Chapter One

 

White’s Club, London

 

“All appears to be in order.”

The words came out crisp and cool, despite the sting in Simon’s eyes. Somewhere in the club, a man was smoking a cigar; the thick, acrid scent drifted through the halls and settled like an unwelcome fog around him. It put him at a disadvantage, and he would not have been surprised to learn that Lord Ambrose Cavendish—his present companion—had arranged matters so.

A man might smoke a cigar in his own club if he liked. White’s had no rules against it, and Simon knew a complaint would gain him nothing.

Resisting the urge to rub his watering eyes, he glanced once more at the contract before him. His tone remained crisp, cool, businesslike. “This investment is a decidedly safe one. I estimate you will see returns within six months at the latest. Of course, I must discuss the matter with my partner before anything is finalised, but I shall keep you informed of our progress.”

Cavendish did not reach for the document. When the silence stretched, Simon lifted the contract and held it out pointedly.

The man merely swallowed a belch. Cavendish had never once been adept at noticing subtleties or hints. His money, however, was sound—and in considerable supply. That alone had secured him a meeting with Simon. Boorish or not, a man with capital and tolerable business sense could still prove useful.

“If you like,” Cavendish replied carelessly. “All very proper, this contract and whatnot. I could never tolerate having a partner to answer to. Frankly, I do not know how you can rely on a partner again after what happened to you. If I were you, I certainly would not.”

Simon’s grip tightened until the paper crackled between his fingers.

“But you are not me, are you?” he muttered. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.” Simon drew a steadying breath. “Are you in London for long, Lord Cavendish?”

The man sniffed, leaning back in the creaking leather chair. He was a portly fellow with a rounded, clammy face — the sort a man acquired from too much brandy and far too little fresh air. Simon also happened to know that Cavendish’s fortune, while undeniably large, was not what it ought to be. A lesser man would have squandered it long ago, but the Cavendish reservoir ran deep; there was always more to draw upon. Still, it seemed investments were becoming a necessity. With three daughters of marriageable age and scant dowry between them, it was hardly surprising he was eager to turn a profit before it was too late.

“I’m here for the Season,” Cavendish said at last. “We’ll remain a few months at the very least, though I pray not for the entire length of it. Gets dreadfully boring toward the beginning and end, don’t you think? With any luck, we’ll marry the girls off all at once. That will be a weight off my mind—and off my table. The middle one, Susanna, eats like a pig. Willowy figures are all the mode this Season, she has been told, but she will not listen.”

Simon raised his brows. It took him a moment to recover, to find something sufficiently polite to say. It did not surprise him that Cavendish insulted his daughters so freely in front of strangers. Simon had no daughters—no children at all—but he was quite certain it was not the mark of a father’s affection to speak so harshly of one’s own.

“As I understand it,” he managed slowly, “there is very little exercise fashionable ladies are permitted. Gentle promenades and slow horseback rides won’t keep anyone particularly fit, will they?”

“I am speaking of food, man—food! Sometimes I think I ought to feed her on bread and water.”

Simon glanced sharply up. If the remark was meant as a joke, it was a poor one, and Cavendish was certainly not laughing. The larger man merely inspected his fingernails, stretching out his hands, and smothered another burp. Simon responded with a crisp, insincere smile and lowered his gaze to the contract once more.

He hoped that his visible disinterest would bore Lord Cavendish and send the wretched fellow scuttling off elsewhere in the club.

Simon was not so fortunate.

“The eldest, Mary, is slim enough,” Cavendish continued with a sigh, “but her skin has never been good. She talks entirely too much into the bargain.”

“So one daughter ought not to eat,” Simon murmured, “and the other ought not to talk.”

Cavendish smothered yet another belch. “Well, it is simply not ladylike to eat too much and chatter, is it? Now, my youngest is a pretty little thing. Sara, her name. Ever so reserved—but that is a nice thing in a lady, ain’t it? You might be interested in her yourself, your Grace. She’d make a tidy, quiet little wife.”

Simon folded the contract, his expression tight. “Miss Sara is sixteen, is she not?”

“That’s right.”

“A mere child.”

Cavendish tutted. “At sixteen? Goodness, no.”

Simon gave a brittle smile, restraining the retort he dearly wished to make.

“Whereas I,” he continued, light as glass, “am fully thirty this year. That would put me at close to twice her age.”

Cavendish stared at him, faintly baffled. “Yes, but what’s that got to do with it?”

Simon considered explaining—briefly—how it would make him feel to marry a sixteen-year-old child, but decided the effort would be wasted.

“Well, Lord Cavendish, I shall contact you soon to let you know when the shipment will leave port,” he said at last, rising and extending a hand. “In the meantime, you know where to find me.”

“Indeed I do,” the man said, levering himself up and engulfing Simon’s hand in his clammy one. “And if you rethink the whole marriage business—I have heard it said you are quite opposed to it—do let me know, and I’ll introduce you to Sara. If she’s too young, there’s always Mary. She’s fully eighteen.”

“Very old indeed,” Simon agreed dryly.

Cavendish did not notice the irony. He lumbered off across the club, following the trail of cigar smoke. Simon sank back into his chair and exhaled a ragged sigh.

He had barely been alone a moment when another gentleman scampered across the floor and plumped down into the chair Cavendish had vacated.

“I thought he’d never leave,” Benjamin sighed. “Still, it all looked as though it went well, eh?”

“Indeed it did,” Simon agreed, stretching out his legs. The tension eased from his shoulders the moment Benjamin arrived. There was something to be said for the soothing presence of true friends, and Simon had few enough of them these days.

