CHAPTER 1
“Is that… Lord Stonehall on a pony?”
The whispered question carried across the manicured gardens of Norfeld Hall, accompanied by the soft rustle of silk skirts and the gentle clink of teacups against saucers.
Lady Samantha Brennan paused mid-conversation with Mrs. Combs, the elderly vicar’s wife, and turned toward the source of the commotion.
What she witnessed defied all comprehension of proper society behavior.
A white pony, no larger than what one might expect to find in a child’s petting zoo, trotted into view theatrically. Astride the small creature sat a young man of perhaps nineteen, his fashionable attire adorned with considerably more frills and embellishments than any lord of her acquaintance would daresport, and his posture suggested someone who believed himself the hero of his own epic poem.
Behind this extraordinary procession, a small servant boy scattered rose petals dutifully, creating a trail of crimson across the otherwise pristine lawn.
“Good heavens,” breathed Lady Hargrave, her teacup frozen halfway to her lips.
Samantha found herself equally transfixed by the spectacle, though for entirely different reasons. The sheer audacity of such a display at the Marquess of Norfeld’s genteel garden party was simultaneously horrifying and fascinating. She had witnessed many peculiar behaviors during her years observing theton’ssocial machinations, but this exceeded even her considerable experience with masculine foolishness.
“Jane,” she called to her sister, who stood some distance away near the rose arbor. “Jane, come here at once.”
But Jane was already moving: not toward Samantha, but toward the approaching pony and its rider. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight, and she clapped her hands together in excitement.
“Oh my,” Jane breathed, her voice carrying the kind of wonder that Samantha had long since abandoned. “How perfectly marvelous!”
The young man brought his pony to a halt directly before Jane and produced a single red rose from his elaborately embroidered waistcoat before clearing his throat.
Samantha dreaded what was coming next.
“DominaJane,” he began, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent garden, “rosa pulchra es, et cor meum est…” He paused, his brow furrowing as he searched for the proper Latin. “Et cor meum estvery on firepro te!”
Samantha’s mind automatically supplied the proper translation, and she nearly groaned aloud.
Beautiful Jane, you are a rose, and my heart is aflame for you.
Half-Latin, half-English, andentirelymortifying.
The resulting silence was so profound that Samantha could hear the distant bleating of sheep in the far pasture. Every guest at the party stood frozen in varying degrees of shock, amusement, and second-hand embarrassment.
Jane, bless her generous heart, appeared confused but maintained her polite smile. “That’s… very kind of you, my lord.”
The young man dismounted with considerably less grace than his entrance had suggested, nearly losing his balance as he swung his leg over the pony’s back. He recovered quickly, straightening his cravat, and extended the rose toward Jane.
The servant boy, apparently unaware that the procession had ended, continued scattering petals around the stationary group.
“Stop,” Samantha muttered under her breath, watching the boy’s mechanical movements with growing hilarity. “Dear God, please stop.”
Jane accepted the rose with genuine gratitude, though Samantha could see the bewilderment in her sister’s eyes. “Thank you, Lord Stonehall. It’s quite lovely.”
“Lord Stonehall?” her uncle William, the current Marquess of Norfeld, announced, his voice carrying a note of delighted surprise as he approached from the direction of the house. “What an… unexpected pleasure to see you here.”
It was definitely unexpected, that much was true.
Percy Wildingham, the young Viscount Stonehall, straightened up with flourish. “Lord Norfeld, I hope you don’t mind my arrival. I wished to make a memorable impression upon the charming Lady Jane.”
“Memorable indeed,” The Marquess replied, diplomatically. “May I present my eldest niece, Lady Samantha? Samantha, this is Lord Stonehall, ward to?—”
“The Duke of Valemont.”
The deep voice cut through the Marquess’ introduction with terrifying exactness.
