Chapter One

The sun shone brightly as the traveling coach with the gold Basingstoke crest discreetly painted on its doors moved away from the flagway and out into Grosvenor Square. The magnificently liveried driver, a pair of similarly clad grooms hanging onto the rear rails for dear life, deftly swung the equipage about, and the team of fine black horses and the four accompanying outriders pranced their way toward the end of the Square, to the streets of London, and off to a great wide world of excitement and newfound love. Harness jingled. The sharp sounds of iron-clad shoes striking the cobblestones sent up the message, Farewell — fare thee well.

The moment was a picture, really, a fine portrait set into motion. Adventure Awaits would make a fine title. Especially if the artist could capture the laughing Lady Nicole Daughtry, her bonnet discarded so that the sun fell fully on her face, as if the gods themselves had wished a closer look at her fresh, young beauty. Leaning rather precariously out the off-window, she continued to wave and blow exuberant kisses back toward the mansion until the coach reached the end of the Square and disappeared from sight.

And that was that. There was nothing more to see. Even the sun, that had deigned to appear amidst a Season noted most for damp and rain, withdrew behind a cloud, and the world turned grey once more.

Lady Lydia Daughtry pushed down the sash and backed away from the window on the second floor of Ashurst House, to seat herself on the tufted light blue velvet padded bench in front of her bed. She sat with her back ramrod straight, her hands, else they tremble and betray her, neatly folded in her lap. Another portrait, yes, but one entirely without the fire and light she had just witnessed. After a few minutes of thus imitating a statue, she quietly sighed, her bosom rising and falling almost dramatically, before she resumed her quiet, even breathing.

To the casual observer, she was, as always, an island of calm. No one would think that her heart was pounding furiously, or that she felt perilously close to indulging in what her former governess would have condemned as a tantrum.

Not that the Lady Lydia ever had tantrums (If you threw something fragile against, for instance, a nearby wall, and it broke, you’d only have to clean up the pieces. So, really, what was the point?).

Her twin, however, the newly absent Lady Nicole, had manufactured any number of tantrums as a young child. The most memorable remained the last, the day their mother had wed her third husband and then immediately shuffled off her three children once more to Ashurst Hall. Children were not, it seemed, important once there was a new man in Helen Daughtry’s life. But if Nicole wasn’t to be deemed important, she would at least be noticed, most especially when she’d loosed a heavy silver vase at her new stepfather’s head.

The man really should have ducked.

Lydia smiled at the memory. Nicole did, with such marvelously dramatic flair, all the things the stick-in-the-mud, cautious Lydia only dreamt of doing.

And now Nicole was gone. Her sister, her twin, her heart-mate, was off on her way to meet the mother of her fiancé, Lucas Paine, the Marquess of Basingstoke. And life for neither Lydia nor Nicole would ever be the same.

Lydia had never in her eighteen years known a day without Nicole by her side. The laughing Nicole. The adventurous Nicole. Nicole, who could find excitement anywhere, and manufacture some on her own if none was to be found.

In the Ship of Life for the twins, Nicole had been the wind in the sails. Lydia, as she often thought of herself, had been the anchor. Her sister had pooh-poohed that, saying Lydia was the rudder, the one who steered them both along the straight and narrow and kept Nicole from making an entire cake of herself with her mad starts. But Lydia knew that Nicole was only being kind.

Because, as everyone else well knew, there wasn’t an ounce of excitement in Lady Lydia Daughtry’s entire body. She was quiet, pleasant, obeyed all the rules, never caused anyone so much as a modicum of trouble. To her own mind, she imagined doorstops were more adventuresome. And definitely more interesting, even if the only time anyone noticed one of them was when they tripped over them and stubbed their toes.

When Nicole was in the room, nobody noticed Lydia. Her sister’s wide smile, glorious dark hair, shining eyes, infectious laugh and, well, rather luscious body, drew all attention. Even her freckles were exciting. Leaving the slim, blonde, blue-eyed Lydia to rather fade into the wallpaper. And that was precisely how Lydia liked it.

But now her shield was gone.

She’d known this day would arrive at some point. But then steady, older, gentle Captain Swain Fitzgerald would have been her protector, her safe harbor.

Except that Captain Fitzgerald had perished at Quatre Bras a year earlier, his death devastating her because she’d loved Fitz with all of her young heart, yes, but also in ways her family would never understand. She’d thought that with her Captain she’d found the answer to never having to leave her cocoon of shyness to face the world alone.

Proving to herself that she was something no one had ever suspected of her. She was extremely selfish. Perhaps she hadn’t deserved the Captain’s love and devotion.

If she were a more dramatic sort, she might even believe that God had punished her selfishness by taking the Captain from her. But Lydia was also intelligent, and she knew that God would not allow one person to die in order to teach another person a lesson.

Still, as time passed, nearly a year now since the Captain’s death, doubts about her love for the man had begun to creep into her brain during quiet moments. How much had she really loved him? How much had she loved the idea of love … of being always safe, protected? She’d been only seventeen. Even the Captain, in his letters to her, had warned her of her youth, and promised that he would court her slowly once he’d “put Boney back in his cage.”

For most of her young life she and Nicole and their brother, Rafe, had been shuffled back and forth between their home at Willowbrook to the late duke of Ashurst’s estate — depending on their mother’s mood and marital status. Nicole had made her feelings plain on the subject of their nomadic existence. Rafe had gone off to fight Napoleon, kicking the dust of both estates off his boots until finally returning home to learn that his uncle and cousins had died, and he was somehow now the duke himself.