The Honourable Benjamin Bentley was not a man of great wealth or towering social standing. Two older brothers stood ahead of him in the line of inheritance, and beyond his own modest fortune, he had few prospects. One of his elder brothers and two younger had wisely married for money, while the eldest had secured the daughter of a duke. That left poor Benjamin, at seven-and-twenty, the only unmarried Bentley.

He was handsome enough, with large, soft brown eyes and a head of chestnut curls. If he wanted marriage, Simon imagined he could get it easily enough.

But then, Simon thought sourly, people once believed the same of me.

“It’s over, at least,” he said after a moment. “Cavendish is an awful fellow, but he has capital to invest, and the venture is safe enough. He made no bones about how badly he wants his three daughters married off by the end of the Season.”

Benjamin cleared his throat. “Yes, quite. About that… Simon, I have something I wanted to tell you.”

“Oh, good grief. You aren’t marrying one of the Cavendish girls, are you?”

“What? No! Simon, I… what are you looking at?”

Simon did not respond.

A gust of cool air swept through the room — a sure sign that the large front door had opened to admit a new arrival. He twisted around, almost in spite of himself, and found his gaze fixed upon a very familiar face.

Lord Owen Pemberton stood in the doorway, flanked by two nondescript gentlemen. He was handing over his coat and hat to a footman, his fair hair blown back from his fairy-tale-prince features. A gold and emerald cravat pin—painfully expensive—gleamed at his throat.

Simon despised him.

“Oh,” Benjamin murmured with a wince. “It’s him. Are you still angry about him swiping that trade deal out from under you?”

“No, of course not,” Simon lied. “It’s merely business.”

Owen swept forward, conversing over his shoulder with his companions. His path took him suspiciously close to where Simon and Benjamin sat, and he paused, beaming down at them in theatrical surprise.

“Ah, if it isn’t the Duke of Rilenwood himself! I am astonished to find you out at the club at all, your Grace. I had imagined your eye perpetually fixed to your telescope, ever absorbed in your celestial pursuits. How ever have you contrived to tear yourself away from them?”

Simon clenched his jaw until his teeth squeaked. “It is daytime, Lord Pemberton.”

Owen chuckled. “So it is. No hard feelings over that business with Lord Teckle, eh? I understand you lost a little money when he pulled out of your venture.”

A little money was something of an understatement. Simon had lost a sum which, years ago, would have destroyed him a second time. 

Now, however, it was fortunately nothing much beyond an inconvenience, but that did little to erase his fear. Simon, of all people, knew how easily money could disappear. 

He saw no purpose in explaining any of this. Instead, he offered a tight smile and nodded.

“Nothing to trouble yourself over, Lord Pemberton.”

Owen seemed almost disappointed by the lack of reaction. He nodded and moved on, interest fading.

“Well, good day to you, your Grace. And good day, Mr Bentley.” He swept off before Benjamin could reply.

When Owen and his satellites had gone, Benjamin heaved a ragged sigh, sitting back in his seat. 

“Well. That man has a particular spite for you, Simon. What on earth did you do to offend him? He’s the one who did you the hurt. And if she was willing to abandon you for him, perhaps she was never—”

Simon lifted a hand, dismissing it. “It does not matter. Forget him. What did you want to tell me?”

He pushed away the memory Benjamin had stirred. Years had passed since Owen had stolen the woman Simon hoped to marry. He felt nothing for her now, of course—but the old shame and betrayal still lingered in the corners of his mind.

Unease crept back into Benjamin’s expression. “I think I’ve rather lost my nerve now.”

“Oh, come, tell me.”

“Very well. But you’ll think it silly.”

“That has never stopped you before,” Simon remarked dryly, lifting one elegant, dark brow. He knew he compared poorly to Owen’s blond Apollonian handsomeness—what with his black hair, pale skin, and sharp green eyes. He kept his hair unfashionably short, and he was at least half a head shorter than Owen. Leaner, too.

Benjamin sighed and shifted in his seat.

“I’ve been a little lonely of late, Simon. I won’t deny it. I know that for you, your work is your life, and you can be content with that. But I cannot. I see my brothers all married and happy, and I… I want that for myself.”

Simon leaned forward, frowning. “Benjamin…”

“I should like to find a wife,” Benjamin blurted, his gaze darting away. “I know you have known heartbreak and have no interest in risking such pain again. But I do want to settle down. I want a wife, and I want a family. I have spoken to my father, and he is all for it. He has even offered to increase my allowance—though I scarcely need it, not with our ventures providing such steady income. The point is, I mean to marry, and I intend to go into Society this Season to find a bride.”

Simon took a moment to respond, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. In truth, this was not a great surprise. Benjamin was a soft-hearted and sensitive man, kindly and gregarious; perhaps it was inevitable he should long for a family of his own.

Another friend lost to matrimony, Simon thought grimly. Still, if it will make Benjamin happy… 

“If you’re asking for my blessing, you hardly need it,” he replied at last, offering a wry smile. “But of course you have it.”

Benjamin bit his lip. “It is not merely your blessing. You are my friend, and I… I should like you to come with me. Into Society, I mean. It would give me confidence. I should not feel so very alone.”

Simon’s heart sank into his boots. He envisioned the horror of the Season in London: endless balls, dinners, soirées, garden parties—if the weather proved kind; Almack’s, Vauxhall, picnics—if fortune did not.

But Benjamin was watching him with wide, hopeful eyes. And he was, undeniably, the best friend Simon had ever been fortunate enough to claim.

He sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Very well, Benjamin,” he muttered. “I will go with you into Society. But for goodness’ sake, choose a bride quickly, so we may escape all that wretched small talk and go home.”

 

Chapter Two

 

Lord and Lady Weston’s Drawing Room

 

“You had better keep her away from Lord and Lady Cavendish’s girls,” Lady Weston murmured, her teacup clinking delicately in its saucer. “We are all in Society to see our daughters suitably married, of course, but those two simply take the cake. Far too eager.”

“I could not agree more,” Mama said, nodding. Then, in what appeared a sudden pang of conscience, she glanced toward the window where the daughters sat together. “What say you, girls? You are not friends with the Cavendish girls, I hope? Would it distress you to drop them this Season?”

Scarlett tore her eyes from her book and smiled at her mother.

“No, Mama. We have never met them.”

Mama exhaled a satisfied breath. “I’m glad. We must be serious this Season, Scarlett. You do wish to be married, do you not?”

Scarlett thought silence was the wisest answer. Wishing not to be married was a luxury few modern young ladies could indulge—not if they hoped for anything resembling comfort.

“Of course she does!” Lady Weston laughed, helping herself to another slice of cake. “All girls do. My sweet Eugenie cannot wait to be a wife and mother.”

Eugenie Wenfield, sweet as spring sunshine, sat opposite Scarlett on the window seat with her legs tucked beneath her, embroidering with intense concentration. Scarlett privately found it a tedious pastime, but Eugenie swore it cleared the mind. And she truly produced the most exquisite designs. Embroidery, when mastered, was a rather fabulous accomplishment. Eugenie enjoyed it; that was reason enough to admire her skill.

Scarlett, on the other hand, could never keep her stitches from wandering. She forced her face into neutrality as her mother blithely declared that she could not wait for wifely duties. 

“The Cavendish girls are not particularly pretty,” Lady Weston confided. “Everyone knows Lord and Lady Cavendish want them married highly—and as soon as possible. I suppose they have instructed the girls to avoid prettier company. Not a bad strategy, really. Our girls are fortunate to be so lovely and so well matched; Scarlett fair, Eugenie dark. Such charming daughters we have, Catherine.”

Scarlett’s mother nodded thoughtfully, sipping her tea. Lady Catherine Vance, Countess of Grenmore, was a stern woman with few vices—though praise for her daughter was certainly one of them. Susceptible to such flattery, she settled in happily as the two mothers drifted into their usual chatter: parties, gossip, and which eligible gentlemen might appear at the first ball of the Season.

There would, apparently, be a great many. Each, naturally, had his drawbacks. Sir Richard Tobias was very handsome and of excellent family, but everybody knew that the family fortune was all gone. Mr Southbrook was not titled, but he was rich and said to be pleasant company. Lord Beller was rich and titled, but he was rather old, had terrible manners, and had had three wives already. 

Scarlett let her thoughts drift. Her book had lost its spell, so she stared out the rain-streaked window instead. The Westons’ townhouse overlooked a grey London street, slick with the promise of a wet spring.

Not that she would see much outdoors in the coming months. Even if a picnic or two were hosted, it would be all balls and endless dinner parties, and soirées, which were just dinner parties held late at night. Picnics were popular, but of course, a picnic would rely upon the weather. Besides, Mama thought that the fashion for picnics and outdoor eating would fade soon, with people eating inside at tables and chairs, ‘as they should’. 

“Mama wants me to put aside embroidery for a while,” Eugenie said quietly, eyes still on her work. “She says musical accomplishments are more easily displayed. Nobody admires an embroidered cushion anymore, apparently.”

“I think they simply haven’t seen your cushions,” Scarlett replied. “Though I understand your plight. Mama says I must not utter a word about astronomy or they’ll think me a bluestocking.”

“You are a bluestocking, I’m afraid.”

A fair point. Scarlett smiled faintly and tipped her forehead against the cool window glass. Her blurred reflection gazed back: golden hair, green eyes. Society papers had already written lines about her beauty and the likely course of her marriage. It was absurd. London brimmed with lovely young women each spring, yet some anonymous scribbler with a quill declared a handful “the best of the bunch,” and the rest of Society obediently followed suit.

Perhaps some gentlemen found it convenient to court those already praised by other men. No man wanted to show interest in a lady universally overlooked.
How nonsensical, that men so frequently consulted only other men regarding matters of the heart. Did they truly lack confidence in their own judgment? Or did they simply enjoy the excuse?

“How do you feel about marriage, Eugenie? Truly,” Scarlett asked at last, if only to divert her mind from its circular musings. Maybe the Season would surprise her. Perhaps the crop of gentlemen would be better than she expected.

Slim hope—but a hope nonetheless.

Eugenie sighed. “We have spoken of this before, Scarlett. Women marry. We will marry. It is the way of things. We may marry, or we may remain spinsters in our fathers’ houses. I do not want that fate, and I doubt you do either. So, if we want homes and families and some measure of independence, we must choose a man. Society is nothing more than selecting the best of them. And you may yet fall in love. Love matches exist, and I intend to find one. There is no sense railing against what simply is.”

“I am not railing.”

“You are. You resent leaving your telescopes and books to mix with the world. Do you think I cannot tell?”

Scarlett opened her mouth to protest, but no words came. Eugenie looked up over the rim of her wire-rimmed spectacles and grinned.

“There, you see? I am right.”

Of course, Eugenie would not be permitted to wear the spectacles at parties. Or when promenading. Or anywhere outside of the house, really. 

Or when they were receiving guests. Apparently, the ability to see clearly was a lesser priority than looking pretty. Scarlett was already thoroughly tired of the nonsense. 

