Chapter One

“Marriage. Within the year?”

Sebastian’s voice rang out, disbelieving and angry, in the silent room. Opposite him across the desk, his mother’s gaze widened, her blue eyes lighting briefly before she carefully masked whatever she was actually thinking. Mr Wilton, the solicitor, swallowed hard, his expression fearful as he looked at Sebastian.

“I am sorry, your Grace. That is what it says in your late father’s will.”

Sebastian glared at him, his blue eyes narrowed, his high-collared shirt and coat seeming suddenly to constrict him. He rolled his broad, muscled shoulders, fighting the constraining fabric. It was just one more thing that made him feel hemmed in and trapped.

“What manner of clause is this?” He demanded icily.

Mr Wilton lifted a shoulder; his broad, square face a picture of fear. “It is a statement made by the last duke in his will, your Grace. It is as binding as any other statement herein. The sum held in trust for you will not be released until this clause is fulfilled. That is what is written in the will.” The solicitor swallowed hard as Sebastian whirled to face him, his expression flinty.

“I want to see it.”

With trembling hands, the solicitor passed him the document. “It is all there, your Grace. The third article. I—I cannot alter…” he began, but Sebastian interrupted him.

“How much is held in trust?” Sebastian cut in, his voice cracking like a whip. A stray curl of dark hair fell across his brow; he shoved it back impatiently, hardly noticing the gesture. This was precisely the sort of petty tyranny his father would contrive—yet another attempt to rule him from beyond the grave. Rage flared hot in his chest as he searched for any conceivable way around it.

The solicitor twisted his hands together, looking at Sebastian with something close to supplication. “It is the entire sum due to the estate, your Grace. All your late father’s savings.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened, and he let out a breath. Beside him, his sister Geraldine—Gemma—tucked a strand of coppery brown hair behind her one ear, a habit when she was tense. She gave Sebastian a hurried, concerned glance. Sebastian shot her a brief apologetic stare. He did not wish to distress her, but he could not hide his own strong reaction.

His father had always known how he felt about marriage. That was probably why he did it, Sebastian thought coldly. What he had never understood was the cause of Sebastian’s aversion: the cold, loveless union he had endured between his parents. A marriage of convenience, of silent tempers and careful manipulations. Sebastian had vowed long ago he would never consign himself to the same.

“So,” Sebastian said briskly, smoothing the edges of his anger as he had learned to do in his father’s presence, “permit me to summarise. The estate has no ready funds unless I marry. The management of Brentfield is expected to continue without any provisions whatsoever until then?” He lifted a brow in cold inquiry.

“Um… no, your Grace,” stammered Mr Wilton. He was shaking outright now, and Sebastian felt a flicker of sympathy. None of this was the man’s doing. “There is money enough for one month’s household expenses, held in a separate account in London.”

“So I have, in effect, a single month before all funds are exhausted should I refuse this… requirement?” Sebastian held the man’s gaze.

“Yes, your Grace.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply. His mother rose from her chair, her face arranged in a mask of concern—though to Sebastian, the spark in her eyes looked far more like triumph.

“Oh, my dear son…” she murmured. “I know it is difficult. But think of the Dukedom of Brentfield. It does require an heir, and—”

As she reached for his arm, Sebastian recoiled before he could stop himself, as though she carried a viper. Her eyes widened, then chilled. Shame pricked him.

“Forgive me,” he muttered. “I must request time to consider this.” He lifted his head, staring first at his mother and then at his siblings—Gemma and Nicholas—who were standing opposite him. Nicholas’ dark eyes held his sympathetically, his narrow shoulders lifting.

“Perhaps we should all—” Nicholas began, but their mother cut him off.

“Sebastian is grieving,” she said, casting a doleful glance toward her eldest. “He does not yet understand what he says. We ought to grant him a moment to absorb the solicitor’s explanation. Come.” She turned to Gemma, Gemma’s husband William, and Nicholas, all three standing opposite Sebastian. “We shall retire to the drawing room. Sebastian needs time to think.”

At one-and-thirty, Sebastian found the presumption insufferable. His jaw clenched; his temples pounded. Nicholas shot him a worried look.

“Perhaps we should all go to the drawing room together,” William suggested, his squarish face brightening as he smiled at Sebastian. With his brown hair and big brown eyes, he looked gentle and friendly, and Sebastian always felt gratitude that Gemma had found such a caring, comforting person who suited her so ideally in marriage.

“I will join you shortly,” Sebastian said, mastering his tone. Still, Gemma’s brown eyes shone with worry at the harshness he could not fully hide. He tried again, more softly: “Truly. I only require a moment. Mother—if you please?”

Her brows rose, as though surprised to be dismissed. Sebastian felt a small, sharp triumph; even the slightest victory in their lifelong tug-of-war carried its own satisfaction. His father had used shame as his weapon; his mother preferred guilt and obligation—far more insidious things for a son with a sense of duty.

