Chapter One

England

For Bethany Munro, gaiety and frivolity ended the moment Ian Rockwell walked through the arched doorway.

As if the winter snowstorm outside had swept into the glittering ballroom, a stir of cool, speculative whispers reached those finding respite at the sumptuous buffet table in the back of the crowded room. A scandal in black, his broad shoulders shaped by an elegantly cut evening jacket, he walked with physical grace, a quick dimpled smile, and that promise of sin prevalent in his eyes—a gaze reserved solely for the woman on his arm.

Champagne flute arrested against her lips, Bethany found her breathing constricted by a tightly laced corset. Since venturing from secluded country life two years ago, she had learned quickly enough the world was rife with temptation. It surrounded her, taunted her. Yet she had never been tempted, for the carnal fantasy of only one man haunted her from the past and seemed to frame her future.

But now here he was, with the beautiful widowed Countess Dermott draped on his arm, the one man who had ruined all other men for her, cordially greeting their host, casually stepping back into her life even as he did not know it yet. She watched as he moved with a smooth urbanity, stopping occasionally to speak with people as he worked his way across the room, a man comfortable amidst the aristocratic glamour of such wealthy surroundings.

Bethany had not seen Ian in three years, and she had never expected to see him again. Her blond hair was upswept and perfectly coiffed; her blue azure silk-and-tulle gown nothing more than another jewel amidst a sea of rainbow-colored attire. She wondered if he would recognize her in the crowd, then her growing apprehension usurped the initial flutter she'd felt—because he was really here at Whitley Court, a very dangerous place for them both, and the last place in the world she wanted to encounter him.

Her awareness of him became so palpable that it seemed to stretch taut across the distance separating them. Her heartbeat raced. She suddenly wanted to slip from the ballroom. Did she dare? But as she considered the question, he suddenly looked across the ballroom directly at her.

She froze as rigid as the naked mermaid ice sculptures to her left and right. His eyes touched and held her, only the merest hesitation in his sensual features, his face dark and intent. Then the woman on his arm spoke to him and, just that quickly, the contact shattered.

He bent his leonine head to listen, his mouth widening into an easy smile, his handsome face taking on a boyish cast in the warm glow of lamplight reflected in the golden tissue-draped walls and ceiling of the ballroom—all as if the last ten seconds had not occurred, as if Bethany had only imagined the touch of green fire in his eyes when they'd fallen on her.

Ian Rockwell had barely noticed she was alive.

Bethany felt a stab in her chest, yet despite herself, she made herself stand straight and tall and wrapped herself in cool composure as if she had never laid her heart at his feet and he had walked away.

Charlene giggled close to her ear. The tip of her crimson lace fan strategically placed at her chin shut Bethany's mouth. "Don't bother lusting after him, oh friend of mine," she whispered. Bethany and Charlene Dubois, her host's daughter, had met at England's Academic Conservatory for Young Ladies two years ago. "As you can see, my Aunt Serena has taken Sir Ian off the market."

Bethany was astounded by an unfamiliar timidity and the growing tightness in her chest. Had he been a "Sir" when she had known him? "I have no idea of whom you are...