“Apparently, there is a veritable fleet of eligible gentlemen this Season,” Eugenie added, snipping a thread. “Mama is ecstatic.”

“Of course she is. I cannot recall when they last looked so delighted.”

“Lady Grenmore favours Lord Percy Davenport, Marquess of Dalewood, for you,” Eugenie ventured. “A marquess! What do you make of him?”

Scarlett paused, biting her lower lip. She conjured his image. A respectable man—tall, not unattractive. 

Not particularly compelling, either. Thirty-five or six, widowed after several years of marriage, and now seeking a second wife with the requisite mourning completed.

“I suppose I could do worse,” she said at last.

Eugenie narrowed her eyes. “That was not my question. What do you think of him?”

“I do not know if I think anything of him. He seems… not unkind.”

“Nor interesting.”

Scarlett bit her lip. True, if uncharitable. Her fleeting impression had been of a man who spoke in monotone, rarely smiled, and appeared to hold no opinions on anything at all.

What would we talk about at breakfast?

She banished the notion at once. Marriage was not about conversation or sentiment; every sensible woman understood that. It was simply a matter of choosing an appropriate husband. The newer fashion for romance was charming enough in novels, but everyone knew it for what it was: a sweet, foolish illusion. Practicality must prevail; that was the real rule of life.

Or so Eugenie declared. She devoured every inflammatory pamphlet that hinted at women’s emancipation or suggested that ladies might one day choose their own lives. Scarlett found them exceptionally well written—persuasive, even—but she could not believe such a world would arrive soon.

If it ever did, though, it would be women like Eugenie who dragged it into being.

Provided she did not marry some dull creature who kept her shut away with children and barred her from books altogether.

“Lord Dalewood is quite taken with Scarlett already,” Scarlett heard Mama say. “He is a rather plain man himself, and he so admires beauty. And, of course, Scarlett is so very beautiful. I daresay she will outshine all the girls this Season. Not your Eugenie, of course.”

Lady Weston shifted, faintly uncomfortable. “Naturally not. If Eugenie can remember to behave as a lady in company. I do worry about her at times. She has such odd notions.”

“I do wonder if they know we can hear them,” Eugenie murmured, holding her embroidery up to inspect it.

“I’m not sure they care,” Scarlett responded. She rose, her legs tingling after too long confined to the window seat. “You see, Eugenie? I cannot sit still. Ladies are meant to be serene and graceful, not fidgeting creatures. I may have a tolerably arranged face, but I am no proper lady. If I fail to secure the marquess, I may not find another husband. And whether I even want one seems to be of no consequence at all.”

Eugenie sighed and set aside her cushion.
“You cannot spend your life with your nose in a book, Scarlett. You know that. I suppose it is time to grow up.”

“I turned twenty last week,” Scarlett said dryly. “I’m quite certain I am grown.”

“Girls, do come away from that window,” Mama called. “You will catch a chill. It would be disastrous.”

“Indeed,” Lady Weston agreed. “A bout of ill-health at the start of the Season is a black mark against any young lady. We cannot have people thinking the girls are frail.”

I have never been described as frail, Scarlett thought, making her way over to the sofas and coffee table where Mama and Lady Weston sat. 

At that moment, a wave of boredom swept through her—heavy, smothering, almost physical. 

Is this all my life will be? Small talk, tea and interminable waiting? Waiting for parties and balls to break up the monotony?

It was an awfully melancholic thought, and Scarlett snuffed it out. It would do her no good. 

She settled down on a two-seater sofa facing her mother and Lady Weston, and Eugenie sat beside her. 

“We shall have to be more careful than usual, now that the Season is starting,” Mama said, eyeing them sternly. “No wandering the streets alone. No more discussions of inappropriate topics. Scarlett, I am looking at you. It is one thing to remark that you enjoy stargazing; it is quite another to recite the Latin names of constellations at a gentleman.”

“Of course not, Mama,” Scarlett said sweetly, stretching her legs. She was at least a head shorter than Eugenie — possibly shorter than fashionable. It had always struck her as absurd that the height of a woman, her colouring, even her complexion could fall in and out of fashion like hats.

“Oh, and another thing,” Lady Weston added. “I hear there is a duke among this Season’s eligible gentlemen.”

Mama nearly choked on her tea. “A duke? Who?”

“The Duke of Rilenwood.”

Mama’s expression fell. “Oh. Him. Let us not get our hopes up.”

Scarlett tilted her head. “Do you know him, Mama?”

“I know of him. His dislike of matrimony is common knowledge. He says so openly, and I quite believe him. And, of course, he smells of the shop.”

Ah, Scarlett thought. Fatal. 

It was not unusual for a gentleman to have pursuits beyond Society, but the ton preferred a man of rank to show some enthusiasm for its rituals. A duke who ignored the Season altogether was bound to attract comment.

“Yes, we shouldn’t have any hopes of him,” Mama continued.

“Plenty of gentlemen dislike the idea of matrimony,” Eugenie said, pouring tea. “What makes this one so dreadful?”

“Because he prefers trade to proper Society,” Mama explained with a tut. “Gentlemen must have hobbies, no one disputes that. Cards, horses, an excess of spirits—these we ignore. Business is forgivable, in moderation. But to let it overshadow one’s place in Society? To refuse the Season entirely? To avoid suitable company? He has never participated. Not once. It is an absolute waste, I say.”

“And what is his proper place in Society?” Scarlett asked mildly.

