that

surrounded the table in the Great Hall. “My days of balls are behind me, though Fiona might attend.” “How splendid.” Madeline clapped her hands together. Fiona moved a finger to her collar, brushing against her mother’s favorite brooch. “Thank you for inviting me, but I fear I cannot accept the invitation.” “But dearest!” Grandmother exclaimed. Fiona stood up, coughing. “I fear I’m getting a cold. You must go, Madeline. I would not want to inflict anything so despicable on my dearest cousin.”

Madeline’s thick eyelashes, far longer and more elegant than Fiona deemed necessary, fluttered downward as she blinked. “I’m sure I do not fear any cold that you might have.” “Then you are a brave woman, baroness.” Fiona strove to keep her face solemn. “But you truly should consider attending!” Her cousin leaned forward, and her eyes sparkled. Her voice took on an affable tone at odds with the smug manner she seemed to favor. “I’m sure we can find you an eligible bachelor

with whom to dance. Cousin Cecil is attending.” “Indeed.” “Why, he shows as little interest for dancing as you do! Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia say it is sure to be an ideal match. He has no title, but not everyone can be sufficiently fortunate to marry a man with one.” She beamed, perhaps contemplating her own accomplishment at acquiring a baron. Fiona strove to nod politely, thinking it best not to mention that she suspected it was not within Cousin Cecil’s nature

to find doing much of anything with a woman appealing. A maid appeared with tea. “You must find yourself a husband,” Madeline said. “It is the natural course of things, and your sister is no longer here to keep you company. And the ball will be marvelous. They always are.” “How delightful.” Grandmother picked up the teapot and poured tea into a cup. “And by then Fiona’s—” Fiona coughed. Not in the most elegant manner, but she was aiming for loudness, not delicacy. Madeline moved back a fraction, and

Grandmother’s eyebrows jolted up. “My dearest, you are doing quite poorly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you cough quite like that. It was as if—” “As if you were trying to emulate a carriage.” Madeline bit into a sweet. Grandmother fixed her gaze on the baroness. “I wouldn’t have termed it in quite that manner.” “Oh, yes!” Madeline said. “The kind with multiple horses, and driving on poorly maintained roads. Like in Scotland!” Fiona’s chest constricted. At this moment she could only hope her

grandmother had thoroughly forgotten everything Fiona had ever told her about Captain Knightley. She heaped a generous amount of sugar into her teacup, snatched a silver spoon, and stirred the tea with vigor. “I might not be well enough for the Christmas ball.” Fiona touched her forehead and ventured another cough. “My dear!” Grandmother’s hand flickered to her chest, and Fiona cursed the lie. Grandmother worried far too much. “I mean, I am sure I will eventually recover, but—”

“Splendid!” Madeline nodded. “The ball is not until Christmas Day, and you will have four days during which you might make your recovery.” “I am wary of risking the health of the other guests.” “I have the utmost confidence in your health.” Madeline accepted the cup Fiona’s grandmother offered and raised it to her perfectly formed lips. “It would be odd indeed if everyone in Yorkshire were attempting to sound like carriages.” Fiona gulped her tea. The hot liquid swirled down her throat, and she

grabbed the teapot to pour herself more, sloshing tea over the delicate lace tablecloth. Heat prickled the back of her neck, and her hands shook as she sopped up the amber puddle with a napkin. “And of course,” Madeline’s clear voice continued, “We were also sorry to miss having you last year, and the year before as well. But then I suppose you might find it uncomfortable, now that you’ve reached such an advanced age with no husband—” Grandmother’s mouth opened, and she seemed more alert than normal. “I must go.” Fiona leaped up.

Perhaps if Fiona hastened, her cousin would follow and then— “She’s already got one!” Grandmother beamed and selected a sweet. “Next year she’ll be hosting her own festivities.” Fiona stiffened. “Excuse me?” Madeline halted, and a knot in Fiona’s stomach hardened. Of all the times for Grandmother to be vocal. Nothing delighted Madeline more than gossip, and her ties to London were strong. Fiona’s knees wobbled, and she sank back into her chair. If the world were

ending, she may as well be comfortable. “Surely Fiona hasn’t found a husband?” Madeline leaned forward, and a smile played on her lips. “She has.” Grandmother gave a contented sigh. Madeline’s smile broadened to an almost unladylike extent. “However did you find a husband?” “Fiancé.” Fiona’s voice wobbled at the lie. “That’s all.” “Mm-hmm!” Madeline turned her gaze to the window and the jagged curves of the Dales, scattered with

snow. “Who knew it would be so simple to find a fiancé here?” The landscape seemed rather devoid of any dwellings, much less one belonging to an appropriate husband-tobe. “He’s . . . er . . . away!” Fiona said. “I can’t make his acquaintance?” Madeline’s tone was mournful, even though her eyes seemed to sparkle with something very much resembling mirth. “He’s not an officer, is he?” “That’s it!” Fiona said. “So he’s very much gone.” Madeline’s perfectly groomed

