PROLOGUE
London—April 1812
Lady Emma Spencer dismissed her maid and studied her image in the mirror, wondering how others would see her tonight, the night of her come-out. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. Her honeyed hair was piled high atop her head, with a few wisps framing her face. She thought it made her look much more mature than usual. Her cheeks, flushed with color, gave away her nervousness, though. She fiddled with the diamond necklace, centering it, blinking back tears. The gift reminded her of Mama and how she’d struggled through poor health so much of her adult life.
Emma was supposed to make her come-out last Season but her mother had died two weeks before it began. She’d mourned deeply for Mama. On her deathbed, Mama had told her the diamond necklace and matching earrings were hers and that she should wear them when she debuted into Polite Society. Tonight, she would carry her mother in her heart as she mingled among the ton. She might even meet her future husband. The thought thrilled her.
More than anything, Emma wanted to wed and have a large family. Delaying her come-out had made her only more ready for this. She wanted a husband who would be kind and attentive, not one like Papa. He ignored her and had been overtly curt to Mama. Emma knew her mother had been afraid of her husband, especially when she hadn’t produced the expected heir. After losing numerous babies, Emma had finally been born. The doctor had told Mama no children would follow.
It had been lonely growing up an only child, wishing for siblings. Though her mother loved her daughter, waning health kept Lady Seton to her bed. Emma wanted her life to be different from the one her mother had. That’s why tonight—and this Season—was so important. She was eager to place herself on the Marriage Mart and find a man to love. Oh, she knew love only existed in books. But what if she found a man who loved her and she returned that love? That was her greatest hope. She knew she possessed a healthy dowry and her mirror told her she looked very pretty tonight. Surely, some gentleman would be interested in wooing and wedding her.
Oh, she’d almost forgotten to put on her earrings. She quickly did so and admired how they looked on her in the mirror. Slipping on her gloves, she stood and made her way downstairs. It alarmed her that her father wasn’t waiting for her. She had reminded him twice this week that she would need his escort to the Rutherfords’ ball, the opening event of the Season, and she’d left a note on his desk only this morning to help him remember. Anxiety built inside her, causing her stomach to grow sour. She hated to be late. Being tardy to her first ball would cause a terrible impression. Worse, what if she missed it entirely? The other girls making their come-out would be ahead of her, having already met and danced with numerous gentlemen. She tamped down her growing frustration, knowing it would do no good.
Emma paced the foyer nervously, remembering years ago when her mother would come floating down the stairs, dressed in her ballroom finery. Mama had loved dancing. Even her Uncle Seton had told Emma how the future Lady Seton had captured everyone’s imagination at that first ball she’d attended. It saddened her how quickly her mother’s health had gone downhill and how she’d become bedridden for so many years.
The butler appeared and she asked him where her father was.
“I regret to say that Lord Seton has not yet come home, my lady.”
“I see. Thank you.”
She continued pacing and glanced at the grandfather clock, wishing she could push the hands back at least half an hour. Her father had neglected Emma her entire life. A little voice inside her head asked why she thought tonight would be any different. She shushed it and prayed he would arrive soon.
Then the front door flew open and her father rushed in. It took her a moment to recognize him. He was a meticulous man in everything he did, especially in the way he dressed. Tonight, he appeared disheveled and out of sorts.
“Where have you been, Father? You must change quickly for the Rutherfords’ ball.”
“I’ve no time for balls,” he growled and brushed past her.
“But . . . it’s my come-out,” she protested.
He turned and his gaze frightened her. “There’ll be no come-out, Emma.”
With that, he hurried up the stairs.
She’d already had to wait a year due to mourning. She wasn’t going to wait any longer. Determination filled her as she followed him upstairs to the master bedchamber. She watched as he opened the safe and began cramming its contents into a satchel, including all her mother’s jewels.
“What is going on?” she demanded, for once acting boldly and not the shy, retiring daughter that never stirred up trouble.
He wheeled and the look on his face caused her to shrink inwardly.