And Lydia? She had never complained. She’d hidden in books, and behind Nicole’s warming fire. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t felt the pain of being less than well-loved by her mother, and merely tolerated by her uncle and cousins.

So, yes, she had been drawn to the Captain, Rafe’s good friend and fellow soldier. He’d been older, wiser, tall and strong and solid, and he’d seen past her quiet exterior and found something about her that he’d liked. That he’d loved. It had been impossible not to love him back.

Together, they would have been happy for all of their lives.

She blinked away the tears that stung at her eyes. He’d loved her. She’d loved him. She could not, would not forget that one real truth, no matter how her mind sometimes plagued her. And she would never forget Captain Swain Fitzgerald, not ever. She may have learned to live without him over this past year, but then she’d had Nicole ever by her side, hadn’t she?

Lydia didn’t want the world the way Nicole did. She didn’t smile easily, didn’t trust often; she preferred to hide in books … and behind the effervescent Nicole, living vicariously through her outgoing twin.

Now she would face the world alone. It was a daunting, if not even terrifying thought for someone of Lydia’s quiet sensibilities.

She longed to leave London, leave the Season, to escape back to Ashurst Hall and a quiet life. But Rafe was the Duke now, and he still had business in the city, so that they would not return to his estate until after the King’s birthday in June at the earliest. He was much too busy to devote his precious free evenings squiring her about Mayfair. His wife, Charlotte, carrying their first child, did not go into Society. Lydia’s once-again widowed mother had set sail for Italy, fleeing from yet another of her romantic indiscretions … and now Nicole was lost to her.

How was she to go to balls and routs and musical evenings accompanied only by her chaperone? Mrs. Buttram would go off to natter with the other paid chaperones, and Lydia would be left to sit against the wall with all the other overlooked debutantes, all the desperate, reaching females tossed into the Marriage Mart with the mission of securing a rich or at least titled husband.

The heat, the cloying smell of too many hot-house blooms, too many unwashed or overly perfumed bodies. The ignominy of a nearly blank dance card, the occasional turn around the room with either some bored young lord on orders from his mama to squire a few of the wallflowers, or a crass inquisition from some adventurous fortune hunter who asked pointed questions about her dowry.

The thought alone was enough to make Lydia feel physically ill.

Of course, she could always count on Tanner Blake, the Duke of Malvern, to dance with her at least once an evening. It had been His Grace who had brought them the news about Captain Fitzgerald the preceding Spring. It had been His Grace whom Lydia had condemned as a liar, his broad chest the one she had beat her fists upon in a terrifying burst of raw emotion, hating him for the words he spoke, struggling to be free of his strong arms, his attempts to comfort her as her world, all her dreams, shattered.

She hadn’t been fair to the man. Lydia knew that. She had blamed him, blamed the messenger. Ever since that horrible day, ashamed of her unseemly hysterical outburst, she had tried her best to avoid the duke if at all possible. A return to Ashurst Hall had given her time and space, away from the duke. Long months during which she’d hoped he would forget her outburst, forget her.

Except that the man wouldn’t go away. Ever since they’d all come back to town for another Season, even now, as he seemed to be mere days from announcing his betrothal to his third cousin, Jasmine Harburton, he remained a frequent visitor in Grosvenor Square.

And Lydia knew why.

The Captain had been his friend; he’d said he wished for Lydia to be his friend. Tanner Blake’s persistence had won out over her embarrassment, and her normal clear-headedness had replaced her irrational dislike for the man. For that alone, she was grateful to the healing powers of time and distance. But why hadn’t he simply now told her the truth? That the Captain, as he lay dying, had asked him to “take care of my Lyddie.”

How terrible to force a man into agreeing to such an obligation. Yet how much worse it was to be that obligation. She believed the duke saw her as an object of charity, deserving of sympathy, which also forced her into the role of a young woman still daily, actively, grieving her lost love. Even as she hoped, prayed, she could leave this limbo she had existed in for the last year, with the Captain still always alive in her heart, but as a cherished memory rather than a constant ache.

The Duke of Malvern was a good man. An honorable man. But did he ever see her as anything other than an obligation? And why was it becoming increasingly important to her that he think of her only as Lydia, and not some appendage to the past? That was a question she couldn’t even have asked of her twin.

There was a knock on Lydia’s bedchamber door, and she quickly wiped at her damp cheeks as she called out, “Yes, please come in.”

Charlotte Daughtry, Duchess of Ashurst, looking young and slightly flushed in the London heat as she carried around a belly that seemed to increase daily, entered the room, her head tipped to one side as she looked at Lydia. “I thought I’d give you some time by yourself. She’s really happy, sweetheart. Be happy for her.”

“I am,” Lydia said sincerely, getting to her feet and accepting Charlotte’s hug. “Lucas adores her, and she him. But I will miss her.”

Charlotte idly rubbed at her perfectly round belly. “We’ll all miss her, but it isn’t as if she’s gone to the ends of the earth. She and Lucas will be coming to Ashurst Hall in July, to see her new niece or nephew — please, God the babe will have arrived by then — and also so that we can make plans for the wedding. By the way, it will be your job to talk her out of arriving at the church on horseback, with some of the little girls from the village prancing along ahead of her, streamers in their hair, tossing rose petals. Lucas, I’m afraid, is so besotted he’d grant her anything.”