“Very well,” she said coolly. “You must contemplate.” She fixed him with a hard look before turning away.

Her black mourning gown whispered across the floorboards as she swept into the hall, her back rigid. Years of disapproval had etched lines into her narrow face; only her firm jaw connected her to Sebastian, whose features were otherwise a truer reflection of his father’s angularity. His own blue eyes were darker than hers; his frame broader and taller than either parent’s had been.

Gemma followed, her mourning gown shifting gracefully with her steps, copper hair catching the candlelight—a lone point of warmth in the sombre room. William offered Sebastian an apologetic glance before going after her. Nicholas lingered last, his long face—so like Sebastian’s—marked with worry. Only Sebastian had inherited their mother’s blue eyes; otherwise, all three siblings bore the family’s brown hair, Nicholas’s the darkest of the lot.

Mr Wilton made a final, uneasy bow and hurried out. Sebastian granted him a curt nod—unfairly sharp, perhaps, but he could not wholly smother his irritation. Surely the man could have advised his father against so reckless a clause.

The door closed. Silence settled.

Sebastian’s shoulders sagged as he leaned against the desk. At last, he could drop the mask. He reached for the chair behind the desk, then paused. His father had always sat there. The memory of that stern face—those hard, assessing eyes—rose so vividly that Sebastian let the chair be. Instead, he crossed to one of the plain wooden seats by the window and sat heavily, staring out.

The garden lay unusually dark, though it was not yet six o’clock on a summer evening. Low, leaden clouds pressed over the grounds, casting deep shadows. The glass reflected a pale version of his own face—hollow-cheeked from lack of sleep, lips—not thin, like his father’s, but fuller—set in a hard line. He looked as haunted as he felt.

“There must be some way out,” he murmured.

He would not—would never—permit his father to govern him from the grave. The man’s tyranny had suffocated him while alive; he would not endure it in death. The mourning coat felt like a shackle around his shoulders.

He rose and paced to the south-facing windows. Long legs, lithe with muscle from hours of riding—one of his favourite pursuits—carried him to the other window. He stared broodingly out as memories of his parents flooded into his mind.

It all came back to him: arguments in whispered tones that he had witnessed, despite their attempt to hide them. His mother’s cold rage; his father’s anger like a festering wound. He recalled the continual bickering that had robbed all of them—himself, Gemma, and Nicholas—of ease and peace on every occasion, even Christmas.

“No,” he said softly in the silent study that still smelled of his father—like leather, and the dry, parchment-like smell unique to him. “No. I will not do it. I do not want that for myself.”

Sebastian had resolved early in life that he would not marry, and had kept himself aloof through all the balls and Seasons his mother insisted upon—until he grew old enough that even she could no longer compel his attendance. After that, he simply remained at the townhouse, reading, while Nicholas was occasionally pressed into attendance.

The memory prompted another thought: a good book was precisely what he needed now.

He moved toward the door, intending to go to the library. None of the family—save Nicholas—understood why he spent his leisure hours buried in Shakespeare. But to Sebastian, Shakespeare encompassed every human truth: love and passion, jealousy and obsession, remorse and redemption. There was no feeling a man could harbour that did not find its echo somewhere within those plays. As a youth taught to suppress every strong emotion, he had found in Shakespeare a guide to all he felt yet dared not express.

He reached the study door and was about to open it when a knock stayed his hand. He stiffened instinctively, but relaxed as soon as a familiar voice followed.

“Sebastian? It’s me.”

He opened the door at once. Nicholas stood there, his pale face arranged in anxious concern.

“Is something troubling you?” his brother asked before Sebastian could speak.

Nicholas glanced down, then met his gaze again, his dark eyes searching. “Are you quite certain you are well? I did not like leaving you alone.”

Sebastian sighed. “Yes, brother. Truly, I am well. I thought to fetch a book from the library.” He gestured toward the corridor.

Nicholas inclined his head. “I have been thinking… about the matter of the will.” He wetted his lips awkwardly—always hesitant, yet seldom this unsure of offering an opinion.

“Yes?” Sebastian prompted gently.

“I wondered whether you might seek another solicitor. Someone unconnected to the family. Not Wilton.” He paused. “My friend from Cambridge—Alexander Stowe—is an excellent man. You could consult him. Ask for his view of the clause?”

Warm appreciation stirred in Sebastian’s chest. “That is a very good idea,” he said softly. “I may indeed do so.”

It was a good idea, he reflected as he stepped into the hall beside Nicholas. Perhaps Wilton’s insistence that the clause was ironclad stemmed from loyalty—to their father, or to their mother, who had always known how to bend men to her wishes.

“It is worth a try, is it not?” Nicholas said with a small, hopeful smile.

Sebastian nodded. “Yes. It is worth a try.” Already his thoughts turned to the short ride into London from Brentfield Estate, lying only a few miles from the city.