“I don’t answer to you, a mere girl. A father wants sons. I couldn’t get a single one off your mother, just one measly, worthless female.”
Her knees wobbled. She locked them. “I am your child, Father.”
He laughed harshly. “Do you think that means I should care for you? Love you?” He shook his head. “You mean nothing to me.”
Deep inside, Emma had known of his indifference and had chosen to ignore it. She had tried for years to fight for his attention. His love. In this moment, she understood she’d never had a chance at it. Hurt filled her, a stabbing ache that almost threatened to unhinge her.
“You don’t mean that,” she said, looking at him steadily as she called him out. “I am your flesh and blood.”
“I do mean it,” he said sharply. “You’re worthless. You’re the image of your mother—and I couldn’t stand the sight of her.”
He rested the satchel on the bed and fastened it. Gripping the handle, he said, “Out of my way.”
“Where are you going?” she cried as he strode past her.
He paused at the doorway. “You’ll hear rumors about me. They’re all true. I must flee England. As it is, I’m barely one step ahead of the law as it is.”
Then an odd light came into his eyes and he approached her. Emma shrank back, more afraid than she’d ever been. He raised a hand and she thought he would strike her. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Instead, he ripped the diamond necklace from her throat and barked, “Give me the earrings!”
She opened her eyes as he stuffed her necklace into his pocket. Fear gripped her but she removed the diamonds, afraid he would tear them from her lobes. He thrust out a hand, palm up, and she placed the pair into it. He pocketed them without a word and left the room.
Emma ran after him, finally catching him at the bottom of the stairs.
“I don’t understand any of this, Father.”
His smile would have caused the Devil to race back to Hell.
“Of course, you don’t. You don’t know anything, you ignorant girl.”
“What . . . will happen to me?” she asked.
Emma would never forget his laugh. “I don’t care.”
Her father hurried from the house. She went to the door and saw him jump into his carriage and ride away. Leaving the front door open, she stumbled backward and collapsed on the stairs. A numbness filled her.
She wasn’t loved. He’d never loved her. For some godawful reason, he had now abandoned her. She had no one. Only her priggish cousin whom she hadn’t seen in a good decade. He’d wed last year and hadn’t even invited them to his wedding. He’d told Emma when they were children that he was merely waiting for her father to die so he could become Lord Seton. She’d been five and her cousin ten. His words had given her nightmares, thinking about her father dying.
Now, it was much worse. He’d walked out the door. Out of her life.
Sudden movement came from the open doorway as a group of men rushed inside the townhouse. They shouted at her something fierce, words she couldn’t comprehend with so many of them barking at her, their faces red and angry. Then she began making sense of the words.
“Where is he?”
“Where has Seton gone?”
“Flown the coop, has he?”
One of them grabbed her by the elbows and lifted her up. His nose nearly touched hers as he demanded, “Tell us where he went!”
Emma burst into tears. The man shook her as the others surrounded her, their shouts mingling into a cacophony that rattled her insides.
“Release her.”
The fingers melted away and she retreated to the stairs, wrapping her arms about her knees. The crowd of men parted and a man with graying temples and kind, brown eyes appeared, seamlessly gliding toward her. He sat next to her on the stairs. She knew he was the voice of reason in this mob of madness.
Seating himself next to her, he gently said, “Good evening, Lady Emma. I am Sir Howard Martin.”
She began trembling uncontrollably and he removed his coat and wrapped it about her shoulders, pulling it together in the front. She caught the faint scent of pipe tobacco and felt the warmth of the garment.
“Tell me about your father, my lady,” he said softly. As before, when he’d caused the men to step away from her, the tone of his voice was soft yet commanding. “We must speak to him at once.”
“He was . . . here. He left only a few minutes ago in his carriage. He said . . . he said he was leaving England. Without me.”
Murmurs filled the foyer. Sir Howard flicked his wrist and three of the men turned and hurried away.
“Anything else?” Sir Howard asked. “Whatever you tell me is very important.”