Lydia smiled even as she blinked away fresh tears. She loathed feeling like a watering pot; she’d always been so careful to hide her emotions, especially the stronger ones, which tended to frighten her. “Actually, I think that would be very nice. Very … Nicole.”

“Don’t tell Rafe, but I agree. Oh, speaking of Rafe, he’s downstairs with our friend Tanner, who has come to take you for a drive on this unusual warm day in dreary London. It’s so lovely to see the sun, even when it plays hide-and-seek with us as it is today. Honestly, the only reason I came upstairs instead of leaving you some time to yourself was to tell you about Tanner’s offer. Not only am I as big as two houses, I may be turning senile. At any rate, Tanner somehow knew Nicole was leaving today, and thought he’d bear you company. Such a wonderful friend, isn’t he? So you go fetch your bonnet and pelisse, and I’ll tell him you’ll be down directly.”

Lydia nodded, finding it difficult to speak, holding in her sigh until Charlotte had quit the room.

Was this to be her life for the remainder of the Season?

Charlotte and Rafe happily married; kind, caring, but also very much wrapped up in each other. Captain Fitzgerald, irrevocably lost to her. Nicole, her very best friend, off on a new adventure in her life.

And Tanner Blake, the man she’d initially taken in such dislike through no fault of his own, the man who still seemed so doggedly determined to live up to his promise to his friend Fitz, could soon be married as well, with a whole new set of obligations. Why, were she the dramatic sort, she would say that she was alone in the midst of a multitude, which was not a very pleasant place to be.

“If the exercise weren’t so fatiguing,” she told herself, “I should most probably throw myself to the floor and drum my heels against the carpet. Nicole always vowed it made her feel better. But I’m much too polite and restrained and civilized. Much too dull and boring. No wonder I sit with the desperate wallflowers. I may as well be invisible. Then again, if my inside were on my outside, if I were to act as I think and damn the consequences, like Nicole, I should probably shock everyone to their cores, including myself.”

Lydia allowed herself another deep sigh before she lifted her slightly pointed chin and dutifully went in search of her pelisse and bonnet. The bonnet with the sky blue ribbon Captain Fitzgerald had picked out for her last Season, saying it went so well with her eyes. Thus armed, she then headed for the staircase, having firmly decided that she was a Daughtry, not a mouse, and it was time she began acting like one.

How To Tempt A Duke

HQN Books

Only scant minutes earlier Charlotte had been comfortably ensconced in the drawing room of her parents' small manor house, happy in her ignorance, enjoying the sight of a mid-November frost glittering on the newly bare tree branches outside her window while she stayed warm and toasty inside.

But then the housekeeper had brought her one of the letters just arrived with the morning post.

After taking another sip of sweet tea, Charlotte had opened the missive from her good friend, read it in growing apprehension and disbelief until, with her newfound knowledge, her blissful ignorance turned to righteous anger.

"Unrepentant liars and tricksters! Wretched connivers!" she exclaimed, her teeth chattering in the cold, for she'd left the house without taking time to search out a warmer cloak than the rather shabby one she used while gardening that hung on the hook just outside the kitchens. "They'll be lucky if I don't choose to murder them!"

She stomped along the well-worn path that led through the trees from the manor house, to end halfway up the drive to Ashurst Hall. "And worse fool me because I believed them!"

What Miss Charlotte Seavers was referring to was her discovery, after months of the aforementioned ignorant bliss, that Nicole and Lydia Daughtry—in retrospect, mostly Nicky, with Lydia only following along because she felt she had no choice—had been pulling the wool over her eyes. Over everyone's eyes.

All this time, since the spring, when they'd first had word from Rafael Daughtry that he was well and aware of the deaths of his uncle and cousins, Nicole and Lydia had been cleverly putting one over on Rafe, on their aunt Emmaline, on Charlotte.

Oh yes, and Mrs. Beasley. But then again, pulling the wool over Mrs. Beasley's eyes was no great accomplishment, and the twins had the benefit of years of practice when it came to hoodwinking their governess.

In her haste to confront the Daughtry sisters and verbally rip several strips off their hides, Charlotte stomped on some wet, slippery leaves littering the path, and went down with a startled "Damn and blast!"

She just as quickly scrambled back to her feet, hurriedly looking about to be certain no one had heard her unladylike exclamation, and then brushed at the back of her cloak, pulling off damp leaves and bits of moss.

She took several deep breaths, hoping to calm herself, steady herself. After all, she was supposed to be a well-bred, civilized female, and here she was, racing through the trees like some wild boar.

But then she thought again of how Nicky and Lydia had spent the summer and fall posting letters back and forth, impersonating their brother to their aunt, and impersonating their aunt to their brother. Correspondence Charlotte had seen, had been allowed to read—all while the twins were doubtless laughing behind their hands at her gullibility.

Worse, if Emmaline hadn't just now written to her privately, her words and her questions contradicting things she had already said in the letters Charlotte had been shown by the twins, she would still be none the wiser.

From the moment she'd begun reading the letter, Charlotte's suspicions had been raised, as the handwriting was so very different from Emmaline's letters supposedly posted to Ashurst Hall.

But those suspicions had turned to a cold certainty when she read the words, "Charlotte, I vow I sometimes think Rafe is Nicky in long pants. The girl never could get her mind around spelling any word longer than c-a-t."

And here Charlotte had thought Rafe, for all his on-again, off-again schooling alongside his cousins, was next door to a yahoo when it came to grammar and spelling.