Mama fixed her with a frown. “I hope you will not ask clever questions tomorrow evening at Lady Susan’s ball. First impressions matter. Everyone who is anyone will be there, and everyone will be observing. If you make a single misstep, it will follow you all Season. Mark my words.”

Scarlett exhaled. “That is a great deal of pressure, Mama.”

“I am sorry, my dear, but it is the truth.”

Mama had never been a beauty—a fact she admitted freely. She had married Papa at the so-called ‘ripe age’ of four-and-twenty, and they were, as far as Scarlett could tell, exceptionally happy. Perhaps that was why Mama seemed faintly astonished to have produced a pretty daughter, and put entirely too much weight upon the fact.

Beauty is luck, Scarlett thought. Fleeting, uncertain luck.

Even so, Mama talked of beauty and its powers almost constantly, or at least she had for over the past few months. She had chosen most of Scarlett’s dresses herself, in colours which Scarlett would not have chosen for herself. 

It does not matter, Scarlett reminded herself. Don’t I want to make Mama happy? And I’m not a fool; I shall not allow Mama to dictate whom I marry. I shall not.

“Is the Duke attending Lady Susan’s ball?” Eugenie asked.

“I believe so,” Mama said.

“Well, if he is in Society, perhaps he means to marry someone,” Lady Weston suggested.

Mama shook her head.

“One thing is certain,” she declared, selecting a finger-cake. “We shall avoid the Duke most diligently. A quiet, uneventful Season is what we want. And then, with luck, our girls will be married before it ends. That is my sole desire.”

“Hear, hear,” Lady Weston agreed.

Scarlett smiled faintly and said nothing.

Chapter Three

 

The Following Day, Lady Susan’s Townhouse

 

It was already clear that Lady Susan’s ball was to be a triumph. Scarlett knew it the instant she crossed the threshold and found herself pressed elbow-to-elbow with what appeared to be the whole of London.

Everyone longed for an invitation to Lady Susan’s gatherings, and scarcely anyone declined. The hostess herself floated through the throng in a cloud of silk, lace, and overpowering perfume, her smile radiant, her manner gracious. She greeted each guest by name and contrived to appear delighted by every single one. From time to time, she performed introductions—pairing eligible young ladies with eligible gentlemen—though she took care to avoid introducing those young ladies with “advantages,” such as notable beauty or a flattering mention in the gossip sheets.

That was all very well; it lent a certain illusion of fairness to the Marriage Mart—if such a thing could exist, even for an instant, in so mercenary an atmosphere. Scarlett did not think it could, though no one was likely to consult her opinion.

In short, Lady Susan Thorpe was, by general consensus, the finest hostess in London, and she was clearly basking in the glow of that reputation this evening. She swept towards Scarlett with all her customary warmth, offered a few bright words of welcome, and then drifted off again in a fresh cloud of self-satisfaction.

To be fair, she had earned it. The decorations alone must have taken hours of planning. The ballroom was a masterpiece of colour and texture—festooned with garlands of flowers and greenery, ribbons in every shade, and even delicate paper chains, all artfully arranged. Silk blooms clustered in corners, and every guest received a small token upon arrival: pretty paper fans for the ladies, beaded handles gleaming, the reverse side left blank for noting one’s dance partners. The gentlemen, for their part, were presented with gilt-trimmed pencils bearing their initials—a whimsical touch, though not without purpose, as they were the ones expected to inscribe their names upon the ladies’ dance cards.

The ballroom was already full to bursting, and yet guests continued to pour in. No one of consequence would dare miss the first ball of the Season—and certainly not one hosted by Lady Susan. It had taken Scarlett nearly half an hour simply to make her way from the entry hall to the ballroom proper.

Eugenie appeared at last, triumphantly elbowing her way through the crush, a cup of punch in each hand. Her dance-card fan hung by a beaded ribbon from her wrist, and Scarlett could already glimpse a few names there. 

Mama had been vigilant in steering Scarlett clear of the easy gentlemen—the fortune-hunters, the inveterate flirts—who would dance with any woman merely to fill a card. Such frivolous partners wasted valuable opportunities that might otherwise fall to men of substance. 

Men like Lord Dalewood, for instance.

It was, of course, out of the question for Scarlett to dance with whomever she pleased. That was not the purpose of a Society ball. Gentlemen might choose as they liked, but ladies could not afford to refuse a polite invitation. Declining one dance meant risking exclusion from the rest of the evening, and no prudent woman courted that kind of notice. The rules were unyielding, and the risk of offending even a frivolous suitor was too great to chance.

“Here’s your punch,” Eugenie said cheerfully, pressing a sticky cup into her hand. “You have no idea how many elbows I met on your behalf.”

Scarlett winced and took a sip. “We shall need a good deal more than punch to survive this evening. Champagne, perhaps. We are to be here until the early hours, aren’t we?”

“Most likely,” Eugenie laughed. “It would be quite the scandal to leave Lady Susan’s ball early. Mama says we mustn’t even think of departing until a quarter of the other young ladies have gone—perhaps a third. I suspect every other mother in London has issued the same command, which means we shall be here until the end of days.”

Scarlett had a burble of laughter at that. “What a dreadful prophecy! Good grief, Eugenie!”

“I do not know what you find amusing,” Eugenie retorted with a grin. “You’ll be staying to the bitter end as well. Anyway, despite all her speeches about prudence, my mama still harbours hopes that the forbidding duke will catch sight of me and lose his head entirely.”

“Better you than I,” Scarlett said dryly. “The man sounds insufferable.”

“You say that only because he dares what you dream of doing—to turn his back on the Marriage Mart and say so aloud,” Eugenie teased. “He isn’t here yet, but rumour insists he is expected.”