A sob burst from her chest. He handed her a handkerchief and she wept into it. Then she gathered her courage, knowing she must help these men.
“Father took a satchel of things with him. My mother’s jewels.” She hiccupped and fresh tears streamed down her face at the memory as she said, “He ripped my necklace from my throat and demanded I give over my earrings. They were diamonds and had belonged to Mama. She gave them to me to wear at my come-out tonight.”
Emma saw the pitying looks of the men. She turned to Sir Howard and said, “He told me he didn’t love me. That he never did.”
Sir Howard slipped an arm about her shoulder as tears continued to fall.
“There, there,” he said. “A good cry always helps, Lady Emma.”
She swallowed painfully. “What has he done?”
Sir Howard’s mouth tightened. “He’s a criminal, my lady. Lord Seton has swindled a group of influential peers out of a great sum of money.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “I had no idea.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Yes, I can see that.”
Emma bit her lip and then asked, “What will happen to me, Sir Howard? Where will I go?”
Sadness filled his eyes. “I cannot answer that, my lady.”
CHAPTER 1
London—April 1816
Marcus Powell, Viscount Aubrey, flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” his valet apologized. “I must have missed that.”
“You don’t miss much,” he praised, smoothing his tailcoat.
“You do look splendid, my lord,” the servant praised. “Are you looking forward to tonight’s ball?”
“It depends upon the new crop of young ladies,” he said teasingly. “You never know if I’m going to find my viscountess during any given Season.”
The valet sniffed. “You say that every Season, my lord.”
“And I absolutely mean it each time.”
As he went downstairs and climbed into the coach to take him to his parents’ townhouse, he thought it was true. Every year, he always had his eye out for a pretty girl who had a modicum of intelligence. He dreaded small talk—even if he excelled at it—and was ever hopeful he would find a lady that would not only have a face to match a good figure but one who could carry on a decent conversation.
Alas, it never seemed to work out for him. Years ago, he’d found one. Lady Catherine Crawford, with her abundant auburn hair and stunning looks, had met his criteria. Unfortunately, she’d been swept out from under him by the Duke of Everton, an old schoolmate of his from Eton. He was now friendly with both the duke and his duchess and still carried a small bit of regret that Everton had hoodwinked him. Still, he was ever hopeful of finding a wife. He was smitten with his two nephews, who were seven and one, and especially his niece, who was five. Wanting children meant finding a wife.
Which meant letting go of all those other women.
Marcus couldn’t help it. Flirting came naturally to him. He was fond of a pretty face and stayed clear of the fresh-faced girls making their come-out once he saw none of them attracted him. He made do with light, casual affairs, never staying with any one woman too long. That was advice he’d taken straight from the Earl of Mayfield. Luke St. Clair had been a well-known rogue, at least until his marriage last year. Now he was besotted with his countess, a woman who owned one of London’s most popular bookstores and tearooms.
If only Marcus could find his own Lady Mayfield. One who was beautiful and smart and full of fun. At twenty-nine, it was time he settle down.
That led him to the conversation he needed to hold with his father before tonight’s ball. His mother had invited him, his sister, and her husband to an early, light dinner before the ball opened the new Season. He would have to steer his father away from the others in order to bring up the topic.
Money.
It wasn’t something he was fond of discussing but, for the second time, his quarterly allowance had not come on time. In fact, it hadn’t come at all. He’d gone to speak with his father’s solicitor, mentioning the previous payment had been over two weeks late and now this one seemed stalled, as well. The man had the audacity to look him in the eyes and tell him that he needed to speak to his father about the situation. Uncouth as it was, it would have to be addressed immediately. Unlike some sons, Marcus liked to pay his bills on time and not keep people in trade waiting for their payments.
He arrived and greeted the longtime Rutherford butler and went up to the drawing room. He kissed his mother’s cheek and then did the same with Amanda.
“You grow more stunning each time I see you, Sister,” he said smoothly and then shook Stanley’s hand.