"They'll pay for this," she promised out loud, wiping her hand across her cheek to push an errant chestnut-brown curl back beneath her hood and depositing a smudge of dirt on her otherwise flawless skin.

Poor Emmaline, happy in her newly wedded bliss as she continued her long honeymoon in the Lake District, comforted with the knowledge that Rafe had sailed for home immediately upon receiving the news of his change of fortune.

And poor Rafe, going about his duties on Elba, assured that Lady Emmaline had everything at Ashurst Hall firmly in hand until his mission was completed, including the care of his young sisters.

"And me, duped by two miscreant monsters not yet out of the schoolroom—except that they most certainly did escape the schoolroom with their little trick," Charlotte muttered, lifting up the hem of her gown even as she stepped up her pace along the path. "Commiserating with the girls about how much they missed their brother…joking with them about how Emmaline seemed to have thrown all sensibility to the four winds thanks to her newfound love. Running tame through the house all these months, leaving the nursery and their governess behind, because their brother wrote that he would be delighted—no! de-litted—to allow them more freedom. Their brother wrote? Ha! I'll have their heads on a platter, I swear I will!"

Her mind on contemplated acts of mayhem, she broke free of the trees, stepping onto the gravel drive that twisted and turned on its way through the well-landscaped park.

The horse and rider appeared out of nowhere, heading for her at a vigorous canter.

Charlotte slid to a halt on the stones even as she threw up her hands and gave a quick, faintly terrified cry.

The horse, either in response to her unexpected appearance, or in reaction to his rider's immediate sharp tug on the reins, gave a rather frightened cry of its own. It then reared onto its hind legs, pawing at the air as if attempting to climb an invisible ladder.

The hapless rider was immediately deposited on his back on the hard-packed gravel.

No fainthearted miss, Charlotte had already collected herself. She bravely grabbed at the horse's now-dangling reins to keep it from bolting off down the lane, which, she readily saw, it appeared to have no intention of doing. She then walked toward the man she had unhorsed, hoping he'd get to his feet without assistance, which he would most probably do if he hadn't cracked his skull, or worse.

"Are you all right, sir?" she asked rather cautiously, keeping her distance even as she leaned over the man, whose many-caped brown traveling cloak was twisted up and around his head. "I'm most terribly sorry. I am entirely at fault for your misfortune, I know, but I believe it would be extremely considerate and gentlemanly of you to pretend that you hadn't noticed."

The man mumbled something Charlotte couldn't quite make out, which was understandable, what with him still all but strangled by his extremely fashionable cloak. She was, however, fairly certain that his response to her hadn't been quite as forgiving as she might have hoped.

"Excuse me? Perhaps if you were to loose the fastenings of your cloak you'd be able to free yourself from its grasp?" She rolled her eyes, knowing that she was most probably only making things worse. "Shall I… shall I fetch help?"

"God's teeth, no," the man said, struggling to sit up while fighting his way out of the cloak. "I feel bloody well embarrassed enough, thank you. I've no need of an audience." At last his head emerged from the tangle of cloth, his healthy crop of nearly black hair falling over his eyes. "Where's my bloody hat?"

"I've got it," Charlotte said, holding it out to him. "It's barely dented, and I'm confident that it will clean up quite nicely once the mud is dry and can be brushed off."

He still hadn't looked at her, instead busying himself attempting to rearrange his many-caped collars so that they lay flat over his shoulders once more. She counted four capes, graduated in size—very impressive. More would have classified him as a dandy, and less wouldn't be half so fashionable. Upside-down and over a man's head, however, all that fine London fashion was probably little more than a nuisance.

"Next, madam, I suppose you'll say I should be delighted with that piece of information. How fortunate I am. My cloak is only torn—ah, in two places—and my new hat is barely dented. Lucky, lucky me. Perhaps you believe I should be thanking you."

"There's no need for rudeness, sir," Charlotte told him, knowing that there was probably every need. She'd unhorsed the man, for goodness' sakes, ruining his fine clothes, which were apparently very dear to him. She probably also shouldn't point out that if he hadn't sawed so on the reins, his mount, which seemed a placid sort, may not have reared at all. No, she probably shouldn't mention that, either. "I didn't mean to unhorse you, you know. It was an accident."

"An accident, of course. I believe the fool who touched off the Great London Fire attempted the same sorry excuse. You ran into the roadway, madam. Next you'll probably say it was all my fault for having been on the drive in the first place."

"Don't be ridiculous," Charlotte said tartly, beginning to lose patience with the man. "You had every right to be here." Then she frowned. "And why are you here?"

The hat was all but ripped from her hand as the man finally got to his feet. But when he slammed the thing back on his head he uttered a quick curse and quickly removed it once more; it dropped, unnoticed, onto the drive.

She went up on her tiptoes. Goodness, he was a large man. Quite imposing. "What is it? What's wrong? Is it your head? I don't see anything." But, then, how could she? He was very tall. Charlotte was rather impressed; she'd known few men who stood a full head and shoulders above her not inconsiderable height. He actually made her feel small.

"Damn," he said, touching the back of his head and then bringing his hand forward once more, looking at the blood on his fingers. "Six years of war all but unscathed, and I take a head wound not a mile from home. Inflicted by a woman, no less."

Home. He'd said that. She'd heard him. He'd said home. Charlotte's eyes went so wide she was amazed they didn't pop straight out of her head.

While he fished in his pocket for a handkerchief to press against his wound, Charlotte eyed Rafael Daughtry, whom she'd last seen in the flesh the day he rode off to war, and only in her foolish, maidenly dreams in the intervening years.