There may be a solution. There must be.

Chapter Two

Evelyn stood at the great desk that had once been her father’s. The windows before her looked out onto the grey, rain-slicked London street. Her big, dark eyes travelled over the familiar room—the shelves crowded with books, the low fire glowing in the grate, the two worn leather chairs beneath the window. She drew a steadying breath.

“You are trying to tell me it is worse than you first imagined?” Evelyn asked carefully. She heard the tremor in her own voice and tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear.

James—her elder brother, now Viscount Calperton—looked up at her, his dark eyes clouded.

“Well… yes. In a manner of speaking.” He stammered and quickly dropped his gaze, as though she were the viscount and he the younger sibling caught in some mischief.

“How much, James?” Evelyn asked gently. “Tell me plainly.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the desk. “Three thousand.”

“Pounds?” She knew it must be, yet some desperate part of her wished for another answer.

“Pounds,” he murmured.

Evelyn set her palms against the mahogany surface as the world seemed to reel. It was an impossible sum. They had already sold everything that could be parted with—Mother’s jewels, the paintings, the coach, several pieces of furniture, even the porcelain. Only Father’s books remained, and Evelyn could not bring herself to see those dispersed. She drew another breath, seeking composure.

“We must still have something left?” James asked in anguish. “The jewels. The paintings in the gallery? What about the pistols that make up Grandpapa’s collection?”

“All sold, James,” she replied softly. He knew it already; he was simply grasping at anything, as she was.

“Sold?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Evelyn replied. Her heart ached for him, not in anger but in sorrow. James was a good man—kind, earnest, never willing to wound another soul. The gaming tables were his weakness. For years, he had tried to win Father’s approval through a deceptive mastery of the cards, sinking deeper and deeper into play with ever higher stakes. After Father’s death and their mother’s collapse into grief, he had sought escape in the one thing he understood—cards—and others had exploited that weakness mercilessly. The result was ruinous, unpayable debt.

“But…” James’s voice broke. His brown eyes were wide with fear.

“To whom is this money owed? What has he said to you?” Evelyn asked. Her heart clenched. Her brother—so handsome, so capable—should never look so frightened.

“Sister, I cannot refuse to pay. He’ll kill me.”

“What?” The word tore from her, sharp in the room’s stillness. Her hand went instinctively to the pearl-drop pendant at her throat—a keepsake from her grandmother, a small anchor of comfort. It was the only piece of her grandmother’s that had not been sold.

“He said so,” James whispered. “If I cannot produce the money in a fortnight—he gave me only that—then he will kill me.” His face was chalk-white, his eyes dark and terrified.

Evelyn felt the breath leave her lungs. She could not imagine losing James. He and their mother were all she had left in a world that had grown cold and unwelcoming. She had nearly lost her own sanity four years earlier when her father died; she could not endure such devastation again.

“A fortnight,” she repeated, her mind racing. Could they borrow against the remainder of the furnishings? Against the book collection? Could they sell the house? No—the house was already mortgaged, the only surety securing the loan they struggled to repay. No further borrowing was possible. She sagged against the desk.

“He said ten days,” James added, his voice raw. “I begged four more.”

“Good,” she replied gently, though her heart felt near to breaking. “We shall think of something, James. There will be a way.”

Though she had no idea what it could be. Three thousand pounds was staggering—more than half the annual cost of maintaining the townhouse, paying staff, and feeding the household.

“I hope you are right,” James murmured.

Evelyn shut her eyes for a moment, echoing that silent hope in her heart. Then she went to the door.

“It is four o’clock,” she said softly. “I must take Mama her tea.”

“I will come with you,” James offered.

Evelyn inclined her head. James and their mother did not often spend time together; both were sunk in their own deep melancholies, and being together rarely lifted either of them. Still, company was always better than solitude. She led the way into the corridor, relieved when James followed toward their mother’s small parlour.

Mr Soames—the butler and one of only three remaining servants steadfast enough to stay despite drastically reduced wages—had already placed the tea trolley in its usual place. The teapot rested beneath a warmed cloth. Evelyn took the handles, and James held the parlour door open for her.

“Mama?” she called softly.

“Yes?” came the reply.

Evelyn’s eyes adjusted to the dim room. Net curtains veiled the grey afternoon light, and the fire cast a pale glow upon their mother’s face. She was still beautiful—high cheekbones, expressive dark eyes, thick grey hair drawn into a simple knot—but her gaze was vacant, her posture rigid in the large chair.

“Tea, Mama—and look, James is with me,” Evelyn said. Any small thing that might ease her mother’s mood was worth mentioning. Her mother had once asked Evelyn not to try to make her cheerful—it only heightened her sense of failing—but it was difficult not to grasp at any chance to lighten the oppressive sadness.

“Mama, did you see the papers?” James asked, taking a seat beside her. In truth, he managed her better than Evelyn did; neither attempted to brighten the other, and news of the world was the one subject that still held their mother’s interest.