“As if anyone cares,” Scarlett sighed. 

“You would be astonished. People do care. Oh—look alive, here comes your admirer.”

Scarlett followed her friend’s gaze, and her heart promptly sank.

He’s here. 

Lord Dalewood was shouldering his way through the crowd, tall, stern, and expressionless. His gaze found hers at once, and she watched closely for a flicker of warmth or surprise. None came—only a polite, tight-lipped smile.

“Lady Scarlett,” he said, inclining his head. “What a pleasure to see you. And you, Miss Wenfield.”

He was handsome, she supposed — if one favoured that sort of severity. Tall, distinguished, and not yet old, which seemed recommendation enough in certain circles. Gentlemen, she reflected, could appraise a woman’s beauty down to the angle of her cheekbones, but ladies were far kinder in return. She had heard many a friend speak fondly of an unhandsome or tiresome fiancé, praising his goodness as though it were a rare jewel.

Should kindness really be considered remarkable in a man? Scarlett doubted it, though men themselves seemed determined to prove her wrong.

Lord Dalewood cleared his throat with unnecessary weight — a sure sign he had noticed her drifting thoughts. Scarlett offered him a mild smile, a polite signal that her attention had returned. That was apparently all he required. He bowed to Eugenie, who returned the gesture in silence.

“May I have the honour of the cotillion, Lady Scarlett?” he asked, couching the command in the form of a question.

“Of course, my lord,” she answered mechanically, handing over her dance card. The marquess took it, and she could have sworn she saw a flare of glee in his eyes when he saw that there were no other names for any other set. He wrote his own name in the appropriate slot and handed back the dance card with a flourish. 

“You are looking well, Lady Scarlett. That shade of green becomes you.”

Scarlett smiled faintly, smoothing the folds of her gown. When Mama had chosen the dress, she had doubted it. The cut was simple, the style unfashionably plain. Yet the effect—vibrant silk against her gold hair—was striking. She had caught more than a few approving glances, and though she told herself vanity was foolish, she could not help a flicker of satisfaction. 

“Thank you,” she responded simply. 

Lord Dalewood seemed to think this was sufficient. He bowed again and left without another word. 

Scarlett found herself thinking of what Mama had said earlier that very day. 

Play your cards right, my girl, and he’ll offer for you before the Season is halfway through. Think of that!

She had thought of it—and thought it strange. Offer for her: such a mercantile phrase, more like a bargain than a promise. Still, it would be a relief to have her future settled and her path decided, without the constant scrutiny of new suitors. Lord Dalewood was not an unkind man. Why shouldn’t she be content with him, if she resolved to be?

She swallowed thickly, briefly closing her eyes. Lord Dalewood was the best choice for her at this moment. It was good to remind herself of that when her resolve faltered.

“Oho,” Eugenie murmured, nudging Scarlett’s shoulder. “The man of the hour arrives. The Frost Duke himself.”

Scarlett blinked, finding herself lifting up on her tiptoes to get a glimpse. 

“The who?”

“Goodness, you really don’t read the scandal sheets, do you? The Duke of Rilenwood. That’s what they call him—the Frost Duke. They say he’s cold as ice and despises the very thought of marriage. I suppose it means he’s an Ice King of sorts.”

To Scarlett’s surprise, the crowd was stirring. Heads turned, necks craned; curiosity rippled outward like a wave. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the man who so openly scorned Society’s rituals.

Was it bravery, she wondered, or arrogance? Probably both.

Someone gave Scarlett a firm shove in the small of her back—almost certainly Eugenie, unable to resist a moment of mischief—though it could just as easily have been an accident. Either way, Scarlett stumbled forward, nearly losing her footing before half of London, and found herself standing alone several paces ahead of the crowd.

The great double doors to the ballroom hung open, and a gust of cold night air swirled through them, curling around Scarlett’s ankles and setting her skirts rustling. 

A man stood there. He was looking straight at her.

Well, considering she had just stumbled forward out of the crowd and landed mere inches from him, it would have been difficult for him not to look.

He was not particularly tall and rather slimly built. His hair was black—so dark it glinted blue beneath the candlelight—cut unfashionably short and plainly styled, if at all. His coat was of rich blue velvet, excellently made, but he wore it without a single ornament: no rings, no brooch, not even a modest cravat pin. There was no embroidery upon his coat, and, of all things, he wore Hessians. To a ball.

He regarded her from beneath one raised dark brow, a rather long nose set in a pale, composed face.

“Have we been introduced, madam?” he asked. “Or did you hope for an introduction?”

Colour rushed into Scarlett’s cheeks. She did not often blush, but this humiliation was too much. She could feel the weight of the crowd behind her—their stares, their half-suppressed laughter.

“N-no, your Grace,” she stammered.

His lips curved into the barest suggestion of a smile. “You know who I am, then.”

She drew herself up. “I stumbled, your Grace. That is all.”

His gaze remained fixed upon her—cool, unreadable—though Scarlett was certain he must be aware of all the eyes on him in the crowd. Curious, assessing, unkind stares. 

“I must disappoint you all, then, by giving you nothing to look at,” the Duke responded at last, his voice clipped and almost angry. Then he turned on his heel and strode away, plunging into the crowd. 

Scarlett stood rooted to the spot, her heart pounding far too fast. Why on earth was it pounding? Surely it was anger. Yes—anger. How dared he speak to her so? She had done nothing wrong. She ought to be furious with him. She was furious with him.

It was perfectly irrelevant that an odd, tingling sensation lingered in her chest, or that some inexplicable part of her longed to follow him.