He didn't look at all as she remembered him.

This man seemed to be twice the Rafe she remembered, or perhaps that was only because he weighed a good three stone more than the gangly youth whose wide, unaffected smile had always had the ability to make her knees buckle. The hair? Yes, that was the same coal-dark hair she remembered, if longer than she remembered.

But his features seemed sharper, more mature, and his skin was tanned from the sun in the way that the farm laborers were tanned… years and years of exposure to the elements that toughened the skin, made for small crinkles around the edges of his eyes.

She looked at him again, examining him.

These weren't Rafe's eyes. They were the same color, a warm, rich brown, almost sherry. But they were hard eyes, centuries-old eyes, not the laughing eyes of the boy she'd known. These eyes had seen things she could never imagine.

Charlotte suppressed a small shiver, one born of vague nervousness coupled with a definite curiosity. Why had she never realized that he would be changed by war, changed by his six long years away from Ashurst Hall?

"Rafe?"

He still held the handkerchief pressed to the back of his head. "Pardon me?" he asked, looking at her. Finally looking at her. Was that interest in his eyes? "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, madam."

"If I do, Your Grace, it would be the first time," Charlotte said, dropping into a fairly mocking curtsy. But she couldn't seem to curb her tongue. "Perhaps I should have thought to unhorse you six years ago. Perhaps on the day you and George and Harold saw nothing out of the ordinary in speaking freely around me about the charms of the new barmaid in the village, just as if I wasn't there at all."

"Again, madam, I don't believe I—" Rafe blinked and leaned closer, looking intensely into her face. "Charlie? By God, it is you. And still wreaking havoc all over Ashurst Hall, I see. I should have realized at once. Maybe you should have thrown another apple at my head. I would have remembered then. You always were a bit of a menace."

Charlotte fought down the urge to go up on tiptoe again and box the man's ears. "While you, Your Grace, always were a bit of an insensitive beast. And it's Charlotte. Not Charlie. I detest Charlie."

"Really?" His quick, unaffected smile caused her stomach to perform a small flip. It was still the smile Charlotte remembered, if not the Rafe she remembered. "I rather like it. Charlie. Why would anyone with the least sense wish to be called Charlotte?"

She silently acknowledged that he had a point. She hated her name, passed down to her from a great-aunt who'd been so kind as to establish a small dowry in exchange for the infant carrying on her name. Still…

"Everyone calls me Charlotte," she informed Rafe tersely. "But you may address me as Miss Seavers."

"The devil I will," he told her, checking the state of his handkerchief and then, seeming satisfied with what he saw, returning the thing to his pocket. He looked at her again. "You grew up pretty enough, didn't you? But then, you probably frightened all the men away. I know you frightened me. You must be all of what, two and twenty?"

"Not quite, Your Grace."

"Then close enough," Rafe said, taking the reins from her and turning once more toward Ashurst Hall, leaving her to either pick up his hat and follow him or just stand here in the drive looking like the sorriest looby in Creation. "I imagine you'll be putting on your caps any day now, preparing to lead apes in Hell."

Charlotte looked down at his fine, fancy hat and then raised her skirts slightly to employ one half boot to send the thing sailing off into the bushes. "Indeed no, Your Grace," she said sweetly, catching up to him. "I've simply been waiting for you to return so that we could marry, for I have always loved you from afar. I would think that should be obvious."

Ah! Now she had his complete attention. And all she'd had to do was tell the truth, shameful though it was. After all, it was the one thing she was confident Rafe would never believe.

Prologue

Horse and rider emerged from the trees in an explosion of unleashed energy that sent a pair of long-eared hares fighting to be the first to scoot headfirst into their burrow. Birds fled the treetops, their dark underbodies shadowed against the high, uncharacteristically bright blue sky.

Shod hooves encountered the soft, just-turned earth of the field. The mare momentarily scrambled for footing, and then gathered itself for the gallop.

The rider, head low over the mare’s neck, held the reins in both hands, elbows up and out, almost standing in the stirrups, knees tight to the horse’s flanks, rump slightly above the saddle, in the way of jockeys once seen racing at a country fair.

Horse and rider both knew the route. The hedgerow first, followed by the low gate at the end of the second field. The stone wall, wide if not that high, which fronted a good three-foot drop-off and rather boggy landing.

Another long, liberating gallop would follow, and then the five-bar gate. That was the test, the five-bar gate. The undeniable challenge. The ultimate triumph once it was behind them.

The mare was strong, and fleet of foot, but it was the rider who held the control. Control was important; it might be everything. Control of your surroundings. Control over your own mind, heart, and destiny.

And the freedom that control gave you.

The minor obstacles cleared, the five-bar gate was now visible in the distance. It was not a jump for the faint-hearted or those of only mediocre talent. Skill and confidence were needed. And perhaps a measure of luck.

But the rider had always been lucky.

The mare’s head bobbed and stretched as its strides lengthened, the muscles in its neck straining, its hot breath sending puffs of white vapor into the cool morning air.

The rider melted into the mare, their movements meshing, feeling the precise snap of the mare’s knees as it dug in one last time and then launched itself into the air.

Horse and rider became one in the jump. Soaring. Flying. Free of the earth and all its cares. The world waited below them, completely silent for one long, sweet moment in time.

And then the mare’s front hooves floated back to earth once more and the thunder of its hooves, the steady thud, thud, thud matched the heartbeat of the rider who now stood up completely in the stirrups. One gloved hand went to the soft wool toque and lifted it high into the air, waving it like a victory banner.