“Papers are there,” she said hollowly.

Evelyn’s heart tightened. It must be a particularly bad day. Cloudy weather always deepened her mother’s despair. Evelyn moved to the curtains, hesitating—her mother disliked the brightness—but oh, how tempting it was to admit even a sliver of daylight.

“I read them,” James said quietly. “Did you see the scandal sheets?”

“No.” Her voice was flat. “The Whisperer comes out tomorrow.”

Though money was desperately tight, Evelyn ensured all the newspapers—including the scandal sheets—were still delivered. They were one of her mother’s few remaining pleasures.

“We shall read it then,” James said soothingly, before lapsing into silence.

Evelyn poured tea for both of them, then herself, and took a seat across the room. She needed to think, though the dim parlour—with its flickering firelight and heavy shadows—offered little encouragement. Dark possibilities plagued her: fleeing England, though where could they go? And how could she take her mother from the only home she understood? Work was impossible—no governess could earn such a sum in a lifetime, and leaving her mother unattended was unthinkable.

A sharp ache formed behind her eyes. She rose and wandered toward the curtained window.

A knock at the parlour door broke her bleak thoughts. Her heart leapt—perhaps the scandal sheet had arrived early. It would cheer her mother, if only for a few minutes.

“Come in,” she called.

“My lady?” Mr Soames’s voice carried a tense note. “You have a visitor.”

“Who is it?” Evelyn asked quickly. She glanced at James—he had gone rigid, his face ashen. He clearly feared the worst.

“It is Miss Harwick, my lady,” Mr Soames replied.

“Lucy!” Evelyn’s heart soared. Lucy was her dearest friend. The daughter of a baron who had been a close friend of their father, Lucy was like a sister. They had known one another since they were both twelve years old—fourteen long years.

“Please show her in,” Evelyn said warmly, suddenly remembering to address the butler.

The door opened, and Lucy stepped inside. Her reddish-blonde hair remained neatly drawn back in a chignon, fastened with blue ribbons despite the wind outdoors; her blue gown shone vividly in the dim room. She gave Evelyn a radiant smile before turning a warm, courteous expression toward James and Lady Calperton.

“Lady Calperton. Lord Calperton,” she said with cheerful respect. “How good it is to see you.”

Her open, friendly tone warmed the room, and Evelyn felt a wave of gratitude simply to have her friend there.

“Lucy,” she said warmly. “What brings you here? Do sit down.”

“I was on my way to St. James’s Park and thought I would stop to see if you might like to accompany me,” Lucy said brightly. “We could even do a little shopping. I have a mind to visit that bookshop near Birdcage Walk.”

“Oh?” Evelyn’s spirits lifted at once. Any reason to visit a bookshop was a welcome one. Her gaze drifted toward her mother. Once they had shared a deep love of reading; her father too had been an avid lover of literature. But now her mother claimed that reading strained her eyes, and she derived no pleasure from it. Evelyn missed discussing books with her more than she could say.

“Yes,” Lucy continued. “I should like to find a copy of Byron. Anything you fancy yourself?” She crossed to the hearth and stirred the fire.

“No,” Evelyn murmured. “I cannot—” She meant to remind Lucy that she had no allowance to spend.

“It was your birthday last week, and I bought you nothing,” Lucy said quickly. “Do come. James, Lady Calperton—you will not mind our going?” She smiled at them pleasantly.

James inclined his head. “Go, Evelyn,” he said gently. She knew he spoke out of guilt and a desire to ease her burden in whatever small ways he could.

“Thank you, James,” she said softly.

After bidding their mother farewell, she and Lucy made their way downstairs. Evelyn pulled on a grey pelisse, Lucy donned her white one, and they tied their bonnets firmly before stepping out into the blustery street.

A powerful gust caught Evelyn’s skirt, tugging it sharply; she shrieked, then laughed as the two of them hurried along, their pelisses and ribbons whipping in the wind. For one glorious moment, she felt twelve again, running through the gardens of Lucy’s family estate, lighthearted and untroubled, with no weight of responsibility upon her.

“Let us run!” Lucy declared. “Look—the streets are empty. No one will see.”

Evelyn giggled, a bright flare of rebellion warming her chest. She had not felt so alive in weeks.

They ran together down the street.

The townhouse where Evelyn lived was at the edge of the Kensington district, a little more than a half hour’s walk along the edge of Hyde Park to St. James’ Park. Their favourite bookshop was close to St. James’ Park, in Birdcage Walk. On a pleasant, windless day, it was a tiring but enjoyable walk. In the wind, it was an adventure.

Ordinarily, the streets teemed with Londoners—fashionable ladies, hawkers, tradesmen, beggars. But the wind had driven nearly everyone indoors.

“There—look,” Lucy said, pointing. A few people huddled miserably under the corner of a shuttered teahouse. Evelyn was surprised by how invigorated she felt, buffeted by the wind; she had not felt so keenly alive in days.