“You are full of hogwash,” she told him. “Tell him, Stanley.”
“Full of it,” his patient brother-in-law said agreeably.
His father handed him a drink. “Good to see you, my son.”
Marcus leaned in. “Father, might we have a private word?”
“Now? No, no, that won’t do at all,” the earl protested. “Let us enjoy our drinks and dinner and get this ball out of the way. Come tomorrow afternoon and we’ll go to White’s and visit there.”
Reluctantly, he nodded. “Thank you, Father.”
After dinner, the ladies freshened up and then it was time to join the receiving line. He enjoyed speaking to everyone who came through it, catching up with old friends who were back in town for the Season. Then he spied two dark-haired beauties. One was Lady Merrick, whom he’d known as Rachel St. Clair, Jeremy and Luke’s sister. The other looked so much like her that Marcus knew they had to be related. He couldn’t think how, though, as he looked at her admiringly.
Maybe this one would be the one . . .
Rachel presented the woman to Amanda, who was on Marcus’ left.
“This is Lady Stanley,” the marchioness said. “My sister, Lady Laurel.”
Amanda greeted the newcomer warmly, explaining their two families were old friends and promptly inviting Lady Laurel to tea tomorrow. That gave him the perfect opening.
“I could escort you to my sister’s home,” he said, giving Lady Laurel his most winning smile.
Amanda laughed and introduced him to the newcomer. Lady Laurel studied Marcus a moment before she spoke. His saw a strong dash of common sense in her eyes. She might be young but she wouldn’t be one who would put up with excess charm.
“That would be lovely, my lord,” she replied. “However, I will require a chaperone.”
Teasingly, he asked, “Oh, so you’ve heard I’m a rogue?”
They bantered on a bit, with Lady Laurel advising him it wasn’t the best way to start up a friendship between them by admitting to being a rogue. Marcus liked the spirit she showed.
“Might you save the first dance tonight for me?”
She agreed, remarking it was kind of him to ask her.
Rachel laughed and pulled this new sister away, telling her, “Aubrey won’t have time to flirt with the rest of the pretty girls coming through the line.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. Rachel had never put up with his nonsense, which was one of the reasons he liked her so much. He couldn’t wait to dance with this new St. Clair and find out exactly how she came to be one. Rachel had called Lady Laurel her sister. Was it an actual blood connection? A distant cousin to whom she felt close as a sister might? The thought intrigued him, as did Lady Laurel.
Once the last of the guests had been greeted, Marcus went to claim his partner. She accepted his arm and he led her to the center of the ballroom. Once she saw that only his parents and the Stanleys joined them, she stiffened. He hated that he had blindsided her but doubted she would have accepted him as a partner if she knew of the Rutherford tradition.
“The Rutherford family dances the first measures of the opening song,” he explained. “Have no fear, Lady Laurel. Others will join us soon. After all, it is a ball.” He grinned. “Dancing is expected.”
Before she could run from the floor, the music began and he swept her into his arms. She was a marvelous dancer and he complimented her on her skill, adding, “I believe you’re talented at a good many things, my lady.”
They didn’t speak beyond that, letting the music take them away. Marcus had always enjoyed dancing. Anything with movement drew him in. Riding. Boxing. Fencing. Lady Laurel St. Clair made for a wonderful partner. He would see at tea tomorrow if she were a featherbrain. If not, he might have finally met his match.
He returned her to the Evertons and made plans to pick them up in his carriage in order to go to tea at Amanda’s tomorrow afternoon. He would have to visit with his father earlier in the afternoon. No going to White’s. They would see too many people there and get caught up in conversations. He would corner his father in his study after luncheon, where the earl retreated for hours in order to read. Marcus had gotten his voracious reading habit from his father. No one of his acquaintance seem to devour books as quickly as he did.