Masses of coal black hair, no longer confined by the toque, tumbled free and blew about in the breeze. A full-lipped, wide mouth fashioned for smiling, for flirting, for kissing, formed to deliver hopeful dreams and crashing disappointments opened, and a delighted whoop of triumph echoed across the field.

Dark-lashed eyes the color of drenched violets sparkled and danced above a pert nose and high-boned cheeks dusted with freckles that enticed, hinted of an innocence the sensual mouth denied.

The same breeze that danced in those midnight tresses caressed the high, pert breasts outlined beneath a man’s white lawn shirt that was tucked into a pair of tan breeches even a hardened libertine might call licentious.

Eighteen-year-old Lady Nicole Daughtry knew many would call her beautiful. And different. She gloried in the facts that she was young and brave, heart-whole and achingly alive. Marvelously, gloriously free.

Today was for celebrating that youth,that joy, that freedom. Tomorrow was for saying goodbye to one world and hello to another as she set out on her first London Season, approaching it just as she would a five-barred fence.

Head on, and certain of the outcome.

-----

Chapter One

Lucas Paine, Marquess of Basingstoke, was classically handsome, with his thick dark blond hair, clear blue eyes, and leanly muscled body. He dressed impeccably, had excellent manners, cherished his widowed mother and was good to his dogs.

He tipped his hat to all when out on the strut, and he belonged to the best clubs. An accomplished horseman and premier whip, he was also no stranger to the boxing saloons, where he excelled, although he would say that he was better with the rapier than his fists. He did not take snuff, affected no airs, graciously danced with all the wallflowers, flattered the dowagers and never gambled above his considerable means.

If there was even a breath of scandal still attached to the memory of the marquess’s late sire, that scandal did not touch the son.

In fact, as his friend Fletcher Sutton, Viscount Yalding, pointed out that mid-March day as the pair sauntered along Bond Street, one eye on the low, threatening sky, if the Marquess could only manage to control the weather, he would be elevated to the status of near-god.

Both Lucas and Fletcher knew the reason for this pervasive unpleasant weather, the near constant rain and cold, the lack of sunshine. Although it boggled the mind to believe that a volcanic eruption nearly a year ago and halfway around the world in some benighted spot called Tambora could cause such prolonged misery to most of England and Europe.

“You’re quiet,” Fletcher said as they paused to unfurl their large black umbrellas, for the mizzle had moved on to a drizzle that was sure to become a steady downpour in a few minutes. “Still chafing at what Lord Harper said yesterday at White’s? That wasn’t nice of him, Lucas, saying he’d heard cheerier speeches at funerals, and then he and his friends all but turning their backs on you. Although I will admit he had a point.”

Viscount Yalding was referring to the incident that had taken place at one of London’s premier clubs. Lord Harper, a buffoon even in the best of times, had made a comment about the “ruffians and other low creatures accosting him for coins each time he stepped outside.”

Lucas — surprising even himself — had launched into an impassioned defense of the cold and hungry and frightened populace, and had even warned the gentlemen within earshot that if no steps were taken to assist their fellow countrymen the consequences could be serious.

It had been a very good argument, perhaps even bordering on the inspired. Not that anyone had listened.

Lucas looked at his friend, one eloquent eyebrow raised. “The day I am cast in the glooms by that buffoon’s opinions I shall have to race home and slit my throat.”

Fletcher acknowledged this with a tip of his head. “All right, what is it then? The weather? No sense repining on that, according to you, as it’s not going to change any time soon. Your new boots pinch? But they’re Hoby’s, correct? So that can’t be it. Yet you look like you’ve just watched your very last friend walk away from you, which you haven’t, because I’m still here. In fact, please feel free to make a cake of yourself again any time you wish, and I’ll stand up on my chair and cry here-here as I lend you my support.”

“Is that so? How gratifying, Fletcher, truly. Except I’m now left to wonder if you are pledging your support or hoping to goad me into making a cake of myself again, as you so tactfully put it.”

Viscount Yalding, a handsome young man of five and twenty, a man with a sparkle in his light brown eyes and a pair of impish dimples in his cheeks, threw back his head and laughed aloud. “And that’s the real beauty of the thing, because you’ll never know which, now will you?”

“You know what it is, don’t you, Fletcher? We don’t learn. It wasn’t that long ago that our dear Prince Regent was hatching escape plans, sure his loyal subjects were going to rise up the way the French did against their king. Now, thanks to that damnable volcano, we face high prices and farmers losing their positions, our brave soldiers suffering, our children falling sick because there are no fresh vegetables for them to eat. We’re not preparing for that eventuality, and its inevitable result. Civil unrest.”

“Yes, yes, I remember what you said, but please stop now. Not the cheeriest thing I’ve ever heard, to quote Lord Harper. And you’re not completely correct, Lucas. Our government is taking steps, although probably not in a direction you’d approve — watch out!”

Lucas looked down the flagway to see a young woman running toward him, looking back over her shoulder at another young woman who had stopped beneath a canvas awning to wait for a female servant to raise an umbrella.

“Oh, don’t be so missish, Lydia. The coach is just down here — you won’t melt. It’s only a little — oof!”

Lucas caught the female by the upper arms and held her in front of him, saying, “Steady there, young lady. And far be it from me to stand in the role of teacher, but it is usually deemed equally important to see where you are going as where you have been.”