“Let us see how fast we may go,” Lucy said as they slowed to a brisk walk.

“I wager we can reach Birdcage Walk in half an hour,” Evelyn replied. With the wind pushing them from behind, it might indeed be possible.

“Mayhap!” Lucy giggled.

They set off at a swift pace. The gusts rushed around them, tugging at their skirts and bonnets like mischievous hands.

They reached the bookshop just as the nearby church bell chimed.

“Hurrah!” Evelyn exclaimed, delighted.

“I knew we should manage it!” Lucy crowed.

They tumbled in through the door, shutting it briskly behind them. The little bell above the door chimed, and the proprietor, Mr Woodward, greeted them with a smile.

“Ladies! Welcome. You honour my humble shop on a day such as this?”

“It is exceedingly windy,” Evelyn agreed, breathless. She tried discreetly to smooth her hair beneath her bonnet; several dark curls had escaped.

“Have you anything new today?” Lucy asked eagerly.

“I do indeed,” Mr Woodward said, his round face glowing with pride. “Come—allow me to show you. I believe these will interest you.”

Evelyn and Lucy followed him. Relief washed over Evelyn at the quiet warmth of the shop—the shelter from the howling wind, the gentle crackle of the fire, the rows of books waiting like friends. Comfortable chairs sat near the hearth for browsing. The newest volumes—first editions and rare printings—were displayed near the counter.

“Here, my ladies,” Mr Woodward said happily. “Feast your eyes.”

Evelyn scanned the spines, skipping those too dear for her means. Her gaze caught on a small leather-bound volume, dark and elegant.

“Shakespeare’s Complete Works,” she murmured, lifting it. Her heart thudded. It was a pocket-sized edition—light enough to read in bed. Oh, how desperately she longed for it.

“Let me see,” Lucy said, holding out a hand. Evelyn passed it to her.

“How much is it?” Lucy asked.

“Two pounds, my lady.”

Evelyn bit her lip. She could never afford it. She had no money in her reticule, and if she returned home to fetch the little of her pin-money she had saved up, it would not come close to covering half of it. She reached over to put it back, but Lucy was opening her reticule. She took out two pounds and handed them to Mr Woodward, who smiled.

“Thank you, my lady,” Mr Woodward beamed.

Lucy handed the book to Evelyn. “Only do not sit up all night reading it,” she teased.

“Lucy!” Evelyn gasped. “But—but—” Her throat closed with emotion. Tears pricked her eyes as she stared at the precious little volume. “You cannot…”

“I wished to buy you something for your birthday,” Lucy said lightly. “And it is the perfect gift.”

“Thank you, Lucy,” Evelyn whispered. “It is beautiful.”

“No need to mention it,” Lucy said with a bright smile.

Once Lucy had chosen a book for herself, they stepped back outside—and Evelyn’s emotion overcame her. She threw her arms around her friend and hugged her tightly, heedless of the wind tugging at their pelisses.

“It is beautiful, Lucy,” she murmured, blinking back tears. She was touched beyond words.

“You appreciate literature,” Lucy laughed. “How many of his other patrons do?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

Evelyn giggled. “Thank you, Lucy,” she replied.

“Come—we must escape this dreadful wind,” Lucy replied, blinking. She was clearly touched by Evelyn’s delight and striving not to reveal it.

Evelyn glanced down the darkened, deserted street. A few figures lingered farther off near one of the park gates, but close by the road lay empty. As she looked behind them, her gaze caught on a man standing before a shop window.

The man was tall, and he wore a black tailcoat and black trousers, but no greatcoat. Her heart thudded at the sheer stature of him—he had broad shoulders, long legs, and when he stepped forward to gaze through the window, he moved with a lithe grace that surprised her. Most gentlemen she had seen—and she had little experience, having missed several Seasons since Papa’s passing—did not have that same muscled, smooth way of moving.

A creaking noise tore her gaze upward. She gasped. Above him, the heavy metal sign of Tynedale Millinery swung wildly, its chain nearly severed—only a single rusted link holding it aloft. One more strong gust, and it would fall directly upon the unsuspecting gentleman.

“I think my eye is better now—much better than it was last week,” Lucy began.

“That man—” Evelyn choked out. In the next instant, she was running. “Lucy, we must help him!”

She did not wait to see whether Lucy followed; clutching her precious book to her chest, she sprinted down the street. The wind howled around her. The sign lurched violently—and then began to fall.

Evelyn screamed. With no thought but to reach him in time, she hurled herself across nearly a yard of slick pavement, striking him full-force and knocking him aside just as the sign crashed to the cobbles with a thunderous clang where he had stood.

“What in—” the man swore, but before he could regain his footing, momentum carried them both down.

Evelyn shrieked as they tumbled, helpless. The man seized her instinctively, twisting as though to shield her from the worst of the fall, and they struck the ground together—Evelyn landing atop him.

