Prologue
June 1813
If there was one thing impossible for a Davies to resist, it was a challenge from a Montgomery.
Harriet Montgomery knew this in the same way she knew the earth revolved around the sun. She also knew, with aggravating certainty, that her life would be infinitely less exciting if Morgan Davies managed to get himself killed while off fighting against Napoleon. The man was insufferable, but their gleeful mutual animosity had been a constant in her existence for as long as she could remember.
Who would torment her if he were dead? Who would she delight in infuriating as much?
No one.
It simply wouldn’t do.
One solution, of course, would be to tell him she hoped he never came back. Generations of Davieses had made it their primary goal to thwart their Montgomery rivals, and Morgan wasn’t one to flout tradition. He would stay alive just to spite her.
But Harriet couldn’t bring herself to utter those particular words. Shedidwant him to come back—as annoying as that was to admit—and she preferred not to lie unless absolutely necessary.
The best way to ensure that he returned safely, therefore, was to offer him the chance to get the upper hand in their never-ending battle of one-upmanship. At least temporarily. He would do everything in his power to make it back to England simply for the chance to gloat. Or to claim his prize.
He was leaving tomorrow. Which was precisely why she’d saved her most outrageous dare for tonight. Why she’d allowed him to corner her in Lady Glencoe’s ballroom.
She had to give him something worth living for.
“I suppose you’ve heard I’m off in the morning?”
Morgan kept his tone studiously carefree. It had taken him twenty minutes to maneuver Harriet Montgomery into a quiet corner of Lady Glencoe’s ballroom, and he relished the hectic flush that rose to her cheeks when she realized she’d been trapped into a private conversation with him.
“Yes, I’d heard.”
Harriet’s gray eyes clashed with his and his gut tightened in response, but he kept his face as inscrutable as ever. It would be a cold day in hell before he revealed the effect she had on him.
He tilted his head and sent her a mocking glance. “What, no tears to send me on my way? No wistful goodbyes? Perhaps you’re hoping I’ll meet a watery end out there in the Atlantic?”
Her cheeks reddened even more. It could have been with embarrassment, or merely irritation. It was too much to hope for both.
“My commiserations would be for the fishes, for having to endure your eternal company,” she said pertly. “Now step aside.”
He grinned at her acerbic wit and stayed right wherehe was. “Come now. Aren’t you the least bit worried that I might come to grief? Who will you aim your barbs at if I’m not here to be your target?”
She raised her brows. “As much as your presence irks me, Davies, I’m not so mean-spirited as to wish youseriousharm.”
Her overly sweet tone indicated that a small degree of injury—a bloody nose or a slapped face, for example—would be perfectly acceptable. Morgan fought the urge to laugh. He’d take a slap from Harriet over a kiss from another woman any day. He sent her a mocking bow. “I’m touched by your concern.”
“Iamconcerned, actually. You’ve had the devil’s own luck up until now. You’ve managed to wriggle, fight, or charm your way out of every sticky situation you’ve been in. But luck runs out—especially in wartime.” She shook her head. “You men are all so foolishly heroic, I bet you’ll do something stupid and end up dead.”
Morgan’s grin turned wolfish as he pounced on her careless wording. “You’llbet me, eh? Very well. I accept.”
“Accept what?”
“Your bet.”
Harriet blinked. “It was a figure of speech! I—”
“No, no. You said, ‘I bet you’ll end up dead,’ and I’ll take that bet. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to disoblige you.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Harriet gave a huff of disapproval, but Morgan was sure her lips twitched with the slightest hint of amusement too. His gut tightened in response. She really did have the most tempting lips.
“So what are we playing for?” he pressed.