The female, who stood only as high as his chest, lifted her head so that her face was visible beneath the wide brim of her bonnet, and looked him square in the eyes.

When had he seen eyes like these? Had there ever been eyes like these, so darkly blue as to be closer to sun-washed violet, so alive, so fearless and amused, daring him to — to what? The heart-shaped face in its frame of wonderfully dark hair, the perfectly centered nose, the slightly bee-stung lower lip, the single dimple that came and went in her right cheek. The skin that spoke of fresh peaches doused in cream, and sprinkled with a dusting of freckles that invited him to touch, to trace them with his fingertips, the tip of his tongue …

“Yes,” she said, biting her bottom lip between her fine, small white teeth for a moment as she ran her gaze over his features, “I believe I can see the wisdom in that statement. Although, as I already know where I’ve been, I’m always much more interested in what lies ahead. You may let me go now.”

Lucas, a man who could not remember the last time he’d been flustered, and knowing the answer was never if the other person involved was a female, was finding it difficult to think of anything to say.

“Lucas?” Fletcher gave his friend a gentle jab with his elbow. “She says you can let her go now.”

He brought himself under control, but not without conscious effort. “Yes, of course. Forgive me, young lady. I merely wanted to be certain you hadn’t been injured by our … collision.”

“I believe I shall survive, sir, thank you. Ah, and here is my sister, frowning, and with a good scolding eager to escape her lips as she points out, for at least the tenth time, that we are not at Ashurst Hall anymore, and I cannot just behave as if London is our familiar village. Although I don’t see why not, do you? It’s not as if a person is likely to encounter anyone too dastardly right here on Bond Street.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Miss. We could be quite dastardly, I’m sure, if we just put our minds to the thing,” Fletcher said, winking at Lucas, who believed his friend was enjoying himself entirely too much.

“Ashurst Hall, you said?” Lucas pursued, turning back to the young beauty, whose luscious skin was now lustrous with the misting rain. She was fresh as a strawberry just plucked from the fields, yet with intelligence evident in her eyes that told him she might be young, but she was neither shallow nor silly. “Then I may assume that the Duke of Ashurst is known to you?”

“You might assume that, yes. Rafael is our brother. And now that you have the advantage of me …?”

“A thousand pardons,” Lucas said as the singularly beautiful young blonde woman who’d been addressed as Lydia joined them beneath their now trio of umbrellas. Sisters? Yes, he could see the resemblance, but at first blush this one seemed to lack the dangerous fire of her sibling. “Lady Lydia, if I heard the name correctly? Please allow me to introduce myself and my friend here.”

“My lords,” Lydia said moments later, dropping into a graceful curtsy while motioning for her sister to do the same. “And in return may I present my sister, Lady Nicole Daughtry.”

Nicole. From the Greek, Lucas was fairly certain, and meaning “victorious people.” Yes, it suited her. He could see her riding at the front of her own army, rather like Eleanor of Aquitaine. The queen, to inspire her troops, was rumored to have ridden bare-breasted.

Lucas shook off that disquieting thought and bowed to the young woman.

“A distinct pleasure, Lady Nicole.”

“Yes …” she said, smiling at him as if she totally agreed that the pleasure was his, the minx. It was difficult to believe that the duke let this one out without a leash. She looked down the length his body and back up again. “Did you happen to notice, my lord, that you’re standing in a puddle?”

Fletcher gave a bark of laughter as Lucas looked down to see that a drainpipe aimed toward the gutter had been emptying rainwater the entire time they’d been standing here, and a dip in the flagway had served to collect quite a bit of that rainwater around his new boots.

“Why, yes, Lady Nicole, I did know that. I’ve made it a point to always stand in puddles. They’re rarely crowded, you understand.”

The dimple appeared, and that small, quick bite at her lower lip came and went almost before Lucas could see it. Almost.

“But I’m standing in it too, my lord.”

All right. If she wanted to play, he would not disappoint her. “Which now makes it our puddle, doesn’t it, Lady Nicole?”

“I’m not sure. As my twin here could tell you, I have never been all that comfortable with sharing. You might wish to step back, my lord.”

She was giving him a warning? Him? He was the Marquess of Basingstoke, and she was a young miss fresh from the country. He should be warning her, although of what, he couldn’t be sure.

Fletcher nervously cleared his throat. “Yes … ah, um, yes indeed. Well, stap me if I haven’t just remembered something. We have that appointment, Lucas, as I recall. Going to be late, and you know how his lordship frowns when we’re late. And the ladies will take a chill, there’s that as well. We shouldn’t keep them.”

“Indeed, no, we shouldn’t,” Lucas said, agreeing with his friend’s fib, as he already had a plan in mind to see Lady Nicole again. He turned to Lady Lydia, who might not have much influence over her sister, but who probably could be relied upon not to scramble his brains and tie his tongue into knots. “It would be our distinct pleasure to wait on you ladies tomorrow, if your brother will give his permission for the four of us to drive out to Richmond. Would you be amenable to such an arrangement, Lady Lydia?”

“If she knows what’s good for her, she will,” Lucas heard Lady Nicole whisper under her breath as she covered her mouth with one gloved hand, and once again Fletcher cleared his throat, this time to cover a laugh, no doubt.

“I should imagine you will have to apply directly to our brother, my lord,” Lady Lydia said, earning herself a weary shake of the head from her sister. “We dine at home in Grosvenor Square this evening, and if you and Lord Yalding are free, we would be honored if you’d join us. You can ask him then.”