For a heartbeat, the world stilled.

Evelyn became aware of the hard, lean body beneath her own, his muscled chest firm and solid under her cheek. His arms were around her, his grip strong and hard. His long legs stretched out under her, one of her knees trapped between them. Heat flooded through her—not the burning heat of embarrassment, but a slow, intense, building heat that flooded from somewhere in her belly throughout her body, ending in her face. She was sweating, though it was not hot. Her entire body tingled with a new awareness.

Below her on the cobbles, the man gazed up. His eyes were blue—the rich, deep blue of an evening sky. His nose was thin and straight, his jaw firm, his cheekbones gaunt. It was the most handsome face she had ever seen.

She gazed into his eyes, and he gazed back. His eyes widened in astonishment and then narrowed in a look that she would almost have thought was appreciative, if it had been directed elsewhere. Seeing it directed at herself was infinitely puzzling, and that puzzlement brought her attention abruptly to the moment.

“Evelyn?” Lucy’s voice cut through the haze, high with alarm.

Evelyn blinked and looked around. A small crowd—eight or ten people—had hurried from the park at the sound of the crash. They now surrounded them, whispering, staring. Heat surged into Evelyn’s cheeks; she scrambled backward, mortified.

“Sir—my lord?” she stammered, though she did not even know his rank. He was rolling to his knees, rising more slowly than she, perhaps jarred by the fall. Evelyn tried desperately to focus on him instead of the murmuring onlookers.

Lucy seized Evelyn’s arm and tugged. Evelyn let herself be pulled away, stumbling around the corner to escape the speculative stares.

“They were all whispering,” Lucy said, her voice strained. “We have to get away from here. What if one of them knows you?”

Evelyn felt the colour burn hotter in her face. Only now did the implications of the scene strike her fully. People had seen her in the street—on top of a man. They would think… oh, goodness, they would assume she had been attempting to lie with him. She knew little of such matters—only snatches of giggled whispers overheard from maids—but enough to know what such a tableau suggested.

“We must go home,” she whispered miserably.

“We shall,” Lucy promised, guiding her away with gentle firmness.

They cut through the park, making the return more swiftly. When they reached the townhouse, Evelyn hurried up the steps.

“Thank you, Lucy,” she said at the doorway. She longed to retreat to her room, to try to make sense of what had happened, but politeness urged her to ask, “Will you come in for tea?”

“No, dear. I must get home—my parents will be frantic in this weather.” Lucy squeezed her hand warmly. “Rest now. You are exhausted.”

“I am,” Evelyn admitted, deeply touched by her friend’s compassion for the second time that day.

She wished Lucy good evening, then shut the front door, divested herself of pelisse and bonnet, and slipped quietly upstairs. The house was still; Mama was likely resting before dinner. Evelyn entered her chamber and closed the door behind her before collapsing onto the bed.

Her thoughts flew in panicked circles. A woman’s reputation was as fragile—and as valuable—as gold. And hers… hers might be ruined.

“Oh, I hope this does not spell trouble for me,” she whispered.

She lay where she was, shivering with fear as much as with the cold of the walk. As she thought back over the walk, one thing returned incessantly to her mind: The strange, wondrous feeling of lying in the tall, strong man’s arms, his body pressed to hers. Her own body flooded with intense heat and a feeling that she could only describe as longing. Delicious, forbidden, wild longing such as she had only ever read about in the novels she and Lucy borrowed in secret.

“Don’t be foolish,” she told herself harshly, pushing the feeling away. Of all the things facing her at that moment, that was the strangest, and quite possibly the most foolish, response she could think of.

And yet, despite the danger, the fear, the humiliation… the memory that returned again and again as she lay there was the sensation of the muscled, warm arms that gripped her and the unmistakable longing she had seen in the gentleman’s eyes as he looked up at her.

Chapter Three

“Your Grace! Are you harmed?” a voice called from the small crowd now gathered on the pavement outside the millinery shop.

Sebastian grunted. “I am well,” he managed. His ankle ached where it had twisted beneath him, his side throbbed, and a sharp pain stabbed through his wrist where it had struck the stone. Yet all of it faded beside the fierce, bewildering rush of desire still burning in the pit of his stomach—an ache far worse than any pain in his bones.

“Your Grace! Allow me to assist you,” offered a military officer in a red uniform, stepping forward.

Sebastian shook his head. “I am well. But if everyone would kindly move on, I would be obliged.” He gave the officer a level glance—one that carried the implicit request for order.

“Please move on, everyone!” the officer barked, understanding at once.

The murmuring crowd began to disperse, though Sebastian caught snatches of whispered speculation—“a disgrace,” “a scandal,” and similar nonsense.

She knocked me out of the way! he wanted to snap. What filth fills your minds that scandal is all you can imagine?