Aware of the eyes still upon her, Scarlett forced herself to move, turning sharply on her heel and slipping back into the crowd, cheeks burning. There was no mistaking how her blunder would be read: whether by accident or design, she would be said to have thrust herself before the Duke to catch his attention.

She could only hope that the gossip columnists found more scandalous prey before the night was out—a spilled drink, a double-booked dance, a lady imprudent enough to waltz three sets with the same gentleman. Anything, so long as it pushed her humiliation into obscurity.

“You spoke to him!” Eugenie hissed when Scarlett found her again. “What did he say?”

“Not much,” Scarlett said shortly. “He is the rudest man I have ever met.”

 

***

 

They were all looking at him—the wretches.

One woman had even tripped over her own feet in her eagerness to stare. Simon clenched his jaw and swallowed back his irritation.

I cannot possibly be that interesting. It’s that ridiculous nickname the gossip columns saddled me with.

The Frost Duke. 

What a nonsensical name. 

And yet, the woman’s face lingered in his mind.

He had expected to see any number of pretty women tonight—all bedecked in fine gowns, dripping in jewels, fluttering their fans with practised grace. Why should they not? This ball—indeed, the entire Season—was their livelihood. Their future.

But that one… she was different. Perhaps it was the gown: beautiful, but simpler than the rest. Or perhaps it was her face—far too striking to forget.

Enough! he told himself sharply, forcing his attention back to the ballroom as he craned his head, searching for Benjamin. Forget her. She’s merely here to find a decent husband. You are a duke. It is hardly surprising that a few foolish women should look your way.

He forced her from his thoughts. At last, he spotted Benjamin standing near the edge of the room and made his way toward him. Snatching two glasses of champagne from a passing footman, he thrust one into his friend’s hand and kept the other for himself.

Benjamin was well dressed, his hair brushed and carefully styled, but he stood alone, glancing about uneasily.

“You’re late,” Benjamin hissed.

“So?” Simon replied, unconcerned. “We shall be here half the night.”

Benjamin leaned closer. “I have news. Bad news.”

Simon paused, studying him. His friend’s face was pale, his eyes restless. “What news?” he murmured, steering him discreetly into a quieter corner. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Benjamin gave a shaky sigh. “This is not how I hoped to begin the Season. I haven’t even met any ladies yet. Oh, and Owen is here.”

Simon exhaled heavily. “I expected as much. This is a large ballroom, however. We can avoid him.”

His friend gulped. “I had a note from Lord Cavendish only a few hours ago.”

A prickle of unease traced down Simon’s spine. “Oh?”

“He’s withdrawn. He will not be signing the contract after all. He’s decided to invest elsewhere.”

Simon felt his chest tighten. He already knew the answer before he asked the question.
“And who has lured him away, when the bargain was all but settled?”

Benjamin hesitated. “Lord Owen Pemberton.”

Simon’s grip on his glass tightened until he could almost imagine the crystal cracking. 

“He did it deliberately,” he said under his breath. “He took Cavendish from me out of spite.”

“It will hardly ruin us, Simon.”

Simon’s mouth curved in a grim smile. “You forget, my friend—I have been ruined before. I will not allow myself to reach that position again. Something must be done.”

“It is Lord Cavendish’s prerogative to invest as he chooses,” Benjamin reminded him. “My guess is that Owen hinted he might marry one of the Cavendish girls.”

Simon gave a low growl. “They are a pair of wretches.”

“That…” Benjamin hesitated, swallowing. “That isn’t the worst of it. Isabella is here. She’s returned from Bath.”

Simon blinked. “My cousin? That is wonderful news, not bad.”

“She is accompanied by a man—and it’s clear they have an understanding.”

For a moment, Simon said nothing. Isabella Sheldon—his orphaned cousin—had wanted to make her come-out for years, though she had spent the winter in Bath. She was an heiress in her own right, but the loss of her parents had shaken her deeply. He had assumed she would write to him when she was ready to enter Society.

Why did she not tell me she was coming? Why did she not tell me about this man?

“I want Isabella to be happy, of course,” he said at last, though his voice was tight. “She is all I have left—and I am all she has. She is like a sister to me.”

Benjamin gulped. “Then prepare yourself. She is here—just behind you.”

Simon turned sharply.

There she was—Isabella—slight and pale, with mousy hair and a peaches-and-cream complexion. She had always been a delicate little thing, easily overlooked. But tonight she seemed transformed: standing tall, shoulders back, a shy smile curving her lips. Confidence suited, though Simon suspected it had less to do with Bath and more with the tall, handsome man at her side.

A familiar man.

Simon’s blood ran cold.

“That’s him,” he said quietly. “Harry Caldwell. The man who nearly ruined me.”

Harry Caldwell was a remarkably handsome man. Tall, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and charming, he had a smile for everybody and a quick wit to match his looks. He had a reputation for success in business, and Simon knew all too well how that success had been earned. 

“How could Isabella do this to me?” Simon muttered. 

There was a faint crack. He glanced down to find the stem of his glass broken between his fingers, champagne frothing over his hand and dripping to the floor. A footman appeared at once, discreetly exchanging the broken glass for a strip of clean linen before retreating without a word.

Simon barely noticed.

Across the room, Isabella caught sight of him. Her smile faltered. She murmured something to Caldwell, then detached herself from his side and began making her way toward Simon through the crowd.

“Simon,” she greeted. “I’m so glad to see you. I had no idea you intended to join the Season this year.”

His reply came tight and immediate. “Do you know who that man is?”

Benjamin, with the instincts of a seasoned friend, melted discreetly away toward the dancers.