It only took a few hands of cards after supper for him to hear the gossip regarding Laurel St. Clair. He refused to join in it and would never think to spread it. He did learn, though, that she and her twin brother were by-blows of the deceased Duke of Everton. The men at his table thought it bold of the current Everton to foist his illegitimate half-sister on to society. It didn’t surprise Marcus in the least. The three legitimate St. Clair siblings all had different mothers since Everton had wed thrice, making them all half-siblings. Jeremy was a stern but kindhearted man. Learning of two more half-siblings, wrong side of the blanket or not, wouldn’t have troubled him in the least. As a duke, he could introduce Lady Laurel into society and help her make a match with a low-ranking peer. Yes, there would be gossip, some of it vicious, but Everton was a powerful duke. He would see the girl wed. The bastard brother, though, would have a much harder time of it. He wouldn’t be welcomed in the ballrooms of the ton.
The only thing Marcus had to decide now was if he wanted Laurel St. Clair enough to pursue her.
***
The next night, Marcus claimed Lady Laurel for the supper dance, which he’d asked her to reserve for him. She had been a lively conversationalist at tea and being someone who followed his own path instead of that of others, he’d decided that she was worth getting to know better. He wasn’t ready to commit totally to her. He’d still met a few noteworthy debutantes last night but Laurel was the one who intrigued him the most. The Rutherford family name was an old, honored one. Yes, if he decided she were the one who would make him happy, they would face some gossip, but what family didn’t have a few skeletons rattling about?
Especially if money was involved. Marcus had received a note from his mother that morning, informing him that his father was ill and would have to postpone their meeting this afternoon. Part of him knew his father avoided him on purpose, yet when Lord Rutherford hadn’t appeared at tonight’s ball, Marcus supposed his mother hadn’t been fibbing.
He turned his attention back to his lovely partner. They moved effortlessly together in time to the music. If he judged a wife on dancing alone, Lady Laurel would definitely be his chosen bride.
In the middle of the dance, she became prickly, though.
“Just because there is a longstanding friendship between our two families, please don’t feel obligated to act friendly with me,” she told him.
That ruffled his feathers. “Are you not pleased to dance with me, my lady?”
She gave him a look only a St. Clair could master and said, “You are a marvelous dancer and you know it, my lord. I merely am letting you know that you don’t have to pay special attention to me, merely because of the connection you feel with the other St. Clairs.”
Marcus stopped on the dance floor, ready to challenge her. She begged him to keep dancing so he began moving his feet again, knowing his actions already might have drawn unwanted attention.
As the music died away, his gaze pinned her and he said, “Let me make one thing clear. I asked you to dance because I wanted to. Not out of any sense of obligation.”
He wanted that to be perfectly clear. Admittedly, he liked a challenge. Laurel St. Clair was certainly proving to be just that. He took her from the ballroom to where the buffet would be served and led her to a table for two, making it clear he wished to have time alone with her, away from her relatives.
After he seated her, he took a chair, as well. The buffet line was incredibly long. This way, they could converse in peace and after the line died away, he would fetch them something to eat. He gazed at her, her skin slightly flushed, those emerald St. Clair eyes captivating him.
Suddenly, the Evertons’ butler appeared, carrying a silver tray.
“For you, Lord Aubrey.”
He accepted the folded page atop the tray and opened the note. As he read it, his throat grew thick.
“I hope you’ll accept my apology, my lady. I must leave immediately.”
“Is something wrong?” Lady Laurel asked, concern written on her brow.
“My father has passed away suddenly.”
Marcus didn’t elaborate. The note, written by his mother, only told him of the earl’s demise and begged him to come to her at once. He rose as if under water, his movements sluggish. He returned Lady Laurel to her family, kissing her hand, his heart full of sorrow for his loss—and regret.
“I’m afraid I will be in mourning, Lady Laurel. I will not see you for a while. I must find Amanda.”
Though he was attracted to this captivating St. Clair and ready to settle down after sowing a good many wild oats, Marcus walked away. Even though she was a by-blow, some lucky man would claim Laurel St. Clair.
It just wouldn’t be him.
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