Lucas glanced toward Lady Nicole, who was now looking at her sister in some astonishment. He quickly agreed, thanked Lady Lydia, and then escorted the ladies to their waiting coach, the one with the ducal crest on it.

“What a mischievous piece of work that one is,” Fletcher said as they watched the coach pull off into the light afternoon traffic. “And what was all that ridiculousness about puddles? Not that it wasn’t all innocent, I suppose, but I was beginning to feel like a voyeur, listening to the pair of you. She’s nearly a child, Lucas. Not your usual sophisticated sort at all.”

“A child, Fletch?” Lucas turned to head to his own coach, for he needed to go back to Park Lane, spend some time alone to consider all that had just happened to him. “That one has never been a child.”

“No, I suppose some females are like that. But they aren’t usually sister to a duke, if you take my meaning and no offense intended. And I’m supposed to be keeping the other one occupied so that the two of you can keep on speaking whatever private language you were spouting back there?”

They both handed their umbrellas to the waiting groom, who would return them to the nearest umbrella shop to be dried and refolded and be supplied with replacements. Umbrella shops were probably the most prosperous enterprises in the city this year.

“If you wouldn’t consider it a hardship, yes.” “Absolutely not,” Fletcher said. “Lady Lydia is a beautiful young woman. Such a contrast to her sister, though, don’t you think? It would take a special eye to see her quiet beauty when matched up against the fire and flash of Lady Nicole.”

“And you have a special eye?”

“Hardly,” Fletcher said as they settled into the coach. “As you well know, I can’t afford one. Although I have observed that your mood has improved by more than half since our encounter with Lady Nicole. I thought you said you weren’t chafing about that business at White’s.”

“I’m sorry. Although I will admit that I am rather disappointed in my fellow man at the moment. Nobody wants to hear anything but good news. We’d rather close our ears and eyes and go on repeating the same mistakes over and over again.”

“Well I agree with you there, I suppose, at least with that business about making the same mistakes. For instance, m’father might have thought to learn that a Faro bank in a gaming hell is a harlot’s tease. We all could have benefited if he’d taken that particular lesson to heart. But that’s not what you mean, is it? You’re angry with the way we’re treating the populace.”

“More than I thought I could be, yes. An iron fist is never a good ruler, Fletcher, when a helping hand benefits us all in the end. Why can’t our fellows in the House of Lords see that?”

Fletcher shrugged. “Perhaps because they’re in the House of Lords, and not scratching out a meager existence on the fringes of Society? Still, perhaps you should drop the subject now? You’ve said what you felt needed saying, and nobody seems to care.”

Lucas considered this for a moment, and then shook his head, deciding not to tell his friend about his early-morning visit from Lord Nigel Frayne, a contemporary of his late father, and what that encounter might mean if Lucas chose to throw in his lot with the man.

“You’re probably right. But I wish I could do more,” was all he said.

Fletcher was silent for some moments, until the coach slowed and finally stopped outside his rented rooms in Upper Brook Street. He had his hand on the inside latch of the door before he turned to his friend and said, “If you’re set on finding ways to help the downtrodden, and much as I’m certain I shouldn’t tell you, you probably want to hear this.”

Lucas, suddenly lost in thoughts of his dead father, merely lifted an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.” Fletcher sank back against the squabs. “I didn’t think so, to tell you the truth, not when I heard it. Perhaps you’ve softened my heart? At any rate, I happened to overhear something about our dear friend Lord Sidmouth at my club last week.”

“Our illustrious Home Secretary is no one’s dear friend, Fletcher. I doubt his own mother enjoyed him.”

“True enough. Do you want to know what I heard, or not? Because after you surprised me with that passionate defense of the common man yesterday, I haven’t been all that hot to tell you. After all, it was only rumor, and I overheard no more than snatches, at that.”

Lucas gave a small wave of his hand. “Go on. I promise not to launch into another hot-blooded speech anytime soon.”

“And thank God for that. What I heard was that, between them, Lords Liverpool and Sidmouth are determined to introduce new punitive laws and sanctions against those unhappy with the government. You know, those persons you were so staunchly defending in your magnificent but probably ill-timed comments.”

“I see. And did you happen to hear how they plan to get the whole of Parliament to agree to these new laws, considering that we’ve been introducing reforms this term, not new sanctions?”

Fletcher shook his head. “No, sadly, I did not, but I suppose they know. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” He took hold of the latch once more. “Should I be ready by six, do you think? Or is that too early?”

Lucas was once again deep in thought, lightly tapping the side of his fist against his mouth. “Excuse me? Oh, yes. Too early by half. I doubt the duke sits down much before eight.”

“Then seven it is. Perhaps the lovely Lady Nicole can serve to take your mind off what I’ve just told you?”

“Fletcher, that young woman could take a man’s mind, period.”

Fletcher laughed and exited the coach, at which time Lucas’ smile disappeared as he thought about his strange encounter with Lady Nicole.

She had knocked him off-balance, not physically, as a result of their small collision, but mentally; muddling his brain in a way that had never happened to him before that moment.

She was astonishingly beautiful. She was astoundingly forward and impertinent.

She possessed the most kissable mouth he’d ever seen. And clearly she knew that, or else why would she have affected that quick, enticing bite of her full bottom lip, if not to drive a man insane?

She was also a distraction. With what Lord Frayne had just asked of him, with the information the man had just that morning dangled in front of him so unexpectedly, did he need a distraction at this moment in his life?

No. No, he did not.