Yet he could not deny the disconcerting truth: a beautiful, soft, fragrant woman had been lying across him moments before. He took a tentative step and winced as his ankle protested, the pain briefly outmatching the heat tightening low in his belly.

You are being a fool, he told himself sharply. On the rare—very rare—occasions in his life when he had felt desire for a woman, he had stamped it out with ruthless practicality. He would not marry, and he would not risk siring a child he could not acknowledge. Desire, for him, was out of the question—dangerous, forbidden. And usually easy to resist. The women he met at parties were poised, presentable, and some even truly beautiful. But none of them had sparked anything like the raging fire that the woman with the tumbledown brown hair had done.

His mind filled with her. Her form was soft and sweet; her curves round and firm where he had accidentally touched them as she fell. Her bosom was full and soft too, her waist a sweet curve. She smelled of some soft, floral perfume. Her thighs were smooth and rounded, one of them sliding briefly between his own as they tangled together on the pavement. He bit his lip, a surge of fresh desire cascading through him. Her body was sweet and tempting.

“You are being ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath as he limped up the pavement toward the park. He needed a Hackney coach to return to the inn where his horse waited, and then he must ride for Brentfield Park—a three-hour journey he could scarcely imagine undertaking in his present condition.

He needed to conserve his strength, yet all he could think of—all that filled him—was the lovely young woman who had knocked him off his feet, saving him from injury; mayhap from death. The sign had been nearly a yard long, half a yard high, and made of iron; had it struck him, he might very well not be standing.

Her eyes returned to him again and again in his thoughts—warm, deep brown, filled with gentleness and astonishment as she stared into his. They were kind, expressive eyes. They had startled him with their sweetness. He had never been looked at with such unguarded warmth.

He halted, glancing back toward the fallen sign. Something lay near it—an object he had not noticed before.

At first, he thought it might be his porte-monnaie, but that was still in his pocket, coins jingling faintly. He frowned. Perhaps something belonging to one of the ladies. He went to fetch it.

He limped towards the spot where he had been standing earlier, grimacing at the pain in his ankle. Perhaps I have cracked a bone, he thought. The burning pain was not as intense as he would have imagined, given his experience of fractures: riding accidents and one or two bouts of boxing—an illegal sport, but one in which he enjoyed sparring with his Cambridge friends—had taught him a great deal about the pain of a broken bone.

He reached the spot and bent down. The object was leather, as he had thought, and fitted easily into his hand. It was thick—far too thick and heavy for a purse of any sort. He turned it over—and his eyes widened.

“Shakespeare’s Complete Works,” he murmured.

He stared at it, astonished. It seemed almost uncanny. One of the ladies must have dropped it—certainly it had not been lying there earlier when he had paused to look into the shop window. And it could hardly belong to the woman in the white pelisse; she had only just arrived. Which meant…

“It must be hers,” he said softly—the brave young woman with the deep brown eyes.

“A pity,” he muttered. “I ought to return it.” But he had no name, no direction, not even a clue. He had been too dazed to ask her anything. A pang of regret pierced him. He owed her more than thanks—quite possibly his life. And besides… a quiet, insistent part of him whispered… he wished to see her again.

“Stop being foolish,” he snapped at himself. He had no place for women in his life—however brave and lovely one of them might be. He had sworn off all of it long ago, and was the better for it.

Still… he tucked the book beneath his arm, imagining it still carried the faint warmth of her hands or the ghost of her scent.

The wind had eased, and he limped toward the park gate. A Hackney coach drew up at once—unsurprising. The Duke of Brentfield was a recognisable figure in London: heir to an old and substantial estate, a man of some consequence.

His mind was a haze of images as he rode back in the coach, grateful for the respite from the icy blast. Images of the lady mingled with the sweet sensation of her lying on him and he gritted his teeth, fighting the rising longing.

“You are being absurd,” he muttered again as the coach stopped. He stepped down carefully, paid the driver, and limped toward the inn stables.

He ordered his horse saddled, settled the day’s fee, and mounted with a wince.

“Easy, lad,” he said gently to his horse, reaching forward to pat his hunting stallion’s neck gently. He knew that his horse, Stormcloud, could sense his uneasy mood and was feeling restless, too, because of it.

Sebastian straightened in the saddle, mindful of his injuries, and guided Stormcloud out toward the open road.

As they left the city behind, his mind wandered—inevitably—back to the young woman who had flung herself into danger for his sake.

Memories of the lovely sensation of her soft curves pressed to him, her sweet, ripe form inviting and warm on top of him, returned to his mind. He suppressed them, trying to focus. They returned repeatedly, and by the time he reached home—the journey taking almost four hours, due to his slowed pace—he was tired, confused and strained.

“Your Grace!” the stable hand exclaimed as Sebastian limped out of the stable. “You have an injury. Should the physician be summoned?”

“No,” Sebastian grunted. “No,” he added in a gentler tone, knowing the youth was just being helpful. “I am quite all right. It is just a strain.”