“Have you forgotten what Harry Caldwell did to me? To us?”

Isabella flushed, lifting her chin. “You do not understand, Simon. He has changed.”

“Changed?” Simon let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Isabella, he stole from me. I trusted him to pay our suppliers, our insurance premiums. Instead, he lied to me and gave them excuses. I lost valuable suppliers, I lost money, and I lost the trust of my clients. Who could possibly trust me after that? I lost some of your investments too, Isabella. You had trusted me with that money, and I had trusted him. He stole from us both, and then he fled the country.”

Isabella drew a steadying breath, her spine stiffening. “I will not be dictated to, Simon.”

“I do not dictate—” He broke off, aware that his voice had risen. Taking a measured breath, Simon placed his hands lightly upon her shoulders, meeting her eyes properly.

“Isabella, Harry Caldwell is a fraud. A thief. A charmer of the worst kind.”

“You have no idea how kind and considerate he was to me in Bath,” Isabella insisted. “We have spoken about all this. I confronted him, and he assured me that he regrets everything—that he wishes to make amends, Simon. Truly, he does.”

“I do not know what he wants,” Simon muttered, “but it is certainly not forgiveness.” He hesitated, then added sharply, “You are not to speak with him again, Isabella.”

It was perhaps the worst thing he could have said. Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing.

“You cannot tell me what to do, Simon. And I will not let you!”

She wrenched her shoulders free and turned to leave, her skirts swirling. Panic surged up inside him. His mind was already buzzing with his worries—the callous, cruel gaze of Society in general, his own failure, Owen’s ill-will, the face of that beautiful woman whom he hadn’t quite managed to forget. 

And now this. 

He dived forward, grabbing Isabella’s arm before she could escape.

“Wait, Izzy. Don’t be angry with me.”

She stopped, pressing her lips together. “I have to go, Simon. I— I want to dance.”

“Then dance with me,” he said at once.

She blinked. “You never dance with me. It’s a cotillion, you know.”

“I can dance a cotillion,” he replied, managing a faint smile. “Please. Let us be friends again.”

He already knew that forbidding her to see Caldwell would only drive her further toward him. Reasoning with her might prove more effective—but that would require time and patience, and Simon was uncomfortably aware that he had neglected both over the past year or two. 

This estrangement, he thought, would not mend itself quickly.

He waited as Isabella considered him. At last, her expression softened and she smiled.

“Very well, Simon. I’ll dance with you.”

She took his hand, and he let her lead him toward the dance floor.

Now what? he wondered grimly. How am I to save her from that man?

There was no time to think. The musicians struck up, and the couples began to move. Out of the corner of his eye, Simon spotted Benjamin across the floor, partnered with a lady he did not recognise.

The first notes of the cotillion swelled, and Simon found himself nearly swept off his feet. Every nerve in him was aware of the eyes that followed his every movement. He must not stumble. The Frost Duke, they called him—a ridiculous moniker, but one Society clearly delighted in. He cared little for the name, though he knew well enough that half the room was waiting for the Frost Duke to misstep. 

Is Caldwell watching me now? The thought made him seethe.

Begging forgiveness? Nonsense. Whatever brought him back to London, it is not remorse.

His attention was abruptly pulled to the dance; it was time to change partners.

Ah, yes, he remembered with irritation. I had forgotten about that.

Simon was obliged to let go of his cousin and move his attention to his next partner. 

At once, he found himself face-to-face with the beautiful, fair-haired lady who had all but stumbled into him earlier that evening. 

She stared up at him, her pale cheeks turning crimson. 

“Your Grace,” she gasped, nearly missing her step.

“Steady,” he said, catching her wrist and guiding her neatly through the next few steps. “Where is your partner?”

“Lord Dalewood, of course—just over there”

Of course? What did she mean by that tone? Ah. Naturally—there was an understanding between them. All of London must already know it. How very convenient for her—for everyone.

The thought left a faint, inexplicable sting in his chest. Her gloved hand trembled slightly in his, lighter than he had expected, and he found himself wondering why she was nervous. What could a woman like this have to fear?

“I truly was not gawping at you, your Grace,” she burst out suddenly, eyes lifting to his. “Believe me or not—I was curious, yes, but not gawping.”

Simon said nothing. It did not seem the moment to argue fine distinctions between looking and gawping. 

“What is your name?” he asked instead.

She blinked, as if this were a surprising question. She should hardly be surprised, since they had not been introduced. 

Then again, we should not be speaking at all, he thought drily. A little late to remember that now.

“Lady Scarlett Vance,” she replied at last. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw their former partners moving toward them again. Lady Scarlett’s escort—a tall, solemn man he vaguely recognised—was already stepping forward.

“Well then, Lady Scarlett, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said at last, meeting her eye once more. No doubt she would go back to her friends and gossip all about their conversation, the way one would tell an anecdote about meeting a wild animal or something in a zoo. 

“And I yours, your Grace,” she responded smoothly, as was proper. 

So far, aside from the unfortunate stumble, Lady Scarlett had behaved with irreproachable propriety.

She would never suit me, Simon thought, and immediately wondered why such a thought had even occurred.

The music shifted. The partners changed once more. Lady Scarlett’s partner came forward first, all but snatching her out of Simon’s grip. 

He found himself staring after her, even after he was hand-in-hand with Isabella again. Simon had seen the way Lady Scarlett’s face tightened when her partner touched her. And yet they had an understanding. 

How odd. 

He exhaled sharply. It is the least of my concerns now, he reminded himself. I have far bigger problems of my own to attend to.