PROLOGUE
Christmas 1820, Whitwood Manor
Devon awoke with a start. A wet start, and not the sort ofwet starthe’d often enjoyed in the mornings upon waking. Water soaked his hair and droplets caught in the scruff of beard across his cheeks and neck.
“What the hell?” he muttered, whipping the water out of his eyes and flicking it from his fingers. He looked up.
An angel looked down. And she looked right pleased with herself, a porcelain pitcher dangling from her fingers. “Good. You’re awake.”
“Miss Clarke?” The inventor’s daughter. Her hair had not yet been wound up on top of her head in one of those elaborate and tight coiffures she preferred; it streamed down her back like a river of sunlight. If he touched it, his hand would evaporate in a wave of heat.
“Lord Devon,” she said, plunking the pitcher on a nearby table and placing her hands at her nicely rounded hips. “What are you doing on the floor in the library?”
He rolled to his knees, then stood without groaning. A miracle of willpower, that. “What are you doing, drowning a sleeping man?”
“Pft. Hardly drowning, my lord. ’Twas but a tiny bit of water.”
“I’m soaked through, woman!”
She rolled her eyes. Rolled. Her. Eyes. The saucy chit. Then she turned and strolled away from him. Might as well hum a tune. Did she drench gentlemen daily? Part of her morning routine, was it? “You’ve not answered my question.”
“I’ll sleep where I wish, thank you very much.” He hadn’t meant to sleep on the library floor, nor did he wish to, but one must maintain one’s pride in the face of golden-haired adversity. What color were her eyes? Blue, likely, though green would seem right, too.
“Were you soused once more?”
According to the pounding in his brain-box, the sour taste in his mouth, and the shoddy memories of red-glinting wine glasses in the firelight, yes. “No. Not at all.”
She looked out the window, her chin slightly raised, studying something beyond the panes. “Something is happening outside. At the hedge maze.”
He didn’t care. Lots of things had happened at this damned house party, and none of them particularly helpful to himself. He’d only come to the Christmas party at Whitwood Manor to propose marriageagainto Lady Jane Crenshaw, whoagainrefused his suit. He should leave, but home was no better. His brother, a damnduke, was much too nice to him. Where was the ranting and raving and lecturing? Devon had accidentally ruined a girl, after all! But his brother was in the middle of newly married bliss, so there was only understanding and commiserating slaps on the back.
Devon wanted his bed and maybe some bread and butter. Then a bit later, hair of the dog. Quite against every desire of his body, he ambled toward the window. He wanted to see what was happening outside, but mostly he moved toward the window because… what color were Miss Clarke’s eyes? Definitely blue. They had to be with all that golden hair. Only right.
He breathed in, then out as he approached and—bloody hell—he choked. His breath was rancid. It completely made him forget the fact he was dripping on what appeared to be an old but valuable carpet. Likely an heirloom, dammit. And now he was about tobreatheon a pretty girl in his current state. It was enough to make a fellow cry. He shouldn’t be in the same room as her, let alone close enough to see the color of her eyes. He’d take a peek out the window, then into her face for curiosity’s sake, and retreat without a single word or rancid breath.
Just to be safe, he settled himself as far from her as possible on the other edge of the window frame. What the hell was everyone doing? It seemed like the entire party was out there. Must be freezing. The cold coming off the window nearly shriveled his balls.
“Where’s Lady Jane?” he asked, angling his face away from Miss Clarke. All the suitors were outside, roaming about the maze wearing bloodyblindfolds. It seemed logical the lady they were there to court should be present, too.
Miss Clarke’s chest rose and fell with a sharp breath. “She seems to be in the middle of the maze. I wonder if it’s one of her tests, her game to find the right husband. You should be out there.”
“Why’s that?”
“You wish to marry her.”
Lady Jane was fun. Witty and clever and bold. He liked all those things. But she’d stowed away in his traveling coach on a trip north, ruining her reputation and obligating him to marry her. If he was a gentleman. Which he was. But…
“She does not wish to marry me,” he said.
“Iamsorry.”
“For throwing a pitcher of water at me?” He glanced at her, ever hopeful.
“That Jane will not marry you.”
He shrugged. “Don’t be. Perhaps if her future husband dies, I’ll step in.” He turned from the window. Bread and butter and bed would not appear, no matter how long he looked outside. He must go in search of them. Coffee, too. He needed coffee like he needed air.
“Odd thing to say.” She turned to face him, a delicate and precise movement.