“Yes, your Grace.” His reply was quieter than his exclamation had been.

Sebastian stalked upstairs, warding off his mother’s concerned inquiries and Nicholas’ questioning glance as he passed the drawing room.

“I wish to rest,” he told them, already striding up the hallway to his bedchamber.

He reached the room, shut the door behind himself, and collapsed onto the bed. He had set out from London at around four o’clock that day, and it was already dark outside.

He lay back and closed his eyes, exhausted. He was too weary to go down to dinner, and he contemplated asking his valet to bring it up on a tray. He certainly could not face an hour in the dining room, being asked all manner of questions about why he was so late and about his apparent injury. He did not wish to discuss the event with anyone.

As he sat eating his meal, he questioned himself about his secrecy. It was not because he found what had happened scandalous—in a certain light, it could almost be amusing. And, he supposed as he sipped a glass of water, that was why he did not wish to discuss it. He did not wish it to be laughed over. It was not a laughing matter. The memory of that young lady lying on top of him was not amusing at all. It was intriguing, arousing, and dangerous. It was certainly not amusing.

His mind flooded with memories, and as he rang for his valet to remove the tray and readied himself for bed, the images swirled with greater insistence. In the silence, they crowded close, impossible to dispel.

He remembered vividly—almost physically—the feel of her body pressed down against his. Her soft curves had moulded instinctively to him; her breath had feathered his throat; her warmth had seeped into him in a way that made his whole frame tense with a forbidden hunger. In his imagination, he reached for her again, drawing her nearer, his hands sliding over the familiar lines his memory had so swiftly seized upon. He imagined the yielding softness of her waist beneath his fingers, the flutter of her breath as he held her, the way her body might press closer in answer.

His mind teased him mercilessly. He pictured her leaning over him, the fall of her hair brushing his cheek, the subtle, intoxicating give of her body as she settled against him. He imagined himself sitting up, gathering her into his arms, the fabric of her gown loosening under his fingers—softened, slipping just enough to reveal the warm, tempting slope of her shoulder, the delicate line of her collarbone. He imagined kissing her there, tasting the satin of her skin, feeling her tremble as his lips brushed slowly downward.

In his fantasy, she gasped softly—whether in surprise or pleasure, he could not tell—but the sound echoed in his mind with devastating effect. He imagined her sinking back beneath him, her breath quickening, her form arching into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed as though the sensation overwhelmed her. Her warmth, her softness, the delicate shiver of response—he felt it all as keenly as if she were still in his arms.

His breath caught, a low groan escaping him. His body ached with the strength of desire—an ache he had not permitted himself to feel in years, and one he scarcely knew how to master now.

Angry with himself for indulging the fantasy so far, he went to the nightstand and rinsed his face, wishing that he could cool his longing as easily as he cooled his skin.

He went to the window and gazed out. The estate gardens were dark below him, the lawn a carpet of black, stretching out to where the dark blue night sky showed between the trees. A walk was what he needed, yet his ankle ached every time he stepped on it, and he truly was exhausted. He limped to the door and headed downstairs.

The dining room was lit up; his mother was sitting with Gemma, William and Nicholas at the table. He could not hear any conversation coming out of the room, and he walked past as quietly as he could, not wishing any of them to spot him and summon him to join them. He was too tired.

He limped outside, pausing on the long terrace that ran the full length of the house. The night air was cool and refreshing, and he drew it into his lungs. He leaned forward, gazing out at the darkened garden. The air smelled of dew and the fragrance of the flowers in the borders around the house; a wild, captivating smell. Sebastian caught himself before his thoughts were tugged irrevocably to daydreams again, focusing on practicalities.

The visit to the solicitor recommended by Nicholas had not been helpful. All he could say was what Mr Wilton had likewise said: that the will and everything in it was binding and that the clause had to be honoured in order for the funds to be inherited. Sebastian gritted his teeth.

He could not do it. Much as he had recalled—vividly—the pleasures of being with a woman after that surprising occurrence in Birdcage Walk, he still did not wish to recreate the lives of his parents, and he could not see what option he had. His mother would force some appropriate choice on him—some society beauty without any spark or any good sense, who would be impossible for him to admire. And that would already make his life almost as difficult and unpleasant as theirs had been.

“No,” he said aloud. He could not do it. There had to be another way, and he would find it.

He walked towards the doors, finding little solace on the darkened terrace, and, as he did so, he recalled the little book of Shakespeare’s Complete Works that he had found in the street, dropped by the mysterious woman who had saved him.

I wonder if she likes Shakespeare, he found himself wondering. The thought was delightful, but he pushed it harshly away. He had no idea about who she was, and the less he thought about her, the happier he would be.

All the same, as he wandered into the house, heading towards the library and the solace of his books, he could not help but wonder if she enjoyed reading and if she would have enjoyed the Shakespeare that he had found.