eyebrows arched up. “How astonishing. What’s his name?” “Um… We’re trying to keep the engagement secret now,” Fiona said. “I hope you can be understanding.” “So he lacks a name?” Madeline asked, her voice calm, though her lips extended upward briefly, before she hastened to sip her tea. “I look forward to meeting such an extraordinary person.” Fiona averted her eyes. Her gaze fell on the tea caddy. Dust clung to the mahogany box, and Fiona brushed her

finger over the wood. Visitors were not common at Cloudbridge Castle. “He is said to espouse all the best possible qualities,” Grandmother declared. “Indeed?” Madeline tilted her head, and for one blissful moment Fiona thought the woman seemed uneasy. The baroness’s eyes soon narrowed. “To think you met someone here, without any assistance. And how unlikely that he should be in possession of such apparent brilliance.” “Ah, but you forget that Fiona is brilliant herself.” Grandmother’s eyes

softened. “I was so concerned about her future and was relieved to find she was engaged all along.” “Secretly!” Fiona hastened to add. “A secret engagement. In fact, we met in London, during my season.” “Those two weeks?” Madeline’s eyebrows pushed up. “Which was why Fiona was so eager to return home,” Grandmother added, but her voice faltered somewhat, and her gaze rested on Fiona too long. “I see,” Madeline said. “Likely even our grandmother has not had the good fortune of meeting this ideal man.”

Fiona coughed now, and this time the cough felt real. “Well I am sure that now all the soldiers are being returned home, you will have no more need for discretion.” Madeline smoothed the folds of her dress. A ruby ring sparkled from her finger against the green fabric. “One week. Grandmother will desire the meeting as well. You wouldn’t want her to suspect you invented the man!” Madeline laughed, and Grandmother joined her after a trace of hesitation that Fiona despised. Fiona wanted Grandmother to

believe what happened three years before hadn’t mattered. She couldn’t stand the thought of Grandmother continuing to worry about her, all the while being visited by doctors with increasing frequency and expense. “He’ll be there!” “Wonderful.” Her cousin rose. “I only hope he’ll be able to make his journey over to Yorkshire safely. Perhaps he’ll be delayed—” “The man’s survived the worst war mankind has ever seen,” Madeline said. “He’ll be fine.” “I’m so happy for you.”

Grandmother’s eyes took on a blissful, dreamy expression, one Fiona knew well, but which she had seen too little of ever since the doctors’ sober news. It was that expression that kept Fiona from admitting that she’d lied last year in a foolish attempt to keep Grandmother from worrying about her future. Fiona rubbed a hand against her hair, and another curl dropped from her chignon. “Unless there’s a problem.” Madeline smirked. “Sometimes when men don’t see their betrothed for long periods of time, they find they do not

anticipate the meeting with the requisite eagerness. Perhaps—” Fiona’s lips settled into a firm line. “The captain is devoted and true. He is kind and brave and dashing. He is everything a man should be.” Madeline offered her a wobbly smile. “Marvelous.” Fiona raised her chin and struggled to maintain a composed face. She had no desire to suffer humiliation from the ton, but there was no way in which she would allow the truth of her behavior to reach her grandmother. Even if concocting a fiancé might not be

specifically warned against in etiquette books, the consequences of being found out would be no doubt distressing. “Then I will leave.” Madeline’s emerald green skirts swept against the furniture, and she exited the room with as much determination as she had entered it. She paused to glance at the ceiling. Fiona followed her cousin’s gaze. Shapely goddesses with white wigs and scant attire stared at her. No doubt they would think Fiona repugnant as they perched from their fluffy ivory clouds, their pale, unfreckled skin raised toward

the sun. None of them would invent fiancés. “Really, you should have this restored. There are many treasures here. Aunt Lavinia says when—” Her cousin halted and her cheeks pinkened. “Never mind. I am happy for you.” “Thank you,” Fiona squeaked. Anyway. It would be easy. All she had to do was find a fiancé. In four days. In the middle of nowhere. When no man had ever expressed an interest in her before. How hard would it be to find a man

by Monday? She didn’t need to marry the fellow. In fact, he needn’t even attend the ball. He just needed to prove his existence, a feat that would suffice in impressing the others. If she only succeeded in introducing somebody to Grandmother, all would be fine. Or mostly fine. Buy the book on amazon.

About the Author Wellesley graduate Bianca Blythe spent four years in England. She worked in a fifteenth century castle, though sadly that didn’t actually involve spotting dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians. She credits British weather for forcing her into a library, where she discovered her first Julia Quinn novel. Thank goodness for blustery downpours.

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